Yesterday I had a drink in London with an old friend and then spent three hours wrestling with Southern Rail in an attempt to beat their determined ineptness.
With a bag of half eaten chicken under my arm, a few politely administered home truths at the great unskilled under my belt, and hatred for humankind in my heart, I finally arrived home much later than I planned.
But, home to a boyfriend who offered me a Bombay Sapphire gin on arrival and who then told me to take the bath he had run for me. I opened the bathroom door to find the room covered in candles and the bath full of bubbles.
The man knows his stuff.
So, today the subject of my neuroses is my neuroses. How can I worry when I have it so good? Does this mean I really can’t justify my facebook-stalking habit? What's wrong with me? When did I get so mental? Perhaps I should just hang up my mad hat and accept that I’m pretty lucky.
Chances of falling of the Sane Wagon by tomorrow afternoon: High.
Thursday, 20 August 2009
Tuesday, 18 August 2009
How to insult your boyfriend's Mother, part one.
Saturday night, playing Trivial Pursuit with my boyfriend’s Mum and Dad, I noticed a beautiful painting on the wall. I was a bit tipsy so I waxed lyrical about its beauty, its texture, and its moving composition.
The conversation, despite all the odds (art being a wonderfully suitable parent topic) did not end well.
Me: "I see you've put that flamenco dancer picture up"
Boyfriend’s Mum: "Yes, I just love it."
Me: "Oh, me too, it's so beautiful, the curve of her leg, the texture of her dress, I want to reach out and touch it. I mean, it's perfect, the colours are so vibrant, but set in onto the dull grey street background. It's striking; she is almost dancing out of the picture."
I go on like this for about twenty minutes, completely failing to answer any Trivial Pursuit questions correctly (but by now am convinced am on much higher level and more likely to impress with art appreciation).
Boyfriend’s Mum: "What do you think of the one over there?" Gestures to a smaller picture on the other wall. I don't like it. Having painted a picture of myself as "art connoisseur" I decide to be honest.
Me: "I don't like it. It's not my bag. It's a bit boring."
Boyfriend’s Mum: "I painted it."
I responded by trying to eat my own face.
Having failed at my attempt to eat my own face, I decided to try and undo my hurtful comments (which I had a horrible feeling might come back to haunt me).
I couldn't undo it, no matter how hard I tried. "Well obviously, it's great, I just meant I prefer pictures of people, flamenco dancers in particular. I don't like pictures of leaves, but if I did. I'd love that one. That's actually the best picture of leaves I've ever seen. It's just not a flamenco dancer, and that's what matters, to me. You know?"
The rest of the game lasted forever.
The conversation, despite all the odds (art being a wonderfully suitable parent topic) did not end well.
Me: "I see you've put that flamenco dancer picture up"
Boyfriend’s Mum: "Yes, I just love it."
Me: "Oh, me too, it's so beautiful, the curve of her leg, the texture of her dress, I want to reach out and touch it. I mean, it's perfect, the colours are so vibrant, but set in onto the dull grey street background. It's striking; she is almost dancing out of the picture."
I go on like this for about twenty minutes, completely failing to answer any Trivial Pursuit questions correctly (but by now am convinced am on much higher level and more likely to impress with art appreciation).
Boyfriend’s Mum: "What do you think of the one over there?" Gestures to a smaller picture on the other wall. I don't like it. Having painted a picture of myself as "art connoisseur" I decide to be honest.
Me: "I don't like it. It's not my bag. It's a bit boring."
Boyfriend’s Mum: "I painted it."
I responded by trying to eat my own face.
Having failed at my attempt to eat my own face, I decided to try and undo my hurtful comments (which I had a horrible feeling might come back to haunt me).
I couldn't undo it, no matter how hard I tried. "Well obviously, it's great, I just meant I prefer pictures of people, flamenco dancers in particular. I don't like pictures of leaves, but if I did. I'd love that one. That's actually the best picture of leaves I've ever seen. It's just not a flamenco dancer, and that's what matters, to me. You know?"
The rest of the game lasted forever.
Wednesday, 12 August 2009
Quote of the day
Lauren, best friend and neurotic soul-mate, on my facebook stalking habit:
"Why are you worrying? Because you are concerned it demonstrates potentially psychopathic insecurity on your part?"
"Why are you worrying? Because you are concerned it demonstrates potentially psychopathic insecurity on your part?"
Monday, 10 August 2009
A slushy moment in my sea of neuroses
A warm hearted fuzzy feeling sits in my usually neurotic heart tonight. Having opened the fridge to find it devoid of my specially hardened and cooled Twirl, which I'd salivated over dipping in my cup of tea, I asked my boyfriend if he’d seen it.
“I have seen it…” he said looking sideways like suspect cartoon characters are wont to do.
“You bastard.” I calmly replied.
Not so subtly he grabbed his wallet and keys and tried hard to make it look like he might be heading to the fridge whilst actually managing to quickly leave the house.
Five minutes later with an accompanying slam of the door he entered with the conquering and triumphant (and equally unconvincing) statement “It was in the fridge all along!”
Thanking him, I dipped the new Twirl in my tea and happily munched.
“Is it cold enough?” He asked.
“Yes.” Said I. “How so, dearest?”
A proud look crept over his face. “Did a couple of laps around the supermarket with it wrapped in a bag of frozen peas.”
Boyfriend points: Loads.
“I have seen it…” he said looking sideways like suspect cartoon characters are wont to do.
“You bastard.” I calmly replied.
Not so subtly he grabbed his wallet and keys and tried hard to make it look like he might be heading to the fridge whilst actually managing to quickly leave the house.
Five minutes later with an accompanying slam of the door he entered with the conquering and triumphant (and equally unconvincing) statement “It was in the fridge all along!”
Thanking him, I dipped the new Twirl in my tea and happily munched.
“Is it cold enough?” He asked.
“Yes.” Said I. “How so, dearest?”
A proud look crept over his face. “Did a couple of laps around the supermarket with it wrapped in a bag of frozen peas.”
Boyfriend points: Loads.
Friday, 7 August 2009
And then he read my blog...
I think I may have mentioned before that I am supposed to be a Strong Independent Woman. This is a belief shared by everyone who knows me, including my boyfriend.
Ever since a Very Important Relationship, many years ago, I’ve felt the need to project a certain image. I was the tonic to previous releationships they complained of: undemanding, self-sufficient, pint-drinking and self-assured. I’ve been those things ever since.
Though of course I haven’t and although I’ve now been publically drinking dry white wine for years, I haven’t been confessing the sins only this blog is privy to.
And so my cover is blown.
However, a leap into the unknown it is not. I’ve experimented with exposed vulnerability before. The rational woman in no real hurry to get out tells me that to show this side is risk free. If he’s a good man he will embrace it; he will love me more for it. And sure, I’ve been told in a surprised tone in past lives that I’m more girly, softer, sweeter, than they thought. My brain may be playing tricks on me but I almost remember an accompanying pat on the head.
But, says the loud oafish woman over Miss Sentimentality in the background, this isn’t admitting to being afraid of spiders (which, if it redeems me in any way at all, I’m not), this is admitting to being a worthy candidate for sectioning. This, according to my limited understanding of the human psyche, is not an attractive trait. This might suggest to the unfortunate in question, that I am unstable, deceptive, and all sorts of other typical negative female traits.
But I don’t believe he thinks that. What I believe is that he thinks it’s ok. What I believe is that he will see a more human side to me.
In this lies the real tragedy.
In no-one’s eyes did I ever aspire to be the average human, flawed and following predictable patterns through the ages in line with my socially constructed gender identity and my biologically given sex. That is not to say that I haven’t acknowledged the utterly depressing fact that I am exactly that. But I hoped to keep my secret and remain on the pedestal.
And so I have formed a plan. I may be hanging on to the pedestal with my extended fingernails (result of early mid-life crisis; see previous blog), but I have an idea.
There is such a thing as cultural amnesia (stay with me, this is relevant), where entire cultures can mis-recall huge periods of history in order to enable them to make sense of the present. This can happen particularly following traumatic eras.
My boyfriend has been traumatised, as have I (he has discovered he is dating the personification of a potential psychotic episode and I have had to acknowledge my real self in the real world). Together, we can pretend this never happened. All I need to do is balance out the reality with its opposing fantasy.
Shoulder-pads ready, attitude primed, pint in hand. I’m ready to be the woman they adore; the woman who doesn’t need them.
Mental wellbeing score: 3/10 and rising.
Ever since a Very Important Relationship, many years ago, I’ve felt the need to project a certain image. I was the tonic to previous releationships they complained of: undemanding, self-sufficient, pint-drinking and self-assured. I’ve been those things ever since.
Though of course I haven’t and although I’ve now been publically drinking dry white wine for years, I haven’t been confessing the sins only this blog is privy to.
And so my cover is blown.
However, a leap into the unknown it is not. I’ve experimented with exposed vulnerability before. The rational woman in no real hurry to get out tells me that to show this side is risk free. If he’s a good man he will embrace it; he will love me more for it. And sure, I’ve been told in a surprised tone in past lives that I’m more girly, softer, sweeter, than they thought. My brain may be playing tricks on me but I almost remember an accompanying pat on the head.
But, says the loud oafish woman over Miss Sentimentality in the background, this isn’t admitting to being afraid of spiders (which, if it redeems me in any way at all, I’m not), this is admitting to being a worthy candidate for sectioning. This, according to my limited understanding of the human psyche, is not an attractive trait. This might suggest to the unfortunate in question, that I am unstable, deceptive, and all sorts of other typical negative female traits.
But I don’t believe he thinks that. What I believe is that he thinks it’s ok. What I believe is that he will see a more human side to me.
In this lies the real tragedy.
In no-one’s eyes did I ever aspire to be the average human, flawed and following predictable patterns through the ages in line with my socially constructed gender identity and my biologically given sex. That is not to say that I haven’t acknowledged the utterly depressing fact that I am exactly that. But I hoped to keep my secret and remain on the pedestal.
And so I have formed a plan. I may be hanging on to the pedestal with my extended fingernails (result of early mid-life crisis; see previous blog), but I have an idea.
There is such a thing as cultural amnesia (stay with me, this is relevant), where entire cultures can mis-recall huge periods of history in order to enable them to make sense of the present. This can happen particularly following traumatic eras.
My boyfriend has been traumatised, as have I (he has discovered he is dating the personification of a potential psychotic episode and I have had to acknowledge my real self in the real world). Together, we can pretend this never happened. All I need to do is balance out the reality with its opposing fantasy.
Shoulder-pads ready, attitude primed, pint in hand. I’m ready to be the woman they adore; the woman who doesn’t need them.
Mental wellbeing score: 3/10 and rising.
Missing: Rosy-cheeked children
Things are getting serious. We’ve talked about moving. Starting afresh, building a co-existence. This ought to be Brilliant News. Is clearly akin to A Big Step. But it isn’t. It’s bloody terrible, because now I’m face-to-face with my future I realise I haven’t quite planned that far.
I went to the bank to arrange some unemployment insurance yesterday. Frankly, not as exciting as it sounds. However, the conversation with my bank manager startled me slightly as it threw into question some of my fundamental, if slightly naïve, assumptions about life. And it went something like this:
Bank Manager: So, shall we take the policy out until age 65?
Me: What?
Bank Manager: (Slower, and slightly louder). So, shall we take the policy out until age 65?
Me: What?
Bank Manager: (losing patience and wondering if I need a guardian to fill out the forms). So, shall we take the policy out until age 65? Retirement age? Yes? (Looks to check for signs off alcohol consumption in my eyes).
Me: What? No, sorry. I mean, no. I really don’t intend to work until I’m 65.
Bank Manager: (Smirks).
Me: No, I’m sure 35 will be fine.
Bank Manager: What happens when you’re 35?
Me: I’ll probably be living in an idyll with my adorable rosy cheeked children and a Labrador.
(Awkward silence).
Bank Manager: You can always cancel…
Me: (Horrible dark realisations start to surface). Ok, until 65. I’ll probably just cancel though.
Bank Manager: Yes, yes, of course, yes cancel whenever you’re ready.
But I’ll never be bloody ready will I? I have no savings, no property and no plans. My freak-out levels are dangerously high. So are those of my boyfriend who now thinks he is dating a wannabe lady wot lunches rather than an equal partner in crime. I don’t suppose my suggestion that we had “the talk” before agreeing to move away together helped matters. It was around that time I said “"In the old days, women wouldn't even put out without a ring on their finger." Someone should gag me.
Is it possible to create a life where one can stop working at 35 to run in slow motion on pretty beaches without being a “kept woman”? I’m thinking lottery win, porn, or Big Brother.
Clearly I need to make some mature plans. Set in motion a journey towards the idyll, and as far away from traditional retirement ages as possible. I should create a career plan, start saving up, buy a set of coasters to put a stop to those dastardly coffee stains.
But that isn’t how it works. What do middle aged men do when they realise life is short and they’re wasting their shot at it? They buy a sports car and wink at teenage girls.
Following this trend I’ve had some nail extensions done, booked a trip to a paradise island near Bali and started to bid on a campervan for my forthcoming road trip around France where I shall write the best-selling novel that will save me from a life flitting between marketing meetings and trips to Sainsbury’s.
Progress towards life’s goals: None.
I went to the bank to arrange some unemployment insurance yesterday. Frankly, not as exciting as it sounds. However, the conversation with my bank manager startled me slightly as it threw into question some of my fundamental, if slightly naïve, assumptions about life. And it went something like this:
Bank Manager: So, shall we take the policy out until age 65?
Me: What?
Bank Manager: (Slower, and slightly louder). So, shall we take the policy out until age 65?
Me: What?
Bank Manager: (losing patience and wondering if I need a guardian to fill out the forms). So, shall we take the policy out until age 65? Retirement age? Yes? (Looks to check for signs off alcohol consumption in my eyes).
Me: What? No, sorry. I mean, no. I really don’t intend to work until I’m 65.
Bank Manager: (Smirks).
Me: No, I’m sure 35 will be fine.
Bank Manager: What happens when you’re 35?
Me: I’ll probably be living in an idyll with my adorable rosy cheeked children and a Labrador.
(Awkward silence).
Bank Manager: You can always cancel…
Me: (Horrible dark realisations start to surface). Ok, until 65. I’ll probably just cancel though.
Bank Manager: Yes, yes, of course, yes cancel whenever you’re ready.
But I’ll never be bloody ready will I? I have no savings, no property and no plans. My freak-out levels are dangerously high. So are those of my boyfriend who now thinks he is dating a wannabe lady wot lunches rather than an equal partner in crime. I don’t suppose my suggestion that we had “the talk” before agreeing to move away together helped matters. It was around that time I said “"In the old days, women wouldn't even put out without a ring on their finger." Someone should gag me.
Is it possible to create a life where one can stop working at 35 to run in slow motion on pretty beaches without being a “kept woman”? I’m thinking lottery win, porn, or Big Brother.
Clearly I need to make some mature plans. Set in motion a journey towards the idyll, and as far away from traditional retirement ages as possible. I should create a career plan, start saving up, buy a set of coasters to put a stop to those dastardly coffee stains.
But that isn’t how it works. What do middle aged men do when they realise life is short and they’re wasting their shot at it? They buy a sports car and wink at teenage girls.
Following this trend I’ve had some nail extensions done, booked a trip to a paradise island near Bali and started to bid on a campervan for my forthcoming road trip around France where I shall write the best-selling novel that will save me from a life flitting between marketing meetings and trips to Sainsbury’s.
Progress towards life’s goals: None.
Tuesday, 4 August 2009
Things not to say to your boyfriend, part one.
"In the old days, women wouldn't even put out without a ring on their finger."
Argh.
Argh.
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