#selfhelp
I usually think people who read self-help books and have life coaches are twats. Yet I find myself this afternoon sneaking round the shelves of Waterstones looking for something that might teach me to be nice. A More Pleasant You looks like it could have been written for the occasion. I impulse buy it, stuff it inside a bag so no one can see the cover and read the title, then toddle upstairs to the coffee shop to begin to read.
There’s a queue, as usual, and the assistants in here are famously slow (yes, I mean in mind as well as in body). A red-haired girl with a pierced lip takes half an hour to lay a napkin on a saucer, and I want to throw myself out of the upstairs window. There’s a mother and baby in front of me. The baby has a mixture of snot and chocolate smeared round its fat face. Whoever thinks these things are cute wants shooting. They yowl and spew runny green stuff from their orifices at regular intervals. They keep you up all night so you feel like you’ve been in a Japanese sleep deprivation experiment. They ruin every adult conversation you ever attempt to conduct. What’s to like?
The mother, who has obviously had her brain turned to mush by staying at home with the snotty spew machine, can’t decide between an Emmenthal and mushroom toastie with béchamel sauce, mozzarella and mature cheddar, and a Very Berry Skinny Muffin with a Mocha Chocolate (yaya). (I added the yaya and sang the tune to Lady Marmalade in my head). FUCK OFF! I want to scream. Except everyone turns to look at me because I have really screamed, ‘Fuck off’ and not just thought it. Although my stomach is rumbling and I’m desperate to read my self-help purchase, I mutter something about having Tourette’s Syndrome, and I’m considering reporting them all for disability hate crime and swoop out in a dignified exit. I say dignified; I trip over the display of Fifty Shades of Grey and fall down the stairs, hitting every step with my ample bottom.
The woman standing next to the one who sold me the book comes running to help, but I know she’s only afraid I’ll sue them in a “had an accident in the last three years that’s not your fault?” kind of way.
‘I’m fine,’ I say.
‘Would madam like a glass of water?’
‘Why? Is that going to help the huge bruise I have growing on my arse?’
She looks embarrassed. So, she should, offering me H2O when I need an ice pack and a burka. For some stupid, insane reason, I feel like I’m going to cry. That is just pathetic. People who cry when they bruise their pride, or their bottom, are just tragic. The book falls out of the paper bag I shoved it in, and I see her glance at the title. She looks knowingly and says, ‘Enjoy the book.’
‘It’s not for me,’ I say.
‘Really?’ she says.
‘Really,’ I say, making sure she knows I’m looking at her name badge. Only I can’t see her name properly as the blurred visions started again. Crap! I’ve probably got a brain tumour. I quickly get to my feet and pat myself down. She sees the bump.
‘Oh,’ she says. ‘I didn’t realise.’
‘Realise what?’ I say.
‘That you are pregnant.’
‘I’m not,’ I say. She looks like she wants to crawl under the bookshelf and stay there until she dies. This is fun.
‘Oh…I’m so sorry… I thought…’
‘Thought what? Just because I’ve gained a couple of pounds, you think I’m pregnant? Are you always this rude?’ Hahaha.
‘I’m really sorry… I…’ She’s struggling. I stare at her expectantly. ‘I’m dreadfully sorry.’
‘So, you should be.’ My work is done here. I swoop out tucking my “be nice” book under my arm.
#tryingmybestffs
Of course, when I tell Tammy about my bookshop escapade, she says I’m an evil bitch. ‘Thank you,’ I say.
‘Being nice didn’t last long, Roberta,’ she chides.
‘It’s no fun,’ I say.
‘Must try harder,’ she says.
I wait until I’m in bed that night to open the book. The blurb says it’s a practical guide to “Start your own nice revolution”. I’ve always liked the idea of a revolution. That’s why I thought this book might be for me. I could have picked up Nice Girls Can Come First, but I wasn’t sure whether that was a sex guide or a life guide. I almost picked How Nice Is Your Aura, but I thought it would have been one of those twatty, astrological wank-fests that Tammy would enjoy. Uranus rising in your full moon type crap. Beware a man in uniform in a white car. Yes, cos he’ll probably give you a parking ticket.
There was one called Being Genuine. But being genuine is what my problem is. I tell people what I genuinely think, and they just think I’m a bitch.
‘Be the best version of you,’ says the book. ‘Forget about wishing for better and concentrate on making it better. Tips in order to do this. 1. Get educated. 2. Improve your person.’ (Perhaps it means get Botox and have your teeth whitened) ‘3. Get back your credibility. 4. Spend more time with your family. 5. Be the first person in work and the last person to leave.’
You see, that’s what I hate about these self-help books. They’re contradictory. How can you spend more time with your family if you’re the first person into work and the last person to leave? And would I really want to spend more time with Shoni, Carolyn and Drew? Would they really want to spend more time with me? I doubt it.
Ooh, this bit looks interesting. There’s an online forum for people who are having problems being nice. I logon to my computer and type in the URL. A cheap-looking site pops up with an advert for earwax solutions running down the side (Note: the earwax isn’t running, the advert is). The site is called PsychsRUs.com. There’s a picture of an angel across the top of the page with its arms reaching round the whole site. Just the kind of crap I loathe.
The first thread could actually have been written by me. “Why do I hate everyone?” it asks. It’s written by someone called Odbob and moderated by Queeram and Poodle.
‘So, a few months ago now,’ it begins, ‘I realised that I hate almost everyone in my life. The people I work with, my “friends”, my family, the people on public transport, the people who serve me in shops. Stupid people irritate me, I don’t find funny people humorous, and I could punch my family members repeatedly. I anger very easily, and I cannot take criticism of any kind. Everyone else is always wrong and I am always right. Am I a pathological narcissist?’
Steady on, I wouldn’t go that far. You’re just a bit grumpy sometimes by the sound of it, I thought. You don’t have a psychiatric disorder. That’s the trouble with today’s society; everyone wants a label. Some people just write in to these forums for attention. Nevertheless, I’m intrigued by the responses. You have to scroll down to get the answers, and there’s a button which, when I click on it, takes me to a link that asks me for my details. I know I’m going to be inundated by phone calls about PPI, but I can’t resist finding out what people think of this person.
One unhelpful reply says: ‘Yeah, mate, your a sicko and a weirdo. Go kill yourself.’
Underneath, someone has typed: ‘And you can’t spell you’re so you’re the thicko.’
The next reply is written by someone calling themselves Archbish 22. It says: ‘You have many of the personality traits of someone with Narcissistic Personality Disorder, but I would say I need to know more about you to be able to diagnose this conclusively.’
Diagnose it conclusively? After an online chat? Moron. I want to type, you have the handle of someone with no personality and no sense of humour, but instead, I read on.
‘Was your mother cold and unfeeling? Did you feel emotionally detached? Was she emotionally abusive? Did you grow up feeling unloved?’
Odbob replies: ‘Yes, my mother was a dragon. Nothing I ever did was good enough. There was no love, no cuddles, no affection.’
Archbish says: ‘I think narcissism and misanthropy are a defence mechanism against the ill-content you have about your upbringing. I suggest you see a therapist.’
What utter garbage, I think, slamming the laptop screen down and fling
ing the book across the bed. Bloody American drivel. What a waste of £13.99.
I check my emails on my phone. There’s one from the site I’ve just been reading. They’ve sent me the thread. Someone is asking: ‘Have you been cheated on by a loved one, as this can cause these feelings of hatred towards everyone?’ Argh! I delete the email and throw the phone across the room, instantly regretting it. I run to pick it up and check the screen. There are no more cracks than the last time I threw it, thankfully. A red number on my mailbox alerts me to the presence of a message. It’s Mick.
‘What do you think of the new Parsons book?’
Now, I think this book is badly written, over sentimentalised, puerile bullshit and I’m struggling to get beyond the first couple of chapters, but I’m being nice, so I type, ‘Yeah it’s ok.’
‘Oh,’ he types. ‘G2G’
At one time, I’d have sent a sarcastic message about the ridiculous use of acronyms and abbreviations. But I’m being nice.
#normalserviceisresumed
Mick is being weird. He says he wants to talk to me. I know he’s going to break up with me because I can’t be nice.
‘Why don’t we have a seat?’ he asks.
‘I’d rather stand,’ I say.
‘Roberta, sit down please.’ I sit. I never do as I’m told, but I remember I’m supposed to be being nice and maybe obedience comes under being nice. He runs his hand through his hair and bites his lip. ‘It’s just not working out.’
‘What isn’t? World peace?’
‘Come on, Roberta, you know what I mean. Me and you. Us. It just isn’t working.’
I want to scratch out his eyes. ‘I don’t know what you mean. I think we’re getting on really well.’
‘You’re not the person I thought you were.’
‘I can change,’ I say. I never thought I’d hear myself say that, but I want to be with him, and if that means trying to be nice, then that’s what I’ll be.
‘You’re just not what I thought–’
‘I can try… I–’
‘You’re just too…’
‘Look, I know I’m…’
‘You’re just too nice.’
‘Nice?’ I shriek, incredulous. ‘Nice? Me? Are you fucking kidding me? I’ve been trying my best to be fucking nice, but your coat makes you look like you crawled out of a maggot-infested skip, your taste in TV programmes makes me want to remove my own eyeballs and ears with a pitchfork, and your tuna pasta bake tastes like three-week-old dog shit.’
‘Roberta, you’re back,’ he says.
‘What are you talking about, you knobhead?’
He hugs me. ‘Thank God, my lovely, acerbic, witty, strong Roberta is back. I thought I was mistaken, and I’d become involved with some weak, pitiful, gushing Stepford Wife. Hurrah.’ He spins me round.
‘You’re making me dizzy, halfwit. Stop it now.’
He kisses me on the lips. ‘Don’t ever be nice again. You were really freaking me out. Just carry on being you.’
So, that’s it. Mick likes me exactly as I am. He doesn’t want me to change. I no longer have to bite my tongue and gush. Just as well; gushing definitely is not for me. I have burned the self-help books along with his hobo coat and thrown out seven tins of dolphin friendly tuna.
27
#shootmenow
I have a gynae appointment today. Again, I’m sitting next to girls who are younger than my daughters, and their conversation tells me they’re worried about stretch marks and cellulite. I, on the other hand, am worried about the end of my existence as a person in my own right. I have become the egg’s mother. One girl is talking about how the “sperm donor” unfortunately was pissed and watching the Newcastle game when the momentous discovery was made, so she threw the test at him, and he used it to stir his much-needed coffee. I’d have thrown the telly.
The trouble is, I know what’s ahead. These poor fools don’t. No one tells you about the all-consuming neurosis that begins sometimes at conception, sometimes at birth. It’s all congratulations, fluffy pink towelling things, matching Cosytoes and baby baskets. No one tells you about the worry. The overwhelming anxiety that is parenthood. Why don’t they bloody tell you this? It could all have been avoided with the swift application of a rubber. A jonny, my son calls them. A blob, according to the vulgar things I work with. Whoever thought parenthood would be a good idea should be shot with shit.
The horror begins when the little blue minus sign becomes a little pink plus sign. The end of life as you know it. The end of white upholstery. The end of Prada two-pieces (not that I ever began them). The end of intelligent conversation (also as above, although Mick thinks Gaddafi slipping into Jordan is a euphemism for Katie Price’s sex life).
#cheaters
I phoned in sick and watched Cheaters on daytime TV. It has made me completely paranoid. Mick is acting very strange. I think he’s seeing someone else. He’s acting just like Knobhead did when he was shagging Terri-Ann from Thomas Cook. I Google: what to do you’re your boyfriend is being unfaithful. The site tells me to investigate. Notice suspicious mannerisms. Has he been dressing to impress and wearing more or changing aftershave or cologne? Is he “working late” more often and not telling you what the work is about? Does he check his phone a lot? Has he been withdrawn and distant? Has he been less intimate with you? If the answer to all of these is yes, then he’s probably playing away from home.
That’s it. He is definitely having an affair. The dick! The devil tells me to check his phone when he gets home. The angel wants me to think carefully about what I’m about to do.
He’s late back from work and jumps straight in the shower. Classic signs. His phone is on charge in the kitchen. I pick it up, ignoring the angel. There’s a message from someone called Sian. I’ve never heard him mention her. I feel sick. I put the phone down and check the Sians on his Facebook page. There are three. All bloody attractive. I hate them. I hate him. I pick up his phone and open the message.
“You were bloody amazing” is all it says. The bastard. So, he is screwing around. I knew it. How can I deal with this in a calm, mature way without flying off the handle and ranting like a maniac?
I hear the door and smell his aftershave before he enters the sitting room. The Yankee Candle on my coffee table is flying past his ears before he’s managed to park his briefcase on the floor. ‘You bastard,’ I scream. ‘How could you?’ Shock makes his mouth a cavern and his eyebrows disappear.
‘Roberta, what the f–’
‘How could you do that to me? After everything I told you about Knobhead?’
‘I have no idea–’
‘Don’t lie to me.’
‘I’m not… I–’
‘You were amazing, were you? Get out,’ I shriek. ‘Get out of my home. You filthy, low-life–’
‘Jesus, Roberta, I knew you were a bit nutty, but I didn’t think you were totally deranged.’ He leaves when I open the cutlery drawer.
I’m back at the website now and it’s telling me: Whatever you do, do not overreact. Approach him calmly, let him be heard and be as understanding as possible. Oh crap!
How could I let myself be taken in again, and by him? How could I be so utterly stupid and immature? I’ve been like an emotional teenager instead of a middle-aged woman. The fury and frustration bubble inside me.
I toss and turn all night, get up and make hot milk, but I still can’t sleep. I get up and make whisky. Then, I remember I can’t drink whisky because of the babies. The babies are Mick’s fault. The bastard. I hate him. Oh God, I love him. I hate him. Text from Mick saying, ‘I’m sorry, Roberta.’ So, an admission of guilt. The bastard. What is wrong with me? Why can’t I keep a man faithful? I must be bad in bed. I must be a terrible human. I am a terrible human. I listen to REM and eat ice cream. I eat cake. Biscuits. Crisps. I order pizza and kebab and chips. I scream into my pillow.
I spend the whole of Saturday and Sunday crying. No more Mrs Nice Guy.
#NHSindirect
Disaster of all disasters. Because I am an almost geriatric pregnant woman (and peri-menopausal) I am apparently in a high-risk group and more likely to have a baby or babies with Down’s syndrome or spina bifida. It’s bad enough to be procreating at my age without having a child who will need specialist care probably for the rest of its life. I can’t do this.
The nurse gives me a leaflet. Reading it makes me feel worse. I am ostensibly more likely to miscarry, have an ectopic pregnancy or a premature birth. I ring NHS Direct. A girl on the other end who sounds like she should be studying for SATS asks me if my lips are blue and whether I am limp or floppy. For fuck’s sake.
‘Is the patient unconscious?’ she asks in a nasal drawl.
‘No, I’ve told you, I am the fucking patient. How can I be unconscious when I’m speaking to you?’
‘If madam would like to desist with the profanities, we’ll do much better.’
‘We’ll do much better if you stop asking stupid fucking questions and just answer mine.’
‘I won’t tell you again, madam. If you persist in abusing me, I shall be left with no alternative but to terminate the call.’
‘I would like to ask some questions about pregnancy in older women.’
‘The patient is pregnant?’
‘Yes.’
‘Hold the line please.’ Vivaldi’s Four Seasons squeaks in my ear. I hate that tune. There’s a crackle.
‘Good afternoon, this is NHS Direct, can I take the patient’s name, please.’
‘Oh, for fuck’s sake.’
‘Sorry, madam, it’s a bad line. Did you say Mrs Drake?’
‘I just want to ask some questions about older women and pregnancy.’
‘So, the patient is pregnant?’
‘Yes, I am.’
‘Does the patient have chest pains?’
‘No.’
‘Are the patient’s lips blue? Are they limp and floppy?’
I slam the phone in its cradle. She’d be limp and floppy with blue lips if I could get hold of her.
The M Word Page 17