Most people look forward to the weekend, but my Friday Feeling is one of dread. I do look forward to my Saturday morning lie-in, unless I'm on football duty. Those mornings I have to substitute the warm, snugly duvet for an hour and a half on the side-lines of THE coldest football pitch- ever. Even a sausage and egg McMuffin doesn't warm me up.
When I'm playing 'Football Mum', it's because Dad is at work. The joys of running your own business, eh? He's supposed to work one Saturday in 3, but by the time you take out weekends when he's on holiday, (stag weekends, golf trips, skiing with the lads, motorsport jollies oh, and family holidays) he ends up working at least every other week.
Not that I'm complaining. It allows me a few extra hours of time when I don't need to rebuff his advances; time when I can lock the bathroom door and enjoy some thinking time in the tub. If I lie with my ears just under the water and my nose being tickled by the ginger scented bubbles, I can sometimes imagine that I am far, far away. Inevitably though, the sound of rowing children on the other side of the door penetrates the watery barrier, and I am brought straight back to reality. Mr S will be home in an hour, which means I must concentrate on not letting my face betray my feelings until Monday morning.
This weekend has been more difficult than usual. On Friday night, whilst he was partaking in the weekly male bonding session at the local, I was home, working on some marketing ideas for his latest business venture. One idea involved accessing his Facebook account in order to create a page for the new product. Obviously, I had a little peek at his messages while I was there. I mean, how many women can honestly say they wouldn't have been tempted?
They say curiosity killed the cat but thankfully, due to my allergy, we don't have any feline friends. The sight of a volley of messages, between him and a woman he has never mentioned to me, (but knows well enough to invite to lunch) did however mean that there'd be one less pussy to stroke. Mine.
A few years ago, I'd have felt sick to the stomach reading those words, but strangely, I experienced a mixture of annoyance (at his hypocrisy) , relief/envy (that he was getting some tangible attention from someone), and sadness. I feel sad that my children are going to lose regular close contact with their dad because I have pushed him away.
For the three years since the catalyst, we've managed to live fairly harmoniously. Neither of us have ever been big on arguments. I'm too stubborn and unapologetic when I'm being shouted at or feel I'm being condescended. Mr S knows that it's best to allow me some alone time to calm down and reflect and, because of his patience, we can resolve our differences or discuss issues, typically with composure and rationality, frequently with a few tears from me.
Lots of things make me cry, but the puffy-eyed, red-nosed, happy-pill popping image isn't one I like to share. Only select members of my family and true friends know the sadness that lies beneath the facade of the perfect marriage. The ones I trust are those who know of my virtual infidelity but do not tar me with its brush. Judgemental types are hard to bear at the best of times, particularly if they're of the hypocritical variety.
Perhaps the thought of being judged as a selfish mother has stopped me from packing my bags and taking the kids to live in a pokey flat. Or being judged as a selfish wife for forcing my husband out of his home and away from his children. Staying together has been easier but is it the best long term solution?
My parents leave soon to go travelling for a month, leaving an empty house. After this weekend, I'm more certain than ever that 4 weeks apart will give my husband and me chance to discover whether 'absence makes the heart grow fonder', or familiarity has indeed been breeding contempt between us.
Sunday, 25 January 2009
Thursday, 22 January 2009
Inspired by Anna
In one sense, I'm feeling quite calm at the moment. There haven't been any major frustration fuelled bouts of anger or floods of tears. In fact, I've cried very little in the last few weeks. My new found fad for blogging has helped distract my mind from its usual pattern of thought. If I could get my pop-up blocker to allow me to download pics on here, I'd post a drawing of that pattern. I can't, but if you imagine a series of interlaced figures of 8, you'll get the picture. I keep turning corners but ultimately end up back where I started.
I must confess however, to shedding a few tears today. Not, I'm pleased to say, through frustration or pain but I did up up blubbing when I read Anna's account of her own mid-life crisis. Her motivations for writing are so similar to my own, that many of her words really hit home. Hence the tears. A salty mixture of relief and empathy.
I realise that my blogs to date sound random and confused. Probably because they're a reflection of my state of mind. Things often seem that way when you're only given half the picture. My own journey of investigation over the past 3 years has finally provided me with more than half the picture for the souvenir postcard, albeit a little blurry, but I'm still uncertain about its final destination.
Inspired by Anna, my future blogs will hopefully help readers understand the reasons behind my feelings. They may even result in me breaking away from this loop of boredom, mourning and frustration.
I must confess however, to shedding a few tears today. Not, I'm pleased to say, through frustration or pain but I did up up blubbing when I read Anna's account of her own mid-life crisis. Her motivations for writing are so similar to my own, that many of her words really hit home. Hence the tears. A salty mixture of relief and empathy.
I realise that my blogs to date sound random and confused. Probably because they're a reflection of my state of mind. Things often seem that way when you're only given half the picture. My own journey of investigation over the past 3 years has finally provided me with more than half the picture for the souvenir postcard, albeit a little blurry, but I'm still uncertain about its final destination.
Inspired by Anna, my future blogs will hopefully help readers understand the reasons behind my feelings. They may even result in me breaking away from this loop of boredom, mourning and frustration.
Tuesday, 20 January 2009
If you want to see me in my underwear, cough up.
It's official. This year I'll be donning my customised bra (there's a job for the 19th June), lacing up my Adidas trainers (kindly donated by my friend in the marketing department there - snail mail is so slooooooooooooooow; let's hope they arrive in time for me to break them in ;-0) and joining a herd of other mad cows on the Moonwalk. Twenty six miles around Edinburgh in the dead of night.
I have to say I'm quite excited because the scottish capital is one of my favourite cities. Many moons ago, I almost took a place at college there but instead, I opted for the Lancastrian fields of gold. To think , for three years I endured being surrounded by Prestonian babble, when I could have been serenaded by the gentle tones of the Edinburgers. Rather than chomping on Umberto's fish and chips, I'd have been munching deep fried Mars Bars on the way home from the Student Union drinks promo night.
I consoled myself in the knowledge that I was closer to my boyfriend of 2 years and able to live the Manchester scene every other weekend. It was a pretty cool place to be in the early 90s and anyway, Edinburgh would still be there when I graduated, even if my boyfriend wasn't.
I didn't return until I was married and pregnant. Eight months into it in fact, at the end of a long, hot summer pregnancy. The idea was to enjoy our last romantic weekend of peace and tranquility before Pinky (or Felix as he was then known) arrived. Not that waddling up the City's hilly streets, bloated and out of breath was very romantic. Nor was developing heartburn as my meal arrived or falling asleep as soon as my head hit the tartan pillowcase.
I can assure my sponsors (go on - dig deep, it's all in aid of Breast Cancer) that I'll have more stamina this year. I reckon that if I fill up my Camelbak with Red Bull and keep up my blood sugar levels with deep fried Mars, I should walk it!
I have to say I'm quite excited because the scottish capital is one of my favourite cities. Many moons ago, I almost took a place at college there but instead, I opted for the Lancastrian fields of gold. To think , for three years I endured being surrounded by Prestonian babble, when I could have been serenaded by the gentle tones of the Edinburgers. Rather than chomping on Umberto's fish and chips, I'd have been munching deep fried Mars Bars on the way home from the Student Union drinks promo night.
I consoled myself in the knowledge that I was closer to my boyfriend of 2 years and able to live the Manchester scene every other weekend. It was a pretty cool place to be in the early 90s and anyway, Edinburgh would still be there when I graduated, even if my boyfriend wasn't.
I didn't return until I was married and pregnant. Eight months into it in fact, at the end of a long, hot summer pregnancy. The idea was to enjoy our last romantic weekend of peace and tranquility before Pinky (or Felix as he was then known) arrived. Not that waddling up the City's hilly streets, bloated and out of breath was very romantic. Nor was developing heartburn as my meal arrived or falling asleep as soon as my head hit the tartan pillowcase.
I can assure my sponsors (go on - dig deep, it's all in aid of Breast Cancer) that I'll have more stamina this year. I reckon that if I fill up my Camelbak with Red Bull and keep up my blood sugar levels with deep fried Mars, I should walk it!
Sunday, 18 January 2009
Keirsey - more accurate than Mystic Meg.
When I first took the Keirsey Temperament Sorter test a few years ago, in the days when I still had delusions of being a career woman, my results outed me as an INTJ.
These four letters are pretty good ones to have after your name if you're looking for a job at Nissan. Allegedly, these Japanese car makers look for this personality profile when employing new staff. Don't ask me why. Sales companies, however, prefer the E (extrovert) personalities to the I (introvert) types like me. My acronym was as different to my colleagues' as my sales technique. I felt quite silly sitting there, in the training room, a lonely I drowning in a sea of Es. Maybe that's when I began to question my vocation.
I managed to avoid making any decisions on the career front when Nature deemed that I was to indulge my maternal instincts for a while. After a break of 12 months from the pressure and money driven world of sales, I realised that I didn't miss it. Since making the decision not to go back, I've tried my hand at a few things.
The last 10 years have provided me with a number of firsts and new experiences. My body has been stretched out of shape by babies and kept supple with yoga, it's balanced on skis, danced around (and fallen off) a pole, scaled a climbing wall and parascended over the Mediterranean but other than a few more lines and the occasional grey hair, I don't really look that different on the outside.
I've suspected for some time that things are different on the inside. I'd always assumed that by my late 20s, I had become who I was going to be. Not what........WHO. I thought I knew myself and that I wouldn't change, but the results of my most recent Keirsey test seem to suggest otherwise. Thirteen years of marriage, two children, a miscarriage, a period of self-employment and one of depression, have turned me into an INFJ.
I typically crave a high degree of intimacy and emotional engagement, and am happiest when I'm sharing my innermost thoughts and feelings with my other half. He's happy to share, particularly if it's in the exchange of bodily fluids, but he just doesn't get it. Intellectually or sexually. The lever which cranks my sex drive into gear, IS NOT located in my knickers, so stroke, lick and nibble as much as you like, it won't get the engine going until the switch in my brain has been activated. Perhaps I need some WD-40 in my veins to stop me rusting up.
I think I may, judging by my change of career path over the last 3 years, be en- route to happiness in the work area of my life at least. I love my job for so many reasons. When I'm there I'm too busy with other people's problems and conflicts to give my own any headspace. I'm learning new things every day. Best of all though I get to 'champion the oppressed and downtrodden'. It's easier to teach adolescents new tricks than a 37 year old dog.
Watch this space. I have plenty more tricks up my sleeve!
These four letters are pretty good ones to have after your name if you're looking for a job at Nissan. Allegedly, these Japanese car makers look for this personality profile when employing new staff. Don't ask me why. Sales companies, however, prefer the E (extrovert) personalities to the I (introvert) types like me. My acronym was as different to my colleagues' as my sales technique. I felt quite silly sitting there, in the training room, a lonely I drowning in a sea of Es. Maybe that's when I began to question my vocation.
I managed to avoid making any decisions on the career front when Nature deemed that I was to indulge my maternal instincts for a while. After a break of 12 months from the pressure and money driven world of sales, I realised that I didn't miss it. Since making the decision not to go back, I've tried my hand at a few things.
The last 10 years have provided me with a number of firsts and new experiences. My body has been stretched out of shape by babies and kept supple with yoga, it's balanced on skis, danced around (and fallen off) a pole, scaled a climbing wall and parascended over the Mediterranean but other than a few more lines and the occasional grey hair, I don't really look that different on the outside.
I've suspected for some time that things are different on the inside. I'd always assumed that by my late 20s, I had become who I was going to be. Not what........WHO. I thought I knew myself and that I wouldn't change, but the results of my most recent Keirsey test seem to suggest otherwise. Thirteen years of marriage, two children, a miscarriage, a period of self-employment and one of depression, have turned me into an INFJ.
INFJs are gentle, caring, complex and highly intuitive individuals. Artistic and creative, they live in a world of hidden meanings and possibilities. Only one percent of the population has an INFJ Personality Type, making it the
most rare of all the types ........They know things intuitively, without
being able to pinpoint why, and without detailed knowledge of the subject at
hand. They are usually right, and they usually know it. Consequently, INFJs put
a tremendous amount of faith into their instincts and intuitions.....This may
result in an INFJ stubbornness and tendency to ignore other people's
opinions. (ref: http://www.personalitypage.com/INFJ.html)
Seeing myself defined in this way is quite spooky, but explains a lot of things, not least my internet activity over the last 3 years. Being told I was conducting an inappropriate relationship wasn't going to stop me. Instead, I was driven to resolve differences in a cooperative and creative manner, exercising my influence behind the scenes in true INFJ style.Usually self-expression comes more easily to INFJs on paper, as they tend to have strong writing skills. Since in addition they often possess a strong personal charisma, INFJs are generally well-suited to the "inspirational" professions such as teaching (especially in higher education) and religious leadership. Psychology and counseling are other obvious choices (ref: http://typelogic.com/infj.html )
I typically crave a high degree of intimacy and emotional engagement, and am happiest when I'm sharing my innermost thoughts and feelings with my other half. He's happy to share, particularly if it's in the exchange of bodily fluids, but he just doesn't get it. Intellectually or sexually. The lever which cranks my sex drive into gear, IS NOT located in my knickers, so stroke, lick and nibble as much as you like, it won't get the engine going until the switch in my brain has been activated. Perhaps I need some WD-40 in my veins to stop me rusting up.
I think I may, judging by my change of career path over the last 3 years, be en- route to happiness in the work area of my life at least. I love my job for so many reasons. When I'm there I'm too busy with other people's problems and conflicts to give my own any headspace. I'm learning new things every day. Best of all though I get to 'champion the oppressed and downtrodden'. It's easier to teach adolescents new tricks than a 37 year old dog.
Watch this space. I have plenty more tricks up my sleeve!
Wednesday, 14 January 2009
'Life is made up of many layers of shit.....we just choose the layer we're most comfortable with', Lee 2007
Whoever said, 'a tidy house a tidy mind' may have had a point. I mouthed this mantra as I lay, belly down, dusting the wooden floor under the sofa with my hands. I retrieved a significant handful of fluff along with a random Pinky sized sock , some loose change, a AAA battery and a bull sized toenail clipping. Now I had a pocket full of clutter with a mind to match. Corner to corner, room to room, my pockets slowly filled up with miscellaneous objects. Fragments of bigger things lost and destroyed by little Things. My little Things. Pinky, Thing 1, who isn't actually that little at all, and his skin and blister, Thing 2. As I picked a Connect Four disc out of the fruit bowl, the mantra became a loud whisper.
Ferbreezing the curtains helped to take my thoughts away from the pending drudgery. You know I'm a sucker for smells. They're on a parr with music for having the ability to take me to another time and place. If I close my eyes and inhale the scent of fresh wildflower meadows, I can trick myself into believing this sweet smelling house must be tidy as well as clean. Pop a bit of Vivaldi onto the i-Pod and replace the Proctor and Gamble chemicals with Sanctuary linen spray and I could be in one of the suites at Hotel du Vin. If I'd been there on a Monday morning, instead of chez Saint, I doubt I'd have been fretting over reuniting a piece of plastic with its yellow brothers and sisters.
I don't have a problem with cleaning. It's the tidying that has to be done first which causes me to procrastinate. So far this morning, I've made a bacon sandwich, smoked 2 cigarettes (one with each cup of tea), chatted on Facebook and pondered over this blog. Anything to avoid the dreaded housework. Perhaps I over exerted myself yesterday and feel I need to be rewarded for the trio of charity bags I managed to fill and drop off at Oxfam this morning. It's good to know that my daughter's clutter will be converted into something more useful. The clear floor in her bedroom is a bonus too. Now I'll be able to vacuum without running the risk of blocking up the Dyson with hair bands, Barbie shoes and pennies. One room down, only 10 more to go!
Pots (Mr S) keeps urging me to pay one of our old cleaners to come back and 'help me keep on top of things'. If I were just a teensy bit paranoid, I could take that as an insult to my housekeeping abilities. I usually rebuff these suggestions on the basis that I've never had much success in employing people to declutter and clean. A few years ago, when my business was thriving, I decided I could justify hiring a cleaner. Enter Fizz.
Larger than life with a mouth to match, she came armed with a pair of slippers and a 2 litre bottle of coke. She claimed to be gifted (she did appear to be a little....erm....special) and often pointed out my typical Gemini traits. Actually, I think she did read my mind once as I stashed her FULL FAT pop in the fridge because she started a monologue about how her large frame was the result of a gland problem. Nothing to do with the 6-packet of chocolate Hobnobs she polished off at my friend's house then? The fact that she'd taken them without asking was a little worrying, as was the way she used our CD/DVD collection as a free library and spent two out of the four hours I paid her for on our phone, sorting out her disability/spf/housing benefits. Maybe it was my fault for telling her I was laid back. A few months in, her chubby feet were so far under our table that it began to hinder her performance. Ironically though, it was then that she decided to announce a 20% increase in her hourly rate. Exit Fizz.
Enter Daphne. If you're imagining a french au-pair type or Scooby Doo's blonde friend, think again. Think more Mrs Doubtfire meets Deidre Barlow. A good all rounder and was game for occasional babysitting jobs too, however she insisted on spending most of her time ironing. Sadly, Daph couldn't master the steam function so I often resorted to doing the pile again, cursing her through gritted teeth. I think she preferred this task to all the ones I'd hinted at, politely asked her to do, then finally WRITTEN IN BIG CAPITAL LETTERS ON A NOTE, which I placed under her wages. Despite several pleas, she would not do the windows or under the toilet seat. After a few months of good work (in between month long holidays of visiting her globally spread children) she too seemed to lose interest. I arrived home early from work a few times to find her long gone, or on her way out. Rather than challenging her, I started working from home while she was there so she wouldn't take advantage. During that time I realised why my house seemed clean. It was the smell. A quarter litre of bleach tickled around the loos with a toilet brush, Zoflora mixed with water and squirted from a plant mister, a cup full (I think she misread CAP full) of Pledge wooden floor cleaner in the mop bucket and Mr Sheen polish. I know he's meant to 'shine umpteen things clean', but not, surely, the dining room floor? Although, it did provide a great comedy moment when Pinky decided to rugby tackle Thing 2. The sock/polish combo produced a slide tackle John Terry would've been proud of. The table put up a strong defence, much to the intended target's delight. Anyway, soon after I found my key posted through the door. Another mind reader!
This term I'm taking on an extra day a week at work. I've come to the conclusion that increasing the amount of time I'm working to deadlines, rules and bells will make me more productive. Following a Year 8 history lesson with an autistic adolescent certainly makes me focus so much that I have to mentally sweep the clutter into the corners of my mind. Watching Hitler's abominations on the class TV helps me forget about the mini-warfare going on inside my own head.
I'll leave you with some wise words I saw recently on a cross stitch sampler:
"A tidy house is a sign of a wasted life"
Ferbreezing the curtains helped to take my thoughts away from the pending drudgery. You know I'm a sucker for smells. They're on a parr with music for having the ability to take me to another time and place. If I close my eyes and inhale the scent of fresh wildflower meadows, I can trick myself into believing this sweet smelling house must be tidy as well as clean. Pop a bit of Vivaldi onto the i-Pod and replace the Proctor and Gamble chemicals with Sanctuary linen spray and I could be in one of the suites at Hotel du Vin. If I'd been there on a Monday morning, instead of chez Saint, I doubt I'd have been fretting over reuniting a piece of plastic with its yellow brothers and sisters.
I don't have a problem with cleaning. It's the tidying that has to be done first which causes me to procrastinate. So far this morning, I've made a bacon sandwich, smoked 2 cigarettes (one with each cup of tea), chatted on Facebook and pondered over this blog. Anything to avoid the dreaded housework. Perhaps I over exerted myself yesterday and feel I need to be rewarded for the trio of charity bags I managed to fill and drop off at Oxfam this morning. It's good to know that my daughter's clutter will be converted into something more useful. The clear floor in her bedroom is a bonus too. Now I'll be able to vacuum without running the risk of blocking up the Dyson with hair bands, Barbie shoes and pennies. One room down, only 10 more to go!
Pots (Mr S) keeps urging me to pay one of our old cleaners to come back and 'help me keep on top of things'. If I were just a teensy bit paranoid, I could take that as an insult to my housekeeping abilities. I usually rebuff these suggestions on the basis that I've never had much success in employing people to declutter and clean. A few years ago, when my business was thriving, I decided I could justify hiring a cleaner. Enter Fizz.
Larger than life with a mouth to match, she came armed with a pair of slippers and a 2 litre bottle of coke. She claimed to be gifted (she did appear to be a little....erm....special) and often pointed out my typical Gemini traits. Actually, I think she did read my mind once as I stashed her FULL FAT pop in the fridge because she started a monologue about how her large frame was the result of a gland problem. Nothing to do with the 6-packet of chocolate Hobnobs she polished off at my friend's house then? The fact that she'd taken them without asking was a little worrying, as was the way she used our CD/DVD collection as a free library and spent two out of the four hours I paid her for on our phone, sorting out her disability/spf/housing benefits. Maybe it was my fault for telling her I was laid back. A few months in, her chubby feet were so far under our table that it began to hinder her performance. Ironically though, it was then that she decided to announce a 20% increase in her hourly rate. Exit Fizz.
Enter Daphne. If you're imagining a french au-pair type or Scooby Doo's blonde friend, think again. Think more Mrs Doubtfire meets Deidre Barlow. A good all rounder and was game for occasional babysitting jobs too, however she insisted on spending most of her time ironing. Sadly, Daph couldn't master the steam function so I often resorted to doing the pile again, cursing her through gritted teeth. I think she preferred this task to all the ones I'd hinted at, politely asked her to do, then finally WRITTEN IN BIG CAPITAL LETTERS ON A NOTE, which I placed under her wages. Despite several pleas, she would not do the windows or under the toilet seat. After a few months of good work (in between month long holidays of visiting her globally spread children) she too seemed to lose interest. I arrived home early from work a few times to find her long gone, or on her way out. Rather than challenging her, I started working from home while she was there so she wouldn't take advantage. During that time I realised why my house seemed clean. It was the smell. A quarter litre of bleach tickled around the loos with a toilet brush, Zoflora mixed with water and squirted from a plant mister, a cup full (I think she misread CAP full) of Pledge wooden floor cleaner in the mop bucket and Mr Sheen polish. I know he's meant to 'shine umpteen things clean', but not, surely, the dining room floor? Although, it did provide a great comedy moment when Pinky decided to rugby tackle Thing 2. The sock/polish combo produced a slide tackle John Terry would've been proud of. The table put up a strong defence, much to the intended target's delight. Anyway, soon after I found my key posted through the door. Another mind reader!
This term I'm taking on an extra day a week at work. I've come to the conclusion that increasing the amount of time I'm working to deadlines, rules and bells will make me more productive. Following a Year 8 history lesson with an autistic adolescent certainly makes me focus so much that I have to mentally sweep the clutter into the corners of my mind. Watching Hitler's abominations on the class TV helps me forget about the mini-warfare going on inside my own head.
I'll leave you with some wise words I saw recently on a cross stitch sampler:
"A tidy house is a sign of a wasted life"
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