Saturday, July 21, 2012
Thank God, every so often I have the unenviable task of squiffing off to a jazz night featuring Kid 1 on piano. For me, these nights are really just about ‘support’; clapping at the end of each instrumental cacophony is just a way to relieve the monotony. If I didn’t have these nights, what would I write about..?
Don’t get me wrong; the kid is talented on piano. I just can’t quite comprehend jazz and I see now, that I never will. And I’m okay with that.
So this was never going be a fun, action packed night. I tried to lessen the blow by dragging a long-time friend who I knew wasn’t adverse to a little jazz but more importantly, liked wine. Of course waking up that morning with a killer migraine seriously wasn’t going to add to the overall experience.
I had questioned the Squeeze earlier re the Harridan, because I seriously didn’t want to deal with the fake queen for a night; and my migraine comes an inability to colour things or just ‘suck it up’ for the good of mankind. I’m more apt to just go off the cuff and call a spade a spade. Not that I don’t believe the cow needs a put down. Of course he is clueless; at least that is what he is telling me.
So I drag myself out of bed and throw on a pair of jeans. Hell, I felt so bad that I didn’t even shower and wash my hair. We go out for dinner to a place where the seating meant conversation was impossible, the lasagne tasted salty and to add to my mood, they didn’t sell alcohol (wtf is that about..?)
Then it’s off to the jazz. Yay. Oh be still my beating heart!
My head is pounding along to the vapid drummer who seems to do no more than brush a tiny weeny little drum with a twig and look proud of himself; and a guy on the cello (at least that is what I think it is) moves his head continuously to the point where I’m mesmerised – it’s like a toy dog in the back window ledge of a car.
And I’m counting songs; counting down the time until I can get the hell out of there. This place is small and reminds me of a cartoon when I was a kid, three little pigs (in berets if I remember) and a wolf who was the jazz player. The crowd – maybe twenty people in all; have thick black rimmed glasses and black skivvies – idiots; and if you dare to speak, you get scowled at.
And then the Harridan arrives, with a cast of thousands including the fifteen year old (way to go, mother of the year – let’s drag a kid out to an adult night of jazz, on a school night no less) and a velvet wearing sister. I just slunk further into my chair and count down the songs until I can get the hell out of there.
I didn’t bother to turn around and speak to her. I don’t like her. At least I’m honest.
Then utter bliss comes with the end of the first set and I’m instantly on my feet and hankering to be gone. I can almost taste those migraine tablets on my tongue.
A quick scan of the room shows we can make it to the door without the enforced company of the witch and we slink down the stairs and out into the night – only to come face to face with the Harridan, some kids, the velvet wearing sister and a “good male friend” who is not the “why can’t I just die” husband – and the show begins.
She drags him into the tight little circle which ensures I am left out in the cold. The sister makes a song and dance of introducing me and saying my name not once – but four times. Yeah… got it… that’s my name… You’re so damned clever….
And then the Harridan pulls the Squeeze by the arm, drags him into the circle and plants a kiss on him and laughs.
And the fool that I live with is too stupid to actually put her on the spot. Too half-witted to mention the fact that last week she is sending text messages that say “don’t you f***ing come near my house!!!!!!!” That this bitch hates him! That she would love nothing more than to push her hand through his chest cavity and rip out his still beating heart?????
Where the hell did I get this moron from????
Posted by Mistress at 12:53 PM