Still Passing Open Windows ....

Should I or shouldn't I?

I have two friends who regularly consult psychics, well, three probably although the third friend doesn't talk about it as much as the first two. The first two have disastrous love affairs and are looking for Mr. Right. The first friend sees pyschics who tell her that the current man is not Mr. Right but Mr. Right is just around the corner and she'll meet him in 6 months/at the end of the year/this summer. She decided to hell with it and fell pregnant with Mr. Sort-of-Right and you can imagine the rest of the story, yes, we sort of drifted apart. The second friend gets more detailed information from psychics, details about her current man and his situation and when he will eventually commit.

I don't know if they have been helped by these predictions. I'm not sure. Anyway. Last week I was desperate and I asked for the phone number from friend no. 2. "You'll love her," she promised me, "She is just amazing, the things she can tell you, it's frightening how accurate she can be." The woman sounded very normal on the phone which was reassuring, no wafts of mysterious mist came through the receiver and she dealt with details in a businesslike manner as if I was making an appointment to discuss a bank loan. However, as our meeting approached I started to wonder if I actually did want to know what she saw in my future. And did I want other superflous information she was bound to give me, about my relationship with various people, about H, stuff that I had no way of verifying and could possibly disturb me for no good reason. So I cancelled my appointment with her.

And now I am wondering if I shouldn't meet her after all ...

Have you ever consulted a psychic? Did it help? Did it bother you?

I saw a flea market fortune teller once. It was almost a dare. I was wandering around the stalls with two girl friends and we decided to have our fortunes told. One by one we entered a little tent and a woman read cards and looked at our palms. We all came out a little pale and unwilling to talk about it but bit by bit the stories came out. All of us had been told something disturbing. I was told my mother's family was cursed and I would struggle to break free. I was also told my boyfriend at the time was Not The One and that my life was going to be in a different country. That last bit I thought anyone could have come up with. I was young, the chances of me breaking up with my boyfriend were high, and I spoke with an accent so I wasn't from England and the chances of me leaving were also high. The whole experience was unsettling, though, and I have avoided palm readings and the like ever since. Last week I just wanted to know, I just wanted a guarantee that some time in the future all this will bear fruit. I know there are no guarantees and no way of knowing the future but sometimes, I just want some reassurance, any reassurance that this is worth it.

Notes to self

Note to self #1: you can live on a diet of pure Reeces and nothing else but by 5pm you WILL feel sick.

Note to self #2: don't go to the garden centre after a fight with H. You will spend far too much money and come back with a rosebush that is taller than you and can't fit in the front seat just because it reminds you of home.

Note to self #3: never ever wear pale blue yoga pants. When you are doing downward dog, your bum will look HUGE.

Bagels

We brought back bagels from our trip. Lots of bagels. "I'll just get a dozen," said H. Into the bag went pumperknickel, cinnamon raisin and some everything. "And 2 poppy seed and 4 sesame," says H. "You have 14 already," replies the guy behind the counter. Needless to say we travelled back with a huge bag of bagels and a little cloud of garlic that was practically visible.

So, we have been eating lots of bagels. My favourite is cinnamon raisin with peanut butter. H's favourite is an everything with cream cheese, ham and cheese.

What's your favourite bagel topping?

Comments

I have to say to all of you that I am posting from an apple, which is a lot of fun, but unfortunately I can't get the hang of comments and after writing one long comment and being unable to post it, I have given up.

Before I go though, I wanted to suggest you drop by Becky's blog:
http://mommywantsvodka.psys.org/
(and I know, that probably doesn't even appear as a link, I am seriously challenged by this new operating system).
Becky writes about worrying throughout her second pregnancy but now having a one year old celebrating his birthday and she pays hommage to all the babies who did not make it through a scary pregnancy. It is a subject close to my heart. Thank you, Becky, for remembering the children who are not with us. Happy birthday to Alex. I am glad there are some happy endings.

Away, away for a year and a day

A farm manager who worked for my dad when I was at a very impressionable age used to reply that whenever we would ask him,

"Where are you going, Paul?"

"Away, away! For a year and a day!" he would always answer.

Another of his favourite statements was, "Man alive!" He used it for everything.

We loved him. He gave everyone in the family a card for Christmas. Mine was a chimp with a big toothy grin. Inside was written "Because you like men with a little hair on their chest". I was 12 and convinced that Paul could see my deepest, darkest secrets but not completely sure of what the card meant.

He left to work for a friend's family and walked in on her sitting on the loo. She was also around 12 when this happened and of course mortally embarrassed. (Actually I don't know what being 12 has to do with that, I think you would be mortally embarrassed at any age. Probably more so now.) Paul just turned around and walked out, saying, "Man alive, Lindy, can't you close the door!" What can I say? We were farm girls, no-one closed the loo door. It wasn't like the neighbours were going to see you and loos were usually at the end of the verandah anyway and miles away from the rest of the house.

So, yes, we are going away, away, for a week and a day. Thank bloody goodness. I need it. I had another meltdown last night about how long this bloody plan B is taking to get put into place and of course it was all H's fault. He had a phone call with the agency and I expected him to cover all the contract and cost details. He summarised the call in one sentence, answering ONE question of the many I thought he had on his list.

"How long were you on the phone for?" I asked.

"A couple of minutes," he replied.

"A couple of minutes! A couple of minutes?!!" I just exploded, probably in part because I had a stomach ache and had just seen my therapist who suggested that stomach aches are usually related to relationship issues, and not to anxiety as I thought, and man, was I venting on any relationship issue I could get hold of.

As I said, we need a holiday. We are looking forward to it. We will be nice to each other, I am sure. I am always a nicer person on holiday. Well, usually. Most days.

And I wish you all a good Easter. I hope there is lots of chocolate and somebody has a hot cross bun for me. I lurve hot cross buns.

Tagged by Meg

I am sorry, Meg, I have been away from my blog for a long, long time but there goes. And thank you for tagging me. I feel a warm little glow that someone on the blogosphere thought of me to tag, sort of like at school when someone picks you for their team.

The rules:
1) Link to the person who tagged you.
2) Post the rules.
3) Share six non-important things / habits / quirks about yourself.
4) Tag at least three people.
5) Be sure the people you tagged KNOW you tagged them by commenting what you did.

Oh my word, six non-important quirks ... mmm...

1. I love reading cook books in bed. I like to take 2 or 3 to bed with me and lie reading Nigel Slater's gorgeous descriptions of roast chicken with tarragon or yet another recipe for hummus and baba ghanoush.
2. I don't like tomato seeds on lettuce in my salads. I like tomato salads and I like mixed salads, just not tomato in a mixed salad with lettuce. If I de-seed the tomatoes, I might add them to the salad but still, not a very yummy combination in my mind.
3. I love turquoise shirts and black trousers. I think at the moment I have 6 pairs of black trousers (one of which I fit into to) and three turquoise t-shirts and 2 turquoise dress shirts. if I went shopping tomorrow I would probably buy another turquoise t-shirt.
4. Every time I go on holiday I end up buying a hat. A big one, with a wide brim. And a notebook. I have a drawer so full of notebooks it almost doesn't open. The hats at least all fit into each other.
5. I will eat almost anything that has peanut butter or lemon & garlic. I will squeeze lemon juice on anything, from rice to steak. Divine. And thank goodness they don't sell Reesies here otherwise I would be at least 5kg heavier. And a note to Reesies: can't you up the peanut butter ratio to chocolate?
6. Leading on from my notebook passion, www.moleskinerie.com is my home page so I read it every day.

And who shall I tag? Mmmmmmmmmm ...

Sam

Ms Planner

Aunt Becky - one of the very few mothers I read but who always makes me laugh

I'm waiting to see if anyone else has any weird salad quirks.

Valentine's Day

Happy Valentine's Day everyone, I hope it is a happy one.

I said to H I didn't want to celebrate it but today I feel strange not marking the day. I know, I know, I'm a marketing victim. It's a difficult day to celebrate. How do I celebrate it without looking at where we are and where we have come from? How do I sit down with H and not remember our years together and everything we have gone through which I never ever expected to experience and which have devastated us? How do I not remember our children who are not here?

Here's to a year when I can celebrate anniversaries without feeling sad, when I can just be happy that we are where are and not think of what might have been. Here's to a year when we can all celebrate that. (I'm half a bottle of wine down, can you tell?)

I wish you all an easy day, a good day with chocolate and red wine and love.

Holiday

We spent a week in Cape Town and got back yesterday. It was good to be somewhere I loved and somewhere I have happy memories. I would like to be able to live there, in a Brigadoon-type existence. This week's plan is to move to the Russian steppes and photograph yaks. Enough of this trying to be wife and mother, it just does not seem to be for me and the steppes have an attractive emptiness which calls to me. I, of course, envisage publishing an enormously popular book of magnificent photos and becoming famous as the Yak Lady. The book will naturally be followed by a set of interesting commissions which will take me all over the world, photographing areas of natural beauty and the picturesque decay of colonial buildings.

 

and I had to include one of my favourites: a food photo, of which I have many. If I don't become the Yak Lady, I am contemplating becoming the Chili Squid Salad Lady.

Cake Day!

I woke up at 6.30 worrying about everything; symptoms, lack of symptoms, worry and its effect, what cake to make for Stirrup Queen's blog birthday and other important stuff that wakes me in the wee hours of the morning. The cake dilemma was the most immediate. Should I make a cheesecake? Because I really felt like a cheesecake. But cheesecake is not really cake, is it? A birthday cake is a cake cake. So which cake should I make? Orange and almond? Mmm, that sounded yummy. Or just plain almond? Or actually, what about a chocolate cake? Chocolate cake is always good, especially homemade chocolate cake.

So, after thinking, finishing my book, sleeping for another two hours and perusing all my recipes for half an hour; chocolate cake it was and chocolate and cocoa powder was spread all over the kitchen. I am an extremely messy cook. The Swedish chef in the muppets has nothing on me. My husband sweetly puts up with it now and goes around after me with a dustpan and just says, "Oh, I see you were here," when he touches a sticky drawer handle or finds honey dripping down the jar. Here is proof:

 

And here is the cake:

 

 

Happy blog birthday to Stirrup Queens!

Eating

I am eating everything I can lay my hands on. It's an all out binge, stop-at-the-garage-on-the-way-home-to-buy-choc-chip-cookie type binge. Bad. Bad. Bad. I just feel empty and I cannot be bothered to delve down and discover why, or how to solve this emptiness. Although I would probably not need to delve that far down.

"Why do you think you feel empty, Carlynn?"

"Well, Dr. Freud, I lost my baby. I have no other babies and I feel this terrible hole inside of me. I'm just trying to fill it."

"And you think a choc chip cookie can fill this gaping hole?"

"Mmmm, working on it. One packet weighs 500g and that is about equivalent to my son when I lost him. Interesting that, I hadn't realised that similarity. A touch gruesome but interesting. Actually very gruesome. Can we talk about something else?"

"Anything you like, Carlynn. What would you like to talk about?"

"Collage techniques. I'm very into collage at the moment."

"I see. And why do you think that is?"

"Pasting something pretty over my life? Creating something I feel is more acceptable to the world than my same old problems which everyone has heard about 700 times? Trying to find a different depiction of loss? Trying to make sense of it all and to digest it? Take your pick, Dr. Freud."

"Interesting. Which one would you pick, Carlynn?"

"I'm actually feeling a bit peckish. Do you mind if I have a chocolate? Here, would you like one, they're very good. Lindt milk chocolate with nuts."

And so delving only brings gruesome thoughts to light. Unbelievable memories too actually. I cannot believe I was once pregnant. I cannot believe I was once carrying a baby. Such a brave, mischevious little baby too. Now it simply feels unreal, almost like something I invented. I could not have lost a baby. That sort of dramatic thing does not happen to me, that sort of story that makes you gasp when you hear it. Was that really me who that all happened to? And now here I am, in my same old life, chatting to my same friends, planning trips as always, dreaming to going to Laos and Vietnam, reading two books a week, looking for new recipes with garlic and ginger and lemon juice. It seems almost like I dreamed it. And then I open the violet envelope slipped into an old journal and I see the ultrasound photos, the little boy taking shape and I remember feeling his personality start to brush against mine and how protective I tried to be. And how I failed. I am sorry, my darling, I am so sorry.

"Think happy thoughts, darling," as my mother would say. Happy thoughts. Collage. Chocolate. Pink paint. I'm actually fine, just eating my head off. Must stop before I start exploding out of my fat wardrobe. And I was doing so well, I had actually lost a little weight. Oh well, happy thoughts, happy thoughts. Maybe I can have a little chocolate for breakfast.