Today I reached the grand old age of 29 and aside from the frustration evoked by the two people who chose to question me on when I’ll be having children seeing as my clock is apparently now ticking, I’m feeling generally warm and fuzzy. FYI #myvaginamybusiness
Pre-illness, birthdays were spent downing £3 pints of Fosters, doing too many Jagerbombs and shimmying in a gay bar, minus any inhibitions, to ‘I’m Every Woman’ as a drag queen told me how fabulous my boobs were. Thankfully, my knockers are still top notch but the rest of me has ironically gone tits up. Birthdays now are much more about waking up and just being delighted if it’s a low pain day and I can shave my legs. Only up to the knee, mind you. Who the hell are these women with hairless thighs? I digress, apologies.
As I sit here waiting for our new sandwich toaster to arrive (I’m absolutely wild), I thought it would be lovely to have a wee think about what I’m grateful for on my 29th birthday because while I want to rip out my insides most days, there’s still a hell of a lot of good in my life.
That’s right, I’m mentioning my dog before my boyfriend. They’re actually even Stevens but if Patsy gets wind that she isn’t at the top of my list, she’ll fart on my face while I sleep. Queen P, as she is also known, is my bosom buddy and I’d be utterly lost without her. I could write thousands of words about why I love her so very much but I’m totes emosh right now while we go through the rigmarole of finding out whether her cancer has returned. I’ll know much more tomorrow but until then: she’s my everything. If I try to write anything else at the moment I’ll need to be heavily sedated to stop me crying.
My number one annoyance and my number one support. We’re polar opposites with me being a permanent ball of anxiety…anxiety on steroids…and caffeine. I’m an angry little monkey with buckets of sass and his stupidly mellow, relentlessly cheerful personality is the only thing in the world that can calm me down and make me laugh until I (very almost) pee my pants. He sheds hair like a labrador, covers the floor in a light dusting of concrete (not out of spite, he works in construction), tells me town was busy when I know he spent an hour geeking out at the comic store and never EVER puts his motherfudging shoes away. But…he works 70 hour weeks to support us, makes me a cushion fort like no other, organises the fridge cos it makes me lose my temper and finds my impatience “endearing”. He leaves tiny piles of change everywhere, never gets his bloody tax in on time and I love him to bits. Asshole.
A warm, comfortable home
We don’t own it, the property management company are beyond incompetent and the single glazing lets in a gentle breeze on a windy night but it’s warm, comfortable and filled with things I love. The fuck-a-doodle-do sign is my favourite.
Being a kick-ass cook
No modesty here, hell no. I’m like Nigella on crack. Perhaps a smidgen inappropriate given her prior misdemeanors. I put my heart and soul into everything I make and never follow a recipe. In fact, I followed a recipe yesterday for the first time in a year and it tasted like utter arse. The writer said she loved to feed it to her family. God knows what she’d feed the people she hates.
Real Housewives of New York/Beverly Hills; Vanderpump Rules; Shameless; Mob Wives; Ghost Adventures; Gilmore Girls; The Office; Everybody Loves Raymond; King of Queens; New Girl; Project Runway; Ladies of London; Grey’s Anatomy…..I could go on and on. I love you all and you get me through my darkest days.
I’ve lost most my real life friends through illness and I’m very much at peace with that because I’m not going to exhaust myself trying to maintain something with someone who doesn’t want to do the same with me. A handful of ladies from Instagram have taken their place and we sob crying to one another and sob laughing about our wombs and poo. I’d be up a creek without them, mainly because it cracks me up when I get a Whatsapp message at 9am saying, “I don’t know if you’ve ever had this happen with your vagina…”
When I’m struggling aka all the live long day, I can have my prescriptions delivered to me, laundry collected or book a home manicure for that night on an app. If I wanted someone to come and give Queen P a blueberry facial in our living room, I could book that too and that’s exactly what I love about this city. It’s ridiculous, covenient and ridiculously convenient.
I’m off to eat more chocolate.