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Serve me right for using the worlds biggest penis as a blog post topic!

As for the guy who wanted to know about running & penis - may I suggest a snugger fitting brief. It really shouldn't slap about like that.

I have written a easy to follow* guide to designing your own cre8buzz template.

It includes everything you need, including links to websites to find images.

You don't have to understand code.

You don't have to write code, just fill in blank spaces provided with your own choices.

If you have already added widget codes to your template it shows you how to make sure you don't loose them.

It shows you how to add a background image,
position a background image,
change the text colour,
move your sections around your template,
add widgets to your template,
and more.

You can find the guide here in my Google documents

http://docs.google.com/Doc?id=dgzjcmzv_1gnzhq7

I had to publish it off Cre8buzz due to the limitations of the Cre8buzz blog. If you find this guide helpful please come back here and rate this post.

*I have read the document through about 3 times and everything seems to be in order but if you notice any glaring mistakes or have any problems following the instructions please let me know so that I can modify it.

TFW

Sitting at my computer trying to find the words to tell you about the last couple of days, I found my mind wandering into story telling mode and didn’t seem to be able to tell this story in any other way than the third person.

Stumbling down the hallway in the dark trying to ignore the piercing screams emanating from the door on the right; Kay knew there was something wrong. Her back was in agony, so much so that she could hardly stand. She screwed her eyes up against the harsh bathroom light and pulled down her pyjama bottoms to sit on the toilet. No blood. That’s odd, she thought.

She had been sure she was loosing the baby; the pains in her back had kept her awake half the night just like her period pains used to when she was a teenager and she had been bleeding on and off for over a week now. She put it from her mind and went in search of painkillers and a cup of tea. It might only be 5am but there was no way she would get back to sleep this morning. The screaming had stopped meaning that little Emily must have fallen back to sleep. “Thank God for that.” She murmured to herself, the day was going to be hard enough if these pains didn’t go away, she didn’t need it starting 2 hours earlier than normal.

Sitting in the dark nursing her cup of tea, her mind turned to the life that she was sure was no longer growing inside her. She knew that these things happened, that it didn’t mean she had done something wrong or that she wouldn’t have more, healthy pregnancies in the future but in spite of it all the tears still fell. She wept as she mourned the life she would never know and the child that would never grow despite knowing that it wasn’t big enough to be considered a child yet. It had only been 4mm long when they had an ultrasound last week.

She wept because of the pain and knowledge that she had to get through the day with her daughter and couldn’t crawl off to bed. She wept because of the unfairness of it all, because of the terrible morning sickness she had suffered, the happy phone calls she had made too early and the thought of the less pleasant ones she would have to make soon. She wept because she was sitting here in the dark alone, dealing with it by herself whilst the rest of the house slept. She knew he hadn’t got home from work until 4am last night and she knew he had to get up again at 7am this morning and go back to work and that he really need to sleep but she still couldn’t help feeling resentful as she sat there alone knowing he was resting comfortably on the other side of the wall.

After a while the tears stopped, and her outlook on the day changed. The sun was beginning to make an appearance and the cold frost of the night before lay think and undisturbed on the ground outside. She mentally picked herself up, gave herself a good shaking out and set about tidying up the kitchen before everyone else woke...

To continue reading click the url below
http://runninginwellies.wordpress.com/2007/10/10/the-miscarriage-my-life-in-the-third-person/

As some of you have deuced or read on my blog, I am indeed pregnant... we think.

This is where it get interesting and slightly sad and confusing.

I little over a week ago I went to the toilet and found some blood. Not a lot but some. The bleeding continued for a few days and so off we went to the hospital for an ultrasound after which they told us...well not much really.

There was definitely something there but they didn't know if it was a baby or not or if it was alive or not.

Please come back tomorrow and see the doctor.

A day and a night of worry and trying not to think about it passed and back we went. The doctor told us... well not a lot more.

It is a 6 week old fetus and according to my dates it should be 9 weeks old by now. It is still attached to the wall of the uterus and to all intents and purposes looks like a normal 6 week old pregnancy. Normal except for the bleeding and being 3 weeks younger than the dates, that is.

And so we wait again. This time for a week, and go back to see if indeed the fetus has grown at all meaning it is alive or not.

I am trying to be positive. Think all the right things but one doesn't want to build oneself up to much and so I mostly put it to the back of my mind and try to think of other things.

For a full run down on who said what and when and my mental state visit www.runninginwellies.wordpress.com

This is a little piece I wrote for a writing contest at The Novelette.

I would be honored if you would visit the url at the bottom to rate it at The Novelette site. You can give it anything from 1 to 5 stars depending on what you think it is worth.

The theme for the story was: Becoming a parent.

The Virgin Mother

I remember the day I became a mother as if it were yesterday.

It was the day after my 12th birthday.

I remember the four of us, father, Davy, Margaret and me sitting in the front pew. I remember the cold, hard winter light, the freezing temperatures biting at my ears and the priest’s voice echoing around the otherwise empty church.

I remember sitting on that icy pew, my throat raw from the tears I was too afraid to cry and my ears still ringing from the blow I’d received from father that morning, trying hard not to think about where I was or what was happening to me. I became mesmerised by dust particles in a shaft of sunlight that I imagined were tiny fairies. I watched them dance and swirl, smiling at the imaginary games they were playing as my scuffed best shoes swung backwards and forwards through the air.

Smiling at your mother’s funeral is probably one of the things you go straight to hell for.

I was desperate to think about anything, even giddy fairies dancing in the sunlight, than our mother lying in that box, not laughing or smiling, not secretly waiting at home planning games for us to play when father had gone out. Game playing was a thing of the past now, there had been no games played in our house since the morning she hadn’t woken up.

Mother would often creep into our bed at night “so that we could all wake up together” she said, but I knew there was more to it than that. Those nights that she crept in beside me I had felt her body shaking silently next to me as she cried herself to sleep. I knew that she really came to escape him and his fists. He never hit her where it showed but he was never afraid to hit her hard where it didn’t.

Then one morning five days ago she simply hadn’t woken up. Instead she lay there, cold and stiff, not looking peaceful like they say the dead look, but deeply sad like leaving had been a difficult decision and she didn’t want us to think she had made it lightly. I knew then that father had killed her. Maybe not with a knife or a gun but in a much worse and more frightening way - he’d made her too afraid to wake up.

Since then I had thought of little else but rescue. I harboured secret fantasies of mummy’s sister, whom we had never met, finding out about her dying and coming to take us away to live with her. She would be so kind and loving just like mummy only better. She would take us away from father.

But nobody came.

I remember sitting on that cold, hard pew in the church looking up at the man who had killed my mother and thinking about how much he had hurt her, how often she had cried herself to sleep in our bed and how much she had taken from him to protect us. I remember feeling an equal measure of fear and hate.

I spent the rest of the service praying feverishly to God to send someone to our rescue. I promised everything I could think of - to be good, to get straight A’s, to help Davy with his spelling and Margaret with her math, to never swear or smoke or skip school. I promised everything but it wasn’t enough.

Nobody came.

Passing the priest at the door I looked deep into his eyes. Surely he would have heard my prayers; surely God would have told him to help us. But he just smiled, patted me on the head, and told me I needed to be a big girl and take care of my father.

I clenched my jaw so hard to stop the tears that it physically hurt.

Still hand in hand, we trailed miserably up the path and away from the church behind father.

Nobody had come.

I gripped Davy and Margaret’s hands tightly, and through gritted teeth and held back tears promised myself that no matter what happened, I would never let go.

I would protect them.

I would be their mother.

Please visit
http://writingcontest.thenovelette.com/the-farmers-wife/
to rate this story.

Many thanks, TFW.