Fussy Bitch: January 2008

Sis had a weekend away and popped in to me afterward to collect Nephew E.

"I've got you something..." she said as she prepared to leave, "it was so you I couldn't resist"

In the bag she hands me is a t-shirt.

It's black but feels like soft, quality cotton and does have some of my signature pink in the form of the breast cancer campaign ribbon and snazzy slogan. Being a proud Race for Life runner and owner of a decent pair of babyfeeders, having close ancestors that haven't and a close friend that has beaten this disease, it's well known in my circles that I'm a, er, firm advocate of ladies keeping their tits fit.

Sis proudly points out the internal 'invisible' support that she knows I favour on days I need to either strap the girls down even more than usual (mums race at school sports day, anyone?) or let them out of their standard under-wired, cantilevered prisons without scaring the horses (cos what PMS really stands for is Painful Mammary Section!)

"See? It supports you and your favourite charity!" she exclaims.

I thank her for her thoughtfulness and she goes back to her arsehole husband (formerly known as beefy BIL), obviously hoping that she'd at least begun to make up somewhat for the slap he put on my son.*

It wasn't till a couple of hours later, upon realising I was back at college the next day so needed to make sure there was something other than school uniform fit to wear in public, that I returned to the bag.

And noticed as I removed the labels that they stated, in very large print -

Post Surgery Clothing.

Comfort and style after mastectomy.

Wow. Thanks, sis!

*Not a fucking chance, I'm still steaming fucking mad and it ain't going nowhere no time soon. This particular episode has only exacerbated my quiet, dangerous rage cos not only is it not up to her to apologise - it's up to that arrogant, depressed, non-self-aware, apron string attached bully - but also because I am not, simply by virtue of being an adult, the person that deserves the apology, Babyboy is.

It's been busy.

Sis A and Sis B went to court over Nephew E. It's a long story that involves social workers, methadone programs, DNA testing and various other things you see on Jerry Springer and can't quite believe are peoples real lives.
Bing arrived to stay for almost three weeks over christmas. I didn't run away screaming.
Bing met Sis B. And didn't run back up north screaming.
Sis A had yet another marriage crisis. This time, due to her husband slapping Babyboy. Yep, my Babyboy. I'm not talking her towards communication and compromise anymore.
Bing and I were crossing a car park whilst christmas shopping when 'faaaaacking 'ell that's Aaaangie!' rang out in the loudest, broadest cockney accent you ever heard unless you've been daan the Roman*. Thus, Bing met the stepmother I've not seen in a decade, my half sister, her husband and two children. Typically, they were in the car that we'd been laughing at cos it was so badly parked.
Christmas. My best one, ever. The kids were majorly happy with the Wii that their dad and I had tracked down and not paid stupid money for, No 1 Son cooked a not bad at all dinner like he'd promised, everyone played Wii together just like the happy families on the adverts and, as a bonus, I didn't have to watch shite on the telly. Which I didn't have time for anyway cos I was busy setting up my new, PINK, LAPTOP! Bing and the boys had wound me up for weeks that I'd never guess his gift to me and they were right cos I've never had such a fabulous present. As if that wasn't enough he also got me a pink laptop bag as a gift from the kids knowing that their dad doesn't always think of things like that. I don't know what I did to deserve this man but I do know I'm bloody well keeping him!
Christmas, again. Upon opening yet more gifts from Bing I stifle a laugh when I find Hamster's book. I'd bought him exactly the same thing.
Bing and I drive up north overnight to check his mail and make sure the house was still standing. Oh and go see his mates here so they could meet the woman keeping him away every weekend for the last four months. My ex-husband stays over at my house to watch the kids and dog, all very civilised.
No 1 Son turns 16. The usual restaurant dinner with sis and her family is an obvious no-go since the incident with Babyboy but she's subtle about it and says she's going to her mother in laws to keep the peace over the season and will pop round later. Me, Bing, ex-husband and three kids have a fine ol' time and a lovely dinner together. We had very attentive service from various waiting staff so I can only assume they were running a book on whether we were civilised or I was polyamorous. Lucky for me, ex-husband can't spell it.
Sis comes round for birthday cake with her kids. And the husband. Babyboy disappears upstairs, I sit on the sofa seething and making stilted conversation through gritted teeth for her sake. I don't think I hid my resentment very well as they didn't stay long.
New Years Eve was spent at home watching Life of Brian, Bing and I laughing more at Babyboys giggles than the film we've both seen loads of times. I'd had a mail from Helen (Babyboys mate's mum) to say she really did want to throw another house party on condition I was available but as she was, in fact, planning to leave her husband as soon as possible, thought it inappropriate. To date, her husband still doesn't know that she and the kids are stealth packing their belongings and she already has a place to live lined up. Good luck to her - he's a miserable, pan throwing arse and she's worth so much more.
New Years Day saw me driving to Portsmouth to meet Bing's parents and brother/his family. As if driving 3 hours south to meet northerners wasn't confusing enough, the mix of accents once we got there was mind boggling! Somehow we all managed to learn each others names and make ourselves understood, had a lovely meal and generally appeared to get on like a house on fire. I knew though, that the post mortem was the important bit and it wasn't till he got a text later that night from his brother saying 'Good choice! Thumbs up all round from everyone here' that I breathed a sigh of relief at passing the family test.
When I thought my beloved dog was in season last month I did all the responsible dog owning things like not road walking her at peak times or training/socialising her in the park. Other than that it wasn't as bad as I'd been led to believe it could be so I counted myself lucky and made a mental note to arrange a vet visit and have her spayed.
Turns out she wasn't in season then. Cos she really, absolutely, no mistaking, is now.
Ick. I'm not sure what's worse, cleaning that off the carpets or seeing her lick herself clean...

* Roman Road market, Bow, E3. Course, it's overblown cockneyfied for tourist profit these days but it still holds a place in my heart ever since the days my real dad lived in the pub on the corner and we were the only kids allowed to be in such a proper old fashioned Eastend boozer. This not only meant we got to eat crispy roast potatoes from the bar on sunday lunchtimes but also that sis and I were encouraged to take the stage when the turn had his break and perform our daft song and dance routines for tips.