NS February 15th, 2010

I realised today, as I was driving along singing my heart out to a series of songs on Magic radio, all from 1973, that (musically at least) I was born in the wrong decade. I mean, how can you beat this playlist?

• ‘Love Train’ by The O’Jays
• ‘Killing Me Softly’ by Roberta Flack
• ‘Stuck in the Middle with You’ by Stealer’s Wheel
• ‘Goodbye Yellow Brick Road’ by Elton John
• ‘I Will Always Love You’ by Dolly Parton
• ‘Tequila Sunrise’ by The Eagles
• ‘Yesterday Once More’ by The Carpenters
• ‘Superstition’ by Stevie Wonder
• ‘You’re So Vain’ by Carly Simon
• ‘Let’s Get It On’ by Marvin Gaye

When ‘Superstition’ came on, I actually yelped with excitement and turned the radio up really loudly (no kids in the car — hurrah!). I could barely contain myself. That, my friends, is MUSIC. I’m telling you, I was meant to be alive and in my youth during the 60s and 70s. I would’ve been in bell-bottomed, peace-signed, guitar-strumming, funk-loving heaven.

That said, I think I would’ve also been quite happy in the Roaring Twenties as well. After going to see The Princess and the Frog yesterday with The Noble Child and hearing all of that lovely New Orleans-style jazz music, I could totally picture myself as a gin-swilling, fun-loving, Charleston-dancing, boa-wearing flapper.

If you could’ve been a young adult in any decade in the 20th century, which would it have been?

Photo credit

Tags: 20th century, music, style

• Banal Breakdown
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NS November 6th, 2009

Apologies in advance to all of you who are on Blogger and/or who use word verification, but I’m not a big fan of having to squint at the little box that pops up after I type out a comment on your site and then try to decipher a bunch of meaningless numbers and letters that are upside down, smashed together or embedded within a busy design that gives me a headache just looking at it. In fact, if I had my way I’d rid the blogosphere of word verification entirely. Fortunately for me, others agree and this blogger even made a nifty button to express my feelings on the matter:

However, word verification does serve one purpose: it sometimes entertains me with its random selection of letters that, together, almost sound like words but aren’t. I’ve taken to noting down ones of late that sound like they could really be found in the dictionary (though perhaps only on Mars or Tolkien’s Middle Earth) and given them definitions. Behold:

Gammi – I imagine this to be an Italian dessert of gelato and jam on an alcohol-soaked biscuit base. That, or a horrendously smelly running shoe. I can’t decide which

Ungive – Well, duh. It’s the opposite of give

Roviati – A group of paparazzi who have been hounded out of their homes by anti-celeb-chasers and are living in the woods down by the river, keeping their skills sharp by taking photos of squirrels and birds as they dart amongst the undergrowth

Outti – The official word for that nub of flesh that sticks out of a pregnant woman’s belly where her navel used to be. Traditionally called an ‘outie’ but with the spelling altered here to make it feel more special and unique, much like parents-to-be do with baby names

Prounch – A pocket (literally) of skin on the abdomen, grown from harvested stem cells which provides a place to keep your valuables when out on the pull without the need to carry a pesky handbag

Butchopa – A mythical place where women are not sexualised for others’ pleasure or profit and aren’t required to be Beauty 2k Compliant to feel good about themselves

Oxisorr – A skin disorder that results from compulsive cleansing and continual application of harsh acne medication

How about you, seen any good ‘words’ lately?

• Banal Breakdown , Bloggy love
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NS October 21st, 2009

Things are a little quiet here. I’m feeling a little quiet. Introspective, even. It’s no big surprise, really. I think most bloggers go through short periods of time every so often in which it seems better to be taking things in that churning them out. I’ve taken breaks before and I’ve always come back. I ain’t quittin’ you, Internet, and this isn’t an official ‘break’, but I’m just not going to force myself to blog about nothing if that’s all I’ve got to say. Though…isn’t that what I’m doing right now?

Maybe it’s the change in season or my decision to start looking at going back to work and all the planning that is going into that, but I’ve been finding myself crunching numbers for our childcare budget and reading in bed with cups of tea more appealing than sitting in front of the computer getting angry at all the douchebags, numbskulls and ignoramuses out there.

Like the guy who wrote the book pictured above. I picked this book up at a secondhand shop on Sunday whilst out for a boozy lunch with my good friend, H. We’d had two bottles of wine over a gorgeous Turkish meal and had left more than a little tipsy. Seeing as I’d been for my bibliotherapy session earlier that morning, we’d stumbled over to the bookshop on the premise of finding the book I’d been ‘prescribed.’  Lo, we could not find The Last Samurai and had to settle for the ridiculously titled Sperm Are From Men, Eggs Are From Women: The *real* reason men and women are diferent to amuse ourselves with as we went off in search of another pub. At least twice per drink, H would shout out a page and paragraph number and I would do a short dramatic reading of that passage while sloshing my drink around as I gesticulated wildly.  Another bottle of wine and a couple of gin and tonics later, I was reading passages out loud to people on the train on the way home.

What can I say, I’m a literate drunk. I’m sure the other passengers were thrilled.

At one point, while gesturing with the hand holding a lollipop I’d found in the bottom of my handbag and which I was happily licking between bouts of indignant gesturing, I dropped it on the floor near my seatmate’s shoe. Charming.

At least I wasn’t dropping atomic bombs on anybody because, apparently, I am responsible for that as well, as one of those evil American types. Or at least, so sayeth a man in the park earlier that day who, upon hearing my accent, launched into a diatribe about it and demanded I give him some answers. Seeing as it all happened 34 years before I was even born, I had none, sadly.

Ever since Obama came into office I’ve seen a sharp decline in the amount of anti-American encounters I have, which were at their height during the Bush years, so I was taken a little more off guard than I normally am. From 2002 through most of 2008 I wouldn’t have blinked an eye if someone wanted to shout at me about bombs, though usually the diatribe was aimed at the variety being rained down upon Iraq and Afghanistan, not The Big One during World War II.

Still, this is something I’ve just gotten used to the longer I’ve lived here. Having an American accent will, for the moment, always mark me out as different, as privileged and (usually) as either a bit off my rocker, slightly stupid or ragingly arrogant. Such appealing stereotypes to face on a daily basis, no?

Conversely, having a British accent in America marks one out as exceedingly intelligent, humorous and polite, if a little stuffy and prudish. It’s not surprising that I had little sympathy for The Noble Husband when we were living in the States and he would complain of being teased for the way he said ‘water’ or ‘pawn’  or ‘tuna’. Most of the time people were falling all over themselves to hear him speak and thought he was the epitome of class and charm. Repeat after me: poooooor widdle thing!

Anyway, that concludes my inane babbling about breaks, budgets, books, booze and bombs. Hopefully, I’ll get my blogging mojo back soon. Until then, I’ll be curled up in my duvet thinking about one of the aforementioned Bs.

• Banal Breakdown , Career , Expat Life , Londonista
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NS October 14th, 2009

Or at least that’s what some people think.

Go to Google and type in Why is my husband and see the list that it auto-suggests. Some of the good ones include:

…so mean to me

…such a jerk

…so moody

…so angry

…so grumpy

…so selfish

…so stupid

Type in Why is my wife and you get:

…so mean

…so unhappy

…always mad

…so stupid

…always tired

…so angry

…cheating

…crazy

…so cold

It looks like the sexes can at least agree on one thing — both men and women can be mean, stupid and angry. Probably because their spouses rely on internet search engines instead of face-to-face communication, is my guess.

Go on, ask Google something and let us know what you find!

H/t to The Noble Husband for spotting this

• Banal Breakdown , Funny Ha-Ha , Human Oddities , That's Life , Til Death Do Us Part
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NS October 9th, 2009

This blog is coming up to five years old — FIVE YEARS! – so I thought it’d be fun to post a few oldies. I put a shout out on Twitter asking for five different dates, beginning with February 2005 and one for each year up to now. The dates chosen were:

6th September 2005 by @ghostlove

10th April 2006 by @RosieScribble

26th January 2007 by @Caroljs

17th August 2008 by @LauraAWNTYM

22nd May 2009 by @InsomniacMummy

Thanks to @notSupermum and winafred_jen for also picking dates but I had to go with the first ones I received. As it turns out, none of the posts I’m featuring was written on any of the actual dates picked. So what I did was round up and go to the next nearest date for each one. Without further ado, a little peek into the Ghost of Noble Savage Past.

First up, a post from 5 October 2005 in which I rage against the British banking system, aptly titled “The Devil Works in Banking.” Here’s a little snippet:

Grievance #1: Opening an account when you’re not a citizen is about as easy as milking a snake. First, you are told that you must have an apartment, a job, and/or have lived here for a year before you will be granted the holiest-of-holies “The Current Account” (as opposed to a Past or Future account?) Once you finally meet one of these criteria, you are told to bring in your passport, two bills with your current address, the completed forms, a letter from your employer, a pay stub, your tenancy agreement, a character reference, your photo albums, a generous dowry, a monkey, a midget and the blood of a wise man. After they take all of said items from you they disappear into the back room for 3 hours, only to reappear with grim faces and a rejection letter. The monkey is returned but has a pronounced limp. They tell you to try again in 14.5 weeks. And so the process continues.

I did eventually get a banking account, though I think it cost me a few grey hairs and several spikes in blood pressure.

Next up, on 10 April 2006, the labour story of The Noble Child, as written eight days after her birth.Things moved a little more quickly than I had anticipated, hence this paragraph:

Once things started they moved very quickly so there was none of this ’spend the first six hours at home, taking baths and sipping tea, having your husband time the mild contractions.’ Nope, none of that for me. It was “Ooh, that was a contraction. Ooh, that was another one. Holy shit, there it is again! My god, get the stopwatch, they’re only 3 minutes apart!” No time to eat or sip tea. Damn!

On 30 January 2007 we are treated to my crazed ramblings as I contemplate 192 hours of solitude with TNC while TNH is in Kazakhstan, in which I reveal her and TNH’s real names (gasp!), threaten to castrate the Internet and jump off of London Bridge, all within a few paragraphs. I have to wonder what I was on back then because I think I sound a little loopy! It must’ve been the sleep deprivation talking. A sampling of my madness:

I’ve also decided that I’m tired of referring to my daughter and husband with acronyms and code names on this site all the time. It’s not like I have this huge readership or even an internet stalker (because, you know, you’re nobody until somebody stalks you) who would be interested in finding out every detail about me and my family and then hunting us down and sneaking into our house while we’re at the store buying more cheese, so that he (or she! I’m an equal opportunity stalking victim wannabe) can lick all of the doorknobs and try on my underwear. So guess what, world? My husband’s name is Paul and my daughter’s name is Amelia and they’re both fucking fabulous. If you speak ill of either of them, I will cut your internet-stalking balls off and string them on next year’s Christmas tree. Capiche? Great.

18 August 2008 finds me eight months pregnant with TNB and puking my guts out. Enjoy! Stick a fork in me includes the following lovely imagery:

Just now I coughed so hard that I threw up my breakfast into TNC’s training potty, which thankfully happened to be near my feet. I never realised how difficult and painful it is to cough with such force when your stomach muscles are stretched on both sides to somewhere near your elbows, leaving little to support your heaving abdomen.

And finally,  from 23 May of this year. Entitled Depravity With Dolls, I go on a lactivist rant about the strange, strange world of lactophobia (i.e.  people who are terrified of boob juice). I concluded my rant with:

Give it a rest already, or else I might have to squirt milk in your eye. And we all know that if breastmilk touches human retinas it renders you completely and permanently blind within seconds, such is the power of its destructiveness. Mmwaahahahahaha!

I hope you enjoyed your peek into the past few years of Noble Savage! I’ll pick my personal favourites for the actual five year bloggiversary in February.

Happy Friday!

• Banal Breakdown , Bloggy love
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