Giving up

I want to give up. Honest I do. I've had a crappy couple of weeks and things aren't getting any better. Husband tries his best but does crazy hours and basically I am left holding sproglet. The job situation isn't improving and I feel so fresh out of ideas and inspiration that I feel like I am a walking zombie. A walking zombie who's tear ducts are doing overtime. Three weeps today - one in the street. Snotty nose, tears tripping me, hard to breathe - to the point an old man stopped walking, turned round and clocked me, a concerned look spread over his craggly face. Once one tear falls it is hard to stop.

I know I shouldn't compare my life to others - it does me no good - but why the hell is it so fucking hard for me to get work? I mean, was there a media party that everyone was invited to bar me? A bloody BBC one? Does someone out there practice black magic to a fine art and has a little shrine of hate to me? What is going on??? I have spent over a year trying to break into tv drama - and I have no fight left. No fire in my belly. The tank is empty. I just want to curl up under the duvet and not get up until someone has a job ticket with my name on it. We should move in 5 weeks - and how will I pay my share of the mortgage? The stress of this consumes me daily. I feel sick when I think about it. Then today - just when I couldn't get lower - my Dad calls. The show I gave my heart and soul to - the one I flew back to Belfast for every weekend with 4 month old sproglet - is back. With a new presenter. Not that anyone told me. It is the ultimate humiliation. Fair enough the TV company is making redundancies - and has recruited said presenter from within - and it is a differnt style of show - less young, more political... But I can't help feel it is a slap in the face. Oh yeah - kick me when I am down. Get your big boots on - with the steel toe caps - great. Now aim!

Am I turning into one of those half empty people? I dunno. I just feel flat. Christ if I wasn't on the anti-depressants I would be calling the Samaritans rather than volunteering for them. I know - I am meant to give out positive vibes and then they all coming raging back to me boomerang stylee and lo and behold - life is a bowl of cherries. I just wish I could get a break. I keep thinking why me? Then beating myself up for being such a self-pitying self-obsessed arse. I just wish I knew a way out of this all. A way to have - dare I say it - some stability in life. I'm a good person - I pay taxes, volunteer, floss, pick up litter, recycle etc etc. All I want is to work and earn a crust at something I enjoy and challenges me. Is that too much to ask?

Ok - enough of my pity party. I just feel shattered. Lost. Disappointed and disenchanted. I just want things to change and I have tried and tried and don't know what to do any more. Mr Big at the beeb has yet to get back to me. I feel like the girl who had the date from heaven and yet - he never called.

But I did go and see 'Horton hears a who'at the cinema today. Sproglet loved it. The moral is - a person is still a person, no matter how small. Which is good because I feel very small indeed.

Hen hangover hell + small child = pain

Good morning. Except it isn't. The wee bunny woke at 8:30 am. I know I know... I don't know how lucky I am. Most kids wake at an ungodly hour of six o'clock... middle of the night kinda stuff. But you see I am hungover. That means 8:30 is evil. I feel queasy, my head throbs, my mouth feels like something sucked all moisture from it before taking it's last breath and dying on my tongue. Wee bunny is on fine form. I've put on Ratatouille - not sure if it is for bunny or me. Why do I do it to myself? I think it is the insane need to prove to all around me (only one was another Mother) that although I have child - I am still FUN! I can still partay with the best of them. Maybe I just need to prove it to myself. Kid myself that nothing has changed, I may be crummy mummy but I can still hold my drink, swear like a tropper and dance like a whirling dervish. Oh yes, load me up and watch me goooooooooooo! How sad is that? I am powerless to stop myself. The urge to squeeze every tiny morsel of fun out of every precious second that I am out - free - without bairn or the husband - grips me in its clutches and I am determined to have the best time EVAH! To quote 80s one hit wonders Fairground Attraction 'it's got to be perrrrrrrrrrrrrfect.' Anyway, I digress. Normally I swear I will go out - just have 'a few' and return home a wee bit squiffy but nothing too severe. Instead, I get to the venue, have a little tipple and then WHAM! The juice is nectar from the gods. It strokes my tongue, loosens my tongue, eases the tension from my muscles and makes my head light. I want another. Then another - then shots anyone?

Well it was a hen do. At a bowling alley/kareoke venue. Winning combination eh? The more I drank the better I bowled. Every turn was completely unlike the previous attempt. There was no coherence to my performance. One throw/roll/ungainly run could result in a half strike or a complete wipe out with all 10 pins standing to attention - their army undefeated. The hen, bless her, was dressed a fetching fairy costume, decorated with glitter and the obligatory deely boppers (penis shaped and sparkly for extra mortification). She took most joy out of a special hen addition that I had never seen on a hen before. When she raised her seemingly endless net skirts she revealed a charming strap on replete with buldging veins. The henettes took great delight in fondling it and remarking on girth, length, smoothness etc. which only delighted the hen further. She proudly thrust out her groin and relished the irony of presenting her manhood at the ultimate female gathering. My favourite memory out of many (if hazy) is of the hen straddling a pool table, legs akimbo, revelling in the joy of her very own member. I wonder if this pic will feature in the wedding album?

Oh but there was more humiliation in store. Funny how your closest friends relish the opportunity to embarrass you into next year with their 'fun' games and 'in good spirit' gimmicks. The obligatory stripper arrived. At my own hen I swore that if any man started to disrobe within a mile of me I would use violence to escape and then never speak to the women ever again. They understood thank god. Last night poor hen had to endure a just-on-the-right-side of reasonable looking (he had more than a passing resemblance to Stifler from the American Pie movies - a fact I should not have known but I sadly did) toned youth strip while we chanted like a cats chorus. Yes, I led the charge. From the moment the poor boy entered I morphed into henette from hell and crowed at him to 'get your c**k out' every ten seconds. When the stripper has to tell you to calm down you know that is your cue to ease up on the liquor. Maybe the extra shot is not a good idea. But I ignored my inner alarm and guzzled down another vodka. He got his kit off but only let the hen in on his big (she told me later) secret. We got a rippling glimpse of it as he thrust against a grubby towel. Why this caused such excitement is beyond me. I found I had the microphone during this event and proceeded to compare, making sure everyone had their picture taken licking the poor boy's nipples, pretending (or in a camp male fr-hen's case not pretending at all) to grab his bits/bum/pecs. Oddly when the cheering ceased, he dressed in front of us, outdoor mac and all (to ward against the cold, bless) which detracted from the allure (?) so to speak. The mystique was completely lost when he shook hands and waved goodbye. I almost expected him to announce his name was Nigel and to ask us all to help toward his accountancy college fund. The evening then reached a kareoke crescendo - Kylie, The Pogues and a roaring rendition of Beyonce's Crazy in Love brought our own small house down. As we were forceably ejected from our sweaty little room my double gin and tonic started to taste slightly odd. One more sip and I knew I would have to make friends with the big white telephone, in true hen night style. It was time to go. I made a sharp exit. Leaving the hen still in her own wee world, singing her heart out with no accompaniment whatsoever. In one hand her trusty microphone and in the other, her new favourite toy.