And Blow!

Another week dun gone. A couple more lakes of diesel dun guzzled. Another mountain range of chips dun wolfed. A smattering more of bruises..... A scattering more of brain cells..... And a battering more of my bleedin' overdraft.

We had recovered from the previous weekend's family birthday and silver wedding anniversary shenanigans, applied ourselves to last weekend's family golden wedding anniversary and birthday bonanza, and will be sleeping off this weekend's family birthday bananas amid a crumbling houseful of neglected jobs in a state of ThankFuckForThatness. The next one's at least 2 weeks away. Time to breathe. Into a paper bag if necessary. And I'm sure we can summon enough teeth-flashing for Father's Day without too much effort - it's turn-on/turn-offable nowadays. Just need to pace ourselves through a reasonable July ready for the marathon August onslaught. Our Month of Candle-Blowing Supreme. Asthma inhalers at the ready. We get the 2nd off, a couple of days free after the 9th, another few flares followed by a little break until near the end and then, come September we're home and dry. Just a civilized 1 or 2 a month again until the spring - when my teeth's antennae again start twitching in fear of the approaching icing avalanche.

Now I know I'm extremely grumpy but I just don't 'get' birthdays. Especially my own. I have to feign enthusiasm for my children's. Outside of that intimate circle I look upon anyone openly celebrating their birthday to be highly inconsiderate. What's the big idea? Why drag me into it? Surely all this melting wax could be put to better use?

There's obviously some deep-rooted psychological warp that makes me this way. People actually seem to get cross when they discover that my birthday has slipped by and they didn't know. Huh? Get happy people - one less fingernail trapped under sellotape to worry about. Having said that I'm not saying a nice stiff envelope with my Mum's handwriting on it doesn't please. It always arrives a day early (to make sure) and I usually wait for The Day to open it. Not this year though. Why be a hypocrite? There's money in there and as I've already spent it I'd better 'replace' that cash with this stuff so now we can get chips. Sorted.

Ungrateful brat that I am at least I try not to inflict it on anyone else. Minx's birthday however lasts for weeks. The build-up alone is exhausting. The execution relentless. And the after shocks last until it's Xmas (ie - September). Bless her.

But which is normal? Or which is healthier? I would probably be desperately worried if Minx behaved like me - why doesn't my precious baby want to celebrate being born??? Which would explain MY mother's retort a couple of years ago to my dismissal of mine 'Well I want to celebrate it - I WAS there after all!' (Guess my back-hand verbal volley). But on the flip I will be quite happy when she's old enough to wander down the pub with her mates without my Super-Mum input (albeit clutching the contents of a shredded pink envelope).

But all in all I can still find time to count my blessings - after all it's NOT bloody Xmas and I CAN keep it under wraps if I choose and noone's singing about babies in the middle of the shopping centre.

And I did get some nice presents. Including the book that 'Whip It' - my Roller Derby fantasy life - was based on.

Ordered it myself.

(What kind of fucked-up psyche is that?)

Feel bad now - Mr GPants bestowed many delights and presented a roast dinner on our crash-landing. And cake was distributed around the park by my friend acting on a tip-off. And all the kids genuinely seemed to want me to be happy - which I am - honestly. And I am touched by all this. And appreciative. I am.

I simply don't like fuss. I don't think it's a self-loathing or lack of worth complex or a fear of getting older. I just can't really see the big deal.

Now, much more worthwhile - but no less stressful - is the England v USA match tomorrow night. That WILL require carefully planned catering (crisps) and diary-clearing (thankfully no bleedin' birthdays) and serious butterflies-in-the-tummy build-up control measures. How now in an alchohol-free house? Mr GPants will opt for golf therapy. I shall have to resort to folding and sock-pairing. I expect there to be much car-washing and lawn-mowing and bottle-recycling throughout the land tomorrow afternoon as the nation prepares for 90 minutes of gut-crunching tension. And will it all be worth it?

Will it fuck?

And will we saddos do it all over again for the next one?

Of course.

Something over-hyped and guaranteed to disappoint time and time again. Everyone gather round. Turn out the lights. And all together now sing........ 'Three lions on a shirt.........' Now make a wish.

I feel sick as a parrot already.