How to be a Nancy- Girl.

Dear Lacksy,

In response to your previous letter: 

I think you are being a bit sensitive. Sensy. A bit of a flower. Wo-man up woman! Put on your marmalade overalls and sharpie on some chest hair. It's time you learnt the harsh realities of life and gave birth to a six pack of beer. It's time you learnt some lessons from my new friend Nancy. 

Last night I put on my hardcore- hatty- hat and went to the local pub in Nerandurra. It was called “Top Pub” and to be fair, it was rather tops.

 Top Pub has all the elements necessary to make it tops. Locals, neon signs, 90's trance music, unsubtle use of faux wood veneer, male strippers and toothless guys who slur their words and rig the meat raffle. The end of the bar was propped up by an 86 year old named “Nancy”. Nancy is a bit of a legend. She nursed her stubby of VB for longer than the Three Hundred and Thirty Five years war, and when she stands up straight she comes up to the mighty boobs of the hefty, yet friendly bar lady who fetched me my urban organic cold pressed ladies cider. Nancy is a fire cracker. Nancy doesn't care about things. Nancy couldn't give a bats balls about cirrhosis of the liver, eating organic sausages and wants her cup-of-cino with extra fucking foam and a manly spoon to eat it with as it precariously wabbles it from cup to mouth as she gives the waitress a death stare. Nancy is defiant and firm in her beliefs that the 90's trance music is a pile of “doof doof” shit and has no qualms in letting the hefty pub owner know exactly what she thinks of the pile of the musical dog pooh.

Although I'm only making assumptions Nancy has most likely endured the death of a spouse, possibly a child, one vital organ failing and beaten back into submission, crippling, agonising arthritis, she has lived through a depression, the boom and bust of a country town and the close of a bank. As the Nancy's of this country are ushered into an ambulance with their 3rd broken hip and the ambulance attendant asks if they've taken any pain medication they politely say “fuckoff with your namby drugs for shilly shally girls please”. Nancy no longer cares if people think she's fool, because she knows she rocks.

So what I'm trying to say in response to your panic Lacksy is: my commiserations. Everyone knows that there are few things worse than feeling like a a bit of an mindless fool...well maybe just the Ebola virus, AIDS, world hunger, climate change and forgetting your mums birthday even though she gave you written notice and a follow up phone call reminding you it was yesterday, dying young, being drowned by a clown, being scratched by a bat, genocide, politicians and being bitten by a bull ant. Soooo....really? No biggie. Get over it you Willy.

If only I had a time machine..

Dear Self,

Could you please suggest some survival techniques to my past, less enlightened self, for those moments when you wish your grandmothers lovely broach (which is carefully pinned to your favourite- “awesome cardi”) is a MI6 style grenade, and you could just explode yourself into a parallel universe. A lovely, happier universe where you are more successful and you were bought up to think before you speak, rather than endure the uncomfortable silence which ensues after you commit a terrible, terrible faux pas and there appear to be more awkward turtles than at the “Convention for turtles with Social Disorders”.

Recently a “friend” of mine (obvi, it's me) overstepped that delightful threshold of human decorum, left polite converse in the lavvy and made a titting tit of herself...or himself...since it wasn't me (it was). There was silence and then a glorious symphony of unsympathetic crickets. Then came the fall out of judgemental “wows”, accompanied by a chorus of horrified stares.

An already awkward situation went from bad to worse when one of my superiors proceeded to make a rather emotional speech farewelling a colleague, there were tears involved. Fortunately this temporarily distracted my peers, which would have been the perfect opportunity to flee leaving people wondering whether or not they'd imagined the whole thing, but unfortunately I was basically locked in the centre of the group.  It was such a heightened, emotional speech in such contrast to my afore mentioned faux pas, which only served to make me look even more insensitive, so people put back on their judgement pants and started doing a little judgement barn dance around me, while I stared blankly into space with the thousand mile stare of a serial killer who listens to Bon Jovi. 

If only I had an overactive sympathetic nervous system! One that was capable of blushing like a hot cartoon rabbit, or someone with a mild to intermediate level of rosacea. At least then people would think I had a conscience!! Oh the luck of those bloody blushers! The moment their rosy cheeks light up people instantly feel sorry for them. It just makes me want to punch them.

“Ooooh look at that poor blusher, how rosy and beautiful their cheeks are! They could be in an ad for the kilts and other Scottish things. They obviously feel remorseful for their embarrassing behaviour...OBVIOUSLY!.”

Instead I was struck dumb, standing there in stony silence, people gawking, mouths agape, as if I'd just shouted at a funeral “I've committed carnal sins with a monkey and that monkey was your mother!”

Anyway....present self, please advise past self what I should have done in such a situation.  I feel like an island, alone with my shame. I have resorted to a steady diet of croissants and wont stop until this veil of embarrassment is lifted. That and croissants are especially delicious. Especially every variety.

Sincerely,

Lacksadaisy.

P.S

Could you also tell past self not to drink the cheap champagne. X

Dear Self,

I'll think about it and get back to you.

L x