First of all, who knew there were so many Portishead fans out there? Yeesh. I guess my 16 year old Portishead-loving self thought I was a bit more...obscure than perhaps I was! That, and naturally you all all too cool for school.
I'm changing the tone this week. Rather than any of that hipster stuff I might throw at you, it's Loreena McKennitt's turn. Again, I've been a fan of hers for about 15 years, which hasn't depressed me until now, seeing it in writing. Anyway, Loreena is often classified as New Age, which terrifies the shit out of me, as I'm bombarded with all sorts of icky thoughts involving Hearts of Space. Not good.
So I present to you the non-New Agey Loreena McKennitt. Turn up the speakers to a pleasing volume, turn of the lights, and close your eyes. You'll thank me later.
Pardon some of the videos. There aren't many official videos, plus the record company has removed any that there were. Prepare yourselves for some really painful cheesy imagery and elves. What was I saying about this not being New Age? Shit.
Lady of Shalott:
Neverending Road:
Dante's Prayer:
The Mystic's Dream:
Mummers' Dance:
Ce He Mise Le Ulaingt?/The Two Trees:
The Highwayman:
-What is it with Canadians and recitation of this poem by Alfred Noyes? Anne Shirley, and then Loreena McKennitt? What are the odds? Incidentally, any Anne of Green Gables fans out there? I know their ranks are many!
More info for study purposes:
Website
MySpace
4/27/2008
4/24/2008
Pin that badge right here Sarge
I feel like I'm writing this post just for Mel, given her, I'll be quite honest, rather unnatural obsession with dirty curtain twitching. I am to blame for the onset of twitcheritis, having blogged about my own regular dabblings in twitchery.
Well guess what haters*, my curtain twitching has finally had a positive outcome. Thanks to my keen eye and even keener busybody-ness, I have discovered a burglary which would have gone undiscovered for weeks. Yes, I have uncovered a crime, all by peering out of my window like an 80 year old woman who has turned curtain twitching into a fine art betwixt viewings of Matlock and Murder She Wrote.
Our lounge window overlooks the three-story fire escape in the back of the building adjacent to ours. Halfway up the fire escape there is a glass door leading to the second floor flat. I have only seen someone in the flat a handful of times in the nearly 4 years we have lived here, and that is despite some heavy twitching time. Sunday, I noticed the door was wide open. It was a warm day, so I assumed that the person who occasionally inhabited the place had opened it to air the place out. Two days, three days, and then four days passed with the door appearing to be open all day, every day.
Naturally I was suspicious, but as this is a culture of minding your own, I just hid behind the curtain, watching this door which never shut. Today I decided that it was too odd to be nothing, so I called the local non-emergency number. When speaking to the woman at the precinct I felt like a complete loser, recounting this story about a door open for 5 days. I thought, for good measure and perhaps to make me look less like a woman who stands at a window all day watching the most minute activities of her neighbours, that I would mention that I was worried given the rash of burglaries in the area. As a victim of this vile, get-a-fucking-job-you-smackhead-scum activity myself, the woman on the end of the line agreed that my concern was well-placed.
As I mentioned, I phoned the non-emergency number. Non-emergency. HOWEVER, the police turned up to check out the flat within 30 minutes. 30 minutes people! Here is where it gets embarrassing for me. :::deep breath::: I curtain twitched the very outcome of my curtain twitching. Sigh. It's an addiction, back off! I didn't stand at the lounge window to spy on the police, as it's at the same level as they would have been and about 10 feet away. I'm not proud of my twitching, so I cowered beneath the bathroom window, occasionally popping up to see what the police were doing.
The extent of the policework seemed to involve opening the door, shutting the door, then opening it again. The police left after 15 minutes or so, and I figured that I would be forever doomed to be the reporter of a possible crime without finding out whether a crime was actually committed. Thankfully, twitching has its advantages, as the police phoned me back earlier this evening to confirm that someone had broken into the flat. In fact, in a burst of creative fury, they stole a laptop. Quelle surprise. Sounds eerily familiar.
I was praised for being so eagle-eyed and civic-minded, and amazingly, the words "nosy bitch" were never even uttered. I've been trying to convince The Dude that I totally deserve a medal of honour for curtain twitching valour and attentiveness, but he doesn't agree. If not a medal, at least a badge.
The moral to this story is that there is some pride in being a dirty ol' curtain twitcher. I like to view it as a sort of passive, armchair crime fighting tactic. Twitchers unite! Together we can stomp out crime and make this world a better place. Might put us out of a job though...
-------------
*I've just realised that I have used the word "haters" twice in as many posts. I don't really know what this says about me, but I doubt it's good.
Well guess what haters*, my curtain twitching has finally had a positive outcome. Thanks to my keen eye and even keener busybody-ness, I have discovered a burglary which would have gone undiscovered for weeks. Yes, I have uncovered a crime, all by peering out of my window like an 80 year old woman who has turned curtain twitching into a fine art betwixt viewings of Matlock and Murder She Wrote.
Our lounge window overlooks the three-story fire escape in the back of the building adjacent to ours. Halfway up the fire escape there is a glass door leading to the second floor flat. I have only seen someone in the flat a handful of times in the nearly 4 years we have lived here, and that is despite some heavy twitching time. Sunday, I noticed the door was wide open. It was a warm day, so I assumed that the person who occasionally inhabited the place had opened it to air the place out. Two days, three days, and then four days passed with the door appearing to be open all day, every day.
Naturally I was suspicious, but as this is a culture of minding your own, I just hid behind the curtain, watching this door which never shut. Today I decided that it was too odd to be nothing, so I called the local non-emergency number. When speaking to the woman at the precinct I felt like a complete loser, recounting this story about a door open for 5 days. I thought, for good measure and perhaps to make me look less like a woman who stands at a window all day watching the most minute activities of her neighbours, that I would mention that I was worried given the rash of burglaries in the area. As a victim of this vile, get-a-fucking-job-you-smackhead-scum activity myself, the woman on the end of the line agreed that my concern was well-placed.
As I mentioned, I phoned the non-emergency number. Non-emergency. HOWEVER, the police turned up to check out the flat within 30 minutes. 30 minutes people! Here is where it gets embarrassing for me. :::deep breath::: I curtain twitched the very outcome of my curtain twitching. Sigh. It's an addiction, back off! I didn't stand at the lounge window to spy on the police, as it's at the same level as they would have been and about 10 feet away. I'm not proud of my twitching, so I cowered beneath the bathroom window, occasionally popping up to see what the police were doing.
The extent of the policework seemed to involve opening the door, shutting the door, then opening it again. The police left after 15 minutes or so, and I figured that I would be forever doomed to be the reporter of a possible crime without finding out whether a crime was actually committed. Thankfully, twitching has its advantages, as the police phoned me back earlier this evening to confirm that someone had broken into the flat. In fact, in a burst of creative fury, they stole a laptop. Quelle surprise. Sounds eerily familiar.
I was praised for being so eagle-eyed and civic-minded, and amazingly, the words "nosy bitch" were never even uttered. I've been trying to convince The Dude that I totally deserve a medal of honour for curtain twitching valour and attentiveness, but he doesn't agree. If not a medal, at least a badge.
The moral to this story is that there is some pride in being a dirty ol' curtain twitcher. I like to view it as a sort of passive, armchair crime fighting tactic. Twitchers unite! Together we can stomp out crime and make this world a better place. Might put us out of a job though...
-------------
*I've just realised that I have used the word "haters" twice in as many posts. I don't really know what this says about me, but I doubt it's good.
4/20/2008
Music Monday: Portishead
I can't remember when I first heard Portishead, but it was soon after their album "Dummy" was released in 1994. I set about frantically including them on mixed tapes for friends, tapes which were often shoved in backpacks and probably never played. I had a habit of obsessively making mixed tapes for my friends, the primary motive being the ability to *finally* have someone to talk about "my" music with. Welcome to this, my 21st century version of the mixed tapes of my high school years folks. Music Monday gives me the opportunity to throw music at you in the hopes that you'll give it a listen. I'm pleased to say, some of you even TALK to me about said music. I know, I'm as surprised as you are. It's like I'm a too-hip-for-my-own-good fifteen year old again.
Portishead have a new album coming out next week, so much like the James pimping of a few weeks ago, this time it's Portishead's turn. I'm a great lover of trip-hop, so if you are feeling adventurous and want to branch out after digging Portishead (which you surely will, or we are so over), check out Tricky, Morcheeba, Massive Attack and Moloko. Your ears will thank you.
May I just add that it was very hard for me to narrow down my favourite Portishead songs. Just thought I'd add that. FYI, for those of you who only listen to "serious" music (MOLLY. Also, what is it with me and finger quotes today?), a few of these videos are from a session and eventual studio album done with the New York Philharmonic Orchestra. Take that haters!
Sour Times:
Roads:
Glory Box:
Only You:
All Mine:
From the new album:
Magic Doors:
Machine Gun:
More where that came from:
Website
Myspace
Portishead have a new album coming out next week, so much like the James pimping of a few weeks ago, this time it's Portishead's turn. I'm a great lover of trip-hop, so if you are feeling adventurous and want to branch out after digging Portishead (which you surely will, or we are so over), check out Tricky, Morcheeba, Massive Attack and Moloko. Your ears will thank you.
May I just add that it was very hard for me to narrow down my favourite Portishead songs. Just thought I'd add that. FYI, for those of you who only listen to "serious" music (MOLLY. Also, what is it with me and finger quotes today?), a few of these videos are from a session and eventual studio album done with the New York Philharmonic Orchestra. Take that haters!
Sour Times:
Roads:
Glory Box:
Only You:
All Mine:
From the new album:
Magic Doors:
Machine Gun:
More where that came from:
Website
Myspace
4/17/2008
Seven windows of my soul
I saw this listed on other blogs and thought I'd give it a go. I haven't always chosen literal "views", but I have picked visuals which prompt emotions and reflect facets of my personality. My, how fun for the masses. Please be advised that most people just give a one-sentence window, I chose to ramble as per usual. I'm not capable of abridging. This is why I don't ever do Wordless Wednesday.
I encourage any of you to do your own. I think they're fascinating to read. DefiantMuse has been a complete show-off (in a fabulous way) with accompanying photos. Well played DefiantMuse, well played.
-The first glance of the familiar hometown scenery on one of my few trips back to the US since moving abroad. It's simple suburban anonymity, but it will always be home. I couldn't wait to get away when I lived there, yet I savour this moment now.
-The sight of English countryside after being away, if even for a week. Every time arrive on English soil I feel as if I'm doing it for the first time. There is a feeling that is "England", one which, even as a life-long Anglophile, I can't begin to describe.
-Watching a dog let off its leash at the exact point where the sidewalk ends and the park begins. Seeing that level of joy always makes me smile.
-The photograph of my first and only positive pregnancy test. It's a symbol of one part of my life thankfully drawing to a close, and being thrust, unprepared, into a new world of dizzying highs and frightful lows.
-The view from a bench 30 seconds' walk from my flat, watching the angry sea on a rainy, blustery day.
-Bench-sitting on the small hill overlooking above-mentioned sea where I used to go when P was at her reflux/colicky worst. I pushed her back in forth in the stroller with one hand and held a book with the other. Brief serenity in the midst of chaos.
-The small, weepy huddled group of a man who became a Dad, a woman who became a Mama, and a life just begun. The moment right after two finally became three.
In case you missed the links to the other bloggers inspired by this prompt, they are aqui:
Jess
Jen
Tracy
DefiantMuse
Let me know if you want to be added to the list for a little bit of linky love. Ew, that sounds kind of gross. Promise of linky love or not, just do it!
I encourage any of you to do your own. I think they're fascinating to read. DefiantMuse has been a complete show-off (in a fabulous way) with accompanying photos. Well played DefiantMuse, well played.
-The first glance of the familiar hometown scenery on one of my few trips back to the US since moving abroad. It's simple suburban anonymity, but it will always be home. I couldn't wait to get away when I lived there, yet I savour this moment now.
-The sight of English countryside after being away, if even for a week. Every time arrive on English soil I feel as if I'm doing it for the first time. There is a feeling that is "England", one which, even as a life-long Anglophile, I can't begin to describe.
-Watching a dog let off its leash at the exact point where the sidewalk ends and the park begins. Seeing that level of joy always makes me smile.
-The photograph of my first and only positive pregnancy test. It's a symbol of one part of my life thankfully drawing to a close, and being thrust, unprepared, into a new world of dizzying highs and frightful lows.
-The view from a bench 30 seconds' walk from my flat, watching the angry sea on a rainy, blustery day.
-Bench-sitting on the small hill overlooking above-mentioned sea where I used to go when P was at her reflux/colicky worst. I pushed her back in forth in the stroller with one hand and held a book with the other. Brief serenity in the midst of chaos.
-The small, weepy huddled group of a man who became a Dad, a woman who became a Mama, and a life just begun. The moment right after two finally became three.
In case you missed the links to the other bloggers inspired by this prompt, they are aqui:
Jess
Jen
Tracy
DefiantMuse
Let me know if you want to be added to the list for a little bit of linky love. Ew, that sounds kind of gross. Promise of linky love or not, just do it!
4/15/2008
The weaker sex
England is gracious enough to grant its mothers an immense amount of maternity leave. In my case, 13 1/2 months. This would be 13 1/2 months of wonder and amazement at P's development, but also 13 1/2 months of very early mornings, very little sleep, lots of tears (hers and mine), and depression.
The Dude, as an educator, has 54 weeks off a year or some such, and has this week off for "Easter". Lucky for him, P is living large at nursery for most of the week, though she was off yesterday for something that we'll call inservice. At times like this, the understanding is that The Dude will get up with P, thus allowing me, the working stiff, to get all the sleep I can.
Yesterday morning, P decided that, much like the annoying chirping asshole bird outside our window, she would wake up for the day at 5.50am. The Dude tried to cajole her into sleeping again - bribing her with all manners of dummies, stuffed animals, and cigarettes. No deal. He came back into our bedroom to put on his sweatpants and t-shirt, grumbling, "That's my fucking day ruined, isn't it? Fucking sets the tone for the rest of the motherfucking day." Oh, the draaaaaama. Thankfully, the room was kind of dark and the duvet was covering my face, as my smile was ear to ear as I cuddled into the covers ready for a restful additional two hours of sleep.
I'm not a bitchfaced meanie of a wife, I swear. I had over a year of shit like this, yet the poor dear has one bloody day of it and he's ready to renounce parenthood. Now, I'm not one to think that the way to combat sexism against women is to then to trot out male stereotypes, but ladies, srsly, men don't always have the...wherewithal to cope with such things, do they?
Clearly The Dude has so soon forgotten the many months in which I was terrorised and taken hostage by that total mindfuck of a phenomenon entitled sleep regression, a phrase that still leads me to believe that eating dog hair and chasing it with a pint of bleach is a preferable experience. Fuck sleep regression and anything that resembles sleep regression. It's been almost a year now since P would wake up at 4.30 every.goddamn.morning, bright as a ray of sunshine and ready to start her day, yet it could have been yesterday. This lasted for about 4 months, and you can bet your ass The Dude nestled back into the covers when I would get up (every goddamn morning at 4.30am, did I mention that?), crying and in near hysterics. Guess who soldiered through all of this? Guess who just dealt with it and got on with life? Uh, yeah. That's what I thought.
I got a frantic email at 1.30pm in the afternoon yesterday as well. To paraphrase, "P won't sleep. Don't know what to do. She got up so early and needs to sleep. Am frustrated and just want the kid to sleep. Send help." I smiled to myself, and hit delete. Again, naptime? A luxury I was only occasionally afforded. Did I email The Dude at those times in a blind panic, wondering if this meant P would never sleep again?
Thirteen and a half months to his one day of sole child-rearing. Hardly seems balanced, does it? I'd almost feel sorry for the poor sap if he hadn't said in response to my pleas for him to shut the eff up already about the draaaaaama, "When are you going to stop lauding this thirteen months thing over me? That was ages ago now, surely there is a statute of limitations." Ahem. P was clinging to me at the time shouting "MIMMY, MIMMY!", and I totally should have used my spare leg to crotch punch him. Jerkface.
The Dude, as an educator, has 54 weeks off a year or some such, and has this week off for "Easter". Lucky for him, P is living large at nursery for most of the week, though she was off yesterday for something that we'll call inservice. At times like this, the understanding is that The Dude will get up with P, thus allowing me, the working stiff, to get all the sleep I can.
Yesterday morning, P decided that, much like the annoying chirping asshole bird outside our window, she would wake up for the day at 5.50am. The Dude tried to cajole her into sleeping again - bribing her with all manners of dummies, stuffed animals, and cigarettes. No deal. He came back into our bedroom to put on his sweatpants and t-shirt, grumbling, "That's my fucking day ruined, isn't it? Fucking sets the tone for the rest of the motherfucking day." Oh, the draaaaaama. Thankfully, the room was kind of dark and the duvet was covering my face, as my smile was ear to ear as I cuddled into the covers ready for a restful additional two hours of sleep.
I'm not a bitchfaced meanie of a wife, I swear. I had over a year of shit like this, yet the poor dear has one bloody day of it and he's ready to renounce parenthood. Now, I'm not one to think that the way to combat sexism against women is to then to trot out male stereotypes, but ladies, srsly, men don't always have the...wherewithal to cope with such things, do they?
Clearly The Dude has so soon forgotten the many months in which I was terrorised and taken hostage by that total mindfuck of a phenomenon entitled sleep regression, a phrase that still leads me to believe that eating dog hair and chasing it with a pint of bleach is a preferable experience. Fuck sleep regression and anything that resembles sleep regression. It's been almost a year now since P would wake up at 4.30 every.goddamn.morning, bright as a ray of sunshine and ready to start her day, yet it could have been yesterday. This lasted for about 4 months, and you can bet your ass The Dude nestled back into the covers when I would get up (every goddamn morning at 4.30am, did I mention that?), crying and in near hysterics. Guess who soldiered through all of this? Guess who just dealt with it and got on with life? Uh, yeah. That's what I thought.
I got a frantic email at 1.30pm in the afternoon yesterday as well. To paraphrase, "P won't sleep. Don't know what to do. She got up so early and needs to sleep. Am frustrated and just want the kid to sleep. Send help." I smiled to myself, and hit delete. Again, naptime? A luxury I was only occasionally afforded. Did I email The Dude at those times in a blind panic, wondering if this meant P would never sleep again?
Thirteen and a half months to his one day of sole child-rearing. Hardly seems balanced, does it? I'd almost feel sorry for the poor sap if he hadn't said in response to my pleas for him to shut the eff up already about the draaaaaama, "When are you going to stop lauding this thirteen months thing over me? That was ages ago now, surely there is a statute of limitations." Ahem. P was clinging to me at the time shouting "MIMMY, MIMMY!", and I totally should have used my spare leg to crotch punch him. Jerkface.
4/13/2008
Music Monday: Beirut
You know all that whining I did about lack of comments? I forgot to mention that I totally don't expect to get much, if any, when I do Music Mondays. Music Mondays are largely for me anyway, with the vain hope that at least one of you will seek out this music that may be new to you and become a fan. Music is important to me, and by doing this I hope someone else may stumble upon music which speaks to them.
This week's musician is someone who will certainly not appeal to all tastes. However, if you like your music eclectic and influenced by many different cultures, it's Beirut all the way. The crazy thing is, this kid (Zach Condon) is like 22, and started making this wonderful music in his bedroom. I say anything utilising ukelele, Balkan folk, and the fine sounds of the glockenspiel is all good to me.
I could write thoughtful musings on why I find Beirut so damn good, but it all comes down to the fact that when I listen to him (them?) I am instantly happy. Blissfully, maddeningly so.
Elephant Gun:
Postcards from Italy:
Scenic World (Live):
Mount Wroclai (Idle Days):
Nantes:
Hallelujah:
He's drunk here, but still manages to own this song. Seriously, what the fuck? My finest drunken moment was singing a "I am Neat" to myself in a mirror, the entire lyrical composition of the song being the words, "I am Neat". And it didn't sound like this. No sir. For the record, my favourite version of this song (Hallelujah, not I am Neat) is Buckley.
Further study
MySpace
Website
This week's musician is someone who will certainly not appeal to all tastes. However, if you like your music eclectic and influenced by many different cultures, it's Beirut all the way. The crazy thing is, this kid (Zach Condon) is like 22, and started making this wonderful music in his bedroom. I say anything utilising ukelele, Balkan folk, and the fine sounds of the glockenspiel is all good to me.
I could write thoughtful musings on why I find Beirut so damn good, but it all comes down to the fact that when I listen to him (them?) I am instantly happy. Blissfully, maddeningly so.
Elephant Gun:
Postcards from Italy:
Scenic World (Live):
Mount Wroclai (Idle Days):
Nantes:
Hallelujah:
He's drunk here, but still manages to own this song. Seriously, what the fuck? My finest drunken moment was singing a "I am Neat" to myself in a mirror, the entire lyrical composition of the song being the words, "I am Neat". And it didn't sound like this. No sir. For the record, my favourite version of this song (Hallelujah, not I am Neat) is Buckley.
Further study
MySpace
Website
4/10/2008
WWBD? (What would bloggers do)
First of all, thank you all very much for your assurance that I don't completely suck. Phew. I still have my doubts, but I wouldn't be me if I wasn't paranoid and anxious about something. Special thanks to Statia, whom I know I can always count on to give me a virtual slap or two in the face and tell me to snap the fuck out of it. I appreciate her honesty, and all of you others that told me how it is - good or bad.
One of the primary suggestions was something like, "Perhaps if you commented more you selfish, hypocritical bitch" or some such, and I am happy to say that I am working very hard at putting myself out there. I am trying to turn myself into a commenting machine, of course avoiding the trite, just-for-the-sake-of-commenting stuff. I, like some others it seems, am always thinking that I'm not witty enough in comments, but I'm pushing myself to hit "publish" anyway.
I have been trying to find more ::ahem:: "mommy" blogs written by people similar to me, and by that I mean, not conservative, not afraid of the odd swear word or ten, but able to write a sentence. I read some of course, but I seem to gravitate toward bigger bloggers, which is pointless because you're just another avatar in the crowd. I need a bit more give and take than that. I've had the occasional BTB (big time blogger) stop by here, but they leave one comment and piss off. Ha. I guess they don't like what they read. C'est la vie. So anyway, recommendations?
Jumping quickly from blog whoring to sexual harrassment, a segue you are not likely to see today in your blogging travels. Without getting specific about what I'm paid poorly to do, I have to have momentary interactions with coach (buses, Yanks)drivers, which is really most unfortunate. Yesterday, I went to speak to a group of three of them, and was left feeling the most violated I've ever felt. Oh wait, except that time when I was 12 and a homeless guy in his 50s told me he wanted to get me between the sheets. But this was totally the second most violated moment.
You know you're walking into a bad situation when three men collectively have 7 teeth, are each wearing numerous cheap gold chains, and poorly executed tattoos cover their arms. When I approached the group, the oldest, probably in his early 60s, stood a few inches from my face and said, "Oh, you're pretty. I like you." in the skeeviest voice you can imagine. He then stood there for at least another 5 seconds, not saying anything, just staring at my face. I backed up and laughed nervously like the spineless idiot that I am rather than kicking him in his shrivelled, old balls or telling him off.
He said something else mildly offensive, and then proceeded to make an anti-American comment. I laugh off most anti-American comments, because, admittedly, I can understand why they are said in the first place. However, after being harrassed by a lecherous old git, I'm not very receptive to such statements. I said what I needed to say related to work things, and left.
I told the manager of my office (note: not my "boss", as she is far too inept to be referred to as such) which was about as useful as waiting to converse with my sponge later in the evening during my bath instead. I told The Dude last night about the lech and he laughed. He fucking laughed. Oh yes he did. I freaked out, shouted at him, and then gave him the silent treatment for an hour to prove my point like the six year old child I am.
After the silent treatment expired I lectured him on sexual harrassment, making sure he knew that it sucks that women cannot just go about their business in a working day without being visually molested by pervy men. It isn't funny, it's a gross imbalance that pisses me off to no end. Between Dr Titman and this guy, work is a dangerous place.
I phoned the company the pervy bastard works for, and filed a complaint. Too often men with this type of attitude are dismissed as simply having outmoded views, as if that is ok. Apparently, they do not need to change with the times, vestiges of a past era that they are. This is often the excuse for racists and any other variation of bigot, and it's so illogical that I can't believe people still resort to it. Ugh. That's my cerebral, verbose way of summing up my feelings on the matter. Ugh indeed.
I swear The Dude thinks I'm overreacting, though he is acting as if he supports me. I ask you, am I being irrational? Am I one step away from bitching out some guy because he opens a door from me? Am I then letting down the side by using the word bitching in reference to my then-irrational behaviour? Oh, it's all so confusing...
One of the primary suggestions was something like, "Perhaps if you commented more you selfish, hypocritical bitch" or some such, and I am happy to say that I am working very hard at putting myself out there. I am trying to turn myself into a commenting machine, of course avoiding the trite, just-for-the-sake-of-commenting stuff. I, like some others it seems, am always thinking that I'm not witty enough in comments, but I'm pushing myself to hit "publish" anyway.
I have been trying to find more ::ahem:: "mommy" blogs written by people similar to me, and by that I mean, not conservative, not afraid of the odd swear word or ten, but able to write a sentence. I read some of course, but I seem to gravitate toward bigger bloggers, which is pointless because you're just another avatar in the crowd. I need a bit more give and take than that. I've had the occasional BTB (big time blogger) stop by here, but they leave one comment and piss off. Ha. I guess they don't like what they read. C'est la vie. So anyway, recommendations?
Jumping quickly from blog whoring to sexual harrassment, a segue you are not likely to see today in your blogging travels. Without getting specific about what I'm paid poorly to do, I have to have momentary interactions with coach (buses, Yanks)drivers, which is really most unfortunate. Yesterday, I went to speak to a group of three of them, and was left feeling the most violated I've ever felt. Oh wait, except that time when I was 12 and a homeless guy in his 50s told me he wanted to get me between the sheets. But this was totally the second most violated moment.
You know you're walking into a bad situation when three men collectively have 7 teeth, are each wearing numerous cheap gold chains, and poorly executed tattoos cover their arms. When I approached the group, the oldest, probably in his early 60s, stood a few inches from my face and said, "Oh, you're pretty. I like you." in the skeeviest voice you can imagine. He then stood there for at least another 5 seconds, not saying anything, just staring at my face. I backed up and laughed nervously like the spineless idiot that I am rather than kicking him in his shrivelled, old balls or telling him off.
He said something else mildly offensive, and then proceeded to make an anti-American comment. I laugh off most anti-American comments, because, admittedly, I can understand why they are said in the first place. However, after being harrassed by a lecherous old git, I'm not very receptive to such statements. I said what I needed to say related to work things, and left.
I told the manager of my office (note: not my "boss", as she is far too inept to be referred to as such) which was about as useful as waiting to converse with my sponge later in the evening during my bath instead. I told The Dude last night about the lech and he laughed. He fucking laughed. Oh yes he did. I freaked out, shouted at him, and then gave him the silent treatment for an hour to prove my point like the six year old child I am.
After the silent treatment expired I lectured him on sexual harrassment, making sure he knew that it sucks that women cannot just go about their business in a working day without being visually molested by pervy men. It isn't funny, it's a gross imbalance that pisses me off to no end. Between Dr Titman and this guy, work is a dangerous place.
I phoned the company the pervy bastard works for, and filed a complaint. Too often men with this type of attitude are dismissed as simply having outmoded views, as if that is ok. Apparently, they do not need to change with the times, vestiges of a past era that they are. This is often the excuse for racists and any other variation of bigot, and it's so illogical that I can't believe people still resort to it. Ugh. That's my cerebral, verbose way of summing up my feelings on the matter. Ugh indeed.
I swear The Dude thinks I'm overreacting, though he is acting as if he supports me. I ask you, am I being irrational? Am I one step away from bitching out some guy because he opens a door from me? Am I then letting down the side by using the word bitching in reference to my then-irrational behaviour? Oh, it's all so confusing...
4/08/2008
Pull up a chair
I've just taken a very deep breath, smacked my face a few times, and pumped my fists in the air in order to prepare myself for this post. No, I'm not pregnant. Again, some conceptions require sexual activity, and there is hardly any of that funny business going on here. The gates are closed, the key has been swallowed.
Not one to shy away from controversy nor self-indulgent twaddle, I'm just going to come out with it. Have I lost my lustre? In fact, did I ever have lustre? It seems in the past couple of months my comments have plummeted to an extent which makes me wonder if I am past my blogging sell by date. Obviously I do not want to encourage commenting for commenting's sake - I sometimes read blogs which garner dozens of comments, the bulk of which read something along the lines of "Me too!", which, frankly, what's the fucking point? That then leads us to the issue of my apparent irrelevance, in that no one is provoked to comment because they have nothing more to offer than a trite, "Me too!"
I do try to make things at least mildly interesting on here, exercise in failure as that may be. I drastically underestimated the instant narrative that infertility provides. There are always things to talk about when barren - treatments, inconsiderate fertiles, wonky vajays, horny husbands when your sex drive is shit, other peoples' babies, infertility in the media, insane hormonal changes, hot doctors, mean doctors, syringe addiction, the list goes on. Now, I'm a mother and though I could surely blog all P all the time, who wants to read that? I try to maintain some sense of balance, blogging about anything my mind might settle upon, but maybe I'm not choosing my topics properly. That, or I'm choosing them properly and just not writing them well, which is the more likely situation given my slippery turd brain.
I'm not searching for compliments. In a lot of areas of my life I'm far too arrogant for my own good, so ego stroking is far from necessary. In fact, I'm all up for constructive criticism. Seriously, tell me where I'm going wrong. Please feel free to say something anonymously, which, as I have mentioned before, would be entirely anonymous because my fat ass is far too lazy to do any research comparing stats and comment times. The mere thought makes me want to retire to my sofa and eat a vat of swedish fish.
Please realise that I am well aware that the melodrama meter is at about a ten here, and I hate myself for even caring enough to write this post. Seriously, I should get a fucking life, right? I was thinking about this at work today, because who needs to focus on HE targets, admissions stats, and the like when you can agonise over your blog popularity crashing and burning? I think the issue is that I have found such a community through blogging, one which I lack in my real life. I have friends, but to be honest no one I know in my every day life makes me feel as comfortable as I do within bloglandia. It's beyond sad that I find myself relating more to women I've never met, but I have so much more in common with all of you than I ever seem to with "real" women.
It isn't as simple as infertility uniting us all. I read and comment on a fair amount of non-IF blogs, and believe it or not some non-IFers even read this blog. I don't know, through writing at such great length about a variety of topics over a span of time you feel as if you get to know people, even if there isn't that common thread of infertility. I often wish that the people in my real life and blogging life were switched, with the blogging folks becoming "real", and the "real" in my life simply streaming words on a computer screen.
Now that I've outed myself as a complete social outcast who relies solely on internet communication, where do I even go from here? Shall I go stroke some of my fur babies? Write some more NKOTB fanfic? Cry?
So I love you all - a sad proclaimation I've made recently with little reaction, surprise, surprise. Please do let me know what I can do to make you love me again, anonymously or not. Don't turn me into that angry ex-girlfriend again, sneaking into your house at night to gaze maniacally (but with adoration!) at you whilst you sleep. I will totally do it, because remember, no one will ever love you like I do.
Not one to shy away from controversy nor self-indulgent twaddle, I'm just going to come out with it. Have I lost my lustre? In fact, did I ever have lustre? It seems in the past couple of months my comments have plummeted to an extent which makes me wonder if I am past my blogging sell by date. Obviously I do not want to encourage commenting for commenting's sake - I sometimes read blogs which garner dozens of comments, the bulk of which read something along the lines of "Me too!", which, frankly, what's the fucking point? That then leads us to the issue of my apparent irrelevance, in that no one is provoked to comment because they have nothing more to offer than a trite, "Me too!"
I do try to make things at least mildly interesting on here, exercise in failure as that may be. I drastically underestimated the instant narrative that infertility provides. There are always things to talk about when barren - treatments, inconsiderate fertiles, wonky vajays, horny husbands when your sex drive is shit, other peoples' babies, infertility in the media, insane hormonal changes, hot doctors, mean doctors, syringe addiction, the list goes on. Now, I'm a mother and though I could surely blog all P all the time, who wants to read that? I try to maintain some sense of balance, blogging about anything my mind might settle upon, but maybe I'm not choosing my topics properly. That, or I'm choosing them properly and just not writing them well, which is the more likely situation given my slippery turd brain.
I'm not searching for compliments. In a lot of areas of my life I'm far too arrogant for my own good, so ego stroking is far from necessary. In fact, I'm all up for constructive criticism. Seriously, tell me where I'm going wrong. Please feel free to say something anonymously, which, as I have mentioned before, would be entirely anonymous because my fat ass is far too lazy to do any research comparing stats and comment times. The mere thought makes me want to retire to my sofa and eat a vat of swedish fish.
Please realise that I am well aware that the melodrama meter is at about a ten here, and I hate myself for even caring enough to write this post. Seriously, I should get a fucking life, right? I was thinking about this at work today, because who needs to focus on HE targets, admissions stats, and the like when you can agonise over your blog popularity crashing and burning? I think the issue is that I have found such a community through blogging, one which I lack in my real life. I have friends, but to be honest no one I know in my every day life makes me feel as comfortable as I do within bloglandia. It's beyond sad that I find myself relating more to women I've never met, but I have so much more in common with all of you than I ever seem to with "real" women.
It isn't as simple as infertility uniting us all. I read and comment on a fair amount of non-IF blogs, and believe it or not some non-IFers even read this blog. I don't know, through writing at such great length about a variety of topics over a span of time you feel as if you get to know people, even if there isn't that common thread of infertility. I often wish that the people in my real life and blogging life were switched, with the blogging folks becoming "real", and the "real" in my life simply streaming words on a computer screen.
Now that I've outed myself as a complete social outcast who relies solely on internet communication, where do I even go from here? Shall I go stroke some of my fur babies? Write some more NKOTB fanfic? Cry?
So I love you all - a sad proclaimation I've made recently with little reaction, surprise, surprise. Please do let me know what I can do to make you love me again, anonymously or not. Don't turn me into that angry ex-girlfriend again, sneaking into your house at night to gaze maniacally (but with adoration!) at you whilst you sleep. I will totally do it, because remember, no one will ever love you like I do.
4/06/2008
Music Monday: James
Cali already covered this ground, but as they are one of my favourite bands, I have to mention James. They have a new album coming out today (7th), so I am of course duty bound to honour their first release in 7 years.
Do yourselves a favour and listen. If it's good enough for Cali and Rachel, it's good enough for you.
Top of the World (live):
Lose Control:
She's a Star:
Say Something:
And for those of you are James fans and may not be too familiar with Tim Booth's solo stuff:
Down to the Sea:
Discover:
Tim Booth did some stuff with Angelo Badalamenti, who some of you may know as the composer of the great music from Twin Peaks. Guess what, I'm going to throw some of that on here too!
Fall in Love with Me:
Dance of the Bad Angels:
There. I'm done now. Sorry. I take my James and James spin-offs very seriously indeed. I even cried at the James concert I went to about 10 years ago. Jesus. Even pre-infertility and motherhood I was a weepy, emotionally overwhelmed crybaby.
Do yourselves a favour and listen. If it's good enough for Cali and Rachel, it's good enough for you.
Top of the World (live):
Lose Control:
She's a Star:
Say Something:
And for those of you are James fans and may not be too familiar with Tim Booth's solo stuff:
Down to the Sea:
Discover:
Tim Booth did some stuff with Angelo Badalamenti, who some of you may know as the composer of the great music from Twin Peaks. Guess what, I'm going to throw some of that on here too!
Fall in Love with Me:
Dance of the Bad Angels:
There. I'm done now. Sorry. I take my James and James spin-offs very seriously indeed. I even cried at the James concert I went to about 10 years ago. Jesus. Even pre-infertility and motherhood I was a weepy, emotionally overwhelmed crybaby.
4/04/2008
The Gulf of IF
I've just been out to dinner with the other women from my Mums and Babies group. Not surprisingly, talk turned to second children as all of us are in our late 20s/early 30s, parents of 18-20 month olds, and naturally we are getting long of tooth and dusty of uterus. All of these women know about my light dabbling with infertility treatments, as I fessed up when P was just a few months old.
They are often curious about infertility and IVF, so I act as Resident Expert on Matters Fertility. This despite the fact that I know less than jack, as evidenced by my pre-IVF posts in which my embarrassing lack of knowledge regarding the most basic female reproductive physiology was most apparent. I won't even tell you what body parts I confused when actually pregnant. What can I say, I was just a really casual bystander with the medical side of IF treatment. I was all about the drama instead.
Anyway, given my full disclosure these women are really cautious about what they say about pregnancy and fertility in front of me. "When I get pregnant again" is sometimes altered to "If I get pregnant again", lest the poor barren one get offended. One of the reasons I'm always hesitant to share my dark, infertile past is that I don't want people to feel forced to modify what they want to say. I don't want to always be the recipient of a sly sideways glance after someone has spoken of getting pregnant on the first try.
On the other hand, and this is where the perversity and illogicality prevails, I would be annoyed if people didn't think before they spoke. In essence, you're fucked either way when it comes to my perception, so don't even bother. I'm not going to be happy if you carefully choose your words so as not to hurt my feelings, and I'll be annoyed if you open your mouth and something ignorant spills out. What's a poor fertile girl to do?
Tonight the banter wasn't too shocking - quite a fair amount of "when" rather than "if", but I suppose if they have no reason to doubt their fertility they wouldn't be inclined to allow doubt to enter the equation. There was the one throwaway comment about possibly deciding when one is 45 to have a third child, assuming of course the second would be had, and that a third would easily arrive when in one's mid-40s.
I've spoken before about wishing perhaps we were not so weathered, worn, and battered by infertility to the point that we anticipate the infertility of others because they are just too naive. It's an ever-recurring theme with me. I got what I want out of the whole IF deal, yet I expect other women who haven't had similar trials to just *expect* possible infertility. Why would they? I want to think that these happy events happen without any sign of complications, but I'm far, far too jaded for that.
I don't to be the wise old sage. I don't want to be the one silently sitting at the table whilst these "when" conversations are going on, thinking to myself that they would be doing themselves a favour by making it an "if" conversation. So many of them think it's an age-related issue; as long as they squeeze the conception of that second kid in by 35, they'll be fine. Of course they know that I was 23 when I started infertility treatment and 28 when I finally got pregnant, but I'm just a black mark on an otherwise fertile landscape. Unless someone tells you they didn't get pregnant easily, it must have gone without a hitch.
I'll spare you the talk that went on of how to have sex in a manner to guarantee that you get pregnant with a girl. Even if I drank, not all the wine in that tiny Indian restaurant would have been enough to suppress that memory. These are the conversations those people have ladies, for realz. I would have been happy to have gotten pregnant with a goat, let alone specifying the gender of any fetus residing in my uterus. To read books dedicated to girl-making sexy time, well...my time could be much better spent cleaning my oven or scraping pigeon shit off my skylights.
Must go have sex now, with my legs at a 45 degree angle post coitus whilst wearing a crown made of pineapple chunks and one slipper on my left foot. I want to have a boy, you see.
They are often curious about infertility and IVF, so I act as Resident Expert on Matters Fertility. This despite the fact that I know less than jack, as evidenced by my pre-IVF posts in which my embarrassing lack of knowledge regarding the most basic female reproductive physiology was most apparent. I won't even tell you what body parts I confused when actually pregnant. What can I say, I was just a really casual bystander with the medical side of IF treatment. I was all about the drama instead.
Anyway, given my full disclosure these women are really cautious about what they say about pregnancy and fertility in front of me. "When I get pregnant again" is sometimes altered to "If I get pregnant again", lest the poor barren one get offended. One of the reasons I'm always hesitant to share my dark, infertile past is that I don't want people to feel forced to modify what they want to say. I don't want to always be the recipient of a sly sideways glance after someone has spoken of getting pregnant on the first try.
On the other hand, and this is where the perversity and illogicality prevails, I would be annoyed if people didn't think before they spoke. In essence, you're fucked either way when it comes to my perception, so don't even bother. I'm not going to be happy if you carefully choose your words so as not to hurt my feelings, and I'll be annoyed if you open your mouth and something ignorant spills out. What's a poor fertile girl to do?
Tonight the banter wasn't too shocking - quite a fair amount of "when" rather than "if", but I suppose if they have no reason to doubt their fertility they wouldn't be inclined to allow doubt to enter the equation. There was the one throwaway comment about possibly deciding when one is 45 to have a third child, assuming of course the second would be had, and that a third would easily arrive when in one's mid-40s.
I've spoken before about wishing perhaps we were not so weathered, worn, and battered by infertility to the point that we anticipate the infertility of others because they are just too naive. It's an ever-recurring theme with me. I got what I want out of the whole IF deal, yet I expect other women who haven't had similar trials to just *expect* possible infertility. Why would they? I want to think that these happy events happen without any sign of complications, but I'm far, far too jaded for that.
I don't to be the wise old sage. I don't want to be the one silently sitting at the table whilst these "when" conversations are going on, thinking to myself that they would be doing themselves a favour by making it an "if" conversation. So many of them think it's an age-related issue; as long as they squeeze the conception of that second kid in by 35, they'll be fine. Of course they know that I was 23 when I started infertility treatment and 28 when I finally got pregnant, but I'm just a black mark on an otherwise fertile landscape. Unless someone tells you they didn't get pregnant easily, it must have gone without a hitch.
I'll spare you the talk that went on of how to have sex in a manner to guarantee that you get pregnant with a girl. Even if I drank, not all the wine in that tiny Indian restaurant would have been enough to suppress that memory. These are the conversations those people have ladies, for realz. I would have been happy to have gotten pregnant with a goat, let alone specifying the gender of any fetus residing in my uterus. To read books dedicated to girl-making sexy time, well...my time could be much better spent cleaning my oven or scraping pigeon shit off my skylights.
Must go have sex now, with my legs at a 45 degree angle post coitus whilst wearing a crown made of pineapple chunks and one slipper on my left foot. I want to have a boy, you see.
4/01/2008
The Giving Tree
Because you can only beat a depressed horse so much before you drive the hordes away, a shift of focus. For once, this isn't about me.
As I have mentioned before, I have put ads on my blog to earn some extra cash which I intend to donate to various blogging causes. This is proving a bit difficult to be honest, as one would hardly find a donation of the odd 25 cents particularly helpful. I've felt quite stymied by this, so rather than sitting around waiting for pennies to accumulate, I've thrown caution to the wind, said fuck it, and have been donating what I can here and there. Any added money earned from the ads which will gather up in the pot over an 800 year period will just be an added bonus.
I find myself irritated that I'm not a millionaire, because there are so many people that could benefit from a good ol' chunk of money. Then I think, even if I did have that kind of money, I'd not even be touching the surface of those who need it. I'm not strictly talking about people who need money or supplies. This extends to simply brightening someone's day by doing a good deed - anonymously paying for a stranger's parking or surprising a blogger with something off their Amazon wishlist. I want to do all of these things and more, and I find my head swimming with possibilities.
Conveniently, bloglandia is bursting at the moment with drives and good deeds. I wanted to publicise some of them even though I'm sure you've come across them in your travels. Please go have a look and see if you're able to help in any way, even if that is via positive thoughts and good wishes. I think we are all well aware of how much a sincere comment or email can brighten our days. It's not just me, right? Right?
One of my harem of internet wives, Becky, has started something wonderful on her own blog. She has encouraged donations to March of Times (particularly via her friend Ames), and Now I Lay Me Down to Sleep with some fabulous, fabulous posts.
Yesterday I came across this post from Emily @ Not That You Asked..., and cried throughout. The 16 month old daughter of Emily's friends (also called Emily) has recently been diagnosed with a brain tumour. Due to travel requirements and such, the little girl's father has had to take unpaid leave, and as her mother is a SAHM, financial difficulty is surely impending due to healthcare costs. Emily has thoughtfully added a donate button for the family for those interested in donating.
Today, the inimitable Mel over at Stirrup Queens posted about a FANTASTIC idea to raise funds for the lovely and charming Cali - eBay auctions! I am so excited by this, I wanted to help spread the word right away. I am trying to kick my brain made of turds into action in an attempt to think of some things I can donate for auction. If you don't know Cali's story, read up on her at Mel's, and even better, give yourself a couple of hours to go directly to Cali's and read, read, read. I am going to add the icon which has been created for this event in a moment, and hopefully the turd brain will spring to life and allow me to figure it out.
So there it is. Plenty to keep you busy. I admit that sometimes I feel a bit goofy to count invisible internet people as some of my good friends, but it's times like these that I think how lucky I am to belong to such a loving, giving community that doesn't exist in my real life. Thank you.
As I have mentioned before, I have put ads on my blog to earn some extra cash which I intend to donate to various blogging causes. This is proving a bit difficult to be honest, as one would hardly find a donation of the odd 25 cents particularly helpful. I've felt quite stymied by this, so rather than sitting around waiting for pennies to accumulate, I've thrown caution to the wind, said fuck it, and have been donating what I can here and there. Any added money earned from the ads which will gather up in the pot over an 800 year period will just be an added bonus.
I find myself irritated that I'm not a millionaire, because there are so many people that could benefit from a good ol' chunk of money. Then I think, even if I did have that kind of money, I'd not even be touching the surface of those who need it. I'm not strictly talking about people who need money or supplies. This extends to simply brightening someone's day by doing a good deed - anonymously paying for a stranger's parking or surprising a blogger with something off their Amazon wishlist. I want to do all of these things and more, and I find my head swimming with possibilities.
Conveniently, bloglandia is bursting at the moment with drives and good deeds. I wanted to publicise some of them even though I'm sure you've come across them in your travels. Please go have a look and see if you're able to help in any way, even if that is via positive thoughts and good wishes. I think we are all well aware of how much a sincere comment or email can brighten our days. It's not just me, right? Right?
One of my harem of internet wives, Becky, has started something wonderful on her own blog. She has encouraged donations to March of Times (particularly via her friend Ames), and Now I Lay Me Down to Sleep with some fabulous, fabulous posts.
Yesterday I came across this post from Emily @ Not That You Asked..., and cried throughout. The 16 month old daughter of Emily's friends (also called Emily) has recently been diagnosed with a brain tumour. Due to travel requirements and such, the little girl's father has had to take unpaid leave, and as her mother is a SAHM, financial difficulty is surely impending due to healthcare costs. Emily has thoughtfully added a donate button for the family for those interested in donating.
Today, the inimitable Mel over at Stirrup Queens posted about a FANTASTIC idea to raise funds for the lovely and charming Cali - eBay auctions! I am so excited by this, I wanted to help spread the word right away. I am trying to kick my brain made of turds into action in an attempt to think of some things I can donate for auction. If you don't know Cali's story, read up on her at Mel's, and even better, give yourself a couple of hours to go directly to Cali's and read, read, read. I am going to add the icon which has been created for this event in a moment, and hopefully the turd brain will spring to life and allow me to figure it out.
So there it is. Plenty to keep you busy. I admit that sometimes I feel a bit goofy to count invisible internet people as some of my good friends, but it's times like these that I think how lucky I am to belong to such a loving, giving community that doesn't exist in my real life. Thank you.
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