What's in a name?

Now that we are 14 weeks (and counting), thoughts have started to turn towards naming the progeny. This is no easy matter. Subtle takes every name I suggest, shortens it, and then finds the worst possible way that it could be construed by a 10 year old in the school yard. He says that he is helping me by not choosing a name that may torture our child in years to come. Strangely, for him to delve into the mind of a 10 year old doesn't seem to be that difficult. Also, any other names I have suggested is often followed by comments that it is a name of some third cousin or something.

I tell you it is difficult! I have also tried hinting at the fact that maybe since I am getting all the issues/difficulties/pain, I should have veto of naming rights. This logical thought process does not work on my dearest husband.

Oddly enough, I find that I am attracted to names beginning with "L". I always have been. I personally think that this may be the only reason I married my first husband, as his surname was an "L" name. Although I might be harsh in hindsight. So, I have been examining lists of names starting with "L" to somehow fulfil this desire. There are not significant numbers of names beginning with "L", but this helps to shorten the list markedly.

But, I wondered, why "L"? What is my afinity for this letter driving me to find any and all names suitable for my progeny?

And then I realised.

I blame "Laverne and Shirley". I blame her cute little monogrammed "L" on every single shirt she worse. I blame her perky attitude and charming demeanour and her occasional guest visits on "Happy Days" and happy banter with the Fonz. Penny Marshall has a lot to answer for in the formation of my young mind.

Maturity

Today marks Subtle's 30th birthday* and his progression to a new phase of adulthood - or at least another version of it. As becomes more obvious as I get older, men don't really progress much past about 14 years of age. Bum and Fart jokes still make them giggle, and computer games and comics are common fodder for a growing contingent of the male population. When he gets together with his friends, as will occur this weekend, I feel like a mother shaking her head at the inane comments that abound and wonder for the fate of the world.

Of course, given the above commentary, one would assume that I must therefore assume some sort of superior role. And often, I think I do. Fart jokes don't make me laugh, and slap-stick humour, that which often proves hilarious to our youth, makes me cringe. But I have to admit to a few "word issues" that I do have. I work in the medical field and strangely, the words that I find difficult to say without giggling are related to work.

Firstly, I can't say "verge" . A part of the anatomy that we often treat is the "anal verge"... so I hear verge, and then my head hears anal - and well, it is all downhill from there. Secondly, I can't say "vault" . Another area we treat is the "vaginal vault"... so I hear vault, and go to vagina, and the giggling starts all over again.**

So I really have to relinquish my high horse, because it seems that while my infantile husband might like fart and bum jokes, it appears that I am only one step removed from liking them myself.





* Happy Birthday my darling man!

**The other words I have trouble with are not related to work. But I think it doesn't take much to work out why I have difficulty with "snatch" and "fingering".

Questions of Etiquette

I have a regular pubic groomer. Getting someone who is not too chatty and not too half-witted to talk to whilst tending to my nether regions is something that has been an issue for me. Similar to the issue of getting a hairdresser one is comfortable with, the pubic hairdresser has a generally unpleasant task and is someone that you want to trust. Not being same sex inclined, it is also a matter of some delicacy in having some female looking intently, in bright lights, at my mons pubis.

But thankfully, my groomer is lovely. Appropriately chatty, not too young to make me feel old, not too thin or beautiful to make me feel inadequate, and certainly brisk and efficient at her job making the whole process pass by as painlessly as possible.

But I have one issue. Only one single, little tiny issue. I have no idea of her name. She doesn't wear a name badge. The salon is small, and generally she is the only one working during the week when I attend. So I can't turn up and have someone say, "Hello, will be with you in a moment!". After seeing her now for many months, how does one just say, "By the way, I know you are intimate with my Labia, but what is your name?". I just can't do it. So I think, in my head, I will just have to call her Mulva. Or Dolores.

A few wedding happy snaps...

Those of you who have read Subtle's, you will be already appraised of the wedding day. Everything went wonderfully. Better than wonderful. Foolproof. Perfect. Divine.

I began my morning with Brunch with Katja and Co, and then went onto pack up all my things and pick up my quasi-bridesmaids. The most surprising part of the day was the upgrade we were treated to on arrival at the hotel. I was told that there would be an upgrade. But nothing, NOTHING, compares to being upgraded to the Presidential Suite (worth allegedly $6500/night). A grand piano, 8 person dining room, double King Beds and a bathroom bigger than some homes was a startling surprise. Of course, we took it all in our stride, and the bridesmaids and I did *not* run around giggling. Much.













The spa was trialled, as was the TV above it. We are nothing but grace and decorum.


















After the hair and makeup was done, and before the dress was donned, we had little to do amuse ourselves with except composing arty shots. Apparently my garter (courtesy of my wonderful Tap Class) became a feature of some note. Along with my perfume. Arty-shots.. who understands them?













I had no desire for a veil, but had to produce some sort of hair garnish to feel suitably bridal. This was what I opted for - a silver/crystal/beaded headpiece and feather.















Sentimental words, and some legalities, and here we are with an official marriage certificate!














Somehow the ring doesn't photograph as well as it looks in person. But trust me, it blings!

















Here I am.... oh, that's right, I am obscured by a group of people and this *is* meant to be an anonymous blog. But the train of my dress is quite pretty don't you think?


















Here is Subtle, or at least, part of him. He didn't want to wear any sort of buttonhole flower, but some rose petals were thrown after the ceremony and apparently someone felt the need to stuff them in his jacket. We are nothing but class.


















The cake required many taste tests to come up with something that made the groom happy, and not panic the bride. I probably won't feel like Chocolate Port Cake for a little while longer, but regardless, it looked fantastic and tasted wonderful. Thanks to Miss Stems for her artful arrangement of flowers and to Miss Tracey for her recipe!
















I hadn't planned on many speeches being given, but quite a few were - mostly impromptu. As a result, I apologise to the guests for boring them.













Inevitably, with too many drinks consumed during the reception, confusion abounded as to whose drink was whose. Sadly I think all these drinks are actually water.












By the end of the night, we were all quite a lot worse for wear. So much so that my bridesmaids could no longer determine push from pull at doors. Lucky they looked pretty.


















I hope this satisfies some people's need for photos.... back to our regular programming in the near future!

Cleavage.. of a most peculiar kind

This friday, it will be two weeks until our nuptials. I keep a record of the days as they progress, just to make sure I can assimilate the fact that I am getting married and to stem the little sick feeling of panic that keeps trying to rise at the back of my throat.

Don't get me wrong. I am very much looking forward to being Mrs Subtle. It is just the sheer fact of things to be done, combined with financial "issues" and work getting in the way. More than anything, I look forward to about two days post wedding when we are sunning ourselves in Thailand, looking over a cheesy paperback at my beloved, sipping Mai Thais, with nary a care in the world.

My latest issue of note has been my dress. *The* dress. The white frou-frou frock of matrimony. The dress is indeed quite lovely, and I am looking forward to wearing it and feeling quite lovely. At my first fitting for it two weeks ago, the dress was too large. Unless one does couture, the bridal outfitters buy in the "closest approximate" size to your dimensions and then modify it to fit. Bespoke for the financially challenged. Apparently my measurements and the size resulting, do not necessarily tally to a fit on my body. No matter....the staff began inserting pins and taking measurements of dress reduction and assured me all would be well.

Fitting number two last Friday found me in the changeroom in high heels and my underwear - feeling strangely like some outcast from a porn film. The dress was dragged over my head and zipped up. No deep breathing for me, but who needs breathing when the aim is to look lovely! I left the changeroom to get in front of the mirror - handily located in the middle of the store. I looked lovely. Bridal even. I admired the bodice of the gown which made me feel quite feminine. The flow of the skirt and the colour against my skin were all perfect. And then I stood side on for a profile view. And that is when I noticed disaster.

I am not a small girl. Ok, I mean, I am short, but bust wise, and general shape is lumpy. Curvy. Rubenesque. Call it what you will, but I ain't no frail little thing. But I am generally ok with that. What I didn't expect to see, when looking side on in my wedding dress was cleavage both front and back. Yes people, I am the proud owner of back fat. I have a muffin top on my back. The squeezing, cinching bodice, has revealed fat where shoulder blades should be.

I may have screamed. I don't remember. I just remember alerting the staff to this matter and becoming a little shrill and terse! They moved into action, workshopping a few ideas to solve this new dilemma. Liposuction passed through my mind. As did spending the entire day with my back to a wall. With careful shuffling of undergarments, and a sleight of hand, the back fat slipped down under the dress, back from whence it came. I am still hesitant and going to pack some tape, just in case my back fat misbehaves and needs to be cajoled into submission.

I have two self-appointed bridesmaids for the day*. Their duties are fairly simple. One has the dubious honour of helping me pee. And the other is on back fat alert. I may have to restrict her alcohol to ensure she keeps up her job!



*Yes, there are people who really wanted the job that much they self designated themselves.

Standing in Fiction Stretched High on Bare Feet

Anyone who even remotely knows me, knows that I am rarely without a book to read. Clearly if you have been reading this blog, and have cast your eyes to the right, you would have noticed I list the books that I read over the year. It is indeed an aim to read 50 books in a year, but so far I have fallen short - but I will get there. Further, I will admit to having a few issues with purchasing books in the past. I seem unable to say no to certain things when shopping. Shoes, handbags, DVDs, CDs and, last but certainly not least, books.

In an effort to staunch the constant flow of finances from my wallet, I have been cutting back on my shoe purchases. I have only bought one handbag in the past 6 months. DVD purchases have virtually gone to a standstill, and CDs have slowed significantly, somewhat related to a massive lack of storage. But, until now, books have been my source of solace. Caressing their new pages, hearing the crack of the spine when you open it for the first time, smelling the inky newness from the page. All these things make it hard for me to say no to a book, or ten, when I enter a bookstore. My last trip to the USA found me scrambling in the airport to fit as many books I could into my on-board luggage (it was a combination of a fantastic AU Dollar and the ridiculously cheap prices for paperbacks in the USA that was to blame!).

So it has as a huge surprise to me of late, that I am not aching to spend money on books like I used to. In fact, I was in a multinational bookstore on the weekend, with a collection of books that I was eager to buy, and walked out purchasing none of them. Of course, the piles of books that litter my bedside tables, floor, corridors, double stacked on the bookshelves, etc, do give one a sense of pause when about to buy more. But nay, the main culprit that has halted my incessant book purchasing need is a new discovery I have made. Apparently, there are locations, all around this fine city where they will let you take perfectly good books, and read them for free. FOR FREE! Why I never! I can even put an order in, online, and then go and get the book at a later date. And when I have finished reading it, I can take it back for someone else to enjoy (what ho, is this recycling?) and not have it cluttering up my house. I know, seems to good to be true. But yes, such a thing exists. Apparently I am a bit slow to jump on this latest trend, but look about you and look for these strange places called "Libraries". It may just change your reading, and spending, habits!

And the Oscar goes to....

In honour of today's Oscar ceremony, I thought I would discuss a few movies. Rather than praising those movies which are considered fantastic and a "must-see", I wanted to go over a few films that I won't see, or won't see again.

One of the first movies I must mention is "Steel Magnolias". I have indeed seen it, and cried appropriately. But since 1989 (!), I became diabetic, and for those of you who can remember the finer points of the story, Julia Roberts plays a diabetic. And she dies. I can see no reason why I would want to see this movie again, but that little reminder of my increased chances of an early death is a very compelling reason to not go there.

Another one, for personal reasons, that I won't see is "Lorenzo's Oil". I have heard that it is a wonderful and moving film, but for me, it looks like a sob-fest from the opening credits. Rarely do I feel like crying *that* much.

I shamefully will admit that I saw "Titanic" on the big screen - didn't we all? Although my lasting memory of this movie is declaring at the beginning, jokingly to my movie companion, "You know the ship sinks at the end?", and being shushed from the row in front for "spoiling it for them". But realistically, I don't think I need to spend another 3+ hours of my life watching Leo be "King of the World", knowing that he is going to die and wandering why good old Kate couldn't have shuffled over on that door and made room for him!

There are some actors I avoid in movies purely since they offend me so much. Meg Ryan is a classic example. I have seen a couple of her movies, but certainly not for her input. She might be everyone's favourite good-time girl - but she shits me. Another person I avoid, in specific roles is Adam Sandler. Put him in something (allegedly) funny, and I run a mile. Put him in dramatic roles, for example "Reign over me", and I have a different opinion. But sometimes, it is best to err on the side of caution and avoid.

I do admit to having a fondness for musicals, and yes, many of them can be bad, but for escapist movies, they can't be beat. A personal favourite movie is "Funny Girl", with Barbra at her best - she won the Oscar for her role. But I just don't know what happened between this movie and its sequel, "Funny Lady". I think I managed to sit through about 30 minutes of this movie. Thirty long and agonizing minutes. The pain was excrutiating. The movie dull, and the characters devoid of any likeability. I almost cried for the horror of where so many things in the movie went wrong. I am tempted to try and watch it again, just to see how things turn out - but I don't think I can put myself through that again.

Of course, there are so many bad movies of which I have blocked out of my mind and cannot recall, and probably countless others which I have refused so categorically to see that the mere mention will draw a shudder from my depths - but this is a start.

That was quite cathartic really!

What dreams may come

Subtle and I have a bit of a routine going. Every morning, more often than not, we compare the dreams we had overnight. I dream a lot, but rarely remember them to much detail. He dreams a lot, and remembers them quite well. Usually, when describing our dreams, they start off with "I had a weird dream last night...".

For example, last night I dreamed I was working in a McDonald's type store, and was stressed because I didn't know what went on a Big Mac. In my dream I was desperately trying to remember the stupid saying that starts with "Two all meat patties...". I have never known it, and I never eat McDonald's*, so I had no knowledge to draw on. After my stint in McDonald's, my dream moved on trying to by some Russian chocolate in Aldi. (Russian chocolate is actually fantastic.) Two nights before this I dreamed I was remarrying my ex-husband.

See, they are all pretty strange and weird. When I was much younger, one dream I had, which I can still remember vividly to this day involved me teaching a class in a night school. The lights went out, and when they came back on again, I was on the ground in an inch of blood. There was blood and gore everywhere, and brain tissue on the blackboard. Oh yeah - that doesn't scream bizarre childhood does it?

But I must admit that my best, and strangest, dream to date is one from few weeks ago. I dreamed that I gave birth. I gave birth to puppies. Six, in fact. Six sweet little smooth-skinned angel faced puppies. I was frantic, in my dream, that I did not possess six nipples to feed my progeny. So spent some time constructing an elaborate feeding mechanism for my babies. Puppies. Not even kittens, since I am quite predisposed to the feline fur-child.

So now when Subtle says to me "I had a weird dream last night". I respond with "Did you give birth to puppies?". Unless he can compete with that, he is not even in the same competition.



*Drunk I have been known to eat a sundae. The last time I ate a whole burger by myself was in 2002 - in Poland. I don't think that this counts!

A meaty encounter

One of the great joys of my weekend, nay, any day, but weekend is when I get to actually indulge this joy, is brunch. It is a holistic experience. The lazy and slow start to the day, the cup of coffee to start, the food... perhaps with a book to read, or the paper, or even a friend to chat with. My requirements with this wonderful ritual are few, but perhaps, particular.

I like to have a nice environment - somewhere small and cosy, preferably a little left of centre. I also like table service - queuing at a counter dispels any form of relaxation for me. I like the music to not be intrusive and the presence of screaming children at a minimum. And then we can get to the menu and the food on offer. I tend to prefer a simple menu. Don't bring me any of your fancy, gourmet, "inspired" menus. I want good quality, plentiful, delicious Breakfast/Brunch fare.

And this is where the problem is arising in cafes these days.

There seems to be a move amongst the newest wave of eclectic cafes to removing one ingredient from the menu which I believe, for me, defines Brunch. This item is Bacon. Religious grievances aside, bacon is quintessentially Brunch. The one legacy of the pig may one day its contribution of heart valves to human transplant, but for now, it is bacon. That magic, salty meat is manna to one's heart and soul. It eases the pain of a hangover, and cures all manner of emotional ailments.

So why why why is it now becoming so loathesome to restauranters of late? More and more I am striking cafes from my list of eating posts due to the lack of bacon on the menu. I beseech the cafes in my area, consider the crimes against gastronomy that you are committing. Please return our piggy friend to the pages of your menu, and then I shall return to your establishments. Until then, Babe and I might have to stay home!

I am woman, hear me whimper!

I like to pride myself on being a strong feminist. I mean, I shave my legs and everything, but I identify with the feminist movement and their former struggles and the current challenges and all that. I am offended by society's expectations on women with regards to age and beauty. I baulk at the unfairness in the workloads expected of working mothers compared to working fathers. I empathise with my sisters-in-arms who still suffer from atrocious treatment in other cultures and countries.

So, with my feminist qualifications established I can now proceed with my story.

I am generally good with directions in traffic and maps. Like most women, I probably need to rotate the map to work out what direction I am going, but as a generall rule, me and maps get on. But, I don't seem to remember street names. Never have been able to. In my home town, I know very few street names, and tend to know how to get to places by pure gut instinct or just years of practice. When I moved to Melbourne 6 years ago, I didn't know the place and had to learn quickly. Time has passed, and my skills at getting around have improved, but mostly only in the inner 6km ring around the city. Getting around for me has often meant me printing out a copy of directions from whereis.com and then proceeding to drive and read at the same time. I believe that this is only a little safer than texting whilst driving.

So in the interests of road safety, I bought a GPS system for the car. It has proved to be fantastic in guiding me around town, and also fantastic at annoying me when I "may" go over the speed limit by alerting me gently*. But I have issues with the system (oh, feign surprise!). The choice of voices for me to listen to are limited. Since I want it to announce the street names, I have to use a computer generated voice, rather than the slew of available celebrities that have lent their vocal chords to GPS systems of the world. And of course, I don't want to pay for any voices. So, I am left with the free, computer generated voices. And then we add in my issue, and where the preamble to this post comes in.

As much as I love women (but not in the physical down-and-dirty sense), and admire all that they can do, I really don't take direction from women well**. A female GPS voice telling me when to turn and so on, just makes me want to scream at her and then throw the unit out the window. A male GPS voice might rile my anger, but not to fits of violence. I am not sure what in my psychology has made me manifest this anger in this way. I reckon it must be my mother's fault. Yeah, that's it.




* The selected tone is a cow mooing, which is somewhat disturbing - but effective.

** Although some might say, I don't take direction well from anyone....but that would be just harsh and uncalled for!