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.
