Saturday, February 20, 2010

BOOBY TRAP!

This is the sms that I got last night from a like-bosomed friend: "Do you want to come bra shopping tomorrow afternoon? My bra situation is so dire that my babylons need a proper harness or they'll walk away all by themselves!"

Backwards and forwards went the sms's, plans to FINALLY visit Bravissimo in Milton Keynes made in an ecstasy of hope - that at long last my boobs would no longer be the victims of senseless gravitational tragedy! The Plan: meet at Anne's house around 12pm. Drive to Northampton Station. Park. Catch the train to Milton Keynes. Shop for the ultimate in breast elevation and perkification.

However... Another couple of icy inches of snow fell in the wee hours of the morning, making any sort of travel, other than by slow, careful walking in thick woolly socks and gumboots, dangerous. Damnit!! My euphoria was replaced by terrifying visions of my exponentially slumping mammaries dangling about my knees because they'd have to endure another agonising week minus appropriate buttressing! The irony of it all is that I have the boobs my 13 year old self wished for. (NEVER wish upon a star, ladies!!) I used to look down at my small little chest mounds, for they could never have been called 'breasts' - and compare them to my mom's boobs. Hers looked like real boobs. I wanted mine to have that fold underneath. That fold that we all now know means our boobs have lost their pert youth and are now officially 'saggy'. Anyway, my chest continued to blossom, thanks to my rollercoastering hormones (and moods!) and by the time I was 18, I happily ran around campus in bra-less 34B perfection, with not a worry in the world about that thing called Gravity. By my fourth year at uni, my maternal grandmother's genes began to make themselves known in a sudden boob-boom: and a bra-fitting at La Senza confirmed a size increase to a D-cup. All men and smaller-chested women think that the 'D' stands for delicious, divine, decadent and desirous. But the dire truth is that it denotes drooping, discomfort, distress and doom. And I think of these bizarre documentaries following the cosmetic journey of women who have bigger and bouncier balloons of silicone sutured into their chests in a quest for, let's be honest: love. 'Love' for which they pay the coin of sex for. When I think of the issues my large-ish bosoms have irritated me with, I wonder at the ugly desperation behind these Frankensteinian boob-jobbed ladies... at what has driven them to covet male sexual attention so obsessively.

Before my soapbox collapses, let me define why I said the 'D' in 34D was so disastrous.
1. "drooping": Real D-cup breasts are heavy. Like two lumps of rump-steak 'heavy'. And this means gravity loves them more than you do! Admittedly, the droop was never quite as disastrous as the excessive dangling of the post-pregnancy F-cups I now drag around with me... I am looking for a bra that will give my bazoombies such a fabulous boost that my waist will once again be visible! (Yip, so when I said they drooped, I wasn't exaggerating.)
2. "discomfort": Big boobs in summer are hell on earth. Hot, sweaty and not at all sexy. Also, think about the muscles in your constantly aching back that must compensate for carrying what can be likened to lugging a large, rock-filled Gucci tote on your chest!
3. "distress": Many eyes become glued to your mamilla in public - whether you like it or not. (I don't.) Lewd, watering old men's eyes. Furtive, horny other-women's husbands' eyes. Angry, jealous women's eyes. (With reference again to our surgically busty bimbos, they remind me of naughty toddlers: any attention is good attention.)
4. "doom": Lastly, massive mammary glands = lingerie that is more armour-plate, octogenarian, elasticized contraption than lacy sweet-nothings that'll melt your man straight into a swoon. Quite frankly, I feel doomed to forever be confined in mammoth-cupped unsexiness. My last three bra purchases testify to this apocalyptic sense of catastrophe: none of them, though the correct size of 38F, gave my boobs a shape that looked or felt good. Each set of bras were returned by gloomy ol' me. But...

There IS hope! Bravissimo! Every woman in my boat who carries extra buoyancy (wink, wink) and shops at Bravissimo testify they will not shop ANYWHERE else for their brassieres! Besides the fact that you will be professionally fitted, the actual product is apparently outrageously gorgeous and of impeccable quality. And so, with a date set for Sunday to go bra-shopping at Bravissimo, I look forward to telling you all the juicy details and sharing with you my renewed sense of Lisa!

As a kind of (very important) PS, I must mention that although I have bitched and moaned about my breasts, I am deeply thankful for the fact that I even have breasts. Watching a program on TV the other night about a woman who had her breasts reconstructed after a brutal mastectomy and the emotional agony she suffered between the two operations, reminded me of how gloriously beautiful our breasts are in any shape or size -- and how miraculous in their function of so perfectly nourishing, hydrating and soothing our babies. Viva Les Boobies!

Friday, February 19, 2010

The Shape of a Mother

With Layla's first birthday in 6 days' time, it is with amazement that I've watched her sleep cycles change like clockwork from the newborn's every-45-minutes to the 12 month old's one midday-nap. She's been awake for 8 hours now, and upstairs, Craig's muted voice singing her to sleep carries gently down to me, reminding me of how precious and sweet is life. Initially I grabbed the laptop to write my encounter with a particularly complicated Benagli aubergine recipe and its curdled outcome, but I got sidetracked (what's new?!) and found a website, Juxatapoz, about artists working from the expat perspective. I guess this post should actually be on my Soutpiel blog, but what the heck?! (After asking Craig for a drop more vino or a cup of rooibos, I can hear from the tinkling of a stirring spoon that he decided I needed the tea!) Oh bugger - and now one of my favourite TV shows is coming on... What to do?! OK, I'll add to this tomorrow.

..................Yesterday, researching different ways to promote my blog and increase my readership, I discovered this thing called 'blog carnivals'. My addled mommy's-brain couldn't quite wrap itself around all the technicalities of getting it set up, so I've cancelled my account. I'm finding it critical, these (Layla-filled) days, to keep everything as simple as possible. Perhaps it is better to have quality of readership than quantity. (You're nodding your head in agreement, aren't you?) Do any of you have any recommendations re: my buying a netbook? Being interrupted for others to use my current laptop is driving me absolutely bloody bananas! Another thing is that it's not as portable as a netbook is, and this laptop's battery is maar 'n bietjie pap. Should I be wary of 'refurbished' ones on eBay? Other than feeling incredibly irritated that I don't have free reign on MY laptop, I am happily pottering around with a number of creative projects, one of which is a crocheted oval rug made from old t-shirts. Another is the revamping of my current wardrobe because I am still living that fabulous maxim of 'BE MORE, DON'T BUY MORE' (because even if I wanted to, I couldn't buy more!) and also because this new motherly body of mine has different needs in terms of coverage, accessibility, stain resistance/camouflage etc.

Oh well... that was a pretty blah blog entry... Something more juicy tomorrow, I promise :)

Friday, February 12, 2010

Touched With Fire...

Layla has gone down for her second nap of the day. And I am deeply peeved that I cannot seem to gain the upperhand in the fight for control over my domestic bliss!! It always seems like an uphill battle. Maybe I need to stop, breathe and simply make peace with the vaguely chaotic set-up I call 'my house'. The truth of the matter is that I am not married to Mr Perfect (but who the hell is?!) AND there is a little miracle of a person whose needs are much more important to me than achieving domestic-goddess status. Admittedly, Craig is becoming more and more marvellous in his attempts to keep my house-rants at bay: i.e. making the bed as many mornings as a non-morning person can manage, and sms-ing me on the days he couldn't to say he was sorry. And so, this journey towards domestic/familial enlightenment wends its twisting, winding way closer towards the light of peace and understanding. (Why would I want to be a wife who spends more time bitching at her husband for mundane trivialities instead of building him up with kind, loving words? I have DEFINITELY noticed the difference in the quality of our togetherness when I focus on the latter. A HUGE difference. Fact 1: a generous, gentle, funny man can be turned, in the space of a single, embittered accusation about housework, into a sulking, hurt little boy. Fact 2: this makes me even more critical. Fact 3: this makes him even more defensive and sulky.... And on it goes.)

So, though the dishes may not all be neatly stacked away, and the countertops flawless in disinfected cleanliness and tidiness, we have sufficient dishes to cook dinner for ourselves and our dinner guests. And though the lounge is strewn with all manner of Layla's toys, it is a happy mess with plenty of space on the two sofas for everyone to chill out on a cold Friday night with a delightfully yummy plate of food on their laps. (i.e. Bengali aubergines (in garlic and cumin-scented yoghurt) and lamb kebabs --- and hopefully, some red wine which I am praying Craig will remember to pick up on his way home from his last day at school before a week-long break. Pinotage or Shiraz, please!)



On a less exuberant note, I am devastated by the news that Alexander McQueen committed suicide yesterday. I'd never heard a peep about him struggling in any sort of way... but hearing about his mom dying a few days before helped the penny to drop. Often, artists of great genius are prone towards bi-polar depression - which is a common denominator in most suicides. A brilliant book to read on this subject, actually written by a psychiatrist, is "Touched with Fire". I read it a few years ago and was so touched by the obvious, tenderly told truth - especially as it helped me to understand my own cyclothemia and my ups and downs. (I'm not saying I am AT ALL a 'creative genius' like Beethoven! It is just that many creatives suffer with varying degrees of emotional roller-coastering. The author of said book explains how the bleak lows are vitally important as part of the creative cycle - actually 'feeding' the artist before a 'high' hits. Being able to change my perspective on my darker days to this has been a lifesaver. In every sense of the word.) But going back to the genius-tailor/designer, Alexander McQueen, he must have had a devastatingly close relationship with his mother for it to have so broken his heart. He had a big collection due for showing at the beginning of March, and perhaps this pressure, coupled with his mother's passing, was just too much for him. Rest in peace, Alexander. I hope you are with your mother.

PS. Please don't forget to vote at the bottom tick-boxes! And, PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE leave a comment or three :) You have NO IDEA what it means to me!!!!!

Monday, February 8, 2010

Breaking News: Laziness Cured By Nap!

Today is one of those days. You know those days when you feel blah about absolutely everything? I don't feel like doing anything - not even making myself a cup of (yes, sugarless) rooibos tea. I don't even know why.

The snow storm from America has hit us, and that little journey on foot to the village post office no longer seems like a possibility. Soft, white and flossy, the snow looks deceptively gentle: until you open the door and step out into it. Then it bites you. Bitterly, and with vengeance. Nope - I'm not going to bother going out there AT ALL today. But how am I going to cure this lethargic ennui that has paused me in my tracks as if I were an interrupted song?

More than anything, I think, is this sense of being overcome with exhaustion in my body. My blood feels thick, dark and heavy in my veins, and my brain is certainly not firing on all cylinders: my perception feels distorted and vague, like I am viewing life down blurry, back-to-front binoculars. Oxygen and endorphins created by exercise could definitely help. But hell, I am just not in the mood. You wouldn't be either, so don't point your finger at me, ok?! (Sheesh - add 'paranoid' to the list as well then.) But anyway, getting back to why I think I feel like this can be put down to the fact that I didn't get enough rest on the weekend. With Craig at home, I try and take complete and utter advantage of the fact that I have a babysitter I don't have to pay but can emotionally blackmail with things like, "Oh, so you don't want to spend any time with you daughter then? Nice one, Craig. Nice." But my poor little Pudding-Pie struggled with teething all weekend... This time, it's her molars. Has any medical professional ever been able to measure the extent of the pain our little ones go through due to teething? My mom says that by the time I was 15 months old, all my teeth had come through. Maybe Layla will suffer the same fate?

................. as is to be expected, I was interrupted (maybe I should change my blog name to 'Girl, Interrupted') by needing to put Layla down for a nap, the Tesco delivery guy being unusually exuberant and the never-to-be-missed opportunity to ask 'Is that a South African accent?' followed by the usual questions regarding the weather, crime, blah blah blah -- which woke Layla 20minutes into her nap. Bugger. With my groceries sitting and defrosting in the limbo of the passage, I climbed into bed with my baby while nursing her back to sleep. Two hours later, and I feel FABULOUS, darling! That was all I needed: a bit of extra sleep. Now I feel ready to conquer the world (and that toppling pile of clean laundry to be folded)! Also on the Domestic Goddess Cards, is
1. Roast that Butter & Herb chicken - then divide the cooked meat into small portions for Layla to have through the week with meals or snacktime. (She needs more protein and fat in her diet.)
2. Continue to try and solve the increasingly irritating riddle of why my .avi files won't write to CD...
3. Get dinner on the go: Bengali aubergines in yoghurt, served with lamb kebabs. (Packing my groceries away, I spied a lonely garlic clove in its antique pink bowl next to the olive oil, sea salt and black pepper grinder. How, oh how am I POSSIBLY going to get through the week with only ONE garlic clove??? PANIC STATIONS!! I'll have to ring Ang down the road to see if she has any to share!)
4. Have a bath with Layla (while I pray that this dratted snow stops before it causes the mad mayhem of previous occassions!)