Disclaimer: This post mentions topics involving consensual sexual activity. Reader discretion is advised.
Contains some strong language.
First of all, let me pre-empt today’s post by saying that it has absolutely nothing to do with little Hugo, it’s just that I found this image on Canva with a Jack Russell and gardening gloves and I mean… how could I possibly not?! Secondly, I was tempted to call this post ‘Bad Habits Pt 2’ – owing to the fact that this is some more of my bad habits – but I decided against it almost at the last moment, so there’s that!
Yesterday was not quite such a productive day for me. I got up later than I had planned and, for whatever reason, blogging didn’t go as well or as smoothly as usual. It’s not that anything went inherently wrong, it’s just that what did happen took a lot longer than it should have. I think that was a part of the reason that I decided to join blogging friend Pooja and create a blogging schedule, I’d been going full steam ahead for many weeks and it just isn’t viable in the long-run. Posting six days per week I think will work for me, posting multiple times per day on some days won’t.
“So you’re brother’s on about diving into the fountains in town. Apparently it’s not a protest, it’s just to promote happiness” Matt informed me. I buried my head into my hands.
I love my brother, really I do, deep, deep down inside. I worry about him and I care about him, but on the surface, we really are like chalk and cheese. I’m the laid-back one, the one who tasks risks with long-term goals in mind, the one who makes people happy by relating, helping and being a friend. I’m altruistic, even if I’ve experienced a few setbacks with jealousy and fear along the way. I can often be seen in quiet contemplation, I quite enjoy watching the world go by or sitting by a stream and listening to the sounds of the flowing water. Conversely, my brother loves to be the centre of attention, he’s enjoyed making a show of himself from almost as soon as he could stand and has a need to be liked and if he’s not liked and noticed then my brother begins talking about suicide. There was a time that I would run and concern myself with his welfare, but now I’ve come to realise that the only person who can truly help him may just be himself. On my darkest days, this was a lesson that I too had learned. Nobody else was going to save my life, just me.
As of late, a lot of people have started to notice and talk about my brother, and not in a way that he would like. A lot of people think that he is “off of his rocker”, he smokes pot and spreads a lot of conspiracy theories so wild that people talk about him purely because of it. Given that he has a photograph of himself with our father then I think that he is wrapped up in his grief, but I can’t do more for him than be there with him when the pain becomes too much. As much as I love him, I know that I can’t save him. That has to come from within.
The problem with these publicity stunts of his is the impact they have on me. They bring embarrassment, shame, and a loathing of the people that I’d otherwise hold dear. “Your brother X”, “Did you see your brother’s Y?”. Often, I’m torn between criticising my brother, and loving him anyway. He’s still my brother and I’ve only got the one, but I don’t want my popularity to come from being the crazy guy’s older sis. I was already known as my brother’s sister throughout my school years, rather than by being known by my own name. I don’t want that continuing throughout the rest of my life, only this time for all of the wrong reasons.
Tomorrow, I’m attending a family barbecue and to be honest, I am in part dreading it. I think sometimes my family see me as the boring one, the sensible one, the one who doesn’t take risks. In actual fact, I live for taking risks – just not ones that could get me killed, harmed or arrested. I started a blog, I moved out and I got married, all three of those are risks.
I know that my mother is going out on Sunday, she won’t tell me where though, just “out”. Since Dad’s passing, Mum has been tasking risks and behaving in ways that I don’t personally condone. Playing with a new partner takes building up trust and communication, and a handful of online chats and a coffee in Starbucks isn’t nearly enough. I’ve tried to warn her whenever she mentions these meets but I also know that it ultimately has to be her choice in the end. Meditation helps, so does the Serenity Prayer. Every. Fucking. Day.
For a time, I listened to Madonna’s “Papa Don’t Preach”, a song that, for some unknown reason, had connected me with my father a few weeks ago. It had an unknown effect then and yet today, it felt more like a connection, a message, a plea.
Please help me, Dad. I don’t know what to do about them and I’m really scared.
I know that he’s up there. I know that he’s my guardian angel and I know that he looks out for me. Even if I can’t see him, he’s there. He’s with me, always.
“Are you alright?” Matt asked, I tried to act clueless.
“Me? Yeah, why?”
“Sure sure?”. I broke down against his waist.
“I’m just so fucking disappointed in the pair of them” I said when I finally spoke. Mum said that she would live a life she promised to my father, and I knew that life was going to be wild, whacky and full of taking risks. I envisioned that to mean trips away and more rainbow hair though, certainly not spreading conspiracy theories or wreckless sexual behaviour. Damn that man for being able to pull down my guard.
On my to-do list, I had down a little bit of gardening. Okay, no, I had down to do a lot of gardening, an ambitious lot of gardening, for someone who didn’t have limitless hours in her day. There was the creeping bindweed, the everywhere-else weeds, the foot-tall grass and the brambles, not to mention some general tidying. I knew hat I might not get it all done in a day, but heck, even an an hour would be a good start. I dabbed some weedkiller on the invading bindweed and turned my attention to the overgrown grass.
Problem: Only one Flymo battery.
I hunted high and low for the other and I asked Matt to help me. Owing to his new mobile phone, Matt was somewhat distracted.
Stuff it then. At least the bindweed has been got at.
“Oh well” became my new catchphrase of the day. I knew that I would have to care eventually, and I knew that I would regret not caring at some point too, it’s just that, if nobody else seems to care, why should I?
So I stopped.
“It’s quite nice out here, actually” I observed to myself as I stepped out to tidy everything away, “it has that sort of ‘wild’ feel.”
Even I was surprised by some of the sarcasm and attitude emanating from me, except that I also didn’t want to change. I felt empowered and I’d taken a stand. I’d done a bit and stopped for the day instead of running myself ragged like I used to,and regardless of whether or not anyone else gave a damn. Something in me has changed, and whatever it is, I quite like her. Matt had relaxed with his feet up, and so I did exactly the same. It’s quite amazing how, when a wife stops fixing problems, husbands appear to go into a sort of panic mode.
“Okay, so what’s going on? Are you upset about the garden?” Matt asked.
“Yeah, but… hey, it’s okay, isn’t it? It’s got that whole meadow vibe goin’ on.”
“I tried to help you…”
“You were gaming, love” I shot back. “I was trying to find the battery and you were face down on the bed, playing with your phone or your tablet. I just gathered then if you don’t care about the garden then why should I?”
I think my nuclear-level attitude was enough to send my husband diving under the stairs.
A few minutes later and Matt returned, grinning.
“Am I the bestest husband in the whole wide world?”
“I don’t know, are you?”. Matt held up the other battery in his hand, I sighed.
“Where was it?” I asked.
“Under the stairs, on the floor, towards the back.”
“That explains” I muttered, “Short Arse here can’t reach back there, but ol’ Gangly Arms can”. The names we give one another are sometimes horrendous. Matt calls me Deafy because of my mild hearing loss, and Gummy Bear has stuck ever since he had his wisdom teeth pulled. He gets to be my Tall Person, and I am his Small Person. He’s Gangly Arms, Daddy Long Legs and a whole bunch of others on top. They’re playful, well meant and harmless. We don’t pick on the things that the other is genuinely insecure about. The important thing with pet names is that they never cause offence, and if they do unintentionally cause offence for any reason, you drop them. Humour should always be with people, not at people. As soon as it’s at someone, then it ceases to be funny anymore.
Tidying the garden will now be something that gets done on Friday, but at least the garden will get done. Even if it’s only an hour, like I intended, it’s still a lot more than it was the day before. Rome wasn’t built in a day, even if I’ll still happily give it a go.
By nightfall, I thought myself to orgasm. If you’ve never tried it, I highly recommend them. They’re a little hard to achieve at first, but once you know how, they’re great fun and very effective at relieving sexual frustration without waking your sleeping partner and they’re incredibly intense, too. Don’t get me wrong, I love sex with my husband and I love giving pleasure as much I love getting it, but for me, nothing ever lasts as long or is quite as intense as a good ol’ satisfying braingasm. Try it for yourself sometime, just don’t think of me 😉