My friend is in hospital. I’m worried about her. I hate seeing them suffer, my mates. I don’t like that I can’t fix her right now and make everyone ok: well and healthy with enough spare cash, reliable babysitters and a good solid hangover defence mechanism in place before our annual Christmas School Gang Reunion this coming Friday. I’ve been a mammy the longest of all of them, I should be the one sorting stuff out, arranging. Instead I’m a bit useless.
Being a mammy is tough work. I’ve mentioned this before. Nobody warns you about the crap bits, and it’s not all cute gurgling, colourful crayon pictures and sunny play in the park. It’s swings and roundabouts alright. I wonder is my interpretation of that phrase correct. I must One Stop Shop Search Engine it later when my eyes are not filled with the Sandman’s shitty, gritty leftovers – three hours this morning, thanks a million, Stingey Sandy.
ElsaDaughter and I need a stocktake, or time apart. We’re (figuratively) killing each other. I’m nagging her constantly. Yes, that’s what mothers of teenagers do but the guilt of being more maternal that sororal is gnawing at the bit of me that doesn’t find her a massive pain in the arse. I can only imagine how much I’m wrecking her head. Time out kid?
My four legged girl is currently munching a measuring spoon from the States. Walmart’s finest. Those cups and spoons they use are so confusing, just weigh it! Anyway, it’s keeping her quiet. She’ll poop out red plastic later. And a magnet, they stick to the refrigerator (I love using Anerican words for things: I often think about them when I’m walking down the sidewalk to the grocery store to get some Jello). What’s that called: when a brand name replaces the common noun for something, like Sellotape?
I can feel my heart thumping and the blood pumping like the last erratic tick tock of the old watch just below my left breast. It’s freaking me out. I don’t mind blood but pulses and throbbing veins make me weak and queasy. Maybe it’s the reminder of being alive that freaks me out.
My dream just came back to me suddenly. Suicide. In, coincidentally, a grocery store. Two brothers, from a family I know, a couple of months apart in the same supermarket. And everyone kept shopping. I was naked, I had to steal clothes that their dead bodies had touched. Men’s clothes. I commented on how one was so handsome. Someone wanted to throw a party in their memory, I wanted to throw up.
I was flicking through Big Fish Dating Site earlier and there was a guy whose tagline read “9 inches and thick”. His only photo was of an, admittedly, fairly substantial penis next to a can of Lynx Africa. I actually nearly pissed myself laughing. Thick, alright. It was the funniest, least erotic thing I’ve seen in ages. Penises, out of context, aren’t really that sexy. Especially beside a can of Lynx, which just reminds me of fairly stinky sweaty teenage boys who doused themselves in the stuff to mask their non showered, post training grossness.
I really feel physically repulsive today. I have a bit of a temperature – I never know if this is an actual feverish spike or a stress thing. I got the HotSweats earlier while figuring out what plans I felt I could and should keep and what I could manage. I know I need to get out. It would do me good. I need air. But I’m afraid if my fallen friend needs a lift home I won’t be here, in there, in time.
There’s a talk on tonight that I’d love to go to. But I wish someone could just transport me there, showered and dressed, rather than me having to move my own disgusting body. The effort. The effort of doing anything other than nothing is exhausting. This lack of proper sleep is debilitating.
I hear birds singing in the big tree outside our kitchen window, that seems odd in December. Although January is the bleakest of all. And my birthday is in January. And that’s no longer any fun. The last good one was my thirtieth and my grandad died the day after that. The nicest bit about it was Berger showing up at my door at a minute past midnight to tell me he loved me and start the new decade off with a bit of passion. Welcome to the flirty, dirty thirties indeed.
My defences are down today. I’m so tired and strung up: I’m like an old cracked watch wound up to the point of splintering into a pile of numbers and hands and bad decisions.
Tock tock, bang goes the old clock.
The little hand has moved forward an hour, I napped. Bad idea. A. because I feel worse now: I could puke, my head is full of wet cotton wool and B. because AnnaPuppy decided to eat five flowers, a cardboard box (a small one), styrofoam (that should be great fun in the poop), a potato, a Christmas card, a bit of carpet and something now indistinguishable from… anything.
The talk I less than half considered going to now seems like an event for real people, not for me. I am the shadow who slides through the day, hidden by windows of transience.
I managed to transport my leaden expanse into my bedroom: sofa to bed, what an achievement. I am reintroduced to the world, this room being at the front of our building and facing the face of VillageintheCity. The comforting croon of homeward bound cars, the occasional laugh, a cyclist’s curse (them again), the creak and slap of the wreathed door downstairs, swinging irregularly and frequently on its happy hinges, festive customers in and out with a sprig of Yuletide spirit in the crook of their arms.
And here I am. Unknown, unwilling.