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I got into bed about an hour after Tobermory had passed out last night. He was lying on top of the duvet, so I snuggled under my bit.

“You have enough duvet? Fine, THEN CAN I HAVE SOME.”

“You’re lying on your bit, you muppet!”

After a bit of a duvet-related dispute, I extracted the duvet from under his person and covered him up.

“‘m awake now. You hit me in head with duvet. Why?”

I might have had more sympathy if I’d actually hit him, or indeed if he’d actually woken up at any point in this conversation. Instead, I got the giggles, which elicited a protracted set of complaints about my laughing at him. THis didn’t help me not have the giggles. Particularly when he started poking me in the side, with the stated intent of stopping me from shaking the bed.

I eventually calmed down enough to start reading the internet on my phone for a bit. Then his hand shot out, grabbed me by the wrist, and dragged me over to his side of the bed for headpats.

After a few minutes, headpats weren’t good enough, so he launched himself over the bed to me – literally, there was air between the husband and the mattress – snuggled in, and went back to what I assumed was sleep.

Five minutes later – “where Boomer? Boomer OK? want Boomer. You go check he OK.”

I knew as a fact that the cat crying outdoors was Gingerbum being beaten up by over-the-road’s tabby. Neither cat is ours, but apparently our section is the nominated arena for neighbourhood feline disputes. Still, it was easier to get out of bed than explain all that, so I did. Confirmed that Boomer was indeed sacked in his chair in the living room, Tigra was in the snug, and Chicken was in the bedroom with us. I hopped back into bed again, and resumed internet on my phone.

A few minutes later: thump. I reached out and attempted to locate my husband. I did not locate my husband. I located an absence of my husband.

I turned on the light.

There are very few things more amusing than discovering your husband has fallen out of bed, cuddling his pillow like a teddybear, having landed on his back on the carpet, with his head in the cats’ empty water bowl.

One of the few things that IS more amusing is said husband arguing with you that he is actually STILL IN BED, and using the location of his feet – still tucked up on the mattress under the duvet – as evidence in his favour.

I attempted to take his pillow away.

“You no take blanket!”

“It’s not a blanket, it’s your pillow!”

“Not a pillow! I in bed, is duvet!”

“Darling, you’re ON THE FLOOR. ON THE CARPET. ON YOUR BACK.”

He wiggled around a bit and stretched out a hand.

“Why am I on the floor?”

“You fell out of bed.”

“Can’t have. You must have pushed me.”

Helplessly giggling, I did eventually convince him to get back into bed, and we settled down for the night.

“I like hearing you laugh. Worth falling out of bed for a proper Mahal laugh.”

I’m struggling tonight.

I have a video of myself dancing. Practicing, at tonight’s performance zouk rehearsal. I’ve never seen myself dance before.

What I see? 200 pounds of blubber. Flapping about on the stage and it is not a pretty sight. If I continue with this it will be in spite of myself, not because I’m enjoying it, but because I’m not going to let myself be such a FUCKING IDIOT as to stop doing something I love just because I hate the way I look doing it.

It’s no-one’s fault but mine. If I lost weight… or if I wasn’t up on stage, I wouldn’t care.

What I see is not how I feel when I’m dancing, what I see has absolutely nothing to do with how I feel when I’m dancing. And there are bits of me that can see that watching the video of myself over again. I can see someone who, despite the fat… I can do the moves, I’m moving in time, I’m not heavy on my feet.. I’m flexible and I’m capable of doing what I’m asking my body to do. I’m in the right spots on the right time. Admittedly you can’t always see that I’m making all the right moves because the blubber’s hiding the muscle. But…

I don’t know. I’m proud of what I can do, I’m proud of the work I’ve put in, and I’ve put in BLOODY hard work. I have worked my ASS off. And other people must be able to see it, I KNOW they can because they say so! They ask me for help, and the girls ask me how to do things, and it’s not because I push my nose in although I suppose maybe I have and I’m just not aware of it? But they don’t have to keep coming back, they could just ask each other rather than asking me. So no, I’m not incapable.

And my teachers could have let me drop out when my partner pulled out. They didn’t have to keep me dancing. They had an easy out and they COULD have taken it and they DIDN’T. So that means that me being on stage is worth something. It’s not worth much but it’s worth something.

Just because I hate the way I look doesn’t mean other people do, it just means that I hate it. And come to think of it, one of the reasons I love watching my first ever zouk teacher dance is that she’s overweight. She’s … slimmer than me, and more muscular than me, and she has far more of a defined waist than I do because apparently I carry fat there, but you know what? She looks GORGEOUS when she dances, so why shouldn’t I?

I’m never going to be like her, but nothing stopping me being like me.

And I keep thinking, every time I’m out socially, that I’m… why should I be put off because I’m the second biggest girl in the room? No-one else seems to mind; I still get invites to dance, and by strange guys as well as friends. So it’s not like I’m repulsive to the male part of the human race. I need to get over myself, right?

Get out there and be proud of what I can do. Even if I can’t be proud of what I look like, I can be damn proud of the work I’ve put in.

So maybe that’s what I go out and do.

Maybe that’s the answer.

Operation 2012: Tidy All The Things appears to be working.

One of my goalposts was that I would be able to clean/tidy a given room without needing to throw things away to achieve this tidiness. In the snug (my craft room), the bathrooms, and the kitchen, this point has been achieved. The kitchen gets a bit of a waiver if the things being thrown in the trash are food-wrappings; otherwise, we’re just about there.

The garage will reach that point just as soon as the couch is gone and this years’ inorganic collection has happened. The laundry hit that point months ago, and only fails on the basis of dust bunnies out of the lint catcher from the dryer.

The living room is still a problem, because the excess things in that room (non-trash) need to be put… somewhere, and somewhere doesn’t exist yet. It’ll happen as soon as the spare rooms are sorted.

The spare rooms are still a problem, in large part due to “oh god, 35 boxes from the UK oh god”, and the bits that weren’t my Expedit being stuffed whereever they fit. Still. Progress has happened, and progress is the important bit, right?

What is it with clothing manufacturers this season? I went looking for trackpants. I dance, I need workout clothes that don’t fall down. It’s not an unreasonable request, right?

So why on earth don’t trackpants come with drawstrings at the moment? I mean, seriously. My hips are wider than my waist, which is not an unusual circumstance among women. Elastic is all well and good, but elastic stretches. I want a drawstring! so when I’m dancing or running, my pants remain IN PLACE.

I have given up, and resorted to the purchase of pajama pants. Those at least have drawstrings and will reliably remain where I tie them.

Grrr.

I spent a few hours today painting this little guy.

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He’s a Windstone Paint Your Own Foo Puppy.

The last couple of weekends have involved a lot of organising. Saturday last weekend, T and I moved ALL the living room furniture and vacuumed, steamcleaned the carpet, dusted, moved everything back… admittedly I still haven’t quite finished rummaging and organising the pile of junk that this created, but at least it’s all in one pile now.

Today, I evicted the entire contents of both pantries. No, the kitchen’s not enormous or anything, but there’s two cupboards which, together, serve the general purpose of “pantry”. Having spread the contents all over the kitchen table, they needed to be reorganised and stashed back in place.

I’m ashamed to say that I found things in the cabinets that I’d actually forgotten we owned. The culprits have been stashed in a cardboard box, listed on Freecycle, and will theoretically be collected tomorrow. I took a trip to purchase some plastic crates, as well – so things are collated in boxes with other things of a similar nature. In theory, I will be able to find things now.

I also went through the first aid box, which lives in said pantry. There was a remarkable amount of expired medication, which has been appropriately disposed of. Everything remaining has been tidied into a new plastic crate, one that has a handle and a lid for easy transportation e.g. to the bathroom. I’m not sure why we have six boxes of various bandaids, but there you go.

I’m still not very good at dealing with the odds and sods that result from tidying sessions like this. But I’m getting better, gradually. And it is nice living in a more organised home. I can find things!

Operation 2012 is still running. Life happened, and I fell over a bit in June/July – frankly I expected to, I hate winter. On the plus side, the house didn’t get any worse.

T and I vanquished Mount Washmore and Mount Foldmore last weekend. That freed up the bedroom floor, allowing us to vacuum. The bathrooms have been cleaned.

I bought a steam cleaner, which T has claimed as his own – he cackles gleefully when operating it. Apparently the MAGIC OF STEAM and the GLORIOUS CLEAN that results are worthy of maniacal chortles?

I took a four-day long weekend (Friday through Monday). Today, I emptied and cleaned the front hall, including windows, washing down the front doors, and polishing the furniture. I emptied and organised six drawers in the kitchen, the pots cupboard, and the cupboard under the sink.

I have, somewhat ashamedly, taken to reading home-making and organising blogs. I’m never really going to be Suzie Homemaker, but I may as well find out how other people do things, rather than reinventing the wheel. The cup shelf was one such idea. And today I hung a rail under the sink to hang spray bottles off, to get them off the floor, so the other stuff that gets stuffed under the sink is less squished.

It’s a good feeling, living in a clean space. I still don’t really enjoy cleaning, but I do enjoy the results.

Yesterday, I wore my harem pants to work. Black harem pants, black tshirt, my favourite yellow heels (which my lovely husband calls my banana shoes) and a dark pink merino shrug.

The receptionist oohed and aahed at me, and told me I was a real glam queen.

Server admin colleague (female) – “it’s not that I was looking at your bum, but those pants are fantastic.”

Dance teacher / friendly acquaintance out dancing – “where do you find such amazing clothes?”

It was a good day.

Also, about half of my bras are getting uncomfortable. I finally realised that it’s because they’re too big – I’ve lost circumference at the rib cage. So the straps are sitting wrong, so my shoulders hurt, because the band isn’t taking the weight it should.

I realised last night that my stamina for social dancing is much, much improved. When I started out, I couldn’t do two songs back to back – my ankles and legs would hurt too much. I’d be out of breath. I’d also be panicking a little, owing to my general inability to follow a lead. I also couldn’t do zouk and salsa on the same night – it was too hard to rewire my brain. I had to pick one style of dance and do only that.

Stepping off the floor after song five last night, gasping for a drink of water, I realised that hey, I’ve come a long way. Zouk, salsa, bachata, one after another after another, and the only real reason I took a break was thirst. I wasn’t even short of partners! I go regularly enough that the men know I’m … well, they know what level I dance at, and while I might not be skilled enough for the epic spins and so on, I’m reasonably competent. I even ask men to dance these days. The ones I recognise as regulars, anyway.

It’s nice, driving home late, contented with the night. Getting up the next day, in no pain (other than mild dehydration occasionally!).

I went to a zouk party last Friday. They had a social competition, and I entered – at intermediate level. Didn’t win, of course, nor did I expect to! But I had fun, and I had friends cheering me on from the sidelines (not just my teachers!) and it was a fantastic night. I crawled in the door at 2am, having been awake for 20 hours on the run.

This makes me happy.

I’ve gone back to zouk classes, starting last Monday. I’m getting sloppy, I’m not working as hard as I should. As hard as I can. It’s time to step it up.

It’s my birthday tomorrow – I will be 29.

I realised last night that I really have grown in confidence in the last couple of years. See, there’s a party coming up, and the theme is Jungle Fever. And Mum had given me a hundred bucks, with strict instructions to spend it on something frivolous.

So I bought this top (from City Chic, one of my favourite fat-girl-clothing stores).



It’s loud. It’s LEOPARD PRINT. It’s strapless. It is many many things that I would normally not wear, and yet I am going to wear it anyway.

And you know what? I feel really good wearing it. It’s sexy, pretty, flattering.

What the hell, right?

To complete my reputation as an occasional throwback to the 50′s, here is the apron I made today.



I’ve been wanting a 50′s style apron – full skirted and so on – for awhile. It finally occurred to me that I had a dress that didn’t fit well – too high waisted for a bust as full as mine – but when cut down, it would make a fantastic apron.

And it does! I even lined the skirt. And it’s hanging on my dressmaker’s dummy, in the snug, with my newly-rearranged furniture, surrounded by the other crafty things I love.

It’s been a good weekend.