Wednesday, 24 October 2012

Green Eyed Monster

Jealousy is a terrible thing.  Isn’t it one of the seven deadly sins?  And not deadly in a good way either.  More of a “you’ll go to hell,” deadly.  Well, I can’t help it.  I, on occasion, suffer from jealousy.  It’s really envy but when it ails me, it’s in a big enough dose to be called jealousy.

Sometimes I see other people, in particular, Other Mothers who seem to have it all.  When I say have it all I mean, they don’t look frazzled by their kids.  They take it all in their stride without collapsing after a shit fit.  Like I do sometimes.  My shit fit.  They remember to draw on both their eyebrows of a morning and even have on other make up to complete the look.  

 Their clothes are not Weetabix smeared and they don’t have to wear long tops to cover their arse. Not because of a big arse, coz they don’t have one of those either, but because they don’t have to hide a hard lump of something shiny and flat stuck to the seat of their pants.
Other Mothers’ kids come to heel when they are called.  Immediately.  They don’t run after them and haul them back by the scruff of the neck. I bet the Other Mothers don’t have to swap their kids’ shirts the morning the photographer is coming to school.  I bet the Other Mothers have two pristine white shirts at hand.  And one to spare just in case.  Not like in my house where the boy getting his photo taken gets to wear the dazzling bright white shirt and the other one gets, well, the almost grey one.  Until they come home and tell me both of them had their photos taken for one of those nice familial shots.  

The Other Mothers are all smiley, cheery and light and don’t seem burdened by what the day ahead holds.   My day never has anything insurmountable in it and certainly nothing a good roar at it won’t sort out, but nonetheless, I am envious of how relaxed they are.  And of their eyebrows.  I suffer from eyebrow envy.  I own shite eyebrows. Always did.  

I am envious and always will be, of people who just seem to do something.  You know, they make a decision and go with it.  I take ages to make up my mind.  A little seed is planted. I’ll mess around with it and examine it.  Put all the pros and cons on the table and then allow one con to override the 37 pros. Decide not to do it and put it out of my head.  Until I meet someone who has taken the bull by the horns and is talking about how great they feel having taken the plunge.  

I’m all, oh FFS!  I was going to do that!  Why didn’t I do that?  What’s wrong with me that I can’t make up my mind?  Why can’t I leave my comfort zone for once and take a risk?

For years I toyed with the idea of learning how to drive but the concept of actually getting into a car, behind the wheel and starting it with a key scared me absolutely shitless.  I mean, shitless.  It was too big a leap for me to take.  I was grand with the driving instructor beside me because on my planet, I wasn’t the one driving the car.  They were with their dual controls and all.  I wonder would they come out with me in the car every time I needed to get somewhere.  When that thought entered my head I knew I was going to be looking at every other driver on the road with envy for a very long time. 

It’s with good humour and bonhomie that I look upon a skinny bitch and call her a skinny bitch.  I was that skinny bitch in a previous life and I know the hours and hours of work, effort and hunger that go into looking like that.  Obviously, not all skinny bitches have to work so hard at it. There are naturally skinny bitches out there with their flat stomachs and I-can-eat-what-I-like-when-I-like lifestyles.  It’s ok to hate those skinny bitches and not feel guilty about it.  (No, it’s not ok.  That’s a lie.  See?  That’s what jealousy sounds like.  Don’t listen to me.  I’m in bad aul form.  Read on.)

This next bit is what really makes me green with jealousy.  Last evening I was listening to Ray D’Arcy on podcast. I like to catch up on the bits I miss out on due to all the arses I have to wipe in this house.  And all the dinners I have to make.  And all the dog poop I have to scoop.  I was listening to Roisin Ingle who is a columnist for The Irish Times and she was chatting to Ray about training for a marathon.  About how she wrote about it and her subsequent weight loss in her weekly column.  I sat up straighter.  I jayzus did that, I thought!  I wrote about training for my 5k on my blog. I’m still jayzus writing about trying to lose a half stone.  I get lovely messages from people too, Roisin.  People who read my blog and either say it to me personally or contact me privately.  How come I can’t get paid for it?

The green eyed monster had woken, stretched, licked her lips and was only raring to go.  Who was going to be next?  Oh, I know.  Something that really got my goat when I heard it.  I follow a blog, a really funny blog called Parenting:  Illustrated with Crappy Pictures.  It’s only about 18 months old but it took off at a phenomenal rate after only something like 5 months. Amber Dusick has a massive, massive readership and I write about the same kind of stuff she does!  I write about all the funny, shite kid things that happen to me, I just don’t draw pictures. Now if you lot all fuck off to go and follow her instead I shall be very, very cross indeed.  I do, sometimes, check my stats you know.  So I will know if you abandon me!!  (I would like to take this opportunity to say to my lovely, lovely, American readers, I value your support immensely.  And wouldn’t mind at all at all if you were to tell all your friends about me. Thanks so much. Thank you.  Thanks.)

Another lady brought the second of the seven deadly sins to my fore at the weekend.   Cecilia Ahern was on the radio chatting about how she was the youngest, the first person ever to have been offered one million euros before her jayzus book was even written. How come I can’t get a shaggin’ break like that?  I listened to her interview, badly, sorely wanting to hate her.  But she came across as being nice so I couldn’t even do that.  

Sometimes I go mad and buy loads of parenting magazines (Irish of course) and read other weekly columns, and I check out various blogs.  Sometimes I laugh at them and really enjoy them and other times I go, “I can write miles better than that shite!” Sometimes I feel like packing it all in because no-one wants to know.   They all have complimentary things to say and I get great feedback, but that’s it.   Thanks and the very best of luck to you.

Well, I’ve got luck, thanks.  I’ve got luck.  They are under seven years of age and there are four of them.  My other luck is the same gender as his sons and a little bit older.  My biggest luck is my health which is fine, thank you for asking.  As is the health of the whole family.

But what I would really, really like is to secure a little job somewhere.  A little writing job.  Something that really puts a shine onto a pass time I love anyway. If anyone out there is reading this and has a column free on the back page under the apologies section, I can whip up something that would fit in there.  No bother.  And I promise I won’t swear.  

P.S.  So sorry, really am for all the bad language above.  I couldn’t help myself.  I’m in bad aul form.  It’s called jealousy.  I’m going to have a go at sloth tomorrow.  Sit around and do nothing.  I feel better already.    

1 comment:

  1. I totally understand. Totally. My best friend once said, when we were both doing our boring business postgrad that I had no interest in, that I was never going to get a job as long as I was waiting for the big ad in the Irish Times to appear with my name saying "Hey You, [Maud], We Have A Job For You". She was right. I did finally get one, but it took a long time. I'm similarly now waiting for some freelancing to fall into my lap because I'm not quiiite ready to actually go and look for some, in case it happens and then I change my mind. Gah.