Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about Life and happiness in general. After, everything that’s been going on in mine over the past 5 years, I would never have believed, for one millisecond, that I would end up in Hong Kong. Plus…. I was holding out for Miami or New York (unfortunately, that wasn’t going to happen in my “real” life). This post, before you start reading, is a bit of a mish-mash. Tit-bits of my life, religion, family, death, but mainly, it’s about finding some peace and happiness … even when your Husband pisses you off and the kids don’t ever seem to stop screaming. And, no, I haven’t turned all hippy on you, although this is mainly because I can’t find a decent enough drug dealer in HK that sells my beloved skunk.
Anyway, this weeks post is about a bit of everything, but mainly its about being true to ones self. Something I’ve started doing more and more.
So, to begin with, have I ever mentioned that I converted to Judaism not long ago? Probably not.
Why? Well… lets face it. There’s a shit load of bigots out there and my folks weren’t too impressed either. Especially as I shamelessly did it to marry The Captain (not because I woke one morning after watching “Sex & The City” thinking… “Hey, that shit looks like fun!”). I also turned to the Captain after we married and laughed “I lied! I just wanted a rock on my finger.” I was joking, of course.
Actually, I say my parents weren’t too impressed but, well, my Dad is pretty much a born again Jew. He’s an Iranian chef who left home at 11 years old (no, seriously, he did), having grown up in the Liverpool equivalent of a hard-core Estate (a shed in Kashan, Iran, with a Cow they used to get their daily Milk from … unless it was on strike) I lie not. He ended up in London, originally as a Butler for a British family who lived in the Little Boltons, Fulham, SW London (dahling) at the tender age of 16 years old.
When Dad arrived at Heathrow Airport, all he had as proof of his new job, was a piece of paper with information of the family he was going to work for. The paper had a scribbled note with their name, number and address. He didn’t speak one word of English though but had a big grin. This alone, made my heart break for him when he told me this story, as Dad, well , he looks like a cuddly cute Teddy Bear (just as any girls Dad should)…. even if mine was a bit of a cheeky swine from time to time. He sat there, all those many years ago, in Heathrow Airport, for 3 hours waiting for these people to collect him.
He was terrified, well, Dad’s exact words were “I vuz fakin vurried as deese Ineglish peepol cud ‘ave been fakin bastard, u no?” … imagine an Iranian accent (*nb. Iran is not an Arabic country, before you start getting confused. In fact, it’s the only country in that part of the Middle East with no Arabs… unless they live there. Not a huge deal but its like calling an Irish Protestant, a Catholic). Anyhow, Dad had approximately £5 in his pocket (we’re talking 1947 era) and was shitting himself that they were going to put his tiny bum back on a plane to Tehran, if no one came to “claim him” …. like baggage. This is the same man who stood and screamed, and cried, when I passed the UK Bar to become a Solicitor as no one in his family, including my criminal brothers, had gone to this level of any profession (I was also chuffed I’d managed to pass “The Bar” and not stop off for a few glasses of Vodka en route to the Ceremony).
So, after a few years, Dad left this “fakin luvelee fameleee”(his English had got a little better, clearly) and worked in many restaurants and Hotel kitchens as a washer-up, and, eventually, he learnt to cook.
He was soo poor, that at one stage, they (Dad and some other mates) actually went to Trafalgar Square and took Pigeons home to cook them. Dirty skanky PIGEONS!??? ** RSPCA people, please don’t contact me about this. We are talking dirt poor in London, in the 1950’s where people were having a pretty crap time (a bit like the UK now, although with manners & less teenage pregnancies & chavs). It’s no bloody wonder he told me to “piss fakin off” when I wanted to travel the world at 18 years old. “Travellll, de facking werd?! Get a fackin job you silly cow!”, in an Iranian accent, even after 30 years in the UK (despicable really). My Dad, to me, is very soft, kind and gentle and although he swears like a right old c%$t, he’s unbelievably kind and very very sweet, to me. Anyone else who crosses him though….well lets just say he’ll rip your fakin head off.
Anyway, apparently, Pigeons, well they taste just like chicken, if you add some nuts, salt/pepper, raisins and Basmati Rice (Iranian staple to every meal…especially if you add Saffron). Now, when I was in the South of France a few years back with the Captain, I ordered “Pigeon” and I kid you not, it tasted like shit. It even looked like a Pigeon (yes, hypocritical) and I like my meat to look like it never came from a live animal, you know!? Anyhow, as my Dad learnt to become a Chef, I discovered the art of cooking, especially meat, which is odd as my best friends are all bloody vegetarian. I tried it once (being a veggie) … highly overrated if you ask me. I lasted 3 days, by which point I was sooo hungry, I think I ate a human being as I got off my bus in Clapham Junction. My Dad, gave me, or should I say, indulged in my passion, for food and this is where I learnt to get angry if someone wandered into the kitchen mid-cooking…. it drives me nuts!! I need space to work and if someone wanders into the kitchen to “help“, well …. you’re just asking for a bitch slap.
Anyhow, Dad ended up owning a well know “Continental restaurant” in NW London for many years, full of 80’s pop-starlets too, open until 6am in the days when everyone else back in the 80’s couldn’t get a licence for booze at that time, throwing one very well-known celeb out whenever he got drunk…. it was the usual story. He certainly saw some partying in his time too. When Dad tells you one of his restaurant day stories (cocaine being snorted off the dinner tables (they had a back room and thats where shit always happened, sex in the loos etc), even now, I sit cross-legged in front of him like I’m waiting for a story during “show and tell” at school. He also had a huge autograph book that all the famous people used to sign when they went to his place for drinks or food. A couple of months before he sold the restaurant (after 20+ years), someone ran in and stole this book from behind the counter.
So, my Dad should really have been a Jew, which, if you know ANYTHING about religion, its pretty much the same thing (in my opinion) s being a Muslim… or recently, I heard the genius term, “Muslish”. Circumcisions, arguing non-stop (with anyone) about everything, family forever involved in all that you do, fasting on religious holidays, bla bla bla … but he did none of the religious stuff…. he liked the “community” Jews brought with them and has lots of Jewish friends himself. He liked all the togetherness. Shit I hate. Why? Despite this site… I’m actually very private (go figure). I hate being in huge crowds or groups (unless I’ve been drinking) which makes me go into overdrive where I have to talk in short-sentences, then I talk bull-shit and if all else fails, I drink away my fear to give me confidence (yes, even at very boring pointless functions… actually, any excuse for a drink).
I recently feel, well, bloody fed up of always being polite when I dont want to be. I’ve stopped doing things I dont want to do. I wanna have fun!! When I die, I’ll know I wasn’t a hypocrite – I didnt say “Yes” when I meant to say “No”. I can’t do that fake shit anymore. Plus, its boring.
The Captain on the other hand … well… this Man… he has my admiration for being himself 24 hours a day. I would give my arsehole for that alone. He’s my idol in so many ways and the man doesn’t even know it. He’s true to himself. If he thinks something, well, he just goes ahead and says it (sometimes I call it “Captains Tourette”). Amazing shit as I was always told to be polite and keep my gob shut unless spoken to. Basically, I grew up being a polite, nice, errr… mute. I also always got seated with Parents at functions (obviously when I was a teenager as now… Im’ kept away from anyone elderly) as I was considered“Parent friendly”. Basically, I can charm the arse off you if I have to. Not always of course, as there are people out there who just dont like you. Fact of life really. One of my old work colleagues HATED me. She was a real cow too. I went home once, telling The Captain, “this bird just really doesn’t like me”, from day one. She STOLE my pashmina from work once, going “ooh sorry, I didnt realise it was yours”. What a bitch right!? There were loads of stains on it too. When the Captain eventually met her at a wedding, he said “yep… she hates you”. I don’t really care, but thats life. I can’t stand certain people for reasons unknown, even to myself. And as it turns out, people can also hate me too. Go figure!
Anyway, the Captain is THE most honest, open, doesn’t give a shit who says what, person I know. I mean, there are times I’m like“Babe, seriously…. tone it down!” If he’s just insulted someone or done something soooo unbelievable, I apparently always give a “nervous laugh” to apologise for his atrocious, albeit, honest, behaviour (sometimes, I actually think he’s my 3rd child). He’s also the person who always pushes to the front of an entire queue as he can’t wait for anything… and I’m usually in tow, covering my face from the shame, until we get away with it. He recently drove past an entire queue of cars on Chinese Bank Holiday, a queue that stretched approx half a mile for a car park in Stanley (south side of Hong Kong and a massive tourist place). He over-took every car (I thought he was driving on), and then TURNED into the grass car park and literally parked the car. The poor Car Park Attendant, not trained in this crazy English mans actions shouted “NO!! NO!!! THERE IS QUEUE!”. The Captain, in the meantime, started pulling the Twin buggy out the boot, while I was sat in shock in the front of the car, as the Twins watched this crazy Genius at work. The Captain shouted back “I’m NOT MOVING. Sorry. I have Twins and they’re hungry”. I’m amazed he didn’t pull me out the car too, saying “and she’s an alcoholic…. I can’t queue”.
Despite the young mans protests, The Captain ignored him and carried on getting things out the boot (kinda like we were moving there, and with Twins, you always have a shit load of stuff to take to any type of outing). With that, I literally got out the car and followed him. The poor young Car Park guy stood there, mouth wide open, thinking…. “what the fuck just happened?!” The Captain slipped him some cash (and I swear, a wink), and off we went. All the cars queueing must have thought we were (a) Diplomats, or (b) owned the bloody car park. GENIUS.
Sorry… I’m digressing. So back to converting to being a Jew, and my parents backgrounds. So. My Mum. Well, she grew up in a strict posh Muslim household in the Centre of Tehran (before the “Revolution”), where, drinking, no head scarves, bacon sarnies (not really), open fornication with the opposite sex, was ok (until it all got fucked up).
EVERYTHING, with my Mum is a conspiracy. Everything. From the Revolution in Iran which, I’m hazy on despite numerous discussions at home (personally I don’t want to get into it as there’s too much corruption, everywhere, and I just don’t get what happened!?) For any Iranians, not in hiding (or, afraid to share…yes, afraid)….people don’t really chat about it. Unless my Mum arrives and tells you what “actually took place”. My Mum seems to have worked for the CIA/FBI/Mums of Tehran Group and she told me NOT to, in any way, get involved when there was the recent riots during the Political corruption while voting and numerous students being killed in Tehran…trying to stand up against an archaic regime. Innocent blood being shed as there were “insiders” among the Protestors, who pulled out guns and shot these innocent people. Only people who live there, seem to know whats really going on, however, the outside world’s Media appears to be very restricted in covering these types of stories.
My Mum actually told my Hubby-to-be, on their very first meeting, ” Now listen sunny boy, you all stick together and my Daughter is too sensitive for you. Oh & BTW, your car’s a pile of shit’… he drove a nice sports car at the time. I didn’t know until one year after we married that my 5 ft 2 inch Mum gave The Captain his 1st warning to literally take the high road, and piss off as he was Jewish, and well, I clearly wasn’t. When I say Jewish, I’m talking relaxed (basically he has a very loose understanding of his own religion until he re-learnt everything when I converted), so not strict (what you would call, a“Twice-a-year-to synagogue Jew“…. he only went during religious Holidays. Kinda like my Catholic mates for Midnight Mass at Xmas… which we were all drunk for too, even at 16 years old. Don’t ask me why I was there). My Mum, to this day, defends what she did as she was soo worried I wouldn’t be accepted by The Captain’s family. My Mum still clearly lives in a different era where crap like that still happens by ignorant arseholes who have no idea about, well anything. For the record, she adores The Captain and always jumps to his defence whenever we have a row. This wasn’t about religion, but acceptance.
My Grandma, whose favourite I will always be (my cousins argue about this very simple and yet obvious truth…. but its true), well, she went to Mecca three times in her life (always dressed in white) and believed in her Muslim religion. I love and loved that about her. Depth, truth and belief. She never ever faltered and I remember she once slapped me, on the hand (which fucking stung), for mimicking her while she did her 4am prayer in my parents house while she stayed there (I had just got in after a night clubbing in a shitty Disco/pub in Kingston, hence why I was awake). What a nob (am I)!? I learnt immediately to show some respect to (a) our elders, and (b) people who believe in their religion. She loved me loads too. I was the only one she left 3 vintage handbags for when she passed away, one of which contained, her gloves, comb (she had fine black hair like silk), and a handkerchief….it broke my heart. She also left me her Pearl bracelet. My Cousins…. well they got bugger all.
When she passed away, I didn’t leave our apartment for 2 weeks. Even now, 5 years later (she missed my wedding by months after slipping into a sudden coma), I hurt. When The Captain and I went to Miami a few years ago, we were walking through the hell they call their departure lounge, the lady who went to take my ticket (she looked Chinese/spanish/4ft 2 inches high), basically like my Grandma. Well, I looked up, saw her face and walked away from the queue, in tears. The Captain, walked over, peeved we lost our place in the craziness of horrific Miami airport (worst in the world for check-in especially if you look remotely Middle-Eastern)… and I started crying. I almost threw myself into her arms and told her I missed her so much. Pathetic? No. We all do this. I’ve had moments, like on the tube at Holborn station, where a 4ft 2 inch Muslim granny, with a kind, Chinese looking, button nose, sweet smiling face, gave me a look on the escalator (going in the opposite direction). I gulped back tears and followed her up 2 floors. I know she’s dead, but I love that I have this memory for life. She was funny, strict, a Mum of 7 (well, 8 if you count, and of course you should, Baby one who she lost after 3 months…. fucking hardcore). Her gift to me was a card that she had written when I got engaged, a few months before she died. I have to put this into English, as in my language, I may as well be describing a dancing goat in a field with rainbows (but it has meaning).
She said…“Remember that when you have children, you are the Mother and leader of your household, you carried your children, you deserve to be looked after later on by them, by your husband, by your family. Enjoy your life, never stop smiling and laughing, and always be you”.
The one thing people apparently notice about me right away, is that I’m always smiling (kinda like a crazy patient who needs meds). I want to live happily though and now, I’m a Mum, I want to make sure my kids grow up in a safe, happy, secure house full of fun, laughter, great food and lots of wine (for me clearly).
Why all this chat about being happy? Well recently, Ive had loads of chats with friends who are “un-happy” in their lives. Something doesn’t feel right, or everything is crap. I’m trying to be happy for me and The Captain. For my kids. For my parents, who lets face it, thought I’d end up in Prison/unemployed, or shacked up with some arsehole, after all my school expulsions as a teenager. I didn’t settle gals. I’m sooo meant to be happy, so why, why why, am I still, missing a piece of the puzzle? I will tell you why.
We are told to live life according to everyone’s bull-shit appearances. You sometimes forget whats genuinely important. The minute I arrived in Hong Kong, I realised, I suddenly understood what family and friendship was really all about, and how much it meant to me.
I WONT do the whole “living life according to societies rules” anymore. I wont let people talk down to me, or make me feel small (I used to when I was younger, but not now). I also stopped the minute I saw my Mum in intensive care after her stroke. And I was a pussy. I didn’t go in to witness the tubes. I sat outside all night and slept on a chair. I told the Captain I needed alone time. No friends, no family, just me and my Mums best friend who I adore. Shes shares the same name as me (funny as they weren’t best mates before I was born). She slept on the floor of her hospital every night with a bottle of Vodka under her coat and her 40 Silk Cuts. She brought food, she held my hand because she knew, I literally couldn’t breath. What the fuck was I going to do if my Mum left me? Luckily, she recovered from the stroke.
Me? I have to say, after being brought up in South West London and going to a Catholic School run by Irish Nuns, I am positive, I have always believed in religion (mine being the religion of wine/non-judgement/sex with strangers/narcotics) and God. I don’t and never will, believe in being TOLD how to worship anything (unless they are Christian Louboutin shoes, in which case, tell me where/when/time/sale price), in any way shape or form. I believe in God though. Why? He …. lets face it, God is definitely a bloke…. a female God would never put us through child-birth/periods/men. Well this He-God, saved me during my moments of despair. My Mums stroke, my fertility problems, when I have to check on my Twins every night (whether they sleep through, or not), just to make sure they are safe. I also have a word with God from time-to-time and ask him to keep an eye on them for me (especially my Daughter who thinks her head is made for banging into floors and walls).
Now don’t get me wrong, or start judging me as some holy-shmoly weirdo, as I don’t sit there praying daily either (hey…I’m too busy drinking), but I do believe in being positive, in seeing what I want for my future. If I ask for it, surely it will happen no?! Of course, you have to work at it too. Shit doesn’t just fall into your lap (unless you’re rich to begin with, or well, fucking lucky… in which case piss off now). The harder you work towards what you want, the easier it will come to you. I do believe in this.
Signing off now.
Ps. I’ve been bitten to shit by mossies (I have “Skeeter syndrome”) & woke this morning looking like, and I quote by our nanny, “Angelina Jolie”. Shame the lips have now deflated though due to my batches of Clarytin. I’m going to start sitting out on the balcony at night, covering my lips in Honey and waiting for them to be attacked again.
So far, the holiday has gone a little better than expected, (a) Mum-in-law thinks we are actually mum n daughter which makes life loads easier and to be fair… I’m fucking easy peasy to get on with (b) I keep getting Mum-in-law drunk…. something I forgot I kept doing when we were back in London.
It turns out… I’m a friggin genius at turning people into drinkers…. even for the night. I’m like the cheeky female Devil on your shoulder that says “Go on, just one more…bottle!” Works like a Gem every time!
Plus, I hate drinking alone and I LOVE banter with women. We have soo much fun when blokes/men leave us alone to have a giggle. This is a FACT and a reason why, up until I turned 30 yrs old (yes, 30.. a couple or so years ago…), I never had boys, save for my best male friends who are pretty much gay anyway, even if they are in denial and chasing tits ‘n arse everywhere, at any birthdays. I recall one friend of mine saying she never, ever laughs, like she does with the girls.
Its true. My Best friend made me laugh soooo much once. We were 14 years old and had just been to some dingy, feet sticking to the carpet, basement, back street “Disco” in Ealing, South London. We ended up in a random flat (d0nt ask) but she made me laugh sooooooo much, I wet myself. We woke the following morning with my stupidly long socks (they covered my Fk-me-boots) drying on a radiator of some half-way house for ex-convicts (I lie not!!!). This made me laugh again. I was greeted at 6am by a big black guy called “Jim” in the loo, smoking a massive spliff. I was soo unsure whether to run or stop for a chat (he seemed interesting and actually quite funny…. probably trying to decided whethere to kill me or not). I ask her (my best gal that is), even to this day, what the hell were we doing there?!!? She and I have a place, where stories can only be told where the participants are present are the only ones who know what happened. We laugh so much, even now. I love that.
Ok… thats me for now. Will I be this kind of cool/chilled/go out & shag ’em parent? When Itchy (my daughter) comes home from “Space” in Ibiza and says she got so pissed /fuckedshe woke up in a Monastary surrounded by wanking locals who are meditating while smoking giant spliffs full of mind spanking skunk (I love it, sorry but I do) … what do I do?!
I’ll tell you exactly what I would do (aside from confiscate the drugs for my own personal enjoyment… yes, I’m gonna be a kill-joy Mum too. Shoot me but I dont give a shit). Firstly, find this place and secondly, go live there forvever. Thats when The Captain takes over as our staff will have long gone by then (unless I have another 2 which I keep threating at the moment…. I think I’ve got mild amnesia from the 2 epi’s the Dr’s administered when I gave birth!)
Hope you are all well out there girls!
Ok girls…. I’d be lying through my teeth if I said I didn’t miss my munchkins (Itchy & Scratchy). Plus, The Captain doesn’t appear to care as much as I do that we have (1) left them with our Helper in Hong Kong (yes, shes wonderful & yes we have cameras….) (2) time alone together just us … well…. it’s a bit harsh no? I mean, we’re meant to be getting on brilliantly.
I had images of him chasing me into the ocean waves, or strolling in the sun hand in hand, laughing, joking, gossiping (basically… I was imagining a gay friend, I had the bonus of having sex with). BUT, the reality…. we have just agreed, we want to literally harm each other. The Captain told me to “go ahead and order another Cosmo” as I’m such a joy when drinking … which of course I did (hey, you don’t need to tell me twice), and I told him “sometimes I’d like to hold a noose round your neck and keep tightening it”. YES I SAID THAT. Big fucking deal.
Who isn’t married and comes out with worse comments… seriously? I’ve actually edited some things that took place at lunch-time today. I was in a very jovial, almost over happy mood after indulging in my new book by Russell Brand (my not-so-secret celeb crush), “My Booky Wook” and was enjoying myself, laughing out loud (he’s fucking funny), until HE (AKA “The Captain”) turned up to “talk” about my behaviour (hey, for the record… I wasn’t sat there without a top on indulging in any sexual/illegal act….well…not today anyway).
What is it with the new age /metrosexual man and their need to chit chat!? What happened to just relaxing with a cocktail and no feelings chit-chat bullshit? After a row at lunch which involved many a familiar line about how I hated his family, him mine (people staring at us both while this took place, but The Captain always does like a good dramatic scene) and how neither of us can agree on anything…. I then text my troop of fab girls back home who told me “I’m loved” and then I wanna cry and jump on a plane back to London, Heathrow ASAP.
Even on holiday in the Philippines, I want to be home. I want my family (who drove me maaaad), my girlfriends (who I always, always love being with) and the biggest loves of my life, the kids. The Captain and his brood though… well at the moment… I’m all done on exhausting arguments about family, and whose is more “normal, better, wierd” etc. I’ve always had to spend more time with his than mine, mainly because mine like a quiet peaceful life, and the Captains love drama, have more religious holidays, followed by arguing and me always feeling like the odd Duckling in the crowd (I didn’t say Ugly, I said Odd). That will never ever change, nor do I want it to.
I am now stuck between a rock and a hard place. Does anyone know what that actually means because it sounds to me like I’m pretty much fucked either way?! I want out of the whole non-stop arguing. I’m not “lucky” or “ungrateful” because of my new bull-shit fake affected life in Hong Kong. I’m alone, I have 2 small babies (who I have had to leave in HK to “prove” my love to The Captain) and I miss my Mum (yes, I’m also a big girls blouse…. anyone know where that saying comes from?!). I wanna go home. If anyone reading this can give me a ticket home (plus enough space for 2 babies) and no Legal crap about an additional accompanying adult for baby no.2 (any infants under 2 can’t travel without an adult), please email me.
I want to go to London without ANYONE but MY family & friends knowing. I want to go home. The Captain today… well… he just sealed the deal on how hard this relocation business is. I thought I was doing really well until he told me I was “ungrateful”.
Ungrateful!? Have a look at our Twins from 2 years of trying IVF. Have a look at your new home that I moved us into, once again (for the 3rd time…he didnt unpack anything but his underpants), have a look at how happy and chilled your kids are (they get that from me/wine). Have a look Captain. I have done everything you wanted and i tried very hard. Today…. I’m mentally packing up and heading home ….. even if I do have to live with your Mum as shes the only person who has any room in her house.
Damn it… I need to re-think things or start playing the fucking lottery.
ps. As I’m writing this, the family on the next balcony to ours is KICKING OFF. Big fight between Mum/Dad about “respect” (I’m drinking my freebie bottle of red vino and blatantly staring!) So you see…. EVERYONE is fighting and yet we all put on a fabulous bull-shit, we’re so fucking happy show. I feel better now….. right…. errr… where’s The Captain?!
Last week I met a group of gals to discuss the pro’s and cons of Tummy tucks (as well as other surgery from boob jobs to Botox), for Mum’s of Multiples (or in my case…. TWINS!)
One Mum has just had a full tummy tuck with a scar that stretches from one side of her tummy to the other, and resembles, in my opinion, a smile (ironic too considering that’s what I’d be doing after such a fab piece of plastic surgery).
After nearly 6 weeks, she is fully recovered and unbelievably happy. And so she should be, considering her tummy was stretched beyond belief during her pregnancy. Both her Twins weighed well over 7.5 pounds!!! I mean…. fuck!!! She could barely walk into the hospital when she gave birth. She also had a 7 centimetre gap between her stomach muscles from where her body had been stretched so much. When I spoke to her, she’d just bought her first bikini in 5 years and was bouncing off the walls with happiness (hell, I’m surprised she didn’t turn up wearing a bikini… I would have with those results).
Now, my twins were almost full-term at 38 weeks, which is apparently pretty impressive in the world of Multiple births as the norm can be anything from 32 weeks onwards. Given my small size at the time, all and sundry expected me to go into very early labor. This did not happen and I got progressively larger by the minute. I was even putting on weight while I slept and at one point, I was convinced I must be sleep-walking into the fridge every night. I mean, by the time I gave birth by elective C-section (like I was gonna even attempt that “naturally”…. what am I fucking stupid?!!) I was MASSIVE. I had gained FIVE STONE in weight. FIVE STONE PEOPLE!??!
It’s no wonder the Captain didn’t want to have sex anymore … although I did try it on all the time like a teenage boy would. And I do mean, A LOT (no one tells you how horny pregnancy makes you, especially if you are carrying a boy, but apparently its their hormone in your body). Which actually explains why they all walk around looking for sex the whole time… hmmmm…. I mean… in hindsight, I was like one giant penis trying to get laid at every opportunity. It’s no wonder men wank constantly…
Anyhow, back to being a huge obese pregnant woman, I was soo big, I had to have TWO epidural due to the amount of fluid in my body. I couldn’t lie flat in bed either as I would faint from the pressure the kids put on my internal organs (even during hospital scans, I had to be almost upright towards the end, or I would faint). I mean, twins, or more…. its hardcore from day one. Even before they pop out, they’re giving you an insight into your new life. One would be awake all night inside my tummy while the other slept during the day.
I would wear those headphones you can get while pregnant, at night to listen to them sometimes and I swear my son was building something with all the banging inside my tummy. My daughter would start partying a little later…. hopefully something she wont continue to do as a teenager. She already looks like me but, acting like me will be a nightmare… I was expelled from one school in London alone for “not working enough & having parties at my house”. This was news to my Mum at the time when she met the Headmistress of my school “to discuss my options” …. I had to pretend the Head had dementia and had been gunning for me from day one (a complete lie of course but I couldn’t let my parents know that’s where all their booze was going from the “Drinks Cabinet”in their lounge, which BTW, had a lock on it!)
Anyhow, if I thought for one second I was going to attempt natural birth during my pregnancy …. I don’t think I would have been walking around as happy as I was (the Captain loved me preggars BTW as I was sober the whole time & couldn’t stand the smell of wine….) And despite looking like a small elephant (who had eaten two children), I thoroughly enjoyed the whole pregnancy thing.
That said, Itchy & Scratchy not only did a great job on stretching what used to be a washboard stomach you could literally bounce coins off (The Captain LOVED my tummy). They also screwed up my hips (I was a very small size 6/8 UK), I had carpal tunnel in both hands/wrists (constant sensation of tingling which was horrible when trying to drive/cook), and the fucking headaches/migraines were a killer, especially when you can’t take anything more than a pointless paracetamol tablet (useless on someone like me in any event as I need the hard stuff).
NOW….aside from all that, its my stomach which is pissing me off. I’m being kind to myself when I say it looks like an 80-year-old womans which I literally have to tuck into my knickers (or my new NBF’s, Spanx). The skin has been stretched sooo much that despite losing all my baby weight in under 4 months (I’ll be honest, I was strict with myself and determined to shift 5 stone as quickly as possible as the weight was killing my knees & I was fed up wearing The Captains jeans… fucking depressing), this didn’t really do my skin any favours. Slower weight loss equals better skin elasticity, apparently.
Also, despite hours in the gym (yaaaawn….unless there’s some sexy instructor to stare at) and now my obsession with Allegro Pilates in Stanley (I fucking love it and swear I gain weight the minute I stop), still this “envelope” of skin is sat there. Staring at me…. Day after day…. after day. Reminding me, never to show this bloody tummy off until, I too get a tummy tuck. I also forget its there from time to time, as I was so used to having such a lovely stomach that now if I raise my arms up in the super market and my T-shirt lifts… I automatically pull my top down as the skin above my C-section scar is loose. It looks horrible and I don’t want people seeing it. Am I being vain??! Yes of course, fucking of course!! I’m a bloody woman!!? I mean, who doesn’t want a nice body?
Now, I’m still going to give myself a bit longer as the twins have only just turned 14 months and I’m determined to at least try to tighten this skin. I’ve googled it all on the net and apparently, skin brushing and moisturising will help. However, my local Doctor, who I used to consider lovely (she’s had five kids though, the crazy cow) told me, it wont ever go but its the price we pay to be “blessed” with kids.
“BLESSED”?! How is it that these celebs are losing weight super quick and no loose skin?? Yes, I know, pretty much all have a surgeon to do a few nip/tucks, but where’s the scars etc? I’ve been watching that Kourtney Kardashian on E Hollywood and after just 3 months, she had lost the baby weight AND has a flat stomach. She’s also wearing a bikini (bitch) which I used to love poncing around in when my tummy didn’t jiggle like flippin jelly in a wrinkly old leather handbag.
Soo….. any of you out there who have had recent surgery in Hong Kong, drop me a line and tell me how it went? Who would you recommend etc? Also, if you have had any great Botox guys too (I currently have a constant frown which is more due to the kids/Captain driving me nuts), I wants numbers please!?!
Ok…so… I tried this amazing take on cheese on toast.
It’s easy, so even those of you who pretend you can’t cook….well…. this is just…yum. Hangover or not, this is lovely.
If you’re a single girl/guy, and wake to offer your booty call some breakfast before your easy lay leaves… well this piss easy breakfast of posh cheese on toast will seal the deal (for another shag), should you so wish…although, lets face it… when the beer goggles are off…. you can’t BELIEVE what you took home the night before. Sometimes, even a name is a little fuzzy – oh yes, the shame. Like I give a shit.
Anyhow… YOU MUST TRY THIS…at LEAST once. Impress guests when they stay over (add some sausages, tomatoes, bacon, a few eggs, beans…bloody fab).
BEST CHEESE ON TOAST IN THE WHOLE WORLD (CALORIFIC but worth it!) – INGREDIENTS & HOW TO COOK IT
White bread (as many as you want to eat). Cheap or expensive…it doesn’t really matter… BUT….cut the crusts off (you don’t have to but its kinda nice… and a little bit… rahhh dahling yah rahh) and toast it.
Butter. Again…cheap or not. Up to you but spread it on the toast. Generously …. up to the corners of every slice.
Honey Dijon Mustard, spread ON TOP of the butter. The sweetness of this particular Mustard makes this even more yummy.
Cheddar cheese (sliced or grated), thickly laid on top of the slice (or slices) of bread (the depth of half a finger I think is really enough… unless you feel like scrubbing your grill/oven after).
A couple of tiny slices of tomato (not a WHOLE tomato…a couple of slices from the tomato…on top).
Black pepper …grind it on top (and if you like Tabasco… add a drop on top of that too).
Place under the grill until the cheese is melted, but not burnt… I reckon, put your timer on for about 2 minutes and keep checking the grill. You want golden, not burnt cheese/bread.
After, take the cheesy toast out of the oven, splash on some Worcestershire sauce (who can pronounce that properly?!) if you fancy.
Eat, enjoy with a hot cup of builders Tea (I love Earl Grey.. not builders tea clearly) but Yorkshire/PG Tips/English Breakfast (whatever?!)….bloody lovely AND a great start to your day.