Blimey. Aren't people emotionally complicated? Me? Generally happy as a pig in doo-doo and yet within minutes can feel my whole world is about to fall apart again. And this would be because Mr TGTBT has a Future Ex Wife (FEW) who decided she no longer wanted him, yet on discovering Mr TGTBT has found someone else, she came over all dog in a manger and threw a FEW titchy hissy fit in my direction.
Which in turn got Mr TGTBT all in a stew (see, he's not THAT good) and griping about FEW even though he says he is generally happy as a pig in doo-doo too. Attempting to reverse Mr TGTBT's stewing tendency was too much like hard work so I skulked off and started a little bit of wuthering, which included wondering on whether Him F. is a happy pig with Her.
And then I start coming over all vengeful and hoping Him F. just has total crap and no cheery doo because my doo-doo is looking a little bleaker than it did before the FEW threw Mr TGTBT into a stew. Which is odd, because I am meant to be as happy as a pig in doo-doo and not care about stuff like that.
Just like FEW is meant to be a happy little hog that she got rid of the man she didn't want (and who incidentally is treating her with ultimately more respect than I get from Him F. so FEW should be like totally grateful).
Just like Her should be a happy snorker at having got her trotters into Him F. but bangs about being bitter about the fact I still actually exist. And Him F? Well, he displays scant evidence of being a happy little grunter because he is so busy still being pissed off at me.
How peculiar. A bunch of people who have got what they want but still being ever such a bit silly about it all. But I guess if you're happy as a pig in a big pile of shit it's inevitable you'll get tempted by a little muck raking now and again.
Yours in hope & fear, AJ x
Thursday 16 September 2010
Friday 10 September 2010
Fit For Purpose
Mr TGTBT might hate this blog. Might cringe a little. And will definitely have to endure copious amounts of piss-taking from his colleagues. However. The anecdote needs to be shared.
One evening we were sat talking, something we both do very well and that has been a bit of a feature since Talking Shop. When we get going it's not just donkeys that need to keep an eye on their hind legs - ponies, horses and quite possibly even unicorns would do well to give us a wide berth. Anyway, this particular evening Mr TGTBT came clean out with something I had noticed him trying to disguise with self-deprecating comments on other occasions. Comments I told him were ridiculous.
During previous conversations I have told Mr TGTBT that Him played football twice a week - in the context of me griping about having to eat pasta every ruddy Tuesday and every ruddy Thursday, every ruddy frickin' week. The only time off I had from the tedious carbohydrate repetition was during the weeks when Him had sprained an ankle or pulled a muscle or whatever else it is that sporty types do when they get things wrong. And during the conversation with Mr TGTBT on the evening in question, I was talking about Him's visit on the previous day to collect some paperwork and his rowing machine.
Now Mr TGTBT had quite rightly deduced that Him is of the fitness variety and therefore must be 'quite buff and toned', I think that was his phrase. Again, brilliantly deduced insofar as yes, Him is quite obsessive about his fitness. (Fitness for not very much if you ask me, but as an end in itself it seemed to make Him happy.) In some muddled way it spilled out that Mr TGTBT had been doing the math in his head and also deduced that, by comparison, he might not be such an attractive physical specimen.
And yes, Mr TGTBT you might be right. If one wants a physical specimen. (Which sounds a lot like wanting Fizms to me.) But Mr TGTBT you are monumentally wrong if one wants someone who is attractive. Someone whose beauty is more than skin deep. I spent years with someone whose calf muscles were as hard as his heart, whose biceps were as big as the space between his ears and whose legs would run for miles when his soul couldn't take a single step in the right direction. The only person whose breath Him wanted to take away was his own.
I want to spend the rest of my years with someone who will take my breath away. Someone whose arms are strong enough to hold me tight but as gentle and warm as his heart. Someone who can exercise his brain as well as his right to be fallible and someone who can walk to the ends of the earth for those he loves and never look back in anger. Someone whose soul, without fear and without reservation, is fit enough to take on the challenge of sharing itself with another. An outrageously, unconsciously, beautifully, attractive someone. A someone that begins with Mister and ends in TGTBT.
And if - as the case may be - that supremely attractive someone also happens to have calf muscles somewhat better toned than mine, well, I can live with that. Because beauty is only skin deep and my stockings can hide a multitude of sins.
Yours in hope & fear, AJ x
One evening we were sat talking, something we both do very well and that has been a bit of a feature since Talking Shop. When we get going it's not just donkeys that need to keep an eye on their hind legs - ponies, horses and quite possibly even unicorns would do well to give us a wide berth. Anyway, this particular evening Mr TGTBT came clean out with something I had noticed him trying to disguise with self-deprecating comments on other occasions. Comments I told him were ridiculous.
During previous conversations I have told Mr TGTBT that Him played football twice a week - in the context of me griping about having to eat pasta every ruddy Tuesday and every ruddy Thursday, every ruddy frickin' week. The only time off I had from the tedious carbohydrate repetition was during the weeks when Him had sprained an ankle or pulled a muscle or whatever else it is that sporty types do when they get things wrong. And during the conversation with Mr TGTBT on the evening in question, I was talking about Him's visit on the previous day to collect some paperwork and his rowing machine.
Now Mr TGTBT had quite rightly deduced that Him is of the fitness variety and therefore must be 'quite buff and toned', I think that was his phrase. Again, brilliantly deduced insofar as yes, Him is quite obsessive about his fitness. (Fitness for not very much if you ask me, but as an end in itself it seemed to make Him happy.) In some muddled way it spilled out that Mr TGTBT had been doing the math in his head and also deduced that, by comparison, he might not be such an attractive physical specimen.
And yes, Mr TGTBT you might be right. If one wants a physical specimen. (Which sounds a lot like wanting Fizms to me.) But Mr TGTBT you are monumentally wrong if one wants someone who is attractive. Someone whose beauty is more than skin deep. I spent years with someone whose calf muscles were as hard as his heart, whose biceps were as big as the space between his ears and whose legs would run for miles when his soul couldn't take a single step in the right direction. The only person whose breath Him wanted to take away was his own.
I want to spend the rest of my years with someone who will take my breath away. Someone whose arms are strong enough to hold me tight but as gentle and warm as his heart. Someone who can exercise his brain as well as his right to be fallible and someone who can walk to the ends of the earth for those he loves and never look back in anger. Someone whose soul, without fear and without reservation, is fit enough to take on the challenge of sharing itself with another. An outrageously, unconsciously, beautifully, attractive someone. A someone that begins with Mister and ends in TGTBT.
And if - as the case may be - that supremely attractive someone also happens to have calf muscles somewhat better toned than mine, well, I can live with that. Because beauty is only skin deep and my stockings can hide a multitude of sins.
Yours in hope & fear, AJ x
Thursday 9 September 2010
More's The Pity
I am crying again. For fuck's sake. Analysing it as I do, between sobs, it would appear this is a mixed up session. Some of the tears because I hurt, and some because I am so bloody angry and frustrated at not being able to wring Him Formerly's cold-blooded neck and put him out of his hate-fuelled misery.
I have in the past two days received two communications from Him Formerly. Him Formerly who persists in griping and complaining and bitching about his lot when he is the one who ordered in his lot. Now he has moved on to making side swipes at me, childish, spiteful and unnecessary - all because he is incapable of engaging in a sensible conversation about how to resolve the practicalities of the relationship break-up. At least without having Her in his ear, changing his mind as regularly as the rest of us change TV channels.
Him Formerly is no more. There isn't anything I formerly knew remaining and I actually no longer know who - or what - he is. Though evidently he is an attractive proposition to Her I really don't see what that attraction could be. How can you get excited about sharing your life with a man who is too weak to acknowledge his contribution to a relationship break-up, a man who perpetually blames his ex for all the troubles in his life and takes no personal responsibility, a man who has lied, cheated, deceived and then, when his partner was already just about broken, threw in a few more below the belt punches to try and finish her off.
Him clearly has a default setting of cold. Cold-hearted and cold-blooded. (I am minded to consider the possibility that Her gets a cheap thrill from dabbling with something so dangerous ... she probably snacks on blowfish and drives with her eyes shut just for the hell of it.) And that coldness has imbued Him with the ability to turn hating me into an art form of quite disturbing proportions, albeit leaving me strangely flattered at my own ability to arouse quite so much emotion.
Because for me, hating Him is not something I feel inclined to do. I am angry at the way he tries to make me feel wholly responsible for his pain. I am frustrated by his petulance and inability to address the difficulties created by the break up with some degree of feeling for the times we shared that were good. But most of all I pity Him.
Him was once sharing his life with someone who loved him well and would have loved him until the end of days, even - much to my chagrin at such stupidity - paying the price of her own inner happiness to do so. But Him could never see it. And to be unable to see love when it is given so unconditionally is nothing but pitiful, more so perhaps is the inability to accept it.
So asking myself to hate Him would be like asking myself to hate a blind man because he can't see the stars. More's the pity that Him does it so well.
Yours in hope & fear, AJ x
I have in the past two days received two communications from Him Formerly. Him Formerly who persists in griping and complaining and bitching about his lot when he is the one who ordered in his lot. Now he has moved on to making side swipes at me, childish, spiteful and unnecessary - all because he is incapable of engaging in a sensible conversation about how to resolve the practicalities of the relationship break-up. At least without having Her in his ear, changing his mind as regularly as the rest of us change TV channels.
Him Formerly is no more. There isn't anything I formerly knew remaining and I actually no longer know who - or what - he is. Though evidently he is an attractive proposition to Her I really don't see what that attraction could be. How can you get excited about sharing your life with a man who is too weak to acknowledge his contribution to a relationship break-up, a man who perpetually blames his ex for all the troubles in his life and takes no personal responsibility, a man who has lied, cheated, deceived and then, when his partner was already just about broken, threw in a few more below the belt punches to try and finish her off.
Him clearly has a default setting of cold. Cold-hearted and cold-blooded. (I am minded to consider the possibility that Her gets a cheap thrill from dabbling with something so dangerous ... she probably snacks on blowfish and drives with her eyes shut just for the hell of it.) And that coldness has imbued Him with the ability to turn hating me into an art form of quite disturbing proportions, albeit leaving me strangely flattered at my own ability to arouse quite so much emotion.
Because for me, hating Him is not something I feel inclined to do. I am angry at the way he tries to make me feel wholly responsible for his pain. I am frustrated by his petulance and inability to address the difficulties created by the break up with some degree of feeling for the times we shared that were good. But most of all I pity Him.
Him was once sharing his life with someone who loved him well and would have loved him until the end of days, even - much to my chagrin at such stupidity - paying the price of her own inner happiness to do so. But Him could never see it. And to be unable to see love when it is given so unconditionally is nothing but pitiful, more so perhaps is the inability to accept it.
So asking myself to hate Him would be like asking myself to hate a blind man because he can't see the stars. More's the pity that Him does it so well.
Yours in hope & fear, AJ x
Wednesday 8 September 2010
Birthday Measures
I know, I know - but not hanging head in shame. I have been hanging about in the bubble and quite frankly folks, after what I've been through in the past year I am bloody well entitled to hang about in aforementioned bubble for as long as I ruddy well like. Was kind of hoping I could stay in bubble mode until post-birthday ... head in sand approach to being another year older.
Even at the best of times birthdays have not been one of my favourite things. And after I reached the age when everything became legal I ceased to find anything desirable in being another year older. Only this year, I feel differently. Because this year I am grateful that I have the opportunity to grumble about my birthday, to grumble about being 43, to grumble about hating surprises, to grumble about the fuss. Because one very special woman in particular would have given her everything to see another year.
And I miss her terribly.
My dear, dear friend, Karen. The friend who has shared every birthday with me for over 30 years. Who always made a royal fuss, with ribbons and bows and thoughtful gifts. Who brushed aside my silly, maudlin, nonsense and got drunk with me and partied with me and danced with me and drank coffee with me and ate cake with me and who always made such a special effort to show how much she cared. That flaming haired heart of gold who on my last birthday - the one we both quietly suspected would be our last one to share - determinedly gave me yet more memories to hold on to.
Karen never failed me. Not when it counted. Not when it really, really mattered. She was a woman immovable in her loyalty, love and devotion ... not only to me but to all those who mattered to her. Missing her is so painful that all the other hurts I have written about don't even come close to equalling it. I am blessed to have had such a friend as Karen; the measure by which all friendships will be measured and one that no-one will ever measure up to.
Karen was certainly no angel, but my, how she tried. As we should all try. Try to measure up to such levels of loyalty, love and devotion for those we care about that they can never doubt us. To do so selflessly, in spite of flaws and imperfections, in spite of of petty squabbles, in spite of slights - be they real or imagined - and in spite of our own personal suffering. To do so fearlessly and, more importantly, to do so gratefully.
Grateful that we still have the opportunity to try - every day, every week, every month and every single year we are blessed with.
yours in hope & fear, AJ x
Even at the best of times birthdays have not been one of my favourite things. And after I reached the age when everything became legal I ceased to find anything desirable in being another year older. Only this year, I feel differently. Because this year I am grateful that I have the opportunity to grumble about my birthday, to grumble about being 43, to grumble about hating surprises, to grumble about the fuss. Because one very special woman in particular would have given her everything to see another year.
And I miss her terribly.
My dear, dear friend, Karen. The friend who has shared every birthday with me for over 30 years. Who always made a royal fuss, with ribbons and bows and thoughtful gifts. Who brushed aside my silly, maudlin, nonsense and got drunk with me and partied with me and danced with me and drank coffee with me and ate cake with me and who always made such a special effort to show how much she cared. That flaming haired heart of gold who on my last birthday - the one we both quietly suspected would be our last one to share - determinedly gave me yet more memories to hold on to.
Karen never failed me. Not when it counted. Not when it really, really mattered. She was a woman immovable in her loyalty, love and devotion ... not only to me but to all those who mattered to her. Missing her is so painful that all the other hurts I have written about don't even come close to equalling it. I am blessed to have had such a friend as Karen; the measure by which all friendships will be measured and one that no-one will ever measure up to.
Karen was certainly no angel, but my, how she tried. As we should all try. Try to measure up to such levels of loyalty, love and devotion for those we care about that they can never doubt us. To do so selflessly, in spite of flaws and imperfections, in spite of of petty squabbles, in spite of slights - be they real or imagined - and in spite of our own personal suffering. To do so fearlessly and, more importantly, to do so gratefully.
Grateful that we still have the opportunity to try - every day, every week, every month and every single year we are blessed with.
yours in hope & fear, AJ x
Thursday 2 September 2010
Soapy Stuff
So yesterday it was established that I have a new Love Bubble. A brand spanking new, teflon coated shiny, sparkly Love Bubble of the bigger, better, faster more variety. My 21st century bubble. The Him Formerly bubble is sooo last century dahling. And it's squished. Gone.
Now call me fickle if you like, but there is fundamentally nothing wrong in squishing bubbles. Only I would recommend you do go for the quick, firm stamp at the appropriate time rather than cowardly swiping at the bubble with a cheese slice for days, months or even years on end. Him Formerly went down that route but he failed to destroy my bubble with his first feeble swipe. And indeed his second, his third and so on and so fourth, fifth, sixth ... to the point at which I lost count. Stopped counting.
I just kept patching up my bubble, trying to ignore the pain in the hope it would go away. Because I was committed to my bubble, for better or worse. And with no other experience to draw upon I merely concluded that his swiping was the worse and I was duty bound to stick with it. Never minding that loving someone shouldn't be a duty, I dutifully stuck with it. For far too long.
Because crouching behind my sense of duty, trying to look as small as possible so no-one would ever notice it, was my fear. My fear of being alone. My fear of never finding anyone who would love me even the small amount I was desperately scraping off the remains of my sorry looking bubble. And my horriblest fear of all ... that I just didn't have any more love left to give anyone else. That I had run out of love and my bubble making days were over.
Now. Has anyone else ever noticed how fear makes you stupid?
The human capacity for love is endless. Limitless. People don't run out of love. They might lose the courage to do so, they might even lose the desire to do so, but the capacity remains. Lucky for me that when it comes to affairs of the heart my courage and desire far outweighs my fear. When push comes to bubbles, that pulsing little handful is fearless.
So. As I said. I have a new Love Bubble. And in the best tradition of all new soap sud campaigns, it is not just new but very much improved. Because this bubble I am sharing with Mr TGTBT, and sharing fearlessly. I'm not stupid enough to miss out on an opportunity like that.
Yours in hope & fear, AJ x
Now call me fickle if you like, but there is fundamentally nothing wrong in squishing bubbles. Only I would recommend you do go for the quick, firm stamp at the appropriate time rather than cowardly swiping at the bubble with a cheese slice for days, months or even years on end. Him Formerly went down that route but he failed to destroy my bubble with his first feeble swipe. And indeed his second, his third and so on and so fourth, fifth, sixth ... to the point at which I lost count. Stopped counting.
I just kept patching up my bubble, trying to ignore the pain in the hope it would go away. Because I was committed to my bubble, for better or worse. And with no other experience to draw upon I merely concluded that his swiping was the worse and I was duty bound to stick with it. Never minding that loving someone shouldn't be a duty, I dutifully stuck with it. For far too long.
Because crouching behind my sense of duty, trying to look as small as possible so no-one would ever notice it, was my fear. My fear of being alone. My fear of never finding anyone who would love me even the small amount I was desperately scraping off the remains of my sorry looking bubble. And my horriblest fear of all ... that I just didn't have any more love left to give anyone else. That I had run out of love and my bubble making days were over.
Now. Has anyone else ever noticed how fear makes you stupid?
The human capacity for love is endless. Limitless. People don't run out of love. They might lose the courage to do so, they might even lose the desire to do so, but the capacity remains. Lucky for me that when it comes to affairs of the heart my courage and desire far outweighs my fear. When push comes to bubbles, that pulsing little handful is fearless.
So. As I said. I have a new Love Bubble. And in the best tradition of all new soap sud campaigns, it is not just new but very much improved. Because this bubble I am sharing with Mr TGTBT, and sharing fearlessly. I'm not stupid enough to miss out on an opportunity like that.
Yours in hope & fear, AJ x
Wednesday 1 September 2010
Getting To The Bottom Of It
Oscar Wilde found it harder and harder every day to live up to his blue china. I am finding it equally difficult to live up to my blog. It has been waiting for me to attend to its needs for some days now, silently berating my lack of diligence and application. In turn, I berate myself for the same. It has just taken me yet another while and a whole heap of distractions to work out why. It also took a little help from Mr TGTBT, which just reinforces the notion of his TGTBT'ness and makes me feel just a little bit uselessly, drippily, wutheringly overawed by it all. 'It' being the fact I am utterly hook, line and sinkered.
Me: (wuthering) I can't write my blog. I am all blogged out.
Mr TGTBT: (not wuthering) Why?
Me: (still wuthering) Because I can only write when I'm miserable.
Mr TGTBT: (still not wuthering) Well that's catharsis for you.
Me: (wuther diminishing) Why can't I write when I'm happy?
Mr TGTBT: (completely unwuthered) You can.
Me: (feeling the wuther return) No...I can't.
Mr TGTBT: (remaining wuther free) Why?
Me: (wuthering) Because I am worried that by writing about how good I feel now I somehow invalidate how bad I felt before. Even though I did feel that way then. Or that perhaps the bad stuff somehow makes a mockery of the good stuff now. I am worried people won't believe that my feelings can change and have changed. I'm not even sure I can believe it.
Mr TGTBT: (not wuthered in the least) Sounds like the perfect subject for a blog to me.
Me: (frozen in mid-wuther) Bugger. Why didn't I think of that?
Mr TGTBT:(wuthering doesn't come into it) Because you're too busy wuthering?
Now it was noted during a Bank Holiday night out that Mr TGTBT might have some competition on the buns front from one of his colleagues. (And said colleague does have very nice buns indeed.) However, on reflection it has to be said that I much prefer Mr TGTBT and his very appealing smart arse.
Yours in hope & fear, AJ x
Me: (wuthering) I can't write my blog. I am all blogged out.
Mr TGTBT: (not wuthering) Why?
Me: (still wuthering) Because I can only write when I'm miserable.
Mr TGTBT: (still not wuthering) Well that's catharsis for you.
Me: (wuther diminishing) Why can't I write when I'm happy?
Mr TGTBT: (completely unwuthered) You can.
Me: (feeling the wuther return) No...I can't.
Mr TGTBT: (remaining wuther free) Why?
Me: (wuthering) Because I am worried that by writing about how good I feel now I somehow invalidate how bad I felt before. Even though I did feel that way then. Or that perhaps the bad stuff somehow makes a mockery of the good stuff now. I am worried people won't believe that my feelings can change and have changed. I'm not even sure I can believe it.
Mr TGTBT: (not wuthered in the least) Sounds like the perfect subject for a blog to me.
Me: (frozen in mid-wuther) Bugger. Why didn't I think of that?
Mr TGTBT:(wuthering doesn't come into it) Because you're too busy wuthering?
Now it was noted during a Bank Holiday night out that Mr TGTBT might have some competition on the buns front from one of his colleagues. (And said colleague does have very nice buns indeed.) However, on reflection it has to be said that I much prefer Mr TGTBT and his very appealing smart arse.
Yours in hope & fear, AJ x
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