So I can't help hoping that I am a Rubber Band Girl...that I get bent and stretched to capacity but ultimately that I just twang back into shape. Also digging the strait jacket at the end of the video. That would have come in plenty handy this week - although I think I am in need of a mental strait jacket to stop my mind whirling all over the place, going to places that I would prefer not to go right now.
Odd how a medical diagnosis - even one as optimistic as mine - can create both emotional clarity and chaos.
My first instinct and desire is to be with my husband. For after all, he is still my husband. I have dealt with every significant event for the past 13 years with him...and believe me, we have had our fair share of them. There is noone else that I would rather have at my side right now.
And he has offered to be there.
But he will still go home to his girlfriend. So do I take up the offer, as well-intended as it is, or not? Could this possibly be a situation that could pull us back together? Or am I just too vulnerable to think straight right now?
I want to share with him how I really feel. Lay it on the line, once on for all. After all - what's the worse that can happen? We are already separated. He already shares his life with a girlfriend. If the status quo remains then my position is unchanged and maybe I can truly move on.
This has not been solely prompted by skin cancer diagnosis. There have been three other influences recently which have caused me to wonder if he is reconsidering our relationship. So is he? Surely there is only one way to find out...to bare my soul?
I haven't up to this point. I have tried to appear strong and funny and sexy and 'OK' - all the right ingredients to tempt him back, right? Make him realise what he is missing. Get him to ditch the American tart (no offence...I am sure you are a lovely girl and a super nice human being) for the simple reason that she just isn't me.
Life is too short to play games, isn't it?
Mind you, I'm not too good at games. I once locked myself in the toilet for 45 minutes in a sulk at a dinner party because I was losing at Monopoly.
Shame the game of life isn't proving to be any easier.
Or that I am still not capable of growing up and not getting into a big, fat sulk when I am on the losing end.
Friday, May 14, 2010
Wednesday, May 12, 2010
Turns Out The Dermatologist Is Having The Last Laugh
Being a SAHM you would think my week evolves around trips to the gym, lunching with lady friends, doing a spot of shopping and having time to be on top of Everything.
Why this is NEVER the case is something that irks me greatly.
This week my calendar was empty of all commitments and chores. Yet still by Monday lunchtime I had managed to crack a tooth (task 1: book and attend dentist appointment), the brake lights on my car decided to remain permanently illuminated (task 2: get treated like a complete nelly at the local garage and be without the use of my car for a whole day) and my wireless router took a personal dislike to my computer (task 3: beg my computer literate friend to come and kick it into touch...although hopefully not too literally because then this would lead to task 4: buy new wireless router).
Last week was just as joyful, including a trip to a dermatologist to check out a dodgy mole on my back, that my primary doctor had spotted some weeks ago.
I'm not a great one for doctors or hospitals. And to be honest, I contemplated ignoring my doctor's advice because I'm not the biggest fan of spending $20 to park downtown, then wait around in a doctor's surgery all day only to find out that everything is, in fact, hunky dory. Not when, in my dream life, I could be mincing about in front of a mirror, dressed head to toe in Lycra waving a couple of 5lb dumbbells over my head or spending a couple of hours moaning about my life with someone - in person - while stuffing my face with $20 worth of Sushi. Let me tell you something for nothing: if I am going to be spending $20 that I really don't have, then Sushi is going to win hands down every time.
I couldn't even see this mole (and Lord knows, I tried all sorts of ridiculous contortionist type attempts to track the bloody thing down). Therefore, I wasn't entirely convinced it even existed. And my body is completely littered with moles (I personally prefer to call them Beauty Spots...and if beauty is ever judged by the number of moles then it is patently obvious that I am very beautiful indeed) so why was this one deserving of extra special attention? The one I couldn't even admire with the use of a 3-way mirror?
Ultimately, of course, I booked an appointment because it did represent a day out (of sorts). And it's one more rational justification for why I am never on top of Anything in my life.
Within half an hour of arriving at the surgery I am sitting on the obligatory sheet of noisy parchment paper in a fetching peacock blue paper gown, gazing at rows and rows of pamphlets on every skin disease known to man (and possibly some known to aliens, judging by the photos).
I spend a few minutes picking at my nails. I contemplate the state of my hairy, pale legs in quiet disgust. I start to look in detail at the plethora of Beauty Spots adorning my arms until I go cross-eyed. Ultimately, there is nothing else for it but to peruse the damn pamphlets, purely for reassurance purposes.
I start off with the skins diseases featuring the most obscure names. Far be it from me to pass up an opportunity to educate myself. After all, knowledge is power. Apparently. Each accompanying photograph is graphically hideous and yet strangely comforting. My skin, in comparison, is remarkable in its perfection. Eventually I pick up the leaflet I have been consciously ignoring: Melanoma. One interesting fact catches my eye; Melanoma is more prevalent in people who have over 50 moles on the body. 50? That's a big number. I'm pretty sure I don't have anywhere near 50 moles. I start to count the moles on my left arm and stop when I reach 62 at some point half way up. Oh. Well. I'm sure it doesn't mean anything.
Just as I am replacing the leaflet in the rack, the doctor walks in. Male. Youngish. Fairly good looking. Oh hellllooo, I think to myself. This appointment might be enjoyable after all. I bat my eyelashes at him coquettishly while we have an introductory chit-chat. I'm trying to remember if there is a suspect mole on my boob that he really ought to take a close look at, while I'm there. Purely for medical purposes, of course. I know for a fact there is one in my bikini region but, given the fact that the bush is in desperate need of a prune, I'm thinking I'll give that one a miss this time round.
He opens my gown and starts to look closely at my back.
"So, where did you grow up? Where's the accent from?" he enquires.
"Oh, England."
"Hmmm. And do you remember getting sunburned as a child?"
"Well...I grew up in England..." I deadpan.
"Yes, but do you remember getting sun burnt as a child? What about on vacation?" he continues, ignoring my facetiousness.
"Not typically a great deal of sun in Scotland..."
The doctor is obviously not a huge fan of irony. He continues to prod about on my back with one hand, while handing me a leaflet outlining the ABCDs of identifying melanoma with the other. It is the C he is concerned about. My mole is apparently pitch black, which is not a good colour. He asks me if I remember using sunscreen as a child.
"Well, only if baby oil counts as sunscreen. Or cocoa butter lotion. I'm not even sure sunscreen was invented when I was a child. Have you seen my date of birth? Did they even have sunscreen in the dark ages?"
I can tell my constant stab at flippancy is starting to piss him off a little, but I just can't help myself. For goodness sake - I grew up in England, in the 70s. Of course, I didn't use sunscreen as a child. Did anyone? And can that really be my responsibility now? I have used sunscreen pretty diligently since I was about 19 and went on my first holiday abroad, to Corfu. But certainly have no memory of my mother slavering lotion of any description on our exposed skin during the summer months. Apart from the heat wave of '77, there seemed little point at the time I suppose.
"Right. Well, I recommend that I remove this mole and biopsy it. I should get results back in the next week. Just to be sure there is nothing to worry about."
"You're going to remove it now? Like, right now? I don't even get the time to go home, lose a bit of sleep over the next few nights, and possibly even a few pounds, with the anxiety of it all? You're not going to give me the opportunity to come back and moan about having to pay another $20 to park for an hour? Are you sure?" I laugh as I attempt to banter with him. He still doesn't seem to be appreciating my light hearted wit. I obviously need to try just a little bit harder.
"There's a choice of two different procedures I can use to remove the mole..." which he goes on to explain. Both of which make my knees start to go a bit googly. Did I mention I'm not really good with hospitals? "Is there one which you would prefer me to use? The second one might leave slightly more scarring."
"Hmmm. Choices. Choices. Well, I guess as my Sports Illustrated calendar days are behind me I'm not sure the scarring is an issue. Do you have a preference? I mean, feel free to knock yourself out if there's one you need to practice more than the other...it's not as if I'm even going to be able to see your handiwork anyway."
I begin to sense I have stretched his patience to the limit. I'm really not trying to be rude, I just don't want it to be so serious. If I continue to treat it like it's nothing, then of course, it will be nothing.
The doctor tells me he is going to slice the mole off, which sounds perfectly disgusting, and leaves the room. I sit there in my doctor-appropriate knickers (full cheek coverage) and blue paper gown, feeling a little bit nauseous. Scalpels. Blood. Not really my cup of tea at 11am on a Tuesday morning. I begin to think that I might want my mum.
Eventually the nurse comes in and sticks a needle in my back. As I lie down a lock of hair falls over my face. Oh good. I can be distracted by counting my split ends. Within minutes the procedure is done and the offending black blob is floating whimsically in a jar of saline. Thank God that's over. The doctor reminds me that the results should be back in a week or so and turns to leave.
"Er...excuse me? Don't I get a sticker??" I call after him. My last pathetic attempt to get him to smile, at the very least. He closes the door behind him, without responding. The nurse grins at me. "Well, I'm hoping you have a Star Wars band aid for me, at the very least" I say, giving her a mock stern look.
I get on with the rest of my scintillating week, far too preoccupied with matters concerning Divorce and Transatlantic Move to spare any for biopsy results. In a moment of despair I do think, bitterly, 'well, I do hope it is fucking cancer - then he'll have to let me go bloody home'.
Which I guess is a lesson to be careful what you wish for. The doctor called with the biopsy results yesterday and confirmed that it is melanoma. Skin cancer. He thinks it is localised. He thinks it has been caught in the early stages. I'm booked for surgery next week to remove more skin from the original site and need to have my whole body closely examined for further suspicious Beauty Spots to biopsy. (Fact: If they need to remove every mole on my body, then there's not going to be a lot of me left.)
I'm sure it's all going to be fine. I'm sure I don't have anything to worry about. But it's still a little unnerving. And trust me to piss off the doctor that diagnoses me with cancer. Mind you, I'm still hoping the surgeon next week has a soft spot for smart alec's, coupled with an appreciation for irreverent cancer jokes. Would that really be too much to ask?
Why this is NEVER the case is something that irks me greatly.
This week my calendar was empty of all commitments and chores. Yet still by Monday lunchtime I had managed to crack a tooth (task 1: book and attend dentist appointment), the brake lights on my car decided to remain permanently illuminated (task 2: get treated like a complete nelly at the local garage and be without the use of my car for a whole day) and my wireless router took a personal dislike to my computer (task 3: beg my computer literate friend to come and kick it into touch...although hopefully not too literally because then this would lead to task 4: buy new wireless router).
Last week was just as joyful, including a trip to a dermatologist to check out a dodgy mole on my back, that my primary doctor had spotted some weeks ago.
I'm not a great one for doctors or hospitals. And to be honest, I contemplated ignoring my doctor's advice because I'm not the biggest fan of spending $20 to park downtown, then wait around in a doctor's surgery all day only to find out that everything is, in fact, hunky dory. Not when, in my dream life, I could be mincing about in front of a mirror, dressed head to toe in Lycra waving a couple of 5lb dumbbells over my head or spending a couple of hours moaning about my life with someone - in person - while stuffing my face with $20 worth of Sushi. Let me tell you something for nothing: if I am going to be spending $20 that I really don't have, then Sushi is going to win hands down every time.
I couldn't even see this mole (and Lord knows, I tried all sorts of ridiculous contortionist type attempts to track the bloody thing down). Therefore, I wasn't entirely convinced it even existed. And my body is completely littered with moles (I personally prefer to call them Beauty Spots...and if beauty is ever judged by the number of moles then it is patently obvious that I am very beautiful indeed) so why was this one deserving of extra special attention? The one I couldn't even admire with the use of a 3-way mirror?
Ultimately, of course, I booked an appointment because it did represent a day out (of sorts). And it's one more rational justification for why I am never on top of Anything in my life.
Within half an hour of arriving at the surgery I am sitting on the obligatory sheet of noisy parchment paper in a fetching peacock blue paper gown, gazing at rows and rows of pamphlets on every skin disease known to man (and possibly some known to aliens, judging by the photos).
I spend a few minutes picking at my nails. I contemplate the state of my hairy, pale legs in quiet disgust. I start to look in detail at the plethora of Beauty Spots adorning my arms until I go cross-eyed. Ultimately, there is nothing else for it but to peruse the damn pamphlets, purely for reassurance purposes.
I start off with the skins diseases featuring the most obscure names. Far be it from me to pass up an opportunity to educate myself. After all, knowledge is power. Apparently. Each accompanying photograph is graphically hideous and yet strangely comforting. My skin, in comparison, is remarkable in its perfection. Eventually I pick up the leaflet I have been consciously ignoring: Melanoma. One interesting fact catches my eye; Melanoma is more prevalent in people who have over 50 moles on the body. 50? That's a big number. I'm pretty sure I don't have anywhere near 50 moles. I start to count the moles on my left arm and stop when I reach 62 at some point half way up. Oh. Well. I'm sure it doesn't mean anything.
Just as I am replacing the leaflet in the rack, the doctor walks in. Male. Youngish. Fairly good looking. Oh hellllooo, I think to myself. This appointment might be enjoyable after all. I bat my eyelashes at him coquettishly while we have an introductory chit-chat. I'm trying to remember if there is a suspect mole on my boob that he really ought to take a close look at, while I'm there. Purely for medical purposes, of course. I know for a fact there is one in my bikini region but, given the fact that the bush is in desperate need of a prune, I'm thinking I'll give that one a miss this time round.
He opens my gown and starts to look closely at my back.
"So, where did you grow up? Where's the accent from?" he enquires.
"Oh, England."
"Hmmm. And do you remember getting sunburned as a child?"
"Well...I grew up in England..." I deadpan.
"Yes, but do you remember getting sun burnt as a child? What about on vacation?" he continues, ignoring my facetiousness.
"Not typically a great deal of sun in Scotland..."
The doctor is obviously not a huge fan of irony. He continues to prod about on my back with one hand, while handing me a leaflet outlining the ABCDs of identifying melanoma with the other. It is the C he is concerned about. My mole is apparently pitch black, which is not a good colour. He asks me if I remember using sunscreen as a child.
"Well, only if baby oil counts as sunscreen. Or cocoa butter lotion. I'm not even sure sunscreen was invented when I was a child. Have you seen my date of birth? Did they even have sunscreen in the dark ages?"
I can tell my constant stab at flippancy is starting to piss him off a little, but I just can't help myself. For goodness sake - I grew up in England, in the 70s. Of course, I didn't use sunscreen as a child. Did anyone? And can that really be my responsibility now? I have used sunscreen pretty diligently since I was about 19 and went on my first holiday abroad, to Corfu. But certainly have no memory of my mother slavering lotion of any description on our exposed skin during the summer months. Apart from the heat wave of '77, there seemed little point at the time I suppose.
"Right. Well, I recommend that I remove this mole and biopsy it. I should get results back in the next week. Just to be sure there is nothing to worry about."
"You're going to remove it now? Like, right now? I don't even get the time to go home, lose a bit of sleep over the next few nights, and possibly even a few pounds, with the anxiety of it all? You're not going to give me the opportunity to come back and moan about having to pay another $20 to park for an hour? Are you sure?" I laugh as I attempt to banter with him. He still doesn't seem to be appreciating my light hearted wit. I obviously need to try just a little bit harder.
"There's a choice of two different procedures I can use to remove the mole..." which he goes on to explain. Both of which make my knees start to go a bit googly. Did I mention I'm not really good with hospitals? "Is there one which you would prefer me to use? The second one might leave slightly more scarring."
"Hmmm. Choices. Choices. Well, I guess as my Sports Illustrated calendar days are behind me I'm not sure the scarring is an issue. Do you have a preference? I mean, feel free to knock yourself out if there's one you need to practice more than the other...it's not as if I'm even going to be able to see your handiwork anyway."
I begin to sense I have stretched his patience to the limit. I'm really not trying to be rude, I just don't want it to be so serious. If I continue to treat it like it's nothing, then of course, it will be nothing.
The doctor tells me he is going to slice the mole off, which sounds perfectly disgusting, and leaves the room. I sit there in my doctor-appropriate knickers (full cheek coverage) and blue paper gown, feeling a little bit nauseous. Scalpels. Blood. Not really my cup of tea at 11am on a Tuesday morning. I begin to think that I might want my mum.
Eventually the nurse comes in and sticks a needle in my back. As I lie down a lock of hair falls over my face. Oh good. I can be distracted by counting my split ends. Within minutes the procedure is done and the offending black blob is floating whimsically in a jar of saline. Thank God that's over. The doctor reminds me that the results should be back in a week or so and turns to leave.
"Er...excuse me? Don't I get a sticker??" I call after him. My last pathetic attempt to get him to smile, at the very least. He closes the door behind him, without responding. The nurse grins at me. "Well, I'm hoping you have a Star Wars band aid for me, at the very least" I say, giving her a mock stern look.
I get on with the rest of my scintillating week, far too preoccupied with matters concerning Divorce and Transatlantic Move to spare any for biopsy results. In a moment of despair I do think, bitterly, 'well, I do hope it is fucking cancer - then he'll have to let me go bloody home'.
Which I guess is a lesson to be careful what you wish for. The doctor called with the biopsy results yesterday and confirmed that it is melanoma. Skin cancer. He thinks it is localised. He thinks it has been caught in the early stages. I'm booked for surgery next week to remove more skin from the original site and need to have my whole body closely examined for further suspicious Beauty Spots to biopsy. (Fact: If they need to remove every mole on my body, then there's not going to be a lot of me left.)
I'm sure it's all going to be fine. I'm sure I don't have anything to worry about. But it's still a little unnerving. And trust me to piss off the doctor that diagnoses me with cancer. Mind you, I'm still hoping the surgeon next week has a soft spot for smart alec's, coupled with an appreciation for irreverent cancer jokes. Would that really be too much to ask?
Tuesday, May 11, 2010
Will This Boring, Whinging Story Line Ever End?
I am so sick of my situation. Sick of thinking about it. Sick of living it. I am alternatively sad, nostalgic, hopeful, angry, terrified, lonely and guilt-ridden.
But most of all I feel pathetic. And utterly exhausted. Not a good combination.
It's hard to see an end to it all. The past four years of my life have been pretty much dominated by the failure of my marriage - and still it drags on. Will it ever end? I can't even imagine how weightless I am going to feel when I am finally able to leave all this behind me and just move on. And yet. Part of me clings on with my fingertips...unwilling to let go of the life that I created with this man. Unwilling to admit that the dreams are no more. That everything I strived and worked so hard for has crumbled away to dust. Mere memories.
How much easier it was, pre-kids, to just walk away and never look back. To have time to grieve and get over it without having the emotional scab constantly picked at by this daily contact. To not have to face the harsh reality of watching the person that you once loved - still love - moving on...and taking your children with them into their new life.
Not that he is trying to make things easier for me. Well, why would he?
We still haven't managed to talk further about the move home. Last week's 'reason' was an important pitch. This week there is a global think-tank. Of course there will be something next week...there is always something more pressing, which has more priority, than sorting out this godawful mess.
I don't really blame him. In my heart of hearts I don't want to face it either. The thought of having to go through the process of the divorce hardly fills me with gleeful anticipation. But I have to face the fact it is in his best interests not to move forward - the longer he can (intentionally or otherwise) drag this out, the less he has to pay me and the longer his sons stay in Chicago.
Sounds so simple writing this down...it's down to me so I just need to keep pushing, pushing, pushing until it's DONE. Not so easy, though, for a woman who considers herself a little bit feisty and far too opinionated for her own good...yet hates confrontation. Throughout this whole nightmare I have strived to be reasonable and rational. To maintain a sense of love and gratitude. To be patient and accommodating. I certainly don't regret it - it has meant that we are incredibly amicable and that does make my life a whole lot easier.
Well, it did.
Now. Not so much.
Looking at it objectively, I would say it certainly makes his life a whole lot easier but my life actually feels far from easy.
I feel so torn between wanting to honour our marriage, the love we once shared, the three children we had together by continuing to be kind, understanding, generous. I know it will reap benefits in the years to come as we continue to co-parent our children together. But at the same time, I'm not sure that he actually respects this behaviour or is simply taking full advantage of it. He has his amazing career, his marathon running hobby, his pretty young girlfriend, his children as and when it suits him and full control of the money. There is nothing about this arrangement that he wants to change right now.
Part of me knows that to achieve what I really want - to regain my independence and move home as soon as possible - the most effective method is possibly to remain humble and gracious and ruffle his feathers as little as possible.
I can see the logic of it - but even writing it just brings on fresh tears. Just where am I meant to find the strength to carry on? It all hurts too fucking much. It would give me so much more satisfaction, at this moment in time, to tell him to stop dicking me around and get with the programme, or I will take matters into my own hands. What is the point of mediation, if he can't prioritise his life a little to make an appointment and show up? We've only been talking about it since February, for heaven's sake.
So here's my dilemna: how to be strong and push forward with intelligence and dignity...without morphing into the quintessential ex-wife bitch.
The pathetic sap of a wife I have a handle on.
The ball-breaking ex-wife I think could come quite easily to me.
I don't want to be either. Is there really an alternative? One that will finally - finally - get the job done.
But most of all I feel pathetic. And utterly exhausted. Not a good combination.
It's hard to see an end to it all. The past four years of my life have been pretty much dominated by the failure of my marriage - and still it drags on. Will it ever end? I can't even imagine how weightless I am going to feel when I am finally able to leave all this behind me and just move on. And yet. Part of me clings on with my fingertips...unwilling to let go of the life that I created with this man. Unwilling to admit that the dreams are no more. That everything I strived and worked so hard for has crumbled away to dust. Mere memories.
How much easier it was, pre-kids, to just walk away and never look back. To have time to grieve and get over it without having the emotional scab constantly picked at by this daily contact. To not have to face the harsh reality of watching the person that you once loved - still love - moving on...and taking your children with them into their new life.
Not that he is trying to make things easier for me. Well, why would he?
We still haven't managed to talk further about the move home. Last week's 'reason' was an important pitch. This week there is a global think-tank. Of course there will be something next week...there is always something more pressing, which has more priority, than sorting out this godawful mess.
I don't really blame him. In my heart of hearts I don't want to face it either. The thought of having to go through the process of the divorce hardly fills me with gleeful anticipation. But I have to face the fact it is in his best interests not to move forward - the longer he can (intentionally or otherwise) drag this out, the less he has to pay me and the longer his sons stay in Chicago.
Sounds so simple writing this down...it's down to me so I just need to keep pushing, pushing, pushing until it's DONE. Not so easy, though, for a woman who considers herself a little bit feisty and far too opinionated for her own good...yet hates confrontation. Throughout this whole nightmare I have strived to be reasonable and rational. To maintain a sense of love and gratitude. To be patient and accommodating. I certainly don't regret it - it has meant that we are incredibly amicable and that does make my life a whole lot easier.
Well, it did.
Now. Not so much.
Looking at it objectively, I would say it certainly makes his life a whole lot easier but my life actually feels far from easy.
I feel so torn between wanting to honour our marriage, the love we once shared, the three children we had together by continuing to be kind, understanding, generous. I know it will reap benefits in the years to come as we continue to co-parent our children together. But at the same time, I'm not sure that he actually respects this behaviour or is simply taking full advantage of it. He has his amazing career, his marathon running hobby, his pretty young girlfriend, his children as and when it suits him and full control of the money. There is nothing about this arrangement that he wants to change right now.
Part of me knows that to achieve what I really want - to regain my independence and move home as soon as possible - the most effective method is possibly to remain humble and gracious and ruffle his feathers as little as possible.
I can see the logic of it - but even writing it just brings on fresh tears. Just where am I meant to find the strength to carry on? It all hurts too fucking much. It would give me so much more satisfaction, at this moment in time, to tell him to stop dicking me around and get with the programme, or I will take matters into my own hands. What is the point of mediation, if he can't prioritise his life a little to make an appointment and show up? We've only been talking about it since February, for heaven's sake.
So here's my dilemna: how to be strong and push forward with intelligence and dignity...without morphing into the quintessential ex-wife bitch.
The pathetic sap of a wife I have a handle on.
The ball-breaking ex-wife I think could come quite easily to me.
I don't want to be either. Is there really an alternative? One that will finally - finally - get the job done.
Thursday, May 6, 2010
His Thoughtfulness Stuns Me
Captain Underpants and I were having a quiet moment together in the kitchen last week, while I was making my usual pitiful attempt at rustling up something vaguely edible for dinner.
I was a little pre-occupied...lots of muttering under my breath while repetitiously opening and shutting the fridge and various cupboards in search of an elusive ingredient that might magically inspire a complete meal. In between the huffing and puffing and general tutting I endeavored to answer Captain Underpants Questions of the Day. The subjects ranged widely from "why is it possible to eat carrots raw but not potatoes when they are both vegetables and have both grown in the ground?" to "if Jet Ray has a battle with Luke Skywalker, who do you think would win?"
I consider all of my answers thoughtfully. I know from experience that my 6 year old revels in having his questions answered with a certain level of brevity and seriousness, regardless of how far-fetched and winsome he is being.
Then one of his questions stops me in my tracks.
"Mummy, when will I have another daddy?"
I pause and try to gather my thoughts, knowing that it's important that I don't try to fob him off with a flippant reply. But what to say?
"Darling, why do you think you're going to have another daddy? You have your wonderful daddy, don't you? And he loves you and sees you all the time and he will always be there for you. Daddy will always, always be your daddy - even when you are all grown up. Just like my daddy, Grandad Bagpipes and daddy's daddy, Grandad Chelsea. They're our daddies forever - just like yours is."
My thoughtful child considers my answer before replying, quite lightheartedly:
"I know I have my daddy forever. What I meant was...when am I going to get another daddy? You know, a daddy that will be here for me every day? The daddy that is here to love you and look after you, mummy? That's the daddy I am talking about. Another daddy. The daddy that is here for you."
He gives me a big smile. His expression is open and innocent...and totally filled with love.
Oh.
I am so stunned by his words 'to love you and look after you' that I can't speak. I go up and give him a hug and a kiss.
"I don't know the answer to that question, sweetheart. But it is a really great question and I am glad you asked me. Right now I have lots of friends and family that love me and help to look after me - and you and your brother too. Including your daddy. I'm very, very lucky. Maybe one day things will be different, but I can't tell you when because I just don't know myself. Is that okay?"
"Okay.
Mummy, how come all cats look quite the same and never get taken for walks...but dogs can be very small or very big and they all get to go out on a lead? And are we going to get a dog? You said we had to wait to get a dog until Johnny Drama was four - but he is over four and a half now, isn't he?"
Questions of the Day continues on somewhat safer footing.
But our conversation stays with me for days afterwards. I'd hate to think that the responsibility of looking after me is weighing on his mind. Maybe it's the fact that he is enjoying weekends with his dad and his girlfriend - and wants to replicate something similar at home? It could be he is simply processing the fact that both Ex and I effectively have two sets of parents each - as both of our parents are divorced and with other partners. It's possibly a combination of all these factors.
To a six year old the future is so simple. Hey! Let's get another daddy to live here with us! That would be great, wouldn't it?!
I still can't see it myself. But in an ideal world...that would be great, wouldn't it?
I was a little pre-occupied...lots of muttering under my breath while repetitiously opening and shutting the fridge and various cupboards in search of an elusive ingredient that might magically inspire a complete meal. In between the huffing and puffing and general tutting I endeavored to answer Captain Underpants Questions of the Day. The subjects ranged widely from "why is it possible to eat carrots raw but not potatoes when they are both vegetables and have both grown in the ground?" to "if Jet Ray has a battle with Luke Skywalker, who do you think would win?"
I consider all of my answers thoughtfully. I know from experience that my 6 year old revels in having his questions answered with a certain level of brevity and seriousness, regardless of how far-fetched and winsome he is being.
Then one of his questions stops me in my tracks.
"Mummy, when will I have another daddy?"
I pause and try to gather my thoughts, knowing that it's important that I don't try to fob him off with a flippant reply. But what to say?
"Darling, why do you think you're going to have another daddy? You have your wonderful daddy, don't you? And he loves you and sees you all the time and he will always be there for you. Daddy will always, always be your daddy - even when you are all grown up. Just like my daddy, Grandad Bagpipes and daddy's daddy, Grandad Chelsea. They're our daddies forever - just like yours is."
My thoughtful child considers my answer before replying, quite lightheartedly:
"I know I have my daddy forever. What I meant was...when am I going to get another daddy? You know, a daddy that will be here for me every day? The daddy that is here to love you and look after you, mummy? That's the daddy I am talking about. Another daddy. The daddy that is here for you."
He gives me a big smile. His expression is open and innocent...and totally filled with love.
Oh.
I am so stunned by his words 'to love you and look after you' that I can't speak. I go up and give him a hug and a kiss.
"I don't know the answer to that question, sweetheart. But it is a really great question and I am glad you asked me. Right now I have lots of friends and family that love me and help to look after me - and you and your brother too. Including your daddy. I'm very, very lucky. Maybe one day things will be different, but I can't tell you when because I just don't know myself. Is that okay?"
"Okay.
Mummy, how come all cats look quite the same and never get taken for walks...but dogs can be very small or very big and they all get to go out on a lead? And are we going to get a dog? You said we had to wait to get a dog until Johnny Drama was four - but he is over four and a half now, isn't he?"
Questions of the Day continues on somewhat safer footing.
But our conversation stays with me for days afterwards. I'd hate to think that the responsibility of looking after me is weighing on his mind. Maybe it's the fact that he is enjoying weekends with his dad and his girlfriend - and wants to replicate something similar at home? It could be he is simply processing the fact that both Ex and I effectively have two sets of parents each - as both of our parents are divorced and with other partners. It's possibly a combination of all these factors.
To a six year old the future is so simple. Hey! Let's get another daddy to live here with us! That would be great, wouldn't it?!
I still can't see it myself. But in an ideal world...that would be great, wouldn't it?
Thursday, April 29, 2010
Gonna Par-dee Like It's Ma (6 Year Old's) Buffday
So it was my birthday. For once, this auspicious occasion is one I would have quite happily ignored. Except when you have a 4 and 6 year old in the house, with a penchant for cake, balloons, parties and more cake, it turns out that sticking one's head in the sand regarding the ugly truth of the passage of time, is not an option.
Most of the time I am a complete birthday freak. Or is that just cake freak? Whatever. Any excuse for a celebration is typically my motto. Particularly if that celebration revolves around yours truly. This year was a first, because I actually had no interest in it whatsoever. If I could have slept the whole day through and missed it altogether, I would have in a heart beat. But as I said, according to Captain Underpants and Johnny Drama, that definitely was not an option. As soon as the calendar hit April I was pestered daily with requests for details on who, exactly, was going to come to the party and, more urgently, what type of cake was going to be served? So in order to pacify the boys I invited a few friends over, with their kids, for a spot of birthday tea. And cake, of course. Heaven help me if I had forgotten the cake.
One unexpected surprise, as the Big Day approached, was that my dear friend from London was actually going to be in Chicago (due to the fact that she was stranded and unable to return home because of that pesky volcano business). This made the whole idea of the birthday slightly more tolerable.
The night before my birthday (which was on a Saturday) was surprisingly pleasant. My beloved babysitter (who is a fully paid up member of my default family) came over with cake, neighbours popped by, I unscrewed some cheap plonk and the adults took refuge in the kitchen whilst the children rampaged through the rest of the house, scattering boxes of toys in their wake. Whilst happily chatting away in the kitchen, I received a text from Ex (who was attending a week long conference in DisneyWorld, of all places). "What do you think about the boys coming down to join me here next weekend?"
This simple text completely took the wind out of my sails. Disney? Without me? NO! Taking the boys to Disney has been a dream of mine for the past few years. My dream. Not his. And no doubt New Girlfriend would be joining them - slotting neatly into the space that should be mine, Goddammit.
I stewed over the text for hours and then all through the night. This is so unfair, I fumed. I didn't want to deny my boys a trip to Disney and I knew that Ex was simply taking advantage of his privileged work situation. All the other wives and kids would be there - why should his boys miss out? But then again, why should I? Could I bear it if they went for the first time without me? And what did it really say about me as a person and a parent if I wasn't able to put the boys interests first?
Yet again, I wrestled with violent, angry thoughts all night long. My sleep was further interrupted by Johnny Drama coming into my room at 12.59am and then again at 3.47am, needing to be put back to bed. By the time morning rolled around I was exhausted and even more furious about the whole situation. Happy Fucking Birthday, I muttered to myself, as I struggled out of bed at 6am to meet the boy's demands for snacks and my body's demand for an urgent caffeine fix. This part of single parenting I am really not a huge fan of. The 'having to do it all' even on my birthday, without assistance. It's bad enough on the best of days, but on your birthday it's just pants.
My bad mood intensified when I opened the cards from the boys - no special hand-made cards for me this year. Just a couple of hastily bought identical pieces of crap from Hallmark with their names scribbled inside. There weren't even badges for Chrissake. This lack of thought and affection really brought it home to me how little Ex cared and how much he had moved on. Inside one of the cards was $60. There were no other presents for the boys to help me open. I guess it was better than nothing but I still felt distinctly insignificant. "Wow - $60! You can buy a lot of Lego with that mum!" exclaimed Captain Underpants. And he was right - it could buy 'me' a shit load of Lego but wasn't going to go very far in providing my dream splurge at Anthropology, was it? A T shirt perhaps? Oh, how the mighty have fallen. I struggled to feel grateful that Ex had made any effort at all.
The morning progressed as most Saturdays do, the boys acting up due to a bad nights sleep and mum acting worse due to that and more besides. We went out to buy boxes of expensive cupcakes for the afternoon 'party' and I returned to the house with fresh eyes, furious at the mess that greeted me. I had an hour to prepare food before people started arriving and the house looked like a bomb had hit it. This is NOT how birthdays are supposed to be, I fumed internally, whilst scrabbling around on the floor picking up minuscule pieces of abandoned Lego. I was so locked in my black thoughts that it didn't occur to me to check for clear air space when I stood up to deposit the handfuls of Lego back in the box.
Thwump.
The top of my head connected, unexpectedly and with considerable force, with a piece of overhanging granite and in a millisecond I was back on the floor surrounded once again by scattered Lego. Oh this is flipping marvellous - now I have to add a fractured skull to the mix. Remind me, why did I bother to get out of bed at all this morning? I lay on the floor with my throbbing head in my hands and burst into tears. It felt as if I had really hurt myself and I struggled to get my breath. Whilst attempting to work out if I was still in the land of the living, the little voice in my head continued to nag me. Er, hello? We don't have time for any drama...or urgent trips to the ER...there's still Lego to be put away. And have you seen the state of your kitchen lately? Stop dicking around on the floor and Get A Bloody Move On.
The boys gathered round with concerned looks on their faces, trying to wipe my tears, obviously frightened. My friend, who was playing an active role in the clean up campaign, rushed to the freezer for the trusted bag of frozen peas. A few minutes passed and I was able to gingerly get to my feet, at which point I laid eyes upon the unmitigated chaos masquerading as my kitchen and decided that remaining on my knees was really the most sensible option.
I finally got back to the task in hand, rubbing gently at the huge egg-like lump which had formed on the top of my skull with a Lightening McQueen ice pack. I got changed into my 'party' clothes (jeans, obviously) but on top of it all I was having a 'fat day', which as you can imagine, did nothing to improve my mood.
Ultimately, I was dressed, the house was relatively tidy (although by no means clean), a modest fayre was prepared and guests started to arrive. My head was still incredibly tender so I self-medicated with a huge glass of vodka/tonic and all of a sudden, as if by magic, my birthday started to improve. If only I had thought to start the day with alcohol instead of coffee...a note to self for next year, perhaps.
The rest of the day was just lovely. Couldn't have been better. The children ran amok outside, dangling each other off the deck, placing garden chairs atop the kiddy wagon then racing perilously towards the flight of stairs and then graffitying the back of my house with chalk to create this beautiful birthday mural.
Green Eyed Man turned up with a silly birthday tiara for me to wear and proceeded to mingle confidently with all my friends. All the adults got a little bit tipsy and the kids all sang Happy Birthday before I blew out a few candles stuck in a cupcake. It was so very, very nice.
And the icing on the cake?
When I returned to the house after waving everyone goodbye, GEM and the boys were outside playing football together as if they had known each other for ages, rather than meeting for the first time only 2 hours prior.
I rubbed the sore spot on my head, as I stood at the back door watching them, and smiled.
And decided, that of course my gorgeous boys should join their dad in Disney if that was what he wanted. They deserved it more than anyone I knew. Even me. Or should that be, especially me? Oh, whatever.
Most of the time I am a complete birthday freak. Or is that just cake freak? Whatever. Any excuse for a celebration is typically my motto. Particularly if that celebration revolves around yours truly. This year was a first, because I actually had no interest in it whatsoever. If I could have slept the whole day through and missed it altogether, I would have in a heart beat. But as I said, according to Captain Underpants and Johnny Drama, that definitely was not an option. As soon as the calendar hit April I was pestered daily with requests for details on who, exactly, was going to come to the party and, more urgently, what type of cake was going to be served? So in order to pacify the boys I invited a few friends over, with their kids, for a spot of birthday tea. And cake, of course. Heaven help me if I had forgotten the cake.
One unexpected surprise, as the Big Day approached, was that my dear friend from London was actually going to be in Chicago (due to the fact that she was stranded and unable to return home because of that pesky volcano business). This made the whole idea of the birthday slightly more tolerable.
The night before my birthday (which was on a Saturday) was surprisingly pleasant. My beloved babysitter (who is a fully paid up member of my default family) came over with cake, neighbours popped by, I unscrewed some cheap plonk and the adults took refuge in the kitchen whilst the children rampaged through the rest of the house, scattering boxes of toys in their wake. Whilst happily chatting away in the kitchen, I received a text from Ex (who was attending a week long conference in DisneyWorld, of all places). "What do you think about the boys coming down to join me here next weekend?"
This simple text completely took the wind out of my sails. Disney? Without me? NO! Taking the boys to Disney has been a dream of mine for the past few years. My dream. Not his. And no doubt New Girlfriend would be joining them - slotting neatly into the space that should be mine, Goddammit.
I stewed over the text for hours and then all through the night. This is so unfair, I fumed. I didn't want to deny my boys a trip to Disney and I knew that Ex was simply taking advantage of his privileged work situation. All the other wives and kids would be there - why should his boys miss out? But then again, why should I? Could I bear it if they went for the first time without me? And what did it really say about me as a person and a parent if I wasn't able to put the boys interests first?
Yet again, I wrestled with violent, angry thoughts all night long. My sleep was further interrupted by Johnny Drama coming into my room at 12.59am and then again at 3.47am, needing to be put back to bed. By the time morning rolled around I was exhausted and even more furious about the whole situation. Happy Fucking Birthday, I muttered to myself, as I struggled out of bed at 6am to meet the boy's demands for snacks and my body's demand for an urgent caffeine fix. This part of single parenting I am really not a huge fan of. The 'having to do it all' even on my birthday, without assistance. It's bad enough on the best of days, but on your birthday it's just pants.
My bad mood intensified when I opened the cards from the boys - no special hand-made cards for me this year. Just a couple of hastily bought identical pieces of crap from Hallmark with their names scribbled inside. There weren't even badges for Chrissake. This lack of thought and affection really brought it home to me how little Ex cared and how much he had moved on. Inside one of the cards was $60. There were no other presents for the boys to help me open. I guess it was better than nothing but I still felt distinctly insignificant. "Wow - $60! You can buy a lot of Lego with that mum!" exclaimed Captain Underpants. And he was right - it could buy 'me' a shit load of Lego but wasn't going to go very far in providing my dream splurge at Anthropology, was it? A T shirt perhaps? Oh, how the mighty have fallen. I struggled to feel grateful that Ex had made any effort at all.
The morning progressed as most Saturdays do, the boys acting up due to a bad nights sleep and mum acting worse due to that and more besides. We went out to buy boxes of expensive cupcakes for the afternoon 'party' and I returned to the house with fresh eyes, furious at the mess that greeted me. I had an hour to prepare food before people started arriving and the house looked like a bomb had hit it. This is NOT how birthdays are supposed to be, I fumed internally, whilst scrabbling around on the floor picking up minuscule pieces of abandoned Lego. I was so locked in my black thoughts that it didn't occur to me to check for clear air space when I stood up to deposit the handfuls of Lego back in the box.
Thwump.
The top of my head connected, unexpectedly and with considerable force, with a piece of overhanging granite and in a millisecond I was back on the floor surrounded once again by scattered Lego. Oh this is flipping marvellous - now I have to add a fractured skull to the mix. Remind me, why did I bother to get out of bed at all this morning? I lay on the floor with my throbbing head in my hands and burst into tears. It felt as if I had really hurt myself and I struggled to get my breath. Whilst attempting to work out if I was still in the land of the living, the little voice in my head continued to nag me. Er, hello? We don't have time for any drama...or urgent trips to the ER...there's still Lego to be put away. And have you seen the state of your kitchen lately? Stop dicking around on the floor and Get A Bloody Move On.
The boys gathered round with concerned looks on their faces, trying to wipe my tears, obviously frightened. My friend, who was playing an active role in the clean up campaign, rushed to the freezer for the trusted bag of frozen peas. A few minutes passed and I was able to gingerly get to my feet, at which point I laid eyes upon the unmitigated chaos masquerading as my kitchen and decided that remaining on my knees was really the most sensible option.
I finally got back to the task in hand, rubbing gently at the huge egg-like lump which had formed on the top of my skull with a Lightening McQueen ice pack. I got changed into my 'party' clothes (jeans, obviously) but on top of it all I was having a 'fat day', which as you can imagine, did nothing to improve my mood.
Ultimately, I was dressed, the house was relatively tidy (although by no means clean), a modest fayre was prepared and guests started to arrive. My head was still incredibly tender so I self-medicated with a huge glass of vodka/tonic and all of a sudden, as if by magic, my birthday started to improve. If only I had thought to start the day with alcohol instead of coffee...a note to self for next year, perhaps.
The rest of the day was just lovely. Couldn't have been better. The children ran amok outside, dangling each other off the deck, placing garden chairs atop the kiddy wagon then racing perilously towards the flight of stairs and then graffitying the back of my house with chalk to create this beautiful birthday mural.
Green Eyed Man turned up with a silly birthday tiara for me to wear and proceeded to mingle confidently with all my friends. All the adults got a little bit tipsy and the kids all sang Happy Birthday before I blew out a few candles stuck in a cupcake. It was so very, very nice.
And the icing on the cake?
When I returned to the house after waving everyone goodbye, GEM and the boys were outside playing football together as if they had known each other for ages, rather than meeting for the first time only 2 hours prior.
I rubbed the sore spot on my head, as I stood at the back door watching them, and smiled.
And decided, that of course my gorgeous boys should join their dad in Disney if that was what he wanted. They deserved it more than anyone I knew. Even me. Or should that be, especially me? Oh, whatever.
Wednesday, April 21, 2010
Things Should Be Falling Into Place By Now...But They're Not
I thought I had lost my blogging mojo for a while there. It wasn't an issue with the lack of potential content...quite the opposite. So much to write about, so much I wish I had the energy to record and share. So much going on that I can barely keep up with it all, much less find the time to edit it all into a wry anecdote.
Not only that but I appear to have lost my sense of humour. I have a vague memory of being able to see the funny side of life during our recent Easter trip to the UK...but since returning to Chicago I have been Ms Glum of Glumville. This combination of being homesick and feeling isolated does not make me the happiest camper. It's not really that I have hated returning to Chicago, it's more the return to my situation. The prospect of facing up to the divorce finally.
Ex is now backtracking over the decision for me to move back to England with the boys in the summer (big surprise), so that is once again a big hurdle to face, while the sands of time continue to race through the hourglass. Just the thought of pushing forward makes me feel exhausted, as if I am being forced to trudge my way through thigh deep (slow cooker) sludge. Progress seems to be inexorably slow. I have all the cumbersome baggage of the tortoise to weigh me down, when I typically prefer to race my way through life like the free-spirited hare.
Still.
We all know who was the winner of that race in the end.
So maybe going against my nature and sticking with the painstakingly slow and dull plod through this emotional, financial and legal minefield will yield results in the end.
I took the boys back to the UK over Easter for a short, action-packed 11 day trip. I visited Subversive Mum's flat, took a tour of the school I would like the boys to attend, hung out with my MIL and her other half, persuaded my own mother to purchase vast quantities of the M&S chocolate and confectionary section for me to consume, celebrated my dad's wife's 60th birthday with a fantastic family party, caught up with cousins I haven't seen for years and watched with intense satisfaction as our children played happily for hour and hours and hours.
The trip was a welcome break and it was incredible to be surrounded by the love and support of my family, but it was still stressful all the same. I finally had to face what a mountain I am going to have to climb simply to return home. And how essential it is that Ex and I work as a team to effectively make it happen, which is a little depressing because on reflection teamwork has never been a cornerstone of our marriage.
While I was busy researching living / education options for his sons, Ex was enjoying a week long break in Berlin, visiting one of our oldest friends, with his New Girlfriend. He hadn't shared with me that she was going with him, so it came as a bit of a shock to come face-to-face with her on Skype during one of the boy's video calls with daddy. All shiny hair, sparkly eyes, youthful unblemished skin and large toothy smile flaunting a mouthful of brilliant white perfect teeth. The all American girl on the next stop of her whirlwind European tour. I didn't expect to feel so fazed, so intensely jealous, so sick to my stomach. The idea of her I can handle with acceptance and understanding. The reality of her is a little harder to take for some reason. It wasn't the most sensitive move by my Ex to pull her in front of the camera to talk to the boys, knowing full well I was part of the call. What can I say...I'm pretty sure it's just a not-really-thinking man thing, rather than an attempt to rub my nose right in it. Didn't stop it smarting for a few days though.
Mind you, it also didn't stop me encouraging the boys to choose her an Easter egg to take home, along with Daddy's. I know, I know. The new patron saint of amicable separation, that's me. Might as well start as I mean to carry on. It's not as if ignoring the fact that she is now in their lives is going to make her disappear, so I am trying to find a way to accommodate her presence with a generosity that seems beyond me at times. Oh well. Practice what you preach and all that. I'm sure there will be a Blue Peter badge ready and waiting for me at some point. Or maybe just some peace and a reduction in the jealousy factor, which would be far more satisfying.
I'm not sure what I expected to achieve in this trip but, as it turned out, it was just as well my expectations were low, because I managed to achieve very little.
It's not going to be feasible to rent Subversive Mum's flat because I really need to make a contractual and financial commitment now (which translates to: Ex needs to get his finger out, sign on the dotted line and pony up some cash), which isn't going to happen just yet. I was hoping my dad would agree to be my guarantor, but he has pretty much nixed that idea with the sound argument that Ex or Ex's company/family really need to be the one's securing my short term financial future. This makes complete sense but still leaves me with a hollow feeling in the pit of my stomach. This feeling of continued dependency on my Ex makes me feel more than a little vulnerable - I thoroughly resent the fact that he is effectively in control of my future and has the final Nay/Yay on my decisions. Can I really trust that he will act in MY best interests in this situation? He is a man of morals and I would go as far to say that he will try to act honorably...it's just that his version of honorable might be on a whole other planet to mine. Only time will tell.
I also tried to open a bank account, because I no longer have an account in the UK after First Direct had the audacity to close ours three years ago. The fresh faced manager in the local branch of my dad's bank (where he has banked for a gazzillion years or more) was confident this would be water off a duck's back. "Do you have a British Passport?" he enquired. "Oh - that should be no problem at all then." These proved to be famous last words.
Of course, what followed was a farcical illustration of the state of computerised banking management. The manager diligently entered pages of personal details into his trusted computer and then appeared to be retyping several copies of War and Peace as he tapped, tapped, tapped away on the keyboard. Big silent pause while the computer digested and assessed my eligibility....until finally, "Computer Says No". He re-entered the information again, pausing only to add my inner leg measurement, with an enthusiastic tap, tap, tap. "Computer Says No". He tried again, adding my shoe size and the fact that I still eat Heinz beans and Marmite on a regular basis, but yet again the computer assessed me as a dubious prospect in banking terms. Thank God I am a fan of Little Britain, or I might have experienced a complete sense of humour meltdown and delicately inserted the keyboard through the computer screen. Instead I inwardly rolled my eyes and mused nostalgically for the days when bank managers were trusted with an element of authority and decision making - rather than Big Brother making all the decisions for them. I only wanted an opportunity to deposit money in the UK after all. But you can't argue with "Computer Says No" apparently these days.
I attempted to cheer myself up with a quick trip to Next, only to encounter a shop filled to the brim with the largest selection of tat that I have had the misfortune to peruse for some time. Oh dear. Somewhere along the line I seem to have been irretrievably influenced by the casual elegance of Banana Republic and the inherent bohemian quality of Anthropology. This does not bode well for a move home. Even Monsoon has lost its allure.
It wasn't all bad though. The boys absolutely thrived on being around family and didn't want to leave.
"When can we move to England mummy?" was a question repeated time and time again.
Hmmm. Good question lads. The mediator meetings start next week. I'll keep you posted.
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
It's Not Your Average Book Club...
Just over a year ago a friend invited me to join her book club. And what a book club it is. Of course I had no idea what I had let myself in for when I agreed to join. I like to read books. I like to talk about books I have read (preferably with other people who have read more than the back cover blurb whilst standing in WHSmith waiting for a train). So it was a no-brainer decision. “I’m in!” I said, enthusiastically. “What book are you reading?”
Turns out there wasn’t a book for the first meeting, because it was the Annual Book Club Christmas Party. Well, this whole book club thing is even easier than I thought (I thought). It’s just talking. And alcohol. There’s not even any reading required. I’m definitely in.
My introduction to this particular book club was an eye-opener, that’s for sure. It wasn’t just the fact that all the women attending were impossibly gorgeous and glamourous mothers, well travelled, funny and smart. It wasn’t even the fact that the ‘party’ was a full-blown dinner party with food of cordon bleu exquisiteness. It wasn’t the fact that within 45 minutes of arriving I was as drunk as a skunk (boy, these women might be skinny but they can certainly teach me a thing or two about knocking back wine). No. My overriding memory of the first meeting was the table napkins.
Hmmm.
Not what you were expecting?
Well, it turns out that the item rolled up at each dinner setting was not actually an industrial sized napkin, but a vintage magazine porn. See what I mean? Not exactly what I was expecting either.
The hostess had placed a 1970s copy of Playboy, Hustler, Knave, Bigboobalicious (I made that one up, but you get my drift) by every seat...well, you can imagine that it led to quite a discussion about our reading material that evening. (By the way, I will take the opportunity to say this...if there are any women reading out there who have ‘body issues’ you need to get hold of a copy of vintage porn. There are normal looking women in it - of all shapes and sizes. There are tiny boobs and wonky boobs, droopy boobs and huge boobs resembling sacks of puppies (no silicone perfection in sight). There is more than enough muff to stuff a king-sized duvet with. Your average deli would surely not contain this selection of meat flaps. And the cellulite! Oh, the cellulite!)
I finally stumbled into a cab at 1am in the morning, in a drunken state of euphoria, clutching my ‘party favour’ in a death-like grip. Roll on next book club.
The next book club was even more eventful. This time we had actually been charged with reading a book (although it appears one of the rules of belonging to this particular book club is that reading is entirely optional - there is one ‘founding’ member of the club who hasn’t read a single book yet). Again, everyone dressed to impress and an elaborate dinner is served. There is non-stop talking (although discussions about the book get easily siderailed by much more salacious gossip and real-life drama). This time the vintage porn is replaced by...real life examples of plastic surgery. Not exactly pornagraphic...but not what I would expect to encounter beyond the changing room at the gym (if I’m lucky).
I am discussing something intellectual *cough* with one of the ladies, when I sense the rest of the room go eerily quiet. I turn around to see what is going on and end up with my eye balls mere inches from the most perfect set of breasts I have ever seen in the flesh. Sensing my immediate shock the breasts are instantly covered up, with a swift apology for offending my prudish British reserve. “Oh my God, don’t be daft”, I counter, “they’re stupendous! Can I see them again? And did I just miss someone mentioning a tummy tuck scar?”
Turns out the breasts make a regular guest appearance at book club (although my breasts, being of the 1970s porn variety, stay firmly under wraps).
My, this book club just keeps getting better and better I think.
Ultimately, it was my turn to host book club. I was keen to choose a book, but the thought of hosting the evening brought me out in a cold sweat. I don’t do entertaining as a rule and only had 3 wine glasses and six dinner plates to my name. How does wine taste when served in a sippy cup? I pondered. Maybe that would be...kitsch? I wasn’t looking to up the ante, by any stretch of the imagination, but it would be nice to be in the general vicinity of the ante...and present an image of being a reasonable hostess and not a total pleb.
In the end I bought new plates and wine glasses and slaved over a carefully crafted menu. My book choice was The Other Hand by Chris Cleaves, a book I had read a few months previously. (I hadn’t anticipated liking the book much but found I just couldn’t put it down. Afterwards, I just wanted everyone I knew to read it, so I could talk to them about it. Here was my perfect opportunity.)
Of course I needn’t have worried about the evening, because it was a rip-roaring success. This had nothing to do with the food (which, despite all my hours of preparing, was a complete disaster. Note: never use parchment to line baking trays for fillo salmon...unless the intention is for your guests to be picking pieces of charred paper out of their teeth all night long.) It also wasn’t related to the book (although most had bothered to read it and it sparked quite a lively discussion).
No - it all came down to the party piece...
...a drunken group pole dancing lesson. (Did I forget to mention somewhere along the line that I have a pole installed in my house? Purely for its fitness benefits of course.)
Told you this isn’t your average book club.
Over the course of a year my friendship with these incredible women has gone from strength to strength. As well as sharing our love of reading (Ha! Deeply ironic statement) we have shared two pregnancies and two births (boy and a girl - already betrothed of course), two separations, one divorce, one International move and the birthdays of all our children. There are few stones left unturned within this tight knit group and no subject is ever regarded as too inappropriate to be discussed (honest appraisal of Anal Sex anyone?) From my initial reaction to these intimidating women (‘Blimey, I think I am a bit out of my league here’) I have found many unexpected things in common (including a slight nervousness about having things shoved up my jacksy).
The least of which is a love of the written word.
Tonight’s book up for discussion is Gang Leader for A Day by Sudhir Venkatesh. I am sure it will make for stimulating conversation...before the talk reverts back to kids, relationships and, well, your guess is as good as mine.
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