Revenge and possible retribution, eeek.
My sister Etheline is a clever woman, an early riser and anal about furniture to be sure, but clever. However, every so often, I think that one of these goodly day I will stab Etheline in the eye with a blunt pair of scissors. Why? Because my clever sister becomes a dolt of the highest order. A nincompoop who wears pastel.Was she not dragged kicking and screaming from the same birth canal? Has she no sense? Has she no cop on? Has she no fucking idea what our mother is made of?
SPITE Etheline, you silly silly twit, pure unadulterated spite. If spite was a river then my fucking mother is the unsullied well from which it doth spring. She so spiteful she's zesty. She's filled to the double chin with it. She's choc-a-bloc full. If spite was a fuel we could plug my mother up to a machine a run generators off her that could keep the country going for years.
She needs no outlet, she needs no triggers, she's finely balanced up. Why would anyone add to her spiteliness? Why? Why Etheline why?
Let me explain.
A long time ago in Bethlehem, no wait, I've got that wrong.
Once upon a time, there lived a much put upon beautiful angelic, sweet-natured fairy princess called..erm...notfatmammycat.
Now this fairy princess lived with an evil stepmother (screw you jesus, I prayed long and hard and what did I get? Time to take matter into my own hands) and two hideous step-sisters, also there may have been a younger brother but he was of little use to anyone except to dress up and play Ivanhoe with.
Anyhoo. This poor princess was regularly ganged up on, bullied and made to have baths and wear horrible hand-me-downs, clothes that street urchins would reject in horror. Normally this was not much of a problem as the fairy princess spent rather a large amount of time covered in horse hair and manure and other assorted filth, and was quite happy to orbit under the radar and go about her day, plotting the demise of the step mother, studying the brake lines of her car, loosening the rug at the top of the stairs and reading up on whether foxgloves were really as poisonous as everyone claimed and would sugar hide the taste of it if it happened to get sprinkled onto of cornflakes ( it is, digitalis)...stuff like that occupied a good deal of the sweet and kindly mind of the fairy princess.
She might have gone on forever, plotting and eating crisp sambos were it not for that day, that evil fateful day when an enormous dark shadow fell across her and mother was its name.
But that day did come, and that day that will linger forever in the frontal lobe of the notfatmammycat. A day so dark and cold and filled with earwigs and headlice and cabbage and other stuff like earwax and almost sneezing but not quite at the last minute, horribleness. Oh that were a one, oh that was a one, oh that will a one. For it has no beginning nor end, nor sense.
The dark shadow spoke. It said, 'rarrrghgharrrghgglelerarrrghghghg srllllrarrgh?'
Or, as I deftly translated it, 'Isn't tomorrow casual clothes day?'
Only one day can instill fear into the heart of a newish teenager, with the social skills of an incontinent skunk.
Casual clothes day.
Oh verily, some of you might go 'so? what's she fooking on about now?" But I would say shut it southsiders. You know not of the horror that casual clothes day means to the younger female sibling who just so happens to attend a sodding school filled with teenage first wearers. FIRST WEARERS, I once heard that some of those girls even got to PICK their own clothes! Their clothes even FIT them!
She begged she pleaded, she groveled. Don't make me do it. She sobbed to the evil Stepmother. Leave me in uniform.
'The money goes to charity.' It replied, but evilly.
'SO!?'
'You'd think you'd be delighted have a day out of uniform.' It replied, green eyes flashing madly.
'You'd be wrong.' She cried. 'Wrong and fat.' (actually the last bit might have been added in her head)
'You're going, honestly, I don't know what the fuss is about.'
'Well fook you anyway Ya hideous skank.' She bellowed inside. 'Butmayyyyyem,' she said aloud.
'No.'
And so it came to pass. There the fairy princess was, adrift in a sea of denim and black, wearing a batwing jumper that was both polyester and canary yellow with the words 'RELAX" across the front and green trousers tucked gaily into grey suede boots with fringes.
Oh woe was her. She went to boarding school, and normally she would have just said, 'sure' and taken the clothes with her and never looked at them again until the following Friday. But this sodding casual clothes day was on a Monday so she had no sodding excuse. It was the longest day of her life-up to that point. But the real stupidity of it was that on leaving the house that morning the Fairy Princess, in a fit of, fairy pique, did borrow her evil step mother's silver dress watch.
Now true, the watch was lovely, and equally true it did not take much from the ensemble, but the fact that the fairy princess had struck one for the underdog cheered her right up, right up in fact until the following Thursday when she broke it in a mess basketball game.
A deep and dark terror fell over notfatmammycat. There is was, the glass face shattered, the hands still. What could she do?
Only one thing.
Lie.
And so she did just that. No, she hadn't seen the watch at any time. No she didn't know what had happened to it. What watch? She said, 'Oh that watch, no I haven't seem it. Jeez, stop asking me.' And so on.
For many years the question of the missing watch would pop up now and then. The evil monster would-on occasion- look out the back window at her rockery and say, 'Raghghggarrgfaggle?' or 'I wonder whatever happened to my watch?' But by this stage everyone, evil sisters alike had been accused of its vanishing and so the universal eye-rolling would begin.
It should have stayed that way too, there was no reason for a cold case style opening. Nor would there have been had not notfatmammycat drank some rum with one of the evil step sisters in her twenties, and revealed finally, the mystery of the watch.
There is clearly a limit to how long fatcats can keep shit to themselves. And that limit seems to be about eight years or so. For now, as I sit here typing, one ear cocked for the phone, I can recount to you what the evil sister told notfatmammycat late last night.
'Hah, Mum's going to kill you.'
'Why?'
'She knows it was you that took the watch that time.'
'And how would she know such a thing?'
'Oh, she was doing her usual.'I wonder whatever happened to my watch' routine on the weekend and I started to laugh.'
'Laugh?"
'Come on, it's funny.'
'Etheline, you didn't tell her it was me did you?'
'Jesus, come on, it was years ago.'
'I've got to go.'
'Wait, are you seriously telling me-'
'That you're an idiot and a big mouth? yes I am.'
'Oh for God's sake.'
I wonder is it too late to move, or hire assassin? I wonder where the foxgloves grow around here? I'm only asking for a friend.
Have you every done anything in your youth that you thought you had gotten away with, only to have it creepy crawl its way right back to you? WELL?
SPITE Etheline, you silly silly twit, pure unadulterated spite. If spite was a river then my fucking mother is the unsullied well from which it doth spring. She so spiteful she's zesty. She's filled to the double chin with it. She's choc-a-bloc full. If spite was a fuel we could plug my mother up to a machine a run generators off her that could keep the country going for years.
She needs no outlet, she needs no triggers, she's finely balanced up. Why would anyone add to her spiteliness? Why? Why Etheline why?
Let me explain.
A long time ago in Bethlehem, no wait, I've got that wrong.
Once upon a time, there lived a much put upon beautiful angelic, sweet-natured fairy princess called..erm...notfatmammycat.
Now this fairy princess lived with an evil stepmother (screw you jesus, I prayed long and hard and what did I get? Time to take matter into my own hands) and two hideous step-sisters, also there may have been a younger brother but he was of little use to anyone except to dress up and play Ivanhoe with.
Anyhoo. This poor princess was regularly ganged up on, bullied and made to have baths and wear horrible hand-me-downs, clothes that street urchins would reject in horror. Normally this was not much of a problem as the fairy princess spent rather a large amount of time covered in horse hair and manure and other assorted filth, and was quite happy to orbit under the radar and go about her day, plotting the demise of the step mother, studying the brake lines of her car, loosening the rug at the top of the stairs and reading up on whether foxgloves were really as poisonous as everyone claimed and would sugar hide the taste of it if it happened to get sprinkled onto of cornflakes ( it is, digitalis)...stuff like that occupied a good deal of the sweet and kindly mind of the fairy princess.
She might have gone on forever, plotting and eating crisp sambos were it not for that day, that evil fateful day when an enormous dark shadow fell across her and mother was its name.
But that day did come, and that day that will linger forever in the frontal lobe of the notfatmammycat. A day so dark and cold and filled with earwigs and headlice and cabbage and other stuff like earwax and almost sneezing but not quite at the last minute, horribleness. Oh that were a one, oh that was a one, oh that will a one. For it has no beginning nor end, nor sense.
The dark shadow spoke. It said, 'rarrrghgharrrghgglelerarrrghghghg srllllrarrgh?'
Or, as I deftly translated it, 'Isn't tomorrow casual clothes day?'
Only one day can instill fear into the heart of a newish teenager, with the social skills of an incontinent skunk.
Casual clothes day.
Oh verily, some of you might go 'so? what's she fooking on about now?" But I would say shut it southsiders. You know not of the horror that casual clothes day means to the younger female sibling who just so happens to attend a sodding school filled with teenage first wearers. FIRST WEARERS, I once heard that some of those girls even got to PICK their own clothes! Their clothes even FIT them!
She begged she pleaded, she groveled. Don't make me do it. She sobbed to the evil Stepmother. Leave me in uniform.
'The money goes to charity.' It replied, but evilly.
'SO!?'
'You'd think you'd be delighted have a day out of uniform.' It replied, green eyes flashing madly.
'You'd be wrong.' She cried. 'Wrong and fat.' (actually the last bit might have been added in her head)
'You're going, honestly, I don't know what the fuss is about.'
'Well fook you anyway Ya hideous skank.' She bellowed inside. 'Butmayyyyyem,' she said aloud.
'No.'
And so it came to pass. There the fairy princess was, adrift in a sea of denim and black, wearing a batwing jumper that was both polyester and canary yellow with the words 'RELAX" across the front and green trousers tucked gaily into grey suede boots with fringes.
Oh woe was her. She went to boarding school, and normally she would have just said, 'sure' and taken the clothes with her and never looked at them again until the following Friday. But this sodding casual clothes day was on a Monday so she had no sodding excuse. It was the longest day of her life-up to that point. But the real stupidity of it was that on leaving the house that morning the Fairy Princess, in a fit of, fairy pique, did borrow her evil step mother's silver dress watch.
Now true, the watch was lovely, and equally true it did not take much from the ensemble, but the fact that the fairy princess had struck one for the underdog cheered her right up, right up in fact until the following Thursday when she broke it in a mess basketball game.
A deep and dark terror fell over notfatmammycat. There is was, the glass face shattered, the hands still. What could she do?
Only one thing.
Lie.
And so she did just that. No, she hadn't seen the watch at any time. No she didn't know what had happened to it. What watch? She said, 'Oh that watch, no I haven't seem it. Jeez, stop asking me.' And so on.
For many years the question of the missing watch would pop up now and then. The evil monster would-on occasion- look out the back window at her rockery and say, 'Raghghggarrgfaggle?' or 'I wonder whatever happened to my watch?' But by this stage everyone, evil sisters alike had been accused of its vanishing and so the universal eye-rolling would begin.
It should have stayed that way too, there was no reason for a cold case style opening. Nor would there have been had not notfatmammycat drank some rum with one of the evil step sisters in her twenties, and revealed finally, the mystery of the watch.
There is clearly a limit to how long fatcats can keep shit to themselves. And that limit seems to be about eight years or so. For now, as I sit here typing, one ear cocked for the phone, I can recount to you what the evil sister told notfatmammycat late last night.
'Hah, Mum's going to kill you.'
'Why?'
'She knows it was you that took the watch that time.'
'And how would she know such a thing?'
'Oh, she was doing her usual.'I wonder whatever happened to my watch' routine on the weekend and I started to laugh.'
'Laugh?"
'Come on, it's funny.'
'Etheline, you didn't tell her it was me did you?'
'Jesus, come on, it was years ago.'
'I've got to go.'
'Wait, are you seriously telling me-'
'That you're an idiot and a big mouth? yes I am.'
'Oh for God's sake.'
I wonder is it too late to move, or hire assassin? I wonder where the foxgloves grow around here? I'm only asking for a friend.
Have you every done anything in your youth that you thought you had gotten away with, only to have it creepy crawl its way right back to you? WELL?
posted by fatmammycat at 8:59 a.m.
28 Comments:
Headphone karma.
Heh. And hee. And HA! Haha!
Me? No. Never. Wasn't me. I wasn't even there that day. Nope. Haven't a notion what you're getting at. If you ever did a thing like that and told someone sure they'd have to tell everyone. These days they'd even rat you out on their blog. "Anonymously", like. So, like I said, driven snow. Pure as. Me.
So, who was it peed in the holy water font that day?
Major, to be sure.
Conan, I'm guessing it was...NO! I won't reveal my sources.
Hahaha! Funny post. And as the youngest of four daughters I can completely relate to the pain of having to wear hand-me-downs when all my friends had New clothes. Oh, the childhood scars from the 70's and 80's ehhehe ;)
I can't think of anything that has come back to haunt me from my youth though (maybe the day is still to arrive!? Help) But I do remember the one and only time ever in my life I stole something. I was about 5 or 6, and took a toy car from one of my cousins. Oh, the Shame when they found it in my room about two weeks later! Shame, shame, shame. I was mortified. It was the start and end of my stealing career. Put me right back on the straight and narrow!
I look forward to reading the next chapter in this intriguing story about the "beautiful angelic, sweet-natured fairy princess called notfatmammycat". Cinderalla is soooooo out.
You must have something juicy on the Etheline (aka Evilene). So go on, share...
The shame of getting caught never really leaves you now does it.
Conan, I know shit but I'll be stock piling it for future use.
My younger brother dobbed me in on a similar thing when we were teenagers.
Years ago (me = age 6 or 7,) one Mother's Day, we had bought one of those big boxes of Milk Tray for my mum. The following school morning when I should have been up in the bathroom brushing my teeth before school, I snuck in to the sitting room, opened the box and acquired me a chocolate. Mid-bite, I heard my mother tramping down the stairs and shoved it back in the box.
So far so good.
Except later that night, she pulls out the box as we're all in the sitting room watching Corrie and shrieks in horror.
"What?" says the clan.
"I think a mouse got at these sweets. There's bite marks on one of the chocolates".
I maintained a stony silence and said nothing, knowing I'd get into trouble if I fessed up for pinching sweets, and in the morning when I should have been getting ready for school.
My mother wrote to Cadburys and complained about the chocolates - and they four of those HUGE Milk Tray boxes. Needless to say, me and my bro's were chuffed - and I confessed my crime to my younger brother.
Years later during a teenage scrap, he grassed me up to my mother (who is puritanically honest in that she'd make you bring a work pen back to work if you brought it home). I tried to make light of it, but she wasn't impressed...
Not quite as severe as a fancy watch, but I empathise...
hahaha, brothers, they're little shits are they not, for the grassing any way.
The stupidest thieving I ever did was when I was about six, I was in the local shop with Gamma and I stole one of those bottles of stuff you can make bubbles with. Naturally I went home and hid behind the corner of the house and proceeded to blow millions of bubbles. Bubbles which caught a breeze and flew oh so gently around the corner right by gamma who came to investigate.
I was marched quick smart back to that shop where I had to give a very teary apology.
Can't think of anything right now. NOt that I wasn't a complete holy terror as a child, but I was too slow and always got caught. So...no elder sibling has anything on me.
And...yes, the hand-me-downs. Me, youngest of 7, head to toe in crappy old clothes. Luckily, I was able to get just as many things from my older brothers as sisters, so at least I had the occasional nicely broken in pair of jeans and shit-kicker boots. Sweet.
Mt clothes during my teenager years were a disgrace, they really were. I never got cool shit at all.
But what ho chumleywarners, I am to attend an il Divo concert later this evening and for that I shall dress up like a fox, behind me childhood, behind I say.
Il Divo or Devo? I strongly advise against the former, noisy oleagenous sludge!
Divo. Saw them in BCN last year, the night of the Champion's league in fact. But tonight it's off to an early pre-concert supper and the down to the Point. We've cracking good seats too-myself and my spanish friend, the paramour is off to run a round a soccer field somewhere.
One of the big motivating factors for "turning punk" and joining that scene at 14 was that I didn't have to wear the trendy clothes I couldn't afford or hand-me-downs. I went to the thrift store and army supply store to save my dignity. It was the right move during the hideous 80s fashions.
I tried turning punk, but it was impossible to pull off, you just can't be truly punk in a mohair jumper and cords. It just does not work.
so i said to myself yesterday while puttering down the trails in white clay creek i said self, what with fatcat going off the hooch and off the colombian/columbian surely soon there will be an etheline and/or lilac sofa Encounter.
off to buy a lotto ticket...
They are inescapable. I'm off to watch chaps sing opera. Not a mosh pit in sight. Toodle-pip.
I chewed the feet off my barbie doll, and blamed it on my friend Annabelle. I told my mother years later and she was in hysterics. After she got over the shock of me chewing the feet off the barbie.
I wore hand-me-downs for years, and hated it. AND I wore stirrup-pants for far longer than I should have, as well as overalls. Oh, the shame!
Aieeeeee, stirrup pants! Or ski-pants as they were known here, vile, I was stuck with those for the longest times too. Oh the eighties has a WHOLE ot ot answer for.
I got a fantastic pair of white, yes white handmedown trousers when I was a lad of about 8 or 9. Christ I looked fantastically cool as I sauntered down to the shops with everyone, and I mean everyone, looking at me,ehh, jealously. Untill the arse exploded on them when I bent down. I can't remember the rest of the story.
Exploding arses Tommy, what more needs to be said.
I used to swap "moneys" with my brother who was 5 years younger and didn't get the whole value/denominations thing. So two 1ps would be swapped for a 10p, making him happy and me richer. Till my mother caught me and made me go to confession where the priest roared down hellfire on me and told me that was how people in prison started out and I'd end up there too. I was terrified and never stole again. Though that was the end of me and confession as well...
A sort of two for one, if you will, I like it.
I gave up confession when I discovered I was getting twice the prayer orders than a friend of mine who was FAR worse than me in every respect. I mean, fuck that shit.
Childhood. I try to blockmost of it out, as the scream therapy didn't really work.
My mom is a Leo, so I was dressed to the nines when I was a teenager, decked out from Nordstom, with a fancy haircut and the fake nails to match. Needless to say, I rebelled and became a goth.
Forget about the foxglove, FMC, you want to go with monkshood. It's a bitch to distill it, but it works way faster than digitalis. Plus, you need less of it, so there's plenty for Mom and Etheline.
Firstly I'm jealous of your first time wearingness and secondly, I WAS asking for a FRIEND!
"secondly, I WAS asking for a FRIEND!"
Ooops, my bad. Erm, did your friend want me to take care of that little problem, then?
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