...just a number...

My friend L recently informed me that he went on a course last week and met a young woman who was, in his words, simply perfect.

They laughed, they talked, they connected... and L had visions of their beautiful future together in front of a warm fire, two labradors and soft furnishings all sewn up in his mind's eye.

However his dream was rudely interrupted, when the young lady in question turned to him and uttered the worst sentence known to a man of his age...
"Oh, you are so nice," she smiled, "you remind me of my dad".

Oh.

This weekend I went to see a band that I hadn't seen in twenty odd years. Pootle and I scanned the room when we arrived, and Pootle deduced quite promptly that we were the youngest in the room. Correct that - she was potentially the youngest in the room. I looked around and noted that I recognised many of the faces ... and alas, they were no longer that young.

It came as quite a shock to me to recognise some of these men and women. They were faces I remembered from the past; they were middle aged drinkers, and old rockers that had once been lovers of pints of Bitter on a friday night at the local pub, and all night ravers on a dark night in an empty field. Now, they were parents...maybe even, grandparents...

Where did that time go? Am I the only who doesn't feel my actual age? If I don't look in the mirror and see the obvious reminder of where I am in my timeline, then I still feel as though I am in my mid twenties.
Seeing and recognising those 40 plus year olds in the bar shocked me, not because they had aged...but because I had aged right alongside them.

Another nail in my coffin was a conversation I had with a young lad this morning. Upon discovering he was just about to turn 21, I had a sharp intake of breath - I was now old enough to be his mum! Just like L had experienced this past week, I was now in a position where this young lad could say, "Oh, you are just like my mum,' then laugh as another wrinkle appeared on my forehead.

So what to do? Should I act like the person in the mirror, or act like the person that is still within? The one who still does like the odd pint of bitter? Who has fond memories of staggering home in the early hours of the morning and still getting up for work three hours later? Or is it time to embrace the next stage in the timeline? Middle aged acceptance...

Dare I say it - but I think the secret bitter drinker in me may just win. I think I'd prefer to stay in my twenties and avoid all mirrors. I am beginning to realise that thinking that we are old is what ages us...not the age itself.

It is, after all, just a number...

Foot thumping...

Our family pet rabbit is miffed.

Notice how I was very clear to say 'family pet rabbit' - I wouldn't want to give anyone any ideas of any other particular type of rabbit that may be a little annoyed and the connotations of that...

So anyway, annoyed rabbit...pissed off...aggrieved...restless little bunny.

The reason for his dismay is that I purchased today a new hutch for Mr Easter. Over the past year, Mr Easter has slowly but surely chewed his way through his old hutch which consequently left him with more than a draft around his nether regions.

You would think that having a new home would make him happy and delirious with the new opportunity to chew something else for a change and with new hutch walls to hang up his latest pornographic picture of Jessica Rabbit.

Alas, that does not seem to be the case.

He has thumped his foot in annoyance and made his feelings very clear.

"He is glaring at me," Pootle remarked this evening over a cuppa. "He is looking at me, disgusted with this change."
"I don't know why, it is a nicer hutch."
"Hmm...I'm not too sure," she laments still maintaining eye contact with Mr Easter, "after all, he had a two storey pent house before, now he just has a lower floor bedsit."

We both watch Mr Easter as he tests the new cage like the dinosaurs did in Jurassic Park - looking for the weakest link in his prison.

It is true - the new hutch is not the same. With the previous one he did have a bedroom upstairs, space to dance and a room for poo downstairs - it was a much grander hutch - however his old hutch has for a long time been held together with random pieces of wood, and sadly now that winter is drawing closer just won't do.

Isn't it typical however, that now that he has lost his larger house that he is indignant? If only he had realised earlier that had he cared for his old hutch, swept it occasionally, stopped chewing through the beams that it would have lasted so much longer?

A reminder, if we ever needed one, that we don't truly appreciate the things we love and care for until they have gone...and unfortunately for Mr Easter, no amount of foot thumping is ever going to change that.

Growing old disgracefully...

Clothes shopping.

It's a f**king conspiracy man, I tell ya.

I feel like I am being forced into middle age clothes now that I am - you know - above the forty line. There are clothes stores for those just below, and those for 50+ but what happened to decent clothes for those who can no longer get away with that teenage look, but are not quite ready to embrace the tweed, pearls or cake hats?

Looking in a well known store today, the best thing I found was a pair of boots - the rest, well, the rest was just too young. It looked like I was trying to be something that I am not.

However whilst I don't mind not being a teenager anymore, I do resent being pushed into a store that produces matching skirts and jacket, with an accompanying flowery blouse...I don't know about you, but I don't want to wear ' a blouse'.

Is this what women have to look forward to? Wool knits, weak bladders and pregnancy horse pee tablets? (Yes, that is what HRT really is I have been reliably informed)

Well, to hell with it. I am making a stand and I refuse to stop wearing my DM's just because it isn't cricket for a 40 year old to do that. If I want to wear tartan, leather or dye my hair pink then I bloody well will. I many not quite embrace my youth, but I am also not ready to be written off quite yet...

I can see it now, come the revolution sister, a sea of middle aged women marching down the street with smiles on their faces, standing against the wall in our FMB's, waving our six inch bra straps and tena slips shouting, "...because we want to!"

Don't let anyone force you into the mould of conformity, come with me and let's grow old disgracefully...

The pursuit of happiness...

Things have been rather hectic for the crew and I these last few weeks, consequently the blog has been on the back burner even more than usual.

I apologise for this, however sometimes that family commitment must come first and my little family have needed my attention more than ever recently.

We have had lots of changes, but one of the biggest and most noticeable ones are the changes in the three hobbits themselves. They are growing up super fast, so fast that that I am running out of pencil lineage on the kitchen wall.

You know, I am sure I have mentioned this before...but it is pretty damn tough being a parent. Most of it is guess work and bribery, and for those actions I am winning by a mile - however what I am not winning is the parent race itself.

It is true that if we didn't question our motives or behaviour, and always assumed that we were right, then by definition we would make bad parents, but constantly questioning and checking our skills is exhausting. Am I the only one terrified that I am already setting up at least one son for a lifetime of counselling and therapy due to my mistakes or inadequacies?

If I treat them then they expect more than I can give, which is wrong; if I tell them off then I am the worst mother ever; if I refuse then they play the 'I want to go live with daddy card'... It is very hard to know what am I currently getting right.

Blaming everything on hormones seems too much like the easy option.

Oh I apologise for the woe is me blog, because actually we do have so many things to look forward to  in the coming months. However sometimes, trying to keep everyone happy and maintaining that happiness is an endless, thankless task...The pursuit of Happiness...it was never this hard for Will Smith...

The new us...

You may have noticed on my Facebook page and now on the blog that I have a wonderful piece of customised artwork that represents the hobbits and I...

My wonderful friend Jacqui has captured the boys so perfectly in their relevant superhero shirts, and drawn me so incredibly well and kindly that I am considering having the picture blown up to replace the real me.

I just wanted to say a very BIG thank you to you Jacqui and of course promote her Etsy page - she is an excellent artist and you can look at her work by following this link... Jacqui Clark ART

Her work is unique and beautiful, and I am very happy to recommend her...please take a look.

The 5 things I hate to do...

Now whilst I love the fact that I am totally independent, there are always going to be things that I groan about having to do alone.

I know that they have to be done and that there is no escaping them, yet they always fill me with dread. They bother me more than I can say.

I am sure that I am not the only one who procrastinates about 'those jobs' around the house; like fixing broken bedroom curtain poles or wobbly chairs, however there are just some jobs in my life that irritate me beyond belief and I will do anything to put them off...

1) Fixing bikes - really? Your tyres need pumping, your brakes are loose and your seat needs replacing? That wasn't in the small print when I signed the form to commit to a house full of boys... where the heck is Grandpa when I need him?

2) Filling the car up with petrol. I surely can't be the only one who hates this job? My car fuel light flashes at me angrily -
      'Feed me! Feed me now!'
      'Oh sod off, surely you have a few more miles left in you?'
      'Nope,' cough, cough splutter, 'Need food - must be fresh!'
It isn't even the paying for petrol that bothers me, it is the whole arse about pulling into a petrol station, blah blah bollocks... it is laziness I know, but also time - I always get in the car to go somewhere, I don't want the inconvenience of having to pull into somewhere, I have places I need to be...
Therefore I feel we need drive through petrol stations or even better, something that Air Force One has when in flight. I could be driving down the motorway when a big tanker pulls up alongside and just tops me up. Sorted!

3) Mowing the lawn. The long grass in my garden taunts me every two weeks. Every two weeks, seriously? My bloody hair doesn't need cutting that often, although it might do if I stood in the rain and sun more frequently. My lawn looks like wild unkempt hair and waves at me,
    'Oy, you...stop for a moment and look at my long tresses of unkempt blades of grass...don't I look messy again?'
    'I only mowed you last week, you bugger - you need more attention than a newborn!'
    'Oh and look, those weeds you dug out last week? They're back too - look!'
To make it worse, my neighbour is obsessed with cutting his lawn - which only seems to make mine gloat even more...

4) Fending off imaginary would be intruders. Unsurprisingly, this a) doesn't happen very often, and b) I truly hate doing this on my own. Doors slamming in the night from the wind can see me sitting in the dark with my heart pounding, clutching my baseball bat ready and mobile, with finger poised over 999 waiting for a potential intruder who may walk in... which of course they never do. However just the potential thought of it makes me feel vulnerable... and unnecessarily angry.

Last but not least, number 5)
 Seeing my children leave at the airport for their summer holiday. It is gut wrenching to wave goodbye to them as they leave to spend time with their father. It is the worst thing ever and if I could procrastinate about that - they would never leave my side.

So long and thanks for the salad cream...

I am in love.

It has finally arrived...and it is a beautiful thing.

Oh alright not quite in love but certainly an element of lust. The feelings sneaked up on me a little bit when I wasn't really paying them any notice. Today however, I realise I am in lust with the man who works in the local supermarket.

Don't worry Dad, he is not permanent relationship material, but he is quite cute and is certainly worth popping in to the local supermarket for; to while away the hours while I take a sneaky peek at him through the freshly made (on premises) baguettes and to admire his muscular physique as he replenishes the low milk stocks with ease.

We have spoken on many occasions my supermarket man and I, as he has commented on my excellent choice of fresh fruit, suggested items from the deli and we have even had that relationship seal making debate on the virtues of Salad cream Vs Mayonnaise...

*sigh*

I have come to the very satisfactory conclusion that I absolutely love being single, however there is the odd occasion when one's eye wanders a little bit and a little lustful demon pops up to say hello.

Pootle agrees with me...she has a lustful demon too and watches road workers from the safety line of her injunction limits.
"Just ask him out for a drink," She tells me boldly.
"Oh yes, can you imagine the silence that will ensue after that...'Fancy a drink?' Long pause followed by tumbleweed flowing down the aisle."
"Yeah, you're right. I wouldn't be that brave either."

It is a shame really, that even in these modern times that we feel embarrassed to ask. After all, what harm is there? I would feel flattered if someone asked me, it is nice to feel attractive to someone else...well, unless he was from the Manson Family...regardless of whether you say yes or no.

So alas I will go back to watching, as being so brave as to ask someone for a drink is not in my forte. I will watch him from afar whilst he stocks shelves, rips cardboard boxes with aplomb and hopefully one day we will laugh over Salad Cream again...