So I’m having a good day. A very good day. Which scares me. I’m at the hair salon. Colour, cut, blow dry. New hair, new woman. So they say anyway.
This morning I was super rational. Elsa Daughter was due to go to back to school today. She’s missed so much time. Because of me. God, I felt irresponsible. What kind of message is that for a teacher to send? But another part of me was delighted she wasn’t going in. A. I didn’t have to drive her 60km to school and back. B. I got to keep her with me for the day. Utterly selfish, I know, but my god she’s cute. And fun. And we have a great time arsing around together. We had breakfast after a big talk, poor kid, old head on a fabulously young body (again, bitch) she’s had so much to deal with. We got back into my single bed; top and tailed for a cramped but cosy nap. Then we got up and took all three four leggeds for a walk to the forest nearby.
The third canine hasn’t been introduced yet. He’s 5 and half in hooman years and talk about grumpy. He’s never had the snip and boy, does it show. He’s obsessed, like most men I guess. Although I wonder are most women too? Was Freud onto something? Wasn’t it he who reckoned everything, all our aspirations and disappointments, really boiled down to our endless quest for the quear thing? Well let’s call eldest four legged “Sigmund”. He lives at My Lady, the Queen’s Mother’s house and he is constantly trying to get up on our three month old puppy. SHE’S A BABY! Depraved, if he were human, but he’s not. He doesn’t get it, obviously. The funny thing is he’s smaller than her so when he tries to hop up to get his jollies he falls off and snots himself and of course she’s a three month old puppy so she rarely stops wiggling and hopping like a big black fluffy bunny. But let’s leave rabbits out of this. So Sigmund frequently gets kicked in the head, to add to his shame. It’s hilarious and I take unwarranted satisfaction in watching him get the knock back, literally. Sven, Anna’s big (adopted – we haven’t broken that news to them yet. We’re anticipating the necessity to call in dog psychologists after this conversation. I’m sure my battalion of mental health professionals will have contacts in the animal kingdom) brother looks on like a gay best friend – Sven’s been neutered – rolling his eyes up to his pointy ears: half in condescending exasperation and half in disgust at Sigmund’s unending need to try to surmount female resistance. Puerile. I’m sure when Anna is older she’ll be interested in dogs, being the silly bitch she is. But lucky for her she’ll having her tubes tied, or whatever the doggy equivalent is, I’ve had enough ovary problems of my own to stem the desire to learn more about the intricacies of canine sterilisation. And also I’m somewhat averse to anything reproductive – I’ve had my kid and I’m happy with one. Thanks very much.
For some reason, Ireland is still obsessed with the ubiquitous uterus. If you are a late twenties/thirty something woman I’d bet, at some point, someone has commented on your ovaries and how rapidly your stock is depleting, like you were a Wall Street asset – I hope you told them to get their rosaries, or at least their nosey fucking noses, out of them. Jesus. I hereby state that I do not want more children. Aforementioned ElsaDaughter is quite enough. I’m an only child and it never did me any harm… Shit, sperm bank here I come.
By the way, the Miss Snotty Listen To Me I Have An Official Looking Headset Phone Company Woman never called me back. Boy, will she be sorry just as soon as I could give enough of a shit to call her supervisor and complain.
I’m enjoying today. What?! Did I just say that?! Don’t overanalyse. Don’t over analyse. Don’t over…Too late.NO! Tomorrow could be shit, but deal with it tomorrow. Tomorrow. That was the title of last ever episode of The West Wing. That show. I loved that show. This will not be the last episode from me. That much I know today.
My hair is nearly done. It’s bright and coppery. Like Merida from Brave. ElsaDaughter loves Disney, which is great because at her age I loved Ritz. Cans of it, not the hotel. And the boy who is now a 35 year old man who is going to visit me in an hour or so. How I loved that guitar playing, poetry reading boy. What name to give him? He looks a bit like Tom Hiddleston and he’s very musical and a smarty arty hipster – so let’s call him Tom. He won’t mind that. Tom is one of my best friends, actually Tom and my BFF who we used to call Posh Spice (that’s also going to be her alias here) because she’s tall and thin and stunning and has dark hair as sleek as freshly poured Guinness (one of the few alcoholic beverages she didn’t care to imbibe, she’ll like the word “imbibe”) and Sir David Attenborough are my best friends. There’s also Quarter Pounder but we’ll get to him later. So Tom Hiddleston got a text from a strange number last night – my temporary number until Miss Look At Me, ah shite, I couldn’t be bothered typing the whole thing again calls me and sorts out my iPhone which went kaput after only five months. I swear it’s the world’s crappiest smartphone. It has had more breakdowns since I got it five days ago than I’ve had in my life. It should be put out of its misery, unlike me, who is shouldn’t be euthanized just yet.
So Tom called by. Also, there has been some editing of previous Episodes so note new pseudonyms. Actually he’s still here. We’re inflicting the semi-final of The Great British Bake Off on him. Poor Tom. He’s smothering with a cold and needed Paracetamol, well I couldn’t point him that direction obviously: I’m not on the pharmaceutical guest list for that particular pill party. Tom and I had a chat over My Lady, the Queen’s Mother blackberry tart. Bet it’s packet pastry.
We had cousins visit earlier today and they came bearing gifts – funny enough there were three of them too – berries from a local fruit farm, fancy chocolates and shortbread. I think the blackberries were too good to put in a tart (that’s not a double entendre, Bake Off or no Bake Off) but anyway nobody listens to me. What?
Then we toddled over to the supermarket led by My Lady, the Queen’s Mother. ElsaDaughter and I played a game with Tom – he had to pick out an outfit for each of us and we each had to pick out an outfit for him. He chose one jumper. Seriously, One jumper! ElsaDaughter and I ended up being in familial competition with each other. She did way better than me. Youth is a wonderful thing. Is that a silly game to play? Am I deflecting from the fact that my brain is still tormented underneath the crystallised sugar work of a good bake, I mean day? Or is that living? Is playing a supermarket game with your daughter and one of your oldest friends what living is? If it is, It’s nice. Frivolity is lovely. Jane Austen must have been a happy woman.
I just logged onto my Facebook and found a message from this morning from my husband. He hasn’t really been my husband for a long time but technically we’re still hitched, like Reece Witherspoon and Josh Lucas (swoon, those blue eyes – Josh Lucas’s, not husband’s) in Sweet Home Alabama, only there won’t be a rosemantic reunion at the end of this chick flick. Hubby wants a divorce. Eh, yeah, please. I’ve been on about getting one since 1842 but he’s either resisted or fobbed it off. Great! While I’m at first ready to shove a judge’s gavel up his arse I’m actually delighted. He can do the work (and pay the money) and I’ll just have to give my autograph. Woo hoo! I’ll be a free woman. Free from one pit of destruction I’ve left behind me anyway. Hubby knows nothing of the current situation. Let’s keep it that way.
Sir David Attenborough’s grandma died a couple of weeks ago. She was a nice lady and it was sudden. He’s a constant source of reason and efficiency in turmoil tornadoes of tear filled phone calls. To say I owe him is an understatement – he’s literally put food on our table. Sir David is an ex. An ex I wasn’t ready for. But now a solid friend. But more of that anon. He’s coming over on Friday and we’re going to the Leinster – Munster match with ElsaDaughter. We’ll save that nugget for the weekend. I like that I know I’ll see this weekend, I didn’t know if I’d see the last one. He’s coming over because of last week. I wish I could have been a better scaffold for him but I was busy digging a metaphorical hole for myself while his poor mum was making funeral arrangements. Is that crass? If it offends, I’m sorry. Blame Emily Dickinson.
I’ve just seen a post from Paloma Faith on Facebook. I went to see her at Vicar Street a couple of years ago with my dear cousin, the Marchioness of Ascot. A military wife who is so much than a military wife. How I miss the Marchioness. I call her the Marchioness of Ascot because she’s so elegant and well put together and beautiful and we once went to Ascot together for Ladies’ Day and got absolutely shitfaced on Champagne. She’s coming over in November. That seems a long time away.
I had planned to write about Quarter Pounder today. Quarter Pounder is the owner of aforementioned oversized sweat pants – you’ve guessed it. An ex. Another ex. Wow, that’s a lot of exes. I feel that we’re building up to a climax, god, Bake Off really fills your head with innuendo. I’ll finish with an explanation of Quarter Pounder’s name. Posh Spice used to liken me to Carrie Bradshaw (I can’t think why – disastrous love life and extensive shoe collection aside it must have been the circa 2006 bobbed blonde curly hair). Carrie’s on and off relationship with Big seemed to me to echo my relationship with Quarter Pounder – turbulent and addictively relapsing. Posh Spice reckoned it was more a Bergeresque romance – I thought he was everything I wanted, brooding and creative but ultimately toxic, like Carrie’s Berger – but Posh knew it was wrong and we were very likely to break up with each other on a Post It. Or a Whatsapp message. Several hundred times. So “Big” + “Berger” = Quarter Pounder. Poor Quarter pounder took quite a frying last week. He became the central focus of my pain, only because I had nothing else as tangible to hit out at. Or bombard with calls and texts. Poor QP. I’m surprised he didn’t finish me off before I even thought of it.
There’s a possible reason I have so many issues with boys. But I’m tired now and it’s been a good day and if I go into it, it could put me off the scones (out of a packet) My Lady, the Queen’s Mother made earlier. If in doubt, eat carbs. And try to resist the urge to grab the toothbrush and throw them up after.