Dear god.
I can assure you it will never come to this...
Thursday, November 30, 2006
Wednesday, November 29, 2006
erasing
"Oh, and here." He hands me a pair of protective visors so large Victoria Beckham would be beside herself with envy.
"And another thing, " he smiles, somewhat maniacally. "It may hurt a bit..."
I laugh, and tell him I have a pretty good tolerance for pain.
It didn't hurt that much getting it, so how much more can a little laser hurt?
He pulls his visor down and I half expect him to shout out something like "frickin' laser beams" and morph into a shark. Or Austin Powers.
"I'm ready," I say, armed with the mental image in my head bringing me great joy.
And then... ohmydearfuckinggoditneverhurthismuchouchforohmysweet
jesusowchowwwwwwwwbloodyhellouchouchouchmothergoodgod
mothermommmyouchouchohfortheloveofgodsomeone
pleasesaydanielcraignakedinachairtometogetthisplaceoutofmyhead
holymotherouuuuuuuuuuuuuuch...
For an entire 30 seconds.
Which doesn't sound that long unless you are under that frickin' Medlite laser beam for those 30 seconds. It feels as if charges are being detonated underneath my skin, and Snap, Crackle and Pop have come along to provide the voice over.
Ouch, is all I can say. Only another 3 more treatments to go.
I feel a sadist as I hand over my hard earned cash for the privilege of being tortured. And feel a traitor for removing it in the first place, even if it is for all the right reasons.
"And another thing, " he smiles, somewhat maniacally. "It may hurt a bit..."
I laugh, and tell him I have a pretty good tolerance for pain.
It didn't hurt that much getting it, so how much more can a little laser hurt?
He pulls his visor down and I half expect him to shout out something like "frickin' laser beams" and morph into a shark. Or Austin Powers.
"I'm ready," I say, armed with the mental image in my head bringing me great joy.
And then... ohmydearfuckinggoditneverhurthismuchouchforohmysweet
jesusowchowwwwwwwwbloodyhellouchouchouchmothergoodgod
mothermommmyouchouchohfortheloveofgodsomeone
pleasesaydanielcraignakedinachairtometogetthisplaceoutofmyhead
holymotherouuuuuuuuuuuuuuch...
For an entire 30 seconds.
Which doesn't sound that long unless you are under that frickin' Medlite laser beam for those 30 seconds. It feels as if charges are being detonated underneath my skin, and Snap, Crackle and Pop have come along to provide the voice over.
Ouch, is all I can say. Only another 3 more treatments to go.
I feel a sadist as I hand over my hard earned cash for the privilege of being tortured. And feel a traitor for removing it in the first place, even if it is for all the right reasons.
Sunday, November 26, 2006
the first snowfall
It's snowing...
Touching our cheeks as we make our way down to the eastside for the Culture crawl. Stopping to cross the road, a young boy looks up at me and smiles.
It is the first time he has seen snow, his father tells me in a thick African accent, hiding under his umbrella.
His son just holds his hands out and laughs, catching snowflakes on his tongue.
Somehow, the day seems a litte brighter afterwards.
Touching our cheeks as we make our way down to the eastside for the Culture crawl. Stopping to cross the road, a young boy looks up at me and smiles.
It is the first time he has seen snow, his father tells me in a thick African accent, hiding under his umbrella.
His son just holds his hands out and laughs, catching snowflakes on his tongue.
Somehow, the day seems a litte brighter afterwards.
back in 5 minutes... or maybe more.
Owing to current events, I will be taking a very short coffee break.
I hope to be back soon.
LMM
xxx
Thursday, November 23, 2006
sadness
Life has a funny way of knocking you sideways, just when you feel your feet have touched the ground, when you can just feel your toes curl against the hardness of the earth.
I have been getting there, little by little these past few months. Stepping gingerly down to feel for a ledge, a nook, a stop, anything to keep me from tumbling off the edge. Sometimes I can feel it, can feel a sense of solidity underneath my skin. Oftentimes, I feel as if nothing in the world can stop me from free falling so quickly my breath cannot catch up.
My father sounds weary. "It's your Nan," he says. His mother.
My colleague has had to pull me out of a meeting, "It's your father, he's at the hospital" she whispers.
I can sense her looking at me across the office. Maybe it is the sharp intake of my breath, or the way my right arm curls around, holding myself in, that makes her glance up.
"She is in the hospital, in Emergency. We are just waiting to hear." My grandmother, at 94, has always been a fighter. Yet there is now a frailty in her movements, her lined skin softer.
My father's strong voice, always so assured and calm, breaks just a little.
"We have also had some more bad news from home*."
Last week it is my uncle, my mother's eldest brother. He has been playing host to a tumour strangling his lungs which cannot be removed. If we are to come, the time is now.
Today is another beloved uncle. My father's doppelganger, the two of them with the same curly hair and bright smile. I said goodbye to him in a hospital bed 7 months ago after he suffered an aneurysm, yet held on against all odds. His body now riddled with cancer, my mother whispers that she will be there, in Wales with the Gorgeous, in a week. The reply is grim, sadly he, my uncle, may not.
I feel numb, methodically answer. Try to say focused through my meeting, and hold back tears. All I want, right now, is to release this sadness, even though I know in my heart that time and death are uncomfortable bedfellows, that they do not wait. That sometimes death comes for all the right reasons, and other times there is senselessness in it. That the time we have is so precious, and so fleeting.
And that I am lucky to have these memories of laughter at my uncle's tables, the sounds of their voices like lullabies telling stories, the kindness and love.
*Although both my sister and I were born in Canada, home has always referred to Cardiff where both my parents are from. For me, Wales will always be *home*
I have been getting there, little by little these past few months. Stepping gingerly down to feel for a ledge, a nook, a stop, anything to keep me from tumbling off the edge. Sometimes I can feel it, can feel a sense of solidity underneath my skin. Oftentimes, I feel as if nothing in the world can stop me from free falling so quickly my breath cannot catch up.
My father sounds weary. "It's your Nan," he says. His mother.
My colleague has had to pull me out of a meeting, "It's your father, he's at the hospital" she whispers.
I can sense her looking at me across the office. Maybe it is the sharp intake of my breath, or the way my right arm curls around, holding myself in, that makes her glance up.
"She is in the hospital, in Emergency. We are just waiting to hear." My grandmother, at 94, has always been a fighter. Yet there is now a frailty in her movements, her lined skin softer.
My father's strong voice, always so assured and calm, breaks just a little.
"We have also had some more bad news from home*."
Last week it is my uncle, my mother's eldest brother. He has been playing host to a tumour strangling his lungs which cannot be removed. If we are to come, the time is now.
Today is another beloved uncle. My father's doppelganger, the two of them with the same curly hair and bright smile. I said goodbye to him in a hospital bed 7 months ago after he suffered an aneurysm, yet held on against all odds. His body now riddled with cancer, my mother whispers that she will be there, in Wales with the Gorgeous, in a week. The reply is grim, sadly he, my uncle, may not.
I feel numb, methodically answer. Try to say focused through my meeting, and hold back tears. All I want, right now, is to release this sadness, even though I know in my heart that time and death are uncomfortable bedfellows, that they do not wait. That sometimes death comes for all the right reasons, and other times there is senselessness in it. That the time we have is so precious, and so fleeting.
And that I am lucky to have these memories of laughter at my uncle's tables, the sounds of their voices like lullabies telling stories, the kindness and love.
*Although both my sister and I were born in Canada, home has always referred to Cardiff where both my parents are from. For me, Wales will always be *home*
Monday, November 20, 2006
han vs luke*
I've been doing alot of mulling over the comments from my last post, especially this one by "b"
"The basic message I've been getting over the last couple of months with all of us is that we don't really know how to get what we want, any of us. I wonder if that's true of the wider community or it's just us few aimless ones wandering around on the outskirts. Sometimes it's very depressed watching all the sorted lovey couples.
I guess you never know how many arguments they're having though, and whether they've just settled. I still don't know whether we shouldn't just all settle, and whether we're being too ambitious. I'm the ambitious type though."
I'm intrigued and captivated again by this subject, as it's taken me a fair number of years to realise what it is I don't want, it's now a question of deciding what it is that I do want.
So then, what is it? That elusive quest for love? For companionship and the I do, but only on our terms?
Is compromise settling?
Is settling a compromise?
Interesting article about single life.
* I have been known to answer this question very simply by asking "Han or Luke"? I was always a Luke girl, aka: the spineless hero who whinged alot. The majority of the men I was attracted to at some point or another had the Luke complex (luckily without the incest issue) Other girlfriends have been Han girls, the rogue womanizer.
"The basic message I've been getting over the last couple of months with all of us is that we don't really know how to get what we want, any of us. I wonder if that's true of the wider community or it's just us few aimless ones wandering around on the outskirts. Sometimes it's very depressed watching all the sorted lovey couples.
I guess you never know how many arguments they're having though, and whether they've just settled. I still don't know whether we shouldn't just all settle, and whether we're being too ambitious. I'm the ambitious type though."
I'm intrigued and captivated again by this subject, as it's taken me a fair number of years to realise what it is I don't want, it's now a question of deciding what it is that I do want.
So then, what is it? That elusive quest for love? For companionship and the I do, but only on our terms?
Is compromise settling?
Is settling a compromise?
Interesting article about single life.
* I have been known to answer this question very simply by asking "Han or Luke"? I was always a Luke girl, aka: the spineless hero who whinged alot. The majority of the men I was attracted to at some point or another had the Luke complex (luckily without the incest issue) Other girlfriends have been Han girls, the rogue womanizer.
Friday, November 17, 2006
i am in love with mark morford. sadly it is not meant to be...
"Of all people, I thought you'd appreciate this"
Miss Devylish emails me, linking to this, likely the single most important piece of technology inspired writing any of you will ever read.
I think I may have fallen a little in love with Mark Morford. Who else can appreciate the unhealthy relationship I have with Mac, my true love, my spiritual guru, with its sleekly sexy lines?
(I will refrain from writing about the pleasing humming sound Mac makes when I turn it on because frankly, that may be a tad too disturbing)
I do indeed love my MacBook Pro. I love the comforting sight of it first thing in the morning, happily podding GU's podcast whilst I run around and try to get ready.
I love that it holds all my music, my contacts and my to'ing and fro'ing.
All of my pictures? Voila. There, at the touch of my fingertips.
My dear Mac, it is a beaut.
Miss Devylish emails me, linking to this, likely the single most important piece of technology inspired writing any of you will ever read.
I think I may have fallen a little in love with Mark Morford. Who else can appreciate the unhealthy relationship I have with Mac, my true love, my spiritual guru, with its sleekly sexy lines?
(I will refrain from writing about the pleasing humming sound Mac makes when I turn it on because frankly, that may be a tad too disturbing)
I do indeed love my MacBook Pro. I love the comforting sight of it first thing in the morning, happily podding GU's podcast whilst I run around and try to get ready.
I love that it holds all my music, my contacts and my to'ing and fro'ing.
All of my pictures? Voila. There, at the touch of my fingertips.
My dear Mac, it is a beaut.
Monday, November 13, 2006
a return to dating. mme mojo remains indifferent.
"I can't believe you met through a set up!"
She turns to her glass of wine and takes a sip.
"Well," she says, almost shamefully "I met my boyfriend in a bar!"
I walk past them, their upturned mouths laughing.
I shake my head. I have heard this same conversation over and over, with the words 'on the internet', 'through school' or 'at work' as substitutions.
I wonder, therefore, as I make my way through a crowded Main Street bar, where an acceptable place to meet one's beau is these days?
He is sat at the bar, a half empty pint in front of him. He is polite and serious, apologises that he is a bit tired.
"Hungover." He admits albeit sheepishly, a shy grin. Hungover or not, he is even better looking in the flesh.
I have to admit I had almost talked myself out of this date, citing a focus on school or that at 25, he is almost 7 years my junior as reasons to decline his invitation. Yet there I was, sat at the bar, engaged in conversation with an attractive, kind man. Questioning why in the hell Mme Mojo has decided to start her hibernation early this year and remain unawares of this gorgeous creature in front of us?
As the night passes, I realise it is because I am playing to a tough crowd. Although there are no uncomfortably long silences, he seems immune to my bantering humour.
These days, it appears that it takes much more than a cute smile to keep Mme interested, yet sometimes it's as simple as exchanging that witty banter.
I am, after all, a romantic. I want those butterflies, a little Frank Sinatra, and a whole lot of spark.
But am I setting the bar too high? Is this a realistic desire, after all?
She turns to her glass of wine and takes a sip.
"Well," she says, almost shamefully "I met my boyfriend in a bar!"
I walk past them, their upturned mouths laughing.
I shake my head. I have heard this same conversation over and over, with the words 'on the internet', 'through school' or 'at work' as substitutions.
I wonder, therefore, as I make my way through a crowded Main Street bar, where an acceptable place to meet one's beau is these days?
He is sat at the bar, a half empty pint in front of him. He is polite and serious, apologises that he is a bit tired.
"Hungover." He admits albeit sheepishly, a shy grin. Hungover or not, he is even better looking in the flesh.
I have to admit I had almost talked myself out of this date, citing a focus on school or that at 25, he is almost 7 years my junior as reasons to decline his invitation. Yet there I was, sat at the bar, engaged in conversation with an attractive, kind man. Questioning why in the hell Mme Mojo has decided to start her hibernation early this year and remain unawares of this gorgeous creature in front of us?
As the night passes, I realise it is because I am playing to a tough crowd. Although there are no uncomfortably long silences, he seems immune to my bantering humour.
These days, it appears that it takes much more than a cute smile to keep Mme interested, yet sometimes it's as simple as exchanging that witty banter.
I am, after all, a romantic. I want those butterflies, a little Frank Sinatra, and a whole lot of spark.
But am I setting the bar too high? Is this a realistic desire, after all?
Tuesday, November 07, 2006
shamelessly plugging
My old flatmate from Kentish Town's band, Mr. Hudson and the Library, seem to be doing quite well for themselves, thank you very much. Perusing Amazon on a reference book scout, I came across this and was far too excited for words.
And they're playing Vancouver's Roundhouse on the 1st December as part of the Transmission Festival where, after dashing away from my Christmas party, I will be shaking a little of that groove thing.
Care to join me?
Additional plugging and some further news
Apparently the Transmission Show on the Friday is only open to delegates of the festival, although I am still trying to schmooze some tickets in only the way LMM seems to think she can.
Luckily they are playing the first ever Bloc Party on Saturday 2nd December, at the Art Gallery. All the information is here. Rain, snow or shine, it's a great line up. As I said the other day "Nowhere you go and no one you see at that moment will be as superbly fabulous as them...
Just saying."
And they're playing Vancouver's Roundhouse on the 1st December as part of the Transmission Festival where, after dashing away from my Christmas party, I will be shaking a little of that groove thing.
Care to join me?
Additional plugging and some further news
Apparently the Transmission Show on the Friday is only open to delegates of the festival, although I am still trying to schmooze some tickets in only the way LMM seems to think she can.
Luckily they are playing the first ever Bloc Party on Saturday 2nd December, at the Art Gallery. All the information is here. Rain, snow or shine, it's a great line up. As I said the other day "Nowhere you go and no one you see at that moment will be as superbly fabulous as them...
Just saying."
Thursday, November 02, 2006
kindness
Last night over wine and the clacking of many knitting needles and close camaraderie, one of the Stitchin' Bitchers shared this story with us.
Which got me thinking, how often do we put ourselves out? How often do we do something out of the kindness of our hearts that will make a difference to someone, whether it is big or small? Shared a laugh, smiled at a stranger, said a kind word or helped without thinking? Given something of ourselves spontaneously, randomly with no expectations for something in return?
The most precious commodities we have are few, but we all have time. Time to help someone we see struggling, time to give up our seat to someone who may need it more than us, time to acknowledge that person begging on the side of the road with a simple word. Time to give something back, with no expectations of what we will get in return.
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