Friends. Friends are good, yeah? There’s songs about them. And TV sitcoms that revolve around groups of them. Literary novels and epic poems written in their honour. They’re everywhere. Look! A friend! How lovely. I love my friends. Y’all are supery-dupery niceness on a plate, with added shmink and rum cocktails. Innit.
We need friends. Friends get us through all the troublesome bits of our lives. They lift you above the scummy patches. They make you lemonade when all you got is lemons. Or something. I’ve counted on my friends A LOT in recent times and I am truly grateful to every single one of them. Makes me feel all warm and squishy inside, it does. Though that could be the rum cocktails.
This is why I am ruminating on friendship: I’ve been worrying the last week whether it is possible to remain friends with my ex. I mean, sure, it is POSSIBLE. But do I want to? This is a man I am still married to, but separated from. By all accounts we now lead different lives. He has his friends, a new job starting soon which means a move to a different city, opportunities to get on with things afresh and – ostensibly – without my input. Fine; fair enough. Am happy with that. I’m doing my own kind of moving on. We’re cool. It’s groovy.
But friends? Like I said, friends do good things for you. They’re yo buddies, ya mates. I can’t think that I’d call my ex if I needed a good sob about my love life. Ack, no. Similarly, I don’t want to know about his. I’m guessing that topic is totes off limits, as might be money, personal bodily malfunctions, family matters, celebrity divorce (too topical) and, erm, the state of the economy (just cos I find it boring). So we talk about the usual stuff, which generally means: Moo. And films. Again, fine. No problemo. I can do the whole ‘let’s be amicable’ bit. It’s when things get a bit iffy that I baulk.
Like last weekend, when I had some issues with one of his so-called friends. Ha! That’s a whole different vent about friendship and what it means. But I guess y’all got the gist of that anyway. Yeah. Ahem. Indeed, I just feel awkward now, knowing that a person I object to rather violently is still a part of his life, and it seems I can’t do anything about it. Fun times. On top of that, it’s our wedding anniversary at the end of this month. A day of sadly fond remembrances. Huzzah. Wahoo. That’ll be weird on a stick.
So it’s a tricky concept, methinks. The whole friends-with-my-ex thing. Am I hoping for too much? Is there always going to be a barrier there? Or do I just need to give us some time? Everything is still so raw. I can’t conceive of ANYTHING long-term right now, cos if a year ago you’d have said all this would be happening, I’d have guffawed in yer face and most likely given you a Chinese burn for being a cheeky minx and making up such horrors about me and mine.
I’m sure what we have is better than what others have. In fact, I know it is. And I know I’m most likely overthinking again. But that’s what blogs are for, right? Overthinking spillage? But I genuinely want to know: how do I deal with this?
There’s not much I can say. Well – I could say loads, actually – but I’m not going to.
Apart from this: SAHDandproud is the shnoofter to my floom, and seeing as we’re the only people who know what that means (really, even I’m not sure I do know what it means) it’s pertinent to a very, very small percentage of people in the blogosphere, i.e. us two. Ahem.
But I do know that people have been wondering what happened, whether he’s OK and when he’s coming back. To which I can answer, erm, none of your business, yes he is OK, and I don’t know.
I’ve been fielding queries about the man since the weekend. It’s truly wonderful that y’all care so much, and I know he appreciates all your thoughts and best wishes. But SERIOUSLY, I’m not his farking secretary – he wouldn’t even give me my own office with a view of the park, and scatters my paperclips all over the floor when he thinks I’m not looking – so I hope this blog post puts your collective mind at rest for the time being.
I know he’ll read this, so if you want to write a message of support in the comments area, please feel free to do so. Then I won’t have to scribble them all down on Post-It notes every time someone DMs me on Twitter any more. Tsk.
We all miss him. Well, I do. I really, really, very muchly, absolutely farking do. Even his mifty wiff-waff.
(no, I don’t know what that means, it’s just something he used to say)
Howdy, cowboy *spits into spittoon* now let’s swing our pardners by the hand, and how’s that for a rootin’ tootin’ good time – no, wait. WAIT. Stop. Sorry, everyone, sorry.
Ye gods. Let me just take off my glittery Stetson and remove the acres of pink gingham from my ass. I am not a cowgirl. I may occasionally ride ‘em like a cowgirl, but only on special occasions and in a flattering light. So lack of suitable yee-ha and branded cattle aside, me = not a cowgirl.
While MoVo might be a universal brand now, and me at the head of the global empire like a particularly stunning figurehead – or, more probably, like The Emperor in Star Wars but on a REALLY BAD DAY i.e. when he has his period or something – I am not actually a businesswoman. I am not a Sir Alan Lord Sugar-type wannabe. Me = not a businesswoman.
And even though I OFFERED to enter Wimbledon and win it this year, y’know, for GREAT BRITAIN and everything, they declined because apparently I can’t play tennis. Pfft! So, me = not a tennis player.
I am not a partner in anything. Or a pardner, cowboy. I don’t have a partner. I don’t have a business partner, or a tennis partner. I don’t have a dance partner either, although my flying monkeys do a mean quadrille when they’ve been on the rum. A partner, for boules, maybe? Nope, not for me. No partners here. Partner off, you partner.
OK now the word ‘partner’ is starting to look a bit strange.
My point is, I am 33 years old and cannot be having a partner. I absolutely CANNOT say, ‘This is my partner’. I would sound like a mook of the highest order. It is cringe and lame. It smells of old lady’s poo. It would make me seem as if I should be going on Saga holidays with my ‘partner’, and getting my ‘partner’ to choose bedding plants to fill my box. AND NOT IN A GOOD WAY.
But what if I have one? A partner, what I don’t want to call a partner? When I’m too young for a partner but too old for a boyfriend? What perfectly acceptable and non-shit term is there?
If anyone says ‘special friend’ I am coming round your gaff to fark you up. Innit.
I like to think I’m a good friend. I’m warm, generous, funny, and I’ll let you have a go on my unicorn. I’m compassionate, patient and kind. I’m an all round top bird. You can count on me. An exemplary mate. A good’un. ‘You know MoVo? She’s such a great friend!’ sort of thing. Oh, I am modest too.
And I love my friends. I have a circle of friends that I truly adore, and would fight dragons for. Certain people who I know feel the same way about me. Companions for life. Solid. Reliable. Everlasting.
There’s not much I wouldn’t do for these friends of mine.
One of my friends has depression.
Well, maybe more than one, dunno. But one is struggling at the moment. I don’t know what to do to help them. Is there anything I can do? I understand so little.
I know it’s not about me. But I feel useless. I want to be there for them, like I am for everything else. And I don’t know how.
OK – first up – I resent the use of the term ‘blog buddies’. It makes me cringe a bit. Like we’re all amassed in some vast ethereal playground, and occasionally running up to another blogger, punching them on the arm, and thrusting a chewed-up piece of string at them to wear on their wrist as a friendship bracelet.
Which is what Our Home In The Sun did to me, bless her. And cos she’s nice (and lives in California and might invite me over for a holiday one day) I am happy to oblige. Even though this meme is a BEAST and may take me YEARS to complete.
And there are RULES, for heaven’s sake.
Rule one is: you must post the rules. Ah, right. OK. This is like that fight club I joined, yeah? Great.
Rule two: each person must post eleven things about themselves on their blog. CHRIST. What else is there for you to know? I fear you already have a surfeit of gynaecological information about me.
Rule three: Answer the eleven questions the tagger has set for you, and then think of eleven more for the people you tag.
OH MY GAWD. I’m going to be here FOR THE REST OF TIME.
Eleven Things About Me
The other day I shouted ‘hedgehog’ in Romany at a Belgian person
I first shaved my legs when I was 13
I don’t know what any of the F buttons on my laptop keyboard are for, even though they have little pictures on them, except F9, which is blank, which makes me think it can only be there for evil
I do actually really just want to be Lola from Charlie and Lola
My favourite colour is green and I love anything with a bird motif on it
When I’m old I want to live in a castle and be known as That Crazy Lady In That Castle
I think I’m good at making things out of Lego, but I’m really really not
I don’t like Christmas, or Valentine’s Day, or Easter
I’m short-sighted and squinty
I can’t do the splits, but I’ll pull a muscle trying
I would like to go on holiday by myself, nowhere exotic, just Devon (they have cream teas)
Lou’s Questions For Me Wot I Must Answer
What was the most exciting part of your day?
Um. Well, it’s only 10.57am so I’m hoping the most exciting part is to come. But I did have fun earlier when Moo was climbing, mountaineering style, on the bookshelves and I had to rescue her before she injured any of my books.
If you could have just one wish, what would you wish for?
Neverending biscuits. And MoMo’s rainbow song from Show Me Show Me to be played on repeat wherever I go.
Would you ever consider plastic surgery and if so, where?
Uh, yes, and Harley Street probably. Oh, you mean where on my body? Wherever the surgeon draws on me with a big black marker pen. They’re the expert.
What was your best subject at school?
English. And lunchtime.
Who was your first kiss?
The back of my hand. It was so romantic.
Curry or chilli?
If someone was to buy you a huge bouquet of flowers, what flowers would you want?
Freesias. Or tulips.
What is your favourite smell?
Perfume? Chanel No.5, though my bottle went off years ago. Otherwise? Tomato plants.
Everyone has something they are really passionate about. What are you passionate about?
Writing. Unicorns. Cheese. Moo. Blogging. Acting. Biscuits. Gin. Benedict Cumberbatch.
If you could go anywhere in the world for a dream holiday, where would you go?
Talking with someone on Twitter now about going to Havana and drinking mojitos. That’d do.
What is your favourite film of all time?
*chews own arm* If I HAD to pick just one, I’d say Spirited Away. I could watch that over and over.
1. Do you have enough cheese?
2. If there was a fire in your house, what would you rescue first? (all people/animals are out safely)
3. Stripes or spots?
4. What did you dream about last night?
5. Where is it?
6. If you could lick either Jeremy Irons, Charles Dance or Alan Rickman, who would you choose and why?
7. What was the last film you saw at the cinema?
8. How many fingers am I holding up?
9. If you could travel in time, would you go back and kill Hitler before he turned into a bit of a bastard?
10. Which is worse: sneezing and weeing your pants, or farting and following through?
11. I’ve got an itch right here. Can you scratch it for me please?
Now I know I have to tag some people
to waste an hour of their life to spend some quality time doing this meme, and answer my ribald and frankly ludicrous questions, and there’s only one person I want to lumber that with. And that’s my darling Not So Slummy, who now blogs under the name (Just) Above Average Mum. She knows how to handle me. I know she’ll do a sterling job.
Ah! Now that’s over with. *stares at pile of other memes I should do* Feck.
People. Most people are bastards. This I know to be true. But here is a list of people who most definitely fall into the non-bastard category. All have helped make 2011 a truly special year for me, in one way or another.
The marvellous NotSoSlummy, who sends me gifts in the post, and wants to act out dodgy lesbian scenes from Black Swan with me whilst feeding me cake, and who I heart most verily and cannot wait to meet.
The inestimable Mammasaurus. My sister in blood. Quite literally. And the one lady who I’m pretty sure would out-smart and out-filth me at every opportunity. I look forward to rolling around in a field/graveyard/bed with her.
The beautiful trio of ladies Yellow Days, Mum of One and Melksham Mum. Without whom I would have no faith in the human race. They are all lovely, clever and thoroughly warm-hearted individuals. I want to cover them in Marmite and lick it all off.
My golfing partner and mutually exclusive stalking pal SAHDandProud. He has had a difficult time recently but never fails to cheer me up and make me smile. He means more to me than he’ll ever realise. Only he and I know there can never be enough cheese. And I’ll pester him to keep writing, until his ears bleed, probably.
The incredibly funny and talented satirical writer Michael Cargill. I am pretty sure he is slavishly devoted to me by now, so he deserves some attention. And a couple of biscuits.
The wonderful Mum2BabyInsomniac, who I might kidnap and keep in the cupboard under my stairs, so that we can stay up all night talking about deep and meaningful stuff while drinking gin and eating biscuits. Maybe not so much the deep and meaningful stuff… just more gin…
Some special sloppy kisses to Five Go Blogging, Actually Mummy, Boo and Me, Ministry of Mum, Purple Mum, Not Just A Mummy, From Fun to Mum, Hello It’s Gemma, Bibsey Mama, I Am Wit Wit Woo, HPMcQ, Pinkoddy, More Than A Mum, Not The Tiger Mum, Not My Year Off, But Why Mummy Why, Blue Bird Sunshine, Firefly Phil, Expat Baby Adventures, Dorky Mum, Flossing the Cat, Mutterings of a Fool, Goodbye Pert Breasts and Mistress Mummy. I am groping you all under my slanket as we speak.
A huge hug and squeeze to a non-blogging pal @nicolablunders who made a trip to Cardiff one of the highlights of my 2011. She is beautiful in every way.
Fecking hell, if I’ve missed anyone off I’ll feel like shit. Oh – Ordinary Parent , NLP Mum, Here Come the Girls and Cheetahs In My Shoes – I sincerely hope you’re waiting for me in a hot tub in Oslo.
And Flower Mammy, who wrote me a limerick for a Follow Friday… what a shining star in my firmament you are! *mwah*
And SAHMLovingIt – you fecund goddess – you are a legend beyond all legends. May your 2012 be filled with light and love and laughter. And lots of biscuits.
If I’ve not mentioned you and you feel rebuffed and annoyed, nil desperandum. Shout at me in the comments box and I’ll add you in with extra special fairy dust and biscuit crumbs. It’s only cos I have tears in my eyes and a wobble in my lip that I am not thinking straight.
Without much further ado, I would just like to say:
Happy New Year to you all! I love you unconditionally! Thank you.