Go forth and visit...

The Demure Lemur! We're each other's current mutual blogland appreciation society (don't worry, blogland crush, you're still my blogland crush) and she kindly invited me to guest post about sex after childbirth. So I did. And I wrote about 5 different things in one big post, so bring you word mining helmet when you go.

blog award post

I was feeling too tired to do one, but then I realised I'd forget things.

So, in bullet point format, impressions:

• pretty Salthill with little wee hilly fields and stone walls
• visiting friends after  three years of promising to, and having the pleasure of watching a French man cook dinner. And of eating it too... goats cheese crepes with garlic mushrooms and salad. le sigh.
• incredible cake in the incredibly stylish g hotel for the Lady Blogger's Tea Party. Want to go there again. Giant chocolate hares in foyer.
• recognising the sweet punk rock shape of Nick McGivney from afar
• hanging with two so sweet and supportive friendly men, the above mentioned Nick and Tinman. A pleasure, gentlemen. And thank you for all of it.
• Meeting Demure Lemur! Hey sweetgirl! I don't know what I was expecting, but it was someone less gamine and fairylike and sparkly eyed and funfilled than I anticipated - and wearing the same dress I had made for my bridesmaids, which seems significant  somehow.
• Free Morgan's rum and coke. And ensuing other ones. yum.
• Xbox won! SoI got to go collect his personal blog award! Exciting! Especially as no one nominated me. You bastards.
• blogger gossip
• cooooooomfy beds. Losing an hour in it was evil. EVIL.
• swimming pool
• Getting home and running into the hoover I left in the bedroom on Friday. Think I have broken my toe. Ow!

join me in verse, dearies

Shanna Germain, beautiful writer, has great ideas. See her photo, read her 5 minute poem, write one inspired by either. I extend the offer to you, if you'd rather post it here? Maybe you'll see something more cheerful than I did. Sigh.

There is barbed wire stretched across my way

Before I can reach the wide open skies,

I must scramble across it

tear my hands and knees on its spikes

and brave the tenuous bounce of its thin support

the push and wobble under my hands

that will threaten to throw me

rend my clothes and leave me scarecrowed, crucified upon it

I’m chasing the sunset

Will the sky be dark before I extricate myself

from the cruel grip of grief and blame?

nothing left of the light but a line of fire on the unreachable horizon

genius ideas

Olivia just had the best idea for a horrible tasting toothpase.

Electric shock flavour.

How clever is that?

And today in the bookshop, I heard her precocious and imperious, clearly enunciated English tones ring out

'Excuse me. Do you know where The Very Hungry Caterpillar is?'

I looked around the bookshelves to see the book shop assistant looking over, poised on the balls of his feet. But then I looked at my kids, and saw them huddled together on the floor by the picture books, playing bookshop. And then Bodhi read The Very Hungry Caterpillar to himself.

sexless infantasia

So I put up a couple posts referring to outdoor nudity in the last week. And garnered a comment about the frisky content of the blog. Which leads me to something I've been meaning to write about for a while.
Recently I got accused of insincerity (gasp! Me!) because of the lack of sex on my blog. Of 'playing sexless but only funny' (gasp again!). And when I protested that it was a mommyblog, it was suggested that mammies can be sexy too. Which is of course, a point.

And it did come from someone who knows what I have on my mind most of the time.

The sad thing is, I thought there was sex on here. Perhaps not all the time, and no daily confessions or anything. But... you know, links, and the odd picture, or porn star, or sex ed issue, or periods or what have you. But in fairness, when I looked back, it had been a while. And also, when I started blogging, Midgetwrangler was blogging a lot about being a mother, and her body and sexuality, and it was quite inspiring. But she's since had big life changes, and says she isn't blogging anymore (though she is a little bit), and is possibly feeling rather different about things these days.

So I anguished over it for a bit. None of the other mammies I read write about sex on their mammy blogs, really. Whether or not they're pro-gay porn. Or not. And sadly, my passing fancy pro gay porn posts put some people off. And I hate the idea that people are shaking their heads, and thinking, oh Jo, so adolescent and inappropriate. So my feelings were that I prefer to keep my sex stories to the sex writer blogs I frequent where sex is daily bread and butter. And no one will get offended. Or off-put. It's not like I'm averse to it here, just ... time and place.

But that particular phrase cut me for a specific reason. Once I asked Axel what he thought of me when he first met me. He said 'You were funny and booby and brimming with sexuality'. And I've often wondered what happened to that Jo. Is the answer that I'm playing the sexless but only funny one (and the boobs have just gone south, it goes without saying :)? I was already so sad about losing that girl. And that made me think she was more gone than I thought. Because I honestly, really thought that this blog represented me. That what was in here went on it uncensored. More or less. I don't want to get in trouble for saying things I shouldn't, as is one of my less appealing traits that has dogged me my whole life.

And then there's the fact that my sex life is... quiet. Quiet and cobwebbed. And mostly between me and the internet. Not like this sort of boring married people sex (that I'm sure I linked to before! Because I put sex on my blog!). It has its moments, but there are times when I could lie down and weep for the girl I was and what she wanted out of life. But I really don't want to write about that. Not too often. It's not the sort of shit anyone wants to hear. Too often, at least. If I had sexy-joy to spread I would. I think.

So anyway. That is my treatise on why I don't write about sex all the time. And I'm not playing sexless... I just don't know that here is the place to play. I play elsewhere...

What do you all think. More sex? Less sex? What kind of sex? My head is a little wrecked about it. And the original conversation was about a month ago. Sigh.

I always thought that I'd do whatever I wanted to on here. But losing readers has an impact, I suppose. But I'll stop trying to think about it now, as I've written this post under adverse conditions. The natives are restless today.

Oh! I forgot to include proof of our sometime filthiness. And the admittedly not very filthy post that won me the accolade. I lost the badge, of course. Boo :(

Banksy

My lovely (second) cousin (once removed, or something like that) for whom I feel enormous warmth though I don't know her that well, told my non-comprehending granny that she'd bought the Bansky book for a wedding present for the wedding referred to below.

I don't think my grandmother is really able comprehend the ideal behind guerilla art. Though she's quite the art historian. But set in her ways, like.

I passed it in HMV today and stopped to have a look. It's really... compelling. I bought it.  And I don't usually do that. I'd recommend it. I also bought Charlie and the Chocolate Factory and The Princess Bride so there may have been some hormonal impulse involved.

As ever, my daughter's feet are too wide to fit into any shoes comfortably. So I think she's going to be spending the summer in ... Crocks... again. She went to my friends wedding in a beautiful designery dress and bright yellow plastic shoes last summer. And a small French inlaw of the bride pointed, and laughed. Le sigh.

day one

Period hormones accentuate every emotion, and throw them into relief. Is what I feel real? I suppose it's real once a  month. But how to respond to that? Men don't have this dual emotional life, do they?

I know sugar and refined foods make period symptoms worse. But my period makes me want those things. How to work that one out? If I deny it, it gets angry...

All this last week I've felt tears simmering just below the surface. I haven't cried in I don't know how long, not really, but this week, I'm like a mushy ball of squish. Poke me and I will ooze some effluent, blood or tears or ... um, well, no, maybe no or.

I went for a big walk today and got some real excercise and was going to come home and hoover and maybe - maybe - do some pilates for the first time in years. But now I have my period and after spending some small time talking to my energy-pit husband, my own  has plummeted to the point where I suddenly feel too chilled and lethargic to take a shower and I just want to eat more chocolate cereal.

But I won't. I will compromise and hoover the stairs. In a minute.

The Story of the Couple Who Turned Into Trees or What Could Happen When You Have Sex in the Woods...

There is a myth to be told here somewhere. It must exist. A kinky myth by the looks of it.

Anyone want to have a go?

It is Spring after all.

sunwarmed, spring-freshened

When I was getting ready yesterday, I had to wash a spot on my skirt. Because I'm the kind of girl who accidentally puts her clothes away dirty.

I went outside to hang it up. Before I had my shower. I wasn't wearing anything.

And the sun was warm on my skin, and the breeze was fresh and cool and blowing new energy and courting-birdsong. The sky was blue and there were daffodils and snowdrops and grape hyacinths appearing in the garden.

Next sunny day you get the chance - I'm telling you, make a dash for it. You won't regret it. Rejuvinating.

wedding

I was at a wedding yesterday. My grandmother's brother had seven children, one of whom died in an accident as a teenager. My second cousin Piccola had seven children, too, and the oldest girl got married yesterday. She walked down the aisle in a dress with a four foot train and a veil sweeping behind her - dark haired and dark eyed and perfect, looking for all the world like a Seoige sister, or possibly a Corr... and her  sisters were bridesmaids, two Titian beauties in immaculate makeup with flowing dark red  hair and perfect eyebrows, in flowing burgundy dresses. And beautiful flowers. And the groom was dark haired as well, a midlands young politician, all confidence and emotion and flirty winks to the old ladies of the gathering.

It was all very Irish. The best thing: the priest, the bride's uncle, had a sort of iron-on Virgin Mary on the front of his shiny white cassock. I've never seen anything like it before. And he told a story of how a couple he'd married invited him to their house to watch their wedding video after they got back from honeymoon (can you imagine? I simply can't envisage living that culture. My mind boggles at the thought). The punchline was 'and when it got to my homily, the husband leaned past me, and fastforwarded through it!'

That is actually very funny, though I'm not sure quite why.

The beef was tough, the aubergine tougher. And the speeches were protracted and emotional. The bride didn't make one. But her father's was great. He's a drinker, Tom, but he did great. Said Caroline was his first child to marry and wondered if she'd started a trend. Then told the story of the time he was meant to meet her after a hurling match, and she was late. When she finally turned up, he said, what's going on, this isn't like you at all. And she said, ah, I was with Joe. And there was this smile.

Aw.

I felt sad and affectionate looking at all my cousins, grown up and handsome, some with children. I'm not part of them, they're sweet and friendly, but I didn't grow up with them, not since I was little. My father was too removed, different, difficult, wealthy? I don't know. He moved away from them, one way or another. And I can't seem to find my way back in. I could work at it, but it's sort of too late. I'll try, a little, this summer, but it's slightly artificial at this stage. Not the same as history.

A friend texted me during the wedding. She's about to get divorced. When I said I was at one, she replied, 'Enjoy the wedding. I can't anymore'. I confess, though I find it inappropriately self absorbed and bitter to send that message to someone at a wedding, I had trouble with a lot of it too. It doesn't always last, even if you mean it fervently at the time. People change. Love doesn't always endure. What do you do then, with your unbreakable Catholic bond? But mostly, I was just sad. Because of my own, because of my mother etc etc. As well as touched and happy. You know the way. But, you know, in life, I suspect it's better not to dump your pain on people at cynical random intervals. No matter what happens in the future, it was a happy event.

I'm rambling. What did I want to say? I love being in a gathering with all my relations, and wish I did it more. Resolution! Iwill see more of them... I will, I will. And all the other people on my list that I never get round to seeing.

On the plus side, I got up and did some tidying this morning, because the kids won't stay downstairs and let me snooze and blog. And Axel deserves to sleep after looking after the kids yesterday and then playing a gig. I see that. Though, I don't quite understand how he also needs to sleep after his nights out and I've been looking after the kids all day... how does that work? Bah. Tidying makes me angry, I don't know why. I resent it. It's no fun. Perhaps when I have better storage, it will become more of a joy.

Excuse the rambling length of this post. Still tired. I wish I had photos, but the camera remains unreplaced.

The Dancing Tiger

Back when I was a better mother, I used to go to the library regularly with Olivia. Poor Bodhi. Though in fairness, he does benefit from the children's library we've amassed, of course.

We went the other day, and I remembered this beautiful book, by Malachy Doyle, who writes such different stories for kids. It really caught my interest, originally, because of the premise of the girl who discovers the secret of the tiger who dances with her, and then finds out that he's somehow part of a matrilineal legacy, and her mother and grandmother etc danced with him too. It's touchingly beautiful, and meaningful, somehow. The secret of taming the tiger, of passing down joy, and still dancing inside. Generations of free girls in the moonlight.
Synopsis
There's a quiet, gentle tigerIn the woods below the hill, And he dances on his tiptoes, When the world is dreaming, still. Malachy Doyle's poetic text invites us to join a mysterious tiger, who only appears when the moon is full, on his joyous dances through the changing seasons. Luminous paintings by Steve Johnson and Lou Fancher capture the movement and energy of the language, and lead us to a magical woodland, suffused with moonlight, where a child and a tiger can play to their hearts' content.

Author Bio: Malachy Doyle is the acclaimed author of many books for children. He lives in North Wales. Steve Johnson and Lou Fancher are the illustrators of many award-winning books for children, including Silver Seeds. Steve and Lou live in Minnesota.

A nice review:

Phyllis Kennemer, Ph.D. - Children's Literature


One moonlit night a young girl discovers a gentle tiger dancing among the trees. His twinkling eyes dispel her fear and she joyfully joins in his dance. They sashay through the seasons, delighting in the bluebells in summer, kicking leaves in autumn, and waltzing in winter. Month after month, year after year, they frolic. Near the end of the story, a graying great-grandmother decides to share her gift of the moonlit dances with her great-granddaughter. The old lady's face is serene as she sits on a stump and watches the tiger dance with his new partner. Written in lilting verse, the story reads like a lullaby. Full-color, double-page illustrations enhance the mystical experience of imaginative movement with a charming tiger and a winsome child. Soft, pastel tones leave the impression that the reader might just possibly spot this tiger dancing in the shadows the next time the moon is full. A lovely bedtime story. 2005, Viking, Ages 4 to 8

link to ebay, in case I tempted you

Ever have a trapped nerve?

Oo. I've been suffering with me hip the last week. I was really feeling the bruising from my sacrum being out and crushing into my soft tissue, not helped by the fact that I've been sitting working for most of every day. It was getting really sore yesterday, not going away, getting worse, and stiffer and bruised feeling too, as well as the electric pinch.

A friend was suffering similar, and I suggested she take Rhus tox, a homoeopathic remedy, sorted my pregnancy sciatica right out, and good for back ache that's better with movement, worse for inactivity.

So I went home and took it myself (duh) along with an arnica. Took it twice.

Few hours later... pain gone.
This evening... no sign of it having been there.

Once again, to all those who insist I'm just strongly suggestible and working my placebo magic, I say again, yes! I'm a fucking wizard! It's fab.

Milky Booby Tuesday!

Thanks to  mammydiaries for this!

Public Nudity! And a bathroom...

A Quick Lesson in Public Feeding...

There are some things in life that you can always count on; We all live, we all die and every three months or so, TV3 will put out yet another oh so educational documentary about "Extreme" Breastfeeding after which the phone lines to Joe Duffy, Gerry Ryan and the like will sizzle with the moral outrage of god fearing, respectable Irishmen and women who are SHOCKED! Yes, SHOCKED and HORRIFIED that there are women out there who insist on baring their breasts and nursing their children in public.

Yes folks, that's right, in PUBLIC! Shameless, brazen hussies! Who do they think they are? Flaunting their bits for all to see! Waving their milk filled bosoms about in a blatant show of prurience! Something must be done, which is why I, a concerned citizen of the highest moral fiber, have compiled a list of suggestions which will allow these desperate attention seekers to feed their young while out and about without offending innocent passersby...

I thereby present to you,

Practical Suggestions for The Inoffensive Feeding of a Breastular Nature

1. Resist the urge to spray passing strangers with your milk. I know, I know... This will be very hard, as what breastfeeding mother can possibly resist the urge to send playful jets of milk spurting from her bounteous bosoms at random strangers? But resist you must! Sit on your hands if need be to stop them tampering with a wayward nipple and accidentally soaking your nearest neighbor.

2. Invest in some Nursing "Gear." There are many attractive blankets and slings made for the express purpose of keeping such subversive acts under wraps and out of public notice, thus protecting innocent eyes from your wicked ways. Many "Outdoor Activity" shops now offer easy to assemble one man (woman) tents which are lightweight and portable, offering you the ultimate in comfort and coverage on the go. And don't worry! Despite the name, you CAN fit a baby in there as well!


3. Seek out Private nursing rooms. These are available in most reputable shopping centres and can generally be found in either the basement near the boiler room or wherever else is as far as f@*k from anywhere even remotely occupied or even within mobile network coverage. Some savvy retaillers, in an effort to save space, are now placing chairs in the disabled toilets in order to serve the same purpose. Such initiative is to be applauded!


4. As tempting as it may be to thrust your naked breasts into the faces of all and sundry, please resist this urge, however strong it may be. In a similar vein, offering strangers a "quick sup" is also to be greatly discouraged. While it is understood by the general public that breastfeeding women have little to no control over their actions and are wont to snatch and suckle any child they happen across in the streets, this practice is simply not acceptable and must be avoided at all costs.



5. For those of you feeding an older infant or child, staying at home has never been easier! With many major retailers now offering online shopping and home delivery services, you can now have most of your basic needs filled without ever having to leave the comfort (and privacy!) of your own home.



Yes folks, it IS possible to feed your child in a "Discreet and Inoffensive" manner. Of course, it all depends on what you find offensive...

--

http://mammydiaries.blogspot.com/


Thanks mammydiaries! Political AND informative :) Please come back and chat in the comments in case anyone is afraid of bearing their breasts/bared breasts in public!

UPDATE: Friends of Breastfeeding Pin Initiative still running - get your lovely pin here so nervous mums  can see yours and feel the kinship. Or should I say, pinship? More booby-bonding, anyway :)

Alert!

I have yet to receive any more Booby Tuesday offerings. Sadly.

Be warned, if no one submits one, I might have to write more about mine...

that or my boobcakes.

Take heed now.

ohhhh, lucky me!

Holy crap! I was waiting upstairs, working, ignoring the rumbles of my up-since-7.45 tummy, while delicious smells floated aloft. Bacon... god, I was thinking, I'd almost eat a rasher now.

And then into the bedroom came Olivia, bearing pink roses with a butterfly and eucalyptus, and lillies. And Axel bearing a tray of breakfast, and a John Banville novel, randomly but impressively. And a MIMOSA. AND tea. And the kids had the most beautifully illustrated homemade cards. 'Happpy Birthdayyyyy!!!' shouted Bodhi, arms spread wide.

And readers, oh the breakfast. Veggie sausages and VEGGIE rashers (hurray!) and eggs and waffles and beans and mushrooms and cherry tomatoes. And toast. And did I mention the champagne and orange juice?

Good god. I am replete.

I could get used to this...

Just because I'm sappy  and my mother loved otters. I suspect if she was here I'd be moved to stick this picture to a card and put glitter all around it :)

mortification

Sometimes it's difficult to anticipate the ways in which childish lack of inhibition will bite you on the ass.

It seems I'm raising a terrror... at the playzone yesterday, Bodhi came and demanded money for the toy machine. When I said I didn't have any, he demanded to see in my wallet (little gurrier - and it gets worse!). He then wandered over to the dad he'd ben chatting to around the place, and I saw him earnestly talking to him and pointing at the dispenser, and the man smiling and shaking his head. He came back over to me to tell me that he'd asked the man for money, and he hadn't given him any either. Gah! What sort of child am I raising!

yes! seven years on, and my suite is still avocado. Bleh!

and a little bit more

They've disabled embedding, the fools...

Oh, somebody dance with me, sweep me round and laugh with me, be with me in this music and share the joy.

bloggers!! Ms Moon! Etc.

Did you see this ad?? Turn your blog into a book? Perfect for Owen, Ms Moon...

I need something, to believe in, cos I don't believe in myself...

Maybe this works better if you know the clean original. I love they rhythm of it, but he's something else live on his own. Weird flat black eyes like a shark though. Strange one. I had the priveledge of a box seat in the Olympia when he played, and it was amazing to watch him play. No offense to my guitar genius husband, but the man is a genius.

reblog!

Cos I'm busy. And this got no love the first time around.




I was struggling up the hill with Christmas shopping (did I really buy an Advent calender for €7.99 and will Russell Brand's autobiography be any good*?) When I saw, in the dimming light, the imprint of a leaf that had somehow stained itself onto a patch of fairly pristine concrete. It was beautiful, shaped like fairy wings, and a delicate purple-brown in colour.

I loved the contrast of impermanence and permanence, our ugly, unbiodegradable concrete somehow imprinted by this fleeting idea of an autumn leaf. Like natural graffiti. Nature's art on a concrete canvass.
It reminds me of those pressed fairies!

And then I thought, I can use my  phone camera!

*Russell's book was thoroughly hearted by me and Axel in the end.

we're chained

 This is a strange time for me. I want to give everybody what they need, and get what I need for myself, but there's so much conflict within that simple concept.

I love this picture. I love her skin and musculature and her hand. I love the relaxed waiting, the invitation, the light and the dark; and I love it because it reminds me of another photograph, with an outstretched hand, one that it seems like a response to.

It's true that not everyone sees the erotic potential of red sheets or black lace or offering yourself up to being restrained and given what you need. One person's kink is another person's broken. But if you're lucky enough, and brave enough to get yourself what you need in this life, I salute you.

It's true, I wouldn't usually post something like this. Not that it's explicit at all... but sometimes it's better to use your voice instead of saying nothing. And, well, we should rise to our challenges, I suppose. More of that later.

Please send me dynamic thoughts, I'm in the midst of mock-marking procrastination madness AGAIN and time is tick tocking out. Again.

Things That Are Good To Hear

Mum. Let go my hand, I want to run.

ah, crud

I just knocked my bottle of organic Madagascan vanilla on the floor :(

plus side: nicer to clean up than dog pee.

Can we have Educate Together Secondary schools now please?

Lots of people want it. Primary schools are oversubscribed. I think the choice people have for secondary schooling in Ireland is bizarrely limited.

I'm so ... tired, of all this lack of innovation, and choice, and quality. I don't want to send my daughter half way into town to school. Not really. I hope the planned school near to us goes ahead.

That is all, for now.

on romance

What does romantic mean to you?

Every so often I'm overtaken by a yearning to have a man who loves me best of all walk across a room, brush my hair off my neck and kiss me there. Because that was exactly what he wanted to do at that moment. I suppose I'm ashamed that that hasn't happened in, what, nearly two decades? I suppose that's what romance is - someone doing something for you, because they were thinking about it, all on their own. And they wanted to. If you're lucky, it ends up being the same thing you want done.

Flowers are always nice. Being somewhere when you weren't expected. Surprises. Moonlight and beaches. For some reason, kissing in the rain. After I had my first baby, my husband ran me a bath, and filled the room with candles. When I expressed gratitude and called him a good husband, he shook his head and said, 'I have no words.'

That was beautiful. But words go a long way too...

Ultimately, I think my childhood reading material informed my choice of what romantic is. Robin Hood rescues and derring do. Or breaking into the zoo before school to feed the wolves snared rabbits. It doesn't have to be about couples. There's romantic, the hearts and flowers and Paris kind, and then there's Romantic, with heroes, and sweeping plots, and swashbuckling, and triumph over adversity. I like it with highwaymen in it. People dressed in leather, and grand gestures :)

Life is pain, Princess.

Ah, feck it, Romance is pretty much the Princess Bride, I guess.
Break out the popcorn and icecream.

You keeled my father... Prepare to Die.

Ahhhhhh, Inigo.

So. Interactive today, please. What's romantic for you?

tearlessness

I swore I'd turn off the computer tonight, and get working, and here I am, still listening to meaningful songs on Youtube and wondering where all my tears have gone when I need them. I'm dry eyed and heartweary. It's a strange feeling, I'm not accustomed.

I suppose there's always Dr Hook instead.

beanforest cracks me up

Booby Tuesday The First

Welcome to the first installement of Booby Tuesday, and welcome to our first brave guest poster who brings you her boob story. All written content is property of the writer, please do not reproduce without permission.

I have been having a boob obsession of late. Following a decent weight loss (36lbs), I found myself to have more confidence. I am feeling better about myself, fitting into fantastic clothes, able to wear saucy little bras and knickers and generally feeling in a much better place because of it.

There’s just one thing. I was quite surprised when my boobs didn’t miraculously spring back up to a nice pert fembot position when the weight was gone. I had looked forward to the day when I could wear a tight t-shirt, no bra and resemble something from an MTV pool party. Unfortunately, my breasts remained where they were in length, at my midriff, and deflated instead. I know I should not be complaining. I am very grateful for what I have achieved and how far I have come etc, don’t get me wrong, but, still, I have been left with what I can only describe as two bags of marbles.


My doctor, over many years of breast checks did always say I had rather fibrous breasts but I didn’t really notice due to the padding. Now the weight has gone, the padding has gone and the fibroids are now next to the outer skin, I can feel every last one click clacking around in there. All they need is to be lifted, just a little bit. If I could just darn them up even an inch they would be perfect. Just a couple of stitches either side. Did I really honestly believe that they would indeed bounce back, defying all the laws of gravity? Let’s face it, they never hit that position on the way up...or down as the case may be.


I did have rather large fabulous breasts. Nice and rounded, and while they did indeed reach my midriff they were full and buoyant and rounded and soft – yet, sturdy. They sat a nice way out from my body, large but perfectly in proportion. But I wasn’t happy with my body then. They were in proportion to my 5ft 3” and 12 stone roundness. Boobs great: body, not happy. So it was my choice to change. The weight loss angel finally got me and I worked hard to get to the size I am today and I am happier with my body now. I hadn’t realised how down on myself I was. So I guess its time to put the boob obsession into perspective. I prefer how I am now. We should all be grateful for what we have (of course). Lets face it, us women are never happy. In conclusion I suppose what I must say is, God bless the wonderbra!


Thanks so much! I can vouch for the sturdy fabulousness of those boobs, as I got to touch one on one occasion. A fact that made Axel very happy. I don't know what to tell you, hon. My friend told me Barbara Cartland said that at some point, you have to choose between your face or your ass... stay thin and look haggard, or stay youthful and have a fat ass. I suppose this is a similar dilemma, you've just sided with your ass in it :)

who is Eve Ensler? I don't know.

This seems important to me today. I think if you feel you've got most of these boxes ticked you're doing well. Or are they just soundbites? What do you think?

booby tuesday?

Hmm.... Midge gives me an idea (see booby thursday comments, in the mutant post).

Would anyone like to guest post a Booby Tuesday post? You don't have to photograph yourself, something representative is fine if you prefer (see boobcake above). And this isn't Reader's Wives'  Boobs or anything. Any aspect of boob ownership you'd like to  talk about is fine by me, from first bra nostalgia to anecdotes to pregnancy sensitivity (one Rollercoaster-poster said her husband went online and bought furry nipplewarmers because her nipples were so sore in the cold! There's love!) to breastfeeding and beyond. I'd like to talk about how women feel about their breasts, and how other people's feelings make them feel, as it were. The good, the bad and the ugly.

C'mon! Mail me!

What did I mean?

My friend Cassie and I like to remind each other that we're fucking fabulous.

So I saw one of these today, and googled it so I could send her a picture.



But when I googled it, google asked me:

Did you mean: I'm falling hackulous


I'm fairly sure I didn't, yet it sounds right somehow, nonetheless.