NotJustAHatStand

I have real trouble sleeping on a Sunday night. It's probably a combination of sleep patterns getting messed up over the weekend, the prospect of another working week, and thoughts along the lines of 'it's Sunday night, I never sleep well on a Sunday'. Any other night I happily pass out not long after my light goes off. But not a Sunday, and most especially not the Sunday after a busy weekend involving two very late nights.

Last night was particularly bad. I read for a while, and snuggled down in the lovely fresh sheets about 11.45. The Boy was already asleep (as, freak that he is, he gets up at 6am to go to the gym before work). I lay, yawning, listening to his deep breathing. He started snoring gently. I was still wide awake. I did my first check of the clock.

Midnight.

I figured out that if I went to sleep in the next fifteen minutes, I'd get exactly seven hours sleep before I had to get up.

Fifteen minutes later, the Boy was still snoring, and I was even more wide awake than I had been half an hour before, because I was thinking about it too much. Like when you go to type in your PIN number at the cash machine - if you stop and think about it too much you can't remember the number.

I tried to turn over, away from the noise from his flapping tonsils, and remembered that I'd walked into a door handle that day, and bruised my ribs. Ouch.

By now it was 12.30, and I was starting to get ratty. Less than seven hours sleep, but only if I went to sleep in the next fifteen minutes!

I started doing yoga breathing (in through the nose, out through the mouth), and picturing the sea gently lapping the shore of a beautiful white beach. I felt myself getting a bit sleepy....

Then, 'nnngggghhhh', a loud grunting snore from His Nibs.

I gave him a gentle nudge* but he didn't stir. The last time I remember looking at the clock was about 1am. (If I go to sleep NOW, I'll get 6 hours!)

Then, bang on 5am this morning (a full 2 hours and 15 minutes ahead of schedule!) I woke up.

Ting! 'Good Morning!' Said my brain. And that was me.

I lay quietly for a while, trying not to lie on my sore ribs, hoping that I'd drop off again. Then the birds started with the singing. Then the Boy's alarm started going. Then HE jumped out of bed, refreshed after a good night's sleep, and happily skipped off for his workout.

Meanwhile I stumbled into work late (because of COURSE I fell asleep just before MY alarm went off), bleary eyed and dopey, wearing shoes that didn't match my outfit and with eyeshadow on only one eye.

Nighty night #yawn#

*Ok I kicked him, hard, in the shin and hissed 'shut it!'

Labels: Fiance, Sunday Night Syndrome

The Boy and I have been together for over seven years now, and have known each other for ten. While we do try to retain some mystery, it's kind of hard. We've lived together for the last four years, so he's seen me puking, fainting, weeing and, once, laughing so hard that tea came out of my nose.

There are some things that we just don't do, one of those is leaving the door open while we go to the toilet. Having a wee is one thing, but the other thing is done behind closed doors, and we prefer it that way. Having said that, we're not above a bit of toilet humour. A wee trump is good for a laugh and we quite openly break wind in front of each other, and have a giggle about it. Frankly, if we were one of those couples that 'take it to the toilet' then we'd hardly see each other. But bear in mind this is only when we're on our own, not in any other company (apart from maybe my mum).

So the other day in Tesco, when the Boy sidled past me with a shifty look on his face I knew he had some devious plan - he has previous for this kind of thing so I should've seen it coming but alas for me my guard was down. We were standing near the end of an aisle in the home section, which was empty but for us and a well-to-do couple talking to a Tesco employee about buying a TV.

As he reached the end of the aisle he paused and, with absolutely perfect timing, released a loud, prolonged fart then disappeared round the corner, leaving me horrified and unsure how to salvage any dignity from the situation.

In the end, I loitered for a few seconds with my head down, trying to make it seem as though I was above suspicion (my thinking was that if it had been me who farted, I wouldn't be hanging about). As soon as an appropriate amount of time had passed, I scuttled round the corner without looking at anyone, and found the Boy helpless with laughter in the next aisle. As soon as I saw him I dissolved into giggles as well (which impeded the accuracy of my punch unfortunately) and we both scarpered.

This is why I can't imagine being with anyone else.

Labels: Fiance

I made the mistake of buying The Boy Football Manager 2007 for Christmas, and ever since I've had to fight to get access to our PC when he's in the house. He either hovers around, peering over my shoulder, trying to figure out if I'm nearly done yet, or he comes and sits in the spare room with me. Watching me. Waiting until I nip to the loo or go and make a cuppa, so that he can sneak on and check the score.

He's watching me right now - he's just sitting there smoking a fag and (as if that wasn't bad enough) watching me. It's freaking me out because I can feel his eyes boring into the back of my head. He's willing me to hurry up and just let him onto the computer already. I don't know if he can read what I'm typing from his side of the room.

If you can read this Boy? STOP WATCHING ME. You know I can't concentrate when you're just ... HOVERING... Go read a book or something. Oh, and while I've got your attention? The kitchen's a midden, and it's your turn to clean it.

I want a laptop. That way he can manage a fake football team to his heart's content, and I can sit on the sofa and write my post from there in comfort, peace and solitude.

We've got the day off tomorrow. We're not doing anything in particular, other than taking Coco to the vet for her booster. This means I have to wrangle her into her box first thing in the morning, which I am not looking forward to - she may only have three functional paws, but she makes good use of em when she's determined.

However, forcing a small unhappy cat into a confined space is much preferable to going in to my office - the tension I mentioned in yesterday's post escalated today into full blown huffs and histrionics, and I SO can't be arsed with that on a Friday. They can fight it out amongst themselves tomorrow, and I'll tune in for the office bitch-fest on Monday...

Labels: Cats, Computers, Fiance, Office

The Boy and I don't really make a big fuss over Valentine's Day these days. We try not to kill each other every day of the year, we just make a special effort on February 14th.*

We're not doing anything tonight, but we're going out for dinner on Saturday, which is enough for me. I don't need boxes of chocolates, teddy bears holding boxes of chocolates, bouquets of flowers or bunches of balloons delivered to my office by a barbershop quartet. That's not to say I would turn any of these things down of course**, but I don't need them to know that the Boy loves me. Anyway, because he's not the type to make these kind of gestures (he's more of a behind-closed-doors man), I would feel like he'd been forced into it, and it doesn't mean anything unless it's been his own idea and is something that he wants to do. I once guilt tripped him into sending me a bunch of flowers, and I didn't enjoy it nearly as much as the time he did it off his own back.

He bought me a diamond, he can dine out on that one for a couple of years yet. No flowers necessary.

Happy Valentine's Day Smelly.

*I'm kidding of course

**Well, except maybe the barbershop quartet...

Update: I wrote this on my lunchbreak, and when I got home he had bought some nice food from M&S (including pudding!) and a bunch of red roses. Bless. He did forget my card, which is currently sitting on his desk at work, but you can't have everything.

Labels: Fiance

...um. Me!

The boy called me at work today to ask what was for tea. He does this every day. My answer is always 'dunno', so it really is a pointless exercise. Except today he also wanted to remind me that we'd forgotten our anniversary again this year. Generally we remember a few days too late, both feel a bit guilty for a day or so, and then forget about it until a year later and we realise we've forgotten again. This doesn't bother me too much, because a) it's kind of traditional now and b) it's not really a REAL anniversary. I mean, it's not like it was our first date or anything. Or the first time we... you know. YOU know.

It's just the day we bumped into each other in the pub.

But when he told me this today, I had a sort of niggly feeling in my head. Like there was something else I should be remembering. It was only about half an hour ago, that I realised what it was.

Our anniversary is the day after the night I accosted him at the jukebox.

Tuesday, it was. The 16th January.

The day I posted this.

Labels: Fiance, Stupid

The Early Days

When I was a schoolgirl I used to have Maths on the ground floor. The classroom faced out onto the path to the unofficial smoking area, taken by the bad people on the way for a fag. There was one boy, in the year above me, who had a free period at the same time as I had Maths, so I'd see him sloping past with his mate for a sly cigarette. I used to point out to my friend Jenny that this boy was passing: 'ooh look it's C!' (she must have got so bored of this -literally every week) that is was blatantly obvious I fancied the pants off him. He was in the year above me, and he was one of the rebellious crowd who smoked and drank loads, spoke back to teachers (gasp!) and skived lessons. I meanwhile, was part of a group that, while we weren't angels, went to classes, didn't smoke (at least I didn't), and only drank as much as we thought we could get away with (which admittedly was a fair bit, but still, you know what I mean). We had no mutual friends really, as our two groups didn't mix.

I'd been going out with someone for a few months, and had only just plucked up the courage to end things with him (which consisted of avoiding him, and not phoning him for long enough that he guessed and made it pretty easy for me to dump him), when a friend of mine said that immortal line to me: 'I know someone that fancies you'. Assuming it was going to be another of the geeky guys of my own age I had attracted thus far, I wasn't all that excited.

But then she told me that the person who fancied me was, in fact, C. The one who taunted me every time I had Maths, with his heady mix of bad-boy-smoker and cute-bespectacled-boy-with-big-blue-eyes... And apparently he'd had his eye on me for a couple of months (he'd spied me during our Higher English exam. He later told me what I had been wearing that day. He could still tell you what I was wearing - the one and only time he's ever paid any attention to my clothing!).

Anyway, I was completely gobsmacked as I had no idea he even knew I existed. When I heard this I looked over to the Other Side Of The Common Room (territory of those in sixth year), and there were those big blue eyes watching me from behind an upside-down copy of Vogue. He lowered his magazine and gave me a wee smile. I smiled back, and from that moment on I was smitten. I told the friend that yes I supposed she could give C my phone number. I wasn't fussed really. Trying to play it cool...

'OhmyGOD, C wants MY phone number!'

It was just too bizarre. By the time I got home that day I was convinced it was all a cruel joke. But I was to be proved wrong - half an hour after I got in the door, the phone went. I answered it, not even thinking that it might be C. It was of course, and I sputtered and 'emmm'ed my way through the call. We arranged to meet up the following night. And for the next six months, I was deliriously happy - we were like Cory and Topanga, but not quite as preppy. And not American. But it didn't matter because I had managed to bag the man of my dreams.

Labels: Fiance

Fiance and I went to visit friends of ours today, who have a 1 and a half year old boy. The wee boy is lovely, and our friends have a ball being parents - they've both taken to it like the proverbial ducks to water. We always have fun playing too (the baby got Weebles for Christmas! Remember Weebles?! They wobble but they don't fall down!), and when we leave their house I always say to Fiance 'aww, isn't Baby cute, should we have one?'.

In the days when we had only been going out for 5 years, weren't even engaged yet, and our friends were tearing their hair out because Baby wouldn't sleep through the night, Fiance used to look really freaked out by this and say 'Umm, err... ooh look - a bird'. Now however, he actually considers the question and then he says, yes, at some point he would like to have a baby. At which point I say 'Whoa, hold on there Mister, I was JOKING!'

This happens every time we go there. I know what Fiance's answer will be, I know that I am pretty much in the same place as him (i.e. I'd like one, but I'm not ready for it yet), but it's kind of a ritual now. The damn baby's just too cute - he has this effect on me.

Anyway, today the in-car discussion actually got to the stage where we were considering whether my maternity pay plus his wage would be enough to cover our outgoings, before I said 'Whoa, hold on there Mister, I was joking!'. This is progress for me.

But then I realised that having babies straight after we get married will render my dream of taking a career break and spending a few months travelling completely impossible. I'm coming to the conclusion that although I do want to have children (and I've always thought 30ish is a good age at which to procreate), I also have other ambitions that I'm not quite ready to give up yet. I know they always say that you can get out and enjoy the world when your children have flown the nest, but erm, I don't want to wait that long. What if I get landed with wastrel kids who don't leave home till they're 45? Or what if I get hit by a bus on my 60th birthday, the day before I'm due to leave on my round the world trip and I never get to see Uluru, Victoria Falls or the Great Barrier Reef? WHAT THEN? I will have died a poorly travelled person (albeit one who has left a genetic legacy on the planet for when the mothership returns) who has never fulfilled her wish to see the Grand Canyon before she dies.

So I've worked out that I have three-and-a-bit years (I'm 27 in May) in which to:

a) Get married. I can pretty much tick this one off already but you never know what's gonna happen. Fiance might find out about my criminal record.

b) Save up, take a career break, and travel the world for a few months.

c) Get home without being eaten by a lion or falling into the Zambezi, and get up the duff.

Should be easy enough, I reckon.

Labels: Babies, Fiance, Travel

Some Christmas statistics:

Number of presents under our tree by 10am on Christmas morning:

Approx four hundred million.

Extravagant presents from Fiance, for me, in addition to books, perfume and a jacket:

One, in the shape of a mini LCD TV for our bedroom. Love. That. Boy. But damn him for spending too much, when I stuck to budget.

Guilt Presents bought for Fiance, by me, on Boxing Day:

One.

Small black bunnies with white socks and a rambunctious personality in my stocking:

Zero (waah!).

Rashers of bacon burnt to carbon by me whilst cooking breakfast:

Two.

Burnt rashers of bacon consumed by me in the kitchen when no-one was looking:

Two.

F-words uttered by sister's drunk boyfriend in the presence of both mums and an aunt:

Twenty three before I lost count.

Naps taken by sister's drunk boyfriend on Christmas Night:

One nap. Enforced by mortified sister.

Christmas quizzes won by the author and her mum:

One. Whee!

Christmas Traditions established:

One. 'Cam's Christmas Quiz' was a riotous success (despite accusations of match fixing, because the Quizmaster's Fiance and future Mother-in-Law won), and next year's is already in the planning stage.

Like last year, there were great gaping holes where our fathers should have been but there always will be, so we just have to make the best of things. Fiance's mum has two foster children staying with her, and their story (taken away from their parents and staying with strangers over Christmas) made us all feel a little luckier in what we still have.

Labels: Christmas, family, Fiance

It's my Boy's 27th birthday today. I forgot to say Happy Birthday to him this morning as I was still sleepy when he left for work, and I grunted at him when he kissed me goodbye.

I'm cooking tonight for us and our mums - I'm doing chicken fillets poached in white wine, with potatoes/parsnips/carrots roasted with rosemary and garlic, and tenderstem broccoli and caramelised shallots. Wow, that sounds like I actually know how to cook doesn't it?*

This means I have to fly home - via the shops as I forgot to buy fresh rosemary - and get peeling the mountains of veg. Then I have to clean the bathroom, hoover up the copious amounts of fur that my cats shed (you could stuff a pillow with it all, I don't know how they're not bald), cook the rest of dinner, make myself look halfway decent and then be the hostess with the mostest for the rest of the evening.

But - much like the lady in the L'Oreal ad - he's worth it.


* I don't - this (and the odd lasagne) is about the extent of my repertoire.

Labels: Birthday, Fiance

This weekend Fiance and I are planning to sort out the flat once and for all. When we moved in we unpacked in a kind of haphazard, 'fling-that-in-there-for-now' kind of way, but we've never gotten around to sorting stuff out properly. ConsequentlyI feel that we've not properly settled, because our stuff is just kind of strewn about the place and nothing really has it's own place. But what's really bothering me is the state of my books (I know - I bet you weren't expecting that). Like everything else they just got turfed onto the nearest bookshelf in any old order, which is in direct contract to my previous, strict alphabetical-by-author-surname system. And don't even get me started on my Excel spreadsheet - I've not updated it since July so I have no idea what my current total is, or even which books I can score off my Amazon wishlist before Christmas. As a person who buys a book (or two, or five) every couple of weeks, this means my spreadsheet is now dramatically out of date. But these things are all easily rectified.

Our lack of adequate storage for said books is a bit more problematic.

We own 3 and a half bookshelves, which isn't nearly enough as they're all full to the gunnels, and I have to dedicate one shelf to my fancy books as I can't bear to squish them in with all the scraggy old paperbacks. But we don't have any more spare WALLS on which to place additional bookshelves, so there are always stacks of books lying around (there's currently a pile of em on my kitchen table, for instance). This doesn't bother me but Fiance grumbles about it on a regular basis - he keeps saying that we're going to end up surrounded by the things, sitting on them, sleeping on them, using them for pillows and plates, and for keeping us warm at night.

Fiance and I differ slightly in our approach to resolving this - his solution? Stop buying books. At least until I've read all the ones I own. Whenever he says this I proclaim loudly and dramatically that I simply cannot stop expanding my library as this would be like his stopping following football (at which point he casts his eyes heavenward). It is true that I haven't read all the books I own, but I see this as a good thing - I will never be bored or stuck for something to read, and neither will he (he loves reading too, although it may not sound like it). My solution to the book storage problem is to call in a professional.*

I think the only way we're going to be able to store all the books we currently own, AND have room for all the ones I plan on buying in the future, is to have someone come and build us one he-uge bookshelf, and give the Ikea ones the old heave-ho. This sounds like paradise to me, living in a house lined with books. Unfortunately Men With Hammers cost money, and at the moment we have other things to spend our hard-earned on so it will have to wait. But I refuse to curb my bookishness, especially when there are so many bargains around (just the other day I bought Moby Dick by Herman Melville and Amsterdam by Ian McEwan in the charity shop for £3).

Fiance will just have to make his peace with it.

*And not a mental health professional to address my addiction, despite Fiance's opinion on the matter.

Labels: Book collecting, Books, Fiance, reading

I woke up on Saturday morning with a sore scratchy throat, and a thumping headache. Although all I wanted to do was stay in bed with my teddy bea... err... hot water bottle and lots of hot drinks, I went to visit my granny. Which I'm afraid to say wasn't much fun.

My grandmother is 93, and in the last couple of years has become (and I'm being as diplomatic as I can here), slightly difficult. She's had a number of small strokes which has left her unable to speak very well. She has always been very independent and has never shied away from voicing her opinion, so being trapped in her frail little body without the ability to communicate is a complete nightmare for her. She now lives in a care home, but unfortunately she's not happy there, not at all. When I went to see her on Saturday, she told me that she won't be here for my wedding next year. Now she says this kind of thing on a regular basis (she has pronounced every Christmas for the last 10 years that this one will be her last), but she then went on to say 'they'll see to that' - by 'they' she meant the staff of the care home. Which was a pretty awful thing to say. I don't think the staff ARE mistreating her, I just think they're busy and it's another symptom of her unhappiness. So all of this, combined with feeling a bit wabbit, didn't make for a fun afternoon visiting.

On Sunday I still felt ill but Fiance and I had an appointment to see a wedding photographer, who was lovely. Then we went to The Supermarket Where All Civility Disappears and Fiance and I fell out over a toilet brush (yes, you heard me - a TOILET BRUSH). I wanted to buy a normal plasticky one because I bought this and it's shit.* He didn't see why we had to buy another toilet brush when I spent all that money** on a fancy gimmicky one. So we did the usual stomping round Tesco not speaking to each other unless absolutely necessary and forgot most of what we went in there for to begin with. In the evening we were supposed to be going to see a wedding band in a pub in Leith but Fiance and I agreed (for the first time that all day) that it wasn't going to happen - I was feeling rough, he couldn't be arsed and the weather was ATROCIOUS.

So all in all, the only good things about my weekend were Strictly Come Dancing on Saturday night (sorry Elisabeth but I cannot deny my true feelings!) and meeting the lovely wee photographer on Sunday, who gave us each a 2007 diary with 'wedding!' already written in the 7th September. Bless.

*Hee!

**All that money = £3.97

Labels: Fiance, Illness, weekend

That I don't have one. I seriously cannot think of a thing to write about. Except the fact that I can't think of anything to write about.

I was going to write about Britney calling her baby Jayden, but all I can really say about it is that she's a hick, and continues to prove that fact every time she opens her mouth to speak or name her latest baby.

I then came up with what I thought was quite a good idea - I asked Fiance to give me a topic to write about and whatever he suggested I would come up with something to say about it. But he hasn't replied to my email. Evidently he's far too busy and important to talk to me until after 5pm.*

I thought of giving an update on my progress with planning the wedding. But I haven't made any.

I toyed with the idea of exploring why it is that I constantly need to trump when I'm sitting at my desk, but as soon as I nip to the corridor/loo/photocopying room to parp in private it disappears until the moment I sit back down in front of my PC. I dismissed that as it's too embarrassing.**

I considered writing about the book I'm reading (Rebecca by Daphne du Maurier), but then I realised that was just stupid as I've not even finished the damn thing.

So in conclusion, my topic for today is my lack thereof. The end.

* Or until he gets bored and phones me for no reason in the middle of the afternoon when our director is in the room.
** Dammit.

Labels: Celebrity baby names, Farting, Fiance, Wedding, Writer's Block

Coco is fixed. She had her op yesterday and it was a success - the vet managed to locate and remove all her remaining kitten-making bits. When she first came out of the box she staggered around the room like she was drunk, and her eyes remained all-pupil until approx 10pm last night, which was kind of freaky. She's now just kind of depressed and sulky because she's wearing a buster collar (I would post a picture if BT were able to connect our broadband - bah!) but I'm sure she'll come round and I'll be back in her good books.

Fiance went to the shops on the way home from work last night and came back with a huge bunch of Guilt Flowers (lilies, which I have to admit aren't my favourites, but as he doesn't ever read this website I can safely admit that here), Guilt Pudding (he doesn't normally encourage dessert), and some chicken for poor Coco's dinner (he's a smart cookie, he knows the way to my heart is through my kitties).

The thought was lovely though, and he has now been completely forgiven. The big twonk.

Labels: Cats, Fiance

I had a rather strange weekend, for various reasons.

My sister and her boyfriend were going to his home town - a wee place on the West Coast - for a wedding. My mum and I were invited to go through with them on Friday, stay the night at his parents house and come back the following day. We had a lovely time, my sister's in-laws were lovely hosts and looked after us very well.

While we were there I:

1. Met various people with strange names like Chooky, Beany, Jazzy and The Badger, including a man named Corky who once stood on a rake (Sideshow Bob style) and in so doing fractured his skull. These are the kind of people I spent the weekend with.*
2. Fell hook line and sinker for the joke my sister's boyfriend played on me by telling me one of the landscape features we were looking at was called Buttock Point.
3. Visited the home of a Clan Chief (yes really - the bride was his niece) and used his loo. Hot water, soap and towel all present.

When I got back I engaged in many Martha Stewart-esque activities, such as washing, making soup, weeding the garden and mopping the floors. I retired to bed early with a migraine last night, only to be woken up at midnight by Fiance phoning me to tell me he was on his way home (he'd been in Manchester for the weekend). He did this by singing me a song he had made up.

About 20 minutes later he came crashing through the door, bumbled about the house knocking things over, and removing an item of clothing every so often, until he eventually curled up on the floor of the spare room and went to sleep. I seriously considered leaving him there, but eventually took pity on him. I gave him a good old kick in the ribs and barked at him to go to bed, which he did. Unfortunately once he got there he immediately turned into a hideous combination of the Kraken and Mr Tickle, all arms and beer breath, wanting to give me cuddles(ok, maybe not EXACTLY like Mr Tickle). Needless to say he received another blow to the ribs.

Altogether, quite an odd couple of days really.

*I am of course saying all this with fondness - every single person my mum and I were introduced to welcomed us with open arms and attempted to ply us with alcohol.

Labels: family, Fiance, giant squid, weekend