Again about this but a new context this time

Kim Kardashian. Easily the most recognisable face anywhere on the Earth at any given time, except, maybe, remote Buddhist temples (MAYBE) and other random places similar.

I have a query. Pertaining to Ms. Kardashian and how in the hell she has happily avoided (seemingly up until now) any weight targets. All the Mileys, Jessicas, Michelles and Emmas (ran out of steam for a minute) are constantly subject to a torrent of criticism if they wear an unusual garment or- gods forbid- put up a pound or 2 around the ‘time of the month’. These girls CANNOT be any more than a size 2 (US) or a size 6-8 (UK).

Kim Kardashian, on the other hand, would astound me if I discovered her measurements were anything smaller than a Uk size 12-14. And she does not get verbally bum smacked by every ‘fashionista’ in the media. More often than not they praise her curves. I’m detecting some serious racism here. Even Jennifer Hudson was a healthy weight until personal traumas and media interference got in the way and now she looks great but also a more fragile size 6. What the hell? Is it because the Kardashians are half Armenian (or something relative to half) that people praise her somewhat garish and unflattering taste in outfits, plastic face and ‘wonderful curves’ and yet her younger sister Khloe gets roundly abused if there is even a photo of her looking at less than best?

Even Hilary Duff and J Garner, both completely new moms were taunted with the ‘How fast can they drop that baby weight’ line. I can’t even imagine what will be said about Jessica Simpson after birth.

Why does Kim Kardashian live as the ‘curvy’ ideal and yet inherently curvaceous and voluptuous women are refused a look in? Jessica Simpson is a healthy person. I don’t know anyone who DOESN’T like their food, no matter what diet they subscribe to and yet the only what should be called ‘fat’ person in the spotlight is the same size as all of us MORTAL FATTIES.

I am not Brooklyn Decker. I am not Gisele or, gods forbid, Kate Moss. But I am a mom of 2 (soon to be three), I bake, we’re on our summer diet now so we’re all slowly dropping the winter excess and yes I’m currently between a 12 and 16 UK, but good Christ I’m not fat! Fat are the people who can barely climb up a few steps without breaking out puce, in a sweat. Fat are they who sit at home on computers blasting others for being barely fat (sometimes, on bad days, myself included) but I and Hilary Duff, Garner and all the other media hounded professionals out there, whether parents or not, are not FAT!

It must be said because if Khloe is Fat, then Kim is most certainly Fat. A healthy, happy, high earning and inspirational Fat, but nevertheless, Fat. Just like Adele, who is ‘Fat’ by industry standards but looks absolutely fucking wonderful to everyone else with a brain.

Go Healthy Fat.

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My Retarded Opinions

I mean my title in the literal sense of the sentence, not the insulting implication of the verb/adjective that ‘retard’ has come to ally itself with.

Yesterday I expressed support for something that I don’t necessarily wish to martyr myself for, but for what I feel strongly enough that I could technically be allowed raise an opinion on the issue as its implications will, in future- if not now, involve my children.

My support was shown on a blue-themed social networking site of Ivy League origin in the form of 4 words in capitals. No swearing, nothing demeaning at all, merely an Irish punter’s chant and a name. I don’t think we were on the same page, contextually but neither is it nice to assume ignorance.

I was unceremoniously verbally flagellated for my 4 word opinion by someone I know- knew- very well, someone who has an extremely close bond with my Eldest but someone who I seem to be, sadly, drifting apart from. She is working, living the glorious professional life, having just moved to an Urban Culture Capital. I, am a mom, someone who didn’t finish her education in favour of her children, someone who busies herself (most of the time) with domestic issues and always seems to have time to shoot some breeze. I have been informed, on a previous occasion, by this someone, in the company of others, that I should stick to what I’m doing. I.e. parenting, as I can’t ‘really’ relate to the what’s going on in the professional spectrum I assume.

My comment on said site received the same sort of condescension; I know nothing of what I’m talking about, put my head back in the sand and don’t bother venturing forth on anything not related to children or domesticity in future. I will, however, not apologise for what she construed as an imprecise opinion.

Cue exceptional emotional breakdown last night in front of kids and Hub (it is re-manifesting itself as I write, actually) and an acceptance that okay, I might not be out there dealing with the fraudulent banks, the sheister property developers or the overambitious employers, but I do know what is happening outside my door. I may not watch Late Night talk shows or listen to news radio or read the physical version of reliable print news, but I am not an ignoramus. Obviously, however, my opinion is such that it should not be shared so I should and will, from now on, stick with what I know. Children, economics, psychology, mediation, anger management, domestic economics and budget management, logistics, financial control of variables as well as the evolution of world religions, cultural anthropology, classical anthropology, paleo-anthropology, the evolutionary axis of ascetics and the dying art of diplomacy.

I may not be worth a lot 😦 but I know a little something about some things.

 

Freedom is not worth having if it does not connote freedom to err.
Mahatma Gandhi

As summer comes….?

Oh ye of little faith, oh ye of sudden downpours and stone splitting sunshine. Where is your humanity!? Oh of course, humanity inextant by reason of divinity or natural occurrences.

In early March we thought we were having summer. Then the howling wind and sprightly hailstones returned to play. The girls are feeling such despair (sarcasm) at the lack of delineated season that they turned on the garden tap, made their own puddle (albeit a small Caspian Sea) and proceeded to nearly drown themselves in the muddy, dusty, dirty puddle water across the back yard. I don’t blame them. I’d like some concrete seasons here too. That’s what I love about the Home Country. Defined seasons. In summer it is sunny, with occasional, welcome showers and amazing lightning and thunderstorms, In winter, it snows, its cold. Winter is still going on there! And it almost May!! I prefer Winter. Fall is that exactly. Leaves turned the homey oaken colours of annual closure, the ground crackles and the wind sweeps. Spring is less defined but the budding flowers are a testament.

HERE, however. My geraniums (outdoor) and roses (outdoor) were still blooming in early December. I have heard of hardy flowering, but I am a seasoned geranium and roser and I have never seen such late blooming. We went to the beach in February whereupon I got burnt. What the hell?????? I don’t mind rain, apart from the looming boredom factor, because as we have taught the girls, ‘It means the Earth needs a drink’. I have no problem. I just wish the meteorologists on TV would get the predictions for once. I am sick of an ambiguously climated country. I want predictable patterns and local know-how. Dear Ceres, what happened to the cycle?

 

I am ratty, I accept that. I am bordering on 5 months, I think I am coming down with Seasonal Affective Disorder. I’d like a Cinnabun and cream cheese. I miss the home country. Sure the people are a trifle difficult, but where we currently live, I welcome the forwardness and the protocols and whatnot; so sick am I of ‘under rug swept’ mentalities and the parental scowls that follow me everywhere. Not sure, honestly, what I’m doing to piss all these people off, all I know is, I am in the wrong country, or possibly the wrong locality and am crying to be let go to move!

 

Come on summer, in addition to my womb-bound rhino, give me something to look forward to; not the drought part, I have no problem with rain. Just tell me it’ll be summer and let summer it be. 18 degrees and up, little or no wind during the day, although clouds I will leave to nature’s discretion. Please stop with this nutjob seemingly promising and then disastrously disappointing meteorological looniness I am finding myself or I may well just pack up and go.

Rant over

O&O

The Simplest of Equations

I’m not a mathematical person. I’m unusually good at spontaneous inter-currency conversions and the basic forms of add, sub, multiply and divide but that’s as far as my potential goes. I pity my kids. We’ve already decided we’ll need tutors from the first hiccup because my math brain is a mass of recycled grey matter that wants to see more polar bears not fractions.

However.

I’ve been puzzling over this little gem for about a week now, spurred on by something a friend told me about her pregnancy and relationship. Her bump was a shocker, although the careers are established and in her worse moments she has a tendency to ‘blame’ the daddy. Blame is too strong a word here, it’s more like the look you give your other half when you can time the kettle perfectly and are there when it clicks, but they don’t and make your tea with 92 degree water instead of 97 degree. A withering stare. There we go. ‘Witherly’ 😛

But she got me thinking, I treated Hubs the exact same way and now that I’m further down the line with 2+1 in the oven, I recognise the facetious quality that does seriously irritate and sadly demean the other half. God, I am such a hypocrite but they may not be sporting the bump, but it doesn’t mean they’re any less aware!

And in most, is not all, cases, it really does come down to;

1.5 +1.5= 3 !!! (the .5 obviously being the egg or X-fighter) 😀

O&O

Cabbage

Yes, cabbage. I don’t like it. I’m not a fan of being near it and I would sooner rot in a cess pit than eat a traditional ‘Irish’ cabbage and bacon meal.

YET.

Today, I had the most bizarre craving of all 3 pregnancies. I wanted cabbage so badly, I got supremely irritated until I got some. For our dear Einstein, I have started buying massive cabbage heads and storing them out of smell and sight because the rabbit doesn’t eat rabbit food or carrots anymore. Only greens. So after hankering after a great ‘wodge’ (as Jamie Oliver would say) of buttery cabbage for about 2 hours, I finally got my mind over the infinite ickiness associated with the poor vegetable and roped in Hubby to dice up complements for me. Dizziness and sharp knives are not good together, so he chopped up my garlic and onion and I ‘sautéed’ or, realistically, fried-cum-steamed a lot of cabbage. 15 minutes of flipping and buttering and turning and smelling and making sure I wouldn’t throw up and guess what? I ATE IT ALL. I feel like a pre-schooler. I ate ALL my veggies.

It didn’t turn out like the limp, vile, odorous mank- akin to the preconception of Medieval dining- that is most often mine and people’s general conception of cabbage. It was yummy and buttery and crunchy and would have been even better with a couple of handfuls of cremated lardons too 😛

Staying sane while expanding forward

I am 17 weeks +2 in hospital lingo. And after a moment of panic a few days ago over whether or not there was actually a bun in the oven and I wasn’t simply having major glandular problems, I am now reconciled happily that bun is present and sadly reconciled that I am returning to state of mommy jeans requirement and I will spend the next 18 months in trainers. I am not Ms. Beckham, Ms. Snooki, Ms. Alba or any other celebrity missus’. I am human, I am sane, I do not want pelvic arthritis at 50, I am sticking to trainers and flats.

I am also back to eating an awful amount of chocolate, I don’t even necessarily want it. But we have 2 bags full and a biscuit tin stemming from Easter Sunday (this biscuit tin was our loot) and it’s hard to go for crackers and houmous when there are beautifully foil wrapped ovals of sugar, cocoa and antioxidants within close reach. Sigh.

This bun does prefer savouries and natural sugars, actually. And chips and dip unfortunately, but I don’t cave to that wind too often. I do want to watch how much I put on but at the same time I have to take supplements because I am all-sorts intolerant. I also need more sunlight. Queen of the Pale here and I don’t just mean the Dublin vicinity. I am mondo pale, although I tan nicely, mostly I can’t be bothered with the lotions and potions and would rather sit with a factor 10 or 20 and get my nice tank top tan lines and brown shoulders. That said- UV bad!!!!

Where is the safety net? And can one have a perfect pregnancy? This one has actually gone pretty damn smoothly, given my shambolic medical history, apart from 2 episodes of blood barfing (graphic, sorry) but it turned out it was only my throat, nothing further south. And thus far, I have not been admitted to hospital for anything other than mandatory assessments and examinations. Score! Major score really. With first bun I was in hospital for a full 5 months, spread out over the full time. Including one full month stretch. 2nd bun, I was in for about 3 months, including a full month stretch again and I am dreading the probability that I will be again for the full month on this bun. Not so much for my sanity, although the hospital is hideously boring but for my wee monsters. 😦 They wont have a momma for a full month and while, yes, we are in an age of cell phones and stuff, I do not possess a lap top, will not pay the extortionate hospital wifi fees regardless and we don’t have a car to cover the 9 kilometre journey in at the drop of a hat. We will be reduced to phone calls and once a week visits and that’s hard to overcome. Yes I did it while pregnant with 2nd bun and Elder was approaching the year mark but it was still really really hard to do and I did end up just signing myself out against doctors orders because I missed her so much and because she came in horrible sweaty and smelling like the in laws’ house every time.

I really really hope Hubby will push himself to be a worthwhile single parent for the month if I am in. His parents are a 5 minute walk away and while that is good to fall back on, I’d rather he just played the part of attentive daddy that he should be while I am AWOL and not put on the TV and make chips for dinner every night and not bother showering them for a full week, until they come in to see me. Hoping against hope. I might go and write out a timetable in preparation… yes, actually, I will.

The time is shooting by. I generally have to go in for the month at 29 weeks, which is only 11 weeks away and then the birth is 9 weeks after that. Can you say bulldozer? Because that is what it feels like.

I have decided, however, that when I go in, I will spend the 24 hours a day, 7 days a week for 4 weeks boning up on my languages again. I used to be nigh on fluent in German, and now I’ve let it go simply from lack of practise, my French needs revising to get me up to conversational fluency again and then I might take a stab at Spanish too. I would dearly love a trio of languages in this house, if not the full 5 (including English and Irish) but Hubby does not possess the cultural acumen or the commitment to such a task. Which leaves me, a barely grad with proficiency in Classical and ancient anthropology and medicine and English, with some ancient Greek thrown in too, to take the proverbial bull by the horns and get me down in 2.5 languages in 4 weeks. That sounds like a challenge, sir. I accept. (cunning grin) 😛

I have my Confectioner to keep me sane. A big supply of fruit to keep me happy and, for the moment, 2 petite geniuses to keep me busy. Let’s get cracking!

O &O

It’s not that I don’t like movies, because I do. I actually have a toe dipped in most genres apart from 70’s horror, modern horror, Simon Pegg offerings and the endless supply of muscle men movies from the 70’s until the Expendables 2. What I don’t like is boredom on my 52 inch (or thereabouts) TV screen for the guts of 2 hours. Boredom and stuff guaranteed to make me paranoid for weeks case in point; Paranormal Activities.

I like movies with apparent, if not wholehearted, guts; historical stuff (barring war films- yawn), quite a lot of Brendan Frasier, Jason Statham and Dwayne Johnson stuff. I had not considered myself fussy until Daddy-O took the remote and switched on ‘Paul’. A Pegg/Frost buddy comedy of soporific proportions. I don’t like ‘comedy’. I like films that are funny, but I don’t need the tagline comedy. An alien with the voice of a Jewish Canadian in the form of Seth Rogen, taking place in a camper travelling somewhere in the more lush area of America is not something that will turn my crank. At all.

In comparison, I was forced to dvr ‘Agora’ earlier on and then not watch the Lincoln Lawyer outright because the Provider deserves his down time. I like, not necessarily educational, but stimulating entertainment (although I have been known to laugh at American Dad.) Right now, Hubby is cackling his bollock off inside at the glorious adventures of British twits and their spaceship pal. What is it we have in common again??? Coz that sure is hell is NOT IT.

I liked Priest, Killer Elite and admittedly the Expendables 1. I like Stallone, some Schwarzenegger and Jet Li. I like action films, I seriously do. But I like brain (of sorts) behind the brawn not just stunner gets kidnapped, man hired, finds, kills bad’uns and we discover she’s a bad’un herself. KILL ME RIGHT THERE IF I SEE ANOTHER. Like Puss in Boots. WTFing bollock??? I LOVE Shrek. All of them. There’s rarely anything I don’t like about them, but that was one of the worst CGI offerings since ‘Happily Never After (which got a SEQUEL).

Sigh. I guess, looking through our libraries is indicative of personal taste. I am more of an industrial vacuum than a filter. I will read virtually anything and genuinely enjoyed Dan Brown’s publications (apart from the Lost Symbol. That bored me to tears.) I read a lot, I read quickly and it needs to flow unlike a disgraceful amount of crap being flung my way by fellow mothers these days.

I studied Ulysses, the Odyssey and Iliad for Christ sake! I can pick apart the menus from the early Medieval, Renaissance and Classical eras as well as quite a lot of anthropological data from across the globe (mostly revolving around the ancient arenas but I will take medieval to modern Japan very happily.) I’m subscribed to National Geographic and the Times. I need stimulation!! I don’t care about a bunch of futuristic space armies fighting Tyrassic style reptiles or creepy elongated snobby aliens. I tried, a brutal attempt- but goddammit I TRIED.

I watched Clarissa and the King’s cookbook, about a 700 year old, 196 recipe scroll from the time of Richard the 2, think mid-Middle Ages. I was thoroughly entertained. I am currently reading ‘A Time Travellers Guide to Medieval England.” I’ve read The Idiot and the Life of Pi.

PLEASE SOMEONE GIVE ME SOMETHING I CAN GET MY TEETH INTO AND THEN HAVE A MATURE DISCUSSION ABOUT AFTERWARD.

Book clubs are not for me, similarly I find movie clubs quite droll. All I’d like is someone to start writing movies that will get appreciatively funded by studios that will be thought provoking and not just money makers.

I’m taking the TV in a bit and he can go read his bloody Lunar Wolf epic while I settle into a biopic on one of the first female mathematicians and follower of Pythagoras. I do not like Snooki.

The chilli aspect was that I made it, washed it down with a bottle of root beer and am ranting as he laughs his butt off to a STUPID FILM inside while I freeze my bum off in my drafty computer room.

This is more of a ranting Stream of consciousness than a formulated blog, but I’m pregnant, I’m hormonal and my kids are asleep.

Where’s my bloody book? (grumpy)