Nothing like getting up at 5am, having some coffee and attacking a pile of ironing – how very 50s housewife of me. All the things my mother tried her hardest to instil in me that I should NOT do. Well, she didn’t say I shouldn’t get up early and nor did she protest ironing, it’s the housewife bit she tried her damndest to ensure her daughter would never become. My mother, of course, is the ultimate trophy and I can see why, to this day, she gets appreciative looks from men not much older than me whenever we’re out somewhere. Beautiful (bears a strong resemblance to Priscilla Presley, well, before Presley had all that plastic surgery that made her look like Frankenstein’s wife, not Elvis’), intelligent, successful in her fulltime job that she’s had since university only with a year off each time one of her four kids came along, the sweetest and gentlest woman you’ll ever meet and has kept the huge house we all lived in gleaming clean and tidy as well as raising us all and putting a home cooked meal on the table every day.
You know when people joke in a sort of half serious way that they just don’t want to turn into their mothers. If only I had! Every single boyfriend I’ve ever had, has fancied her and I know they have all not so secretly wished I’d turn into her. My ex-husband even told me that because he thought women turn into their mothers, he first came to Sweden to inspect the genes and what he might expect me to be like when we grew older, and also told me that it was after meeting my mother he knew he’d marry me. I sort of feel a bit of glee, recalling how that hope in him died. That’s the least he deserved for not turning out to be a very nice hubby at all.
Instead, the daughter of the beauty queen has inherited more of her father’s looks, which includes his feet. I have fucking HUGE feet. B and I won’t have babies, we’re both happy with the sprogs we do have and I also have no desire to do the baby thing again now that I’m getting closer to 40, but if we did they’d have bloody paddles for feet. B has the widest feet ever, mine are the second widest and jeez, our offspring would look INSANE!
Also, the daughter of the lovely domestic goddess can’t cook to save her life. My mother is an absolute wiz in the kitchen, everything made from scratch. If she makes a pie or a quiche, she’ll make the pastry too, there are no shortcuts anywhere and she’ll openly scoff at the idea of a ready meal. Having said that, B and I cook a lot. There are a handful of dishes I can do to perfection, I just don’t have that ability my mum has, acquired from a young age observing and helping her own mother and with experience having perfected, to go into the cupboards and fridge, improvise by just knowing what works and the result being something amazing. My concoctions are usually excessive amounts of chilli and garlic, with additional ingredients such as chicken or king prawns. My dinners make B sweat every time.
The daughter of the sweet and gentle woman, with the serene smile and naturally platinum blond hair, who is so organised and plans everything meticulously, is a whirlwind of spontaneity and impulsiveness, with a big pinch of good ol’ crazy and a bit of bite. My hair is darker, a sort of sandy blonde, not curly but not quite straight, a huge mane of unruly locks that just won’t do anything I want it to. I’ve made my peace with the fact that I’ll never have sleek Hollywood tresses though and instead rock the Lion King look.
This is what B had to wake up to this morning:
I know, right? It did go through my mind when I was making the coffee for us after getting up at 5am to spend a little time as he got ready to catch an early flight to Amsterdam for work. There he was, looking every bit as hot as usual, then all handsome and sexy in his suit, and amazingly despite us getting up at 5am all fresh faced and gorgeous. I’m usually pretty happy in my skin, but this morning I did wonder what people might have thought, had anyone seen us kissing in the hallway as he was leaving. Presumably “WTF! What’s he snogging THAT thing for? Eow!”
In my defence, I didn’t bother brushing my hair after showering yesterday, just piled it into a messy knot and this is what happens if you then also sleep on it. Yep, it’s a mess. You could quite easily get lost in it, or tangled up at the very least. B did reach up to my neck as he was kissing me, his fingers sliding in through my hair. No running them through this wild hedge though – he pulled back and giggled at the Morning Troll that he gets to call his partner. Poor git.
So, to redress the (im)balance, the only thing to do when he gets back tomorrow evening is to turn myself into a 50s style pin-up, given I wouldn’t make a good 50s housewife, and pull out all the stops, including La Perla underwear, a great bottle of wine to share (OK, two), pull all the deliciously dirty tricks I can think of (shouldn’t be hard given my one-track mind) to send him to Cloud 9 and generally make sure he remembers why he is a very fortunate man. Not as lucky as me mind, but the least I can do is show him some appreciation. Appreciation that works out very well for me too.
I may have been the Lion King Troll this morning, but tomorrow evening I’ll be giving him Jessica Rabbit.