Twattery

Dear Dobson,

As you’re aware, I’m not someone who likes to romanticise the business of parenthood.  I am quietly proud of my children, but I refuse to be drawn into playing 'Kid Top Trumps' in the playground with other parents whose own desperate insecurities force them to live their lives through the achievements of their offspring.

It’s a certain brand of parent that plays this particular game and their middle-class, wishy-washy, boundary-less school of parenting irritates the fuck out of me.  Just who are these people?  They have no personalities, they all need intensive therapy and they waste so much energy trying to present a ‘chilled’ and ‘relaxed’ front, when in reality they are obscenely uptight.  They maintain the demeanour of confused adolescents in forty-something year old bodies and hence, not knowing who they really are, they choose to define themselves through the often bizarrely named fruit of their loins.

I found myself at a swimming gala on Friday evening.  Middle Son was due to take part in a couple of races and I wanted to be there to support him, conversely, along with this desire was mild irritation that I’d lose a significant amount of my night sitting in a loud, humid environment with other parents.

On arrival I felt as if someone had amassed my worst nightmares and turned them into a caricature of the very parent I despise so much:

Rainbow-jumpered man was sitting at his child’s event with a fucking guitar…  He sat for at least three hours playing / strumming / tuning it, I don’t know which because thankfully I couldn’t hear over the roar of the crowd who were doing what they were actually there to do i.e. supporting their children.

All I could think was what a self-indulgent, self-absorbed cunt he was.  How embarrassing for little Balthazar or India that his / her father chose to upstage any swimming effort that he / she might make.  Even Oldest Son, who is autistic and allegedly has little sense of what is socially acceptable, asked me what the prick with the guitar was doing…  A proud moment for me.

I’m glad I’ve got that off my chest anyway.  Can you tell I haven't had relations with The Man for over 48 hours?  It could be a good night to resurrect Bunny™.

Frankie

The Big Thaw

Dear Dobson,

I cannot believe yet another respective birthday has been and gone.  I must confess I've been thinking a lot this evening about the passing of time - a classic symptom of getting older.  Unfortunately I've reached no earth shattering conclusions, other than time seems to be accelerating a little too quickly for my liking, especially the good stuff which seems to be gone in the blink of an eye.

And please don't interpret my ruminations as sad or maudlin, if anything, what I've said above makes me value the good stuff even more.

Could I have injected more clichés into the preceding paragraphs?

I must congratulate you on your purchase of 'Orgasm' blusher, I shall pay close attention to your flush when we next meet, but don't go overboard will you?  I imagine the Aunt Sally look would probably have an adverse effect...  Luckily, and without wanting to sound like I'm bragging, I have no need for such cosmetic indulgences at the moment.  My cheeks are aglow like two enormous Belisha Beacons and my Bunny™ lies redundant in the drawer underneath my bed; just for the record, there are many other reasons I think The Man is wonderful.  The Ice Queen never stood a chance in such company.

On that note, it's time for me to retire to the boudoir where I shall slip under the covers and inhale what remnants are left of the weekend spent with him.  Defrosted...

Night Dobson.

Frankie

PS.  Happy frickin' Anniversary, this is our fiftieth post.

Blusher

Dear Frankie,

Was awake at 5am this morning. (Too much birthday cake?) So I did what anyone just into her 45th year would do (my favourite record speed by the way) - I bought a blusher online.

Clearly there are a multitude of things I need - a car that works, a hall carpet that is not threadbare, a cooker that works. Anyway. Some bird in the Guardian would exclaim 'It's the Nars blusher' whenever she bumped into a friend, so used was she to being asked what was different about her.

Apparently "it makes every woman look better, giving all skintones a sexy flush of peachy pink'.

And the name dear reader, of said blusher range? Orgasm.

Basically if you look like you have had a good seeing to, people think you look great.

Blusher = £21.

Sex = Sod all.

I'm in the wrong business.

Read that as you will.

Lub you.

Dobson x

In Brief

Dear Dobson,

I loved your card idea and although I possess the malice, I lack the creative skills...

Therefore I opted for a missive brandishing this message on the front:

"Mum! You're Almost As Amazing As Me!"

That should do the passive / aggressive trick.

Frankie

Ghosts

Dearest Frankie,

Lovely to be back.  Motherhood and workeyhood have indeed got in the way, but like a 1990s girlband, I've re-grouped, am back in the lycra and raring to go.

I suggest you make a Mother's Day card for said person. Make it look like a ransom note but then decorate it with bunnies, roses and kittens and it'll confuse the fuck out of her.  See if you can find the 'bunny ears' you described earlier and pop them in for good measure. It'll be like getting a card from Michael Madsden AND Blue Peter.  Worth a thought...

I don't believe in ghosts, but I've seen a lot of the feckers in the last month.  Coming back from the dead like the Sixth Sense.  Or Scooby Doo.

It was doable on Facebook. You didn't have to actually see them, and sometimes it was rather lovely to be reunited with a few.

But in person...

So. What do you do when someone you haven't seen for years is in the room with you? Next to you?  Then you see them again. By accident.  Third time lucky? Who knows? They may disappear once more.

But do you know what. I ain't spooked. In fact. It's ok. It's ok to see people that I may have been fearful of in the past (not good enough / thin enough / happy enough).  I'm not spooked because, as Cheryl says "I'm worth it".  Take me or leave me. Seriously. Enough pussyfooting around. (I've put that in for the dirty readers).

I'm kinda enjoying work too - feeling more in control, more worthy, more like me. That's good. I want to be able to move on from there, when I want to, on my terms.  Sod 'em.

Right. That's enough from the Iron Curtain.

Love you more,

Dobson

PS.  When you see that Justin Timberlake, tell him he left his Oyster Card here last time.

Mommie Dearest

Dear Dobson,

Given your absence I can only postulate that things like work, young children and life in general are all demanding your time – either that or you’ve buggered off to the Maldives for three weeks and kept it from me.  I miss you when you’re not here, and you know how much I hate to talk about myself…

I have decided that tomorrow I will buy a Mother’s Day card for the person in question; always a difficult task for a misomater.  Do I assuage my own feelings of guilt by getting her the prettiest card containing the most genuine message, or do I adopt an insouciant attitude towards the whole thing with a cheap and meaningless token gesture?  Decisions, decisions…

Matricidal fantasies aside, I currently have very little to gripe about.  Your previous advice has been heeded and I am doing my utmost to enjoy whatever time I am able to share with The Man.  I find his company fulfilling in many different ways.  I like him – a lot.

I never thought I’d see the day when Justin Timberlake’s standing in my wank bank was rescinded, but given current levels of gratification his position is now somewhat redundant.  When I mailed him to tell him so he took it badly, but that’s Aquarian ego for you…  He’ll get over me.

Frankie