Waking up on the sofa at 4 a.m., freezing cold and dressed as a cheerleader. I’d even gone to the effort of putting in pigtails. My first thought was “What the f*ck am I doing?” followed by “Where the hell did I put my poms poms?”.
My neighbour is in the same position as me. A single mother with an ex who is a little unaccommodating when it comes to offering to have the children overnight. She will often be found at home and in bed by 9 p.m. with a book, while the rest of the world goes out to party.
Of course, although we can’t join them, rest assured that we will nearly always beat them. Staying in on a Friday night is the new going out, especially when you live next door to a neighbour like mine. One or two of these Friday night get togethers have ended rather messy, with a hangover from hell to follow on Saturday morning.
It was on a Friday night last summer that we found ourselves a little worse for wear. I can’t really remember how much we drank, nor do I want to. I do seem to recall that all we had left in the end was a bottle of champagne. My neighbour shrugged her shoulders and said “Why not”. It was pouring with rain but that didn’t stop us from getting on the trampoline to flash our arses…..or maybe that was a different time.
Now, anyone who knows me will know what I’m like for drunken texts. And, they will also know that this will often lead to trouble. I will often say to my friend the next day “why didn’t you stop me?“ and her response is always “There is no stopping you”. On the night in question, a certain Lifeguard, who I met whilst he was working at a well known holiday camp (which I wont name for legal reasons) was on the receiving end of my drunken shenanigans.
The remainder of the evening was a bit of a blur. All I remember is bidding my neighbour farewell as Mr Lifeguard was coming over and he wanted me to “slip into something for him”. I’m guessing that when he said this he didn’t actually mean a drink induced coma.
Saturday morning came with the usual string of texts from next door about feeling awful and what time did you leave. Isn’t it funny how you can’t always remember everything about being drunk but those embarrassing moments, the ones that make you want to curl up and die, will always rear their ugly heads. This was too much to tell her in a text message so I called my neighbour to relay what had happened when I got home.
I still, to this day, do not know how I managed to get myself changed into my cheerleader outfit, Nor how I managed to put my hair in pigtails. There was an episode on the back doorstep involving a cigarette and a lot of swaying. My only hope is that the neighbours did not see me in all my cheerleader glory.
A check of my inbox found a text from Mr Lifeguard to say he had to help a friend out but would be over as soon as he could. At this point I thought I’d just have a little snooze while I waited. I even went to the trouble of setting my alarm for 1.30 a.m. so that I wouldn’t miss his arrival. The trouble is I slept through the alarm and if Mr Lifeguard did show up I wouldn’t have known about it. To be perfectly honest, I’m glad he didn’t. I’m not sure my poms poms could have taken it.
And this is how I came to be dressed as a cheerleader at 4 a.m. on a Saturday morning.
There are many morals to this story. The first and most important moral is to know your limits when it comes to alcohol. The second is to quit while your ahead with the drunken texting. Like I’m ever going to listen to that? And the third and final moral is not to get all dressed up when you have nowhere to go, or indeed, when you are quite incapable of going anywhere but straight to bed.
I am one of those women who has dreamt about walking down the aisle since I was big enough to walk around the house with my mother‘s net curtains draped over my head. I was always doodling princess dresses and walking home from school holding bunches of blossom pretending to be the bride.
My son came home singing ‘The farmer wants a wife’ this week and I suddenly had a flash back to play time at Primary School. There we all were standing in a circle, and even back then I’d make sure that I jumped into the middle to be the farmers wife. God help anyone who tried to get in my way. I wasn’t about to settle for being the dog or his bone.
So, as you can imagine, I was too excited for words when I got to be a bridesmaid at my aunts wedding. And again at the wedding of my mum and dad. Yes, I know that this technically makes me a bastard child, but I’m not the only one. My two brothers were there too. We were told to make sure we did not call them mum and dad in front of the vicar. As if my parents would deny all knowledge of ever having children.
My Facebook homepage is currently filled with old school friends uploading pictures of their happy day, taking on a new surname and changing their relationship status to ‘married’. I try not to let this worry me. I mean, I’m still young (ish), but I am dead set against being the forty something bride. An old school friend wrote on my wall last week asking if I was single. If I was then this meant that she wasn’t the only one left. I didn’t really like the fact that she was so glad I’m stuck in singletown. I mean, it’s not for the want of trying.
I have been proposed to once, well twice if you count the Haribo ring. And, despite having no other proposal to compare it to, I can quite honestly say it was the worst proposal any woman could ever have. Flying at thirty thousand feet and being told “Here, I guess you should have this” isn’t quite how I’d imagined it. Even the Haribo ring beat that. But, like my ex always told me, “It isn’t like it is in the films”.
And then there’s the dress. I saw it everyday on my way home from work. That is the dress I wanted to get married in, if only I’d had a wedding to wear it to. But even someone as crazy as me knows you cant buy a wedding dress without actually having a groom. But, for the whole time it was in that window there was hope that maybe after seven years together he’d decide to make an honest women of me. But, thankfully, he didn’t. Trust me, I had a lucky escape with that one, it would have inevitably ended in divorce. And now my dream dress has gone. I hope that woman knows that when she sold that dress she sold a little bit of my soul with it.
I’ve been to quite a few weddings and not one of those brides has thrown her bouquet. I mean, what hope is there for us single ladies if even your so called friends wont give you a chance of happiness? Everyone knows if you catch the bouquet you’re destined for marriage. My advice to anyone who is getting married is to throw that bouquet. If you don’t your friend will most definitely hate you. Even though she’s the shortest of your friends and doesn’t have a cat in hells chance of catching it, your friend will never forget that you stole that opportunity. If it wasn’t for you it could be her turn next. Just something for you to think about.
I always remember the saying ‘Three times a bridesmaid, never the bride’, and I’m dreading the day one of my friends asks me to do her the honour. It’s going to happen, I just know it. Or probably not after they’ve read this. And then what do I do? Do I say no for fear of the old wives tale coming true? Or do I say yes and hope that the best man is single?
Despite all of my day dreaming I know that its not just the big day I’m looking forward to. What I want was summed up while in the office one day - “She doesn’t just want the wedding, she actually wants a marriage”. I couldn’t have put it better myself. But I’d still like everyone to look at me on the day and go “Wow, doesn’t she look beautiful”. I’m pretty sure that’s every bride’s prerogative.
Everyone has something that they inherit from their parents. Usually this is your Dad’s big nose, your Grandfather’s ginger hair or your mother’s cheek bones. Me, I got mine from my mother. And, no, I don’t mean my crooked teeth or my rather large chest!
My mother gave me a rather special gift, and that gift was the ability to stalk. Now, when I say stalk I don’t mean the hiding in bushes and going through rubbish kind of way. I mean in more of a cyber stalking kind of way, although I have been known to do a drive by or two when needs must. I’m pretty sure if my mother knew of my stalking abilities she would tell me how proud she was. In fact, I’m that good at it that, If I’d decided to make a living out of stalking back when I first realised I had the gift I’d now be retired on some faraway Island.
My first experience of stalking was only a few years ago when my mother got me out of bed one night to do a drive by. When my mother gets a hunch about something she has to follow it up and this usually involves sneaking around in the dark. You can call it what you like, but in my book a drive by is most definitely stalking! I have to say, I wasn’t too keen on the whole drive by thing. Especially as I was in my car and was convinced we’d be recognised. Not that I’m condoning drive bys or anything but: Always use a friends car and where possible get them to drive so you can slip down in the passenger seat. Not that I’ve ever done anything like that.
So, what better way to stalk than Facebook. To be perfectly honest, this is probably when I first started to take a sometimes slightly, unhealthy interest in the current ‘object of my affections’. And, I hate to admit it, but if it wasn’t for the ever growing ability to get the low-down on the cute guy in the smoking shelter via the world wide web, then maybe you’d find me upside down in a wheelie bin trying to look inconspicuous.
Then there’s the check in facility, the answer to every cyber stalker’s prayers. And also the point at which some men will fail miserably. Like the guy who told me he was working nights and then checked in at home. He could have at least driven to work, checked in, and then gone home to make his lie that little bit more convincing. Before you worry about ever checking in again, I promise that when ‘X has checked in at Asda’ appears in my newsfeed I fight the urge to put my best dress on and run down there just so he can notice me.
I’m pretty sure I’m not the only Facebook stalker out there. I can not be the only girl who’s battery runs flat because I check his wall every 10 minutes during the course of the day? The only girl who’s friends call her up to ask how you remove an accidental poke from someone you’re not friends with? Yes, I’ve done that, and I went through great lengths to discover how to remove it before the guy saw it and recognised me for the psycho that I most probably am. The only girl who sets up a ‘fake’ account to check if that guy has blocked her, confirming that yes, he actually is a bastard? If you answered yes to one or all of the above than you are, most definitely, without a doubt, a fellow facebook stalker. I’m so proud of you.
DISCLOSURE: Despite all of the above I would just like to point out that, in my opinion, I do not see my behaviour in any way, shape or form, crazy. It is merely taking an interest. And, for the record, I have never walked down someone’s street on Google earth to see if I can find his house number. Honestly Officer, it wasn’t me.
Summer is over already, well what little summer we had anyway. Some of you may have blinked and missed it. But us office girls were stuck at work on the hottest day of the year with not even a topless diet coke man to stare at. Now the dark nights and grey miserable days are on the way and I suddenly find myself with lodgers. Some of you are probably shouting ‘finally’ but honestly, it’s not what you’re thinking.
For the last two years I’ve moaned about my empty bed and how I’d love for someone to share it with me. But I prefer my men with two legs not eight. A couple of weeks ago I was just drifting into sleep when I heard something drop onto the bed. I’m terrible at the best of times, I lay awake listening for noises and then panic when I think someone has broken in. An hour or so later I’ll find the courage to go and investigate. I’d like to add at this point that I’m always unarmed. The more I think about this the more stupid I feel. If I ever do come face to face with an intruder it might just be a good idea to have something to hit them over the head with.
So, back to the bed. I jumped up and turned the light on, and there he was, all hairy body and eight long legs. This is where I’ll either get praised or called a murderer, but hey like Supernanny says “Any attention is good attention”. I wont go into detail, but let’s just say that I lived to tell the tale. The eight legged monster, unfortunately, didn’t.
Since then I can’t sleep without scouring the entire bedroom, pulling my duvet back and checking under the pillows first. But this bedtime ritual doesn’t really reassure me all that much. Those monsters get everywhere. I’ve since had to “get rid of” other members of his family and I’m pretty sure the rest are just biding their time.
Anyway, this all brings me to last night and my moment of inspiration. While lying in bed, staring at the ceiling and waiting for a spider to rear its hairy head, I had a poetry moment. I like to think of this as my ode to Incy and it goes a little something like this……
One leg, two leg, three leg, four….
What’s that I see crawling up the wall?
Quick, grab a shoe or a book. Anything will do.
You’ve got to squash that hairy monster before he gets to you.
People say its cruel, he’s just coming in from the cold.
But what I want to know is, how can he be so bold?
I’ve got him in my sights now and I know he’s prepared to flee.
Someone’s about to get hurt here Incy, and I know it wont be me.
A year ago today a good friend of mine gave me my birthday gift. This wasn’t any ordinary birthday gift and, in fact, she apologised for not buying me a nice little gift set from Boots. But what she did give me was much better than that. As I eagerly opened the beautifully wrapped present I found a notebook inside. “Oh right, ok….” I thought to myself. Then I opened it and read what she’d put inside.
My friend is rather good at writing things. She doesn’t always write on subjects she knows a lot about, but what she writes always makes sense, especially when she writes about teapots. On this occasion she had written about something she definitely knows about. Inside the notebook was the foreword to ‘The Office Girls‘. And, anyone who knows me will almost certainly have heard me say “I’m going to write a book. A book about the lives and loves of the office girls”. And before anyone Googles it, yes, I have since found out that ‘The Office Girls’ is actually a porn film.
So finally, a year later, I’m starting to write. I know if I don’t follow this dream my friend will never let me hear the end of it. And yes, it has taken me a whole year to get started but I like to take my time with certain things. It’s just a shame I don’t follow the same rules when it comes to matters of the heart. Two years ago today the same friend told me I’d soon find my Mr Right. That ones taking me a little longer, but hey, I’m working on it.
Some people might like what I write about and others will hate it. Others will probably say “Who does she think she is, Bridget Jones?”. But even if only one person that I don’t know reads it and loves it, and maybe even relates to it then I’ve succeeded in what I set out to do. Laugh with me, and definitely laugh at me but absolutely no crying is allowed. I’ve done my fair share of that in the last two years and I’d hate to think any more tears were wasted.
So what happens next? I guess now I have to write all about my life since breaking free from my longest lasting relationship. A lot has changed after eight years. And with a child in tow, not to mention being the wrong side of twenty-five, the world of dating is tough. I don’t like it, in fact, I often ask myself “Why are you doing this?”. Hopefully, one day soon, I’ll find the answer.
I have been known to say that I don’t need a man, but this doesn’t mean that I don’t want one. I’m one of the few women that isn’t afraid to admit this. I know half of the women reading this will be saying “Why the hell do you want a man?” and the truth is I really don’t like cats. I refuse to become the crazy cat lady. The thought of growing old in a house full of cats scares me to death.
Anyway, this is my story and I’m sticking to it.