Bleach It Baby

No, I'm not talking about your lady tash. Although we'll get to that in another post soon.

I'm talking about the stuff that makes your house smell like you've set up home in a public swimming baths without expecting to see floating plasters, toe nails and the odd diamond. Diamonds are hauls you'll generally only find in posh pools.

There are many things I am good at, passionate about and therefore prone to indulging in on a regular basis. Sampling red wine is one such predilection. Cleaning is not. I have, however, over the years become exceptionally good and passionate about delegating it to people far more proficient at it than me. They are my cleaner and when financial bribery is called for, my small tribe of children.

It's come as somewhat of a surprise therefore that I've become a little obsessed with cleaning the house like some rubber-gloved zealot. It's not natural and my family know that. I've seen them staring at me from afar (you don't get in the path of me and my bleach) wondering at what point they should make the call to the men with the white coats to take me somewhere safe. It was utter confusion when I practically raced into the house to unveil the new gift I'd bought for myself.

Meet my new partner in cleaning crime. Don't you love it? The thrill was nothing short of the excitement I felt at getting my brunette Girls World. Actually my first taste of champagne comes a close second.

But it doesn't stop there. I've become Karcher's most prolific unpaid (and anonymous ) sales agent. Don't make the mistake of admiring my crystal clean windows and then standing still long enough for me to give you a full demo of the Karcher WV5 Premium Window Vacuum Cleaner. I'm not on commission  but if my career hits the rocks, you know where to find me.

When the gloves, bleach and hoover are out and with The Verves' 'The Drugs Don't Work' cranked up to the max The Pause isn't such a bad place to be.

So, get your bleach on babes and release the cleaning beast!

Spot The Difference

I woke up this morning looking exactly as I did after my first kiss with Dave Taylor. He was in his Farah polyester pants. I was in my C&A uniform. We were 16 and both dressed in 1990's static. That mattered not, what mattered more was that I was left with a snog rash that looked liked he'd tried to eat the outside of my lips with a tooth pick.

Spots around the side of my mouth and chin. I mean what the bloody hell fire?!

Spots are the preserve of my teenage daughters and whilst there are few similarities to applaud between The Teen & The Pauser (other than those ridiculous mood swings!) there are small mercies in this one. They get all of the pimple paraphernalia any face could dream of in the pursuit of zit annihilation. I practically encourage them to put it on their Christmas and Easter List. Chocolate causes spots, spots don't get facebook likes and Zoella so doesn't do skin imperfections... so out with the Cadburys and in with the Clearasil girls. You know it makes sense. To me.

As a teen I regularly turned to that nasty TCP stuff - do you remember it? It had a toxic smell and colour that would make you think you could get the rust off your shopper bike using it. And if it was good enough for that then it would damn sure burn those red babies off. Burn being the operative word.

I thank god for today for make-up and the power of concealer. God knows I'm going through more of it now than I have in the past 10 years.

Rimmel listen up, you should be paying me royalties.

They Call Me Mello Meno

I'm still stuck with my bloody periods. Excuse the pun. It genuinely wasn't intentional and contrived but when I read it back now it's a bit bloody clever isn't it? Oops, did it again.

Anyhow I digress.

I've been blessed with not sharing in the same painful PMT sufferance as others. My menstrual existence to date has been a smug one. Until now. 

To you, The Pausers out there who've finally been able to divorce yourselves from Menstrual Cycle you can now stand back and be like Smug In Ya Face! Because this Pauser just got like serious PMT vibes goin' on.

And here's the grrrr irritating thing about the Menstrual Beast. It might not go on for as long as it used to but then it might even show no signs of stopping; it might decide to arrive a week early or swagger in 10 days late. It's about as unreliable as British Rail (don't get me started on that one) but one things for certain. He's a right bastard when he arrives. 

Note Menstrual Beast has now become 'he'. Interesting. 

When Menstrual Beast moves in I will want to slay everyone in my path especially my husband; I consider having my children adopted and booking myself onto a one way ticket to anywhere-but-here; I'll cry because the dog looked at me in a patronising way and rage because the toast took longer to burn than normal. 

Menstrual Beast has made me irrational, paranoid, a blubbering wreck and a bitch to live with.

Thank god for chocolate and red wine. Rich in tannins, calcium enriched milk and omega somethings, they're The Pausers go-to nutritional duo. 

The very clever people at Cadburys have clearly got a thoughtful woman in their product development team. Mello's for Meno's. I like.  Oh the irony of it all.

For the record. I'm writing this with my petrol station sunglasses on, Celine Dion is gargling away with another verse of melancholy and well the Mello's are working a treat.

Cheeky bye Pausers!

Lydia x

The Dawn Chorus

Hello my name is Lydia.

I'm a 47 year old night sweat machine. I morph into a sponge that gets wringed out in the middle of the night for two weeks out of four. There's something irresistibly un-sexy about waking up with your wet dank hair attached to your cheek like a piece of modern art.

But then there is nothing vaguely sexy about entering that zone we women must all visit at some time. The zone in which you are required to hand in your former confidence, child-like energy, crystal clear memory, svelte figure and yes a dry, all night sleep.

I have just entered The Pause Zone.

I can't bring myself to buddy up with The Menopause. That would be insane. I'm not old enough.  It's a conspiracy. I mean I'm a 24 year old honey pot of fun trapped inside the body of some maniac woman who has switched her Google searches from 'Hot Thongs for Hot Weekends' to 'Wicking & The Heat Absorbing Nightie' and 'Is It Dementia?' So for now, I'm siding with the 24 year old me who thinks The Pause is a funkier and less nightmarish way to describe what is a pretty big ordeal.

I woke up this morning at 5am in my puddle of perspiration to the beautiful bird song of the dawn chorus. It's one of the few perks of The Pause I actually appreciate. In the quiet solitude I wondered how many other Pausers were out there, lying damp and contemplative whilst the rest of the house slept in a warm peaceful slumber.

Wouldn't it great, I thought, If I could share this crazy journey into The Pause if only to be able to empty my increasingly bereft mind into the open space of the web. To have that sanity check. To know and let every other Pauser know, it's ok we're not going mad (well thats a lie as quite often we are) and we're in this together.

Maybe we can walk it (if your legs aren't killing you like mine are), sweat it, swear at it, cry and laugh about it together?

In The Pause there is definitely room for conversation even if we have to turning the heating down. 

So, good morning fellow Pausers - I look forward to seeing you soon.

Lydia x