Monday monday...
...and before that was Sunday.
Sunday- up early enough, wander down town get papers, meet up with friends for brunch, have chicken salad, cup of coffee. Feeling good, feeling great, how are you?
2pm- come home, read papers for half an hour, torment one of the cats by making my hand appear and disappear behind pillow on sofa. Laugh at stupidity of cats, stop laughing when cat uses razor/scythes to catch hand. Put plaster on hand. Vow revenge.
3-pm make coffee sit at computer with Tuc crackers and semi-cured spreadable cheese. Work for few hours, feeling good, dandy even.
6pm- get email from Paramour asking me to plug phone in. Oblige him by doing just that. Take call, agree that I will join him for a glass or two of wine later that evening as I have been working and feel I deserve it. Feeling loved and special, hug self, feel immediately stupid.
Work for another while, feel confident that work is looking good and that I am a great person to be responsible enough to work on a Sunday. Feeling chuffed.
7- have shower, wash and condition hair, carefully choose clothes. Spend ages doing 'subtle' make up. Get dressed, admire self in mirror, ask cat how I look, cat licks its nasty cat hole.
Dismiss cat and spend more time looking at self. Put on very high heels indeed, smother self in Dior. Feel vain, but good.
9- meet Paramour, kissy kissy grope fondle, take seat, order some nibbly things, drink a glass of wine, chat, flirt, talk filthy, grin, flirt, talk filthy again, am accused of causing hard on, laugh, pretend to be shocked, flirt some more. Plan to be even filthier later that evening wearing just the Dior. Discuss plan with Paramour just to see him squirm.
10- Hear name called. See Country Gay wander through crowd. And shocked to see he is not crying and also has new hair cut. He joins us, more drink is ordered. Waiter -from Cuba- fills glass very high because I am nice and say thank you whenever he does, he claims I am politest person he has ever served. I laugh, drink more wine.
10:30 pm- two other friends appear, spot us, come over, much chatting, more wine is ordered, more wine is drunk.
11-blow me, here comes French Gay. ''eeeeee' look what ze cat she dragg-ed in'
Sit enthralled as French Gay entertains table with exploits, another round of drinks, have long discussion with Country Gay about John Irving, we agree World According to Garp is a splendid book and the film was spendidly cast, even though none of us really like Robin Williams. Paramour, who has now switched to Gin and Tonics, says JOhn Banville looks like Podge and Rodge (puppets) Sniggering ensues, I pat his arms, mmmmm, another round of drinks if you please. Why yes, I'd love a Baileys.
12:30- stand up try put on coat, discover can't find arms holes, look to Paramour for help, discover Paramour is trying with glassily eyed determination to work out his own coat situation.
Leave bar, suck air into lungs, air acts like LSD.
Vision wobble. Hear French Gay, say 'I think we are all a leetle fuck-ed, no?'
Agree with the assessment. Kissy kissy bye bye, call me!
Stagger up road clinging grimly to Paramour who is doing some splendid staggering of his own. Not feeling so hot.
Lift ride is horrendous. Make it to apartment, go in, make it to bathroom, vomit copiously, try to stop vomiting, only make self puke more. Finally dry retch to a halt. Flush, over to hand basin, wash face with soap! Brush teeth, brushing action made me gag. Fortunately have nothing left to bring up except organs.
Take off clothes, leave on floor, stagger back to bedroom, find paramour passed out snoring on bed in clothes. Move his arm out of the way, lie down, shut eyes. Wait for room to stop spinning, think about Chyna, female wrestler, is she a drummer now? Wonder if there are any Tayto crisps in house. Fall asleep.
I am sitting here now in my Kimono, bare feet, hair awry, panda eyes and I appear to have the trembles. Poor old Paramour woke at six and had to make his way home to shower change and get ready for work.
There is a moral to this somewhere, I think it could be don't eat salad on a Sunday or something, but I could be wrong.
I'm never drinking again!
Sunday- up early enough, wander down town get papers, meet up with friends for brunch, have chicken salad, cup of coffee. Feeling good, feeling great, how are you?
2pm- come home, read papers for half an hour, torment one of the cats by making my hand appear and disappear behind pillow on sofa. Laugh at stupidity of cats, stop laughing when cat uses razor/scythes to catch hand. Put plaster on hand. Vow revenge.
3-pm make coffee sit at computer with Tuc crackers and semi-cured spreadable cheese. Work for few hours, feeling good, dandy even.
6pm- get email from Paramour asking me to plug phone in. Oblige him by doing just that. Take call, agree that I will join him for a glass or two of wine later that evening as I have been working and feel I deserve it. Feeling loved and special, hug self, feel immediately stupid.
Work for another while, feel confident that work is looking good and that I am a great person to be responsible enough to work on a Sunday. Feeling chuffed.
7- have shower, wash and condition hair, carefully choose clothes. Spend ages doing 'subtle' make up. Get dressed, admire self in mirror, ask cat how I look, cat licks its nasty cat hole.
Dismiss cat and spend more time looking at self. Put on very high heels indeed, smother self in Dior. Feel vain, but good.
9- meet Paramour, kissy kissy grope fondle, take seat, order some nibbly things, drink a glass of wine, chat, flirt, talk filthy, grin, flirt, talk filthy again, am accused of causing hard on, laugh, pretend to be shocked, flirt some more. Plan to be even filthier later that evening wearing just the Dior. Discuss plan with Paramour just to see him squirm.
10- Hear name called. See Country Gay wander through crowd. And shocked to see he is not crying and also has new hair cut. He joins us, more drink is ordered. Waiter -from Cuba- fills glass very high because I am nice and say thank you whenever he does, he claims I am politest person he has ever served. I laugh, drink more wine.
10:30 pm- two other friends appear, spot us, come over, much chatting, more wine is ordered, more wine is drunk.
11-blow me, here comes French Gay. ''eeeeee' look what ze cat she dragg-ed in'
Sit enthralled as French Gay entertains table with exploits, another round of drinks, have long discussion with Country Gay about John Irving, we agree World According to Garp is a splendid book and the film was spendidly cast, even though none of us really like Robin Williams. Paramour, who has now switched to Gin and Tonics, says JOhn Banville looks like Podge and Rodge (puppets) Sniggering ensues, I pat his arms, mmmmm, another round of drinks if you please. Why yes, I'd love a Baileys.
12:30- stand up try put on coat, discover can't find arms holes, look to Paramour for help, discover Paramour is trying with glassily eyed determination to work out his own coat situation.
Leave bar, suck air into lungs, air acts like LSD.
Vision wobble. Hear French Gay, say 'I think we are all a leetle fuck-ed, no?'
Agree with the assessment. Kissy kissy bye bye, call me!
Stagger up road clinging grimly to Paramour who is doing some splendid staggering of his own. Not feeling so hot.
Lift ride is horrendous. Make it to apartment, go in, make it to bathroom, vomit copiously, try to stop vomiting, only make self puke more. Finally dry retch to a halt. Flush, over to hand basin, wash face with soap! Brush teeth, brushing action made me gag. Fortunately have nothing left to bring up except organs.
Take off clothes, leave on floor, stagger back to bedroom, find paramour passed out snoring on bed in clothes. Move his arm out of the way, lie down, shut eyes. Wait for room to stop spinning, think about Chyna, female wrestler, is she a drummer now? Wonder if there are any Tayto crisps in house. Fall asleep.
I am sitting here now in my Kimono, bare feet, hair awry, panda eyes and I appear to have the trembles. Poor old Paramour woke at six and had to make his way home to shower change and get ready for work.
There is a moral to this somewhere, I think it could be don't eat salad on a Sunday or something, but I could be wrong.
I'm never drinking again!
posted by fatmammycat at 10:32 a.m.
48 Comments:
Ah yes, the old "Never Drinking Again" Story. Not a chance you'll be hitting the bottle shortly.
The more things change.........
Nonny, I will not.
Barney! Alive alive-o, I'll be right over to see how the racing went.
Fatmammycat,
Forgive me taking this liberty. You don't know me at all.
I've been trying to post a comment on Fiona de Londras's blog about women and men issues. I've been reading all the comments, including your's. But I tried and failed to post a comment into the discussion.
So I'm taking the liberty of posting the comment I want to add onto your blog, in the hope that you at least will read it and maybe feel like passing it on.
Of course I may be breaking every etiquette known to bloggers and my only defence is that I am new to the sphere.
Delete my comments if you like. I won't feel the slightest offence. But I must say that I hope the discussion doesn't fade out.
This is what I have to say now:
__________________________
Most of those who read this blog will know nothing of the views I am expressing as comments on other blogs.
Passing comments on other people’s blogs is an essential part of the blogger’s experience. So, in order to be open, authentic, integrated and honest, I am publishing, for your amusement, something I have just written on Fiona deLondras’s blog.
Fiona is an important blog person: her blog is well established and all the ’serious’ bloggers know her work. To me, she looks like one of the inner circle of Irish bloggers. She feels like in intellectual and is definitely serious. I’ve never contacted her before, and she might not appreciate me highlighting her on my blog.
Fiona,
I came across your blog when it was advertised by Blank Paige(on March 14). I’m delighted to find it and I hope that the discussion which you provoked will continue in some form.
One of the frustrations I have with blogging is that things happen so quickly: a flurry of contributions over a couple of days, followed by silence. I go off-line for a few days and I’ve missed it. Only when I got back to browsing last night did I realise that you’d re-kickstarted an important debate.
I see that (including the comments on Blank Paige) you’ve had about ten women and three men contribute so far: Damien Mulley, Simon & Eric being the men about whom I feel confident enough to risk stating their probably gender.
18 different contributors in all. (There are some whose gender I wouldn’t dare guess at)
That’s a great number for a discussion and I wish I could attract 18 people to comment on my blog.
Having displayed my nerdish (perhaps even anal retentive) credentials, I better say something about the substance of your question.
1 I hope you persist in your quest to find the best way of encouraging Irish women to blog. I say this selfishly because I enjoy reading blogs by Irish women - the more the merrier. But also, the changing culture of Ireland will be reflected in the blogs.
2 The potential number of bloggers is huge: so far the surface is barely scratched. If you can suck more women into writing and sharing their views and achievements, so much the better. Someone else can do the same for men, because, even though it may be that more men than women blog, only a tiny number of men blog. There is a job to be done on the men too.
3 What about blogs that are exclusively for women (or men)? Why not? There’s probably a way of ensuring that men aren’t even aware of what’s going on. You could have a blog which was only open to women and you could control access to it. Would that achieve your purpose? Hard to know, I think.
4 I remember a workshop I went to once. It was introduced by a woman (Nancy) and a man (Tom Boydell). Their issue was “women and men working together”. They did a short intro to everyone, then divided the big group into small groups: two all women groups, and two all men groups. Groups were sent away to discuss their experience of working with the other gender. It was the first time I’d found myself in a group selected by gender. I’ve never forgotten the feelings. When the groups assembled back into one big group, we were arranged into two concentric circles: women within, women speaking first for about 20 minutes. No contributions were allowed from men while the women spoke of their experiences of working with men. When the women had finished, the men had their turn to say what it was like working with women. I was dynamite and I’ve never been the same since. The experience made me think that, before any men and women work together, it would be really useful to talk about their pre-conceptions and previous experiences. In other words, there is so much going on whenever men and women work together that it is unwise to leave it unexplored. Is blogging a form of work? Is commenting on a blog a particular type of work? What would be the best thing to do before onto a woman’s blog and commenting? I am asking myself that question as I barge onto your blog and occupy space. (Men can be so long-winded can’t they?)
5 Are you a hard blog or a soft blog? Me, I’m a marshmallow blog. There is a Greek cheese that hardens over a flame, so that you can barbique it. I forget the name. But it is different from other cheeses that melt. I’d like to think that some blogs are like that: they appear soft but when you heat them up they get hard and very tasty. Where would we be without our political and technological blogs? It was finding out that there was a (Finnish)knitting blog that attracted about 4m hits a year that got me blogging.
6 I’m surprised that noone has mentioned Venus and Mars in this discussion. Maybe I missed it in episode one. If only I’d read that book when I was a teenager, I’d have known better how to deal with women. Everyone I know in the UK has read that book (says he wildly exaggerating for impact). For me it changed the discourse, and the potential dialogue. (I wish he had only written one book, rather than write his pension through producing a series of book which diluted the impact.) Do we have to re-run all the arguments of the sixties and early seventies? Probably yes. Each new generation needs to revisit the issues and be disrespectful to those who carved the way.
7 The struggle for equality is far from over. At one level, there are women who are not being paid the same pay as men for doing the same job. Then there continues to be the issue of pay for work of equal value. There is a lot of direct discrimination against women by men who hold positions of power in business, politics and other social spheres. When you start to think about indirect discrimination, you mind starts to have a ache because there is a long journey to go yet, if you are aiming for a fair and equal society. Then you also have complexity amplified by women who say: we don’t want to be equal with men; we are different and we want to stay different; we demand that diversity be valued. There is no point in spelling out how complex and interesting this all becomes. I think it is enough to say that we will have eating and drinking on this issue long after we are dead and buried. That’s why I feel that the style with which we discuss or dialogue this stuff is incredibly valuable. My main interest is in finding people who want to communicate with style about women and men. We could do with a poem, ideally a haiku.
8 I have about 5 minutes before Grace wakes up and takes me from my blogging. She permits me 30 minutes between 9-10 and 120 minutes between 12-2 every day, Monday to Friday. If she catches me blogging outside that time she punishes me. For all I know I may be on my last warning. It’s all very well for you bloggers who can use your employer’s time to blog. Those of us who parent infants and stay at home to do that job have to neglect the ironing, the dusting, the bottle-cleaning in order to blog. We have to sacrafice order and cleanliness on a daily basis. I could do with a wife at home, so that I could have a bit more time for blogging. Which leads me on to childcare: it is a man issue, in this house. The best form of childcare I could buy was to hire myself: I was cheap and cheerful. Incompetent I’m sure but, I have promised to smile while I’m being a poor childminder. They say that young kids are fooled by smiles: you keep them happy by smiling at them while you don’t go out to earn enough to upgrade the TV. You smile while you give them water rather than fruit juice, and they feel well looked after. There are people who turn to blogging to get away from people who talk about his sort of stuff. For me, this is the biggest political arena of all.
Before I hear the cry of the bittern sigh, I better fly…
Keep it up.
Your post is lovely. It drew me in slowly, surely. I found myself chuckling as I anticipated the inevitable.
In case you write the rest of the story, I'm going to add you to my list of blogs worth reading on a daily basis: otherwise I might miss something exciting.
Mein Got, FMC, could you please delete my last comment?
Jesus, I go to bed for the afternoon and this happens. SB, done as requested.
Is "never drinking again" the same as "going of it altogether" ?
I believe so. Although now that I've had a nap and a shower and bacon and eggs, I feel I might have been a bit hasty with that declaration.
"My main interest is in finding people who want to communicate with style about women and men. We could do with a poem, ideally a haiku."
Paul O'Mahony, listen up. I will forgive the trespass this time, but there will be no poetry or damn haiku nonsense on this blog! Unless it is done by me, and it won't be. I will take a very dim view of anyone spouting poetry here. You have all been warned.
Everyone seems to be vomiting lately. Vomiting is the new rock 'n roll.
Better out than in Footie. It has been a very very long time since I threw up like that. I feel like a teenager again.
I'll bet you had those lovely ankles of yours even as a teenager... so jealous am I...
It's taken me til to-day to properly recover, who said its ok to mix wine, guinness and baileys? i don't even like Guinness or Baileys - but I get to a point where I'll drink anything going? - don't remember getting home on Sunday morning, but I have acquired a great big hat(a Guinness freebie with a green shamrock brim)and I keep finding fat sequin shamrocks evrywhere, in my bag, pockets, in bed, on the floor - fuck knows where they came from. I remember doing some very bad Irish dancing - oh the shame of it!
Not Irish dancing!!! NO! That bloody Riverdance has so much to answer for.
That and 'Jump Around! Jump Around! JUMP UP JUMP UP AND GET DOWN!!'
We had a demo from a troupe of Irish dancers, some of whom dance with that gay orange Flatley guy from Lord of the Dance - it was nothing like the Irish dancing I learned way back when - more like a sort of leaping ballet - all flashing black stocking, and knickers and ballet arms, I remember arms straight down sides like rigid branches - not this sexy jezebel stuff (which I like much better, and riotus when performed by the pissed - certainly had the blokes attention!)
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