I don't bite...

...well, not unless you pay more. Haha!

This is one of my favourite jokes for putting people at ease during overly emotional or stressful situations. I have cupboard-lots of similar, situation specific lines stored away in my head and they never fail to make people feel better. I talk a good 'un and never deliberately tongue-lash anyone in need.

So why do I still, apparently, permanently scar anyone close to me the very moment any truth slips through my lips?

I appear to be, despite my best efforts, surrounded by people that take offence as easily as they take air into their lungs. It's a subconscious action on their part but it still makes my conscious stab at me for being a bitch to those less fortunate.

My part-time but long-term ex used to tell me I thought myself omnipotent and everyone else weak because it meant I didn't have to put anyone else in control. At the time it was hard for me to respect his insight, being that he'd take to his bed at the least hint of my having any opinion on anything, let alone an alternate to his.

When I see how fast people still fold and play victim under the gentlest of my critiques, I can finally understand that he was right. No-one else deserves to be in control, not even of my refuse collection, if they're not strong enough to cope with me expressing myself.

Which leaves me where, exactly?

Cos it's damn fucking lonely being omnipotent and having no-one to really, honestly, talk to.

May I?

I used to think quality over quantity. Lately I find myself in awe of bloggers like my lovely aussie mate Vi that find something interesting to write about on such a regular basis. I've never been the most prolific of posters but even I realise that I've lost the blog habit. Blabbit? I like that.

I miss it. Mentally speaking. I feel out of control in almost every aspect of my life and I have to wonder whether not spewing my guts to my keyboard has something to do with that. I'm not about to go into whether I feel I've lost my anonymity cos Bing reads or whether I'm writing for readers rather than myself, that's a post you can see on any other vanity page so why... oh, hang on, I know why... because it's something to blog about. Der!

A new month arrives on thursday so I'm launching a suitably named venture. Feel free to join me, I've got a snazzy tagline and a picture button thingy for your sidebar and everything, look!

Blog every day in May!

Like a pensioner on a new laxative it may not be merry but it will be regular.

Pooke

Pooke.

My made-up word for the dual action of poo and puke, sickness and diarrhea, two-eys and hueys, shit and shinola, chucking it out both ends, you know?

I'm emotionally drowning in it and physically surrounded by it.

Babygirl got the bug first. Whilst sitting up all night holding her hair back I sent thanks to the God I don't believe in that at least something was stopping her from mixing with her (very good school friends-) mum. The mum that leaves her weed in places that 12 year old girls of a certain persuasion can easily steal it from. The mum that got my number and called to find out 'what the fuck old bill were up to' about the savage attack perpetrated on her daughter by her (daughter's) dad. The daughter that's apparently only in care cos of her own stupidity, unlike both of her sister's children who are, of course, only in care due to lying, scheming social workers.

Call me a snob but this is not the kind of woman that I will suffer around my babygirl.

Babyboy got it next. His grungey hair is fairly long for the second time (head lice put paid to the first attempt at an emo fringe) but he neither needed nor wanted me to hold it back as he hurled so I worried about him from a respectful distance. He's an aspie type, I kid myself that I'm used to the emotional distancing but really, it's a pms-ing bitch having to hold my immense, intense love for him at arms length when all I really want to do is grip him tightly to me and protect his special way of being from the harsh world I birthed him into.

As he recovered, so Bing fell. This was not good for him, not only because he was in the grip of a stomach virus but also, and mainly, because I'm so very crap at nursing sick grown-ups.

Oh, how I hated every single retch I heard. Mainly because I knew that it meant he really was quite ill but I couldn't change my standard reaction of disparagement. As much as my exhausted mind tried to stay in the present I just couldn't stop it falling back into the automatic response I have to anything that I perceive as weakness in men. I grew up around a man that faked a bad back simply so I could be trained to sit astride him and massage horse liniment into his naked flab whilst clad in a Strawberry Shortcake nightie that rode up as soon as I assumed the position. My mother normalised this particular act of weirdness by claiming she couldn't bear the smell of the stuff. Conversely, the pungent odour was the only thing I found pleasant about the whole experience.

To this day I can't recall any name on that brown bottle of liquid so maybe I'm not meant to smell it again.

Just as I thought the bug had run it's course through my household, No 1 Son copped it. Conveniently for him, he came down with it just as the school holidays ended so missed the first day back. Conveniently for me I simply had to go to work experience so at least I didn't have to suffer his choice of movies and greatest football manager type list shows.

I alone remain untouched by the virus. I'm not sure if this is due to a strong constitution, a knowledge that mums aren't allowed sick days or some evil universal being laughing at me cos everyone else is losing weight and I'm not.

It's not me, it's you

Dearest B,

I think you know what I'm going to say but, for the sake of a clean break, I need to make it crystal clear. This relationship isn't working, for me at least.

I'm leaving.

Darling, please don't think that I don't remember or appreciate all that you've done for me. The unstinting support you gave during the darkest hours of my teens, marriage during my twenties, divorce at thirty and subsequent years of single parenthood - I'll forever thank you for that.

I can't let that blind me or bind me to you though, it's neither fair nor healthy.

Having said that I want you to know absolutely, for as long as it beats there will be a place in my heart bearing your name. This is not something I give easily but you truly deserve it. You earned it for all those times you helped stop the black dog chasing me over the edge of a cliff, for all the wee small hours of insomnia you shared with me without question or judgment, for the millions of moments of madness when I had no-one but you and you were always, always there, no matter what.

Of course, needing you is really the crux of my problem with us. I don't need or rely on anyone anymore - haven't done since I was seven years old ffs - it renders me vulnerable and I have major problems with the v word. Why am I even saying this to you? You know it more than I do! You know it - know me - most of all; you and I, we've been together longer and held our relationship stronger than any other in my life. For so very long it really was you and me against the world...

Still, the purpose of this is clarity, honesty and, let's face it honestly, it's been a long time since I was able to exercise any control in our relationship. I know it looked like I chose when to let you in but, truth? You slowly but surely wheedled your way into my life, my mind and my psyche, told me I was like nun other and made yourself my habit -god, we were so funny when we were together! - made sure I had no option but to call for you.

It's taken such a long time for me to realise that you were actually causing more problems, sleepless nights and depression than you were solving. I didn't want to acknowledge it, completely refused to place the blame where it belonged for a very long time but I can't lie to myself anymore. I need peace, I need honesty, I need reality and I need to admit that our relationship is denying me these things.

Please don't ask if we can remain friends. I know from our previous, short-lived separations that the only way is to have no contact whatsoever with you or any of your family.

Brandy, I'll miss you terribly but it's over.

Angie

x

You alright?

No, I'm half left. Hahaha! What about you, how's your relationship/work/childcare/diet/affair problem going? Last I heard was...

And so they talk
And so I mute
my other half.

Because the other half; the half that's really all there is left, is the boring, whinging, not very nice, useless, depressed half. The half that I know needs a voice more often but is so easily gagged because it's neither use nor ornament to anyone outside it's half-self. The half that's only ever acknowledged, even to those few that care to dig their heels in for it, with self-deprecation; a Barbara Windsor giggle and the phrase 'Oh my gawd don't ask, I'm getting on my own tits lately!' immediately before I turn the conversation to them. Foolproof. Works every time. They always love to talk about them.

Perhaps, if they shut up for a while, I could listen to my other half. Unlikely. So I carry on taking all it's self-harming, self-neglecting, unloved and unfucked* little stabs and I stem the bleeding by asking everyone 'You alright?'.

And then, really listening to the answer.



*Of course any woman blessed with girly bits can always find someone to fuck them but even my low self-esteem has gone past the stage of sleeping with more than one other woman's husband at a time.

Insanity

is hereditary. You get it from your kids, says the mildly amusing fridge magnet industry.

I was one of the mildly amused. Until my own kids began to drive my own, only recently stabilised, mind far off the edge of normality and into into a screaming red pit of what the fuckness.

I thought I knew the worst of what teens could get up to, having personally lived those years and watched over those of three younger siblings. I thought I was prepared, that I'd laid the right foundations for my own offspring. I thought I could handle it.

I was so, very, wrong.

Today - day 1 of college Spring Break hence day 1 of my latest work experience stint - today alone I have had a call from the police to tell me that Babygirl (12 last week) was witness to an assault on her (very good school-)friend and was needed to make a statement. The (vgschool-)friend that's in foster care. The assault committed by (vgs-)friend's junkie dad in town centre broad daylight.

Meanwhile, Babyboy is on hourly alert duty to his dad whenever he's out of the house, ostensibly so we know where he is and what he's up to. His dad is thinking this will stop him smoking and coming home later than agreed. I'm juggling my relief that someone else is finally sharing the minute-by-minute responsibility reality of parenting with angst that I'm losing control and feeling that his dad places far too much reliance on a mere text message for peace of mind. I'm a clown, not a juggler. Balls are dropping all over the show.

And then, at 11.35 tonight, I get a call from No 1 Son's ex-boss to say he'd been prank called about shop fires and burglaries then seen a familiar figure running away when he rushed to the scene. I don't know what embarrassed me most; that he'd done it at all, that he'd hoodwinked me into believing he was out for a meal with his mates or that he'd been so arrogant and hence stupid enough to be caught out behaving so knob-like. Oh, hang on - I do know what embarrassed me most. The thought of completing the rest of my work experience placement in the shop right next door to the bloke that I completely resent for swearing at his staff but now have very little high ground to preach at him from cos my extremely intelligent son is absolutely numb-brained with testosterone!!

On confronting him I found myself faced with my most hated kind of man. The 'deny everything until you absolutely have to' kind. The kind often heard telling the wife that finally voices their suspicions of affairs, 'you're bloody mad, woman'. I had to go into ranting cockney muvva mode in order to be heard and I really didn't enjoy it. I wanted to do things differently, I wanted my children to be different. I must have been bloody mad to think it could happen like that.

I love my children so much, I just wish I could like them again.

Spring forward

You'd think,

what with my having a shitty week/fortnight/month and all,

whether awake or attempting to sleep,

that I'd be chuffed to have an hour of shittiness taken away.



I'm not. Not in the least am I happy with this clock changing thing.

I hate when people mess with time

(Well...

unless it's David Tennant)

he can mess with anything of mine that he likes.

I'd even pay.


It occurred to me last night that he has a similar appeal to the Hamster. Presses the same buttons in me. Touches the same place of instant attraction that connects my brain to my sex.

And that I could die a happy, smiling death whilst spit-roasted between them.



I really do need to get laid.

*sigh*

Vanishing point

I've been angsting.

Searching desperately for the hours alone that I need to dissect my past and check that I really have moved on and stopped allowing it to affect my present.

Digging through feelings, memories, empathies, personal truths, pre-conceived perceptions and private realities.

And then, tonight, quite suddenly;

I concluded that it's all a load of bollocks.

Wouldn't ya know, the power of pink provided my pressured mind with a prison key.

The main difference between Bing and me isn't that he thinks the answer is 42 and I think the answer depends. It is more subtle and more real and completely summed up by our reaction to the woman in the Vanish carpet cleaner advert.

Now, I admit that I like housework as a mind-numbing or mind-clearing exercise but she looks way too excited over a household cleaning product.

We agree that she needs something more in her life. But.

He thinks she needs to be shot.

I think she needs to be fucked.

And that's the main difference.

Bloggin' eck!

Since whinging en blog about my children being horrible they've deigned to give me the most peaceful, loving easter holiday I've had in a very long time.

Since whinging en blog about not getting laid enough... well, let's just say quality can beat quantity sometimes.

Since blogging my problem issues appears to manifest fast, even if only short-lived, solutions I feel it's worth mentioning that I'm a skint student/single parent and both the car tax and RAC want paying this month on top of all the usual bills and babygirl's birthday.

Work your magic on that one, blogfairy!

The bad news...

Is that my kids may well scupper my plans. Or be the death of me, whichever comes first.

Yep, all three of my beautiful, clever, fun, lovely, well-adjusted children have been kidnapped by gypsies and replaced by two hulking hooligans and a hellish hormonal harpy.

No 1 Son. Taking GCSEs. He's behind in coursework due to lazy first drafts and, not content with being one of the brightest and the undisputed King of the one-liner, suddenly felt the need to become the hardest kid in the school. To the extent that, under the guise of sticking up for a smaller kid, he head-butted a peer, necessitating an emergency dental appointment for peer and a three day temporary exclusion plus a day in the sin bin for the son I no longer recognise.

During our discussion about this I also brought up the fact that he was being a moody git at home whilst the rest of us (well, me, his dad and Bing anyway) were being utmostly respectful of his situation and asking nothing of him except whether he needed anything typing up. His answer was that he'd quite enjoyed being a bastard for a while. Ten begrudgingly given points for honesty and self-awareness...

He's taken some exams already but the bulk of them are yet to come. This situation isn't going away anytime soon.

I should probably order some valium.


Babyboy is taking his options. He's also taking a lot of unauthorised time away from school and a lot of nicotine into his not quite 14 year old lungs. Having allowed him the freedom to find his own style and personality I now wish I'd insisted on cutting that emo fringe into a nice tidy short back 'n' sides and forced him to show me his iPod daily so I could replace anything remotely resembling grunge with some nice christian rock.

As usual I had to play both good and bad cop so I said I wouldn't tell his dad about the smoking as long as he stopped immediately but he was still grounded indefinitely for truanting. Two days later, when I got a call to say a teacher had pulled him and two monosyllabic mates out of the town centre and into school at 11am, I put him on poop scoop duty - adding that if he bunked off again not only would the dog would be going on a curry diet but I'd be joining her on it and shitting in the garden every day.

He says he's been smoking for about a year which, in my mind, ties in with when he found about the court case.

I thought I'd got the kids feelings about that shit sorted out, even before my own. I was obviously wrong.

I should probably order some extra Venlafaxine.

Babygirl is taking the piss. She's fast approaching 12 and the arrival of her first period. Which is good, if coming on means she'll calm the fuck down. But not good in the meantime as she rides the hormonal rollercoaster of uncontrollable emotions and I worry my tits off in case she snaps and carries out one of her oft-screamed threats of running away and/or suicide or I snap and assist her in the process.

I'm now getting complaints from the school and other parents as her behaviour deteriorates outside the home as well as in it.

And I'm thinking of taking time to start up a small business?

I should probably order some viagra. I'm gonna get well and truly fucked.

First, the good news

All this studying is really leading somewhere and I'm actually quite pleased at what I can create these days. Things such as...

Sad flowers -

Happy flowers -

Fun flowers -





Fancypants flowers -

Balloons -

And even flowers made from balloons.

At this rate I'll be ready to set up a small business this summer. The bad news, however...

7 month glitch

Bing and I have become a married couple.

It's a culmination of our deep love and respect for each other. A mutual wish to show adoration every day in the little ways that matter in long term relationships.

Making a surprise cuppa for the one that's engrossed in a project with a deadline, giggling as we compete at scrabulous across the room, separate yet together, or at television qiuzzes sitting close enough to playfully slap the other when answers don't match. Sharing a secret smile as we laugh and muck around with the kids or a secret eye-roll as we lay boundaries down yet again during this trying time in their young lives.

Work, college, karate, three kids and a dog, each in their own difficult phases of growing up, extended family and ex partners all create stress that we seek to alleviate in the other. He gives the best massages - proper dig the elbows in stuff that makes the mass in my muscles melt. I give him the perfect buzz cut then spend ages trailing my fingers across his head and watching his brow furrows fall away even as he mentally plans yet another meeting or report. Even the annoying things we do get openly spoken about, laughed at then put where resentment can't set in. It's like we only live to make the other feel better and it's lovely.

Except... me being such a fussy bitch there just has to be an 'except'...

We only have sex when the kids aren't around which is, essentially, once a week. Hence my comparison to a married couple (Oh come on you didn't really think..? Oops. My bad)

I have an annual bonus cheque due soon. Once I've made my donation to One in four (see sidebar for full details) I'll be logging in to lovehoney to find a way to get a very quickie divorce from this situation.

Peace of my mind

For a bubbly, gregarious person, I've always needed a ridiculously large amount of time on my own to retain some semblance of sanity.

Don't get me wrong, I'm hardly a hermit. A true gemini, I absolutely love socialising, communicating, sharing written and spoken language, finding common bonds and understanding differences. People simply fascinate me, to the point where meeting new ones turns me into a baby who's just discovered their own hand with their eyes and connected the two.

I can pick up on the wants and needs of another soul almost immediately; say all the right things, induce all the right feelings to make things better - and all without even thinking about it. Gob opens, words pour out, friendships are cemented. Everyone loves Angie!

I used to see this as a gift. I now wish I'd checked the teeth of that particular horse.

People haven't changed, they're still fascinating and lovable and their 'flaws', as it were, only serve to illuminate that. It's not their fault that I find them emotionally exhausting, it's not that they mean to drain me of every mental resource I possess, I can't blame them for feeling that my recognising the gaps they need filling extends to my filling them.

Which means the buck stops with me.

I thought I'd stopped being a martyr when I cut ties with my mother and informed my siblings that I would no longer parent them, demoting myself to their equal and accepting that I was an emotional orphan. I look around me now and still see a long list of people that rely on me for some kind of emotional support and actually, this is worse.

This time, the situation is of my own making. The image I projected caused this - no accident of birth, no act of abuse, just me being a fussy, independent, look-how-strong-I-am bitch.

My college class consists of women aged 17-63. Every one of whom looks to me to be the funny one who says what needs to be said in a way that gets the point over yet leaves the room smiling. Class rep voting was 18-1. I was the 1.

I did half of my required work experience in a florist during the last holidays. It's an East-end, family run business of many years standing and excellent reputation so I pulled my cockney strings to ensure I got a place even though other students had been turned down. What I experienced taught me nothing about floristry and a lot about me. I know more about management than I gave myself credit for but, judging by the sad looks, warm hugs and 'don't you dare wait till you're next working to come and see us, Babs!', less about how to ration myself in the face of people that are in need of a lift.

I keep hearing myself saying that I'm all peopled out. I've fulfilled my teaching obligations - I'd never let my karate students down no matter what - and I've gone to college all but two days. (in my defence, one of them was when my car broke down so I had no choice in being absent). I've fitted work experience into the holidays and skipped my own karate training for weeks on end thinking that would help but, no.

I still feel all peopled out.

Anyone got a box I could hide in for a while? Preferably soundproof...

Smile!

Feeling down? A little blue? Look what Angie has for you!

Either print this out or hold your laptop in front of a mirror as you grin over the top.

A 992 i
T@WT biquT2
@ pnilim2
9m

Proper post coming soon, honest.

Ch-ch-changes

I have a to-do list as long as a very long thing and I'm mentally running round like a blue arsed fly so what do I do today?

Redesign the blog that I don't have time to post to, obviously!

Blog for life

I run the race for life cos I'm a big supporter of fit tits.

I submitted an entry or four to be considered for this cos I'm a mum who fed her babies with the aforementioned boobs and, from the minute I gave birth to my progeny I became concerned that other people's babies were caught up in shit far worse than me having an existential fucking crisis.

If you're still reading here despite my prolonged, angsty, absences you may dub yourself a true blogger. Which means you - yes, YOU - have something worth saying to someone, somewhere else.

Let's be honest here, we all say that we just wanted a private place to put our thoughts and feelings. But then you get commenters, usually because you've said something they can empathise with. C'mon that's exactly why you blog rather than offline journal, ain't it? In case it touches a nerve in someone else and they comment or mail to say those three little words we all want to hear...

Hey! Me too!

My lovely mate Peachypants has taken this idea, mated it with TD's Shaggy Blog Stories and brain-birthed Bloggers for Charity (I just cant help reading that title in a Smashey n Nicey accent!)

So go on, if you fit the bill and you've ever blogged anything that's made someone else realise they're not the only one or vice versa, send it to Peach and the feisty female editing team and you may get to see it in print.

Oh, also. Pimp the book. Buy the book. Help WARCHILD.

Someone elses mum

The first parent consultation evening of Babygirl's secondary school career. I try desperately not to spluttercoughchoke as I hear how keen she is to help with tidying, then quickly scout around for my stern face when I'm told she's top of the form - for negative notes on the e-behaviour system.

After that we loiter, waiting to be fitted in for a slot with the history teacher we missed our appointment for. Babygirl spies a peer and they do that screamy, huggy thing that young girls do when they've only been in contact by text message for the last two hours. I glance over to mates mum for a shared eye-rolling experience but instead, receive a sharp look and hear "Ah, so you're her mum!"

"Oops, what's she done now?" I ask, wry smile at the ready.

"Oh she's lovely, it's you that drives me mad, all I ever bloody hear is you, you, you"

"Er..."

She mimics a whiny teenage voice, "You're boring. Why can't you be funny and silly like babygirl's mum? I need a haircut, babygirl's mum has cut hers so the layers fall properly even without straighteners, why can't you do that? Babygirl's mum does karate, she kicked some bloke in the head then showed us..."

"But.."

"You're embarrassing. Babygirl's mum isn't a teaching assistant/dinner lady, she does floristing* and you should see what she makes with balloons"

"Yeah, but..."

"This computer is rubbish, Babygirl's mum fixes computers, why don't you ask her to come round and..."

I floundered, my fixed smile more apologetic than wry, and it occurred to me that I should have felt fucking fantastic from such feedback. That, had anyone I knew had the same conversation, I'd be screaming at them to accept the compliment and float on it toward whatever plane they chose to direct their wonderful selves to next.

Me? I took in the light (really light, not orange) tan, perfectly made up face, manicured nails, tall, gym honed body and fashionably well fitted outfit of this other 11 year old girls mum and thought...

Be great or look great. Maybe I made the wrong choice when it comes to feeling great.



*Babygirl has never quite learned the word 'floristry' and, as someone that regularly makes up words to suit her own purpose, I'm happy to use her version.

Carma

Stepdad gave his car to a colleague to keep it running and watched over.

Colleague got nicked for drink driving.

Car is impounded, to be released only to the registered keeper on production of id and vehicle documents.

Registered keeper is in prison until August.

Car is crushed.



Carma.

Life is estrange

I'm sitting here in the midst of an essay about the historical effects of fashion and colour on floral arrangements during the Georgian era, with UKTV fucking Gold in the background. (Don't get me wrong - I love my pink laptop - but willingly admit it's a slight pain not having instant access to my 14gig musical library unless my desktop, nowadays known as the family server, is powered up and playing fair on the household, secured, wireless network.)

Anyway, the original pay good money to watch repeats channel is showing the Royle Family. I just have to look, being that so many people tell me I remind them of Caroline Aherne (yeah, right. At her most alcoholic and on a deep-fried cream cake covered in chocolate diet, maybe) and it's a good show and it's won awards and I can laugh at them when I have time to glance up cos they're funny, right?

Er, not this time. This time I look up to see the builders bums of the 'laminating throughout' scene and get hooked into it. I go on to watch a scene where the ridiculously overburdened Barb puts curlers into the sparse hair of her constantly nitpicking mother; an elderly woman that, feeling her time is near, is finally able to admit she needs to hear that she's not a burden even though she knows that part of her is; a mother that, eventually, tells her downtrodden by caring daughter in a very true and basic fashion that she loves her.

As a script, it's obviously meant to tug on heartstrings - and I'm sure it does to anyone that's ever cared for an elderly parent and prayed for physical weakness to translate into emotional strength.

As the daughter of a fucked-up mum, I don't get it. I wish I did, cos that would mean I was normal. But I don't.

What I do get is an overwhelming, emotional panic. What the fuck will I do when my own, estranged, mother is elderly and approaching death?

RIP Silver Lining Woman

How do people blog so much in the midst of SAD season?

Don't get me wrong, I have blog fodder moments every day - sometimes multiple - but the over-riding fear that posting them would make anyone still reading here sign up to the Bridgend section of Bebo makes me click delete rather than save or publish.

'Cos I can't make depression sound mysterious and glamorous like Ms R can, nor can I cope with any more guilt right now.