Stray Long Ones (dedicated to Stephanie)

I have just remembered what I really wanted to write about today.  And this message goes out especially for my young niece, Stephanie, a day away from her first wedding anniversary.

Today, slumped on the sofa, where I am able actually to look out of the window at a lovely view (as opposed to remaining slumped in bed and not being high enough to peer through the garret bedroom window) I noticed a hair on my pointy finger (I think that’s my index finger, but it doesn’t really matter which finger it was).  I brushed it away with my thumb, but as I lifted my morning coffee to take a slurp, I noticed out of the corner of my eye, it was still there.  Thinking it was just another bloody cat hair, I again brushed it aside with my right hand this time.

The third time I saw it and rubbed at it, I was forced to get up and go find my reading glasses.  Hells Bells, it wasn’t a bloody cat hair, but one of mine that had suddenly sprouted to an unacceptable length.

I accepted the tuft of hairs that sprouted, temporarily, on my thumb after I’d smashed it with a hammer that time.  They went (I’m just double checking).  But this is just a joke.  Is this part of growing old?  Is this the last laugh of your hormones?  I’ve always been paranoid about sporting a “moustache” and am now forever checking my chin for “stray long-ones” but no-one thought to tell me that hitting 50 was tantamount to turning into a werewolf.

Sorry, Steph, just wanted to let you know the future fun that’s in store for you – it’s something your mother probably should have told you but hides a guilty secret!

50th Birthday – Getting Trollied On One’s Own

Well, me being me, I just had to Google “trollied” to make sure I spelt it correctly.

Urban Dictionary: trollied

3. trolliedTo get so drunk that you have to be moved around in a shopping trolley. Rachelle got so trollied the other night that she woke up in a public bathroom 
Yes, you go for it Rachelle, one wonders if it was her 50th?
I can count on the fingers off one hand the times I’ve been “trollied” but I have never, ever, been carted around in a shopping trolley, it actually sounds quite fun, something I’d want to save to do whilst sober.  I have shot down the Isle of White toboggan run, on a trolley, but that was perfectly legal and above board and I might say a touch hair raising.
Right, a diversion here, I’m supposed to be cooking myself a birthday cake to share with the family tomorrow (we have a clutch of April babies).  I stuffed the mixture into, ok I admit, they aren’t 20cm cake tins, and I’ve just checked in the oven and it looks like aliens have landed.  Cake mixture has puffed up and erupted over the edges.  Don’t know if you remember the episode from Star Trek “The Trouble with Tribbles” but I think I’ve got Tribbles in my cooker.
Anyway, back to matters in hand, my Tribbles are not sun tanned enough to be removed from the oven so I have another 5 mins.  I did miss mumsy calling me at 7.30am singing “Happy Birthday to you…” and continuing with “this time 50 years ago I was…..”.  I haven’t had that conversation for 3 years (I think) and I’d give anything to go through the boredom again.  Where was I, see, the sparking shiraz is already taking effect.  What can one do when one finds oneself along on ones 50th birthday.  One looks into ones heart and one must ask oneself, what would make one happy on ones birthday.  What makes me happy is a whole bottle of previously referred to Sparkling Shiraz, a whole packet of Tyrells salt and vinegar crisps all to myself and later, just before I slip into unconsciousness, a succulent, over-ripe mango, which I selected from a leading supermarket the other day, for the specific purpose of sucking on.
Bloody Happy Birthday to me.  Goodnight.

If you’re on your own – HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO YOU.

Less than 50 days until husband starts his ROTL (that’s Release On Temporary Licence to you and me).  There’s a brilliant list of do’s and don’t’s on Prisoner Ben’s blog, so I won’t go into them, but rather than getting excited, I’m getting blue.  I am still not alone at home, still have my nephew here, but he is supposed to be finding somewhere else to live by the weekend.  Interesting.  He has nowhere on the cards yet, so I think a deadline is due.  It seems cruel of me, but it’s part of my problem.  I have realised I want to start preparing the house for my husband’s return, I’m not a freaky house cleaner, but I want it just nice and without the associated smells of another man around.  Ben smokes, his odour lingers and floats up the stairs into my bedroom and down the stairs into my kitchen.  I want my house back, our house back.  So I’ll deal with that later.

Another reason for my gloom is another milestone in my life.  I dealt with the humorous fact that rather than spending my 10th wedding anniversary in a log built shack over a blue sea (plus sun) I spent it at work whilst husband went to his first County Court hearing.  Ok, I got over that.  But now, soon, it’s my birthday, and a significant one.  I kind of thought I’d be spending that milestone with the one I love.  Let’s amend that, I’d rather hoped I’d be spending that milestone with the one I love at home.  Luckily for me (!) my birthday falls on a Saturday, so I could go visiting armed with a picture of a cake and some candles – haven’t seen that candles are not allowed, ladders are a no-no, but candles?  Perhaps I could get on a chair an announce my big day, why not, kids do it, once you get past 60 you regularly tell people how old you are – what about us middle agers?  Yes, I almost feel slightly better.  I bought myself a birthday card today to send inside to husband so he can post it back to me – a nice card, not too expensive, but with some nice words I think I’ll appreciate.  I did think of buying myself a present, but really, really want to save my pennies to get an upstairs bathroom.

So rather than feel sorry for myself, let me end with a message for any other women in a similar situation, or men for that matter, you have yourself a happy birthday even if you are on your own.  You don’t need anyone else to mark the day of your birth – your mother would be nice, but that’s a luxury the older you get is not always guaranteed (mine’s gone) – you sit yourself down and have a nice cup of tea and just think, sod it, I’ll be a year older next year and that one might be better!