Those crazy blues

I shouldn't post when I'm sad.

Or feeling less than 50% because what comes out is not really what I want to read myself, let alone allowing others to read it.

My last post was written when I was feeling less than fine. When I was having one of my crazy blues.

At my lowest point several years back, I sat across from the doctor, shaking. I couldn't see past the next hour. I wanted to curl into a ball and hide. I talked, she prescribed.
3 months waiting list to see a therapist. I would need to attend AA meetings regularly. I would need to take this prescription, the side effects of which would make me anxious, shaky and may disrupt my sleep.

I went to AA, someone talked about being clean, held up a chip. He used to drink his own vomit, it had alcohol in it. I walked out.
Whatever rock bottom was for me, it surely wasn't going to be that.

I never filled the prescription either, I was not going to mask how I felt by numbing myself.
I find it amusing now, as the Doctor flipped through her book of anti-depressants, talked about addiction; subsequently issuing me with an addictive medication.
She acknowledged the symptoms, loss of appetite, depression, anxiety, panic attacks, sleeplessness. Fluoxetine, it seems, has several side effects. Anxiety being key.

At the time I failed to see the irony.

She peered over at me, looking at her watch, dismissing me. I wanted to shout "Help me" but I couldn't find my voice

I quit my job. I joined a gym. The Ex (who was at the time, the Boyfriend) tried. The funny thing is he is a manic depressive, in denial.
(I am sure there is a skit in there, take 2 depressed people, make them fall in love, add an interfering mother in law (his mother) and a small space.
Add alcohol and petty arguments. Sit back and watch the show!)

We spilt up, surprisingly. Whoever was up one day was not going to last the other's down day. I should have spiked his meals.

And I have my ups and downs, I get out of bed and put on a smile. I get through the day. I had a bad week but I'm feeling better today. Already it will be a better week.

I went to a series of lectures on Saturday, met some amazing people and heard some incredible stories. Spent some time with people who are incredibly important to me and cherished my time with them. I'm bored of being tired of being tired.
I want to find my voice again and hopefully get back to amusing anecdotes.

So please, bear with me for a little while longer. I have a few more stories to tell and next time I promise to come back with something amusing.

What ifs and worries

On the phone to my mother last night.

"How are things?"

Fine, I say. I know she is sad, I know that she is worrying half way across the world.

Silence.

And there it is.

"Before I go to sleep, I worry about you. You and The Gorgeous. I worry that neither of my girls are settled."

I hold my breath.

"But I know that you will be."

I don't know how to respond to that. She sounds so certain that I will settle at some point. Find some nice man and be happy. As if being happy is justified by me having a partner.

I admire her unfaltering belief that this will happen, I am after all, a woman.
And I am expected to do just that.

But how can I be so sure that my match is out there? My clairvoyant has banged on about this bloody emperor for 2 years now, teasing me with his presence, her assurance of his commitment in my life.
Grand, I think. He's tall. He's handsome. And he's a bit rugged.

But what happens if he never appears in my life?
What happens if I never meet someone who can keep me interested for longer than 3 weeks?

And is that really something I should be worrying about?

Preholiday rambling

Life over the last few weeks has been a bit of a roller coaster.

I'm aware that life is going on around me, that there are some amazing things that have happened, some horrific things, some sad, some overdue and some exciting.

But I just can't seem to get my head together at the moment, to be able to take each little fragment as it happens, acknowledge it and then prepare myself for the next onslaught. To be able to digest it, give it the respect it deserves and then move on. I feel as if I am a spectator in my own life, watching a series of tableaux played out, knowing these are my memories and these are my thoughts.

I'm just feeling slightly indifferent to it all. I'm still happy, and I'm still laughing; I'm definitely not shedding any tears so it's not sadness.
It just is at the moment.

Nothing right, nothing wrong.

Life just keeps on coming.

Untitled

I'm going on holiday in about 3 hours.

Well, in about 3 hours I am going to leave the office and then I'll be unofficially on holiday. Officially would start at 9:30 tomorrow when I should be at my desk, coffee in hand.

But I won't be.

I'll be on a coach.

Sort of spoils the whole ambience. The coach, I mean.

I can assure you that I'd rather be on a tropical beach, listening to the sound of the waves against the shore, a bag full of all the books I've yet to read beside me, a fully charged ipod with all the songs I'm supposed to be discovering.
But I will be listening to some new music, and I will be reading a new book. (Any suggestions gratefully received)
And I will also have a few hours to myself, well... besides the other passengers but I will have several uninterrupted hours of reading.

That is bliss.

The Waltz

It's been so long since I properly fancied someone I'm not entirely sure what to do. I can fall in and out of love at the drop if a hat, fantasise about that man who just walked past me but to have a crush, a weak at the knees, hot flush, cannot speak crush... well that's a completely different matter.

I do have the odd mini crush here and there, with people I know I shouldn't and men I know I'd never really want to bring me Sunday morning papers and coffee. Even the last few fleeting relationships I've had have been with men I was fond of, whose company I somewhat enjoyed, rather than than a truly overwhelming want to be with them. I always felt as if I called the shots, the curtain would come down and it would be The End when I got bored enough to call it.

And there have been a few others who got me all tongue tied, whose very presence dissolved any ability from me to make conversation, let alone hold their gaze. Men who as soon as I saw them made me weak at the knees, and turned me overwhelmingly shy so that instead of appearing cool and calm, I came off as rude.

This is then where the major problem arises. Now that The Swiss has made me realise that it is okay to ask a man out, I all of a sudden have a new found power. It is possible after all to go up to that smart, sexy, attractive man whom I fancy like mad, smile and deliver... *Shall we go for a drink?* or some other slick and sassy invite.

As an old fashioned kinda gal who hasn't had to ask a man out in years, the prospect simply terrifies me; as that smart, sexy, attractive man has already rendered me a paralyzed mute, how ever am I ever going to be able to waltz over and get those simple six little words out?!

Shame

The Swiss has slightly shamed me in his email. I realise I haven't posted in days, not because I have nothing to say, I do.

I always do, that is a fact, it's just that I can't seem to get a handle on my words.

I have an opinion on just about everything at the moment from the BC Teacher's strike, to the Tory leadership campaign, and back to Canada's slip into unethical governing. But I could care less whether or not Adam Bloody Rickett became an MP. Unless he took his shirt off that is.

I've seen some decent films, finished Kafka on the Shore but am unsure of what to pick up next, Cloud Atlas seems a contender albeit a late one. I'm not dating, in fact it was rather ungently pointed out that I have not been on a date since The Actor.

Back in July.

I'm not even snogging anyone, appropriately or inappropriately. And as I seem to living my love life vicariously through my housemates after fantastically falling flat on my face with the last two boys I decided to fancy, I'm wondering just what the hell I AM doing on the nights I'm out?!

Lost Vagueness

I have a party this evening.

But not just any party. No no no no indeed.

The invite for this party very coyly suggests it is the party to end all parties. And we are to dress gorgeously.

Apparently there will be music and dancing, acrobatics and poker, whisky tastings and lounge areas, and the theme... the theme is Lost Vagueness.

What, I puzzle, is Lost Vagueness?

Is it all 1950's movie star glamour, cocktails dresses, sweeping eyeliner and impossibly red lips?
Is it all Twiggy-esque smoky eyes, false lashes and pale lips?

Or something in between?

Is it the sexy yet demure black wrap around dress, with sheer glossy stockinged legs and very high heels? Or is it the classic black dress with the full skirt? Is it the spanish shawl or the silk wrap?

And how, I wonder, when everyone has been invited, are we all to squeeze into those marble and gold loos, with makeup bags, and hairspray, perfume and powder, dresses and decisions to bedeck and bejewel into our glorious glad rags?

Which sportscar are you...

Apparently...

A Lamborghini Murcielago...

They say,

You're not subtle, but you don't want to be. Fast, loud, and dramatic, you want people to notice you, and then get out of the way. In a world full of sheep, you're a raging bull.

http://www.tomorrowland.us/sportscar/

Still I'm not so sure that colour would suit me. I'm sure I'd look better in red.

Pieces of Me

Somewhat inspired by G2's Piece of Me when each week the paper asks a prominent figure to look back at their life through their favourite objects, I decided to challenge myself and see what materialistic pursuits matter most to me.

Not that I'm a prominent figure mind you, I just think it would be very interesting.

Or very depressing.

As it is I've moved something ridiculous like 14 times in 9 years. Even when I was responsible and bought a 3 bedroom house with The Ex to settle down and play not so happy families, never staying long enough to settle but just long enough to accumulate things that I felt I needed at the time.


1) My red cowboy boots. A bit scuffed and a bit worn but I treasure them all the same. And I'm wearing them right now.

2) My jewellery box. There's not alot in terms of high monetary value, no diamonds or precious jewels but I do own the most beautiful necklace in the world that was given to me by Lulu for my 30th, which only comes out on very special occasions. And a pair of beads from the 30's that belonged to my grandmother.

3) My photos. Of friends and travels and family. And my beat up old camera. I haven't yet embraced the digital camera generation, more a question of not having bought one yet as opposed to being technophobic.

4) My journals. All 12 years of them. It's always like a little journey to see who I fancied. And why. And question who was he?

5) My chanting beads. And my Gohonzon when I finally receive it in December.
(Or is that cheating as I don't yet have it?)

6) My Vivienne Westwood handbags. Shameful, I know.

7) My favourite books.

8) My mobile phone. Which I hate.
But it has loads of pics and texts and the phone numbers of the ones I love.

9) My diary. Because I would forget where I was supposed to be otherwise.
Or who I'm supposed to be on a date with this evening.

10) My kitchen gadgets. The Kitchen Aid mostly which I smuggled out of the Ex's house.

11) The painting Knickers gave me for my 5th year in England, which sadly has not yet been put up on my wall. I'm not allowed near drills.

After that, I can pretty much take it or leave it. I would of course make sure to grab whatever was left in the bottles of single malt or vodka tottering out in my impossibly high heels in the event of a fire, but the rest, I know I can always replace.

And as I am indeed a Lady, I can add to this list at any time dependent on my mood.

It's my prerogative.

If I was home

Yesterday, instead of feeling sad in London.

I'd have gone to the beach for a walk with The Gorgeous, our hands wrapped around take away coffees. I'd have listened and nodded and let her talk. We'd walk along the pier, lean against the railing while I traced the carvings with my fingers, we'd peer over and count the starfish.
Remember how many times we'd made this walk in our lifetimes, how right there my first love had held my hand and kissed me.
How right there she had had her wedding pictures taken, twisting her ring awkwardly around her finger.

We'd arrive late at my parents, breathless and flushed from the sea air, the sound of family and friends echoing through the rooms. My father would hand us caesars, take our coats and kiss our cheeks, smiling. My mother would cast disapproving looks our way, shake her head and return to the kitchen, a glass of wine in hand.

The dining room would be full, the tables crowded with conversation and food. Empty wine bottles removed, shouts over the last sweet potato, plates cleared. My father would run downstairs, return with his arms wrapped around liqueurs. The Gorgeous would jump up, berating my mother's choice of coffee and grab the cafetiere. More hands in the kitchen, grabbing cream, and plates and my home made pumpkin pies.

And we'd all sit back at the end, patting stomachs too full with food. The candles almost finished, discarded napkins on the table and on the floors, several hours later there would still be conversation and a reluctance to leave the table.

And then the flurry of goodbyes, everyone with plates full of food to take home, stomachs aching from laughter and too much turkey. And we'd stand in the kitchen, amongst leftovers and dirty dishes, The Gorgeous, my mom and I.

If I was home.

We won. Take 2...

I'm pleased to say that there was no inappropriate snogging.

I could be a little disappointed by that.

We won!

Yes we did.

She says garbled and drunk on a Friday night, grinning on the end of Brooky's Friday night post.

We won.

I stumble home.

Blind drunk, my handbag stuffed full of mini bottles of vodka.

The Swiss laughs at me.
But fuck it, we won!

What the frock...

I have a dilemma. Well, in truth I have more than one but I'll get to the other in a minute.

I've an Awards do this evening and in 5 hours and 17 minutes I need to be in a cab on my way to a swanky London hotel.

It's black tie.

We're up for several awards.

And last night when I should have been exfoliating, waxing, tweezing, tanning, preening and deciding on what I should be wearing this evening I was drinking champagne and eating too much food.

Which is where the dilemma now lays.

In my indecision I have brought two frocks with me.
I can only wear one and had I been focusing last night I wouldn't be in this mess. Which one do I wear? Do I wear the long black velvet evening gown with the embroidered wrap? Or the silk wrap?

Or do I wear the shorter dress with the full skirt? And then what wrap?

I have luckily decided on shoes, as I usually chose shoes first, accessorise and then dress upwards and these lovely shoes will go with both said frocks. But about an hour in they’ll start to hurt like hell which is why it's a good thing we're sitting down.

And drinking champagne.

Which then brings us about face to the 2nd dilemma. The champagne. Which always makes me giddy and happy, I can't always say no to that lovely bubbly glass.
And usually in this state I find myself flirting outrageously and inappropriately.
And as the men will all be in black tie, my heart will be all a'flut flut fluttering most of the night.

So I just need to keep these champagne lips from locking with ANYONE.
And I will be on my best behaviour.

And not end up drunk and disorderly on my flatmate's floor.

And not, I repeat, not snog anyone inappropriate.

Or at least die trying.

And then the date itself...

And then there's the date itself. The phone calls, texts, emails can not prepare you for this.
It's show time now, baby.

So carefully primped and primed, a little drink to take the edge off and then the meet, which in itself can be disastrous. I know, I think, in the first moments. I either get that Frank Sinatra feeling or I don't.
And if I don't, my heart does sink a little but I have also been very lucky.

I have yet to experience that REALLY BAD DATE, where the conversation dries up and I have yet to put the SOMETHING BAD HAS HAPPENED phone call to good use; I've had the marathon date where the kiss at the end of the night left me weak kneed and goofy grinned and that awkward 2 drinks "I'm very tired and how do I get out of here without that good night kiss" date...
Which is probably why I will never accept a dinner invitation first off, I prefer to go for drinks and then see how it progresses.

One of the worst experiences was several months ago when I allowed, at a very weak moment, a friend to set me up with his friend. A lovely bloke, by all accounts. Attractive, and a little younger than me. A doctor no less, and dinner was arranged. As he lived out of London (Bam!) and was a vegetarian (Bam!) he suggested I choose the venue. Bam! Bam! Bam!

This did not bode well.

I should have seen all the signs.

As it is I am painfully indecisive, and a carnivore. I tried vegetarianism once before, but it didn't last. So with some help from friends, we decided on Eat and Two Veg. Dinner. No drinks. Final nail in the coffin.

He was indeed lovely. And attractive. He was charming. And deep. So deep that pre appetizers he'd descended into the conversation about his ex and how he crashed his car because of her.
And as the starters arrived, it hit me. I was on a date with Doogie Hoswer MD. And not a glass of wine in sight.

Granted, I wasn't bored. But when he suggested after dinner drinks, reached over the table and held my hand, I knew then that I should have stayed at the bar.