So Long, Farewell…

Dear Readers,

We’ve been together now for twelve years but all good things must come to an end, and so must this blog. I’ve struggled to post anything, as you know, for three or four years. The initial problems were health issues and depression; I recovered, but the blogging routine was gone. I tried several times to get it going again but I had lost the sense of fun, so I have decided to officially call it quits.

Inside, I’m crying

After completing the MA, I didn’t write anything at all for well over two years, until a good friend asked me to join her in a project: we would set each other daily writing prompts and have a rapid turnaround. Not expecting much, I said, sure, why not? That was nine months ago and I am now writing an average of six poems a week.

Yes, I have gone back to my first love. I’ve been feeling guilty for a while, like I’ve cheated on all of you, but the heart wants what the heart wants.

I have set up a new blog, Poetry Fluff. It’s aimed at people who dislike or are afraid of poetry: basically, it’s this blog’s silliness in rhyme. I do hope you’ll check it out but I’ll understand if you don’t.

Thank you to all of you who followed me, interacted with me, encouraged my silliness, met me in person, sent me gifts/cards/jokes, mourned with me, answered polls, liked, and commented…you are precious to me and I will not forget you. You brought me real joy, people I never met (and a few I did).

Thank you.

Love,

Tilly Bud

PS Maltesers are my preferred going away gift. Obviously.

Dear New Followers…

…thank you so much for following The Laughing Housewife. I really do appreciate it. However, I closed this blog in July 2021, so I won’t be sending out any more posts. You are more than welcome to browse my back catalogue, as I’m leaving it up for my old regulars to find my new blog, Poetry Fluff.

Poetry Fluff is basically this blog’s silliness in rhyme, and is aimed at people who don’t usually read poetry. Please do give it a try!

If poetry is not your thing, however, thanks again for following me here, and sorry that we never got to know each other.

Photo by Tino Schmidt on Pexels.com

Ahoy there!

I was going for ships that pass in the night but it looks more like that ship has sailed 😉

Grrr

I hadn’t intended to post twice this week but it has come to my attention that my Likes and comments are not appearing in your blogs. So frustrating.

Does anyone know how I fix it; or who to ask for help? It’s been so long since I blogged regularly, I feel like a newbie.

7 Surprising Side Effects of Shaving My Head

When I decided to shave my head to raise funds to buy PPE for NHS staff, I expected nothing except some teasing and to feel too nervous to check the mirror for a while. What I did not expect were the following:

1. Extra Available Cash

During my first shower after the shave I realised that it was going to be much quicker than usual, having no hair to wash, condition, and comb through, thereby saving on electricity and water; the shampoo would last for a year; and who needed conditioner any more? Not me. Furthermore, my hairdryer is gathering dust, saving more electricity. 

The Hub fully supported my naked bonce, not least because a passing thought/joke to frighten him took on a life of its own:

TB: If we’re going to be in lockdown, I think I’ll shave my head.

Hub: If that’s the case, then you should do it for charity.

TB: … …

TB: … …

TB: …um, I’ll think about it…

Hub: [To himself] Tee hee hee. I am and always will be the Master Prankster here.

2. Confidence

I expected to feel like a fool: I knew that this was never going to be my best look but I was prepared to endure it for a good cause. I suspected people might think I was a right-wing thug, or I’d had a really bad case of nits.

But there was something about letting go of my inhibitions enough to cut off my not-so-crowning glory that sheered off my vanity at the same time. It helped that I have the long-time love of a good man (when he’s not calling my bluff) and the knowledge that I would be mostly indoors for three months, but still…hair is an important part of identity, and dramatically changing that identity changes us.

I once had a genuine identity crisis when I learned I was two inches taller than I had believed myself to be for thirty-one years, because how I saw myself had fundamentally changed, even though outwardly, nothing had changed. This time, however, the outward had changed, and I didn’t care that it was unflattering: it freed me of the burden of pretending that I can fight off the ravages of childbearing and chocolate, and I JUST DIDN’T CARE. 

3. No More Menopause Shower Hair

Nobody told me before I started the change that my hair was going to fall out from time to time. I spent many months secretly irritated with Alex because he left so much hair in the drain – secretly, because he was only home between semesters and I wanted him to want to return home every time and fulminating glances across the bannister would have been counterproductive. Then he moved out for good and the hair was still there and then I read a list of menopause symptoms which included hair loss.

Well! If you’ve never seen an indignant menopausal woman before, I assume you’re still alive. WHY did nobody ever mention this to me before?

Anyway, first shower after The Shave, I bent down to *shudder alert* pull out the disgusting gunk…and there was none!

I was tempted to keep my head blank for this reason alone.

4. People Think I’m Brave

Thank you, but I’m not. I’m simply not brave, at all.

Brave is going to work knowing you could become infected and die, but you are a key worker and people rely on you.

Brave is accepting that you cannot attend your child’s funeral because you have to protect your other children.

So thank you, everyone, for your kind thoughts, but brave is not having a severe haircut in your kitchen, no matter how unattractive it looks.

5. Blogging

This was the biggest surprise of all. As you know, I hadn’t blogged in over a year, but I naturally thought of my blog to publicise the fundraising for Masks For NHS Heroes. Then I had to write a post with the video of the shave. But then, however, during that shower – I do my best work in showers – I thought of this post about the unexpected aftermath of having a disrobed skull. Then I left it in the draft folder for six months because I was dealing with other health issues, but here I am, three weeks and three posts back into blogging, and in danger of making it a habit.

In jammies, dressing gown, and very warm hat.

6. A Texture Fetish

Not naughty in any way, just the constant need to rub a hand over my naked head – for comfort, I guess. The first day, I rubbed because it felt so strange. The next day, because it had already grown a tiny bit, enough to feel like I was rubbing velvet. Then there was the contrast of cold, smooth hands on a lumpy scalp; the velcro action when I pulled off a woolly hat after my walk (it feels like there’s some truth to the notion that heat escapes through the top of the head, because for a while there I had to don a hat or scarf outdoors and in).

7. Addition

I realised when I numbered the headings that I actually have only six surprising side effects, not seven.

Samson lost his strength; I lost the ability to math.

Another Musical Interlude

Don’t worry, this wasn’t turned into a music blog while I was away; it’s just that I’m excited to share this particular video and couldn’t wait a couple of weeks as originally planned.

Old Older Regular readers from TLH’s past life may recall that my son, Alex – Spud – was an aspiring actor and played the lead in a musical about the First World War. Well, finally, composer Oliver Mills has begun to release songs from the show, The Tree of War. It is a fantastic piece of theatre by Ollie and Rachel Mann, who wrote the book and co-wrote the lyrics, deserving of a wide audience.

This is Alex singing Bert’s solo from the trenches:

If you like this one, there are three more great songs from the show available on YouTube, and the soundtrack is coming soon.

Incidentally, Alex is no longer an aspiring actor: he graduated from drama school in 2019, obtained an agent, and is currently residing in London, where the work isn’t. The work isn’t anywhere.

And in other news, Happy Boy is engaged to a lovely young maths teacher and they hope to marry in 2022, coronavirus permitting. And I subtract from that that if they begin multiplying, it will equal Happy Mum and Dad.

Enjoy the show!

A Musical Interlude

Here’s a little something I did with my choir, The Greater Manchester Voices, to cheer us all up in this season of not meeting and not performing.

Not MY choir, of course; the choir of which I am a member, usually lurking on the back row so I can sing my heart out but no one can actually hear me.

Enjoy!

As Promised

Thank you to everyone who donated to Masks For NHS Heroes (there’s still time).

As promised, here’s my new haircut:

It’s Been A While…

I could grovel; or I could explain that I’ve been battling health issues for over a year, which is why this blog has been dormant. With all that’s happening in the world right now, I think I’ll just wave a nonchalant hand in the air and move on.

I will tell you this, though: in the last sixteen months the NHS saved my life and the sight in my right eye, and has dealt with sundry other issues – all for free. Trapped in the house (Hub and I are on a 12-week lockdown because we are both at risk, especially the Hub), I’m frustrated that I can’t help.

So here’s my offer: if ten people reading this make a donation to Masks For NHS Heroes, the Hub will shave me completely bald, and I’ll post the video here.

I know you are all battling for PPE in your own countries, so I’m aiming this at British readers.

Stay safe and well, lovelies, and I’ll see you on the other side x

29th’s the Charm

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Oh boy! It’s my boy’s birthday today. Happy birthday, Birthday Boy.

I’m Hormoanal

My sincere intention to blog weekly fell by the wayside due to ongoing health issues (annoying but not calamitous); but this is something I must share:

My first* collection is published tomorrow, February 7th, by Matthew James Publishing.

*Ever the optimist

According to MJP, my 

signature biting wit and incredible relatability will have you laughing one minute and sympathising the next.

I can live with that. And with this, in particular: 

This collection of sharp, confident, and witty feminist poetry is the voice of the everyday woman putting the world to rights and deserves to be read by everyone.

Definitely!

To celebrate its publication, I’m having a book launch at Stockport War Memorial Art Gallery on Saturday 9th, from 2-4pm, to which every single person I know or have ever known is invited. (I’m also hosting a free writing workshop beforehand, but I’m sad/happy to report that it’s fully booked.)

MJP have made two of my dreams come true: ‘Publish a book’ has finally been crossed off my bucket list, but a long held desire can now safely be admitted to: when studying A Level English at the local college back in 1998, I came across a video in the library on the sublime poet Grace Nichols. It followed her around as she did various things like readings and visiting interesting places, and there is a moment when she shows her passport at border control, and her occupation is described as ‘poet’. That moment resonated with me, such that I longed to be able describe my own occupation as ‘poet’.

Though I don’t claim to be in the same league as Ms Nichols, from tomorrow, I can.

Author copies! Did you know they give you some for free??

The book is lighthearted and accessible, especially to those with no interest in poetry.

I’m offering a free copy to the person who leaves the best menopause joke in the comments (closing date February 28th 2019). I’ll post to anywhere in the world. The Hub will judge, for two reasons: it’s fun to make him squirm; and he is notorious for barely cracking a smile at what I think is hilarious. If you can make him laugh, you win.

Finally, a taster: here’s the title poem:

Happy New Year

Not to you, dear reader – I’m two weeks late for that – but to just one dear reader…

…yes, Spud is 23 today! Happy birthday, Spud.

To celebrate, here’s some of your greatest hits:

 

23 years ago today, and Mummy was as roly poly then as she is now, but with more excuse…

Little punk

Love me, love the boy who thinks he owns me…

Brothers ‘n’ arms

Growing lad

So good looking

Family gathering

Release the hounds!

Glass funeral. No, seriously.

Brothers ‘n tired arms.

Soooo good looking.

I sing, therefore I am

Proud daddy

Sleeping beauty

Need I say more?

Shakespeare and pizza – who could ask for anything more?

Bert

Money, money, money. I’m an actor; I probably won’t see this much money again in one place in my lifetime.

How to rock headgear

All you need is a little razzmatazz!

Seriously – sooooo good looking

How I got here

 

And a little song to celebrate:

 

Not a birthday song, but one of my favourites by Alex and, let’s be honest, when I found out I was pregnant twenty-three years ago, I felt like dancing. Now I dance like felt.

Happy birthday, sweetie pie!

 

 

Trapped Wind Or Not Trapped Wind? That Is The Question

If there was no NHS, it’s not an exaggeration to say that I’d be writing this in heaven right now. Okay, maybe there’s a little exaggeration – as far as I know, heaven doesn’t have wi-fi.

I was lying in bed reading, three weeks ago tonight, when I had sharp chest pain on the left side. I did wonder for a moment, ‘Am I having a heart attack?’ but it soon passed and because there had been nothing weird about my arm, and no nausea or sweating, I realised it was trapped wind.

Over the following days I had some small sharp wind attacks but nothing like the first. Six days later, on a Tuesday morning, I was standing chatting to my friend Pam and I had another painful experience like the first, accompanied by a hot flush and then a cold sweat, and nausea. At the hot flush (menopause, obviously), I stepped outside into the rain to cool down, which explained the cold sweat. The nausea? Well, I had been thinking about housework.

I explained the horrible trapped wind situation to Pam and she urged me to get checked out, thinking of chest infections and pneumonia. That seemed a bit over the top for excess gas but, as it happened, I was booked in for a blood test for my cholesterol level at my doctor’s surgery the following morning. I did some research about chest pain that evening and every single website urged, ‘Tell a doctor!’

I didn’t really want to waste anyone’s time but I couldn’t get the website messages out of my head but, as I was there, I mentioned the chest pain to the nurse, who insisted that I ask to see the on-call doctor, who saw me within fifteen minutes and immediately referred me to the hospital as a precaution (I presented with conflicting symptoms), bypassing A&E and booking me directly into the Acute Care Unit at Stepping Hill Hospital.

The Hub ran me up to the hospital and I was quickly tested and blooded. The ECG showed ‘small anomalies’ and one blood test was ‘inconclusive’. I was re-tested and re-blooded and sent for a chest x-ray.

There was some waiting around, yes, but mostly for test results, all of which came back within an hour. The doctor suspected there was a blood clot on my lung (pulmonary embolism). A nurse injected me (painfully) with blood thinner (to dissolve any possible clots) in my stomach (I still have a bruise, two weeks later), and gave me one to take home to use the next day. I could not for the literal life of me inject myself but the Hub could and did, and that’s why I found myself screaming at him, unNike-like, ‘Just do it!’ when he was murmuring softly that ‘This is going to hurt, I’m afraid, sweetie.’

It didn’t hurt, despite the roll of fat he pinched firmly, as instructed. He jabbed instead of glided and there was very little pain and no bruising at all. Professional Nurse: 0, The Hub: 1, as far as he’s concerned. I reckon he stuck it into so much fat, it’s still floating around, lost without a clot to hiss in.

The hospital had me back on Friday for a V/Q scan, which is when gamma radiation is injected into the body to examine airflow and blood flow in the lungs. Yes, I was radioactive for a while there, and it had nothing to do with the Hub annoying me. After lunch (provided free of charge, both days), I had an echocardiogram – an ultrasound for the heart. That was ay-may-zing, to see my heart on telly, as it was beating in my chest. Wow, Just wow. I love science!

The result of all of this outstanding care is that I definitely have a pulmonary embolism – the pains in my chest were clot moving days – but our fabulous NHS caught it in time and I’m not going to die just yet (buses and absent-mindedness notwithstanding). Nor am I going to be bankrupted for the pleasure of not dying. I am being treated with medication and I have some follow-up appointments but, basically, it’s life as normal, and the bank balance is lighter only by the cost of a medic alert bracelet (if you cut me, do I not bleed copiously and have to be extra careful from now on?).

I have a wonderful husband who was there with me every step of the way (though he does like to needle me), despite his own ill-health. I made him stay home on the Friday, however, because he can just sit there, waiting (his M.E. allowing him to do little else), and I simply can’t. My Kindle felt unloved on Wednesday, when I was forced to talk to the Hub in the waiting room instead of reading; but was happy on Friday, as we idled away the time together between tests.

Our NHS isn’t perfect in everyday life – it can take weeks to get a non-urgent appointment – but in an emergency, there’s no better health care provider, and I have the breath in my lungs to prove it.

And finally…For several days afterwards, this song kept going through my head:

Normal Service Will Shortly Be Resumed

Hello, bloggers who used to read me.

I have finished the MA and I’m on my rest month (very much needed), but I intend to begin blogging again, at least once a week.

I say ‘rest month’…it includes a choir concert (in which I sing, not listen in the audience. I say ‘sing’…), a visit from the grandson (his first to our home!), the usual writing groups, sundry poetry readings, poetry workshops, a visit to the Hub (still residing here, but I have to schedule him in), and SLEEP.

In the meantime, I thought I’d repost my favourite-ever photograph, to give you something gross to think about:

When my hair was long, the Hub shoved it through my sleeve and told me I needed to shave my armpits.

My hair is now short but the latter is true. No time to shave ‘pits when you’re on a deadline.

See you in Movember, when I shall not be plucking my moustache hairs, in solidarity with lazy people.

Give Thanks; It’s Good For You

Whether you believe in God or not, it is a good habit to count your blessings. In fact, it has been scientifically proven that being thankful for what you have is good for your health and mental wellbeing. I know this because I saw it in a Twitter meme, so it must be true. For it to work, it is recommended that you find at least five things to be thankful for. 

I record daily thanks in a notebook and I’ve been doing it for about six years. I only have bad moods on non-recording days but this might be because I don’t record my thanks because I’m in a bad mood. Science has to get back to me on that one.

Thanks should be personal to you because it’s unrealistic to be thankful for the neighbour a few doors down with the flawless skin and gleaming hair when you’re going through age-mandated repuberty and you look like Dorian Gray’s older, less attractive sister. They don’t need to be big things, though we ought to be thankful for them also. On days when I’m almost in a bad mood and can’t be bothered to be grateful that my fingernails look fabulous, I use my big things as default thanks: husband, kids, grandson, dogs, health, wealth, outstanding personality. More often than not, though, I’m thankful for small things like cheese & onion crisps, panty liners, invites to dinner at friends’ homes=no cooking, etc., and I have been thankful for as many as 23 separate things on Malteser days.

Today, to put my money where my mouth is, I’m going to share my thanks with you.

I am thankful for:

• My lack of money, because it teaches me the true value of things (a little fake sincerity is surprisingly positive at times)
• How often my fake sincerity teaches me the true value of things
• That I’m not in a bad mood
• For my eldest child; I love him so much
• For the man he has become
• Cheese & onion crisps, obviously
• That he’s a fantastic father
• That he’s known me for 28 years and yet he still talks to me
• That blogging is cheaper than a birthday card

Surprise!

Happy birthday, darling! 

Thank goodness that’s over with.

Oops! Did I say that out loud? Thank goodness he didn’t read me. And that he has a great sense of humour…

Excluding what we have established is the boring (family/pets/health/etc.), what are YOU thankful for?

Two Funnies

No time to write so I’ll borrow instead. Read these somewhere on t’internet and thought I’d share.

A Joke

A woman is sitting at her deceased husband’s funeral. A man leans in to her and asks, “Do you mind if I say a word?”

“No, go right ahead,” the woman replies.

The man stands, clears his throat, says, “Plethora,” and sits back down.

“Thanks,” the woman says, “that means a lot.”

From @AllieLia

A Happy Coincidence

From @invisibleman_17

 

Happy Friday!