Lady of the Bloody Manor Bred
I swear to God, I don't know by what power a tart from Philadelphia can grow up, move here, and suddenly think she's Princess fucking Di, but it is possible, and is unfortunately the story of my life.
Was sitting down to dinner--another of her bloody rules, "eating like a family" even though we loathe each other--when she turns to me and, bloody just as I'm digging into my bloody dessert, says "Don't forget that we promised to go to the XYZ charity next week" and makes dagger eyes at my spoon.
And the whole bloody family and Helen and Father's accountant all turn to stare at me like idiots. But what can I do? Shes right, I have gained weight, and we all know why. "I can always get a colonic by then, Mother." She hates it when I say things like that in front of people, but well, she started it.
And then bloody Glennis, gets involved, God knows why. She makes her purses her lips like Mother's and says with a bloody sympathetic smile "There are healthier ways like that, Em." Unbelievable. I will not be lectured to by my bloody perfect younger sister.
"Yes, but I can't get cocaine like you can," I tell her.
And then they're both staring at me with the same tight, irritated, martyr-ed faces, the ones they had when I told them I was moving home for detoxification purposes, and I just want to smack them silly. I mean it's true, I can't do coke anymore and I know she still does it, but it's also true she does it only occasionally. No extremes with dear Glen.
So I end up leaving the room feeling an absolute whale, thanks to the ice queens, and immediately head to the cellar to sneak some of Dad's stash. In some people's homes, "stealing Dad's stash" an arduous, difficult maneuver, especially if Dad is there. Well, in our home, Dad is always there, and Dad is always stoned. It's just a question of being able to tell how much, so if he's really stoned we can score some of the good stuff. Sometimes he's asleep and we'll raid the place. It's a good way to score some fast pocket cash when you need it, but he's been catching on a lot more lately. And I don't want him coming at me with that umbrella again.
This is why we call him the apothecary, by the way, which is the title of this blog for no apparent reason other than I like the word. But more about Dad later. I'm smoking up and I know it's incredibly counterproductive because I'm just going to get hungry and eat more and bloody well need that colonic to fit into my dress for the night. I never really cared about being thin until it started becoming a real craze, with everybody tan and stick-like at bloody Christmas, and you really do feel like a whale because everyone except you is a size four. Even Mother looks about eight stone. Glennis could bloody shop at Children's Gap. And I don't care--I don't have any aesthetic interpretation as to whether thin is in or unhealthy--except every single decent designer makes their best clothes in size four (or size two American) only.
I tell you, that simply does not account for rehab. No wonder all alcoholics start smoking. It's the only way that you can keep your bloody dress size.
It's funny how I didn't realize this when we used to travel, but now that she's permenantly ensconced in what she believes to the ancestral seat of a noble line, it's bloody inescapable how pretentious Mother is. Which would be fine, except she has spent the last thirty years of her life trying to make up for the fact that she was a commoner and a club hostess before she met Dad, and she was already married, and nobody wanted her to marry to Dad. But she did, and really acts like the Princess Di, I swear, down to the outdated hairstyle. Why couldn't she just be normal and stay cool and American instead of mucking about in Wellingtons, of all things, in the English countryside? Then it wouldn't always be like a bad episode of Upstairs Downstairs around here.
Was sitting down to dinner--another of her bloody rules, "eating like a family" even though we loathe each other--when she turns to me and, bloody just as I'm digging into my bloody dessert, says "Don't forget that we promised to go to the XYZ charity next week" and makes dagger eyes at my spoon.
And the whole bloody family and Helen and Father's accountant all turn to stare at me like idiots. But what can I do? Shes right, I have gained weight, and we all know why. "I can always get a colonic by then, Mother." She hates it when I say things like that in front of people, but well, she started it.
And then bloody Glennis, gets involved, God knows why. She makes her purses her lips like Mother's and says with a bloody sympathetic smile "There are healthier ways like that, Em." Unbelievable. I will not be lectured to by my bloody perfect younger sister.
"Yes, but I can't get cocaine like you can," I tell her.
And then they're both staring at me with the same tight, irritated, martyr-ed faces, the ones they had when I told them I was moving home for detoxification purposes, and I just want to smack them silly. I mean it's true, I can't do coke anymore and I know she still does it, but it's also true she does it only occasionally. No extremes with dear Glen.
So I end up leaving the room feeling an absolute whale, thanks to the ice queens, and immediately head to the cellar to sneak some of Dad's stash. In some people's homes, "stealing Dad's stash" an arduous, difficult maneuver, especially if Dad is there. Well, in our home, Dad is always there, and Dad is always stoned. It's just a question of being able to tell how much, so if he's really stoned we can score some of the good stuff. Sometimes he's asleep and we'll raid the place. It's a good way to score some fast pocket cash when you need it, but he's been catching on a lot more lately. And I don't want him coming at me with that umbrella again.
This is why we call him the apothecary, by the way, which is the title of this blog for no apparent reason other than I like the word. But more about Dad later. I'm smoking up and I know it's incredibly counterproductive because I'm just going to get hungry and eat more and bloody well need that colonic to fit into my dress for the night. I never really cared about being thin until it started becoming a real craze, with everybody tan and stick-like at bloody Christmas, and you really do feel like a whale because everyone except you is a size four. Even Mother looks about eight stone. Glennis could bloody shop at Children's Gap. And I don't care--I don't have any aesthetic interpretation as to whether thin is in or unhealthy--except every single decent designer makes their best clothes in size four (or size two American) only.
I tell you, that simply does not account for rehab. No wonder all alcoholics start smoking. It's the only way that you can keep your bloody dress size.
It's funny how I didn't realize this when we used to travel, but now that she's permenantly ensconced in what she believes to the ancestral seat of a noble line, it's bloody inescapable how pretentious Mother is. Which would be fine, except she has spent the last thirty years of her life trying to make up for the fact that she was a commoner and a club hostess before she met Dad, and she was already married, and nobody wanted her to marry to Dad. But she did, and really acts like the Princess Di, I swear, down to the outdated hairstyle. Why couldn't she just be normal and stay cool and American instead of mucking about in Wellingtons, of all things, in the English countryside? Then it wouldn't always be like a bad episode of Upstairs Downstairs around here.
posted by M.A.A at 8:30 PM
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