It has been a strange couple of weeks. I have genuinely struggled to form even the simplest of sentences, both verbally and in written form, yet have managed to achieve career goals and resolve personal issues regardless. I feel like I’m floating through my life on automatic pilot; focused and determined in all the ways necessary but lacking in the emotional responses that categorise me as a functional human being. On the plus side, at least I am functioning. In fact, I’m functioning well. My head is clear of nonsense and drama and I have the energy and motivation of someone so much younger and less jaded than my usual self. It’s good. Life is good.
So, Paris went well. I loved spending time with Amber and exploring Paris at leisure and was pleasantly surprised when a ‘drink and dial’ mishap, caused by a shameless bar crawl among the most ardent of alcoholic Frenchmen, resulted in not a soul crushing humiliation but the realisation that crushes held as a child sometimes carry the potential to be an interesting turn of events in adulthood. In short, I was very drunk and decided that was the perfect time to reveal my long standing crush on a former work colleague of my mother’s. The following morning I hid from my phone, fearful of the fool I had made of myself and the grovelling, shameful apology I was going to have to make. When I say I hid, I mean I actually hid. I threw my phone under the bed and pulled a pillow over my face, a position that I would happily have remained in had it not been for Amber,
‘Look at your phone. Look at your phone. Will you just look at your phone and see if he’s answered you!!!’
The woman was relentless, for which I would later thank her. The gentleman in question had not only accepted my inebriated nonsense in the manner it was intended, but had penned a near perfect response that saved my embarrassments and boosted my ego no end. This is very likely the last time I will write about him, given that he reads this blog and I’ve discovered that although men believe they would like to be written about, the reality is that they usually do not.
One man, or rather a pathetic excuse for one, that I never thought I would write about again is Perry, yet here I am doing exactly that. I received a message from him on Sunday evening asking if we could call a truce because he was desperately in need of someone to talk to and I am the only person he has ever felt he could do that with. I contemplated my response. I could have called him out on his lack of apology, his complete disregard for my feelings or that of Jemima and I could have raged at him for being so selfish as to only consider contacting me when he needed something. I decided to do nothing. Between Perry and Robyn and Weston I am completely spent in the ‘putting myself out for fake friends’ department. I am pleased I did not respond to his cries of ‘wolf’, because that was exactly what they were. My son had seen him earlier that evening and, although he didn’t speak to him, it was obvious that his presence had triggered a memory in Perry as to how much of a gullible fool I can be. I am proud of myself for not running to his false cry for help. I am proud of myself for not being sucked back into that vortex of betrayal and disappointment. I am proud of myself for allowing my silence to scream ‘no’.
In other man news, Mr. Surprise continues to litter my inbox with messages and missed calls, The Mountie has asked me out on three separate occasions over the last fortnight and even Handsome has attempted to rekindle the rough and passionate sexual escapade that never was. I have zero interest in any of them. Mr. NYC is still a frequent visitor to my Whatsapp account, although binge watching Catfish over the holiday weekend has made me paranoid and I openly doubted whether or not he was actually the person he claimed to be. I mean, what successful international businessman doesn’t have a laptop at home or know how to use Skype? The jury is still out on him.
As far as ‘good men’ go, I have thoroughly enjoyed the time I have been spending with Billy recently. Calm down, this absolutely is not going to be a friends become lovers scenario. That idea creeps me out because Billy is like family to my son and I. What I simply mean to document here is that Billy has been a tremendous source of support for my son and I recently, particularly as I come to terms with the death of my brother. Billy and I have lunched, and dinnered, and masterminded a perfect plan to get him back with his ex (Which worked! Hurrah!) and generally spent a couple of times a week putting the world to rights and spilling our hearts and our guts all over a box of wine and my dining room table. Its been good for both of us. ‘You just know stuff,’ he said to me the other day, ‘I don’t know how you do it or how you make me think I came up with the solutions all by myself, but you just know stuff!’ Bless him. It’s called being a woman, Billy. It is my superpower.
Another good man in my life is my son. I am so immensely proud of that boy. He has come out of his personal storm a more ambitious and focused young man; a testament to his strength of character and also to my resilience in putting up with his foul mood and general shitty teenager antics. He has taken the position of apprentice to a locally revered chef and seems to have found a happiness in which he can grow. On a personal note, that parenting hurdle was a bit of a bitch and I hope it is the last we’ve seen of it, particularly as I am leaving him to his own devices in June and spending the month teaching little kids how to speak English in rural Ukraine. I have no fears leaving my sixteen year old son alone as he is more than capable of getting himself to work on time and cooking his own meals without setting fire to our home, but I must admit that I will be sending Adele, Blue and Jemima round to check on him and remind him how to use the washing machine and vacuum cleaner! Some may judge me on leaving a teenager alone for that amount of time and were it not for his general maturity and the strength of the support network around us I would never have considered it. I am lucky that he is grown enough for me to further my career in this manner but he is also lucky enough to have a mother that trusts him. Damn that boy if he screws it up!
I must harness this enthusiasm for writing now and use it for good, or rather, use it for pay. My recent stint in writer’s block hell has taken longer than I anticipated to pass and as I sit here now, in front of my laptop with a thousand words spinning around me like little dancing fairies, I believe it would be irresponsible to continue waffling on to you when I have bills to pay and a growing young man to feed. Farewell dear reader, I’ll catch you in the next post.
Sex: 0. Like, actually nothing. Zilch, zero, nada. I’m rapidly approaching the 6 month marker and to be completely truthful, I couldn’t give a shit!
Alcohol: I have a newly discovered love of wine. Not good wine, however, more the stuff you can pour into a bottomless glass without worrying about your bank balance or the fear of ever running out. Billy and I are prime candidates for running a wine program called ‘Shit Chavs Drink Under The Skateboard Ramp’.
Drugs: 0. I’m loving my cleaner living. Drugs are fun, but so is achieving personal and professional goals, something that I was maybe lacking behind in when my weekends were spent with my nose in a vat of free cocaine. Sober, straight-head Lola is proving a force to be reckoned with and I really, really like it.
Mental Health: Really, really good.
Physical Health: Endometriosis is an evil bitch cunt from hell. Other than that, I’m good!