The Family Of Misery

The Club

The Family of Misery or The FOM as me and my compadres like to call it is a "club" we started many moons ago as a means to embody our manically depressive alcohol addled bodies and minds.There is no real criteria for entry, except that you must have an inherantly miserable disposition. I abandoned my ties with The FOM sometime ago, making outlandish claims that positive thinking was the way forward and that it was a childish creation born from teenage angst and post-parental divorces induced desolation. How wrong I was to flee that unit. Thankfully The FOM never fully disbanded and has a handful of hardcore members who wave that flag of misery on a day to day, breath by breath basis. I am once again a fully fledged member; thanks to what is seemingly becoming a prolonged period of unemployment.

Some of the loyalest members of  The FOM have been very kindly trying to assist me in pulling myself together. The irony of a bunch of fellow misery guts attempting to inject joy into my eyeballs is not lost on me. At least it is better than them trying to inject me with skag. Their tactics include;

• Daily text messages of love and support, and crucially piss-taking.
• Endless cups of huge coffee (resulting in grand headaches, excess unspent energy followed by periods of lethargy).
• Phone calls informing me "everything will be okay", in spite of repeated rejections (I seriously believe being dumped and suffering heartache is now easier than being unemployed).
• Emails containing disturbing images of cats saying "hang in there" (again - more piss-taking, I am and always will be a dog person). There were some other more crude emails from GeekFighter, The Mole, Troll et al but I won't go into these.
• Songs being sung to me which frequently include the word penis and my first name.

So Why The Sudden Onset of Misery?

There are various long winded versions of why I am currently so miserable, and in a few weeks none of them will really matter. So I may as well not bother to divulge. On the upside at least I am still not watching Jeremy Kyle, nor Celebrity Big Brother and I still do not quite understand who or what the Kardashians (sp?)  are. 


Waiting Game

I am currently in the process of waiting to hear back from numerous applications (again *sigh*). I have now started to apply for jobs which I am over-qualified to do, but not so over-qualified that I should not get an interview. The other jobs I interviewed for were in highly competitive NGOs/Charities and so I was quite lucky to get down to the last few in each interview stage. So I have decided that I am more likely to get a job if it is not for such a prestigious organisation (there goes my lifelong ambition/dreams).

HOWEVER...I have come up with a new business concept involving adult products, geeks and comic books. Having run this past The FOM, who largely consist of comic book reading geeks they are convinced that it is potentially a groundbreaking idea. I now need to find a way to get funding. Which given the nature of the products may prove ever so slightly testing.


In other news...

• I am still not a facebook.
• I have removed myself off the dating site (the emails and messages were getting so creepy I was actually scared).
• The dog had a haircut.
• I have developed some sort of distorted form of empathy for Ben Mitchell from Eastenders.

Out of conDOLE

An overview...

Well.

Last week was interesting - I promised myself I would "set the world on fire"and make a concerted effort to get a job and be productive. 

This vow resulted in; several gargantuan hangovers, three trips to my friends at the job centre, being cracked onto by no less than two lesbians, an eye-watering adventure in the gym, failing to give up smoking, petite vandalism, a tour of a prospective employers building, contemplation of a crack habit, more failed stalking at nan's care home , being on telly, being put in a taxi for my own good, creating a faminesque situation at home and missing mummy since she abandoned me. Bitch. 

A new vow

I will start with the hangovers. As this week and for the next few weeks I am not drinking any more, I strongly believe that writing about said hangovers will help remind me why I should no longer drink. In all seriousness I think I maybe about three weeks off having to go to an AA meeting.

Monday

 I phoned troll on Monday at 10am on the way to the job centre asking if we could go to the pub at 11am. If it were not for a gigantic clock on the town hall I don't think I would have realised that I was ringing my friend at stupid o'clock asking for a pint. Instead he came round in the evening and we consumed some wine and sent in picture messages of me looking vulgar to some music channel at the grand cost of £1.50 per picture message. They showed my messages twice and then claimed they were unsuitable and so did not show them any more. However they did show the same other photos (of distinctly more ugly people than myself)  on a loop stream for 3 hours. We totally got done.  

Tuesday

Tuesday was the pub quiz. This was fine. All fine. All well and good. Until we started on the straight vodka. I did not get home until I believe (though I could be wrong) until about 3am or maybe it was 2am. Myself, the troll, betterthangoogle aka geekfighter and thevoiceofreason were all in attendance. No creepy additions from internet dating sites were dragged along for our amusement. Troll insisted that myself and geekfighter were put in a taxi and dropped off outside the kebab house with thevoicereason. It is a real indication of how trashed we were that the motherfucking troll had to decide to put us in a taxi, of which until I was told about I had no distinct memory of. 

Wednesday

On Wednesday I texted the boys and told them in no uncertain terms that I did not think I could see them any more. 

THURSDAY SEEMS TO HAVE VANISHED FROM MY MIND.

Friday

By Friday we were back in the pub. I got home at some ungodly hour, having geekfighter assist me in scrawling childish obscenities in the frost on the bonnets of peoples nice cars. I woke up to hearing geekfighter jolt and laugh in the front room. He still had his rucksack and shoes on. Off he skipped. I felt bad about the cars when I finally remembered, even though it was only in the frosting it was very ASBO type behaviour. 

Later on Saturday morning I sent messages claiming I had lost the ability to move. Lies. Self-inflicted lies. Self inflicted via alcohol abuse and the gym.

Saturday

We were back in the pub about 10 hours later. Thankfully, I did not get so trashed. The gym session and free weight madness I engaged in with a female body builder on Friday meant I had ripped every single muscle in my body sending it into some sort of horrific shock. This also meant that lifting a pint glass was an arduous task.The body builder very kindly drew pictures of my liver for me in a caricature fashion showing it with smiling faces and unhappy faces. She asked me to draw my interpretation of my liver. I drew one with tears and a pint glass. 

In other news...

• I have taken myself off facebook until I find a job.
• I did not get the job I did not want. 

That Fitting Face

Adulthood Acne

I just went to the Dr and moaned about my skin (and suspected impetigo - he assures me it is not) and he told me that there were other people who had far worse acne in the scale of things. This made me VERY CROSS. I found myself saying "I don't care about other people. I care about MY FACE. I have never had spots or been told I have acne except in the last two months, so please, don't bore me with the details about other peoples' faces. What about my face?!"

I am just not sure he understood that I am shallow, vain, narcissistic, unemployed and arrogant. 

The reason this bothers me is that on that weird interview on Friday I actually sat there with a pus filled boil in the crease of my nose. I did my best to cover that bad boy up, but when I came out of the interview I pulled out my compact and it had well, caused a yellow crusty explosion on my face. Retrospectively I should not have complained that they looked unkempt and dirty. I feel my face will never fit as long as I am doomed with these little buggers cropping up all the time. 

In other news...

• There is a man on-line who wants to meet me and come to the pub quiz. I am not sure about this, but the boys assure me they will behave nicely.
• I have not heard back from the job interview.
• I have booked myself into not one but TWO Job Clubs.
• I have also arranged myself a personal trainer at the gym (I am the sort of unemployed person who despite my grim financial situation insists on trying to maintain my employed lifestyle).
• I am seeing the smoking nurse and giving up, again.

 

A Serious Lack Of Motivation

Am I bothered though?


No.


I am not. I am quite simply unbothered and totally disengaged. 


My interview yesterday was a complete waste of everyone's time. They had no set questions, were not writing any notes and just talked the WHOLE time. I have never experienced an interview like it at all.  I wonder why I even bothered to brush my hair or wash for it. Because the interview panel had not. No-one even admired my lipstick. They looked really unkempt and dirty.I decided that they have no idea what they are looking for and were just sort of hoping for a disneyesque lightening bolt moment; when they find their prince/princess small cute animals will appear and everyone would have burst into song. Needless to say this did not happen when I was in the room. Thank god as I would have killed the animals. 


 So screw that. I don't want it even if I am offered it. 


Which is lucky as I had an epiphany of sorts on my way to the interview which went along the lines of "I have already lived in London for 4 or so years and this commuting business is actually well, quite distressing. I want to be able to walk to work and to be able to walk to see my friends, not traipse around on tubes for up to 3 hours a day, wondering if my pits smell and when I can next get off and buy some pocket deodorant" 


Consequently I am looking for jobs nearer home. We shall see how this works out.


In Other News...

• Mother has abandoned me for a week.
• I have spent the day listening and singing along to Prince Royce, whilst trying to dance the bachata. I have failed miserably on both counts; mostly because my ability to rap and speak Spanish is pretty lame and dancing the bachata alone is pretty weird. Funny though.
• I did not work Apple Bottom Jeans into my interview, but as they were talking so much I just sung it in my head. 
• Each time I attempt to locate my future ex-husband I fail. But Nan likes the visits to her care home which are a by-product of this completely futile infatuation. 

Lusting after jobs (amongst other things)

Too Much Time: Too Many Boys


I am spending far too much time with the boys.


How do I know this?


I woke up at 5am this morning and I could hear my liver crying. By 7am I was contemplating removing my own kidneys. Pain. In.The. Back.


Plus I have widened my sexual innuendo, double entendre, pun repertoire.

And my best friend Blondie texted me after she left me in the pub on Tuesday night saying;


"Put down the pint of cider and step away from them."


Upon reviewing my text messages of that evening I had sent her a load of incomprehensible babble. Besides, it was already too late by the time I got that message. I had already started on the whiskey and the conversation had become suitably undone. I am sure hanging around with these manboys prevents me from ever actually meeting anyone. 


Further, when Blondie and Dr T and I were out drinking with betterthangoogle and Mr Bee on Tuesday; betterthangoogle and Mr Bee proposed that were not the girliest of girls.


True. Blondie is a black belt ninja and Dr T has spent a great proportion of her time over the past ten years analysing and sequencing the spines of insects, or something like that. And I? Yes, I do my nails, go to the beautician, blah,blah,blah but there is something inherent in my personality that means I act in quite a masculine fashion. 


Girlieness


I tried to start to combat this on Wednesday morning by watching "Confessions of a Shopaholic"  on iplayer. I did not laugh. Once. I wanted to cry and rip my eyeballs out and smear them across my laptop. I stopped watching it. From this experience I have thus concluded that I must, on a daily basis (even if I don't leave the house) wear my "DareDevil" red lipstick so that when men see me and I am talking as if I am a man that they are so distracted by my big red lips that they ignore my banter and only think about kissing me.  I must remember to thank Professor Robert Winston for that insight. After stopping aforementioned chickflick I found a documentary of his about the science of sexual attraction and the behaviours of men and women. 


Again, this is probably where I am going wrong - looking at things from a scientific perspective. How very stereotypically male of me.


Which leads me to my next point...
How does this affect me in the job market?


Does my face fit?


I am by no means an unattractive female.I am not exceptional either. People do, other than my nan, tell me I am pretty; often they are men on the street clutching cans of Special Brew. 


Yet my face does not seem to fit. Ever. So I guess it is time for me to look beyond the physicality of it all (this thought process surely means I am quite girly?). 


It did not fit well in my last job. I did my job. I did it well. I enjoyed it. It did not fit well when I was at university. Or at school. Which leads me to another conclusion - I am an exceptionally difficult person to get on with. Not intentionally. But this just seems to be the status quo. 


Now, I don't particularly want to go to job club this week or next week or ever. I fear I may have a physical reaction to it - perhaps anaphylactic shock or I may actually take my eyeballs out. But I have to go as it is one of my action points. So I am going to ask them at job club, what is it I can do, to make myself seem more pleasant and less difficult. A good team player (other than in the realms of pubquizdom). I need to do something about it. And after speaking to my Job Centre Advisor today about my interview this week, she assures me that Job Club will have the answers.


It better, or I am going to go to my GP and demand CBT, a gastric bypass and a face lift.


Here's to hoping my face fits on Friday and that they don't think the lipstick is too much! (And that I can find a way to rap in the interview). 

Festivities Continued and Over

Sobriety and Sweats 
I have spent the last two days stone cold sober. Unbelievable I know. But I have been quite humourously ill. Prior to  a nice 48 hour body sauna I had, although not sober, been attempting to be good, or at least better than last year to ensure a better Christmas loot for 2012 (I mean three hats is pretty shockingly shit even by my families standards). 


This time last year as I remember I returned to London in between Christmas and NYE so I could go to some gym classes and be at my optimum drinking fitness. I had a personal trainer and everything. For NYE I went to a night called "Stick it On" at the King and Queen which divided me and my friends as they refused to go to a pub which housed English Defence League meetings. I ended up going to a series of different pubs and seeing a range of different people and playing a game of "grab the fit guys arse" with my sister. 


The night ended in a flat with a young man I know playing some sexy fiddle whilst another one lap danced for me, Dr T spoke incessantly about Mammoths and Dr L lost the ability to speak and blondie ran away. This year I had Sky+. Brilliant. Anyway back to how Christmas ended rather than the NYE that never was...


The Day of Jesus
So after the whole "motorboat me troll" statement. Things really only got worse. Unemployment really has led to a lowering of my social standards and ability to interact. The start of Christmas day in the pub ended with troll making a serious of false accusations about me. Which all my friends decided to believe (I definitely protested too much). Upon leaving the pub we had to assist betterthangoogle into his thermals. The walk home consisted of me, an architect and betterthangoogle fighting over which was the best kebab house. I got home just before 3am. I woke at home at 7am with a kebab on my face and the dog licking it and my mum violently hoovering. Another new low achieved. 


Hat O'Clock
By 11am favourite uncle had turned up. This year he had presents. Including hat 1 of 3. It turned out we all had a hat. A blue one. Like smurfs. He made us all wear them. We met my brother and his wifey at 11:30am at the bottom of the road. They too were given said hats. We gave favourite uncle a hat. It was black and white and it said "Bah Humbug!" on it. We walked all the way to Nans' care home. My brother gave me hat 2 of 3. Upon putting hat 2 of 3 in oversized lady bag I found hat 3 of 3 from my friends in the pub. 


By the time I walked into the care home I had put all three hats on. Not sure who looked more special, me with three hats or visibly mentally disabled uncle with Bah Humbug! hat on. My vote was with me;because upon entering new home a lovely oldie introduced himself to me, leaned in, gave me a kiss on the cheek and then whispered in my ear "Someone like you should just cut yourself." Fabulous. 


Upon entering care home further there was a baby crying. Me and favourite uncle did not like this sound. Nor did the oldies. Thankfully one of them started chanting "stick a dummy in it" and the rest of the joined in. Said baby left the room. Dinner was duly served. Hugs given to nanny. A bit of chit chat. And we left. 


We went for a walk on the beach on the way home. People were actually laughing at the stupid hats. We saw people we knew. They took pictures of us and stupid hats. A complete freak show. For a large percentage of the walk home I could smell cannabis. As it is Brighton and the beach I thought nothing of it. Not an uncommon occurrence. 


We got back to the flat and stuck Happy Feet on. Brother and wifey had left us. Favourite Uncle kept choking whilst smoking. Told him to stop. He did. Before lunch he had a little tumble. Lunch was served. I spent the rest of the afternoon with one eye open watching him and the other shut. Eventually I dozed off. 




You're spending Christmas in the back of ambulance


When I woke up it was about 6pm. We all woke up. It turned out we were all sleeping. No one had been watching Favourite Uncle. Fucking food coma. We had all jolted awake because of a supersonic boom sound. But from where. Where was uncle? 


He was in the garden. On the floor. Like an obese turtle lying on his back. This was not good. Blood was gushing from his head. Mum was screaming. Mum's Man was pacing. A true Christmas nightmare had unfolded. 


Time for an ambulance. 


Favourite Uncle does not like hospitals or Doctors. Unless they are prescribing him Valium and lying to him about his blood sugar levels. Now as this never happens because he is as mad as a hatter and a non-compliant diabetic he was pretty fucking angry about this whole "Your spending Christmas in the back of an ambulance" business.  Tried hitting mummy, would only respond when spoken to in a baby voice by me and was insisting on smoking still whilst his head was spuing blood. 


A and E


As I was the only sober person in the house I got Uncle duty. I was fine with this. Until I realised how long I would have to wait. And how limited FUs' ability to play "I spy is". He spied the lights a total of 18 times in three  six hours. 


To further kill time and cause a scene any time a member of hospital staff went past FU would point at me and say "She pushed me" or "She stuck her legs out from under the sofa and tripped me up". Which meant when I was being spoken to by the nurses and the consultants I was spoken to with an air of suspicion. Mum had warned me that he was very angry about the trip to the hospital and would try all manner of shit, before getting into the ambulance she was shouting about how he often goes up to a and e using different pseudonyms (dedicated to the cause of opiates and hoodwinking people on the end of shift it seems).  One exchange on Christmas night at a and e included this;


FU: "Please don't glue my head together.

Nurse: "It will be fine".


FU: "But I am not a robot."

Me:[singing to the tune of Marina and The Diamonds "I am not a Robot"] "Guess 


WHHHHHHHAAAAATTTTT you're not a robot, a robot"


FU: "You can not sing [starts singing] I am not a robot, a robot"


[at this point we are getting him into a robe, and low and behold the bastard has a fucking 1/2 


bottle of whiskey down his trousers, that would explain the fall and the ridiculous blood sugar 


count]

Nurse: "I am going to attach these sticky pads to you".

FU: "Perhaps I am a robot?"

Me: "If you were a robot, we would not be at a & e on Christmas day, because you would have 


be programmed to listen to me"

FU: "Good point, but unfavoured niece of mine, no one listens to you".


Obviously, because of the whiskey another discussion took place. This was the point I decided to leave. Especially when it turned out the reason I could smell cannabis and thought I was having flashbacks to my sixth form common room was in-fact because favourite uncle had skanked a cheeky doobie for the Christmas walk to the care home from one of people he lives with. I was really cross with him. He had made me look stupid and irresponsible. He was laughing manically as I left and they were wheeling him to X-ray. Bastard. 


The rest of the festive season...
Was spent in pubs and walking and eating nice food with friends. The night before NYE we went out. I will contest I was not drunk ( I mean it may have been a two day hangover which killed my NYE celebrations but this seems unlikely). We went to the pub. It was nice. I was going to go clubbing. But I suddenly felt very ill. So I got a taxi and went home. Fell out of taxi, taxi driver had to get me up. 


At 5am on NYE I woke up. Howling. Mummy came in. I projectiled on her. I ran/crawled/stumbled to the bathroom. More nastiness ensued. This continued for hours. Eventually daddy rang. He had my little sister in tow (she told me she is 7 now). They wanted to take me for lunch. I went. I threw up before, after and during. My dad made me take my little sister to the toilet each time I needed to go. Her silence of my sickness set me back £15 pounds for some shit art glitter craft box. She said she would make me something. I told her not to bother. On the way home I thought I had shat myself. 


Thankfully, it turns out daddy has heated car seats. But that warm sensation gave me the illusion of having pooped my pants. There are few social exchanges worse than turning to your dad in his nice new car and saying in hushed tones "I think I have shat myself, I am so sorry" him laughing and then the nosey seven year old chipping in and going "No! You haven't I used to think that and sometimes still do, it is the bum toasters that are on". Total humiliation. I think I would have rather of shat myself.


I have remained in bed. 


Me and FU have spoken since. He has apologised. Though still claims he did nothing wrong and was trying to enter the Christmas spirit.  


The best thing of this season is that I am now in love.