Can’t think of the last time I was on it. And in this instance, I mean ON IT LIKE A CAR BONNET. A phrase which conjures up colourful images of doing THINGS on car bonnets. But hang on a mother-picking minute – when was the last time I was ON a car bonnet? Have I EVER been on a car bonnet? And, are you actually ALLOWED on car bonnets? Like, recreationally? Or is it something attempted under the cover of darkness and incognito? In which case, that means there are A LOT of people currently bandying around the phrase ‘Yeah! I am on it like a car bonnet!’ who have NO INTENTION of getting on a car bonnet and doing the thing they are supposed to be doing, for fear of being caught and detained and possibly made to apologise to the owner of the car bonnet for violating such a personal place. How fucking disingenuous! Innit.
So here I am, openly admitting that, yeah, I am not on it. Not even near a car bonnet right now. There’s one over there *points out of the window* but it looks a bit damp. So I’m not getting on it. I wish I was on it. Not that car bonnet, not literally, just… oh YOU KNOW. Figuratively on it. Just for once I’d like to feel capable, organised, and IN CONTROL. How does that happen? Is there a button I press? Which bastard hid my button? Bastards.
On the surface, I have fuck all to complain about. There are worse things happening in the world and I am uber-grateful none of them are happening to me. But I’m an introspective and overthinking kind of gal so these are my demons, y’see. Haunting me. Waking me in the night and making me think the awful things about myself that, ordinarily, I can subdue. I convince myself that I’m a horrid, mean little person, undeserving of love and affection. I tell myself that Moo would be better off without me, as I am pretty sure I’m not doing this parenting stuff properly. I think, deep down, that all the evil, dark, gluey stuff that I want no one to know about me just surfaces and spills from my orifices and then everyone will see me for who I really am, or think I’m someone that I really really hope I’m not. And, turns out, I’m obsessed. Obsessed with MYSELF. Which is STUPID, as this post is all about me, so I’m kind of perpetuating the obsession, and yeah, I kind of hate myself for it. Sucks, huh?
We all have off days. Some days, we are so off, we end up standing over there, by ourselves, looking maudlin and picking the skin from our lips. Oh, just me? Shit. Anyway, what I’m saying is, I know this cycle of spurious self-flagellation will peter out eventually (hopefully, desperately) soon. I know that at some point, I will wake up and think ‘Yeah! I am ON IT like a MOTHERFUCKING CAR BONNET’ and do a little victory dance, in my pants, by the side of the bed, like people who are winning at life do. That’s worth waiting for, so I believe. And in the meantime, I’m trying not to beat myself up and vomit self-pity everywhere. Oh, what? I already did? Oops.
Having a blog gives a voice to these feelings. No one is obliged to reply or comment. I’m not fishing for reassurance. This is CATHARTIC. It’s like, I feel BAD, I write it all down, feel a bit silly, then feel better and get on with my day. You may recognise yourself in my words, or you might be thinking, ‘Shut your whining, bitch, and blog about periods or muff or something’. Whatevs. There’s space here for thoughts and I just filled it, innit. If you’re brave enough, you can be one of those people who give me a virtual slap and yell at me to pull myself together. Be brave, mind. Very brave.
So, on with my day. I’ve got a wild toddler to corral, a bodacious play to perform in, and a sweaty pair of fishnets to slip into.
How do you stay on it? Literally? No, ha ha, I mean figuratively. No, I do mean literally. Maybe.
OK. Y’all know how mild-mannered and easygoing I am, yeah? Well, I’m about to declare summat that will REALLY make a lot of people think slightly differently of me. It’s a very controversial subject. Very incendiary. I’m going to be outcast from society after I say this. Like a pariah. With an extraordinary arse. But a pariah, nonetheless.
I don’t like pets.
Hate them, in fact.
They are stupid. Stupid pets. All they are are ANIMALS that live in your HOUSE. How lame is that? Animals live in fields, innit. Or, erm, underground. Or the sky. Or zoos. Not houses. Especially not my house. No way! My house is minging enough as it is, why would I want animal shizzle crapping up the place as well?
I feel very strongly about this, but only just feel brave enough to admit it cos, y’know, people get a bit precious about pets. Whatevs. You love your pets, fine. Love them. Just know that, essentially, having a pet means cleaning up after it all the time, and then they die. I like to admire animals from afar. Like, the lions in Africa are GREAT, just don’t be a lion in my kitchen. I would not appreciate that. That is why we have TVs, so that we can watch these great animals in their natural habitats without having to worry about them taking a dump behind the sofa or eating us.
Pets. What good pets are there? None. I once attempted to buy some fish. The idea of pink gravel in a goldfish bowl pleased me more than the notion of having a fish, I guess. I got as far as discovering you can’t just buy a fish and tip it into a bowl – they need to acclimatise and the water needs to be AERATED – FFS – and then I v rapidly lost interest. Cats? Nah, too spiky. Dogs are too needy. Gerbils and hamsters are too small and squeaky. Rabbits are evil. Guinea pigs look like they panic a lot. Reptiles are creepy. Birds in cages is just WRONG. The only pet I may consider ever getting is a tortoise and that’s only cos they sleep for most of the year and you can keep them in a box. What other pets are there?
I have a child who can’t clean up after herself. That is work enough. Why complicate matters by adding a WILD BEAST to the mix? Unfortunately Moo seems genuinely fascinated by animals – all animals, dammit – and I can see I’m going to have many battles on my hands when she gets old enough to demand we get a pet.
Oh and one last thing. People who call themselves ‘mummy’ and ‘daddy’ in reference to their pet? That is EEEEWWWW. Stop it. You did not conceive nor give birth to the animal. Please don’t act like you did. Eeeewwww.
So c’mon. How unpopular am I now? I don’t like pets. This makes me some kind of monster, yeah?
Got any good pet stories?
There’s been some farking good blog posts floating round in the ether lately about how parents shouldn’t judge other parents. I’m thinking, specifically, about Ministry of Mum’s post and Slightly Suburban Dad’s post. Both great posts. Go read. I’d hope that anyone I have an ounce of respect for would agree with both of them. Nobody likes a Lord or Lady Judgey-Pants. Everyone should be left to get on with their respective parenting in whatever method/style/totalitarian regime they choose, as long as the kids are healthy, happy and wiggly, s’all good innit. Yay!
Today in the park the man pushing his young daughter in the swing next to me smelt very strongly of weed.
Ack. I can’t help it. I’m going to have to judge. I am. I’m sorry. Well, I’m not sorry, I was just trying to be polite. But I am judging this. I have my judging face on. And my judging pants. I am Lady Judgey-Pants. Just for this. Just for that man. Cos, in my opinion, you don’t want to be smoking illegal stuff while you’re responsible for your child. No. No way. It ain’t cool.
Is it? I know there are gazillions of grey areas here that maybe I shouldn’t stray into. And – OK – I don’t know for sure that this person had been a-smoking da marjoram, only that I smelt it when he stood close to me and I couldn’t smell it when I moved away from him – I just made the assumption and instantly judged, as I’m sure MANY OTHER PEOPLE would, and then inwardly huffed and judged and then judged some more, until it began to rain like a bastard and I had to take Moo home.
I don’t do drugs. I don’t smoke. I don’t drink alcohol when I’m on my own in charge of Moo. I really don’t, as much as I bang on about rum and gin and mainlining cups of tea. I hate to think that something might happen to her and I had been under the influence, so to speak. I have no problem with people doing what they want to do in their spare time, whether that is alcohol, crack cocaine, unicorn spaff, or chocolate pie, but if it’s going to mess with your senses, maybe wait till the kids are in bed, yeah?
Totally realise this might get a lot of people’s backs up, and yeah, whatevs. Do what you like, innit. This is my piece of judginess and I’m cool with most things, as I’m sure y’all know. But I don’t like the idea of drugs. I have never taken them. I don’t think parents taking their kids to the park in the afternoon should be smoking them. I’m not sure what smoking weed brings to the experience, actually. I find it takes all my focus not to lose Moo to the giant seagulls that swoop about the place, can’t imagine how I would fight off seagulls if I was stoned.
Am I being too too judgey-wudgey on this? Should I maybe power up my groovy button and just not let these folks trouble me? I acknowledge that parents have a hard enough time as it is, some people need to relax, and that’s how they do it. So maybe I should shut my trap-hole?
What say you?
Here’s what I want to kick off about: (and apologies if you’ve already caught my ire on Twitter) sanctimonious, two-faced, priggish little hypocrites who simper about being supportive and friendly and inclusive, and then just shit all over that, behind your back, in the worst possible way. Fuckwits. Innit.
As if I haven’t got enough to stress about. As if I don’t have enough farking shite going on right now, that someone feels the need to snipe about me – via the medium of a mutual friend, which was their first mistake; I mean, SERIOUSLY. Dude. You wanna bitch about me? Check who yo’bitching to, fool – and then has the nerve to expect me to keep quiet about it? Really? REALLY?
Now. Draw your beaks in. I ain’t going to disclose who it is. I’ve already blogged about my disclosure policy, which I am standing by and enforcing. I am a lady. I do not bandy about menial gossip. Well, not here, not through my blog, anyway. It would make me feel grubby. It would sully whatever integrity I happen to still cling on to with riven fingernails, and gawd knows I have nothing else right now. FFS.
Doesn’t mean I’m not pissed off though. I’ve always maintained that I am not everybody’s flavour – which is cool – and, dear haters, if you don’t like me, then don’t read my posts, and don’t follow me on Twitter. Simple, mais non? No need for hexing or rabid flying monkeys, everybody’s happy, we’re all vengeance-free and full of love, yeah? So this is the crucial bit, pay attention now: trying to curry favour by slagging me off with someone who, inevitably, will tell me what you’ve been saying, is the single most stupidly irritating thing you could do. Ever. Because, now, sunshine, I’ve got my eye on you.
And that, you farking shite-faced twat-bastard, sucks for you. See?
I suspect that if I did decide to name and shame, the resulting drama – and there would be drama, because of who you are – would mean ructions within the sphere, and, y’know, I just can’t be arsed with all that. I’ll sleep on it and tomorrow, I won’t even care. And then when we meet,which we will, soon, I can just bestow upon you a belligerent smile, and you will know exactly what I think of you. Understood?
Ah, it feels so good to have a quick venting. Thank you for indulging me, my lovely readers. Normal service will resume soon.
Y’all know me as MoVo. Some of you even like me that way. I do have a ‘real’ name, which should only be invoked with extreme caution and comprehensive knowledge of the direful consequences. But, y’know, I have to ‘use’ my ‘real’ name in ‘real’ life, cos if I say my name is MoVo (and do the little MoVo dance) I get strange looks.
This play I’m in: the other people in it all address me with my real name. Which is nice. There’s almost always no direful consequences, mostly because I bid it so. I am also sometimes addressed by my character name: Woman. WO-MAN. Woah, man. And so on.
Funny. I didn’t think it bothered me. I laughed it off more often than not.
Then: THREE TIMES NOW. I have finished performing. Taken my curtsey during the applause. Gone upstairs. Unlaced myself from the massive heaviness of my Tudor costume. Put on my regular, non-corseted clothes. Said g’night to everyone. Gone downstairs to exit the building. Run the gamut of waiting well-wishers, none of whom are there specifically to see me. Barely walked past before someone, with all the sensitivity of a farked-up mook, blurts, ‘Who was SHE?’
Who? Who was I? Me? Who am I?
Three times this has happened. Each and every performance night so far. EACH NIGHT some farking loud-voiced noob-head has not had the decency to let me walk out the door before questioning my provenance. FFS.
Who am I? Yeah, I was Woman? I know – I KNOW – I had the total of six lines and was on stage for a mere blink – but C’MON. I did my bit. I came, I stood there, I was northern for a moment. Either, I did my job SO WELL they just did not recognise me, or, and this seems more likely because I’m a insecure little mare and still smarting from it, they just didn’t notice me. At all.
Oh well. I know who I am. I know my worth. I think. Soon I’ll leave Woman behind and hopefully, become someone else for a while. Which sounds like I’m having a sex change operation.
So – who are you? And doesn’t it make you feel crap when people don’t know who you are??
(I should really be famous, then I can moan about that)
You’ve been living in my wrists for a long time now. I think it’s time for you to fark right off and leave me alone. I’ve had enough. The ache is driving me slightly NUTS and INSANE.
What’s the deal with you guys? What the fark ARE you? Why are you so farking LUMPY? In my head, you are little balls of malignant SHIT that have taken up residence in my wrist-space and every now and again, decide to throb and wriggle a bit and send shooting pains up my arms. You bastards.
Why BOTH wrists? WHY? One I could handle. The left wrist – FINE. I don’t use my left arm a lot. I could probably manage with just the right one being operative. But no. You have infiltrated my left and my right wrists. Which makes some tasks EXTREMELY DIFFICULT. For example: picking up Moo, lifting my giant bottle of gin, and grooming my unicorn. All VERY CUMBERSOME with two FARKING LUMPS OF GRANITE in my wrists.
A doctor’s advice? ‘Well, we could simply hit them with a bible. That should sort them out’.
Say what now?
HIT THEM WITH A BIBLE? A medical professional has advised me to hit my ganglions with a bible? A holy book of Jeezus and shit? And this will ‘sort them out’? Is that SCIENCE?
Oh ganglions. You farking wrist-lumps. I hate you. Go take residence in someone else’s bones.
Dear Woman in Shop
Thanks SO MUCH for complimenting my daughter today. Yes, she is cute. Yes, she has got a gorgeous smile. And yes – YES – (here it comes, the sting in the tail, the reason I am ranting a little bit and frothing at the mouth) she has got sticking-out ears. Well done. Your powers of observation coupled with a breathtaking rudeness and patronising manner just ASTOUND me.
Now do not believe for a second that I think these ears are something to be ashamed of. I love those ears of Moo’s. Just like I love every single tiny bit of her. I don’t give a FLYING RAT’S ASS that her ears stick out. They could be green and pointy for all I care. I’m glad they’re not, but only cos we’d have to dye the rest of her green and that could be pricey.
No, what BUGS me is this stupid obsession with perfection and what it is supposed to entail. So what – you say she has something to cover up and hide, and I’m supposed to accept that? D’you want me to start listing what I think YOU should cover up? Because that could take a while. I, in fact, think that Moo’s ears are a thing of beauty to be celebrated. Like, my big nose. Like, my knobbly knees. Like, (ohmigod am I about to say this)(oh feck it) the colour of my skin. Things I have been teased about in the past.
Yeah I know kids in the playground can be cruel. But that’s because they haven’t been brought up properly. Should I do as you suggest, Woman in Shop, and let her grow her hair for the SOLE PURPOSE of covering up her ears? Why stop there? I know – let’s STAPLE THEM BACK ONTO HER HEAD and then she can have her hair short if she wants to. Or, just slice them off – who needs ears, anyway? Or, OK, that’s a bit drastic… she can wear a paper bag over her head instead. Whatever. Y’know, I don’t want her to get teased.
Please, come up to me and mention Moo’s ears. Do. Please. I won’t mind. You can say that they stick out. It’s true. They do. BUT TELL ME THEY SHOULD BE COVERED UP AND I WILL END YOU.
Ever have that feeling that you’re just pretending to be a parent? Well, today I’ve felt like I’m pretending to be a mother, a wife, a friend, and even a woman. I am held together by dry shampoo and grubby underwear. I talk the talk but my eyes aren’t engaged. I can’t even feel the cold.
What can be done to foil this imposter? This female-thing standing in my boots? A few things have broken beneath that fleshy armour today – a timely text from a lovely friend, some uber-favourable mentions in brilliant blog posts – and I know I’m in here somewhere, there’s a warm heart beating at the core of me – but, as I revealed in my previous post, the lure of hibernating within a duvet for a very long time is getting to hard to resist.
What do you do to banish your imposter? How do you reclaim your self?
Am I invisible?
Do people really not see me when I’m walking along the street? I am pushing a buggy. I am human-shaped. I am definitely there. I am not a figment of their imaginations. I think.
So why do some folk insist on acting like I don’t exist? I’m a polite person when out in public, I say ‘excuse me, can I just get through please?’ in a nice, mannered voice, when really all I want to do is ram the buggy into the ankles of the c*nts who are blocking the pavement and talking loudly about how much they enjoy a good farmer’s market over the festive period.
Just for the record: I HATE BEING MADE TO WALK IN THE GUTTER. Especially when I have a buggy. If you have legs, you can move out of my way, as a response to my polite request. I don’t care if this irks you and you feel the need to malign me as I push past. Go ahead. Just get out of my fecking way.
Manners cost nowt in this world. For some, it’s all we have left.
I am not invisible.
Venting over. *breathes*
I’ve not specifically written about my mental health before.
There are other bloggers who do so in a much better and more cohesive way than I could do.
And – crucially – what is there to write about? Do I have issues? I don’t know. I have good friends who are on meds. Should I be on meds? I don’t know. Do I ever think, ‘Yeah, I need to see a doctor about this *points to brains* cos that ain’t right’…? Yeah, sure. Sometimes. Maybe.
This is what I know.
Sometimes I feel…
…like I have no torso. Just an empty, shadowy space. Black and cavernous and thick. Scooped out. Withered and starved-blue, round the edges. I walk places, and function outwardly, but the world presses on me like you’d press on a bruise, just to feel the delicious bloom of pain.
Other times I feel…
…like the skin on my arms is peeling away in angry red strips. I shed crimson spikes wherever I roam. The edges of me are belligerent. I appear happy, but I’m breathing sulphur and brimstone into your face. My stomach churns with bile. My whole being vibrates with a maddened energy.
Then I can also feel…
…like a marshmallow chokiness is overtaking me. Pillows of gloom envelop my environs. I sink into surfaces, swallowed by sadness. I move as if through smoke. The effort of breathing is blackening me. This is the empty feeling, the stealthy dangerous one.
Not just those things. Often none of them. But, occasionally, yes, that is how I feel: bruised, angry, or gloomy.
Doesn’t that happen to everyone? Isn’t that what people are supposed to feel like?
I’m a parent: that’s how I feel.
My marriage is under a lot of strain: that’s how I feel.
It’s Christmas and I’m stressed: that’s how I feel.
If I go to see a doctor, they’d laugh at me, yeah? Tell me I’m wasting their time?
I’m blogging this cos it helps to blog. It helps to hear from other people.
It helps to know that I’m not the only mental rattling around the internet.