Must. Act. Normal. (An Irish potato hinged Fairytale.)

According to a person with absolutely no identity, who I am unable to describe for fear of retribution, but whom I can say with absolute certainty, is gorgeous, lovely caring, funny and a total babe.

‘The Irish one is as sexy as hell’

After I had collected my eyebrows off the ceiling and settled my features back in to a look of agreement, instead of complete shock, this person then went on to tell me that somehow, he seems to have created for himself, in the work arena, the arena where the air conditioning is either set too ‘Nippletastic’ or ‘Sahara desert at noon,’ a place where the phones never stop ringing and the girls are all younger, prettier and more fun, the arena I am not allowed to talk about really;

‘A bit of a fan club.’

The person is female too.

He made me put that in there.  (He is delighted I am writing about this of course.)

‘It isn’t that I am homophobic or anything’ he clarifies from behind me ‘but just make it clear to all of your readers, that it is actual women that are after me ok? Lots and lots of real life women.’

‘Yes darling’ I murmur regretting the moment I opened my laptop and decided on this post ‘yes of course I will.’

‘LOADS of women’ he expands on his point ‘Maybe hundreds!’

And with that, as I hide a deep sigh and surreptitiously role my eyes, he positively swaggers off in to the kitchen, wearing, just for the record, a pair of tatty boxers and a t-shirt displaying Addison’s regurgitated chocolate all down the front.

A part of me is surprised he didn’t burp loud and proud on the way out.

Would I describe him as sexy as hell?

I’ll claim the fifth on that at the moment.

The conversation got me to thinking though, after I had got over the initial shock of how quickly it had digressed from work talk in to a lust fest, which weirdly seems to be the effect I am having on a fair few conversations at the moment (I think I may be on heat) had giggled, stared at her disbelievingly, pinched myself to make sure I somehow hadn’t found myself in a dream belonging to the Irish One himself and guffawed loudly.

Is he gorgeous?

I mean I know when I met him I must have thought so because I put in some serious effort you know?

A fact the Irish One never fails to remind me of.

I had been off sick at work with a terrible bout of flu (ahem… hangover) and upon my return, as I was busy stalking down the office in my spice girl heels thinking I was the business and just a little bit nervous at having been off sick and wondering what may await me from my boss, I noticed immediately that in my absence, a new boy with blonde hair and quite a nice bum has been installed in to the seat opposite my desk.

Turning the corner and sitting myself down wondering what his face may look like, but scared to look up having just been caught checking out his bum as he picked something off the floor, I heard his voice for the first time and I have to say my heart sank.

I am an absolute sucker for an accent.

I knew, you see, as soon as I heard it, without even looking at his face, that I would now have to make an effort to look half decent in work.

‘Tanks for kallllinnnnnn…’

He murmured down the phone to a customer before hanging up and looking up at me trying to make eye contact, which was a little awkward as by this point I was a pile of embarrassed, nervous, flushed, floppy mush, salivating and shuddering on the floor.

The new boy was well fit. I had to make him mine.

I had a plan.

It went like this;

Must. Act. Normal.

Must. Make. Him. Want. Me.

So of course, typically for me over the next few days as I struggled to appear busy and important,  (to show him I had a brain) sophisticated (to show him I had style,) elegant (to show him I was a lady,) fun and carefree (to show him I could be an animal in bed,) classy (to show him he could take me home to meet his mother,) tasteful (to show him I was interested in him,) refined, (to show him the animal, would all be for him) chic (to prove he absolutely wanted me too) what actually happened was very different.

Instead of the above, I actually bumbled around like a flaming imbecile, my brain too full of things I wanted to be, to even focus on who I was actually being. (A complete knob, to show him, I was a complete knob.)

I was like a walking disaster any time he was within my general vicinity.

I tripped up and head butted the corner of my desk, I spilt coffee all down my front while wearing a white blouse (blouse – who am I my dad? Shirt I meant shirt), I walked in to a wall while I was trying to see if he was looking at me (which he was- brilliant.) I trapped my finger in my desk drawer and couldn’t help but shout ‘poo’ at top volume (very classy,) I made completely idiotic irrelevant jokes that made no sense, talked completed bollocks and spent the entire time in his presence, glowing bright, red hot, red.

I was a beacon of stupidity.

In the end though I just got sick of all the waiting, trying and failing and just dived in.

‘Sexy accent hot rod, you busy Friday night?’

Ok, those weren’t the actual words I used, as I probably would have been fired, me being a manager and all, but I did ask him out surreptitiously and bravely!!

Dear Irish one.

Are you new in town? I want your babies.

Very brave and sure to get his attention, I thought.

The bastard turned me down.

Not one to give up though I asked him again.

‘Sexy accent hot rod, you busy Friday night?’

Much to my horror he turned me down AGAIN.

I couldn’t understand it.

Doesn’t every man want a woman in a short skirt that will walk in to a wall for him?

Not one to give up, and now seeing this as a challenge, I decided to befriend him instead, listen to his woe’s and then pounce on him when he was vulnerable.

It worked.

He would be telling me all about his life and his problems without really noticing how my tops were becoming more low cut and my skirts more thigh hugging.

He would be explaining to me, in great detail, why the English were a nation the Irish would never trust but that he loved living here without noticing my perfume was becoming more enticing and my lips more pouty.

He would be raving about his favourite band and his hopes for the future without noticing that gradually I had began to insert myself in to it.

It didn’t take long before he asked me out.

See? Genius.

They always like to think it is their idea don’t they? I don’t know why I didn’t think of that in the first instance.

Our first date, however did not go well.

‘You ok in a pub like this?’ he asked as I tottered, all dressed up and excited, in to a pub that can only be described as a toilet.

‘Yes of course I am!’ I laughed trying to mask my horror at the filth of the place and of the people dressed in boiler suits now leering at me dressed completely inappropriately in stupidly high heels and another tiny skirt. ‘Of course!’

What then proceeded to happen will go down in history as the worst date ever.

He went to the toilet and a weirdo in a boiler suit tried to feel me up.

I called him a bad word and he left. (The wierdo in a boiler suit, not the Irish one. That would have been a terrible date… And one I suppose I have experienced many times before!)

I did not tell the Irish One.

I wanted the date to be perfect.

He went to the bar.

A weirdo in a boiler suit started whispering death threats at me.

I told him he looked like a turd and turned back around.

I did not tell the Irish One.

I wanted the date to be perfect.

He went to the cigarette machine.

Before any of the ‘hills have eyes cast’ could abuse me further I glanced around and hissed;

‘Don’t any of you dare, I have been waiting for his date forever and if you fuck it up I swear to god you will regret it! Leave me alone you bunch of not rights! Go crawl back in to your skips for the night! I am a woman with a plan, and I don’t need you messing it up!’

Luckily for me they did leave me alone from then on.

Unlucky for me, however, and to this day without him really knowing why, they then started on the Irish one.

He still has no idea why he was punched in the face that night and I still deny I had anything to do with it.

He made me wait 6 weeks for sex after that though.

6 whole weeks.

Which was a lot for me as I was taught at the; ‘if you have sex with a guy a.s.a.p he will fall in love with you’ school of self-esteem.

6. WHOLE. WEEKS.

Turns out he had a plan too.

He didn’t just want to be a one-night stand.  (What does that say about me eh? Eh? Lets not go there…)

It worked too, except now I suppose; he is lucky if he gets it across a period of 6. Whole. Months.

But seriously?

When did I forget he is actually quite desirable?

Was it when he was looking up my flute at the baby’s head?

Was it while I was screaming at him for help during my 68-hour labour and got the response that he was busy making a ham and mustard butty ‘to keep him going’?

Was it when I was trying not to lamp him with the side of the high chair for being a lazy bugger?

Was it at 3am when we would throw filthy looks at one another during the long nights of colic?

Or was it when I was admitted in to hospital and he supported my son and I through all of that, and I totally began to take him for granted?

Yesterday as I was looking for something warm to wear to an out door event and he was busy pestering me, and chasing Addy around, it began to dawn on me.

‘Should I wear this?’ I asked hoping I wasn’t coming across like a pleb.

‘A body warmer?’ he exclaimed like I was an idiot,  ‘No you will still be cold, and I don’t want to have to hear you moaning for the next 3 hours, put a coat on for the love of god!’

Of course, I thought, looking at him through the eyes of someone else.

He is gorgeous (if not a little grumpy.)

‘Am I making a fool of myself with you here?’ I asked worried all of a sudden, ‘should I be acting all cool and put together to keep you interested? You have a fan club!’

‘Lexy’ he laughed grabbing my hand ‘I have known you 4 long years. I have seen your uterus splash on to an operating table, I have witnessed you pissing yourself while lying in bed’ (yeah thanks for bring that up) ‘and I have shared with you the most incredible journey of my entire life. I love you. NOW GO PUT ON A SODDING COAT!’

I didn’t.

I wore the body warmer, and he did have to listen to me moan all night, it’s called a relationship.

But you know what?

Having bore (beared/bored?!) this all in mind, The Irish one may actually be getting some tonight if he can shut up about potatoes for long enough.

And now he really does have a swagger on.

‘Irish One!’ I shout after him realising once again he has peeped over my shoulder ‘I said may be getting some.. may….’

He doesn’t hear me, he is too busy celebrating.

It’s been a while.

Passion is the Genesis of Genius.

I am a genius.

A genius wearing more colours today than is strictly necessary on account of having to get dressed in the dark, due to an electricity failure in the bedroom coupled with the fact that yesterday, in a moment of sheer madness I bought myself some new clothes and wanted to wear them all at the same time, in preparation for today’s therapy session, but a genius nevertheless.

There is something about a new top, or a new cardigan, or new trousers that really make me feel special. Yes I cant afford them, and yes I told the lady to forget the bag so the Irish one wouldn’t see me coming home weighed down by more credit card debt, but oh it is so worth it.

Wearing new clothes I feel, I don’t know, special, attractive, young and well…unburdened by the everyday humdrum of depression and the unrelenting routine of motherhood.

Do you know what I mean?

My new top meant I didn’t mind when I woke up to find the light switch had given up, the very thought of it sat there, waiting to be worn, motivated me to get dressed even though I couldn’t see what I was doing and once again, experienced the seemingly monthly inconvenience of bounding out of bed to the dulcet tones of my baby screeching, directly on to an upturned plug.

My new top closed it’s ears to me swearing at the Irish one and threatening, like one may do a teenager, to throw out his items if he didn’t pick them up!

(This year alone, I have stood on three upturned plugs. THREE. I will need surgery if it happens again. SURGERY!!!)

My new cardigan meant I didn’t mind when I let Doodle out and he wandered back in, while I was in the kitchen trying to find the coffee I finally remembered to buy, muddy footed and jumped straight on the sofa to eat Addison’s toast.

The thought of my new trousers, waiting patiently in the cupboard for the day when I eventually shed the last few muffins worth of top, did not however, keep  me focused on happiness, when I stepped in to the shower and found myself shin deep in used grubby and bitty Irish water.

My home is slowly falling to pieces, much like my mind, but unlike when I try and fix my faulty mind, I am able to think logically, unlike the man in my life, and rectify the wrong doing in a matter of moments.

The drain has been blocked in the bathtub for weeks. (Ok, so maybe not moments, but I got there in the end.)

Threatening to buy a plunger, call a plumber and buy some drain unblocker for weeks, I finally gave up on the Irish one and took matters in to my own capable and shaking hands. (I think my meds need tweaking. I am currently walking around shaking like an old Volvo going up a hill, and can literally do nothing about it.

‘Are you ok?’ The woman at starbucks asked me yesterday when she handed me my coffee and I proceeded to scatter it, like one would someone’s ashes, all over myself.

‘Yes’ I replied smiling and thinking on my feet ‘I’ve just had a shock that’s all’  which I thought was probably a better response than ‘Yeah it’s just the concoction of anti-psychotic med’s I am taking to stop me going completely mad that make me shake.’

Turns out I should have been honest.

‘Oh no what happened?’ she asked nosily.

And of course I had to make something up on the spot.

‘I thought someone had stolen my son, but then realised they hadn’t.’

First thing I could think of. (Which does actually happen on occasion though in fairness. Again it is the meds.)

‘OH my god!’ she gushed ‘Where is he?’

‘At home with his dad’ and I shrugged.

I left her looking confused and fled. She may think I am an idiot, but she is completely unawares of my genius status, so I will let her off.)

Sometimes though, I do wonder why my brain doesn’t step in and gag my mouth in times like this, but genius that I am, I can only cope with so much.

Wearing my new top, my new cardi and promising my new trousers I would see them soon, I took drastic action on the plughole.

There are only so many times I can listen to ‘I promise to fix it tommorrow’ off himself, especially when I am knee deep in his Gak so I seized the hoover nozzle off the Dyson, and yes I know the correct term is vacuum but it’s a hoover ok? Just like a tampon will always be a Tampax to me, even if it isn’t. Life is too short to split hairs, which actually brings me to my point nicely, and stuck it over the plughole.

With a whoosh and a phaaalunk 7 years worth of hair (sorry if you are eating right now) was sucked up by the magic flute and hey presto!! The drain was unblocked.

Now I know this isn’t an inspiring tale of recovery or a poignant tale of woe but still, it felt important enough to share. (I am in therapy in an hour, so I promise the next one will be better.)

As I looked down at the ‘hoover’ now grumbling and whining, sodden and severely pissed off at being used as a make shift plumber, horns and trumpets started celebrating my ingenious plan.

The water ran down that plug hole like horses galloping towards a finish line at the grand national!

I was victorious.

Too too too toooot!!!

And yes ok, now the hoover smells like something died in it, and yes maybe with it being an electrical item it probably wasn’t the best idea to plunge it in to a bath of water but hey! My hairy shins are now free from second hand water, and that feels marvellous!

I do sometimes wonder about the need for the Irish one.

If Doodle could get a job, I would probably marry him, to be honest.

Because my man, can do a job…eventually, if he has all the right equipment, and the right light, the universe is pulling in the right direction and it is a Tuesday in May, but sometimes, just sometimes, it isn’t worth the wait.

Especially when one owns a Dyson.

If you want a job doing?

Get me round.

I am a genius.

Anyway, I am off to therapy… and then I need to call an electrician about the bedroom lights… or do I?

Hmmmm.

Separation, Desperation and a Broken Washer.

This weekend I am home alone.

Which is why when the washing machine decided to go on an unscheduled sabbatical to an ashram somewhere in the West Indies (or somewhere equally as laid back as it has clearly decided life in my kitchen is too stressful) I took matters in to my own hands and decided to call a man to get it fixed.

‘Hello? Is this A1 Fixing Stuff?’

‘Yeah’ (yawn)

‘My washer is broke can you come fix it please?’ (Furrowed brow at the lack of his professionalism.)

‘Yeah what’s your address?’ (Creepy scream voice followed by another yawn.)

I gave it to him. (Thinking I probably shouldn’t be, and yawned back.)

‘Are you home alone?’

‘Eh?’ (Concerned now.)

‘I mean, will you be home about 2? I will bring a colleague with me.’

At this point, as he began to sound like Dial a Danger, and I seriously began worrying that I had called 1-800 porno handy men, it was the way he said colleague, I instantly got visions of them turning up ‘We are here to fix your washer missis!’ wearing dungarees and carrying huge…. anyway, I changed my mind about letting him come (stop it) and decided not to get murdered while the Irish one was away.

‘You know what?’ I gushed kicking myself for divulging my address so freely ‘My husband who plays rugby and just got back from passing his black belt exam at kick boxing, just managed to fix it, thanks anyway!’

And I hung up, to the sound of his disgruntled goodbye’s before wondering why I thought it would be ok to invite a random ‘handy man’ off the internet, in to my home, to have a good nosy at the inside of my flat, while there is only me and my wobbly belly and no jujitsu training available here, just because he had advertised he was ‘handy.’

He may not have been a murderer (he wasn’t listed as one, I checked, although I am not sure murderers list themselves as murderers to be honest, as I would imagine if they did, they wouldn’t get much work) but I couldn’t take the chance.

I am too busy to be murdered this weekend.

And honestly think of the mess? I have only just mopped up the last crime scene. (Doodle. Need I say more? Would it be wrong to use a champagne cork to … never mind. I am pretty sure it would be, and the last thing I need as well as a murderer and a porn star on my door step is the RSPCA.)

So when I say home alone, I mean in the most obvious sense.

I will be completely alone, to behave as I please, to make decisions as I see fit, to run naked, wobbly and free in a meadow of long grass shouting ‘I’m free, I’m finally freeee!’ (If I so chose), while both the teething child that never lets go of my leg, and the Poodle with the leaky anal cyst, trail behind me wondering what time dinner will be served at, and at any point will we be considering leaving the house?

When I get hungry and No.

So not completely alone (for all you killers out there.)

But as alone as I am going to get at this juncture.

And I lied when I told the handy predator from A1 Fixing Stuff that I had a Husband. I don’t. I have an Irish One. But we aren’t married, choosing instead to live in sin for a couple of years while he decides if I am worth it or not.

(I ripped my arse open the day before your birthday and delivered you a healthy (ish) son for god sake!! What more does a girl have to do around here!!! Buy me a bloody ring! I don’t care how they do it where you are from, but where I am from, when a girl rips her bumhole open in the name of love, you buy her a new ring!! A new ring with diamonds on!!)

He is from Dublin, the Irish one, in case you were wondering, as I have been for the last 3 years, (I swear he said he was from Cork!) and has asked me to tell you that he would be more than happy to regale you with stories about the potato famine, about how his country have suffered at the hands of my country (Spain??) for trillions of years, and how amazing the floozy in the Jacuzzi is (not me on this occasion) anytime you want.

(May I suggest this as a viable solution to insomnia? It has worked wonders for me honestly, I had to call him every night from the mental institution due to the fact none of the anti psychotics they prescribed were nearly as effective as re-living the last 20 years of Irelands history again, so if you struggle to sleep, give him a call.)

*Just to be clear here, I am not and never will slate Ireland, or their history. I love the country and I adore the people, I just liken it to the first time I watched toy story and loved it, but by the millionth time, I was ready to rip my eyes out, take to my ears with a rusty knife and feed all four of them to the dog. The same rule applies here.

I have to admit though, as much as I will miss the romantic pillow talk I usually have to endure really enjoy about moldy potato’s and some bloke who signed a piece of paper that started a revolution a few decades ago (or something) and how to make Coddle (Boiled sausages, chicken cuppa soup, Oxo cube) I am actually really looking forward to this chance to do the lone living mum thing. (And have the remote all to myself for a full three nights!)

Even though I am not used to being home alone, so am a bit creeped out, Addison isn’t feeling very well so I will probably need some assistance in the night and we will be wearing the same clothes for the entire weekend due to the lack of my desire to be snuffed out, dowsed in hot oil and extinguished (or however ‘handy’ murderers do these things- I don’t know, it wasn’t listed) from not having the washer fixed and some random in Salford now knows where I live and that I am probably alone, and actually, (shit I really didn’t think this post through) now all you lot know that I am alone too, I am still going to try very hard to be carefree and enjoy the experience.

I am having pizza for tea. (Just in case you wanted to drop round. You may as well. You all know where I liiivvvveee (creepy scream voice.)

I am about to watch Drop dead diva and then I am going to have an early night ready for another full day of picking up, putting down, picking up, putting down ADDISON DECIDE WHAT YOU WANT FROM MUMMY!!! Doodle please clench those furry bum cheeks until mummy can open the back door, DOODLE NO!!! NOT ON THE RUG!! OH FOR THE LOVE OF… and maybe just maybe, if Addison is feeling well enough, I may be able to escape the house for a couple of hours and watch a good friend of mine get married.

Ahh another wedding.

Always a guest, never the bride…I wonder when it will be my turn…. She didn’t even have to tear her anus for her fiancée to propose, now that is real love.

Are you listing over there in Ireland?

Hello?

Shit.

What was that noise?

Oh my GOD, IS THAT A SPIDER?

IRISH ONE COME HOME!!! I want to know more about the potatoes… I don’t mind living in sin, honest!!!

Hello?

‘Do you have a boyfriend?’

‘Yes who is this? I would rather have a husband to be honest but who is this? Why do you want to know?

‘Because I wanna know who I am looking at…’

ARGHHHHHHHHHH QUICK DOODLE POO ON THE MURDERER! POO ON THE MURDERER!

Homework. (Cos Apparently We Matter!)

I re-visited the mental facility today, as I do every Wednesday at the moment.

I miss Jeff. (Which isn’t why I go, but bear with me.)

Each time I approach the sign, welcoming me back with its green and white calming lettering, I automatically move down a gear. Almost as if by just turning a corner off the busy main road I am instantly shrouded in a cloak of peace and tranquility that the sanctuary provides, and my heartbeat automatically slows in adjustment to the surroundings.

I am astounded and overcome by the memories that this place holds for me now.

It seems a million years ago that I lived here, cried here and wanted to die here, and yet here it is, welcoming me in to it’s open arms, providing me with unconditional protection from the outside world, but more crucially from myself and the guilt, self loathing and anxiety, I am tortured by. Less now that I was, but tortured all the same.

Each time I step out of the car and glance towards the grey and clinical hospital building overlooking the car park, peeping out from between two deep-rooted majestic oak trees, I am proud of what I have achieved.

Albeit for for a very short time.

I am alive, I am well and my son is alive, well and thriving.

I should be proud of myself.

Or so I am told.

But although, I know all of this, I do not really believe it.

(I am an evil horrible person with post natal depression remember? I don’t deserve to be proud of myself!)

I kept my eyes peeled for my favourite magpie today as I was walking towards my dreaded one on one session with James but unfortunately I did not spot him hiding around the dotted nutters and crispy autumnal foliage.

(Dotted nutters would be a great name for a breakfast cereal, don’t you think? I would TOTALLY buy them. I imagine them to be a little like lucky charm’s but less Irish and more marshmallows. They could make them in to tiny nutter shapes! Me, Ozzy Osborne, Kerry Katona… the list is endless.)

So although I searched for him and did spot couple of imposters, and of course performed the obligatory salute to both, (does anyone else do like, an actual army salute, or is that just me? Recently I found out it is only supposed to be a good morning or whatever, as in that kind of salute? News to me. Superstitions are hard work yo!!  I will be doing both from now on anyway as I ain’t taking no chances!) but no Jeff.

Jeff and I spent some wonderful times together while I was an inpatient.

He would sit on my window ledge peering in at me from the outside and peck peck peck each and every time I needed him. Letting me know that although he understood I was on my own, incredibly depressed and hugely confused at how I had arrived here, when my pregnancy and subsequent birth was meant to be perfect, that he was there, listening and watching me, supporting me from afar while I sobbed and snotted my way through many a six pack. (Of square crisps.)

Today however, there was no Jeff and that made me gloomy.

He had clearly moved on, found himself a nice bird with long legs and the perfect figure (probably a tit) and was busy getting on with his life.

Where as I, if I am honest, seem to take 2 steps forward and 12 gallops back.

How is your Self Esteem? (I am asking you. So answer me.)

How is your self Esteem?

Because I thought mine was all right thanks, Jack. (I don’t know who Jack is, but I hear people say this a lot and I like the way it sounds.)

I had a great night out on Friday and am honestly still in awe that I came away with an award, especially seen as you know, I am an idiot, and I haven’t stopped grinning since. Not even in my sleep.

So when I was asked the question today,

‘Lexy, how do you think your self esteem is?’ By James the man with the Xray vision.

(As in, he can see in to my soul, not beneath my bra, thank god…as I am sure he would be most disappointed. Although I am pretty sure he is gay, so I am not sure why he would be looking in the first place.)

I told James, while crossing my arms across my boobs, that yes, my self-esteem was ‘grand.’

But at the end of the session, after he had ignored me of course and continued to pester me like he usually does, clearly sensing something I wasn’t, with those eyes that could skin a chicken in seconds, I was seriously starting to question whether this was the case, or like with everything else leading up to the grand event of being admitted in to that place, I was just kidding myself.

Was my self esteem ‘grand?’

‘How is your self esteem Lexy?’ He asked peering so far through my windows to the soul I was pretty sure he could see what I had eaten for lunch.

‘Aright, yeah, all right yeah thanks James, you know. Alright.’  I stuttered trying to break eye contact and failing miserably.

‘Shall we test that theory?’ he asked smiling kindly.

‘Why not?’ I responded shifting in my seat, feeling the discomfort starting in my chest.

Usually when James tests a theory, he is right and I am proved wrong. So you can understand my awkwardness at that point.

I hate being wrong, and being wrong to a man is just damn insulting, no matter how insightful that man actually is.  (You get that right?)

I mean yeah, when I get dressed I tend to focus on the things about myself that I dislike, like my arm fat, or my hairy thighs, my huge nose, my flabby drooping arse, my kangaroo pouch, my stretch marks, my sagging boobs and my yellow teeth, but who doesn’t?

And sure, occasionally I will bring myself down a peg or two if I have done something to be proud of, and yeah intermittently I will forget to do something for Addison, for someone special or for an organization (like paying a bill, interestingly this one is the most common) and give myself the living amount of grief over it, but that is normal isn’t it? We all bloody do it. (Don’t we?)

So other than hating myself, forgetting to buy myself dinner sometimes as I am so busy looking after others and never really accepting compliments without explaining my opinion;

(‘Oh Lexy I love your bag.’

‘What this old thing? I have had it ages, it is actually really dirty and I don’t look after stuff.’

Or

‘Oh Lexy you should write a book, your blog is great.’

‘Nah honest, it is just fluke that I won.’)

My self-esteem is pretty good.

I don’t hate myself all the time.

‘Ok Lexy so let us start.’

‘Actually James I am not sure you need to.’

I had already come to the conclusion that my self esteem was pretty shit actually.

He looked at me and nodded.

‘Thought as much’ the slight nod of his head as the understanding passed across his features, told me.

Damn it I hate it when men are right.

‘So ok,’ I began to ask ‘my self esteem since giving birth has been rock bottom, what can I do about it?’

‘Do you treat yourself?’ he asked.

‘Yes’ I replied instantly, safe in the knowledge that treating myself was something I was great at.

‘How?’ he fired back unconvinced.

‘I buy stuff.’

‘Like what?’

‘Shoes, clothes, nice food’

I paused and he urged me to go on, the way he always does, with a slight flip of the hand lying in his lap.

‘But I probably shouldn’t as we don’t really have the money.’ I finished as he sat up, barely able to contain his glee.

‘Ah’ he exclaimed, holding a finger in the air before continuing  ‘so you treat yourself, but then beat yourself up about it?’

I didn’t respond but looked down at the scarf lying in my lap, smoothing it over my leg again and again, as if to methodically push away the pain slowly beginning to rise to the surface from years of self-abuse.

‘So ok,’ he continued sensing my unease ‘do you relax?’

‘Yes.’ I replied, once again feeling in control of the situation.

‘How?’ He asked.

‘I write, or read a book, or watch television or have a bath.’

‘You watch television?’

‘Yes.’

‘Do you actually watch though, or do you think about other things, while you just aimlessly stare at the screen?’

I shifted in my seat at this point.

It was all getting a bit too much like that film SCREAM for my liking.

How does he know these things?

Will he ring me tonight when I am in my pajamas staring at something the Irish one is forcing me to watch on discovery channel and say ‘I can see you Leeexxxxxyyyy, what are you thiiinnkkkiinggg abouuut?’

I shuddered and taking this as an affirmative, and not noticing I was now glancing about looking for a stashed freaky scream mask, he continued.

‘Ok, and when you are in the bath what do you think about?’

I will be honest.

I burst out laughing.

‘That is a bit personal James.’ Fnar fnar, smack of the leg.

‘Is it?’ he replied without flinching, ‘because I think that probably the only thing you think about when you are relaxing is what you have to do in the morning, or what Addison needs for dinner, or how much washing up is left in the sink, or oooo I don’t know’ he pauses reaching in to an imaginary suitcase in his mind about to pull out the piece de resistance ‘how many people dislike you, or how fat you think you are, or perhaps, just perhaps, you talk yourself out of every success you have achieved over the day, by telling yourself you could have done better and will do better tomorrow.’

He looked at me looking for signs of recognition, his eyes brimming over with kindness, but saw nothing, as by that point I had put my lovely new scarf over my head and face, and was doing a very bad impression of Darth Vader, against my will.

‘Lexy?’ he asked tentatively ‘what are you doing?’

‘I am hiding’ my muffled voice came from beneath the scarf ‘you know too much and it is pissing me off.’

‘Ok’ he laughed ‘good to know where we stand. I will still be here when you feel you can look me in the eye again and if you can’t I will leave, it is almost time anyway but I am giving you some homework ok?’

‘This week’ he announced ‘I want you to do something nice for you, without beating yourself up and without feeling guilty about all the other things you SHOULD or COULD or NEED to be doing at that time.’

He continued ‘Go to the cinema, watch a film, do some writing for you, not for anyone else, buy yourself something and ENJOY the pleasure of treating yourself without the guilt, the constant need to put yourself down or tell yourself you SHOULDN’T have spent the money on that.

Be kind to yourself, and try to enjoy the moment, guilt free.’

‘What would be the point?’ I had asked a little nonplussed and now sweating from beneath the thick wool scarf.

‘You may start to believe you deserve it and that you are worth it.’ He had replied as I pulled the scarf off my face and decided to rise to the challenge. ‘You may just gain a little bit of pleasure and either way, what harm can it do?’

None.

So this week, I am taking a small step to help my self-esteem.

I am going to find the time to treat myself. Guilt free.

Will you join me?

I think I may give myself a facial.

What about you?

I may also say a little prayer for Jeff’s happiness; he was a great bird.

It is a small step for mammy kind, right?

But an important one.

Go on, treat yourself.

The Inevitable Inconvenience of the HeeBee GeeBies.

Someone, somehow, has downloaded the entire Bee gees album on to my iPhone without me noticing.

There I was trying to relax after a long day of looking after Addy Woo, my heart beat slowly returning back to a normal rate after nearly blowing up the microwave with his Thomas the tank engine bowl (yes the one that says Do Not Microwave in massive letters on the underside) and slowly feeling my muscles loosen after having to apologise to my ever so tolerant neighbor for his massacred rose garden when out of nowhere Sheryl crow was rudely interrupted by an inappropriate amount of Jive talking.

So there I am in the bath and…What?

Oh the roses?

I was busy trying to respond to my best friend in Florida and researching glandular fever (long story which I fully believe will have a happy ending, but your prayers would be welcome none the less) when I looked up to see Addison pulling the heads off Gary and Stuart’s, precious flower garden arrangment. Well by the time I made it over to him, he was so proud of his efforts, picking up each individual petal and passing it to me, snot streaming down from both nostrils and shouting ‘TA! Mammy! Ta!’ I just didn’t have it in me to be cross.

It was my fault anyway; I should have been watching him. Interestingly though that isn’t what I said to next door. This is the very same next door neighbor who had joined me for a cup of tea last week and was relaxing with Doodle sat on his knee, when unfortunately for him the dog decided to open his bowels, all over his favourite tracky bottoms. It was runny too. Makes me shudder just thinking about it. Funnily enough, I think they actually just put their flat on the market too, but I am sure that is just a coincidence.

No, I told him I was watching him like a hawk and I couldn’t understand how he had got there and ruined each individual rose bud so catastrophically when I was honestly Gary, watching him like a BLOODY HAWK! NEVER TOOK MY EYES OFF HIM, honest.

He said it was fine (between gritted teeth now I come to think of it) and asked to borrow an onion, and it just so happens I had a spare one, so all’s well that ends well I suppose.

The not having the heart to get cross, however, did not last long as one after the other, a catalog of errors the likes of Basil Faulty would have been proud of proceeded to occur one right after the other. (I liken it to being stuck in a huge game of domino’s and being the one right at the end who gets twatted, really hard!)

Are you ready for this?

• I slaved over a hot stove for at least 12 minutes putting together a delicious and nutritious pan of pasta, which instead of ever making it to Addison’s mouth, actually ended up being sent by air mail to each and every corner of the kitchen.

I somehow managed to punch the pan handle sending the contents flying in to my face and all over the floor.

• Not long after, just as I was prizing long strings of buttery and strictly forbidden (he has a dodgy tummy, in case you hadn’t gathered) carbohydrate from Doodle’s mouth, Addison came running inside with a worm hanging out of his.

There are really no words, but seriously? Can children get lung worm? Should i get him a vaccination? I feel like I should.

• And to top things off, about 20 minutes later The credit card company rang asking if I was possibly considering doing them the great honor of paying the minimum payment any time soon.

Nope.

• And finally, finally, just as I am getting over all this, settling down in to the bath with Sheryl crow and her Tuesday night music club (which is a total coincidence by the way) I find myself asking how can I mend a broken heart and then bloody jive talking.

Yes, I sat through ‘how to mend a broken heart’, trying to figure out who it was. (I thought maybe Radio one live lounge at first.)

‘Irish one!!’ I had screamed from behind the bathroom door (which now stays locked for reasons each and every female reading this will understand – not only do I NOT want you grabbing my boob, but unplanned shits just aren’t on ok? THEY ARE NOT ON!)

‘What?’ he had shouted back ‘I am watching the football.’

Shocker.

‘Why the fuck am I listening to the Bee gees?’ I had elegantly responded. ‘I didn’t put this on and now I can’t change it because my hands are wet!’ I shout back irritated ‘Keep your shit music off my fancy laptop!’

Struggling to hear his response over the crooning trio, I beckon him (with words that would probably get me thrown off wordpress) in to the bathroom. (I listen to a lot of Eminem and on occasion my white trash mode, gets the better of me. Bitch.)

‘What? He says unlocking the door from the outside (damn.) ‘What do you want? Wayne Rooney has just knocked one off at the side of the pitch, and I really want to see how Fergie reacts.’

(At least I think that’s what he said; I’m not very up on my football terminology.)

‘Turn this shit over for me please, and stop downloading weird folk music on to my iTunes account.’

‘Only if I can grab your boob’ he replies grabbing my boob just as the opening bars for ‘tragedy’ ring throughout my steamy bathroom, the aura now completely ruined.

‘Tragedy!’ he shouts as he walks out without changing it, the git, and unbeknownst to him, we both do the dance hand movement, at the exact same time.

Because, really, it really is, and if you can’t beat them (with a great big stick) you may as well  join them.

Did you ever see that programme on tele where that woman walked down the aisle to ‘tragedy’ doing all the dance moves, like in the S club 7 video?

What a random.

We all want to know how it ends.

…. And as the fetching (and not even a little bit gay) prince (in his tight white jodhpurs and brown thigh high boots) intentionally and carefully bowed his head down towards the blessed and fortunate princess (who was more than a little bit annoyed he was wearing her boots) and brushed his lips gently against hers (careful not to smudge her lip liner) a concerto of salient song began to rise from behind them (Ministry of sound presents the best of R&B 3)…

…And as the music played on (drowning out all thoughts of bronzed beach ready men, from both of their minds) and as he gazed deeply in to her crystal white eyeballs romantically, grabbed her tiny perfectly manicured hand and whispered (quite literally) sweet (FA) nothings in to her shell-like, together they decided cheerfully and deliberately to toddle off in to the fawning yellow, orange and red sunset…(Clearly for  dramatic effect)...

And of course,

The princess and the (camp) prince live happily ever after…

Yes, they lived happily ever after…

Er.

Hang on.

Did they though?

I mean, it is all very well ambling off in to the sunset on a nice warm day isn’t it?  Or, even, like in some of my favourite fairytales, splashing away in a rowing boat with a warbling frog serenading you with a Peter Andre hit, or even I suppose in a more realistic sense, driving away with tin cans suspended off the boot of your car and ‘Just married’ scrawled in shaving foam across your back window, but seriously?

Happily ever after?

What happens then, when twilight approaches and you realise that while you have been too busy hiking off in to the middle of nowhere, gawking in to one another’s openings to the soul, not only have you caught sunstroke and are now beginning to feel distinctly frigid and nauseous, but that he (the village idiot), being the self- centered, tedious and irresponsible imbecile he is turning out to be, forgot to bring the bloody coats?

It is a bit more challenging to gaze devotedly in to one another’s eyes, when your teeth are chattering incessantly and your nipples could cut through glass, isn’t it?

It is slightly more arduous to remain with the feelings of happily ever after, when you are vomiting in to an ice bucket and he is holding your hair back while checking out your arse, isn’t it?  (Because let’s face it. They probably do.)

What happens then, to the Happily Ever After, when you realise that while you have been too busy splatting about in the middle of the Atlantic ocean, enjoying the time spent with your singing frog and the man of your dreams, that you are actually in fact starving, miles away from the nearest Harry Ramsdens and that Prince Fumble in the jungle here, couldn’t catch a fish in a deep fat fryer?

OOOO I’m on a roll now,

And what happens, to the (spit it out now) Happily Ever After, when you arrive half a mile down the road from the church in which you just declared your undying love and betrothed yourself to him forever, when he turns around with a look of glee etched on to his features, starts waving besottedly at a 6 foot, perfect figured, big boobed goddess and starts advising you that this is, in fact his ex, she lives next door, he absolutely adores her and that you and she, will, no doubt, get on like a house on fire.

What happens then ey? (EY? A spade that’s what! A spade!!!)

AND what happens 3 months post Sunstroke-gate when she drunkenly forgets to reach for a condom, gets impregnated, tears her Tupperware from tit to tatters and ends up in a mental institute having spent too long chasing all her scattered marbles aimlessly around the living room floor?

What happens then ey?  (EY?)

I tell you what I believe would help maintain the happily ever after.

I believe that if all men, princes, paupers, kinsmen and blokes came with a handbook, life would be a lot damn simpler.  THAT’S WHAT.

I believe, that at the age of 19 there should be a mandatory handbook ceremony held for all men. (Mandatory like the army is mandatory in Spain. A civil service type agreement.)

From the ceremony until the end of time, they are to keep the handbook with them at all times. Through every relationship, through every argument and through every tryst, the handbook must be accessible for the female to read/use/study at any given moment.

The lady in question can then fill in the handbook as she goes along and when she deems it necessary, therefor preparing the next potential girlfriend for what is to come, and what she expect from this fellow without ever having to meet her.

PERFECT!! Don’t you agree?

Very immature, laughs at his farts, never does washing. 01/08/1999.Annabel.

Great at cooking, very bad wind and total commitment-phobe. 02-11-2001.Jane.

Picks his nose & eats it, can happily sit on loo for up to 3 hours. 09-9-2006.Meg.

Cooks a lot, great in bed but won’t wash knives and forks. 01-01-2008.Susan.

Generous, Lazy. Farts too much, moody, boring but great in bed. 07-07-2010.Lisa.

Needs another mother, never mind a girlfriend, also, pretty sure he is gay…  01.01.2016 .Princess Anon.

Charming my arse. 04.05.2020.Cinderella. 

That sort of thing, do you see what I am getting at?

I honestly believe that if all men came with a handbook, our happily ever after’s would be a lot more accessible.

We could window shop.

‘OO farts a lot, no thanks! But hmmm Great in bed, may be worth the excessive farting, hmmm may give it a go… oh no! Doesn’t wash the knives and forks! That’s a deal breaker, NEXT HANDBOOK PLEASE!!’

(Wouldn’t it also make life a hell of a lot easier if all ex girlfriends were then transported/shipped/kicked off to another planet entirely with no reception on their slutty phones, where they were forced to spend their days eating Pringles and watching ‘Psycho!’ on repeat? I think so.)

But anyway, back to reality with one hell of a bump.

There are no handbooks, there is no singing Peter Andre frog and there is no rest for the wicked.

Here I am, having gathered as many marbles back in to my quality street tin as I possibly can over the last 3 weeks, suitcase in one hand, Addison, Doodle and The Irish One in the other, about to walk out of the mental hospital for the first and hopefully only time in my life.

Addy, the Irish one, Doodle Mcpoodleson and I, all holding hands (Doodle walking on two legs like a real life boy- bless him, he has such abandonment issues) getting ready to stroll off in to the sunset.

I am leaving behind my crazy friends, I am leaving behind my own room, I am leaving behind my 15 minute observations, I am leaving behind the safety of being allowed to be mental, and I am heading off in to the big bad world, with a new set of coping mechanisms, a pot heart and a little leap of faith hoping to set me free.

I have tears running down my face as I say my goodbye’s to the home I have hated, sobbed in, been broken within, liked and eventually loved.

I do not feel ready, but then I am not sure I ever will.

Will I live happily ever after?

I doubt it. (For all of the reasons above, plus add in a gastro enteritis prone poodle, a toddler with a penchant for licking plug sockets, a pelvic floor supported entirely by Tena Lady and an Irish one that eats more cow than can possibly be healthy and a permanently blocked bog… the list is endless…)

But more importantly will I live forever after?

I plan to.

And really, that is what matters, I suppose.

*This post was sponsored by Post natal depression, the road to recovery, stamping it out step by step.

Moaning Bitch Club. Just get on with it!!

Welcome to the fourth official… ok screw that. There is no time.

It’s me, I’m back, I moan a lot.

I am about to implode.

As it is The Irish One’ s birthday today I do feel a little guilty about posting this. (But we all know guilt doesn’t last forever and as long as you eat chocolate, you will feel better. Luckily for me, my cupboards are full of chocolate.  So here goes..)

Moan bloody Nora 1.

I want to be happy.  I have everything I have ever wanted. I have a lovely little flat, a nice man, a baby and a poodle.  (I have to mention Doodle, or he gets jealous. He is a sensitive soul.)

So why, pray tell, am I acting like a total lunatic? At what point did throwing a full bottle of milk at the wall (ahem Irish One) in frustration and misery become normal? When will I feel better? When will this PND rollercoaster come to a halt? It’s been a year for god’s sake! I am sick of it. 

Do not call me Lexy anymore! Just call me the raincloud of doom! 
One day I am happy.  Manically happy.
The next I am crying. I cannot stop crying. I feel dead inside.
Then I am angry!!! I want to knock someones (ahem, The Irish one’s) block off.  
Then I am anxious and I cannot leave the house.
I am a total train wreck. (I love that saying. Do I sound american yet? )

People keep telling me there is a light at the end of the tunnel. But when???

Wouldnt it be my luck!

Moan bloody Nora 2.

Why does the hair on my eye brows grow at different rates? No sooner have I plucked them both, I awake to find one side of my face looking like a wookie, and the other still as perfectly preened as a bowling ball. What the hell is going on? And seriously mother nature, a moustache? And toe hair?

Why was this never mentioned in any of the pregnancy books?

I’ll tell you why! SO the human race doesn’t die out, that’s why. No woman with half a brain cell wants to look like bloody big-foot!

 
(This is me, washing the bottles. Which brings me nicely on to my next point…)

Moan bloody Nora 3.

There is no such thing as the bottle fairy, Irish one.

No. Such. Thing.

I am not a bottle fairy. I plod too much to be a fairy. (Thought you were being funny didnt you?) The bottles get cleaned because I plod to the bloody sink and I bloody clean them.

Waiting until five minutes before he is due for a bottle, and then deciding to fill the sink is unacceptable!!! When I ask you if they are clean, and you say ‘in a sec’ or ‘just a minute’ do you realise I actually want to maim you?

I am currently mopping the floor with a broom hanging out of my arse!!! Get up off the sofa and wash the bloody bottles!!!

Because, my dear, otherwise this mild green, fairy liquid bottle will not be used in the manner for which it was intended!

It’s not like the advert.  

Why does mummy have such soft hands baby? For wringing daddy’s neck with!

And I AM SURE Irish One, if you tried really hard, you could EVEN wash the knives and forks too!!

Anyway, I better get going, the changing bag isn’t going to pack itself is it?, and no one else would even dream of doing it would they? Grrrr…

 
Look at me. I’m not happy.

The Ipad is mine! Mine!!! Moaning bitch club, by Miss Baby loves shopping!

Right!!!!

 If I don’t write this down now, I will be simmering all day and no one wants that! Thank you Lexy for giving me a chance to let off steam.

Moan Number 1!!

The iPad is mine. Mine! Purchased with my money that my mum left me. I alone faced my husband’s wrath at spending some of the money when I have debts to pay (he has a point I suppose but he knows I can’t resist a gadget). So why when I finally manage to wrestle it from my kids does it only have 3% battery left and dies when I am about to get my highest score in chocolate factory? 

 
(I’m in a rage!)

Moan number 2!!

Now, retailers and other people that sell you stuff, like garages and couriers, when I ask “how much?” 

That means I want to know the price THAT I AM GOING TO PAY. Please don’t tell me a price and assume that I know (and can mentally work out) all the extras plus vat, plus delivery, plus fuel surcharge, plus a credit card fee of some random amount!!

 Grr… Yes and to the garage that quoted me £40 for a replacement car key fob and then went to charge me £100 for it!!!

 I rejected it! Ha! and instead I sold my car (you get new keys with a new car see?)

Moan number 3!!

Now to darling Husband I do not find being called stupid an aphrodisiac…. 

Moan Number 4! 

To the rest of my household: there would be plenty of food in the house if you all stopped eating it all within 24 hours! Don’t complain to me…. You know where the supermarket is!

Moan number 5! 

Finally dictionaries are pointless because you need to know how to spell something to look up how to bloody spell it.

I am dyslexic.

Do you know how long it took me to find the word “wrath” when I thought it began with a “r”?

So not funny.

Ahhh feel better now!!

Long live the moaning bitch club!!!

Moaning bitch club.

Welcome to the first meeting of the moaning bitch club.

So far, there is only me here.

But I am hopeful you will join me!

(Look, please join me ok? Otherwise it’s not a club, it’s just me sat here being a moaning bitch on my own. And really! that is no fun whatsoever!!)

Ok, so I will start.

Hello, my name is Lexy Ellis, and I am a moaning bitch.

I am irritated beyond belief.

I am twitching with irritation.

The warning sign over by head is beeping loud and clear.

WARNING! WARNING! MELTDOWN IMMINENT! MELTDOWN IMMINENT!

I am sat on the sofa, glaring at the Irish One while tearing a salmon and cream cheese pita bread to bits like a ravenous cave woman attacking a turkey leg. (Did they eat turkey legs? Were there even turkeys back then? Ok, dinosaur leg then. WHAT EVER!)  

I am munching away like an angry little hobbit with a cross to bear.  

I am so annoyed!

Come on Irish One – for the love of god say something so I can release this pent-up fury!! (Anything, Just say anything!!! It doesn’t really matter what you say as I will undoubtedly ‘unlock the code’ and find something to shout about! I need you to be annoying right now! Come on!! ! You are usually so good at it!!)

EVACUATE NOW! All REMAINING IRISH PEOPLE, EVACUATE NOW!!

Why am I so effing peed off?  Why am I verging on furious? Why am I starting to resemble the incredible hulk?

(I WISH!!! But look! She must have, baby hulks! Notice please, the saggy belly! Good on her…)

I don’t actually know.  BUT I KNOW THERE WAS SOMETHING OK?

I just can’t bloody remember!

I am not sure if it was something specific, or whether there has just been a build up of annoyances over the last few days.

Maybe there has been a full moon, or a half-moon, or a shooting star, or an influx of gases in my sign, or something. (By sign, I mean abdomen.)

But either way, the past couple of days have been turbulent.

I will share.

• Mother and baby parking IS FOR MOTHERS AND BABYS!! (IF YOU ARE 22 AND ARE ‘JUST RUSHING IN TO BUY BEER’ YOU CAN SOD OFF AND PARK SOMEWHERE ELSE!! These spaces are for MOTHERS AND BABYS!! Ever tried squeezing a maxi-cosi out of a hole shaped for an pizza slice? NO!!! PARK SOMEWHERE ELSE!!!)
• Don’t call me a fatty and then say ‘only joking!’
  Do not say ‘I bet Woo thought you were trying to poison him’ and then say ‘only joking!’
  Do not say ‘you are a terrible cook’ and follow it up with ‘only joking!’ – If you are a horrible mean person, and if you have horrible, mean and thoughtless things to say, at least have the courage to stand by your convictions. Only joking is a total cop-out, and next time you say it, I will lamp you. (I am not joking.)
• Is there a school somewhere that teaches men to CHANGE THE BLOODY LOO ROLL? Nuff said.
• When will I be able to eat like a normal person again and not have a belly that hangs down to my sodding knees? SERIOUSLY LOOSE FLESH! SOD OFF NOW!! (I’ve done 20 sit ups! What more do you want from me??)
• Don’t tell me you will ring me back at 3pm call center woman, then call me back at 6.45 p.m just as i am trying to get a baby to sleep! You may not be able to time keep but I can! And no! I will not apologise for slamming the phone down!
• Why is my carpet always covered in yoghurt?? No one in this house eats bloody yoghurt!!!
• Dear company that do the gardens, 8am is too early to start your lawn mower outside my bedroom window, while you stand there having a chat with your mate!!!  I have had no sleep and now you have woken the baby up!!! I will not apologise for throwing a crumpet at you. I am sure this is not the first time you have had to duck from flying breakfast material!!

And finally,

• Where the hell are all my Tupperware lids? (Seriously!!!!! I have a million tubs but no lids!! Is the cupboard eating them???!!!)

 Sorry! Must dash… I have seen my opportunity…

IRISH ONE, what are you doing?

YOU ARE PUTTING THE FOOTBALL ON, AGAIN?

Has mercury been rising in Uranus? (fnar fnar!)

Share with me your irritants!

Welcome to the #MoaningBitchClub

Go right ahead! No judgement here! We can meet, whenever and wherever we like, as is our GOD GIVEN RIGHT!!

Moan away…

Oh and can you bring some bloody Tupperware lids please?