Enforced Rotting

'Tis the season of the flu. And despite what you may think, being forced to rot is not a dream come true for me.

For me, the whole point of rotting is that I've elected to do so. I feel on top of the world, my body is ready for the junk food I'm about to stuff in my face and I have the mental and physical stamina to watch 12 hours of television straight. I haven't made plans so as not to interfere with the art of the rot, and there is absolutely nothing in the world I'd rather be doing with my time.

Enforced rotting is quite the opposite of all of this and tends to happen on a day when I actually have lots to do and many people to see. Unfortunately, having the reputation of a rotter means that when I cancel on them they're always dubious about the "illness" and think I've forsaken them to devote the day to watching Deadwood (because that may have happened once or twice in the past). Try as I might to convey how sick I really am (coughing furiously over the phone, explaining that I've just vomited), my idle nature means I have no credibility whatsoever.

In addition to coming across as a flake/compulsive liar/the laziest person ever to friends, rotting when you feel is awful is just horrendous. Most of the time I don't even have the strength to turn on the TV, and when I do manage, I'm dizzy, unable to concentrate and tend to fall asleep during key scenes in the storyline.

Rotting when ill makes me feel like I'm decaying (as opposed to normal rotting, which feels like I'm luxuriating). I hate being achy, feverish and congested and having my hair look like an unwashed, uncombed rat's nest of grease. I always end up wearing filthy sweats for days in a row which are inevitably covered with food stains (let's be honest, I'm never the "good" ill where I lose 20 lbs in two days; my appetite is more ravenous and I tend to move less, so it's quite the opposite). Not only am I revolting to look at and unable to function, but my personality is at its worst since I become selfish, indulgent and whiny.

So I really hope I do get better soon. Deadwood, as it turns out, is very good, and I'd like to see the rest of Season One already.

Mini Rotter

Parents always seem to be disproportionately proud of their children taking on their characteristics, even those particularly unattractive ones. I confess - I used to mock these people, before I became one of them. Seeing my infant in full rotting regalia (sweats and a onesie, full-on slob couture), I have never been more pleased.

With baby D as the new face of the rotting movement, it's certainly getting a lot more glamorous: young and photogenic, she's probably the best poster child we can hope for, although if I made somewhat of an effort and managed to capture her and Bolshy mid-rot together, I could be responsible for the launch of two new showbiz careers (although managing them would be a terribly time-consuming endeavour that I'm not sure I could handle).

Designer D

Couldn't resist snapping a photo of baby D, who is 11 weeks tomorrow (can't believe it)!

She was looking totally adorbs as she rocked the baby pink Convie high tops, which are possibly the cutest baby item of all time... I'm also so jealous that D can pull off the candy-colored stripy leggings (I couldn't even do that pre-pregs, let alone these days). They actually cost about £3 from Mothercare, so are an amazingly frugal yet still uber-stylish-looking purchase (is it just me or are they totally giving off a baby Betsey-esque vibe -- just imagine them paired with a tutu?!) Also, her cardi is just a basic knit from John Lewis but I love the attention to detail with the cute little pockets and flower-shaped buttons.

Rotting with Child

It's been an embarrassingly long amount of time since I've written anything on this blog. Basically, I started getting more paid writing gigs, so I was obviously too lazy to write for free on top of that. And the rest of the time I was comatose on the couch, natch.

To get you up to speed, in the last few months, I've continued my pursuit of nothingness (and was doing particularly well in my final month of pregnancy, when I decided that public transportation was too stressful to bear so I either walked places or didn't leave the house. I'll leave it up to you to decide which happened more frequently). During my pregnancy, I ate copious amounts of junk food (including frosting out of the can), and watched really cringe-worthy movies (a particular obsession was to see every single rom-com related to pregnancy and birth (including that ridiculous J Lo-gets-artificially-inseminated-and-then-meets-the-man-of-her-dreams-one, which was definitely a low point), as if that would improve the labor experience. And, though I tried to do as little as possible when pregnant, I did kind of make up for it by delivering a baby (which is kind of an achievement. I'm planning on milking it for the next several years at least).

I've decided to breast feed my baby (mainly out of laziness, but please do feel free to refer to me as an Earth Mother/Gaia figure), and breastfeeding means that you literally CANNOT leave the house without the babe in tow (or at all, on most days). So I have a license to rot which is masquerading as good parenting, since I spend tons of time paying attention to/feeding/having skin to skin contact/staring at the babe. All while sitting on the couch or in bed. It's genius.

Even though I'm up at all hours of the night looking after the babe and I now have to be hyper-vigilant and organized because I'm caring for another being and things like getting the temperature of the baby bath right and making sure I get my kid to the town hall to get her birth certificate matter, the rotter has returned. My new drug of choice? 24 - Sherry Palmer, Jack Bauer, Tony Almeida... I'm obsessed. And there are like eight seasons so this should keep me going for at least the next week. Maybe two.

Lil B

I am obsessed with nicknames...I have about 40 for my fiance (most of them unflattering), and obviously my little puppy has his share now too. He's been called all variations of Bolshy - Bolsh, the Bolshster, etc - as well as a number of chubby-related names like Chubb, Tub, Piggy (he has the most adorable rolls!) but lately I've noticed that my TV obsession is influencing the naming process, because one day I started calling him Lil B. And it stuck. Now, I often ditch the qualifier altogether and call him B. The heavy influence of Gossip Girl over my life has clearly affected more than my bank balance: my vocabulary is even less coherent that it once was now that I'm down to using one syllable a word, but I do love how B could totally hang on the Upper East with S and (other) B and Lil J. They would love him - in fact, I recall (other) B getting a bulldog pre-not getting into Yale.

I also love how the nickname (Lil) B can make Bolsh seem like a character on The Wire - and not one of the cops. And that's the thing about Bolsh's personality. He could seamlessly go from an UES cotillion to hanging out on street corners. That's why he's the greatest guy ever. He's from a posh background - his dad's a show dog and he's a pure bred - but he isn't the type of guy who'd be affecting a faux posher accent and wearing a crest ring on his pinky. That's not his style. But he's just as happy frolicking around Battersea Park with the pure-bred brats and gossiping about the best obedience teachers as he is playing with the Staffie mixes in the local park. And they all love him, obvs.

B has another nickname that I adore - the Warrior. His neck is too fat for a collar so we got him a harness, and when he runs around in it he looks like a baby bulldog version of William Wallace in Braveheart (see photo for confirmation)...I am obsessed slash hoping they do a dog version soon so B can play the leading role. Until then, he's busy putting a smile on the faces of every South Londoner he encounters.

The Cutest Guy EVER

I have a new obsession in my life. It feels like a crush, because every time I see this guy I am giddy inside and can't stop gushing, but then I know it's love because of how I worry about him and miss him when I can't be around him. I'll be the first to admit that I'm definitely coming on strong: I am obsessed with snuggling him, I tell him he's the "best guy ever," "handsomest guy in the world" and "love of my life" an average of 80 times a day and I kiss his jowly little face every chance I can. But the thing is, he really is the best guy ever and he's so friendly and playful and happy and loving that I can't help feeling this way - even though I am starting to get the hint that he needs a little more space (taking naps in his cage/den instead of next to me on the couch, preferring to rot in silence instead of eagerly following me upstairs). And guess what - just like in human relationships, that only makes me try all the harder and become even more of a creepy stalker.

His name is Bolshy and I'd go so far as to say he's definitely reached local celebrity status (stay tuned for global celeb status: once he reaches full-size, I fully intend to take him to a pet modelling agency and get this guy in show biz - he's got a face and bod the industry would die for. Also, he can earn like 10 times more than I can in an hour. And as my fiance so kindly put it, getting a dog/rodent/child into ads successfully is totally dependent on one factor, namely the insanity of the owner/parent. He assured me I was sufficiently psychotic). Even though pretty much all of the humans in the neighbourhood are in love with his stout body and charming personality already, it's taking a while for some of the dogs to warm up to him (jealousy, obvs). Unfortunately, Bolshy, being a puppy and still learning how to socialise (he's 5 1/2 months old now), doesn't appreciate the nuances of subtle or overt rejection and keeps on coming back for more. For example, if he's trying to play with (slash mount a dog) and they aggressively growl/turn away and ignore him/run for their lives away from him, instead of just backing off and deciding to play with someone else, he'll keep running back to the same dog and trying over and over again (I feel like he would really benefit from a quick read-through of He's Just Not That Into You).

So, in conclusion, my pup is beyond adorbs and wonderful. But if he were in high school, he'd be hanging with the Glee kids before they became cool and had a show made about them.

Return of the Rotter

It's been several months since I last posted, and I wish I could say that in that time I've made some wonderful contributions to humanity. Alas, my time has mainly been spent idly, although I did do a few personal things: I got the most adorable puppy ever (more on him to follow), I moved to a new home (which I am very maturely a co-owner of), I got my UK residency visa which allows me to happily stay in my adopted UK home for over two more years and I got knocked up. It's amazing how much can happen in the pursuit of literally nothing!

It seems like I have quite a bit to write about. I certainly have experienced every emotional response possible in the last few months, so hopefully I will be inspired and Rushdie-esque in my prose. More realistically, this is where I'm at right now: I just consumed about a third of a tin of condensed milk. I wish that I could say I consumed it because I baked some really divine dessert, but that just wouldn't be me (although becoming a pro-chef is def on my to-do list). No, I just sat there and spooned it out of the dirty tin - a past-time I used to embrace in my childhood when spoonfuls of either condensed milk or frosting were my breakfast of champions. I feel pretty grotesque now (note: in childhood, I used to feel amazing after this feast) and rather worried that my sugar intake is too high for an entire nation, let alone me and my bump. But I guess all can be forgiven in the world of pregnancy cravings (and considering clay is a potential alternative, I'm doing pretty well).