Sorry it’s been awhile.
I have neglected my blog as the majority of my time recently has been sifting through other blogs.
Other blogs with endless pictures of bunting and jam jars. Other blogs that gush over country manors and stationary. Other blogs that over use phrases like “Vintage feel” and “DIY Vibe” (which incidentally both sound like Dulux colours).
Blogs all about THE PERFECT DAY.
Yep. Wedding blogs.
I’m getting married. This is happening.
For a woman who has lost every pair of gloves she has ever owned AND thinks Shreddies are an entirely acceptable evening meal, this is quite something.
I’m going to be someone’s wife…Mrs…ball and chain…lobster.
Wife. Blimey. Wife sounds awfully serious. Probably because, well it actually it is isn’t it.
I suppose when I was younger I envisioned the kind of woman I’d be by the time I became someone’s wife.
I’d wear pencil skirts and carry folders. I’d have Laura Ashley curtains and a matching three piece suite. My ponytail would swish. I would be able to wear high heels all the time. Really well. Even on gravel!
I’d be able to cook. I’d be able to cook whilst on the phone and reading a novel. A proper novel as well, not ones specifically aimed at women with cartoon cupcakes and glittery skyscrapers on the cover. I’d be reading Virgina Woolf whilst negotiating a cracking quiche. I’d eat quiches! And not just at Christenings.
I imagined I’d grow up into a sort of…Goddess. Ideally an exquisite cross between Melanie Griffiths in Working Girl and Michelle Pfeiffer in Grease 2.
Essentially what I’m saying is I imagined I’d have all my shit beautifully together. Wrapped up with a John Lewis ribbon. Perfect.
My shit is together. Just about. Wrapped like a over enthusiastic child, with sequins, straws, lollipop sticks and saliva.
I guess I don’t think you would look at me and necessarily think, wife. I think most people look at me and think, student. Which is probably how I would describe myself. The perennial student.
There are elements of the student lifestyle in a stand ups. An aversion to mornings and evenings spent predominately with drunk people. A late night Dominos diet and a penchant for zip up hoodies. I reckon to be comedian is to always be a student. Stand up is a job where you are constantly learning. Every gig, good or bad is a learning experience and the longer you do it the better you become. Good comedians evolve with time. They are constantly re-writing, they push themselves to be better than they are, they keep moving. The stand ups that I don’t admire are the ones that have stopped being the student, the ones that are standing still, that stay put in their comfort zone. Stand ups are like sharks (sharks with blazers and natty trousers), if we stop moving we DIE.
You never stop being a student to the craft. Yes, I think it’s a craft and any person that calls themselves a comedian and doesn’t think it’s a craft, shouldn’t be doing it.
I worry whether you can be a good comedian and a good wife. Selfishness and self obsessionn are common traits in the profession. Crippling anxiety and low self esteem is another. There have been times, after a dreadful gig where I’ve needed to be given constant reassurance and affirmation by my partner. Like a teenager on their first drug come down, “tell me I’m a good person! TELL ME I’M A GOOD PERSON!” But pleading “Tell me I’m a good comedian. TELL ME!”
I worry about having kids and whether I can put them before my career. Although I’m guessing bad gigs won’t be so bad. Once you’ve suffered the pure agonising pain of child birth, being stared at by a hundred people in County Durham probably means fuck all.
The lifestyle is a pretty odd one. Sometimes there will be days where I don’t see my fella. That would make any bloke jealous. Although unlike my male counterparts, I rarely get hit on and when I do it tends to by men I wouldn’t share a bag of Revels with let alone a bed.
I am really looking forward to actually being married. I bet it will feel all lovely and warm like holding a thermos on a cold day but all the time.
I can’t wait to call my fella, my husband. Although I know it’s gonna take me ages to not do a ‘carry on’ film gurn every time I introduce him as my husband to people. “This is Lee…MY HUSBAND!” *Does Barbara Windsor oooerrr whilst slapping a thigh*.
Like most women I’ve imagined what my wedding would be like since I was child. Then again I’ve also imagined what winning an Oscar would be like since I was a child. To a nineteen year old me, both would be as inconceivable as the other. (surely this means an Oscar is well in the post!) There is so much emphasize on the Bride and how will the Bride look. I wanna look like me. I get how women want to look the best they’ve ever looked on their wedding day. It’s one of the only days in most womens life where all the attention is focussed on them. I’m a stand up. I get plenty of attention. I’m good.
Also I don’t want to look like a photoshopped version of me. I don’t want to get married not looking like I could look like any other day if I chose to. Because then he wouldn’t be marrying me. He might as well be marrying a magazine cover. Somebody perfect.
The perfect day. The Wedding day.
So much pressure put on one day. No other day in your life will be as commented on or talked about. You talk about it for months. I’ve had countless conversations already about dresses and flowers. Colour schemes and themes. My fella is colour blind. Whatever colour my bouquet is, it will most likely look to him like I’m holding a puddle. A very nice puddle.
The day itself already feels like such an all consuming big event at the moment. Really the wedding itself will be a small thing. Just a day. It’s the marriage itself that is the huge and hopefully long event.
Yet I’m drowning in lists and details.
Venues and seat covers. I chuffing HATE seat covers. If I wanted to dress a chair up I’d dress it as something cool, like a robot or an owl. Seat covers look like shit ghosts in formal wear.
At the moment my brain feels like a very messy pininterest board filled with pictures of buttonholes, cakes and favours. Wedding favours. I genuinely have no idea why wedding favours exist. As if a bag of almonds is really going to express my gratitude to that friend or family member. I’m going to express my love for you the traditional Mulgrew way. By moshing and flinging my arms around you whilst dancing and singing loudly along to power ballads during the disco.
I do wonder why people do spend so much money on weddings. Perhaps once the planning starts it’s easy to get carried away, if you get that thing you need that thing. Everything escalates and you feel like your on a a tulle covered runaway train. I’ve seen weddings where no expense is spared. It just feels to me like the old fashioned notion of a dowry never went away. But instead of your future groom receiving a bag of guineas, he gets a pink ribboned Rolls Royce for the day and a gourmet buffet.
I don’t want to feel like I’m being raffled off in exchange for marbled floors and ornate lighting fixtures.
At the end of the wedding day it’s about me and my bloke.
Because It’s just a day. And it definitely won’t be perfect because I’m not a perfect woman.
But it will be brilliant.