I know it's been nearly 2 weeks since I wrote a blog and I need to keep this up so I can remember every moment of this supposedly blissful event. Truth is, up until last week, other than the occasional light headedness, nothing was reaally going on. I got really worried last Friday and called NHS 24 to explain my worries. "Oh my Goodness Mrs McGilvray, no prenancy symptoms at all. Well you better come in and be scanned to make sure nothing has gone wrong". That was what I expected the friendly man to say to me. I mean, I'm a healthcare professional, surely a healthcare professional worrying about her first pregnancy would make a fellow healthcare professional think maybe there's something in it. But no, in the world of pregnant ladies, I'm no different to any other lay pregnant lady with no knowledge of what's going on inside. The friendly male nurse on the other end of the phone line says, essentially every pregnancy's different, until anything sinister starts, there's no reason to assume anything's wrong! Pah, don't they realise I need to know, I need to know this baby's ok, I'm ok. I don't need to know I'm acting like an overly hormonal irrational dipstick.
Saturday came, me and David walked to Braehead, about 45 minutes away from our house. We chose a pregnancy book together. Dorling Kindersely, she always has good advice. There it is, in black and white. Sometimes, pregnancy symptoms are few and far between. It seems to me that worry is the most obvious symptom of this pregnancy. After a fruit smoothie and a gander round some shops, David and I left Braehead for the bus home. When we got back, David wanted to go to the local supermarket. Then the mysterious symptoms started. The room started swimming around me, I turned a curious shade of pale and I needed to sit down. I recomposed myself and we left the shop. On the way home, David couldn't quite understand why I was so happy. The symptoms have started, I feel pregnant.
On Sunday, I managed to eat the last curry and drink the last Irn Bru I may enjoy for a long time. You see, in the short space of a week, the vomiting has started. I can't stand to eat anything creamy, with a strong flavour or with fizz. David doesn't get the fact that for so long, I loved chocolate fountain shots from Thorntons, now, when I can enjoy them guilt free, I feel sick at the idea of them. I live on toast, potato waffles and, if I feel decadent, Twister ice lollies. What a crock of shit pregnancy is, the most enjoyable time of a woman's life my arse! I want to enjoy all the bad things I usually feel guilty about, but now feel like shit at the mere idea.
I'm sure it'll all improve in time, but for now, I'll continue to bitch and moan about it.
Bet you can't wait for the next installment
Jojo x
Friday, 10 April 2009
Sunday, 29 March 2009
What a Week, Where's my Head At?
Hi, sorry it's been so long, but what a week, I'm fucking shattered, emotionally and physically. As you may or may not have read, I got the phone call from my GP to say that I had all the hormones of a 3 year old girl and that the chances of ovulation this month were slim to nil. Well, on Tuesday, four days after the previous phone call, I was given my more recent blood results, so, what do you know doc..... My day 28 bloods showed a progesterone of 77! I had enough in me to ovulate... twice. Unfortunately, I knew my monthly friend was going to arrive any day with the dull cramps low down in my tummy.
I knew we hadn't timed it right, remember my mentioning the "O" word, causing David to run for the hills like a screaming girl? Well, for this month I was happy in the knowledge that I had indeed ovulated, my cyst filled ovaries were not completely screwed and so I went on to go about my weekly business, hit the gym, shopping and so on. When I went to the gym, I was doing some upper body stuff, kinda strenuous and I felt it in my chest, round the side of my boobs and across the top. I put it down to the fact I was working hard and thought nothing of it.
I made an appointment to see my hairdresser to get my hair done, I did some stuff for work, I went to line dancing on Thursday, I spoke to Kik about what we were doing for her birthday that weekend. Before I go out to get drunk, I've made a habit of taking a wee pregnancy test just to rule it out so I can get drunk, that and to fulfill my morbid obsession with seeing the single line appear to denote a negative result and blast my cursed ovaries (think the Mothercare paradigm, I'm sure they're related). So on Thursday I buy a double pregnancy test and head off to line dancing. There's a dance called Roll With the Flow that I've been trying to get for a while and for some reason I was doing worse than usual and behaving like a spoilt child about it. Bugger the PMT. When I arrived home, David was still out at the pub and Alex was in bed, I was having a wee sing song to myself, something I haven't done for aaaaaages, I was filling my hot water bottles and I needed to pee. Why not, I might as well bask in the depression and pee on a stick. I went to the toilet, opened the wrapper while dancing from foot to foot and sat down to pee on the stick. I replaced the cap, being careful not to get wee all over the place, and waited. The test window came up with the oh so familiar horizontal line, the control window then showed the vertical line, I sighed. I went to wash my hands. I looked at the test with the usual sinking feeling. I blinked, looked again. Nah... "It's a trick of the light, a reflection". After I dried my hands, I picked up my test (completely screwing up the purpose of washing my hands in the first place). There it was, a line I had never seen before, a vertical line imposed on the horizontal. Positive. Pregnant. PREGNANT! David, where the fuck was David, he was supposed to be there when I got my big fat positive. I called his mobile and left a very shaky message on his machine. I tried to waken Alex, but no matter how much I knocked and shouted, he never woke up. I was alone in the knowledge and I had to tell someone. David finally phoned, drunk. When I told him it would wait till he got home, he insisted I told him over the phone. "Wow" was his reply "Well, I'm not going into work tomorrow". He justified this statement by saying it was a family emergency. I, of course went into work. I found it so difficult to concentrate and wanted to tell everyone.
So that's it, I'm sprogged up. All the PMT, boob pain, cramps were because of the bun slowly cooking in the oven. This is great, we're having a baby.
I'm shit scared!
I knew we hadn't timed it right, remember my mentioning the "O" word, causing David to run for the hills like a screaming girl? Well, for this month I was happy in the knowledge that I had indeed ovulated, my cyst filled ovaries were not completely screwed and so I went on to go about my weekly business, hit the gym, shopping and so on. When I went to the gym, I was doing some upper body stuff, kinda strenuous and I felt it in my chest, round the side of my boobs and across the top. I put it down to the fact I was working hard and thought nothing of it.
I made an appointment to see my hairdresser to get my hair done, I did some stuff for work, I went to line dancing on Thursday, I spoke to Kik about what we were doing for her birthday that weekend. Before I go out to get drunk, I've made a habit of taking a wee pregnancy test just to rule it out so I can get drunk, that and to fulfill my morbid obsession with seeing the single line appear to denote a negative result and blast my cursed ovaries (think the Mothercare paradigm, I'm sure they're related). So on Thursday I buy a double pregnancy test and head off to line dancing. There's a dance called Roll With the Flow that I've been trying to get for a while and for some reason I was doing worse than usual and behaving like a spoilt child about it. Bugger the PMT. When I arrived home, David was still out at the pub and Alex was in bed, I was having a wee sing song to myself, something I haven't done for aaaaaages, I was filling my hot water bottles and I needed to pee. Why not, I might as well bask in the depression and pee on a stick. I went to the toilet, opened the wrapper while dancing from foot to foot and sat down to pee on the stick. I replaced the cap, being careful not to get wee all over the place, and waited. The test window came up with the oh so familiar horizontal line, the control window then showed the vertical line, I sighed. I went to wash my hands. I looked at the test with the usual sinking feeling. I blinked, looked again. Nah... "It's a trick of the light, a reflection". After I dried my hands, I picked up my test (completely screwing up the purpose of washing my hands in the first place). There it was, a line I had never seen before, a vertical line imposed on the horizontal. Positive. Pregnant. PREGNANT! David, where the fuck was David, he was supposed to be there when I got my big fat positive. I called his mobile and left a very shaky message on his machine. I tried to waken Alex, but no matter how much I knocked and shouted, he never woke up. I was alone in the knowledge and I had to tell someone. David finally phoned, drunk. When I told him it would wait till he got home, he insisted I told him over the phone. "Wow" was his reply "Well, I'm not going into work tomorrow". He justified this statement by saying it was a family emergency. I, of course went into work. I found it so difficult to concentrate and wanted to tell everyone.
So that's it, I'm sprogged up. All the PMT, boob pain, cramps were because of the bun slowly cooking in the oven. This is great, we're having a baby.
I'm shit scared!
Sunday, 22 March 2009
Happy Sunday Day!!!
So, yesterday kind of sucked and the day before sucked even more. Today is Mother's Day and it won't suck. Maybe this is the last Mother's Day I'll have with a barren waste-ground of a womb. Maybe next year'll be different. For now, I have my own Mum to spoil and treat like the Queen. So for me today isn't Mother's Day, it's Sunday Day, where I get to slob about in my jim-jams until I finish my blog, then hurridly try to sort out the house in my slovenly manner awaiting my Mum for her Mother's Day celebration.
When I think about the sadness involved in infertility, I have to remember the joy I have in my life. I have a wonderful husband who just made me the nicest breakfast, 2 wonderful cats, both of whom have given me cuddles today that makes me feel like everyday is Sunday Day. And I have an Alex, a wonderfully curious creature who inhabits the room next door to us and I'm sure is the only individual who I'm sure reads this blog.
Alex shared a bottle of champagne last night with us. We laughed, we watched Notting Hill, we talked about memories of of youth. It was lovely. You see, most people see a lodger as someone who merely lives in your house, comes and goes, but has nothing to do with your life other than giving money for the room they inhabit. Alex is more than that. He enriches our lives the same way a family memeber would, without condition or reservation. He is a true friend to both David and I. He doesn't interfere with our marriage, he knows when to give us space. We are lucky to have him.
So this one's for him, my one and only reader. Happy Sunday Day ya big sap. Hope all your Sundays are magical and bring you happiness and peace.
Love ya
Joanne x
When I think about the sadness involved in infertility, I have to remember the joy I have in my life. I have a wonderful husband who just made me the nicest breakfast, 2 wonderful cats, both of whom have given me cuddles today that makes me feel like everyday is Sunday Day. And I have an Alex, a wonderfully curious creature who inhabits the room next door to us and I'm sure is the only individual who I'm sure reads this blog.
Alex shared a bottle of champagne last night with us. We laughed, we watched Notting Hill, we talked about memories of of youth. It was lovely. You see, most people see a lodger as someone who merely lives in your house, comes and goes, but has nothing to do with your life other than giving money for the room they inhabit. Alex is more than that. He enriches our lives the same way a family memeber would, without condition or reservation. He is a true friend to both David and I. He doesn't interfere with our marriage, he knows when to give us space. We are lucky to have him.
So this one's for him, my one and only reader. Happy Sunday Day ya big sap. Hope all your Sundays are magical and bring you happiness and peace.
Love ya
Joanne x
Saturday, 21 March 2009
My Embarrasing Little Habit
Ok Guys, here goes. As you may or may not know, the road to conception for me and David is a bumpy one (pardon the pun) which basically boils down to the fact that my ovaries are shot to hell with cysts. As I result I don't ovulate naturally and I have to take a medication called Clomid which is supposed to stimulate this sacred action only bestowed to the luckiest of women. Clomid has the most fantastic side-effects, my normally cheerful and sunny dispostion is replaced by frustration and paranoia. I can't fit any of my regular clothes. I am regularly tired and demotivated. I also have the joy of regular headaches that creep up and smack me right between the eyes.
To check this drug is working, I have weekly bloods taken from day 21 of my cycle to measure my progesterone, FSH and LH. In a nutshell, if the LH levels are above 20, a woman is about to ovulate (normally around day 14). If the progesterone levels are above 30 at day 21, ovulation has taken place. FSH levels that are lower than LH levels are commonly indicative of Polycystic Ovarian Syndrome, my chosen condition. So, by day 21, I should have had a progesterone level above 30, an LH surge should have taken place and my FSH levels, well I really couldn't give a shit. Are you still with me? Yesterday I got my day 28 bloods taken and was given the results of the day 21 bloods over the phone, in the middle of town, with my dear friend Michaela at my side.
As it turns out, my LH levels for day 21 were all of 6.1, my FSH was 5.0 and my progesterone, a staggeringly low 8.9. Other than the FSH, these results are typical of a woman at day 3 of her cycle, when she should still be menstruating. At day 21 I can only think of this as fucking dire. As my results were being read out over the telephone, I could feel that familiar knot tightening in my stomach whilst my shoulders drooped after the anticipation. I swallow hard and ask this new and lovely GP if she had seen much success with Clomid. A short pause followed, a simple "No" was her answer. She had seen maybe 1 in 20 women conceive on this awful drug when she was an SHO in gynae, although studies usually claim it to be higher. "Would I be likely to ovulate on this cycle based on these results?" Again, pause, "No, not this time, although it's not impossible." I quickly wrap up the converation with my GP, I got all the information I needed for this week. Another cycle, another month of mood-swings, lethargy and crap. Yes, I fell sorry for myself. So what, this is my blog and I'm going to be self-indulgent about it today. Remember last week when I spoke about the fact that I was getting all the signs that maybe ovulation was going to happen, well, bollocks to it.
I told a worried Michaela I'm going to be ok, she should get off home. This is a situation that can be solved with shopping and a carrot, apple and ginger juice. I lied and told her I needed to buy stuff for the house and it would all be very boring. The truth was too embarrasing at that point. I got my juice, it always seems to perk me up, the zing of the ginger and the promise of wholesome vegetables always make me imagine that maybe this is the thing that'll make me ovulate, not those horrible bitter pills. Then I realise it's time to indulge in my masochistic habit. Mothercare.
Whenever things go wrong, I get my period, I don't ovulate, I find out some other lucky woman has beat me to it in the race to get sprogged up, my homing beacon sends me there to look at prams, cots and baby clothes. It's like a drug. I get in there and the smell of baby hits me and my uterus skips a beat. I walk in to find women, pregnant ones, not obviously pregnant ones, mothers with toddlers, mothers with babies, tiny ones, you know, that look like old men and have little white milk spots on their noses. Here no-one knows I'm not normal. As far as they're concerned I could be any woman in the early stages of pregnancy, taking joy in contemplating prams and cots and imagining where they would fit in my house. For a few minutes, I believe this is true and look in awe at the joys of parenthood, deluded, thinking it'll soon be me pushing my beautiful baby in a pram, stopping briefly to ask where the nursing rooms are because it's hungry and needs a feed and a cuddle from Mummy. Then I feel sick, a shop assistant, often an older woman approaches and offers her advice on the best pram to buy. My lovely dream world screetches to halt. Of course I don't need any help here, I don't belong here. I'm not in the "motherhood gang". I make my excuses, say I need to bring my husband for his opinion and leave. Yesterday was different, no-one approached, I think they recognised me from a few months ago. The most I got was a fleeting glance at my not pregnant stomach, a head cocked to the side and a pitying smile. That made me feel sicker than usual so I headed downstairs where I was met by the maternity clothes. Here I saw a black t-shirt with pink foil writing questioning boldly "DOES MY BUMP LOOK BIG IN THIS?" It was only £15 I though, what the hell. I picked it up and went to the cash desk. When it was my turn to get served, I flustered, the fraud that I am, why am I doing this to myself? I made an excuse about not having my bank card, "baby brain" the cashier called it. I then left the shop, my heart beating loudly in my chest. I had had my fix and the come-down all within 10 minutes. It was time to go home and admit my transgression to David.
I feel better today, still sad, but better. A really wise woman I know said to me that the problem with the strongest tree is that it has to survive the strongest wind. I guess that means I just need to suck it up and get on with it.
Hopefully a happier story soon
Jojo x
To check this drug is working, I have weekly bloods taken from day 21 of my cycle to measure my progesterone, FSH and LH. In a nutshell, if the LH levels are above 20, a woman is about to ovulate (normally around day 14). If the progesterone levels are above 30 at day 21, ovulation has taken place. FSH levels that are lower than LH levels are commonly indicative of Polycystic Ovarian Syndrome, my chosen condition. So, by day 21, I should have had a progesterone level above 30, an LH surge should have taken place and my FSH levels, well I really couldn't give a shit. Are you still with me? Yesterday I got my day 28 bloods taken and was given the results of the day 21 bloods over the phone, in the middle of town, with my dear friend Michaela at my side.
As it turns out, my LH levels for day 21 were all of 6.1, my FSH was 5.0 and my progesterone, a staggeringly low 8.9. Other than the FSH, these results are typical of a woman at day 3 of her cycle, when she should still be menstruating. At day 21 I can only think of this as fucking dire. As my results were being read out over the telephone, I could feel that familiar knot tightening in my stomach whilst my shoulders drooped after the anticipation. I swallow hard and ask this new and lovely GP if she had seen much success with Clomid. A short pause followed, a simple "No" was her answer. She had seen maybe 1 in 20 women conceive on this awful drug when she was an SHO in gynae, although studies usually claim it to be higher. "Would I be likely to ovulate on this cycle based on these results?" Again, pause, "No, not this time, although it's not impossible." I quickly wrap up the converation with my GP, I got all the information I needed for this week. Another cycle, another month of mood-swings, lethargy and crap. Yes, I fell sorry for myself. So what, this is my blog and I'm going to be self-indulgent about it today. Remember last week when I spoke about the fact that I was getting all the signs that maybe ovulation was going to happen, well, bollocks to it.
I told a worried Michaela I'm going to be ok, she should get off home. This is a situation that can be solved with shopping and a carrot, apple and ginger juice. I lied and told her I needed to buy stuff for the house and it would all be very boring. The truth was too embarrasing at that point. I got my juice, it always seems to perk me up, the zing of the ginger and the promise of wholesome vegetables always make me imagine that maybe this is the thing that'll make me ovulate, not those horrible bitter pills. Then I realise it's time to indulge in my masochistic habit. Mothercare.
Whenever things go wrong, I get my period, I don't ovulate, I find out some other lucky woman has beat me to it in the race to get sprogged up, my homing beacon sends me there to look at prams, cots and baby clothes. It's like a drug. I get in there and the smell of baby hits me and my uterus skips a beat. I walk in to find women, pregnant ones, not obviously pregnant ones, mothers with toddlers, mothers with babies, tiny ones, you know, that look like old men and have little white milk spots on their noses. Here no-one knows I'm not normal. As far as they're concerned I could be any woman in the early stages of pregnancy, taking joy in contemplating prams and cots and imagining where they would fit in my house. For a few minutes, I believe this is true and look in awe at the joys of parenthood, deluded, thinking it'll soon be me pushing my beautiful baby in a pram, stopping briefly to ask where the nursing rooms are because it's hungry and needs a feed and a cuddle from Mummy. Then I feel sick, a shop assistant, often an older woman approaches and offers her advice on the best pram to buy. My lovely dream world screetches to halt. Of course I don't need any help here, I don't belong here. I'm not in the "motherhood gang". I make my excuses, say I need to bring my husband for his opinion and leave. Yesterday was different, no-one approached, I think they recognised me from a few months ago. The most I got was a fleeting glance at my not pregnant stomach, a head cocked to the side and a pitying smile. That made me feel sicker than usual so I headed downstairs where I was met by the maternity clothes. Here I saw a black t-shirt with pink foil writing questioning boldly "DOES MY BUMP LOOK BIG IN THIS?" It was only £15 I though, what the hell. I picked it up and went to the cash desk. When it was my turn to get served, I flustered, the fraud that I am, why am I doing this to myself? I made an excuse about not having my bank card, "baby brain" the cashier called it. I then left the shop, my heart beating loudly in my chest. I had had my fix and the come-down all within 10 minutes. It was time to go home and admit my transgression to David.
I feel better today, still sad, but better. A really wise woman I know said to me that the problem with the strongest tree is that it has to survive the strongest wind. I guess that means I just need to suck it up and get on with it.
Hopefully a happier story soon
Jojo x
Monday, 16 March 2009
X Factor Behaviour
Evening all
Went to see the X Factor Live last night. Hats off to Jeff Brazier who, even though the mother of his 2 boys is on her death bed, managed to pull it together to be a warm and welcoming host to the evening's proceedings. All of the acts were superb, not one bum note was hit, not even from Daniel King of the Sob Story Evans. You see, the good thing about going to a concert like this is that the eight performers involved are still trying to establish themselves as serious artists, having one foot on their own ladder of success and the other firmly planted on the heartachingly mundane ground that we non-celebrities inhabit. They therefore try to turn out a groundbreaking performance, ensuring that each song performed is more memorable than the last and as a result of the lust for fame, they work bloody hard and turn out well.
Only one or two minor problems arose... Whilst trying to take photos of each of the acts, I was angrily tapped on the shoulder by a woman with the face of a bitch chewing a wasp and the demeanor and tact of Shrek. "My daughter can't see for you and that bloody camera" she growls. As I start to apologise profusely, partly out of genuine remorse, partly out of sheer intimidation, she continues "She's paid her ticket the same as you and deserves to see the fucking show". Now am I the only one who can see a problem or two with this statement. 1. Unless this 5 year old is subject to childhood labour, how can she possibly pay for her own ticket, think about what you say before you say it love, it's the first rule of picking an argument. 2. There was absolutely no need to approach this situation so completely on the defensive, just ask and I would have gladly put the camera away, no question. To swear and rant about it only highlights her inability to communicate effectively and sends unbelievably negative messages to her children. Consequently, any attempt by me to sway with the music, clap my hands above my head or generally show any merriment were met both with fear of retribution on my part and the occasional tap on my shoulder and dirty look. So now I'm going to go on the defensive and say... if you want to ensure that the 5 year old kid that you're taking to a concert on a Sunday before school can see the show, fucking book better seats you cow-bag moron!
Again, as you may or may not be aware, I work in a busy childrens' hospital that are often blessed by the presence of minor celebrities trying to score Brownie points by going to see the poor sick weans. This afternoon, as I was leaving work, I was met by 2 fuck off Jags, complete with chauffeurs standing guard waiting the return of the stars of last night's show who were doing the rounds at the hospital. I decided what the hell and waited for a glimpse and hopefully a photo cause I still had my camera on me from last night. As I stood waiting, I was met by 2 women who were clearly bonkers, asking if I had a favourite, I reply that I didn't I was just a fan of the show, Bonkers Number 1 blessed me with the fact that Daniel King of the Sob Story Evans was her favourite, really as well as being bonkers and unfortunately glakit looking, this poor girl needed to turn her hearing aid up! Bonkers 2 then went on to say they heard that X Factor stars were to show up at the hospital and they wanted to see them in the flesh before the concert. When asked I explained that I worked at the hospital, I was then offered bribes and compliments to 'try and get them on the inside'. Erm, this is a fucking childrens' hospital, these people are here for the children, not to satisfy the curiosity of the Bonkers. Please don't speak to me until you have a shower, see a psychiatrist and a plastic surgeon (ugly tree and every branch come to mind).
When the stars finally came out, they were ushered to the car, not stopping to smile or acknowledge the small crowd of parents and children. They kept their heads down for fear of catching the eye of a hopeful child asking for an autograph. They never waved or laughed, they just looked grumpy. Again, this is a childrens' hospital, the main demographic these stars have are children. By coming across as so arrogant merely served to alienate a small number of this demographic, not a wise move for people hoping to plant their second foot on the ladder of success.
My estimations of these individuals has been slightly marred by the short glimpse I got of them, and whilst it may be a hasty judgement, I saw at least 20 disappointed children, sad that their heros had snubbed them. Talent is no excuse for dismissive behaviour.
So that's my experience of these individuals for this year, hopefully next year's X Factor brood will be more tactful and humble.
See you soon
J x
Went to see the X Factor Live last night. Hats off to Jeff Brazier who, even though the mother of his 2 boys is on her death bed, managed to pull it together to be a warm and welcoming host to the evening's proceedings. All of the acts were superb, not one bum note was hit, not even from Daniel King of the Sob Story Evans. You see, the good thing about going to a concert like this is that the eight performers involved are still trying to establish themselves as serious artists, having one foot on their own ladder of success and the other firmly planted on the heartachingly mundane ground that we non-celebrities inhabit. They therefore try to turn out a groundbreaking performance, ensuring that each song performed is more memorable than the last and as a result of the lust for fame, they work bloody hard and turn out well.
Only one or two minor problems arose... Whilst trying to take photos of each of the acts, I was angrily tapped on the shoulder by a woman with the face of a bitch chewing a wasp and the demeanor and tact of Shrek. "My daughter can't see for you and that bloody camera" she growls. As I start to apologise profusely, partly out of genuine remorse, partly out of sheer intimidation, she continues "She's paid her ticket the same as you and deserves to see the fucking show". Now am I the only one who can see a problem or two with this statement. 1. Unless this 5 year old is subject to childhood labour, how can she possibly pay for her own ticket, think about what you say before you say it love, it's the first rule of picking an argument. 2. There was absolutely no need to approach this situation so completely on the defensive, just ask and I would have gladly put the camera away, no question. To swear and rant about it only highlights her inability to communicate effectively and sends unbelievably negative messages to her children. Consequently, any attempt by me to sway with the music, clap my hands above my head or generally show any merriment were met both with fear of retribution on my part and the occasional tap on my shoulder and dirty look. So now I'm going to go on the defensive and say... if you want to ensure that the 5 year old kid that you're taking to a concert on a Sunday before school can see the show, fucking book better seats you cow-bag moron!
Again, as you may or may not be aware, I work in a busy childrens' hospital that are often blessed by the presence of minor celebrities trying to score Brownie points by going to see the poor sick weans. This afternoon, as I was leaving work, I was met by 2 fuck off Jags, complete with chauffeurs standing guard waiting the return of the stars of last night's show who were doing the rounds at the hospital. I decided what the hell and waited for a glimpse and hopefully a photo cause I still had my camera on me from last night. As I stood waiting, I was met by 2 women who were clearly bonkers, asking if I had a favourite, I reply that I didn't I was just a fan of the show, Bonkers Number 1 blessed me with the fact that Daniel King of the Sob Story Evans was her favourite, really as well as being bonkers and unfortunately glakit looking, this poor girl needed to turn her hearing aid up! Bonkers 2 then went on to say they heard that X Factor stars were to show up at the hospital and they wanted to see them in the flesh before the concert. When asked I explained that I worked at the hospital, I was then offered bribes and compliments to 'try and get them on the inside'. Erm, this is a fucking childrens' hospital, these people are here for the children, not to satisfy the curiosity of the Bonkers. Please don't speak to me until you have a shower, see a psychiatrist and a plastic surgeon (ugly tree and every branch come to mind).
When the stars finally came out, they were ushered to the car, not stopping to smile or acknowledge the small crowd of parents and children. They kept their heads down for fear of catching the eye of a hopeful child asking for an autograph. They never waved or laughed, they just looked grumpy. Again, this is a childrens' hospital, the main demographic these stars have are children. By coming across as so arrogant merely served to alienate a small number of this demographic, not a wise move for people hoping to plant their second foot on the ladder of success.
My estimations of these individuals has been slightly marred by the short glimpse I got of them, and whilst it may be a hasty judgement, I saw at least 20 disappointed children, sad that their heros had snubbed them. Talent is no excuse for dismissive behaviour.
So that's my experience of these individuals for this year, hopefully next year's X Factor brood will be more tactful and humble.
See you soon
J x
Friday, 13 March 2009
Gentlemen. Your marks out of 10!
Eh up!
Bit of a shit day at work today really, as you may or may not know, I work as a staff nurse in a busy theatre department that is not always staffed with the best of skill mixes (as is generally the case in such a big unit.). Anyway, today, I walk in to find that today I am based in the scope room, basically where the sadistic surgeon stuffs a camera up the bahoochie or down the hatch.
So I head to the said room, set up what I know I can set up ( I don't have much experience or knowledge of the wonderful world of scoping) and wait..... 5 minutes later, in whisks one of my more knowledgable colleagues, a nice girl, but someone who I don't believe trusts me to do more than clean poop and get stuff (sometimes I wonder if she believes I can even do this right!) wondering what's going to happen because the skill mix is up the creek. I am sent to go for breakfast first as I can't be trusted to, well, do more than clean poop.
As I sit down to my conflakes, feeling slightly sensitive about the fact that many of my colleagues don't think I'm capable (I know I'm inexperienced and have to learn, but I spend about 90% of my working day feeling like more of a hinderence than an experienced staff nurse), the familiar gneeeeeeeeeeee sound of the fire alarm sounds. 2 mouthfuls of my cornflakes were all I was permitted to have before being ushered into the hallway. There I'm surrounded by my colleagues eagerly rubbing their hands together, in some part to keep warm, but mostly in anticipation of the sight about to be seen.
You see, whenever the fire alarm sounds, it is always followed up by "The Parading of the Firemen" where inevitably some poor very young men have to walk in between the nurses who are all eyeing them up, mentally undressing them and giving them marks out of 10 in their head. These guys know that this is propably the only excitement these poor nurses see in their mundane working lives, but don't exactly appear chuffed about it. Their heads bow in quiet anticipation, avoiding all eye contact for the fear of some rabid nurse trying to devour them whole after proclaiming, Bruno Corlione style, "You were fabulous, marvellous dahling, I give you a 10/10!!!!! Munch munch munch". Instead though, the nursing staff gawp quietly, waiting for the firefighters to leave with their tales between their legs before passing comment on how "He looked that like my man, so he did!" I love watching the spectacle, it reminds me of being with my ex who was a firefighter. Don't get me wrong, it's a very noble profession, but imagine your beloved coming home smelling of soot and the sweat of other men. Not actually that sexy anymore. It's just strange to watch these people acting so much like teenagers and pussy-footing around each other.
My day was pretty mundane and uneventful after that and all I could think about was the fact that the weekend was coming up cause I could really do with the time out, but "The Parading of the Fireman" gave me cause to smile for the rest of the working day.
Going line dancing tonight, who knows, I may have a story about that later
Jojo x
Bit of a shit day at work today really, as you may or may not know, I work as a staff nurse in a busy theatre department that is not always staffed with the best of skill mixes (as is generally the case in such a big unit.). Anyway, today, I walk in to find that today I am based in the scope room, basically where the sadistic surgeon stuffs a camera up the bahoochie or down the hatch.
So I head to the said room, set up what I know I can set up ( I don't have much experience or knowledge of the wonderful world of scoping) and wait..... 5 minutes later, in whisks one of my more knowledgable colleagues, a nice girl, but someone who I don't believe trusts me to do more than clean poop and get stuff (sometimes I wonder if she believes I can even do this right!) wondering what's going to happen because the skill mix is up the creek. I am sent to go for breakfast first as I can't be trusted to, well, do more than clean poop.
As I sit down to my conflakes, feeling slightly sensitive about the fact that many of my colleagues don't think I'm capable (I know I'm inexperienced and have to learn, but I spend about 90% of my working day feeling like more of a hinderence than an experienced staff nurse), the familiar gneeeeeeeeeeee sound of the fire alarm sounds. 2 mouthfuls of my cornflakes were all I was permitted to have before being ushered into the hallway. There I'm surrounded by my colleagues eagerly rubbing their hands together, in some part to keep warm, but mostly in anticipation of the sight about to be seen.
You see, whenever the fire alarm sounds, it is always followed up by "The Parading of the Firemen" where inevitably some poor very young men have to walk in between the nurses who are all eyeing them up, mentally undressing them and giving them marks out of 10 in their head. These guys know that this is propably the only excitement these poor nurses see in their mundane working lives, but don't exactly appear chuffed about it. Their heads bow in quiet anticipation, avoiding all eye contact for the fear of some rabid nurse trying to devour them whole after proclaiming, Bruno Corlione style, "You were fabulous, marvellous dahling, I give you a 10/10!!!!! Munch munch munch". Instead though, the nursing staff gawp quietly, waiting for the firefighters to leave with their tales between their legs before passing comment on how "He looked that like my man, so he did!" I love watching the spectacle, it reminds me of being with my ex who was a firefighter. Don't get me wrong, it's a very noble profession, but imagine your beloved coming home smelling of soot and the sweat of other men. Not actually that sexy anymore. It's just strange to watch these people acting so much like teenagers and pussy-footing around each other.
My day was pretty mundane and uneventful after that and all I could think about was the fact that the weekend was coming up cause I could really do with the time out, but "The Parading of the Fireman" gave me cause to smile for the rest of the working day.
Going line dancing tonight, who knows, I may have a story about that later
Jojo x
Thursday, 12 March 2009
Pee Sticks.... not good for foreplay
Evening...
Ok, so here's something I've learned through the adventure of trying for a child... A man does NOT find it sexy when you wave a stick you've just pee'd on and say "Honey, we need to have sex tonght, I think I'm ovulating.".... Just not a good chat up line. So in the last few cycles, I've ditched these wretched pee sticks cause they told fibs and said I was ovulating when I wasn't. Instead I've relied on the good old powers of deduction and tried to calculate when my ovaries might be ready to release one of the elusive eggs they have been hiding from me these last few years. I haven't however been discreet about using the "O" word. No.... not orgasm.... ovulation. God, me and my filthy mind.... Anywho, last night, my dearly beloved was greeted with the dread cry. "Honey, we need to have sex soon, I think I'm ovulating this week!" From being an eager beaver, up for giving the bunnies a showing up, David becomes a cowering wreck, imagining his wife has morphed from her usual happy self into an obsessive black widow spider type creature, intent on getting his seed and then plotting his demise in the cruelest, most awful way imaginable. So this is my note to self for today... that dreaded "O" word is out of bounds for the time being... unless I used the other "O" word, then, I think I'm on a promise!
See ya x
Ok, so here's something I've learned through the adventure of trying for a child... A man does NOT find it sexy when you wave a stick you've just pee'd on and say "Honey, we need to have sex tonght, I think I'm ovulating.".... Just not a good chat up line. So in the last few cycles, I've ditched these wretched pee sticks cause they told fibs and said I was ovulating when I wasn't. Instead I've relied on the good old powers of deduction and tried to calculate when my ovaries might be ready to release one of the elusive eggs they have been hiding from me these last few years. I haven't however been discreet about using the "O" word. No.... not orgasm.... ovulation. God, me and my filthy mind.... Anywho, last night, my dearly beloved was greeted with the dread cry. "Honey, we need to have sex soon, I think I'm ovulating this week!" From being an eager beaver, up for giving the bunnies a showing up, David becomes a cowering wreck, imagining his wife has morphed from her usual happy self into an obsessive black widow spider type creature, intent on getting his seed and then plotting his demise in the cruelest, most awful way imaginable. So this is my note to self for today... that dreaded "O" word is out of bounds for the time being... unless I used the other "O" word, then, I think I'm on a promise!
See ya x
Monday, 9 March 2009
Getting used to this blogging malarkey
Hiya
Had a half day at work today and went out shopping as soon as I finished cause I knew that if I didn't I would just be sitting here (as I am now) writing about nothing and everything (God I love wasting time!). Ooh dear, watching the news and just have to say poor police officer being interviewed, clearly that modelling contract was more that a bit out of reach. Sorry, I know that was mean, rude and completely out of context, but anyone who doesn't know me reading this will soon find out I often find a tangent and storm down it head first. Even if that means I say something mean/shallow/rude/negative. My mum once said "if you can't say anything nice, don't say anything at all", well if that was the case I'd be about as quiet as Holly Hunt in The Piano. ('It's hurrrr Piano', sorry, slipping away again).
Went shopping today, kept my ritualistic lone shopping habit of spending way too much and then hanging it in the cupboard before unsuspecting hubby comes home to see the entire contents of Debenhams spawled across my living-room floor! Tried some bloody lovely perfume by Marc Jacobs, a stark contrast to that fucking rank D&G Red which makes gives the aroma of someone trying to hide the smell of stagnant pee in an old man's room. Had it sprayed on me by a transvestite when I was out at the weekend before I had the chance to protest. Have to say, the guy really didn't try to be in any way feminine, so maybe this was the scent for him. His friend though, she looked bloody marvellous. I tell you if I had legs like that, I'd be a happy bunny!
Right, enough ranting for today. I'm going to leave and bask in the glow of my lovely new Jasper Conran jeans.
Joanne x
Had a half day at work today and went out shopping as soon as I finished cause I knew that if I didn't I would just be sitting here (as I am now) writing about nothing and everything (God I love wasting time!). Ooh dear, watching the news and just have to say poor police officer being interviewed, clearly that modelling contract was more that a bit out of reach. Sorry, I know that was mean, rude and completely out of context, but anyone who doesn't know me reading this will soon find out I often find a tangent and storm down it head first. Even if that means I say something mean/shallow/rude/negative. My mum once said "if you can't say anything nice, don't say anything at all", well if that was the case I'd be about as quiet as Holly Hunt in The Piano. ('It's hurrrr Piano', sorry, slipping away again).
Went shopping today, kept my ritualistic lone shopping habit of spending way too much and then hanging it in the cupboard before unsuspecting hubby comes home to see the entire contents of Debenhams spawled across my living-room floor! Tried some bloody lovely perfume by Marc Jacobs, a stark contrast to that fucking rank D&G Red which makes gives the aroma of someone trying to hide the smell of stagnant pee in an old man's room. Had it sprayed on me by a transvestite when I was out at the weekend before I had the chance to protest. Have to say, the guy really didn't try to be in any way feminine, so maybe this was the scent for him. His friend though, she looked bloody marvellous. I tell you if I had legs like that, I'd be a happy bunny!
Right, enough ranting for today. I'm going to leave and bask in the glow of my lovely new Jasper Conran jeans.
Joanne x
Sunday, 8 March 2009
Page 1 (and it's a long one)
Hiya reader
I'm Joanne, 30, married to a lovely guy David, nurse, trying to make babies, trying to make this sound like something someone else would want to read rather than the annoying whining of a self-obsessed neurotic wierdo. After numerous chat/conversations/world changing opinion expressings with my lovely housemate Alex, his lovely idea was for me to create a blog. Hell knows who's gonna read this, but I can use it for my own personal rantings and ravings, but if someone I don't know picks it up to read it randomly, then hi. I'm not sure where to start, but I'll use a format lent to me from the world of facebook called 25 Notes About Me. I may not put up 25 things, for fear of people getting bored. If you're still here at the end of it... Congratulations, you're already doing better than me!
25 Notes About Me
1. I like linedancing. I'm not ashamed of that fact, it makes me smile and most of the other people that do it smile too. Only thing that pisses me off royally is when I can't get the hang of a particular dance and I resemble something more like a monkey on speed than a graceful yet funky lass tearing up the dancefloor and impressing all around me!
2. I'm married to my brother's best mate. I don't know what made us click, but we do. We have a fantastic relationship which largely consists of us throwing insults at each other in between laughing. People have suggested counselling, they just don't understand the finer points of our relationship. We never mean any of the insults traded, we are best friends and he is the best husband in the world.
3. We have 2 cats, George and Wilbur. George is 3 going on 30, very wise but not too sociable unless she's in the mood. Wilbur is 6 months old and as I'm typing, David is chasing him out from under his feet (which makes me laugh). He is positively thick as shit and loves being babied. George is named after the episode of Bugs Bunny where the Abominable Snowman kidnaps him and says I will kiss you and love you and call you George. Subsequently, George doesn't like kisses, cuddles or love, in fact, try to pick her up and count your fingers afterwards.
4. I am very good at procrastinating, like just now, I should be tidying up and sorting things for work tomorrow, instead I'm doing this. I'm also hoplessly untidy and have the attention span of a gnat.
5. I am very lucky with my friends, Joanna is an old school friend, we bumped into each other 2 years ago (after 6 years of not talking for no reason) and pretty much everything and nothing changed. We grew up, lived very differently to how we used to, but still managed to have as close, if not closer a friendship as before. Ellie is a great lass, living in Croydon who I went to college with, she once held my legs as I vomited out of a 3rd floor window, so as I wouldn't fall out, when I was 17 and very stupid. Kik is my sister in law, closest thing I have to my sister, other than my brother and she is a fabulous woman with a big heart and she's offered her eggs up if fertility problems continue with me and David.
6. I live in a big house in Glasgow that me and David bought when we started trying for a family in the hope that the rooms would soon be filled, how wrong we were. A lesson to those who fell pregnant easily, don't take it for granted. It's not always as easy. We know a young girl, 25 going on 16 who fell pregnant to Korean kid whilst she was in Japan. Right, she doesn't speak Korean, he doesn't speak Japanese or English and is currently working in McDonalds in Tokyo to learn English (somehow, telling you child bacon double cheese burger is a term of endearment). My point is, they managed somehow to make a baby and I find that a teeny tiny bit unfair. I'm glad that when we see her that it's always in a big group because in all honesty, I can't look at her. She has been so irresponsible as to allow this happenstance to occur. When I asked her how her Christmas was, her reply was "Oh my boobs are so heavy". No, I don't think she quite understood the question either.
Ok, I know the title is 25 Things About Me, but David is getting increasingly moody at me so I have to go, but I will continue this in the vague hope someone else will read it.
See you soon, thanks for reading, or not reading as the case may be
Joanne x
I'm Joanne, 30, married to a lovely guy David, nurse, trying to make babies, trying to make this sound like something someone else would want to read rather than the annoying whining of a self-obsessed neurotic wierdo. After numerous chat/conversations/world changing opinion expressings with my lovely housemate Alex, his lovely idea was for me to create a blog. Hell knows who's gonna read this, but I can use it for my own personal rantings and ravings, but if someone I don't know picks it up to read it randomly, then hi. I'm not sure where to start, but I'll use a format lent to me from the world of facebook called 25 Notes About Me. I may not put up 25 things, for fear of people getting bored. If you're still here at the end of it... Congratulations, you're already doing better than me!
25 Notes About Me
1. I like linedancing. I'm not ashamed of that fact, it makes me smile and most of the other people that do it smile too. Only thing that pisses me off royally is when I can't get the hang of a particular dance and I resemble something more like a monkey on speed than a graceful yet funky lass tearing up the dancefloor and impressing all around me!
2. I'm married to my brother's best mate. I don't know what made us click, but we do. We have a fantastic relationship which largely consists of us throwing insults at each other in between laughing. People have suggested counselling, they just don't understand the finer points of our relationship. We never mean any of the insults traded, we are best friends and he is the best husband in the world.
3. We have 2 cats, George and Wilbur. George is 3 going on 30, very wise but not too sociable unless she's in the mood. Wilbur is 6 months old and as I'm typing, David is chasing him out from under his feet (which makes me laugh). He is positively thick as shit and loves being babied. George is named after the episode of Bugs Bunny where the Abominable Snowman kidnaps him and says I will kiss you and love you and call you George. Subsequently, George doesn't like kisses, cuddles or love, in fact, try to pick her up and count your fingers afterwards.
4. I am very good at procrastinating, like just now, I should be tidying up and sorting things for work tomorrow, instead I'm doing this. I'm also hoplessly untidy and have the attention span of a gnat.
5. I am very lucky with my friends, Joanna is an old school friend, we bumped into each other 2 years ago (after 6 years of not talking for no reason) and pretty much everything and nothing changed. We grew up, lived very differently to how we used to, but still managed to have as close, if not closer a friendship as before. Ellie is a great lass, living in Croydon who I went to college with, she once held my legs as I vomited out of a 3rd floor window, so as I wouldn't fall out, when I was 17 and very stupid. Kik is my sister in law, closest thing I have to my sister, other than my brother and she is a fabulous woman with a big heart and she's offered her eggs up if fertility problems continue with me and David.
6. I live in a big house in Glasgow that me and David bought when we started trying for a family in the hope that the rooms would soon be filled, how wrong we were. A lesson to those who fell pregnant easily, don't take it for granted. It's not always as easy. We know a young girl, 25 going on 16 who fell pregnant to Korean kid whilst she was in Japan. Right, she doesn't speak Korean, he doesn't speak Japanese or English and is currently working in McDonalds in Tokyo to learn English (somehow, telling you child bacon double cheese burger is a term of endearment). My point is, they managed somehow to make a baby and I find that a teeny tiny bit unfair. I'm glad that when we see her that it's always in a big group because in all honesty, I can't look at her. She has been so irresponsible as to allow this happenstance to occur. When I asked her how her Christmas was, her reply was "Oh my boobs are so heavy". No, I don't think she quite understood the question either.
Ok, I know the title is 25 Things About Me, but David is getting increasingly moody at me so I have to go, but I will continue this in the vague hope someone else will read it.
See you soon, thanks for reading, or not reading as the case may be
Joanne x
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