I enjoyed this last week, so am going to keep it as a regular double-feature. This week’s sentence to finish is When it comes to reality TV shows, I… well, this could get embarrassing! I am an utter, utter addict to a few, but am in the peculiar position of not having a tv in the house. And I don’t usually care enough to find the shows online, but there’s one in particular I love – I’m A Celebrity Get Me Out Of Here (IACGMOOH). It’s a seasonal favourite – a bunch of (usually) desperate Z-listers with low-level or opver-and-done careers, parachuted into the middle of the Australian jungle (5 minutes from a super-luxury hotel) and made to sleep with the spiders, eat bugs to earn their real food and spend three weeks in disgusting, muddy, smelly misery. Entertainment at its absolute pinnacle, Ladies and Gentlemen.
Okay, I goofed. I’m only an addict to one reality show. Upon consultation with Husby, the other shows I like would not be classed as ‘Reality TV’ It’s a glorious three weeks though. Others I really love but don’t *have* to watch every week are Strictly Come Dancing and Come Dine With Me. The snarky commentary in the latter is enough to put anyone into hysterics and swear never to host a dinner party EVER, just in case the voiceover guy turns up to critique.
So, onward with my ‘takes’ for the week. Husby and I joined a new club this week. Membership is wider than you might think, and I should think most of them carry the pain of belonging as a constant undertone of their everyday life. It’s the ‘Can’t have kids’ club. We got a fairly clear induction on Monday, when an analyst said that as things stand, the NHS won’t fund any fertility treatment as there’s so little to work with. To say we were gutted would be an understatement, but as the week’s moved on and I’ve caught up with other friends who are already members, their quiet acceptance of the fact and the way they manage to carry on, I’ve felt quite inspired. Of the people I know personally who are members of this club, we are the only ones where the fertility issue is not with the woman. The reasons are varying, and cover such wide issues as age, genetic factors and endocrine disorders. Nonetheless, the solidarity I feel and the comfort I gain from having such wonderful people in the same boat has proved invaluable.
The main problem (as far as I can tell from my friends’ and my own experience) is that as soon as you join the club and announce your infertility, everyone seems to be pregnant. Even the blokes. There’s an odd dichotomy as I feel that I should try very hard not to hide this issue and sweep it under the carpet (one of the things I’ve noticed most is how much this seems to be the case, with lots of pussy-footing around the subject, calling it ‘involuntarily childless’ and things like that) but I also feel that I should do my best to celebrate with these new Mamas and try to be glad for them…without rubbing their face in it or making them feel guilty. I’m sure there’s a balance to be had somewhere, I just haven’t found it yet, but hey – I’m new at this; I’ve the rest of my life to learn.
It has been a week of unexpected books. Three separate friends have spontaneously loaned me books they think I’d benefit from reading. One’s a Lenten poetry study-type-thing. The friend who loaned it considered that because I’m ‘wordy’, I might appreciate it. Admittedly last time I saw her, I admitted to enjoying reading the dictionary and finding new words, so I’m willing to give it a go. The next is C.S. Lewis’ The Problem of Pain. I was loaned this BEFORE finding out probably the most painful news I’ve had in a while. I’ve not opened it yet, but I’ll get to it. The last was ‘Stardust’, which was offered with the warning “This is one of the rare cases where the movie is better” but I’ll try it anyways. Once I’m finished with The Jungle Book, I’ll need something new.
My new favourite song this week is by Reef. It’s sung in a *ahem* unique vocal style, which isn’t the point. I LOVE the bass-line. It’s a funky, trippy little tune and works really well, even if I want to offer the lead singer a Halls Soother once he’s done.
P.S. If anyone’s
geeky enough clever enough to know and tell me how to embed video clips from Youtube using HTML, I’ll give them 10,000 brand new Ossum Points.
Later edit – 10,000 brand new Ossum Points to Deltaflute, who had the answer. I think. Or at least, she inspired me to do something clicketty that worked.
I learned the hard way today not to play with gold label aquarium sealant. It’s very, very fun to play with because it oozes and smooshes and sticks pond-y, fish tank-y stuff together in a brilliantly waterproof way, but then you realise you’re at college and there are no oil-based cleansers around. I began with the stuff on 4 fingertips. As I washed, it spread over my hands and nails. Then I washed some more and managed to get it back to the fingertips, but all of them this time. 20 minutes of dedicated scrubbing ensued and I was left with nearly-clean hands with black under my nails.
I tried feeding our spider a cricket today. I’m not sure she’s a very natural predator, as she’s ignored it completely thus far. I had been feeding her waxworms (apparently these are the spider equivalent of candy, because they’re so full of fat) and thought it was high time she had some ‘real’ food. The cricket I obtained was massive, about ½ her body length. When I put it in the terrarium, she scrunched up as though terrified of this oversized newcomer and refused to come out from under her log arch. The cricket, on the other hand, mosied around the tank, eating the wood (actually biting through chunks of it – I only hope he hasn’t a taste for tarantula), getting caught in webs, nibbling the webs off his feet and generally showing off just how personable an invertebrate can be.
Perhaps if he does eat the spider I’ll just keep him instead. Arachnids seem much sulkier by comparison.
Edit: It is approximately 5 hours later and I take back
all most of what I said about her before. The cricket’s remains are shrivelled and tiny and still impaled upon the end of her fangs as she sucks every last nutrient from its corpse. Spidey-girl is truly a monstrous little predator. Husby believes I should apologise to her for underestimating her so. I shan’t, because she is, after all, just a spider. But I am impressed.
Because this is take 7, I will share that I am coming rapidly to the end of the 7th (and last) season of Star Trek Voyager, and this is making me very sad. Whilst I (apparently) don’t go overly much for reality TV, I love, LOVE, LOVE certain shows far beyond the point of reasonality (I know, I know, NOT a word, but the internet just broke again or my wireless connection is banjaxed, so dictionary.com is unavailable and I can’t think of a sensible alternative). Whilst this is currently the case for Voyager, it has (in the past) been the case for Big Bang Theory, Ally McBeal, Friends, M*A*S*H and The Good Life. I fall head over heels for the show, the characters, the plots, and watch obsessively until the end, at which point I feel hard done by that there’s no more. I tend to get the ‘last season blues’, which means that each episode I watch is watched in the knowledge of impending
The knowledge that, although I can watch all the episodes again, I’ve parted company with new and exciting events in the characters’ lives, is sad (on both levels). I was so upset about the prospect of having to watch to the end of M*A*S*H that as yet I’ve not committed to buying the final series so I don’t have to face it. At least I know I’m not alone – it’s common knowledge that the US pretty much closed when the show aired its final episode.