Third time lucky - if Blogger was an ATM I'd have lost my card.
Anyway Husband, God bless him, has recently had a little bit of spare cash, enough to make me feel increasingly uncomfortable with his unnatural efforts to treat me like a princess. It seems its burning a hole in his pocket and I have the honour of being top excuse.
He is trying so hard and I love him so much for it, but somehow I seem to be coming out of all this not as the pampered lady love but as the evil baddy.
First there was a desire to buy me some new clothes - very commendable - as was the decision to get them from a cheap chain store. I want things to feel good in, but stuff I can diet out of, or have cooking/painting/cleaning accidents in without it being the end of the world. Not exactly combat gear, but any mums will get my point.
The thing is we did this once, with me bringing home all the tops he had sworn looked gorgeous on me, only to find that the mirror there looked out on a different universe to the one in the shop; that the woman who looked like a knowing Venus draped in silks, in Asda, looked more like a King Edward spud in used tissues, when she tried the same items on indoors.
Sod Trinny and Susannah - I find that if you feel shapeless, then buying items with an inbuilt shape only serves to highlight how you and they go in and out in different directions from each other.
Its been a long time. Bloody years, in fact, so I'd forgotten. Anyhow I am gratefully wearing the wool and jersey and denim to death, but all the little cotton tops are hidden away as costly disasters, dusters-in-waiting at £15 a pop.
So we went back, for this second jaunt. Partly my fault - Husband being unaware that half his gifts were become guilty secrets. Anyhow this time I stuck to admiring jersey and autumnal pieces; baggy, saggy, comfy and loose. There were some lovely colours.
Then we got to the changing rooms, kids in tow;.... and went straight past to the cash till, Husband saying it was too packed to hang around and queue. He then lovingly bought me the pinkest, most pungent and expensive perfume at the till, to make up for hurrying me out.
Mercifully I got my wrist blasted with a tester while the assistant was bagging up, so by the time we got all the way home to confirm that I also needed plastic surgery, three tits or a navvy's biceps to begin to fill the clothes, we also knew enough to avoid undoing the cellophane on the pong-fume. I felt like such a cow.
He was actually very, very good about that and two weeks later, once he insisted I think of an anniversary gift, I asked for the lateral thigh stepper. They look like so much fun on the TV, and I figured if I am going to religiously do my 10,000 steps a day with the weather closing in, then doing them on a thigh stepper with some music on would be more enjoyable than marching up and down the living room across cats' tails and kids' feet.
It turned up. I'd found the wrong thing. It made lots of mention of being a lateral thigh trainer (wrong last word) and is apparently called a Twist And Shape Stepper. And it is total crap.
Maybe its just the one I got, like a faulty item, but even though I am miles within the weight limits, even though the piston is stiff and you have to put all your weight on one stupid foot pedal to begin a lazy trip down that takes forever; even though I can't imagine it loosening up to ever allow something like an aerobic workout, still, as you reach the end of the ride down on either peddle, it goes 'clunk'. And so do you. Ankle, knee, hip and even shoulder, all sense the bump as you reach the end of the 'step'. Jarring isnt the word.
So why is it still here? Well; guilt. Its only been two days, during which time I have tried hard to see if there was a knack involved.
When it arrived, it turned up prior to our anniversary, in nothing grander than a super-sturdy cardboard box. Husband signed for it and then proceeded to open it in front of me. Okay, we both knew what it was, but still. He opened the box, removed the item, perused the spare bits, passed me the DVD of exercises, stood on the machine, pronounced it sturdy and fit, and then left it there in the middle of the living room. It had gone from being my special present to our latest 'thing'; delivered, unwrapped, tested and deserted with as much ceremony (or lack thereof) as a replacement electric kettle.
I am ashamed to say it but I sulked. Not noticeably because that would involve vulnerability; no my pout was sneaky and defensive, just enough to appear to be abrupt and disapproving. I announced that this was the wrong make, not the item I had wanted, and would have to go back. I walked away and left it, leaving him looking thoroughly disarmed and apologetic.
All that did was make me look picky and feel like dirt. Pretty soon it lead to me confessing that I was, indeed 'only' being picky. Finally, in a fit of compensatory sweetness that would have made Pollyanna gag, I declared it perfect and a wonderful gift and volunteered that I would love it for ever and ever. Whilst giving him a great big hug.
I'm going to have to be brave and own up. I cocked up, not him.
Why write all this?
Well, now; its probably best to do the rest as bullet points or we'll be here all week.
- Husband has tomorrow off work. Its our anniversary. Our 15th. We can't go out or even crack a bottle indoors because I am on antibiotics after having two teeth out on Monday.
- I was scheduled to have them out in January but they hurt so I begged a cancellation slot and got this one, so the timing is all my own fault.
- If I may blow my own trumpet here, I am not allowed to blow my own nose (which is misery) as the dodgy roots were long enough to have punctured the sinus. Hence the half-head-throbbing, eyeball-exploding routine whenever it infected. Now I can't blow my hot, complaining nostril or I will reopen the hole where the roots were removed and end up needing awful but unspecified things done to sort it out. And dear God I wish they'd used real stitches instead of these dissolving thingies because; well because they keep dissolving, into nasty, thready, gloopy little reasons to spit. Yuck.
- So anyway dearest Husband thought of taking the whole family to London, instead. He was ready to spend our anniversary following kids up and down stairs in the Science and Natural History museums. Except Son tripped over his own toe the day before yesterday and now its huge and blue and won't go in a shoe. Bye bye that idea, hello a million indoor games of Uno or the like; by the look of the rain. I am dreading the thought that the day will be filled with the unspoken idea that he'd be better off at work, the sort of potentially explosive truth that neither dare solidify with words and that therefore sits heavy, at the centre of everything, all bloody day; wrapped round with a blanket of unnatural silence and nervous yet helpful smiles.
- Wulfie does have Friday off as well, except now a good friend at his work has had an incredibly sad occasion, so naturally he'll be off with others from the job, to show support at the funeral.
By these standards, my computer screen going wrong was small potatoes. Its half term and theres always this other machine if I can recall passwords and it was just an annoyance. Enter Wulfie the Hero (I would say Fairy Godfather, but theres nothing Fairy about it).
He swoops onto the internet.
He whizzes through the stock on Morgans
He flashes the card, pushes a few buttons, and turns tome and announces I shall have a replacement, next day delivery.
He smiles like a little boy at Christmas.
He's such a darling.
Its the next day, now.
Isn't it amazing how the essential two little words 'wall mountable' can turn out not to mean that there are two holes in the back for wedging onto screws in the wall (like the last one); rather that once it has arrived you can, if you wish, shop for a separate VESA wall bracket at a further cost, from another unspecified supplier.
Its not wall mountable then, is it? The bracket is (or would be) wall mountable - the bloody screen is bracket mountable, which brings it away from the wall and further into your face and means you can no longer get away with the 12" deep shelf you've been using as a keyboard rest because that would involve sucking on the fucking monitor and squinting past your own nose to see half the screen per sodding eyeball. Matey.
And I have to wait until the man who lives and breathes to get it right comes home, so I can tell him he got it wrong. Again.
Bollocks, I feel like shit. Where's me pointy hat gone.