I’d Say No Anyway…Honest. (I wouldn’t… or would I?)

I sometimes wonder, usually late at night when I am unable to sleep, due to too much caffeine and too little romantic pillow talk (last night we discussed the origins of the humble sprout, apparently they originated in Ireland, like most things) if it is likely I will be married before my face starts to resemble a walnut.

At the rate the Irish one gets around to things (faulty light switches, smoke alarms and fixing the washer) probably not, which unfortunately can only mean one thing.

Botox. (And no clean clothes for months.)

These are the thoughts that tumble across my skull as I toss and turn in bed trying to ignore the (Irish) snoring and disregard the tugging from my darker self, willing me to lie there and regret everything I have ever done in my life.

Insomnia ain’t nice especially when your insomnia taunts you, so while lying there the other night regretting a cake I made, which gave everyone the most god almighty shits, when I was 17, I decided to try and coerce my brain in to thinking about something a little more pleasant.

Inadvertently, because of this, as the nights have turned in to days, and then back in to nights, my wedding plans have taken flight.

The one small snag being, he hasn’t asked. Yet.

But it is ok, as I have decided, that if and when he finally gets around to dropping to one knee, (Yes, my proposal is planned too) if my face looks like a gnarled tree, I will allow myself some Botox.

I do believe in growing old gradually and of course, I do believe in growing old gracefully. (Although I also love Donatella Versace for her complete denial of the passing of time. If I had her money, my belly button would already be a chin dimple. Believe me.)

I completely believe though, that lines can make women look beautiful, they tell a story, they show laughter, they show pain, they show immense strength but most of all, to me, they show courage.

A life being lived.

But, soppiness aside, here is the issue I currently have.

I seem to have caught some sort of era ignoring condition, which is making me grow old before my time.

I am only 32 but on some days I am sure people in the street assume I am Addison’s grandma.

Hell, on some days I feel old enough to be his grandma. (And the stoop doesn’t help I suppose. It’s that bloody pram though. It’s too low! And seriously? Car seat in the back? With the weight of this child? My back in in bits!! Never mind looking like a walnut as I walk down the aisle! I will need a Zimmer soon!)

It may be conjunctivitis, this condition, as according to my not very proficient GP, it does seem to be, as my eyes are all swollen and puffy.

(What is it with Gp’s these days? Are they so scared of being sued they now refuse to diagnose? Excuse me Dr. Quack; ‘I seem to have a baby coming out of my bum, could I be in labour?’ ‘Well you certainly seem to be!’ Ergh!)

It may be called Lazy-itis too, according to the Irish one, as some days I do wear the same clothes from the day previous due to (THE BLOODY WASHER STILL BEING BROKEN!) Tiredness.

But if I were to be completely honest, and I usually am, I actually think the condition I have definitely caught causing me to look less yummy mummy and more scummy granmummy has been with me a lot longer than the last few weeks.

It started around the same time the postnatal condition I have suffered with, did. (I.e.; Post NATALLY.)

68 hours in to labour, the Irish one ready to take a blunt fork and perform an impromptu caesarean section at my sweary, teary, insistence, noticed a shock of my hair, right at the back, had turned completely white.

Since then, my natural highlights, as I like to call them, have been coming thick and fast, even hair dye doesn’t cover them. (Spray paint does.)

Since being hospitalized, Eczema has ravaged, chomped and chewed my poor fingers away to that of a 90 year old, dashing my dreams of being a hand model, and the only way I can hide the bags under my eyes is by touching them up with black makeup, so it looks like they are part of my look.

As if I still have a look. (Dodgy old rocker is what I seem to be pulling off these days… is it me? Or does that sound rude?…moving on… )

I really don’t know what the condition is, but every time I look at my face in the mirror, I seem to have grown another crevice.

The last one to materialise runs right across my forehead from left to right, (or right to left, if you are Japanese) and after a few minutes of screaming, for the first time in my life, I flirted with the idea of a fringe, before I Google searched face lifts and affordable on a shoe string surgical enhancement.

Botox of course, being a much safer option than a fringe in the Irish One’s opinion.

His reasoning being that my chin is too big for a fringe, (nice huh?) and the effects of Botox, should it all go “awfully” wrong and I end up with shelf at the top of my face, wouldn’t last long enough for it too make too much of a negative impact and hey! At least he would have somewhere to rest his brew while I was…

Who was it that said romance was dead?  (Oh and FYI? That NEVER happens.)

Yes ladies and gents, this is the man I want to marry.

And yes, questioning his motives for our relationship, green snot pouring from my eyes, face all bright red and wrinkly from an hour in the bath and my knickers holding my hair back, I am probably doing myself no favours.

But I want to know you know?

Its not that I don’t already think I will be stuck with him, enjoying his company until death do us part anyway, and it isn’t that I plan on leaving him if he doesn’t propose soon, it’s just…

It’s just…

I need something to think about (Read; stare at in the form of diamond) at night instead of the long days ahead.

And er, yeah, I suppose I love him.

I didn’t dream of a wedding as a little girl, in fact I never believed in marriage until recently, I just never thought it could work, that a legal piece of paper with your names on it could ever or would ever make a difference to the inevitable. (That you break up, hate each other and unsuccessfully plot each other’s deaths at least twice a year, from a far, for the rest of your lives…. In case you were wondering, my parents don’t get on.)

But now, after 18 weeks of therapy, 132 stiches in my vaganzza, a year of absolute hell and the love still going strong… (ish)… despite all infrequent ups and soul destroying lows, I want the bloody fairytale all the Disney films promised me.

I actually believe we could have it, check me out, I believe in love.

(You can stick your fingers down your throat now, it is ok, I am.)

We’ve had our bit with the villains, as far as I am concerned, and now I want a great big flipping dress, a teary declaration of our love, and a baileys fountain that you dip chocolate in.

I want to thank him, for everything he has supported me through, as he really has, by giving him a promise I will be around to enjoy our future.

And I want a hen night/hen world tour. (I will be honest, most nights this is what I can be found planning. Rio De Janiero, Australia for 6 weeks and Route 66 have all been on the ‘When I finally win the lottery and finally get married/ Hen night’ list.)

I want a party and I want to be able to say I have been committed in to something other than a mental house.

I want him. (Even if he doesn’t fix the washer.)

So married ladies, help me out here please.

Do I need to stop wearing my trackies to bed and bitching about his razor being on the floor? (AGAIN!!!!!!) Do I need to start cooking steak and giving him a foot massage? Do I need to plaster my face with make up every day and hold my trumps in again? Do I need to avoid onion breath and change Addison’s every bum, while chasing his every whim and making his dreams come true? Do I need to start allowing him to have a poo while I am in the bath? (In the toilet, just to clarify, turns out there is a limit, and that would be mine!!!)

Whatever it takes, I will do it, (within reason!) as I have spent the last few weeks planning this between the hours of 10pm and 5am.

The longer it takes the more outlandish it is becoming, so really, more fool him.

Brazil at sunrise, is where I currently am, him wearing a toga, me looking like a brazilian goddess (courtesy of Tantastic in Bolton!) and believe me I am completely focused on getting the party of my dreams!!!

I mean man.

Of course, hahaha, I mean man.

But just in case, it takes longer than planned…

How much is Botox and does anyone have Donatella’s number, or a winning lottery fund they want to share?

(Route 66 would be a hoot girls, marriage or no marriage!!)

*The condition seems to be known by most as;  Mother (posh mum, still harassed as child will only use this when child wants something.) Mom (American mum.) Mommy (Still American mum- and yeah I’m still jealous.) Mum, (Stop drinking cold tea immediately and get me what I need!!) Mummy (Dogs body but loved.) Motherhood (film.) Motherhood (makes you look gnarly, and not in a cool surfer way.)

See this woman? She is 18.

She is beautiful, there is no denying that, but maybe, just maybe, she should have kept her trumps in a bit longer, much like me.

No ring on has she?

I’ll invite her on our girls trip. She deserves it.

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16 Comments on “I’d Say No Anyway…Honest. (I wouldn’t… or would I?)

  1. If you want to be married, then just propose yourself. Never mind the leap year. Please don’t do any of the things listed above – if you need to go on like that to get a proposal imagine what married life would entail. Not worth it. I proposed and have now been married almost three years. Don’t know how much of a difference it makes really, apart from legally. But I love my husband and I love being married to him and the party was brilliant.

  2. Not only am I the worst person to give you “words of encouragement” about how to “try to get your MAN to marry you” as I am still in a non-marital relationship of 15 years with the father of my 2 children (who happens to be Irish and Welsch….interesting….), but I would ask you, NO, BEG you to not hinge yourself on the idea any longer.

    I used to be like you…watching the dating shows, or something where the happily ever after ends with an outdoor wedding, onlookers crying, doves cuddling and cooing at the sight of the obvious bliss of the wedded couple…then rendered into a crying my face off fit because I was getting fatter, older, and my name still didn’t match my children’s.

    Now? What’s the point? It would almost be embarrassing at this point, ya know? We call each other husband and wife because it saves time on the explanation . And honestly, I get a bit nauseated at the whole mess in general. Now that I think about trying to have a small, dime store event that would have STILL cost me around $10K, I want to puke! Do you have any idea how incredible of a vacation with any number of spa and tour packages you can get with that kind of money?! I could buy a descent car with that!

    I do occasionally wonder how deeply we have scarred our children as a result, but they are smart and should be able to afford really awesome therapists after they get their professional degree’s sorted out.

    Not saying to dump his blarney arse ( I tried MANY times….wouldn’t go away!) but don’t feel as though the white dress you will wear once and pack away and never look at again until you move creates you as a woman. If you need the ring, go buy one! When the bill is paid, tell him thank you! In the end he may appreciate it too!

    Told you I would be bad at this! LOL!

    • They dont go away, you are right!!

      I just want the baileys fountain and the hen night though! Should we just plan one as a ‘we have promised never to get married’ event? This sounds like a plan.

  3. I’ve always had a lurking feeling that there was something missing at our wedding – what a relief to discover that it was only a Bailey’s fountain! No doubt Cher was thinking the same thing when she warbled, If I Could Turn Back Time…

    As for getting hitched, my advice would be “emigrate to Africa” – I’m fairly sure my ol’ man only proposed because he didn’t want to be stuck in the bush again without any “lady company”. Perhaps the Irish One could be convinced that the wilds of Ireland are equally lonely?

    • Hahahahahaha love it.
      Or maybe spain? You know there are no Starbucks in Ireland? I couldn’t live there. Even with all the potatoes on offer. I just couldnt.

  4. Some golden night in the hopefully not-so-distant future, we will meet and I will regale you with my stories of pre-marriage. I’ll save the salacious details for the actual conversation, but I’ll give you one hint: SEVEN YEARS BEFORE WEDDING.

    I find kicking helps. Hard kicks. Big, bruising kicks.

  5. I need to know the answer to this too! I have been with my partner for 9 years and have taken to giving him a deadline that I very much doubt he will meet! I have tried every angle but I want him to do it because he wants to and not because I have blackmailed him into it, it’s a tricky one! Bloody men! x

  6. Have you not heard of Touche Eclat, darling? There’s a reason it’s one of the top 5 sellers – make up for under the eyes, by YSL. Truly a gift from God and I had my kids at 41 and 45. Once the local nutter on the bus announced to all that she’d thought I was their Grandma! But that was before I knew about it the magic potion!

  7. Given that my method of hinting was to sit on the Welsh one and inform him I required a symbol of his commitment that I could wear, on my finger, in a diamond form, I’m probably not best placed to advise you!

  8. Afraid don’t have many tips. Took a while for us. He did ask when we were watching lanterns fly up on a new year’s eve – quite romantic! And it was all a bit tongue in cheek until we actually did it. And now he admits it feels great to be married. A real step. In a way, I think marriage means more now that we don’t have to do it. That’s my theory. You tell him!

  9. I knew Mr Milk was the one right after he’d stayed with during my first full on bout of depression.

    And what has a chin got to do with a fringe? surely he’s mistaking fringe for beard?

  10. When is it a leap year? You can ask HIM then!

    I’ve been married 19 years this month, we met on the Sunday, and decided to get married the following Saturday, and did the deed 3 months later. People said it wouldn’t last. Mind you sometimes I don’t think it will either……

  11. I have no clue about men. It took my OH 9 years to finally ask me (seriously) to marry him after I’d gone about it for 8.5! He then wanted to get married within 4 weeks!! And they say women are crazy.

  12. What is it with irish men and fringes, mine won’t let me have one either. I’d loose the idea of him wearing a toga………………….

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