It's a date!

So I can‘t tell you about the fabulous time I had this past weekend because there isn’t anything exciting to tell. We’re a bit strapped after our day out in Chester so on our day off we just hung around town watching the Liverpool Marathon. Watching a marathon really enforces my whole “exercise is lame” policy. We were sitting in a nice warm pub having a nice cold beer watching people on mile 13 looking positively miserable. Not to mention it was raining adding to the misery. I mean, good for them, running when you’re not being chased is admirable. I just prefer my policy instead. What’s great about my policy is that the only wall I hit was the one by the bathroom where I lost my footing*.

You know what looks more fun than this?  Drinking beer.

What I can tell you about is that I’ve got a date. Actually, I have two dates! If you all might remember, I was moaning a few months back about not being able to find any friends here. Just like it is when you’re single, the moment I stopped trying so damn hard is when something came about. Has there been a scientific study done about that? -because there should be. I’m sure for the last 8 months I was sending out pheromones or catacombs or Ramones or something like that that made me positively repellent to people.

Truthfully, I’ve been going to that Sing and Rhyme playgroup session at the Children’s Center every Thursday for the last three months. I tell myself that I do it for Henry but that’s a fucking lie. I just can’t get enough of the “I know a teddy bear, with blue eyes and curly hair” song. I also quite enjoy talking to people who have also made this spur of the moment decision to spawn and therefore are forever living with that late night drunken choice. I’ve gone to the playgroup session enough where I know at least a third of the babies in the session by name. Following the rules of British small talk, getting the names of the mothers of the said babies has been as rare as an albino giraffe. It’s all “what’s your baby’s name?” “how old is he\she?” “is he\she sleeping through the night?”. It’s never, “what do you do for a living?” or “what music do you like?” I know you non-breeders are rolling your eyes right now but sometimes my most meaningful conversation during a day is, “Henry, do you have a stinky diaper?” Henry: “mmma..pppph…mmma” and so I take what I can get.

I don’t know what suddenly changed but in the last two sessions I’ve talked to women who not only told me their names but have also invited me out. One outing is for coffee next Tuesday and another one is an invite to “come round for a cuppa” tomorrow. I’m nervous and I’m excited – which is stupid really. I don’t want to sleep with these women. I just want to find a friend that I can invite out for a pint where we can giggle about how big our husband’s penises are. That’s what girls do, right? If not, I really should stop carrying that ruler in my purse.

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On a completely unrelated note (hence the clever use of a line), if you haven’t already, check out Vegemite Wife’s post about my usage of the word “snarky”. There’s a bit of a discussion going on about it in the comments. Make sure to post a comment regarding the fact that Americans would never publicly be that cruel and even if we were to call you a ‘fucking asshole’ that we would mean it in the kindest possible way. Seriously though, snarky = good.

*I would like to take a moment to tell you that losing my footing is not code for “I was hammered”. I actually lose my footing quite often, sober, on flat pavement. I walk like a duck. Ducks sometimes stumble. Ducks sometimes stumble when they are 9 months pregnant carrying a full container of Indian food across a walkway in view of a busy restaurant on a Friday night sending the ducks big pregnancy top over their heads showing off their spandex pregnancy pants. Stupid ducks.