What do you mean you don’t like me?!

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On the way back from the beach yesterday, after meeting another group of the the other half’s friends, and after hearing that after peace-keeping mission #2 – a night at the theatre – number one announced that she ‘would never accept’ another woman in her father’s life; the penny finally dropped: there was someone in the world I couldn’t win over.  This finally explained why I’ve been feeling so, well, weird.  What was this?  Obviously this is amongst other more obvious reasons to feel out of sorts – like actually being in a grown-up relationship, that said relationship lasting longer than a mere forty-eight hours, that I have no reason for doubt or to phone watch, and not discovering his secret partner has just given birth – you know, the usual.  And most importantly having to do lady maintenance – every. single. day.  You coupled-up wimmin never even hint at this, in your blissed up FB posts.  Bastards.

Admittedly, along the way there have been people who have probably (read: definitely) hated my guts because I’m weird and/or annoying – many I suspect – but I mean come on apart from that, what’s not to like?  I ask yer…. So accustomed am I to flashing a smile, cracking a funny, being a goon, batting my eyelashes to achieve at least the most basic levels of acceptability, to get on with whatever needs to be got on with at that particular moment: I failed to identify this fundamental problem with number one.

She quite simply does not like me.

BUT. HOW. IS. THIS. ACTUALLY. POSSIBLE?  I’ve pulled out some of my best moves.  The ‘I’m actually just like you on the inside’, ‘I’m on your side’, enthusiastically sharing music I think she’ll like, displaying my knowledge of cinema like a peacocking Mark Kermode, singing at the top of my voice and dancing in the car to (says in hushed voice) ‘modern music’, risking my life at the amusement park, buying a present from my recent trip to the homeland; none of which have been a stretch because as you know, I’m an irresponsible clown.  So basically just being myself.  I’ve asked her for advice and help with my Spanish, not imposed myself, basically stayed out of her way, given her and Pa space.  Blah, blah, blah – you get the picture.  None of it is working.  I’m stumped.  Not even Columbo could crack this mystery.  Or he could, in the first five minutes after arriving on the scene, but would let me sweat it for a whole episode. Also bastard.

So what’s left?  Quite simply time and patience.  I’ve never had to employ those things before, so I’m at a loss.  What kind of timespan are we talking here?  Within my lifetime?  That can’t be right….. surely.

Zen monkey

*And so it is that I have signed up for circus skills classes, joined the communist party of Barcelona and bought a Che Guevara tee and the entire back catalogue of Els Amics De Les Arts.  I’m also about to embark on a meditation course upon which I fully expect to connect with my inner zen-patience-monkey.  Or something.  Maybe I can, at the very least, charm him.

Reasons why I don’t have kids #64

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Because apparently, these days it’s not ok to say no to kids, because they ‘get sad’.  Well, you know what junior, y’all betta man up,  coz that’s the way the world works….. (uum sorry, I don’t know what came over me.  Oh wait, yes I do – non-motherness).

They say you’re never too old to learn (or something), and I’ve learnt quite a lot about myself these last couple of weeks.  Namely that not having kids has spared some poor young souls, at least eighteen years of an absolute living hell with a five foot nothing Kim Jong-Un with boobs.  So, it would appear, that not having them (the kids not the boobs), was absolutely without a shadow of a doubt, the right decision in my life.

A rare photo of me smiling

It transpires that I would not be suited to modern-day motherhood.  At ALL.  Nope, no siree, not one teeny tiny bit.  Wow!  Quelle surprise you chime….. (but not really because from my musings over the last few years, you have come to know me somewhat, and know it to be true).  I have mentioned in a former post, that the demands of twenty-first century kids would be way beyond my reach.  Primarily financially, and then more importantly: because it appears that I am a complete ogre.  A tiny tyrant in heels.  This, I have discovered, is because the word ‘no‘ exists in my vocabulary.  Oh. My. God.  And also that I believe that helping your parents, learning about responsibility and not always getting what you want, are good things that help you to eventually grow into a half-way decent human being for the future.

But you know, what do I know?

Speaking with various folk this week, I have come to realise, maybe with horror, that I am very much a product of my father’s parenting style (without the fear factor).  That, once something has been said or agreed, it’s not too difficult to stick to it. But I discovered, by all accounts this is completely wrong.  NO! Parents, if you are reading this now, whatever you do, do NOT do that, at any cost, for it is tantamount to torture.  I would most definitely have social services knocking on the door, investigating claims of cruelty.  Why?  Because I said you can’t have the latest iPhone because yours works just fine.  You need to take responsibility for your actions.  I am not always available at your whim.  And helping you learn about the world, sometimes involves the following sentence, “I’m sorry, but it’s just not possible. You’ll have to find a solution/wait/do without.“

I know, absolutely BRUTAL, right?  What a f*cking heartless bitch.

So, men of the world, thank yourselves lucky I never wanted to breed with you, because you might just have ended up with a bunch of emotionally damaged children on your hands. For the rest of your days on this planet, (because mama was a cow and you didn’t have the cojones to back her up).

No really, no need to thank me – you’re welcome.

And that is my ‘reasons why I don’t have kids’ #64.

As an aside: if you really want to thank me, feel free to pm me for address details – to send gifts of flowers/chocolates/diamonds.

Fanx


Oh wow – I’m the adult!

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Walking around Port Aventura on a fortuitous day off, last Tuesday, I was struck by a new found appreciation for my mother’s necessity for coffee breaks every hour on the hour, whenever we went on a trip or day out when I was a kid.

Whilst I wholeheartedly wanted to be buffeted around at 1000 G of G-Force at the age of forty (erhermmm *tiny voice* six): the trip to Catalunya’s Alton Towers was primarily part of a peace-keeping mission, with the long-term goal of stabilizing diplomatic relations.  Between myself and the teenagers.  Having attended a wedding with the family a few days earlier, it was clear that a little (lot) more time and effort was going to be necessary.  

In searing heat, we waited in queues for up to an hour to be battered by the equivalent of one hundred and twenty five million Mike Tyson fists beating us for approximately sixty seconds.  After the first ride, Dragon Khan, I was ready for a sit down in the shade and a natter.  I needed a sit down in the shade and a natter because my legs had stopped working.  This however, is not how adolescents function.  After four hours of marching around, standing still, being launched at high speed into metal frames and soaked wet through, we took a time out at the cantina in the Mexico zone…..

I was dragged from the audience by the dancers in the show, chatted terrible Spanish and gratefully threw an ice-cold beer down my throat.  Sporting soaking hair and panda eyes from the log flume (because of course you put your normal face of make-up on to go to an amusement park), it was here that the penny dropped.  My other half’s children were looking at me, as I remember looking at my parents and older relatives all those years ago: with a heady mix of disdain, mild amusement, confusion and exasperation.  

Dear lord, I was an adult!  

*runs out and purchases immediately*

 
In my mind, I’m closer to them than I am to my peers, but I realised in that moment that I was a little bit silly, a little bit boring, a little bit of a drag……. and no amount of willingness to get on the rides and despite genuinely enjoying every moment, I. Was. The. Enemy.  A *boo, hiss*…… grown-up.  What did I know about, well, pretty much anything.  Because of course I was born this age and had at no point been an adolescent myself, or experienced almost half a century of life…. 

I found the discovery of my adultness mildly nauseating and I must admit, I swooned a little.  I do not behave like an adult, ever.  I still pierce things, experiment with my hair and have a Pinterest board of tattoo ideas. I still act like a prize plum after a few glasses of wine, have never learnt when enough is enough and have absolutely no self discipline.  I just about make ends meet, have no savings and no plan for the ‘future’ (which I discovered on Tuesday, was a damn sight closer than previously thought).  I know who Deadmau5 is for Christ’s sake!!  

The only thing that identifies me as an adult is the number of years I’ve been on the planet and the epic amount of time it takes me to recover from a hangover.  But I can’t fight the fact, that I might just have to start acting my age. Finally. 

And I. Do. Not. Like. It. One. Bit.

Peri peri menopause 

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My internal thermostat is thoroughly buggered.  It’s thirty-three point two degrees outside with seventy-five percent humidity; and five hundred and sixty two and a half thousand degrees inside, with my reproductive organs currently at a gazillion percent humidity.  It’s a thing.  Don’t even think about questioning me.  There is a fire raging somewhere between my fallopian tubes and uterus and my ova have been issued with a severe weather warning of an impending drought.

Actual scan from my recent tests

 

Let’s not beat about the bush here – phnar – it’s bloody (or not) inconvenient and annoying.  Peri – menopause is a thing, which I thought was called pre – menopause, but apparently not.  I have to thank a Twitter follower for alerting me when she knowingly said ‘ahhhh, peri……?’, accompanied by, I imagined, a smile and a nod of her head; and I thought she assumed I’d eaten too much spicy chicken.

Dictionary reference

PERI: prefix meaning “about” or “around” (perimeter, periscope), “enclosing” or “surrounding”

PRE:  prefix occurring originally in loanwords from Latin, where it meant “before”.

So, why exactly is it now arounding the menopause, not beforing it??  Or have I always had it wrong and need to have a stern word with my mother?  It’s not logical.  Anyway, it’s definitely happening.  I definitely think that it definitely might be happening.  ¯\_(ツ)_/¯   I had to guess that my current absent-mindedness, perpetual tiredness and insomnia were due to the onset of ‘peri-menopause’, and not simply my fondness for a large G & T at the end most days (and sometimes in the middle).  The lack of regular periods however could not be attributed to that – so I have done three, paranoid frenzy pregnancy tests in the last two months.  Even though the likelihood is about one percent, one can never be too careful if one does not want a Ross and Rachel situation on one’s hands. You know what I’m saying? *wink*

There is a tiny shift in my hormone levels, discovered in recent blood tests, but not enough to warrant a hardcore prescription. Apparently I have to wait until I’ve grown a full beard for that.  If The Fly – style hair springing from my Adam’s apple every couple of months is anything to go by, I won’t have long to wait for that.  Before it’s really begun, I can’t wait for the whole process to be over, but that’s not going to happen, is it?  Of course it’s not.  I was reading yesterday, while waiting for my friend to arrive for brunch, that the whole process can take between four and TEN years.  TEN.  TEN WHOLE YEARS.  Are. You. Kidding. Me???  Why can’t it just change in a month?  In January your *’Aunty Jane comes to visit’; and by February she’s dead. 

I’m not in the slightest bit sad about it.  I just don’t want to believe it’s such a long drawn out process.  It’s as though Father Nature (because let’s face it, no woman would impose this on her sisters), is saying, “you still can, you know.  Go on, there’s still a little time. Are you absolutely sure you don’t want to squeeze a couple out?”  No, no I don’t, now turn off the taps already. 

In fact I’m thinking of throwing a petit soirée when it’s all done and my tubes are dusty – where I build a bonfire of all the ‘luxury’ sanitary products I have left over, and invite my girlfriends to dance around it swigging cava.  I certainly won’t be signing up to My Second Spring dot com to look at pictures of laughing women rollerblading, who are secretly dying on the inside.  And I  most certainly will not be joining the chat forums to lament my lost **womanity.  To my periods I say, adiós amigas!

*my Nana’s name for periods 

**what even is that?  Thanks Mr Thierry Mugler for that word.

Reasons why I don’t have kids #63

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Sunshine and heat = kids just want to run around and have fun.  And also: I don’t…..

My go-to hot weather strategy is to naked starfish in front of a fan, at every available opportunity.  I’d probably teach like this, if it was acceptable.  But for very obvious reasons, it’s not.  Poor students.  It does not however, involve packing picnics/flotation aids/insect repellent/the entire contents of Toys-r-Us.  You get me?  This weather is designed, if you absolutely must move, for lounging on a sunbed with a Piña Colada – after sluggishly dragging your  pasty backside to the beach, which could realistically take an hour for an otherwise fifteen minute brisk walk.

Summer


I am grumpy and antisocial and need a lot, a lot of space.  Like, I’m not even joking when I say a one kilometer radius.  I’m also very sleepy all the hours I’m supposed to be awake and doing all the grown up stuff, and can’t sleep at the time I’m supposed to be recharging my batteries. I’m struggling to keep my eyes open as I type this…….. and I’m supposed to impart knowledge and wisdom to people, until ten o’clock tonight.
Do not peck my head, small person, Mummy’s got some melting to do, can’t you see that?  Hug?!?! You have got to be joking me!  PHYSICAL  CONTACT?  You are out of your tiny mind, I can’t even pick myself up.

And that is my ‘reasons why I don’t have kids’ #63.

Reasons why I don’t have kids #62

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I’ve outsourced my brain to my digital agenda….. 

How do you Mum’s actually do it?  I can’t remember to clean my teeth if it’s not in my diary and I’ve set three different alarms to alert me to the alarm that alerts me to my gob.  Everything is in there, from the run of the mill morning elevation, to which pants I’ve decided to wear, to putting one foot in front of the other.  Without this, I would be mooching about, scratching my head and thinking that there was something I was definitely supposed to be doing.  Like paying for the roof over my head and generally staying alive and in fine fettle.  

My mountain of washing only became apparent to me when I ran out of work clothes – because I had read and forgotten the weekend reminder to pay a visit to the launderette.  So even if it is in my handy pocket brain, I still can’t be relied on to complete the basic requirements expected of successful adulting. 

How would my diary look, if there were dependents in there too?  I would be constantly adding, updating and changing with one hand, while waving frantically to slow down with the other, trying to invoke calm and reduce the pace to a typeable speed.  Homework, packed lunches and gym kits would be forgotten or handed out on a Saturday, because I’d snoozed the reminder so many times. 

Feed children

Wash children 

Dress children 

…….would be the first three entries after: get up, don’t flap.

It’s very possible they’d be at home until they were old enough to fend for themselves; because it’s quite likely I’d forget they needed an education and hadn’t even enrolled them in school. 

And that is my ‘reasons why I don’t have kids’ #62.

Reasons why I don’t have kids #61

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One day they could walk through the door, after a long day at school and say, “f*ck this sh*t mum, studying is for losers.  I want to take the UK all the way at the Eurovision Song Contest!”  


“I’m going to have a giant pineapple on stage that I’ll crawl out of and start singing about worms.  It’s going to be great!”  Or even worse than that, be the horse head man or  dancing gorilla sidekick…… 

I have not practiced my proud and supportive under any circumstances face enough to deal with that. 

And that is my ‘reasons why I don’t have kids’ #61

Are PANK skills transferable?

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Can I put ‘epic hugger’, ‘awesome present buyer’, ‘teacher of how to do the splits, while fuzzy on red wine’ on my curriculum vitae?  And if so, are these skills of any interest at all to two teenagers who are auditioning girlfriends for their dad?

 

I’m in my first significant relationship since the Mexican and I went our separate ways, all the way back in 2011.  He is a gentleman a little older than myself (information to which my dad responded, ‘oh well done!  He’s not a toy boy!‘).  He is also a widower.  This was a complete shock, primarily because it was something I had never considered, not even once, while merrily swiping through the pool of romantic delight that is Tinder.  Also, while swiping through my life in general.  It’s something reserved for couples at the end of their days, grandparents, great grandparents – but not someone the same age as myself.  He was so very young.  I cannot even begin to comprehend living through that situation.

We’ve been seeing each other for close on six months now – ok, ok, simmer down (I know. OK!), and he recently floated the idea of meeting his children.  I admire greatly his approach to my integration into his life.  Also: terrified.  We’ve been dating – coffees, lunches, cinema, the occasional dinner.  He introduced the idea that he was seeing someone after a couple of months, he’s talked about me openly since then when he was meeting me for a date. And almost six months down the line, he wanted to introduce me.

That night was Friday last week.  I’m certain I was more nervous than they were.  Most definitely his son, who was so not nervous, that he decided a trip to the cinema to see F&F8 with mates, was fundamentally more interesting.  Fair enough.  I can’t imagine how boring meeting me would be when I was fourteen.  I did however meet his daughter, with rivulets of sweat running down my back – like meeting the parents when you’re seventeen, only in a parallel universe.  It was pleasant and short, as I was picking him up for dinner.  A perfect first introduction, no more than half an hour.  While I waited for him to organise himself, we chatted in general and looked at some photos on display and talked about my (I now know) pretty average Spanish and complete lack of Catalan.

I can’t tell you how relieved I was, to get my hands on a pre-dinner Campari…… 

I’m very aware that I have a lot to live up to, and a lot to prove – but with that first important step taken, I hope that we can continue to build something that maybe, maybe becomes really special.  Watch this space…. 

NB.  I think I’ll keep the gymnastics in my arsenal, for another couple of months down the line, when I really need to pull out the big guns………..  *backflips out of the room*

What are friends for….

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…….. if they can’t get you good and bloody drunk, make you cry laughing, have a good sob with you, take you to get your first tattoo and pass on the number of their divorce lawyer?  I mean really, what more is there?  The foundation of friendship for me, is a shared sense of humour, riding roughshod together through the ups and downs and the ability to ‘pick-up-where-you-left-off’, whether it be a day/a month/sixteen and a half weeks, fourteen hours and seven minutes/twenty seven whole years.  (Also an emergency stash of mother’s little helper, to take the edge off and get a good night’s sleep in times of trouble).  Nope? Ah well, that bit’s just me then……

Friends


Talking through problems, not always taking the easy route, sometimes being tough – but always being no further away than the end of a phone line (just like in the olden days).  And more importantly, ensuring your friends know exactly that.  

Life isn’t always easy and things change constantly; men come and go, we scatter with the winds to the four corners of the planet, we get on with our lives and death is the only thing we can be certain of.   But enduring female friendships are a precious and unique thing that can get you through all of that: probably with the aid of bottle of gin and a sweary rant.  

They can help you withstand anything life throws at you; and conquer it, and keep on laughing on the other side. 

All the mehs

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Well…… I’ll be.  Even I haven’t been able to act the clown I usually am, and make funnies these last few (very significant) months.  This has proven a problem for someone who mostly writes about nonsense and shenanigans – oh, and not being a mother. (Which for me, are in fact intrinsically linked).

The world’s gone stark raving, bloody mad and as a result I’ve lost my way a bit – both personally, and here.  To find funny words to write about silliness and irrelevancies, seems like a massive, disrespectful disservice to….. well, to just about the entire world.  Who can find the laughs in UK war threats to Spain over Gibraltar, Nigel Farage still being interviewed on telly and Donald Trump (a serial sex offender) launching Sexual Assault Awareness Month.  No really, it’s a serious question.  Anyone?

I pretty much hit rock bottom in the Autumn of last year, when I finally folded and went to the doctor about my ever present black cloud.  I recognised the familiar blue feeling, but I did not like that it hadn’t ‘blown over’ in a month or so, as it usually did.  I discovered then that I was suffering from quite severe anxiety.  Being a Brit, completely unable to be honest about emotions and/or illness, even when I was shaking and crying in the surgery, I was saying; ‘yeah, no, I’m ok you know, in general.‘  

So, sadly (or not, depending on your point of view), there has been significant radio silence for some time, which has been quite difficult to overcome….. There has however, been plenty of ranting over at Twitter.  That part’s been easy, there’s just been so much stuff to rant about.  If there was a gold medal for current affairs ranting, I’d be in a dead heat with – approximately a gazillion other people around the globe, all ranting in unison.  And to edit your ’emotions’ into a hundred and forty characters, suits me just fine….. 


So, with the good ship Brexit well and truly sailed on Wednesday 29th March (look at me successfully skimming over that epic shower of shit), and no clear sign of an impeachment of Trump any time soon – I’m attempting to significantly reduce my consumption of news.  Torn between an adult thirst for knowledge and trying to keep up with current affairs; and deep rooted desire and necessity not to find myself in a molten heap of melted brain, kind of predicament.

So I’m hoping that with a sizeable reduction of the intake of worldwide political idiocy and other bad news stories, I can and will ease myself back into writing this blog more frequently again…… You know, it almost feels a bit like getting regularly laid after a significant dry spell, knowing you could well throw a hip out with one, unexpected flip – because you haven’t done your Bodycoach warm up.

There’s still plenty of naughtiness and shenanigans left in the old bird yet, and it will be here again soon.  

I hope.