Bad wifey, bad!

The other day I became, even if ever so briefly, exactly the kind of wife – nay, the kind of person - that I do NOT want to be.

I was wrapping presents in anticipation of the next day’s arrival of some guests from Manchester – Ush’s very good friend Steve, his wife-to-be Louisa, and their 5-month old son Noah (the latter two who we were meeting for the first time!).  We bought Noah a couple of adorable little outfits, a funny bib, a red hat + mitten combo, and some cute animal bath toys.

Anyway!  I was wrapping.  I had mostly Christmas-y paper so I was adding bows and ribbon to try to make it look more ‘generic celebration’ and less ‘This is leftover Christmas wrapping!’..

Ush came in and offered to help.  (A rare and appreciated occurence!) He finished wrapping the bath toys in red paper, and when I asked if he wanted to add a bow, he said sure and grabbed one.

I glanced up; he had chosen a red bow.  Before I could even stop myself, I said: “Red on red?” immediately followed by a mental “shitshitshitwhydidIsaythat?!”  I’m such a dick.

He offers to help even though he probably doesn’t actually want to (because he knows I want him to do that sort of thing), which is so sweet… I could have said ‘no thanks!’ or, if I wanted it done a certain way, I should have specified instead of nitpicking the way he chose to do it!  Or if I wanted a specific bow, I could’ve just handed him one myself!  And, most importantly, does it actually matter if there’s a red bow on red paper?!  And is anyone actually going to notice and think, “Ew, they used a red bow on red paper..”  NO!  Ugh.

I felt so bad… I apologised up and down and we laughed about it then and again later, but still…

It sort of scared me, the way that just popped out like it did.  I’m not a control freak and I don’t want to be one.  I especially don’t want to be a naggy wife!!!

Sigh.  Live and learn!

Chicken out

So I’m going through this whole new food phase.. It’s been developing, well, pretty much ever since I came to London really…  Trying new types of cuisine, finding new favourites, learning to like things that I never did before (tomatoes – check! stir fry – check! I’m now working on tuna and salmon), adding extra nutrients to meals, making sure I get my five-a-day, etc…

But the biggest change has been a keener awareness of where my food comes from.  That includes the organic movement (we’re not all the way on that one… I’ve read research that says there’s no point in buying organic bananas or oranges, for example, because their outer peels are thick enough to keep most of the bad stuff from reaching the fruit that you actually eat.  So Ush and I go organic on milk, some fruit, some veg.. But that’s about it so far.) but it also, and most profoundly, includes the type of meat and poultry that we buy.

I used to frequently lament that I’d probably end up vegetarian one day, because I can’t stand the way animals are sometimes treated just so that we humans can eat meat. But I realised that not only is that unnecessary, seeing as I do believe it’s perfectly acceptable to raise animals for food, but it’s essentially the worst thing I could do in response to this cause which has affected me so.

There is a chicken movement flowing through the UK at the moment.  Several famous TV chefs are making a poignant effort to promote the purchase of free range eggs and chicken – both to average joe consumers as well as buyers for restaurants, shops, and supermarkets.  They have shown – through documentary footage, through their personal visits to farms, and through demonstrations in their studios – the various ways that chickens are raised.  This includes the intensive methods like battery hens and also the various, more humane methods: ranging from different types of barn settings all the way to free range, organic environments.

Ush and I both thought a life of vegetarianism was looming closer than ever, until we realised that the only way the free range movement will actually carry any weight is if people make the choice to consistently (and, ideally, only) buy free range.  Becoming a vegetarian and boycotting meat altogether means that’s one less person who is buying the free range product, thus sending the message to grocery stores that they don’t need to stock it as there’s such a small demand. Hence, they’ll keep on with their cheap battery hens, making a greater profit from the cruel and disgusting treatment of these birds.

Anyway, so that’s where we’re at now.  As a result of these programs as well as our own further research, Ush and I have committed to only buying free range eggs and chicken from grocery stores, and it has to be at least barn-reared (read: NO battery/cage-reared chicken) from all other places.

It’s amazing how big a change that is – when you realise you’re not only changing how you shop for groceries, but you can no longer order your favourite chicken dishes from fast food restaurants, takeaways, or restaurants – unless you ask them first and you’re satisfied with the answer.

We were very pleasantly surprised to find that our favourite curry house uses only free range chicken, and that the Nandos we went to over the weekend only buys barn-reared chicken.  So, they’re out there, you just have to ask.  And for those establishments which are perpetuating the cruelty for the profit of pennies – well, then eat something else on the menu and let the manager/waiter/chef know how you feel about their chicken-buying choices.  Full on boycotting isn’t the answer.  If we don’t at least say something, they’ll never know that we care.

End rant.

Aunt Becky

She and my mom were part of a trio of friends at nursing school. I remember seeing a photo of the three of them when they were maybe 20 years old – all with their white nurses caps and long hippy hairdos.

I used to call her Ka-ka before I could say her name.

When we were little, she was famous for her wiggly hugs. (Still is, really.) She’d pick up Alex or me, our limbs dangling, and she’d jiggle us around, swinging us side to side, squealing as we laughed hysterically.

She’s gone now, though.

It’s almost a cliché, which I hate. Because clichés cheapen what is a very real and extremely painful reality. My Aunt Becky died of cancer.

Her cancer (I hate to give it ownership like that. Hers. It’s not as if she chose to have it, let alone wanted it to be hers.).. The cancer that stole her away was the kind that is relentless. And it was deceptive – hitting hard, then lying low for a time, giving a shred or two of hope, and finally striking again, harder and faster.

Becky fought long and hard, with good times and bad, but the cancer won. Like a parasite, it had set up shop in many of Becky’s vital body systems. The doctors were out of ideas. “Not more than a few months,” they said. And then, “Less than two weeks.”

In her final days, my mom spent time with her friend – laughing, praying, reminiscing over old memories, making funeral arrangements. Both being keen gardeners, they enjoyed an early spring – in the form of bunches and bunches of flowers sent by loved ones. My mom served as Becky’s hospice nurse, making her comfortable as her body slowly began to shut down.

I’m told that my mom and Greg, Becky’s husband, were on either side of her as she went… whispering words of love and encouragement as Becky left us to be with the Lord.

I can hardly imagine a more simultaneously excruciating yet also beautiful moment.

Aunt Flow is in town

So I’m sitting at my desk, trying to ignore the raucous goings on in my abdomen (and my lower back and legs, too) and attempting to focus on the data that needs inputting, the shares that need transferring, and the forms that need filing.

A passing coworker stops, “Are you alright, Steph? You seem a bit down.”

Hmm. I can’t very well blurt out the blatant truth. Which is that my endometrium-shedding, hyper-contracting uterus is reeking so much havoc that I feel like curling up under my desk in the fetal position. That would probably be TMI and NSFW.

So instead I use the old, “Nah, I’m okay, just feeling a bit under the weather” cliché. Blame it on the suspicion of an oncoming cold. Which of course produces the, albeit sympathetic, “Stay away from me!” look.

Oh well.

Better than telling them that I’m riding the crimson wave or that its arts and crafts week at Panty Camp.

Hello world!

Well, I’ve moved over to WordPress.  (Farewell, my old friend Xanga.  You’ve been good to me, but it’s time to move on.)  It’s taken me a few sessions to figure out how to use it, decide on a theme, etc.  I imagine further changes will continue to take place occasionally until I get more comfortable with using this site.

To start, I thought I’d share with you my bloggerific journey of… well, blogging!

It began in college in November 2002, when someone told me they had started a blog and I had no idea what they were talking about.  Soon I was on Blogger too, and loving it.  Just under a year later, in October 2003, I switched to Xanga – mostly because it was becoming the trendier blogging site and subscriptions to friends’ sites was simpler.  I have stayed faithful to Xanga for over 4 years now – using it primarily as a means to keep in touch with friends and family and as a way for them to keep up to date on what I’m up to.

But, once again, I have been wooed away by a more high-tech yet also back-to-basics blogging site.  Xanga, with loads of flash new upgrades and basically useless (for me) features, is sort of becoming mutton dressed as lamb – or rather, blogging site dressed as networking site.  I’m not into that.  I just want to blog, yo.

So here I am.  Wish me luck!