Sunday, 25 April 2010

I used my child as a human shield (and God is punishing me for it)


It’s been an eventful weekend.

On Saturday I got dressed up in my full-length vintage dress,




slapped on some red lipstick, a necklace, hoop earrings and felt good. I had a date with a very important man:

Postman Pat.

We turned up at the theatre and were told “Oh, you’ve got some of the best seats in the house!”

I couldn’t have felt more pleased with myself.

It was my son’s first trip to the theatre and he sat absolutely stunned as the show began.

On came Ted Glenn watering some plants and before I had time to think, I realised that he was spraying the audience with water. My first instinct was to use my son as a human shield. I could only think about the damage that could be done to my make up. My son, on the other hand has flawless skin and no need for make up, so I figured this was a fair sacrifice.

Well, he took it like a man, albeit a stunned man. Somehow I still managed to get soaked. I was actually quite pissed off. It wasn’t often that I made such an effort and it is a real fucking effort to look pregnant and hot when you have an 18 month old to deal with too. Up until this point I was feeling like I was having an Alpha Mummy day and now Ted Glenn had ejaculated all over my face and I had been forced to put my vanity before my child’s welfare. I felt pretty shit, from all perspectives.

The journey home was spent with a sweaty 70’s stag group, decked out in afros and permanently occupying the toilet in our carriage to relieve themselves of the gallons of Foster’s they were consuming on the train.

I perked myself up however; with the thought that after a quick freshen up at home I would make my way to my friend’s birthday celebration at a canal side pub, still looking hot with my gorgeous child in tow, quaff a white wine spritzer and cab it home stylishly, delaying his bed time by all of half an hour. It was a perfect plan, a beautiful compromise between my old life and my new one. Me, still fabulous - just plus one and a half children.

Sadly it was not to be. As I dashed around the house pulling all the loose strings together I heard screaming and gasping outside my flat. I peered out of the window and although the incident was just out of sight I could tell that a serious road accident had taken place. Within minutes my street looked like this.



Road closed. Not. Going. Anywhere.

This morning it was raining. I noticed that my son was vigorously scratching his arse when I took off his nappy. I felt sorry for him and allowed him to breeze around the place sans pants.

Ten minutes later, he returned my kindness by pissing on the floor and driving a tractor through it.

Ten minutes after this he took a shit on the floor while I was arguing with the man from Virgin Atlantic about a refund for Bushman’s ticket to Jamaica.

Shortly afterwards, this happened.

A protest against gun and knife crime.

The march had a one minute silence right outside my house for somebody who had been killed there. (I had no idea somebody had been killed there!!) They had just come from down the road where somebody else had been shot (I knew about that one) and were on their way to the place where a young guy was stabbed a couple of weeks ago. (sadly I knew about that one too).

Suddenly I realised that far from living in a safe area highly populated with law-abiding Orthodox Jews and with trendy Stoke Newington Church Street so close that I can smell the free-range sausage rolls from the Farmers Market on a Saturday morning, I actually live on the edge of ‘Murder Mile’ in the midst of some kind of gangland.

As I said, its been an eventful weekend.........

The moral of this story is: remember Saddam Hussein. Using children as human shields can never come to any good.



Wednesday, 21 April 2010

Warning: Sexually Explicit Content







WARNING: SEXUALLY EXPLICIT CONTENT













DIRTBAGS, READ ON







DELICATE FLOWERS ARE REDIRECTED TO HERE














Recently I’ve been pondering female ejaculation. A nameless friend of mine says it’s because I’m in, what she refers to as, the ‘Captain Stabbin’ phase of my pregnancy.

This phrase was coined when she revealed to myself and another friend that she had become totally preoccupied with watching anal sex scenes on the internet. Gradually her overworked laptop started malfunctioning and her dirty little secret was revealed when her boyfriend, who was trying to fix the laptop, discovered a lot of visits to a certain site called Captain Stabbin’. The laptop eventually burnt out under the pressure but her boyfriend, on the other hand, didn’t seem too fussed.

I think this all started a few days ago when a pregnant friend of mine confessed that she thought she had ejaculated during sex. Either that or her water had broken way too early. I happened to mention this to another friend of mine ‘Samantha Jones’ (knowledgeable and free-thinking on all things sexual) who totally stunned me by confessing that she regularly ejaculates when masturbating but never during sex.

“Why have you never told me this before?” I asked her, before reminding her that I was at the Waitrose check-out and really couldn’t have an in depth conversation about female ejaculation right now.

For those of you who have never considered this subject before, google ‘female ejaculation’ and it’s no surprise that what you’ll come across is a mixture of medical and mainly pornographic links. I particularly love Dr. Delvin’s article on netdoctor.

“The reality is female ejaculation isn't all that common. Some women do it once in a lifetime, but never again.”

Isn’t all that common? Well Dr., have a chat with my friend Samantha Jones and all those girls on “squirtnation.com” and “red tube” and you may just be persuaded otherwise.

Of course I’m prepared to believe that some of the stuff I’ve seen on the internet (yes, I’ve done my research!) might be faked. I haven’t actually thought about this in detail but I’m sure it’s possible. However some of the shit I saw on the web was definitely 100% real and those women were having proper body-shaking, earth-moving orgasms. None of your acrylic-heeled, dead-eyed women claiming to come when clearly they were having about as much fun as when they last had their cervical smear.

Dr. Delvin also had this gem to offer.

“There hasn't been enough research on the fluid (ejaculate) - partly because it's difficult to obtain adequate supplies of it for investigation. Also, scientific funds tend to be available for life-threatening diseases rather than for sexual problems.”

Adequate supplies? It seems to me, Dr. Delvin that all it takes is to be in the right place at the right time with a cup; which will soon runneth over. I just don’t think you’ve been trying hard enough.

And the next thing I would like to draw your attention to, is his last point about scientific funds. Well Dr. Delvin, google ‘male ejaculation’ and you will find that all links are medical or scientific or comic. Plus I found an interesting article on how penises are being grown on rabbits. Some of this research has been going on for 18 years!Life threatening diseases? I think not! It’s all well and good to spend funds on the workings of the male genitalia but us ladies always seem to get the short straw........

I think that maybe I have been preoccupied with this subject for the following reasons:

a) Women never talk about this!

b)I don’t have a problem with porn but it always caters to men’s fantasies. Men seem to like the concept of female ejaculation but a woman has to be actually pleasured to achieve it. Hence in these films it would seem the women are actually enjoying themselves.

c) Why isn’t there more research being done?

d) Is this something I should be aiming for? (pun intended)


Lastly, for all you ladies out there who enjoy a little eye candy, here is Dr. Delvin; expert on female ejaculation...........imagine that dinner party introduction.


Still that's got to be better than "Hi, I'm Tony and I grow penises on rabbits."











Saturday, 17 April 2010

The Angel's in the post......let's make a baby!


Dear Friends,

I need your help.

Through this blog, I met a lovely lady who I’m going to call ‘Cookie’. Cookie is trying to make some mini cookies and she’s been going at for years. She is an incredibly sweet and generously spirited lady.

When she read my posts about my (fertility?) statue which ended up being the ‘angel’ on my Christmas Tree, she was intrigued. I don’t know how serious she was but she said she’d like to borrow it.

My response: “It’s in the post.”

Besides, for those of you who have been following the fertility statue saga, I was without it for many years so I figured that a few months couldn’t hurt. I’ve asked that it be returned in time to grace my tree once more. Not of course that I’m hoping to be pregnant again by Christmas. I have well and truly learnt my lesson about cocktails and drunken sex.

Anyway, I’m straying from the point.

Some years ago when I was toying with music journalism, I went to a Joan Baez concert. I found out that Joan and I had something in common. Neither of us were really big ‘God’ people. But she said something really interesting about prayers. I can’t remember exactly what she said but she was referring to this research.

I may not be God's number one fan but I’m willing to accept that I am a minute and insignificant collection of cells, existing in one small corner of an infinite universe. Basically, what the fuck do I know?

Cookie has received the Angel and starts a new course of treatment on Monday. The girl has been going at this shit for 6 years people!!!!!

So please, leave a comment below and send a little wish, prayer or thought to Cookie.

Yours truly,

Troutie
xxxxx

For those of you who haven't got a clue about the fertility statue saga, you can knock yourselves out with this and this (scroll down to the end).

Wednesday, 14 April 2010

Bushman is leaving me - on my birthday!

Bushman is leaving me.

Here are his cases. Packed and ready to go.

The way these cases have been packed are testament to the fact that this man is not, and never could be, gay. I know I’m making sweeping generalisations but what the hell…fuck off… its my birthday…… but that packing was sooooooo done by a straight man left alone to pack.

But it’s Ok because Henry has already moved in.

Look at his cheeky smile. How could you resist him?


And don’t think I’m using him to hoover with. I’m going to spend the next few days developing outrageous masturbation techniques which are so cool they should be patented.


This is why I originally bought a ‘Dirt Devil’.

Don’t be fooled like I was. Dirt Devil was useless in every way and I have put up with him for long enough.

In a few days it will be my birthday and I will be 33.

I was on the phone to Cupcake the other day when the subject of my birthday came up.

Cupcake: What are you doing for your birthday?


Me: Going to the dentist. But mark my words, next year I’m going to be reckless.


Cupcake: That’s what you said last year.


Me: I know! But I didn’t realise that I’d be pregnant again. But this time next year
I’m going to be topless on a bar somewhere. (I paused to imagine the scene and had second thoughts about whether my non-perky breasts are a thing to be exhibited) …on second thoughts, maybe not that exactly…….but something wild.

I’m not even joking about the dentist thing. My appointment is at 3.40.

Talking of phone conversations I’m on the phone to Victoria Sponge (the one who gave birth to the BIIIIIG baby), when she says to me with immense, glowing, satisfaction……

“He slept for three hours last night.”

In a flash, it all came back to me. Inside my head I was shouting to myself

“She’s fucking grateful for that! Do you hear her? This is what is about to happen to you. AGAIN! All because you are an irresponsible little whore!”

“I’m so pleased for you.” I say to her, whilst the woman with tourettes is still abusing me in my head.

Anyway, enough of the pregnancy rant. Repeat the mantra

“A baby is a blessing….a baby is a blessing…. a baby is a blessing…”

Anyway.

Did I mention that Bushman is leaving me?

Well, he’s going to Jamaica for two weeks to sort out some family stuff. I’m not going because I am too fat and I don’t have any money. All I ask is that he comes home before the baby is born. Unlike last time I gave birth when he was in New York. But that’s an outrageous story for another time.

Anyway. If you feel at all sorry for me you can do one of two things. Leave me a comment, especially if you have any wild ideas about what I can do for my 34th birthday next year. Or, alternatively you can vote for me at the MAD awards. Somebody has nominated me….I can’t remember in which category. Is that bad? Anyway, I’m about as likely to win as I am to be photographed by the Sartorialist and I’m not even sure if I want any of the prizes, but its just nice to feel loved, isn’t it?

P.S Bushman just told me that he was kissed on the cheek by Russell Brand's father last night. No lie.

P.P.S Bushman just told me that he had a dream last night that the house was messy and the toilet was full of shit. I'm not so sure it was a dream but he says that it's lucky to dream about shit, apparently it means were coming into money.



Monday, 12 April 2010

French Philosophers and imaginary 'Alpha Mummies'

Today I was hulking my germ-ridden body (third cold of the season) around our local library when I saw a mother I recognised. After a while she said to me,

“Don’t I know you from somewhere?”

I agreed but admitted that I couldn’t place her.

“Wasn’t it at the ‘Nappy Natter’?” she said.

The Nappy Natter was a very casual group of mothers who used reusable nappies. When I was on maternity leave I occasionally took my son to the group. I first went there when I was pregnant for advice about reusable nappies and afterwards just for socialising. I used washable nappies without much fuss for the first 6-9 months. Then I went back to work.

“They are having a party soon” she informed me. “You should come.”

“Ah” I said, unsure of myself.

“I have to admit that since I went back to work I have been using disposables so I’d probably feel a bit uncomfortable.” I said. She didn’t give any reaction and I went on to further validate my life choices with stacks of information it was unnecessary for her to know. I realised that this monologue was entirely for my benefit and not hers.

Then when I got home I accidentally came across this article on the net via Sharon Fried Jones’ blog.

Question: “Is motherhood a form of oppression?”

Here’s a taster for you:

“You wanted to be the perfect mother, so you gave up work, shopping, sex and all the other things you loved to breastfeed, make purées and wash nappies. But it’s proving to be an exhausting, strife-ridden, painful experience.

Here’s an answer. Give the baby a bottle and have a drink and a smoke, too, if it takes your fancy. Then turn to industrial baby food, disposable nappies and a childcare arrangement that allows you to get your life back.

That, at least, is the view of Elisabeth Badinter, a French philosopher who has shaken her fellow feminists with a frontal assault on the breastfeeding, pumpkin-peeling, earth motherhood ideologists who she believes are a threat to women’s liberation.”

I couldn’t help but be utterly intrigued Badinter’s arguments. Suddenly it was clear to me that as a ‘modern’ (if a little irreverent) mother, the feminist and the environmentalist within me were totally at odds with one another.

Ever since I read this post about ‘Alpha Mummies’ by BareNakedMummy, I have been thinking about the ever growing list of criteria that as mothers we are encouraged to aspire to.

BareNakedMummy’s blog post was referring to this article from the Guardian. Here is a quote about ‘Proper Mums’

“These are the mums who give every impression of never having once missed a baby clinic, failed to fill in a homework diary, or fished a dirty school uniform from the bottom of the laundry basket and given it a quick once over with a damp cloth. At my youngest son's nursery, they bound past me with unfathomable energy for 8.30am, all tinted moisturiser and Cath Kidston wellies, carrying snack boxes I imagine to be filled with locally sourced organic fruit, freshly peeled, sliced and diced like a hotel breakfast buffet. Meanwhile, I stand in yesterday's mascara brandishing a flaccid cheese string.”

Who exactly are these ‘Alpha Mummies?'; because if they exist I certainly can’t find them on the Net. No one out there is proclaiming themselves to be Alpha Mummies and if you are, stand up and be counted.

Notice the words ‘impression’ and ‘imagine’ in the Guardian article above. These women don’t exist at all. They are just us on a different day. Somedays I can leave the house with a full face of make up with both my son and I wearing clean, stylish clothes, return my library books before they are due back and have tonight’s dinner in the slow cooker while I am out. It happens once in a blue moon, but it does happen. At most other times I am bedraggled, bad-haired, bad tempered, late and disorganised wearing yesterday’s mascara beneath my eyes. It’s at those times that I look at other women and imagine their harmonious, ultra-organised, possibly even glamorous, domestic lives.

In an ideal world I would love a spotless house, my child in stainless clothes, with an organic seasonal dinner on the table after family French lessons, but I just can’t be arsed to make it happen. I suspect that other women can’t be arsed either. Until it’s proven to me otherwise, I don’t believe in ‘Alpha Mummies’. They are a figment of our imaginations; the result of the assumptions we make about other women and the pressure we put ourselves under.

I’ve slowly come to realise that motherhood, like most things in women’s lives, divides us and sets us against one another. The fat against the thin, brains verses beauty, the breastfeeders against the bottle feeders, the shavers verses the waxers, yummy mummies against slummy mummies. I think it’s time we got a little radical. If we stopped criticising ourselves then we wouldn’t be criticising each other. After all, do men?

Saturday, 10 April 2010

My Big Fat Ass

As I write, my son is eating broccoli off the floor. Oh well, it could be worse, he could be licking up last night’s cocaine. (Joking!)

On Thursday I went to see the doctor. She told me that I weigh 11 stone (70kg). I sighed. Shortly after I gave birth in 2008 I weighed 11st 7lbs. Then I went to Weight Watchers and in 8 months got down to 9st 12lbs – slimmer than I had been before I was pregnant. I have resigned myself to the fact that I must do this all over again. It's going to be a pain in my big fat ass.

The doctor listened to the baby’s heartbeat but we couldn’t really hear anything. I didn’t have the energy to panic.

“It’s not always easy to hear it at 16 weeks” she said trying to reassure me. We endeavoured for a while but eventually I let her off the hook.

“It’s fine” I said “I can feel it moving anyway”

Then she checked my heartbeat.

“That’s fine” she said.

“At least one of us is alive and kicking” I remarked.

On Wednesday this week I visited what will be, my son’s nursery. Some months back I wrote this post about a very white middle class nursery. Well this one was virtually the opposite. A government maintained centre with almost entirely black staff and black kids. Where are all the mixed race kids? Where are the Chinese kids and the Bangladeshi children and the Kurdish kids and the endless types of children in this multicultural city that I live in?

Despite my reservations about its lack of diversity and roughness around the edges, there are several things edging this one to the top of the list. Namely, it’s close and it’s reasonable in price and it’s about as clean and well stocked as you are going to get for a non-private nursery. If I hadn’t seen the Ritz of nurseries first, then I wouldn’t be being so picky but it suddenly dawned on me that this is where I would be leaving my child.

While we on the subject of previous posts, I was going through my archive to find the post about the nursery when I discovered this post which contained the lines...

“Now to the angel at the top of my tree……

London City Mum suggested that said angel is a fertility symbol. If this is so, I didn’t realise it. It was purchased many years ago from an Oxfam shop for 70p.”


Want to know something spooky? I put the angel on top of my tree on December the 17th. I got pregnant on December the 18th because the last condom we had miraculously went missing……..

I’m not one for superstition but it did get me thinking, maybe LCM had a point?

Thursday, 1 April 2010

Fishy Tears

Tonight I’m off to the country for a few days. I’ll be waddling down country lanes breathing in the fresh air and gorging myself on Hot Cross Buns and Easter Chocolate. But thankfully I’ll be back on Sunday because being a city girl, there are only so many hours I can spend away from cocktail bars and the bright lights of the city, even if I’m not indulging in them.

I do miss my cocktails. Chocolate at the moment and buying fine foods from Waitrose seem to be my only pleasures.

If it wasn’t for this fat stomach (all the fatter for the above reasons) you could hardly tell that I was pregnant. I’ve had no sickness, no aches and pains, nothing to complain about at all except a little flatulence, the occasional flaring of a passionate temper and tiredness. But there is one thing which seems to be consuming me of late.

Tears.

The tears are seemingly endless and there is a trigger around every corner. Charity adverts with folorn looking children “Quick! Turn it over!” I shout to myself covering my ears or singing loudly. I can’t watch the news. In fact a large amount of TV is now off limits to me. But there are some things that I can’t control.

Yesterday morning I remarked how Bushman (who finishes work around midnight and raids the fridge while I sleep blissfully) hadn’t eaten all the leftovers but had left some for me.

“Me never eat off everyting” he said.
Translation: I never eat everything.

“Yuh never notice ‘ow me always leave something?”
Translation: I always leave food for you.

“Me eat off de fish head an’ leave di rest for you.”
Translation: I love you so much that I eat the part of the animal that you don’t want so that you can have the best part.

And that was it. I started to weep uncontrollably because this, ladies and gentleman, is possibly the most romantic gesture that has ever been made towards me by my Jamaican lover. He ate the fucking fish head. That’s love for you.

So I cried.

He laughed at me because he couldn’t comprehend me.

“Jesus Christ.” he said “Yuh is one mad woman.”