Showing posts with label Valentine's Day. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Valentine's Day. Show all posts

Monday, 19 February 2018

February Is...

February is...

The shortest month of the year. Consequently it's often the month my dad chooses to go on a diet. He should probably trademark it and sell it. The February Diet. But I'm guessing somebody already has anyway...

February is...

Tricky to spell. Who knew there was a rogue 'r' in there? Okay, only me. Oops. 

February is...

The last month of summer.(If you live in Australia, that is.) Hallelujah! Cue glorious uplifting music. I am SICK of the heat and humidity. SICK OF IT, I tell you! Of course it won't be long before I am complaining about the cold. I like to be consistent in some things. I'm a very consistent weather whinger. Winning! 

February is...

When you're smashing all your resolutions and goals full steam ahead feeling smug and strutting about like a peacock owning 2018 already in month number two. Except I'm not doing that. Oops. 

February is...

The month when I remember the passing of the late great Karen Carpenter. She left this earth 35 years ago on February 4th, 1983. 35 flipping YEARS?! *sobs* 

February is...

The month of lurrrrve, romance, hearts, flowers and all that mushy stuff. Not into it. That's surprising, yeah? But Mickey Blue Eyes did present me with some lovely chocolates from Aldi, and I didn't get him anything. Therefore I decided a Facebook photo with a lovey dovey frame would have to do. And that is what I like to call romance, people. 

February is...

A month in which I have done so many exciting things. Including:

  • Washing windows
  • Tidying the linen cupboard
  • Mopping floors
  • Washing truckloads of dishes
  • Folding vast mountains of clothes
  • Borrowing library books
  • Reading library books
  • Writing lists
  • Writing draft blog posts then never publishing them
  • Going to a shrink appointment
  • Going to a GP appointment
  • Going grocery shopping
  • Making beds
  • Cooking food
  • Eating food

And yeah, I think we're done with the bullshit bullet points. I'm sure you're all suitably jealous now. Snorts. 

February is...

The month after January. Conversely, it's also the month BEFORE March. I always feel the need to include a glaring Captain Obvious moment in my posts. Because why not?  January is my birthday month, so February is my one year and one month birthday. Or something. I don't know. I'm just making this up. 

What else have I been up to in this plodding fast-paced February? I'm glad you asked. The fact that you didn't is only a minor detail. I'll tell you anyway. You're very welcome. 

Recently I borrowed a book from the library called The Housewife's Handbook. See bullet list.  Inside, I found a newspaper clipping with a headline that went something like: "Fair distribution of assets when a marriage fails". 

Evidently someone who borrowed the book before me was also trying to be a top notch housewife. Until the day they decided, screw this, and promptly filed for divorce. I'd like to think that this woman (because only a woman would borrow such a book, I suspect) is now currently sunning herself on a beach in Greece a la Shirley Valentine. 

Meanwhile, I've been a contented little (or not so little) housewife of late. I've been merrily cleaning away. (Again, see bullet list). The other week, Mickey Blue Eyes, looking very concerned, asked me why. You'd think it was totally out of character or something!

Clearly he thought I'd either invited guests without telling him, or completely lost my marbles. Well, it definitely wasn't the former. So yeah, I'm wondering how long will it be before I wish to join my imaginary 'Shirley' on that beach? I think I'll keep Mickey Blue Eyes, though. Hopefully we'll get to that beach together at some point. 

In the meantime, farewell to you, February. Until we meet again. Same time next year. Can you please leave quietly and not incinerate us on your way out? Thank you. 

Now bring on March! 

What is February to you?

Monday, 13 February 2017

Mrs Picklebottom Is Properly Horrified

Well hello, groovers and shakers. Or shakers and groovers, either way works. I'm back to talk all about LUURRRRVE.

Today is the 13th of February. See how sharp I am? This means that tomorrow is the 14th (razor sharp!), and you know what that means?!!

Yep, it's just another day. Well, it is to me. But for some folk, it's the most romantic day of the year: Valentine's Day. 

This means that Mickey Blue Eyes will be getting some very special treatment tomorrow. I might even make him a sandwich. And, when I serve up the burnt sausages and veg for dinner, I'll even do a little tomato sauce love heart. I'm thoughtful like that. 

Why am a such a cynical little soul? I mean, considering I love the Carpenters who usually sung about love. Birds suddenly appearing, sharing horizons and all that shit.  I guess I'm a weird mass of contradictions. 

The thing is, I don't really need a bunch of over priced roses to know that  my husband loves me. After all, why would he put up with my Carpenters addiction. That shit must be maddening.  Poor bastard. 

I will, however, take a million dollars and a life time supply of chocolate. I'm not greedy. 

Truthfully, I did fall in love for the first time at the tender age of around seven or eight. As soon as we touched I was besotted. My eyes met with the object of my affection and it was love at first sight.

I couldn't wait to meet with my new love for our daily trysts. We were together all the time. In bed. At school. Under the desk. In the playground. Parting was always heartbreaking. It was like leaving a piece of me behind whenever I forgot my books. Yes, books. What did YOU think I was talking about?

Forget about playing kiss/chasey in the playground, when you can sit in the corner with a book! Besides, fictional boys are better. Case in point: Gilbert Blythe. Swoooon. I wouldn't have minded if he'd called ME carrots! 

Books were definitely the first love of my life. This continued into my teens. When I was in Year 9, I had this English teacher. As you do. Honestly, I can't even remember her name, so I should probably make something up.

Let's just call her Mrs Picklebottom. Because if you're going to make up a name, it might as well be something ridiculous.  Now, since this blog is just me repeating myself ad nauseam, there's a good chance I've told this story before. But it's a good one, so here it is again...

It was during this particular time in my life that I enjoyed reading Mills & Boon romances.  Before you judge me, bear in mind that we didn't have the internet in 1985, so I had to find out about sex somewhere. I certainly wasn't the type to be off 'pashing' and being fingered behind the demountables. No judgement whatsoever if you were. I certainly hope you enjoyed it. Just wasn't my thing. So I stuck to the books. 

Mrs Picklebottom was completely horrified by my choice of reading material. So much so, that she immediately contacted my mother and demanded a meeting. The next thing you know, my bewildered mother was being informed by Mrs Picklebottom that allowing girls to read these type of novels would make them grow up to think that if they have sex and have an orgasm, they're in love! 

As my late aunt pointed out when Mum told her, you can have an orgasm masturbating, and it doesn't mean you're in love with your hand! I wish mum had sent my aunt to the meeting. Would have been interesting. 

At this point, I must apologise to my mother, some thirty odd years later. I certainly cannot imagine having to have such a conversation with a teacher. Mum replied that she disagreed. She thought it was just a phase I'd grow out of.

This proved to be true, as I no longer read Mills & Boon  novels. Enid Blyton and LM Montgomery on the other hand... 

Shhhhhhhh, don't tell anyone! 

I can't help thinking that if Mrs Picklebottom is still out there teaching high school English, she would have imploded at the Fifty Shades series. Not to mentions teens ready access to internet porn these days. 

However, maybe Mrs Picklebottom had a point. It was just a clumsy delivery. It's entirely possible that romance novels DO set people up for unrealistic expectations about love. 

That is my whole problem with Valentine's Day. It's so phoney and commercial.  Personally we don't celebrate it. We prefer to leave it for our wedding anniversary which has more personal meaning to us. We'll celebrate our 22nd wedding anniversary in November instead. 

One other thing, if you're single and feeling a bit crap because it's Valentine's Day and everyone is posting all their loved up stuff on Facey. Don't. Or, at least, don't feel crap for longer than five minutes. Feel the crappy stuff, then move on.  

Those couples enjoying a romantic meal near the beach will be the same ones who'll be pissed off with each other the next day for forgetting to replace the toilet roll. Incidentally, it's me who always forgets to replace the toilet roll in this house, not Mickey Blue Eyes. Oops. Sorry! 

So I think I finally understand what Mrs Picklebottom was saying. Love isn't about hearts and flowers on one arbitrary commercial day. There is so much more to it than that. It's all the little things your partner does every day.  And the HUGE things; like supporting each other through cancer. (That's a whole other blog post...) It's been a wild 22 years, that's all I can say...

And tomato sauce love hearts are cute sometimes, too.

Maybe I'm a romantic after all? 

What are your thoughts about love, Valentine's Day and Mills & Boon novels?