Thanks to the wonders of modern pharmacology, and finally finding a doctor who seems to give a rats arse, I am managing my depression, and the light at the end of the tunnel is getting brighter by the day. These days, when I say that I like myself, I can honestly attest that I still mean it twenty-four hours later. I know what I want from life, from myself and from the people around me, and that is immensely reassuring...except when it isn't. I know I can't even consider resuming the search for 'The One,' (pardon my Meg Ryan moment there), until I'm at least eighty per cent healed, (I'm nothing if not a realist about it), but that doesn't stop me from wanting it. This is going to sound uncharacteristically wistful coming from me, but I miss the comfort that sharing space with another human being can bring. Despite my oft-discussed determination to live for myself first, I must admit that it would be really nice just to cook for someone again. Relax; I'm not metamorphosizing into a fifties house-Frau, I just miss that gorgeous feeling that used to come over me whenever I did something nice for someone, just because I loved them. That's not to say I don't feel some satisfaction whenever I do things for my son, but parental love is an altogether different animal and besides, it'd be nice to cook for someone who appreciates the effort that goes into a good hollandaise sauce, and doesn't turn his nose up at anything that isn't flat-packed and delivered.
Creating an appetising meal for someone, nourishing them body and soul, is as much an act of love as sharing your bed, your breath, or your blood. Perhaps that's what I really miss; the notion that there is someone in the world whose existence I value to such a degree that the idea of sharing something of myself with them doesn't seem at all like a sacrifice.
And yes, it'd also be nice to have sex again while I still remember what goes where.
Friday 30 March 2012
Sunday 25 March 2012
Ambience.
Before I begin this post I, your humble narrator, would like to apologise for the tardy nature of its submission. Due to the unpredictable nature of thirty-six year old underground cabling, my home, along with ninety-seven others in our street, was hit with a major power outage that lasted until four o'clock this afternoon, and my son and I were forced to decamp to my mother's place until everything was put right again. When it first happened, I planned to wait it out, and to prove my resilience, I took a bubble bath. My toes had barely pierced the suds when my son bashed on the bathroom door to tell me that Nana had called my neighbour and wanted to speak to me urgently. I changed and rushed over, all sorts of dire scenarios playing out in my head, only to have my mother make the following enquiry.
'So, are any of the sparkies cute?' (For my non-Aussie readers, 'Sparky' is a colloquial Australian euphemism for an electrician).
My mother then went on to encourage me to go back outside and strike up a conversation with the, admittedly rather handsome looking, men. I declined, given my attire; beguiling a combination as blue rosebud pyjamas, five-year-old faded pink robe and brown knee-high ug boots might be, my hair was damp and doused in conditioner, and the juiced-up psychiatric patient look hasn't been in since Jack Nicholson popularised it in 1975. Undeterred, my mother then proceeded to give me a half-hour lecture on my unattractive habit of spitting in the face of opportunity whenever it comes knocking. I then explained to her that, should any of these potential suitors not be phased by my appearance, the fact that my son was running around trying to coerce them into playing 'Murder in the dark' might be a bit of a turn-off.
'There's always a bloody excuse whenever I make a suggestion, isn't there? You should be glad you've got a mother who cares enough to interfere.'
Which brought to mind another possible turn-off; one I didn't verbalise, for obvious reasons.
'So, are any of the sparkies cute?' (For my non-Aussie readers, 'Sparky' is a colloquial Australian euphemism for an electrician).
My mother then went on to encourage me to go back outside and strike up a conversation with the, admittedly rather handsome looking, men. I declined, given my attire; beguiling a combination as blue rosebud pyjamas, five-year-old faded pink robe and brown knee-high ug boots might be, my hair was damp and doused in conditioner, and the juiced-up psychiatric patient look hasn't been in since Jack Nicholson popularised it in 1975. Undeterred, my mother then proceeded to give me a half-hour lecture on my unattractive habit of spitting in the face of opportunity whenever it comes knocking. I then explained to her that, should any of these potential suitors not be phased by my appearance, the fact that my son was running around trying to coerce them into playing 'Murder in the dark' might be a bit of a turn-off.
'There's always a bloody excuse whenever I make a suggestion, isn't there? You should be glad you've got a mother who cares enough to interfere.'
Which brought to mind another possible turn-off; one I didn't verbalise, for obvious reasons.
Saturday 17 March 2012
It's a set-up!
What I'm going to bring to your attention today is a global phenomenon that is perhaps the greatest personal threat we face as human beings. It is a ritual that has been carried out on the willing and the captive since time immemorial and is insidious, pervasive and downright evil. It is known colloquially as The Set-Up.
It is easy to spot the victims of this form of societal bullying; just follow the corpses of romantic ideals and friendships. To illustrate my argument against matchmaking, and to drown out the cries of protest from those who fall in to the lucky five per cent of the population for whom it has been successful, let me provide you with some examples.
Last year, a friend of mine had just sent her boyfriend packing, quite literally; she even paid for his passage back to America, for a myriad of reasons. After five years, his cheating, domineering ways had finally spurred her into action. Not to mention the fact that he drained her of most of her savings. She had begun to rebuild her life and her self-esteem was improving daily, and it was good to see her happy again. Then one day, she said something so unconscionable it almost pains me to write it here.
'He's a really funny guy, and very loyal. He's thinking about coming back here in a few months, I reckon we should set something up; he'd be good for you.'
I doubt this needs explanation, but for the few readers who are still in the dark as to what my 'friend' was trying to facilitate, it is what I like to call the 'Match of convenience,' IE: if Love Rat and I were successfully matched, it would be wonderfully convenient for her. I declined the invitation, very politely under the circumstances.
A woman I once worked with was set up by her best friend in an arrangement I like to call the 'Broaden your horizons because I say so' set-up. Armed with the knowledge that her friend favoured a particular physical type; tall, dark, and handsome; she then went about setting her up with a workmate of her husbands who was the complete physical opposite, citing that it would be good for her not to be so picky when it came to physical attractiveness. Not only was the date unsuccessful, it also put a strain on the friendship that never really went away. Still, it didn't end badly for all concerned; it turned out that the architect of the set-up had been harbouring a crush on her husband's friend for several years, and when he was sent by her husband to pick her up at the train station, he took her to his place. A month later, it became their place.
The final example I'd like to lay on you comes courtesy of a former neighbour of mine. She was referred to by most of her family as 'Poor Thing,' in light of her limited romantic and vocational prospects (from their point of view). To help her, and undoubtedly absolve herself of responsibility for her part in her daughter's misfortune, her mother set her up with a friend's son. Stacey couldn't believe her luck; Richard was gorgeous, funny, and polite to an other-worldly degree. He fit her criteria perfectly! The two of them were married two years later and even had a daughter, so I guess you might say it was a successful set-up.
Reserve judgement until the end of the story.
Within months of the wedding, cracks started appearing in their relationship. Stacey ignored them, attributing Richard's moods to homesickness, seeing as, at thirty-one, this was his first time living away from home, and he was still acclimatising himself to living with someone with different habits and rituals than those of his father and stepmother. Things did improve when Stacey discovered she was pregnant, but once the baby was born, life in her household returned to its familiar unsteady rhythm. When she finally decided to question Richard about it, on the morning of their daughter's second birthday, he irritably confessed that he didn't love her, and that the only reason he was with her was because his father needed him out of the house so that he could leave his second wife with a clear conscience.
Given the end result, I suppose you could call this a set-up of in-convenience.
I'm not saying that all set-ups are doomed from their inception, I'm just saying that the next time a friend/loved one/well-meaning-sticky nose says they know someone who would be perfect for you, consider their motivations first, and never doubt your own instincts.
It is easy to spot the victims of this form of societal bullying; just follow the corpses of romantic ideals and friendships. To illustrate my argument against matchmaking, and to drown out the cries of protest from those who fall in to the lucky five per cent of the population for whom it has been successful, let me provide you with some examples.
Last year, a friend of mine had just sent her boyfriend packing, quite literally; she even paid for his passage back to America, for a myriad of reasons. After five years, his cheating, domineering ways had finally spurred her into action. Not to mention the fact that he drained her of most of her savings. She had begun to rebuild her life and her self-esteem was improving daily, and it was good to see her happy again. Then one day, she said something so unconscionable it almost pains me to write it here.
'He's a really funny guy, and very loyal. He's thinking about coming back here in a few months, I reckon we should set something up; he'd be good for you.'
I doubt this needs explanation, but for the few readers who are still in the dark as to what my 'friend' was trying to facilitate, it is what I like to call the 'Match of convenience,' IE: if Love Rat and I were successfully matched, it would be wonderfully convenient for her. I declined the invitation, very politely under the circumstances.
A woman I once worked with was set up by her best friend in an arrangement I like to call the 'Broaden your horizons because I say so' set-up. Armed with the knowledge that her friend favoured a particular physical type; tall, dark, and handsome; she then went about setting her up with a workmate of her husbands who was the complete physical opposite, citing that it would be good for her not to be so picky when it came to physical attractiveness. Not only was the date unsuccessful, it also put a strain on the friendship that never really went away. Still, it didn't end badly for all concerned; it turned out that the architect of the set-up had been harbouring a crush on her husband's friend for several years, and when he was sent by her husband to pick her up at the train station, he took her to his place. A month later, it became their place.
The final example I'd like to lay on you comes courtesy of a former neighbour of mine. She was referred to by most of her family as 'Poor Thing,' in light of her limited romantic and vocational prospects (from their point of view). To help her, and undoubtedly absolve herself of responsibility for her part in her daughter's misfortune, her mother set her up with a friend's son. Stacey couldn't believe her luck; Richard was gorgeous, funny, and polite to an other-worldly degree. He fit her criteria perfectly! The two of them were married two years later and even had a daughter, so I guess you might say it was a successful set-up.
Reserve judgement until the end of the story.
Within months of the wedding, cracks started appearing in their relationship. Stacey ignored them, attributing Richard's moods to homesickness, seeing as, at thirty-one, this was his first time living away from home, and he was still acclimatising himself to living with someone with different habits and rituals than those of his father and stepmother. Things did improve when Stacey discovered she was pregnant, but once the baby was born, life in her household returned to its familiar unsteady rhythm. When she finally decided to question Richard about it, on the morning of their daughter's second birthday, he irritably confessed that he didn't love her, and that the only reason he was with her was because his father needed him out of the house so that he could leave his second wife with a clear conscience.
Given the end result, I suppose you could call this a set-up of in-convenience.
I'm not saying that all set-ups are doomed from their inception, I'm just saying that the next time a friend/loved one/well-meaning-sticky nose says they know someone who would be perfect for you, consider their motivations first, and never doubt your own instincts.
Saturday 10 March 2012
Mel-ancholy.
I decided back in December that this year was going to be my year; I was going to look after myself and get my life together before I shared it with anyone else. I joined a reading challenge, started a vlog, and actually went out on a Saturday night for the first time in ages, all in an effort to increase my confidence so that I could love myself and make it easier for someone to love me. And it worked...temporarily. Every time I finished a book, I'd feel like my mind had been opened a little bit more. I signed off each vlog post exhilarated and exhausted, thrilled that people would finally hear me sing. I woke up the morning after my night out, happily hung over. But within an hour of achieving each of these triumphs, I was in my kitchen, staring out the window wondering what the hell I was doing in a world in which I had no purpose. I'd stand before that window for hours as a de-motivation tape played on an endless reel in my head. You're a terrible mother. You've screwed up your life and everyone else's. You've made a fool of yourself. Why were you born?
That tape had been playing since my early teens, and the volume gradually increased until two Wednesdays ago, when a conversation with my mother brought it to an ear-splitting level and I could take no more. The resultant torrent of blubbering gibberish may have taken a year off my poor mother's life, but it also motivated her into making an appointment to do what I had been putting off for half of mine; seeking help. I went to my doctor on Friday afternoon and am now finally treating the source of most of my problems. I'd liken this treatment to cleaning a cut knee and putting Bettadine on it, rather than just slapping on a band aid; it stings, even makes me a little nauseous, but I can already feel the wound starting to heal. It'll be a while before it scabs over, and when it does I'll more than likely want to pick at it occasionally, but the important thing for now is dressing it before infection sets in, and I think I've done that. Depression is a very personal topic, some might even consider it taboo, but the reason I wrote about it in this post was because it shouldn't be. If you're feeling torn apart, tell someone and start repairing yourself, don't smile and deny the fissure exists.
That tape had been playing since my early teens, and the volume gradually increased until two Wednesdays ago, when a conversation with my mother brought it to an ear-splitting level and I could take no more. The resultant torrent of blubbering gibberish may have taken a year off my poor mother's life, but it also motivated her into making an appointment to do what I had been putting off for half of mine; seeking help. I went to my doctor on Friday afternoon and am now finally treating the source of most of my problems. I'd liken this treatment to cleaning a cut knee and putting Bettadine on it, rather than just slapping on a band aid; it stings, even makes me a little nauseous, but I can already feel the wound starting to heal. It'll be a while before it scabs over, and when it does I'll more than likely want to pick at it occasionally, but the important thing for now is dressing it before infection sets in, and I think I've done that. Depression is a very personal topic, some might even consider it taboo, but the reason I wrote about it in this post was because it shouldn't be. If you're feeling torn apart, tell someone and start repairing yourself, don't smile and deny the fissure exists.
Saturday 3 March 2012
A night on the town.
Despite the fact that I woke up this morning feeling like I'd been doused in honey and glued to a hornet's nest, I feel great. My mouth is as dry as if I ate a pack of Marlborough's, Keith Moon's playing a virtuosic solo in my head, and I may be having an out-of-body experience as we speak, but I can't bring myself to complain. The reason for my undue exuberance?
I went out last night.
It took two glasses of Bailey's Irish Cream and a best friend who claims English as her second language when someone utters the word 'no,' but I did it. We had planned this a week ago but true to form my nerves soon got the better of me and, by Friday night, I was on the phone trying to cancel.
She was having none of it.
Yesterday afternoon, she arrived on my doorstep decked out in her Saturday night best. Ignoring my protests as I let her in, she pushed past me into my bedroom, demanding to see my latest quarry from eBay, (I'm a bit of a vintage fashion collector). Throwing three dresses onto the end of my bed, she commanded me to try each of them on and report to her in the hallway for inspection. I obeyed, and we eventually decided upon the pink, polka dotted, a-line sixties dress I had originally intended to wear before I got an attack of hermit-itis. My bestie is one of those people who believes in imbibing a bit of dutch courage before embarking on a night out, and although this is not something I would normally endorse, on this particular occasion, it did wonders.
I arrived at our chosen venue with minimal expectations, based on previous experience, and decided to have a good time the only way I know how; by acting like no one was watching. Our laughter, and, I like to think, my 'ribald' sense of humour, attracted like-minded people of both genders and we were soon the most happening table in the tavern. I received some favourable comments on my dress, and one on my singing by a gentleman who happened to catch my You Tube vlog, (suddenly I'm not quite as embarrassed to have picked a country song), and despite the fact that I make Elaine from Seinfeld look like the chick from Saturday Night Fever, I even indulged in a spot of dancing. Did I kiss any boys? No. Were phone numbers exchanged? No. Did I have to go home at nine-thirty because I came down with food poisoning after eating three potato cakes of questionable quality from a dodgy fish and chip shop earlier in the day?
Yes, but despite the fact that I spent much of the rest of the night practising my scales in a tiled porcelain studio, it still goes down as one of the best nights I've had in a long time. I talked, I laughed, and other people responded in kind and you want to know something else? I'm doing it again next Saturday night.
Sans the potato cakes, of course.
I went out last night.
It took two glasses of Bailey's Irish Cream and a best friend who claims English as her second language when someone utters the word 'no,' but I did it. We had planned this a week ago but true to form my nerves soon got the better of me and, by Friday night, I was on the phone trying to cancel.
She was having none of it.
Yesterday afternoon, she arrived on my doorstep decked out in her Saturday night best. Ignoring my protests as I let her in, she pushed past me into my bedroom, demanding to see my latest quarry from eBay, (I'm a bit of a vintage fashion collector). Throwing three dresses onto the end of my bed, she commanded me to try each of them on and report to her in the hallway for inspection. I obeyed, and we eventually decided upon the pink, polka dotted, a-line sixties dress I had originally intended to wear before I got an attack of hermit-itis. My bestie is one of those people who believes in imbibing a bit of dutch courage before embarking on a night out, and although this is not something I would normally endorse, on this particular occasion, it did wonders.
I arrived at our chosen venue with minimal expectations, based on previous experience, and decided to have a good time the only way I know how; by acting like no one was watching. Our laughter, and, I like to think, my 'ribald' sense of humour, attracted like-minded people of both genders and we were soon the most happening table in the tavern. I received some favourable comments on my dress, and one on my singing by a gentleman who happened to catch my You Tube vlog, (suddenly I'm not quite as embarrassed to have picked a country song), and despite the fact that I make Elaine from Seinfeld look like the chick from Saturday Night Fever, I even indulged in a spot of dancing. Did I kiss any boys? No. Were phone numbers exchanged? No. Did I have to go home at nine-thirty because I came down with food poisoning after eating three potato cakes of questionable quality from a dodgy fish and chip shop earlier in the day?
Yes, but despite the fact that I spent much of the rest of the night practising my scales in a tiled porcelain studio, it still goes down as one of the best nights I've had in a long time. I talked, I laughed, and other people responded in kind and you want to know something else? I'm doing it again next Saturday night.
Sans the potato cakes, of course.
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