WARNING: Female issues will be discussed. You get to be a certain age of woman and you don’t put up with as much shit anymore. You’ve made it through early parenthood and you’re still standing. You’ve mostly got it down, you know what works and what doesn’t. You’ve developed a rhythm and that rhythm generally…
“Not cool! This is NOT cool!” I exasperate. “What? What is it?” David responds. “I peed my pants FIVE times today while coughing!!!” “Oh hon… You’ll do better tomorrow… Tomorrow you can make it to six!” “Do NOT make me laugh.” I have already crossed my thighs in preparation for any laugh leakage. David and…
… when you’re in the midst of peri-menopause? They tell you about the sleep disturbances, the night sweats – all that great stuff – they don’t tell you that your dreamscape will be a cross between Terry Gilliam and Wes Anderson. Last night, Inigo Montoya was waxing my bikini line before he replaced my kneecaps…
“Just one more? Please can’t we watch just one more?” I beg. “No Mummy. We’ve already watched three episodes. You’re done,” says Rissa. I look over to David forlornly. He shrugs. “The kid has spoken. It’s bedtime for Bonzo.” I throw myself across their laps, wailing in dissatisfaction. They are unmoved. As I am lying…
On the plus side? I’m 46 years old and still alive. If this were the Middle Ages, I’d be dead already, or close to dead, or, at the very least, a great-Grandma, with incredibly saggy boobs because they didn’t have proper brassieres back then. On the minus side? The part of my brain that is…
“Heather, what do you want for… HOLY CRAP!!!” says David as he sticks his head behind the shower curtain. He’s reacting to the shower wall, upon which I have left all the ‘extra’ hair from my head. And by ‘extra’ hair, I mean the hair that I regularly lose when I wash my hair. “Are…
WARNING: There will be foul language in this post. MOTHERFUCKING DWARVES.* I’m sorry, but… REALLY… REALLY?!? I’m sure that the lining of my uterus is chock-a-block with rich mineral deposits which can be sold at a premium on the Disc World, but I would just like to state for the record that I did…
Blergh. “You okay?” I don’t even want to admit what I’ve done. “Fine. I’m fine.” David’s eyebrows raise. I’m sitting on the sofa in our petite grande room. I have a Rusty Nail in one hand and cheap-ass Christmas romance collection in the other. “I might have eaten bad things,” I mumble. “Pardon me?” “grumble……
You see them in the lingerie departments of the Bay. You see them in the Sears catalogue. You have memories of your Gran or your Great-Gran wearing one. You think to yourself: I will never wear one of those. I’m shopping for one. I used to sleep naked. I used to revel in my naked…
Ironing left-handed is akin to learning to ride a unicycle, but I’m pretty sure this hobble-shouldered old dog can learn new tricks. Cursing and taking double the time to actually get clothes wrinkle-free – but 20 minutes later, the shirt’s relatively smooth. TAH-DAAAAH!!!! Until the iron falls, spilling water everywhere, and I reach for it…