by Marian Keyes
But what 's gas is that women aren't always comfortable with Himself 's lowly status. Female journalists often ask him what he "does" and he answers proudly, "Dogsbody." And, lo and behold, when the piece comes out he is described not as my "dogsbody" or even my "colleague," but as my "manager."
What 's that all about?
While we 're on the subject, the tension created by disproportionate female success goes into overdrive when children appear. I know a couple where the woman is a hugely successful lawyer and her partner installs kitchens. Recently their baby was hospitalized and the man point-blank refused to take time off work. He actually said—can you believe this?—"I can't let my boss down." A bizarre conviction persists that sick children are the responsibility of women. Even when both partners work it 's nearly always the women who get up in the middle of the night when the children puke all over their Beatrix Potter pajamas.
Despite our best efforts, Himself and I don't have children and at this stage it doesn't look too likely that we will. But in the early halcyon days of our "trying" we entertained wild notions of having at least five. Three girls, two boys. I accepted that I would have to be the one to be pregnant for nine months—that this was one thing he couldn't do for me—but the plan was that he 'd take up the reins of child care as soon as the head was engaged.
I would return to work immediately, operating out of some farflung—or soundproofed, if the house wasn't big enough to have far-flung bits—corner of the house, while he got on with being a mum. We joked that I would appear only occasionally, when all five of my offspring would be cleaned up and presented for inspection, for me to walk among them, like Prince Charles meeting and greeting the staff at a ball-bearings factory. Now and then I would stoop graciously and inquire, "And which one of my issue are you?" When I had swanned away, one of the children would inquire plaintively, "Daddy, who was that funny lady," and he would reply, "That was your mummy. You remember, you met her that other time."
Anyway, the babies never arrived but I'm sure that no matter how soundproofed the room I would sense if my children were crying and would be unable to stop myself rushing to them. Another writer I know is in exactly that situation. She works at home and her husband takes care of the children, but she can't stop herself from interfering whenever they're in distress. Maternal instinct or control freakery? Either way it 's an issue.
So there we are. Recently a (female) journalist described Himself as "the perfect man" and it 's not because she slept with him—at least I don't think it 's that—but because he has so graciously assumed the supportive role in our setup. I can't deny that I'm deeply grateful and full of admiration for him but—and all due respect to him—women have been doing this sort of thing forever. Clearly, men who are willing to play second fiddle to their more successful female partners are still regarded as exciting novelties—and here 's the tricky bit—by women as much as men.
I know it 's still in its early days but women are never going to convince men that the situation is no big deal if they persist in metaphorically carrying men on their shoulders through the cheering streets every time they earn less than their partners and don't sulk or become impotent because of it. If we act like it 's the norm, perhaps it'll become the norm . . .
First published in The Guardian, September 2002
Season of Goodwill (and Chocolate)
Christmas comes but once a year and when it comes, it brings good cheer. Or in my case, it brings The Fear—because this year, THEY'RE COMING TO ME. Lots of them. Thirteen, in fact. Unlucky for some . . . Well, for anyone who might have to eat some thing I've cooked. I inhabit a fantasy world where there 's always a delicious, nutritious casserole simmering away on the hob, so that if anyone pops in unexpectedly I can feed them up and when they—oh so reluctantly—have to leave they get a little goody bag of my homemade rosemary focaccio to take with them. (In this fantasy I also have Nigella's hair, I'm dressed in a floaty Marni rig, I'm bare foot and sporting several groovy earth-mother toe rings on my Chanel-painted toes.)
However, reality—that old killjoy—goes like this.
a) I live on convenience foods and Vivioptal and I have to go to my mammy's every Thursday so I get one hot home-cooked meal a week.
b) I wouldn't know one end of a casserole from another.
c) The word "giblets" makes me dizzy.
d) I tried wearing a toe ring on my second toe but it managed to trap a nerve, sending shooting pains all the way up my leg and into my back.
See, we all have our gifts and cooking isn't one of mine. But it 's not just the thought of sticking my hand up inside a turkey that I dread, it 's the coordination involved in preparing a meal— having to have everything ready at the same time gives me a knot in my stomach. I stopped having dinner parties (of convenience foods and Vivioptal, of course) when I realized that even making toast and coffee stresses me—trying to boil the kettle to coincide with the toast popping out of the toaster made me anxious and uneasy.
But for Christmas dinner, I'll be expected to produce turkey, ham, roast spuds, mashed spuds, parsnips, carrots, brusslers, peas, stuffing, bread sauce, gravy—all of them to be hot and edible at the same time. It makes me want to crouch in a corner and whimper.
So I'm back again to the eternal question, the one that has plagued me all my life: How Do Other People Do It? How come they got given life 's rule book and I missed out? Where was I when God was dispensing capability and cop-on? Looking at shoes, probably.
For a while there I seemed to be getting the hang of this adult lark—I learned to drive, I got a kidney donor card—but this Christmas business has plunged me back into horribly familiar confusion.
Someone (a proper grown-up) advised me that lists were the key to coordination, and briefly that dissipated the dreadful disquiet—I like making lists and I like crossing things off when they're done. (Sometimes I make lists and include a few of the things I've already done, just so I can cross them off and get that warm glow.) But no amount of lists will teach me to cook, so I've taken the bold decision that I'm going to get absolutely everything from the turkey to the trifle pre-prepared. I know, I know, it 's lazy and extravagant and yes, I feel like a failure. (No change there.) But it 's the only option I've got if I want the thirteen of us sitting down to an edible Christmas dinner.
Which brings me to my next problem: sitting down. On what exactly? I have four kitchen chairs. Which leaves me nine short, if I've done my sums right. I have two low little pouf yokes, on which the taller guests can sit and rest their chins on the table, and there 's a stepladder which converts into a chair. It's extremely unstable in chair form (and also in stepladder form actually) but it'll have to do. The rest of us will just have to stand. Or maybe we can do it in rotas because I'm after realizing I don't have enough plates either. Dear God . . .
To my shame, it 's only now that I understand just how hard my parents worked at Christmastime. There they were, racing around a steam-filled kitchen, preparing all this delicious food, while myself and my siblings were, to a man, thrown in front of the Christmas TV shows, plowing through tins of chocolates. Having trouble imagining such a thing? Well, let me help. Think of a kindergarten. Think of the pit of brightly colored balls that the children roll around in. Well, instead of the brightly colored balls, think of chocolates.
However, let's not lose sight of what Christmas is really about, because Christmas isn't just about eating yourself sick, Christmas is about something far more important. I'm talking of course of pres ents! And this is where I come into my own. At the best of times I'm an excellent spender of money; shopping, buying nice things, running up debt—I'm second to none. But I especially love buying presents—it 's an opportunity to buy lovely things without the consequent guilt, and instead of feeling like a spendthrift, I feel like a generous, giving person.
Unlike most people (and every other area of my life) I buy my Christmas gifts MONTHS in advance. Contrary to what you might think this is not good.
a) Everyone hates me when I announce at the end of October that I've bought all my Christmas presents. Their faces go all cat 'sbum sour and someone usually says, "Well! Aren't you little Miss Organized?" and you can tell they mean it as an insult.
b) It doesn't save any time at all. The face cream that my mother said she liked, well, didn't she only go out and buy it herself in the second week of November? The green cushions I bought to go in my sister's bedroom suddenly became de trop when she spent the October bank holiday weekend redecorating and going very much for a pink theme.
c) If I've bought something particularly lovely, I hop around like someone dying to go to the loo, desperate to give it to the recipient there and then. Two years ago I buckled and did just that with a good friend, giving her her Christmas present in early November. So when she gave me my present several weeks later I didn't understand her expectant face—until she complained to my sister that I'd become very stingy all of a sudden. She 'd forgotten and it nearly ruined our friendship.
So when you're racing around the shops at four-thirty on Christmas Eve, you're probably just as well off.
Happy Christmas!
First published in the RTE Guide, December 2002
BUT SERIOUSLY
In my first volume of essays entitled Under the Duvet, I wrote an account of my alcoholism, up to the point where I stopped drinking. But so many people contacted me, wanting to know what happened next, how I came to start writing, etc., that I decided to write the next installment. Then I began to worry about those readers who didn't know my drinking story—what kind of sense would my recovery make to them? So, to cover all bases, I've written the whole thing in its entirety. My apologies to those who already know all about my adventures on the sauce—just skip it and get to the "what happened next" bit.
Beyond My Wildest Dreams
For as far back as I can remember there was always something wrong. Despite being brought up in an ordinary, loving, middle-class family, all my life I sensed I was missing a piece of myself. It knocked me off balance; I was forever out of step with the rest of the world and I never felt "normal." Instead I watched other people being effortlessly "normal" and tried to copy them, like a foreigner blending in by aping local customs.
The eldest of five, I was a skinny little girl, who was constantly anxious and terrified of just about everything—dogs, boys, being late for school, having to play rounders, having my photo taken (I hated myself, I thought I was the ugliest thing on the planet). Most painful of all was my desperation to be liked— I was an emotional shape-shifter with no sense of self and my unspoken offer to everyone was: tell me who you want me to be and I will be it. Not that such magnanimity worked; frantic though I was to have a best friend, I always seemed to be a grim hanger-on in a triangle with two other girls who were proper friends.
People often ask if something had "happened" to me. But noth ing did—I think I was born this way. Which is to say I think I was born alcoholic. An alcoholic-in-waiting.
So when, in my teens, I had my first drink, the world shifted on its axis and I fell in love. Giddy, soaring with relief, I loved the way alcohol made me feel, and suddenly I felt how I thought everyone else felt all of the time. Now I get it, I thought. This is the missing piece of me, my savior.
Although it took some years before I became physically addicted, emotionally I was in thrall from the word go, and throughout the rest of my teens I drank whenever I could. Mind you, it wasn't often—funds didn't run to it—but when I did drink, I drank to get drunk. Chasing oblivion, trying to escape myself—I thought that was what everyone did.
Right from the start, I was waking up with razor blades of dread in my stomach, dying at the memory of something I'd said or done the night before, praying it was only a dream. Shame-faced morning-after phone calls became a feature of my life, a feature that would continue for sixteen years.
But despite all that, I was a conscientious student (too much of a scaredy-cat not to be) and when I left school I went to university and got a law degree. Something I should have been proud of, but I wasn't; as soon as something was associated with me, it became tainted, and when everyone else in my class went off to become high-powered lawyers, I showed what a free spirit I was by going to London and becoming a waitress.
Bizarre? Certainly. The act of a person with no self-esteem? Without a doubt. But this was Ireland in the mid-eighties, concepts such as "self-esteem" hadn't yet been invented.
Eventually I ended up getting a job in a small accounts office, where I radiated resentment for every second of the eight years I was there. Part of my job description was to give out petty cash, and I behaved as if it was my own money I was giving away. Clearly I wasn't fulfilled, but where a normal person would just go and get another job, when it came to doing good things for myself, I was paralyzed.
Besides, I wasn't interested in a career. (So I told myself. I told myself this a lot, especially when my flatmates got pay raises and promotions.) I was interested in Having a Good Time. And for a long time it was a lot of fun; I was in London, I was young, free, and single, there were bars and clubs and parties, there was always someone up for a Good Time and alcohol was a punctuation point to every aspect of my life. Sorrows to drown? Have a drink! Celebrating? Have a drink! Neighbor's dog has died? Have a drink!
All social events were simply excuses to facilitate drinking. There are many, many plays whose second half I haven't seen; I'd get someone in a headlock at the interval and persuade them that it would be much more fun just to stay at the bar.
I drank fast. But so did everyone else. Like most alcoholics, I'd tried (subconsciously) to surround myself with people who drank as much as I did, so that my drinking wouldn't stand out. In the name of Having a Good Time, there were many nights when I couldn't remember how I'd got home, I'd started waking up covered with unidentifiable bruises (or men), frequently I was too sick to go to work, but I honestly thought that was how it was for everyone.
All the boxes in my life were ticked: I had flatmates, gym membership, a hair serum obsession, food issues, boyfriends. Okay, so my relationships never worked out. But wasn't that all part of it too? Nights in with my flatmates, drinking Chardonnay, bemoaning the crapness of men.
However, around my late twenties, things started to go very wrong. My behavior when drunk had started to become ever more extreme and unpredictable; I'd be aggressive or maudlin or in dancing-on-tables, drink-spilling high spirits. I could never tell in advance who I was going to be, but they were all horrible people I didn't recognize.
"I'm sorry" became my most overused phrase and most Monday mornings began with me making fervent promises to my flatmates and my friends and my colleagues and, most of all, myself that I'd never drink again. This was it: no more drinking. I'd start going to the gym again, eating healthily, maybe even do a night class in something. But sooner or later—and it started to become sooner and sooner—I'd cave in and have a drink and then I was back on the merry-go-round. Once I started I couldn't stop. And once I stopped, I couldn't stay stopped.
Around then the people I had partied with for years began to behave strangely—starting to get married, buy new couches, have children; in short, settling down. Everything was changing and it frightened me—especially as they'd begun to use the word "alcoholic" about me. Defensively, I bristled that just because I hadn't bought a new couch didn't give them any right to call me an alcoholic. And I really didn't think I was: denial is a massive component of the condition, always one step ahead of me, obscuring the truth, growing as the disease grew, always slightly bigger.
I simply didn't think it was possible for a young woman in her twenties, with a job and a flat and nice shoes, to be an alcoholic. Alcoholics were other people, marginalized people, who had involuntary dreadlocks and shouted at invisible enemies in the street.
But when my friends continued to insist that I was an alcoholic
and that I needed help, I cut off contact. I stopped going out and began to drink on
my own where there was no one to judge me, and thus began my final descent into full-blown alcoholism. Every weekend, I drank around the clock, even waking in the middle of the night to drink. But weekends were starting on Thursday or even Wednesday and spilling over into Monday and Tuesday; I had become—although I wouldn't have known the phrase—a binge drinker.
More and more I was sick and missing work, I'd all but stopped eating and washing myself. I would wake up in the half-light, not knowing if it was dawn or dusk, and thoughts of suicide surrounded me like wraiths. Wretched with depression and paranoia, the world was a hostile place and I hated leaving my flat because I felt everyone in the street was staring at me. (Which, in fairness, they probably were. I wasn't big on personal grooming at the time.)
At this stage I was down to one flatmate and she 'd stopped coming home, too afraid of the state she 'd find me in. Occasionally I rang my sister in New York, slurring that I was going to kill myself. Self-centered beyond belief, I was prepared to lose everything, I'd hitched my star to alcohol, my best friend, my lover, and I would go wherever it took me.
