It is what it is

H and I have spent the past week going out a lot. To the cinema, mostly. We’ve seen The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel (sweet, sentimental, very nearly a cliché (incidentally, I met someone on Friday who pronounced ‘cliché’, ‘clitch’. The hell?), rescued by a very witty script and the most fabulous cast in fabulous land. Also, if you ever want to picture my Dad in a good mood, picture Ronald Pickup. It was uncanny). We’ve seen The Muppets (sweet as ice-cream, the second greatest gift. Also, so very, very funny I pretty much stopped breathing at several points. Highly recommended). I went to see The Woman in Black by myself, as H can’t stand ghost stories, and I’ll give it a solid 6.5 out of 10 (leaping out at the camera and shrieking is a lazy device and overused, Daniel Radcliffe wasn’t half bad, bless him, not a good film to watch if one is distressed at the idea of ghastly things happening to children. Well, obviously we’re all distressed at the idea of ghastly things happening to children. Obviously. But this film is quite gleefully ghastly to small children. Also, death in childbirth, bereaved parents, and a couple of genuinely trouser-soilingly scary moments. On the other hand, didn’t dream about it, didn’t stay up half the night thinking about it, whereas The Orphanage did me in for days).

We also managed a concert and a couple of meals out.

In the middle of all this rushing about, H’s Grandfather died. We both went to work the next day, and the next day, sorted out leave arrangements for the funeral. And then spent Saturday pole-axed. And Sunday, we went to the cinema again.

I think we’re trying to distract ourselves. Too much thinking sucks.

The funeral is in a couple of days’ time. My place of work actually gave me compassionate leave to go, which astonished me, as he’s not my own grandfather, and all I was expecting was to be allowed a day out of my leave allowance at short notice.

I feel all over the place (can you tell?). Also, my chin is holding an Acne Festival, with some kind of Fringe Festival of blotches going on in the upper lip region. Also, I keep getting sciatica in my right buttock and thigh, and I have a head-ache, and heart-burn, and my period is due on Sunday or Monday, and I’m supposed to be going to another concert with my mother on Sunday, thank you hormones. I know I know. Take the painkillers. Take early, take often.

Oh, and then there’s H. Remember his troublesome tummy? The blood-tests all came back negative for, well, everything they tested for, which is good, so the GP is pretty sure it’s IBS, which is not so good, and H is being told to Eat Oats by every website, book and article in the Northern Hemisphere. H! Eat oats! (H’s response, mournfully, ‘I don’t like porridge…’ Have you never heard of muesli? Your Alpine ancestors are queueing up to laugh at you). Anyway, his tummy is behaving a bit better this week, and any day now I shall have nagged him into keeping a food diary.

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18 responses to “It is what it is

  • a

    Oatmeal chocolate chip cookies…that’s all I have to say.

    My condolences again. I hope the funeral is the kind where you’re all very sad, of course, but isn’t it nice to see everyone at once?

  • Katie

    Cape Cod oatmeal cookies.

  • BigP's Heather

    Oatmeal Raisin cookies.
    Also, you can add oats to hamburgers and things and you don’t even notice them. Seriously.

    I’m sorry about his grandfather.

  • Valery Valentina

    I hope your hormones will give you compassionate leave for the funeral as well. I hope the funeral will have some beautiful stories about grandfather’s life.

    and for the food diary: i bet there is an app for it for H’s phone. It might even ask him at set times a day what he ate. I could ask around if that would be any help? or maybe some of your readers know…. (if he would even like that)

    I’ve dusted off my bassoon, I’ll see if I can find something to play for grandfather. (although the Peter and the Wolf might be a bit hard for me still, but it’s the first thing that comes to mind)
    hugs anyway.

    • May

      How extraordinary that Peter and the Wolf came to mind. H’s Grandfather was a musician, and used to play Peter and the Wolf. I always think of him when I hear it.

  • Bionic Baby Mama

    Ugh, oats. I hate having to eat them. They are…fine, but become rapidly unpalatable when required. Towards the end of my own forced oat march, I just pretended they were grits and served them with salt, butter, an egg or sausage.

    I hope the funeral is as nice as those things ever are. I’m sorry it’s even a thing to think about.

    • May

      Forced oat march, HAH! Indeed. H is trying to cast me in role of Sergeant Major and all. Hmph.

      It was a lovely funeral. Simply, perfectly, lovely. And everyone cried all over everyone else.

  • Carole

    Do flapjacks count? Because anyone can eat a flapjack or five.

    Sorry about the zit attack. Saw something the other day about how Sudocreme is THE thing for skin breakouts of all kinds, so could be worth a try. Also it’s cheap and it smells nice. Win win!

    Hope that the funeral is a fitting send-off for such a special person.

    • May

      H totally had a flapjack for breakfast. I think we can do flapjackery.

      Sudocreme, eh? I will investigate pronto. Because I got CARDED at the cinema the other night. CARDED. I’m THIRTY-SIX. And I know this was the chin-acne talking, because I totally look 36 from the nose up.

  • Korechronicles

    This is my third attempt at a comment….Wordpress is asking for a beating!

    As you have discovered, some people get the head pain and in others it goes straight to the gut. Our GP told us that #1 Son’s gut pain was the belly equivalent of migraine. He recommended peppermint oil capsules which are sold here as Mintec. It took a few weeks of consistent use but the frequency of pain episodes decreased and eventually he was pain free.

    Everyone at Villa Kore, except for the Mediterranean Marvel loves porridge with the passion that comes from having as little as a single Scottish molecule in their DNA. But, as Bionic Baby Mama points out, it can become a tad tedious when there is an enforced ingestion element to it. GP also suggested that if the peppermint oil didn’t help we should eliminate starch and…ahem…gluten to see if that helped. Apparently immunology research has identified a particular gene that when triggered by environmental factors such as starch in the diet, can trigger a range of auto immune responses such as IBS. Perhaps H would benefit from accompany you on the Gluten Free Trudge. Although I do think giving up gluten is hard enough…dispensing with peas and potatoes would push me over the edge.

    Hope the funeral is the celebration of an amazing man who lived his life in joy and love. And even though your hearts are sad, I hope you have a bucket full of memories that make you grin when you think about H’s Grandfather. Sending hugs. Lots of hugs. And downing a tea in sympathy.

    • May

      BASTARD WORDPRESS.

      H got some peppermint oil capsules the other day, took one (1), and then later came home looking completely unnerved to tell me the tingly pepperminty effect is not destroyed by the kidneys, if you see what I mean, indeed, rather, it was ELIMINATED by the kidneys, eh, and I, being a stone-hearted bitch, laughed my arse off.

      I think if I even HINT to H he should give up potatoes he will go all Violet Elizabeth on me. Let us all pray oats and peppermint work…

      Funeral was beautiful. I have a headache from bawling. The bawling was a good thing. We’re all utterly knackered.

  • Twangy

    Oh, poor H. All the stress cannot be helping. And poor you, in that weird in-between waiting for the funeral limbo. That is indeed what cinema is for, isn’t it? To while away that time. How I know that feeling.

    Thinking of you.

    • May

      I am crossing my fingers that H will feel a lot more content with his tummy in a week or so, when all the ARGH has eased off.

      Anyway, funeral done. Time to get on with the stream of constant and unpleasantly startling realisation that H’s Grandfather really is dead and I really do miss him. For so it goes.

      Thinking of you too.

  • HairyFarmerWifey

    I have been trying to work out if ‘It is what it is’ refers to the Lifehouse lyrics, or the poem by Erich Fried. I’m not much on Lifehouse, but I decided to bung the poem in anyway, on the basis that I adore it.

    What it is

    It is nonsense
    says Reason
    It is what it is
    says Love

    It is unhappiness
    says Caution
    it is nothing but pain
    says Fear
    It is hopeless
    says Insight
    It is what it is
    says Love

    It is ridiculous
    says Pride
    It is careless
    says Caution
    It is impossible
    says Experience
    It is what it is
    says Love

    Too much thinking most definitely sucks.
    Love to you both: acne, sciatica, head-ache, heart-burn, tummy & all. Am sending my very, very best healing vibes your way.

    • May

      Erich Fried, of course. Iam Poetical. Because When a man’s verses cannot be understood, nor a man’s good wit seconded with the forward child Understanding, it strikes a man more dead than a great reckoning in a little room. Which is why I do so like you.

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