The Reluctant Housewife or Dorothy Parker Ate My Puppy

"When I got married, I said to my therapist, 'I want to do something creative.' He said, 'Why don't you have a baby?' I hope he's dead now." Joy Behar

Saturday, September 03, 2005

I Feel Like Dancing...

...all night long. Sometimes I emerge from my cyclical depressions and want to cram everything I've missed into the weeks before it strikes again. I want to get extraordinarily drunk on cheap champagne cocktails, flirt over dinner with an old friend who knows me well (but not well enough to have seen the dark side), then go dancing at a hot, dingy, sweaty salsa club until my feet can hardly hold me up.

I asked husband to come out with me, but he is reluctant. Suddenly the Reluctant Housewife is married to the Reluctant Husband.

I think back to the last time I had a night of unbridalled (unerotic) joy. It was the week before my brother went to Iraq for the second time, and there was a party to see see off the regiment.
Here you can see Brother and I before the evening descended into drunkeness.

I danced barefoot, high on (expensive) champagne. I danced on my own and with people I hardly knew, before collapsing in a strange room. Husband slept on the floor of my brother's room as I'd locked the door of mine, in a fit of anxiety regarding the potential threat of hundreds of drunked, testosterone fuelled soldiers just outside my door.

I slept like a child and woke in the morning wearing a balldress, coat, Jimmy Choos and a scratchy wool scarf around my neck. The room was freezing and I felt alive.

Whilst I'm in my right mind, I may as well remind myself of some things I'd like to do before I die:

Go to Burning Man

Scuba Dive in the Red Sea

Own a two carat diamond (I'm allowed to be shallow, thank you)

Own my own house, with roses around the door, cream painted furniture and bare floorboards that creak at night.

Be on the cover of Vogue. This one definitely comes under the heading of Unobtainable Fantasies.

Write a bestseller

Things I'd like to NOT do:

Kill myself. Sometimes this like it should be in the above column. All I can do is keep fighting.

Be homeless.

Things I'd like to change about Husband:

I'd quite like him to be a little more rugged, a little less metrosexual, a little more forceful. I like it when he gets angry or scary. But I'm the shouter and he's the repressed thinker.

Mmm. I really want to go dancing, but I've invited Henry & Annabel over for a roast chicken dinner. Was I on crack? Annabel is fastidious about cleanliness, and my kitchen looks like the aftermath of a grease related disaster. Fuck. I'm going to have to employ the Cilit Bang.