The next morning Frenemy arose first and made breakfast for us all. B had booked us all in for a tour of Amsterdam by bike for the second day. We were to meet Mike of Mike's Bikes at the park by the Rijksmuseum. First, I pulled out the surprise I'd bought everyone: a pink T-shirt that had escaped mums printed on it. We all wore them to show our solidarity.
Mike appeared at the ordained time. His co-worker, a Nordic god, also showed up to take another group. DAMN! Mike was a nice, shortish, fattish, baldish American. So NOT a Nordic god. We all walked back to the warehouse where the bikes were. Along the way I chatted to Mike, who told me his mother and her friends also go off on girlie weekends all the time. My ego deflated like a worn inner tube. I slunk to the back of the group.
At the warehouse the rest of our group were waiting: a South African Stag party not exactly dressed for bike riding, an American lesbian couple, and another American woman on her own while her husband was at a business conference.
Mike sized us all up and chose bikes to fit our frames. A, B, C, D, and I couldn't help but chuckle when we saw the bike he chose for Frenemy. With a very low seat and very high handlebars, it looked like the chopper bike I got for Christmas when I was 8 years old. And Frenemy looked about 8 when she got on it.
We all set off. Frenemy hadn't been on a bike since she was about 8 and forgot how to change gears. Consequently, in one of the flattest cities on earth, she had to get off and walk up any slight incline. This meant everyone behind her had to get off and walk too. Finally, in frustration, I passed her. Then she managed to pass me. We spent much of the day passing each other.
Mike had told us to use hand signals to indicate if we were turning left or right. Frenemy couldn't remember them, and would just shout out in her Scottish burr, "I'm turning left." Even if it was right.
For lunch, Mike had arranged a ride on a canal boat. We locked the bikes to a pole and boarded the boat. The only beverage available was Heineken beer-- lukewarm Heineken beer. After we'd finished our sandwiches, some of the South African guys went to the back of the boat. They were joined by the lesbian couple and C, and they all shared a joint or two. I took a toke, but didn't really want to get high when I had to ride a bike again. C continued smoking after the other three had returned to their seats. Then she went and sat by herself. She was shaking uncontrollably and didn't look too happy. I went over to check on her.
"Are you OK?" I asked.
"I can't get off the boat," she said. "You'll have to go on without me."
"No, C, you can't stay on the boat. We all have to get off the boat. I'll help you off the boat," I said.
It took a lot of cajoling and pushing and pulling, but I got C off the boat. She immediately hugged a lamppost for support once ashore. Frenemy burst into raucous laughter.
"That'll learn ya," she declared before reboarding the boat to use the lavatory.
While trying to extricate C from the lamppost, I heard shouting. Frenemy hadn't reappeared from the lavatory and the boat was about to leave. D stood on shore shouting to the boat captain to rescue Frenemy. Somehow she'd locked herself in. Once she'd regained her composure, she found her camera and started snapping photos of C as incriminating evidence.
I helped C to where the bikes were, freed her bike from the lock and helped her get on it. I got on my bike and started to ride. She didn't move.
"C'mon, C," I said, "just pedal, just put one foot down, then the other."
"I can't do it," she said. "You go on without me."
The others, including Frenemy, had all pedaled off.
"I can't leave you here," I said. "We'll just have to walk."
B circled round and asked if something was wrong.
"Tell Mike we have to walk the rest of the way," I said.
Mike came back. I told him C had overindulged and we would walk back. He gave me directions back to the warehouse, and I told C to follow me. When we got back, there was the Nordic god again. He reminded me of a surfer named John I'd had a massive crush on when I was 13: tall, long, blonde hair, handlebar mustache. I amused myself with what I'd do to him while waiting for the others to reappear.
When they did, Frenemy and D were ready to party. And they wanted me to go with them. Mike had pointed out a few coffee houses along the way that he declared were good value. And some that were good for magic mushrooms. Frenemy's eyes lit up.
"Mushrooms? Should we try those?"
Mike looked at me and shook his head.
"We'll try those some other time," I said.
We walked a block or so till we found a coffee shop. D and Frenemy pushed me to the front. We went to the counter and purchased about half a dozen cakes.
"Be careful," the woman selling them to us said. "They are very strong."
We found a table, and D and Frenemy sat next to each other with me facing them. We divided one cake into thirds. Once I'd had my third, I went looking for the restroom. When I returned, D and Frenemy looked like squirrels saving up for winter. They'd each had another half a cake and stuffed it into their mouths before I came back.
"You know, the woman said to be careful because these are strong," I warned them. They scoffed at me.
A and B had taken C for a cup of tea in the meantime. She was starting to return to normality. We found them on our way back, thankfully, so we didn't get too lost. Once we were back at the canal house, I decided I'd better shower and get ready to go out before the cake took effect. I was just about finished when I started to feel it, so I hurried as quickly as I could. I managed to get jeans and makeup on before developing an intense fascination with the pores on my skin. Frenemy was a vision in turquoise as she wafted through our room down the stairs to the kitchen. I somehow got myself down there eventually. What a sight awaited me. Frenemy was speechless for the first time in her life. C took full advantage of this, getting back at Frenemy for all the things she'd said while C was similarly indisposed. Frenemy would try to respond, open her mouth, but nothing would come out. Eventually, she decided to lie down. C helped her up the stairs to the sitting room and got a duvet to cover her with. I also felt like I wanted some time with just myself and made my way back to my bed. D was already in her bed.
A and B were at a loss as to what to do with us. A insisted D get up and go out with them for something to eat. D is diabetic, and A was worried she'd go into diabetic shock if she didn't eat properly. I told A I'd stay behind and look after Frenemy (as if!). What I really wanted was to listen to music. I love that feeling of music echoing in my head when I'm stoned. There was no music, so I imagined it. I also had some deep, philosophical internal conversations that I sort of recall.
By the time they'd returned from their meal, Frenemy had recovered the power of speech. She regaled us with the story of the "trip" she'd had while stoned. She said she felt like she was the lady of the house and we were the servants downstairs. Well, of course that would be Frenemy's "trip." I never told her that people smoking or ingesting marijuana don't usually have "trips." It was her fantasy, and I let her have it. Oddly, I wasn't hungry so didn't eat the Chinese food A and B had thoughtfully brought back for us.
The cracks in the friendship had started to appear on this day. Frenemy and D had paired up and were talking savagely about everyone else. While in the coffee shop, they'd tried to get me to join them. Frenemy had a bee in her bonnet about B, who has a phobia about birds. Because of this we didn't stop at any outdoor cafes, which annoyed Frenemy enormously. I was uncomfortable with this. B is A's best friend from back when they were 13. She is a lovely, kind person who never has a bad word to say about anyone. I also thought Frenemy's treatment of C while she was stoned was unfair and unkind. Could the whole friendship fall apart?
Tomorrow: the Flood
Monday, 12 November 2007
Sunday, 11 November 2007
Amsterdam Part One
It all started in A's kitchen one drunken Bank Holiday afternoon.
"I want to try drugs so I can tell my kids I know what they're like and they shouldn't take them," she said. Or something like that.
"Why don't we go on a girlie trip to Amsterdam then? It's legal there," B replied.
"Right. I'll find a place for us to stay and email you!" Frenemy declared.
C and I just sort of drooled in the corner. We were the only ones in the group who actually had done drugs -- from marijuana to LSD, in C's case. And the prospect of trying them again, and legally, was almost too much for our wine-sozzled minds.
A few days later the email arrived.
"I have found a canal house that sleeps six. I've put down a deposit for the first week in June. I'll book the flights with EasyJet and let you know how much you owe me."
And that's why we're still friends with Frenemy. Her organisational skills can be frightening.
I'd been running 5K three times a week in preparation for the Race for Life. I was a lean, mean running machine, in good health and ready to get stoned.
We all arose around 5 a.m. for the taxi that C had organised. Groggy but in good spirits, we joined our fellow passengers in the departure lounge -- the middle-aged couples, the Hen Party, the Stag Party. We all milled around till the flight was called. I sat next to B and D, neither of them good fliers. We passed around magazines. D clung to my arm and B clung to D's as the plane lifted off. Frenemy was ready to pop open some Champagne, but it was a bit early for the rest of us.
When we landed at Schiphol airport in Amsterdam, I joined the immigration queue. "Wait for me," I called to the group, and, amazingly, they did. This was a good sign. It meant I didn't already feel like the odd one out. It meant solidarity. It meant we were headed for a good time. We collected our bags and found the van awaiting us outside. As he pulled up next to the canal house, the booking agent was waiting for us.
"He's cute," Frenemy declared.
"He's gay," I countered. "Look at his sweater."
"You can't tell if he's gay by his sweater!" A insisted.
"OK, I may be wrong, but he's gay."
Mr. Not Gay Sweater showed us the canal house. The kitchen was on the bottom floor. You had to walk down three steps to get in it. The sitting room was on the next floor. From street level, it was six steps up. On the next floor was the first bedroom, which D. and I shared. Up more stairs was the bathroom and A and B's room. Up a ladder was C and Frenemy's room. If you looked out the window in their room you saw part of the roof. There was a skylight in A and B's room just outside the bathroom. The canal house was narrow, as the houses in the old part of Amsterdam are. The steps were extremely narrow. Over the next four days, every one of us would fall down at least one flight of stairs once. We helped each other with our bags up the numerous steps. Then we decided to go buy some wine and food (for the munchies we planned to be having later.)
At the corner shop, Frenemy purchased 10 bottles of wine and five bags of crisps (potato chips), eggs, bread, orange juice, milk, tea, and coffee. I bought an umbrella because I'd managed to lose the one I'd borrowed from the house.
We put away our purchases and set off to find somewhere for lunch. Emboldened by a bottle of wine, Frenemy suggested we find our first coffee house. I'd done some research on the internet on which coffee houses were the best, but Frenemy wasn't interested in quality. A, B, and D wanted to do more shopping, so C, Frenemy, and I headed for the first coffee house we saw.
It was a Jamaican one. I stepped through the door to find three Rastas playing pool and a young girl behind the counter. Should we buy readymade spliffs or roll our own? C, Frenemy and I started to argue over this. C bought some pot and rolling papers, drew out a cigarette from her bag, tore it open and mixed some of the tobacco with the pot and rolled a joint. I stared speechless.
"That's not how you roll a joint," I declared when I regained my voice.
"Yes, it is. Everyone mixes pot with tobacco. Don't they?" she looked at the girl. The girl was impassive.
"That's not how we did it in Florida," I insisted.
But I smoked it anyway.
While we were arguing and then smoking, we didn't notice the poor Rastas trying to play pool. As I waved the lit joint around I nearly stabbed one in the eye. They politely asked us to move so they could continue their game. A, B, and D returned from their shopping, and we decided to move on to another coffee house. This one was done out like a Moroccan souk. We decided to order the marijuana-laced cakes. I remembered from my younger days that ingesting it can take longer to feel the effects, but then it's a stronger high. We walked back to the house and sat round the kitchen table, waiting to feel high (I already did thanks to the Jamaican place).
A felt it first. She got up to boil the kettle. Then forgot what she was doing and sat down again. Got up. Sat down. Got up. Sat down. She started to giggle uncontrollably. We all started to giggle uncontrollably.
"This isn't a happy feeling," she wailed between giggles, tears streaming down her face. Someone took photos, thinking they might be incriminating.
Somehow we pulled ourselves together to go out and find a place to eat. It wasn't easy finding a table for six, and we ended up at an overpriced, decidedly mediocre restaurant. Frenemy pulled out a joint and started to light up at the table. We all told her to put it away NOW.
"What's the matter? It's legal here, isn't it?" she asked.
"But there's a time and a place," we told her.
We'd all agreed we weren't going to tell our husbands about our coffee house experiences. But Frenemy of course immediately rang hers.
"Guess what I've just done!"
So we all had to phone our husbands and tell them before Frenemy's husband did.
After our meal, we went back to the house and gathered round the kitchen table again. C and I ate our body weight in crisps. A made a nice cup of tea because she didn't like the unhappy feeling of being out of control the cakes gave her. Frenemy drank a lot of the wine. The others remarked on how laid back I was. And I did feel remarkably relaxed and self-contained.
Soon we all decided to turn in. We slept very soundly that night.
Tomorrow: Mike's Bikes
"I want to try drugs so I can tell my kids I know what they're like and they shouldn't take them," she said. Or something like that.
"Why don't we go on a girlie trip to Amsterdam then? It's legal there," B replied.
"Right. I'll find a place for us to stay and email you!" Frenemy declared.
C and I just sort of drooled in the corner. We were the only ones in the group who actually had done drugs -- from marijuana to LSD, in C's case. And the prospect of trying them again, and legally, was almost too much for our wine-sozzled minds.
A few days later the email arrived.
"I have found a canal house that sleeps six. I've put down a deposit for the first week in June. I'll book the flights with EasyJet and let you know how much you owe me."
And that's why we're still friends with Frenemy. Her organisational skills can be frightening.
I'd been running 5K three times a week in preparation for the Race for Life. I was a lean, mean running machine, in good health and ready to get stoned.
We all arose around 5 a.m. for the taxi that C had organised. Groggy but in good spirits, we joined our fellow passengers in the departure lounge -- the middle-aged couples, the Hen Party, the Stag Party. We all milled around till the flight was called. I sat next to B and D, neither of them good fliers. We passed around magazines. D clung to my arm and B clung to D's as the plane lifted off. Frenemy was ready to pop open some Champagne, but it was a bit early for the rest of us.
When we landed at Schiphol airport in Amsterdam, I joined the immigration queue. "Wait for me," I called to the group, and, amazingly, they did. This was a good sign. It meant I didn't already feel like the odd one out. It meant solidarity. It meant we were headed for a good time. We collected our bags and found the van awaiting us outside. As he pulled up next to the canal house, the booking agent was waiting for us.
"He's cute," Frenemy declared.
"He's gay," I countered. "Look at his sweater."
"You can't tell if he's gay by his sweater!" A insisted.
"OK, I may be wrong, but he's gay."
Mr. Not Gay Sweater showed us the canal house. The kitchen was on the bottom floor. You had to walk down three steps to get in it. The sitting room was on the next floor. From street level, it was six steps up. On the next floor was the first bedroom, which D. and I shared. Up more stairs was the bathroom and A and B's room. Up a ladder was C and Frenemy's room. If you looked out the window in their room you saw part of the roof. There was a skylight in A and B's room just outside the bathroom. The canal house was narrow, as the houses in the old part of Amsterdam are. The steps were extremely narrow. Over the next four days, every one of us would fall down at least one flight of stairs once. We helped each other with our bags up the numerous steps. Then we decided to go buy some wine and food (for the munchies we planned to be having later.)
At the corner shop, Frenemy purchased 10 bottles of wine and five bags of crisps (potato chips), eggs, bread, orange juice, milk, tea, and coffee. I bought an umbrella because I'd managed to lose the one I'd borrowed from the house.
We put away our purchases and set off to find somewhere for lunch. Emboldened by a bottle of wine, Frenemy suggested we find our first coffee house. I'd done some research on the internet on which coffee houses were the best, but Frenemy wasn't interested in quality. A, B, and D wanted to do more shopping, so C, Frenemy, and I headed for the first coffee house we saw.
It was a Jamaican one. I stepped through the door to find three Rastas playing pool and a young girl behind the counter. Should we buy readymade spliffs or roll our own? C, Frenemy and I started to argue over this. C bought some pot and rolling papers, drew out a cigarette from her bag, tore it open and mixed some of the tobacco with the pot and rolled a joint. I stared speechless.
"That's not how you roll a joint," I declared when I regained my voice.
"Yes, it is. Everyone mixes pot with tobacco. Don't they?" she looked at the girl. The girl was impassive.
"That's not how we did it in Florida," I insisted.
But I smoked it anyway.
While we were arguing and then smoking, we didn't notice the poor Rastas trying to play pool. As I waved the lit joint around I nearly stabbed one in the eye. They politely asked us to move so they could continue their game. A, B, and D returned from their shopping, and we decided to move on to another coffee house. This one was done out like a Moroccan souk. We decided to order the marijuana-laced cakes. I remembered from my younger days that ingesting it can take longer to feel the effects, but then it's a stronger high. We walked back to the house and sat round the kitchen table, waiting to feel high (I already did thanks to the Jamaican place).
A felt it first. She got up to boil the kettle. Then forgot what she was doing and sat down again. Got up. Sat down. Got up. Sat down. She started to giggle uncontrollably. We all started to giggle uncontrollably.
"This isn't a happy feeling," she wailed between giggles, tears streaming down her face. Someone took photos, thinking they might be incriminating.
Somehow we pulled ourselves together to go out and find a place to eat. It wasn't easy finding a table for six, and we ended up at an overpriced, decidedly mediocre restaurant. Frenemy pulled out a joint and started to light up at the table. We all told her to put it away NOW.
"What's the matter? It's legal here, isn't it?" she asked.
"But there's a time and a place," we told her.
We'd all agreed we weren't going to tell our husbands about our coffee house experiences. But Frenemy of course immediately rang hers.
"Guess what I've just done!"
So we all had to phone our husbands and tell them before Frenemy's husband did.
After our meal, we went back to the house and gathered round the kitchen table again. C and I ate our body weight in crisps. A made a nice cup of tea because she didn't like the unhappy feeling of being out of control the cakes gave her. Frenemy drank a lot of the wine. The others remarked on how laid back I was. And I did feel remarkably relaxed and self-contained.
Soon we all decided to turn in. We slept very soundly that night.
Tomorrow: Mike's Bikes
Wednesday, 7 November 2007
Oh the agony, but it's done
This has been a very hard post to write. It's taken me days. I was tagged by -ann to write these 8 things.
8 things I'm passionate about
1. Reading -- something I must do every day, even if it's just the newspaper
2. My family (my kids and husband)
3. My animals
4. Exercise -- I need some form of it just about every day or I'm not fit to be near.
5. Golf--I'm turning into an old fuddy duddy. After the British Open last year, which was held just across the street from us, I really got into it and now take lessons.
6. Learning something new. I'm a scholar at heart, I think, and enjoy learning for the sake of learning.
7. Singing, even if I do sound bad.
8. Blogging. I wasn't going to put this in because I think it shows just how sad I really am. But it has become a real passion for me and I have to be honest.
8 things to do before I die
1. Hike to the bottom of the Grand Canyon
2. Revisit Rome (I was unwell the first time and stayed in the hotel mostly)
3. Compete in a triathlon (of course I'm not in shape, but I can dream)
4. Write a best-seller
5. Get to know my (hopefully) future grandchildren
6. Get over my fear of skiing black runs
7. Start and run a successful magazine
8. Travel around the world
8 things I say often
1. Good morning, Jakie Sunshine, how are you today? (actually I sing that)
2. Time to get up, kids.
3. Have you brushed your teeth?
4. Are you sure?
5. Do you have any homework?
6. Are you sure?
7. What has your dad done with (whatever)?
8. Time for bed.
8 books I've read recently
1. Until I Find You by John Irving
2. Freakonomics by Steven D. Levitt and Stephen J. Dubner
3. Killing Custer: The Battle of Little Bighorn and the Fate of the Plains Indians by James Welch and Paul Stekler
4. Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows by JK Rowling
5. Falling Man by Don DeLillo
6. Tryptych by Karin Slaughter
7. Tokyo by Mo Hayder
8. Star of the Sea by Joseph O'Connor
8 songs I could listen to over and over
1. Chasing Cars by Snow Patrol (reminds me of dogs)
2. Layla by Eric Clapton
3. With or Without You by U2
4. My Baby by Nina Simone
5. Sweetest Goodbye by Maroon 5
6. R-E-S-P-E-C-T by Aretha Franklin
7. Angel from Montgomery by Bonnie Raitt
8. Sweet Melissa by the Allman Brothers
Shows my age, doesn't it.
8 qualities I look for in a best friend
1. Sense of humour (or humor). You may not know it from my posts, but I love to laugh.
2. Loyalty.
3. Honesty.
4. An open mind and heart.
5. A willingness to party. Not in the same way I did when I was younger, but still with some get-up-and-go.
6. A willingness to listen
7. The ability to be quiet sometimes
8. And the wisdom to know when to listen and when to talk
8 people I'm passing this on to
1. Pixie
2. Vi
3. Kelly
4. DJ Kirby
5. Annie
6. Lady M
7. Debio
8. Darth Sardonicus
8 things I'm passionate about
1. Reading -- something I must do every day, even if it's just the newspaper
2. My family (my kids and husband)
3. My animals
4. Exercise -- I need some form of it just about every day or I'm not fit to be near.
5. Golf--I'm turning into an old fuddy duddy. After the British Open last year, which was held just across the street from us, I really got into it and now take lessons.
6. Learning something new. I'm a scholar at heart, I think, and enjoy learning for the sake of learning.
7. Singing, even if I do sound bad.
8. Blogging. I wasn't going to put this in because I think it shows just how sad I really am. But it has become a real passion for me and I have to be honest.
8 things to do before I die
1. Hike to the bottom of the Grand Canyon
2. Revisit Rome (I was unwell the first time and stayed in the hotel mostly)
3. Compete in a triathlon (of course I'm not in shape, but I can dream)
4. Write a best-seller
5. Get to know my (hopefully) future grandchildren
6. Get over my fear of skiing black runs
7. Start and run a successful magazine
8. Travel around the world
8 things I say often
1. Good morning, Jakie Sunshine, how are you today? (actually I sing that)
2. Time to get up, kids.
3. Have you brushed your teeth?
4. Are you sure?
5. Do you have any homework?
6. Are you sure?
7. What has your dad done with (whatever)?
8. Time for bed.
8 books I've read recently
1. Until I Find You by John Irving
2. Freakonomics by Steven D. Levitt and Stephen J. Dubner
3. Killing Custer: The Battle of Little Bighorn and the Fate of the Plains Indians by James Welch and Paul Stekler
4. Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows by JK Rowling
5. Falling Man by Don DeLillo
6. Tryptych by Karin Slaughter
7. Tokyo by Mo Hayder
8. Star of the Sea by Joseph O'Connor
8 songs I could listen to over and over
1. Chasing Cars by Snow Patrol (reminds me of dogs)
2. Layla by Eric Clapton
3. With or Without You by U2
4. My Baby by Nina Simone
5. Sweetest Goodbye by Maroon 5
6. R-E-S-P-E-C-T by Aretha Franklin
7. Angel from Montgomery by Bonnie Raitt
8. Sweet Melissa by the Allman Brothers
Shows my age, doesn't it.
8 qualities I look for in a best friend
1. Sense of humour (or humor). You may not know it from my posts, but I love to laugh.
2. Loyalty.
3. Honesty.
4. An open mind and heart.
5. A willingness to party. Not in the same way I did when I was younger, but still with some get-up-and-go.
6. A willingness to listen
7. The ability to be quiet sometimes
8. And the wisdom to know when to listen and when to talk
8 people I'm passing this on to
1. Pixie
2. Vi
3. Kelly
4. DJ Kirby
5. Annie
6. Lady M
7. Debio
8. Darth Sardonicus
Tuesday, 6 November 2007
Everything Old is New Again
I came across this photo of Christina Aguilera and thought, "She reminds me of someone." And it came to me. Blonde bombshell Jayne Mansfield, of course. I also found a very macabre website: www.howtheydied.com. If you ever had a burning curiosity to see photos of a dead James Dean, well, they're there.
Here is something I never thought I'd be saying.
Me to daughter: "Pull up your jeans. Your thong is showing."
No, I didn't buy her the thong. She got it on a shopping foray with a friend and her mother.
When I'm not looking for dead people, another website I visit frequently is amazon.com. I discovered a year or so ago that I can buy prezzies for the family in the U.S., have them wrapped and shipped for less than buying them here and shipping them over.
My dad's 81st birthday is Saturday so I was perusing the amazon site for something. I mean what do you get an 81-year-old man who doesn't seem to need or want anything? Since he's a gadgety, tooly kind of guy, I got him a flashlight (torch). But not just any flashlight. This one turns red, blue, green, and white for different uses. Looking for further ideas, I looked at the Those Who Bought This Also Bought section. Amazing. Someone who bought that flashlight also bought a copy of the Koran. Someone also bought a Garmin U.S. maps device. And a copy of Ultimate Survival: Who Lives, Who Dies, and Why. And lots of knives. Need I tell you my overactive imagination went wild with the possibilities of finding terrorists this way? It does make you wonder, though, doesn't it?
Monday, 5 November 2007
I Hate My Body
I've been participating in VI's diet trial for a week now, and had been doing superbly despite a few hiccups. When I weighed myself Saturday morning (which I really wasn't supposed to do), I had lost SIX pounds. I've never lost that much weight in one week ever.
I credit the diet blog, which makes me think about what I eat and why (lots of bread), and walking the dog. However, I had a busy weekend, with lots of eating and drinking. And I let hubby walk the dog on Saturday and Sunday. And in my HRT cycle, I'm on the week that if I were still pre-menopausal would be pre-menstrual. (Does that make sense?)
Anyway, I also woke up this morning feeling like I'd been hit by a cement truck. I could be getting son's cold. I have a scratchy throat and just feel really down.
And I'm wondering if I should follow up my encounter with the head at my daughter's school with a letter to the board of governors. Not to complain about the head, but to make suggestions as to how they could better implement their Health and Safety policy when it comes to school discos. After all, they are about to become a grant-maintained school, which means among other things that they will be paying for their own insurance. Surely, they will want to ensure that there is absolutely no room for culpability in the case of fire.
But then again perhaps I should just let things lie. Bskove's comment on my previous post, while a bit annoying and maybe even unnecessarily harsh, did make me think twice about my further communications with the school. There are always those with a different point of view, and it can be useful to consider them.
I also have a million things to do, and hardly any time, it feels, to do them. Considering I don't have a job, I sure am busy. Way too busy to clean the house, for example. Or to take my car in to have the tires checked (I know, I know). I'll have to find the time for the tires. I just hate hanging around places like that. And I haven't had time to catch up with my blog pals either. I'll wait till the kids are in bed and the ironing is done, I guess.
And have I mentioned I hate my body?
Friday, 2 November 2007
Warning: This post will contain profanity
Where should I start? Ah, yes, the Stupid Fucking Bitch, otherwise known as the head teacher at my daughter's school. Her real name is (I've removed the name of the head and school on Laurie's advice). But to me she's Stupid Fucking Bitch or SFB. What inspired this nickname? Well, yesterday was the Year 7/8 Disco at daughter's school. She bought her ticket on Monday. On Tuesday we bought the outfit. Yesterday she had six friends round to get ready. They all set off walking to school in high spirits.
Meanwhile, son got ready and I took him and a friend to the disco, then came home to get ready to visit a friend who's ailing in bed after a serious back operation. Then the phone rang.
"Can you come pick me up?" daughter said tearfully.
"Why?" I asked.
"I lost my ticket and they won't let me in."
I drove round, picked her up, heard more of the story. Apparently, one of the PTA mums was going to let her in, but SFB butted in with her enormous fat ass and said no, she couldn't go in. I told daughter I would retrace her steps and look for the missing ticket. She waited at home for my friend who was due to pick me up in minutes. As I walked along, kicking up the leaves, picking up every piece of paper I saw, I got angrier and angrier. Have I mentioned I can have a T-E-M-P-E-R when provoked? My friend found me and suggested I get in the car and she would drive me to the school, for by that time I'd decided to confront SFB.
I got out with both guns blazing, found the SFB and tapped her on the shoulder.
"You wouldn't let my daughter in because she lost her ticket."
"That's right. How am I to know she actually bought a ticket. I have to think about Health and Safety."
"You're calling me a liar. Why would I come down and make a scene if my daughter hadn't had a ticket? Look, I'll pay 20 quid for another ticket."
"That's not the issue. I have 220 children in there and if there were a fire you'd be coming to me saying I hadn't done my job."
"You don't have 220 children in there. You have 219 because my daughter lost her ticket. Were you never 13? It isn't like she lost a school assignment."
"How do I know your daughter actually bought a ticket? Last year we had 20 children say they'd bought a ticket but hadn't and were 20 over our legal capacity. I can't risk that."
At that point I stormed out because I would have hit her otherwise. Lots of PTA parents and teachers witnessed the scene. I'm probably known as Psycho Mum now. And yes, perhaps she had a point. But so did I. If she'd looked at it logically, she'd have seen my daughter had taken the trouble to dress up like her friends as a fairy. Why do that if you hadn't bought a ticket? Why would I as a parent risk humiliating myself and my daughter by causing a scene if she hadn't bought a ticket?
But she chose the Hard Ass route. These are the rules and I'm sticking to them. And that's probably why she's gotten as far as she has. Certainly couldn't be her teaching abilities. If she were so very concerned about Health and Safety, why not write down the names of each and every child who bought a ticket and tick them off as they went in so they had a record of who exactly was in there in case of fire? I don't think she actually knew exactly how many children were in there. She was making a stand by refusing my daughter entry. And meanwhile I had a distraught 13-year-old waiting at home.
I walked home, still looking for the ticket. When I got in, I found the Halloween candy and said to daughter, "There are times when you just have to have chocolate." And wine of course.
I'm not one of those parents who never thinks their child is in the wrong. She knows and I know that ultimately it was her fault for losing her ticket. But sometimes you need to cut a person some slack. And I think this was one of them.
I hope my daughter wasn't too horrified that I created a scene. I hope she realises that I am on her side and will fight her corner even when the odds are stacked against us. As for SFB, she can take a flying, fucking leap into a great big pool of shit as far as I'm concerned. I think she was hiding behind Health and Safety, but that's what people in Education seem to do these days. By the way, I'm not the first parent to have confronted her and been fed a load of shit. And probably won't be the last either.
As an addendum, son had a great time at disco (and of course I had to go back and pick him up) and landed himself a girlfriend. I've considered writing an apology to the head but will do so only if she takes my outburst out on my daughter.
Meanwhile, son got ready and I took him and a friend to the disco, then came home to get ready to visit a friend who's ailing in bed after a serious back operation. Then the phone rang.
"Can you come pick me up?" daughter said tearfully.
"Why?" I asked.
"I lost my ticket and they won't let me in."
I drove round, picked her up, heard more of the story. Apparently, one of the PTA mums was going to let her in, but SFB butted in with her enormous fat ass and said no, she couldn't go in. I told daughter I would retrace her steps and look for the missing ticket. She waited at home for my friend who was due to pick me up in minutes. As I walked along, kicking up the leaves, picking up every piece of paper I saw, I got angrier and angrier. Have I mentioned I can have a T-E-M-P-E-R when provoked? My friend found me and suggested I get in the car and she would drive me to the school, for by that time I'd decided to confront SFB.
I got out with both guns blazing, found the SFB and tapped her on the shoulder.
"You wouldn't let my daughter in because she lost her ticket."
"That's right. How am I to know she actually bought a ticket. I have to think about Health and Safety."
"You're calling me a liar. Why would I come down and make a scene if my daughter hadn't had a ticket? Look, I'll pay 20 quid for another ticket."
"That's not the issue. I have 220 children in there and if there were a fire you'd be coming to me saying I hadn't done my job."
"You don't have 220 children in there. You have 219 because my daughter lost her ticket. Were you never 13? It isn't like she lost a school assignment."
"How do I know your daughter actually bought a ticket? Last year we had 20 children say they'd bought a ticket but hadn't and were 20 over our legal capacity. I can't risk that."
At that point I stormed out because I would have hit her otherwise. Lots of PTA parents and teachers witnessed the scene. I'm probably known as Psycho Mum now. And yes, perhaps she had a point. But so did I. If she'd looked at it logically, she'd have seen my daughter had taken the trouble to dress up like her friends as a fairy. Why do that if you hadn't bought a ticket? Why would I as a parent risk humiliating myself and my daughter by causing a scene if she hadn't bought a ticket?
But she chose the Hard Ass route. These are the rules and I'm sticking to them. And that's probably why she's gotten as far as she has. Certainly couldn't be her teaching abilities. If she were so very concerned about Health and Safety, why not write down the names of each and every child who bought a ticket and tick them off as they went in so they had a record of who exactly was in there in case of fire? I don't think she actually knew exactly how many children were in there. She was making a stand by refusing my daughter entry. And meanwhile I had a distraught 13-year-old waiting at home.
I walked home, still looking for the ticket. When I got in, I found the Halloween candy and said to daughter, "There are times when you just have to have chocolate." And wine of course.
I'm not one of those parents who never thinks their child is in the wrong. She knows and I know that ultimately it was her fault for losing her ticket. But sometimes you need to cut a person some slack. And I think this was one of them.
I hope my daughter wasn't too horrified that I created a scene. I hope she realises that I am on her side and will fight her corner even when the odds are stacked against us. As for SFB, she can take a flying, fucking leap into a great big pool of shit as far as I'm concerned. I think she was hiding behind Health and Safety, but that's what people in Education seem to do these days. By the way, I'm not the first parent to have confronted her and been fed a load of shit. And probably won't be the last either.
As an addendum, son had a great time at disco (and of course I had to go back and pick him up) and landed himself a girlfriend. I've considered writing an apology to the head but will do so only if she takes my outburst out on my daughter.
Thursday, 1 November 2007
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