This weekend kicked off with me doing some exercise. This alone is STOP PRESS information. But YB is thinking about doing the London marathon and I want to get thinner fitter so we’ve started running together.
I have never run with anyone before. Ididn’t see the point, I mean i’m out of breath after 15 seconds so it’s not like we could have a meaningful conversation. And what if you’re at different levels? Or want to listen to Eric Prydz ‘Call on me’ loudly on your headphones? Or what if they see how red you go when you run? And what if you smell? All these clearly serious concerns stopped me running with someone.
And what a fool I was.
Running with someone else is ace. I mean, yeah, YB potters along, loping slowly next to my little feet which are going at a rate of knots; and yes he was able to regale a 15 minute long story about work while I gasped for air. Yes, I had to stop and bend double wincing after 20 minutes while he carried on up an epic hill. And yes his catchphrase is “come on, keep going’; but all that aside, running with someone else is actually fun. And it’s motivating; I can’t get out of it. And I have to answer to someone.
Yay for my new running buddy; it’s like having a free personal trainer…
It was really really dreadful. (Don’t worry, I have other, more in depth thoughts too.)
- Since when was it ok to portray all Arab men as either charming schmoozers or letchy mean men?
- Since when was it ok to insinutate that all Arab women are repressed idiots, and then dress them up in Versace?
- Since when did Sex and the City become a show with no heart, no soul and no depth?
- Since when did Charlotte/Kristin Davis stop qualifying for a storyline more developed than her noisy kids and some crass comedy facial expressions.
- Since when did Miranda/Cynthia Nixon get better and better looking?
- Since when Samantha become an embarrassing slut and nothing else?
- Since when did Liza Minelli have better legs than me?
- Since when did laughing at someone else’s culture in a major Hollywood movie become ok…oh yes, Borat, and that was so brilliant.
- Since when did any of the cast need to do anything for the money; because that is ALL they can have done this shambles of a film for.
It really left me cold. The most hardhitting storyline was Carrie snogging Aidan, calling Big to tell him, flying home from Abu Dhabi to find Big waiting with a huge diamond ring to remind her what it was like to be married. WTF? No really; it’s just so lame.
A couple of things rang true: Carries’ fear that her and Big would end up lying in bed every night watching TV slightly echoed my fear that the TV dominates mine and YB’s life too much, and reminded me how part of me really hates the TV in our room.
And her acceptance that it’s ok to not be going out on the town doing fabulous things ALL the time was also a good reminder about finding pleasure in quiet time together.
And the touching conversation between Miranada and Charlotte about the pressures of motherhood had glimmers of the old SATC at its best.
Liza Minelli singing Beyonce’s Put a Ring On It at Stanford and Anthony’s wedding was inspired, defnitely my favourite choice for a first song if YB and I ever get hitched.
And seeing Smith with his top off was a very lovely two and half minutes.
But the best thing about the evening was hanging out with my sister drinking champagne and eating cupcakes with Mr Big and I Heart NY in coloured icing on them. Sometimes being really girly is all you need.
So YB and I have been ‘catching some rays’ recently and are both pretty pleased with our tans…mine’s a bit fake too, but I am enjoying the lovely golden glow, which is well-timed for our long weekend in Madrid. We’re heading off to on Thursday. Bring on the poolside sloth action. Oh yeah.
Anyway, YB seems to think that this tanning malarky is a competition and has spent much of this bank holiday putting his arm next to mine and saying: “My aren’t I brown….?” Leaving the sentence neatly hanging to point out that I am not brown and merely a pasty pretender to the tanning throne. In fact this morning (once he’d spent a good 20 minutes moisturising himself and gazing at his brown limbs in the full length mirror) he announced: “I am really quite brown. Bad luck Caspar.” He is referring to Caspar the friendly ghost, Caspar the white friendly ghost. He was of course referring to me.
This is nothing new, he’s called me this before. But then he sets off singing: “The milky bar kid is strong and tough, etc etc.” This cuts me deep. I used to love Milky Bars when I was little, and I loved the song. I even used the Milky Bar Kid in Twenty Questions when we were on our way to a wedding last year. He knows how much I love the Milky Bar Kid.
And it gets worse. Not content to label me a pasty Milky Bar Kid, this morning he had a variation on the song to sing.
“The milky bar kid is strong and tough / she doesn’t like it when I guff.” Yes people you heard it correctly, I am living with a child. A child who still thinks farting is funny and likes singing songs about it.
Is there an eject button for this DomesticBliss malarky….?
It’s a bit late to be posting about the weekend. But there was a whole sunburn-related drama on Monday, and a busy-as-hell day on Tuesday, which leaves me flailing desperately in the pool of my own hopelessnes on Wednesday.
So, errm, thoughts on life and cohabitation. [Ponders whether she can come up with something meaningful.] Nope. I’m all out. But I can tell you a list of things I learnt this week.
3) Baz Luhrman – as I suspected – was right. I should indeed have worn sunscreen.
4) Life might seem rubbish, taxes are up, interest rates are down – but we have a great house, in a great city, and can afford nice wine and nice food and get to sit in the garden for two days of every week. That is not rubbish; that is good.
5) The view from my our roof terrace is really very lovely. And the sky was as blue as Europe on Sunday.
6) YB and I cook best in the kitchen when I tell him what to do and he does it. I am thinking we should extend this thinking to other parts of our relationship. Or at least he could adopt this as his tagline. It’s really very fitting. “Yorkshire Boy: I do everything she tells me.” I could get him a t-shirt made.
7) Potato plants are really very big, and they kind of get in the way when space is at a premium.
8) Numerber eight with a bracket after it automatically turns into a simley face with shades on. See? 8) It’s wierdly fitting for this post though, so I don’t mind.
My job, might pay well, but it is mental. Sometimes I think I’ve slipped into an alternate universe where idiots are allowed to run companies. And then I awake at my desk to realise that no, in fact, this is not the case at all and I am JUST AT WORK.
Here is some of the madness I endure on a daily basis…
- I am the Online Editor, but I wasn’t responsible for writing or commenting on the new Online Editorial Policy. No, that was written by the guy who writes the company newsletter. Of course.
- Our policy for being more environmentally-friendly is called: “We’re better greener.” But in the ‘Language Guidelines’ document – the word ‘green’ or phrase ‘environmentally-friendly’ isn’t something we should use when talking about our environmentally friendly policy. Yes, really.
- We have four meetings a week. One on Monday called an editorial channel content meeting. One on Tuesday called an editorial content meeting. One on Wednesday called a content meeting. One on Thursday called an editorial meeting. No one has any idea what the meetings are about or in what way they are remotely different from each other. We don’t have meetings on Fridays because no one is ever in work. Ever.
- We give cards and presents to celebrate any occasion here – since being here, in just eight weeks, I have contributed to four leaving presents, two birthday presents, 14 birthday cards, one new baby card, one recently married card, a sorry for your loss card and flowers, a sorry we forgot your birthday gift and card; and gone to new baby drinks, recently hitched drinks, and three leaving drinks – two of which were held two weeks after the relevant people had left. This is a team of 15 people.
- I work in internal communications – which is basically a big team designed to think about and plan how we ‘communicate company news’ to the rest of the staff. However, I spend most of my time having the content of my articles removed because ‘we don’t want to tell anyone that’. It’s like working in a shoe shop and not being allowed to sell any of the shoes.
1) I eat crisps really noisily, apparently. YB keeps huffing and glaring at me. Now I am so scared of being noisy that I suck crisps instead of chewing them. It’s like being 80 already and having lost all of my teeth.
2) He did an impression of me last night, gulping a glass of water while holding a hand on his stomach, and then burping. Apparently I do this every night before going to bed. I did not know this. Now I feel really self-conscious.
3) He has also noted that I wake too early at the weekends and turn the pages of my book in a ‘really annoying way.’ He can’t elaborate though on what exactly this constitutes.
4) The noise I (or anyone else, for that matter) makes when sucking their fingers – you know, like if you’ve just been eating chocolate or something and it’s all over your hands – is apparently also ‘really annoying’.
5) I don’t like to eat my dinner the second I get home from work. I like to ‘sit for a bit’, which apparently makes me irrational and wierd. Especially because YB is always ravenous.
6) It’s also apparently really strange that when we finally get round to having dinner I serve the veggies or sauce in a nice bowl rather than just dumping the entire saucepan on the table. ‘Don’t bother dirtying a bowl,’ says YB, incredulous. Riiiight, yes. I bought all this nice china to keep it permanently clean. OK then.
7) He has also noted what he calls my ‘evil trick’ of moving over to cuddle him in bed, thus moving him further away from my side of the bed and closer to the edge of his. I don’t think this is evil, I think it’s inspired.
“It’s really annoying,” he announces. “I’m not getting to use all my pants because you do the washing too often. I’m just rotating four of them each week. I can’t get to the bottom of the pile.”
He reluctantly selects a clean pair, sighs, flicks me a pained expression and then wanders off to the bathroom to brush his teeth.
That is all.