17.01.06..10:59 am
GAMS OF A SUPERWOMAN
matthew: You have superhero calves.
emmms: What do you mean? Like my calves are superheroes or I have calves like a superhero?
matthew: You have calves like a superhero. As though they were drawn by Todd McFarlane or, or, the guy who drew Superman-
emmms: Stan Lee.
matthew: Yeah, Stan Lee. Your calves were drawn by Stan Lee.
16.01.06..2:04 pm
MISSED POINT TWO MILES BACK I picked up a copy of the Observer on Sunday, swayed into spending the �1.60 by the much lauded debut of the Observer Monthly Women's magazine. Now, as far as I can gather, the Observer is supposed to be this intellectually high-brow publication. It's so superior that it can only come out once a week. It's not like other publications, this is a once every seven day privilege to the masses. It stands as a platform for a superior breed of people who's depths and insights into the world are beyond our normal capacity. Generally, I'm mentally exhausted with the sheer girth of the Guardian on Saturday, that I can't put up the pretence that I'm capable of reading the Observer on Sunday. Yesterday was the exception. Because, I'll admit it, I was sucked in by the debut of the Woman's Monthly and the intriquing cover story on our obsession with body hair. What I was expecting to find was a supplement that introduced profound statements on the female experience. Engaging feminist treatise on issues I wasn't even aware were issues. Investigations connecting seemingly inclusive attitude that are nonetheless benefitted by muted oppression. Scathingly intellectual reports on the racial spectrum of gender politics, feminist reviews on parliamentary debate, legislation, and the current status of women as placed by the government. An wondrous collage of artistic musing and angry, philosophical diatribes. I was NOT expecting pages of fashion pundits lamenting the return of leggings. Nor a list of 'must-have' GLAM GADGETS. Nor an 'exclusive' interview with Elizabeth Hurley. Seriously, was Germaine Greer too busy that weekend? Zadie Smith? Helen Carr? There was NO ONE ELSE? Really? The cover story wasn't much better. As soon as The Female Eunuch arose, it was (ironically) struck down; the absorption and normalisation of corporate dictates but briefly noted. The author's so-called hirsute experiment was so heavily painted with disgust and her own obsession with depilation, so overwrought by her partners disgust, that of her friends, that her article was no investigation, rather mere confirmation of why we must continue to remove excess body hair at all costs. Its two redeeming features were 1. on the current trend of women seeking IVF in foreign countries, although even that was incredibly one-sided and didn't touch on the position of the donors (and by this I don't intend to suggest that egg donors are forced into it by circumstance, or they need the money, etc. I'm simply saying that it was very Brit-centric with little to no regard of what foreign donors themselves think); and 2. a pretty accurate look at the difference between British and North American dating pratices. But still WHO CARES?! Dating practices? Funny, but still a little juvenile given the reputation of the parent publication. In short, I'm disappointed and ashamed that I had partaken in this mockery of what an actual woman's magazine has the potential to be. Observer Woman's Monthly, I hereby turn my back on you and turn my gauntlet to something more worthy.
16.01.06..2:02 pm
LURKING IN THE SPACE BETWEEN MY BRAIN AND MY MOTOR FUNCTIONS Somewhere between the uncontrollable urge to Domestic Goddess everything in site and the inability to reverse the Slapstick is a huge sign in neon green announcing my period is just days away. Yesterday Matthew walked through the door, wee baguette and a copy of Jacob's Ladder in hand, to find that I'd shoved everything that wasn't screwed down ceremoniously out of the kitchen and into the hallway (then Mum rang). Except that I'd just cleaned the hallway, or rather the six feet of floor in front of the front door, and so everything that wasn't screwed down in the kitchen had been shoved into the bedroom doorway and Take your shoes off already, I just fucking cleaned that, and DUDE! CRUMBS! I snatched the baguette from him as gingerly as possible, cradled it into the kitchen and as soon as I found a chopping board to put it on so as not to disrupt my newly Dettolled surfaces, lay it softly down (and Mum rang. I think it was at this point that I sighed smugly to myelf. Never had my kitchen gleamed so deliciously. Not in three weeks at least had I been able to use the kitchen floor as a plate without fear of enduring an added dressing of stray hair and spilt crap in my salad. From then on the rest of the evening was awash (hah!) with scouring the rest of the flat. I made vacuumed and Dettolled the squash room
By the time we sat down to eat Mum had rang eight times and our pokey flat seemed vibrant, wide and bright. Nary a surface was not glistening, or at least dustfree. There was still a little mould on the bathroom ceiling but that could wait until tomorrow. While I'm not sure why Mum needed to ring eight times, she didn't have much to say nor did she adequately explain herself, for now the flat was a beacon of hope in my otherwise fretful existence.
Did I mention that Matthew and I then spent the rest of the evening snuggling? Or that we giggled softly long into the night, and told each other in gentle tones how we love each other? Sounds nice, doesn't it? Sound too good to be true? Well, that's because karma, or the Neon Sign of Impending Menstruation, or whatever, had a special gag-a-minute morning planned for me.
As soon as I get up, I notice that the shelving unit next to the bed is crooked. It's always crooked. Irene, my Spanish former-flatmate, put it together; I took it apart to fit a dresser underneath. I shouldn't have done this, I accept that. While the dresser fits, the wooden frame is now as unsteady as an anorexic on four-inch heels. It sways, inclines, waves; it keels. This morning it was balancing on two legs, shedding pillow cases and generally threatening to collapse. Which it nearly did. On me. While I was attempting to tilt it back. I make it to the kitchen. I open the cereal cupboard up to refill the Tuperware container I use to 'contain' cereal (I'm not sure why that needed quote marks, I mean, that's exactly what it does), pull the box a little too hard and spray a bag of sunflower seeds over the top of the fridge and most of the floor. I open the fridge door and am immediately attacked by a box of raspberries, the fruit bounds about the fridge like mushy pingpong balls. I put away the dishes that had dried overnight, attempt to wedge one more glass into the cupboard, Swing and a Miss it leaps from my hand, I fumble with it wildly and catch it just as I step on the only raspberry I missed earlier. I heat up some coffee, that had gone cold in the bodum, on the stove, miss my cup completely and pour half of it over the hob. I also stepped on an adapter plug, banged my head on the bathroom door, nearly strangled myself with a dressing gown cord and clanged my shin off the peddle of the bike in the hallway.
I'd like to go out and buy a paper, but I'm afraid I'll step in dog shit or get acid rain in my retina.
14.01.06..3:14 pm
There are moments on a Saturday in which one (meaning I) find oneself (meaning myself) wondering not so much about the meaning of life, planetary alignments or the magical qualities of beetroot on fecal matter, but how the numbness in ones ears has seeped into ones arms. Such a moment occured sometime between 11pm Friday night and 3am Saturday morning. It goes a little like this: 1. Something coldy and horrid gripped my throat last night and is holding my nasal passages hostage. I sound like a twelve-year old boy whose dip into puberty has been cut short by a chainsaw. 2. I am FOOLISHLY still smoking. Not a lot. I had three yesterday. The thing in my throat valiently attempted a course of hypnosis, moving me to entertain (briefly) the notion of chucking the whole thing in. It fought down my arms and into my fingers as I rolled the last one of the night. With great effort I was able to not tip the contents of the thin blue Rizla, filter and all, into the bin. The thing in my throat declared my brain Occupied Territory this afternoon at 15.16; it made its intentions known via a marching band parade through my frontal lobe and jabbing a flag into the fleshy tissue behind my eyes. I will fight on. The dizziness shall subside as soon as I can find enough Nurofen to cause a cranial mudslide. I call it Preparing to Quit: Excuses 101. 3. Addled by the thing that now occupies my brain I decided the only thing that would cure it would be Hot Whiskey. There are two rather delicious recipes for Hot Whiskey. The first I concocted in highschool, though I'm fairly certain it's not original. Perchance it came to me in a dream, perchance it was someone's grandfather's cold winter night tipple of choice. Whatever the origin, it's one fine Hot Whiskey: ingredients Jack Daniels method i. Boil a kettle. options i. Use a double shot if you're feeling really sticky The second is what I made Matthew use last night. It tasted like arse, but for half an hour I felt like a bunged-up, semi-inebriated god: ingredients Jack Daniels method i. Boil a kettle. NOTE: We had no lemons so Matthew used half a clementine. I blame this for why it tasted like arse, normally it's luuuuuuurvly. ALSO NOTE: The nicotine-addicted part of my brain has agreed to go on vacation until I can cede control again. We're in negotiations. In the meantime, Hot Whiskey, baby. Hot Whiskey. Self-medicating at its finest. ****emmms
Canada Dry ginger all
hot water
ii. In a tumbler mix 1 shot Jack Daniels with 150ml Canada Dry ginger ale
iii. Add 250ml boiling water. Stir.
ii. It's not bad with plain sode water either.
one half (1/2) lemon
honey to taste
hot water
ii. In a tumbler pour 1 shot Jack Daniels
iii. Squeeze the juice of half a lemon into the glasss
iv. Add a teaspoon of honey
v. Add 250ml boiling water. Stir.
13.01.06..1:21 pm
You know what irks me? Being on hold long enough to make a loaf of bread. That's long enough to let the yeast get all frothy, mix up the flour real good, add some poppyseeds to the mix as an afterthought. That's enough time to grease up the INCREDIBLE RED-AND-BLACK ceramic loaf pan my parents gave me for Christmas that creates a Professional Baker feel to the newly baked loaf. I was just getting to the scooping the batter into the pan when Jean from the Council Tax Office interrupted Beetovan's 5th and I was able to explain to her that Lula had a relapse over Christmas and thus we did not make our December payment and to call off the baliffs already. Jesus. Unbeknownst to me -- this was I was Christmas holidaying in Canada -- the site got infected and she had to go back into surgery two weeks before Santa's Coming. Lula's convalescence has reached new heights, her vision is recovering and she's nearly at the stage wherein she can read a chapter of a book and not get dizzy. For this I am truly grateful, but having to explain this to a Council Tax Officer is not on my list of happy times. They did make a reduction in our fees though, so Jean? Thank you ever so. I'm trying out typepad.com
In any case, my new other website can be sought here. If the posts seem vaguely familiar, it's because sometimes I dig what I write here SO MUCH that I have to spread the love. It is NOT laziness. I assure you.
****emmms
PS, I broke my John Lewis virginity yesterday. I am now the proud owner of a tomato-shaped pincushion, a set of variously sized needles and a new sense of self-loathing.
11.01.06..7:44 pm
You know it's a good day when it starts before 8.30am. Hallelujah, Christ be born, the jetlag has ended. Jetlag and I aren't usually so well acquainted; jetlag normally peeps in to see whether I've landed safely and buggers off by morning. The sort of house guest you rarely have, but frequently admire. I have been home for 11 days, yet it took until this morning, today, for the jetlag to pack its bags and go. Yet over the last eleven days I've been unable to get to sleep any earlier than two in the morning; the following start an invariable struggle to paw my way through to the kitchen and bodum up some coffee. Matthew's even been up earlier than I. MATTHEW! The man who, but for his job, could easily stay in bed til long past the sun has peaked in the afternoon sky. Being with jetlag for so long, one's mind begins to crumple. After watching the final episode of Lost I lay awake long after Matthew's breathing evened out staring at the ceiling, clutching the edge of my duvet, quite convinced that I could hear things. I finally freaked myself out into sleep around three; I think my brain simply shut down rather than endure any more of my body's twitchy preparedness for the Thing in the Corner to unveil itself. My dreams that night were bound by the conflicting irony of being found. By what I can't say, something clanging in the pipes, following my every step. The other night I couldn't sleep at all after watching the horror that is Wedding Stories. This is not your happy, tra-la-la, TLC, American Wedding Stories, but the sordid, here's why 2/3s of all marriages end in divorce, Fuck You, British version. Here our trusty presenter gets squeamish, suggesting in low smug tones to the groom that it's not too late to back out, "It's only the researsal dinner, after all". Still worse is the too-close for comfort view up one bride's skirts as garter is forced up her gammonny thigh: a soft frilly band of white and blue constricting the red, dimpled mass of flesh into a sickening pale yellow. That night I was pummelled by visions of naked legs of lamb and pigs trotters, chasing me around a Newcastle estate, wanting to show off their trousseau. The combination of getting to bed too late, watching freaky TV and having freaky dreams would be bad enough, but the grease-streaked tupperware skies have not helped. There's no greater feeling of helplessness for the average sufferer of seasonal depression in the world than waking up and knowing that the dankness of the morning will turn to mouldiness by the afternoon. Not seeing the sun, knowing there was no chance of feeling natural warmth, of witnessing the world soften even forr an hour, that did me evils. And then today: a miracle. Not only did I awake early, but the sun did too! Almost like it was waiting for me to go first. Almost like it feels cheated that I couldn't be bothered to see it. Almost like it needs me to rise at a normal hour to be able to rise itself. I don't know about you, but I feel a bout of footballers superstition coming on. THREE MORE PROVING THE RIGHTEOUS AWESOMENESS OF TODAY 1. After fretting and pacing for days over my dire financial straits (credit card payments overdue, gas bill partially paid - rest overdue, water bill ditto) and the fact that Lula still owes me over �150 plus her share of the demand from the Council office this morning, I just received a call from former-sublet and characteristically fab gal Sybille that she will be resuming her subletting status, huzzah! Bit pissed that Lula did not actually TELL ME that she will be moving back to Spain, but very pleased that I'll have Sybille back, and not just for her Goddess-like height and good looks. For her mostly stable bank account too. 2. Arthur continued his sickliness today which meant I got to hang out with him all day, knit and watch Stewie: The Untold Story
3. As Mary and I walked up towards Mare Street a rather delecable male of the indie persuasion, on passing, injected the smallest of flirtations. Mary glanced at him as he carried on up the street and then looked at me all eyes wide and beaming, then broke into uncontrollable giggles as something finally clicked and she at last got this male-female banter thing. I think it was her first proper (if entirely innocent) chatting up by a stranger and I pride myself for having been a party to it.
This is of course because Mary is now a Woman. Yes, Mary has got her period. It's sweet and tragic all at the same time. At the age of ten she's still such a child, yet she is, as her mum put it, strangely stoical about the affair. It really is like she's been waiting for this for so long that now it's happened she feels at peace. Yesterday she harraunged me for ages about menstruation: what it feels like, what the average age it start it is, how long it goes on. I tried to help as best I could, but I think I probably frustrated her with my answers. It's hard not to be vague. My cousin didn't start til she was 16, yet a friend of mine in elementary school started when she was only nine and a half (Mary was astounded by this and declared that anyone under the age of ten would find it very difficult); I went for nearly a year without menstruating, yet one of my best friends knows to the hour when she'll start each month. My cycle is much different now to how it was before the Year of Respite and Terror; it changes depending on how much one weighs, how much stress one's under, what time of year it is. Sometimes I'm a Sheer Ravaging Beast of Sexual Desire, sometimes I couldn't give a shit if anyone touched me so long as they died shortly there after.
There's so much I want to warn her about, yet know she needs to be able to discover it on her own. I want her to know that menstruating is healthy. It means your body is working. I want her to know that menstruating is not under ANY CIRCUMSTANCES dirty, filthy, a disease, unfair, wrong or disgusting. I want her to be proud that she does. I want her to respect the connection it gives her with other women simply by virtue of doing so. I want her to know that getting pre-menstrual is an explanation, but never an excuse; that is, I want her to never feel that she should exaggerate what she feels because she thinks it's expected.
But how do you tell that to a ten-year old? How do you explain that most kids her age have no idea what she's going through without making her feel isolated? How do you explain that in many ways she's having a part of her childhood stripped away?
THE JUKEBOX INSIDE MY BRAIN
1. Powerpuff Girls Theme Song by some dude (complete with impossible-to-hum beatboxing, thus beatboxing)
2. Decatur by Sufjan Stevens
3. Crowns of Love by Arcade Fire
4. Ave Maria by Blondie
5. You're My Best Friend by Queen
6. Sugarpie Honeybunch by Clay Aiken
7. Neighbourhood #1 by Arcade Fire
8. Me and the Major by Belle and Sebastian (how excited am I that they've got a new album coming out in February? SO FREAKIN' EXCITED I've used the term FREAKIN', that's how)
9. My Boyfriend's Back by The Angels
10. This Fire by Franz Ferdinand
11. Une Annee Sans Lumiere by Arcade Fire
(So basically the whole of the Arcade Fire catalogue and a bunch of indie-new and bubblegumpop-old)
Sufjan Stevens though, that dude can rock -- in a melodic, etheral kind of way, but still.
****emmms
10.01.06..12:03 am
At long last I've acquired the golith technological wizardry to maintain a documented account of my knitful pursuits. Ta da! And here's one for the road entitled it 1 Geek with Glasses, The Other One is Hiding. 
hello and goodbye - 16.02.07
like lightning in the morning - 19.06.06
knob-end loser - 12.06.06
don't get the wine part I - 10.06.06
a blurb is a blurb is a blurb - 07.06.06