Green Goblin

David recently started writing a series of technical articles for a local car magazine, the first of which was published in the magazine's February issue. This is great, of course. It could open all sorts of doors for him - I can't think of anyone more deserving - plus the extra income couldn't come at a better time...

But it feels like a sucker-punch straight to my gut and I hate him for it. It should have been me.
Nevermind that he's the one who actually sat down and wrote the articles. Nevermind that the material is completely outside of my scope of interest. It's like a great big neon sign hanging over my head that says, "I wanted to be a writer but my hubby beat me to it and it's not even what he wants to do!!!" It shows that if I were any good as a writer, I should have something to show for it by now.

Yes, I know that's not logical. I know it doesn't mean that I can't still pursue a writing career, that his success and my jealousy have nothing to do with my own talent as a writer (or lack thereof). Hell, no-one knows better than I do that I've had years and years more than it's taken him, to get my writing career off the ground, and that it hasn't happened simply because I haven't actually written and submitted anything. But if I didn't hate him for it, then I would have to turn it inward on myself, and I just don't think I can stomach any more self-hatred than is already there.

Dear Self,

Since you're bunking off sick from work today, I thought we could have us a little heart to heart. We both know it's been a long time coming, and I hope that what I have to say will slap you upside the head help you realize that the only way you're ever going to turn your shitty little life around stop being unhappy is by throwing your hands up and devoting yourself to the drinking of vodka doing something about it.

You hate your job and the fact that you've wasted the last ten years of your life behind one crummy front desk after another you're not the successful writer you've always dreamed of being? You want to write for a living, instead of capitulating to a bunch of corporate cunts arrogant businessmen who think that all you're good for is taking messages and making coffee? Well what have you ever written? Nothing!

You feel fat and un-sexy because you've gained 10kg in the last six months? You've lost all interest in sex because you can't stand the way you look naked? Then stop being a fucking pig stuffing yourself with cakes and chocolates behind your desk all day, start making some healthier food choices and join the goddamned gym already!

You worry that your anger and frustration will have negative long term effects on your marriage and family? Stop being a pussy victim of your circumstances, stop being a psycho bitch critical of your husband and a negative example to your kids, get your rage under control and start planning your way out of the holes you've dug for yourself. No-one forced you to drop out of university nine years ago; no-one forced you to make bad choices or spend your inheritance unwisely; no-one owes you a damned thing and the sooner you stop expecting the good life to fall out of the sky and into your lap, the sooner you can get started figuring out how you're going to create it for yourself.

You spend hours and hours every day reading what other people write, despising them because they're living "your" life. Yet you refuse to accept that no-one has ever stopped you from living that life except you. You sit down in front of your computer for half an hour every few days, supposedly to write, but you won't apply a little self-discipline and finish what you start. Instead, you try to justify your lack of talent follow-through with some lame excuse: You've worked a full day, there's housework to be done, you're too depressed... Well, boo-fucking-hoo stop it and get your shit together!

I know it sounds like I'm picking on you, and you really don't feel like being hassled right now, but I'm only telling you this for your own good, you know. You can't expect to get to where you want to be if you're not prepared to do what it takes. You want to get paid to write? Then write, for god's sake, and eventually someone might show some interest. Those writers out there who make it? They make it because they write and write and write and keep on writing and submitting their work, and when they get rejected they go back and they write again and again and again until the words come together just right. They spend months and months - sometimes years, writing and submitting, again and again and again, and no matter how many times they get rejected, they keep at it. And if you want to make it too, then that's what you're going to have to do. Don't worry right now about writing it perfect; stop thinking about getting it just right. For the moment, until you've managed to redevelop your stagnating talent, just write.

I see you sitting there nodding your head in agreement; I see you know I'm talking sense. I see little sparks of inspiration flicker, your eyes lighting up. Now, I'm not saying you shouldn't get excited, I'm not pissing on your parade here, but I gotta warn you that it's not going to be easy. In the beginning, you'll find yourself sitting at your desk most days, your fingers poised over the keyboard, ready to go, and you'll still be sitting there an hour or more later, the cursor still flashing on an otherwise blank screen. You'll think back to this talk we're having now and you'll want to tell me I'm full of shit, that it's not working. But if you force yourself to start, if you make yourself type that first word and then another and another after that, if you pour as much passion and determination into those first lines as you do into your self pity and your many justifications for your failures thusfar, you just might manage to find just the right words to set that big change in motion.

Good luck. Now get on with it!

Me.

Going Crazy, Baby

This is going to sound completely stupid. And I'll probably feel very differently tomorrow. But the thought occurred to me this morning, as I discussed my two little ones' development with my mom over an extortionately expensive long distance telephone line (and again later, as I flipped through this past weekend's newspapers and felt my heart get pulverized as my eyes caught sight of this photograph), that I would like to have another baby.

There - I've said it. And mostly, I'm inclined to believe that this is just me going barmy and needing to switch from the Pill to an IUD and get the fuck off the monthly roller-coaster already.
I mean, another baby? That's just *insane* - right?

Makeover, Flake-over

In my last post, I wrote about having won a Valentines competition, which promised a day of spoils and pampering. I pictured the day going something like this, and spent an afternoon poring over the Patrizia Pepe website, really getting into the whole idea, getting excited about shopping for something new and different and stunning to wear - maybe even something not black for a change.
On the evening of February 18th, I received the following email from Viva Magazine's PR agent:
Dear Amanda,

I hope you are well. Congratulations on winning the Viva Competition. Your prize is a make up and hair session at Belle Femme valued at 500aed, an outfit from Patrizia Pepe worth 1,200aed and dinner for two at Amwaj worth 500aed, the Shangri-la Hotel Dubai.

All parties have been contacted and are expecting your call in order to make the reservations. Please bear in mind that Amwaj is closed on Saturday. Their contact details are as follows:

Shangri-la Hotel Dubai
(Name of Contact Person)
(Tel no.)

Patrizia Pepe
Crowne Plaze Shopping Centre
(Tel no.)

Belle Femme Salon
Jumeirah Beach Road
(Tel no.)

Please do not hesitate in contacting me,

(Name)

(Name of PR Company)
(Contact Details)

Now, since it was all free stuff I would be getting, I wasn't about to complain about the fact that the value of my prize had dropped by AED 300 overnight. I mean, gift horse and all that, right?
But I was a little disappointed to discover that what had been advertised as a day of fun and pampering turned out to be me scheduling appointments for three different days, each of which turned out in its own way to make me feel a bit like Vivian in "Pretty Woman", only shorter, uglier and without an Edward Lewis to save me.

When I got Patrizia Pepe on Tuesday, 20 February, the sales assistant had no idea what I was on about and had to phone the store manager to check out my story. I was then informed that roughly two thirds of the stock in the store was off limits to me, as my AED 1200 was only good for last year's collection. My heart sank on the spot, as I'd been eyeing a gorgeous little dress which happened to be in the forbidden section. To be fair, though, the sales assistant - a lovely girl named Jahad -made up for it with lots of friendly help, carrying items back and forth for me to try on, suggesting a few items I would never have looked at of my own accord, and which actually looked pretty good on me. Too bad I couldn't afford to pay the price differences not covered by my voucher. Still, I came away with a well cut pair of trousers (which they altered for me free of charge, as they were too long) and two very comfortable tank tops.

Next on the list was the dinner for two. I made the reservation for Thursday evening, 22 February, arranged for a babysitter and dressed for the occasion in an interesting black number I'd bought for an A1 Grand Prix after party last year:

It was a beautiful evening. The weather was perfect, the babysitter was fantastic, the restaurant was gorgeous and the service impeccable, except for the fact that we were approached three times, by three different people to be told very delicately that our meal was only free to the value of AED 500, and that we would have to pay for anything extra. As if we didn't know. As if we looked like we were going to try and scam the restaurant out of a couple of their horrifically overpriced appetisers. As if we couldn't possibly have paid for anything on the menu, and their generous sponsorship of this dinner was the only way the likes of us could ever have made it in the front door of their fine establishment...

I could have lived with being told once, just to be sure that the terms had been explained, but three times? And besides, I thought the lobster tasted like shit, so there!

David's beef & goose liver dish was excellent, though, as were the desserts and complimentary chocolates afterwards.

Finally, I scheduled my hair and make-up session for 11:00 on Saturday morning. I arrived half an hour early, thinking this would give me some time to peruse the catalogues and choose a new style and colour.

A stylist showed up at 11:30. She ushered me upstairs at around 11:45 to get my make-up done. She looked at me like I was crazy when she asked me what I wanted and I replied that I preferred a fairly natural look, so I opted for some blue on the eyes instead. Back downstairs about half an hour later, as I checked a mirror just to be sure she hadn't really been hacking at my eyes with a blunt scalpel, I discovered that this same woman would be treating me to my new hairdo. When I told her that I was thinking of a cut and colour, she started talking really fast in Arabic to another woman, whom I must assume was her manageress. She, in turn, explained to me very carefully that a cut and colour would not be possible now, since we'd already done my make up. I was informed that I would have my hair curled and done up instead. I had a lunch date with a friend around 14:00, so I let it go and left the salon at around 13:00 looking like this:

And now I know what it feels like to have so much make-up on that it hurts to smile.

I also know what I'm going to look like in a few years' time, since smiling with all this make-up on made me look closer to 40 than I've ever imagined getting:

So there it is. The whole thing was quite a bit like Valentine's Day: sugar-coated and lukewarm.