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Friday 29 August 2008

Hoooooly hell!

Since I found out I was carrying Cuinn, I've been on the hunt for a particular book. It's one of those things that has deep significance to me, and I really, really want Cuinn to have a copy (plus Al and I are big on fusty old books). Well, it was a series of books, and any of them would do, to keep a particular cherished connection with my past alive for my son, who, of course, won't get it at all, but I will and that's the thing.

I've been hunting for four months and a copy has just popped up on Trademe of all places, although I nearly had a heart-attack at the price. $40.00! For a 28-page book published in 1953! Wouch! The again, considering there were a series of them and this is the first one that I've found to come available, I probably shouldn't whinge. But still. $40.00! The kid is not cheap.

*Sigh* I'm adding it to my watch list. It doesn't have a buy now, so I don't want to alert anyone to said book being desirable by placing a bid myself just yet. As soon as you do that, you're screwed.

Thursday 28 August 2008

A mixed bag from the OB

Firstly, to the woman with the gorgeous baby girl I saw in the waiting room yesterday who was obviously in there for her six week check up post birth, who was also approximately as wide as one of my thighs (the woman not the baby girl) and actually looked fabulous wearing black tights - I hate you.

Now, some very, very good news. Well, vaguely. The placenta is still very low, yes, BUT is actually now clear of the cervix meaning a natural birth is on the cards.

The kicker that always accompanies good news? Cuinn, bless his hefty little self, is weighing in at a porky 335 grams as at yesterday. I sincerely hope that that is height as opposed to width.

What else?

Al and I are both negative blood types and so the Rhesus factor isn't an issue for us. Contrary to my thinking that two negatives make a positive, apparently I did sleep through most of my biology classes in school, and Cuinn will have a negative blood type. Or, if he doesn't, someone shouldn't have been drinking before coming into the lab and mixing us up some babies.

I need to stop being a wimp and book into antenatal classes.

Oooo! Yes! A little piece of ... trivia? ... and something I am very glad I didn't know until now ... 40% of couples who get to IVF will never have a baby *gulp*. We are very, very lucky indeed to have the wiggly little heavy-weighter. Very. Very, very.

Very.

Tuesday 26 August 2008

Crap on toast

Writing project word limit - 2000 words

Total self-imposed sections - 5

Self-imposed word limit for a SINGLE 'less important' section solely intended to connect the one before it to the one after it without leaving a ruddy great hole in the tale - 400 words

Actual words in 'less important' section solely intended to connect the one before it to the one after it without leaving a ruddy great hole in the tale- 905 words.

The two things this tells me:

1. I talk too much (and I'm pretty sure said 2000 word writing project could actually be turned into a book such is the muchness of the ability to talk).

2. Perhaps said 'less important' section solely intended to connect the one before it to the one after it without leaving a ruddy great hole in the tale isn't as 'less important' as I thought.

And back to it, for about two minutes before the husband gets back from dutifully hunting and gathering hot chips so I can slather them in sauce and stuff my face (and then probably eat a carrot and an apple afterwards because I'll feel dreadful for not providing Cuinn with a perfectly balanced evening meal. In theory chips are vaguely potato and therefore constitute one of your five plus, so I just need to fill in some gaps).

Ooooh! and I have an OB appointment tomorrow wherein I get to have another scan. Weeee! I love scans. Never mind the kiddly-irradiation or whatever it is. He's going to be weird anyway. He's ours. May as well be weird and frequently peeked out.

Monday 25 August 2008

Heavens! Who knew there'd be an uproar? In which we release the name.

What if we change our minds? Wouldn't you prefer to not know for a bit than get used to a name and then have to get used to another? (Although having said that, the chances are slim that we'll change it simply because we're far too lazy to go trawling for names again. We didn't enjoy the trawling)

By reading on you have hereby forfeited your rights to complain if we do happen to change our minds. Or the name order. Or anything.

OK. Deep breath.

Introducing ...

Cuinn Lachlan.

Cuinn (the Gaelic form of Quinn, pronounced the same) means wisdom, so at least if he gets none from us, which is highly likely genetics being what they are, he'll have some somewhere, even if it's just in the meaning of his name.

Lachlan means warrior from the land of the lochs. Considering what this little guy has been through to be with us, it's perfect ... even if it's more warrior from the petri dish.

There you go.

Sunday 24 August 2008

Just like that, Hellboy has a name

No, I'm not going to tell you yet. Sorry, this is partial sharing. There is nothing I hate more (well, actually, I have quite a difficult personality and there's plenty that I hate more, but for the purposes of this post, we'll pretend that this is my ultimate peeve) than people naming their unborn children, making a deal about it and then changing their minds when the kid pops out and it turns out that he or she doesn't look so much like a Harold or a Gertrude as they thought he or she would after all. This way, although you're in the dark, you'll have no idea if we change our minds. We'll pretend it's what we were going to do all along. Ha HA! Tricky.

Anywho, the defining moment came a little like this after the husband and I had spent a torturous four and a half minutes looking at baby boy names on the internet.

Me "What about *mumble*?"

The husband, scowls at me quite ferociously and says accusingly "I've liked that for ages. You said you hated it!"

Me, blankly (if all else fails, play dumb. In my current state of Hellboy related brainlessness, it's not exactly hard anyway) "Oh. Really? Did I?"

The husband, stalks off.

Me, hollaring into the lounge "Well, I do hate it. Or, I don't really like it, but I think it may really suit Hellboy."

The husband, still glowering slightly, and looking incredibly suspicious with it, comes back.

Me "We can't spell it like that though" ('tis Gaelic)

The husband "Why not?"

Me, patiently "Because he is going to spend his entire life spelling his name and no one is going to know how to pronounce it."

The husband, sighs loudly and says very patiently "I spend my entire life spelling my name. Only girls get pissed off about that sort of thing. Boys don't care. In fact, he's going to sit there in class and someone is going to try and call the roll, get to his name and say 'Ahhhheeeeerrrm *mumble ... and get it completely wrong*?' ... and he's going to sit there, let them make an arse of themselves and then say 'It's *mumble*' and then sit back with his arms folded. I like that spelling. Besides, it's our prerogative as his parents to ruin his life."

Me "I'll see. It's going to be a bugger coming up with a second name."

The husband, shrugs and goes back to his coffee in the lounge. Name done.

And, as it turns out, the second name is done too. Just like that. Ish. There's potential for the two names to be reversed, but I'm pretty sure it's done. We'll just sit on it for a while though to make sure it doesn't sound like fingernails down a chalk board in a month or two.

(Ok, ok, if you reeeally must know and can't stand the suspense, and you're my mother and extremely worried that we're going to settle on an Irish name ... We're decided we really like Hellboy, and we're pretty sure they'll let us register it. We've also taken an option out on Batman. Feel better? ... No? Can't imagine why ...)

And on that note, I'm going to ground more or less for a week or so because I have an infertility-related writing project and an imminent deadline.

Thursday 21 August 2008

I forgot about the placenta bit, didn't I?

The placenta is still 100% behaving badly. Fortunately we already have the OB under our belts, so we can monitor it on a monthly basis for the next couple of months, and then we'll have to have another big scan, probably around the 30-32 week mark to presumably make the final decision on how Hellboy will be born.

But, at the moment, it's a nada on the natural birth front and a continue to be very blardy careful in general. The only thing I'm a bit gutted about is my month off at Christmas is evaporating before my eyes. Tragic!

Wednesday 20 August 2008

So it went a little like this ...

Technician: "The baby ... is .... standing on its head?"

Me: Heehehehehehehehehehe!!!


And cue about 5 minutes of me trying to stop laughing (and a firstly indulgent, but quickly irritated look from the technician). Seriously. Only our kid. Standing on its head. Excellent. Even better, standing on its head doing the splits. Heaven knows there he gets the acrobatics thing from, but it sure as hell isn't me.

This was followed by about 45 minutes of cursing, very annoyed noises and mutterings from the technician as she tried to dig Hellboy out of my pelvis. We also have completely crap pictures of everything because he refused to move out of my pelvis (I'm guessing there's an xbox in there?), wiggled if he was forced to move therefore proving his point that we should have left him where he was damn well happy, thank you very much, and in the end we got him to move by tipping me on my head which as you can imagine was very comfortable indeed, and yet still didn't help because yes, he did pop back up, but all we got then was wiggling.

And that, sadly, is that. I tried to find an interesting shot to post, but even I can't tell what they are, and that's with the labels on (I'm going to be one of those parents that takes the wrong kid home from kindy, I can see it now). They're all blurring shots taken, out of necessity, while Hellboy was on the move, because apparently it's funny to lie on your back so the technician can't get spinal measurements, and then flip onto your head when she eventually gives up and decides to take head measurements, and then stick your hands in front of your face while she's trying to make sure your lip/nose view is normal, and so on and so forth for a very long time. While mummy is tipped unnaturally backwards in screaming pain. (As I said, the only clear shot we got was of his bits, and I just feel a little uncomfortable posting it)

So, I paid the little shite back by having a nice hot Thai curry, and we're just going to pretend that I'm enjoying the indigestion.


...


Oh, for goodness sake, the husband is rather proud and wants to show the world his boy's bits. Aye aye aye. Parents get sued for this sort of thing.




Ooooo! I just found a face shot (thank heavens for the 'Profile' tag huh?)


I'll give you a clue ...

Hellboy was helpfully standing on his head, so about the only thing we did get a clear look at was his bits.

You'll hear it here first

Our, or rather, No.9's anatomay scan is this afternoon. This is the last big scan (from here, it's just scans for fun at the obstetricians) to check that everything is absolutely tickety-boo with the little troll, and we have ourselves a happy, healthy baby, growing well and doing exactly what it should be doing ... kidneys functioning properly, heart looking like it should, brain measuring fabulously, baby isn't maintaining the gargantuan proportions of our 12 week scan ...

And, I want to see bits. As does the husband. Or, at least, I'm not caring so much about seeing them as someone telling me what they are. So convinced is the husband that No.9 is a girl, I think I'm going to be watching his face veeeery carefully when said bits are identified on the basis that if there's a penis, I'll hopefully have time to kick a chair under him before he faints. Me? I'm inclined to follow the husband's instinct simply because I have absolutely none, so I'll probably be surprised if it's a boy too truth be told. We'll see though.

Of course, the chances are now that it'll have its legs firmly crossed just to wind us up, we'll have to chase it around my uterus to try and make it do cartwheels, and come out of it none the wiser for all that, but still.

Anyway, the list of people who want and need to know is enormous, and I was going to send a text message to everyone until I realised how many text messages that would be, so here's the deal - you'll hear it here first. The scan is 3.30pm, so allowing say an hour for the scan (I can't remember how long the last one took, but I'm sure it wasn't more than an hour), and half an hour to get home (yeah, right. Half an hour to get home on the Southern Motorway at 4.30pm? *snigger*), I will post what news there is as soon as I've walked in the door, the dogs have finished leaping all over me, and the cat has flicked her tail dismissively in my direction because her favourite blanket is still not available to slumber on (which is completely not my fault by the way - SHE puked on it. She also puked on our quilt. And then on the duvet after I'd removed the quilt. And on the curtains in the end room (which is actually quite clever) and probably several other places I haven't discovered yet. In this weather. When you can't get a thing dry, let alone several things. ... furball season is the best).

But, after all that, it'll be right here. I promise. With either a 'It's a girl!' Or a, 'It's a boy!' or a 'It's still a blardy mystery!'.

Catch ya later.

Monday 18 August 2008

AARGGHHHHH!!

My auctions are on auto-extend!! ARRGHH!! I hate auto-extend! With a passion!! Since when did auto-extend on Trademe become a default option? Argh!

On the bright side, the auction for a pair of shoes I'm kissing goodbye which was supposed to close at 5pm is now $10 higher than it was at 5pm, but still.

I. Hate. Auto. Extend.

It's completely rude and unsporting and I am v. v. grumpy that I have 40 odd auctions in progress and I can't change the option on any of them because once there are bids you can't edit them.

I should really wear my glasses and read conditions when I do these things.

Bollocks.

In which I post someone else's work

By Jackie O'Fee, published in Flair magazine, July 2008 issue, pgs 12 & 13 (please don't sue me! I even included the end plug just in case)

What was I thinking?

Have you ever been out shopping and found the perfect item, been really excited, bought it, only to get it home and find it just somehow doesn't work?

Perhaps it doesn't go with that skirt, or it really doesn't suit your body the way you thought it would. Whatever the reason, it is frustrating and disappointing.

I'm talking about the "What was I thinking?" moment that comes briefly before the "Maybe if I buy some shoes/pants/a paper bag to wear on my head - it'll work" moment.

Sadly, a few days later - perhaps even after these have all been tried - the 'fantastic find' is relegated to the back of the wardrobe.

Here it will be forgotten except for those embarrassing "What about that $350 top you bought?" questions from your partners when you are complaining about having nothing to wear to your next event. (Of course, the $350 amount will be a fictional amount of approximately half the real value of the item - we might make fashion mistakes but we're not that silly, are we?)

So, here are a few insights into what makes for mistakes and how to avoid them:

Skinny mirrors: There are retailers out there who insist on using 'skinny' mirrors in their fitting rooms. These are great mirrors which reflect a taller, slimmer version of who you really are. Sadly, it's an illusion: all done with mirrors as they say. How to avoid this particular trap: get real - if you weren't that slim before breakfast, changes are that you are even less likely to have lost five kilos and added five inches after lunch. Another tactic: remember the store, remember the mirror.

Unrealistic expectations: The trouble with being a woman in today's society is the norms are all false - that is, if you believe the hype we are all supposed to walk out of the fitting room looking like Elle MacPherson. We don't. Enough said.

Same old, same old: How can you look fabulous, fresh and funky if you keep buying the same stuff? I often hear women complaining of being 'bored' with their look, but confusing 'setting it apart detail' with 'trendy, out of date quickly'. Too scared to buy anything truly stylish and different for fear it will date, they take the safe route - only to find they've repeated themselves over and over in their wardrobe. There's only one way to avoid this one: scare yourself.

Too Risky: Here's the contradiction to the point above (note: these mistakes can be written off as "learning experiences"). Going too far form your normal style can make you feel uncomfortable in your clothes and can also mean that your new clothes don't work with your old clothes. To avoid this: only buy something "out there" if you truly love it, and if it's a departure from your normal style, buy the complete look, don't attempt a half measure.

Sales Staff: The enthusiastic 19-year-old sales assistant is addicted to "America's next Top Model" on TV, wears a bikini top for a bra, trites in txt, drinks alco-pops and has no idea of what it's like to be you. Likewise, the sales assistant old enough to be your mum gets her fashion tips from English Woman's Weekly, along with her knitting patterns and shepherd's pie recipes. Both are probably on commission. Avoiding this one: take an honest friend with you and trust your own instincts.

I teach all Signature Style clients a simple 'quick look' test to use in the fitting room: When looking at yourself in the mirror shut your eyes for a moment and then open them. What's the first thing you see?

The detail you see first is what others will notice about you first - that could be really good or really bad. Make sure it's really good.

If you'd like the ultimate unbiased opinion on your next shopping trip - call the experts. Signature Style knows the shops of Newmarket like the backs of our hands and we'd love to help you find those perfect garments.

Call us on 09 630 5115 and make shopping mistakes a thing of the past.

Thursday 14 August 2008

So it turns out ...

From multiple what the? and huh? comments and emails, my previous post makes absolutely no sense at all because you can't see what Jack actually did. Let me make the picture bigger, and see if that helps ...

For those of you still baffled because I couldn't take a decent picture to save my life, ol' Destructor Dog there carefully pulled all the stuffing out of a soft toy. Bless. Then he sat there perfectly pleased with himself while I took a dozen pictures (I need camera classes), and then calmly and contentedly went back to spreading stuffing about.

We love dogs.

Wednesday 13 August 2008

What? It wasn't me ...

It was Jess. I swear!

She set me up.

Bitch.



And, when life is just too tough waiting for dinner ...


Tuesday 12 August 2008

The great wardrobe awakening

About once a season or so I have a bit of a wardrobe clean out whereby I hiff out a few impulse purchases, sell them on Trademe, usually to pay for something else I've already laybuyed that I shouldn't have, often an impulse purchase (although the last time I did it for the Ginger & Smart bag was such a good idea!), and round and round we go.

I love collecting clothes and shoes and handbags, not just for the hell of it mind ...OK, a little bit for the hell of it ... but mostly I collect them for love. But, no matter often what I collect, or how much stuff is jammed into my wardrobe, I still only wear or use a small capsule of stuff. One handbag, a couple of base layers, jeans, a couple of favourite cardys, only a few pairs of shoes, which are my favourites because they're the best. Ultimately, when it comes down to it, for every dozen items I add to my wardrobe, perhaps only 3 should be there.

We're blaming an article I read in Flair magazine called What was I thinking? (which I tore out, kept and carry in my handbag) for all this by the way. Maybe I should type it out for you all to read too? (obviously with credit given where credit is due so I don't nailed for whatever it is that they nail you for when you're perceived to have ripped something off).

So, with my soon to be zero income and a new budget in mind, I eyed my wardrobe narrowly a few days ago and made a brutal plan. Anything not, or barely, worn the preceding season (as in, winter clothes not touched this winter, or worn once and only because everything else was in the washing, or summer clothes not touched last summer on the same basis), regardless of my passion for it (yes, the Moochi shrug is fabulous and snuggly and really different and I love it as much now as I did the day I bought it, but when did I last wear it?) The rule is pretty simple - no stopping to think, no stopping to sob or snuggle or negotiate - have I worn it? No? It's gone. There are only two piles - yes and no. No middle pile for 'I'll wear it next season, I promise'. Everything goes on Trademe. Absolutely everything. I set good buy nows to get them hopefully gone quickly at that price, and otherwise, $5 no reserve so that I get something back, as well as clutter out of my wardrobe. This goes for shoes too. Why hoard them? If I don't wear them, I don't wear them. They're just taking up space. No point in that. And seriously, am I likely to wear extremely pointy kitten heels which are half a size too big (but very cool you have to understand) any more chasing No.9 around the house and walking the dogs than I do now, when I haven't worn them for 2 years? Maybe more? No. I got $30 bucks back on them by the way, which isn't too bad. I paid $80 on sale and wore them for a season or so that first year. $30 is better than no $ the way I see it, and they weren't giving me anything back gathering dust, that's for sure.

Anyway, that half done (turns out I have a lot of stuff ... I just keep finding it), I started in on phase two, which did involve a little bit of a cry over having about a dozen things left in my wardrobe. OK, no, I didn't cry, because all the stuff left is my favourites, but I'm trying to seem less shallow ...

Phase two is this - look at what is left, and think, very carefully, about why it is left. Why do I love it so?

How come the wicked Sabine merino top with the gorgeous vintage flower detail around the neck that I bought less than a year ago is sitting in the see ya later pile, and yet the very battered, three year old Moochi long sleeved black tee that will definitely do another season or two is sitting in my wardrobe looking like it's barely survived terrible things that it doesn't want to talk about, ever? What has it got that the Sabine top, and my fifty five million other tops hasn't? And, when it dies, am I going to want it back again? Am I going to turn Auckland upside down trying to find it, and probably contact Moochi to see if there is any chance on earth they have back-stock sitting in a warehouse somewhere that they will be prepared to sell me? Yes. Yes, I am. Go figure. Why are the Diesel sneakers sitting unloved in a corner, when the Triton ones are falling apart at the seams? Why is the chocolate-marl Moochi shrug on a shelf because I'll definitely wear it, but never do, and yet my butter-yellow pashmina scarf has barely come off all winter? Why is the grey Moochi cardy with the wear-it-so-many-ways neckline sitting dejected in the corner good as new, but the beigy Vanilla Ink one with the spotty satin hood lining, and the reddy hounds-tooth knit Widdess one are heading to knackered?

Oh, and of course, are the $380 shoes I bought from Scarpa on sale really a great thing to own when I've worn them once or twice in the last three years because they're actually a weird shade of brown and go with absolutely nothing I own, or even want to own? Uh, no. The silver ones that were about $300 that I bought for a wedding four years ago, have worn twice since, and my feet still cringe all these years later when they remember the pain they were in while encased in said shoes? Not so much.

Can I afford to make these gaffs from now on? Definitely not.

Time will tell if I really have learned my lesson and am a new me, but here's hoping that it'll stick. In the meantime I'm taking my lesson ... ummm ... shopping. Only a little bit of shopping mind, the rest is going to savings. I decided that it would be a good idea to perhaps replace that Moochi black top, so I have another when the original claps out, from the proceeds of all my sales, and the balance is being put aside for when I need to get a couple more bits of maternity clothes to get me through the end of my prenancy. And, as for my shopping from here? Hopefully the new me sticks to the plan. Obviously, I won't hold my breath, because this is me we're talking about and that would just be silly ... but you never do know.

(This nesty, organisy thing is no joke by the way - I'll tell you that for free)

Sunday 10 August 2008

Inwardly tuned

It's been a funny old week or two.

I think the exhaustion of the last four years, and particularly the last one, has hit. I think the exhaustion of IVF, and the exhaustion created by the day in day out anxiety of that awful first trimester has settled in my bones. The husband looks like he's been hit by a train. I think we've both of us perhaps finally turned around and come face to face with the lot of it.

I'm not talking black-holes by the way, so don't worry that we're both sobbing our way through boxes and boxes of tissues. We're just knackered. He's playing xbox and I'm making brownies and pikelets and sticking change into No.9's money box.

I felt No.9 move for the first time just over a week ago. A barely-there-could-be-gas sensation that left me waiting, inwardly tuned. I was sitting in bed and I can't remember whether I'd just finished reading No.9 his/her nightly instalment of Winnie the Pooh, or whether I was still reading, but either way, there was Winnie the Pooh involved. I felt this sensation of bubbles. Tiny little bubbles, like you'd possibly imagine a fizzy drink to feel like if you opened it inside yourself, and then it was gone. Hardly there, and yet most definitely there. My first thought was, there you are before wondering if it was gas. I'd eaten an entire pizza for tea (home made - the husband makes the best pizzas ever) so gas was definitely an option.

Then the next morning, I was in the car on my way to work and there it was again. I felt a little tap tap, on the same side and then bubbles which started on my right, moved across my stomach, then settled.

And that's when the exhaustion really set in - mental, physical, emotional, complete exhaustion. It's the strangest sense of being absolutely disconnected from the world at large, and disinterested to boot. We're very much in our own little world over here.

We're just really really tired, and it's only just started to settle on me, and the husband, that we're having a baby. This thing that every effort has gone into for so long, is happening. The realisation hit with the bubbles. I'm four months pregnant and I'm feeling the baby move. The pain I was all all through those first three months has largely lifed, my last bleed was over a month ago, puking has gone from a dozen times a day to a few times a week, and the little troll is making sure we know it's there and by growing fast. It's the strangest, most wonderful, terrifying thing.

And I'm guessing that my inability to stop organising and cleaning is part of the fun too huh? I even ventured into the husband's garage on the organising front. Of course, I took one look and ventured out again double-quick, but, the impulse was there. We have though spent a large part of the weekend getting rid of boxes and boxes of crap, making way for new beginnings, and new crap. There were two boxes full of cleaning/hair/assorted other products which have been sitting out there for a year and a half (since I cleaned out the bathroom for the bathroom redo) which are now, screw the environment (just this once - I'm cleaning and organising compulsively yes, but I can't be arsed washing out several tonnes of bottles), sitting in a rubbish bag waiting for Wednesday morning for example.

So, anywho, I think I'm just going to take the next few weeks very quietly and see how things settle. I'll see you when I see you, but otherwise, don't be expecting any bloggy genius from this direction because all you're likely to find is a snoozy Ginger trying to get dog-related mud splatters off the wall.

Wednesday 6 August 2008

Note to self

If you decide not to put a nectarine into your handbag when leaving for work out of mortal fear of said nectarine getting anihilated by your assorted crap and squishing all through said handbag, do not put it in your jacket pocket and then forget where you put it so that it gets anihilated in said pocket instead. V. v. messy. The other way around you could have bought a new handbag, but you have spare jackets.

Also - remember to ask No.9 at a later stage why on earth nectarines (a, excellent source of vitaminy goodness) are so very evil they must be immediately and enthusiastically vomited back up again, and yet a Thai red curry so hot that one's tastebuds die a gruesome death on contact and one can't feel the inside of one's mouth for about an hour afterwards is the cat's pajamas and gets to be digested?

Monday 4 August 2008

16 weeks

Helpful comments so far include ...

Looking skeptical, "Maybe it'll have a small head. If it has a small head it'll be ok...".

Quite, I'm sure. Because babies don't have shoulders.

And my personal favourite ...

Preceded with a look of wide-eyed wonder and an expletive "That one's going to make your eyes water when it comes out.".

You think?

Sunday 3 August 2008

My kinda cafe

I walked in, ordered my large flat white to go (stupid idea, No.9 apparently only likes small flat whites ... but I did need it after the shopping, if only to give myself heart palpatations over something other than the shopping bill), sat down to wait in a dingy corner (I love dingy corners in cafes - bearing in mind we're talking dingy cafe's in Ponsonby, so they're fashionably dingy as opposed to actual proper come armed dingy), looked up and saw the best sign ever above the counter - hand made, with much care and attention:

Unsupervised Children Will Be Sold For Medical Experiments.

Definitely a place to drop No.9 off to later when he/she is being a little shite.

Friday 1 August 2008

Happiness is

Tomorrow I am going shopping.

I love to shop. Reeeeally love to shop. But, with all the budgety seriousness resulting from impending No. 9 related financial doom, I've been having to be very well behaved for such a long time. It must have been ... a week? (except for that cardy on Tuesday, but that doesn't count because it was on sale and I was cold) AAAAAges! But, needs must, I require a tarp to cover No.9's temporary accommodation.

Apparently thinking/hoping/praying that normal tops would do the trick for the duration of pregnancy was a bit naive-slash-idiotic. Then again, who knew that I'd be the size of an inner city apartment (the husband's words ... I moaned that I was the size of a house and he assured me that I was definitely only the size of an inner-city apartment at most. Obviously that's another reason to go shopping. He completely deserves shopping-inflicted pain) in five minutes flat. And don't even get me started on the temperature thing. My thermostat is completely screwed. I think No. 9 must have jumped on it, destructive little troll. Or dismantled it. I have a vision of a little ginger troll-baby sitting cross legged in my uterus waving a screwdriver in the direction of my thermostat.

Umm ... where was I? Clothes. Shopping. Right. In fact, such is the lesson learned, I'm only going to buy enough to keep me going until things change again and I need to upgrade to a super-tarp for later on. Oh, and jeans. I'll need some new jeans. Apparently buying maternity jeans when I was five minutes pregnant just because they were branded No.9 and were therefore extremely cool (comfort be damned) wasn't such a genius idea after all because I can't stand wearing them. My bad. It turns out that your body doesn't just change shape, it has very distinct likes and dislikes with regards to clothing and comfort. Go figure. So, tops and jeans. I feel slightly less bad about the jeans on the basis that they're currently listed on Trademe, and I resisted an extraordinarily cool pair of shoes during the week because I thought I might need a tarp and tragic though it is, one can't have everything one wants all the time. Heavens I'm growing as a person.

Then, after shopping goodness, I am going to see Batman in the Circle Lounge at Berkeley in Botany. Reclining leather chairs at the movies are the best thing ever AND there is a very slim chance that my bladder just MIGHT last the entire duration of the movie. If I plan my pre-movie coffee/water intake veeeery carefully and cross my legs five times. I also bought a carefully constructed lolly mix to take along too when I was doing the groceries last night (movie lollies are expensive, and one packet of the same lollies just isn't cool at the movies. It's very important that you rustle for 15 minutes trying to find a jaffa, but come out with a milk bottle, a sour snake, an eskimo, and every other thing that's in there first), though in hindsight, I have no idea why I did because No.9 seems to be back in a puking frame of mind again, and never really liked lollies anyway. It's the principal of the thing.