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?