Confessions of a Demented Housewife

by Niamh Greene

  ‘Oh, hi, Susie, I was about to call you!’ she said, when she answered.

  ‘Really?’ I was delighted – she’d been going to wish me luck.

  ‘Yes, we’re down in your country place and one of the fuses has blown – you don’t know where the box is, do you?’

  ‘Um, behind the kitchen door,’ I said, trying to hide my surprise. She hadn’t called to tell me she was going to use the house.

  ‘I hope you don’t mind us being here?’ she went on. ‘You did give me the keys.’

  ‘No, of course not,’ I said, realizing that, as an American, Angelica had taken my offer literally. ‘Another romantic getaway, eh?’

  ‘Something like that.’ She giggled.

  Hung up, feeling glad that Angelica is comfortable enough with me to use the house whenever she wants. Anyway, I can’t possibly be annoyed. I would never have got this new job without her help.

  11 February

  Spent the entire night retching over the toilet bowl. ‘Do you think it’s something serious, Joe?’ I gasped, as I threw up for the umpteenth time.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ he mumbled, from underneath the duvet. ‘I’m sure you’ll be grand tomorrow.’

  Then he proceeded to snore happily in a most annoying way.

  Shook him awake and informed him that he should be holding my head and mopping my sweaty brow with a damp washcloth, etc., or at least pretending to be awake in my hour of need.

  ‘Aw, Susie, I’m wrecked,’ he groaned, ‘and there’s nothing wrong with you – you’re just sick because you’re nervous about the new job.’

  Suddenly cold dread washed over me. He was right. What have I let myself in for?

  12 February

  Am exhausted. Not sure I can do this every day. Unless I get a driver who will pick me up and drop me off at the studios so I can snooze all the way there and back. (NB Must check contract to see if this is a possibility.)

  Spent the day being introduced to dozens of fresh-faced teenagers who apparently run TV7, none of whose names I can now remember. (NB Fear I may have early-onset Alzheimer’s. How could my memory have deteriorated so much in the few short years I’ve spent out of the workplace? Maybe I could call everyone ‘darling’ to cover it up.) PA Elaine ignored me completely.

  Came home shell-shocked and weary to find Katie and Jack cuddled up on Danni’s lap as she read them an old Italian fable. Realized it was vital they knew that just because Mummy was now a successful career woman working outside the home it didn’t mean they were any less important to me. ‘Hi, guys!’ I said, as cheerfully as I could, injecting enthusiasm and love into my voice, even though I felt like crawling straight under the duvet and never coming out again.

  ‘Hi, Mummy,’ Katie said casually. ‘Danni made cookies with us today and she taught us some Italian. She’s the best minder ever.’

  Felt a twinge in my stomach before I devoured an entire lasagne that Danni had made. Not sure if it was hunger pangs or an intense, inexplicable urge to kill her. Shooed her home, then tried to some spend quality time with the children before they went to bed. Trouble was, they had no interest whatsoever in spending any with me.

  ‘I want to watch That’s So Raven,’ Katie whined, when I said she could sit on my lap and I’d read her another story. Then I tried to bribe Jack to play Lego with me, but he crawled under the sofa to hunt for rabbits.

  Suddenly I have a new understanding of working mothers. I had somehow forgotten it wasn’t all Gucci handbags and long corporate lunches. It really can be quite a juggle. But I’m sure, once I get into the swing of it, everything will fall into place.

  13 February

  Spent all day answering phone calls from irate viewers enraged by Fran’s on-air comment that liposuction should be tax-deductible. PA Elaine wasn’t much help when I asked her what I should say.

  ‘How should I know?’ She scowled. ‘Make something up.’ Then she went back to updating her Bebo page and ignoring the phones.

  Arrived home, emotional and overtired, to find Joe, Danni and the children baking in the kitchen. Joe had flour on his nose and Danni was wiping it away with a teacloth when I burst through the door, sodden with the rain that was pouring down outside. Felt thoroughly miserable.

  PS Had horrible dream that I was at TV7 and couldn’t remember anyone’s name. Called Elaine ‘darling’. She slapped me across the face and screamed she was going to sue me for sexual harassment. Then arrived home to find Danni wearing my clothes and holding hands with Joe across the table as Katie and Jack recited Italian nursery rhymes. Fear I may have taken on too much. Maybe I’m not cut out to be a working mother.

  14 February: St Valentine’s Day

  Out of the blue Joe called me at work. I thought it was to surprise me with an extravagant Valentine’s Day token, but he wanted to ask about our counselling sessions. ‘We have one pencilled in for tomorrow, Susie,’ he said, apparently forgetting he was supposed to be showering me with expensive romantic gifts rather than harassing me about therapy.

  ‘You’ll have to cancel it,’ I said, terrified Elaine would figure out what I was talking about and somehow use the information against me. ‘In fact, cancel them all for the immediate future. I won’t be able to take time off work to go.’ I hung up before he could argue. Was quite pleased, actually – it’s not as if anyone can question my motives. Busy career women don’t have time to devote to extra-curricular activities like marriage therapy.

  15 February

  Spent the morning opening letters from irate viewers who feel Dee and Fran are insensitive to the needs of the common person and that wearing designer bling on a chat show for housewives is vulgar and in bad taste. Asked PA Elaine what I should do with the letters.

  ‘Chuck them in the bin,’ she snapped. ‘That’s what I do.’

  ‘But surely they’ll be expecting a reply?’ I said.

  ‘Well, if you care so much, Miss Goody Two Shoes, why don’t you send them one?’ She was staring at me in a very funny way.

  Spent the rest of the day replying to housewives, and other under-represented minorities across the country, and trying to reassure them that Dee and Fran really did care about the issues and not just what they would be wearing to the TV awards. Some of the letters were trickier to reply to, though.

  Dear Dee and Fran,

  I was disgusted to hear you suggest that ‘If you can’t fit into a size ten then you are a fat heifer’. I think you should apologize.

  Jo from Tyrone

  Dear Dee and Fran,

  I like your programme but I do not want to watch award-winning makeup artists making ye up to look like common tramps in the street. I would prefer to see some moral, upstanding people being interviewed. Daniel O’Donnell is very pleasant. Please send me tickets to the show.

  Mary in Belturbet

  Dear Dee and Fran,

  Have you ever considered having a threesome? I am up to the challenge.

  Frank in Wexford

  Asked PA Elaine when she thought I’d be moving on from opening mail to doing some on-camera work. She spent a long time laughing loudly and telling everyone in the other cubicles that I wanted to be a TV star. Am a bit worried about her. She has the wild look in her eye that Britney had just before she went in for her ‘rest’.

  PS Must request an industrial-strength pair of medical gloves ASAP. There was only one pair of pants in today’s batch of mail, but still.

  PPS There were rumours at the water-cooler that Posh is coming on the show soon. I am beside myself with excitement. Am sure to pick up some excellent styling tips.

  16 February

  Arrived home to find Joe cooking up a storm with Danni in the kitchen again.

  ‘What are you doing?’ I asked, as he beat something in a Tupperware bowl frantically, a glint in his eye and beads of sweat hanging off his brow.

  ‘I’m making focaccia,’ he gasped. ‘I have to keep my rhythm up or it won’t work.’

  ‘That’s eet, Joe,’
Danni encouraged, clapping her hands excitedly, Jack hanging off her hip and cuddling into her heaving bosom. ‘You can do it.’

  ‘Thanks, Danni.’ He looked delighted with himself. ‘If it wasn’t for you, I wouldn’t have a clue how to do this.’

  ‘So, what’s for dinner?’ I asked hopefully.

  ‘Oh, we haven’t had time to do dinner as well,’ Joe said, offended. ‘We’ve been kind of busy here, you know.’

  He rolled his eyes at Danni, who smiled indulgently back.

  ‘I fed the bambini, Susie,’ she said, ‘but they were so hungry there’s nothing left for you. Sorree.’

  She shrugged her shoulders in the special Italian way that made me think she couldn’t have cared less if I starved to death or had to eat beans on toast for the third night running.

  PS Feel very unsettled. Don’t think I’ve seen Joe look so alive and happy in years. Maybe even ever.

  PPS Katie is refusing to speak with a normal Dublin accent and keeps saying things like ‘sì’ and ‘ciao’. It’s getting very irritating.

  17 February

  Top producer wants me to do my first piece to camera! ‘The idiot junior broke her foot doing that bungee jump yesterday and we’re stuck for a slot,’ he announced at my cubicle, while PA Elaine glared venomously at me behind his back. ‘You’re going to do a quick piece to camera tomorrow, Susie. I’m thinking something fluffy – what the average housewife reads maybe? What do you like to read?’

  ‘Em, nineteenth-century feminist authors?’ I suggested, trying to sound plausible.

  He roared with laughter. ‘You’re a tonic, you really are. Now, come on, tell me the last book you read.’

  I listed off three millionaire chick-lit authors and he nodded approvingly. ‘Perfect. Go to a shopping centre with the crew and ask women on the street who they like and why. We’re looking for about four minutes of airtime.’

  He stalked off before I had a chance to ask when I’d be receiving my training to prepare me for camera work. Asked Elaine if she knew.

  ‘Why don’t you go fuck yourself, Goody Two Shoes?’ she snarled.

  ‘Have I upset you in some way, Elaine?’ I asked, shocked by her outburst. Maybe I’d used her coffee cup by mistake or taken her favourite stapler.

  ‘Why would I be upset?’ she spat. ‘Let me think… Maybe it’s because you got this job because of your good friend Angelica. Could that be it?’

  ‘She only got me an interview!’ I spluttered. ‘Mike wouldn’t have hired me if he didn’t think I had potential.’

  ‘Yeah, right. And it has nothing to do with the fact that Angelica shagged him, I suppose?’

  I gasped. ‘That’s not true.’

  ‘If you say so. Listen, honey, some of us have worked our arses off to get where we are now and we don’t appreciate wannabes like you bulldozing your way in, thinking you own the place. Why do you think he’s giving you that slot? His little American tart probably told him to. So, take my advice and keep out of my way, OK? Sweetie.’

  She eyeballed me and I hung my head, terrified she was about to leap across the partition and attack me with her nail file.

  PS Am in shock. There’s no way Angelica slept with Mike – especially since she’s been using my country house to reconnect with her husband. Not that I can divulge that top-secret information to anyone, of course. Elaine is obviously just insanely jealous of my soon-to-be meteoric rise to stardom. Suspect she wants to be on camera herself. Unfortunately her buck teeth mean there’s very little chance of that happening any time soon.

  18 February

  Got up before even Jack had woken (i.e. the crack of dawn) to blow-dry my hair with lashings of anti-frizz serum. Took so long to get it tamed (giving up the hair-straighteners in an effort to preserve the environment may have been a rash decision) that I was late and skidded up to the studio doors in a panic that the crew would have left without me. Was very nervous. Was also quite sweaty. (NB Must purchase extra-strength deodorant advertised on Lifestyle TV ASAP. Or get sweat glands removed in a painless, cost-effective op.)

  Found a solitary cameraman waiting for me in a battered old van, smoking a dubious-looking cigarette and drinking a can of Red Bull.

  ‘So, where are we off to?’ he said.

  ‘Em, I’m not sure,’ I answered, trying not to gag at his bad breath. ‘The producer should be here any minute.’

  ‘He won’t be coming, love,’ the cameraman drawled. ‘It’s just you, me and Quin today. I’m Sam, by the way.’

  ‘Who’s Quin?’ I asked, squinting through the smoke in an attempt to make out anyone else.

  ‘The sound guy – he’s asleep in the back.’ Sam shrugged.

  ‘Right,’ I said nervously. ‘But I thought a producer always went along.’

  ‘Not unless you’re top TV totty,’ he said. ‘No offence.’

  ‘OK, let’s go to the nearest shopping centre,’ I said, trying to take control and sound as if I knew what I was doing.

  ‘You’re the boss,’ Sam said, and started the engine.

  When we got there, I fumbled about for ages trying to get my mic on while Quin and Sam sniggered. I spent the rest of the morning trying to persuade harassed women to talk about their favourite authors. Most ignored me completely. Others threw evil stares at me. More actually hissed at me, saying things like, ‘Reading? Do you think I have time to be reading?’ as they shoved their buggies away from us at high speed. Wanted to call out that I didn’t have time for proper, intellectual reading either and that I was really there under false pretences but nobody would listen to me.

  I eventually persuaded one dishevelled mother to discuss her favourite authors, but only when I offered to buy her an outrageously expensive mug of coffee and snag her tickets to the show. This ploy worked so well that I decided to use it for the rest of the afternoon. I managed to get some excellent, top-rate footage. Sam says it’s all good stuff and I think he meant it. Shared a can of Red Bull on the way back and he confided he’d never wanted to be a cameraman, he’d always fancied himself as a roadie, but his controlling wife won’t let him live his dream. Which seems completely unreasonable to me.

  19 February

  Katie woke me at six a.m. to ask what I’d made for the school bake sale. Apparently I was supposed to have rustled up an array of home-cooked delicacies to raise money for the school’s sports-equipment fund.

  ‘When did this happen?’ I screeched, panicked. I’d never heard of it.

  ‘Danni got the note.’ Katie pouted. ‘It was given out ages ago.’

  Stumbled downstairs to find the note hanging prettily from the noticeboard, Danni’s neat handwriting telling me what to do.

  Proceeded to tell Katie that we’d have to stop off at the deli on the way and buy cakes to donate. Her bottom lip trembled. ‘Buying stuff’s no good, Mummy,’ she wailed. ‘You need to bake it. With your hands. Otherwise it’s cheating.’ She dissolved into tears.

  I caved in immediately – working-mother guilt is very hard to shake off. After I’d convinced her that I wouldn’t be able to make an elaborate three-tiered Bratz monster gâteau and that fairy cakes would have to do, I spent another hour trying to locate adequate ingredients. Had to substitute good old-fashioned granulated sugar for caster but otherwise it went surprisingly well. Just in case they didn’t taste perfect, though, I decided to creep in discreetly and leave them in the school hall without drawing attention to myself.

  This plan was scuppered when we arrived to find Angelica standing by the door in designer shades, clipboard in hand, making a note of what everyone had brought and handing out name badges to prop beside the baked goods.

  ‘Hi, Susie,’ she called. ‘What did you make?’ She had wrestled the cake tin from me and prised off the lid to take a look before I could stop her. ‘Oh, fairy cakes – how sweet!’ ‘Now, I presume they’re organic, right?’

  ‘Em, not exactly,’ I said, wondering how I could corner her and confide Elaine’s allegations about her a
nd Mike the producer without the other mothers hearing.

  ‘Oh, really?’ She looked shocked. ‘Ooookaaay… Well, there is a non-organic stall, although you may be the first to contribute to it. Anyway, why don’t you take your name badge and go drop them off?’

  Slunk to the back of the hall and found the stall, a huge sign with ‘NON-ORGANIC PRODUCE’ written on it dangling precariously from the awning. It was empty except for an offering of Rice Krispie cakes that had patently been assembled by a five-year-old.

  I watched as other mothers swept into the hall and arranged dainty plates of cakes in impressive displays while Katie glared at me murderously. ‘Why didn’t you make something organic, Mummy?’ she demanded. ‘Don’t you care about global warming?’

  Left, cursing the modern education system and its insistence on teaching impressionable children about carbon footprints, etc. Surely they should be concentrating on memorizing their times tables and learning to tie their shoelaces.

  20 February

  Top-producer Mike came to my cubicle to say my work shows potential but that I need more experience and may not be ready yet to progress from answering the phones. Thankfully Elaine was on a doughnut run so she wasn’t there to witness my humiliating feedback.

  ‘The footage was quite good, Susie,’ he said, leaning across my desk earnestly, ‘but your technique needs work. You probably need more training here before you can expect to move on.’ I tried to listen to what he was saying, but really I was assessing whether Angelica would ever have had an affair with him. Didn’t think it was very likely. He has an awful lot of hair on the backs of his hands – and coming out of his ears as well.

  Then he gave me a written list of things to consider before I try again (on some unspecified date in the future). Going forward, I must remember that: