The Mrs, The Mr, The Munchkin

So, I spoke to the Mrs last night. She proudly informed me that she had performed her first injection on a real-life patient that day. I was very impressed. “Where did you do it?” I wondered. “In the bum,” she replied. Even more impressed, lol. The patient didn't even feel a thing. “How are you?” she asked. “Fine,” I answered, incredibly convincingly. “Er…I’ve been reading some of your blogs. Why do you hate yourself so much?!” Oh pants, I forgot that I’ve put how I really feel on the world wide web and that I can’t really pretend otherwise to my best friend who actually reads it. We had a chat and I explained that I was feeling odd, that on the one hand I am sort of okay, but on the other I feel terribly discontent and that it’s a weird struggle between the two. I updated her with the few things she didn’t know about and she cussed those involved in my defence, chastised me for some silly decisions, made me laugh with her wonderful logic and then told me what was going on with her. I gave her some blindingly obvious advice, which she found very amusing and laughed about for some time.

Later on, her Boy came and joined in the conversation, uninvited, but an amusing addition to the proceedings nevertheless. When he seemed to have become a little bit subdued, the Mrs asked him to say something funny and he attempted to, by reeling off a number of not-very-funny-but funny-because-of-how-he-told-them “A person walks in to a bar…” jokes. After a while, the Mrs kept trying to get him to butt out of the conversation by saying, “OK, you’re tired, go to sleep now. Goodnight.” which was cracking me up, partly because it was completely ineffective. Randomly, I started being teased for being a munchkin, although the words pixie and elf were also used, and the Mrs relayed exaggerated stories of how she often nearly loses me in crowds and how I had once tried to start a fight with a girl on Oxford Street when I was with the Mrs, who in her best friend loyalty had said, “Just because I’m taller than you, don’t think I’m going to back you up if you start a fight with some random girl.” Good to know where I stand with that one. In truth, the girl had barged passed me and I had screwed my face up, which she hadn’t even seen, because she had already barged passed me! It’s all right anyway, I can hold my own in a fight, I would obviously just disappear unseen into the crowd, or perhaps slip down into a drain, seeing as I’m so tiny and all. They then informed me that if I made my face orange, like is the trend with most of the girls in their area, that I could really look like a munchkin (or maybe they meant oompa loompa). “She’s already orange,” the Mrs helpfully explained. “No she’s not, she’s just tanned,” said the Boy. “I’m beige, thank you very much,” I clarified, but neither seemed to be listening. In any case, the Mrs is being pale and proud and not conforming to the fake-tan gang that dominate their part of Essex (yes, it sounds awfully stereotypical, but apparently it’s also awfully true).

After the heightist and racialist abuse (lol), laughing at silly bar jokes, being told about their weekend adventures at the pub and me feeling amusingly like I was intruding again, I felt royally cheered up, so we decided to say our goodbyes and get to bed. I wouldn’t normally count being insulted as one of my favourite ways to spend an evening, but if I’m going to be ridiculed about my height, there’s no-one else I’d rather have doing it. :o)