Chocolate Biscuits and other Obscenities

..I remember reading an interview with Jeanette Winterson in which she wouldn't deny having prostituted herself to rich, bored housewives – and being paid in Le Creuset saucepans. Hmm…
To ease the heartbreak of dealing with my disintegrating saucepans I have purchased a new toaster (old one didn't survive transit) which has a digital display and goes "beep" when the toast is done. It's not a Biacore or a HPLC, but it goes "beep". I also bought a spider web and spider biscuit cutter – cute.

So, the girl and I made biscuits: spiders and bats (I always try to bring some Goth into everyday life) and butterflies (my compromise to 4 yo girlishness). I chocolate coated them and decorated them. The plan was to put a red stripe on the spider's tails to make them into redbacks. Unfortunately in order to make biscuits that look like spiders the legs need to be a bit fatter than desirable for perfect spiders or they would break. So I have these pudgy spiders, covered in chocolate with a blob of red icing on their tail. They didn't look right, so I gave them eyes. I have successfully created chocolate 8 limbed frogs with pubic hair. Fortunately to an innocent 4 year old they are still red back spiders.
Then I knitted the arms for the princess – sewed up the hands and arms, stuffed them, then thought "my god, they are knitted penises". I teased the husband with them for a bit. He is mortified and has offered to get me some help but couldn't find the number for Obscene Knitters Anonymous. Anyway, once they were adorned with frilly bits and sewed onto the doll they became much less pornographic. But between the husband and I the doll will forever be known as Princess Penis Hands (she is pictured above).

I received some very bad and incredibly distressing news on the weekend – the husband informed me that I am supposed to be doing housework all day, not just phaffing around at the gym, in cafes and plebbed on the couch knitting. Really?? That's terrible and I'm sure it can't be right. I've given it a bit of a go this week, but I don't like it. I'm sure he's made a mistake….
Oooo, better go, my coffee is getting cold and Dr Phil is on.

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The transition

I lived in the same house for 14 years. When I first moved in I was a student and everything I owned fitted in the back of a ute. Two weeks ago everything I own was crammed into the back of a 9 tonne truck and carted up to Blanberra. It was unsettling to say the least, ripping myself out of my comfort zone, my little house that had seen me through 3 relationships, including a dud marriage, my career changes from graduating uni to becoming a somewhat recognised expert in SPR, the birth of my daughter, post natal depression, end of my marriage, the beginnings of a new marriage. The only consistent thing over the past 14 years was my house and my ever loyal dog.

As I drove away from my empty house, my dear four legged friend having been buried in the back yard a few months previously, I felt an enormous sense of loss. I was leaving behind where I had spent most of my adult life, all the places and routines I was comfortable and secure with. Driving off to begin a new life with my new husband and my little girl. I'd never really had the chance to be a full time mum; my butthead ex-husband had screwed things up for us so badly that I returned to work when my baby was only 3 months old. Working, trying to manage a baby that wasn't exactly the easiest going little creature, sleeping on average 4 hours a night, a husband who was either never home or critical and unsupportive when he was all contributed to me going quite loopy and even considering suicide at one point. Finally, with medication, counseling and my dear friends I found the strength to chuck out the deadwood husband and reclaim my life, my house, my sanity. My house had become an expression of who I was, my statement of independence and my sanctuary.

I drove that night to my mother's house, where my little girl was. The next morning we all set off on the epic 12 hour drive north. That morning I woke with a sense of optimism and hope and was keen to get on the road to my new life. My new (and much improved) husband had promised me the opportunity to stay home with my girl for at least 12 months before I had to think about working. It was a dream come true.

When we finally arrived in Blanberra my stuff had been delivered and husband was sitting on the front doorstep (there was no room in the house) in total shock and utterly dismayed as to where we were going to put all this STUFF! Over the next two weeks we unpacked, crammed, built shelves, crammed some more, filled cupboards and eventually found places for most of my stuff. I had quite a bit of help with the packing, some very wonderful friends had put in quite a lot of effort to make sure I left town. So opening some of the boxes was a bit like a lucky dip. A photo or old birthday card would bring back forgotten memories, ghosts would leap out and at times I shed tears for lost friends, lost love, lost pieces of the big jigsaw. Other moments made me smile, like cramming my copy of Wuthering Heights into the bookcase next to The Female Eunuch. Forgive me Germaine but I remain a romantic in spite of my feminist ideals.

So now I wave my husband goodbye in the mornings, usually still in my dressing gown, and greet him in the evening with a cooked meal and stories of how I went to the shops or did the washing. He is coping quite well, really, and fortunately is very patient and good humoured.

Tomorrow I begin a two week free membership at Fernwood. Then I might do some knitting. Read more!