Now many of you will already be aware of this, but as I write there are only 178 shopping days left until Christmas. Now I know that might seem like plenty and I’m sure many of you are wondering why on earth (when we’re experiencing one of the hottest weeks of the year) I’m thinking about Christmas. Why indeed? Well I’ll be honest with you, this is more about conditioning than anything else.
From the middle of June onwards my mother starts making enquries as to what each and every one of her children has planned for Christmas. This is her not-so-subtle way of trying to "bagsy" you for Christmas before anyone else does. It's a good tactic as in June nobody has ever made firm plans for the holiday season (why would they??), and invariably she manages to secure the attendance of at least two of the four children and their partners/children etc. Mum loves being the hostess, and to be fair she's really rather good at it.
Therefore, it should be a simple decision – It's my second Christmas with no significant other and naturally it should equal dinner with the parental unit, unfortunately my dad decided to throw a spanner in the works by popping his clogs and therefore stuffing up the family Christmas routine. My mum remarried, and although the house is still the same house, and my mum still makes the best Christmas dinner going, the atmosphere would invariably be less like spending the day with your immediate family, and more like spending Christmas with...well...your mum and her new chap. It somehow seems wrong to intrude on newlyweds Christmas celebrations, even though I know she wouldn't see it like that, but the last thing you want to be on Christmas day is a gooseberry! Last year was my first Christmas as a singleton, and to be frank I was dreading it. Princess had kindly invited me to spend the day with her family (Momma and Poppa Smurf as I affectionately call them), but I didn’t really want to do Christmas at all. I’d had a crappy couple of years, and quite frankly I wasn’t excited about the holiday season, even less so with the fact that my family had become so disjointed in the last year. I really just wanted to pretend it wasn’t happening.
Now around this time my older brother and his long term girlfriend split up. Big bro was in a similar head space to me in as much as Christmas was pretty low on his list of priorities, so we decided that I’d go to him in Birmingham and we’d have a low key “non-Christmas”. The Middle Bro was working out on the oil rig over Christmas so wouldn’t be around, and the Baby Bro was doing the shuttle run between families, but promised to call in and bring our gorgeous nephew along to see us. My mum wasn’t best pleased, but she’s pretty good at understanding that we all lead our own lives, and we’re quite independent as individuals. It’s something she struggles with every day as she’s the type of person who’ll speak to her parents every day. If she’s lucky she’ll see me once a week, the middle bro once a month, and the big bro and baby bro once in a blue moon. It’s not that we don’t want to see her...it’s just that they raised us well, to ensure that we can look after ourselves, and so that’s what we do.
So the morning of Christmas 2009 started in the house I shared with Princess...I was woken by her at about 7am jumping up and down on my bed, shouting “get up, get up, GET UP! It’s Christmaaaaas!”...this is actually trickier than it sounds on a waterbed. Jumping on a waterbed is actually a lot like treading water...you don’t really get anywhere, it makes your legs ache and it’s basically a cardiovascular workout in itself, so I was actually quite impressed by her energy levels at the ungodly hour she decided to wake me. Princess has a rather odd habit of invading your most personal space (i.e. your bed) at a time when your defences are at their very lowest (i.e you’re asleep). She will climb under the duvet without checking that:
a) You’re wearing PJ’s
b) You are actually even alone in the bed!
She’ll then proceed to natter in your ear hole until there’s no possible way you’ll be able to get back to sleep. She also has a habit of inviting other people to climb into bed with you. Now, I’m pretty okay with most of my girly friends jumping into bed with me, however on this particular Christmas morning, it was her boyfriend she was calling on to “come jump on the bed and help me wake her up”. For one terrifying moment I though he might actually have been about to, until he entered the room and my very naked back, just visible above the duvet, alerted him to the one thing Princess always seems to be oblivious to...I do not sleep in Pyjamas. I do not sleep in anything. I don’t know who was more terrified of the prospect of him joining Princess’s “wake up” game upon this revelation, but I have a sneaking suspicion that it was him, although only just, and only because I was too sleepy to fully appreciate the awkwardness of the situation. After ten minutes of excited jostling and squealing, Princess finally managed to rouse me, and with an offer of a brew from her (now somewhat traumatised) boyfriend I begrudgingly made my way downstairs for breakfast followed by present opening.
After the presents had been distributed and opened I showered and changed and prepared myself to make the journey to Big Bro’s house. I’ll admit, I was feeling a little tender after a Christmas Eve drinking session in town, which may have added a certain element of torture to the journey I was about to make, however I can pretty safely say that the true horror that was this early morning journey was mainly a direct result of the fact that my co-pilot for the ride was Bryn, my german shepherd/collie cross. Bryn doesn’t travel well, and forty minutes of non stop high pitched whining and yappy barks shreds your nerves...with or without a hangover. I love that dog. Seriously, I’m daft for him, and he’s precious to me, but there were several occasions where I considered pulling over and letting him out so he could go and play with the traffic on the M6. When I finally arrived at Big Bro’s house it occurred to me that I had no idea what he’d got planned for the day. As it was, we spent the day watching DVD’s and playing Rock Band on the Xbox. Christmas dinner was a modest affair – left over Pizza Hut Meat Feast which we failed to successfully heat up in the microwave. For some reason parts of the pizza remained positively chilled, whilst others were basically nuclear...both of us ended up with mouth blisters on boxing day as a result. It was the most surreal Christmas day ever, but quite possibly also one of my favourites!
The question now though, is what do I do this year? Baby Bro and his girlfriend have now split up, so there maybe one more person to entertain...perhaps I should have the family round to mine? Perhaps having three of the four siblings around will make it feel more like the family Christmases we used to have? Perhaps I’d enjoy Christmas on my own? Perhaps I’ll have a hot date for Christmas by then...but whatever happens I need to start planning now, because I know my mum well, and it really won’t be long before the nagging starts!
Monday 28 June 2010
Tuesday 15 June 2010
Three Friends, A VW Camper, & An Unfortunate Garden Appliance Themed Fatality
I have ridiculously varied musical tastes, and pretty much listen to most things. Jonesy is the same as me. In a game of Guess The Intro she will beat anyone hands down, correctly supplying the band name, song title and release date (UK and Worldwide) within a matter of seconds – which ultimately annoys the crap out of everyone else playing (no’one likes a smartarse Jonesy) – but neither of us could say we were into any particular “genre” of music. My iPod holds a truly mixed collection of genres from classical to country, indie to electronica, dance to rap, show tunes to goth rock, and much, much more in between....which incidentally makes the “shuffle” function a dangerous choice at parties or in the office!
When Jonesy told me that she and her chap Will were going to be getting tickets for the Download Rock Festival and did I want to go too, I thought – why the heck not? I’ve been to festivals before. Oh okay, that’s stretching it a bit...I’ve been to the V Festival on several occasions – that’s sort of the same right? Granted I was younger, less likely to miss the creature comforts of a flushing toilet, a daily shower and a comfy chair to sit on, but I figured I could hack it. Besides we’d be in Will’s VW Camper “Betty” so at least it was a step up from camping in a tent! I have to be honest and say that most of the line up consisted of bands I didn't even know the names of, never mind any of their material, but as I perused the website’s line up confirmation I was at least amused by some of the more colourful band names, for instance... Lawnmower Deth. Seriously – can you imagine your musically gifted and talented child coming home, after several years classical guitar training, and saying;
“Mum we’ve done it! We’ve been signed! We’ve got a record deal! We’re going to be billionaires!”
“That’s lovely son, what’s the band called?”
“Lawnmower Deth”
“Oh, your Grandma will be proud – I’m sure she’ll come to see every concert!”
Then we had the Cancer Bats – nice (I’m sure they’re a very polite group of young men) Suicidal Tendencies (presumably you’d have these after listening to them for too long) and my personal favourite...Five Finger Death Punch. Now what is that? Is that different to a normal punch? I.e. Four fingers and a thumb punch? Maybe that just didn’t sound sinister enough?...but surely a five finger death punch is a two handed affair? So perhaps a four finger slap and a poke in the eye...? Maybe I’m thinking about this too much??
I should state for the record that I actually thoroughly enjoyed most of these bands, despite the fact that with all their heavy death metal “raaah-ing” I’m quite sure by the time they’re forty they’ll have no voices left. In fact Jonesy and I delighted in winding up the hardcore rock crowd around us by exclaiming in loud voices things like;
“Oh...Oh dear no...well that’s just shouting isn’t it?”
“I agree entirely Jonesy, I’m sure if he sang the melody he’d have the voice of an angel”
Needless to say we weren’t taking it very seriously, but that’s because we’ve got the experience of age on our side, and we’re secure enough in our own personalities to not need to latch onto any one particular “trend” and embrace it as some kind of expression of our own personal angst...unlike the yoof of today it appears, who proceeded to give us some rather confused and sometimes even disdainful looks. I can honestly say though, that despite the high levels of teen angst, and equally as high levels of aging rocker syndrome, (seriously guys...there comes a time when we should all cut our long hair...for you, it’s when it doesn’t start until you get behind your ears) I have never been to such a pleasant event. It was superbly organised, and the kids and adults alike were all well mannered, likable – if not a little eccentric – individuals. There was no trouble, no fighting, no obvious signs of hard drugs, no chavs and much to my delight, barely even a whiff of world cup fever, despite it being the weekend of England’s first match. Everyone was there to enjoy the music, and more importantly, themselves.
The reason I was there was for two bands in particular...Rage Against The Machine and Aerosmith. Pure and simple. But I do love a good festival atmosphere, and I’m also quite partial to men with tattoo’s so as I’m sure you can imagine – I was in my element! Age is a bitch though, (and a particularly mean bitch at that) and so I’m suffering now from back pain after sleeping on an airbed for three nights, and chronic heartburn after surviving on a diet of burger van cuisine and pot noodles for the weekend. Never the less though the three of us had an amazing time. Will was the epitome of patience (being an aging rocker – albeit minus the ponytail now) having to accompany a couple of daft girls around the place...I think he loved it really...and Jonesy gave me the highlight of my weekend...
Whilst hundreds of pierced, tattooed, studded, leather jacketed rockers wearily made their way back to the campsite on the last night, Jonesy mused (rather loudly) over how much she was looking forward to listening to a bit of pop music. We were quite certain this would lead to someone sticking their size eleven biker boot into the side of her face, and subtly told her to pipe down. Jonesy isn’t really one for being told what to do, so all this did was prompt her to burst into a rendition of 80’s pop icon Rick Astley’s “Never Gonna Give You Up”. After several pear cider’s Jonesy’s voice reaches decibel levels that the festival’s sound tech’s would be proud of, so we actually feared for her life at this point...until, much to my disbelief a skinny Irish guy wearing a Megadeath hoodie chimed in for the chorus...then his pals joined in...then some more...then the whole blummin crowd! Jonesy successfully steered them from Rick Astley, to Westlife and then into a rousing rendition of Girls Aloud’s “Something Kinda Ooh” before exclaiming triumphantly...
“I KNEW IT! You rockers think you’re all hardcore, but you can’t resist a bit of cheesy pop!”
Classic Jonesy. You’re my hero! I tell her that when I go to see her at the hospital. They tell me she can still hear me...and that one day it might help her wake up. ;o)
When Jonesy told me that she and her chap Will were going to be getting tickets for the Download Rock Festival and did I want to go too, I thought – why the heck not? I’ve been to festivals before. Oh okay, that’s stretching it a bit...I’ve been to the V Festival on several occasions – that’s sort of the same right? Granted I was younger, less likely to miss the creature comforts of a flushing toilet, a daily shower and a comfy chair to sit on, but I figured I could hack it. Besides we’d be in Will’s VW Camper “Betty” so at least it was a step up from camping in a tent! I have to be honest and say that most of the line up consisted of bands I didn't even know the names of, never mind any of their material, but as I perused the website’s line up confirmation I was at least amused by some of the more colourful band names, for instance... Lawnmower Deth. Seriously – can you imagine your musically gifted and talented child coming home, after several years classical guitar training, and saying;
“Mum we’ve done it! We’ve been signed! We’ve got a record deal! We’re going to be billionaires!”
“That’s lovely son, what’s the band called?”
“Lawnmower Deth”
“Oh, your Grandma will be proud – I’m sure she’ll come to see every concert!”
Then we had the Cancer Bats – nice (I’m sure they’re a very polite group of young men) Suicidal Tendencies (presumably you’d have these after listening to them for too long) and my personal favourite...Five Finger Death Punch. Now what is that? Is that different to a normal punch? I.e. Four fingers and a thumb punch? Maybe that just didn’t sound sinister enough?...but surely a five finger death punch is a two handed affair? So perhaps a four finger slap and a poke in the eye...? Maybe I’m thinking about this too much??
I should state for the record that I actually thoroughly enjoyed most of these bands, despite the fact that with all their heavy death metal “raaah-ing” I’m quite sure by the time they’re forty they’ll have no voices left. In fact Jonesy and I delighted in winding up the hardcore rock crowd around us by exclaiming in loud voices things like;
“Oh...Oh dear no...well that’s just shouting isn’t it?”
“I agree entirely Jonesy, I’m sure if he sang the melody he’d have the voice of an angel”
Needless to say we weren’t taking it very seriously, but that’s because we’ve got the experience of age on our side, and we’re secure enough in our own personalities to not need to latch onto any one particular “trend” and embrace it as some kind of expression of our own personal angst...unlike the yoof of today it appears, who proceeded to give us some rather confused and sometimes even disdainful looks. I can honestly say though, that despite the high levels of teen angst, and equally as high levels of aging rocker syndrome, (seriously guys...there comes a time when we should all cut our long hair...for you, it’s when it doesn’t start until you get behind your ears) I have never been to such a pleasant event. It was superbly organised, and the kids and adults alike were all well mannered, likable – if not a little eccentric – individuals. There was no trouble, no fighting, no obvious signs of hard drugs, no chavs and much to my delight, barely even a whiff of world cup fever, despite it being the weekend of England’s first match. Everyone was there to enjoy the music, and more importantly, themselves.
The reason I was there was for two bands in particular...Rage Against The Machine and Aerosmith. Pure and simple. But I do love a good festival atmosphere, and I’m also quite partial to men with tattoo’s so as I’m sure you can imagine – I was in my element! Age is a bitch though, (and a particularly mean bitch at that) and so I’m suffering now from back pain after sleeping on an airbed for three nights, and chronic heartburn after surviving on a diet of burger van cuisine and pot noodles for the weekend. Never the less though the three of us had an amazing time. Will was the epitome of patience (being an aging rocker – albeit minus the ponytail now) having to accompany a couple of daft girls around the place...I think he loved it really...and Jonesy gave me the highlight of my weekend...
Whilst hundreds of pierced, tattooed, studded, leather jacketed rockers wearily made their way back to the campsite on the last night, Jonesy mused (rather loudly) over how much she was looking forward to listening to a bit of pop music. We were quite certain this would lead to someone sticking their size eleven biker boot into the side of her face, and subtly told her to pipe down. Jonesy isn’t really one for being told what to do, so all this did was prompt her to burst into a rendition of 80’s pop icon Rick Astley’s “Never Gonna Give You Up”. After several pear cider’s Jonesy’s voice reaches decibel levels that the festival’s sound tech’s would be proud of, so we actually feared for her life at this point...until, much to my disbelief a skinny Irish guy wearing a Megadeath hoodie chimed in for the chorus...then his pals joined in...then some more...then the whole blummin crowd! Jonesy successfully steered them from Rick Astley, to Westlife and then into a rousing rendition of Girls Aloud’s “Something Kinda Ooh” before exclaiming triumphantly...
“I KNEW IT! You rockers think you’re all hardcore, but you can’t resist a bit of cheesy pop!”
Classic Jonesy. You’re my hero! I tell her that when I go to see her at the hospital. They tell me she can still hear me...and that one day it might help her wake up. ;o)
Saturday 5 June 2010
I Must Be A "Special" Breed Of Stupid
Have you ever noticed that some things seem like a really good idea in principle, and yet the reality of these ideas is somewhat less appealing?
I have volunteered to join a group of colleagues to walk 22 miles across the Cotswolds in a couple of months time to raise money for Breakthrough breast cancer. It’s an amazing charity – one that the company I work for has supported for a few years now, so when the e-mail came around asking for people to sign up for the challenge, I thought – what the heck?
They say that when a woman gives birth, the brain (after time) wipes the most painful/traumatic aspects of the event from her mind. It’s a species preservation thing. If she were to remember all the worst bits then there’s a strong likelihood that she won’t want to go through it again, and the brain isn’t haven’t any of that! It appears that when you slip a disc, the brain does pretty much the same thing in order to lure you into charity walks. As I pressed “send” on my e-mail registering my interest in joining the team, I had completely forgotten about the six weeks I was off work unable to walk, followed by the several weeks after that where I could only shuffle around looking like I’d had a childish accident, and I had absolutely no recollection of the months of chiropractors and physio appointments that I went through after that in order to get me back to the point where I could get out of bed in the morning and not be in pain. Clever brain. Stupid Natalie.
I seriously have no idea what I was thinking signing up for this. I’m not anywhere near as fit as I should be – my gym membership expired about two months ago, and since then I’ve been on precisely two runs (What can I say? The lure of Britain’s Got Talent has kept me somewhat glued to my sofa). I was discussing this with a colleague, and describing my general lack of motivation at the moment, and she came up with the “genius” idea of me hiring a fitness coach. Someone who’s only goal in life was to make me fit. Someone who’s there specifically to beat on me and bully me into fitness. Someone who wouldn’t care or sympathise if I complained that it was all too hard. Someone who’d work my sorry ass into the ground in order to achieve the ultimate goal of getting me somewhere close to being “in shape”. The idea was almost perfect. I say almost because the prospect of paying someone to be that mean to me seemed a little narcissistic. Besides...why would I hire one of these Rottweiler’s when I’ve already got one?
Cue Drill Sergeant Jonesy.
Oh she’s been waiting for this moment for a long time! Her Monica-esque anal retentive attention to detail with regards to her own diet and fitness regime has made her somewhat evangelical about the results, and she’s been screaming to convert me to her cult of the “downright annoyingly healthy” for months now, so I expected nothing short of sheer enthusiasm when I asked for her services in the coaching department. I wasn’t disappointed. Good old Jonesy – she does love a project.
She also knows me ludicrously well, and so in an effort to disarm me and put me on the back foot, she suggested a training planning meeting at the pub last night (you’ve got to love her style). It appears that after several large glasses of wine and a couple of Malibu’s I’ve agreed to embark upon the new regime as of Monday, and she’ll be dragging me out five times a week! As a result my chiropractor and physiotherapist have been alerted, and both have kindly cleared their appointment diaries in anticipation of me requiring their services. Still it’s going to be a long haul, so I think perhaps (in order to keep me on track and focused on the end goal) it would be wise of me to try and gather as much support as possible from all my lovely friends and family, and I think the best way you could help me, would be to help someone who really needs it. You can do this by sponsoring me on my walk through my just giving sponsorship page : http://www.justgiving.com/Natalie-Cooper3
Thank you for your support, and please... as you settle down to your dinner of an evening, spare a thought for me as Jonesy puts me through my paces! It’s been lovely knowing y’all.
I have volunteered to join a group of colleagues to walk 22 miles across the Cotswolds in a couple of months time to raise money for Breakthrough breast cancer. It’s an amazing charity – one that the company I work for has supported for a few years now, so when the e-mail came around asking for people to sign up for the challenge, I thought – what the heck?
They say that when a woman gives birth, the brain (after time) wipes the most painful/traumatic aspects of the event from her mind. It’s a species preservation thing. If she were to remember all the worst bits then there’s a strong likelihood that she won’t want to go through it again, and the brain isn’t haven’t any of that! It appears that when you slip a disc, the brain does pretty much the same thing in order to lure you into charity walks. As I pressed “send” on my e-mail registering my interest in joining the team, I had completely forgotten about the six weeks I was off work unable to walk, followed by the several weeks after that where I could only shuffle around looking like I’d had a childish accident, and I had absolutely no recollection of the months of chiropractors and physio appointments that I went through after that in order to get me back to the point where I could get out of bed in the morning and not be in pain. Clever brain. Stupid Natalie.
I seriously have no idea what I was thinking signing up for this. I’m not anywhere near as fit as I should be – my gym membership expired about two months ago, and since then I’ve been on precisely two runs (What can I say? The lure of Britain’s Got Talent has kept me somewhat glued to my sofa). I was discussing this with a colleague, and describing my general lack of motivation at the moment, and she came up with the “genius” idea of me hiring a fitness coach. Someone who’s only goal in life was to make me fit. Someone who’s there specifically to beat on me and bully me into fitness. Someone who wouldn’t care or sympathise if I complained that it was all too hard. Someone who’d work my sorry ass into the ground in order to achieve the ultimate goal of getting me somewhere close to being “in shape”. The idea was almost perfect. I say almost because the prospect of paying someone to be that mean to me seemed a little narcissistic. Besides...why would I hire one of these Rottweiler’s when I’ve already got one?
Cue Drill Sergeant Jonesy.
Oh she’s been waiting for this moment for a long time! Her Monica-esque anal retentive attention to detail with regards to her own diet and fitness regime has made her somewhat evangelical about the results, and she’s been screaming to convert me to her cult of the “downright annoyingly healthy” for months now, so I expected nothing short of sheer enthusiasm when I asked for her services in the coaching department. I wasn’t disappointed. Good old Jonesy – she does love a project.
She also knows me ludicrously well, and so in an effort to disarm me and put me on the back foot, she suggested a training planning meeting at the pub last night (you’ve got to love her style). It appears that after several large glasses of wine and a couple of Malibu’s I’ve agreed to embark upon the new regime as of Monday, and she’ll be dragging me out five times a week! As a result my chiropractor and physiotherapist have been alerted, and both have kindly cleared their appointment diaries in anticipation of me requiring their services. Still it’s going to be a long haul, so I think perhaps (in order to keep me on track and focused on the end goal) it would be wise of me to try and gather as much support as possible from all my lovely friends and family, and I think the best way you could help me, would be to help someone who really needs it. You can do this by sponsoring me on my walk through my just giving sponsorship page : http://www.justgiving.com/Natalie-Cooper3
Thank you for your support, and please... as you settle down to your dinner of an evening, spare a thought for me as Jonesy puts me through my paces! It’s been lovely knowing y’all.
Tuesday 1 June 2010
Nobody Puts Baby In The Corner
I’m sure I’ve mentioned this before, but I wouldn’t exactly call myself a “girly girl”. I’ve always considered myself a bit of a tom-boy. I grew up rough-housing with my brothers, and got pretty good at learning how to handle myself. One brother managed to lose a thumbnail owing to my particular brand of self defence, another had his face smashed off a windowsill which resulted in a rather nasty broken nose and a lot of explaining/lying as to how the incident occurred to my parents. I look at my girlfriends and they’re somewhat daintier than I am. Even those with brothers would have been far more likely to run to mum and dad to snitch on their siblings if they were doing something unpleasant rather than just roll their sleeves up and give them a good battering themselves. I’ve always felt more at home in the company of guys because you rarely have to watch your P’s & Q’s and they tend to find it amusing rather than offensive if your language gets more foul the more you drink...which mine invariably does.
Don’t get me wrong...I’m feminine. It’s not like I’m a big butch man-woman or anything weird like that. I love my shoes and handbags as much as the next girl, and I like nothing better than glamming up for a night out. I just don’t go in for all of the behavioural etiquette rules that many girls appear to live by. I’m not a diva/princess. I’m not into pink and sparkly, (although I do appreciate the attraction) I can’t do dainty little lady-like “eh-choo” dry-sneezes, (when I sneeze the whole world falls out of my nostrils, and I make a noise not dissimilar to an F1 racing car as it passes you at a gazillion miles an hour). I’m also not really a coy, giggly kind of girl...in fact I’ve been told that my laugh is downright dirty, and you can usually hear it carrying across our entire office floor.
With this in mind then, imagine my surprise when during a recent date with Le Linguiste (owing to his fluency in French) he out right accused me of being girly? Now this is a guy who would really have been basing his judgements on first impressions, and I knew that I hadn’t been anything other than my usual self - as I find it impossible to be anything other than “me”. So how could our opinions of “me” differ so dramatically? I hadn’t squealed at delight over anything, I hadn’t clapped my hands or jumped up and down in an excited manner, I hadn’t giggled like a girly girl and I hadn’t even bothered to flutter my eyelashes at him. I should state that in all fairness this was because his eyelashes were far more impressive and quite frankly I didn’t like the competition.
In fact during the course of this first date, I’d managed to rather spectacularly trip myself up (klutz), I’d spilt my drink (double klutz) I was waaay too comfortable around him and had caught myself slouching on a couple of occasions, and as our date had started in the early afternoon I was dressed casually and wearing flat ballet pumps. Nothing about me was saying “girly”, I’m quite certain of it, and yet here he was, convinced by my girliness. I can only assume he knows some really butch women! Now I could have passed this off as a one off - perhaps my nerves had got the better of me and I’d been uncharacteristically calm and demure around him on our first meeting, but he’s since spent another full day with me, spent hours on the phone to me and I feel more than confident that I’m being myself around him...and yet he still feels it’s appropriate to call me... “Baby”.
Now I can hear some of you cooing and ahhhing with remarks like “awww, isn’t that lovely” and “oh it’s so nice when a guy feels comfortable enough to give you affectionate names” etc, but it’s just further compounding my worries that he has me mistaken for someone else. My ex-husband called me Princess once and he nearly lost his teeth. I could manage “Hun”, “Darling”, and even “Babe” (although the latter makes me think of that talking pig) but if he’d ever called me baby I think I would have punched him in the face and told him to man-up! Baby suggests something tiny, and delicate...and in it’s very essence, something kind of...well...helpless. It’s a name you’d give someone who perhaps needed protecting from the big bad world. Anyone who knows me, knows that I’m a strong, independent woman. I’ve never needed a man, and I cope well on my own. That’s just the way I roll people – and so probably the most annoying thing about this whole incident is that for some bizarre reason I didn’t actually mind Le Linguiste calling me baby. Did it confuse me? For sure. Did it make me doubt whether he was actually talking to me or some other random stood behind me? Definitely – but did it generate a violent rage within me? No. Did it make me want to projectile vomit at the mushiness of his sentiment? No. In fact it actually made me feel kind of good inside.
It’s been a long while since anyone’s even wanted to treat me like I need protecting from anything...and maybe, after the last few years - fire fighting against bereavement, and divorce, heartbreak and humiliation - pretending that I was strong enough to handle it all on my own, and forcing a smile onto my face even though inside I felt dead, broken and hollow – maybe to have a few minutes protection from a somewhat-stranger was just what I needed? Maybe with his fresh eyes he was able to look closely enough to see the little girl who needed to feel safe again – just for a moment – instead of the tom-boy, straight talking, strong willed young woman I’ve allowed myself to become? Who knows? But for now, I’ll let him get away with it...just while I re-charge... just don’t tell anyone I’m enjoying it though okay?
It could ruin my reputation ;o)
Don’t get me wrong...I’m feminine. It’s not like I’m a big butch man-woman or anything weird like that. I love my shoes and handbags as much as the next girl, and I like nothing better than glamming up for a night out. I just don’t go in for all of the behavioural etiquette rules that many girls appear to live by. I’m not a diva/princess. I’m not into pink and sparkly, (although I do appreciate the attraction) I can’t do dainty little lady-like “eh-choo” dry-sneezes, (when I sneeze the whole world falls out of my nostrils, and I make a noise not dissimilar to an F1 racing car as it passes you at a gazillion miles an hour). I’m also not really a coy, giggly kind of girl...in fact I’ve been told that my laugh is downright dirty, and you can usually hear it carrying across our entire office floor.
With this in mind then, imagine my surprise when during a recent date with Le Linguiste (owing to his fluency in French) he out right accused me of being girly? Now this is a guy who would really have been basing his judgements on first impressions, and I knew that I hadn’t been anything other than my usual self - as I find it impossible to be anything other than “me”. So how could our opinions of “me” differ so dramatically? I hadn’t squealed at delight over anything, I hadn’t clapped my hands or jumped up and down in an excited manner, I hadn’t giggled like a girly girl and I hadn’t even bothered to flutter my eyelashes at him. I should state that in all fairness this was because his eyelashes were far more impressive and quite frankly I didn’t like the competition.
In fact during the course of this first date, I’d managed to rather spectacularly trip myself up (klutz), I’d spilt my drink (double klutz) I was waaay too comfortable around him and had caught myself slouching on a couple of occasions, and as our date had started in the early afternoon I was dressed casually and wearing flat ballet pumps. Nothing about me was saying “girly”, I’m quite certain of it, and yet here he was, convinced by my girliness. I can only assume he knows some really butch women! Now I could have passed this off as a one off - perhaps my nerves had got the better of me and I’d been uncharacteristically calm and demure around him on our first meeting, but he’s since spent another full day with me, spent hours on the phone to me and I feel more than confident that I’m being myself around him...and yet he still feels it’s appropriate to call me... “Baby”.
Now I can hear some of you cooing and ahhhing with remarks like “awww, isn’t that lovely” and “oh it’s so nice when a guy feels comfortable enough to give you affectionate names” etc, but it’s just further compounding my worries that he has me mistaken for someone else. My ex-husband called me Princess once and he nearly lost his teeth. I could manage “Hun”, “Darling”, and even “Babe” (although the latter makes me think of that talking pig) but if he’d ever called me baby I think I would have punched him in the face and told him to man-up! Baby suggests something tiny, and delicate...and in it’s very essence, something kind of...well...helpless. It’s a name you’d give someone who perhaps needed protecting from the big bad world. Anyone who knows me, knows that I’m a strong, independent woman. I’ve never needed a man, and I cope well on my own. That’s just the way I roll people – and so probably the most annoying thing about this whole incident is that for some bizarre reason I didn’t actually mind Le Linguiste calling me baby. Did it confuse me? For sure. Did it make me doubt whether he was actually talking to me or some other random stood behind me? Definitely – but did it generate a violent rage within me? No. Did it make me want to projectile vomit at the mushiness of his sentiment? No. In fact it actually made me feel kind of good inside.
It’s been a long while since anyone’s even wanted to treat me like I need protecting from anything...and maybe, after the last few years - fire fighting against bereavement, and divorce, heartbreak and humiliation - pretending that I was strong enough to handle it all on my own, and forcing a smile onto my face even though inside I felt dead, broken and hollow – maybe to have a few minutes protection from a somewhat-stranger was just what I needed? Maybe with his fresh eyes he was able to look closely enough to see the little girl who needed to feel safe again – just for a moment – instead of the tom-boy, straight talking, strong willed young woman I’ve allowed myself to become? Who knows? But for now, I’ll let him get away with it...just while I re-charge... just don’t tell anyone I’m enjoying it though okay?
It could ruin my reputation ;o)
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)