I’ve been thinking a lot about my funeral lately. Not in an “oh shit, Jo’s off her meds” kind of way, but more in a chances are I’ll die of a cardiac event kind of way (I am feeling my body’s mortality so much more since I fucked up my knee last year) and so I really really hope one of the speakers (because of course there will be many speakers, what else is the point in dying?) will say “Jo had an enormous heart”. And then people will tut tut, especially those who actually hate fat people (except for maybe I’m tolerable as comic relief), and maybe that speaker or maybe another speaker who is in on the joke will speak about my tremendous appetite for life. And y’all who read here on Hubris will snigger, and perhaps you would have even quoted this post. It’s always good to plan in advance.
Because of course I plan my funeral. I’ve become the girl who takes a whole goddamn chillybin to a friend’s house for casual drinks because Lorde forbid they fail to have enough ice and lemons to make a G&T properly. And I’m the girl who contemplates leaving straight away when someone has drinks at a noisy bar and fails to book a table in advance. There’s a word for people like me and maybe it’s “anal”. Or maybe it’s “goddamnit i’m old as shit and I know what I like now and why should I settle?”. See also: single af.
I’m in high spirits but I’m in a strange mood because in the past 27 hours I have watched eight and a half episodes of The Man in the High Castle and today with Karen and Bad Tom all ten episodes of season six of Game of Thrones. Yes if you do your maths correctly that’s 18.5 hours. I didn’t sleep much because I got so hooked on MHC I had to keep watching. Yes, they need to learn to show not tell a whoooole lot better (in the episode called ‘The New Normal’, for example, at least three characters say “I guess this is normal from now on” or the slightest variations on that theme), but the whole premise – `1962 in America but if the Nazis had won WWII – is so….well…. current. Maybe it wasn’t in 1962 when the book was written, or in 2015 when the show was made, but in 2017, well hot dog, we have a weiner.
Plus it’s much more engaging to think about then recanting my woes about the guy I hired to paint my bathroom. I checked with him twice about it being Easter, and to make sure that he meant it when he said he’d start on Thursday and then finish on Friday, both via Builders’ Crack and then on the phone. He assured me that was what he meant, and that he’d take his holiday on Monday. Thursday night when I dragged home workmates for more wine and pizza and hand jobs (of the Mary Kay hand treatment kind) my house was a mess of dust and sandings and paint, which I expected, and poor plastering which I did not. On Friday there was no sign of him. When I rang, he told me it was a public holiday and he’d be in on Saturday. There was no sign of him on Saturday either, until I rang him at 11am and he said he was just leaving now. He showed up at 12.45pm, and surprise surprise, did not finish the job. I don’t get to have a shower until tomorrow. He won’t be finishing until Tuesday, and honestly I’m pretty skeptical of him getting it done properly then, looking at all the dribbles and misplaced bits and pieces. You can’t fuck around with Kenepuru and St Clair as a combination (or whatever colour he actually bought which I’m not entirely certain is what I asked for but I do accept it would look different to what I picked out on my phone screen. I love it anyway).
But dearie dearie me, how goddamn BOURGEOISIE do I sound? SO fucking dreary. Sorry. I dream about home improvement and I watch television. Remember the Joanna in the olden days with impromptu Easter orgies or wacky hijinks with flatmates? She has two elderly cats to take care of. And the television is just too good. Oh but 19 year old me would be real proud to know that last night I was naked and wet at my favourite tutor who I had a crush on’s house. I mean sure, he taught me politics 17 years ago, and he wasn’t there, and it was perfectly innocent, me having a shower at my friend’s house (whose partner is his brother, and they live in his flat) since mine had been painted and was out of action, but still, give me that moment. Thank you.