This is gross. No two ways about it. But I've been a mother for 10+ years now and this is a big problem for children, and ourselves, especially as our self image takes a back seat and our immaculately presented children become our pride and joy - an outward indication that despite the chaos that generally follows us, our children have their shit together.
So why is it that our noses, of all things, have to throw a spanner into the already complicated mix?!
Our noses are a haven for all sorts. We sniff too hard, stuff gets stuck up there. Miniscule stuff. Particles of nasty. Sometimes those particles join forces and create the ultimate monster particle. Sometimes the monster stays hidden until it dehydrates and becomes an annoying burden. Sometimes the monster fancies a game of peek-a-boo and loiters on the cusp of the nostril, popping out at the most inopportune moment and embarrassing those around us. We, however, are usually completely unaware of this hide and seek escapade and only proper dickheads point out your partially hidden lodger. Often, said lodger will swing freely from the nostril on an invisible, undetectable thread, brazenly bidding "Hello!" to the world until your brain suddenly screams "LURKER ALERT! LEFT NOSTRIL! DANGLING!" To which you respond with a swift swipe, adhering the monster to your thumb like shit to a blanket... unable to surreptitiously dispose of him because the person you are talking to knows that a moment ago you had a massive greenie hanging out your nose, your hand and nose connected and now the greenie has gone. And any flicking/flappy motion is going to alert them to the fact that a bogey is smeared across your hand.
On a child these things are generally acceptable. Unless the nasal fluid is the colour of sage and an inch thick. Kids lick anything and at no point should snot be on the oral trajectory. Good God!
But for adults... and mothers in particular, our noses pose a hidden threat. I've said it numerous times, sneezing is the work of the devil.
It's main purpose is to remind women that actually, a little more pee could have been squeezed out on your last loo trip. ACHOO!!! SEE?!?!? I told you, Pissy McPisspants!
Applying mascara... that black, goopy liquid we smear across out eyelashes in an effort to looking eye-battingly beautifully alert rather than black-eyed, saggy and tired. If you don't execute the open-mouthed gape whilst applying aforementioned gloop you can bet your arse that your nose will mix things up a bit by throwing a sneeze out there. And we all know that if you sneeze with your eyes open they'll pop out, and nobody wants to be forcing eyeballs back into their face spaces at 7.30 am. So we just do it. We sneeze. And we print lashes all over our cheeks and eyelids, rendering the job null and void because instead of looking tired and worn out we now look like we popped a load of ecstasy and applied our mascara whilst on a trampoline with one hand behind our backs...
Then there is the eyebrow pluck. What the actual fuck?! There is always that one eyebrow hair that triggers and uncontrollable sneezing fit, followed by an unbearable tingle. But because the slug-brow look isn't becoming of many of us we put ourselves through this regimented horror show. And we ALWAYS believe we look better with blazing red eyebrows, a snotty nose and eyes like piss holes in the snow.
Of course we then have the dinner-dishing-up-time sneeze... The one where you're gathering plates stacked with piping hot, tasty food for your family, juggling them to the table and suddenly... right there... the sneeze. Its a choice between dropping every single plate and blowing kablooey, or aiming it at the one plate and hoping the Husband doesn't notice the addition of salty goodness you've prepared especially for him.
And finally, as we grow older, sneezing has the ability to render us incapacitated with no notice whatsoever. Whether your nasal explosion triggers a sudden sciatic attack in your leg and arse cheek causing you to limp like Quasimodo, or whether it inflames the trapped nerve in your back, hunching you over in agony, or whether it jars your neck, bending it at an unnatural angle - the recurring theme here is Quasimodo.
All this stemmed from the fact that I executed a spectacular sneeze in the car this morning. I'd been taunted by the elusive little bastard for about an hour...he tingled up and down, teasing me. Massively frustrating. Until I was at the traffic lights among the other cars and pedestrians, window down, humming along to Blur. Suddenly it was all systems go, which basically resulted in me making one helluva noise and stalling the car whilst desperately trying to round up any escapees with a furious sniff. Fringe in the eyes, slightly damp hands and a slightly damp seat - and my tissues buried deep in the pit of my handbag. The day had started so fucking well too!
Ahhh... the glory of being a woman, the glory of uncontrollable bodily functions and the general public.
Tuesday 13 May 2014
Hobbies and such...
Earlier I mentioned that I didn't have many hobbies but on reflection it would appear I lied about that.
Like most parents, hobbies tend to take a backseat and family life takes precedence. As well it should.
But we need to make time to do the things we enjoy, even if it's snatching a few moments here and there.
Sewing
I am the proud yet somewhat neglectful owner of a sewing machine. It sits in a box, under a chair, gathering dust and the occasional daddy long legs spidey until inspiration strikes and one of those little fuckers runs over my hand as I heave the old girl out of her box. Talk about scream like a girl. I've sewed pretty bunting, the crotch of my brother's work trousers x200, pretty cushions, aprons, even a lovely bridal sash for a hen weekend but nothing of artistic significance. I entertained the idea of making clothing for The Banshee but I just don't know where to start. Until then the old girl will have to settle for little but pretty jobs. Apart from the crotches. Years of farts ingrained into the fabric, it's a wonder my fingertips are still in possession of my finger prints!
Doodling
Yes, I am sad enough to doodle. I'm sad enough to admit that my doodles have taken up massive amounts of my time and that plenty of friends and family are the owners of doodles commissioned especially for them... some even display them! I love music, and the lyrics to a song can draw on memories and bring feelings of such joy and elation. That is something that should be captured in any way possible. I'm not hugely artistic so it's not something I could ever fully embrace. Besides, the tribe of small humans that live with us steal any pen that isn't nailed down or locked up. The array of "K"'s scrawled discreetly on the wallpaper in the corner of the lounge and the rainbow splodges of Sharpie soaked into the bed sheets, and even on to skin at times, are testament to the fact that you cannot really be trusted with a pen until you're 21 or older. I was still chewing biro's with explosive outcomes at age 18. And having to reassure other adults that your kid isn't suffering from some frightening form of necrosis of the skin is tough... "Honestly Miss... what you're actually seeing there is the combination of orange, blue and green Sharpie. His ankle is fine!"
Music
Apart from a brief spell playing the Cello and an even briefer episode involving an ocarina I am sad to say I do not play an instrument. And, given the choice again, I'd have gone for the double bass anyway. At least I could swing one of those bastards at the bullies and cause some actual damage as opposed to having to explain why my cello was the proud owner of an enormous crack.
I took the piss out of my mother mercilessly for her taste in music when I was growing up. I listened to everything AFTER my mother's generation. Dance, garage, pop, indie... Anything that would wind her up. While she was blaring Black Sabbath I was trying to drown it out with a bit of Old Skool dance. I died a little inside every time my dad played Elvis on the rare occasion he was able to drop us at school and rock and roll was the most cringeworthy music on Earth. When they joined forces and raised the humiliation stakes by singing "Paradise By The Dashboard Light" at karaoke, I was a bit sick in my mouth.
Now, as an almost 30 year old I love Meatloaf and Black Sabbath. Reggae and Ska, Rock and Roll, Elvis, old Irish rebel songs, anything by The Beach Boys... I swoon with nostalgia and the memory of a childhood filled with music. Elvis is a fucking LEGEND and The Kinks are cooler than cool.
More importantly, I'm doing what my mum and dad did... Musically I live in the past. I was barely old enough to wipe my own bum when The Stone Roses took the stage at Spike Island and yet, without any shadow of doubt, they are my favourite band. The 90's saw a transition in the style of music and the messages delivered. The emergence of the indie scene was way beyond me age-wise but that's the era I find myself drawn to the most. And I wouldn't have it any other way. While most girls my age were listening to Steps I was listening to The Verve. Don't get me wrong, I swooned over Take That - still do to an extent! - Nick Carter of the BSB's was a hottie, and the Spice Girls were like nothing on Earth! But as it stands right now, the 90's, indie classics, modern indie rock and roll, rock music of the 60's and 70's, The Mod Scene, The Beatles, The Beach Boys, Elvis and, last but by no means least, The Stone Roses are where it's at. Ian, Reni, Mani and John move me in a way Mark Owen never could!
On my bucket list is the task of learning to play the guitar. Whether self taught or tutored... I don't care. I'll give it a bash!!! Or strum. Not sexually.
Reading
Ahhhh READING!!! My most treasured past time! I've always been a reader - you either love books or couldn't give a shit. I love books! Something scary, something romantic, something deep and meaningful, something completely and utterly fantastical - I don't care what it is. As a child it was Enid Blyton. As a young adult it was Point Horror, Goosebumps, Sweet Valley High, Babysitter's Club. Late teens led to the discovery of Stephen King and Dean Koontz - scared the living shit out of myself! Harry Potter came along and transported me back to a younger, more innocent time. Angus, Thongs and Full Frontal Snogging by the incredibly funny Louise Rennison was a guide to teenage life - accurate too! Adulthood led me to the chase and thrill of Jack Reacher via Lee Child, the ultimate devil's advocate in Jodi Picoult, the modern day fairy tales of Cecilia Ahern and the stark, brutal, frankness of death dissected by Patricia Cornwell and Kathy Reichs. Oh, and Fifty Shades of Grey. Phwoooaaar!
I'd stay awake all night to read given half the chance. Weekends were for reading. Any spare moment. Two, three books on the go.
Now I pretty much have to allot myself periods of time to sit and read. I.E - on the shitter.
You know you're a parent when you pretend to have the trots just to get through a few chapters. The convenience of a shower is completely blown out in favour of stewing in ones own filth in the bath for 90 minutes just to finish that book. Early nights become ridiculously late ones because reading by daylight is saved for Calpol bottles and homework books.
Excercise
Hahahahaha... Just kidding! Running and Bokwa are the extent of my exercise and I haven't done either in a while - I took the decision to leave zumba along with my sister and friend when it emerged that we were the only ones laughing at my "Back in a sec... my tena lady is stuck halfway down my thigh!" gag. And any mention of Wizard's Sleeves made the woman in front of us rotate her head 180 degrees and hiss "I am trying to concentrate! I want to be a Zumba instructor!"
Bully for you, love.
So Bokwa looked fun. It is and then it very much isn't. Those who have experienced the Bokwa burn will know. And as dainty as dancing the alphabet may sound, it is NOT. It's fucking beastly.
Running evokes a rage in me, a furious rage. I have just about mastered running to music without throwing in the odd dance move after a disastrous mishap involving a treadmill and The Black Eyed Peas. And a treadmill and Rudimental. There is a vast array of skid marks on my bedroom wall. From my feet, obviously.
Maybe this will become my new hobby. Blogging. If I ever manage to figure out how to navigate the dashboard and/or find a topic worth blogging about. When you consider that my children, my husband and my friends are generally my main source of entertainment that might not be a good thing...
Adios.
Like most parents, hobbies tend to take a backseat and family life takes precedence. As well it should.
But we need to make time to do the things we enjoy, even if it's snatching a few moments here and there.
Sewing
I am the proud yet somewhat neglectful owner of a sewing machine. It sits in a box, under a chair, gathering dust and the occasional daddy long legs spidey until inspiration strikes and one of those little fuckers runs over my hand as I heave the old girl out of her box. Talk about scream like a girl. I've sewed pretty bunting, the crotch of my brother's work trousers x200, pretty cushions, aprons, even a lovely bridal sash for a hen weekend but nothing of artistic significance. I entertained the idea of making clothing for The Banshee but I just don't know where to start. Until then the old girl will have to settle for little but pretty jobs. Apart from the crotches. Years of farts ingrained into the fabric, it's a wonder my fingertips are still in possession of my finger prints!
Doodling
Yes, I am sad enough to doodle. I'm sad enough to admit that my doodles have taken up massive amounts of my time and that plenty of friends and family are the owners of doodles commissioned especially for them... some even display them! I love music, and the lyrics to a song can draw on memories and bring feelings of such joy and elation. That is something that should be captured in any way possible. I'm not hugely artistic so it's not something I could ever fully embrace. Besides, the tribe of small humans that live with us steal any pen that isn't nailed down or locked up. The array of "K"'s scrawled discreetly on the wallpaper in the corner of the lounge and the rainbow splodges of Sharpie soaked into the bed sheets, and even on to skin at times, are testament to the fact that you cannot really be trusted with a pen until you're 21 or older. I was still chewing biro's with explosive outcomes at age 18. And having to reassure other adults that your kid isn't suffering from some frightening form of necrosis of the skin is tough... "Honestly Miss... what you're actually seeing there is the combination of orange, blue and green Sharpie. His ankle is fine!"
Music
Apart from a brief spell playing the Cello and an even briefer episode involving an ocarina I am sad to say I do not play an instrument. And, given the choice again, I'd have gone for the double bass anyway. At least I could swing one of those bastards at the bullies and cause some actual damage as opposed to having to explain why my cello was the proud owner of an enormous crack.
I took the piss out of my mother mercilessly for her taste in music when I was growing up. I listened to everything AFTER my mother's generation. Dance, garage, pop, indie... Anything that would wind her up. While she was blaring Black Sabbath I was trying to drown it out with a bit of Old Skool dance. I died a little inside every time my dad played Elvis on the rare occasion he was able to drop us at school and rock and roll was the most cringeworthy music on Earth. When they joined forces and raised the humiliation stakes by singing "Paradise By The Dashboard Light" at karaoke, I was a bit sick in my mouth.
Now, as an almost 30 year old I love Meatloaf and Black Sabbath. Reggae and Ska, Rock and Roll, Elvis, old Irish rebel songs, anything by The Beach Boys... I swoon with nostalgia and the memory of a childhood filled with music. Elvis is a fucking LEGEND and The Kinks are cooler than cool.
More importantly, I'm doing what my mum and dad did... Musically I live in the past. I was barely old enough to wipe my own bum when The Stone Roses took the stage at Spike Island and yet, without any shadow of doubt, they are my favourite band. The 90's saw a transition in the style of music and the messages delivered. The emergence of the indie scene was way beyond me age-wise but that's the era I find myself drawn to the most. And I wouldn't have it any other way. While most girls my age were listening to Steps I was listening to The Verve. Don't get me wrong, I swooned over Take That - still do to an extent! - Nick Carter of the BSB's was a hottie, and the Spice Girls were like nothing on Earth! But as it stands right now, the 90's, indie classics, modern indie rock and roll, rock music of the 60's and 70's, The Mod Scene, The Beatles, The Beach Boys, Elvis and, last but by no means least, The Stone Roses are where it's at. Ian, Reni, Mani and John move me in a way Mark Owen never could!
On my bucket list is the task of learning to play the guitar. Whether self taught or tutored... I don't care. I'll give it a bash!!! Or strum. Not sexually.
Reading
Ahhhh READING!!! My most treasured past time! I've always been a reader - you either love books or couldn't give a shit. I love books! Something scary, something romantic, something deep and meaningful, something completely and utterly fantastical - I don't care what it is. As a child it was Enid Blyton. As a young adult it was Point Horror, Goosebumps, Sweet Valley High, Babysitter's Club. Late teens led to the discovery of Stephen King and Dean Koontz - scared the living shit out of myself! Harry Potter came along and transported me back to a younger, more innocent time. Angus, Thongs and Full Frontal Snogging by the incredibly funny Louise Rennison was a guide to teenage life - accurate too! Adulthood led me to the chase and thrill of Jack Reacher via Lee Child, the ultimate devil's advocate in Jodi Picoult, the modern day fairy tales of Cecilia Ahern and the stark, brutal, frankness of death dissected by Patricia Cornwell and Kathy Reichs. Oh, and Fifty Shades of Grey. Phwoooaaar!
I'd stay awake all night to read given half the chance. Weekends were for reading. Any spare moment. Two, three books on the go.
Now I pretty much have to allot myself periods of time to sit and read. I.E - on the shitter.
You know you're a parent when you pretend to have the trots just to get through a few chapters. The convenience of a shower is completely blown out in favour of stewing in ones own filth in the bath for 90 minutes just to finish that book. Early nights become ridiculously late ones because reading by daylight is saved for Calpol bottles and homework books.
Excercise
Hahahahaha... Just kidding! Running and Bokwa are the extent of my exercise and I haven't done either in a while - I took the decision to leave zumba along with my sister and friend when it emerged that we were the only ones laughing at my "Back in a sec... my tena lady is stuck halfway down my thigh!" gag. And any mention of Wizard's Sleeves made the woman in front of us rotate her head 180 degrees and hiss "I am trying to concentrate! I want to be a Zumba instructor!"
Bully for you, love.
So Bokwa looked fun. It is and then it very much isn't. Those who have experienced the Bokwa burn will know. And as dainty as dancing the alphabet may sound, it is NOT. It's fucking beastly.
Running evokes a rage in me, a furious rage. I have just about mastered running to music without throwing in the odd dance move after a disastrous mishap involving a treadmill and The Black Eyed Peas. And a treadmill and Rudimental. There is a vast array of skid marks on my bedroom wall. From my feet, obviously.
Maybe this will become my new hobby. Blogging. If I ever manage to figure out how to navigate the dashboard and/or find a topic worth blogging about. When you consider that my children, my husband and my friends are generally my main source of entertainment that might not be a good thing...
Adios.
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