Skidmarks, milestones and networking

Mondays aren’t for me really. The weekend’s gone and I give not one fuck about the “new chapter” of Monday. For people who work it’s the beginning of a week of dealing with the shenanigans of others, for people who don’t and want to its a reminder that life has kicked them in the chops, and for those who have money and don’t need to work, it’s one step closer to the tax self assessment that’ll take their money.  It’s shite disguised as chocolate. It’s a skidmark.

I’ve got no room to moan to be honest, I’m “off” every Monday. I’ve put it in speech thingies (which appear to be back to front… ) because solo parenting a 2 year old who’s the size of a baby elephant on your own is not being “off”, actually it’s as far away from being “off” as you can get. It’s like being in charge of a big bag of fuck you with a side helping of half chewed raisins down your tits and orange crisp jizz on your white top. I’d relax more in a room full of lightning.  I dressed him in lightning today, it suited his mood – he was fully charged and unpredictable.  Ironic really because I feel, and look  like a burst ball bag today and have taken every easy parenting option going – despite what the mug says.  He’s had snacks galore, telly and about 4 minutes of fresh air.

 

That said, it’s been a pretty positive day you know. I am “in myself” quite satisfied that today has tickled my heart in a good way, it’s broken my body and mind obvs because that’s just life at the mo but my heart feels lovely.

A few weeks back I got talking to a lady about her daughter – I had made a chance remark about having no energy, she looked at me quizzically and I told her my dirty secret, not the one about me and Ainsley Harriet, the other one… the one where I have M.E.  So she was asking me all sorts and it turns out it was for her daughter… who I got to meet today. A lovely woman, who has a wee one just like me and was  wondering whether she was broken or mental until a week or so ago when she finally was given a label for her illness. We had a right good natter while the kids went rampagimg through my place chasing the cats and playing synchronised crying, there was cake, and sitting down, and I think we were both grateful. I think it was good for both of us to see a mirror of our illness elsewhere; it’s obviously sad that someone else feels like this, but comforting that there’s someone close by who can relate. I’ve said before that it’s an isolating illness, and it is because no one likes being around people who have summit wrong with them. They act like their balls/fanjo are on fire when you’re honest with them about HOW you actually feel. You can see it – panic-> discomfort -> longing for it to be over ->looking for a distraction. That’s nowt unique to M.E. right enough, that’s just human nature, on the face of it the majority of us are shallow bastards who just want to hear “Oh I’m fine, how are you?”. So you see, talking about this fucker does help – it definitely will help her and I in the long run; if nowt else we can job share and child share because we’re both too fucked to do it all.

The rest of the day was pretty uneventful, I made it out of the house to the top of the road where the post office is and called in for 5 minutes on my lovely mate Hilary who runs Dragon’s Den Wools in the village. She’s lovely is Hils and I’d not seen her in ages despite living approximately 4 minutes from her shop but we weren’t in for long because Eli had become pretty intent on fucking shit up. Hooligan antics included ramming the pram into the door and fingering balls of wool while shouting colours in a random order. I was twitching in case he got it all sticky…. kids are always sticky and then actual paying customers came in so I got my shit together and left. It was enough though, I saw Hilary and had 5 minutes rest before I walked home again. I’m really really sore today, Mondays are tough for lots of reasons but at the moment it’s an extra challenge because I don’t feel comfy taking my painkillers while in charge of Eli and even when we stay home, it’s physically demanding being in charge of a toddler – he’s always trying to twat me with a monkey or wrap me in a soggy muslin.

The day was charging on though; at between 4 and 4.30 every day Christiaan clocks off and makes the long and arduous commute. It takes about 14 seconds to get  from his office at the back of the house, down the hallway and into the lounge – that man is living the working dream…until home life hits him. He is confronted with me, looking like a cross between the very same burst ball sack we discussed earlier and a feral ostrich and Eli who is generally always singing about the same fucking monkeys jumping on a bed. For those of you who don’t know what five little monkeys jumping on a bed sounds like when sung by a manic 2 year old… imagine 12 doves all sat angelic in a row, tweeting and cooing away. Then pick the doves up and put them through a mincer, throw saliva all over yourself, punch your face 12 times and add a dash of panic….you’re pretty close.

This for me is the best time of day, it’s almost time I can give in and take my painkillers but for him it’s a lot like starting his second shift…. in a nightclub… where everyone is absolutely hammered. I generally am struggling to get my words out at this point and Eli is my antithesis; he’s wired to the fucking moon in only that way that over tired toddlers can be. He wants to sing about the monkeys, show Daddy the snotter on his hand, do forward rolls, read, colour in and kick him repeatedly in the balls. I feel no guilt at all as I go and get my coat on to go to fat club, fuck it, half of this kids genes are his, ok so the arsehole half are mine but he chose to put it in: this is what happens.

SO FAT CLUB… well I’d had a lovely time at Christiaans folks, what with the wafer thin bread and the eating out and things. Oh and the Easter Egg that weighed as much as my child so I wasn’t looking forward to being weighed. So, I’m there, I’ve got my boots off and I’m ready and primed to style it out; I’m alright with a gain this time, I’ve not been in 2 weeks and for 1 of those weeks I was feral. Then I realise. I’M STILL WEARING MY JEANS. Fucks sake, I’ve forgotten to get changed into my lightest ever leggings. Rookie error, these jeans must weigh at least 10 stone and my post fat club coffee has not got my shite canal flowing either (thank you codeine!). Fucking wanky skid mark Monday, until…….

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Now that certificate is written in my hand writing but that’s not because I stole it (I’d have nicked a 5 stone one just to fuck with you all) it’s because I didn’t want to hang around for it to be written out. I’m a bit shit at the whole semantics of Slimming World if I’m honest, I follow the plan, but I’m not a team player. I never stay to class, I don’t cook owt for taster nights and I make sure I’m first in the door so I can get weighed and out again without standing in the bastard queue. It’s not that I’m a cocky twat who knows it inside out, I just have neither the energy or appetite for organised celebration/commiseration, my hands hurt when I clap and I have resting bitch face at the best of times. I’m a precious fucking snow flake but….. I’VE LOST TWO AND A HALF STONE! Half a pound off though, imagine if I’d had a shite and worn my leggings? At least 12 stone off… at least.

The gods of flubber are looking out for me today actually because as well as this half a pound changing my whole entire life I’ve been talking to the lads over at Two Chubby Cubs. Now, that makes it sounds like they’re my actual mates and maybe one day they’ll give in and embrace me,  but for now they’re sound lads who’ve given me a chance to reach their audience. I messaged them, I told them about this blog and what I was trying to do and they were alright with me posting a bit about the blog on their Facebook page… so I did and fuck me has the response been tremendous. So if you’re reading from the Two Chubby Cubs clan, hello, welcome, and thanks for supporting me and reading my horse shit. Also, you’ve only got yourselves to blame – it looks like I’ll be writing on the lads blog this week. I’m no fucking Delia mind so don’t be expecting great things but it’ll be fast and easy; I’d say just like me but the irony of someone with M.E. being described as fast, or being awake long enough to be easy is just too much.

So, a positive day. I’m knackered, I’ve had my painkillers now and I’ll be asleep in no time… but I’ve achieved quite a bit today, proof that you really can glitter a turd.

Talking of which… THERE’S MOVEMENT, I’m off and if I’m not back tomorrow you’ll know I’ve died the most shameful deaths. I have shat myself to death.

*CLIFF HANGER*

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