bachelorettes & bourjois

Having lived in the UK's number one (and one of Europe's top 10) destination for hen parties for the last 4 years, I am sad to say the honeymoon period where you find drunk women wearing a random array of ill fitting costumes and penis paraphernalia funny, has sort of ended.

I must say, the middle aged slutty disney princess parade was a laugh, but I felt bad they were so cold, wearing so little, and had accidentally stumbled into the strip club soho block of town where they might have been mistaken as staff.

Now, I've never really been offended by theae gatherings (I bet it's probably pretty fun actually, with the right mind set), but getting dolled up to go catcalling and clubbing it's not really my cup of tea on a random tuesday evening, no matter what we are celebrating.

But that is beside the point. The question that is on my mind today gentle reader is- why do women assume all other women enjoy this sort of wild, girly, raunchy activity? It's one of these stereotypes - like we all want to bitch about how our boyfriends and husbands give bad head or want to oogle calvin klien models and george clooney.

I don't mean these might not be true for lots of people, lots of the time (he is very pretty jennie, I know). But why is it naturally branded into my consciousness because of my gender?

Of all the women I have known who throw or attend these parties, no one ever asked the bride much less the guests if they are comfortable with the donning of a penis (there is totally a greek myth geek joke in there somewhere) and screaming in pink fire engines.

It's sort of like in college where it's impossible to imagine someone who wouldn't enjoy being shitfaced, and teetotalers make you feel weird. It's an almost backward peer pressure - where no one coerced you, they just naturally expected you'd want to.

And today, I am a little baffled on how we got here as a culture. Assumptions defining our social interaction to a point where in certain instances, no one even asks 'what do you want to do' anymore.

I heard once about a friend's husband on a business trip and went out for drinks one evening. After, his colleagues were all shocked he didn't want to go to a strip club and meet hookers, and they just went without him. He went home, dazed at the weirdness, and called his wife.

It's fucking strange. And for the record: I never want to wear a bridal veil in a sports bar, do body shots off a waiter, be taught how to give a blow job in my living room or eat a lollipop with 'nads.

Of course, if you want to, I'll go ahead and give it a shot as a chum - and if it's awesome all the better - but in case I ever get married, as is the catch phrase of the week in the media, "not in my name" please.


ps - Yes, this thought experiment was prompted by my sister's forth coming nuptuals, but the activities in question are unrealted, so don't expect this to bare any resemblance to our real lives or pass any judgement on anyone involved - I'm just playing curious.

I might someday finish the catalogue of our trip, but I am too fucking tired.

The short version:
wedding in brighton to mixed reviews
pseudo-in-laws will probably never be easy
Dover Castle is outstanding
The water there is so hard it changed my plumbing.
I miss sunshine so much it hurts.

But today, I was cheered by two things:

1, I am going to look at a new flat tomorrow. It's on a river.

2, I still in my spare time collect good signage. Silly, odd, badly translated or just charming.

Not only did I see a van marked 'Scotchick' which isn't about under age scottish lasses doing stupid things or about liqour of any sort. It is followed by the subheading "Scotland's number one for whole flavoured chickens". I kid you not. I'm not sure if you can get grape or tar though which would be my obvious first two choices.

But my current favourite is a construction sign (that bold white font on a red background) - "Heavy Plant Crossing". the options are mindboggling.

Our Last Two Weeks, part II

So, after a day back at work post-Queen-spotting, and a day of housework, we were on the road to Brighton on Friday 4/7/08.

From halfway up Scotland to the centre of the south coast of England would take a conservative 8 hours in our rental Micra. Armed with juice boxes, and trail mix we hit the road at 7am.

It was a beautiful day until roadworks and the M25 (the highway that circles greater London) at 5pm on a Friday almost killed us. 8 hours stretched to 10 the 12.

By the time we arrived, we'd had a pointless crabby car fight and had to walk into a cocktail party sweaty and tired and 3 hours late to meet Liam's new step-family of about 50 people who are exactly like my Canadian cousins.

In a word, they are a good laugh, but not the calm, reserved and thoughtful faces one wants to see after a long day. More the - hand you a shot, yell in your ear, give a big hug and expect mildly entertaining conversation - types. Fun, but tough.

But of course, the 4th of July - the night was not over. So post-cocktails, Liam's brother and sister took us to a kitchy american dinner for amazing milkshakes and mediocre burgers to celebrate - then went to the beach (Brighton faces out onto the North Atlantic) and lit sparklers from some hippie's bonfire and danced around in the pitch black of the night sky to the sound of the waves.

It was freaking adorable.

Next time: Nuptuals and Nightmares

Our Last Two Weeks, part 1

It is time, ladies and gentlemen, for a fortnightly round-up of the exciting adventures in my life.

First, let's travel back in time (doodle loodle loo, doodle loodle loo)

Tuesday, 1 July.
After having a massive meeting with one of the 5 largest banks in the world (I am not stupid enough to risk their six figure annual donation here), I went home from work at lunchtime.

I had to put on a newly dry cleaned dress (the first time I have ever paid this middle-class right of passage), and help Liam tie the unfathomable and yet utterly dashing windsor knot in his burnished copper silk tie - because at 2pm a taxi came to pick us up.

destination: the palace.

Today was the Queen's Garden Party - an annual event that gathers together the disgustingly rich, the public service sector and a random smattering of boy scouts, marching bands and diplomats to celebrate her majesty's birthday.

She has 3 in London and one in Edinburgh, and I was invited, I suppose, as one of the up and coming of the city. So, we went. I even bought a hat (it was required) with veil - it was totally Casablanca or some shit.

And by the way, it is prohibited to be unaccompanied in the presence of royalty (in case I was to bog off with a prince and cause a scandal I guess), so I brought my trusty british arm candy decked out like a Paul Smith model, and my passport for the ID check at the gate.

Upon arrival, we witnessed the royal procession down ed carpeted stairs to the garden while a brass band played God Save the Queen - which it turns out is the same song as America the Beautiful but with different words. Looks like we even thieved that out of spite. It was very diginified. Then, we ate copious amounts of cake.

Luckily, and also sadly, were dressed infinitely better than everyone else. Turns out rich people stop trying after the first few fetes and the number of people invited for 50 years of postal service or some such thing pulled out whatever semi-formal they wore to wedding 10 years and 15 pounds ago with a JC Penny Hat on top. Some of it was ghastly.

My new official dress code for formal occasions is you cannot show the backs of your knees in royal company. It's distasteful, no matter what your gender or age. (The number of past-middle-aged men whose kilts were hitching up in the back and showing just too much leg was appalling. )

In general, it was adorable and hilarious though, and so very pseudo-posh British. The Queen was in a lemon suit, just like always, and looked at the rabble of hysterical middle aged women who would RUN (when you didn't think it was possible) to stand near her with a steely resignation. It was a sight to behold.

The most bizarre part was when we all took tea (or lemonade or iced coffee), it wasn't the gold foil royal crest on the chocolate petit fours that got me. But the royal tea tent. Princess Anne needed respite I imagine and I think Philip was sneaking a tipple of something into his coffee, so they process to a private marquis. But the tent was glass sided on two sides - so about 700 middle aged loons could stand on the outside peering at them like a zoo observing to each other if Ma'am takes one sugar or two. They even stood on chairs and pushed like they were at the day after thanksgiving sales at Hudsons. Needless to say, we ceceeded from the madness and wandered the rose garden and medieval abbey ruins embedded in the lawn instead.

It was outstanding.

Of course, the version I tell my grandmother will significantly up the ante (more about the royal guard of archers - with real bows and arrows! - less about the tasteless fashion), and ever the royalist she will weep with joy that I've witnessed the upper eschelons at tea.

Next on our agenda: a weekend in Brighton.

things that are true today

- halloumi is possibly the best thing Crete ever gave the world. i love squeaky cheese.

- i love my family. a lot. but they are incredibly frustrating a times.

- on a side note, my 11 year old cousin regularly sends me chain emails about finding god. to say it is odd (and possibly unintentionally offensive) is an understatment.

- i absolutely love to come home after a long day at work and have impromptu sex in the fading daylight.

- i have started another grown up book. the signs are promising

- today i was interviewed for a kids website summer reading campaign. it was sweet to say the least.

- liam's computer game mod just started playing rachmaninov's prelude in c sharp minor. not only is the designer geeky enough build a civ world about the age of imperialism, he has thematically chosen a period approrpiate score when my baby begins a russian campaign to dominate scandinavia. i love it.

the film festival in review

So, the EIFF has closed it's doors for another year. And for the first time, I really made the effort to see things and take risks. In the past week I saw 8 things. Some good, some bad and predictably - some so pretentiously aweful they bordered on unwatchable

In case you care, or ever wonder at the random DVDs on discount in the back of your local Blockbuster, here is the complete list


Summer Hours was a mainstream french film trying to find and anglicised audience. The pull of Juliet Binoche and the promise of quiet turmoil were worth the risk (it's about a woman who dies and her villa full of important antiques causes trouble for her children in choosing to keep, sell or give to a museum the objects that hold such history and memory), but it was ultimately hollow and unsatisfying. Although there were some touching and loaded exchanges, the lack of emotional depth to the characters meant I had to wonder if the very frenchy slow tracking shots weren't conveying some unspoken emotion but were actually covering up a lack of plot.

The Wackness a perfectly decent american "indy" with a great Ben Kingsley and a raft of decent performances that tried so hard to be cool it was almost painful. It was very funny and the main kid was quite compelling but so much desperation at being the next great thing made me realise how big a shadow Juno has cast on the small quirky comedy with twisting dialogue. It's going to be hard to surpass.

Good Dick While I was watching it, it had everything - great chemistry, a silly plot, a charming hero, some decent dialogue, and a ludicruous and oddly intriguing premise (boy works in video store. girl addicted to porn. he's interested. odd and crazy wooing period commences leading to moralistic ending and slightly obvious dramatic twist). When it was over it seemed pretty good - decent performances, empassioned artists, an interesting choice. When I got home it made me feel alittle ill and betrayed - sort of like when saturday morning cartoons have huge moral messages tacked on that not only diminish the enjoyment of the product, but also make you feel guilty and a little queasy for having enjoyed something so manipulative and yet unrealistic. But I'm over it now and i guess it's still pretty good - I just wish it had been less heavy handed and more plot driven.


Roger Deakins & Seamus McGarvey - a conversation with a man I didn't realise I had a professional crush on. Roger Deakins is the cinematographer for Assistnation of Jesse James, Jarhead, Shawshank, Kundun, and pretty much every Cohen brothers film since Barton Fink. He is ludicrously talented and hearing him talk about his work was utterly fascinating. Seamus McGarvey was interviewer instead of fellow cinematographer, which is a shame, because his choices in Atonement bore further reflection.


The Kreutzer Sonata Great story (from Tolstoy), great music (from Beethoven), ultimate heart rending tone of betrayal, jealousy and insidious doubt. So why fuck it up by doing high school handheld adlib-ed bullshit with shoddy camera work and terrible performances set in modern day LA? It was truly truly aweful. Liam put it best when he said "it's was just so mentally middle aged". What could have been an operatic epic on relationships (a man believes his younger, hotter musician wife is cheating on him - we never find out) is one man's internal monolgue for two hours and gratuitous flashbacks to their masculine, domineering, passionless and ultimately depressing sex sessions. All I know is if i was her I would have done a hell of a lot more than fuck the violinist.


Warsaw Dark an ambitious, experimental but slightly jumbled thriller set in Poland from Chris Doyle - previously cinematographer to much of the east asian cinematic renaissance including In the Mood for Love etc. While he is on of those eccentric filmmakers who says things that aren't entirely coherent and manage to be incredibly poncey - his attempt to make a jazz sculpture of film where the plot is not longer the point, but an aspect of a riffing session of artistry was really quite interesting - just not easily accessible.

Mermaid was hands down the winner. To say it was a darker, funnier Russian Amelie (as the blurb did) isn't giving it enough credit. The surrealist tone and isolated young heroine fit, but it's truly charming and weird and a bit disturbing even. But the actress was captivating and the plot keeps you guessing. Unlike NightWatch however, I wish I spoke Russin for this one to get the nuances and mis-en-scene of Moscow's billboards and adverts constantly commenting on the narrative.

Faintheart is just like every other indy british film you have ever seen. Just as fun, just as repetitive. Downtrodden hero loses everything, bands together with mates in ludicrous yet charming and funny situation to win back girl, save family and rekindle the human spirit. This has happened with unemployed strippers, up hill/mountains and in Notting Hill. This time: viking battle renactments. While sweet, funny and heartwarming you wonder if the UKFC can't greenlight something with a little more stamina and a less predictable cast off EastEnders and channel 4 sitcoms.

But, in it's favour, the film was a social experiement created through chat groups and forums on MySpace - in interesting concept which just proves putting too many men behind the camera means all you'll get is a long string of cliches which lose potency.


Thus endeth my week. Moral of the story: see fewer british and american pseudo-indy's, amp up the weird foreign and always see the live talks with the masters. I like big, blockbusters and tiny experimentals, but that in betweeny thing the government funds is just unsatifying.

Last night I was trying to remember my childhood friends. There were lots, and most I don't even remember their names. Which isn't really all that sad, because what I remember is shucking corn at meijer and building sandcastles and the time we went to devil's lake.

But here was my childhood in a nutshell:
- I lived in 13 houses between birth and age 18
- I went to 4 different elementary schools
- I lived in 3 different states

I used to think the accident being right when I hit adolescence stunted me somehow - I spent my tween years trying to be a grown up and hold shit together and have been cryogenically frozen maturity wise. put on pause.

But sometimes I wonder if growing up all over, with lots of change and all sorts of people and adventures meant when my parents settled down when I was 13 and lived in the same town with the same baseball team and same bike paths I stagnated. I didn't know how to settle properly and never really did. I didn't really want to.

I loved growing up in back alleys, with crack whores and a pot smoking dad and midnight picnics and our own dingy strawberry patch outside our subsidised duplex. when my parents went middle class maybe I gave up.

I wonder if I'll ever grow out of that.

movie going has it's own rituals.

in the huge neon multiplex by my house, every bathroom stall has a star on the door with a movie star's name on it.

I avoid using any labelled Halle Berry, Susan Sarandon, Demi Moore and other sub-par performaces and phone-ins. I find it uncouth. I generally head for something like a Kate Winslet, or every once in while a Kathleen Turner or Katherine Hepburn. Today I nabed Helen Mirren and felt quite smug. It's some sort of snobbery I guess.

On principle, I will only pee inside women I respect.

the depths

I think I have come to a momentous (and still semi-confidential decision).

I have to leave Scotland.

Not today, or even next week. Probably not for a year or two yet, if I can manage, but soon. Maybe sooner than expected.

I think there are three main reasons for this, all of which I am coming to accept as valid life choices.

1: It is eating me alive. The everyday struggle against a terrain that was not meant for human settlement is slowly seeping into my bones. Call it SAD, call is depression, call it too many cobbles for my already sad ankles, or the unclimb-able hills that make every outing a fucking marathon. The weeks and weeks of bland gray nothing that wipes out all memory of what a nice day was. That makes you forget you even like being outdoors and the house arrest sofa coma induces total apathy. The weather and landscape, while awe inspiring, are just not built for my sad little body. And every day I have less inclination to talk a walk, see my friends, run the errands and worst - it sucks all interest in the carpe diem adventures I live for out of my soul.

2: The social structure is untenable. Partly it's a nationalist goverment without an economic leg to stand on. Partly it's the forever chip on the shoulder about the english, americans and consequently the rest of the world. Partly it's the terrible health care and constant construction. But mostly it's a horribly inadequate domestic policy and community spirit which sees 14 year old puking on 500 year old statues. It sees little old ladies being mugged at the end of my road. It's the day I fall down in a construction site, and none of the construction workers help me up. The regulations binding this town aren't improving the quality of life - and they are drawing big chalk lines between people who lose all scope of anything but their own best interests. It's a horrible, sad place. And so dirty. And no, I don't want to live in a city like London or New York that puts those bits far far away from the middle class people like me and pretends it's not there - but I also don't know how we are all supposed to keep living in this hell hole when everyone is so goddamn selfish and alone. Where even making eye contact in the street is too much effort.

3: I have no where to go. All my college friends left. All my current friends are social acquaintences without any real depth, and I am both too tired and too bored to try and reconnect with my life. And my job is pretty much the end of the line. I am the foremost person in my field, and it's a little early to be at my peak. I can't keep doing this, and there is nowhere else to go.


In short: it's a fucking pickled mess of horse shit.

gone

Today I got a letter from a solicitor in Kirkintilloch (a town about an hour from here).

He regreted to inform me one of my authors had died.

A guy I'd spoken to not three weeks ago, though we'd never met face to face. He was on holiday in Samarkand.

It puts things in an odd perspective.

ah, the english countryside...

We spent this afternoon planning our roadtrip to Kent. For some reason we both really love looking at big old maps and shopping for rental cars and planning on what cute village we might want to have lunch in to break the 12 hour journey.

Plus, we also have this childish habit when our attention spans have dwindled.

One minute we'll be looking at the map discussing the most direct A roads, and the next, we spot some place with a silly name and we're off on an infantile gigggling spree to find the most ridiculous towns and hamlets imaginable.


Kibblesworth, Fockerby, Wombwell, St. Quivox, and Zeal Monachorum are honorable entries, but today's clear front winner:

Horton-cum-Studley, in oxfordshire, near Wormingstall and Oddington.

epiphany

I had a revelation while brushing my teeth the other morning.

Liam is the only person I have had sex with more than once. Is this because:

a, I have/had committment issues
b, I have catholic guilt problems
c, I am/was a ruddy whore
d, my vag has a Cinderella complex

I like D best.



I also like the fact I looked bloody amazing at the press conference yesterday, made all the major press- and the next morning proceeded to fall down a huge flight of stairs, sprain my foot, bleed and cry in front of burly construction men. My gumpish natural grace is reminding me I have not eshewed my roots entirely. At least it's better than the other way around I guess.

shopping

It is crunch time. I have just tried on almost every dress in my wardrobe. I have made outfits, made lists and now armed, I am ready to shop.

and there is much to be done.

the target: have something spectacular, stunning and appropriate to all my summer functions. planned encounters include:

Monday 9 June - Directors Private Preview of the Festival Programme - champagne reception for major donors

Thursday 12 June - Programme Launch - morning press conference, The Playfair Library

Tuesday 1 July - Queens Garden Party - high tea with royalty, Holyrood Palace

Saturday 5 July - Iain & Janes Wedding - guest

Saturday 9 August - Book Festival opening party - evening soiree

Friday 19 September - Kate & Jimmy's rehersal dinner - bbq?

Saturday 20 September - Kate & Jimmy's wedding - maid of honour, Meadowbrook Hall

Saturday 25 October - Carol & Heidi's civil partnership & Leeds Castle reception

Friday 31 October - Anika & Justin's Rehersal Dinner - bowling?

Saturday 1 November - Anika & Justin's black tie wedding - Chicago Wyndham, greeter


That 5 month run includes 10 major semi-formal functions. My mostly retro secretary wardobe does not pack enough ammunition for this kind of campaign. And my second in command, god love him, thinks I look good in everything. There is only one solution. Guerilla tactics. And a credit card.

(I act like this is a military operation because I treat all retail outlets as hostile territory.)

So, with a little finessing of the god saving little black dress, little white dress and a few lucky purchases all I need now is:
- a gorgeous dress ( this one I think)
- navy satin peep toe shoes ( like these?)
- a great handbag (this? or this?)
- an chunky onyx or black pearl necklace
- a strapless bra
- a hat i can meet the queen in
- brown heels (I already own these, but they are a little work-ish, if very sexy on)
- an amazing jacket/wrap (possibly in fuscia or copper)

And that is all. Which is good, because the two flights to america, two trips to kent, a chicago hotel, 2 rental cars, 4 wedding presents and lord knows what else means my budget is fucking ridiculous.

Am I good or what?

culinary creations

I keep thinking I should get a hobby. Take a class, join the gym, do something social and stimulating. But the thing is, I already have an entertaining preoccupation. I am absolutely obsessed with food.

Which is odd, considering i spent the first 23 years of my life being the pickiest eater in the world (no vegatbles, no condiments, no seafood, no sauce of any kind but pizza, no food can touch each other, no fruit but apples and grapes, and pretty much anything with vibrant colours is suspect.) I ate a lot of chicken and mashed potatoes, and sometimes ramen noodles.

But now, I am a gastronomic fiend. I know all the best menus in town, I concoct elaborate three course dinners, I peruse cookbooks in my spare time, and actually tinker with reciepes to improve them. It's becoming a problem.

Part of it is the perks of my psuedo-glamourous job is being wined and dined in rooftop gardens, burnt out castles and chic bistros.

Part of it is a combonation of my health problems and my legacy as green champion mean I am more concious of my ingridients so I am sourcing all local, organic produce to create amazing options.

Part of it is I just grew out a lot of my self inflicted barriers and complexes when i jumped ship and started this new life.

Now, I could wax poetic about my current top five favourite recipies I make brilliantly:

- roasted sweet potato, rocket, & walnut salad with garlic-lemon chicken
- sweet red peppers stuffed with puy lentils and mozzerlla
- homemade strawberry shortcake
- baked pumpkin cheesecake
- homemade leek and sweet potato soup with chili cheese croutons.


or my five favourite edinburgh foods:
- edmame beans sauteed in soy sauce & ginger with a hint of chili
- italian flat bread with carmalised balsalmic reduction
- a top sirloin with rocket on multrees walk
- pechkam's platter of grilled halloumi, pineapple, courgette and breads with a selection of dips: houmous, red pesto, green pesto and peanut satay
- spinach, artichoke and chili chicken dip

But i am really very excited about my vegtable box - my weekly delivery of local produice straight to my door from the nice farmers down the road of this seasons harvest. My first shipment included:
-3 pears
-3 apples
-3 bananas (they have a greenhouse)
-2 kiwis
-2 onions
-1 sweet pepper
-6 carrots
-6 fat cup chestnut mushrooms
-1 giant head of purplish spinachy lettuce
-2 ears of corn on the cob
-and one massive bundle of rhubarb.

I am so excited. I have never had rhubarb. So I have supplimented this list with a jaunt to the local farmers market for meat, bread and the rest of the veg so tonight is going to be a burger feast (with sauteed mushrooms and corn on the cob) followed by rhubarb and raspberry crisp with toasted pecans. it's fucking amazing.

turning point

life just seems better when there is sunshine.

and also, because I have instigated a selfish experiement. And no, I am not stealing candy from babies or demanding pool-side ice cream in a crystal goblet. I'm just trying harder to do things my way.

The benefits of this include:
- I am getting an assistant at the office. (Squeaky wheels and all that.)
- I am feeling better because i am eating more meat (instead of making everything vegetarian for Liam, we are finding ways for me to get my much needed iron when my blood count is haywire without making him eat it too.)
- I took a long weekend just because I needed one, not because there was a family function to attend or an event I was expeted at, and get to do things like go to the movies on a monday afternoon.
- I am wearing what I want and feeling happier because sometimes polka dot pinafore dresses need thick tights with them. Just because it's cold doesn't mean I have to dress down.
- I do my non-computer work outside in the garden. the vitamin e is helping my skin while the freckles are helping my sprits, and I'm not getting any less work done- possibly more as i find office chairs uncomfortable.
- I do the grocery shopping. Which sounds silly, but Liam's on a budget crunch, so if I want to splurge on baking 3 dozen cookies and having fresh aparagus for dinner, I can if the spending is mine and no one is put upon.
- I make sure I read for half an hour. every day. it's good for the soul.

and also, now i am being more proactive and feeling more alive, my long lost libido is back. I cannot tell you how disturbing it was to not want sex for the last month. I was starting to wonder if I had been taken over by aliens. Or if this illness was actually eating my sanity and every socio-chemical reaction my hormones obligingly provided on a continual basis for the last decade. it was fucking disturbing, but I am back in action and feeling oh so much better.

And while I may still need an ultrasound, and I may still have weirdly fluxuating body weight and mood swings, I feel more in control. I feel more like me, and that is priceless.

today:

today I...

I had originally intenteded to write a list to encapsulate my day for the edifciation of my readers and review and digest what has happened. Like I so rarely do now, I was intending to be pithy and clever and reinvigorate my sense of self with silly nothings. But sadly, I'm coming up blank. Let's try again.

Today:

Today I "woke up" for the third day in a row without really sleeping. (I am actually starting to have daymare type situations. My inner psyche is having a field day)
Today I decided which dress I am wearing to my sisters wedding. (it's fucking ace)
Today I had liam's homemade risotto for lunch (yum chessy asparagus & broccoli goodness)
Today I wore my favourite j crew stripey scarf.
Today I started a very very good book. (the mysterious benedict society - a kids book of course)
Today I found out I wasn't invited to a party I usually get invited to every year.
Today I finished everything on my list of things to do.
Today I decided to take a long weekend and recover my sanity. (it will hopefully be filled with snack treats and naps)

No wonder I am feeling slightly dissatisfied. That is a really fucking mundane list. I am some Zeroes version of Ally McBeal or some other day-job having psycho-babble sitcom woman. It's a little sad. I have not concquered mountains or empires or discovered lost civilizations or invented a new type of flan. I have no been inspired or explored something or experimented beyond my boundaries. I have, in all honesty, done nothing of import and feel slightly smaller for it.

But maybe that's just the never ending grayness sweeping the city starting to seep into my soul. Maybe tomorrow will be better.

a rather unexpected detour

I am feeling better. Not actually because anything has changed, but you can only be angry and petulant and not doing anything about it for so long. It gets really boring.

I went back to the doctor Friday. I brought my list of everything that seemed weird or felt wrong. I was brave enough to read it out and not miss anything and just trust the doctors.

She still thinks it's just stress induced ickiness, but after a month it's time to look at other options. I've been referred to the hospital for a stomach ultrasound and had to send a sample to the lab.

You thought peeing in a cup was hard - try using a tiny plastic shovel to fill a testtube with your own faeces. The medical profession delights in demeaning us all I am sure. They better have a fucking good explanation at the other end, that's all I 'm saying.

In other news, it is springtime. I spend my afternoons in the office garden sifting though paperwork and generally trying to take it easy.

Okay, we interrupt this regualrly scehduled update:

I am watching The Secret Lives of Mammals (I can't get enough nature shows) and have just witnessed two hedgehogs doing a mating dance. It is truly weird and somehow really cute.

I love hedgehogs. I don't know if it is coincidence or inspiration that the beanie baby that has my birthday (yes I still know this, I don't know why) is a hedgehog. I think I still have one somewhere from my aunt karen.

I have to go - there is an armoured armadillo/echindna like thing. A pangloin apparantly.
http://images.google.com/images?hl=en&client=firefox-a&rls=org.mozilla:en-US:official&hs=Z1&q=pangolin&um=1&ie=UTF-8

Freakin sweet.

lost

I am angry. So angry.

For days, even weeks I haven't really registered how upset I am. Flipant, coarse, cruel even.

I tell myself I am stressed, or frustrated, or tired, or emotional, hormonal, disappointed and scared. But really, I am just completely fed up and crabby all the time.

It is truly horrible and I am sorry for anyone who has to be around me.

And I am terrified, because I don't know how to stop, and that part of me doesn't want to. I have no idea what I might destroy if I keep being this ugly version of myself- and part of me doesn't care. Like those times you eat a whole tube of pringles or don't put on sunblock just because you can't be bothered, half knowing you'll be sick and regret it all later.

Sometimes I don't know where I've gone. And the worst part is, I am not sure I want to be found.

a rather disgusting confession

So I have this theory; there are some things everyone just assumes you know. That through some cultural osmosis we all glean an infinite amount of knowledge.

And I don't mean nebulous things like how to comfort the bereaved or how to tell if someone's laughter is from euphoria or desperation. Small things, simple things. Which I guess is why they are so easily the unmentioned.

My best example of this was vaccuuming as a child. My mom would yell and yell and yell at me for vaccuuming badly as a kid. That I didn't bother, that I wasn't paying attention, that I should try harder. But I wasn't being negligent, I just didn't understand. I saw her vaccuum, we both assumed I knew how to do it. But i thought it meant push the big loud machine around over every inch of the carpet. I didn't realise it meant make sure the carpet was clean. (kids never think to ask the all important why until it's apparent whatever it was didn't get done.)

Well, anyway, it's happened again.

In all my illness, and all my rage at being in pain, unfixed and feeling desperately alone in my misunderstood body and raging hormones, I've begun doing some very minor research. Looking at options, cataloging symptoms. And I spent a good chunk of time this morning on webMD with their oustanding gynocological 'symptom checker'.

Sample:
Do you have abdominal pain? (click yes button if yes), and so on.

Well, it turns out I didn't know I have constantly, for as long as I can remember, always always always had a yeast infection. In fact, pretty much if I am not bleeding, I am growing a kins-creature of mushrooms in my nether regions.

Somewhere in 7th grade I was told (probably in an awkward car conversation with my mom) every woman's body goes in cycles and your discharge and everything changes, you just have to get used to your own pattern.

I assumed the fact it's weird and icky, and kind of hurts for the two weeks between periods was just kind of how it went. Itchy and dry was the opposite of wet anyway, which made sense I guess. (In hindsight, I could perhaps have reexamined this theory somewhere after 13, instead of taking it as law, which is a different semi-fatal flaw for another time.)

But jesus, how did no one ever tell me? How could I not have known this? How did no one in charge ever check? How have the doctors never asked if I had a propensity to these things?

Nonetheless, it is yet another piece in the weird, hormonal puzzle of my existence which I am taking great comfort in. Is that twisted or what?

something borrowed, something blue...

So, perhaps it's this time of year, or the fact I'm having a tough time of it, but I have been more than a little retrospective lately. Feeling nostalgic, missing people I've not thought of in months or even years. Suddenly remembering random occurrences and long lost feelings I'd half-forgotten I ever had.

like i'd cryogenically frozen moments in time for later use, and now they are all de-ziploc'ed and it is simultaneously awesome, and totally trying my patience.

And while a certain nostalgic charm often graces my empty thoughts, I have never before felt guilty or shy.

I have written previously on the value of falling for someone you already know and like and the pitfalls of finding yourself lost inbetween friend and girlfriend, feeling undervalued in both.

This habit of mate/crush has been a mainstay of my social existence, mostly because I'm not sure I know any other way to do it - a point i hope to rectify in my as-yet-un-written bible of adolescence and all the other shit no one ever explained properly.

And now, feeling nostalgic and reminiscent, my tendency to relive old memories and call old friends out of the blue, has a slightly more loaded context. Or at least in my head it does.

Of course I can call, reconnect and event reacquaint myself with old friends when ever I like, whether single or committed. Only an idiot would think I'd forsaken all my past lives for this one.

But to randomly email, or run into an old pseudo-crush is infinitely weird somehow. If it was actually an ex, it would be completely normal, and completely over. But when nothing ever really happened (and i can't even remember now if I actually wanted it to), it means I don't really know what protocol to follow.

Here is the kind of internal monologue that can run through my head:
Can I still banter? Is that allowed? Is that a mixed signal? Am I capable of bantering without flirting? Because I really don't want to flirt. I really don't want to make this weird. Or confusing. God I hope he doesn't think I'm flirting. But then, if I am markedly unlike my old self, that must be weird too. Do I seem stand offish? Because I am really glad this happened. I just don't want it to be weird. I am being so weird. I am ruining it. I wish I could just say 'sorry i don't know how to be friends with you because secretly, all those other times, I was just trying to impress you/make out/get laid. And i don't want that anymore (sorry), but I still think you'e a cool guy. Do you think we could work this out somehow? sorry I'm such an idiot."

I suddenly feel like i'm in high school all over again. Every hair flick and eye movement is supposed to mean something, but i haven't the faintest clue what, and I am paralyzed I'll accidentally convey something I didn't mean.

I'm mostly blowing it out of proportion. But i guess my history and habits are on my mind, and its' the one thing Liam and I never talk about. And half of me doesn't know how to bring it up, and half of me doesn't know what to say if I did. And either way, I'm not sure he wants to hear all of it. (the part where I have slept with people I still count among my friends, some we've even had over. the part where I have done stupidly stupid things and hurt myself. the part where i don't know how to have male friends, and i miss it, and i don't know what to do with myself.) Which is just horrible of me. Horrible and selfish.

It is a coincidence we're exactly on the two year mark? Have I always been this scared and only now just realised?

I am such an idiot. I think it's time I figured some shit out.

Stalking as an Art

So I completely forgot I had stat tracker. Mostly because I hit my free limit about 6 months ago and it stopped logging visits so I could no longer be the slightest bit committed to the geographical distance represented in my readership or excited by the pie chart of how long my average visitor stays with me.

So, the honeymoon period was over, and I continued writing to no one at all, unaware anyone was reading.

But I forgot I sneakily started a new account for the same blog - which I have only just rediscovered (and gladly, now it just erases old data with new instead of dying when i hit my limit). And let me tell you, exciting ridculousness abounds.

On 15 April at 00:38:17 someone on a Windows XP in Erlanger Kentucky (I could give the IP address, but that's just some fucked up CIA shit) googled 'cute nyphette' and clicked on one of my entries - probably thinking it was exciting porn. How disappointing.

To be fair, The Nymphette Cycle and pretty much my life circa late 05 and early 06 was like a shady, sad soft core comic-tragedy. But I don't think he (of she, let's not be sexist) was shopping for recounts of STI testing and the after math.

Perhaps I have invented a new genre of anti-porn gritty realism? I am the Fellini of blogging.

Perhaps this stat counting is going to my head after all.

For reference, other google searches where you can find me include:

drill down 5 10.64% scottish clichés
drill down 3 6.38% scottish cliches
drill down 2 4.26% the girls guide to 21st century sex
drill down 2 4.26% cliches of scottish
drill down 2 4.26% possibility=poetry
drill down 2 4.26% orlakiely.co.uk
drill down 2 4.26% nymphette
drill down 1 2.13% what is the british equivalent to americana
drill down 1 2.13% swaying with nausea
drill down 1 2.13% fanatacist
drill down 1 2.13% exhausted not tired
drill down 1 2.13% my heart´s highlands
drill down 1 2.13% cliches about scottish
drill down 1 2.13% marks and spencer christmas bells
drill down 1 2.13% having my period for a month
drill down 1 2.13% meaning for mention not
drill down 1 2.13% i have been on my period for a month
drill down 1 2.13% i've been on my period for a month
drill down 1 2.13% my heart's in the highlands v
drill down 1 2.13% voicemail of death
drill down 1 2.13% nymphette cute
drill down 1 2.13% the couple of the girls guide to 21st century
drill down 1 2.13% tea-duffy
drill down 1 2.13% girls guide to 21st century sex blogspot
drill down 1 2.13% power ballads list
drill down 1 2.13% girls guide to 21st century sex porn s
drill down 1 2.13% kiely tipping velvet
drill down 1 2.13% leather & lace sex
drill down 1 2.13% http://thevisforvixen.blogspot.com/
drill down 1 2.13% world forgotten children of the 80's
drill down 1 2.13% office politics resolved
drill down 1 2.13% mgd putter
drill down 1 2.13% orlakiely.co.uk.
drill down 1 2.13% the script to my heart's in the highlands
drill down 1 2.13% triva fun
drill down 1 2.13% scots cliches
47 100.00%

Voicemail of death is my favourite.

Perhaps the google searches which yield your blog are some kind of freak personality litmus test. a ouija board of virtual existence.

I could play like this all day, but my head is ballooning and my gluten-wheat-dairy free life means I will yet a gain trek to the kitchen hoping yummy snacks I can eat will have magically been invented and hidden behind the stale oatcakes.

bibliographying

LibraryThing meme

In trolling my beloved and neglected Pajiba and their newish books listings, I discovered a link to a bookblog (and yet another promising review of the illusive sherman alexei book for the annals of YA fiction.)

Anyway, I stumbled upon this meme based the top 106 books tagged as “unread” on LibraryThing. I’ve used her categories to compare my readingness - and added 'unowned and unfinished' - because let's face it, people and libraries can lend us shit sometimes.



UNOWNED AND UNREAD
Bleak House by Charles Dickens
Collapse: How Societies Choose to Fail or Succeed by Jared Diamond
Cryptonomicon by Neal Stephenson
Doctor Zhivago by Boris Pasternak
Gravity's Rainbow by Thomas Pynchon
Guns, Germs, and Steel: The Fates of Human Societies by Jared Diamond
Labyrinth by Kate Mosse
Mason & Dixon by Thomas Pynchon
One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest by Ken Kesey
Quicksilver (The Baroque Cycle I) by Neal Stephenson
Reading Lolita in Tehran by Azar Nafisi
Robinson Crusoe by Daniel Defoe
Swann's Way by Marcel Proust
Tender is the Night by F. Scott Fitzgerald
The Name of the Rose by Umberto Eco
The Bonesetter's Daughter by Amy Tan
The Confusion by Neal Stephenson
The Divine Comedy by Dante Alighieri
The Elegant Universe by Brian Greene
The God of Small Things by Arundhati Roy
The Gormenghast Trilogy by Mervyn Peake
The Grapes of Wrath by John Steinbeck
The Known World by Edward P. Jones
The Kor'an by Anonymous
The Once and Future King by T. H. White
The Origin of Species by Charles Darwin
The System of the World by Neal Stephenson
The Ultimate Hitchhiker's Guide by Douglas Adams
To the Lighthouse by Virginia Woolf
Tropic of Cancer by Henry Miller
Ulysses by James Joyce
Underworld by Don DeLillo
A Clockwork Orange by Anthony Burgess
A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man by James Joyce
Don Quixote by Miguel De Cervantes
Les Misérables by Victor Hugo
The Brothers Karamazov by Fyodor Dostoyevsky
War and Peace by Leo Tolstoy
Anna Karenina by Leo Tolstoy
Infinite Jest by David Foster Wallace
Beloved by Toni Morrison
Catch-22 by Joseph Heller
Crime and Punishment by Fyodor Dostoyevsky
Dubliners by James Joyce
Foucault's Pendulum by Umberto Eco
Frankenstein by Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley
Great Expectations by Charles Dickens
Life of Pi by Yann Martel
Madame Bovary by Gustave Flaubert
Moby Dick by Herman Melville
Oliver Twist by Charles Dickens
One Hundred Years of Solitude by Gabriel Garcia Marquez
Oryx and Crake by Margaret Atwood
Sons and Lovers by D.H. Lawrence
The Corrections by Jonathan Franzen
The Fountainhead by Ayn Rand
The House of the Seven Gables by Nathaniel Hawthorne
The Inferno by Dante Alighieri
The Satanic Verses by Salman Rushdie
The Sound and the Fury by William Faulkner
The War of the Worlds by H. G. Wells
The Kite Runner by Khaled Hosseini

a standard list of books one ought to have read i guess. equal parts books I have no interest in and books I've already read something by that author and was not inspired to follow on with their opi any longer. though I still think Cryptonomicon one of the best book titles ever. Oh, and Yann Martel, who I had dinner with once and he was lovely - does that count for anything?



UNOWNED AND UNFINISHED
The History of Tom Jones, a Foundling by Henry Fielding
The Historian by Elizabeth Kostova
The Odyssey by Homer
Gulliver's Travels by Jonathan Swift



OWNED BUT UNREAD
A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur's Court by Mark Twain
David Copperfield by Charles Dickens
Ivanhoe by Sir Walter Scott
Lord Jim by Joseph Conrad
Love in the Time of Cholera by Gabriel Garcia Marquez
Mansfield Park by Jane Austen
The Book Thief by Markus Zusak
The Mill on the Floss by George Eliot
The Poisonwood Bible by Barbara Kingsolver
Silas Marner by George Eliot
Mrs. Dalloway by Virginia Woolf

I must confess, some of these are my beautiful Victorian leather bounds which are more for decoration and love of the book as object than any literary merit.



OWNED AND UNFINISHED

Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell by Susanna Clarke - left at my parents house!
The Count of Monte Cristo by Alexandre Dumas
The Hunchback of Notre Dame by Victor Hugo
The Silmarillion by J.R.R. Tolkien
Moll Flanders by Daniel Defoe
The Iliad by Homer -a terrible translation, I had to give up - a problem I really should rectify



OWNED AND READ
Emma by Jane Austen
Lady Chatterley's lover by D.H. Lawrence
Middlemarch by George Eliot
The English Patient by Michael Ondaatje
The Portrait of a Lady by Henry James
The Three Musketeers by Alexandre Dumas
Dracula by Bram Stoker
Jane Eyre by Charlotte Bronte
Jude the Obscure by Thomas Hardy
Persuasion by Jane Austen
Sense and Sensibility by Jane Austen
Tess of the D'Urbervilles by Thomas Hardy
The Blind Assassin by Margaret Atwood
The Time Traveler's Wife by Audrey Niffenegger
Vanity Fair by William Makepeace Thackeray
Wuthering Heights by Emily Bronte


my high school nerdism served me well here


READ BUT UNOWNED
Atlas Shrugged by Ayn Rand
The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay by Michael Chabon
The Man in the Iron Mask by Alexandre Dumas
A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius by Dave Eggers
A Tale of Two Cities by Charles Dickens
The Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde
The Canterbury Tales by Geoffrey Chaucer

I still have Sonja's Kavalier and Clay - oops.


In sum: I miss grown up books.

sundries

The Good(ish) News:
- I have a rather exhorbitant Amazon gift voucher from my christmas present that I haven't the faintest clue what to do with. I am open to suggstions. The front runners right now are an awesome dustbuster or a Wii.

- I had the honour of accepting the inaugeral 'Green Giant of the Month' award at the office this week. A device implimented to encourage all of us to be active in our environmental policies and decision making. Perhaps I am a latent hippy after all. I should really get a picture though - it's awesome. A can of green giant sweet corn (nibbles original! it tells me) mounted on a wooden base branded with my new title like a boy scout would have learned to do with an electric drill. It's fucking amazing.

- It was nice enough today I had lunch in the park and treated myself to a waffle cone as I watched the water spray in our gaudy new-classical 10m tall fountain. It was very cheerful.

- We are making a concerted effort at getting a social life. Like going to things and being nice to people and returning phone calls. So far we have hosted and been invited to two dinner parties and no one threw up or yelled at us AND we've been invited back. Other than my niggling qualms we are totally couply yuppie freaks, it's quite nice. Liam even has a play date with the guys from said couples - they are playing retarded 'grown-up' boardgames. It's fucking adorable. And a bit sad. Maybe this should have gone in the bad(ish) section below.

- My bridesmaids dresses came. Long story short - JCrew hates Britain, so I had to order several, ship them to my dad's secretary, have her FedEx them here so now I can have a fashion show of scrutiny and immediately return the rejected. The fabrics are not as luscious as I imagined on some of them, but hopefully my dressing room weekend will yield results. More anon.


The Bad(ish) News:
- Ms. Kesler is retiring. After like 100 million years as the guru of early strings. They are having a whole banquet and concert and like charity fundraiser or something. It's kind of really sweet, and although I thought for many years she was out to kill me (or at least rip my metaphorical balls off and humiliate me in front of the semi-cute cellists and bass players), she was actually a really nice lady who dedicated her life to something inspiring and really quite sentimental.

So, I made a donation to the trust fund in her name that will continue to give smallish scholarships to mediocre child musicians to raise their self esteem and keep Blue Lake Fine Arts camp in business. (And lucky for me, the dollar is worth nothing, so my nominal donation looks like a whopper.). I feel like a magic fairy - 'you shall go to band camp!'.

- I am still ill. The medication they give me actually makes it worse. It's fucking ridiculous. And Liam, trying to be helpful and supportive, is insisting we home diagnose by altering my diet. I am current living without dairy (except that ice cream cone at lunch. whoops.). It is shit.

And that my friends, is all. Isn't my life thrilling?

rules and observations for the edification of medical professionals

1, Shouting your patients name down a 50 yard hallway from your office door makes them feel neither welcome or cared for

2, Holding the door until they arrive at your beckon call would also be nice

3, Do not open with 'What's wrong with you?"

4, listen.

5, believe your patient is a person - not a melodramatic hypochondriac looking to get off on wasting your time (your eyes give it away)

6, try and act concerned or supportive - at the very least make some effort at responding to their qualms

7, make more than a cursory effort at prodding the abdomen. it would also help that if indeed you ask a patient 'tell me if this hurts', it does, and they do, remember they deserve some response, explanation or comfort at this confirmation. it is disheartening to be ignored - especially when something is amiss

8, listen.

9, do not palm off all awkward patients to the nurse for 'blood tests' we all know don't tell you a damn thing other than how your blood is.

10, do not seize upon the first symptom and refuse any other possibility, ignore any enquiriy for an explanation and deny further evidence to the contrary

11, If you've got too much shit on your mind to adequately serve your patients, get another job you cunt.

I think I can safely say having been on my period for 3 weeks with a high level of abdominal pain and diziness, including nausea, headaches and muscle pain, this is not a mild case of stress induced constipation you fucking retard.



I hate the NHS - the day I get knocked up we are jetting it to america.

I am not myself. Or I am and I don't like it. Or maybe I am just lost.

But it really really blows.

I know I always dreamed of a job I could truly commit myself to - a thing I genuinely believed could change lives and make the world a better place and I could sit on my throne of aloof, producerly power and bask in the unwitting appreciation and anonymous, inherent goodness of the world. I could be separate, unscathed, safe and yet intricately linked and responsible for the inspirational and affirming moments that make life worth living. I was anonymously valued and instrumental to great things.

I always hoped more than anything I would have a partner. Someone who needed me desperately, loved me completely and was charmed by my faults and foibles. That took joy in carpe diems and loved small surprises. That shared my spontaneous passions and useless, strict criteria. That humoured my silliness and selfdoubt in equal measure. That cared for me and helped me be a better self as much as i showed them their unrecognised greatness.

Now, I have these things.

I am overjoyed. And overwhelmed. And disappointed.

And I really don't mean to sound pretentious, because it was a total accident, and in someways a total failure (do you remember the agony of liam back in the day?or all the idiots and pseudo-loves and kindred spiris that came before? the years of wallowing and fears about ever having work I enjoyed? the lack of faith in anything better ever coming along?)

But I now have a job and a partner than fits these descriptions. The things I spent my whole life wanting, reassuring myself if only I could get them, things would turn out fine.

The problem is, it isn't enough. Or I was wrong.

Or perhaps more aptly, I didn't take into account a career and a relationship do not make a life.

Somewhere in the inbetween while I was trying to transition into the kind of person that gets up at 8 every day and calls my mother on sunday and arranges a box at the theatre as a special weekend trip I forgot to be human. to be me. to be whole.

like i thought acting out this life could be my life. but it is so souless. so shallow.

i am coming to realise nothing can complete me. or save me. or occupy my time until i can look back satisfied on a lifetime of productivity and value.

it just doesn't fucking work like that.

and now i don't know what to do.

it's like that first realisation that no matter how good i was at school - how great i was at taking tests and being on time and feeding back the answers i knew they wanted to hear - someday it wouldn't work like that i was wholly unprepared for any other type of activity and it was just tough luck no one taught me how to do anything other than be a good student. or maybe it was my fault i never figured it out - but either way, one day I was great at my job- and the next day my studentship was pink-slipped and I was rendered obsolete. Groomed for a purpose no one actually needed.

And if I was weaker, or stronger, or someone else, or even my younger self, I'd scrap everything. I'd get a do-over and tell myself it'll all be okay, because I can make the change i want to be, and i can build the life I want to live and i can find it, whatever it is, and be free.

But I don't want to jump ship. I don't need to run away to find myself.

I like it here. I love him. And I am unwilling to sacrifice that. Perhaps this is growth, it feels like something bigger than selfish wanderings, but it also feels like a burden, a tie and weight tying me down and holding me back.

I don't know how to edit what i have into what I want - up until now, I've always just traded in and started over. It's so much easier when you have nothing to lose.

For the first time, the last thing I want is a clean slate - but I don't have any other methods of modification.

And admitting change is no small thing, and extremely volitile.

Will we still be us, if I want us to be different? Can I keep this job and be who I want to be? If I can't, can I still live in this town, just drifting? Do i still want to? Where will I go? If I go back to America, will he give up everything to come with me? Can I ask that? do I want to? Is that fair? Will he resent it? Will my dedication to my job destroy my commitment to everything else? Can I do a job that asks so much of my heart and soul knowing I don't want to give in completely anymore? Is there a future when I am the best in the country at what I do, and i don't want to do it anymore? Can I really say something so pompous? Does it even matter?

Will it ever be ok?

And I just don't know.

Sometimes I think so, but I am unsure if it's just persuasion and self-denial disguised as comfort and survival tactics, or worse - I am so wrapped up in it temporarily, I've forgotten quite how bad it is, and merry keep tugging away. And someday, far from now, I'll see the horizon, my repulsion will dawn again and in the meantime I will have lost or destroyed everything in the blindness between.

Sometimes I am hopeless.

news

life just happens sometimes when you are not looking.

Baby Gulliver is being born today. I haven't spoken to the parents, my colleagues, since they went to hospital, but just the thought of it makes me kind of glow.

It is March. The programme i said I was waffling with in October is still waffling. And I have exactly 7 days to finish it. Done, written, ready to print, no one moving, nothing changing, set in stone for August. fuck me.

My deadline is so strict because I am off another corporate jaunt to Italy the 31st - but this time renting a flat so I have some privacy, and spending my evenings with friends, which should make the whole thing infinately less nervy.

And the big news (even though it's not mine):

Anika is getting married.

She and Justin set a date, she's got a whopper of a square cut diamond, and even though they are paying themselves and I think her parents are still disowning her, I couldn't be happier for them.

So put it in your diary Grady's - Nov 1 in the Chicago Windham.

So that's

July: Iain & Jane (Liam's dad)
August: Festival
September: Kate & Jimmy
October: Carol & Heidi (Liam's mum)
November: Anika & Justin
December: Home for Christmas?

Can I possibly manage a state-side flight 3 times this fall? Jesus. or could I have more weddings to go to? Being a twenty something is fucking weird.

just another reason my sister is infinately cooler than me. or, why i will never been a government agent.

NASA's Moon Survival Challenge

Here are 5 important things you should know:

1, I have shorn my ShieldMaiden of Rohan locks. I hope some kid with leukemia who gets a wig of 12 inches of my hair will be ecstatic.

2, I am regressing into a love of shit sci-fi movies

3, My boyfriend loves both The Philadelphia Story and now, Romancing the Stone. If he wasn't a keeper before, his sharing my ironic love of Michael Douglas dancing in white pants seals the deal.

4, I am going to Italy at the end of March.

5, I am considering getting a mortgage. Is that sad?

I haven't been writing.

Not just here. But at all. Not journals, not letters, not emails, not postcards, not scathing diatribes on scraps of office stationary, not even badly constructed beginnings of novels or names for my non-existent band. Not anything.

I am bereft of words.

Life is just not writeable somehow. Which is ironic, considering my career.

But it isn't. It's too much. And not enough. And doesn't fit. And promises and takes and starves and grows.

See? Even I know how retarded I sound. It just isn't a literal kind of thing. It's like the epicness of opera but the quietude of an indy Cannes flick. It's everything and nothing and a sara-centred world devoid of a central character.

Perhaps I should take up dance. Maybe then it would all make sense.

Triva Fun for the Day

Go to Wikipedia.

Type in the day and month of your birthday but not the year.

See all the exciting things and people who share your birthday.

19 February

Birthdays
1473 - Nicolaus Copernicus, Polish mathematician and astronomer (d. 1543)
1896 - André Breton, French poet (d. 1966)
1911 - Merle Oberon, British actress (d. 1979)
1930 - John Frankenheimer, American film director (d. 2002)
1934 - Carole Eastman, American screenwriter (d. 2004)
1940 - Smokey Robinson, American singer
1952 - Amy Tan, American novelist
1954 - Socrates, Brazilian footballer
1955 - Jeff Daniels, American actor
1957 - Falco, Austrian singer (d. 1998)
1957 - Ray Winstone, British actor
1958 - Helen Fielding, English writer
1960 - Andrew, Duke of York
1963 - Laurell K. Hamilton, American writer
1963 - Seal, English singer
1967 - Benicio del Toro, Puerto Rican actor

Events
197 - Roman Emperor Septimius Severus defeats usurper Clodius Albinus in the Battle of Lugdunum, the bloodiest battle between Roman armies.
1600 - The Peruvian stratovolcano Huaynaputina explodes in the most violent eruption in the recorded history of South America.
1674 - England and the Netherlands sign the Peace of Westminster, ending the Third Anglo-Dutch War. A provision of the agreement transfers the Dutch colony of New Amsterdam to England, and it is renamed New York.
1861 - Serfdom is abolished in Russia.
1878 - The phonograph is patented by Thomas Edison.
1881 - Kansas becomes the first U.S. state to prohibit all alcoholic beverages.
1915 - World War I: The Battle of Gallipoli begins.
1945 - World War II: Battle of Iwo Jima - about 30,000 United States Marines land on Iwo Jima.
1986 - The Soviet Union launches the Mir space station.
2002 - NASA's Mars Odyssey space probe begins to map the surface of Mars using its thermal emission imaging system.

Not a bad day, all in all

i saw you on facebook

When one is on the Tube counting every stop to the West End, rushing to catch your seats at the Lion King because your boyfriend's mother has bought the whole family tickets as a huge birthday excursion up from Kent, the last thing you expect to see is your german exchange student.

Well, actually, my germany-living hungarian exchange student's little brother (who subsequently visited my parents when I was in college) and mom (who still sends my parents christmas cards).

I thought it looked like them, but I'd not seen them in like a decade and figured I was being delirious (the new experience of pseudo-in-laws has done my head in).

until he facebooked me. we are like buddies now. long live the internet.

bring it on, you baby lover.

now, we all know i love a good quiz. trivia, reference, Cosmo or math - I just love ticking boxes to find out about my inner soul/IQ/celebrity look alike/death day.

and the internet has always been a playground of insurmountable joy. from the good old days of the Purity Test (still an annual birthday tradtion), to now my love of flixter in particular, billions of people it seems have the time and inclination to supply me with an endless stream of mindless fun.

however, this new fangled bait-the-hook method of quizzing i am adamantly hating with every fibre of my being.

how dare you tantalize me with 'how many 5 year olds could you kill in a death match?' health profile on my ninja skills and fat:muscle ratio and then insist i register for your fucking no-strings dating site to find my life affirming answer? blow me.

blow this hallmark holiday out your ass

some people used to think i'd never get a man. mostly this was because:

a, i didn't believe in 'getting' one
b, i didn't try hard enough
c, mr. darcy is ficticious and all men were worsened by comparison
d, i am a lesbian

any or all of these may still be true, to a greater or lesser extent.

but i think i can safely say i am in a committed, realistic relationship when my valentine is vitamin pills and tickets to Juno.

nothing says valentine's like teenage pregnancy. god i love him.

mom

she came.

she left.

in between a lot of inconsequential and a few very consequential things happened.

we giggled and cuddled.

she ranted about drugs and brains.

i cried. she cried. we both felt misunderstood and alone.

we danced on the beach. we had photo shoots in silly places. we slept in and took long walks and sighed like there was no tomorrow.

and now, i don't feel so alone. not because of her physical presence, but i think because i finally managed to say things i have thought and felt for years if not decades.

i feel freer. truer. more like myself (because tragically, the one place i am not is with them.)

and she is more human, more real and less blameable somehow in her truth - even if it doesn't match my own.

i think the only down side is now i miss my sister even more.

someday I'll tell you the story about how my mom called me a couple hours before she was supposed to come and save me from myself and had lost her passport and wasn't coming anymore. It's the really good bit when after I cried and cried and fought with Liam about it and then it turns out it was just a mistake and Dad saved the day like in the movies.

But it's not funny yet. And it's time to go pick her up at the airport.

I love my mother.

I also love my cosmopolitain, european, anti-establishment, decidedly naive life.

In exactly 22 hours I will begin the ultimate experiement by trying to combine these two things without anyone getting the short end of the stick.

But first I have to do something. Well, two things actually.

I have rented the downstairs neighbours flat for the week so mom can have her own space to call dad and go to bed early, and mostly not feel awkward when she would so obviously be in the house of an unmarried couple living in sin where we have breakfast in our bathrobes and I leave my pill on the bathroom counter every night so I don't forget to take it.

So firstly, I have to go get the keys from said neighbour.

And secondly, we have to surreptitiously test the accoustics.

Last night in the 'here is the thermostat, don't forget to put the towels in the bin' tour I realised their bed is directly below ours. And while it would be embarrasing to realise the neighbours have been able to hear us having sex for the past 6 months, it would be infinately worse not to know my mother can.


But in other news, I am v excited and cannot wait for a day of old movies and headpetting and cookies. No one does that like mom.

No matter how old you are, it can be immensely satisfying to play dress up.

At our local ritz and chandelier theatre, box seats are cheap - mostly because they have a slightly obstructed view of the stage corner below you. But then really, you get a fucking box with velvet curtains, your own usher to hang up your coat and actual chairs you can move as you please for as much leg room as a 19th century theatre can allow. It's fucking brilliant. So, on a Christmas whim, I bought us a box for The Glass Menagerie.

And while opera glassing the plebs below and sniggering at intermission is just one hell of a night out - it's infinitely better when wearing a Jacky O dress and sipping a g&t.

Children of the 80s

I have a ghastly confession.

Our office is broken essentially into three rooms each holding a handful of desks, and thus each nutures its own subculture and unique identity. While the front office is quite girly, very cheerful and often well informed on cultural matters - the box office is a more laid back group usually associated with the wry british humour and a lot of bitching.

And we are the back office. Consisting of the artsy programming ones (like me) combined the tech guys who make our dreamy work exist in a never ending list of spreadsheets and quantifyable realities. It is a world of opposites united by our griping, love of pringles, and an odd array of guilty pleasures.

And our new tradition (inpired by a truly outstanding office secret santa gift to my esteemed colleague) has taken root and will possibly change our lives.

Power Ballad Friday. Every friday from three.

Finish out the working week with Cher, Queen, Genesis including a lifetime of memories and naff hand motions.

And of course, moments of great edification. Below is a sample of our machinacinations

- pub quiz like betting on what year Mad Max 3: Beond Thunder Dome came out (obvbiously at the instigation of a certain Ms. Turner)

- thumbs up/thumbs down on if Amy Winehouse is more talented than Britney Spears (thumbs up) eventhough she's just been committed to an asylum of sorts (thumbs even considering Britney's comperable downward spiral)

- a meatloaf/ jack black-as-dewey finn compare and contrast

- the confession someone got broken up with during a power ballad that shall not be named

-an entire debate on the feasibilty of the plot of Mighty Ducks 3 (and the Junior Olympics face off with the nasty Russians) instigated at the opening lines of "We are the Champions" - which everyone knows is the turning point in the first film that makes their unbelieveable success on and off the ice possible.

I love it.

Sometimes the world scares me

Sentenced to death: Afghan who dared to read about women's rights

I am not a politicised person. Sometimes I think that is because those that are are fucking insane - no matter what platform they stand on. To date, I have found little evidence otherwise

My family is truly mad. I am pretty sure anyone who has ever met them knows this, but nonetheless. It is, on occasion, disconcerting.

It is also counterproductive to any sense of practicality one may unwittingly, or more appropriately, pitifully, try to impose.

And when trying to plan a schedule from 3,000 miles and in need of some assistance it is most exceedingly vexing.

le sigh.

torn

I am sick.

I hate being sick.

I hate feeling trapped in my own body, which is on a rampage of revolt and generally trying to exorcise my sanity.

Plus, on that day three, when things are slightly better, and you feel finally ready to maybe think about eating solid food, and maybe going back to work before the month is out, my brain wakes up long before the rest of me.

Still bedridden with paralyzingly numb limbs and slightly queasy everything else, I am tormented by worries about the gas bill, antsy about friday's now impossible deadlines, and riddled with guilt and sadness for everything from a hangnail to how I wish my family had communicated better over the last two decades. It's like being caught in a landslide of unbidden thought-loops that will slowly tear out any sanity not already destroyed by the delirium and cabin fever.

I so hate being sick. It's the only time I can't properly escape myself.

Hello gentle reader.

I feel I have not been myself lately, and I apologise.

I will heretofore endeavour to create a more amenable environment in my trivial updates and impart some small amount of useless knowledge for your edification.

Today:

- The national flower of Mexico is the Dahlia

- and here is a newspaper article (Being Unfaithful Keeps Me Happy) I find by turns deeply sad and hysterical.

Modernity is a joke. May I never be a Telegraph reader.

Tis the season...

8:00: Wake up

8:30: Get dressed in the dark. Misplace favourite bra.

9:00: Tie up wet hair, run out the door, laden with books. Still darkish out.

9:10: It's pissing it down. Dig hat out of bag and commence dismal walk.

9:20: Breakfast detour - run up 3 flights of steps to street level, try not to die.

9:25: Cleverly step on the dry bit of a half submurged flagstone - except that seesaws the stone on it's invisible fulcrum, sending the whole puddle crashing down into my shoe.

9:30: Coffee shop does not take cards. Proceed to unload all of bag onto counter in search for enough change for breakfast.

9:35: Failure. Opt for a cocoa on the pennies found, skip the pastries

9:40: Walk out the door - immediately be splashed a la Bridget Jones by traffic water. A girl passing tries not to laugh.

9:45: Arrive at work to chipper and chatty colleagues. Ignore them until they leave me in peace. Commence tidying tornadoed bookcases.

10:30: Unpack bag of finished books brought from home onto newly cleaned shelves. Discover they are soaked and wrinkly.

12:45: The guy next to me brings in fish pie for lunch, smelling up the whole building.

1:30: Lunch highlight: finding coupon for DangerMouse dvd in the local paper!

3:31: Dusk

Today is statisically the most depressing day of the year for good reason. My most promising thing yet is the dozen cookies I fortuitously bakes last night at home waiting for me.

year

So for some reason, the darkness this January has made me retrospective. More so than usual even. And I am struggling to fit it all together - as if there is some high meaning puzzle-guru somewhere. Which there isn't. But all the same, I find it soothing.


January
New Years in bed
Quit Blackwell
Begin Book Festival
Leaving Do
First real fight
Conquering the Schools Programme

February
Bleak
Birthday surprise
St. Andrews Mini-Break

March
Think about moving in together?
Alnwick day trip
Dvorak Symphony
Rain.

April

Switzerland Easter with Jennie and Chrissy
Bologna - the first corporate travel
Holiday from Hell in the Highlands:
mafia deer massacre
eerie valley, creepy town
out of gas!
to the sea!
our private castle island


(I had to get my diary at this point. The whole summer was a blur.)

May
Goodbye Uncle Richard
Eurovision scarred my retinas (and ear drums)
Flat hunting
Church weirdness

June
Certified First Aider
Taste of Edinburgh festival
First press conference - shaking
Parties in London, home on the sleeper train

July
Alice in Wonderland Party
Newcastle with Quentin Blake
Glasgow Decadent weekend
a month long period
Goodbye to Falcon Gardens

August
Meet Carol & Heidi
Anika and Justin visit
Anika & Edith Head Wear Red party
Festival
Festival
Alan Cumming
Festival
Festival
Festival
Festival
theatre to break your heart
Festival
Festival
Festival
Liam's Dissertation
Festival
post-Fest binge party.
Pack. Donate. Pack. Bin. Pack. Pack. Pack.


September
Move house
Panic.
Change.
Slick new phone
Excitment.
IKEA
Doubt
Faith
Contentment
Beautiful Bath
Mrs Bashore, not Johnny Depp
very very very sick

October
IKEA
Rolf's Birthday reunion
Sound of Music Party
London I
blobel
Mike visits
London II

November
Discover online groceries
Home!
Liam & the Gradys
Grady Thanksgiving
Wii
Kate's shower!
Anika
Mom.
The flight from hell
Deadline stress

December
Cookie Baking Fest
Our party!
Social office events
2 whole weeks of freedom!
Miso the kitten
no Gradys...
Christmas Eve meanders
Christmas calm
Dallas & Team Hooray
DVD heaven
New Year promises

And oddly enough, I highly doubt these events and holidays and parties are the things I will remember. That if I looked back on what I had written - or if I could fast forward, it's the momentous year I became part of a 'we'.

Which has changed nothing, but affected everything. And it's a damn weird thing to pin down. I couldn't even tell you when I fell in love. Or when i knew. Or when I decided. It just sort of happened. And it's here all the same.

Every couple of months, we have this ritual dinner.

Not on purpose even, it just kind of happens. It's mostly a comfort thing, when someone isn't feeling well. It's like being a little kid again. Like movies in bed and dad getting you lucky charms.

We have (well, I have - Liam has fish fingers) chicken dinosaurs - which are essentially giant chicken fingers about the size of my hand, shaped like t-rexes, stegasauri, triSARAtops etc etc. with oven chips (which are not as good as waffle fries or curly fries, but it is still nice) and frozen peas and corn. Just like out of a school cafeteria or your grandmother's deep freezer in the garage.

It is just kind of nice. He is actually out getting me ben and jerry's just now and we are going to watch a movie and cuddle in the dark, sharing the ketchup dipping pot.


I alo find it a little surprising today is also the day my first platinum credit card came in the post. Talk about a day of opposites.

I am exhausted.

Not tired from doing things. Not lethargic from not doing things. In fact, no matter what, all the time, I am tired, irritable, demanding and verging on a breakdown.

It's like what I ran out of was tolerance and faith, not just energy.

As always, our idyllic vacation was half perfection and half the bowels of hell.

A moonlit walk along the thames, kissing as Big Ben struck and it's shadow glimmered in the black water. Whispering and poking fun and the pretentious art in the Tate Modern. Holding hands under the table at the kitch tapas place. Disecting greek tragedy as an art form. It was a respite from real life and a minute of blissful togetherness.

But it was also truly horrid. I don't think we have ever gone anywhere and didn't fight about something stupid. It's ridiculous really. The angry logical discussions and selfish proclamations. It always hurts after to think we have been so stupid. And this time more so, for it's lack of novelty.

We're crawling out of the hole. It is never the end of the world. But I still feel bruised.

bleak

Some times life is just big. Things, for good or ill, feel significant. Heavy.

Liam and I are entering a whole new version of being together, which is a great joy - but if I am honest, also fucking scary. I have never been one for the touchy feely, the true confession of truth. the whole open honest reality of commitment is making my inner demons antsy. suddenly forever isn't just a word. and i am not sure i like it.

I am worried about my sister. I miss her so much. I so want someone to talk to.

My job is hard. I am contstantly being strained to the point of breaking and the idea of beginning another bout of battles makes me want to run instead of thrilling me with promise. It's truly sad to be admitting maybe now I have what I wanted, it isn't what i thought it would be.

Or maybe it's just the dolumpy stress of a wet frozen january in a place with no snow and an ever gray skyline. Perhaps when it is daylight as I walk to work my mood will lighten too - I can't hope to have it anything but the pitchest black at 4pm for months. And perhaps as I begin a new chapter (with a new festival, looking for a new house, and beginning a new year madly in love) it'll get easier. I'll get better at being me.

But, in other news, I am temporarily heartened by the joy of Enchanted- one of the stupidest, sweetest movies I have ever seen. I was skeptical, but ironic disney is truly better than I thougt it could be. And we have been humming and skipping about ever since. It's the perfect cure to the winter doldrums.

Fresh

The beginning of a new year is like a new outfit for the first day of school, the smell of fresh laundry and waking up from a luxurious nap all rolled into one. It holds such quiet promise, such a simple joy.

Right now, it's snowing. Big thick clumps of white gather on my windowsill.

I've not seen snow in Edinburgh in three years and it's the most beautiful sight in the world.

I hope I can hold onto this. That the rest of the year will carry this sense of wonder and delight. That it's not about achievement and deadlines, clouded with stress sorrow and doubt, but the grander things that make life worth living.

Christmas in a Nutshell

True to form, in a variety of lists:

The Best and Worst of Christmas 2007

Best Food:
1. pigeon & green onion starter at the rizty Christmas Eve romantic restaurant
2. Cheese Board from the cheesemonger for christmas eve lunch
3. Proper Nut Roast, not that pseudo-stuffing I made at Thanksgiving

Best Drink:
green & blacks cocoa in my P&P mug

Best Card:
Jennie's retro trees are tied with mom's enigmatic and sentimental note
The 12 days of Christmas as sung by Dirty Bertie get an honorable mention

Most Disappointing:
1. Ruining the wreath cookies
2. Midnight Mass was confusing and long and none of the joyousness celebrating with a thousand people together is supposed to be. It was chaotic, in latin, and sad.

Most surprising:
The presents from Liam's mom (wind up racing snails, lotsa liquor and a whole load of junk food)

Most simply gratifying:
Singing carols as we made our first christmas dinner together

Most nostalgia inducing:
Teaching Liam to play gin rummy on the tiny cards he won in his christmas cracker.

Most homesick moment:
reading tom's letter

Most manic:
The christmas kitten.
I keep wanting to up load a photo of our holiday house guest, Miso the kitten - but she is hideous and wild and wont sit still long enough. She has already broken a lamp, thrown potted plants around - and oh yes, went into heat on Christmas Eve for three excruciating days of mewling and really pitiful displays of discomfort. I think we need to have a chat with her owners.

Most beautiful:
1. The moon on christmas eve
2. our golden tree
3. the little german nativity i bought at market

Best Presents I got:
1. Liam is going to buy me a satchel/briefcase for work - we are going to the fancy tanners to pick one out next week
2. jennie's octopus:


3. black and silver dessert plates from Anna

Best presents I gave:
1. team hooray apparel
2. real dinosaur tooth
3. spongebob candy canes with decals

Best presents I witnessed:
1. Tom gave Liam Rome Total War
2. Liam gave Heidi a kit for growing shitake mushrooms from a block in your cupboard
3. Lisa screened Julie a T-shirt of Cagney and Lacy.


Itineray thus Far

23rd:
Sleep all day
See Darjeeling Limited
Feed poor sick liam
Go to Carol Service at St Giles Cathedral (the cool gothic venue, the rubbish carols)
Watch the Thomas Crown Affair


Christmas Eve:
Have a fight about the loud annoying horny cat
Have a cry (aforementioned)
Have cheeseboard lunch
Have a cuddle
Go to fancy pants dinner
Go for moonlit stroll
Go to weird-ass midnight mass with all of Polish Edinburgh (O Little Town of Bethlehem and It Came Upon a Midnight Clear have different tunes, and we actually sing In the Bleak Midwinter. )


Christmas Day:
Sleep in and canoodle
Blueberry & Chocolate Chip Pancakes
Presents!
Roundrobin phone with Liam's family
Watch Finding Nemo
Get dressed
Make christmas feast (sans roast goose)
Gorge
Play gin
Talk to mi familia on corporate speaker phone
Watch the Family Guy Christmas Special

Boxing Day:
Sleep in (this is a requisite on all my holidays)
Eat scrumptious leftovers and watch worst James Bond film ever (Moonraker. Fucking Roger Moore)
Play with manic kitty
Do mountains of dishes from Xmas Feast
Make wreath cookies (badly)
Watch School of Rock

Today:
Sleep in
Wreath Cookie Breakfast
Buy survival groceries
Tidy
Go see Golden Compass

and there is still a whole week left before I go back to work including the Wii party, new years eve and watching my Planet Earth dvds. joy!

Christmas Calm

As always, I get over things sooner than I think I will. What felt huge and unendurable before, is now at best a dull ache fading to distant memory.

It doesn't hurt that the calm emptiness of this holiday left space - maybe one I was scared of trying to fill - but space to just be in. That Christmas Eve, after dinner we could pause in an empty street and really notice the full moon and how it had that rare ring of light surrounding it. That walking along the glistening cobbles we could hear nothing but the echo of our footsteps in the night. That Christmas held no obligations or bustle or worry or rules or traditions to maintain. That we didnt have to be at anyone's house by three, I didn't even have to get dressed. So instead of plans and party-time, it played host to the simple joys of cuddling with a kitten, watching a favourite movie, sipping cocoa and goofing off. And absolutely nothing else.

Yeah, I missed Grady Christmas. a lot. Yeah, I wish I had had a stocking or someone else did the dishes. I wish I could see my family's faces as they opened their gifts and joke about the day in a constant running commentary. Mostly I just miss being all together and the thought we won't be until september makes me miss the times it was everyone always.

But in all honesty, it was just lovely to make our own little day. And it definitely wasn't 'the worst christmas ever'. Score.

blue stars

i just had a big cry.

i don't know why the holidays still make me emotional. and emotional in that completely incoherent and ridiculous 'i am so wronged. is this all there is to life?' way that is like being 15 again.

maybe its the stress.

i know i shouldn't. i know it's nothing, and no matter what, the things that matter dont change. That no matter what, cuddling on my sofa and even making a travesty of the traditional dinner in my first attempt, will be heartwarming and wonderful. But when things are just right - the moment happens - it is so good, i spend an inordinant amount of time trying to make it happen when i know in my heart it just doesnt work that way.

so i have spent a good week trying to make myself a christmas. one i want to live. one to be proud of. and mostly one that will take my mind off of texas.

now, i can safely say, a holiday in a hot, dry, huge, place like texas is about the least joyous i'll ever know. and a christmas without liam gives me a pang.

but a grady congregation without me always makes me sad. and homesick.

and yes, often annoyed no one calls me back or my parent's don't even send a present. like they are too busy having fun to remember me.

so sometimes it feels like they don't even notice i am gone.

and as ludicrous as i know that is, from far away on my own i can almost convince myself its true and it makes me hurt a little.

so, cue the waterworks and bit of a bridget jones moment. at least it gets it out of my system.

and now, i am cuddled under my aunt monica quilt with our Christmas Cat (more on her later), with hot cocoa, emailing my cousin stephanie and holding on to the important things.

because what really matters is we are safe, we are sound. we are whole and we are well. we are not bleeding, we are not broken. not bumped or bruised. we don't need a doctor and we don't need a hospital. we are all okay, wherever we are. and my heart is full to bursting.

the v is for vapid?

Seeing as I am heading to my first Literature & Education Forum (as in the national coallition of arts organisations, I'm not going to be on the board of any old rubbish now am I?) today, I thought I ought to look appropriately sharp. Pinstipe skirt, black leather boots and a killer red sweater.

And as I go to adjust the casual perfection of my cowelneck while in the loo, I notice a slight tarnish to my otherwise dapper appearance.

I have a massive hickey on my neck.

If that doesn't say 20-something professional, what does?

getting there

I am coming to realise growing up has nothing whatever to do with making sense of the world like I thought, but almost completely to do with making sense of myself.

Of knowing how I am, what I am like and how that effects things can, I am sure, cut down on half my arguments, all of my meaningless frustrations and pretty much all minor troubles such as indegestion/sleeplessness/cranky-spots.

For instance. It is not Liam's fault I come home from the movies and go into a whirlwind of tidying. Nor is it unfathomable he'd be annoyed I am moving all of his stuff. And it would have saved an entire evening discussion if I'd realised I am doing EXACTLY the false cleaning (e.g. stacking up papers in the cornder and shoving mess in a drawer) my dad always did because of my nazi-ish dependency on having a clean kitchen table to come home to.

And if I just knew that was what I was doing and either:
a, talked myself out of it or
b, told him it bothered me and found a way around it,
I could have still had time to watch Rushmore before bed.

The world would be a better place if I was self-aware. Maybe I should get threapy.

mourning the v

As the year comes to a close, we are inevitably thrown into a retrospective of trends, objects and headlines of the year past. And in a moment of self-reflexsive meditation, it occurs to me, my long earned title of V is not so relevent to my postings.

Can you remember the days where I had sex on park benches and hooked up with the crush of my best friend? The time I sort of slept with phil or the topless sleepover with hot scot? Or any the other freak manifestations of my libido really. It's shocking! I have gone from playboy tease to domestic dull-o.

After extensive rumination (read: 30 seconds), I have several excuses to make.

1, most sadly: Now I am in a relatively high profile job - it is not everyone who is on Norwegian television and the BBC Breaking Dawn programme after all - I am more and more hesitent to record in public my personal life and opinions. Especially once I found out it is common practice to google/facebook/friendster/myspace someone before a job interview to suss the candidate here. Can you imagine me ever getting a job with my track record of co-workers, classmates and scandal the last couple of years?

2, even lamer: Frankly (and I already know you don't want to hear this), my sex life is no less interesting now it is monogamous. It is slightly more sober and cogent, which I find leads to much less disappointment when i wake up next to his face and not some retard i don't know their name, but I am straying from my point. Because seeing as there is a distinct possibility you will meet him even if you haven't already, I pretty much don't want to scar anyone's psyche's with outrageous stories. Mostly, i just don't want visions upside-down-sofa-sex on your mind when i introduce you.

okay, two excuses. the only possible third is that my life just is actually boringly full of kittens and christmas cookies (which it is, but it's not boring. really. i promise.)

I am a complete sad-o. (just so you know, it took me a long time to choose a spelling that would not imply an abbreviation for sadomasochist. see? I am trying to be a consciencous blogger.) jesus fucking christ.

Tra la la!

So the party was adorable.

Of course everyone was late so we slow danced to the crooner's christmas album in the candlelight and glow of the tree in the quiet before the storm. I've never felt so cozy.

Then a whole random mix of people poured through the door - and one of those serendipitous random mixes where everyone gets on okay and we all have a lovely time eating far too much (christmas oranges, mince pies and pumpkin cake - oh British) and playing Articulate until the middle of the night.

It makes me feel all fuzzy, and its not just the mulled wine going to my head. I love Christmas. Take away the mountains of presents and the networking parties and the stress and the shopping. The garish and gruesome of obligations and rules and its just downright lovely.

I cannot wait til our Christmas Day of cozy, quiet, sombre celebration for all that there is to be grateful for.

a month ago Roland, the guy who sits across from me at work, announced his wife is pregnant.

today Oisin, the guy next to me, says the same.

in an office of 5, i have severe concerns about my chances of being the next one with an announcement in this epidemic.

contageous childbirth is the modern plague.

christmas bells are ringing...

Christmas is in the air ridiculously early.

Last weekend we went and picked up our Charlie Brown-esque tree from the british equivelent of Home Depot. And then had an arguement about how big a stand we needed and walked it the three miles home through the park singing carols and drinking starbucks gingerbread lattes on the way.

Two nights ago, I had to put on my leather gloves to string the lights because as beautiful as Norwegian Spruce's are, they hurt like a bitch. I was bleeding in places.

Last night, I made the traditional grammy's recipe cookie dough to sit overnight in the fridge. Now my only dilema is do i make the standard version, or cut holes in the middle and put in jolly ranchers to make little stained glass window cookies like i saw in the marks and spencer catalogue?

Can you risk messing with tradition just for the sake of martha stewart craftiness? It worked with the fashioning of a garland from the tree branches we trimmed off (to fit the tiny base we bought), but this may be a step too far.

Tomorrow is wreath cookies and present wrapping because sunday is our 'welcome to the holiday season' party which I am sure will be utterly memorable in a plethora of ways. Not only because i have never mulled wine before.

And I know it's early, but I am excited. And I am secretly hoping all this running about now, means i can spend the next month basking in the glow of my gold beribboned tree and doing jack shit for the holiday season except drinking port and wishing bing crosby was on tv.