Spotted at the cinema today:
A folding table bearing an urn of tea, cups, milk, and sugar right outside the door of a midday showing of The Queen, starring Helen Mirren with a handwritten sign that said “Have tea with The Queen.”
As much as I bitch about this country, when I see something as ‘English’ and endearing and quirky as that, I remember why I’ve chosen to spend my life here and what I love about the British character, history and sense of humour.
Mad, crazy busy. Gifts to wrap, meals to cook and freeze, cookies to bake, cards to write, house to clean. Four days to Christmas — aaaaagghhhh! It’s the most excited I’ve been about Christmas since I was a kid though. I know that The Noble Child is too young to appreciate it yet, but I’ve really enjoyed getting the place looking festive and decorating the tree and spreading Christmas cheer in general. I’ve been out with friends at least 3 times already this month (a new record!) and have many more plans lined up between now and the New Year. Though apparently I’m not so good with the plans I made before Christmas.
Last night a friend whom I haven’t seen in awhile phoned to ask where my new flat is as she was on her way over. At first I was like “Huh? Why?” but then she ever-so-gently reminded me that I had invited her over for dinner a week ago. Whoops! I swear, my brain is like a sieve this days. Note to self: buy a 2007 planner in January.
So after dinner (thank god I had some food in, otherwise we would’ve been dining on mac n’ cheese from a box) we were drinking wine and chatting and she told me how it had been a rough day for her because a 27 year-old friend of hers has just been diagnosed with Hodgkin’s Disease and will have to begin radiation and chemotheraphy in January. She said that after she got over the initial shock, the first thing she did was walk over to her handbag, grab the pack of cigarettes inside, and crush them until the tobacco rained down like brown, tar-laden snow. Suddenly, her health seemed more important than the enjoyment she got from smoking and even that had been diminishing steadily for the past year or so. She’s tired of her clothes stinking of smoke and her hair and fingers reeking all the time. Her boyfriend is staunchly anti-smoking and it would make him so happy if she quit. She’s ready. I couldn’t be happier for her.
If ever there was a good time to quit doing something that is killing you, it’s Christmas. Don’t wait until the New Year when everyone else will be struggling to quit and (mostly) failing. Be all fashionable and ahead of the trend and quit NOW! Don’t buy patches or gum or those little inhalers that make you look like a complete idiot sucking on a tampon applicator. Cold turkey is the only way to go. I say this as an ex-smoker. And you will only gain weight if you let yourself, so that’s no excuse. Quitting smoking doesn’t make you gain weight, it makes you stuff your face out of boredom and lack of coping skills so get a hobby and a lock for your fridge and don’t blame cold turkey for your fat ass eating a whole box of Krispy Kremes or one of those 3,000 calorie Bloomin’ Onion things.
Santa says “Stop smoking already, you idiot!” Leave the chimneys to the fat guy in the red suit and give your lungs the gift of pink tissue and full breathing capacity for Christmas. If you don’t get everything on your wish list for Christmas, at least that’s one gift you won’t want to return.
Oh, and this is him. You’d better listen.
Last night, laying in bed with TNH, discussing whiskey and how it used to make me ‘mean’
Me: “I don’t know why I used get so rowdy when I drank whiskey. At least I’ve realised that I shouldn’t have more than one or two whiskey drinks anymore. It makes me quick tempered.”
TNH: “Quick tempered? That’s not the expression. It’s ‘bad tempered’.”
Me: “Yes, that is an expression but ‘quick tempered’ is also an expression and that’s what I meant.”
TNH: “No, it’s not.”
Me: (raising my voice and pointing in his face) “Yes it fucking is! Jesus! It’s quick tempered, not bad tempered!” Pause, realising how ridiculous it is to get angry over a discussion on tempers and after I’d had two whiskey drinks
Me: (in a very meek voice) “Umm. So yeah. I guess I just proved my point, eh?”
TNH: (shrugging) “That’s the girl I married.”
I love my husband.
So I was reading this women’s mag yesterday and came across this little fluff article about what men find attractive in a woman and vice versa. The title was “The World’s Most Attractive Woman: What you should do, wear, buy and own to be desirable — according to men…”
First of all, puhlease. Only things we do, wear, buy and own make us desirable? Not things like, I don’t know, say a MIND or a SENSE OF HUMOUR or a PERSONALITY? But, this being a magazine aimed at a type of woman whose only mission in life seems to be finding and keeping a man and making all the other women jealous of how amazingly stylish and sexy and thin she is, I tried to get past the title and read more about what it is that men want from women.
First, your education and career. Apparently being smart isn’t all that important to men as only 42% said that they would want a woman to have a bachelor’s degree or higher, and only 13% of the men polled find a ‘high-achieving career woman’ attractive. So brains aren’t all that important. ladies! Bring on the dumb blonde act, a la Jessica Simpson. Don’t forget to spell things incorrectly on purpose and ask questions like “How can Hawaii and Alaska be states when they’re not attached to that large shape that my puzzle book says is the United States of America?”
Next up, your style. We should all be wearing ‘loose pretty dresses and feminine pastels and florals’ (36%) or ’sexy pencil skirts, tight blouses and red lipstick’ (35%). The biggest turnoffs were jeans with plain tops and ‘career woman suits’. God forbid we be comfortable or look professional! Women are dolls to be dressed, trussed and displayed. And don’t put your hands on the glass case unless you’ve just had a French manicure. No man wants to see ragged cuticles when he’s showing off his doll collection to friends and family.
Your personality: You should be ‘fun loving’ (i.e. Easy and Not A Nag), ‘make him laugh’ (i.e. Go out with his friends so they can make jokes about you. Oh, and Not Be a Nag) and laugh at his jokes’ (i.e. Tell him he’s the smartest, most witty man to ever walk the planet and that Comedy Central really will call soon). They also want women who like cooking (No surprise there. I mean, who will make his meals when he moves out of his mama’s house? Him? Hahahahaha), going to the gym (No fat chicks allowed!), playing golf (Because his interests should be YOUR interests, don’t you know?), going to the pub (With his mates, to watch them get drunk and then drive them home), housework (What a relaxing hobby! Gee, I wonder why that’s not a bigger interest for men?) and watching sports on TV. So, out of those interests, which ones exactly are NOT about him? Yeah, I couldn’t find any either.
Finally, previous relationships: only 3% of men fnd a previously married woman attractive and only 11% find a woman who has lived with somene before desirable. 47% prefer you had had only one serious relationship, with 23% preferring you to have had NONE. 71% care how many sexual partners you’ve had (Eww! You slut! I’m supposed to be the only one!) and 12% like a woman to be a virgin.
Single ladies, now you’re really in the know. All you have to do to be attractive to men is have a lobotomy, get an eating disorder, buy all your clothes from Prada, go to ’secretary school’, erase your sexual history and dump all of your previous interests and friends and adopt his! It’s so easy! Thank you, Grazia magazine, for enlightening us all.
I was going to say I’m so glad I’m married but I didn’t want ya’ll to punch me. Besides, I’m sure there’s been a survey done somewhere of married men who answer in pretty much the same way, minus encouraging the purchase of expensive clothes (funny how they change their minds on that once it’s their money too) and looking for a woman who can make him laugh. A married man is more likely to look for a woman who will ’shut the hell up’ and let him scratch his ass in peace.
I’ve just been to the dentist for the first time in three years. The left side of my mouth is numb from the Novacaine injection, my gums are sore and my pride wounded after being berated for putting off having a cleaning for so long. And to top it all off, I’ve been bent over a barrel and ass raped on the cost. 143 bloody pounds for a cleaning, a filling repair and smoothing a small chip on my front tooth (which the dentist PRETENDED was free and just threw in there all nonchalantly but was, in fact, £15. I could’ve done it myself with an emery board)!!
Later this week I get to go to my GP for treatment of an affliction that has been ailing me for quite some time now and which shall remain anonymous but has me filled with even more dread than today’s visit to the Little Shop of Tooth-Drilling, Over-Charging Ass Rapers. But on the bright side, the GP visit is on the house — at least the NHS doesn’t leave you flat broke after sodomising you. I may even get a call the next day.
Before TNC was even a gleam in my tequila-sodden eye, I used to have what I affectionately referred to as Stinky Sundays. Days where a bad hangover and/or pure laziness prevented me from showering for the entire day. And if you’ve seen my hair after more than 24 hours without being washed, you’ll know how frightening and oily this prospect is. These days, I’m showered by no later than 10am every day, including weekends, since I’ve been up for nearly 4 hours by that point.
But I went out on Saturday night and, according to our weekend sleep arrangement, which is similar to custody agreements between divorced parents (you get every other weekend but *I* get all holidays except Kwanzaa and Columbus Day. Or something), TNH got up early with the chillun’ and I got to sleep in. Eight blissful hours of nearly uninterrupted sleep. Oh, sweet gods. You smile on me once again. You must feel bad for that rain incident last week.
So I slept in until a whopping 10am and then, in the ultimate result, convinced hubs to take the baby out with him to do his shopping and whatnot so I could have the house to myself. I lured him with false promises to be showered and have the house clean when he returned. What I really did was eat a donut, drink coffee, surf the internet and read a book. I did hang up one load of laundry and write some Christmas cards though, so I didn’t completely lie. But showering kept getting put off because it would take precious time away from my surfing-reading-listening-to-the-radio-and-singing-in-my-pajamas merriment. So, remembering Stinky Sundays with great affection, I decided to undertake the timeless tradition once again. Ahh, it’s very liberating to know you look like hell warmed over and that your breath probably stinks but to not care and not do anything about it.
I needed a Stinky Sunday to remind me that even though I’m a mother, I am still myself as well, and I need to nurture that crazy, lazy woman sometimes too. Otherwise she might manifest herself as a ‘voice’ in my head and start compelling me to hit Somerfield employees upside their heads with the stupid sticks they already got beat with when they were born (UK readers will understand this).
But now that it’s Monday morning, my head is itching like crazy and the oil is practically dripping from my pores. I think this will be a looooong, hot shower.
When she was still in utero, TNC used to kick up a storm whenever a James Brown song came on. Now there is a commercial on tv that features “Sex Machine” and when she hears it, she starts bopping around and laughing.
I’m glad to see her exhibiting good taste in music already. Hopefully this means she won’t make me take her to boy band concerts when she’s nine.
Last night, I was having a lovely evening with my friend Lisa, making Christmas cards and listening to Christmas music. All was pleasant and serene. The baby slept peacefully in the next room and Lisa, 4 months pregnant and with her teeny tiny adorable bump, had just commented on how nice it was to get into the holiday spirit. We sipped coffee and ate apple pie and ice cream. It was all very civilised.
Then I smudged my handiwork with the glitter glue pen and immediately, the words “FuckBallsBollocksShitFuck” came flying out of my mouth. Lisa’s raised eyebrow and suppressed smirk shamed me. “Whoa there, honey. It’s just glitter. No need to let loose with swear words of the FuckBallsBollocksShitFuck variety, is there?”
I have GOT to learn to get this under control before TNC’s first words are Fuckballs or For Fuck’s Sake (two of my favorites). Not that I swear much in front of her, but I’m sure it slips out more than I realise. Is it too late to ask for shock therapy and some duct tape for Christmas?
We all know that it’s not exactly fun to shop at Christmas. The stores are packed, the queues insanely long, and everyone from the cashier to the barista to the mom with two kids in tow is in a bad mood. It’s inevitable and it’s traditional to want to pull your hair out and scream “If you elbow me while trying to look at these scarves one more time, lady, I am going to withdraw my Christmas-crowd-special samurai sword from its sacred leather sheath and behead you with one fell swoop, therefore negating your need to ever wear a fucking scarf ever again!” But in Britain, not only is it crowded, busy, push-and-shovey, etc.. but the people running/managing/serving in these stores are mostly miserable little posers who don’t give a monkey’s if you need assistance, have a question, or expect things like correct change or a flippin’ smile.
Today I went into my favorite coffee chain’s rival (who shall remain anonymous, but it starts with a C and ends with an A. No, it’s not Cuntmotherfuckerassholia, but you’re close) to ask a simple question pertaining to how one might go about purchasing a gift card of some sort for a certain someone who actually ENJOYS their products even though they are blatantly wrong (avert your eyes, TNH, pretend you didn’t read this). The whole experience reminded me why I don’t frequent this chain if I can possibly help it. First of all, there is a MASSIVE step up into the doorway. Not just a few inches but more like a foot. Very difficult to get baby in pushchair with heavy shopping bags draped all over the basket and handles up such a steep step without everything, including baby, tumbling out.
So I’m trying to hold the very heavy door open with my ass (I knew that thing would come in handy one day but I didn’t imagine it would be as a door stop — who knew?) and pull the front of the pushchair up onto the floor inside and then squeeze back out the door, while trying to keep the door open, so I can grab the handles and lift up the back end. While I’m huffing and puffind and muttering and maneuvering and swearing during all of this, three Cuntmotherfuckerassholia employees stand there and just watch. None of them were serving anyone and there were all of three or four customer in the entire place. Bastards. So then I get to the counter and ask if they sell gift certificates. I get a blank look and a simple “No.” Not “I’m not sure what you mean” or “No, but we do have x, y or z” or “No, I’m sorry, we don’t.” Just a miserable, expressionless “No.”
I look down to see a display full of gift cards with a Christmasy sign declaring “Buy your Cuntmotherfuckassholia gift cards here!” I point them out to the girl wonder behind the counter. “What about these?”
“Oh, those. Yeah, they’re gift cards that you can put money on for someone and then they can spend it in the store for coffee and stuff.”
“And how is that different from a gift certificate besides the word certificate indicating a paper voucher of some sort and a card being made of plastic, indicating a ‘credit card’ of sorts, but both with exactly the same function?”
Blank stare and a shrug
This is Christmas shopping, my friends. Isn’t it a blast?
Just having a blah day. Not bad necessarily, just….blah. TNC is teething and her cold has returned so she cried for over an hour last night before falling asleep at 8.30. I stayed up until almost midnight sorting out bills and making a to-do list that is about a mile long, consisting of a million things needing to be done in the next week. I did manage to get over half of my Christmas shopping done online though, which is a huge relief, and a fresh, real Christmas tree complete with stand is being delivered this week as well.
But, having been away in Brussels the whole weekend, the flat needs a good cleaning, piles of laundry that need to be washed, hung up, folded and put away, phone calls to make, bills to pay, Christmas items to shop for and buy, food to cook, books to return to the library, people to sue (waiting to hear from the court if my ex-landlady has responded to her summons), emails to write, appointments to go to, presents to wrap, cards to send, and passports to renew. Normally this wouldn’t faze me that much, it’s a normal week’s worth of stuff on top of taking care of TNC, but I woke up this morning feeling like I’d swallowed a sheet of sandpaper and with a pounding between my eyes. I suppose I was lucky to last this long without getting a cold, considering everyone else I know has had it at least once if not twice already this autumn. But since I rarely, and I mean rarely get sick, it’s kind of a big deal. Yet at the same time, I can’t exactly call in sick so it has to NOT be a big deal. You can’t call off sick and stay in bed all day with a trashy mag and a hot drink when you’ve got an 8 month-old baby to look after. (Can you hear the drums and trumpets? That’s my Pity Parade marching past) So, a big long sigh is in order. Siiiiiiiiiiigh.
Oh, and also? The stone fell out of my favorite non-wedding-or-engagement ring and I don’t know where I lost it so it’s just gone, and the permanent retainer on the back of my bottom teeth fell off today, leaving the hardened glue spots behind so I keep cutting my tongue when I run my tongue over them (which I can’t stop doing. why, oh why is it impossible NOT to run one’s tongue over anything unusual in one’s mouth, even when it causes pain and/or feels gross? it’s one of the mysteries of the universe). What else is going to fall off of me today? My nose? My hair? Wouldn’t surprise me. This is a woman who has baby snot smeared all over her left shoulder as she types. Anything is possible.
Okay, and my last complaint of the day, promise: I got caught in a torrential downpour when pushing TNC in her stroller up an incredibly steep hill. I don’t mean a slight incline, I’m talking a vertical climb that almost makes my feet come out of their shoes with each step from the sheer force with which I have to exert myself to remain upright. So, not very fun pushing a 17 lb. baby plus stroller plus 9 empty wine bottles (I was on my way to the recyling bin) and for the heavens to choose that moment to open and piss all over me and to try to get the raincover over the kid while trying not let the whole damn stroller careen back down the mountain face I just climbed. Oh gods, why do you mock me? Do I need to sacrifice someone or something to appease you? How about my ex-landlady? She is rather meaty, she’d make a fine feast. Or how about my doctor? She’s about 19 and I’m pretty sure she’s a virgin considering the way she won’t say the words ‘vagina’ or ‘anus’ or ‘rectum’ but instead calls everthing ‘down there’ or ‘back passage’. Would she do?
Ugh. Blah. Sigh.
