The Lady Who Lunches Blog

We won the pub quiz last night! OK, we didn’t win, but we got second place. OK, we got second place at first until the guy realized he had made an addition error. So, we got third place! The name of our team was appropriately called “Courters Yankee Invasion” – won a big Easter Egg….yippee. As we walked up to claim our prize, the announcer looked at us, and before we spoke said in a very dry, monotone voice, “So, I’m assuming you’re the Yankee Invasion.” Was it written on our face?

Another quick note as I need to get in the shower to do more of Bristol…spent Sunday in Bath watching Jocko run the half marathon. He did his P.B. with a time of 1 hour 38 minutes. We were very proud of him with our pink and white pom poms. Wanna see a little video of us being interviewed? About half way through (1 minute, 32 second mark) you should see two very American ladies.

Off to Bournemouth tonight, Portsmouth tomorrow, London on Thursday and Friday, Chepstow Horse Racing on Saturday, Girls Night out in Bristol Saturday night, and English roast on Sunday!

Last week, Littlemummy.com thought up the idea to get everyone to swap blog posts. After nearly 80 other bloggers signed up, I got to swap with Claire from The Life of the 20 Something Mum. (I’m starting to realize how big parenting blogs are-wondering if I signed up to the wrong blogging community…never mind. We’re all bloggers, after all!)

We both agreed to swap posts about why we got into blogging in the first place. You can read my entry on Claire’s blog.

I’ll let the fantastic Claire take it away!

A Blog for Blogs Sake?

As part of the Great Blog Swap, I am writing this for the lovely Meagan.

For those of you who have never met me or my blog, I am better known as the Mouthy One(!), or Twenty Something Mum.

So why do I blog, what made me blog in the first place?

I have always written in some capacity, with varying success, mostly poetry, but for my school magazine as a teenager, or short stories for kids. I loved writing and was the kid most likely to be seen with a notebook and pen at the ready in case of inspiration springing itself on me!

I first started blogging though as a hobby, to stop my brain turning to mush when I was pregnant with my daughter, affectionately known as Mini, who is now nearly 3. I wrote this via My Space, but never really took it seriously, dipping in it and out when I could be bothered.

Then I had her, got completely sidetracked, with breastfeeding, moving from Kent to Berkshire, and being pregnant with another child 11 months after the first, and that was that.

Which brings us to Twitter.

When something pops up on TV, I have to try it- I read all the Harry Potters due to the hype, watched countless must see films and TV shows, and Twitter was no different. I loved the instant buzz of it, the noisiness of reading in on others conversations wherever they were talking from, so was immediately hooked.

I then saw that alot of the Mums who had added me had joined up to British Mummy Bloggers- I think the tweet which got me interested was one about a competition, so, off I went to that website. I saw that there were loads of Mum’s (and the odd Dad!), all of whom had no qualms blogging about the stuff that the “Proper” parenting guide books would never mention. I felt at ease there, and soon started looking in on Blogs regularly.

It got my writing juices flowing, and soon, I had decided to resurrect the blog, and so set up an account with Blogger, and so at the end of June last year, The Life of the Twenty Something Mum was born. It didnt take long to get followers, and comments, and even the odd blog award. At the same time, the curiosity of others blogs who had commented on mine meant I built up quite a good network.

So why Blog? Why not just read others?

A few reasons, but the biggest is the desire to be able to show Mini and her little brother Littlest (who is 18 months) to have a good record of what they got up to. That they will be able to see in years to come that people internationally used to read in on their sheninigans is even better. That they will probably cringe and shout “Mummmmmmm” at me is something I slyly can’t wait for!

An excellent example was Littler’s first birthday, when I blogged about his first 4 months being spent in a Neo Natal unit. I didn’t make it into a made for guide book fairy story- I told the truth, even the really awful bits. However, the comment’s we received as a family on that post brought me to tears, they were so kind.

Thats one thing I always do, I always tell the truth, elsewise what is the point? I am not Bree Van Der Kamp, nor am I Annabel Karmel (the fact I burn water will vouch for that small point) I am very much a slummy rather than yummy mummy, and proud! I can spot a blog which is written to sound like a Good House Keeping guide, and those go on the list of blogs I think are pap. I write about everything, from potty training my child and her reluctance to actually go along with sitting on the potty, to my partners nephew leaving his pants in my hallway (now thats made you want to read!), not very many topics are off topic for discussion, and I hope this honesty is why people read my blog regularly.

Yes honesty has sometimes got me and big gob in trouble, but again, unless I am proved wrong, which happens(!) and I apologise, I generally stand by what I write, and if I happen to upset people in the blogsphere by doing that, then thats unfortunate, but I shrug, keep calm and carry on. See told you I was the Mouthy One.

I love that others can come to me when they feel down, or left out, or that they can read my account of a not so perfect parent and think, “hmm, you know what, I’m glad I’m not the only one”.

As someone who suffered from Post Natal Depression, purely because I thought I had to be like the Mum’s in a parenting guide, so much so that I would plot weekly whether my first child was meeting the pre-set in stone milestones, and get depressed to the point of abjact misery if she didn’t, this makes my day.

I always say this-

“Rejoice that you have given the world a gift of a child, now stand tall, shoulders back, and watch them grow”.

That and the only good thing for (smug) Parenting Guides? Well, with heating bills going up, they make good kindling for an open fire…….

If you like this, and want to read more about Mini, Littlest, Elder and, well, me, you’re very welcome at the blog.

My best friend is coming to visit me from Baltimore tomorrow, and I am more excited than before Christmas morning! Before she arrives, I thought I would give you all a glimpse into the beginning of our friendship…

When Courtney and I met, we were six years old, waiting for the big yellow school bus to pick us up for our first day of first grade. I had my hair in a high ponytail fountain with my bangs curled under, and was wearing a white turtle neck with a red and black plaid dress that my grandmother had made my sister, Amanda, and I. Black patent leather shoes with white frilly socks completed the outfit.

My sister, being eight years old and in third grade, opted for something a bit different and more hip than the plaid dress. This being the late eighties, Amanda decided on stone washed jeans and a studded white and pink sweatshirt with the words Awesome and Totally Rad sprawled across the front in puffy paint. Courtney’s sister, Lindsey, was a grade above Amanda and a year older, but I don’t remember what she wore. Courtney’s hair hadn’t quite grown into the long curls that she had now, and was combed straight into a bob with two pieces pulled up perfectly. She was wearing a navy blue pleated skirt with a button down freshly pressed white collared shirt. She could have been straight out of a catalogue.

She was a good girl. In fact, the best girl I had ever met; doing everything her mother asked of her, never wanting to get her clothes messed up, and always working on her homework. I, on the other hand, was the opposite. I wasn’t a bad kid, but I had an opinion about everything, I tested my boundaries at every chance, and never did homework until the morning of. She was an extremely sensitive little girl, while I was thick skinned and a tomboy.

At our first meeting, we got along infamously, still worrying about the niceties that come with not knowing someone very well that somehow even children pick up on. We weren’t in any of the same classes, so our meetings were strictly at the morning bus, recess and briefly after school. That is, until my stay-at-home mother agreed to host the children of the working mothers at our house after school everyday. We had a large five bedroom house with an acre backyard, a jungle gym and an outdoor swimming pool. It had everything for kids our age, and Courtney arrived after school everyday from then on.

Courtney and I learned to hate each other the first year, at least as much as six year olds can hate each other. Everyday we would fight about something, whether it was who played Brad or Melody in Hey Dude or what dance routine we would practice. At one point, my mother told us “I have never seen two girls who butt heads as much as you two do.” Courtney ran home to her mother crying and said that my mother had called her a ‘butt head.’ We still laugh at that to this day.

The day it sunk in how close we had become was two years later when I got the devastating news we would be moving three hours north to New Jersey. The old saying “you don’t know what you have until it’s gone” was learnt at a very early age. No more dance routines, no more New Year’s Eve performances, no more running across the street to play with my best friend, no more sleep overs or early morning chinese jump rope, no more weekends spent baking cakes or riding bikes. Just a new cold school with new kids who didn’t particularly like new students coming in. And none of the other friends I met got me like Courtney finally did once we had broken through our stubborn facades.

The next time it sunk in how much she meant to me was when we moved back to Baltimore two years later, and her mom proceeded to move across the street from us again, on a different street – Willow Avenue. Both of our families had become broken since the last time we lived across from the other. My mom was a single woman again once she realized she needed love to make a marriage work, and her mom was single once she realized she couldn’t stay married to an alcoholic. Amanda and Lindsey became even closer as rebellious teens, and our mothers as single, hot, forty year old moms. We were a strong group of women who relied on the others for laughter and consolation.

Blocking my face with the bus stop stand from the swift wind caused by the oncoming traffic and the winter weather, I almost missed the little boy standing with his arm outstretched in his tiny business suit. He approached the advancing bus with such ferver that I thought I would have to jump out to save him from getting decapitated. Luckily, he was more adept than I was at that age, and stood resolutely and confidently with one arm up waving down the bus driver. The bus dutifully stopped in front of him, and opened its doors.

This boy was so curious with his tense shoulders and direct, no-nonsense stance. He was like a new breed of eight year old who I could have easily mistook for a 38 year old. But once I boarded the bus, I promptly forgot about him as I fumbled for my change and tried to remember which coins were worth what amount amongst the millions of British silver and copper in my pocket. Once I finally dumped what I had on the driver’s lap and let him deal with it, and the passengers behind me did their best English grumble and tut-tut, I headed to the upstairs level. Double decker’s are the best.

The eight year old had taken my favorite seat right in front of the window, so I grabbed my second favorite row in front of the stairs and stared out the window. The bus took off, Bristol passed me by and my mind wandered. A rumbling of paper turned my attention back to the boy. I watched him as he unfolded the paper, carefully fluffing out the pages as I saw hundreds of other commuters do five times his age. I still didn’t know how to correctly fluff the pages of a newspaper, and I certainly wouldn’t attempt such a thing on a bus of all things. People would laugh, children would cry, and I’d probably get a paper cut.

I got off before the boy did, but he was still reading his paper. I couldn’t get him off my mind, so I told Jock about this strange, abnormal android of a child. Jock laughed, and said, “Yeah, we learn to read the papers at a young age. I remember reading it at his age.” When I asked him about traveling on a bus by himself at that young stage of life, he replied that children don’t have school buses, so they have to learn to ride public transportation. I am still baffled at this when I think back to my days on the school bus, chanting nursery rhymes, making up songs and blowing spit bubbles – for that, was as far as I got to reading a newspaper. (Unless my mom kindly tore out the comics for me – Brenda Starr was my fave!)

Another cultural difference identified.

(Sidenote: I was a little concerned that he may have been reading the Sun newspaper, in which case he would have had full frontal in his face right on page 3. Still don’t understand how the British see nothing wrong with having breasts in their newspapers – but then again, that’s just my Puritan roots coming through….Luckily, it wasn’t the Sun.)

Parts of this article have been edited for the purpose of the editorial from my novel by yours truly. I figured that since red lips are all the rage right now, what better way than to take a bit of my story and put it into it.

Take a look, and let me know what you think.

Click on the photo above or click here to read more.

More coming soon!

Now, off to cook my Sunday Roast.

I have to give credit to my Dad for finding this piece of useful information. (He asked me not to share it with Jock – I can see why after reading it. Jock, don’t read this entry below.)

Side Note: I apologize in advance for the content of this piece as it may offend certain people (ah hem, some men or women who have no interest in the woman’s reproductive cycles.) However, I find this extremely relevant to my situation, and how to deal with life in general – which is, in fact, what this blog is mostly about. Thank you for the feedback though!

A variety of evolutionary rationales for the syndrome have been offered, including that it is an epiphenomenon due to the selective advantage accruing to other phases of the hormonal cycle,[11] that it leads to “intensification of male ardour during the next onset of fertility”,[12] and that it prompts females to reject infertile males (who cause PMS due to not impregnating the female). “… an infertile male/potentially fertile female partnership would tend to break down, thus allowing a new pair-bond to be formed. The greater the degree of premenstrual hostility of the female, the sooner a fertile mating could ensue.”[13] Any theory would have to account for the persistence of PMS over substantial evolutionary time, as it appears to afflict baboons as well.[14] ~Wikipedia

I have some problems with the excerpt (mostly that I don’t want a baby right now!), but it makes sense on an evolutionary scale. Hey, at least it’s something. The wording is a bit hefty, but the gist of it can be understood.

I’m really getting into this PMS research – hey, knowledge is power. So, perhaps the more I know about it, the more I’ll be able to control it.

The only problem is that the more research I do, the more I realize that actually, no one has a fecking clue what causes it! Heck, even women who have their uterus removed still get it. The one thing they do know is that it comes along with menstruating. Brilliant!

If you’d like to read some more, here’s a paper written in 1992, and printed in the Social Science and Medicine. Click here for the full article.

Abstract-In 1931 a physician coined the term Premenstrual Tension, thereby commencing an extensive biomedical inquiry into the relationship between women’s menstrual cycle and the occurrence of physical, emotional and behavioral changes. However, despite 58 years of scientific research, fundamental questions remain unanswered. For example, there is still no consensus on the definition of PMS. This, in turn, has led to disagreement among researchers about which medical specialty is best suited for diagnosing and treating PMS. Is PMS a disease whose pathology is best understood by physicians in reproductive medicine or in psychiatry?

This paper argues that the inconclusiveness surrounding PMS is symptomatic of the persistence of cultural beliefs in the production (and reproduction) of medical knowledge. The roots of these cultural beliefs and their ‘naturalness’ in the context of Western ideas about reason, rationality and women are explored in the first section. The second section discusses the ubiquity of these same cultural beliefs in contemporary scientific research of PMS and in the controversy surrounding the proposed psychiatric diagnostic category of Late Luteal Phase Dysphoric Disorder (LLPDD). Finally, a new, anthropologically and sociologically informed approach to understanding the phenomenon of PMS is suggested.

Another person he suggested reading is Camille Paglia. Might just order her book.

Thanks Dad, for teaching me more about PMS!

I felt overloaded with the beauty of it all.

There were times when I could almost feel a roll of the eyes coming from myself when approaching another beautiful scenery up ahead – from another castle steeped in history, another amazing group of rolling hills or another incredible coastline. There were times when I just didn’t know if I could stomach more beauty and more nature.

But, “Jesus,” I thought, “what the heck is wrong with you? This is AMAZING, don’t you get it?” I did get it. I knew logically it was all amazing. But I wasn’t FEELING it.

I mean, I was seeing the mountains, the cathedrals, the millions of books in Trinity College and I was reading the plaques associated with the meanings of it all. But I wasn’t really there. I was. But not truly. Not all the time. The “Oooohs” and “Ahhhs” coming from my mouth sometimes felt like that’s what I should be saying at these moments of intense breathtaking scenes, and they came out on target and with the rest of the group – but something was missing.

And, I couldn’t figure out what it was. At first, I put it down to the fact that I had lived in France and I’d been living in England for some time now. The intensity I felt the first time I entered Europe could never be replicated because I no longer had those fresh eyes to take everything in. I admitted defeat and realized perhaps this was the sign of getting older and seeing more and knowing more. I was an adult, and with it came lack of excitement?

But, I yearned to get authentically excited again about IT. Life. The Planet. History. Nature. Seeing things. TRULY seeing things. Ireland. I knew it was magical. I could sense it. But I wasn’t feeling it.

Then, I told myself that traveling was more about being with the person you’re traveling with and experiencing life with them. The sights and sites were secondary. That didn’t quite click with me either. Because, if I couldn’t experience it for myself, then I wasn’t truly experiencing it WITH them…right?

So, what was it? Why was there this fog that left me feeling a bit detached, a bit lackluster, and frankly, slightly annoyed at times?

Everyday this feeling slowly started to go away. Ireland began ebbing away at the cobwebs in my spirit. It made tiny cracks in my “adult” brain until holes started forming, peeking into my child soul. I didn’t notice it at first…until, I made a decision.

I turned off my phone, left my laptop in the car, had a good night’s sleep with no alcohol, and …. there Ireland was. Stretched before me like a vast dreamlike land of delight. Only it wasn’t a dream. The colors were vivid and everything was shiny and new again.

I was awestruck by the lakes, rainbows and ruggedness, not aggravated by them. I felt more free and open and alive than perhaps…ever. It was better than the first time I arrived in Europe. Because this time, I had to earn it. Not better. Just different.

The weird thing is. I didn’t even notice that I was feeling in any way lackluster before this. Bristol has finally started feeling like home, I am more in love than ever, and my book is coming along better than I had hoped. I’ve made some great friends, and sure I miss my family and the US, but I also know I’ll be seeing them soon. I’m happy.

Maybe what I realized is that everyday happiness just has a different feel than holiday happiness. You have to adjust to each. One is perhaps more exaggerated than the other. It also reminds me to turn off my laptop, and take walks more often. Running perhaps has its limitations?

With that said, technology is the devil. At least for me. I can too easily become addicted and obsessed with postings, what’s going on in twitterland, who wore what on X-Factor (the UK’s American Idol for the folks back home), who emailed me – that what goes on in cyber space becomes more important than what I’m actually doing in real life. It’s a sad disease.

So sad that in order for me to get any writing of my novel done, I must turn off the WiFi, and if Jock is home and needs it on – I have no chance of writing or editing my book because… well, I need to know who is number 1 on the charts right now, or somebody said something to me two weeks ago that I had been meaning to google because I was pretty sure they were wrong about that…

So sad that I had to delete myself from facebook six months ago.

So sad that it took me over a week to wake up from this Cyberspace haze while I was in possibly the most gorgeous country I have ever seen. And, I do think that was a big part of it.

Luckily, I have come back a new woman! But wait, first I have to find out the origin of the Claddagh ring and figure out which way to wear it on my finger to say that my heart is taken…

All that said, I definitely had one of the best times of my life by the end. (see next entry for details!)

See photos here and here.

I’m thinking about PMS today (or PMT – premenstrual tension, as they call it here). Not only because I have a bad case of it today, but also just in general. Other than being completely annoying that once a month I have to put my boyfriend and myself through incredibly painstaking bouts of bad moods…I’m wondering if there is any sort of use for it. Like, is there a practical reason that once a month I go into fits of extreme negative thinking, aggressiveness and anger?

I know that it happens to most women, but why? We all know it happens, we all know we must deal with it, but is there a biological and possibly positive reasoning for it?

The fact that our minds get fed up with everything around us wanting us to strangle anyone who comes close to our personal space – does this somehow allow us to see the positivity in other days? Was there a extremely primeval aspect to this Pre-Menstrual psychosis? Did it help us when we were cave women sitting around by the fires to somehow get things moving?

I guess my question is – what is the fucking point??

Because there must be a point to it all, right? Our bodies are temples, blah blah blah, and sensitive and complex. Apparently God must have had some kind of plan when he decided to give us this nasty monthly syndrome. He couldn’t have just wanted to mess with us, could he have?

I’m sure I could do more research, or, any research at all, on this topic, but I’d rather sit on my bed, sulk and eat chocolate…

I really would like the answer though. I feel it might help me to understand this pointless misanthropic stupidity, or this pain in my sass, or even this probing maniacal sorcerer.

What you got?

I’ve been writing a lot (not to mention still tweaking the ending to my novel), and as I write this my eyes are still blurry from sleep.

If you’re interested in reading some of my latest guest posts and interviews, see below:

• Expatica.co.uk - ‘That Middle Area’ – This was an entry I wrote a while back, but Anna, one of the editors of the website asked if she could re-post it. Of course, I was more than happy to oblige. Here is the article.

• Expatica.co.uk – ‘Expat Voices Interview’ – Anna, the editor, writes:

“American Meagan moved to the UK for love and finds the Brits “the most lovely people on Earth”, if you can put up with a little passive aggressiveness.”  Click here to read full interview.

• Anglotopia.net – “The Best of the South West” (according to moi). Jonathan, the creator, writes:

Editor’s Note: The following is a guest post from Meagan Lopez from the fabulous blog The Lady Who Lunches. Meagan has kindly done a write up of the must see’s in Southwest England, where she recently moved to with her British boyfriend. Click here to read the full article.

• Britfancy.blogspot.com – “What I Did on My British Vacation – Brizzle! Alright My Lovers?” – This one I didn’t write. My blog friend, Fahmina, wrote it about her time spent in Bristol. Fahmina and I met for the first time when she came to visit – so cyber space turned into reality. And, she’s such a sweetheart! You can read all about our day out together here.

I’ll have an fashion article up on ANDMAGAZINE.com by the end of the week as well, and should have some stuff up on one of Demand Studios Partners website’s (as that’s where I started a new freelancing job).

I re-read a few of my emails from when I lived in Paris in 2004 – just before Bush was re-elected. There were many emails surrounding the topic of Bush, since the French were so adamantly against him being in office, but this entry reminded me of a sort of duty that I, and other expats, have to represent America (if I may be so bold.). (Thank you, Charlie, for keeping them all safe.) I came across this particular entry:

I had a guy at a party Friday night ask me if it was true that Americans thought that we were the only country that existed.  I explained that for many people that is true, that Americans can be very egocentric, etc.  He said that he had a very bad taste in his mouth from Americans because they didn’t seem to know about anything, and that he heard this and that about us, and how can that be possible if we are such a dominant country in the world.

I tried to explain that many Americans have never been outside of the country, but we’re also not as fortunate to have many other countries surrounding us as in Europe.  We continued talking about the differences, and he was a little surprised at my knowledge of his culture and history.  He brought up the fact that Americans helped the French at the end of WWII, and that is a big reason he doesn’t understand our lack of compassion in the world at this point of time.

He asked me why I would want to come to France to study if I was already located in the most powerful country in the world.  I could only say that I didn’t really know, but there was something wonderful I felt when thinking about France and its people, and that’s why I was here to find out why I wanted to be here.

I was very humbled by the way he asked me questions and was really concerned about learning why he would hear such things about Americans.  It just made me think how important it is when going to another country to represent  your country well.  Had I been rude or loud and ignored what he had to say without listening, he would have continued to think that no wonder Americans have the reputation they have.

As the conversation was coming to an end, he looked at me and said…”You have saved a French man from thinking ill of your country.  I will now think differently about Americans.”  I felt at the time like I was in some amazing back to school special on different cultures mingling.

I ask myself this often. Do I have a duty to represent our country well, or is that too big of a task to put on myself? In the end, people are going to think what they think about me, and perhaps I can only be the best person I can be. That bodes the same for living life even if I were in the USA, doesn’t it?