Love

Last night was Film Club, a chance to hang out with the girls and watch the kind of movie that would make LK run for the hills clawing at his eyes. Last night's offering, chosen by the wonderful Mooks, was the perfect example of a film that would LK would never, ever watch. I think he'd rather sit down over a cup of coffee with his Mum and say 'hey, got an hour, let's talk, really talk'. We saw 'Nowhere in Africa' which was not only beautiful, evocative, and award-winning but was also in German, with subtitles. See what I mean? No Will Ferrell in sight. I thoroughly enjoyed it, and would definitely recommend it, but there is the usual caveat that I was heavily under the influence of some stellar pinot. It was one of those films where you end up caring so deeply for the characters that by ten minutes in we were laying odds on who was going to suffer the inevitable tragic and haunting death. It also made me want to go home, hug my daughter til her eyes popped out and promise her a world in which man's inhumanity to man would cease. Like I say, much wine was drunk.

I have always been a bit of a weeper when it comes to movies, I was inconsolable during Herbie Goes Bananas. Having Anna though has rendered me a sentimental basketcase. I seem to have lost all emotional resilience and, dare I say it, perspective. Perhaps I just have a new, softer, perspective - whatever, it's bloody annoying. Particularly because the one thing that always bothered me before I had kids was people who would say that you never really knew what love was until you had children.

Now a bona fide member of the Mom-brigade (no perineum here) I still find the concept insufferably patronizing and insulting. But is it true?

Is it ever possible to empathize without having gone through the exact same thing? I think it is.

I will be the first to admit that having kids has changed me. It's certainly true that I pay more attention to children now, that I feel more pain at tales involving cruelty or neglect to kids, but to assume that if you're childless you are somehow incapable of understanding the love a parent has for their child is staggering to me. Having Anna has taught me a lot about myself, about how I grew up, how I relate to people, but I still recognize the pre-Mum me. Yes I had different priorities, and much prettier toenails, but I was still human, I could still love and realize the depth of love parents had for their children.

That is one of the defining things between women - have you noticed that there always seems to be a 'we have kids' or 'no kids' dynamic in all relationships, with blokes that is almost never the case. I certainly get on much better with my fellow staff at work now that I have become 'accepted' as a mother. God it pisses me off. Why do women do this to themselves?

Maybe it's just that I won't completely understand what it is to love until I have a son.

It's been suggested.

Seethe.

Tennis Rackets

First of all racquets or rackets? Who knows. As I'm typing they both look wrong, so I might just have to go with 'bats'.

LK collects them, has done for years and at last count we had over 200 of the things in our attic and storage cupboards. They're not small and in a town where land is roughly $1 million an acre, it's not exactly a practical hobby either. They are surprisingly beautiful though, and after years of bundling them all in bin-liners and hiding them away we've finally put some up on display:
















I know - just looking at that magnolia wall makes me itch to paint it 'capuccino' or 'ochre' or some other trendy Restoration Hardware colour. On a side note, I did notice Pottery Barn have a shade of green called 'dill weed' which I would love to use just so when Lance asked about it I could say "it's green. Dill weed".

Aren't they gorgeous? For about $3 each you can find one of these at any thrift store or antique shop and they are works of art. Some of LK's rackets are clearly almost a hundred years old, predating leather grips even. They all have different woods inlaid, and time-worn inscriptions like this one that says "Wright & Ditson, Boston Mass".















Obviously a collection like this makes more sense in our wonderful arid climate. As anyone who's looked for that old racket in the back of the wardrobe in England knows, damp and wooden rackets don't mix, and even those brilliant old racket-presses are no guarantee you won't end up with equipment the shape of Charlie Chaplin's legs.

















Second only to this hobby, is LK's passion for taking one of these 50-yr old rackets to the local tennis courts for a pick up a game with some random stranger. Someone no doubt strutting around with his latest computer-enhanced GPS enabled titanium weapon. LK watches them sneer as he produces his antiquated racket, politely turns down their proffered spare racket, and then he tears them a new one.

Happy Blogiversary To Me

No, I did not expect this to last a year.

I'd toyed with the idea of having a blog for a long time, I'd even set up my account months before I started. Then, for no particular reason, one year ago today I got straight out of bed, logged on and voila my first post. Auspicious beginnings I think you'll agree, can't think why I didn't get more comments.

This was supposed to be a project to help me with my writing. I was halfway through writing a book when I started. I'm still halfway through writing that book. Blogging I've found, can be rather addictive and far more rewarding than slogging away at a novel that is starting to thin a little in the middle and where all the characters sound rather too much like me. Blogging also takes up far, far more time than I have. Which is why I'm doing NaBloPoMo - because I'm a whack-job, certifiable.

What inspired me to start blogging, or rather who, is definitely Fussy. Living next door to a blogging icon for nearly a decade will help motivate, if you can get past the intimidation factor of someone who can whip up a post like a literary souffle. I still think about 'popcorns' and 'WTF little man'. She also wrote last year about those people not doing NaBloPoMo maybe making a resolution to comment on a blog at least once a day. That certainly hit home after many months of writing this, literally sending posts out in to the void. I'd been a 'lurker' for years myself, laughing and crying, reading posts and never saying a word. I think about it now, and can't believe I just let some posts go unacknowledged, like my favourite blog entry of all time. I honestly think about that paella post at least once a week and crack up. Genius.

So, another year? Who knows? I had intended to use this both as a tool to help my writing and also to memorialize some of the parenting stuff that otherwise gets forgotten, but I'd genuinely no idea how much time I would spend writing about how it feels to be a stranger in a foreign culture. Clearly I have *some issues*, and this blog is proving strangely cathartic, so for now you're stuck with me.

Signs Point To 'You're Buggered'

I just ran across a Magic 8 Ball while cleaning like a dervish for our guest's arrival. Our guest who was originally staying for 3 weeks and has now tacked on an extra 2 weeks.

I asked "Will our ******** real estate deal bankrupt us".

* YES *

What happened to "Reply Hazy Try Again?" or "No, Not In A Million Years, You're Quids In Mate"??

I have a feeling this is a trusty 8 Ball. If you have a question for it - post it in comments and I'll happily let you know.......

Hair of the Dog

I just spent $18 getting my hair cut at Fantastic Cuts or some similar chain. Yes, times are hard, but honestly the thought of coughing up nearly four times that amount for a trim at my usual swanky salon was just too much this time. I get my hair cut on average about twice a year. I don't colour it, and I keep it long, so really there shouldn't be too much to it. It suddenly dawned on me that I was paying about $80 for a head massage and for Montecito Moms with heads bristling with tinfoil to glare at me. Plus, I get the feeling my hairdresser thinks that people who don't get highlights are just a waste of time and money, a hairdressing cock-tease if you will.

I love the colour of my hair but it's fine and limp and throws in the towel with hair product if someone so much as sneezes. I have nothing but respect for people with gorgeous thick hair who selflessly cut off a foot and send it over to Locks of Love. MM & Fresh Hell did that recently, good girls that they are. My ponytail is the circumference of one of Anna's fingers, one of her smaller fingers. My hair needs to put on weight. I'm sure Locks of Love would send it back saying they don't take chinchilla shed.

Maybe because it's so fine I've never had any luck getting my hair 'done'. My coup de grace with hairstylists probably came a few years ago when I took a recommendation from a friend and got my haircut at some bijou salon. I had a pretty nice cut going courtesy of Toni & Guy in the UK, and I just wanted it tidying up a bit. While he was snipping away I asked him if he thought I should ever go for a shorter, bolder look. He picked up one desolate, lank lock, looked me full in the eye and said 'I'd keep it long, after all it's probably your best feature'.

So, QuickCutz it is. It's not half bad, this new cut either. Nothing fancy, I suppose I got what I paid for. A vanilla haircut for a mainstream maven, but just take a look at this picture and see what I was given to work with people. Ever wondered what a natural blonde looks like when she's 6? Ever seen naturally pale blue hair??? Hair so pale you literally blend in with the wall?

Guess which one I am, just guess.















By the looks of me I'd just had my hair done. The pout says it all.

Do you think this photo dates me? I mean, look at the artwork, the carpet (sorry V). At least it's in colour.

Gratuitous Photo Post

November 2nd and I'm already clutching at straws.

Here's a few photos from the Halloween Party hosted by the wonderful Mrs Skeletor.





Yes, those are my old college footie socks. For the wheel!!!
In my defence I've been sick for 3 weeks, and had 5 minutes to throw together an outfit. I should never have worn those fake knobbly knees.








Next year I'm definitely just buying a chuffing wig. How awesome is this?






















Yes she really is that damn cute.
It must be good genes.










.....and finally the piece de resistance. Hans, Franz, and random flamenco guy. Can you believe they're all sober? No, neither can I.

That's a statue of a witch in the foreground, and not a small child of unfortunate head-size, although you'd have been amused at the party to find how many people tripped over her and then apologized profusely.





.....seriously though, check out what she's looking at......








....I think she's right, I think it is a very dodgy stain.

Rabbits, Rabbits, Rabbits

Hello November.

I'm going to give this NaBloPoMo thing an honest attempt, but I hope you realize that each of my posts is a carefully crafted essay, laboured over and lovingly edited? Nope? Well that should become fairly apparent in the next few days.

Here's the first in a stream of useless fluff to pad out the month.

My Nanna taught me that the first words you should say on the first of every month are 'Rabbits, Rabbits, Rabbits' if there's an R in the month and 'White Rabbits, White Rabbits, White Rabbits' if there's no R. If you manage to make that the first thing you say then you'll have a very lucky month. Provided you can spell of course.

This is made far more challenging when you have a small child and you don't wake up gently to sunbeams and the smell of freshly brewed coffee at 7:30am, instead waking up to a 28lb toddler clambering over you at 3:14am, using your neck and boobs for leverage whilst whining 'need Mummy's hair'. It can be a lot more challenging to say 'rabbits, rabbits, rabbits' and not 'get the fuck off me you parasitic little worm'.

I'd always had a sneaking suspicion that 'Rabbits, Rabbits, Rabbits' was something my Nanna had made up, something to distract me from my requests for a bacon sandwich at 7:06am on a chilly Manchester morning. Upon further research though, it's quite a widely-held superstition, confirmed even by Wikipedia. So Crikey it must be true.

Has anyone else heard of this? Is there anyone out there who will admit to equally ludicrous superstitions?

For the record I did manage to say 'Rabbits, Rabbits, Rabbits' this morning, although my first actual thoughts were 'crap it's November'.

Halloween Horror

Oh America I cannot pretend to understand you.

You make Halloween an entire month-long festival of candy and costumes and props and spray-on cobwebs, yet when I drop Anna off at preschool this morning resplendent in her Tinkerbell outfit it seems she was the only belle at the ball. WTF? Halloween-a-palooza somehow doesn't extend to the actual day? There was one other pint-size fireman cowering by the rabbit hutches, but everyone else was as we Brits say 'in mufti'. What, suddenly you're all concerned about the practicality of this holiday and decide to dress everyone sensibly and appropriately? I have been assailed by pumpkin paraphernalia for weeks! I repeat, WTF?

I died a million repressed British deaths. It was the parental equivalent of that dream where you turn up to school naked. Fortunately my little Flower Fairy is 2 and didn't realise the massive faux-pas that had just been committed. She trotted off to find little Jayden/Brayden/Squayden to say "fuck yeah I'm wearing wings beotch, throw-down Ugg-boy". While I mumbled about a change of clothes being in her cubby and fled.

Her father will be picking her up.

First Born

The universe is having a cosmic joke at my expense, I have the flu, on top of residual catarrh from a two-week old cold that I have still yet to kick. I'm not up to posting anything that requires thought, so I've 'borrowed' this from Sticky Feathers. When I responded to her post, I failed to say, crikey 7 weeks early. What the chuff!

Questions About Your First Born.

1. were you married at the time? yes.

2. what were your reactions? equal parts excited and terrified - oh and I somehow didn't believe that the pregnancy would 'take'. It's a good thing a pregnancy is 9 months long as that's precisely how long it took me to get my head round the idea of being a Mum.

3. how old were you? 31

4. how did you find out you were pregnant? I came back from holiday and thought, hmm, wait a minute, it's been more than 4 weeks since I was last flying the red flag, maybe I should take a test. I took one, it was negative. Many days and tests later I finally got a faint pink line (and promptly googled 'faint pink line'), then I took a digital test, and crikey moses it said 'pregnant'.

5. who did you tell first? I called LK, he was at a friends house watching the Raiders. I couldn't wait for him to come home, so I called him on the phone and said 'I'm pregnant' he said 'that fast? What happened to all the practice we were supposed to get'. Then when he finally came home he made me re-test (test #6).

6. did you want to find out the sex? No. About 75% of friends told me they thought I was carrying a girl by the shape of my belly, and they were right. I bought a girl's onesie (babygro) at Baby Gap 2 weeks before delivery on a hunch.

7. did you deliver early or late? 2 days late - on my late Grandad's birthday, his first great grandchild.

8. did you have morning sickness? Not really, it just felt a bit like motion sickness, although I did spectacularly projectile vomit on Christmas Day. White robe, projectile vomit of coffee. LK could not stop laughing for the next hour. There was no warning, I was midway through opening presents and midway through a sentence and suddenly, BLEURGH.

9. what did you crave? Sweet and tart fruit; cherries, strawberries. It was the wrong time of year. I spent a fortune on cherries imported from Chile.

10. who irritated you the most? People who promised not to let the cat out of the bag when I told them I was pregnant. I had not intended to spill the beans so early, but my brother was visiting from England and would have rumbled why I wasn't drinking. I wasn't prepared to be pregnant and not ready for people to know before I was comfortable with the idea. Plus my Mum had a late miscarriage before me and I was terrified of the same thing happening.

11. what was your first child's sex? Girl

12. how many pounds did you gain throughout the pregnancy? Just less than 28lbs, (2 stone) and no stretch-marks, which I only realised about 2 weeks after giving birth, and then I was in the shower going, 'well I never'. I was convinced I was going to get stretch-marks as I'd already had them age 14 when I grew about a foot in one summer.

13. did you have any complications during your pregnancy? Nope, I was still playing league tennis when I was 7 months pregnant.

14. where did you give birth? Santa Barbara Cottage Hospital

15. how many hours were you in labor? All told about 24 hours, 12 hours of early labour interspersed with some truly awful contractions, then 2 hours of real balls to the wall contractions in the hospital when I went from 1cm dilated to 9cm in only 2 hours (the nurses quote was 'fast labours are good, but they can be very very painful'). No shit sherlock. I had an epidural which slowed things tremendously and then she was born at 9:20pm. Just in time for cocktails.

16. who drove you to the hospital? LK. It was a five minute drive and I had 3 sets of contractions en route.

17. who watched? LK. I declined the mirror.

18. was it natural or c-section? Natural.

19. did you take medicine to ease the pain? Naturally I had an epidural. As the docs I work for say 'they don't give out medals for bravery in labour and delivery'.

20. how much did your child weigh? 8lbs 10oz. Good Lord, she was only 2 days late people. I birthed a watermelon.

21. did your child have any complications? No, she was a whopper and was Apgar 9 and 9. We were very lucky.

22. what did you name him/her? Anna Rose. Anna for her maternal great grandma whose birthday was the day before, and her paternal great grandma was Erna (Danish Anna). Rose because despite being born in the US she is still an English Rose.

23. how old is your first born today? 2 1/4

How Can We Sleep While Our Beds Are Burning?

California is on fire, again.

Santa Barbara County has been declared a State of Emergency by the Governator again. That makes it twice this year for God's sake. It's going to be pretty hard to justify house prices at this rate. Fortunately for us the headlines are the only terrifying aspect of this latest natural disaster, oh and I suppose the idea that Santa Barbara is going to be inundated by refugees from San Diego and Los Angeles, crowding our streets, drinking our lattes. Heaven forbid.

CNN's headline is 'Mass Migration as State Burns', unnerving I think you'll agree, and even the good old Beeb has California Fires Affect 500,000 which I almost typed as 'California Fries Affect 500,000' probably far more lethal when you come right down to it. The BBC map shows raging wildfires from Santa Barbara to San Diego, with hurricane-strength winds and a diaspora of SoCal residents. Going where? The Ramada Inn?

It's all a little surreal here, there is appalling air quality, dirt and ash raining down and the smell of smoke in the air, but that's also probably true in Manchester right now as well. We do however have a fantabulous sunset going on courtesy of the fires, so thankyou San Diego.

Every mushroom cloud has a silver lining.

Do Unto Others

This cold has kicked my arse. I'm finally on the mend but still operating on only one lung and half a nostril. We were at lunch this afternoon at LK's favourite taqueria and in front of everyone Anna grabs a napkin, puts it under my nose, holds the back of my head and says 'blow Mummy, blow hard, you have boogers.'

Nice.

Bwa Ha Ha

Ok, that's certainly more seasonal. That's actually a photo of our pumpkin sitting outside our front door. Unless it's already been nicked by some 8-yr-old cholo. Now I'm just having a mare with my fonts and title placement. It's just too much for my snot-addled brain. We're all in the throes of some deathly virus courtesy of Typhoid Anna. Our house is littered with used tissues and animaux - Anna's pronunciation of her flotilla of tiny plastic animals she is desperate to play with at all hours of the day. We are too far gone with snot to protest the tide of giraffes, zebras and agitators (alligators) that are continually washing up on our carpet. Woe betide the errant midnight wanderer in search of Advil, a plastic rhino to the instep will make you forget that paltry head cold in no time.

Still, on a cheerier note - have you seen who the Madrid Masters have hired as their ball girls this year? Skanky crack addicts with giant boobs. No actually they're Spanish models, but you could have fooled me. Models it seems are not best suited to playing fetch for tennis players. Watching them break into a trot after a tennis ball puts me in mind of a herd of newborn giraffes galloping across the Serengeti. How anyone can be that gangly, with knobbly limbs flying everywhere yet still have such voluptuous cleavage is beyond me (but I'm sure LK will be pondering the phenomenon).

As you can read in the BBC article linked above, the models have been charged with bringing the game into disrepute by gazumping the usual crowd of pint-size tennis players eager for the chance of stardom. In all fairness though, I think they're doing an amazing job of making sure they'll never be hired for the gig again. Tonight's crop are in shapeless pale grey mini dresses with giant black trainers (sneakers). Bristling with clavicles and elbows, and honking great bosoms.

If I'd had more than 8 hours sleep in the past 4 days I'd write something witty about ball-girls. But I can't, I just can't.

Normal Service Will Resume Shortly

I know I know! What the chuff is going on with the header. Nice summery image - it's October you moron!

The point is, I have finally, finally worked out how to manipulate my blog header, a bit of a personal victory, so you'll just have to bear with me while I give it a proper sorting out. That is with all my spare time of course - in the time it's taken me to do this Anna has been wreaking havoc toilet-papering the entire second floor, and tipping everything out of every drawer. Honestly, what does she think I am, a parent?

Wardrobe Malfunction

Bit of a shocker at the gym this morning. I'd decided to wear a pair of yoga trousers rather than shave my legs and go with shorts. Big mistake. As soon as I started even the faintest trot on the treadmill they started to head south. I had my i-pod in my right hand and my clothing in my left. Fortunately I have just enough curve in my depressingly boyish hips to stop my pants making a complete bolt for it, but that, coupled with my jog top which was headed towards my ears left me showing a vast expense of polar-white midriff. Eva Longoria I am not. My post-Anna muffin top was out and proud. I ploughed on regardless, feigning ignorance and pretending that my bright red face was cardio-related not mortification. After all, damn it, I'd paid that $3 for childcare and I was going to sweat. Naked or not. I'm sure all the doctors in SB this weekend will be wondering how so many gym-members ended up with snow blindness.

Back to shorts and a T-shirt next week I think. Why do all those stupid jog tops have to be made for midgets anyway? Am I the only person who has more than a 3-inch torso?

NaBloPoMo

As you've probably noticed by that tasteful decal I have on my sidebar, I have, with reckless abandon, signed myself up for Mrs. Kennedy's NaBloPoMo. Honestly who doesn't love a challenge?

NaBloPoMo for those who don't know or for those wary of committing to a double-click on the above link is National Blog Posting Month, the premise of which is to write a blog entry every day for a month. Inspired by NaNoWriMo, National Novel Writing Month where you write a novel in a month. Shortly followed I'm sure by NaDroSproMo which is National Conceive and Drop that Sprog in the space of a month, which to mind is just about on a par.

I signed up because I was so involved with lurking and reading other NaBloPoMo wannabes slog through their marathon months last year. Something that actually inspired me to start this here masterpiece midway through November 06.

As you may have guessed, I'm already having second thoughts and I haven't even chuffing begun. I'm thinking it's perhaps a little rash in hindsight considering we'll have house-guests for 3 of those 4 weeks, and I'm hardly 'prolific' at the best of times.

I suppose this is just by way of a warning; in November you'll be getting a lot of crap coming your way. Want to know what vegetable I pulled out of my daughter's arse this week? What jests and japes our hapless tenants have been up to (remind me to tell you about tonights screaming match over a stolen telly...).

I know, you can hardly wait.

Ways I have been woken up recently:

1. Anna, inches from my sleeping face
"HERE'S ME!"

and

2. Me, out cold. Anna, frustrated and peeling back my eyelids:
"MUMMY! Are you in there?"

A.S.S

Actual. Star. Sighting.

The other night we went out on the town without the appendage, and it was bloody marvellous. To be able to pay attention to what people are saying without having 95% of your brain on Anna damage-control - wonderful. So there we were sitting down to some sushi and hot sake with our friends Mooks and Raf (or Ass as Anna calls him), and LK turns and says "dude, check out the all-NBA table right behind us".

Literally inches from us, two giant uber-athletes, a random older bloke and a token hot Asian chick who may or may not have been an WNBA star because she was a chuffing giantess too.

Raf (with his back to the NBA table in a reverent whisper): Dude! That's Cuttino Mobley and Mike Dunleavy. Who's the guy in the sweats behind me?

LK: Shit, that's Sam Cassell

Raf, loud as you like: Dude, he is so on my all-alien team.

Boobs & Utah

I know, boobs and Utah in the same post.

Well apparently I don't know as much as I thought I did about my friends back home in Blighty. I've just learned that some of them are hiding more than what God gave them underneath those handknits. Good Lord!

I will take their identity to the grave (hint: it's a woman) because with our history I owe this person some discretion, but honestly, who has a secret boob job? Are they possible? Apparently so.

Anyway, back to our regularly scheduled program, with a satellite delay of only three weeks. Sorry! I'm rubbish and also a very busy person....

So there we were leaving Las Vegas, the creature all fueled up with Old MacDonalds FIES! Then we hit a snag. The first hint was when LK said 'I don't want to alarm you, but'. He is not a man for superlatives. For him 'Houston we have a problem' was probably a bit overstated.

I turned down my ipod and braced myself for disaster.

We were 25 miles outside Vegas on the most deserted, windswept piece of desert highway you could imagine. It was 3 o'clock in the afternoon and 110º. The last turn-off we'd so blithely passed was appropriately 'Caliente, Nevada' - and for good reason. The temperature gauge needle was vertical and we were spewing engine coolant. LK pulled off the freeway in to the sand and scrub and 'popped the hood' (opened the bonnet) to survey the damage. There wasn't even a lone Joshua Tree for shade. The trucks thundering by mere metres from our heads were creating quite a breeze, but breeze is a misleading word isn't it? You automatically think, cool, refreshing. This was like standing in front of a hairdryer to keep cool. If you haven't been to the desert before this kind of heat is surprising. The first time I ventured anywhere with that dry, arid heat I was casting my eyes around for the fire - for the open oven, for anything that could generate such fiery energy.

Don't say 'but it's a dry heat'.

The rest, three weeks later, is all rather anti-climatic. LK poured several canisters of coolant back into the molten radiator, we did an extremely ill-advised but absolutely necessary U-turn on Interstate 15 and crawled back to Vegas on the hard shoulder at a measly 17mph, our sweltering tails between our legs. Neither of us daring to breath in case the temperature needle started to climb again. Our favourite Vegas road-trip game of 'spot the car-fire scorch marks by the side of the freeway' was not quite so entertaining this time. I have never wished so fervently for a GMC Behemoth or a Dodge Leviathan, something absurdly large and garish with ice-cold AC. There are occasional reasons why American 'cars' are giant tank-like gas-guzzlers. Our little sedan had thrown in the towel.

The miracle of the situation was not that the head gasket had not blown (it's not that I don't love double negatives), it was that we didn't see a cop for the entire 90 minute mis-adventure. We ended up limping back to Santa Barbara in the dead of night, with no air conditioning, to take advantage of the cool 90º night-time temperatures. We did not get to Utah to visit the cabin that LK's Dad built entirely by hand. A cabin I've only ever been to once. But if we had made it to Utah and taken pictures, they would have looked something like this:








































Oh well, next time. In our Ford Four-Miles-to-the gallon McMansion on wheels.

And no, for the record, it was not lost of me on my 10th anniversary that I am married to a man who is not only smart enough to think ahead to buy engine coolant, and a cooler with ice and gallons of water, but who knows how to 'pop the hood' and is man enough to work out how to fix the damn thing too.

Woof!

Paint Wars

The other night was Anna's first parents evening, or rather our first parent-teacher evening. It was more of a social gathering than an earnest 'how's my child doing affair'. Unsurprising really, considering she's two.

So there we were, all nattering away, and the teacher asks if anyone has any issues. A couple of people mention some things, (Chauncey has a food allergy, Skylar can't remember if s/he's a boy or a girl etc etc) so I bring up the fact that Anna pretty much always comes home covered head to toe in paint, and could they start using washable paint please because it's not coming out. A couple of parents mumble agreement, and a few offer suggestions, which to my insecure parenting mind sound like "oh, I suggest, Simple Green, and well, superior laundry skills". Parent smiles with mouth only.

With blind persistence and this snotty English accent which in hindsight probably made me sound like a right Mary Poppins, I suggested some options:

a) Anna wears a smock. Well, apparently she does, but it does not appear to limit her creative endeavours vis a vis paint and her clothing.

b) Under her smock she wears 'painting clothes'. I could tell this wasn't popular, and I sort of understand. It's hard enough to get 6 toddlers wearing smocks let alone special clothing underneath.

c) She paint nude. Come on people, this is California after all.

d) Washable paints!! Why are these paints only removable with superior laundry skills?? I think those bitches were lying.

e) Shut up, admit defeat and buy 500 long sleeved white T-shirts at Tarjay.

I think I'm going to have to go with plan e) because when I picked Anna up from school today she was liberally daubed with green paint. Is it just me, or were they trying to make a point here?





This picture does not do justice to the true horror of the situation.....










Obviously I'd much rather she trash a few outfits than stay pretty and clean in the corner with a pair of white gloves on and a nice book, but please, we're not made of money.

Any suggestions? Simple Green? Soylent Green? All-black clothing? Chill the fuck out?

Fawl and Boobs

I know, I owe you all a post on what went wrong with our trip to Vegas, but quite frankly it’s hard to get in to the mind-set of being stranded in the desert in 110º heat when overnight autumn has arrived in Santa Barbara.

Sorry, ‘fawl’ as you imagine I say.

I love autumn. It’s so much easier to consider a large glass of pinot and some Grey’s Anatomy when it gets dark at 5pm than mid-summer when by rights you should be out ocean-swimming past 8.

There is a barely perceptible chill in the air, at the tail-end of a breeze or in the shade of a building. That feeling that there's just a little more oxygen to breathe. Brittle-cold blue-sky days are by far my favourite, but they are as scarce in Santa Barbara as they are in North Yorkshire, so I will take this sudden greyness just for a change.

Seasons are nothing if not subtle over here. You can tell it’s autumn by the fact the temperatures will occasionally creep below 70 and it says September on the calendar. That’s about it. There is even the half-hearted promise of some rain in our future, although it's been so long since we've had a decent downpour that I might have to explain to Anna what the chuff is going on! It is so strange to live in a place where rain is talked about as an event days in advance. Where people watch the doppler-radar for a hint of green with awe and reverence. Ok, maybe that's just my husband who gets the day off work if it rains....

I've been reminiscing recently about rain, about that sharp breeze you get as a pre-cursor to a shower in England, the one that blows all the leaves backwards exposing their silvery undersides like a sylvan shoal of fish. Trees don't really have leaves here, not big fat deciduous leaves, just small spiky drought-resistant leaves. There is no 'fall', no leaf-mulch, no season of mists and mellow fruitfulness.

So you see, I can’t really write about being stranded in an overheated car in the middle of the Mojave, when there’s a slight chill in the air and I’m forced to think about maybe grabbing a cardie. For the love of God!

So I’ll talk about boobs instead.

My muppet assistant handed in her notice last week. Then a couple of days later she told me she was taking 5 days of her 2 weeks notice to get herself a nice new set of boobs. I have two assistants and they both have fake boobs. Hello California! They are so prevalent here I’m surprised they don’t come free if you buy 3lbs of House Blend.

I don't know anyone in England with fake boobs. Quite frankly, under all those woolly jumpers what's the point? Living here makes you think about it though, particularly after nursing leaves you feeling a little, how should I say, 'deflated'.

So I said to LK, "What would you think about me getting a boob job after we're done having our eleventy-billion children" and he replied "you don't need a boob job, you've got a great rack" etc etc.

Good man!

But then a few weeks later he said "So, if you were going to get a boob job......."

Ten years of marriage, and he is still human.

Tenure*

Honestly, who wouldn't remarry a man who'd wear trousers like these?



















My feathery top was a pale rejoinder.

The definite highlight of the trip was renewing our vows in the cheesy Little White Chapel of Vegas. It was sort of fitting too, as we'd originally got married in the Little Red Chapel in Pannal.

Not at all similar though. Oh no! I was expecting Vegas kitsch, but it was just Vegas tired and cheap. Worn-out carpet, dusty faded silk flowers, papier-mache cherubs, you get the picture. Very polyester bride. What was a little scary was that it was past 8 o'clock at night, we were, 'casually' attired, not a little drunk after waiting for our 'slot' at the bar next door, and we had a bored and hungry two-year old running around, yet were asked repeatedly if this was a renewal or an actual wedding.

I think the Little White Chapel should have a web-cam, because clearly, they see it all.























Leave it to LK to bring the class though. He managed to go down on one knee in his too-tight, borrowed Vegas-casino-carpet trousers, and he re-proposed and produced a Tiffany ring.

What a keeper.

Then we went back to the Mirage and tore it up K style by drinking three bottles of champagne and doing fat lines of coke.

Or we may have just drunk champagne, had take-out from the Carnegie deli (see below) and watched Blades of Glory. You be the judge.












Oh you Americans.....why you're not all ridiculously overweight is just beyond me.























Definite thanks go to Red Fox and to Cindy for our fantastic anniversary present. I'm glad we have photographic evidence that the booze came with chocolate-covered strawberries, because frankly, neither LK or I remember eating a single one. Hmm.









































5lbs of chocolate-covered strawberries can seriously affect the waistline, as our little Paris Hilton discovered to her horror the next morning.........



























That's all for now. Next installment - When Good Vacations Go Bad.

* I shamelessly ripped off the title of the post from Mrs. Skeletor, who, if she has a problem with that, can get her own damn blog.

Which, is rather unlikely, as she can't operate comments.

Thank goodness.

The Surfer and the Intellectual. Who Knew?

Yes, somebody did once say that to me, and no, I was not quick-witted enough to reply I'm really not that much of a surfer.

We are off to Vegas this afternoon, to celebrate this:














Ten years ago tomorrow, I was officially off the market, leading to headlines such as these.......
















It was 'The Week The World Mourned', perfect timing for a wedding really.

More when we return, but in the meantime, here's a picture of the groom with a chicken. A photo that proves (Pierre) that it's the informal wedding photos that usually sum up a wedding best.

Were You Born On The Sun?

It's hot; muggy and hot.

The nice thing about Santa Barbara is that there's only a couple of days a year when you need air conditioning and a couple of days a year when you need central heating. The unfortunate thing about Santa Barbara is that because of this, most houses have neither.

I feel molten. I am fantasizing about thunder and lightning, about the clean smell of rain, and the swishing of car tires on wet roads. Instead I'm surrounded by white heat, glare and stultifying air. I feel like I'm cooking from the inside.

At least our present house has a lovely cave-like living room, unlike our previous apartment which would get so hot that candles would melt. Unfortunately the computer is upstairs, so sorry, I was going to write a post about my upcoming 10th Wedding Anniversary *yikes*, but urgh, the heat.

It's like living in one of LK's tennis socks.

Instead I think I might just have a nice cold shower and go and stand in front of a fan, so in lieu of a proper post here's what happens if you give a 7-year-old felt tip pens and sweets.......(markers and candy for you Yankee Doodles).......

























I think your buttyful too.

Well I Never

I PR'd - according to LK, which does not mean Puked whilst Running, it means Personal Record, which is the kind of thing an American would know and a Brit would not.

58mins 2 sec no less. Apparently dropping a sprog has made me faster - who knew? Maybe it's because my post-nursing boobs have caused my centre of gravity to shift 2 feet lower?

It's amazing how beating your previous best time by over a minute makes you consider the possibility of doing the race again next year, except faster.

Not bloody likely!!

Still, thanks to Chilly for these photos - I truly can't believe I'm smiling in all of them.....

If At First You Don't Succeed, Tri, Tri Again

Oh, how I slay myself.

The Santa Barbara Triathlon kicked my arse, as it does every year. I am thoroughly knackered and only writing this out of a perverse sense of duty to my three, maybe four readers.

I did run the entire run, although 'run' may be generous. So much for those eight minute miles I'd been practicing at the gym, geriatrics may have been able to shuffle at a faster clip. My cold was definitely a factor, but bizarrely the blisters? Never felt a thing. Either that's adrenalin for you, or my feet were still numb from the swim. Because DAMN that water was cold. Two days of slightly overcast weather and the ocean dropped 5º. It made the swim seem endless. I could only see out of the lower quarter of my right goggle, and the only time people weren't bumping in to me was when I peered out of my tiny plastic porthole to realize I was seriously off course. I was so knackered by the swim that I gave up on that leg way before I was technically out of the water. You're supposed to stop when your hand touches sand, I stopped way before that and waded in, as if my mind was saying 'bugger this for a game of soldiers, I don't care if I'm in chest-deep water I'm a better wader than swimmer'. Not true.

The bike went brilliantly, I flew. LK had tweaked my gears and brakes, and it was that or maybe the sheer joy of being out of the water that gave me wings. I passed about twenty people, all of whom promptly tore right past me on the run.

Bastards (you included Mooks).

The run was hard, but I carried Anna over the finish line as was my plan, and then promptly dry-heaved on the people handing out sponges.

Good times.

I can say with all honesty that I'll be more than happy to be a 5-time triathlete and leave it at that. Although, if Anna ever wants to do the mother-daughter race I'd be thrilled. Knowing her gene pool, she might just want to consider the father-daughter race though. LK placed 5th in his age group, coming 18th overall, in an open course (open to professional triathletes). My good friend Sooz sent me an e-mail recently regarding 'assortive mating', the idea being that organisms tend to mate with like organisms, ergo, said Sooz, LK and I must be equally fit. Which was a lovely thought, but fails to explain the FIFTEEN MINUTE discrepancy in our race times, a race where LK missed the trophies by one place and 18 seconds and I dry-heaved on my daughter.

I'll update with photos and times when I get them - and if I feel like being honest!

For The Record

Less than 24 hours to go, and I'd like to put a few things on the record before my own personal Charge of The Light Brigade begins - in case it just sounds like sour grapes tomorrow afternoon you understand..........

1. My poor ravaged feet.......






























I realise there are people right now hiking the Hinda Kush, or even the Pennine Way crying 'PANSY!' but are they about to douse their feet in festering salt water, grind it in the soft sand and then run sockless? I thought not. Both feet are already ripped to shreds, but somehow I think that'll be the least of my worries.

2. I have a cold, courtesy of our little toddler Typhoid Mary. Boo hoo poor me. Is being able to breathe really all that important whilst swimming/biking/running? I didn't think so.

3. I am on the rag, again. This will be my fifth tri, and I have yet to do one bloodless. WTF body? I know these things are cyclical, but I had a chuffing baby in the interim - why the slavish devotion to the old lunar calendar? The good news is, I think the shark attack risk will be lessened by the fifty billion other people all swimming and clawing their way round me.

Otherwise, I'm in good shape. LK and I are off to 'carb0-load' right now with a healthy serving of pasta. I'll leave you with this, I have two goals for tomorrow morning:

• Finish in under an hour - I have acheived this in 3 out of 4 triathlons, but to put this goal in perspective, I have never broken 59 minutes. See? Not smiling now are you.

• To run the entire run - I have acheived this in 1 (ONE!) out of 4 triathlons.

Why am I doing this?

Isn't Live Music Marvellous or No Shit Sherlock

Last night LK and I, and half a dozen assorted friends went to see The Beastie Boys at the Santa Barbara Bowl. That's one of the things to love about this tiny town, it's touristy prettiness can lure some pretty big names to come and play. We've even seen Oasis play our little beach-burg, but that was honestly a little peculiar. They opened for The Black Crows, or The Counting Crows, I can't remember (one of those fucking Crow Bands as LK would say). I'm sure Santa Barbara didn't quite know what'd hit it when Noel Gallagher stood up in front of a crowd of about 30o people who were drifting in with their Chardonnays waiting for the main act. I remembering him yelling about Manchester City and saying 'Fook, I'm standing 'ere grinnin' like fookin' Des Lynam up 'ere'.

Sound of crickets chirping.

Still, they were big for me. But that's my point, I'm a bit crap when it comes to music. NME means Nothing to ME. I was excited when A-ha came to the Harrogate Conference Centre. Well, who wouldn't be? Nothing that big had ever graced our provincial little town since the Liberal Democrat Party Conference. No major act has ever yelled "We love you Pannal!!" at a rock concert.

Interesting side note, the only time the Beastie Boys had invaded my consciousness growing up was when someone stole the VW sign from my Dad's Jetta circa 1987. *I'm that crap*.

If I disappeared whilst running and all they found of me was my Nano they would send out an all-points bulletin for a middle-aged hausfrau from Coventry. "Hmm, Travis, Wayne Newton and the Lightning Seeds - we're looking for a schizophrenic elderly white woman, dressed in head to toe hand-knit, Marks and Spencers knickers, possibly resides in a small village; harmless, definitely harmless".

So there I was, at the Beastie Boys, my enjoyment level somewhere between yelling "Beastie Boys in the Hizzouz" and "so this is what our tenants are listening to on their ghetto-blasters, and good grief is that actually a 'mosh pit', how novel".

Actually it was brilliant, and I'm bloody glad we decided not to take Anna (thanks Mooks!) because we were in the nosebleeds with 500 sweaty West Coast Chopper looky-likeys all smoking pot and generally having a jolly good time.

I turned to LK and said "Fuck, we're getting high just standing here" and he said "-er, high-er".

Mrs. Skeletor got a lot of ASS (Almost Star Sightings); she is convinced she sat next to Michael J. Fox, and tried to persuade us she saw Lance Armstrong, but quite frankly, what guy in Santa Barbara does not look like Lance Armstrong? Every bloke in this town is clean-cut, white and looks like they could do a triathlon at the drop of a hat. Plus you were wasted Mrs. S. But, if anyone wants to leap to her rescue, I am open to comments about the validity of her sightings.

*Wasted*

Generally though a very good crowd. Still lots of fake boobs and pretentious people waving around their i-phones, but unlike Pearl Jam, these fake tits were definitely made in Camarillo not Beverly Hills. That's as down-to-earth as Santa Barbara gets.

Next concert is this Tuesday, Stevie Wonder. Now he's already on my Nano, and not for 'I just called' either, thankyou very much.

She's A Bad'un That Lass

Here are some good reasons for using a live-body transcriptionist instead of phoning it in to a company in India:

"The patient has a significant history with Crystal Matthews".

"Patient used bee venom injections and broke out in hives"

"Patient needs to follow-up whenever you see feet"

Big Lump of Lard

One week to go 'til the triathlon and these are all recent excuses I've given for not exercising:

• I would lose a good street-parking spot.

• I've just eaten a bag of pretzels and half a pint of ice-cream.

• Anna might have a cold and they might not take her at the gym daycare.

• It's smoky and ashy outside and my health could be affected.

• Can't be arsed.

• I don't have $3 to park down at the beach, and I'm too knackered to walk.
  

• My wetsuit is wet.

• I have a wetsuit rash that looks like a giant hickey/love-bite and I don't want to make it worse.
  

• I have to watch six episodes of Weeds back-to-back.

• My cell-phone isn't charged and LK wouldn't know where I was.

• Anna OD'd on ibuprofen.

• Periods could attract sharks.
  

Update

Anna's fine. No reports of stomach ache nothing; although as my Dad said, she would hardly be reporting 'pain' would she, after eating fee ibuprofen?

So, yes, a close call, and with the Zaca fire too which is continuing to burn furiously, but in a different direction. We're out of harms way for the moment, but it's still snowing ash and casting a surreal pink-orange glow over Santa Barbara that's making it feel like a perpetual Hawaiian sunset. Mai Tai anyone?

After all that drama coupled with the continued volatility in the US sub-prime housing market, I'm sure you're as ready as I am for a bit of light relief........

Here we go, where're my Massholes at?

Zaca Wildfire - Or What It Feels Like When The Unimaginable Happens

I suppose I should add wildfires to the list of the wild, woolly and hairy things to be afraid of in this country. As it happens, the Zaca Fire was started by construction workers, but wildfires are a natural phenomenon in this part of the world and we have an 80,000 acre one right on our doorstep that is only 68% contained.















Last weekend it was snowing in Santa Barbara. Heavy flakes of ash were pouring out of the sky, swirling and dancing in a perfect imitation of a winter wonderland, except it's chuffing August and 80º. The fire is in the Los Padres National Forest, directly behind the ridge of mountains that frames Santa Barbara. The same ridge of mountains that effectively cut us off from the outside world. There's one road in to this town and one road out. Not very reassuring to think about when earlier this week there were mass e-mails and media bulletins about evacuations and packing your 'grab-and-go' box.

Fortunately the fire seems to have changed directions in the last couple of days and isn't posing a direct threat to SB right at this moment, although it's growth potential is listed as 'extreme'. Things change fast though. You don't have to live here long to hear stories of the 'Painted Cave Fire' that blazed a trail down from the mountains and even jumped the freeway into La Cumbre the flames were so intense. The Zaca Fire has yet to jump the Santa Ynez river, but then that's not as reassuring as it sounds considering the river is currently just a dried up bed of rocks and crispy dessicated scrub. Excellent.

As I'm writing this a fire engine is screaming past our window - don't they realise that Anna is napping?

I was finding it hard to write about this fire, about the idea of evacuating. Even with fire planes and helicopters buzzing overhead every few minutes, and losing our cell phone reception a few days ago, it wasn't sinking in. Honestly, it was still a little unreal to think of putting together passports and birth certificates, insurance policies and title deeds, just in case. Besides, if we were evacuated where would we go? Would we join the 200,000 people trying to go south on 2 lanes of the 101?

So there I was, basically thinking that these things only ever happen to other people, right? We have been told that the fire could feasibly pose a very real threat to Santa Barbara; to be ready, yet even as I started writing this yesterday, with the fire looming over my right shoulder I was still thinking it can't really happen, right?

But it can and it does.

As I walked out of the shower this morning I looked down to see Anna happily playing with an open bottle of ibuprofen. A Costco-sized bottle of pills and they were everywhere.

This is the sort of thing that never happens, except it does, all the time, and it happened to us this morning. The first thing that popped in to my head was our pediatrician saying 'age 2 is the age of accidental death by drowning and poisoning', but even as I was thinking that I also kept repeating, 'this isn't happening, this can't be happening'.

Anna said 'sowie Mummy'

I was trying so hard to keep calm. I got down on the floor and asked her if she'd eaten any and she said 'yes', I asked how many and she said 'fee'. In my mind I was still thinking this is not happening, she couldn't really have eaten any, how is this happening.

Then I freaked out.

I tried sticking my fingers down her throat to get her to throw up. It did not go well, she didn't throw up, I got bitten and she's looking at me with tears welling up in her eyes wondering why the hell I'm torturing her like this.

I have the number for poison control in my cell phone. I didn't call them. I thought they'd whisk her away in an ambulance, pump her stomach, put me in jail, plus I wasn't even sure she'd eaten any. If you ask her how many biscuits she wants she says 'fee', how many swings on the towel, 'fee'. Even if it was just 'fee' though, I kept envisioning her poor little liver and all those hospital facesheets I see at work after ibuprofen OD cases with 'multiple organ failure' and encephalopathy as the diagnosis.

In the end I called my friend who's a doctor, and without doubt the most level-headed person I know. I was crying so hard I could barely get the words out, I said 'emergency, ibuprofen' and 'Anna'.

She called poison control and conferenced us in, and Anna's fine. Of course she's fine, because these things never happen, right? She would have had to have eaten 12 to be in any serious danger. If I'd taken her to the ER they would have just monitored her, not pumped her stomach. I was told to make her eat and drink a lot and keep an eye on her.

So, yes, I've packed my fire 'grab and go' box, because lightning does strike twice.

Fit To Be Tired

I used to be fit.

Many, many years ago I was superbly, effortlessly fit. The type of fit you take for granted as a pre-pubescent girl.

It was that long ago.

We were an active family; I did swimming, ballet, judo (all of them reluctantly and without talent), and we would do marathon 'walks' in the Yorkshire Dales every Sunday fortified only by cheese and pickle sandwiches and the occasional lump of Kendal mint cake. It's good stuff, pure sugar, but still provided barely enough calories to help us face the drizzle and drag our muck-clad wellies round that final escarpment.

My Dad had a way of guiding a car key around an Ordinance Survey map that instilled fear and awe in my brother and I. He would prop the map up on the bonnet of our car, the drizzle-laden North-Easterly winds whipping it out from under him until he had it pinned with rocks. He would point at the 'suggested route' and instead would drag 'the magic key' towards a cluster of such tightly-packed contours that it looked like the skin of a chain-smoking 75-year-old Floridian. All I could usually see of my brother's face under his yashmak-like Peter Storm was the glint of panic in his eyes.

We both knew what was coming next.

'Now the map seems to suggest we go along this meadow here' he would say, passing the key tantalizingly close to a flat riverbed area, 'but I'm inclined to think that if we just cut up this road, and go along here', jabbing at the angry-looking contours while my brother and I look at him in growing alarm, 'here's where we might be able to cut across and make these two suggested five-mile walks in to something a little more interesting'. We knew that to mean a marathon 10 mile Man vs Wild survival challenge with the outside chance of a Cadbury's creme egg at a village shop or a shandy and lemonade at the Miner's Arms if we made it back to the car park. Both of us wondering why we weren't at home watching the Waltons along with the rest of humanity.

My Mum would be sitting in the car, shielded from the weather, listening to the Archers on the radio until the last possible moment.

We certainly ended up fit though.


I remember our first ever 'Double Games' at secondary school. We went for a cross-country run, up past the hockey pitch, further even than the athletics track, a piece of school turf so remote we called it the 'North Pole'. Past the 'bog fields' and then for good measure up a delightfully steep and deliberate hill. It was probably about 3 miles all told. I remember coming in in 2nd place and being genuinely puzzled at the tattered wrecks of humanity who collapsed into the changing rooms later that day. Ex-friends looking at me with pure hatred 'you could've waited with us ya cow.'

That was when I was fit.

Now I get it. Now when I run it feels like my lungs are going to burst through my nose in pursuit of oxygen. My legs feel like they weigh 100lbs each. Training has made it easier, but it's only 3 weeks to the race and I know that I will be no way near fit enough to do it without pain, let alone effortlessly. I would love to be able to do the race and enjoy it. I would love to have trained enough so that doing the race and having fun with it would be my reward. To be able to do the race like LK, and breeze through the disciplines.

My husband, the pre-pubescent teenage girl.

Careful What You Wish For....

'They' always say that you should blog as if the person you'd most hate to read your your stuff is devouring every word. Well, that's true for those who give a damn about what people think, - which as my Mum reads this, is pretty much me. Hi Mum!

There should also be a caveat which states, be careful, and terribly, terribly aware that if you bleat about not being able to do a race because the entry fee seems a little steep that someone might just call you on it, and use their connections to make that fee go away.

Thanks Chilly, it appears that in *ouch* only three weeks time I'll be doing the Santa Barbara Triathlon.

Thankyou, you're a real friend......

.....(sarcasm may be real or implied).

Anna Counting

Un
TWO!
Fee Four Fife
SIX
Seben
NINE
Ten
A lemon
Telf
FOURTEEN!!!!!
Eight Nine Ten

Not Quite 100%

LK knows how to cut to the chase. My Mum has an abdominal scar 'from my tummy button all the way down'. Everyone's been asking how she's doing these days, but LK, he asks the real questions:

LK - 'So, could you take a punch to the gut yet?'
Mum - 'Er, well no, not quite'.

Do Or Not Do There Is No Tri

I'm trying to decide whether to do the Santa Barbara triathlon, which is hmm, let me see, only a month away....and so far I've only managed to decide that I definitely need to decide something....soon.

I've already done the race four times, and trained for it five times (the fifth ended in point twelve of this list).

I signed LK up for it over the weekend, and I'm being persuaded by two erstwhile good friends to do it again.

We have an entire group of friends who train together and have Mai Tai's afterwards, we are the Mai Tris:






























My nickname is 'Wonder' - sadly not because I'm any good, but because I'm whiter than Wonder Bread.

I am proud to say that I've introduced the English concept of half-hearted sporting achievement coupled with heavy drinking to the health-conscious Calif-yawn-ians.

We are the Mai Tris and we kick arse!

Although, truth be told, it is proving a little difficult to get this band of merry men (emphasis on the merry) to actually sign up this year. One is claiming a GIANT gallstone, another bi-coastal training issues, and others, well, what exactly is my excuse?

To be honest, I've never really enjoyed the race. I've always enjoyed the training and post-training bar sessions, but the race itself, lukewarm at best. For a start, it begins at about 7am, which means you have to get your kit down there at 5:30am, which is total bollocks. Then you have to deal with the massive queue for the toilets while the entire racing contingent suffers pre-race diarrhea. Lovely. Plus, it's knackering, don't be deceived by the race stats. If you tell anyone about the sprint course, they will always ask about the individual disciplines, and when you say a 1/3 mile ocean swim, 6 mile bike, and a 2 mile run, people will always go 'huh, well, that's not too bad', except it is, honestly, unfathomably bad. Anyone can do this race, but unless you're in damn good shape, it's not easy to do it without it hurting. A lot.

Here are some photos of previous races. Do I look like I'm having fun?























Also, point number 2, it costs $100. That's a bloody expensive T-shirt

Mainly though, the reason I'm prevaricating is that I can't trust my body not to throw in the towel. I'm good at tests and exams, but anything physical and there is no amount of training that will guarantee I will not spack out and under-perform on the day. I am just not a natural athlete. I went to yoga last night with a good friend, and on more than one occasion I was waving the wrong limb at the instructor. OK, obviously that's just stupidity, but in all honesty I find it very hard to get my body to do what my mind thinks should be a breeze. Also, it was rather hard to keep a straight face when our yoga teacher (and imagine your quintessential nasal Californian here) saying 'now let's go in to dolphin prelude, dolphin pray-lood'. That and 'restorative pigeon' had me biting down on my bolster.

Come race day I always get a massive stitch on the final run, and on one truly tragic occasion a remarkably sprightly but still, 68-yr old man, asked me if I needed 'medical assistance'. Good times. That's what sucks, training for months, and then having a bad race because you were nervous beforehand and swallowed too much air and then had to run with a stomach like a barrage balloon.

Now my brother on the other hand is a complete natural athlete. He's just done the Great Knaresborough Bed Race - you've probably heard of it. No? Hmm, surprising. Well, it involves something akin to a bed, but in the same say that an American SAT test will say 'contraption is to bed as absinthe is to blank'. Exactly. He also did the Great North Run and managed to keep a nifty pace for the entire race 'only because I was worried some chav was gonna nick me trainers in some of the dodgy bits'. Every athlete needs an incentive.

Anyway, I'm looking for advice - should I do this or not? I had decided that tonight's ocean swim with the girls would be an acid test. If I felt good, and could swim the half mile no problem, then yes, I should consider the race. As it turns out I got halfway out to the buoy and I was already struggling. I wasn't feeling streamlined, there was a tonne of kelp in the water which kept freaking me out, and I felt like my wetsuit was twice the size as normal. Well, note to self, remember to zip up your chuffing wetsuit before embarking on a half mile swim. By the time I got out I looked like a whale with edema.

So, yes or no?

Did We Provide You With Exceptional Service?

You've got to love the Nordstrom Half-Yearly Sale. I dragged my arm-load of 'bargains' to the checkout and the following happened:


Nordstrom Sales Associate: 'Hi, was anyone helping you today?'

Me: 'Er, yes she was, oh and I think you should know that the lock in changing room 10 doesn't seem to be working, I got stuck in there'

N.S. Ass: 'Oh my God you poor thing. Did you get out?'

Me: 'No, no I didn't. You should probably call someone.'

Waving Not Drowning

Thankyou for all your hastily typed e-mails and comments, I didn't mean to alarm anyone. I'm fine really, stiff upper lip and all that. It's actually very easy to live in this town, I just manage to make it look hard.

That piece of asparagus though, whew, now that was challenging. Just be thankful I didn't take a photo, that's all I'm saying.

Lucky Number 13

I have just literally pulled a six inch long piece of asparagus out of my daughter's arse. How's your day going?

There are details to this story, but this isn't that kind of website. Yet. I will just say that yes, I am certain that it was vegetable not animal, although halfway through pulling it out I was justifiably thinking parasite.

We had some bad news yesterday, nothing major, just another hope thwarted, and it's left me feeling worn out and heavy, as if I'm walking around inside a lead overcoat. I'm getting tired of non-stop setbacks and disappointments; none of it major, certainly none of it worth anyone's attention or pity, it just feels like a thousand tiny paper-cuts to the soul. If I was a giant magic 8-ball right now I'd be reading 'outlook not so good'.

And, as if the asparagus incident wasn't enough I just washed and dried my three strands of baby-fine blonde hair, then picked up LK's brush instead of mine and managed to gloop on 3lbs of residual Longs Drugs Maximum Hold Gel. I look like Snape's evil twin sister.

AND our next door neighbour is playing some kind of all-base drum medley which has left me resorting to sticking play-doh in my ears, which I'll admit is probably not a good idea either for my ears or the play-doh.

On the other hand, my self-pity isn't so all-encompassing that I can't be genuinely happy for other people's good fortune. Take julia for example. Pregnant with twins, normal twins, and this is her 13th pregnancy. I have been reading her truly brilliant blog for a long time now, and if anyone deserved a good roll of the magic 8-ball it was her.

So there you have it. Can anyone say PMS?

Easy Does It

On our way to the beach this evening to go running:

Me: I just had a Coke so I might get a stitch

LK: I just had a Dr. Pepper so my legs'll probably fall off.

Happy Dependence Day

No, in answer to your oft-repeated question. We don't have the 4th of July in England.

We lost.

.....or, another fave at this time of year, 'yes of course we do, it comes right after the 3rd'.