The such (mis)adventure occurred a few months ago, when mum decided she wanted to go somewhere different for our after lunch coffee and cake and proceeded to take me to a hippie bookstore in Mt Hawthorn called Bodhi Tree that she and her sister had stumbled into after sorting out Nonna’s funeral details and in their grief remembered as being a great place to spend an afternoon. Soon I found myself surrounded by hippies and quaffed intellectuals reading books about crystals and Nelson Mandela. Husband and wives sipping chi lattes while reading foreign newspapers accompanied at the wooden tables by their gifted offspring, busily drawing pictures of our dying rainforests on recycled paper. I pretended I was enjoying myself as I often do when mum takes me to one of her new “discoveries” I wondered off to try to find a book I was remotely interested in flipping through and mere minutes later came back to find mum discussing the trauma’s of our past with a witchy looking woman who was rubbing her shoulders in calming concentric circles. Leave it to my mum to zero in on the only mature age lesbian in the store, when I joked to her that perhaps this was the case she insisted the woman was an “enchanted warlock”…. ok mum.

The other thing my lovely mother does is get her words mixed up…. in fact it happens so often now and I laugh so much at her jumbles that I have come to belive that she makes words/places/titles of things up intentionally to give me something to giggle about. For instance she spent about 20 minutes of our last coffee date discussing the plot of the latest “lorry potter” movie she had seen on GO! when that didn’t muster enough of a sneaky giggle from me she soon changed the subject to her new glasses, that look much like the glasses John Lennon would wear in pictures, mum in her off beat wisdom referred to them several times as her “oko homo” glasses…that’s just what the gay community needs, forget bears and cubs, its men and women for that matter resembling Yoko Ono.

Then there are our classic Dining wars! a battle to the death where mum tries to make me want to die in front of waiters… After I order politely from the menu mum will insist on adding little bits of “dina” to the order, such as asking for her garlic bread to be “well done” or asking “is it very garlicly?” or if we are ordering salad with bacon in it she will demand CRISPY bacon…”I don’t want my bacon soggy” she says. To which the 18 yr old serving us gives her a look that reads “go fuck yourself” lady. Other times she will act as though she can’t understand the menu properly but will refuse assistance from me, if I try to reach for her menu she will slap my hand and in a shrill voice proclaim “I can read you know Bennie, I’m not electric” ……

Then there are the random comments about ethnic minorities or religious groups that I brush off as whacky racisim…for instance every time we drive through mount lawley (which happens to be weekly at the moment) mum will point to the wealthy houses and say “The Jews live here” a comment I write off as untrue and mildly racist.. however a week ago I was informed that there is a very large jewish community living in mount lawley..so there you go! My only concern is does this mean I have to take everything my mum says as potentially truthful from now on ?????

God Bless You Trixie

Before you click the little “x” at the corner of the screen and think ? what is going on with Enid, I didn’t subscribe to this blog for poorly executed tales of joy and fancy! I came for the hard stuff, humiliation and irreverent use of the word Cunt. So my friends I will offer you this piece of humiliation to keep you all feeling good about yourselves…In an attempt to look cute and professional like the other women in my office I purchased a few pairs of pointy high heel shoes and after a few strides at the store decided they were walkable. The problem is a few strides does not compare to the mammoth walk along what looks like a communist catwalk (you know what I mean..that awful Government building carpet) to get to the bloody printer…and I have to print stuff off all the time. So my pointy shoes soon turn into Enid’s big fat toes present: Escape from Black Plastic Island. When I look down my toes look like vienna sausages trying desperately to escape from the clutches of my peep toe shoe. This results in three types of walks, first is the Pirate limp, then the I’ve got a rod up my ass waddle and finally the stop-start shuffle were I naively put all my hopes on stopping mid stride and repositioning my foot. I swear I must look like a very “special” person…It’s humiliating.

I keep thinking that the more I get used to it the more I will bend my chubby destiny into submission but it’s not doing wonders for my self-esteem. In fact each of the walks reminds me of the time I was watching video hits back in the day and the music video for “21 Questions by 50 cent” came on and just as I was about to barrel a piece of sponge cake into my mouth 50 or “fiddy” rapped the line “I love you like a fat kid loves cake” That’s right…the crumbs dribbled into my cleavage along with my chubby tears that morning because I got served by fucking coinage… damn you 50 cent! But the difference between that sponge eating girl and this hobbling woman is I will not give up, tomorrow I will wear the same damn shoes until my feet are pointed and full of bunions as they should be! After all pain is beauty, not cake Enid.

Ta Ta for now.
xxxxxx

“Up the bum no babies”

Yes friends, I have actually witnessed with my very own eyes, and my husband was a witness, a ute (of course) with a bumper sticker with those exact words. Actually I think it may have actually said “babys” but I’m going to give it the benefit of the doubt. Seriously? Seriously?

Someone pass me the Ajax pronto..

Tomorrow I start my new job and to say I’m a little freaked out is an understatement. I just pray that I don’t let my nervous energy result in humiliation via over sharing, memory lapse and/or a bout of slapstick work related comedy such as tripping over in my fancy work shoes or getting stuck in the lift.

Send me positive thoughts internet world and expect a facebook update that reads something like “totes starting new job tomorrow, celebrating with a few bevies and totes devo I can’t sleep in anymore..”

Enid Out

And damaged I am you see I keep doing strange things, letting my crazy out through objects and food. Case in point I went through a phase where whenever I opened a tub of yoghurt I would blow on it to cool it down as if it was a bowl of hot soup, it happened so many times I’ve stopped eating yoghurt. Or a common one, leaving my car keys in odd places like the ignition of my unlocked car for three hours while I lunch. Or throwing them in my recycling bin on two separate occasions which left me no choice but to tip it over on my lawn and go fishing for it usually in front of my disapproving elderly neighbours.

I went out socializing with some of Andy’s work colleagues at Burswood on saturday night and during the celebration I had what Oprah might call a light bulb moment. Thank fuck I am married because my friend there are slim pickings out there. Small Vietnamese women, a couple of extras from the movie romper stomper or an extremely overweight female Bogan stuffed into a boob tube and a kmart options plus leopard mini skirt. I know because I have the same skirt but I do the world a solid and wear long black leggings underneath so to hide my chunky legged shame. I danced to a cover band in the middle of the casino with these freaks, all to please a 48 year old Canadian woman I barely know, I guess my humiliation means nothing if I can put a smile on a foreigners face. That being said the highlight of the evening had to be when the band played “their” final song…a cover of my most hated song, Kings of Leon sex on fire- ha! just listening to an ugly cover band singer belting out his rendition of that horrid song should have been enough punishment but instead I danced to it and watched while the elderly asian and very loving couple behind me sang along grinding at each other as tenderly-elderly as possible.

The really sad thing is if I was single I probably still wouldn’t have been picked up by one of those losers.

Love
A happily married Enid (thank the lord)
p.s Upon re-reading this post I am aware that I come across as arrogant and a bit racist/ageist! It was not the plan, I only embrace my arrogant tendencies

The first date occurred with my best friend from high school who I haven’t seen for roughly 8 years. We were part of a group of 4 and 2 of the members including Sarah M the friend in question had a relatively successful high school rock band. Yes I was part of one of those groups of people, my job in the group was to be the girl in a tight top with large knockers in the front row since I had no musical talent to speak ok. Sadly as is common with temperamental egotistical musicians the band had a falling out over each other’s boyfriends and paths to follow leaving one member to forge a small independent music career in London and the other left here attending University and spending time with me. We were inseparable and she was one of the handful of friends who actually spent time with my mum over the course of our friendship and grew to appreciate her quirkiness and childlike charm. I can’t even remember why we stopped talking, it was probably one of my hermit periods where I didn’t talk to anyone and it just carried on forever because neither of us made an attempt to get in touch.

So 8 odd years later thanks to the wonder of Facebook I found myself sitting at one of the small awkward tables at the Dome Cafe in Mount Lawley, looking anxiously out the window for my old friend. Eventually I spotted her strolling across the lights, her once bright red boy cut was now a conservative brunette bob and her grungy leather pants had been replaced by post pregnancy pants and buttoned up blouse. I dare say she looked like an adult ( and new mother to an 8 month old girl). In a moment of sheer panic I visually asses my outfit in the window’s reflection. For some reason I have managed to put together the most nauseatingly juvenile outfit known to man. Separate pieces that may work on their own but together look like I am auditioning to be the new bass player for Hole. Seriously, black dress with short sleeves that are too short to cover my new arm tattoos… a belt o chunky it looks like I got it off dominatrix.com, red sunglasses that with this outfit look like I’m crying “overage Lolita” and worst of all….what really gave me that extra shot of self loathing adrenaline, I had on Blue fucking nail polish. No Joke, I had tried it on a few nights ago and forgot to take it off. So as my mature friend walked towards me I imagined her image of me as someone how was hanging on by a thread like it was 1998 all over again.

She greeted me warmly, perhaps I can salvage this I think to myself with some of my irreverent Enid charm and humour… so of course I say “wow those are some lovely breasts you have there…being a mum agrees with you” OH MY FRICKEN GOD just remembering that I said that is making me sweat buckets at my laptop. WHAT WAS I THINKING. Sure this is my type of odd comment I make all the time that people who actually know me and spend time with me found oddly endearing “oh that wacky Bernie is saying strange things again” It is however not an appropriate thing to say immediately to someone who hasn’t been around your personality for 8 fucking years. She immediately turned red and kept readjusting her blouse for the remainder of our coffee time. Ok so you are probably thinking humble reader that after the initial disaster I dazzled her with my warm heart and interesting conversation. Well not really, for some reason I decided to tell her this whole story about how I was experiencing a depressive episode and had resigned from my job and was seeing a shrink again. When I realised that this wasn’t fun conversation I attempted to steer the conversation towards old memories from our high school days only to fail again because every memory I brought up reminded her of something horrific eg her parent’s divorce and her failed relationship with her first love. So if you are keeping score I am currently 0 for 4.

As a method of last resort I turned to her daughter, asking questions and grabbing a lovely gift I had bought for her from under the table…Ahh classic move, Bernie: Attempting to buy acceptance and affection since 1989. That could be the title of my memories or at least a monologue. The present went down a treat and I was mildly interested in hearing about her child. Actually this would have to be the first instance in history where I was actually disappointed a friend didn’t bring their baby on an outing given that my fear of children under the age of 1 may have led me to behave more appropriately. At one gushing stage she pulled out her iPhone and started showing me pictures of her daughter to which I ooowwed and ahhhed appropriately. It became awkward when she let go of the phone entirely leaving me with a photo gallery of over 600 photos of her spawn. After 10 minutes of looking as she kept talking I felt like a bomb detonator, how long did I have to hold this fucking thing to prevent our coffee date from self-destruction. Soon she said “you don’t have to look at them all” and laughed, but of course the sadist in me felt silly taking the out immediately and I lied that I was enjoying looking at them…torturing myself for another 5 minutes.

Somehow three hours had passed since I initially humiliated myself and my pseudo date announced she had to head home and cook dinner for her husband and friends. I don’t think I have ever cooked dinner for another couple…another adult failing of mine. We parted on friendly terms and she seemed to have partially enjoyed her time with me… but on my way home I was overcome with an image of my dear friend running into the arms of her successful accountant husband in her 4X2 suburban house, with her little baby girl by her side and thanking the lord she didn’t end up like that blue nail polish wearing freak from her high school years. We have maintained sms contact since then but I am yet to receive that elusive invite to her house she mentioned…something tells me I had better not hold my breath

The second pseudo date was a lunch at an old friend from my check- out chick days who I hadn’t seen since my wedding nearly three years ago and before that probably another three years. Her name is Tash and she is one of those women who even thought she quite a bit younger than me I completely admire and hope that one day if I ever get over my issues I can be like. She just has it together.. not in a creepy Stepford way but in a confident, caring, I can take what life throws at me and move on kind of way. I can’t even handle when they change the chocolate in a kit kat bar over winter. The lunch date went off without a hitch, I listened eagerly as she told me about her two young children and her new partner, their renovation plans and her hobbies.. which include very adult sounding things such as Pilates on Monday, pole dancing class (for exercise purposes apparently) on Tuesdays and playing volleyball with her husband on Wednesdays. You know how I fill my nights? watching television shows on dvd, writing on this blog and stalking people on facebook..and as for sporting activities with my husband, the only activity my husband and I share on a semi regular basis is a shower and that is not for erotic/romantic bonding purposes, it’s the only place we can talk about movies without being interrupted by our needy, neurotic pack of dogs. I think that is the saddest sentence I’ve ever written. Of course I tell Tash nothing of this..I learnt from my previous mistake with Sarah. I will consider this date a success because I kept my crazy at bay..we had good conversation and due to her busy schedule she will be the perfect friend I see every now and then. I’ve done it! I can add someone else to the friends roster.

Finally we have my drinks date with one of my oldest friends, another girl named Sarah who I met in 6th grade and have had an on again off again friendship with ever since. You might think of us as the Ross and Rachel of female friends. The last contact I had with Sarah was an apology text sent after she abused me by text for a solid hour over my relationship with Andrew and how I wasn’t a good friend. Now call me what you will..Enid, Bernie, Crazy, but I really don’t think in all my life I’ve been a bad friend to anyone and for someone who is as down on herself and self-deprecating as I am to admit that makes it true in my book. I accepted her apology because basically I’m too friendly (read: gutless) to hold a grudge but we haven’t spoken since that incident in 2006. So one Saturday night I found myself knocking at her door, the very same door I had visited as an 11-year-old girl, bottle of wine in hand ready to see if we still had the illusive “it” that kept us friends for so long. I am happy to report we do still have “it”. We really are an odd couple because Sarah is in a lot of ways everything I can’t stand in other people, she is gorgeous, thin, no financial hang ups thanks to the money trickling in from her parents and she says things like “I never buy things on sale..there is a reason they are on sale” and yet I can’t hate her…believe me I’ve tried. My husband asked has she brought up the way she treated you the last time you were friends? and I told him No… we have known each other long enough to know that the key to a long-term friendship is denial of the past and the ability to resist eye rolling at each other. Since our initial get together I’ve seen her once a week and I have to say it’s been nice, so I guess that is a victory to the small, small part of me that isn’t a hermit freak. Look forward to future entries filled with social humiliation if I am to believe my new/old friend’s dream to take me to some of Perth’s “hip” 25 and over bars… I recall her elaborate description of one such place where an acquaintance of her’s is a “cage dancer.”

HELP ME….

Lets start off with a particularly shameful one for me… and even more so for my husband. What a world am I living in when an intoxicated appreciation of the music of Katy Perry bleeds over into non-intoxicated times. That’s right, the singer who I once found absolutely abhorrent, mostly because of her giant boob/eyes combination which I find evil, her stupid jesus wrist tattoo and my strict rule not to encourage people who photograph themselves in denim shorts. All this changed during a drunken hen’s night on a bus dance-a-thon courtesy of my pal Stacey. Suddenly as I sculled plastic cups full of bright coloured sparkling wine and attempted to pole dance against the bus bell railing, California Girls by Katy Perry sounded like the greatest song ever written.

I bought the cd during a late night spending spree at a texas target super-store while on holiday because it was cheap and I was tired of listening to Andy’s emo shit or Gomez in the rental car. Now it turns out that I listen to the cd frequently in the car and sing along loudly. I thought that things you consider a good idea while drunk such as wearing leopard prints, walking home, thinking you’re a good dancer and having self-loathing infused sexual relations with ex’s, friends or iphone app randoms are meant to disappear in a vail of shame once sober. I guess I was wrong…I fear next time it will be something more damming…. What a World

I think the reason for this is my interview happened just before my trip to America so I kind of didn’t give a shit. Once I finished the written test there were only three rather simple questions to answer and becauase I have already worked for this area of the health department as a counsellor I had a lot of back ground knoweldge… anyway to cut things short it was a Fluke I don’t really care interview and in my 30 minutes of misplaced confidence I came across as an ideas woman… I ain’t no ideas woman, I’m the person who comes up with a response to a question on the bus ride home, or at least that’s how it worked at Uni, to ensure I got the 10% participation mark during tutorials I would simply repeat a slight variation of something someone else had said.. or repeat what the tutor had said previously or when faced with an extreme situation drop out of the class entirely and enroll in the same unit as an online student and use the exact same methods as I just mentioned but with the soothing buffer of a computer screen, username and 4am postings while intoxicated from the sweet nourishment of a can of UDL and a bowl of easy mac. I am all about the gloss about not really about the content and follow through… I spent more time huddled in the Murdoch computer lab with Mark thinking of brilliant titles for our essays rather than focusing on quality of context, that was an afterthought.

Plus going for coffee with people in Mount Lawley always brings up my issues, like sitting at those tiny tables, encrouching on other peoples space, that fact that I don’t know anything about coffee and all those fandangle new ones like Latte’s….what is a latte? I don’t know, and don’t even get me started on ordering tea for two or tea for one, high tea. I grew up in a home where my mum added water to milk cause she said it was too strong but I swear it was just to stretch its use out. Oh and not to mention it is the scene of my one brief moment of conscious perfection…I sat in a coffee shop, Il Sotto if I remember correctly cautiously boasting with my friend about the fact that we both had partners and things were coming up roses only to find ourselves simultaneously dumped less than two weeks later, we had to flee the city and burn break up emails by the creek. You see this kind of rambling? this is also another thing I’m scared of, if I get to comfortable in a situation I can go from 0 to highly inapproriate in about a second. What if I start telling her stories like this? Arghhhhhh.

Anyway I was obviously rattled but I tried to engage politely and normally with the specsavers employees that is until they asked me in the little interview room if I had private health insurance. Of course I don’t because I just don’t have the money at the moment but every time someone asks me that question and I reply no I always feel self-conscious like a criminal at a job interview or something. I also kept moving during the eye test you know the one where they puff shots of air into your eyes… so humiliating. When I finally got to see that actual optometrist I kept thinking why didn’t I chose a career like optometrist? That could have been me sitting in a black pencil skirt and fuchsia blouse listening to my ipod and telling people “better or worse” on repeat. It seems that unlike my jaw my eyes are in good health and I still have the same issue as before, one of my eyes doesn’t focus properly so whenever my eyes are open they are having to strain to focus… thus resulting in my lovingly referred to “drunk lazy eye” in photos while intoxicated, I guess when I’ve had a few my good eye decides to have a holiday.

So my glasses expedition in the end was a success, now I just have to deal with tonight’s impending crisis. A friend has just asked me to download some scrabble phone application so we can play against each other… soon her illusion that I am actually smart will be shattered. Damn you Android, first I lose my husband to Angry Birds and now my false feeling of superiority over others.

Bye for now
Enid