…hi

Hi blog.

I’ve been gone for a while now, and I’ve had time to think. I miss you but…

We have to draw a line under the past. There are some things that you are going to have to let go of. You put the pressure on and look what happened: I bolted.

You have to remember that I control you. This is not about you. You have to stop showing off and trying to grab attention. Sometimes I feel like you’re ignoring me and that’s just not right.

But I’m here again now. And I’m prepared to give it another go if you are. But let’s take it slow, ok?

Weeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!

Weeeee! drunk blogging! weeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!

I’m not here alone, i swear.

Announcement:

Ill again, regular service will resume tomorrow.

Can the busy-ness finally end?

Please? I’ve had enough, I really have. It was great having my one and only sibling visit this weekend but I’m ready for a rest now.

My brother, over-taxed himself, thankfully wanted little more than some burgers, beer and boardgames. I bullied him relentlessly and he tried to trick us into adopting new phrases that would make us sound moronic. Or he may just be a moron, it’s a tough one to call.

I feel I owe my partner something. A combination of tiredness, stress and hormonal imbalance has left me in tears three times in the last week. That’s my usual quota for the whole year. I’m now suffering dehydration and have sore patches under my eyes. He is confused as I haven’t been distraught about anything, just a bit full of stuff that overflowed and left my body in the form of mucas. I’m considering bringing back the rest cure, though I’m pretty sure I tried that in uni when I inexplicably caught man-flu.

I feel my distress is unfounded, but in the last three weeks I have visited my in-laws, hosted 2 sets of guests, been to the cinema three times, been drunk twice, prepared for house inspection and been terrorised by a cat who won’t let me sleep. And worked full time, including work-based stress. So I think I should cut myself some slack, rather than just use it as an excuse to eat more pies.

Not doing things for a bit may mean less to write about but I’m sure there will be plenty to fuel my snarky flames, like TV movies, arsey colleagues and general observations. Observation is the key to good writing after all.

Day of Doom

We were lead to believe it was a Day of Doom today, as the powers-that-pay (our saleries) would be visiting and inspecting our work. I went first (as I am certain I have spent my entire life doing) which I did not mind as it gave me an excuse to leave and miss the rest of the six hour meeting (but still have buffet lunch. Why so many parentheses today?)

What did bug me was Hated Colleague #1 pointing out a stylistic technicality when he didn’t have to. Why is it that no matter what the situation, whatever group you may be in, there is always one person that inexplicably deserves to be hated? I hate this man. Or rather I have an intolerance to him, very similar to a food intolerance in that if I get close to him he makes me feel sick and gives me a slight headache. I used to sit next to him but I’m so glad he was moved…

Enough of my irrational hatred: the other meaning of the title is a reference to the film Doomsday. If you can picture two guys sitting in a beer garden, somewhat anti-sober, having this conversation:

Dude A: oh man, what if, what if you like Robin Hood, bear with me on this, Robin Hood, versus Mad Max?

Dude B: But why would it be all Robin Hood-y, cos it would be, like, the future?

Dude A: Cos every one else died, and they all went crazy. We could totally make this into a movie.

Dude B: Yeah, with a hot chick who kills Everybody.

And that’s all you need to know about Doomsday.

And so back to my irrational hatred (because I love to express that) and generous use of parentheses (because I always have another layer of thought there for some reason). Last night BFF took me shopping so we could express some female stereotypes (the origin of the word ‘stereotype’ is facinating by the way) and I was in dire need of a bra. I have rage against bras, usually because they are poorly made and don’t do what they are supposed to, so I can only get them from department stores. Cheap bras are the devil, as they rub causing sores and don’t do anything to keep the boobs where they should be. In considering whether I would giving wearing them I remember an episode of 1900 House, where a family lived as Victorians. The mother of the family said that although she was not obliged to wear the corsets provided, if she didn’t she couldn’t get any of the other clothes on. I have that problem – clothes are designed for bra-wearers. And small breast owners, which I am not. Also if I had to run for the bus I’d probably take someone’s eye out.

So large breasts are difficult to take care of, but at least they make me look slim. Debenhams, on the other hand, were being absolute arseholes in order to try and saving their ailing store. Their ‘spectacular’ is spectacularly annoying, as the aisles are jammed with discount crap, the floors are littered with discount crap, most of the changing rooms were closed, there was no bra fitting service, and most of the till points had been abandoned by the time I came to pay. It’s like they were trying to compete with Primark by making themselves look like Primark! And it was shit (damnit, I didn’t really want to start swearing in my blog, but what’s the point of being so pretentious if no one knows who I am anyway) because a) people only go to Primark for uber-cheapness, which even at sale time Debenhams still doesn’t have, and b) if I had wanted to go to Primark there was one just down the street I could have easily reached. RAGE. A doom on both your department stores: I shall get my boulder-holders online.

And minor doom to giant 5 storey Waterstones for not having Zelda Fitzgerald’s Save me the Waltz but stocking all of Thomas Suckfest Hardy’s back catalogue. Although it did amuse me to consider the helpful staff member’s reaction to hearing apparently well-read women criticising literature using terms like ‘suckfest’.

God baiting

Excuse me for being groggy. I got 5 hours sleep for the second night in a row. The cat is now in the bin. The coffee is half drunk, so fluency should improve during discourse.

I usually wait til after lunch to make my post, giving me time to consider what I might discuss, but today I know what to talk about. I also need a writing warm-up while the coffee finds its way to my veins, which I imagine are something like cable insulation tubing. Combined with my nutritious breakfast of supermarket sushi and kettle chips I’m well on my way to my five a day.

Last night I took part in a pagan ritual with BMF (best male friend, in case any person ever starts reading this. The people I expect to talk about most are him, Best Female Friend, Partner, housefolks, and possibly colleagues and boss). BMF is passionate about his religion, and I am always pleased when he shares this with me. I have taken part in group rituals he’s lead before which have involved a guided meditation to call up the guardian spirits of the elements and the sharing of bread and wine (consecrated bread tastes so much better for some reason) but this was the first time we’d done it by ourselves and at my house.

We chanted to invoke the god Hermes. Chanting something over and over, particularly with at least one other person, puts you in a weird state. I felt blissful, was swaying quite a bit, felt uninhibited. I also felt I couldn’t look up, not that I was afraid to, but that I couldn’t comprehend how much I didn’t deserve to. It was like the top half of the room wasn’t there anymore. I focused on channeling my energy into the offering plate, bowing lower towards it over time as if I was deflating. BMF said after that he could almost see the energy I was pouring out – like the ghost of sand falling from my fingertips. It was exciting.

The purpose of the ritual was to clear communication pathways in my brain and gain clarity of thought. I have long felt that my thoughts were too flitty, I would catch a glimpse of something I’d want to think about but the slightest tap of distraction would dislodge it again and it was back in the cloud. I spend a lot of time wondering where my thoughts have gone (probably early onset alzheimers). I am hoping it will give me the ability to focus properly and develop my creative skills. I have the maturity to know that a carefully considered composition is so much more deep and meaningful than a spontaneous outburst, but I don’t have the confidence to trust myself to work on a big project. I keep saying I should read a lot more first for the experience but it is secondary experience – it is both vital and an excuse.

I also had my cards read. I am about to undergo a major internal change, and must maintain my confidence when people try to knock it because I do have the inner strength to overcome, I just don’t credit myself with having it. Some of the other housefolk had readings but I have not asked them about it yet.

Divided attention and personal beliefs

I now think people who find it hard to pay attention may be paying attention to too many things. I have neglected my blog for one day too many as I was focused on work. I have probably been neglecting BFF and to a lesser degree Partner as BMF has been in staying for the last few days. It has been an enjoyable weekend though, full of vegetarian fair and though provoking nattering.

One thing, that I was having a proto-thought of before, that I think may help me would be to consider and write down things I believe. I’m a very apologetic person and any time anyone even hints that they might be questioning one of my actions I immediately make the most dismissive excuse for it. For some reason I love to undermine myself – a destructive behaviour that I have no need for.

I believe:

– in trying to be an ethical shopper. I have started by getting a veg box and by buying fair trade. I have no idea whether fair trade actually helps but I feel it is important that shops know that I and the others who support the concept want to be ethical consumers. The organic veg I buy as much for my health as for my belief in supporting the local economy, with reduction in airfreighting coming third. Clothing I find to be a difficult issue. I like going to small shops that stock clothes made by self-employed designers but this is both rare and sometimes expensive. I have no qualms about using charity shops though if you’re looking for something particular they aren’t always ideal (charity bookshops on the contrary take all my money when I go near them). My problem at the moment is needing clothes smart enough for work, cheap enough for my budget, natural fabric enough for my comfort, and non-evil enough for my conscience.

– that western society is still based on deep-rooted prejudices against any minority group (including women as well as ethnic/religion/lgbt groups). I do not know what I should do about this. I recognise that it exists and when I am feeling brave I question what friends say if I feel it to be inappropriate, such as when one of the housefolks expressed a desire to put his penis in Gwyneth Paltrow’s mouth because it was the right shape I asked if that was because his penis was particularly wide and flat. This embarrassed him in a good-natured way (I hope) and made him think twice about what he says in the house (I hope). I understand that he works in a male-dominated profession and probably picks up bad habits from work but I also think it helps for someone to point out that being lewd isn’t always funny.

Also on this topic I went to a local feminist meeting, mostly to see if I could make some intelligent women friends. The meeting went two ways. On the one hand they all knew a lot more about the issues than me, were well up on the terminology and were sensitive to behaviours I might have disregarded. On the other hand they were very focused on the issues they were passionate about, whereas I am a more holistic person. At the time I went I was reading Tescopoly and had just read the section on the effect the corporation has on the lives of women in the third world. Before reading the book (but since leaving uni) I avoided the store as I thought it cheap, nasty, anti-competitive and anti-community. Now I vow to never go there again. But after the meeting one of the women I’d been talking to went right in without hesitation. I know I am judging her harshly, and having found her to be very friendly to me as a newcomer I am probably being unfair, but this is the clearest example I have to show the difference. Each member of the group had a passion – one of them worked in a refuge for survivors of domestic abuse, one of them was campaigning against strip-clubs as they increase the rate of sex attacks in the surrounding area, one of them puts subversive stickers on lads’ mags. I suggested looking into finding female run businesses we could support or female owned cafe’s we could meet in and they looked a bit blank. I’m not sure how I feel about this group. Personally I like to support the positive, create positive reinforcement for positive actions. Of course I understand the need to campaign against things that are bad, but I also want to promote things that are good. In that sense I try to live positively in every action. That’s probably a very idealistic statment as I am prone to reluctance and apathy, but step by step I think I am getting somewhere.

What a huge meander. I may have to find more things to believe in tomorrow.

Oh the power

The power hasn’t gone to my head; it only exists in my head. So far I have abused my power to:

– procrastinate wildly despite having deadlines

– abuse the internet at work

– give up adding any tags to my posts. Who would use them?

 

I will also have power over certain guests who are coming to stay with me this weekend. As the old cliche goes: with great power comes great responsibility, and it’s up to me to make sure everything goes smoothly and no punches are thrown.

Under the list of things I thought I had power over but really don’t is my body. I had been proudly sprouting body hair all over the shop – legs, groin, abdomen and breasts and thinking myself ever so clever for not being arsed to conform to ideals that involve sharp blades near my fragile skin. But. Then came warm weather. With hipster trews and t-shirts that aren’t quite long enough. And I was embaressed that not only could people see my protruding belly but that it carried the extra offence of a large patch of inch long dark brown hairs.

I caved, I shaved the part that was visible and understood that I was weak and that half the things I thought I was doing to be clever I was just taking credit for because they were safe. Once again I am shown how little I understand myself and that I give myself too much credit. Fortunately the people I care about, apart from occasionally elbowing me in the eye, accept me the way I am. Eventually I will discover what way I am. There may be some kind of epiphany invovled, but I doubt it – I’m not in to that Hollywood crap.

A certain amount of stress…

… is supposed to be good for you. But how much? The point at which it becomes uncomfortable, when it keeps you up at night, affects your health, leaves you sobbing into your fourth glass of wine? Who can say – not me, I’m not a doctor of these things. My personal rating is: if you can’t make it through your working week without being consistently irritable, tired, or crying yourself to sleep then it’s too much.

Personally, though the pressure is on at work, I am not longing for death so I’m thinking it’s probably ok. Longing for the weekend is another story though, and I have a desperate craving for noodles.

Also hurrays for me as I am going to have a review published on a fairly well-read website. And I finished my first cross stitch. Could my life be any more fulfilling?

I <3 Sci-fi

I was going to write about my favourite TV shows and the strange fixation my housefolks and I have developed for watching Quantum Leap but talking about what I watched on TV last night would make me pathetic. I lie, it would make me human, but it would make me feel pathetic. More pathetic in fact that talking about my cat, because at least that would give me one more tick on the list of how many fake types of crazy I can pull off.

I do less than three Sci-fi. On the one hand I want to say that this is down to the high standard of plot and writing that has to go in just to get a prime time show aired or movie produced. But then I remember such gems as the Lost World series featuring jungle Barbie which if Battlestar Galactica was Picasso would be a crayon drawing of a stick man on the back of an envelope.

I think great Sci-fi comes from the space the genre gives to explore ideas without getting heavy handed and preachy about it. Not to say they don’t, like in last week’s episode of Dr Who when in a discussion on slavery the Doctor states “where do you think your clothes come from?” Now I heart the Doctor and I am interested in where my clothes come from but asshat writers who stomp all over BBC shows (why do you think no one watches Robin Hood) and hijacking characters to put their messages out are not welcome on my TV. I am glad they at least had the sense to have Donna tell him off but in general this was a poorly scripted episode. Fine plot (ish) but poorly executed. Shame on you BBC, you must try harder if you want a gold star.

Traumas: work has been assigned, I shall have to conclude my meandering nothingy thoughts later.