Dazzled by vajazzling

So on Friday night we were having a dinner party and the conversation turned, naturally enough, to vajazzling. Vajazzling, in case you haven't kept up with pubic fashions, sees ladies glueing coloured diamantes to their nethers. And there I thought that nail art was tacky.

Now, I'm the first to admit that I am an anachronism. I've never photographed my food (perhaps I am self effacing in my belief that no one is interested in the fact that I had a sandwich with cheese and tomato for lunch, but there you go). I have never indicated my disbelief by saying "I know, right?" And I have never spent hours of my time decorating my vagina. Since I can bearly get it together to apply mascara to my eyes, I think it's safe to assume that this is never going to happen.

But I do wonder about the girls who are prepared to sacrifice half an hours' sleep so that their vaginas can be sparkly. What must this be like for the person on the receiving end (I am assuming that, unlike a pedicure or facial, one does not vajazzle for one's own satisfaction). Imagine it - you go out for a drink; the drink turns into dinner; next thing there's kissing and clothes coming off and - ka-ching - like a shiny tooth in a mouthwash ad, there's a glint coming off the lady's privates - even though the lights are off. It's disco fanny!

Quite honestly, if I were a man, I would be taken aback by someone lavishing that much care and attention on their vagina. I just want to point out that girls who have French manicures are frequently thought of as high maintenance...

Also, the choice of motif raises some questions. Of course you get your run of the mill vajazzles - butterflies (because an insect hovering above a vagina is always a turn on) and so forth. But one that stands out for me is the vajazzle cross. I believe that the girl who adorns her vajayjay with such a pattern is sending deeply conflicting messages. Perhaps it is a good choice for the convent girl exploring her nasty side.

Certainly, if I had decided to elevate my bits from lame to aflame, this is one that I just couldn't go for. But the last time I looked they didn't make Stars of David.  

Life is just unfair

I am the one who put on thirty kilos just so that Leya could have life. I am the one who started to resemble Gerard Depardieu, becoming so grotesque in my aspect that, eleven months after the fact, my father still reassures me at least three times a week that I was the ugliest pregnant person he has ever seen in his life. I am the one who has had all kinds of substances, from antiobiotics to chicken liver, land in my hair as Leya raspberries her disapproval thereof. I am the one who has incurred her wrath and had to dodge tiny flailing fists because I have dared to remove cigars fashioned from dead leaves and duck pooh from her inner cheeks. I am the one who has woken up at five am to pretend that trying on a hat is the funniest thing I have ever done in my life. I am the one whose mind has turned into a jukebox with only three offerings: Wind the bobbin up, Clap your hands and Twinkle twinkle little star.

And yet, am I the favourite parent? NO. For the second night running, I have been a spectator to the Leya and James Show, the Greatest Love Story on Earth. Last night, they rested their foreheads against each other and stared into each others eyes for a full minute, gawklingly grinning at each other like two Internet daters who have finally struck gold. Desperate to be part of the scene, I laid my head on James' shoulder, trying to insinuate myself into their happy family. It was pathetic. I was like the short, badly dressed person who stands on the periphery at a cocktail party and laughs at inappropriate moments.

I haven't felt this left out since being the only Jew in the class at Christmastime.

Sneaky confessions

There are some things about myself, only just emerging, that I am not proud:

1) I use Leya as a gym prop. This is largely her own fault, though, as she still demands being rocked and rolled to sleep for at least half an hour every night. Her favourite position is tummy down, in my arms, like a baby leopard cradled in the crook of a tree. She is the ideal weight and length to provide some extra impetus for toning exercises - which is why I intersperse my soothing swishing with a set of squats and lunges, using her prone form as a counterweight. I think she quite enjoys it.

2) I have developed a fixation with baby foods. I think I am going to make the most excellent old person - my love of soft foods that can be eaten without teeth knows no bounds. While I don't personally think there is anything wrong with tucking into a delicious apricot, prune and cinnamon puree for lunch, I am aware that my habit of stealing the food out of Leya's mouth (literally) is perhaps less than admirable. 'One for you, one for me,' I tell her as I share out her deliciouses, keenly aware that she cannot complain that most is going into my mouth.

3) I have become a kleptomaniac. This really isn't my fault; it hasn't been intentional: it's just that I now use the bottom pouch of Leya's pram instead of a shopping trolley. Inevitably, an item or two that has been covered up by one of her blankets, socks or other discards escapes my intention and therefore the cashier. Bad for my conscience, great for the family shopping budget.

4) My paranoia over childhood diseases has led to bizarre behaviours. For instance, I often find myself licking bits of Leya's arms or face to test for saltiness, just to make sure she doesn't have cystic fibrosis.

...And another thing...

Following on from last night's admissions, there is one more secret for me to spill.

Logic and I have never been friends. We parted back in Grade Nine, when it became clear that the only answer on my maths test I could give with any confidence or certainty was my name. I dropped maths; took up home ec; learnt how to make mean scrambled eggs but lost the ability to separate fact from fancy and do even basic addition. That's right: I am the person in the restaurant whose calculator comes out as soon as the bill is presented, and the adding of the bill becomes a performance not vastly different to an ancient religious ceremony in that there is much humming and chanting and swaying back and forth, with my tongue gently poking from the corner of my mouth, as I try to work out the tip on a cappuccino.

Stop streets also present a challenge for me. Many is the time that I have paused at an empty street, waiting for a car to appear so that I can then actually stop for it. The converse is also true: there have been times when I have been so determined to take a gap between fast moving cars that I have forced my car to take off in third gear.

From this, we can deduce that spatial perception is not my forte, nor is planning. This was proved again last week, when a bout of flu left me bed ridden and my store cupboards empty. When finally I was ready to face the world again, it was clear that a touch of grocery shopping would have to be a priority. I decided to stock up on provisions in the afternoon. In the morning, though, it was time to knock some deadlines on the head. The only problem being that this goal relied upon the acquisition of some goodies. Coffee was needed, as was soup, toilet paper and tissues. Now, a person more given to the constructive use of time would have decided just to go ahead and do all the groceries at once. But not I. I elected to go to the very poorly stocked Woolworths at the top of the street. Once there, I realised that the soup flavours were all decidedly lacklustre and that I preferred to make do with a cappuccino from next door. Which left me in need only of toilet paper and tissues.

Now I have always found toilet paper an embarrassing purchase. Especially when buying in bulk. Actually, no, it's more embarrassing by far to purchase a single roll at a time. But either way, I feel more secure when my toilet paper purchases are thrown in amongst tomatoes, brown sugar and Jik.

As a result, by the time I went to check out, it was just me and my tissues. By now I felt vaguely ridiculous for having trekked out just to buy a box of snot rags and, as is my habit, my ridiculousness started manifesting as aggression. "Would you like a packet?" the cashier asked innocently enough. I immediately decided that this was a judgement disguised as a question; say yes, and she - and everyone else in the check out line - would label me a polar bear killer who doesn't even try to remember to turn off the geyser and pool pump, I thought. Thus, I turned down her offer and marched out of Woolworths, clutching my tissues.

There were two ways I could play this: I could walk around nonchalantly, as if a tissue box is the accessory du jour, in the same league as Hunter boots or a statement necklace. Or I could get all protective, looking people directly and challengingly in the eye, like those self consciously quirky individuals who put collars on their cats and take them for walks, or women in their thirties who wear pigtails.

And so it was that my tissues and I perambulated around the Parktown Design Quarter, stopping at Vida for a cuppa, pausing to catch a ray of sun and then driving back home. They thoroughly enjoyed their excursion, I think - and I'm glad, for no one can tell me a tissue's lot in life is a particularly pleasant one.

Things ain't what they used to be

I used to have an outstanding vocabulary. "That's obscure," I would mutter scornfully. "You're allowing yourself to get bogged down by minutaie," I would advise. "I am not a fan of these quotidian mundanities."

But now, in the words of the Pet Shop Boys, I'm not sure why, I'm not sure how - words no longer want to fit my mouth. For someone who makes their living off them, it's an awkward situation. Here are some of the blunders that have occurred during the past few days:

• There we were, driving along, when a short-sighted (myopic) and foul-tempered (cantankerous) woman turned into our lane, almost on top of our car. "Oh my G-d James, we are about to have an affair," I yelled. Needless to say, he was grateful for the warning. I confess this isn't the first time I have made this particular error. Back in varsity, only narrowly escaping being run over while crossing a road, I shouted out, "Oh heavens we're being mowed down by a homocidal psychopath." At least that's what I wanted to shout out. My brain, caught in the frenzy of the moment, made a quick contraction and instead issued me with "Oh heavens, we're being mowed down by a homeopath."
• Again, on the weekend, watching as Leya happily fashioned a cone out of a tissue and munched on it, taking small yet regular bites, I tried a spot of discipline. "Leya, you cannot eat that tissue as you would if you were snacking on a bunch of flowers," I instructed.
• This last one is not so much a verbal failing as a moment of pure WTF. I have developed a habit of passing out in Leya's feeding chair while trying to entice her back to sleep. Obviously, there inevitably comes a moment when I revive, wonder why I am sleeping on a chair, and stagger back to my bed. But this is where my world becomes a surreal twilight where nothing can be trusted. Once back in bed, I will awaken at the sound of the next cry, wondering where on earth I am. It's the kind of sensation I imagine heroines in Enid Blyton and Nancy Drew books to have suffered a lot, for some reason; as I come to, I can almost picture a common sensical, lightly accented British voice saying perkily, "When she opened her eyes, Lisa had no idea where she was." Sometimes, things get very spooky. Obviously, when I am on the chair, Leya is cuddled in my arms. Nine times out of ten, when I go back to bed, I cuddle James. The other day, I woke up with James in my arms, completely confounded, wondering how on earth Leya had become so large and hairy in a matter of hours.

 

Shhh....It's a secret

I have been feeling uncomfortable all day. This is because of my secret socks. Now, I don't really like to talk about secret socks. They're one of those things that just make me feel awkward for no absolute reason. I guess because I look upon them as the panties of the foot world. They are, after all, supposed to be secret, so when I catch a glimpse of someone's secret sock I have the same hot-cheeked feeling I would get if I walked in on someone in the toilet or saw a woman's armpit well past its shave by date. Maybe because this is an admission that, without the sock in place, their feet would be moist and sticky; their probably collecting bits of fluff from the shoe the way a bellybutton collects lint. The feeling is even worse if it is a man's secret sock, because I hate to think of men and their bodily functions. I feel the same way about blowing my nose in public. It's just so personal - only one step up the ladder from picking one's teeth.

Thus it is with a mixture of shame and embarrassment that I confess not only to having worn secret socks this morning, but to having put them on the wrong way around. In fact, I have avoided this particular pair (there! I'm out and proud - I own THREE pairs of secret socks) because I always find them hideously uncomfortable and therefore spend much time trying to surreptiously insert my finger into my ballet pump to rearrange. However, like trying to scratch an itchy bite on your posterior, there is no way of doing this discreetly. Also, it defetas the object - not only do I experience the very foot stickiness I am trying to avoidf, but I find myself walking about with a giant wodge of fabric padded under my toes.

Now I realise this is because, for over a year, I have been putting my toes where the heel should be. I don't know how I could make such an elementary mistake. But it does remind me of the time I went to a spa and, instead of spending five hours basking on Cloud Nine, squirmed in pubic hell - and realised, only when it was time to leave, that this was because I had put my paper G-string on backwards.

Dressing - sometimes, it's just not as easy as you think.

The Monstermorphosis

Once upon time, there was a little castle, where there lived a happy laughing baby and her unpsycho mother. But, although the baby and mother spent their days frolicking and gambolling together, the castle was under an evil spell, and as soon as night fell, both of them turned into terrible monsters. The baby started yowling and mewling and couldn't stop, and the mother turned into an nasty spitting, hissing harpie.

That mother, dear readers, is me; and that baby is of course Leya. For you see, as much as we are best of friends during the day, come 6pm, it seems that we turn into determined adversaries: me, craving sleep, and she doing her utmost to ensure I don't get it.

I call the change that comes over us the monstermorphosis, because it happens slowly but surely every evening. Our nights start like this: It's 6pm, and Leya has just finished her bath. She smells of her unique mixture of Elizabeth Ann's and savoury chicken (this baffles me a bit - why does her bath not dislodge this odour). She has that winsome after-bath appearance that babies get: hair in fluffy disarray, pink and fresh, and looking slightly like a chubby male silkworm now that winter's here and she is tucked into her striped velvety sleep sack.

As she falls asleep, I am overcome by a tsunami of love. I cradle her in my arms in a way that she will no doubt one day discuss with her therapist, and together they will identify this smothering mothering as the cause of all her issues. For now, though, she seems to enjoy it, and she begins to make her special sleep noise, a low little hum. "How sweet," I think to myself, "Your own little lullaby." As she drifts off, I tuck her in, stare down at her for a few minutes longer, then bend to kiss her and whisper, "G-d bless you my darling, I love you with all my heart." As I steal one last glance at her, I lament the fact that her babyhood is whizzing past - how soon until I can have another one (or two), I wonder.

Forty-five minutes later, she beckons me - the first of several times. I smile wryly to myself ("poor little girl, still not linking sleep cycles") and give her a quick mommy shuffle. At ten o'clock, this performance is repeated. I acknowledge to myself that, somewhere, Anne Richardson, Doctor Ferber and all the other sleep specialists are shaking their heads and having quiet apoplexies, but - silly though it may seem - I've missed her in the past three hours and am ready for a cuddle. All the same, I'm getting a little tired of all this tender bending over the cot, so I just blow a kiss near the general direction of her ear and walk out as quickly as possible - at least, as quickly as one can while trying to avoid creaking wooden floorboards by employing an exaggeratedly pointed toe-heel walk like a ballerina mimicking a creeping gnome.

At 2am, I have to ask myself what the hell was I thinking. Why would I have missed this sqauwling? Indeed, what is there to miss? No longer is a shuffle sufficient; now she wants to be cradled again. But she is very particular about her cradling stance: testily, she flings herself back and forth like a St Vitus sufferer trying out mattreses in a Sealy shop. Having eventually found a comfortable position(inevitably, one that forces me to bend my neck so that my ear touches my shoulder), she starts her wail. "I don't see what you have to cry about," I mutter sharply under my breath. "Here you are, being rocked by a human hammock - the height of comfort. If anyone deserves to be crying it is the human hammock who would far rather be horizontal."

Then starts the sucking. Now, I have tried repeatedly to give Leya a dummy. The last time, she took it out of her mouth, gave it an appraising look, and stuck it back in - the wrong way round. And then decided she prefers me. I am beginning to feel self-conscious - is my entire person breat-shaped? Is this why she fastens her lips on my nose, my knees, my arms - any part of me she can get a handle? I have more hickies now than when I was a drunken first year student with an undiscerning eye.

Finally, the sucking stops - and now, the sleep sound sets in. "Stop that," I order, thinking that she sounds like one of Khalisi's dragons with a stomach ache. We rock some more. I finally dare to put her down - she glares at me through closed lids and whines. I pick her up. We start the process again. "I can't understand how anyone possibly puts themselves through this twice," I think poisonously.

The night wears on, with this sequence repeating on and on, until finally it is morning. Order is once more restored to the little kindgom. The mommy, unpsycho once more, goes into the little baby's room to find her smiling and gurgling. There is kissing and hugging and lots of love...but in the shadows, the threat of the 6pm monstermorphosis looms.