mothers on the verge

Overheard

mothersontheverge@gmail.com (YLM) — Thu, 17 Dec 2009 16:08:00 +0000

In the back of the car on the way to school this morning.

Firstborn: "Lily's big brother says things like 'wow that girl is really hot'. He thinks he's a teenager or something but he's actually only nine."
The Small(er) One: "What does 'hot' mean?"
Firstborn: "That he thinks the girl is really pretty or nice."
The Small(er) One, after a long pause: "Am I hot?"
Firstborn: "Yes, you're really hot."
The Small(er) One, smiling broadly: "You're really hot too."
Firstborn, nochalantly: "Yeah, I know."

The Christmas play bun fight

mothersontheverge@gmail.com (YLM) — Tue, 15 Dec 2009 08:34:00 +0000

Why is it that the Christmas play brings out the very worst in people? This is especially true of Alpha Mum who seems to transform into an even more vile and annoying being at this time of year.

There I was, innocently thinking that if I dropped the kids off to their classrooms quickly and went straight to the hall where the play was being held then I'd be in plenty of time to bag a decent seat. How wrong was I? The front rows were strewn with artfully arranged possessions yet devoid of human backsides... bar one Rottweiler-type guard Mom showing her sharpened teeth at anyone sniffing around her patch.

Thinking that the Alpha gang couldn't possibly be bold enough to have 'reserved' the entire two front rows, I shifted the one inch of cardigan stretching into the end seat on the front row and plonked myself down. Foolish me. Before I could draw a ragged breath Rottie Mom was upon me. Displaying an impressive fortune in corrective orthodontry and a fair bit of Botox to boot (although being devoid of expression - and possibly emotion - is an Alpha trademark), the Rottie exclaimed: "Oh I am sorry but you can't possibly sit there. I'm holding these seats for my friends!" Wrongfooted by her booming voice, discomforting invasion of my body space and basilisk stare, I muttered pathetically: "Oh! I didn't realise that you could reserve seats here. How silly of me!" Then cringingly retreated to a lesser seat, muttering crossly as my mind filled with a thousand possibly brilliant retorts.

For anybody else faced with the same hideousness, don't give up like I did and suffer having to record the back of someone's head while the Alpha b*tches wave smugly to their equally hideous rugrats from the front row. Here's a spot of ammo (I suggest you keep it in your handbag for emergency situations):

"Hey, who made you God?"*
Stare back rudely and demand: "What did you say? Don't be so foolish! You can't reserve seats here! It's not the bloody opera you know!" Then sit down firmly and refuse to be moved.
"I didn't realise you worked here! In that case, I really must speak to you about the shocking state of the girl's toilets in the Junior block. Can you ensure that they're cleaned more often as it's a real health hazard.... (keep talking very fast and for as long as possible until her eyes glaze over and she goes away)"
"I'm so pleased you're here. I wanted to talk to you about the fact that your son has been teaching my daughter the most shocking swear words - I don't know where he got them from as you don't look like the sort of woman to use such crude terms. My husband is incredibly cross about it so maybe you can speak to your child before my husband insists that I raise a formal complaint with the headmaster?

*This riposte donated by Alpha who always knows exactly what to say to put the pushy mothers in their place.

Dubai driving conundrums

mothersontheverge@gmail.com (YLM) — Mon, 14 Dec 2009 19:33:00 +0000

1. Why does the average Dubai driver keep the plastic wrap on their car upholstery? Is it to preserve that fresh-from-the-car-showroom excitement factor for as long as possible? Or do they simply not know how to take it off? It can't be that they're worried about getting the leather seats all mucky as most residents could certainly spring for a valet if they get a bit fumbly with their morning latte (despite the tales of financial woe the Porsche garage is stuffed full of eager beaver shoppers, a sign that there's life in the old showgirl still). It's a mystery - surely they don't like the feeling of crinkly plastic sweating up their thighs?

2. Why is it that the following cars are invariably driven by selfish, careless and show-offy individuals who display scant regard for other road users - the Dodge Durango, the Chevy Suburban (as if the name of this car isn't humiliation enough), the Audi Q7 and the Porsche Cayenne. Oh and the Hummer, but then you're expecting bad behaviour from those babies so no biggie. So, are the drivers of these cars perfectly nice, normal folks until they get behind the wheels of their beastmachines upon which they are transformed into total w*nkers, or is it the other way around? I think we should be told.

3. Drivers in Dubai are known for their love of driving at high speed while texting on their mobiles, cutting directly across five lanes of traffic to make the exit they want (which they nearly missed due to aforementioned texting), weaving in and out of traffic for no other apparent reason other than a desire to make their drive home that little bit more exciting, and beeping any car they deem to not be driving fast enough (i.e. keeping to the speed limit... in the slow lane) and other generally machismo and Russian Roulette-style behaviour. So why is it that local drivers get all confused and girly-scared when faced with something as simple as a roundabout? Or a spot of rain?

4. Is there a special reward in an afterlife I haven't heard of for drivers who won't let any car in front of them for any reason whatsoever? Because otherwise I just don't get it. I saw one guy stick out his bottom lip and stubbornly refuse to move over for an ambulance the other day. Now that is machismo gone mad.

5. In England dogs are allowed to leap around the back of cars and stick their heads out of the window to enjoy the feeling of the wind rushing through their ear-fur. It's a more common sight here to see small children bouncing around - unencumbered by car seat tetherings or other safety devices - with their heads out of the window, balancing in the space between the front seats and once, memorably, perched on the parental knee 'pretending' to drive (at 80kmph, natch). I can't find the appropriate words to comment on this particular kind of ... erm... peculiarity.

Driving in Dubai offers up a mini-adventure every single day. Grit your teeth and enjoy!

What would happen if men got pregnant?

mothersontheverge@gmail.com (YLM) — Sun, 13 Dec 2009 09:33:00 +0000

1. Contraception would suddenly become 100% effective

2. The attention of all (male) scientists would shift from silly little diseases like H1N1 and HIV to more urgent matters, such as eradicating morning sickness, backache, swollen nipples and even more inconvenient nasties such as childbirth. Babies would be born by painlessly popping out of the male bellybutton within two minutes. Or even better, by being found under a gooseberry bush or delivered by a passing friendly stork

3. Until this happy day of scientific breakthrough arrives, men would retire to a special birthing chamber - upon confirmation of pregnancy until they are ready to give birth - to 'bravely' suffer though their ordeal with only the most basic of comforts: a Playstation, 50in plasma screen, mini-fridge full of alcohol-free lager and pizza delivery on speed-dial

4. Birthing classes such as the NCT and any birthing guru-type who demonstrates childbirth using a macramed pelvis would suddenly cease to exist.

5. Pushchairs would come with alloy wheels, leather handles and go-faster stripes with chrome bumpers optional. Jeremy Clarkson's popular 'Tot Gear' show, where he and the Hamster battle it out over the 0-60 closing speeds of various pushchair brands, will become compulsive lunchtime viewing for all first-time dads

Wow. Just imagine...

All hail David Thorne

mothersontheverge@gmail.com (YLM) — Thu, 10 Dec 2009 18:31:00 +0000

I've just found my newest internet diversion - this guy is the dog's doodahs for sure.

Laugh? It's the closest I've come to wetting my pants in over three decades. That's got to be worth something.

Check it out (this one's my favorite).

Merry Christmas, one and all

mothersontheverge@gmail.com (YLM) — Thu, 10 Dec 2009 08:44:00 +0000

As you know my altered hormones have left me a bit soft in the head so please forgive me if this stunning fact isn't exactly front page news but today I came up with the exciting realisation that here in Dubai....

.... there's no dastardly jingley-jangley Christmas carols playing on a constant annoying and rage-inducing loop in every single shop! Plus the telly schedule isn't packed full of annoying ads trying to get you to buy rubbish plastic sh*te that is guaranteed to break by Boxing Day and stupid perfume ads pretending to be arty-farty 'mini movies' (erm, like Nicole Kidman's rictus face looking misty and lots of prancing around in posh frocks is going to make me race off to the shops and drop Alpha's hard earned cash on something to make me smell like a tart's drawers. Do they take me for a fool?)

Anyway, the point I'm trying to make is that we may be forced to listen to the call to prayer umpteen times a day in Dubai but we don't have to listen to Rudolph the Red Nosed sodding Reindeer every time we pop out to the shops for a pint of milk between the months of September to 1st January.

Which, frankly, is a bloody relief.

Was tempted to put annoying Christmas music on the blog, plus maybe Santa jiving in the corner with some elves, but thankfully realised that I would hate myself. Plus I'm too tired to do anything except read Grazia with one hand in the biscuit tin. So you're all safe thanks to pregnancy lethargy.

It's not all Scrooge round here though. We do have a tree. It's a plastic tree, which is good according to beardy-weirdy smug eco-types (although truth is we're about as eco as your average Hollywood movie star and that's all they had at Carrefor last weekend), but plastic trees are kind of ick. I mean, let's face it, it's kind of wrong, like putting astroturf or plastic logs in your garden. Rumour has it though that the Park & Shop has just received new stocks of pine-scented car air freshener dangly things, which may not only add an added coat of realism to our Dubai festivities but will also double up as tree ornaments. Genius!

Pregnant pause

mothersontheverge@gmail.com (YLM) — Wed, 09 Dec 2009 12:04:00 +0000

It's possible that some of my brain has come back. Well, I'm able to turn the computer on and I can remember how to type, which is a start at least. The reason for this new intelligence low? Well, it appears that I'm pregnant with #3.

It's not entirely a surprise as Alpha and I have been trying for the past nine months or so. It's just a surprise that it happened at all, what with having to see a specialist and being given pills and being told that I have low something-or-other hormone with the possibility that my ovaries are close to shutting up shop for ever, despite me still being in my thirties. But we've got two rugrats already and feel fortunate to have them -Firstborn alone took two years to conceive - so it would have been sad but not a disaster. So very lucky us.

My last pregnancy was nearly six years ago, a long time in hormone world, and I'd forgotten about what being pregnant is like. Unfortunately I'm not one of those women who wafts through it all smiling smugly and glowing with floaty linen layers skimming over their 'designer' bump. I really wish I was one of those pregnancy paragons who can honestly say that they love being pregnant (as opposed to those evil women who lay claim to uber-mommyhood in a wicked attempt to intimidate others) but sadly I turn into a greasy, frizzy-haired, spotty lump with unexplained rashes, itchy skin, huge blue veins, unhealthy food cravings and strange pigmentation blotches (the one that could pass for moustache is a particular favorite of mine). I also get tired, nauseous and hugely grumpy. In short, I'm a nightmare. For nine months. And this time doesn't look like it's going to be any different.

Alpha is scared. The kids are beyond excitement (the harsh reality of Grumpy Mummy hasn't yet hit home... give it time). I wish I could shut myself away in a dark space outfitted with a massive flatscreen TV, a well-stocked bookshelf, high speed broadband and an endless supply of Quality Street until the end of June 2010 (sob). I really would be doing the world a favour.

mothersontheverge@gmail.com (YLM) — Mon, 07 Dec 2009 11:56:00 +0000

Firstborn is off sick from school with a tummy bug. But her super-speedy recovery from being a pale and pathetic waif this morning to bouncy and rosy-cheeked cheerleader this afternoon has made me a little suspicious. Think I might need to speak to Firstborn's teacher when I pick up the Small(er) One from school this afternoon to see if there was a test scheduled today; not sure how she would have faked some of the symptoms but there was possibly an element of ham in her waifishness this morning.... Oh me of little faith.

Feeling quite down today due to it being Granny Julia's funeral tomorrow. Firstborn has tried to cheer me up by drawing pictures of Granny J as an angel in Heaven all over the front page of the Gulf News (the very page I was trying to read) and bombarding me with non-stop chatter. Sadly the only thing Firstborn's determined good cheer has achieved is the development of a headache right between my eyes. Am trying to smile anyway to make Firstborn feel that her efforts weren't wasted.

Granny Julia was quite something. A determined and fiesty Irish girl born in Abbeyleeks, the fact that she started life without many advantages made her small triumphs doubly admirable. When my grandfather died twenty years ago Granny Julia refused to be bowed, instead she worked her way through her grief, increasing her shifts at the nursing home she worked at in Manchester where she often cared for people not much older than her. She also sat a number of GCSE examinations when she was way past the age of 60, probably making up for the fact that she had to leave school at 15 to help support her five younger brothers and sisters; Granny kept her framed certificates in pride of place in her sitting room - one thing that never failed to amuse me was her disagreement with the examination board on the grade she received for her Sociology GCSE, having failed to persuade them to review the grade she simply Tipp-exed it out and gave herself an 'A'.

Granny Julia was a relic from another time. Proud, pig-headed, hard-working, extraordinarily thrifty and super-keen on keeping up appearances, she was always slim, held herself ramrod straight and wouldn't have dreamt of leaving the house without a slick of lipstick and a neat outfit (her clothes were always impeccable, despite many of them being over twenty years old). Overly fond of the sort of old-fashioned wartime nosh incomprehensible to younger generations (tripe, anyone?), Granny thought a plate of good wholesome grub was the answer to everything; ahead of her time, she only ate seasonal food and bought all her veg from a local bloke with an allotment - probably why she lived so long. A staunch Catholic, every inch of wall space in Granny's house was covered with pictures of Jesus, cuttings from the Church newsletter and family photos; my mum's most effective threat was to send me off to Granny's house for the night - I was so terrified of the huge oil painting of Jesus suffering on the cross in the spare room that I'd do anything to avoid sleeping there.

Granny refused to allow her increasing age get the better of her and was as strong as an ox (not to mention as stubborn as a donkey), at least until Alzheimers crept up on her a couple of years ago. A few too many midnight excursions into the middle of Manchester in her nightgown and her firm belief that the framed photos in her sitting room contained real live people - we figured this out because Granny kept trying to spoon-feed the pictures - led to her having to be moved to an old people's home. Apart from the fact that the home smelled of wee, it was quite lovely with big bright rooms for each of the residents and nice gardens but Granny never got used to the fact that loads of old people showed up uninvited in 'her' sitting room every afternoon - she would sit in her favorite chair giving the other oldies evil looks and muttering darkly about how she would never turn up at someone's house without an invitation because she had proper manners. She never failed to make me laugh.

Rest in peace, Granny.

Secret squirrel

mothersontheverge@gmail.com (YLM) — Tue, 01 Dec 2009 12:51:00 +0000

Got writers block. Or rather, have writers block because I have a secret which I want to share but for one reason and another am unable to quite yet. Thus can't think of anything else to write about until the secret is out. Very annoying. All will be revealed soon.

mothersontheverge@gmail.com (YLM) — Mon, 23 Nov 2009 08:42:00 +0000

My Granny Julia died yesterday. For once, I've run out of words.

Park life

mothersontheverge@gmail.com (YLM) — Sat, 21 Nov 2009 12:19:00 +0000

I've started to do a trot round the park every other morning in an attempt to avoid my buttocks taking over the world. When I say trot what I really mean is that I sort of stumble and shuffle my way around the park, stopping to wheeze now and then whilst pretending to contort myself into the sort of complicated stretching positions that the more seasoned runners do so effortlessly.

I don't think I'm fooling anyone, in fact I seem to get a lot of scornful looks from females more toned of limb and glossy of hair than I (probably French Mamans, I should think, but kinda hard to tell when attired in lycra) but at least I'm trying. That's got to count for something, right?

The actual effort of getting myself around the park (all 3.5k of it, gah) is not at all enjoyable, nor is the searing pain experienced in the darkest recesses of my thighs for 48 hours afterwards, but there is one unexpected and totally delightful highlight - early morning in the park is a Class A people-watching paradise.

The local Emirati ladies are the most interesting as they walk and even jog around the park wearing full abaya and hejjab. Let's face it, jogging is hard enough at the best of times but doing it while draped in voluminous lengths of dark cloth? That's hardcore. And they even look cheerful while doing it. Hats off, ladies.

Some of the Western women look almost obscene in contrast. At one extreme are the teeny tiny short shorts and running bras worn by the more hard-bodied. The slightly wobbly tend to favour leggings or long shorts and a vest. The can't-be-bothered (i.e. me) wear whatever falls out of their wardrobe, such as a ratty pair of trackies and an old t-shirt belonging to Alpha. Which is probably why the French Mamans snort in disgust as I limp past, simultaneously tensing their rock-hard miniscule buttocks in horror just in case Fashion Crime is a disease... in which case I'm obviously highly contagious.

While vanity and showing off their perky posteriors appears to be a key motivator for the women, running is a testosterone-fuelled pastime for the blokes. I've lost count of the times I've spotted guys trying to make the other eat their dust, kind of like two Porches trying to burn the other off at the traffic lights. Yesterday a rather feminine looking chap - he had a very 'prancy' run and looked a bit like Bambi - totally humiliated an Arnie-style hunk o' man. It was beautiful. I nearly choked.

But one of the more unusual sights I've seen recently was an older Indian man wearing his regular clothes - jeans, shirt buttoned to the neck, lace-up leather shoes - sprinting at top speed around the park. It looked like he was taking exercise rather than trying to evade a pursuer, he was holding a bottle of water and plugged into what looked like an MP3 player, but I guess you can never be sure.

The excitement of my morning amble; it's better than the telly. You never know, this could become my new addiction...

The benefits of non-smoking

mothersontheverge@gmail.com (YLM) — Wed, 18 Nov 2009 06:09:00 +0000

This non-smoking lark has thus far failed to impress me. Not only do I find it really tricky to write anything bar the most banal email without a ciggie clenched in my desperate fist - hence my disappearance from the blog for the last few days - but all kinds of horrid vanity-shocker things are happening. Such as:

Impaired cognitive function

my brain has turned into cream cheese, even more so than usual... Did cigarettes actually make me more clever (as I once claimed to a smug anti-smoking type after a bottle of wine) or is this just a temporary fuzz brought on by the nicotine deficit?

The worst of both worlds

my skin thinks it belongs to a teenager - spots?? At my age! NO FAIR! Plus there's also my wrinkles and crinkles to contend with. Granny furrows + teenage zits = no wonder I'm confused.

Get thee to fat camp

I have gained a grand total of 4 kilos in one mouldy week. None of my skirts will do up and my jeans have turned into a great big denim wedgie. Am sitting in front of the laptop in track pants. Miserable zitty crinkle face + trackpants + steadily increasing arse = not a pretty sight. Suspect Alpha will be serving divorce papers any moment now.

Fit as a fiddle?

The one thing I would have thought would be guaranteed would be better lungs, but no, I am still coughing and still incapable of running more than 50m without spotty wrinkly face turning the colour of a tomato and mouth impersonating a seen-better-days steam engine. I am still the laughing stock of the Safa Park jogging track yet can no longer console myself with the thought of a nice restorative ciggie waiting for me in the car. Bah.

A more serene new me

Everyone (i.e. all those blo*dy liars out there) told me that I would feel much more serene, free of the tyranny of the ciggies and therefore more even-tempered. I had a vision of myself turning into one of those washing powder advert mums, y'know, those paragons of mummyhood who wash muddy footie kit with a sweet smile before having a quick boogie in the buttercups during the spin cycle. Well, I might be smoke-free but am certainly not feeling balanced or in any way happy; in fact I've been throwing insane Mummy Tantrums at the smallest provocation. Kids have stopped speaking just in case they spark me off and Alpha is making himself very scarce indeed. This morning I had a hissy fit about a hair clip. Yesterday it was someone leaving the lid off my favorite pen. What next? The grass being the wrong shade of green? The straightjacket not being a flattering cut? My walls of my cell not quite padded enough? Sigh...

OK, so it's only been a week and patience comes to those who wait, yada yada. But still, you'd think I would feel just a couple of teeny weeny benefits by now, right? A little something to keep me going? A wee glimmer of light at the end of the tunnel... Because right now I feel as if I've been well and truly conned.

The strange confusion of the Dubai Hangover

mothersontheverge@gmail.com (YLM) — Fri, 13 Nov 2009 06:45:00 +0000

It is an odd thing, being hungover in Dubai. I would, in fact, go as far to say that it is strangely unlike any hangover I have ever had in any other part of the world. For some reason, the tiniest drop of booze consumed here has a more drastic effect than one would reasonably expect the next day.

Conspiracy theorists may venture that some radical group is adding anti-freeze to the al-kool sold here in an attempt to punish the heathen ex-pats for their wild and lairy ways. Although legend has it that the Australians have been doing this to their grown-up grape juice for years (albeit for less moral reasons, perhaps) and it hasn't exactly harmed their consumption (or sales), has it?

Another theory would be that because Dubai has such a hot climate the effects of dehydration are much worse than in more temperate climes. This would make a lot of sense except for the fact that I am very careful to drink as much water as my skin will hold (plus an extra large glass before bed for luck) and still invariably wake up with an evil rager the next day.

A quick poll amongst friends reveals that the Dubai Hangover is not a solo experience, with 8/10 reporting similar symptoms to me. So it can't be just that I'm a total lightweight who can no longer hold my ale due to increasing age and general feebleness. Can it?

It's a mystery. The only solution is a large stock of Alka Seltzer and/or sobriety.

YLM turns into a non-smoking b*tch on wheels

mothersontheverge@gmail.com (YLM) — Thu, 12 Nov 2009 07:18:00 +0000

Earlier this week I announced that I was thinking about stopping my depraved sucking of the tar-sticks. 20 years or so of having been in the thrall of ciggies is quite embarrassing, not to mention having recently developed a cough that should live in a much older body. So thinking quickly turned into doing - I took the bull by the horns and chucked out my last pack of Marlboro Lights.

I can confidently announce that so far, all of two days and a bit in, I bitterly regret such tomfoolery. Whatever made me think such madness? And why the Hell did I act on it?

It's official. Giving up smoking really, really sucks.

Apart from the physical symptoms, which are not pleasant, the psychological nagging is hard to bear. Imagine a small malevolent beast living in your ear, constantly whispering in a nastly smug little voice: oooh go on, just have one. Just light up. Think about how yummy it will be, hmmm. Anyway, you don't really want to give up do you? I know how much you like it, especially that lovely first one of the day which makes your head go all tingly. Anyway, you owe us, you can't live without us - we've been with you through thick and thin, we have, from when you were a teenager learning to smoke with the French exchange student... we consoled you when you split up with boyfriends, helped you through the nerves of exams and job interviews, made all those parties go with a swing, we even came back to you after you rejected us during your two pregnancies... we've been with you for ever! And this is how you think to repay us?? You'll see, you'll get really fat and you'll be boring without your friends the ciggies. What makes you think you'll be able to give up anyway? You'll come back! You'll come crawling back! You'll be begging forgiveness! You'll never get aaaawwwwwaaayyyyy!

And what's worse is that I have turned into an impossible raging cowbag. Alpha hates me after having to listen to me go on and on about how he doesn't understand my pain and how my giving up smoking is much worse than when he gave up because he used anti-smoking drugs which I'm allergic to and so I can't enjoy taking the same soft and easy option blah blah blah de blah. Firstborn went to school this morning looking profoundly depressed after a particularly vitriolic outburst on my part and the Small(er) One keeps patting me while saying things like: "You'll feel better soon Mummy, you're just cross 'cos you're giving up the smoking, you'll be a nice mummy again soon".

It's the rage, you see, that's the real problem. It wells up whenever I get stressed (the point at which I would usually reach for the ciggies) and I can't seem to control it. I hope it goes soon because at this rate I am going to end up all alone in a dark room with nobody to talk to except the malevolent monster, and he isn't exactly a brilliant conversationalist.

Aussie rules

mothersontheverge@gmail.com (YLM) — Wed, 11 Nov 2009 07:03:00 +0000

It seems my character assassinations of the different types of mum to be found in Dubai have been quite popular (new readers, see here, here, here, here and here) . In reponse to recent requests for more, here's a shameless stereotype of one of my favorites, the Australian Mum:

Australian mum is pretty keen on Dubai. After all, it's kinda like home except that Australia is chokka with poisonous beasties, so that's a bonus right there. Only issue is that living in such safety might make the nippers a bit soft but a yearly trip back to Oz for a spot of camping in the Outback armed with nothing more than a billycan and a prayer should sort that right out. Plus rumour has it there's an infestation of the venomous Australian red-back spider up in Dubai's Emirates Hills, which just adds to the excitement (not to mention acting as a reminder of home sweet home).

Oz Mum is made of sturdy stuff, the harsh beauty of Australia having necessitated a ramped-up natural selection process resulting in a hardy modern-day breed of stout-hearted and strong-limbed lovelies. OzM can be identified by her bronzed skin, sun-bleached hair, super-healthy glow and wide range of surf clobber. As good-natured and boisterous as her tribe of tousle-haired kiddies, her head is usually flung back in a belly laugh and her hand flung out mid-back-slap.

Rarely one to be found taking a doona day, Oz Mum's approach to life is practical, enthusiastic and usually taken at break-neck speed. Ill-health, over-analysis and self-pity are for drongos - she's as fit as a butcher's dog and can't understand anybody prone to peering at their own navels. Her natural habitat is the beach, where she partakes in death-defying sports with a vigour that shames all present (especially the Pommies who OzM secretly despises due to their addiction to grumbling, their inability to cope with too much sun and their unswerving tendency towards politeness).

OzM is always up for a ripper time and, when not out on the beach encouraging the rug-rats to fling themselves into giant waves, can be found cracking a few coldies with the old man and her huge gang of mates. She's the sort of woman you want on your side but her selection process is hard to breach unless you're as laid back, straight-talking and energetic as she is. OzM's entirely devoid of subtlety or bitchiness so you'll always know where you are with her - if you don't make the grade then she'll make it perfectly clear she doesn't have time for you but she won't harp on or make snide comments to her mates. Life's simply too short to waste time on ratbags like you. But if you do make it and become one of the gang you'll be rewarded with regular bear hugs and the best barbies this side of the equator for years to come.

Frankly, you've got to admire a woman of such Amazonian proportions and larger-than-life character. Even if she does cause all lesser female mortals to limp weakly off to their shrinks to deal with their sudden feelings of inadequacy...

In pursuit of perfection

mothersontheverge@gmail.com (YLM) — Tue, 10 Nov 2009 07:55:00 +0000

I'll admit it, I'm a closet perfectionist. I should be on a 12-step programme. My only saving grace is that my pursuit of perfectionism only applies to myself. I'm far more tolerant of others; I enjoy other people's imperfections and tend to dislike perfection-seekers. Because, let's face it, perfect people are often very dull. Not to mention smug and often uptight. All of which is not very endearing.

So why do I persist in my pipe-dream of perfection? Why do I beat myself up when I act like an idiot (often), say stupid things (daily) and scream at Alpha and the kids like a fishwife (all the time)? Why do I feel cross and embarrassed every time I get lost when trying to read a map? Why do I over-apologise in a cringe-worthy fashion and feel ashamed whenever I'm late (being incapable of judging time can be a bit of a problem)? Why do I feel sick to my stomach whenever I've inadvertantly offended someone? Why do I feel utterly dumb when I play Trivial Pursuit and get a question wrong, or worse, don't know any of the answers? Why do I obsess about my strange knees, my stumpy legs and encroaching cellulite?

Frankly, why do I give a sh*t? Other people tend to do all of the above (probably) and worse, yet shrug it off and act as if they couldn't care less. And I've never observed the world falling on their heads. Plus their mothers still seem to love them. So it can't be that bad, right?

One of the most difficult things to come to terms with as you struggle through adulthood is the realisation that the attainment of perfection is impossible. I would never be so bold as to claim to have reached that particular state of grown-up-ness but I do seem to have moved on a bit from my last decade.

The best cure for perfectionists is to have kids. Perfectionists are invariably control freaks and, as anyone with a small human bean in their care will be aware, children introduce great big messy gobs of chaos into the most streamlined life. How you deal with it is up to you. The hard-core perfectionist will endeavour to shape their children into perfect packages in their own image - which can work for a while but the teenage years inevitably present a more difficult challenge. Others, like me (mildly neurotic but essentially rather lazy), eventually come to the realisation that they have to let go a bit and accept the fact that they're not perfect, will never be perfect, and that others will accept them despite (or perhaps because) of it.

Viva la imperfection! Personally, I'm working hard on nurturing my faults....

Click here for inspiration.

YLM contemplates nicotine withdrawal

mothersontheverge@gmail.com (YLM) — Mon, 09 Nov 2009 07:11:00 +0000

I'm trying to give up smoking.

Or, at least, I'm thinking about trying to give up smoking. For those who know me off-blog, they will know very well that this shocking news is somewhat akin to Gordon Brown contemplating voluntary resignation, the Pope donning a pink sequinned cowboy hat for Gay Pride or Jordon (aka Katie Price) being seen in a twinset and pearls.

I'm one step ahead of this lot though, having purchased a pack of nicotine patches at the chemist this morning. Yes, they are still sitting in my handbag unopened, but they're acting as a constant reminder of my sort-of intent every time I delve in my bag to rummage for the ever-present pack of Marlboro Lights.

Baby steps, right?

Most people think my long attachment to the ciggies is kind of pathetic. They also think that a stern talking-to will make me see the error of my ways; a tactic especially favoured by ex-smokers who, frankly, should know better. Kindly folks suggest all kinds of cures, usually something bizarre that worked for their second-cousin twice removed who once smoked 90 Woodbines a day and is now running half-Marathons. I've heard all kind of nonsense, from fiddling with your ear when you feel the urge to light up a gasper (er, I don't get how that works, I really don't) to sweat therapy (yuck, anyway do something of this nature every day in Dubai and can tell you that sweating just makes me cross and thus more likely to reach for the cigs).

People also tell me that it's selfish to smoke when I have children - think of the kiddies being all sad and troubled when you've smoked yourself into an early grave! - which really p*sses me off, because the people who tell me this tend to binge-drink themselves silly every weekend, drive like w*nkers and will undoubtably collapse under the weight of their own smugness at some point in the near future.

Intellectually, I know all the very good reasons to give up smoking. I know it's bad for me. I know that I risk all kinds of chronic health problems from filling my lungs with a smorgasbord of chemicals and evil nicotine. I am aware that my lips will turn into a cat's bum and I will look like a Gucci handbag if I keep going for much longer. I know that all this is even worse now that I'm on the fast-track to 40, plus I can no longer claim the arrogance of youth.

But I also know that since smoking is terribly unfashionable (and thus easy to tag as the cause for all social ills and more besides) it makes me a valid target for every do-gooder I encounter on my daily business. I could starve myself to skeleton proportions, gulp down the booze like no tomorrow, contact STD's on a weekly basis and refuse to get out of bed in the morning without swallowing a bunch of prescription meds and I would probably be still less of a social pariah than I am as a smoker - I would definitely be on the receiving end of less well-meaning meddling. Which, being a bit of a rebellious soul who hates being told what to do, actually makes me want to smoke all the more.

Me stopping smoking is a bit like weaning a toddler from a strong attachment to its dummy or cuddly blankie. Yes, it's inevitable that eventually they will give up their baby things one day (or in my case, teenage things) but you have to expect it to be a painful, drawn-out process which will be punctuated by tantrums, the repetitive throwing of toys out of the pram and many sleepless nights.

Watch this space.

Princess Tanty-Pants strikes again

mothersontheverge@gmail.com (YLM) — Sun, 08 Nov 2009 07:03:00 +0000

Firstborn has become a bit of a diva. The household vibe used to be dominated by The Small(er) One - who kind people described as 'determined' - but since she turned into a reasonable human being recently (almost overnight, we are still reeling in shock and, truth be told, slightly suspicious), the mantle has been taken on with astonishing verve by Firstborn.

Clothing is a whole new battlefield as Firstborn refuses to wear anything except one of two pairs of increasingly ratty-looking shorts and a few tired-looking blue or brown t-shirts; how I long for a return of the good old days, when the colour pink reigned and Firstborn modelled her look on that of Dolly Parton. But the lack of sartorial elegance is the least of my worries.

The suggestion that homework needs to be completed (or indeed, anything that doesn't involve playing or watching cartoons) is invariably met with an upward eye-roll and a bellowed: "Oh, Mummy!", followed by slammed doors, bitter tears and the inevitable accusation that I'm trying to ruin her life.

The Small(er) One is now a source of constant annoyance to Firstborn. Whereas Firstborn would previously ignore or cajole the Small(er) One when she was being a pest, she now resorts to violence, screaming, name-calling or teasing. It inevitably ends with tears and bad temper all round (myself included).

Being taken for a vaccination shot at the doctor's yesterday - Firstborn kicked and bit Alpha in an attempt to escape the hated needle, screamed the place down and had to be physically restrained. The doctor said something about a phobia but Mean Ol' Mummy suspects may have been a case of amateur dramatics gone wild.

It's quite perplexing. Firstborn was always my well-behaved tender-hearted child, the one who could be relied upon to be reasonable and who wanted to please those around her (and especially me). Even her toddler tantrum days were short-lived and fairly easy to defuse. I expected jealousy when the Small(er) One arrived but Firstborn loved her at first sight. Every school report I have ever received has described her as polite, caring, a delight to have in class and always well behaved.

Well, Firstborn may still be fairly well-behaved at school (thank God for small mercies) but she seems to have found an outlet for her darker side elsewhere...

Can someone please reassure me that the pre-teen diva strops are merely a blip and not something that I am going to have to battle with every day from now until Firstborn comes of age?

Fresh Air Fund and OneSight gives kids new vision

mothersontheverge@gmail.com (YLM) — Fri, 06 Nov 2009 07:59:00 +0000

Here's a nice story. I heard recently about a US-based charity called The Fresh Air Fund which gives inner-city kids a break from air pollution and endless concrete by sending them out to the countryside to special camps and host families. All worthwhile in its own right, all kids need the opportunity to run amok in open spaces and experience farm animals somewhere other than in the chill section of the supermarket. Plus these are kids for whom the word 'holiday' doesn't mean much other than having to hang out at home because school is closed. They're not part of the masses priveleged enough to expect a couple of weeks at the beach every summer and perhaps a spot of skiiing in the winter. These are kids who find it hard to scrape up enough for a subway ride, let alone a plane or bus ticket.

Anyway, in addition to providing holiday memories for kids who otherwise wouldn't get out of the city, the charity has teamed up with OneSight to send travelling optical clinics out to the Fresh Air camps to screen kids for vision problems, providing free eye exams and glasses for those who need them.

Anyone with a child who has looked upon the world with a new wonder after being given their first set of glasses will know why this is such a worthwhile cause. Check it out here.

Swine-free and pool-less

mothersontheverge@gmail.com (YLM) — Thu, 05 Nov 2009 07:38:00 +0000

Here's the good news. There is officially nothing swine-ish about me: I have been given the all clear on the H1N1 front.

The bad news is that I'm still sick but, as always, I shall shoulder it with stoic determination (and possibly a minimum of whining) and rise to the challenge of the school run and incessant demands for bottom wiping/ dinner/ treats/ homework assistance.

Onwards and upwards.

The other bad news is that Alpha is in the midst of a frenzy of economising which means I'm not allowed to go shopping for fun stuff (I mean, who ever heard of only buying things that you need?), am having to downgrade my mani-pedi sessions from the nice place in the Mercato Mall (replete with marble basins and an embarrassment of Essie polish shades to choose from) to the local hole-in-the-wall (I think they sterilise the equipment adequately, euw, plus their choice of polish comes in a plastic veggie basket and half of them are gunky, boo) and - GASP - no renewal of our beach club membership.

This latter news had me in a proper frenzy. No nice icy-cold pool to dive into to beat the heat? No private beach to frolick on? It's utter madness. Is Alpha trying to drive me crazy? Is this a prelude to divorce? Is it in retaliation for my refusing to let him play golf last weekend? I just don't know what he's playing at.

And what about the children? Think of the poor kiddies, sweating and rosy-cheeked every weekend while their friends are swimming like mermaids in chilled waters. I don't think that adding ice-cubes to their paddling pool is going to cut the mustard, I really don't.

This is a declaration of marital war. There's nothing else for it but to roll up my Marigolds and play hardball. Alpha will be cowering like our recently neutered tomcat when I'm done with him.

Well, am I or not?

mothersontheverge@gmail.com (YLM) — Tue, 03 Nov 2009 09:32:00 +0000

Finally went to the doc this morning. Feeling much better but cough is still present and in danger of waking up the neighbours at night, such is its volume, so thought I had better submit to some kind of meds so I can be free of it. A pesky thing, carrying a cough around with you 24/7. Plus people look at you in a strange way (no manners, some folks) which makes me come over all leper-like.

So off I trotted to the clinic. Doc did the usual prodding and waving around of stethescope then announced that I needed to be tested for H1N1. But, I spluttered, I don't have a temperature and I'm almost better, it's just the pesky cough I need you to sort out. No, he pronounced, you have all the symptoms of H1N1 and a temperature is not always present. Oh, I said, deflated, then meekly allowed myself to be taken off for blood extraction and the rather over-vigorous (in my opinion) probing of my left nostril with a q-tip.

This was three hours ago and I still haven't been told if I am swine-ridden or not. The clinic number is constantly engaged all of a sudden and I'm feeling even crosser than I usually do (Alpha will tell you this is no mean feat).

The cynic in me says that it's a bit of a cash-cow (or should that be cash-pig? ha ha), this H1N1 testing thing, since docs can now be justified in charging anyone with a sniffle a whopping AED350 to have their nostrils violated and their arms used as a pin-cushion. Still, I'm pretty keen to know for sure...especially as the Small(er) One is asthmatic. Call, you b*ggers, call!

Why no fever doesn't mean no Swine Flu

mothersontheverge@gmail.com (YLM) — Mon, 02 Nov 2009 13:55:00 +0000

Agh. Total fuel for my H1N1 paranoia, read all about it here.

Dubai divorce & swine flu

mothersontheverge@gmail.com (YLM) — Sun, 01 Nov 2009 08:13:00 +0000

Still sick. Alpha sick too. Might be the same Dubai lurgy or may be another one which decided to piggy-back. Getting sick of being sick. Starting to panic that we all have H1N1, aka Swine Flu. But don't you have to run a fever for it to be Swine Flu? All very confusing.

Here's a link to the NHS check list for anyone as perplexed as I am.

Anyway, was flicking through our top read The Gulf News this morning (whilst feeling supremely sorry for myself and sniffling) when I came across this absolute corker of a news story here which urges married couples experiencing relationship strife to consider other options before jumping into divorce.

I'm all for couples working things out rather than heading for the divorce courts, and this article offers an approach I hadn't had occasion to consider before. The "gradual edifying reconciliation method" advocates a gentle husbandly whipping for wives indulging in "bizarre behaviour" to show them the error of their ways. This is, of course, a last resort if husbandly nagging/ hectoring/ lecturing and witholding of marital favours doesn't work.

Alpha says I had better watch out. Which obviously made me snigger wildly and forget about H1N1 for all of five seconds. Off to scour the web now for examples of people with H1N1 who didn't have a fever. Best to be prepared and all that (didn't suffer through years of the torture of Girl Guides for nothing, y'know).

Bleurgh

mothersontheverge@gmail.com (YLM) — Wed, 28 Oct 2009 14:06:00 +0000

Currently ill with some form of Dubai lurgy. Alpha may be the master of the Man Flu, but I am mistress of the Bloody-Grumpy-Can't-Stand-Being-Ill-And-Boy-Will-You-All-Know-About-It school of sickness.

Will post again when better (and in better mood).

Take zat, French Maman!

mothersontheverge@gmail.com (YLM) — Sun, 25 Oct 2009 12:18:00 +0000

In a flurry of 'can do' spirit this morning, I decided to take on the Frenchies at their own game.

OK, so I am probably a little too fleshy to properly pass myself off as ze glorious French Maman, plus my hair is far too frizzy, but I can do the whole floaty leetle trapeze dress with witty lace detailing with the best of them. A slicked-back ponytail hides a multitude of bouffy sins. A touch of powder to simulate the non-shiny visage. Have a bit of a tan already so tick on that one. Finish off with one pair of round-toed ballet shoes and I was there, ready to 'zut alors' with the glamorous Gallic hordes at the school gate.

Sadly, it failed miserably. Not one French mother gave me an appoving smile or even flicked their dark sultry glance over my outfit. It was as if I was invisible. Which is all very well when I am dressed in my scumbag Rosbif style rags, but not when I've gone to the considerable effort of tricking myself out in the French femme's national costume.

Hmmm, back to the drawing board. Now, am I brave enough to try to emulate the Glamazon tomorrow?