Yesterday, I said to my boyfriend: “Have you ever faked an orgasm”. Looking uncomfortable he replied in the affirmative.
Inwardly outraged (because if they start stealing this trick, girls, we're fucked) and outwardly curious, I asked, reasonably, “Have you ever faked one with me?” Admittedly my voice did get suspiciously high towards the end of the sentence.
He replied, almost choking on his own laughter “Hahahahahahahahahaha, yeah, all the time… no, joking!” And then, seeing my face contort into something that doesn’t normally mean 'good', added seriously, “Of course not, darling.”
I don’t believe him. Would you?
Surely the only way I could have believed him is if he had answered as follows:
(dead-pan, no hint of sarcasm, looking both lovingly and lustfully into my eyes): “No, are you mad? I can’t stop myself with you. You’re amazing; the best I’ve ever had. Every time I cast my eyes onto your beautiful body I want to ravish you. It’s all I can do to stop myself ravishing you in Morrison’s sometimes. God I want to ravish you right now.” And then to proceed with the ravishing.
No, no I don’t buy this at all.
Later, when he had ravished me, we looked at each other and simultaneously asked: “Were you faking it?” and then simultaneously replied, hurried and flustered, “No, no that was amazing, brilliant, no, wonderful, absolutely not.”
From now on, sexy time is detective time. Everyone is a suspect.
Sunday, 6 September 2009
Saturday, 5 September 2009
This week was a bad week
This week I made a grave error of somewhat overdoing it with my friend, Lauren and her beau. What ensued wasn’t so much a hangover as a week-long dive into depression.
This included all the symptoms of flu exacerbating my weak mental state whilst simultaneously making it possible for me to take two sick days, guilt-free. Which was lucky as I couldn’t leave the flat for three days. It took two for me to dare myself to draw the curtains. They were dark days, literally.
It was a big night, but it wasn’t that big. As the fog slowly left my brain gradually allowing me to, step-by-step, relearn how to live my daily life (first step: get out of bed, day two: make and eat marmite on toast, end of week: go to the shop wearing large sunglasses and a hat), I realised I was officially run-down.
This is because I don’t look after myself very well. I think my lifestyle is normal because I don’t yet know anyone who does yoga instead of smoking and thinks one glass of wine is a bit naughty.
Not only did I have to contend with chest ache and Weltschmerz, in my weakened state I became paranoid. So paranoid, in fact, that my boyfriend’s quickened breathing assured me that he was building up to end our relationship. It didn’t occur to me at all that it could be the result of the weird staring way his girlfriend was scrutinising him, centimetres from his face.
Then we went to a psychic fair with his Mother and the Tarot Card lady told me that I was pregnant. Pregnant and on the biggest come-down of my life. Brilliant.
My boyfriend’s Mother’s reaction was also a little disconcerting. Something about me not daring with a look that would scare Eve into putting the goddamn apple down.
But I digress, I don’t believe the lady was very psychic at all, so I am not expecting the pitter-patter of tiny feet.
I was never a believer really. I prefer Richard Dawkin’s school of thought. But, for a time, I rather liked the idea of lots of lovely assurances about my wonderful life to come. And the fact that if someone else already knows about it then it is obviously set in stone meaning that I can continue idling my way through life.
But I’m not sure I can.
You see, I was so run-down I couldn’t work. I keep spending all my money. I think I’m getting too old for this. I’m not entirely convinced that I haven’t now had all my lucky breaks. My motivation to work hard is low because idleness so far has worked out pretty well. But in two years I will be one month away from 30 and if all I have to show for it is a rented property filled with IKEA furniture and an evil unwanted career, I don’t think I’ll be able to pat myself on the back with all the gusto one would hope.
I want the happy ending, but I didn’t realise I was going to have to find it or, god forbid, work for it. I sort of expected it to land at my feet.
I can’t complain; a lot has fallen at my feet (or at least gotten close enough to be tempted and gotten drunk enough to fall somewhere near my feet). As a result, I have the man and the kittens (I didn’t get the kittens drunk, just the man, and only the first couple of times. What? Stop judging me).
It’s a good start. But to go with them I currently have a job I dislike, a flat too small for dogs (I don’t have dogs, but the point is happy endings involve houses with gardens and lovely dogs; that’s just a fact), I drink far too much and far too often and I smoke. I also can’t run 10k without dying which I need to do for charity in two weeks.
It’s time for action.
This included all the symptoms of flu exacerbating my weak mental state whilst simultaneously making it possible for me to take two sick days, guilt-free. Which was lucky as I couldn’t leave the flat for three days. It took two for me to dare myself to draw the curtains. They were dark days, literally.
It was a big night, but it wasn’t that big. As the fog slowly left my brain gradually allowing me to, step-by-step, relearn how to live my daily life (first step: get out of bed, day two: make and eat marmite on toast, end of week: go to the shop wearing large sunglasses and a hat), I realised I was officially run-down.
This is because I don’t look after myself very well. I think my lifestyle is normal because I don’t yet know anyone who does yoga instead of smoking and thinks one glass of wine is a bit naughty.
Not only did I have to contend with chest ache and Weltschmerz, in my weakened state I became paranoid. So paranoid, in fact, that my boyfriend’s quickened breathing assured me that he was building up to end our relationship. It didn’t occur to me at all that it could be the result of the weird staring way his girlfriend was scrutinising him, centimetres from his face.
Then we went to a psychic fair with his Mother and the Tarot Card lady told me that I was pregnant. Pregnant and on the biggest come-down of my life. Brilliant.
My boyfriend’s Mother’s reaction was also a little disconcerting. Something about me not daring with a look that would scare Eve into putting the goddamn apple down.
But I digress, I don’t believe the lady was very psychic at all, so I am not expecting the pitter-patter of tiny feet.
I was never a believer really. I prefer Richard Dawkin’s school of thought. But, for a time, I rather liked the idea of lots of lovely assurances about my wonderful life to come. And the fact that if someone else already knows about it then it is obviously set in stone meaning that I can continue idling my way through life.
But I’m not sure I can.
You see, I was so run-down I couldn’t work. I keep spending all my money. I think I’m getting too old for this. I’m not entirely convinced that I haven’t now had all my lucky breaks. My motivation to work hard is low because idleness so far has worked out pretty well. But in two years I will be one month away from 30 and if all I have to show for it is a rented property filled with IKEA furniture and an evil unwanted career, I don’t think I’ll be able to pat myself on the back with all the gusto one would hope.
I want the happy ending, but I didn’t realise I was going to have to find it or, god forbid, work for it. I sort of expected it to land at my feet.
I can’t complain; a lot has fallen at my feet (or at least gotten close enough to be tempted and gotten drunk enough to fall somewhere near my feet). As a result, I have the man and the kittens (I didn’t get the kittens drunk, just the man, and only the first couple of times. What? Stop judging me).
It’s a good start. But to go with them I currently have a job I dislike, a flat too small for dogs (I don’t have dogs, but the point is happy endings involve houses with gardens and lovely dogs; that’s just a fact), I drink far too much and far too often and I smoke. I also can’t run 10k without dying which I need to do for charity in two weeks.
It’s time for action.
Sunday, 30 August 2009
Shock and awe: a girls' night in with his Mother
On Friday evening, my boyfriend joined me in the pub around 7.30. “So.” He said, looking nervous, “What were you and my mother talking about last night?”.
“Oh, nothing really, you know, just chatting.” I replied.
It isn’t that I’m lying as such. The “girls’ night in” we’d organised to amuse ourselves while the boys went to watch the football (please excuse the outdated gender roles; we live in Surrey and we don’t know any better) was a merry affair full of “just chatting”. And to suggest that we’d had any deep and meaningfuls would be to imply that we’d stayed on one topic for more than five minutes, which due to the depth of confession (on my part) and shock and awe (mainly from my boyfriend’s mother’s side) was really quite impossible.
The trick is, when clearly shocking your boyfriend’s mother with some not very important details about yourself, like, I don’t know, "I used to be a nude model for an erotica website", for instance, is to quickly change the subject before too many questions can be asked.
Something along the lines of: “Yes, but it was all very arty. Would you like another bottle of wine? What was my boyfriend like when he was five?” would undoubtedly work a treat.
What you shouldn’t do is assume that in order to divert her stern gaze from your terribly crass self is that a topic carrying a sure weight of interest must be thrown onto the table. What I wouldn’t recommend you say, following your confession of something like posing nude for cash, is to silence her line of questioning with a confession along the lines of, for example, “I went to a sex party once. It was quite fun once I got over the initial embarrassment. Modern world and all that; got to try these things, don’t you think?”
Of course, if you do make this grave error, don’t panic. Just stick to the original lesson and move quickly and swiftly on. By this point, you will probably need to quickly drink a lot of white wine in order to still your beating heart and momentarily block out the reality that you have just created for yourself. Once that is done, however, move quickly and swiftly on.
At this stage, it would be best advised to stick to safe topics, like Christmas, The Thorn Birds, and the pros and cons of eBay. Topics to avoid at this stage include:
- Swinging; and how I used to
- Drug-taking and it’s role in my college suspension
- Sex and her son’s “great big manhood”
If, you somehow manage to accidently find yourself talking freely on any of the above topics, it’s time for the Last Resort solution. Take control of the wine and keep her topped up until she slurs some equally dreadful confession. This done, your secrets are safe and so are hers. Tied together forever by the “girls’ night in”.
“Oh, nothing really, you know, just chatting.” I replied.
It isn’t that I’m lying as such. The “girls’ night in” we’d organised to amuse ourselves while the boys went to watch the football (please excuse the outdated gender roles; we live in Surrey and we don’t know any better) was a merry affair full of “just chatting”. And to suggest that we’d had any deep and meaningfuls would be to imply that we’d stayed on one topic for more than five minutes, which due to the depth of confession (on my part) and shock and awe (mainly from my boyfriend’s mother’s side) was really quite impossible.
The trick is, when clearly shocking your boyfriend’s mother with some not very important details about yourself, like, I don’t know, "I used to be a nude model for an erotica website", for instance, is to quickly change the subject before too many questions can be asked.
Something along the lines of: “Yes, but it was all very arty. Would you like another bottle of wine? What was my boyfriend like when he was five?” would undoubtedly work a treat.
What you shouldn’t do is assume that in order to divert her stern gaze from your terribly crass self is that a topic carrying a sure weight of interest must be thrown onto the table. What I wouldn’t recommend you say, following your confession of something like posing nude for cash, is to silence her line of questioning with a confession along the lines of, for example, “I went to a sex party once. It was quite fun once I got over the initial embarrassment. Modern world and all that; got to try these things, don’t you think?”
Of course, if you do make this grave error, don’t panic. Just stick to the original lesson and move quickly and swiftly on. By this point, you will probably need to quickly drink a lot of white wine in order to still your beating heart and momentarily block out the reality that you have just created for yourself. Once that is done, however, move quickly and swiftly on.
At this stage, it would be best advised to stick to safe topics, like Christmas, The Thorn Birds, and the pros and cons of eBay. Topics to avoid at this stage include:
- Swinging; and how I used to
- Drug-taking and it’s role in my college suspension
- Sex and her son’s “great big manhood”
If, you somehow manage to accidently find yourself talking freely on any of the above topics, it’s time for the Last Resort solution. Take control of the wine and keep her topped up until she slurs some equally dreadful confession. This done, your secrets are safe and so are hers. Tied together forever by the “girls’ night in”.
Tuesday, 25 August 2009
Google judges me
Taking up writing a blog as a therapeutic out-let for neuroses otherwise left to expand deep within and ultimately cause some kind of tumour or nervous breakdown, is that it adds an unwelcome level of importance to them in my head (not anyone else’s head).
‘Tis true that unlike most secure and normal women, I worry about the kinds of things the people associated with them barely notice occurred. For instance, if I make some off-the-cuff remark about my desire to reproduce, or conversely, my desire to be free from unnecessary compromise, as I fall asleep that night, I will be haunted by my remarks and taken to conclusions far more significant than there originating remarks could ever have hoped for.
Take the two aforementioned remarks and follow the journey.
I say: “I’d like to have children one day.”
A week later, I end up thinking that I have said: “Please have children with me now; I am desperate.”
I say: “I think it is important for people to be free from unnecessary compromise in relationships.”
I end up thinking I have said: “I am a bitch and we do what I want, when I want, and if you don’t like it, you can go to hell.”
So what happens in between the original remark and my resulting anxiety? I presume that my boyfriend spends the next few hours wallowing in this comment looking for hidden meaning and unwelcome hints. I presume that he thinks I am as mental as I think I am, when actually, I’m quite good at hiding it.
What actually happens is that he takes the comment as it was meant, at face value, and that is that.
So, I am aware of this, and trying to train my brain to accept this knowledge and stop the thought-process from spiralling out of control. This would also stop me from saying, out of nowhere, a week or more later during a conversation about what to have for dinner: “I don’t want children with you now, you know?” or defensively, “I’m not a self-centred bitch, so just stop thinking that right now, ok?” to his poor surprised face. “Ok, er, I know, I just said I’d prefer Chinese…” It’s cruelty to the man-brain is what it is.
The root of the problem lies in my childish belief that I am the centre of the universe and that everyone cares about what I say and stands in unforgiving judgement. And I don’t think that I actually think that, but some part of me must, surely, otherwise why would I care so much about how I am understood by others?
And of course, how I am viewed through the eyes of others is only a matter of perception and will certainly vary from poor subjected observer to poor subjected observer, each creating their own versions of reality. And as my own self-image is just as transitional and subjective, and of course ultimately everything is essentially meaningless and we are born and die alone, what can I take to the bank? Nothing! Argh, won’t this damned existential crisis fly from my over-burdened shoulders? No wonder one can find so much to wrestle with; leaving a good impression just isn’t that straight-forward.
Back to reality, a more rational approach would help me to see that the eyes of others are usually focussed on their own centre stage rather than mine. And, that everyone makes foolish or misunderstood comments so most are forgiving when they are the recipient of said comments. And the rest just don’t care that much about what I say, which is fair enough.
But easier said than done.
So I continue worrying too much about how others view me but bravely carry on my fight to stop worrying about the judgements I presume they damn me with. I might even be making some progress. I’ve only spent about 50% of my time worrying about what my boyfriend’s mother must have thought since I said last weekend, “You’re the sort of woman who’d probably be able to tell a tale or two.” Wink, wink, nudge, nudge. Horrified stare ensued.
Then, out of nowhere, Google started to judge me. Now, you may think my paranoia is reaching new levels, but alas no! I forwarded my blog through gmail and the ads chosen by that clever little computer to appear alongside the email were for good bacteria and incontinence pads. I am the kind of woman who endorses products that alleviate the symptoms of not being able to poo and peeing in your pants.
If Google, a search engine – not even a proper person, judges me as the type of woman to not be able to cope with basic bodily functions, then how am I suppose to believe that others don’t take my ramblings to be proof that the NHS sectioning department is under strain and not performing to full capacity? Just imagine if I had someone to section me privately?
Thank Christ for lefty parents and impoverished boyfriend.
‘Tis true that unlike most secure and normal women, I worry about the kinds of things the people associated with them barely notice occurred. For instance, if I make some off-the-cuff remark about my desire to reproduce, or conversely, my desire to be free from unnecessary compromise, as I fall asleep that night, I will be haunted by my remarks and taken to conclusions far more significant than there originating remarks could ever have hoped for.
Take the two aforementioned remarks and follow the journey.
I say: “I’d like to have children one day.”
A week later, I end up thinking that I have said: “Please have children with me now; I am desperate.”
I say: “I think it is important for people to be free from unnecessary compromise in relationships.”
I end up thinking I have said: “I am a bitch and we do what I want, when I want, and if you don’t like it, you can go to hell.”
So what happens in between the original remark and my resulting anxiety? I presume that my boyfriend spends the next few hours wallowing in this comment looking for hidden meaning and unwelcome hints. I presume that he thinks I am as mental as I think I am, when actually, I’m quite good at hiding it.
What actually happens is that he takes the comment as it was meant, at face value, and that is that.
So, I am aware of this, and trying to train my brain to accept this knowledge and stop the thought-process from spiralling out of control. This would also stop me from saying, out of nowhere, a week or more later during a conversation about what to have for dinner: “I don’t want children with you now, you know?” or defensively, “I’m not a self-centred bitch, so just stop thinking that right now, ok?” to his poor surprised face. “Ok, er, I know, I just said I’d prefer Chinese…” It’s cruelty to the man-brain is what it is.
The root of the problem lies in my childish belief that I am the centre of the universe and that everyone cares about what I say and stands in unforgiving judgement. And I don’t think that I actually think that, but some part of me must, surely, otherwise why would I care so much about how I am understood by others?
And of course, how I am viewed through the eyes of others is only a matter of perception and will certainly vary from poor subjected observer to poor subjected observer, each creating their own versions of reality. And as my own self-image is just as transitional and subjective, and of course ultimately everything is essentially meaningless and we are born and die alone, what can I take to the bank? Nothing! Argh, won’t this damned existential crisis fly from my over-burdened shoulders? No wonder one can find so much to wrestle with; leaving a good impression just isn’t that straight-forward.
Back to reality, a more rational approach would help me to see that the eyes of others are usually focussed on their own centre stage rather than mine. And, that everyone makes foolish or misunderstood comments so most are forgiving when they are the recipient of said comments. And the rest just don’t care that much about what I say, which is fair enough.
But easier said than done.
So I continue worrying too much about how others view me but bravely carry on my fight to stop worrying about the judgements I presume they damn me with. I might even be making some progress. I’ve only spent about 50% of my time worrying about what my boyfriend’s mother must have thought since I said last weekend, “You’re the sort of woman who’d probably be able to tell a tale or two.” Wink, wink, nudge, nudge. Horrified stare ensued.
Then, out of nowhere, Google started to judge me. Now, you may think my paranoia is reaching new levels, but alas no! I forwarded my blog through gmail and the ads chosen by that clever little computer to appear alongside the email were for good bacteria and incontinence pads. I am the kind of woman who endorses products that alleviate the symptoms of not being able to poo and peeing in your pants.
If Google, a search engine – not even a proper person, judges me as the type of woman to not be able to cope with basic bodily functions, then how am I suppose to believe that others don’t take my ramblings to be proof that the NHS sectioning department is under strain and not performing to full capacity? Just imagine if I had someone to section me privately?
Thank Christ for lefty parents and impoverished boyfriend.
Mother Hen
Perhaps it was an inevitability of my genetic make-up, or perhaps I need to get out more, but it seems that I am turning into Mother Hen.
Ironically it is almost certainly to do with my career, which enables me to work from home, unchecked and totally free to be Mother.
But, despite my love of kittens and determination to avoid being Bridget, I never saw myself as the Mother Hen type. Idle by nature, and slovenly by choice, I love the word slut when used to describe a woman who leaves the washing up and wears yesterday’s make-up.
I’ve always rather relished in my filth, feeling that my reckless attitude to hygiene and order reflected my freedom from convention and my abandonment of the rules. Admittedly, I do have a habit of reading too much into things.
But lately, I have been talking about myself in the third person to the kittens. Bad enough to do this, but my self is now known as “Mummy”. Worse still, I have introduced the concept of “Daddy. “Mummy’s just making some Chilli for Daddy’s tea.” I actually said to them yesterday, at 11.30am, as I prepared the evening meal, knowing I would be back late from my meeting in London. “Well, we can’t have Daddy going hungry now, can we?” I remarked to the kittens.
So, here I am. I am “Mummy”; a woman who cooks meals for Daddy in advance and stores them in Tupperware.
Yikes.
The danger is, of course, that playing Mother Hen, will backfire. I work from home, so I get to stay in bed later than most, play with kittens all day, and look after the housework and cooking during daylight hours, rather than on My Time. So, naturally I don’t mind doing the lion’s share. In fact, oddly enough, I’ve found myself rather enjoying it. It's probably the same pleasure that we get from playing house in pigtails and velcro-fastened shoes.
Since my boyfriend has moved in he has washed up three times, which is very nice of him. But I have cleaned weekly, done all the washing, cooked every meal bar two, mopped, Hoovered, and dusted. I even made him put his clothes away last week, which were washed and neatly folded on the side. Soon, will he call me “Mummy” too?
Returning to the potential backfire, the danger as I see it is two-fold. Firstly, if I ever work outside the home again (one can hope not, but given that I spend most of my working hours writing blogs, facebook-stalking and playing Mother Hen, who knows?) my boyfriend will be distinctly unprepared to live in an equal house. He probably doesn’t even know that the shine in the bathroom isn’t natural.
Secondly, my role as Mother Hen may come to define me, enveloping and greedily digesting my other roles (sexy minx, slovenly slut, armchair philosopher, drunk). In fact, it is this second manifestation of danger that reared its head for the first time this morning. My boyfriend had got me a present. “I’ve got you a present” He said. He reached into his bag and revealed 100 bin bags. “Tie-handle, heavy duty, just like you said you needed.”
I’m going to get a new Hoover for Christmas, aren’t I? Emmeline would turn in her grave.
Ironically it is almost certainly to do with my career, which enables me to work from home, unchecked and totally free to be Mother.
But, despite my love of kittens and determination to avoid being Bridget, I never saw myself as the Mother Hen type. Idle by nature, and slovenly by choice, I love the word slut when used to describe a woman who leaves the washing up and wears yesterday’s make-up.
I’ve always rather relished in my filth, feeling that my reckless attitude to hygiene and order reflected my freedom from convention and my abandonment of the rules. Admittedly, I do have a habit of reading too much into things.
But lately, I have been talking about myself in the third person to the kittens. Bad enough to do this, but my self is now known as “Mummy”. Worse still, I have introduced the concept of “Daddy. “Mummy’s just making some Chilli for Daddy’s tea.” I actually said to them yesterday, at 11.30am, as I prepared the evening meal, knowing I would be back late from my meeting in London. “Well, we can’t have Daddy going hungry now, can we?” I remarked to the kittens.
So, here I am. I am “Mummy”; a woman who cooks meals for Daddy in advance and stores them in Tupperware.
Yikes.
The danger is, of course, that playing Mother Hen, will backfire. I work from home, so I get to stay in bed later than most, play with kittens all day, and look after the housework and cooking during daylight hours, rather than on My Time. So, naturally I don’t mind doing the lion’s share. In fact, oddly enough, I’ve found myself rather enjoying it. It's probably the same pleasure that we get from playing house in pigtails and velcro-fastened shoes.
Since my boyfriend has moved in he has washed up three times, which is very nice of him. But I have cleaned weekly, done all the washing, cooked every meal bar two, mopped, Hoovered, and dusted. I even made him put his clothes away last week, which were washed and neatly folded on the side. Soon, will he call me “Mummy” too?
Returning to the potential backfire, the danger as I see it is two-fold. Firstly, if I ever work outside the home again (one can hope not, but given that I spend most of my working hours writing blogs, facebook-stalking and playing Mother Hen, who knows?) my boyfriend will be distinctly unprepared to live in an equal house. He probably doesn’t even know that the shine in the bathroom isn’t natural.
Secondly, my role as Mother Hen may come to define me, enveloping and greedily digesting my other roles (sexy minx, slovenly slut, armchair philosopher, drunk). In fact, it is this second manifestation of danger that reared its head for the first time this morning. My boyfriend had got me a present. “I’ve got you a present” He said. He reached into his bag and revealed 100 bin bags. “Tie-handle, heavy duty, just like you said you needed.”
I’m going to get a new Hoover for Christmas, aren’t I? Emmeline would turn in her grave.
Monday, 24 August 2009
Who told her?
Recap: The running theme of this blog is that I’m a Perfectly Normal Woman with credentials. The point of this blog is to allow me to wallow in worry and nurse my neuroses about my relationship as if the bras hadn’t even smouldered a bit.
And all this without shame. Or, at least, with only anonymous shame and my real-world image of myself as an intelligent self-sufficient modern-type firmly in tact, in both my eyes and those of The Others...
So, imagine my surprise when it turned out that my terrible secret isn’t a secret at all. How dreadful it felt to see my veneer slip before my very own eyes, and my naked self lain out for disapproval.
“Honestly?” Said the woman who bore my boyfriend, then tricked me into admitting that I didn’t like her art, as my boyfriend and I foolishly encouraged her to say exactly what she thought of me, The Girlfriend.
“Yes, honestly.” What the fuck were we thinking?
“I think that beneath your confident veneer of a Perfectly Normal Woman you are an Insecure Little Girl.”
I’m pretty sure that isn’t good. My boyfriend jumped to my defence, and I to hers. My feeble insistence that I understood and even appreciated her reasoning didn’t bode well for my planned dissection of her statement as soon as I got home. All I missed out was an accompanying cry, “Love me! Validate me! Mummy!”
So, today I took crucial time out from my facebook-stalking habit (I have no idea what my boyfriend’s ex-girlfriend was doing today and I feel strangely detached from my own, slightly odd, reality) in order to dwell on possible not-very-well hidden meanings.
I’ve managed to come up with several possible explanations.
1. She hates me.
2. She hates me because she thinks I’m putting on a show but that actually I’m quite pathetic and immature (an analysis, I must admit, shared by ex-boyfriends, but the scorned can’t be trusted).
3. I am pathetic and immature and (worse still) my ex-boyfriends were right.
4. She doesn’t hate me, but she feels sorry for me and my inner little girl. We’ll probably have to have family counselling together.
5. It was a compliment. My vulnerability is endearing and who doesn’t like little girls? All things nice and all that…
Number five, even to me, looks slightly unhinged from the real world.
My boyfriend insists that she simply meant that she’d like to give me a hug. Apparently she has a strong spiritual connection with my id or something.
Self-loathing level: High.
And all this without shame. Or, at least, with only anonymous shame and my real-world image of myself as an intelligent self-sufficient modern-type firmly in tact, in both my eyes and those of The Others...
So, imagine my surprise when it turned out that my terrible secret isn’t a secret at all. How dreadful it felt to see my veneer slip before my very own eyes, and my naked self lain out for disapproval.
“Honestly?” Said the woman who bore my boyfriend, then tricked me into admitting that I didn’t like her art, as my boyfriend and I foolishly encouraged her to say exactly what she thought of me, The Girlfriend.
“Yes, honestly.” What the fuck were we thinking?
“I think that beneath your confident veneer of a Perfectly Normal Woman you are an Insecure Little Girl.”
I’m pretty sure that isn’t good. My boyfriend jumped to my defence, and I to hers. My feeble insistence that I understood and even appreciated her reasoning didn’t bode well for my planned dissection of her statement as soon as I got home. All I missed out was an accompanying cry, “Love me! Validate me! Mummy!”
So, today I took crucial time out from my facebook-stalking habit (I have no idea what my boyfriend’s ex-girlfriend was doing today and I feel strangely detached from my own, slightly odd, reality) in order to dwell on possible not-very-well hidden meanings.
I’ve managed to come up with several possible explanations.
1. She hates me.
2. She hates me because she thinks I’m putting on a show but that actually I’m quite pathetic and immature (an analysis, I must admit, shared by ex-boyfriends, but the scorned can’t be trusted).
3. I am pathetic and immature and (worse still) my ex-boyfriends were right.
4. She doesn’t hate me, but she feels sorry for me and my inner little girl. We’ll probably have to have family counselling together.
5. It was a compliment. My vulnerability is endearing and who doesn’t like little girls? All things nice and all that…
Number five, even to me, looks slightly unhinged from the real world.
My boyfriend insists that she simply meant that she’d like to give me a hug. Apparently she has a strong spiritual connection with my id or something.
Self-loathing level: High.
Sunday, 23 August 2009
The waiting game
I hate the waiting game.
My boyfriend has gone out for the afternoon. He’s gone to a play rehearsal because he just got a great part in an Alan Bennett play.
This is wonderful and all well and good. But I feel terrible, because he left on a bad note. Not a real, quantifiable or tangible bad note. No plates were smashed or insults administered. I didn’t cut up his favourite suit, and he didn’t tell me that actually my bum does look big in the purple dress.
Rather, he left on the worst kind of bad note I know. I went out to the shops to buy bacon, and then I cooked poached eggs and bacon on English muffins. He thanked me and kissed me and said goodbye.
Although it sounds like a perfectly normal morning, it wasn’t. You weren’t there. You didn’t feel the tension.
It all began at 8.30am.
During my boyfriend’s first lie-in of the week, I let the kittens in. They walked on his head. Having amused the kittens for three minutes to enable my boyfriend to have his lie-in, I decided that I was sleepy and so closed my eyes for a moment. Kitten number one decided, at that moment, to show his affection for the man of the house and scratched my boyfriend on his back, drawing blood (he has a lot of affection for the man of the house). My boyfriend turned over and growled loudly shouting something about kittens and open windows and throwing technique. He batted his hand towards the kitten. Instinctively and reactively I smacked his arm. “Don’t hit the fucking kittens”. I hissed.
This was a Big Mistake and resulted in much early morning swearing.
I took the kittens out of the bedroom and we went back to sleep. I curled up behind him. He seemed cold. When we awoke, we hardly mentioned The Incident. Had I just treated my boyfriend like a naughty child? Or was it just a natural tap-away, to be immediately forgotten? We “discussed” the kitten’s early entrance. He explained that he needed a lie-in; I explained that they needed love and attention. We both assumed that the other was angry with us. We dealt with it this in the way that our great British Ancestors have done so for centuries: by stiffening our lips, drinking tea and eating poached eggs and bacon on English muffins. In silence.
We had breakfast, he left, and now I’m here, with furrowed brow and nervous tummy. Because until he returns and reassures me with his lovely smile, I shall assume, naturally, that every mouthful of my cooked breakfast was like a smack on the arm.
Assumed damage to relationship: Blown it.
My boyfriend has gone out for the afternoon. He’s gone to a play rehearsal because he just got a great part in an Alan Bennett play.
This is wonderful and all well and good. But I feel terrible, because he left on a bad note. Not a real, quantifiable or tangible bad note. No plates were smashed or insults administered. I didn’t cut up his favourite suit, and he didn’t tell me that actually my bum does look big in the purple dress.
Rather, he left on the worst kind of bad note I know. I went out to the shops to buy bacon, and then I cooked poached eggs and bacon on English muffins. He thanked me and kissed me and said goodbye.
Although it sounds like a perfectly normal morning, it wasn’t. You weren’t there. You didn’t feel the tension.
It all began at 8.30am.
During my boyfriend’s first lie-in of the week, I let the kittens in. They walked on his head. Having amused the kittens for three minutes to enable my boyfriend to have his lie-in, I decided that I was sleepy and so closed my eyes for a moment. Kitten number one decided, at that moment, to show his affection for the man of the house and scratched my boyfriend on his back, drawing blood (he has a lot of affection for the man of the house). My boyfriend turned over and growled loudly shouting something about kittens and open windows and throwing technique. He batted his hand towards the kitten. Instinctively and reactively I smacked his arm. “Don’t hit the fucking kittens”. I hissed.
This was a Big Mistake and resulted in much early morning swearing.
I took the kittens out of the bedroom and we went back to sleep. I curled up behind him. He seemed cold. When we awoke, we hardly mentioned The Incident. Had I just treated my boyfriend like a naughty child? Or was it just a natural tap-away, to be immediately forgotten? We “discussed” the kitten’s early entrance. He explained that he needed a lie-in; I explained that they needed love and attention. We both assumed that the other was angry with us. We dealt with it this in the way that our great British Ancestors have done so for centuries: by stiffening our lips, drinking tea and eating poached eggs and bacon on English muffins. In silence.
We had breakfast, he left, and now I’m here, with furrowed brow and nervous tummy. Because until he returns and reassures me with his lovely smile, I shall assume, naturally, that every mouthful of my cooked breakfast was like a smack on the arm.
Assumed damage to relationship: Blown it.
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