Week 23: A Lesbian film & André Rieu

I came home to herself holding her iPhone to her belly. She was blasting André Rieu. He’s a Dutch violinist that makes the elderly think very naughty sexual things… seriously, he’s the classical music world’s Fabio.
“WTF are you doing?”
“The baby can hear music now.”
“So you’re playing it music that turns the over sixties on?” She switched it off in a huff.
“Mum said it’s cultured music.”
“Yeah but do you like it?”
“Then play something you do like.” Cue 90’s RnB aka baby making music. That baby is going to get someone pregnant.


LGBTQ films are for the most part shite. Lesbian falls for straight woman. Straight woman realises she is gay and they open up a car mechanics together. Or teenage lesbian struggles with her sexuality, her family turn their back on her so she runs away to Portland and falls in love with a lesbian carpenter. They live happily ever after.

Anyhow like I said they are usually crap so we never watch them. Yet sometimes you just get sick of the straight romances. Big burly country man rescues difficult city girl from herself. Ugly annoying man bags hot and intelligent woman with his shit jokes.

Last night we tried Netflix. I suggested that we do something different. I decided to read the reviews of the LGBTQ films but I only managed to read one before we wet ourselves (with laughter) thus ending film night.

That is an actually review of the film, “Below Her Mouth.” Do you think the reviewer’s wife is still with him/her?


Week 22: Disaster strikes as herself gets a massage

Herself’s back is killing her plus her ankles have disappeared. Fluid retention and carrying an extra passenger has made her pretty angry with life. She needs a massage.
“The feckin’ state of me… nothing fits and everything hurts.”
“Your skin is glowing though,” I smiled which was returned with a scowl.

As I have mentioned in earlier posts, you feel pretty useless as the partner of a pregnant woman. Sure you do your best by doing all if not the majority of the domestic stuff, plus you accompany her to all her appointments if you have an understanding employer but you’ll never understand what it feels like to have another human being growing inside you. Anyhow that’s a very long way of saying I bought her a few sessions with a masseuse. She loves massages, well at least I thought she did.

“You did what?”
“I got a few sessions with John the masseuse,” sensing her ungratefulness I added, “but you love massages.”
“Have you seen the state of me or am I the only one who sees that I’m transforming into a tank?”
“You’re not a tank, you’re a very beautiful pregnant…”
“Don’t you dare patronize me.” Sometimes you never can win.
“OK, I’ll take them then. My neck is very sore from all the cooking and cleaning that I have been doing.” That fact went down like a sack of meat at a vegan summit.
“I feel like I might stab you now so it’s probably best I pay John a visit.”

Several hours later she returned from her massage. I was expecting a more relaxed partner that had forgotten her earlier murdering ideation of yours truly. I was hoping for a woman that moved with the ease and confidence of someone that just had an exotic holiday or exotic sex or both. Instead I was greeted by an even more irate woman.

“That was horrific!” I noted that her ankles had re-emerged.
“Your ankles have made an appearance, that’s great isn’t it love?”
“I still want to stab you so maybe you should go to the pub for a few hours.”
“What happened?”
“What happened is that I tried really hard to keep in a fart whilst he worked on my legs but the fart bet me.”
“It was so loud, like the dying bellows of a wildebeest.”
“Oh no.”
“And Christ the smell… it was like a gang of of the great unwashed marched out my hole right into John’s nostrils.”
“He spluttered everywhere Birdie. The shock of it made him topple over the stand with the massage oils. The oils in the jars smashed. What with the shards of glass making him bleed and the oils drenching him, he looked like a giant newborn writhing on the ground. I grabbed my vagina because for a moment I thought I’d given birth”
“I forgot that he’s bald… yeah he’d definitely pass for a baby.” That observation did not bring me closer to her, I was definitely not back in the fold.
“Jesus Birdie, I’ve no control over my body anymore never mind my arse, why the hell did you get me a massage?”
“To be nice, I guess.”
“I know you meant well but you better go to the pub now for a very long time.”
“OK,” I said whilst trying to look and sound contrite. But really I was delighted with my punishment.

Pregnant Days

Week 21: A Passive Aggressive Mummies Group

My brother needed me to look after his youngest, a seven month old boy called Bobby. I stupidly let slip that I was taking some holiday time as I had to use up the days.

“Oh that’s great, you can mind Délámhach for at least a day.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Come on, Marie needs a break from the kids.”
“That’s not my problem!”
“Listen, you need the practise… you’ll thank me. I’ll drop him by at 7am tomorrow.” And then the prick hung up. Why do older siblings always think they can get their way?

Herself agreed with my brother that it was a great idea despite my fuming.
“I wanted to sleep till 11am and watch Netflix all day.”
“I think this will be great for you and Marie really deserves some time to herself.”
“So I’ve virtually exchanged my holiday time with Marie.”
“Come on Birdie, your Délámhach’s Godmother.”
“I can’t even pronounce his bloody name,” I huffed as I kicked the couch on the way to the bedroom to sulk.

The next day Délámhach arrived with ten different bags of stuff. My brother shoved the baby in my hands and hurled the bags into the hallway.
“WTF John?”
“How many times do I have to tell you that I’m Seán now. Just keep to his schedule.” He forced paper in my hand like your uncle forced money in your hand when you were a kid when your parents weren’t looking.
“The baby is worse than Mariah Carey.” But Johnn (yeah JOHN if you’re reading this fuck you and your faux upper middle class Irishness) didn’t hear my hilarious joke as he sped away with the other two children to school.

Breakfast was a shit show, he got more yoghurt on his face then in his tummy. Then herself joined the fray and calm as you like, she fed him effortlessly.
“Who’s a good boy!” I looked at them both with contempt.
“He’s doing that on purpose, showing me up.”
“Oh come on Birdie, he’s just a baby… ain’t that right,” she turned to smile at him and he smiled back confirming to her that he is a baby.
“Can you call in sick?”
“No, I can’t! Listen Birdie you need to grow up! He’s so adorable, just go to the coffee shop with him for a little while.”

When we got to the coffee shop every other person said how gorgeous Délámhach is, which he is, he’s got dark French features that are very exotic in pale Ireland. They all thought I was the mother and I didn’t correct them. I enjoyed the fame and Délámhach to his credit played along with my ploy as he lurched for my breast on several occasions.

“Oh hungry boy,” remarked one mother, then to my horror she said, “we’re part of a Mummies group, we’re just sat over there. Come, join us.” And I fecking did too. I felt like your one from the Hand that Rocks the Cradle. After I gave them a fake name for me and Délámhach I settled into nodding, smiling and listening.

“Mummy had a fight last night with Daddy, ain’t that right Lucy?” Baby Lucy just drooled at her Mummy.
“Well this Mommy is looking into divorce solicitors, ain’t that right Harry?” Baby Harry just devoured his carrot stick like it was a piece of prey.
“Jessica, tell everyone how Daddy thinks Mum has a drinking problem because I have the audacity to make his dinner everyday and drink some wine whilst doing it.” Baby Jessica stared at me and then let out a fart.

On and on it went like that. Mothers talking through their babies about their marital and addiction issues. I just stayed mute and eventually made my excuses to leave when they sensed I had not spoken through Bobby (his fake name) yet. Is this what awaits me?