All I Want For Christmas Is You

You can’t buy anything for £5 these days. Fact.

I discovered this recently, when Mr B tasked me with the purchase of a present for his work Secret Santa. Which has a limit of £5. And the name he’d pulled out of the hat? The big boss lady. Obviously. His emergency text read: ‘Unless you have any better suggestions, can you get me a £5 box of Thortons chocolates’. Surely the most predictable of all the predictable work colleague exchanges? Determined to come up with something superior (for someone I’d never met and knew less than nothing about) I stalked the shops for a good hour. Halfway through my trip, I called Curly for help. Supportive to the end, she advised me to grab a gift set from Boots (albeit number two on the predictable presents list, smellies do come in just below the aforementioned confectionary) and a present of equal value for myself for all my hard work. Renewed, I dashed to the magical land of gift sets that is Boots, only to discover the only box they could offer me in exchange for five English pounds was filled with Royal Jelly. Seriously. It’s one thing for the boss lady to suspect he enlisted his wife to pick, purchase & wrap the present. That’s endearing, in a “typical bloke, ha ha ha!” kind of way. However a present with connotations which suggest its origins lay in the dusty corners of his Gran’s bathroom cabinet? Not acceptable. This is The Office. Grudges are held, and pay rise battles have been won and lost over less. My shopping pride dented, I returned to my desk with a festive muffin, a weary air of defeat and a Thortons carrier bag.

But that was just a periphery purchase. The proper presents required shopping on another level. My list, with additional branches to denote birthday purchases and presents to buy on behalf of others, began to resemble a family tree, and contained strict instructions on how much to spend on each person. We came up with the idea of a £10 limit a few years ago, after one Christmas where the piles of presents were particularly obscene and included extravagance such as holiday flights concealed inside stocking fillers. Although the excess had been balanced out by some carefully chosen charity gifts (in the days before goats were considered passé) to allay some of the guilt, the experience did leave us all feeling slightly grubby. Cheesy as it may be, we are exceptionally lucky to have such a close circle of family and friends to spend the holidays with. We don’t need hundreds of pounds of presents to celebrate that. Besides which, having to tackle such an enormous stack of gifts meant we were disappointingly late making a dent in the festive alcohol. The first £10 Christmas was approached with gusto, and the gifts were innovative, thoughtful and exciting. The next couple of years, with the demise of Virgin Megastore and the constant churn of the BBC’s shit comedy train, DVDs became cheap to the point of ridiculous. This made present buying easy, but undeniably dull. And so last year we decided we’d all learnt our lesson, and we could dispense with the price limit and still have a sensible Christmas. We did. This year, probably one of the most expensive 12 months in living history, the price limit is back through necessity. Except this time we’ve upped it to £15. Laughing in the face of the credit crunch.

Sadly, in the build up to our prime weekend of shopping madness, Mr B fell ill. There was a pretty sleepless night where he ticked off all the symptoms of swine flu. However thanks to my trusty BBT thermometer we knew that he didn’t have a temperature. This led to a germy weekend sitting around watching Elf and eating jam roly poly, which was lovely, and an early Monday morning meltdown when I realised I still had 90% of the presents to buy and three days to do it, which was not. When I met him, Mr B was a terrible consumer. The first time I took him shopping to buy proper trousers for a job interview he nearly cried. However, over the years he has developed a love of retail, a thirst for bargains that is quite possibly even greater than mine, and a skill for dreaming up genius present ideas. This, coupled with my organisational skills, quick decision making and ability to get through crowds of people at speed, makes us a great shopping team. I needed him. Only this year all he could offer was vague encouragement from his sickbed, on the few occasions when he wasn’t asleep. And while I stepped up to the plate and pulled off some amazing feats of shopping in a couple of impressively extended lunch hours, it wasn’t the same. I missed starting the day off with a festive coffee while discussing our game plan. I missed splitting up to get each other’s presents, with instructions to meet back on this corner an hour later (because our all singing all dancing new shopping centre has zero phone reception). I missed sitting in the pub for a present debrief, crossing things off our list and rewarding ourselves with a festive pint. I missed that feeling of arriving home with armfuls of bags and dumping them all on the table together with a smug sense of satisfaction in time to watch the football.

Thanks to his unprivileged childhood, since joining our family Mr B has been thoroughly spoilt. Everyone likes an underdog. And an underdog you can lavish presents on? Even better! He loves presents, and he loves stuff. All stuff. I could walk into pretty much any high street store and spend £15 (or even more easily £115) on a present for him. The problem is, I’ve excelled myself this month already. Aside from the solo shopping extravaganza mentioned above, I pulled off two major surprise presents for Mr B’s 30th. And although in the making of these presents no money changed hands, (if I do say so myself) they were both pretty fucking special. At the very least they were definitely more thoughtful than cash in a card. Cash in a card. Not listed on the previous predictable presents list, because although this is considered a gift by unthinking family members all over the world, we don’t deem it an acceptable reward for our work colleagues. We prefer something that requires a little more effort and thought for them. Unless you have an excuse, like being old or very very generous, cash in a card is a cop out. But I have a confession to make: I’m all shopped out. Not only am I all shopped out, but I’m all out of ideas. As the sole member of my shopping team, I had to come up with all the genius present ideas this year, and now my brain hurts. And I figure this way we can spend a day together doing all the fun shopping things we didn’t get to do before Christmas, without the pressure of having to remember who owns which dvds, which people require special cards, or more sellotape. So although I am giving him cash in a card – the most unimaginative gift ever invented – I’m doing it for all the best reasons. He gets to spend cash on whatever he likes (when everything is half the price it was before Christmas), and spend the day with me. Lucky bastard!

To Mr B, the loveliest husband on the planet: all I want for Christmas is you.

OCD (Obsessive Charting Disorder) Part II

That’ll teach me to try and write two blogs in one night. Crash & burn.

I dreamt about egg whites. Just the good, old fashioned chicken egg variety. But it was no doubt caused by constant reference to the [SPOILER: graphic detail within] other type in all my charting reading. Not that I have much of a problem with bodily functions. There are worse things the chart could ask me to do. NB: my friend Sporty Spice (who is due to become a member of The Competition in January) is going to have a problem with the whole CM thing. I can just see it now.

I’ve now been charting long enough to use all the fancy tools on my charting website. Which gives me even more opportunity to argue with it. On the ‘Early Pregnancy Estimator’ I currently have 40 points. But it’s rather vague about how I gained these points and whether or not this is a respectable score. I also have the option of staring at a calendar of our fertile days displaying how many times we actually managed to have sex during our ‘window’. Last week this left me resenting one of my favourite artists, because we were too tired to do anything after we got home from her (amazing) gig. You know, it’s all super fun!

One more thing. I need to take my temperature at the same time every morning. I know, I get it. Even on weekends? Yes, even then. It’s not a problem. I wake up at stupid o’clock every day regardless of whether I need to or not. I must take my temperature directly upon waking. Without sitting up, speaking, letting my toes slip out of the cupboard or making any unnecessary movements. That’s fine too. Apart from the days when I fling my arm out in the direction of the bedside table, only to strike the thermometer case and sending it flying under the bed. I then must creep down to fetch it, remaining covered by the duvet, using very small movements and trying not to open my mouth. God this shit is dignified.

OCD (Obsessive Charting Disorder) Part I

My charting website told me off last month: “According to your cycle history, you should have ovulated by now.” Oh, I beg your pardon. Do excuse me while I go squeeze out an egg.

We have a volatile relationship, me and the charting website. Every morning I come downstairs, enter my temps and rant at the laptop. Most days Mr B is greeted with a cup of tea and a list of reasons why I am right and the website is wrong. Remember 8 weeks ago when I was scared of charting? Those days are long gone. I’m now officially an expert. I even took a quiz on the site to prove my worth as a BBT analyst. And had to restrain myself from punching the air in the middle of the office at my excellent score. So I know what I’m doing. And I know that my next period is due on Christmas day. So I’ll test when I wake up (and since we’ll be at my parent’s house I’ll revert back to the kid who woke at 4am every December 25^th, and had to wait for a reasonable hour to leave my bedroom). If I’m pregnant, and I know from the stats that it’s highly unlikely I will be, great: everyone gets an extra Christmas present. If I’m not, fine: crack open the festive bubbly.

Obsessive maybe. I just like to think of it as well organised. Either way, what I don’t need is the great & good charting website pushing my ovulation date back 4 days based on one rogue temperature that they themselves have flagged as suspect. And breathe.

Indifference

I wonder if people think I am infertile. Or just bad mother material.

Mr B & I got married four years ago. And if you think my pregnancy preparation is anal, you should have seen the (I kid you not) two years that went into planning my wedding. I wish there was a blog of that. It would mainly be written in caps lock. My choice quote “I don’t want alternatives, I want a solution!” became a famous slogan on a popular wedding forum I frequented at the time. Together with the many hours of reading up I did on seating plan politics and how to get a honeymoon upgrade, I also read about the aftermath. And the biggest gripe from newlyweds was the baby interrogation, which generally commenced several hours after their plane home from the Maldives touched down.

NO ONE HAS EVER ASKED ME WHEN WE’RE GOING TO HAVE A BABY! Sorry, one link to that forum and I’m channelling Bridezilla all over again. But seriously. Not one person. In four years. Ok, once a woman I’m loath to flatter with the title ‘colleague’ so shall instead refer to as ‘work annoyance’ asked if I was pregnant. But that was back when we were all prancing around in smock tops and leggings. And frankly she was just being a bitch. I can understand how my adverse reaction to that conversation scared her and my immediate officemates off that particular topic ever again. (In fact it took her about a year to speak to me. And now whenever she contacts me she starts the phone call with an apology.) However every single person I know? Like my Gran, who will probe strangers on the bus for details of their net annual salary? Or Oldest Girl Friend, who will disappear upstairs in my house “to the toilet” and actively rummage through the drawers in my dressing table? How are they not curious? Even if they’re avoiding the subject for fear of some sensitive medical issue – like: I’m riddled with STIs that have rendered me barren – do they not want all the gory details?!

I love kids! Everyone knows that. I grew up reading The Babysitter’s Club. I’ve seen Three Men and a Baby at least a dozen times. For god’s sake, I used to take photos of my little brother sleeping because he looked so cute! Why would I not want kids? Besides which I have a sensible husband, we live in a good area near a school and have a spare room ripe for baby proofing. Maybe we give off the impression that we’re too wrapped up in our box set watching careers. Or maybe people think I just want to concentrate on my drinking. Little do they know we’re currently on our second two week wait, and that I’m tackling the holiday season sober. Whatever, no one suspects. Or, if they do speculate, they’re keeping it well away from me.

Triumphant return

No, not triumphant in that way.

I’ve been away. It wasn’t relaxing but it was incredible. I took a pregnancy test before our holiday which was quite fun, in a way that only peeing on a stick at 5.30am can be. The test was negative, but that was just as well considering the barrage of abuse to my liver that followed.

I pulled off the surprise of a lifetime for Mr B (twice!)  and, fun as that was, I was glad to be rid of secrets for another year at least. But since I’ve been back in the real world I have been bombarded with clandestine chats and confidential information from an ever increasing range of sources. I have also created a minor intrigue of my own, which I am dying to tell someone about. However I don’t have a version of me amongst my friends, and trust very few people with anything more than my basic information, let alone emotional well being. I am still more than a little bemused by my friends’ propensity to drop their innermost on me. But whatever, it saves me having to turn to soaps or showbiz websites for scandal.

My 365 photo task was abandoned the moment I set foot onto the plane. While I enjoy photography, and like the idea of the 365 challenge, taking photos to such a specific brief, while keeping them anonymous, is quite a difficult task. All it does is prove that my life (and trying to get knocked up) really isn’t all that thrilling. I’m going to keep the album as a more sporadic photo log. I may try out the 365 challenge in my ‘real life’ with all the other New Year mugs.

We’re now on our second month of ‘trying’ and I’m pleased to say I have reverted to all the classic stereotypes associated with attempting to get pregnant. As I write*, Mr B is amidst the latest 4 day stretch of objectification. He doesn’t seem to mind so much yet, after all boy + sex = happy. And he’s used to my being a little crazy about everything. Or maybe it’s just because our ‘window’ is yet to clash with any major sporting events.

*not literally, god! Though I did consider reaching for my hair straighteners yesterday morning when I was running late for work. Once a multitasker, always a multitasker.

Two Weekgate

Here’s the thing. People don’t drink because they’re thirsty. We drink alcohol for a number of reasons, few of which are related to thirst. Many situations necessitate the assistance of alcoholic beverage, some examples from my own life include -

Relaxation: The first drink after a hard day week at work provides the same rush of endorphins as birthday cake, orgasm or (so I’m told) 5k on the treadmill.

Freebies: be it a function, fete or my tight fisted boss dusting off his wallet once a year to buy a round of ‘Christmas bonuses’, gratis booze is difficult to turn down.

Events: Births, deaths, marriages and pretty much any occasion that requires a toast. Plus some occasions that require toast.

Medical reasons: Hair of the dog, obviously. Vicious circle / Circle of life? You decide.

I have a friend who doesn’t drink. (Not normally a sentence you’d hear me utter, as I don’t tend to trust people who don’t drink. But it’s for medical reasons so I’ll let her off – she used to drink her husband under the table.) It’s always puzzled me that she’ll get to a point in the evening and just stop ordering drinks. Granted, we on the beer should probably take a leaf out of her book, but while we continued to stumble regularly to the bar she doesn’t want anything. Now, after a few evenings out where I wasn’t drinking (and was ‘ill’ to my friends), I get it. Drinking is not thirst related. And once you’ve had one pub soft drink, you’ve had them all.

I don’t have a problem with giving up drinking once I’m pregnant. Obviously. I can see the benefits acting like you’re pregnant during this whole two week thing. Obviously. This doesn’t stop me moaning about the unfairness of it all. Duh! On a positive side, we’re probably saving a lot of money on wine. And if we do manage to get knocked up before Christmas, we need buy no more in the way of presents than a 49p ‘Grandparents’ Christmas card. Sorted.

The more I read, the more convinced I become that I’m pregnant. I think the two week wait will do that to you, because there is literally nothing else to do but speculate. It’s driving me ever so slightly insane. I look forward to doing it all again next month.

I’ve bought a pregnancy test. Well 4 to be exact, but only because they were on offer. Mr B’s response? “Enough for me to take one too!”

Four days to go.

Sweet little lies

Or, more accurately, an all encompassing web of deceit threatening to bring me to my knees.

People like to tell me things in confidence. I have no idea why. I’m generally quite a bitchy, gossipy and occasionally malicious person. I wouldn’t trust me with my secrets. Yet at any one time I’m juggling the details of my friends’ moral dilemmas, relationship problems and stealth job interviews. On top of that, there are now at least two individuals who combine proclaiming to the world their disinterest in kids, with emailing me questions about folic acid. Then there’s the festive season: present suggestions, surprise parties and secret dates to remember (which can only be noted in my filofax as a star, just in case someone sees). My brain hurts. And it’s not just from the lack of coffee.

While the above has given me an ability to bullshit which is second to none, and probably explains why I’m so good at poker, it’s really quite hard work. What I don’t need, on top of all that, is to have to deceive my friends about my lack of wine, sushi or mountaineering intake for two weeks out of every month. Never mind the 12 weeks we’re apparently supposed to wait to tell people when we’re actually knocked up. I may as well go into hiding now. I suggested to Mr Brady that we develop some kind of code whereby I ask him for an alcoholic drink in front of friends, and he comes back from the bar with a tonic water disguised as a gin mixer. He got really excited, probably because it made him feel like he was in Spooks. In the end we decided against it for now, and I did have a little bit to drink. (While I don’t feel quite so convinced I’m pregnant today, I have nonetheless eaten as if for two. Two grown adults who haven’t eaten for a fortnight.) We have an annual thing next week with our oldest friends, which last year resulted in a great many empty wine bottles. This year I’m going to have to go down the ‘can’t drink – antibiotics’ route. Clichéd, yes, but my encyclopaedic knowledge of NHS Direct, coupled with my ability to make a pair of Kings look like 7-2 off suit, I think I can nail it.

Sometimes you just know!

So the day I planned to give up coffee we had a pretty stressful incident. While coffee wasn’t on the agenda, I did develop a fleeting passion with a bottle of brandy. Luckily that turned out to be a one night stand. And, after my false start, I am now in caffeine rehab. I’ve told everyone at work that I’m off coffee as it gives me a headache. The withdrawal symptoms from my lack of coffee have thus given me a massive headache.

We’ve been temping & charting & ovulating. Well, mainly I have. Though we did take Mr Brady’s temperature once or twice. And since we got some free ovulation sticks with our thermometer, I wouldn’t put it past him to do a Chandler. We also had sex. More than once!

Now comes the dreaded two weeks where we await the arrival of my period, while hoping it doesn’t show. Kind of like the couple of weeks after you think you got caught by an average speed check camera on the M42 and are waiting for the letter to turn up.

With nothing better to do (Literally. You know how we weren’t that busy that time last year? We weren’t this quiet this time last year either.) I started wondering if I was knocked up and reading about early signs of pregnancy. Because waiting for confirmation from a missed period won’t cut it for me. I hate surprises and I want to know now. I’ve had most major illnesses. Including hypochondria. I love nothing more than scanning the symptom checker on NHS Direct and plotting out worst case scenarios. So imagine my joy when, nestled amongst the list of cramps; breast tenderness; mood swings and anything else which normally indicates your time of the month, I saw this…

“Feeling pregnant” – sometimes you just know!

Endorsement to self diagnose? Brilliant. And, I think you can guess what is coming next, especially when I tell you I’ve had vague cramps for three days. I think I’m pregnant.

My period is actually due at the end of next week. On the morning we fly off for Mr Brady’s 30^th celebrations. So instead of a 10am G&T on the plane, I might be holed up in a cubicle, flailing a stick around with pee running down my jeans. Or I could just suck it up, drink coffee on the plane and wait until we land to use a real toilet. Oh.

A small note on Twitter

I know people who work in social media and use twitter for work. I know that it annoys them I mainly use twitter to broadcast the contents of my lunchbox, quote my favourite tv shows and live tweet the X Factor. Sadly, although I work in the field of technology, we’re not that advanced yet. Most of us still struggle with basic email etiquette. (I do not count myself in that collective.)

Until such a day when I can harness this tool to network, push a message, or make truckloads of money, I will continue as I am. Chatting all hours of the day & night to a random selection of people – some I know in real life, others I don’t. Occasionally to seek advice, share links or request information. But mainly, just for the banal crap.

After the accident last week, I momentarily found myself at a loss. So I tweeted. Just once, just basic details, just enough to show myself that I could still function. Ok it wasn’t as contentious as other tweets written in a time of trauma (she’s right – I love her hair in this clip) but it could have been considered inappropriate by some. Instead the response, from people who normally only know me by my choice of alcoholic beverage, was overwhelming. And still is.

I didn’t post on facebook where all my ‘real’ friends live. A lot of them still don’t know what happened. But I’m ok. I’ve talked about it and I’m feeling better. This is, in part, thanks to Twitter. So although I’m someone the experts may despair of for only tweeting on a very base level, it doesn’t make my experience any less worthwhile.

I love you

I should be at work right now, but instead I’m at home in my pyjamas, drinking brandy at three in the afternoon.

Mr Brady & I were in a pretty horrific car accident this morning. No one was physically injured, thank god, though we’re both pretty mentally screwed up at the moment. And probably will be for a while.

I got a lot of texts – I couldn’t take calls through crying – from friends & family happy we were ok and wanting to say how much they loved us. I needed to write that down. We’re so lucky: to be safe, well, and have so many amazing people in our lives.