It turns out my dermatologist isn't missing his sense of humour gene. Though to be frank, I think his timing is a little off.
At my first visit his approach was professional verging on dour. Despite my ongoing attempts at infantile flippancy he stoically refused to take the bait and crack even the slightest smile. Hey! I wanted to say, as I fixed him with a pointed stare and stabbed him repeatedly in the chest with an index finger...stop being so bloody miserable and at least have the decency to acknowledge my pitiful attempts at wit. I can't claim to be even a distant relative to Noel Coward, but you can't deny my attempts at trying.
By the time my follow up visit rolled around I was a little more preoccupied and a whole lot less cocky. If I had been wearing boots I would have been quaking in them. As it was, I simply sat nervously shivering in my vivid blue paper gown, wholly convinced that my detailed check up was going to reveal a body peppered with melanoma. From the moment I had been diagnosed with melanoma - and particularly since the removal of a significant chunk of skin from my back - I had found umpteen suspicious looking legions which surely signified the beginning of the end. There were multiple moles simply begging to be labelled with the dreaded cancer diagnosis. Okay, so I was totally paranoid and, armed with a little bit of information, had within a matter of weeks morphed into the Internet expert on terminal skin diseases. I knew it was only a matter of time before Dr Dour proved my suspicions to be correct - and that time was now.
So I was a little taken aback when Dr Dour breezed jauntily into the room, took one look at my dejected and forlorn little self sitting hunched in readiness for the worst prognosis, and quipped, "My! Don't you look glamorous all decked out in blue today! Going anywhere special?"
Eh?
Er. Not sure exactly Dr. You tell me. The morgue, potentially?
Taking advantage of the fact that his Dr Dour/Mr Mirth transformation had rendered me temporarily speechless he continued with his flirtatious banter.
"Yep, a strappy pair of heels and you'd have all heads turning today in that outfit. Love the tan, by the way. Out of a bottle I hope...phnar, phnar. So. How have you been? Everything healing nicely? Let's have a little looksy, shall we? Check out Dr Slash'n'Sew's* handiwork."
At this point I went from flummoxed to severely irked faster than a Mclaren F1. Hey! I wanted to say this time...take this seriously you buffoon. I'm dying here. DYING I tell you. And the last thing I need is your pathetic attempt at cheeriness to soften the blow.
Of course, I did no such thing because, despite not being a rocket scientist, I'm still intelligent enough to recognise Karma staring me full on in the face when I see it. Go on Doc. Knock yourself out with your little jokes. Turn the tables on the British smart alec when you get the chance, why don't you? Just do me the favour of cracking on with the little comedy act so we can get straight to the bad news. There's really no amount of bonhomie today that's going to prompt any wisecracks from me when you lay the cards on the table. I'm all out of funny, if you haven't noticed, and have been for a while.
The scar looked fine, apparently. Healing nicely, possibly helped by the fact that the nurse had taken pains not to remove all the stitches a few days before. Dr Mirth grabbed a pair of tweezers and, with a few sharp tugs, deftly detached them from the pieces of skin they were seemingly intent on melding to. "Would you look at that...they almost match your eyes exactly", he commented, as he handed me a few strands of blue twine complete with blood stains and small pieces of skin still attached. "Not sure they would compliment every outfit though, so you're probably best off without them."
Oh for God's sake...let's just get on with it, shall we? Enough with the jolliness. Get your bloody magnifying glass out so we can get on with the process of checking all my other mutated 'beauty spots'. And then just tell me straight...is there a chance I am going to have any skin left?
Turns out there is. Despite some of the moles qualifying as 'vaguely suspicious', none of them warranted the quick 1-2 with a scapel for further inspection. I need to attend 6-monthly skin checks but at present Dr Mirth is convinced I am cancer free and - by taking proper precautions moving forward - can hopefully avoid any further instances of melanoma in the future.
I am so relieved I finally smile and go to great pains to resist the urge of planting a huge thank you smackeroo on his lips. In a final act of gratitude I decide to leave the thwarted attempts at humour to him on this occasion. The unexpected 'all-clear' may warrant a smile - but my ability to laugh about my first brush with the dreaded C word is still a little way off.
* not the most flattering pseudonym for my incredibly kind and experienced surgeon
Thursday, July 29, 2010
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
Happy Birthday To....Ex
So I am sitting in the midst of birthday preparation chaos - the boys going berserk decorating a card that is bigger than they are - all in honour of their dad's birthday on Friday.
I have orchestrated most of this. Bought fantastic cards. Ordered an original piece of artwork (one of our shared weaknesses). Bought a book on mountain climbing. Have a supermarket's worth of cake decorating paraphernalia on the counter. And I want to feel great about all this. Generous. Thoughtful. Want to encourage the boys to celebrate their dad's birthday and think carefully about how they can make it an extra special day.
So why does this all just serve to make me feel just a little bit...shit?
Part of me just wants to trash it all and just stuff a few dollars into a couple of crap Hallmark cards and be done with it. Repeat the effort that was made for my birthday. But I am above all that, aren't I?
There's no room for silly games and tit for tat in this situation. I love birthdays. I love celebrating birthdays. Always have. Always will. And the habit of trying to make Ex's birthday special is a tough one to break. But more than that I want to show the boys the importance of celebrating other people's birthdays and not just their own - that a little bit of thought and effort on someone elses behalf can really make that person's day.
The irony of the situation is the Ex really doesn't like to celebrate his birthday, being a sort of bah humbug birthday scrooge. He much preferred to celebrate mine. And boy, over the years did he set the bar high.
The first birthday we were together he surprised me with a trip to London to see the musical Rent. Sounds normal enough, doesn't it? Well, Ex was never a man to do things by half. He also invited my sister and closest friends from various parts of the country, hiring a limo to take us all there and back - all as a complete surprise to me of course. It was my first ride in a limo. I think we made quite the impression driving through the busy streets of the west end, swigging champagne like a bunch of chavs. Particularly when we decided to have a competition of who would be the first to do a moonie out of an open window. (Needless to say, the birthday girl didn't win that competition - first prize as always going to my close friend K who had a penchant for getting inebriated and then airing her derriere in public places.)
Subsequent birthdays were no less spectacular. I remember waking up one birthday to find our flat a multi-coloured ribbon present trail. Each different coloured ribbon led to a hidden present. Each ribbon went from room to room, all at different heights, making it impossible to navigate the space without contorting myself over and under the neon bright wrapping tape. I would like to say it was reminiscent of the scene where Catherine Zeta Jones leaps effortlessly over lasers (in the movie that I can't be bothered to google to remember the name of)...but of course, in reality I tripped and stumbled all over the place in a combination of giggles and awe. He went to all that effort for me.
On yet another birthday, the effort to discover my presents was less physical and more intellectually challenging. I was given a heap of small boxes. Well. You can imagine my glee, as I pictured unwrapping a mountain of sparkly things to adorn myself with. Ooh no. His originality took a new turn that year. Each box contained a mixture of scrabble letters. Once I had successfully deciphered the 'code' I was 'rewarded' with the actual present. Some of them silly, some more monumental but all of them chosen with a great deal of thought and love.
There are other examples, but already in writing this and remembering the effort this man made to make my birthdays so very special, this modicum of effort on my part (and the boys) is well deserved. And these feelings of resentment and slight envy are so irrational anyway - it's not as if he is expecting any level of effort (or will possibly even appreciate it).
So happy birthday Ex. Hope it's a good one. Even if you would rather we ignored it altogether.
And I guess looking on the bright side...it's not going to matter if I'm not in the mood for sausage on Friday because the birthday blowjob is no longer in my remit. You see! I am capable of seeing the silver lining.
I have orchestrated most of this. Bought fantastic cards. Ordered an original piece of artwork (one of our shared weaknesses). Bought a book on mountain climbing. Have a supermarket's worth of cake decorating paraphernalia on the counter. And I want to feel great about all this. Generous. Thoughtful. Want to encourage the boys to celebrate their dad's birthday and think carefully about how they can make it an extra special day.
So why does this all just serve to make me feel just a little bit...shit?
Part of me just wants to trash it all and just stuff a few dollars into a couple of crap Hallmark cards and be done with it. Repeat the effort that was made for my birthday. But I am above all that, aren't I?
There's no room for silly games and tit for tat in this situation. I love birthdays. I love celebrating birthdays. Always have. Always will. And the habit of trying to make Ex's birthday special is a tough one to break. But more than that I want to show the boys the importance of celebrating other people's birthdays and not just their own - that a little bit of thought and effort on someone elses behalf can really make that person's day.
The irony of the situation is the Ex really doesn't like to celebrate his birthday, being a sort of bah humbug birthday scrooge. He much preferred to celebrate mine. And boy, over the years did he set the bar high.
The first birthday we were together he surprised me with a trip to London to see the musical Rent. Sounds normal enough, doesn't it? Well, Ex was never a man to do things by half. He also invited my sister and closest friends from various parts of the country, hiring a limo to take us all there and back - all as a complete surprise to me of course. It was my first ride in a limo. I think we made quite the impression driving through the busy streets of the west end, swigging champagne like a bunch of chavs. Particularly when we decided to have a competition of who would be the first to do a moonie out of an open window. (Needless to say, the birthday girl didn't win that competition - first prize as always going to my close friend K who had a penchant for getting inebriated and then airing her derriere in public places.)
Subsequent birthdays were no less spectacular. I remember waking up one birthday to find our flat a multi-coloured ribbon present trail. Each different coloured ribbon led to a hidden present. Each ribbon went from room to room, all at different heights, making it impossible to navigate the space without contorting myself over and under the neon bright wrapping tape. I would like to say it was reminiscent of the scene where Catherine Zeta Jones leaps effortlessly over lasers (in the movie that I can't be bothered to google to remember the name of)...but of course, in reality I tripped and stumbled all over the place in a combination of giggles and awe. He went to all that effort for me.
On yet another birthday, the effort to discover my presents was less physical and more intellectually challenging. I was given a heap of small boxes. Well. You can imagine my glee, as I pictured unwrapping a mountain of sparkly things to adorn myself with. Ooh no. His originality took a new turn that year. Each box contained a mixture of scrabble letters. Once I had successfully deciphered the 'code' I was 'rewarded' with the actual present. Some of them silly, some more monumental but all of them chosen with a great deal of thought and love.
There are other examples, but already in writing this and remembering the effort this man made to make my birthdays so very special, this modicum of effort on my part (and the boys) is well deserved. And these feelings of resentment and slight envy are so irrational anyway - it's not as if he is expecting any level of effort (or will possibly even appreciate it).
So happy birthday Ex. Hope it's a good one. Even if you would rather we ignored it altogether.
And I guess looking on the bright side...it's not going to matter if I'm not in the mood for sausage on Friday because the birthday blowjob is no longer in my remit. You see! I am capable of seeing the silver lining.
Monday, July 19, 2010
Down...but not out
I was waiting for a day to come when I felt perky enough to write a post. You know, relatively upbeat. Cautiously optimistic. But that day is yet to arrive and I can't avoid splurging any longer.
This whole 'heavy veil of sadness' thing seems to be depleting me of everything that I once liked about myself. My energy. The view that my life is always glass half full. Generally being daft. The past four years have been so emotionally trying - and so fucking lonely - that they are causing me to doubt that I will ever be happy and carefree again. Maybe this is just me now forever...morose, needy, exhausted, unable to see and appreciate the blessings even in challenging circumstances. What I would do to turn back time and make different choices, to be able to take a different path than this.
I am just so very, very tired.
I am also so very, very tearful. Constantly. Sometimes in front of the boys even, which I have always managed to avoid in the past. The look of concern on their faces and the touch of their plump hands on my shoulders, around my neck or patting my back do nothing to stem the flow of emotion of course. Bad mummy. Bad, bad mummy. My boys need me to be strong and resourceful and resilient. But I am all out of those traits at the moment. I scrabble about the bottom of my handbag, hoping to find remnants of courage and hope and laughter, but of course all I get for my troubles is a few screwed up chewing gum wrappers and the obligatory raisin.
If only I could just stop feeling so tired.
Mediation finally started nearly 6 weeks ago. And in that time we have managed to attend 2 meetings, both of which were charged with tension, latent hurt and unaddressed anger, on both parts. The 2nd meeting was particularly eventful - featuring a bun fight of such proportions that ex and I were ultimately separated. The main bone of contention being, of course, the date of a move back to the UK. Which, despite our agreement in February, is now not going to take place this summer.
Of course it isn't. How silly of me to ever think he would honour his word?
I can see the sense in the decision. We do need to take time to sort out this divorce. I have nothing to gain in the long run from rushing decisions that will impact my future financial security and parenting responsibilities. And I am trying to let go of the frustration that ex has deliberately stalled on attending mediation to achieve this outcome. The man has a part-time live in girlfriend yet it is still not within his interests to divorce me. I know why he is dragging his heels - and I know I fall pretty low down on his list of priorities. I also know that mediation is unlikely to work simply because he has demonstrated quite clearly that he does not want to find time in his schedule to attend.
Again - I know that none of this is through malicious intent. But it is self-serving. And maybe I need to follow his lead and be a little more self-serving too. Despite all the recent upheavals ex and I are still on speaking terms. We are not friends, but we are friendly. Things are currently amicable. Let's hope they remain that way once I file for divorce. I just don't see another way of finalising this chapter in my life than taking it into my own hands - and making something happen that will hopefully stop this cycle of control and manipulation.
Maybe then the panic attacks will cease. The ability to sleep will return. My loss of appetite will reinstate itself and, with it, the ability to do more than just splod through the motions each day with all the enthusiasm of a eunuch on a quest for a condom. Maybe then I will get to move home.
In the meantime, I did manage to complete one task to cheer myself up. I have sponsored a little girl from Haiti called Lovemy. Isn't that the most incredible name? She is 6 years old. So I finally have a daughter in the family. Hopefully the first of many children from around the world. The boys and I are currently working on our first pack of letters, drawings, photos and postcards to send her. I already feel so much love for this smiling little girl, standing in the dust and the dirt in her clean yet worn sundress and hair braided with the big plastic bobbles that I remember from my own childhood. Her situation certainly puts mine into perspective. I wonder if she will ever understand what a gift she is to my life right now?
A reminder that my life is more than just struggling to officiate the end of a relationship and move home to my family and friends. It is also about new beginnings. And family. And love. Always love.
This whole 'heavy veil of sadness' thing seems to be depleting me of everything that I once liked about myself. My energy. The view that my life is always glass half full. Generally being daft. The past four years have been so emotionally trying - and so fucking lonely - that they are causing me to doubt that I will ever be happy and carefree again. Maybe this is just me now forever...morose, needy, exhausted, unable to see and appreciate the blessings even in challenging circumstances. What I would do to turn back time and make different choices, to be able to take a different path than this.
I am just so very, very tired.
I am also so very, very tearful. Constantly. Sometimes in front of the boys even, which I have always managed to avoid in the past. The look of concern on their faces and the touch of their plump hands on my shoulders, around my neck or patting my back do nothing to stem the flow of emotion of course. Bad mummy. Bad, bad mummy. My boys need me to be strong and resourceful and resilient. But I am all out of those traits at the moment. I scrabble about the bottom of my handbag, hoping to find remnants of courage and hope and laughter, but of course all I get for my troubles is a few screwed up chewing gum wrappers and the obligatory raisin.
If only I could just stop feeling so tired.
Mediation finally started nearly 6 weeks ago. And in that time we have managed to attend 2 meetings, both of which were charged with tension, latent hurt and unaddressed anger, on both parts. The 2nd meeting was particularly eventful - featuring a bun fight of such proportions that ex and I were ultimately separated. The main bone of contention being, of course, the date of a move back to the UK. Which, despite our agreement in February, is now not going to take place this summer.
Of course it isn't. How silly of me to ever think he would honour his word?
I can see the sense in the decision. We do need to take time to sort out this divorce. I have nothing to gain in the long run from rushing decisions that will impact my future financial security and parenting responsibilities. And I am trying to let go of the frustration that ex has deliberately stalled on attending mediation to achieve this outcome. The man has a part-time live in girlfriend yet it is still not within his interests to divorce me. I know why he is dragging his heels - and I know I fall pretty low down on his list of priorities. I also know that mediation is unlikely to work simply because he has demonstrated quite clearly that he does not want to find time in his schedule to attend.
Again - I know that none of this is through malicious intent. But it is self-serving. And maybe I need to follow his lead and be a little more self-serving too. Despite all the recent upheavals ex and I are still on speaking terms. We are not friends, but we are friendly. Things are currently amicable. Let's hope they remain that way once I file for divorce. I just don't see another way of finalising this chapter in my life than taking it into my own hands - and making something happen that will hopefully stop this cycle of control and manipulation.
Maybe then the panic attacks will cease. The ability to sleep will return. My loss of appetite will reinstate itself and, with it, the ability to do more than just splod through the motions each day with all the enthusiasm of a eunuch on a quest for a condom. Maybe then I will get to move home.
In the meantime, I did manage to complete one task to cheer myself up. I have sponsored a little girl from Haiti called Lovemy. Isn't that the most incredible name? She is 6 years old. So I finally have a daughter in the family. Hopefully the first of many children from around the world. The boys and I are currently working on our first pack of letters, drawings, photos and postcards to send her. I already feel so much love for this smiling little girl, standing in the dust and the dirt in her clean yet worn sundress and hair braided with the big plastic bobbles that I remember from my own childhood. Her situation certainly puts mine into perspective. I wonder if she will ever understand what a gift she is to my life right now?
A reminder that my life is more than just struggling to officiate the end of a relationship and move home to my family and friends. It is also about new beginnings. And family. And love. Always love.
Saturday, June 5, 2010
Happiness Is...
Happiness is...watching my boys play.
My God, they have the capacity right now to entertain themselves for hours. Now if only they had the ability to playfully entertain themselves in absolute silence, my life would be truly perfect.
But no. The play is generally noisy and exuberant and physical and, did I mention, noisy?
Of course, when we are outside the decibel level is less of an issue. Last Saturday I went with a friend and her 6 year old daughter to Foster Beach in Chicago. Within 23 seconds of hitting the sand the kids were off and playing and that is pretty much the last we saw of them for 3 hours. They built forts and trenches, buried toys, ran through the shallow water, turned cartwheels, chased seagulls, collected feathers, watched kites and made new friends. Captain Underpants played solo for a lot of the time - incredibly content in his own little world while his younger brother scampered around the beach my friend's daughter. There was no sand throwing, toy snatching, whinging or crying.
As I sat on our beach mat, feeding grapes or tortilla chips to cherubic open mouths at approximately 37 second intervals as the kids went swooping past (similar to feeding a nest of tiny birds) I marvelled at their imagination and incessant energy. At their complete and utter joy and satisfaction in running around in minimal clothing, without restriction or guidance or limitation (apart from the obvious: Try Not To Drown Yourselves Please).
I felt really privileged to witness this simple example of truly living in the moment, without a care in the world.
Not that I joined them, mind. Ooh, no. I have waited many a long year to be able to go to the beach and merely be a spectator to the action, rather than elbow deep in grainy, dirty sand (Chicago's beaches are great but they are man-made and the sand isn't the finest) building 20 million sandcastles scheduled for instant destruction. Surely now I have earned the right to simply be a sidelines voyeur? To watch as the games I have painstakingly played with them over the years are now replicated without me?
In the afternoon we drove to a friend's house for a barbecue and as the number of children present multiplied, so did the resulting chaos. You could have landed a jumbo jet on the roof and I don't think we would have noticed, they were making so much noise. Initially I felt a little irritated that the boys were being so boisterous, a reaction that I soon recognised as being caused by embarrassment more than anything else. Why was I getting so tetchy exactly? They weren't being unnecessarily unruly or naughty - they were just being very, very, very LOUD. The shrieks and laughter, chasing dinosaur roars and fleeing screams set my teeth on edge. It was hard to curb the urge to tell them to Calm (the fuck) Down.
Instead of pulling them to one side and hissing at them through clenched teeth to 'play more nicely' (whatever the hell that means) I just let them be. For several hours they barely paused for a breath. They ran and jumped, hollered and laughed while I sat chatting, glugging my lemon drop and gorging on perfectly succulent ribs. It was brilliant. There was no finer example displayed of the sheer joy of the simple act of PLAY. It was a reminder that, despite my current stresses and concerns, my boys are predominantly happy. Irrepressibly happy. Uncontainably happy. And that reminds me to be happy too. Even with all the self-doubt I have over my single parenting skills, it seems to me a reflection that I must be doing something right.
And the bonus? Boy, did they sleep well that night.
Happiness is...an unexpected compliment.
On the Bank Holiday Monday I took the boys to McDonald's for breakfast, as they had been badgering me to go for days. They're not really interested in the food, let's be honest, it's simply an excuse to nab a new toy - even if it is a piece of plastic Happy Meal tat that will be forgotten about by the time they get home. As I am a lightweight in the badgering department I acquiesce and drive them to their favourite McDonald's with a play place.
There is the usual stampede and clamber all over the toy display while I order food, before we all settle down on a row of tall bar stools to eat. I sit in the middle of them and, instead of being their usual ants-in-their-pants fidget bums, they are relatively calm and relaxed. We sit for 5 or 10 minutes, not long really, and I take full advantage of giving them opportune snuggles, kisses and hair ruffles. At one point Captain Underpants smooches into my lap and I squeeze him tight and nuzzle his face and neck. Sod the Egg McMuffin...my boys are far more edible than that McDonald's crap.
Pretty soon they scamper off to the play place and, as I am tidying up the debri from their meal, a man approaches me.
"Excuse me - are they your children?" he asks.
Bit of an odd question, I think, and tell him they are.
"Are they adopted?" he asks me.
Even stranger question, I think. They're not exactly mini-me's but I like to think there's a passing resemblence.
"No - they're my boys", I tell him.
"What a wonderful, loving mom you are." He tells me. "You are so loving to your children. It's not often you see that nowadays. They are very lucky boys to have such a loving mom. Watching you with them has really made my day."
Now you tell me...can you really get a finer compliment than that?
Just as well he hadn't been present 45 minutes earlier when I was screaming, "there will be no trip to McDonald's unless you both quit messing around and get your shoes on Right. This. Second. I'm NOT in the mood to ask you again, I'm telling you right now..."
Not sure he would have been quite so impressed with that familiar episode in our day.
Happiness is not...dwelling on the fact that the boys are currently in Disney with their dad and her - and not me. That's just a bit of a pisser, despite the fact that I am in 5* luxury in Barbados with my friend and her children.
My God, they have the capacity right now to entertain themselves for hours. Now if only they had the ability to playfully entertain themselves in absolute silence, my life would be truly perfect.
But no. The play is generally noisy and exuberant and physical and, did I mention, noisy?
Of course, when we are outside the decibel level is less of an issue. Last Saturday I went with a friend and her 6 year old daughter to Foster Beach in Chicago. Within 23 seconds of hitting the sand the kids were off and playing and that is pretty much the last we saw of them for 3 hours. They built forts and trenches, buried toys, ran through the shallow water, turned cartwheels, chased seagulls, collected feathers, watched kites and made new friends. Captain Underpants played solo for a lot of the time - incredibly content in his own little world while his younger brother scampered around the beach my friend's daughter. There was no sand throwing, toy snatching, whinging or crying.
As I sat on our beach mat, feeding grapes or tortilla chips to cherubic open mouths at approximately 37 second intervals as the kids went swooping past (similar to feeding a nest of tiny birds) I marvelled at their imagination and incessant energy. At their complete and utter joy and satisfaction in running around in minimal clothing, without restriction or guidance or limitation (apart from the obvious: Try Not To Drown Yourselves Please).
I felt really privileged to witness this simple example of truly living in the moment, without a care in the world.
Not that I joined them, mind. Ooh, no. I have waited many a long year to be able to go to the beach and merely be a spectator to the action, rather than elbow deep in grainy, dirty sand (Chicago's beaches are great but they are man-made and the sand isn't the finest) building 20 million sandcastles scheduled for instant destruction. Surely now I have earned the right to simply be a sidelines voyeur? To watch as the games I have painstakingly played with them over the years are now replicated without me?
In the afternoon we drove to a friend's house for a barbecue and as the number of children present multiplied, so did the resulting chaos. You could have landed a jumbo jet on the roof and I don't think we would have noticed, they were making so much noise. Initially I felt a little irritated that the boys were being so boisterous, a reaction that I soon recognised as being caused by embarrassment more than anything else. Why was I getting so tetchy exactly? They weren't being unnecessarily unruly or naughty - they were just being very, very, very LOUD. The shrieks and laughter, chasing dinosaur roars and fleeing screams set my teeth on edge. It was hard to curb the urge to tell them to Calm (the fuck) Down.
Instead of pulling them to one side and hissing at them through clenched teeth to 'play more nicely' (whatever the hell that means) I just let them be. For several hours they barely paused for a breath. They ran and jumped, hollered and laughed while I sat chatting, glugging my lemon drop and gorging on perfectly succulent ribs. It was brilliant. There was no finer example displayed of the sheer joy of the simple act of PLAY. It was a reminder that, despite my current stresses and concerns, my boys are predominantly happy. Irrepressibly happy. Uncontainably happy. And that reminds me to be happy too. Even with all the self-doubt I have over my single parenting skills, it seems to me a reflection that I must be doing something right.
And the bonus? Boy, did they sleep well that night.
Happiness is...an unexpected compliment.
On the Bank Holiday Monday I took the boys to McDonald's for breakfast, as they had been badgering me to go for days. They're not really interested in the food, let's be honest, it's simply an excuse to nab a new toy - even if it is a piece of plastic Happy Meal tat that will be forgotten about by the time they get home. As I am a lightweight in the badgering department I acquiesce and drive them to their favourite McDonald's with a play place.
There is the usual stampede and clamber all over the toy display while I order food, before we all settle down on a row of tall bar stools to eat. I sit in the middle of them and, instead of being their usual ants-in-their-pants fidget bums, they are relatively calm and relaxed. We sit for 5 or 10 minutes, not long really, and I take full advantage of giving them opportune snuggles, kisses and hair ruffles. At one point Captain Underpants smooches into my lap and I squeeze him tight and nuzzle his face and neck. Sod the Egg McMuffin...my boys are far more edible than that McDonald's crap.
Pretty soon they scamper off to the play place and, as I am tidying up the debri from their meal, a man approaches me.
"Excuse me - are they your children?" he asks.
Bit of an odd question, I think, and tell him they are.
"Are they adopted?" he asks me.
Even stranger question, I think. They're not exactly mini-me's but I like to think there's a passing resemblence.
"No - they're my boys", I tell him.
"What a wonderful, loving mom you are." He tells me. "You are so loving to your children. It's not often you see that nowadays. They are very lucky boys to have such a loving mom. Watching you with them has really made my day."
Now you tell me...can you really get a finer compliment than that?
Just as well he hadn't been present 45 minutes earlier when I was screaming, "there will be no trip to McDonald's unless you both quit messing around and get your shoes on Right. This. Second. I'm NOT in the mood to ask you again, I'm telling you right now..."
Not sure he would have been quite so impressed with that familiar episode in our day.
......................................................................
Happiness is not...dwelling on the fact that the boys are currently in Disney with their dad and her - and not me. That's just a bit of a pisser, despite the fact that I am in 5* luxury in Barbados with my friend and her children.
Friday, June 4, 2010
Our Gun Laws Are Strict Enough? I Don't Think So
I have read with horror about the gun massacre in Cumbria, while sitting on a lounger on an immaculate sandy beach in Barbados with the surf roaring in my ears.
And I read with interest that David Cameron is stating that a knee jerk reaction to the UK's current gun laws is not the answer - that we already have one of the strictest gun policies in the world.
That may be so - but in my experience that hasn't prevented guns being legitimately in the hands of a person who has proved themselves to be a potential threat.
The person I am referring to is my ex step-father.
I lived with him over 25 years ago, at which time he possessed a gun licence for, I believe, two shotguns. They were stored in a gun rack in the bedroom. I don't remember them ever being under lock and key. I don't recall if they were loaded or where the cartridges were, which is probably just as well given my own fragile state of mind at the time.
If I were being kind I might describe this man as being paranoid and delusional. The reality of it was that he was an alcoholic schizophrenic with violent and paedophile tendencies, who terrorised my mother, my sister and I for years. I am grateful now that, in the moments of his deepest drunken rages, he didn't load his guns and kill us all - but I still wouldn't have put it past him at any second of any given day.
In fact the only time a gun was ever brandished in the home as a threat (that I remember) was when I pulled one off the wall and hit him with it. It was in the middle of the night, on one of the many occasions he was beating my mum to a pulp, and seemed to me the quickest and most effective means of getting him to stop. It worked. He left the house and drove off in our family estate to God knows where, careering wildly along the road. Externally the doting family man who adored his step daughters. In reality, a tortured, unhinged madman capable of anything when he'd had a drink.
During my late teenage years I often fantasised about having the courage to use one of his own weapons to kill him - there would have been a certain poetic justice in that action. However, the thought of a life long prison sentence proved to be a sufficient deterrent. Despite my fear and hatred, I still didn't want to sacrifice my own life for his.
Yet now I wonder if he is still a danger to those close to him or society at large. And if he is still a registered gun owner. It sickens me to say that if I ever read he has gone on a rampage and killed either people he knew or complete strangers, it wouldn't surprise me in the least. I believe he lives in Lincoln. I am relieved that I don't.
How many guns are in the hands of people like this in the UK today, I wonder? What action, or series of actions, would it take to make this seemingly social person flip?
In order to prevent people from being a danger to society, can gun laws ever be strict enough?
Not in my mind they can't.
I currently live in an area of Chicago populated predominantly by communities where drugs and guns are commonplace. A young boy was shot dead by a fellow student at the local High School last summer, no more than 100m from my house. The house on the corner, probably 5 doors away, is home to two convicted drug and gun dealers who have just been released from prison after serving their sentences. I am cautious in my neighbourhood and it is certainly not an ideal environment to raise my two boys, yet I am rarely afraid. Maybe I am being naive but I tend to think that if I treat my neighbours with respect that they will return the favour in kind. I also believe that the guns are predominantly used in gang related interactions and, unless I am unfortunate enough to be caught in the cross-fire, we will be safe.
Still. I am cautious. And careful not to create enemies.
As an aside, it would interest me to know the percentage of registered gun owners in the UK who are women. I can't imagine the percentage is high. I understand that men have an inherent instinct to be hunters - yet personally I would ban all gun use and get them to take up kickboxing, or paint balling, or laser tag instead. As I said. I am inherently not a hunter but a nurturer. I am inherently naive. I don't understand the fascination with guns and the desire to use them as sport to hunt wildlife. I am sure it must be thrilling and obviously provides a certain satisfaction - personally, I get that from tracking down my must-have shoes in a 50% off sale.
My choice of deadly weapon will always be the stilletoe heel instead of a bullet. I am sure the death toll would have been a lot less if that had been the case for Derrick Bird.
And I read with interest that David Cameron is stating that a knee jerk reaction to the UK's current gun laws is not the answer - that we already have one of the strictest gun policies in the world.
That may be so - but in my experience that hasn't prevented guns being legitimately in the hands of a person who has proved themselves to be a potential threat.
The person I am referring to is my ex step-father.
I lived with him over 25 years ago, at which time he possessed a gun licence for, I believe, two shotguns. They were stored in a gun rack in the bedroom. I don't remember them ever being under lock and key. I don't recall if they were loaded or where the cartridges were, which is probably just as well given my own fragile state of mind at the time.
If I were being kind I might describe this man as being paranoid and delusional. The reality of it was that he was an alcoholic schizophrenic with violent and paedophile tendencies, who terrorised my mother, my sister and I for years. I am grateful now that, in the moments of his deepest drunken rages, he didn't load his guns and kill us all - but I still wouldn't have put it past him at any second of any given day.
In fact the only time a gun was ever brandished in the home as a threat (that I remember) was when I pulled one off the wall and hit him with it. It was in the middle of the night, on one of the many occasions he was beating my mum to a pulp, and seemed to me the quickest and most effective means of getting him to stop. It worked. He left the house and drove off in our family estate to God knows where, careering wildly along the road. Externally the doting family man who adored his step daughters. In reality, a tortured, unhinged madman capable of anything when he'd had a drink.
During my late teenage years I often fantasised about having the courage to use one of his own weapons to kill him - there would have been a certain poetic justice in that action. However, the thought of a life long prison sentence proved to be a sufficient deterrent. Despite my fear and hatred, I still didn't want to sacrifice my own life for his.
Yet now I wonder if he is still a danger to those close to him or society at large. And if he is still a registered gun owner. It sickens me to say that if I ever read he has gone on a rampage and killed either people he knew or complete strangers, it wouldn't surprise me in the least. I believe he lives in Lincoln. I am relieved that I don't.
How many guns are in the hands of people like this in the UK today, I wonder? What action, or series of actions, would it take to make this seemingly social person flip?
In order to prevent people from being a danger to society, can gun laws ever be strict enough?
Not in my mind they can't.
I currently live in an area of Chicago populated predominantly by communities where drugs and guns are commonplace. A young boy was shot dead by a fellow student at the local High School last summer, no more than 100m from my house. The house on the corner, probably 5 doors away, is home to two convicted drug and gun dealers who have just been released from prison after serving their sentences. I am cautious in my neighbourhood and it is certainly not an ideal environment to raise my two boys, yet I am rarely afraid. Maybe I am being naive but I tend to think that if I treat my neighbours with respect that they will return the favour in kind. I also believe that the guns are predominantly used in gang related interactions and, unless I am unfortunate enough to be caught in the cross-fire, we will be safe.
Still. I am cautious. And careful not to create enemies.
As an aside, it would interest me to know the percentage of registered gun owners in the UK who are women. I can't imagine the percentage is high. I understand that men have an inherent instinct to be hunters - yet personally I would ban all gun use and get them to take up kickboxing, or paint balling, or laser tag instead. As I said. I am inherently not a hunter but a nurturer. I am inherently naive. I don't understand the fascination with guns and the desire to use them as sport to hunt wildlife. I am sure it must be thrilling and obviously provides a certain satisfaction - personally, I get that from tracking down my must-have shoes in a 50% off sale.
My choice of deadly weapon will always be the stilletoe heel instead of a bullet. I am sure the death toll would have been a lot less if that had been the case for Derrick Bird.
Monday, May 31, 2010
Jammy Cow
The day of the 'procedure' arrives. I have a shower and take care doing my make up and straightening my hair. After much deliberation I have decided that I would take up Ex's offer of accompanying me. Who knows...maybe this could be a turning point.
He's arranged to pick me up at 9.30am and is late, as usual. I pace around the house, tying and untying my cobalt blue cardigan, worn to bring out the blue in my eyes. I don't seem to appreciate that I will be having surgery soon. My outfit is carefully chosen. Where on earth do I think I am going? I am dressed for a lunch date, rather than a hatchet appointment at a hospital. I am a fool - but the distraction keeps my mind off the word 'cancer' and 'procedure'. I wonder if he will hold my hand.
He finally arrives and is, as usual, on the phone. At least it is work. I listen to his conversation all the way to the hospital, feeling nervous but for all the wrong reasons. My heart pounds and my chest heaves, with the assistance of my Victoria Secret hold-em-up-and-squeeze-em-together bra. A pretty pathetic attempt to create a cleavage...he knows damn well underneath all the padding it's pretty much two raisins on a ribcage. But this is the closest we have come to having 'a date' for over two years and I am giving it all I've got.
It doesn't seem to make any impression.
Waiting in the reception area we make small talk about mutual friends. I want to bring up the subject of us but now doesn't seem the right time. It never feels like the right time. I'm a little irritated on hearing about his dinner dates with our old neighbours and how well our previously close friends are doing with their newborn. "Oh, she's a natural. Very relaxed." he remarks about a friend's second wife. Is this remark innocent or a well disguised dig? No matter. It smarts. It doesn't occur to me at the time that one of the reasons I was so on edge during our early days as parents was his own intense anxiety. We were such a poor influence on each other. Maybe he will be able to relax and enjoy it a little more the second time around...
Finally I get called in to see the surgeon. I really haven't given much thought to the purpose of this visit and it is only when the Dr starts to discuss the procedure and the nature of melanoma that it strikes me. I have cancer. I listen to his description of melanoma being like a can of paint being thrown at the wall - the main blot of paint is easy to identify - it is the splatter effect which is the problem. Today they are going to remove skin possibly containing 'cancer splatter'. It will take an hour for the lab to provide initial results that they have removed a sufficient surface area and then I will be stitched back together. I start to sweat. I start to regret not wearing waterproof mascara. I start to regret wearing mascara at all. I start to feel a little scared. I think I might even feel a little faint.
Pretty soon I am lying down wearing the requisite paper gown, my back being stabbed with numbing juice, the skin soaked in sterilizing solution. The Dr starts to slice away and, whilst I can't feel any pain, I can almost feel pieces of myself being removed. Warm blood trickles down from the incision and I feel the nurses wiping it away. It seems to take forever. Although I am lying down I still feel lightheaded, as though I am going to faint. Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in. Breathe out. Just don't pass out, you big nelly. Think of small children having life saving brain surgery. Blogging friends who have undergone mastectomies and chemo. This is Nothing in comparison. Stop being such a bloody wimp.
The next thing I know I get an electric shock, which sparks out of the end of my right index fingers. "What the...!" I exclaim. "Sorry," apologises the surgeon, "maybe you have created a short circuit touching the metal under the bed. Bring your hands up by your head." I bend my elbows and place my hands under my head, a little tense at this point, it has to be said. "JEEZ!" I laugh as his next attempt to cauterise the skin produces an electric shock which sparks out of my left elbow. "What's happening?". We remove my watch, while the surgeon reassures me again and again that, in over 10,000 procedures, he has never seen this happen before. "Yeh, well. I've been told I have a very magnetic personality." I tell him. Thankfully it doesn't happen again - although now that I know they are burning the end of my blood vessels to minimise the bleeding I go back to feeling a little lightheaded. The smell doesn't help. Bacon, anyone?
After what seems to be a lifetime, but in reality is probably only 45 minutes, the surgeon leaves the room and the nurse patches me up for my hour wait before I get stitched back together. "Go and grab some lunch" she suggests. I stand there in my gown and start to cry. I can't stop. This whole thing is so grotesque and so unexpected - and so reminiscent of days gone by, when I was in and out of hospital during my pregnancies. My un-waterproof mascara starts to trail down my face and a combination of tears and snot drip onto my lips. Lunch? I can't think of anything less appealing right now.
I stumble out into the waiting room, still crying, and Ex gives me a lacklustre, tentative hug. We go over the road to the ubiquitous Starbucks and I have a coffee. Ex continues to make small talk but I no longer have any enthusiasm for meaningless conversation. Is this really what we have come to? Trying to compare notes on friends we have in common? The hole in my back aches and is echoed in my chest. I want him to hold my hand. I want him to look at me with concern and love. It's not going to happen. It's nice that he volunteered to come with me, as a friend, but I no longer have the energy to put on a brave face in his presence. I'm exhausted and know that this is the moment that I really have to let go and accept this relationship on the basis that he is comfortable. It feels anything but comfortable to me.
Finally I return and get called back into the surgery. Good news. Initial results are good and they appear to have removed it all. I should feel relieved but all my senses appear to be numbed by the anaesthetic. I lie back down to be re-cauterised and stitched back together. This is the part I have been dreading the most. I don't feel any pain but there is still the oddest sensation. It takes nearly an hour for them to re-attach the skin with nearly 40 stitches - and the whole time my body shakes with sobs. I cry for Mack. I cry for Ex. I cry with the memories that are nearly 8 years old, but that seem as fresh as the wound that has just been inflicted. I wish it was as easy to sew my life back together. I feel as vulnerable and alone as I have ever felt.
Finally it is all done and I am able to leave. I still can't stop crying. Ex re-attempts the awkward hug but I fold into myself. He is no longer my soft place to fall. We part ways quickly at the exit as it is almost pick up time at school and he has the boys tonight. I get into a cab and sob into my cobalt blue cardigan all the way home. The last thing I want is to be returning to an empty house. I want to see my boys. I want to be somewhere I can feel looked after. I feel frightened as I grip my bag of meds and ointments and care instructions. Who is there to care for me? What if something happens? I don't want to be alone.
My paranoia continues through the evening but, miraculously, I get a good night's sleep and I wake in sheets that are still clean and not sticky with pints of fresh blood. Well, that must be a good sign, I think. I get up and plan an active day, but within 2 hours I am back in bed, exhausted, and sleep for another 5 hours. It takes at least 4 days for me to feel back to normal and physically able to be in charge of the boys without suffering a panic attack every 37 seconds. Ex doesn't call to see how I am for the first 48 hours, despite seeing me like a pathetic wet rag after the surgery. This, to me, speaks volumes. Time to cauterise that particular wound once and for all and move on. Time to really start to heal.
A couple of days later I agree that Ex can take the boys to Disney on the previously aborted trip. Within a matter of hours a friend casually suggests that I accompany her on a freebie trip to a 5* resort in Barbados for 6 days. Her husband has a work commitment that he can't get out of. I hesitate for a couple of days, although for the life of me I can't think why. A free holiday? To Barbados? 5*? When has anyone ever made me such an offer? Finally I come to my senses and tell her I would love to go. It coincides with the boy's Disney trip, so is perfect timing. Within a matter of minutes my flight is booked.
How very jammy is that?
I am hereby to be known as The Queen of All Jammy Things. The Jammiest Cow in town.
MOOOOOO.
I am off to Barbados tomorrow, in fact. I have packed all manner of flouncy and skimpy things. Oh. And SPF 55 of course. As getting a tan is out of the question, I guess I will just have to sit under an umbrella sipping cocktails, pickling my liver.
It's a hard life.
And turns out, I am not so lonely after all.
He's arranged to pick me up at 9.30am and is late, as usual. I pace around the house, tying and untying my cobalt blue cardigan, worn to bring out the blue in my eyes. I don't seem to appreciate that I will be having surgery soon. My outfit is carefully chosen. Where on earth do I think I am going? I am dressed for a lunch date, rather than a hatchet appointment at a hospital. I am a fool - but the distraction keeps my mind off the word 'cancer' and 'procedure'. I wonder if he will hold my hand.
He finally arrives and is, as usual, on the phone. At least it is work. I listen to his conversation all the way to the hospital, feeling nervous but for all the wrong reasons. My heart pounds and my chest heaves, with the assistance of my Victoria Secret hold-em-up-and-squeeze-em-together bra. A pretty pathetic attempt to create a cleavage...he knows damn well underneath all the padding it's pretty much two raisins on a ribcage. But this is the closest we have come to having 'a date' for over two years and I am giving it all I've got.
It doesn't seem to make any impression.
Waiting in the reception area we make small talk about mutual friends. I want to bring up the subject of us but now doesn't seem the right time. It never feels like the right time. I'm a little irritated on hearing about his dinner dates with our old neighbours and how well our previously close friends are doing with their newborn. "Oh, she's a natural. Very relaxed." he remarks about a friend's second wife. Is this remark innocent or a well disguised dig? No matter. It smarts. It doesn't occur to me at the time that one of the reasons I was so on edge during our early days as parents was his own intense anxiety. We were such a poor influence on each other. Maybe he will be able to relax and enjoy it a little more the second time around...
Finally I get called in to see the surgeon. I really haven't given much thought to the purpose of this visit and it is only when the Dr starts to discuss the procedure and the nature of melanoma that it strikes me. I have cancer. I listen to his description of melanoma being like a can of paint being thrown at the wall - the main blot of paint is easy to identify - it is the splatter effect which is the problem. Today they are going to remove skin possibly containing 'cancer splatter'. It will take an hour for the lab to provide initial results that they have removed a sufficient surface area and then I will be stitched back together. I start to sweat. I start to regret not wearing waterproof mascara. I start to regret wearing mascara at all. I start to feel a little scared. I think I might even feel a little faint.
Pretty soon I am lying down wearing the requisite paper gown, my back being stabbed with numbing juice, the skin soaked in sterilizing solution. The Dr starts to slice away and, whilst I can't feel any pain, I can almost feel pieces of myself being removed. Warm blood trickles down from the incision and I feel the nurses wiping it away. It seems to take forever. Although I am lying down I still feel lightheaded, as though I am going to faint. Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in. Breathe out. Just don't pass out, you big nelly. Think of small children having life saving brain surgery. Blogging friends who have undergone mastectomies and chemo. This is Nothing in comparison. Stop being such a bloody wimp.
The next thing I know I get an electric shock, which sparks out of the end of my right index fingers. "What the...!" I exclaim. "Sorry," apologises the surgeon, "maybe you have created a short circuit touching the metal under the bed. Bring your hands up by your head." I bend my elbows and place my hands under my head, a little tense at this point, it has to be said. "JEEZ!" I laugh as his next attempt to cauterise the skin produces an electric shock which sparks out of my left elbow. "What's happening?". We remove my watch, while the surgeon reassures me again and again that, in over 10,000 procedures, he has never seen this happen before. "Yeh, well. I've been told I have a very magnetic personality." I tell him. Thankfully it doesn't happen again - although now that I know they are burning the end of my blood vessels to minimise the bleeding I go back to feeling a little lightheaded. The smell doesn't help. Bacon, anyone?
After what seems to be a lifetime, but in reality is probably only 45 minutes, the surgeon leaves the room and the nurse patches me up for my hour wait before I get stitched back together. "Go and grab some lunch" she suggests. I stand there in my gown and start to cry. I can't stop. This whole thing is so grotesque and so unexpected - and so reminiscent of days gone by, when I was in and out of hospital during my pregnancies. My un-waterproof mascara starts to trail down my face and a combination of tears and snot drip onto my lips. Lunch? I can't think of anything less appealing right now.
I stumble out into the waiting room, still crying, and Ex gives me a lacklustre, tentative hug. We go over the road to the ubiquitous Starbucks and I have a coffee. Ex continues to make small talk but I no longer have any enthusiasm for meaningless conversation. Is this really what we have come to? Trying to compare notes on friends we have in common? The hole in my back aches and is echoed in my chest. I want him to hold my hand. I want him to look at me with concern and love. It's not going to happen. It's nice that he volunteered to come with me, as a friend, but I no longer have the energy to put on a brave face in his presence. I'm exhausted and know that this is the moment that I really have to let go and accept this relationship on the basis that he is comfortable. It feels anything but comfortable to me.
Finally I return and get called back into the surgery. Good news. Initial results are good and they appear to have removed it all. I should feel relieved but all my senses appear to be numbed by the anaesthetic. I lie back down to be re-cauterised and stitched back together. This is the part I have been dreading the most. I don't feel any pain but there is still the oddest sensation. It takes nearly an hour for them to re-attach the skin with nearly 40 stitches - and the whole time my body shakes with sobs. I cry for Mack. I cry for Ex. I cry with the memories that are nearly 8 years old, but that seem as fresh as the wound that has just been inflicted. I wish it was as easy to sew my life back together. I feel as vulnerable and alone as I have ever felt.
Finally it is all done and I am able to leave. I still can't stop crying. Ex re-attempts the awkward hug but I fold into myself. He is no longer my soft place to fall. We part ways quickly at the exit as it is almost pick up time at school and he has the boys tonight. I get into a cab and sob into my cobalt blue cardigan all the way home. The last thing I want is to be returning to an empty house. I want to see my boys. I want to be somewhere I can feel looked after. I feel frightened as I grip my bag of meds and ointments and care instructions. Who is there to care for me? What if something happens? I don't want to be alone.
My paranoia continues through the evening but, miraculously, I get a good night's sleep and I wake in sheets that are still clean and not sticky with pints of fresh blood. Well, that must be a good sign, I think. I get up and plan an active day, but within 2 hours I am back in bed, exhausted, and sleep for another 5 hours. It takes at least 4 days for me to feel back to normal and physically able to be in charge of the boys without suffering a panic attack every 37 seconds. Ex doesn't call to see how I am for the first 48 hours, despite seeing me like a pathetic wet rag after the surgery. This, to me, speaks volumes. Time to cauterise that particular wound once and for all and move on. Time to really start to heal.
A couple of days later I agree that Ex can take the boys to Disney on the previously aborted trip. Within a matter of hours a friend casually suggests that I accompany her on a freebie trip to a 5* resort in Barbados for 6 days. Her husband has a work commitment that he can't get out of. I hesitate for a couple of days, although for the life of me I can't think why. A free holiday? To Barbados? 5*? When has anyone ever made me such an offer? Finally I come to my senses and tell her I would love to go. It coincides with the boy's Disney trip, so is perfect timing. Within a matter of minutes my flight is booked.
How very jammy is that?
I am hereby to be known as The Queen of All Jammy Things. The Jammiest Cow in town.
MOOOOOO.
I am off to Barbados tomorrow, in fact. I have packed all manner of flouncy and skimpy things. Oh. And SPF 55 of course. As getting a tan is out of the question, I guess I will just have to sit under an umbrella sipping cocktails, pickling my liver.
It's a hard life.
And turns out, I am not so lonely after all.
Wednesday, May 26, 2010
It's Quite Scary How Well She Knows Me
So I had quite the most brilliant idea the other day. I am looking for a place in North London...my sister is looking for a place in North London. We are both a bit short of money but could afford somewhere decent verging on almost spacious if we shared...it's just an obvious match made in heaven, isn't it?
Well I thought so.
So I called her and asked her. She was a little...er...evasive on the phone. And then a little later I received the following in an email. I read the first scenario with a big smile on my face...which soon turned into guffaws of laughter when I read the second.
Oh dear. She really does know me and the boys far too well. (By the way, for the following to make sense I ought to tell you that her nickname for me is Mergatroid and mine for her is Lurgatroid - it must be all the antibiotics and pain meds because I can't for the life of me remember why).
Scenario No. 1.
Well I thought so.
So I called her and asked her. She was a little...er...evasive on the phone. And then a little later I received the following in an email. I read the first scenario with a big smile on my face...which soon turned into guffaws of laughter when I read the second.
Oh dear. She really does know me and the boys far too well. (By the way, for the following to make sense I ought to tell you that her nickname for me is Mergatroid and mine for her is Lurgatroid - it must be all the antibiotics and pain meds because I can't for the life of me remember why).
Mon: Good day at work. Had a bite to eat with colleague before heading to the Zohar class. Got home at 10pm, Mergatroid on couch with glass of wine, boys in bed. Told Merg all about Very Attractive Man at Kabbalah Centre. Merg told me all about Hot Downstairs Neighbour.
Tues: Another good day at work - seriously, I would do this for free if I could live on air. Got home at 6:30, started cooking chicken curry whilst Merg bathed the boys. They read their bedtime story to me and told me about their new friends. Poured some pear vodka which I snorted through my nose when Merg told me what Johnny Drama had said that afternoon.
Weds: Another good day at work. Went to Yoga class afterwards, then to astrology class at K Centre. Was invited out for coffee at weekend by Very Attractive Man (VAM). Got home at 10, ate a ton of dips and watched some crap TV. Couldn't sleep. Too excited.
Thurs: Seriously, they are paying me to do this? Got home early, helped put the boys to bed after they had done a fantastic job of clearing away their toys, whilst Merg rustled up some excellent nibbles for Book Club. Drank lots of vodka and talked about the finer points of foreskins. Laughed until my stomach hurt.
Friday: Slight hangover. Work good again. By some major miracle, boys with Ex for weekend so met Merg at K Centre for Shabbat at 7:30 followed by first meal. Home at 11:30pm. Merg then tells me that VAM rang the house and that she answered and he thought she was me. Apparently I am meeting with VAM on Sunday for coffee. He originally said Saturday after shabbat, but Merg changed the place and time, re: The Rules. Fantastic. Not sure I would have had the strength.
Saturday: Arrived at K Centre at 9:30 to help prepare Shabbat lunch, which finished at 3pm. Went home for a snooze. Rented a DVD, Merg and I curled up on the sofa and had quiet night in, comparing the bums and chests of every single man that had passed through the Kabbalah Centre.
Sunday: Nice lie in, mooched about in jim jams. Did a spot of housework and laundry. Went for coffee with VAM. Think it could be love. No, honestly. Had a nice wander in Highgate Woods. Merg got us invited to Hot Downstairs Neighbour's barbecue, who an eye for Merg and is great with the boys. Really nice guy, to boot, I think she's in there... ;o)
Monday: Skipped to the tube filled with joy and love....
Scenario 2:
Monday: Good day at work, although not too sure that colleagues were impressed with the cat hair and streaming eyes. Had to have a lie down at the back of Starbucks before heading to Zohar class. People think I have fleas. Got home at 10pm, Mergatroid stomps down the stairs after sending Johnny Drama back to bed for the fifth time, downs a glass of vodka and asks whether it is really too much to ask to get a decent evening without any interruptions. I think she is talking about the boys. At least, I hope she is talking about the boys.
Tuesday: Got to work late after cleaning the boys breakfast off the walls and floor whilst Merg went upstairs to get changed for the second time. Got home early and went to cook the dinner, but was seconded to putting the boys to bed as Merg was "sick to death of the sight of them". Merg got pissed on vodka in the space of half an hour. Had indigestion by the time dinner was ready. Trod on some cat sick in my socks. Nice.
Wednesday: Woke up to the sound of the boys gently fighting on the landing. Got scalded in the shower when one of them thought it would be funny to flush the loo - twice. Discovered at the last minute that Bert the cat had thrown up all over my yoga kit, which put the kibosh on that idea. Spent ten minutes rubbing cat hair from my clothes, but still managed to sneeze my way through an entire meeting (and one of these was a snot sneeze, in front of the MD). Antihistamines not working. Decided to skip the astrology class. Arrived home to living room turned upside down, the boys playing battle games. Tried to skulk off to my room for a bit of peace, but they followed me there. Ended up shouting at them and they both ended up in tears. Bad Auntie.
Thursday: Woke up unable to breathe and with face on fire, and discovered a large patch of cat hair on my pillow. The boys thought it might be funny to let Ernie in to my room 'because he likes me'. Went to work with a blotchy red face, my left eyeball hanging out and wheezing like an accordian. Got home late, with a headache, and the boys still up, driving Merg crazy whilst she tried to entertain her Book Club guests. Nobody in Book Club could look at me because my eyeball was hanging out. Sloped off to my room and found Bertie hiding under the bed. It took ten full minutes to coax him out, but which time Ernie had snuck in to escape the ensuing chaos downstairs. Went to sleep to the sound of raucous screams as the Book Club ladies discussed the finer points of foreskins.
Friday: Soaked my head in a bucket of cold water to ease the allergic reaction, but still looked like Elephant Woman. Trod on one of those fucking sharp little shitty bits of Lego that Captain Underpants had dropped on the stairs. Went to make a cup of tea, but no clean cups due to book club last night (where cups of coffee were consumed in a futile attempt to sober up). Went to shabbat, was chatted up by a fat bloke who doesn't have an allergy to cats, but who had developed a really nasty skin condition on his thighs, apparently, which he thought was somehow similar. Great. Spotted a Very Attractive Man across the room, who looked in to my gummy eyes for a split second before wincing and turning away.
Saturday: Went to shabbat, but skipped second and third meal because the house is a complete tip and is full of cat hair. Spent the afternoon tidying up and defurring everything. Stopped itching at around 4pm, after overdosing on antihistamine. Hoping that taking four tablets at once isn't going to kill me. House stayed tidy until the boys came home half an hour later. Must find effective method of hoovering cats. Wanted to watch some TV and for the boys to play in their room just for a bit of space, but nothing doing. Hid in room and googled "legal small child restraints UK" and scanned hopefully through 37,300 results for seat belts.
Sunday: Was woken up at 6am and despite ear plugs and pillow over head, could not get back to sleep. Made some coffee and returned to room. Merg also hiding in room. We hid together. Whilst the boys trashed the house. Finally braved it and did some washing, remembering to de-fluff the washing machine beforehand. Clothes still full of cat hair but at least it is clean cat hair. Got a phone call from fat man inviting me for coffee, and told me at the same time that he had a severe nut allergy and therefore couldn't possibly risk Starbucks. Or Costa. Or AMT. Or actually any coffee shops, so maybe I could join him for a glass of water in an antiseptic environment. Thought about nice ways to say no, but then decided that the best deterrent would be to invite him round here for half an hour. He lasted five minutes. Hot Downstairs Neighbour had a barbecue today, and came round to ask if we could 'keep the noise down for just five minutes because it sounds as though the flat is being rented to a herd of fucking elephants'. Merg not happy. Tried to watch rented DVD in evening and failed. Resorted to vodka.
Monday: Oh fuck, is it Monday already?
So I am still looking for a possible flat mate. Any offers? The cat hair is thrown in at no extra charge.
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