Dear Diary - Mean Girl

 

Dear Diary

I am a mean person.  

It's my sense of humor.  

Direct, outrageous, provocative.

Basically, if I say something utterly ridiculous, you ought to know I'm kidding.

Little by little, over the years, Fluffy Bear has got used to my wacky ways.  But, now and again, I can still get him.

A year or so ago, I put a very sad, concerned face on and sat down next to my husband on the couch.

 "I really didn't know how to tell you what I have to say," I said softly, "so I bought you this."

Quietly, I handed him a greeting card.

He took it out of the envelope, and turned it face up.

"I'm pregnant" it read.

He didn't say anything.  

He didn't look at me.

He slowly opened the card.

"Just kidding!" it said on the inside.

He didn't move.

At that moment, I was gripped by fear.  

Maybe, for once, I'd gone too far.  

What if he jumped up and hugged me, bursting into tears of happiness?  I mean, holy shit, I didn't want kids!  He didn't want kids!  Did he?

He let out a half-yell, half-guffaw, and whacked me on the arm with the card.

I breathed a sigh of relief, starting to laugh too.

I'd got away with it!  But, maybe, a little less nutty next time.

Then again, whoever designed that card is also clearly a bit of a nutjob, so I'm not alone...

Short Story / Unfinished Novel - I Died

I have ideas.  I write them down.  And then I do nothing.  Because it takes too much self-discipline and time to write a book.  So here it is...

Maybe it's a story.  Maybe it's part of a novel I won't write. 

I died on the 6th of January, 2010.  I was 40 years old.  They say life begins at 40.  HAH!

Death.  Bizarre.

I remember there was a man.  At least, I think he was a man.  I don't remember his face, though.  

He didn't introduce himself or take my hand or anything, but - somehow - I knew.  I just knew.  He was there to guide me... to what?

"Beyond?"

"God?"

I didn't know and, for the first time in my life, it didn't bother me that I didn't know.  I don't fulfill one of those key success criteria that management books talk about these days:  I was never comfortable with ambiguity.  But, strangely, at that moment, I felt just fine.

"Can I go to my funeral?" I asked him.

"You're not having one," he replied.  "You asked your husband for a New Orleans style procession to a bar and then an Irish wake, remember?"

"Oh yeah!  That's even better!  Can I go?"

"No."

"Why not?"  I was more confused than angry.

"You can't go back," he said, his tone laying out a clear non-negotiation zone.  "Now,  moving on."

"Moving on?  Is that you changing the subject, or are you about to tell me how this all works?"

"I was being sarcastic."

"Well," I said, starting to get annoyed, "it's irritating."

"What do you want me to say?"  His voice was overly patient, like a parent placating a child in public.

"How about: 'I can say, but I can't share that information with you'?"

"Too many words," he snapped.  "Moving on."

"If I have to move on, how do you explain ghosts then?"

"That's all bullshit," he snapped.  "Vampires, werewolves, bla bla bla.  Just fantasies that spawn crappy movies."

"Well, then can I do your job sometime in the future?" I asked, starting to sink to his level.  "I always wanted to be a psychologist.  You know... comforting people."

He ignored me.  I don't remember the color of his eyes, but I do remember they looked straight into mine, unflinching.

"So..." I decided to try again: "How do you understand people in different languages?"

We were walking now.

"We can reflect the person we're talking to."

"Reflect?"

"Reflect."

"Um... OK."

"It's so that we can build a relationship," he explained.  "So, if you're Spanish, I speak and understand Spanish."

"Wow!  That's a cool ability!  I love languages!"

I paused.  

"Um... I loved languages.  Do I have to speak in the past tense now I'm dead?"

This small thing, explaining something I liked, was what made me realize my situation.  I expected to feel sad, regretful, resentful.

Nothing.

He didn't reply immediately, as if he knew I was processing, pondering, at that moment.

"You're still you," he said eventually, his tone warming slightly.

"OK.  I love languages.  I'd love to be able to... reflect like that."

"It's no big deal," he shrugged.  "We can all do it."

"Even me?"

"Even you."

"Wow!"  Finally, something to enjoy about all this!  Maybe itwas a sign.  Maybe I'd be able to do other things.  Fly!  Cook!  Sing in tune!

"How do I do it?" I asked him.

"Just feel Spanish, and you'll be there."

"Cómo lo hago sienta el español?" I snapped, annoyed.  I mean, what the hell did "feel Spanish" mean, and how was I supposed to do it?

He looked at me, waiting.

"HOLY SHIT!" I yelled.  "I just said that in Spanish, didn't I?"

"Si."

"I LOVE IT!"

He smiled.  Well, I think he did.

"Wait a minute."  I stopped walking, and turned towards him.

"If you're 'reflecting' me, what are you right now?"

"I believe I'm a combination of British sarcasm, American chutzpah and a warped South African sense of humor."

For the first time in a very, very long time, I laughed out loud.

To read more in the Short Story / Unfinished Novel series, click the Tag below or the Category Link on the left.

You might like:

• The Nose
• Casino Girl

Note to Self - Bear Necessities

Note to Self

A 140 pound Fluffy Bear, woken up early by the dogs, with low blood sugar and a mild hangover is best avoided.

Workplace Personalities - The Office Stalker

 

What is it with the Office Stalker?

He works in a different department, he sits on a different floor, he has a meeting schedule that has no overlap with yours whatsoever.

And yet...

Wherever you go, there he is.

In the elevator.

At the coffee stand.

Worst of all, coming towards you in the corridor.

The first few times you pass each other, it's the normal greeting.  

"Good morning." if it's before noon, and a smile if its after.  

As you start to recognize each other, there's a honeymoon period where the exchange has a sing song quality, and the smiles widen.  The greeting gets more complicated although, as you don't even know each others' names, you tend to say them at the same time, a harmony-free duet:

"Good morning. How are you? Fine, thanks."

Then, without warning, it starts to get a bit old.

Frankly, you're sick of seeing each other.

The smiles get thin, and the "Good morning" slowly deteriorates: first "Mornin'", then "Ng" and, finally, a whispered grunt.

Finally, the eye avoidance starts.  You recognize his gait from 20 feet away and start walking faster, thinking busy thoughts, starting at your notepad or fixing your gaze to the floor.

You used to think he was kinda cute... now you're not sure if you didn't catch a whiff of BO as he sidled past.

Why is this guy always where you are?

Why does he get coffee when you do?

Why - for God's sake! - WHY does he go to the bathroom when you have to?

It's just not right.

And so you start to change your routine.  You wait an extra half hour in the morning before buying your latte, you start using the stairs, you walk the long way round to meeting room 6B.

And it works!  You don't see him for three whole weeks!

And then, just when you let your guard down, you get into the elevator to go up 13 floors and there he is.

Shit!

Key signs:

• You see him at least twice a day

Catch phrase:  "Ng."

Your strategy:  Keep changing your routine.  Or change jobs.

Their comeuppance:  There isn't one.  You can't prove anything.

For more Workplace Personalities, click here.

You might like:

• The Indy
• The Phantom

Bucket List - Bake a Cake

 

The Bucket List is a list of things I want to do/feel I should do before I die. I've done some of them already, and I'm telling one of those stories here. To see the whole list, click here.

37. Bake a Cake

This seems to be such a simple thing, but everyone should have the experience, just once, of baking a cake, and I think many people don't get to try this. 

There is something about gathering the ingredients, measuring them (experimentation with quantities doesn't work with cake baking), sieving the flour and sugar and putting some elbow grease into mixing it all. 

There's the aroma which starts to waft through the house as the cake is close to being done, taking this hot, risen thing out of the oven and gingerly separating it from the rim of the cake tin before carefully - care....ful....ly - tipping it out onto the cooling rack.

Icing a cake is a sensual experience.

Mixing the icing, spreading it on the cake, licking your finger as you mess it up.

It's a sweet, homely thing.

For me, reminiscent of Sunday afternoons getting ready for visitors to come for tea, looking forward, after working and waiting for two hours, to actually have a soft, sweet slice of your labors.

Baking a cake is about being at home.

It's a small sigh of happiness.

My mother's amazing Chocolate Cake Recipe (which I know by heart)  

• Heat oven to 400F/200C


• Mix half a cup of cocoa with one cup boiling water


• Sieve together:
  
  
  
  • 1.5 cups flour
  
  
  • 1.5 cups sugar
  
  
  • 3.5 teaspoons baking powder
  
  


• Make a well in the middle of the dry ingredients and add:
  
  
  
  • 4 egg yolks
  
  
  • 0.5 cup oil
  
  
  • Chocolate mixture
  
  


• Work the dry ingredients into the liquid, mixing it in slowly so there are no lumps


• Beat the egg whites to a stiff peak


• Grease your cake tin


• To the mixture add:
  
  
  
  • 1 teaspoon vanilla essence
  
  
  • The egg whites
  
  


• Fold (DO NOT JUST STIR) this into the mixture, creating lightness and air in it


• Bake for 25-30 minutes in a deep cake tin

Enjoy!

Follow up...

OK so my participation in the Bake Off (see post comments) didn't go so well.

First, I forgot we don't have a cake tin. My memory gets confused between the kitchen stuff we have here and what we have in the UK. So I rush off to the store to get one and all the have is those shallow tins to make layers. What is this insistence on layering cakes un the US? The extra filling adds calories and your cake should be moist enough to stand alone. Sigh.

So I get two layer cake tins.

Next screw up happens at the very first task. I filled the kettle and switched it on. Unfortunately it wasn't plugged in. So I mix the cocoa with cold instead of boiling water by mistake.

There are, I believe, cake baking days and days when you should just stay the hell outta the kitchen. Yesterday was the latter.

But I soldiered on, mistakenly putting bits if cocoa in the egg whites, flour in the sugar container...

Finally, to bake.

How to adjust the timing for shallow tins?

I checked the cakes at 18 mins and they weren't ready. My little voice told me to do another 5 mins, but I didn't listen. I set the timer for 7 mins.

I don't have to tell you, do I, that the bases were burnt?

Then I forgot to loosen the cakes while they were warm out of the oven so, when we finally tried to prise them out, a quarter of one cake stayed stubbornly stuck to the tin.

Fluffy Bear was scroogey with the icing (frosting) so, by the time we put some in the middle to stick them together, the icing on top looked like a bald man with a bad comb-over.

Last but not least, I forgot to take a photo of the completed abomination for you, so you get a picture that portrays the true sadness of the entire event.

Caveat: this is NOT a reflection on the recipe. It's a reflection on the fact that I was born tonever wear an apron.

   

Update on Wednesday, April 14, 2010 at 9:15AM by Ittybittycrazy

I hereby challenge you to a bake off!

Everyone who bakes this cake and sends me a picture and/or some comments on the recipe will have their photo and comments added to this post.

I'll take a pic of mine too!

Let's get baking!

Bucket List - Fight with someone physically

 

The Bucket List is a list of things I want to do/feel I should do before I die.  I've done some of them already, and I'm telling one of those stories here.  To see the whole list, click here.

5. Fight with someone physically

The closest I have ever come to a fight was when a skinny rich bitch once tried to kick me in the head.

To be fair, I had slept with her boyfriend.

He wasn’t worth it.

Why didn’t she try to kick HIM in the head? 

I think that those of us who are cuckolded would somehow prefer to blame the person our partner was unfaithful WITH, than our partner’s themselves.  It’s so much easier to think that the third person somehow used lies, or some kind of evil magic, to tempt our partner away, than to acknowledge that our partner made a choice – and that they chose someone else over us.

I just sat there, numb, wondering why I had been stupid enough not to throw the condom away, instead of leaving it for her to find on my bedside table.   

I tend to blame myself for things rather than other people.  That particular psychological peccadillo goes back a long way, and I won’t bore you with it.  Let’s keep that between me and my therapist.

Anyway…

I didn’t move, or try to retaliate.  I sat there thinking about the mistake I had made, and that the Skinny Rich Bitch was behaving like trash. 

And now I wish I had hit back at her – just so that I could say I’ve been there.  I wish I’d scratched my nails across her face, torn her expensive blouse, pulled her hair and smudged her makeup.

But then, you see, the man in question would have thought that I was fighting for him.

And, as I already said, he wasn’t worth it.

Nowadays, I think I’m too old to fight.  Unless I pick on a younger woman who is drunk enough to negate the physical advantage she would have over me in muscle tone and bone density, I’m not likely to have the chance ever again.

Ah well, you can't have everything, can you?

Hell is Other People - White Van Man

 

Yesterday, on the way home from gym, I was in the go-straight-ahead lane, minding my own business, listening to the BBC World Service.  On my left, in the left-turning-lane, was a white van.

The turning lane lights turned green, for him to turn left and for cars opposite him to turn to their left.

But the white van surged forward, lurched to the right and went straight ahead, narrowly missing a car on the other side of the road who was trying to turn.

My jaw dropped.

This arsehole had just almost caused a major accident, and done something so illegal it was mindboggling.

When the straight ahead lights turned green, I accelerated like a crazy person and, about half a mile down the road, I caught up with the van.  Once again, it was in the left turning lane and I was going straight ahead.

I should add there that, in England, where the narrow roads and cost of petrol (gas) make it difficult to drive ridiculously large 4X4 trucks, workmen drive white vans.  They are usually driving across London from one job to another, trying to make it through traffic as quickly as possible.  They tend to drive like maniacs.  Everyone hates them and tries to get the hell out of their way.

So you'll understand a little better, I hope, why my blood boiled at this idiot.

I hooted (sounded the horn) for about 45 seconds.

The van's white reverse (back up) lights came on, and it pulled up beside me.  The driver was a young man, baseball hat (there's a shock) and, next to him, a young woman.  

We were yelling at each other with the windows closed, but it didn't take a lipreading genius to see that he had yelled:

"What the FUCK is your problem?"

"You're going to kill someone!" I yelled back.

I started trying to gesture what I was saying, pointing at him and doing the sideways cut motion across my neck. 

I suddenly realized that he might think I was saying I was going to kill HIM, so I wound down the window.

We yelled more of the same thing at each other.  

I just kept repeating:

"You are going to KILL someone!"

Now the girlfriend got involved. 

"What did he do?" she screeched.

Being under 30, they of course have ADD, and probably didn't realize that I was referring to something he had done over 60 seconds ago.

The girlfriend was sitting there, unlit cigarette in one hand, lighter in the other.  She was pretty - in that hard, brittle way that strippers are.  She had blonde hair with a horrible orange hue - a cheap and nasty dye job.

Finally, she threw what she obviously thought was her killer barrage:

"You should stop eating, because you're FAT!"

I thought of a retort, but decided to take the high ground.  If I got personal, the driver wouldn't learn anything.

So I just kept repeating:  

"You are going to KILL SOMEONE!"

What I should have said, of course, is:

"I can diet.  You'll always be White Trash!"

But, let's face it, this is America, and people like that have guns.  

And so I wound up my window and, seeing the light had turned green, drove away.

Hell is other people.

For more Hell is Other People - click here. 

Puppy Talk - Mornings

 

Puppy Girl:  Mom.  Mo-hom.  I need potty!  Mo-hoh-hoh-hoh-hoh-m!  Mo-hoh-hoh-hoh-hoh-m!  Mo-hoh-hoh-hoh-hoh-m!  Mo-hoh-hoh-hoh-hoh-m!  Mo-hoh-hoh-hoh-hoh-m!  

[Alarm goes off.]

Puppy Dog:  MORNING BUGLE!  I'm up, Mom!  I'm ready!  I'm at the bedroom door!

Puppy Girl:  Oh, thank God!  Mo-hoh-hoh-hoh-hom!  Let's gooooooooo!  I need poh-hoh-hoh-tty!

[Back door opened.]

Puppy Dog:  BACK PERIMETER CHECK!  WEST BOUNDARY - ALL CLEAR! NORTH BOUNDARY - ALL CLEAR!  EAST BOUNDARY - ALL CLEAR!

Puppy Girl:  Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!  That feels good!

Puppy Dog:  FRONT PERIMETER CHECK!  FRONT DOOR - ALL CLEAR!

[Mama starts serving breakfast.]

Puppy Dog:  Morning rations!  Right on time!  Let's go, Mama!  Hut!  Hut!  Hut!

Puppy Girl:  Food!  YAY!  FOOD!  YAY!  FOOOOOOOOOOOOD! YAAAAAAY!

[Breakfast is done. Mama washes bowls.]

Puppy Girl:  Are you giving me more food, Mama?  Is there more?  More?  More?

Puppy Dog:  MORNING ABLUTIONS!  Find your spot, take your time, deep breaths and relaxation ensure effective elimination.

[Mama opens the bedroom door.]

Puppy Dog:  Morning digestive nap number 1 is GO!

Puppy Girl:  Time to play, Mama!  Kick the ball!  Kick the ball!  YAY!  I got it!  I got the ball, Mama!  Here it is!  Kick it again!  I don't know what you're doing with that buzzing thing and that minty foam on your mouth, Mama, but kick the ball!  Kick it!  Again!  YAY!  I got it!  I got the ball, Mama!  Here it is!  Kick it again!  Again!  Again!  Again!  YAY!  I got it!  I got the ball, Mama!  Here it is!  Kick it again!  YAY!  I got it!  I got the ball, Mama!  Here it is!  Kick it again!  YAY!  I got it!  I got the ball, Mama!  Here it is!  Kick it again!  YAY!  I got it!  I got the ball, Mama!  Here it is!  Kick it again!  

Puppy Dog:  Quiet!  It's nap time!  Oh, wait, hang on, Mama's going to the kitchen.  OK, I'm up!  READY TO GO!

Puppy Girl:  Are you making more food for me, Mama?  Are you?  Are you?  Oh, it's for you?  Can I have some?  Can I have some?  Please?  Please?  Pleeeeeeeeease!

Puppy Dog:  Employing hypnotism technique No. 1.  You wiiiiiiiilll give me some of your fooooooood.  You wiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiillllllllllllll giiiiiiiiiive meeeee soooooome of your foooooooooood.  SUCCESS!  Licking time!

Puppy Girl:  Ooooooh!  I like to lick the milk!  Yummy!  Yummy!  Yummy!

Puppy Dog:  Back off, Puppy Girl!  Respect your elders!

Puppy Girl:  Yummy!  Yummy!  Yummy!

Puppy Dog:  Licking complete!  Morning digestive nap number 2 is GO!

[Shower water switched on.]

Puppy Girl:  Mama!  Can I lick your leg while you're in the shower?  The warm water is sweet and soapy!  If I can just get my nose under the shower curtain I can... Got it!  Oooh!  Yummy!  Yummy!  Yummy!  

[Shower water switched off.]

Puppy Girl:  You done, Mama?  Can I lick your knees?  Yummy!  Yummy!

[Hairdryer goes on.  Fluffy Bear gets up.]

Puppy Girl:  I'm up here on the bed with you, Mama.  I'm just going to rest my eyes for a min..."

Puppy Dog:  ALPHA DOG IS UP!  SHADOWING IS GO!

For more Puppy Talk, click here. 

Dear Diary - Bun in the oven

 

Dear Diary

Two people close to me are very, very pregnant.  Well, I say close to me.  One is physically close - I see her every day.  And the other is close to my heart, but oceans separate us.  And so I use Mrs WorkMom as my fix for my BFFMom, so that, in some way, I can feel I am sharing in my her pregnancy.

I think WorkMom's baby and I are going to get on very well after he's born.  He's my kinda guy.  He's causing trouble already.  Never mind the false labor and the tossing and turning... every time a monitoring strap or ultrasound is put on her stomach, the baby kicks the shit out of it.

My attitude to my colleague has been confusing for some of my team at work.  On the one hand, I make it clear that I don't like or want (human) kids but, on the other hand, I get her to IM me when he's kicking so I can run over to her cube and feel it.  I've never felt a kid kick in the womb before.  It's weird.

This morning, I started to think about my love-hate relationship with children.

I say I "hate kids" because it's simple short-hand that everyone can understand and the vehemence of my tone leaves no doubt in their minds that they should never - never - show me their ultrasound or camping trip photos or annoy me with those revolting Girl Scout Cookies.  It gets me out of a lot of tedious conversations and saves me the energy expended by pretending I care.  Oscar winning actresses get paid to do that shit.  If I have to slap on a smile and say "Aw!" ten times in a row, all I get is drained.

Show me pictures of your dog... then see me melt.

Hating kids is not really the issue though.  I mean, they're cute (in small doses) and, with extensive aunty and babysitting experience, I know how to handle them.  Toddlers are fascinating to observe, from a psychological/sociological point of view:  watching how they learn, how they perceive the world, how they move within it.  Even revolting teenagers can be like watching a nature documentary.  I mean - hell! - the little shits aren't mine, so I can just watch and be entertained, like a live VH1 reality show.

So why my antipathy?

If I break it down, there are 3 key reasons:

1) My mother

My mother was a product of her time.  Having children meant staying at home, being financially dependent on my father, not having the chance to get out into the world, to spread her wings, to fly.  

And then, when her third child was a teenager and she could see the light at the end of the tunnel, beckoning her to an empty nest, charity work, time alone... I came along.  She never said it to me - she probably never said it to anyone - but I could feel that I messed up her life.  She was almost 40 when she had me (common now, not so much back then), and I took the shackles of suburban motherhood, which had rusted and were going to fall off, polished and oiled them and snapped them shut, even tighter than before, around her ankles.

Don't get me wrong - my mother loved me.  Very much.  So much so, in fact, that she didn't show resentment.  Instead, she wanted a better life for me.

We lived in South Africa of the 1980's.  Best known for Apartheid but also, in other ways, very conservative.  My mother wanted to make sure I didn't end up not realizing my potential like she did, and she encouraged me to study, to travel, to question - never to marry, and never to have kids.  I don't fault her for this in any way.  Perhaps we both knew human procreation wasn't for me.

2) What I saw

Recently, more women have been honest about fallacies like the one of golden "bonding" moment when the baby is first placed at the mother's breast.  Brooke Shields was vilified by some for writing about her postpartum depression, which included thoughts of suicide and imagining her baby smashing into a wall.  It's not like they show it in the baby product ads on TV.

I knew all this a long time ago.

I have seen motherhood up close - my sister crying with fatigue while my nephew was wide awake playing at 3am, my brother dealing with his son's tantrums, my friend (who I lived with for 3 months) taking three times as long as normal to get a cake baked or a dress made.  

My sister had four kids in four years and I was 11 when the first one came.  We lived close by and I was the aunt who played with the kids, ran the birthday parties - hell! - even changed a few nappies.  It was fun, but it was also exhausting.  I would spend 3 to 4 hours with my nephews and nieces and be wiped out.  How my sister did it all day long was a mystery to me.  And, to her credit, she has brought up four of the most amazing kids in the world.  Now adults, they are strong, intelligent, loving and able to face the challenges in life as well as embrace sports and activities which bring fun into the day to day.

But I saw the work that went into that.  And it was too much for me, thank you very much.

3) It wasn't meant to be

Physically, the signs have always been there that I "didn't have the hips for bearing children," as they used to say.  My menstruation was always minimal, and three years ago a grapefruit sized growth had to be cut out of me.  My womb was never baby-ready.  

Sometimes I wondered whether, if I couldn't have kids, I wasn't supposed to.  

Now, that's completely unfair to those women who have suffered through IVF, and also to all those children out there looking for adoptive parents.  Of course you should try to have kids if you want to, in spite of biology.

Adoption has taken place in my family, and it was one of the most joyous and precious things that happened to us - to all of us, not just the adoptive parents.  I told the child in my family a few years ago what a gift he had been, how the moment he was brought to my parent's house was just joyous, and I'm not sure he really got what I was saying.  He seemed confused, even perhaps skeptical.  But I was telling the God's honest truth.  There was a glow around my family that day.  I'll never forget it.

But, for me, I personally feel that my womb was simply backing up what my heart told me.  It's not for me.  No thanks.  No way.

So I'm that bitch at the girl's night who, once we've been watching new baby videos for ten minutes, turns to the new mother and says:

"OK, your baby's adorable, but I'm done.  It's time for dessert."

In spite of all of this, I can understand the wonder and strangeness that is childbirth.  I mean, imagine a separate individual growing inside of you.  Imagine some minuscule thing in your bollocks starting the process that creates a whole new being!  How utterly bizarre.  How completely amazing.

And so I connect with the experience BFFMom is going through - something she has been wanting for so, so long, and something that has made her happier than I have seen in our 22 years of close bond - through WorkMom's huge belly, her slow, swaying progress to meetings, and even her ultrasounds.

I ask questions, and I contribute to gifts, and I regularly check in on how she's doing.

And most of all, for both of them, I wish and hope and pray for easy births, and healthy children.