Friday, October 10

Goodnight Saigon

I dunno, I feel like I should blog, feel like I owe some sign of life to my online friends whose blogs I still follow if not comment on, feel like there's something left, unfinished, not quite ended properly here at angela-la-land. But. At the same time, I don't feel it's real. Annoyed by the use of 'but' as a whole sentence? Confused? Think yourself lucky, if you were me you would be. Both. Twice over.

But you're not me! What a relief! Let's sing it together!
And it's hi-ho silver lining,
and away you go now baby,
I see your sun is shining,
and I won't make a fuss,
though it's obvious

I'm going to kill FussyBitch. Drown her stupid, self-obsessed self in her own 'I know you may comment that I'm living through hell but really, I'm fine, just you see - ooh, look! There's a silver lining over yonder' polly-fucking-anna-ness. Suffocation by optimism seems, to me, to be a fitting end for such a closet depressive pessimist.

Fussy Bitch is neither fussy nor bitchy enough for me anymore. She bores me with her hedge betting, her justifications, her apologies and her bland, lying to herself posts.

Conversely, she's also far too public and gently honest for those that know and purport to love me, she can't tell her truth anymore, tainted as it is by the knowledge that some readers will react to it in her life. That way, passive-aggressiveness lies. I absolutely refuse to go there.

If needs be, I'll find somewhere else to put my mental vomit, somewhere it can neither hurt nor influence those that touch the real Angela (surname changed).

Until then, goodnight saigon and thanks for all the fish.


Tuesday, September 9

When the world ends

This song seems appropriate, I think. The video isn't great but you just listen while you read, the lyrics are great and Dave Matthews voice is lickable.

It's tomorrow, apparently. End of the world. We're all doomed. What a pain in the arse!

Obviously the whole humanity dying out thing, but moreso because not only have I just done up the lounge...

Forget No 1 Son and the dog auditioning for Strictly Canine Dancing, check out the skilled wallpapering!

and tarted the bathroom up, but Bing and I built a home office for his solitude (and my sanity).

Yeah, it's a shed. But this was early, it's got wi-fi, electric, a heater and even a kettle now!

So I was looking forward to going back to college next week, you know, for a rest. And I've just finished meticulously planning to scale how to rip up my crappy lawn and create a massive island bed of year round personal floristry supplies. Organic and everything! Bugger you bloody scientists.Bugger blogger too, with your manky formatting that I can't be arsed to fix cos we may all be dead soon anyway and I have a lunch date with my sister in an hour!

It's not all bad though. I've rearranged delivery of the new sofas to wednesday evening. I absolutely refuse to see the world end while I'm in the middle of a Chuckle Brothers "to me - to you" scene.
Oh well...

Delete the following as applicable on thursday:

Goodbye, cruel world!/Well, that was a load of fuss for nothing wasn't it?

Thursday, August 21


My life is boring,
my life is shit.
A silver lining
where the fuck is it?

I haven't blogged cos I didn't want to bore you to death with tales of kids being on school holidays - six weeks - and me tiling and re-decorating the bathroom - three fucking weeks! I can't believe how long it took considering there was no plumbing involved (cos I'm not allowed to replace the avocado suite that belongs to my landlord) and the room itself is less than bloody spacious.

Still, I now have a half decent bathroom and less DIY* on my TDM** list than I had before so I guess that's progress of a sort.

I'm all peopled out as usual but more fuming than most times cos Bing sat next to me tonight and said 'I hear that you're all peopled out and I'll shut up and leave you alone' then proceeded to interrupt my poker game to talk about his own before laughing loudly and repeating lines from Red Dwarf and, to top it all off, sighing passive-aggressively when I showed displeasure at his wish to re-interpret the words I'd had no choice but to already hear from a mockney on a doer-upper car show that happened to have a land rover this week.

Will anyone, ever, shut the fuck up I wonder?

Before and after pics of my bathroom. I'm very proud of it, despite how long it took.

Before... dark green tiles falling off the wall due to being older than me.



*To Do My-fucking-self

Monday, July 14

Doing bird

In twelve hours time I'll be sitting on a plane next to Bing, hand in hand on our way to a lovely, adults only*, hotel in Turkey.

Being due to leave at 5pm Monday I of course decided to go out Friday night for dinner and a movie with sis then spent Saturday reading how-to-tile sites, shopping for plastic bags for hand luggage liquids, cleaning everywhere and hiding the contents of my, er, knicker drawer in preparation for ex-husband staying.

Sunday I attended a family christening and tiled my bathroom window recess. The adhesive needs 24 hours to set so the grouting and sealing will be done when I post this then I can cover it with something waterproof and have a lovely shower before leaving for the airport.

And then, I really should start the packing.

* As in no under 14s allowed, not as in hedonism or it's ilk.

Sunday, July 13

*insert punny post title here*

Much as I love them, I just don't have the mental energy to think of a punny or alliterative title. I have also lost the ability to edit so I apologise for the nonsense that is this random, interrupted* stream of consciousness.

I often refer to my mother as an emotional vampire but I've come to realise that it's not just her, it's everyone that isn't me. My second most often thought phrase is 'for fucks sake, no matter how fat I get there's still not enough of me to go round!'. **

Babygirl has always been one of those 'look at me, mum!' kids. Despite, or maybe because of, being hailed a clever, beautiful princess at every given self esteem boosting chance she insists on having full attention whenever she feels the need. She will talk at me for hours on end, the only thing that stops her is my disagreeing with something important like a choice of shoes, or pointing out that her newest best friend is in fact a bit of a lowlife/chav/liar etc. This stops the talking but, as a downside, is guaranteed to bring on the 'oh my God how could you even say that, I'm so offended!' look, closely followed by the storming off and door slamming routine. We have good moments though; shopping for bras, my joy at her pride in becoming a woman, discussing suitable methods of depilation then sharing a tube of Veet for the first time, both of us giggling over how handsome we find David Tennant.

Babyboy is still on school report and, six weeks in to this latest episode, not improving his behaviour one little bit. Once again he was banned from the theme park trip with the rest of the school which kind of backfired as, in his own words, 'what do I have to lose?'. Eye-q came up during a dinner discussion and he mentioned that he'd take it properly this time as he now realised that it was expensive stuff to throw away whilst pretending to take it. We bought a bottle together.

It took four days for him to remember it was in the house and two reminders for him to take the second dose. I could ask him three times a day for twelve weeks whether he's taken it but I know from experience that this only creates conflict. You can't win with aspie types, they need the reminders but resent the provider.

It's not all bad though, when he comes to sit by me on the sofa and asks me to run my nails up and down his arm or through his lovely long, soft hair as we watch something that makes us both laugh out loud I forget that he has so many issues and just relish that, when he does occasionally choose to have physical contact of any sort, it's with me. Part of that me thinks he's just not cut out for formal learning settings. The more pragmatic part of me thinks the world won't change for him and he needs to learn coping strategies, fast. These parts of me bicker in between our golden moments of communication.

No 1 Son has completed his exams, attended his prom and continues to believe his destiny is to have the position of world dictator handed to him on a silver platter even though they don't provide that course at college. I've had to have a word with ex-husband and put a stop to the constant stream of money he provides, gently explaining that this tactic ultimately disempowers young people rather than ensures that they love you the most. Still, No 1 Son is finding his massive man-feet more than ever. Testosterone and know-it-all hormones are positively overflowing from his pores and he's morphed into what I can only term as a bone idle gobshite. One that wants to cycle to Wales and back, live nocturnally, be left alone when he feels like it but have full attention the instant he doesn't. Hard bloody work but again, there are beautiful, uplifting moments of privately shared jokes and reminders of myself and flashes of the boy that still needs his mum to be a mum no matter how bigger or stronger than her he grows to be.

I'm very aware that moments like these need to be relished, stored away in memory and relived during the more common, more testing times. Mostly because I'm convinced these moments are all that stop us being like animals and eating our young at the first opportunity.

* It's currently 1.12am. No 1 Son has just called me from his room, on his mobile, to ask me about a problem with his laptop. There really isn't a single minute of the day I'm not on duty.

** The first is 'leave me alone!'

Wednesday, July 9

Procrastinating pain?

No 1 Son has gone to bed.

Bing has gone to bed.

I'm two hours into a dose of paracetomol plus and a good way down a bottle of brandy.

The instruction leaflet didn't have proper, tested timing for my 800w microwave so I did some quick mental arithmetic and watched closely for signs of explosion.

I carefully carried the pot to where I had laid out a newspaper (bought specially as I read all my news online these days, darling)

Stirring the heated wax carefully with the special spatula that is not only ergonomical but has a section that says No! if the wax is too hot, I take a deep breath, embrace the task in hand (well, in leg actually, but you know what I mean), pull a cigarette from my pack and light it...

at the wrong end.

Is this a sign that I should go back to shaving?

Tuesday, July 8

Lady with a baby!

No, not me. Sudders.

Clare. Lovely, massively pregnant Clare Sudbery, who has a birthday tomorrow.

A birthday that will be overshadowed by her huuuge bump.

If you're feeling lovely please pop over to her and say something birthdayish. She'll love it.

I'm now about to wax my legs for the first time.

I apologise if my screams disturb readers in the north.

Dirty dog

I could start this two ways, so I will.

1 - I really do love my dog, but...

2 - Could've been worse; what if your dog...

I can only finish in one way, however. This being, the way of truth.

Dog saunters through the french doors as No 1 Son and I are watching a skyplussed Last King of Scotland and bickering over who is the true pack leader. Dog walks directly to me and licks my hand. I guffaw towards No 1 Son, relishing my imminent victory.

Dog turns around and arranges all 6 stones of herself to flomp at my feet. I loudly claim myself as pack leader and obvious canine favourite, my proclamations only interrupted as I realise...

...she's left a great big skidmark of shit down my right shin.

Gross - dog
Grosser - dog shit
Grossest - dog shit on human leg