Sleeping with the enemy

It’s been a couple of weeks and much has happened. Lots of love, dislike and self depreciation: all of which are the inspiration for this post.

Everyone has heard of the phrase “You are your own worst enemy”. Some may have had it directed at them. I, on the other hand, appear to have embraced this phrase as my mantra. Making bad choices is one thing. Recognising a good choice and deliberately buggering up is quite the other. I like to admit to doing a bit of both. Some bad choices are made unconsciously (or more specifically in the case of the last two weekends, the bad choice of wine eventually rendered me ‘unconscious’…).  But I have been more focused lately on deliberately getting in my way.

A very close friend and I have been examining the neurosis of the human mind over the last couple days. After a good 2 hours of convincing ourselves we are not in fact epically unhinged, we eventually decided to embrace the obvious (when faced with overwhelming evidentiary support) that we are all a bit unbalanced. (Anyone reading this who thinks “as usual Hannah is talking utter crap, I’m a perfectly balanced individual who has never made a rubbish decision in my LIFE” could probably stop reading now. And then go and throw your pants in the sink because they are on fire due to the epic lie you just told yourself).

We all believe what we want to believe. Sometimes this is good. For example, when I’m told, “Oh definitely the blue dress” I take “They think the blue dress looks nice on me”. Paradoxically there will undoubtedly be a time when I hear “Oh definitely the blue dress” and I will harvest the thought “Oh! DEFINITELY the blue dress?? So the 15 other dresses I tried on looked like shit then??” Sadly, the latter train of thought is just more common in a lunatic such as me. I have ascertained that I am not alone in the “jumping to the mental conclusion” way of thinking. This neurotic disposition exercised by many is (I think) just human nature.

Although when should it stop? When should we take things at surface value and when should we dissect a situation to make it as negative as possible?

Being a member of the fairer sex, I do believe that women (in the context of self-assassination) are more guilty of being their own worst enemy. I’m not one for compliments. The sincerity of a male is never more important than when delivering a compliment. Example, hand on lady’s arse, looking at there cleavage and slurring “sweet” nothings…not sincere. I feel a little sorry for men who genuinely are being sincere and are told to sod off when they pass a compliment to a lady in such a venomous manner, they may as well have just pissed on her Jimmy Choos. But not so sorry that any compliment I receive will be treated any differently.

This indirectly (as many of you are probably thinking “tangent much?!”) does link to making bad choices. Choosing to fear the worst, pick the carcass of a conversation and merely hear the worst or even just deciding you are right beyond all reckoning. Or in actual fact choosing to be positive when deep down you know a situation is hopeless can also reappear in the “I loathe myself for being a colossal fool” kind of way. (Despite the rather pessimistic tone I have acquired to write this, I am occasionally guilty of the latter).

It’s good to have a little hope and faith (not the sitcom). To exude a certain amount of leniency to make a bad choice and accept it was your choice to make and the fall out is yours and yours alone. Despite being furnished with information to support your ridiculous choice that a blind, mentally unstable monkey may have seen through as utter bullshit. You make mistakes to learn from them. (Some are slower learners than others….myself included!)

Back to the gist, of what appears to have materialised into yet another random piece of drivel indulging my neurosis: to make a bad choice will encourage a harsh reaction upon you. To repeat a mistake, is mostly construed as “being your own worst enemy”. However maybe there’s more to it. Maybe you repeat mistakes because you’re not sure you were too far off the first time? (A bit like that first cigarette after waking up with an immense hangover…the next one surely wont make you vomit as much as the first…will it?) You choose to give it another bash just to make sure it wasn’t an extenuating factor that made you cock up the first time. Sadly, I’ve not one self-glorifying story to support this. But I shall keep making bad choices in order to clarify my theory. And I shall continue to feel the fool. But each time I do, I will learn something: no amount of bad choices will damage the good intentions to which I intend.

Of course, there is no measuring my stupidity at times. So you could expect a post very soon entitled “Pass the wine, I’ve done it again!”

Age is just a number...

Firstly big thanks for all the positive messages about my rambling. Secondly, sorry about my innate laziness in preparing more snippets.

Well, it has been a very busy couple of months for us. A holiday, a move, Spooks has turned 2, and I’ve aged 20 years.  The small one and I have moved back to the Shire and life is settling down. This is nice, because in the midst of all this change I had anticipated a fairly severe Gin dependency.  With happiness, I am pleased to announce I’ve barely surpassed the “wine dependency” stage so in my opinion: win. However in seriousness (I know-none of you agreed to this) so much change in a condensed period of time has caused reflection on life, love and more specifically: getting old.

Not many people are brave enough to ask a lady her age. But what they shouldn’t do is guess. Ever. Someone who I’ve met recently decided to have a crack at guessing. He was 3 years out. The wrong way. Sadly, he is no longer with us…I’m kidding. He is still alive. Although how torturous I made the rest of that evening does give me some reassurance, that part of him died a little inside. However it did get me to thinking. What has changed with my face that has taken me from getting quizzed for identification when purchasing a lottery ticket at the age of 21, to door staff giving me the glad-eye to make sure I’m young enough to “boogie” in their establishment? (Don’t panic-I did that on purpose…I don’t really say “boogie”).

I would like to point out that most changes have occurred since I embarked on the journey that is motherhood. As precious as they are, children are challenging as they are beautiful. Spooks is only 2 and I have spent the majority of those 2 years walking around like a hunchback: not conducive to looking young in itself. Picking up toys, food or indeed the aforementioned child has not been effective in preventing my curvature of the spine. So I walk like a 90 year old. Add this to the facial degeneration. Dark circles, accompanied on occasion by bags are the most noticeable embodiment of tired. Wrinkles help confirm terminal aging. (I’ve started noticing wrinkles. I’m twenty-f**king-five). Finally the grey hue of the skin, not making you look dissimilar to John Major’s depiction in Spitting Image. (Actually, for those who haven’t seen me recently, that is a fairly accurate idea of what you should expect).

So there’s to looking old. Acting old is a harder nut to crack. For sure, I keep Boots in business when it comes to make-up trying to mask the physical failure of my face in retaining youth. But acting old is hard to cover-up. I’ve found myself recently using phrases like “I jest” and “A few years ago….Ooh, actually it was about 10 years ago….” These don’t entirely scream “I’m in my mid-twenties!!!” Subsequent to voluntary giveaways, I now completely fail to rise from the seated position without making an unconscious congratulatory noise. Although it has to be said, when spooks copies this-it’s a mixture of pride and hilarity that I feel.

So there’s a brief history of the down side to the inevitable landslide that is getting old. But there has to be a plus side. It can’t all be wrinkles, 9pm bedtimes and turning into your mother can it? No. There is an up side. From a personal point of view, my positive to getting old is simply being a mum. And not just so I can blame looking like a bag of spanners on constant tiredness and worry, but because rather than simply “getting old”, I can grow up. George Burns was quoted as saying “You can't help getting older, but you don't have to get old”. This is a rather nice notion on the whole topic. It’s said by some that “kids age you”. I must agree. They do deprive you of sleep, provide a constant need to worry and will possibly (and on more than one occasion) make you want to reach for the gin and fags (both rather ageing in themselves). However, they will keep you young enough during your climb through the years.

Of course it’s not just children that can preserve you. Whatever can make you smile, or anything you can love will safeguard your waning youth. Unless your particular love is in fact gin and fags... In which case you may want to consider Botox and 19 year old lover….

I jest  xx

On being "Extraordinarily Normal"...

It’s been a couple of weeks, and I’m sorry to report that nothing that exciting has happened. I haven’t embarked on a whirlwind love affair, nor have I had a life changing “epiphany” (although personally I think the term “epiphany” is shorthand for when idiots start actually facing up to what has been smacking them in the face all along…) No, nothing of seemingly extraordinary importance.

What I have done instead is be normal. Including about 15 toddler group excursions, more than a dozen 9pm or earlier bedtimes and bi-daily trips to Tesco 6 days a week. Because of God it’s not logistically viable to visit Tesco twice on a Sunday. I bet he regrets imposing Sunday opening hours when he runs out of teabags at 6pm on a Sunday afternoon. I don’t think he thought that one through. But I guess he pulled a winner with Christmas so swings and roundabouts…Anyway-I digress. Back to normality, as is my inspiration for this piece.

I guess I have been waiting for something huge to happen. Something that would tie-up all the loose ends in my life. I have good lot, don’t get me wrong, in fact my life rocks quite a bit… but there may be some areas which could use improving. Now I’m buggered if I’m going to divulge all of them but a popular subject with friends of late is my terminal single-ness. The utter abyss that it my (non-existent) love-life. War cries amongst peers of “you have to get out there!” and “you need to have some fun!” have been popular recently. Words of this variety have had me wondering about the status of my life: despite my official marital status still being “married”-not for the want of trying.

I am willing to admit that it gave me food for thought. Now, I feel it appropriate to mention this is NOT going to turn into a tirade of how all men are crapweasels whilst I bellow out the chorus of “Sisters Are Doing It For Themselves”. No, this is where I admit that I started to feel like I was missing something. It put me into a bit of a funk (again not an opening for a song…tempting, but it’s not the time). I was in said funk for 5 days. And then something phenomenal happened…I embraced normal and had lunch.

After spending near-on a week wallowing in self-indulgent pity, I spent a day with some amazing people. We lunched, we shared and we laughed. At the start of that day I knew two people in the party other than myself, one being my gorgeous daughter. By the end of the day I had shared time with four amazing people, that don’t know the changes I’ve endured but that wouldn’t change me. It was potentially a painful day: yet I ascended with a sense of comfort.

A day in the park is generally construed as “normal”. Yet these few hours with these few people made me think: if being normal is boring…bring on the boring! And if being boring means being a socially leprous singleton, well that’s just dandy also. By being happy with ordinary we conquer the most extraordinary feat of all: completion. And some may not understand it. Some may never feel it. But I truly hope everyone strives to achieve it.

So the crux of this (really rather random post which somewhat resembles a haphazard juxtaposition of words) is, be happy with your lot. It may not be perfect but it can make you perfectly happy if you allow it. Some find my idea of happiness abnormal. Like I should be missing something. And I doubt that this will be the last funk I get into through wishing I had more. But whilst I feel this way-I shall endeavour to savour every moment.

(However if Matthew McConaughey suddenly becomes available and knocks on my door, my opinion will turn on a sixpence, all of the above is complete crap and I shall happily be a slave to love…)

Be happy xx

That's great but...I didn't ask.

This week I’ve had a tirade of advice. It has somewhat influenced this blog. And my need for Gin.

Advice is an odd commodity. When you are asked for it, the recipient doesn’t want your opinion they want reassurance that what they were thinking in the first place was correct. When you ask for it-likewise-you are asking someone to reiterate your views-not share theirs. However when people do not follow these rules, all hell breaks loose. Never is this more apparent than when the “do you think this makes me look fat?” question rears its ugly head (this is really directed at men…). I recently asked a male friend an opinion on my dress, he answered honestly (and subsequently against my own opinion) and we have barely spoken since. But that’s another story. Back to my point: advice is a strange entity and whether it’s being given or received it should only be done so when requested and by those familiar with one another: preferably by friends, or acquaintances at the least….not by the local crazy on the bus.

From the second you are at the bump showing stage of pregnancy, every mother, grandmother, woman, man, beast feel it their god-given right to touch your tummy. I have often wondered how a non-pregnant stranger would react if I strolled up to them and touched their torso. (Admission: I’d be lying if I said I’d never walked past North Harrow Fire Station and wished I could do this…) To be honest I managed to control myself when people I didn’t know touched my expanding belly. What was harder to stomach (do you like what I did there?) was the advice: the never ending, constant stream of unrequited advice. Pearls of wisdom from those who had spat fairly formidable offspring into the world: the kind of kids with “666” branded on the back of their heads. Everyone has an opinion and this is something that I encourage. It’s when these opinions evolve into advice I tend to feel a touch homicidal.

Anyway, I have received many-a-snippet of advice from strangers. Old lady on the bus; pushy mum at toddler group; woman in coffee shop telling me what I need to do to discipline my child whilst her mischievous sprite is looking up the baristas skirt one minute and minesweeping Macchiato dregs the next. My favourite snatch of advice however came from an elderly woman regarding my daughter’s dummy. Now I know dummies are a source of great debate. I swore when pregnant that no child of mine would go near such a wretched article…then at four weeks when I’d had about -3 hours sleep in these 28 days and I was fairly certain my eyes were in backwards I bought a wretched dummy, and I could hear birds again. It was most liberating. Anyway- stranger on the bus: yeah, she had an opinion. Sadly it formulated into advice.

The nub and gist was “Cold turkey! That’s the only way! When my children were little….” (Probably in the late 1800s) “they didn’t need a dummy and I don’t see why mothers-especially young mothers-…” she called me young! Yay! “…insist on using them nowadays. What you want to do is get rid of it now…” This went on from Pinner to Harrow. I smiled, nodded and wrung my hands for the entire 23 minute journey to stop myself from chinning the chatty witch to my left.

Advice from strangers is rather grating. At least you know, as it did with aforementioned chatty witch, that it will end. Advice from mum (by the way mum if you’re reading this I’m not talking about YOUR advice-that’s always fantastic….honest!), mothers-in-law, friends etc is more difficult to avoid as it’s always there. Like dust on my TV. It’s harder to disregard and if you don’t follow it there is the chance they will know. Also, you leave yourself open to “I told you so” should you bugger a situation up against their magnificent advice. It’s always trickier to avoid advice from these people in comparison to those on the bus too. (For example I would suggest putting your earphones in when your mother-in-law looks like she may start talking).

Curiously advice usually starts with a similar phrase to “What you want to do is….” Rather ironically the drivel that follows is rarely what I want to do: because no one has ever ended this phrase with “punch me in the face”.

Anyway, advice is just taken. It is absorbed and stored until you can secretly dispose of it into the ether (Dear Bus Lady, yours has already been deposited). That’s nature’s way. We all have opinions like I said and this is a huge part of the greatness of our cosmopolitan and diverse society. The error occurs when we transform them into unrequited advice.

Of course this is all just my opinion…. ;-)

Introduction....to me.

So having never “blogged” before I don’t really know what you want from me. To start I thought I’d introduce myself and verbalise a few random thoughts of mine and hopefully they with present themselves as coherent reading.

Firstly I have a daughter who is 21 months old (and can I just say now at my age I’m glad we stop aging people in months after “24 months”. Because saying I’m “301 months old” quite frankly would make me want to shove my head in the oven). I have to apologise now for anyone reading this expecting to read about anything other than my life. On the whole it’s rather boring, so don’t come to me trying to claim the last 5 minutes of your life back after reading it-because you have been warned.

I am a single mum. Or as the government prefer to specify, a “lone parent”. This terminology baffles me if I’m quite honest. I feel like there is a sympathy vote attached to it. Ironically, in my opinion, being married was where I needed the sympathy. But anyway, I am a single mum and it’s fairly immense. It’s a job driven my overwhelming, unconditional and consuming love. It has to be, because if I was working with the general public and within the space of 30 minutes a consumer of my service had screamed at me, kicked me in the eye and demanded I cleaned up their faeces I’d be incarcerated.

But I embrace my role as waitress, cook, cleaner, Santa, punch bag and sworn enemy with my whole being for my daughter. As quite frankly she is the most miraculous, marvellous individual and my love for such a creature is uncontrollable. (It’s almost a touch daunting!)

I am 25 (or 301 months) and turned such a month ago. I always dreaded turning 25. For most it’s 30: but not me. At 25 you officially have to tick the 25-30yrs box on surveys etc (I’d like to apologise to the “Next” corporation for lying and ticking 18-24 on your last catalogue survey). You are no longer in your early twenties. And the chances of reaching a Diamond wedding anniversary have reduced just that little bit more. Personally I can’t wait to reach 30. I can STILL tick a box as if I were 25, I will be back in the early part of a decade and it’s socially acceptable to piss and moan about your birthday from this point until you die. Win win!

And finally I live in London. There’s not a lot else to say about geography. It’s the capital of England with a population of 7,754,000, approximately 7 of these residents have manners, and everyone is obsessed with the Metro. For those who haven’t been on the London Underground or are unfamiliar with the Metro: it’s a free paper distributed in stations/on trains. 7:30am in any station is perilous when every commuter in the capital is grappling for the holy grail of tube literature. Come 11:30 when commuters are safely in their offices wishing the train that had gotten them there had actually hit them: it’s Metro graveyard. However its still a risk to try and obtain said paper. (It’s where a distinct lack of manners comes in handy). Tip: if ever caught in this situation, if you spot a deject Metro, grab it. DO NOT attempt etiquette by asking the nearest person seated “are you reading that?” They will lie, clutch the sorry paper and pretend to flick through it: even though it is blatantly obvious that this cretin has never so much as read the back of a sodding cereal box. Saying that…I’m fairly sure I’ve played this part too. Swings and roundabouts eh?!

And that’s it. My introduction. (And I wrote my largest paragraph about the bloody Metro…) I’ll try very hard to be more interesting next time.