One More Thing

Last night was date night/Twin Peaks night.  Neil and I haven’t had one of those in a long time, so Isla spent last night at Dad and Anne’s, playing with their cats and probably having too much sugar.

She left and my heart felt like Swiss cheese. She came back and I touched her face and said I love you.  She gave me her plastic Skye from Paw Patrol to keep until she gets back and out she runs demanding that Campah turn some music on for the ride over the river and through the woods five minutes up the road.

I was nervy yesterday.  Hours before, I’d made Isla a sandwich so big it didn’t fit in her purple lunch box, which goes with her in her teal panda bear school bag to nursery which is another place she goes without me.  But she loves it, and that’s how life goes.

Anyway, she left again for a sugar rush.  And I gave Skye the plastic toy an actual hug.

Neil and I watch Twin Peaks while eating shrimp stir-fry and and at various intervals I’m saying, ‘What the shit are we watching?’  Which is not entirely unlike what I said when we binge-watched it a few years ago.

‘What the shit are we watching?’

‘Twin Peaks?’

‘True.’

We watched and wondered then it was this morning.

We had coffee and thought the house was too quiet without cartoons on, but didn’t feel the need to fill the silence.

I was reading and thinking about another coffee when Dad ‘stops in’ as he does, to talk about ALL THE THINGS.

He’d dropped Isla off  at nursery this morning and today’s topics over coffee were:

  1. Siberian kittens
  2. Internet connections and how they are so, um,  temperamental up here.
  3. Isla’s birthday.  Three next month.  How?

 

Dad left several times and then came back, not unlike Isla or Columbo,  for one more thing.

Now.  Y’all know I love my Dad.  You can read about it here.

However.  On the sixth trip back after 1.5 hours, I said , ‘I love you, get out of my house.’ He leaves, but then smooches his face in the kitchen window singing the old version of the Mickey Mouse Clubhouse theme. To which I replied, ‘I love you, FUCK OFF.’

Now.  You might also remember my father doesn’t like when I swear.

He thinks it shows a lack of whatever the hell it is, I forget.

However.  I’ll always remember a conversation with my Grandma, the one who’s Dad’s mother.

When I was a kid, I asked Grandma if I could swear.

‘Creatively.  And only when there are no other words for it,’ she said.

And I’ve kind of thought of it that way ever since.

In related news, I hope Isla and I have the kind of relationship where when she grows up she can always come home for coffee and one more thing.

And I hope she lets me in when I visit and we talk about all the things.  She can even tell me off sometimes.

Like when I smudge her kitchen window with my face.  And I’ll laugh, the same as Dad did today.

Dad, one more thing.  Same time tomorrow?

 

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Coffee and Questions

I’ve been blogging for a long time and you might have noticed I’ve been trying to be more consistent with it.

Since I’ve come off my various hiatuses, I’m curious about why you’ve stuck with me, and other good stuff about you, my groovy readers.

If you would be so groovy, and answer these questions, that would be swell.

1. How long have you been reading my rambles and how did you find me?

2. Are you disabled, a parent, a reader, a writer, a traveller, or a coffee drinker?

3. Are you one of my parents?

4. Are you Neil?

5. Are you an expat, a mover, or a third-culture person?

6. What’s your favourite blog, and what would you like to see more of on mine?

7. If we’ve met, how did we meet? (this could be a lie)

8. What books are you reading at the moment?

Whether this is your first visit, or you’ve been around as long as this blog, thank you.  I appreciate your friendship/support/blunt advice/gentle nudges.

Let’s chat.

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Image from bustle.com

A Damn Fine Cup of Coffee

Weekend-Coffee-Share-Nerd-in-the-Brain-4If we were having coffee and ask you how your week’s been treating you?

I’d tell you I looked in the mirror this week, and it’s actually dawned on me that I’m actually 36.  My kid is nearly 3.  Next month, Neil and I are married four years.  Seems longer.  And not long enough.

Did I mention that I spilled coffee on Frank the laptop and I’m back on Truman the Giant Desk Top?  It’s actually meant more writing has happened recently.   And to that I say, whatever works.

I Skyped my Mom this week.  We all fit on the same screen.

I might have asked Toast Coffee House if they deliver.  To Skye.  Because y’know, that’s where I am.  If you can, go visit them and have a Peanut Butter Mocha for me.

Did I mention that I’m thinking of joining a knitting group?  Or that I don’t actually knit? Maybe I’ll try, but we have to see if my wheelchair fits in the knitting group building first.  Because it might not.  And that’s a thing.

If we were having coffee, I’d ask if anyone else has to do pre-mission missions with a freaking tape measure?  Because that’s a thing, too.

I wonder if I’m turning into a pissed off wheelchair-user with a chip on her shoulder the size of a Peppa Pig puzzle piece.

How long have we been having coffee?  Seriously?  And how long have I been talking about the same things?

If I asked you what you’d like to talk about, what would you say?  Because I actually want to know.  Let’s talk about you.  I’m here.

And in October, Neil and I are going to London for The Twin Peaks UK Festival.  Because that’s a thing, too.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Everywhere

Weekend-Coffee-Share-Nerd-in-the-Brain-4The snow of a few weeks ago has melted and the sun has come out in Skye.  I’ve spent more time outside than in this week, and have been drinking more water than coffee.

I wore Isla’s sunglasses over mine when I picked her up at nursery, because when I do that it makes her laugh.  And her laughter is brighter than the sun that’s come out, dried us up and slightly fried our brains.

This week has included road-trips and picnics and stopping to let cows and sheep cross the road.

Isla made friends with two dogs, and conquered actually jumping on the trampoline.  Up to now, she’d just been standing in the middle looking really excited about a time in the future when she actually took a jump.

The future is now.  Or something.

One of the road-trips of the week was to check out a second-hand treadmill that now lives in Neil’s home-office.  (How many hyphens can I fit into one garden-path sentence?  Well.)

Neil actually used the treadmill this morning, while Isla and I played hide-and-seek.  Very early this morning.

We then made Isla go out and wash the car.  Isla asked to go out and help Neil wash the car.  I followed after with a book and the vain hope  of getting a tan on my other arm.

However.  And.

If we were having coffee, I’d tell you I miss you.  That I wish I was in Edinburgh listening to Constance Hall with you.  Or running with the books with you at The Strand.  Or helping you avoid writing up your placement notes.  Or having coffee with you.  In Australia.  Or Glasgow.  In your living-room.  Or in my kitchen.

In Levittown.  Or Miller Place.  In this year.  Or 1987.

I’d ask about your week.  And your life.  I’d throw you a book.  And give you a hug.  And we’d watch Isla on her trampoline.  Because I have a kid.  And she has a trampoline.

Hi.  Have a coffee.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Coffee Talk And Blogging Goals

If we were having coffee, you couldn’t help but notice that we’ve blown all the fuses.  Isla is running around going, ‘My house is dark.  It ran out of batteries!’

Five minutes ago, we were watching Alice in Wonderland.  Now, Isla’s face is lit by my phone screen.  No, I can’t buy you that Lego set.  And please don’t post that egg video on Facebook.

In other news, what music do you listen to while taking down the Christmas tree?  Isla went into the living room this week and yelled, ‘Someone stole the Christmas tree!’  Yes, well, until next year.

I finished reading my third book of the year this morning (Red Queen, Victoria Aveyard) and my first read for this list.

While we’re here more bookish things:

I told Goodreads I’ll be reading 50 books, or more, this year.

And for every finished book, I’ll be putting a buck in Isla’s Swear Jar  my book jar.

If we were having coffee, I’d mention that I might be shifting the focus of this here blog, or getting back to writing and not just talking about it.

I’ve looked back on my posts, and my personal notebooks from this year and I’ve written a lot about not writing a lot.

And Neil recently mentioned that I haven’t written any fiction since we’ve been together.

So, there’s that.  Might really get back to writing a story a week.

And I might want to write even more about being a disabled mother, and a mother and  a third-culture kid who grew up to live on an island off another island, in a house that keeps blowing fuses.

Hi.

If we were having coffee I’d ask: What are your writing plans this year, or this week?

And: What would you like to read more of on this blog?

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My current read with Isla’s latest art.

You Bring The Cheesecake

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Just one of my favourite photos from this year.  My girl.

If we were having coffee, I’d say thank you.  Thank you for meeting me at a coffee table, at the other end of a screen, on a curb, or on my couch.

Thank you for reading my rambles.

Thanks for the books, and the butterfly magnets and the mural.

Thanks for beers, real or fake, and the ones I owe you.

Thanks for the Altoids and the Beatles.  Even the unsolicited advice.  It makes for good material.

Thanks for those de-stress colouring books, which I actually find really stressful.

 

Thanks for not mentioning I need a haircut, and eye makeup.  And possibly more Prozac.

Thanks for the Baileys.  And for the glass with my name on it.  And for being there when we got the house.  And helping us move into it.

Thank you to Dad and Anne, for making Christmas dinner, and other stuff.  And thanks for being there that other night when I lost my shit.

Thanks for making a path for me, for fixing our heat, and for running ALL the hotels we’ve stayed in this year.

Thanks to Isla, for being an awesome individual, for making me laugh and cry.  And for falling asleep on me sometimes, still.

And thanks to Neil, for leaving when I turn on country music, and for always coming back.  I promise to never blog about the time I found you in the kitchen singing Red Solo Cup.

Let’s do it all again.

 

 

 

 

Christmas Coffee With The Grinch

If we were having coffee, I’d introduce you to our new as yet unnamed coffee machine.

As an early Christmas present from me to us, the coffee machine Neil bought me when we first started dating has been upgraded to something from the future. Actually, I think we should call it Jetson.

What sort of um, coffee experience would you like?

My favourite so far is a mild double-shot medium-hot latte.

In my house.

What can I get you?

After you figure that out, I’d show you the Christmas tree we put up two weeks ago.

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It doesn’t look like that anymore. Isla likes to hide the decorations on us. You might be sitting on one right now.

If we were having coffee I’d tell you we took Isla to see Santa last weekend. It was in the midst of shopping, everyone was in a bad mood, and Santa might have called me the Grinch.

Before we’d lined up, Isla had a tantrum in a coffee shop because they’d run out of orange juice. It was kinda my fault.

We’d been staying in a hotel the night before. It was 300 degrees in the room, so I drank our not really endless supply of OJ that we drag around where ever we go.

We arrived to the mall early. So early, most places were still closed. Except the coffee place with no OJ.

I’m sitting there sipping what just might be the best latte I’ve ever had outside of my house. And my kid is refusing perfectly good apple juice. Because it isn’t orange. I feel kinda bad. I give her my breakfast, because hers doesn’t include anything that is orange juice.

It escalates. I tell her to calm down. Once. And then I don’t say much else. I figure she’ll fizzle out soon enough. But I’m getting looks. I can tell, because if one eye is looking at you, my other eye is looking at someone in New Jersey.

It’s useful. And it doesn’t distract me unless I notice someone looking back at me. Like last weekend. Like I am a horrible mother.

So I turn my head and this woman gets both my eyes. ‘Does she look abused, though?’ I ask.

The woman says nothing.

Neil and I count to ten with Isla and then I ask if she’s done.

‘Yeah,’ Isla says. And we high-five.

And then Isla kind of launches herself at me like she does these days. Because I’m a horrible mother.

As we are leaving, the staring woman offers to help me. ‘No thanks. But Merry Christmas,’ I say.

We are in line to see a grumpy looking Santa. Isla won’t sit with him and I want to leave. Somehow, we all end up sitting for the photo.

‘Bahumbug,’ I said. Sorry, not sorry.

‘No wonder Isla’s in a bad mood. Mum’s the Grinch.’

‘Screw you, Santa,’ I mumbled. And the photo was done.

We left, and I may have cried all the way to the toy store. Because I’m a horrible mother. Obviously. Not really.

Do you want more coffee?