NS October 23rd, 2007

My mother-in-law had Noble Child over at her house today so I could get some things done — more painting (nearly there!), shopping for the party, laundry and just chilling out. I did my household stuff, had a late lunch and then went shopping for various party items. I had an hour and a half left after all of that was finished so I bought a paper and headed to Costa for a cinnamon latte, a brownie and the sweet bliss of silence.

After I had paid and was gathering my things from the counter, the guy behind me, who had obviously just been either jogging or working out in a gym, gave me a strange look and nodded towards my brownie. I glanced down, afraid it had a hair on it or was slipping off of my plate, but it seemed perfectly normal to me. I gave him a questioning look and he just raised his eyebrow and smirked. Then he said something that, had I not been in a fairly good mood, I might have throttled him for. He actually dared to say “There’s a lot of calories in those things, you know.”

What. the. fuck, dude?! He did NOT just say that. Mmm mm. No he didn’t!

Oh, but he did. Freakin’ crazy gym-loving, chai-latte-ordering, sanctimonious bastard. Who the hell is he to a) inform me of something I ALREADY KNOW and b) trying to make me feel guilty or himself smug about it? I thought, for one split second, about saying something really nasty and in a loud voice to try to humiliate him but part of my new anger management thing is to try to let things roll off my back and not get all steamed up. So I just smiled sweetly and said “I know, that’s why they’re so good,” and walked away.

Anger: 0, Noble Savage: 1

I just hope I don’t run into him in a dark alley on the day I decide to relapse.

• Human Oddities , Hunger Pangs
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NS October 22nd, 2007

I am officially crazy. Insane. Loco. Mad. Nuts. Out to lunch. Left the building. Certifiably loony.

As if the stress of moving house, painting, putting together furniture, figuring out a new town, trying to get some freelance stuff going, agreeing to write another feature for The F Word by the end of this month and doing my regular blogging and gearing up for NaBloPoMo weren’t enough, I’ve decided to host a Halloween party for a bunch of our friends this Saturday and a kid’s party during the day for Noble Child’s little friends. Oh, and I’m inviting all of the people who live in our terrace as well. Mom, was I dropped on my head as a child?

I don’t know how this happened. Well, I do, but when the words came tumbling out of my mouth it was like having an out-of-body experience in which I could do nothing to stop or control the situation and could only observe from atop my little cloud as my soul detached itself from its cumbersome human form and floated away into the ether. If you’ve never had an out-of-body experience (which I haven’t, so I have no idea what I’m talking about here either), let me put it to you in terms you may be more familiar with: it’s like waking up bleary-eyed and naked next to a hairy stranger in an unfamiliar bed on the wrong side of town. With the (broken) condom stuck to your leg. And missing a shoe. But instead of admitting defeat, throwing in the towel and high-tailing it out of there to hail the nearest cab, you head back into the stranger’s bed and start chugging more vodka — teeth unbrushed, hair in knots — and have even more unprotected sex with the ogre, just for good measure, to make sure you’ve turned a bad situation even worse.

But, like I said, as the words came tumbling out of my mouth (“Ooh, let’s have a PARTY!”) it was as if Noble Savage was there no longer and some creature with more energy than an ADHD kid mainlining meth and Red Bull was moving my lips. So, we’re having two parties in the same day, for three different groups of people (kids, neighbours, friends) and I haven’t even finished painting the dining room yet. But, to be positive for a change (yeah, yeah, I hear you choking on your laughter), I have a plan and I am determined to NOT get stressed out about this. I’m armed with a list, we have our fancy dress ideas sorted and I already bought most of the decorations and food today. And I get to trawl charity shops all week looking for items to complete my ever-so-tacky (as usual) costume. That may not mean much to you, the average (normal) person, but the thing is that I *love* charity shops/thrift stores. I love perusing the god-awful sweaters, the hideous 80s dresses and, best of all, the bric-a-brac. Oh jesus, the bric-a-brac. There are always some high quality trinkets with a kitsch quotient that is out of this world and I can never resist looking for things to amuse me. When I find something particularly funny I get stars in my eyes and the words ‘Treasure! Must buy!’ repeat over and over in my mind.

My favorite thrift store find used to be be a brown glass beer stein, shaped like a barrel, with a wooden handle. On it, the words ‘Belly Buster’ had been hand-stenciled on in yellow paint. Coming in at a close second was a white ashtray with a rainbow and the words “Wisconsin: the end of rainbows” emblazoned on it.

My friends Julie and Autumn and I used to go thrift shopping with the sole purpose of making each other laugh. Our greatest talent was at buying old books, particularly 70s pet-care manuals, and making up new dialogue for the characters involved. We would sketch thought bubbles and captions around the fugly photos and horrid quotes and amuse ourselves endlessly with this. Hey, I was 22 and drinking a lot, what else can I say? Maturity wasn’t my biggest redeeming quality.

So today I just happened to glance over at some mugs in the bric-a-brac (god, I love that three word hyphenate!) section and saw this one, beckoning to me

I mean, is it just me or is that not a filthy mug? And it was in one of those run-by-a-sweet-white-haired-lady shops where everything had a decidedly charming and innocent tinge to it. I kept trying to ignore it but every time my eyes read the words my jaw dropped a little more and the smirk spread across my face. New treasure! It would be mine. Mwwahahahahaha!

Then, as I waited to pay, Noble Child started meowing and carrying on (as she does whenever she sees a cat or anything resembling a cat) and I looked to where her little toddler finger was pointing. I saw this

Like a junkie needing a fix, my eyes darted from the mug in my hand to the wooden sign hanging before me, the desire to buy so strong that I felt helpless to resist. But then I worried that the little old lady ringing up my purchases would catch on to my filthy game and that these items had been planted in my presence on purpose. This was a sting operation! But still, the power of the bric-a-brac moved me to new heights of lunacy and I started making excuses in my head, ways to explain the double entendre mug and the tongue-in-cheek sign. When I laid my purchases on the counter, Noble Child pointed to the cat sign and shrieked a MEOW! again. I laughed nervously and my eyes darted around to see if anyone had caught on to me. So far, so good.

I ruffled my kiddo’s head and said to the shop lady “We’re getting a cat soon, that’s why I’m buying the sign,” which was a complete lie. I waited to be struck down by lightning by the Common Decency Gods for not only buying knick knacks that may or may not have dirty hidden meanings but for lying to sweet old ladies who donate their time in charity shops. The song Burn, Baby Burn ran through my head on a loop.

Oblivious to the state of my mind in the gutter, little old lady wrapped my treasures, took my coins and wished me well. I sighed with relief and scooted out of the shop as quickly as I could without raising suspicion. When I got home, I unwrapped my finds and sat down on the bed to admire them. I have no plans to actually use them or keep them in plain view of visitors, or to give them as rude gifts to someone. So why did I do it? I have no idea, but I do know that if there is ever a low-rent, trashy version of Antiques Roadshow (Bric-a-brac Crap In the Back of an RV, perhaps?), I’ll be the first to sign up.

• Banal Breakdown , Human Oddities
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NS October 18th, 2007

Today, sitting in a bouncy castle with the Noble Child at a playgroup we go to once a week, I spotted a boy, probably around four years old, wearing a t-shirt that said “Boys are better than girls.” I thought it was so tacky and so sexist, I couldn’t help but keep my eyes on him for awhile, waiting to see which smug soccer mom he wandered over to when he would inevitably fall over and bang his head or knee (I swear it wasn’t me!). I noticed as I watched the kid that he was pretty hyper and aggressive, pushing other kids off of slides and yanking their toys away. A real charmer, the kind that makes you think for just one split second that spanking is overdue a comeback.

His mother was oblivious to the mayhem her son was causing, making other kids cry left and right and forcing every parent there to keep an extra close eye on their kids lest this brat beast made his way towards their own offspring. At one point, he tried to haul this other kid out of a play car and was smacking him in the head while pulling on his shirt. The mother of the child being assaulted tried to separate them and had her glasses knocked off her face as thanks for her efforts. Appalled, she retreated and glanced around the room for the devil spawn’s mother but no one was fessing up to being his handler. Next thing she knows, the kid walks up to her friend who is holding a very small baby in her arms, and whacks the baby on the head with a toy. The baby starts screaming, the baby’s mother starts crying and the kid just runs around sticking his tongue out.

Finally, the commotion aroused the Brat Beast’s mother out of her conversation on the other side of the room (with her back to the play area, naturally) and scurrying over to grab him and make a weak apology. She marched him back over to her seat and forced him to sit down by her feet, and then….gave him a cookie and went back to her conversation. That kid wolfed down the cookie and was back on his feet in ten seconds flat and the woman just ignored him completely. You could see everyone else’s eyes locking, eyebrows raising and lots of grumbling going on. It is parents like this woman who give the rest of us a bad name for taking children out in public. Because of people like her, I can’t take my kid to a restaurant that doesn’t have paper placemats and crayons without being given the hairy eyeball. Bitch.

Not five minutes later, someone can running in and said “He’s opened the gate and they’re getting out!” Mothers were scrambling to get to the gated outdoor area just off the room and wrangle children who had escaped and were heading towards the nearby park. The ringleader of this charade was, of course, Brat Beast.

At that point I decided we’d had enough and went to leave. While I was gathering our things and putting my daughter’s jacket on her, the Beast sidled up to me. I looked down at his head and had to stop myself from parting his hair to look for the 666 that was surely emblazoned on his skull. He touched my leg and smiled up at me and for a minute, I melted a little. I smiled back and felt badly for judging him so quickly. I said “Hey there, little guy.” His angelic smile turned to a sneer and he replied with the oh-so-endearing “Whatever, GIRL.” I pointed at his t-shirt and said “Wanna bet, punk?”  His four year old brain didn’t register what I’d said, thank goodness, so I made my getaway before he could go ask his mother what ‘punk’ meant.

I’m so getting the Noble Child a pair of steel-toed Docs when she starts school.

• Antics of The Noble Child , Human Oddities , Parenting 101
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NS October 16th, 2007

Hello. My name is Noble Savage and I have an anger problem.

On days like today, when indescribable rage rises in my chest like a fist, punching its way through my rational, sensitive and usually positive self, I feel like such a failure. On days like today I am a shitty mother, one who yells at her child for no reason other than just wanting to be left alone. On days like today, I hold my baby and rock her in my lap, tears streaming down both of our faces as I breathe her in, kiss her head and tell her “Mama’s sorry, she didn’t mean to yell and be horrible.” On days like today, I am scared of my anger and where it came from. I am even more scared of where it could lead.

I was not physically abused, nor did I ever witness it. But I did inherit my mother’s temper (maybe all stressed out mothers’ tempers?) and it’s scary how quickly I can go from Zen to Boiling in ten seconds flat. What do I have to be angry about? There are millions and millions of people way worse off than me, with far greater problems and stresses. I feel like such a pathetic loser when I whine about trying to juggle the cleaning with the painting and the kiddo with the husband and the errands with my writing. Maybe I should tape up a picture of a refugee in Darfur to my fridge so I can get some perspective.

I have become that which I despise — a young, white, middle-class housewife who is angry that all of her perfect little dreams haven’t worked out yet, or maybe never will. All I would need to complete the cliche is to start drinking gin (neat, with a twist) at noon while still in my slippers and have an affair with the plumber.
I know many people don’t like to talk about their anger, especially mothers, because we think it should be so easy to make it dissolve, like putting Alza Seltzer into a glass of water and hey presto! your anger hangover is gone, absolved as if by a priest. Perhaps though, for an atheist like me in the modern world, a blog post serves as a better confessional than any church could provide. This is my shelter, my touchstone. When I sit down to ‘confess’, I touch the keys in reverence and reflection, much like I imagine a devout old woman runs her hands over knots of wood in familiar pews, the skin on her palms as thin as paper, as she kneels in genuflection.

But do I write this for selfish reasons, to be told I’m ‘normal’ and that it’s okay to be angry? That everyone does it and I shouldn’t be so hard on myself? Because I don’t want that. I just want to know how to make it stop. I need it to be better for my daughter. It has to be better. I refuse to accept anything less.

This is the dark side of motherhood that nobody talks about. This is my dark side and I will talk about it because without that, I have no hope of overcoming it.

• Parenting 101 , Squish Squish
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NS October 14th, 2007

I opened up my Sunday newspaper today (the Observer) and nearly choked on my coffee when I saw this

What the fuck is Paul McCartney doing posing with that drug-addled loser Pete Doherty? This is the man (I use that term loosely) who is up there with Whitney Houston when it comes to love of the crack pipe. Whitney said “crack is whack” but Pete essentially says “crack is back” and wears his addiction proudly, as if it were a fashion statement. It’s obvious by looking at the pictures of him in the press that he spends more time attending court hearings and rehab centres than he does bathing, or thinking, or writing good music. Tortured artist, my ass.

Paul, I’m so disappointed in you. Is your divorce causing some kind of mid-life crisis in which you have to hang out with crack-smoking ass clown pretty boys in order to feel young and ‘hip’ again? I know you just lost £50mil and all, but no amount of money should make you lower yourself to this dirty kid’s standards.

• Human Oddities , In The News
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