Gave myself a bit of a squeaky-bum moment t’other day upon lifting the lid of the toilet and discovering there what I thought to be a GARGANTUAN SPIDER but was, in fact, some plughole hair that I had deposited within after my shower earlier that morning.
It really did look like a spider. Why there’d be a spider in my toilet, fark knows, but ne’ertheless, I did shriek a bit and flail momentarily before realising that yes, it was just HAIR. My hair. There’s no one else here, so it has to be my hair. I doubt Moo has been shedding copious amounts of spindly dark hairs, unless she has been secretly collecting them for her amateur voodoo, so – with my marvellous powers of deduction – t’was my hair.
Aside from it being plughole hair (which we all know to be the most heinous and foul-smelling hair in existence) it just struck me exactly HOW MUCH farking hair I appear to lose on a daily basis. I seem to empty that plughole almost interminably. I am AMAZED there is any hair left on my actual head. Seriously, that follicular Shelob was FARKING HUGE. Like Godzilla’s hairball. Godzilla was hairy, right? Right? No? Shit. Well, anyway, if Godzilla had been hairy, its hairball was sitting in my loo yesterday. True story.
My hair is very fine. It doesn’t look it, cos it’s wavy and somewhat wiry, and sticks out from my head at all angles, but I don’t have a lot of it, which means that from some viewpoints I can look a bit patchy on the ol’scalp. Has always been this way. Years ago I went to my then-GP and tried to convince her I was going bald but she laughed in my face and told me to come back when I had a real disease. Now I refrain from googling ‘female hair loss’ cos I think WE ALL KNOW what happens when I google symptoms. Yeah. Can everyone say LUPUS? I reckon if I google ‘help-me-for-the-love-of-Jeezus-I-am-losing-all-my-GODDAMN-hair’ then I will just end up convinced I have diabetes, alopecia, scabies or Tropical Ooga-Booga Monkey Virus – or all four – like I did all that time ago. And I don’t have those things. I just have fine hair.
Usually it does not bother me so much. I have accepted the fine hair burden. I adjust hair styles accordingly. Although I WILL NEVER HAVE A FRINGE *sob* which is a shame as I love fringes. When I was preggo, it was GREAT cos my hair was temporarily thick and lustrous. Then it all dropped out. Then it went back to being fine again. Now it’s dropping again. I have not had another baby. This is not fair.
Why is my hair dropping out? Why do I have hair-spiders dabbling in my toilet bowl more often than not? Is it my shit diet? Not that I eat shit. You get me. If so, what do I eat to stop the madness? And, most importantly, will you still love me if I’m bald?
I would just like to ascertain that hair seems to have NO TROUBLE WHATSOEVER growing ELSEWHERE upon my body. FFS.
My daughter is a scavenger. If we were in a post-apocalyptic world she’d be ace to have around. I would just send her out into the blasted, desolate landscape and she’d come back with a Pret-A-Manger New Yorker panino and twenty-seven tiny boxes of raisins.
In playgroup the other week she niftily sneaked a bag of cake RIGHT FROM THE SIDE of an unsuspecting woman. Once I’d finished laughing my ass off I had to return the cake. But it was then that I realised that she had skillz. Each week since then she circuits the room at biscuit and drink time and effectively hoovers up the surplus crumbs and juice dregs, and polishes them off. No wonder she’s always got a farking cold. The child is literally EATING them germs.
Really, I should applaud and encourage such initiative. Like I said, in a post-apocalyptic world she’d be queen. And who doesn’t prepare for a post-apocalyptic world? We’ve all seen the Terminator films (based on true events, don’t y’know). We all know that one day our household appliances will become self-aware and fark us in the ass. I want people around me who know what the fark they’re doing. Scavengers know what’s what. They know the good stuff. They know the crap from the utter crap.
Which is why I’m worried. Moo is a great scavenger. But she’s not picky. She will actually eat ANY crap she finds. I am serious. Any crap she picks up goes straight in her tiny mouth. She loves that floor crap. Floor crap is her favourite crap. She will eat stuff off the floor. Stuff. Crap. CRAP. My daughter eats CRAP OFF THE FLOOR.
Not to give you the impression that my house has tons of floor crap. (It does, though). Just, y’know, say I haven’t hoovered in a while – crap accumulates – Moo plays on the floor – I happen to look up from some important task (i.e. stalking people on Twitter) – Moo has crap in her mouth, or is in the ACT of raising crap TO her mouth – I weigh up the risk of putting my fingers in her mouth to fish out the floor crap – the risk is TOO GREAT. That girl can bite (also a useful post-apocalyptic skill).
So she ends up eating a lot of floor crap. I’m pretty sure most of it is food. Sometimes raisins, sometimes unidentifiable dry beige crud. Sometimes falafel. Often banana. And the bits that probably aren’t food? Let’s not think too closely about that.
I am pursuing the thought that a bit of floor crap is not going to do her any harm. In fact, it might strengthen her immune system to such an extent that she becomes SUPER-human. Which – yes – is handy for some post-apocalyptic living. See how you have to be prepared? You should ALWAYS be thinking about how you’ll survive, post-apocalyptically. However, now Moo is more and more interested in walking places rather than take the buggy, I am becoming increasingly aware of the type of floor crap you find outside, on the pavement. That is to say: pavement crap. Ye gods.
I don’t want Moo to eat pavement crap. That sort of crap consists mainly of pigeon shite and rat spaff and toxic chemicals. She’s just too young to be discerning, though, at this stage. I have to be uber-vigilant.
What’s the worst thing your kid has put in their mouth? And how angst-ridden should I be about this?
Sugar. The white stuff. The devilish, dastardly, bastard sweet white stuff. I can’t get enough. I love it. I’m addicted. I knock it back in shots. I smoke it in roll-ups. I inject it straight into my veins. I’m hooked up to an IV of the stuff right now. I rub it on my teeth to get that sugary hit. I even snorted it once, but that melted my septum and now my face has collapsed.
I exaggerate. But yeah. Sugar. Farking evil buggering shite. Where did it come from? Is there such thing as a sugar tree? A sugar bush? Actually, sugar bush would make a good stripper’s name. Sweet and hairy. Sticky and tickling. I’m rambling. I’m rambling in a nonsensical manner cos I’ve had some sugar contained within some biscuits and it’s befuddling my brain cells. This is what sugar is doing to me: it makes me talk arse. It rots my already fragile and decaying teeth. It makes my skin so sensitive that if I am scratched my flesh goes all red and warm and bumpy, like I have the Red Warm Bumpy Plague or something. It clunges up my scalp and makes it go all flaky and weird. It makes me use words like ‘clunges’ which aren’t real but kind of are. Sugar is nefarious.
‘Give it up!’ I hear you cry. ‘Just cut sugar out of your diet! It’s really easy to do that. And you’ll feel so much better. Your skin will unclunge itself.’
Yeah yeah, smart-arses. ‘Unclunge’ is so not a word. And, seriously? Sugar. What the actual fark? It’s in EVERYTHING. Even bread. And bread is savoury. I swear I saw sugar listed on the ingredients of some hummus. Bastard hummus makers. It would not be a simple thing to remove sugar from my diet. My diet consists of: biscuits, bread, chocolate, and fruit. Except for the fruit. Which is SUGAR anyway, just a fancy form of it with a scientific name. Wait – WAIT A FARKING MINUTE – is there sugar in GIN??
People who don’t eat sugar are weirdos anyway. They are usually the ones who don’t let their kids eat cake, or play with toys made out of plastic. But maybe they have a point. Maybe they know something we don’t – maybe the sugarless freaks will smugly inherit the earth, and live in yurts and wear hessian robes, while all the sugar addicts dissolve into a gargantuan puddle of sticky viscous flesh. I am getting slightly paranoid now. This is also a side-effect of sugar consumption.
OK so I need to cut down on the sugar. I need motivation. Determination. Self-control. And for someone to remove all the sugary stuff left in the house before I hoover it all up through my nose like a desperate starving addicted sugar-obsessed hobo.
My nutritional health is in the balance. How can I cut the crap?
And – seriously – is there sugar in gin? Cos I am in real trouble if there is. *frets*
This is how I lose weight: I eat less.
Like, a lot less.
Maybe one meal a day. If that.
For two reasons: firstly, when I am in a play, I go on what I call a play diet. It’s great. I don’t eat cos I’m nervous, and I’m active in the evenings, instead of morphing slowly into the sofa, so I expend energy as well. Some years ago I played Lady Macbeth in Macbeth (duh) and I managed to drop 2 stone over the course of the rehearsal and performance process. Skills.
Secondly, heartbreak. Some people comfort eat. I don’t. I comfort forget-to-eat. I just don’t. I can, and will, in social situations. But at home, I don’t eat. I’m not hungry. My stomach is full of woe, innit.
So a combination of the two is a potent mix.
I think I have dropped a stone within the last month. My skinny jeans are skinny once more. A few people have commented: ‘You look skinny’. With concern on their faces. They know what’s been going on, so they have a right to be concerned. But secretly – or not so secretly now – I like being this skinny. I want to be skinnier. I want to drop more weight. By not eating.
And this is where it gets dangerous. Dropping weight rapidly is not good for my skin, my hair, my teeth, or my general well-being. Moo has a horrendous cold at the moment, and I can feel my creaky immune system just gearing up for a mega-meltdown. I’m in for it. My skinny frame is going to tumble.
I have to look after myself. I know this. I know what I’m doing to myself and the implications such idiotic actions have. But the lure of smaller clothes and a svelte reflection in the mirror is too alluring for me to resist.
What have I consumed today? It’s not lunch time yet, but I know I won’t have lunch. And I have rehearsal tonight, so I won’t eat before that. So, I’ve had a cup of tea, some water, and a slice of toast today. And that may well be all.
I can hear y’all shouting at me to eat. And I will, I promise. Tomorrow, maybe.
This is not a diet I would recommend to anyone. Heartbreak is not worth it. And until that Stuff is sorted, I fear I may get worse.
You did it. Y’all went and LOOKED AT MY BLOG and now I have to FORGO BISCUITS for the ENTIRE MONTH OF NOVEMBER.
You know how hard this will be, yeah? YEAH? *weeps softly*
Sure, sure, it’s great to smash the 4000 barrier and we’ve not even finished October yet, but people, please – have some pity – for my sake! If I make RASH PROMISES along the lines of, ‘I will give up biscuits for November if my October stats go over 4000′ then JESUS CHRIST don’t actually make me do it!!
Well! The joke’s on you! HAVE YOU ANY IDEA HOW STABBY I’M GOING TO BE IF I CAN’T HAVE BISCUITS?? Mahahahahahhahaha
Fine. Whatever. I’ll do it.
Didn’t say nothing about giving up CAKE, though, did I?? AHA!
As if you all needed any more evidence that my food intake is shocking and useless:
- a quarter of a buttered teacake
- a slice of (unripe) nectarine*
- a whole pack of Jammy Dodgers
- a bowl of pasta with broccoli, ham and cheese
- a yoghurt
- half a bar of Green and Black’s Dark Chocolate with Cherries
OK so I have some issues regarding my body post pregnancy. This is mostly cos before I got pregnant, I was FIT. I realise that NOW. Before when I moaned about my body, I was an IDIOT. Seriously. I was HOT. Svelte and (sort of) toned, when I could be arsed to exercise and lay off the sweet treats. And damn, was I slim. And sure, worrying about body image is daft cos every body’s different and we’re all beautiful, blah blah blah, but I was a bit of all right. I really was.
Now – 9 months post-natal – I don’t feel so attractive. I have VERY MANY body parts I would gladly exchange my soul for if they could just be small and non-wobbly again. And I’m trying to do something about it, I really am – I’ve started running again. I have CONSCIOUSLY cut down on cakes/biscuits/sweets, though I’m not always so good at that. I have resolved to up the ‘exercise-stuff’ when we’re back in Bristol and I can sign up for yoga classes etc etc. And obv once we’re poor, we won’t be able to afford luxuries like sugary food, so points scored there.
But in the meantime I am still flabby. This is bugging me HUGELY right now because a) there’s a beach right outside and the best beach wear is small and bikini-like, b) no one else seems to care what they look like on the beach in their bikinis and I wish I could think like that.
My default mindset must be switched firmly to ‘self-loathe’. How else can I explain it? I’ve seen all shapes and sizes on this beach, from nubile teens (can’t compete, too harsh) to rotund OAPs (old ladies just don’t care about anything though, lucky mares) to flabby, veiny, wobbly, spongy women of all ages who have got it all on show and hey, THAT’S GREAT, I fully support gratuitous bikini-related nudity, so why-oh-why can’t I get my sorry frame out on show? Who cares, really, apart from me? What do I think is going to happen? Apart from, of course, some long-lost race of blubbery whale-people emerging from the deeps and claiming me as one of their own. Do I think people are going to point and stare? Silently (or not so silently) judge my body and knock off points for cellulite/muffin-top/bingo wings? Come up to me and quietly take me to one side and say, ‘Excuse me, but the sight of you in a bikini is making my children cry and totally ruining their day. Could you remove yourself from the beach, please?’
Well, yes, I do think these things will happen – all of the above. Which is daft. Yes. I know.
But these are the total, absolute insecurities I have about my body now. I would even go so far as to say I hate my body, which will upset Hub as he (apparently) still quite likes it. I know I can’t be alone in feeling like this, and I know, actually, that I’m probably not that bad.
And I know that it’s unlikely that I will ever TRULY be happy.
I would like to wear a bikini though. On the beach. Without making children cry.