So the final countdown begins about now; which is kind of
funny since I will be at work tomorrow morning!
But come lunch time, if there is anyone standing between me and the door
– be it on their head!
The art of dating when you are in your 40’s is a perilous, soul destroying mission. I blame my misfortune with men on the 'fairy tale factor'... That never ending belief that love conquers all and that one day a prince will come. Reality isn't even close to the fairy tale. Especially when the prince doesn’t just come with baggage – he comes with a bitter, money grubbing ex-wife clinging to his back like a hump.
Monday, May 14, 2012
The Final Countdown
As the end of the work day rolls around, I’m beginning to
feel a small measure of excitement that comes with going on leave. I don’t even have to be going somewhere! Just being able to relax, unwind and do some
stuff around the house will be fantastic!
Saturday, May 12, 2012
I don’t want to Play House!
Saturday rolls around and once again, it looks like I’ve had
a house full of hobos all week! And not
tidy hobos either! So my whole weekend
is damned by the fact that I have to get up and CLEAN! Sheesh! I don't want to play house!
Next week’s itinerary looks better:
Monday – Work
Tuesday – Work in the morning; funeral in the afternoon
(well that bit of the week isn’t fun…)
Wednesday – Off to Daylesford with my best friend to be
pampered at a Spa; followed by dinner
and copious amounts of champagne.
Thursday – More pampering…
More champagne.
Friday – Home – just in time to start a week of
holidays! Yay!
Oh stuff it. I’ll
clean next week!
Thursday, May 10, 2012
Please sir, can I have more…
The Harridan has a new little insult that she pitches like a
hand grenade over a fence at the Squeeze.
She always finishes her messages with a standard line; she always has. The lines may have changed over the years, but the sentiment is there to stay. No; it’s not ‘love, the Harridan’. Nor is it, ‘regards, the nutjob’. It has always centred around something about his lack of ability as a father; or his penis size; or a threat of… I never quite worked out what.
It was never actually specific, like “or I’ll gut you!” Instead, it was usually along the lines of “if you did blah blah, you just made a big mistake!!!!” They have always been threatening without actually threatening; and written phonetically so that it has a vibe that is both harsh and guttural.
But the new final words of any text/email are a childish: ‘if you are allowed.’
If you are allowed… How old is this woman..? Twelve?
So it would appear that she has missed the fact that the Squeeze is a fully grown man and therefore able to make his own decisions and judgements. Don’t get me wrong, I have no problems at all in having my say, neither does he; but we are each responsible for our own decisions.
She always finishes her messages with a standard line; she always has. The lines may have changed over the years, but the sentiment is there to stay. No; it’s not ‘love, the Harridan’. Nor is it, ‘regards, the nutjob’. It has always centred around something about his lack of ability as a father; or his penis size; or a threat of… I never quite worked out what.
It was never actually specific, like “or I’ll gut you!” Instead, it was usually along the lines of “if you did blah blah, you just made a big mistake!!!!” They have always been threatening without actually threatening; and written phonetically so that it has a vibe that is both harsh and guttural.
But the new final words of any text/email are a childish: ‘if you are allowed.’
If you are allowed… How old is this woman..? Twelve?
So it would appear that she has missed the fact that the Squeeze is a fully grown man and therefore able to make his own decisions and judgements. Don’t get me wrong, I have no problems at all in having my say, neither does he; but we are each responsible for our own decisions.
The day he cut his Moodle lead and stopped creeping up to
the Harridan like Oliver asking for more, was the day he could take back responsibility
for his own life and decisions. Hanging
up the lead meant that no longer did he have to sit on her knee with her hand
up his arse, moving his mouth for him.
Puppet, he was no longer.
So I guess what she really means is ‘now that you are no longer the whipped dog that I can order around…’
I like it! She is admitting a loss of control.
Granted, she is accusatorial. It’s as though she thinks I must have taken over her role as the ventriloquist. She sees that I am now in control of his words because she doesn’t understand a relationship that doesn’t work that way.
Little does she know that if I wanted a Moodle, I’d buy myself a dog.
So I guess what she really means is ‘now that you are no longer the whipped dog that I can order around…’
I like it! She is admitting a loss of control.
Granted, she is accusatorial. It’s as though she thinks I must have taken over her role as the ventriloquist. She sees that I am now in control of his words because she doesn’t understand a relationship that doesn’t work that way.
Little does she know that if I wanted a Moodle, I’d buy myself a dog.
Tuesday, May 8, 2012
That Didn’t Take Long
I’m about to turn 50. Now what the hell is that about? Twenty
seconds ago, I was 18! Ten seconds ago I was thirty and worried
because my head felt the same as it did twenty seconds ago, but things on the
outside were starting to slide. That didn’t seem fair at all!
And now I’m going to be 50.
I’m having a small party, but I have to admit, my heart just isn’t in it. The Squeeze pushed me to have something (if not, he would get the blame for me not having a party!) but it just seemed like too much drama and too much money really. I agreed, mainly because people kept asking what I was doing. Hell, I didn’t want to appear so ‘unloved’ that I’d sit at home on my 50th birthday because I couldn’t find anyone to party with!
There are a thousand restaurants in Oakleigh. The ones I liked didn’t have a separate room to accommodate thirty or so (not to mention the Squeeze turning pale at the cost). The ones that could fit them, I didn’t like as much. Seems like just a few too many people to squash into home (not to mention the work involved) and not enough people to hire a hall.
My guest list is obviously the hellish number for party planners. Then I ran out of time. So we are having it at home. Great…
My suggestion for getting it catered for caused a ‘Squeeze adverse reaction’. When I told him the cost of the alcohol, his hair turned a shade grayer. He’ll have a conniption when we do the food shopping, I’m sure. I haven’t even started on decorations…
Every suggestion has been “too expensive” and his return volley of a suggestion is equivalent to me suggesting a case of Moet for each person and he suggesting a bottle of cranberry juice and a bag of crisps!
And every so often, I remember the pictures of the Harridan’s 50th. A smiling Squeeze in various shots with groups of people. Big hall; drinks flowing; speeches. They had all the peripherals that make up a great party – even down to the Highland frigging dancers.
And I’m supposed to have a bottle of cranberry juice and a bag of crisps..?
And now I’m going to be 50.
I’m having a small party, but I have to admit, my heart just isn’t in it. The Squeeze pushed me to have something (if not, he would get the blame for me not having a party!) but it just seemed like too much drama and too much money really. I agreed, mainly because people kept asking what I was doing. Hell, I didn’t want to appear so ‘unloved’ that I’d sit at home on my 50th birthday because I couldn’t find anyone to party with!
There are a thousand restaurants in Oakleigh. The ones I liked didn’t have a separate room to accommodate thirty or so (not to mention the Squeeze turning pale at the cost). The ones that could fit them, I didn’t like as much. Seems like just a few too many people to squash into home (not to mention the work involved) and not enough people to hire a hall.
My guest list is obviously the hellish number for party planners. Then I ran out of time. So we are having it at home. Great…
My suggestion for getting it catered for caused a ‘Squeeze adverse reaction’. When I told him the cost of the alcohol, his hair turned a shade grayer. He’ll have a conniption when we do the food shopping, I’m sure. I haven’t even started on decorations…
Every suggestion has been “too expensive” and his return volley of a suggestion is equivalent to me suggesting a case of Moet for each person and he suggesting a bottle of cranberry juice and a bag of crisps!
And every so often, I remember the pictures of the Harridan’s 50th. A smiling Squeeze in various shots with groups of people. Big hall; drinks flowing; speeches. They had all the peripherals that make up a great party – even down to the Highland frigging dancers.
And I’m supposed to have a bottle of cranberry juice and a bag of crisps..?
Strangely; I’m not looking forward to it.
Friday, May 4, 2012
Wrestling… Kill Me Now
As soon as the Squeeze came through the front door, the
television was on and one of his creepy, old, 1980’s wrestling DVD’s was life
size on the new big screen. I should
point out that these classics are not easy to find. He needs to import them via other creepy, old
guys in the states.
If I mention in a blog that the Squeeze is keen in wrestling – and I have several times previously, I don’t think anyone understands the full impact of that statement.
As a reader, you would miss the visual, which is a thing to behold really. It’s not horror exactly… But it is pretty horrific. We are talking a world of really fat guys who are play acting with less finesse than I did 40 years ago when I wrestled the kids to the ground and threatened to dribble on them to the accompaniment of their squeals and peals of laughter. And when I think back to those times, those little buggers put up a pretty good fight.
But back to the fat guys… There are obese men with mullets; oiled up to highlight that muffin top (which is really more like a high loaf tin) that is spilling over the top of their lycra. They are wearing glittery speedos, Elvis costumes, camouflage, bad facial hair and studs and buckles to the point where they look like they just slipped out of the basement in Pulp Fiction.
There is Mr T, Hulk Hogan, Macho Man and the Texas Tornado. There is Rowdy Roddy Piper, Honky Tonk Man and Greg the Hammer.
It is a cult. It is an obsession. It scares me.
If I mention in a blog that the Squeeze is keen in wrestling – and I have several times previously, I don’t think anyone understands the full impact of that statement.
As a reader, you would miss the visual, which is a thing to behold really. It’s not horror exactly… But it is pretty horrific. We are talking a world of really fat guys who are play acting with less finesse than I did 40 years ago when I wrestled the kids to the ground and threatened to dribble on them to the accompaniment of their squeals and peals of laughter. And when I think back to those times, those little buggers put up a pretty good fight.
But back to the fat guys… There are obese men with mullets; oiled up to highlight that muffin top (which is really more like a high loaf tin) that is spilling over the top of their lycra. They are wearing glittery speedos, Elvis costumes, camouflage, bad facial hair and studs and buckles to the point where they look like they just slipped out of the basement in Pulp Fiction.
There is Mr T, Hulk Hogan, Macho Man and the Texas Tornado. There is Rowdy Roddy Piper, Honky Tonk Man and Greg the Hammer.
It is a cult. It is an obsession. It scares me.
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