Wednesday, 28 May 2014

The Mother-ship is landing, and this is good.

Holy crap snacks where does the time go?  Every time I sit down to write something I get pulled in another direction.  As I sit here writing this, I am distracted by the fact I need to leave the house in about ten mins to go look at an apartment with my Mum. Yuup, you got it, The Mother Ship is moving to NL.

Aaaaand back.

This is here is the main reason for moving over.


Yeah, this Monkey can work it.

If you had asked me a few years ago how I would feel if she moved over here, I would have thrown back my head and laughed.  Not unlike my pal Nicholas Cage here!


Don't get me wrong, I love her loads, but having her in the same country was not something that was on the cards.

I like my privacy and you could almost accuse me of being anti-social ( know right? Moi?)  I get seriously stabby when people are in my house for more than a few days.  I like it quiet, (I actually snorted tea out of my nose on that one) I like things the way I like them and ambient activity in my peripheral vision drives me crazy.  I will launch into a full fledged panic attack if I am not prepped and ready for any and all activities.  To be fair though, breathing in my general vicinity can make me nuts.  (How the fuck do I have any friends?  Oh, I know, they are all as mental as I am.)

So this week has been no exception.  On Monday, a very PMT me and Mum went to the market. I was a raging bitch from the get go. Trying so hard not to be, and then getting even more pissed off for the amount of energy it was taking to not machete my way through the day.  Best thing about my Mum? On our way out I gave her a blanket apology for any and all forth coming snarkiness for the rest of the day.  She looked at me with a raised eyebrow and said "Meh, what ever"  Cool huh?

So what changed?  Well, I guess this.


She went from being my Mum to a Grandma.  I had to share, and this was good. It used to drive me crazy as she pottered around my house, tiding up and cleaning (WTF was I thinking?)  I have a smallish apartment with no spare room, so any guest has to stay in the living room on the camp bed.  This then involves shit everywhere, raising my stab levels to that of Michael Myers (sans creepy ass mask.)


But it no longer bothers me so much.  Mainly because at this very moment she is mopping my hall floor! Yay. Seriously though, I am not sure at what point it became easier but it did.  I thought that her moving here meant I would see her everyday and we would kill each other.  This actually sounds kind of good now.  She has her space and I have mine.  Monkey can see her when ever she likes, and we have a free over-nighter babysitting.  Score!

The price you pay for living abroad can be a high one.  Especially when you have kids.  Logistically it can be a pain in the ass as holidays are always spent visiting family, and rarely actually visiting somewhere new, but all this changes with her moving here. I am lucky that my parents, though divorced, get on really well.  Dad lives in Norway and so does my brother with his family.  Easy.  So when I mentioned they could do a house swap, and never again have to sleep on the dreaded camp bed of chiropractic shame, it was met with all round enthusiasm.  Gosh I am clever.

So this week, we went house hunting. The possibility of having her down the road is kind of exciting and no longer stressful.  She has learned to really love it here in Den Haag, to get over her fears and picture herself as an independant local.  She has friends, and will no doubt make more, but the best part about her staying this last week, is that I have been able to get some sewing done, some sketching, drink a stupid amount of wine, stay out till an obscene hour of the morning, and have my laundry done.  Cool huh.





So thanks Mum.  You're all right for an old chick and I can't wait to have you on tap all the time. xx


Monday, 5 May 2014

Hello again.

Hello again,  I know I have neglected you of late.  What with the glamour of cupcakes and the sexiness of parenting a toddler there has been so little time actually left over to write, let alone have something coherent to say (not that this has stopped me before.)  So as I lay in bed last night, on the slither of mattress I had been allowed, trying futilely to come up with ways to reclaim at least a partial amount of real estate from the irate squatter wedged between myself and Matt, I realised that I may once more have something to write.

To be fair, I have written many a blog post in bed while chasing that fickle bitch called sleep.  I lay there spinning out endless articulate anecdotes with whit and candour. I am marvellous at 3am.  Truly, I should get some form of literary prize (I would tell you which one if I knew any) for the amount of crap that floats around in my head in the wee small hours.

I know when enlightenment comes, I should write it down. Record it so I can actually capture the genius that is my mental 3am blog post.  But I never do.  This would require moving, putting on glasses, a light and actually writing.  Nah, I'll remember it.  Again and again I go through this dance.

Genius me - "Write the thing Zoe"
Lazy me - "Nah, this thing is too good to forget"
Genius me - "You thought that last time with the thing about the thing in that place that time"
Lazy me - "But this is different, how can I possibly forget the thing, it's hilarious?"

Seriously it goes on like this for a while.

When the time to actually drag my sorry carcass out of bed, all form of intellectual reason have vanished along with any recollection.  My brain has become a sleep deprived pile of mush, and my conversation skills are that of flatulent sea-slug.  I've got nothing.  Like Keyser Soze (The Usual Suspects, watch it,) it is gone.

The Devil does exist.  She is currently napping in the next room.
I trudge through the day trying to recreate fragments, to capture at least a glimmer my 3am epiphany, but anything I have to say now seems glib, retarded, or just makes no sense what so ever.  I even have started referring to myself in the third person. "Mama is doing (insert arbitrary chore here) now," or "Mama would like (insert order to bewildered waitress here) please."  I have lost my ability to communicate in 'adult'.

Such is the dark and weird place I now reside, that I have started drawing shit like this.




Don't get me wrong I do some of my best work when I am totally fucked up, but still.....

Like most parents, I try so very hard to engage my daughter in fun and educational games all morning, squeezing in the loading of the washing machine (hey, what fun) or cleaning of the silver (ha, who am I trying to kid, we ain't got no silver up in this crib,) all in an effort to wear her out so that when that magic time of day comes, I am all ready to go.

Chores done and child fed.  Nap time rolls around with anticipation and dread.  I have approximately an hour and a half (give or take) to knock out something for myself, something that makes me, me.  Be it a commission, a blog post, sewing or just having an hour with my book and a cup of tea, it doesn't matter, anything creative and requiring the use of at least some of my brain cells and will stop my head from exploding like a bloated whale on the beach.  (Oh come on, we have all seen that clip by now.)  The pressure reduces me to a bumbling idiot as I staring blankly at an empty page.  Don't even get me started on fucking Pinterest.  Time sucking whore that it is.


Finally, today I have something to say.  Today, after only an hour of sleep I had inspiration.  I wanted to write a blog post about...........  Well I'm buggered if I can remember.  Something to do with toddlers, sleeping and getting kicked in the tits or head butted in the abdomen.  In the end what have I written?  A post about trying to write a post.  Clever huh? At least I got something down.  Be it gibberish or genius (I go with the latter,) at least I got something down.  It has taken me the better part of the morning to intermittently write this, pausing to walk the dog, go to the store, and ignore the apocalyptic scene that is my laundry.  I have read, re-read this at least ten times.  Maybe it makes sense maybe not. Fuck it who cares.  I got a new blog post out.