tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-74367172013452687182024-03-05T00:21:17.503-08:00From a Corner of a Foreign Field...Eleanorgjhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00672862557542492003noreply@blogger.comBlogger58125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7436717201345268718.post-40365136557540816702015-11-26T14:10:00.000-08:002015-11-26T14:10:32.828-08:00My Gratitude Top Ten, by En. <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-family: "calibri";">You know when someone suggests something, and then it
repeats and repeats, like the Universe is trying to send you Facebook ‘pokes’
or nudges or whatever?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had a week like
that. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>About five different people, not
in the same conversation, mentioned my blog/my recent article in <em>Clever Girl</em>
Mag/journaling.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Each reference was thumb
flick over a lighter flint, not catching, not catching, not… there’s a spark, a
flicker, oh boy, a flame.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><em>I can't blog again... can I? Must resist...but why?</em></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri";">The truth is, my writing fire dwindled this year.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The hopeful little flame was extinguished,
blown out by the Publishing winds that seem to blow smoke, not fuel the
fire.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> (H</span>ave we had enough of this analogy
yet?)<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was disappointed by some of the
<em>interesting</em> decisions from publishers and the blog become more of a chore
that weighed heavily upon me, than something fun and frivolous.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri";">But today, *drum roll* my brain ignited!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>And my fingers are twitchy for something more than my Christmas Card
list and deleting the unbelievable barrage of Black Friday emails from chain
stores who seem to offer another confusing sale every single day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So… why not?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
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<span style="font-family: "calibri";">I don’t have such illusions of grandeur that I think you
actually want to know my Thanksgiving Day thoughts, but fuck it, I want to
write them for me, because--bloody hell!!! I <em>actually</em> have TIME today, because words, ideas, patterns and
thoughts make me happy. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Of course, I
hope you know that I am grateful EVERYDAY, but as a more recent Pilgrim, who
won’t be eating turkey, I thought I would share what this Brit on the Ridge is
grateful for.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> <strong>En's Top Ten!</strong> </span>So here goes:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In no particular order...</span></div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">1)</span><span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="font-family: "calibri";">I am alive.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The alternative is not appealing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>God, there seems to have been so much tragedy this year; people who I
know, and know of, who will be sorely missed around the table today.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Every day we have a chance to make a
difference; I am jolly grateful for that.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri";">1b)<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I am alive AND healthy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I don’t often spend time thinking about the
fact that I can breathe, walk, talk, think (sometimes), see, smell, hear, taste, speak, dance, flow
through my yoga practice and feel my heart beating against my mat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The human body is so, utterly amazing!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We are a mass of cells!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A body of blood, water, plasma, fibers, bone
and cartilage, intricately evolved to function!!!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> Our bodies are our own personal ecosystem hard at work.</span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> Bloody brilliant really.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">I visited my friend in hospital today, and yesterday. Being ill is, of course, never fun, but there is that added sorrow about it, to be there on a holiday, without companionship or food. </span></div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">2)</span><span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="font-family: "calibri";">Words.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Words
are rather like precious jewels to </span><span style="font-family: "calibri"; text-indent: -0.25in;">me.</span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><span style="font-family: "calibri"; text-indent: -0.25in;">When I hear a new sparkly word it makes my brain buzz.</span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="font-family: "calibri"; text-indent: -0.25in;">I’m listening to <em>Carry On</em> by Rainbow
Rowell, and to hear the British lexicon, especially the swear words, oh my God! </span><span style="font-family: "calibri"; text-indent: -0.25in;">It is heaven!</span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> (I highly recommend this book by the way. And the Audible version is entertaining me no end.)</span></div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">3)</span><span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="font-family: "calibri";">Food.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
T</span>oday, I get to prepare whatever
I please!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So I’m taking time to bake eggplant
lasagna.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s quite the ritual and
something I never usually give myself time for, so I will enjoy the process and
having saved Self the headache of trying to time the turkey, veggies, fixings
and gravy all at the same time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Cold lumpy
gravy fills me with dread.</span></div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]--><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1MXPh2Dt3eCnTy4Khp-zF9mMIj1FlzsXvbzpWECFxZpEb8UfXRasksdN4F0jo_rppjeJLJLmdJKeGlOaHsyr2jxjHwKG45AqGBW1hTm8zuO7PUrN8FvrGMiDeuMEohIvrfrznDIIQWwP6/s1600/Nov+Thanksgiving+2015+018.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1MXPh2Dt3eCnTy4Khp-zF9mMIj1FlzsXvbzpWECFxZpEb8UfXRasksdN4F0jo_rppjeJLJLmdJKeGlOaHsyr2jxjHwKG45AqGBW1hTm8zuO7PUrN8FvrGMiDeuMEohIvrfrznDIIQWwP6/s320/Nov+Thanksgiving+2015+018.JPG" width="240" /></a><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">4)</span><span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="font-family: "calibri";">My Mum and Dad.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>It still rather amazes me that they are here in NEPA.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>From 3,000 miles away they moved to
Scranton.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We have many moments of raised
tempers, furrowed brows, misunderstandings, but they are two people who consistently
go above and beyond to help me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And it
totally tickles me that Mum, who went shopping yesterday so I could bake Self
lasagna today, tries soooo hard and is so rigidly British!!! <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She returned with the list with a few surprise
items.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had asked for a pack of ‘Sweet
Italian sausage meat.’<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I stipulated
where she would find it and that is wouldn’t be in casing, but it would look
like ‘mince’—which is what we call ground meat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Sweet.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Italian.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sausage meat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>She returned with this.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It looks
like some ghastly Jimmy Dean pre-packed thing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Horrors.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And yet, it was so
endearing, because she wrote me a note that she asked the man at Wegmans and
this was all he could find?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Was he
twelve?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I mean EVERYONE else in NEPA
knows what I mean by sweet Italian Sausage meat, right?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But I am grateful and I chuckle.</span></div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">5)</span><span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="font-family: "calibri";">Beanie.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She
ran away again this morning—ah! The joys of squirrel chasing!—and as I gathered
her to me, panting in my robe, in public, with bare feet that had carried scissoring legs
over the slightly frosted grass tips and hot-footed over the gravel, I couldn’t
help but let my frustration melt and just love her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She lashed my cheek with quick flicks from
her velvet tongue and fixed me with longing looks from those dark cherried eyes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My little girl.</span><br />
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<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">6)</span><span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="font-family: "calibri";">Joy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Those little moments that make one smile and feel like a teenager: like
an unexpected song that comes on as one chops the onion and, without pause, recall
and sing all the words, jump up, Beanie kangarooing at one’s feet, a 8 inch
steel knife my new microphone.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(I didn’t
say it was safe, I said it was joyous.)</span></div>
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</span></span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="font-family: "calibri";">My job.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
love what I do.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I love helping people
feel good about themselves, mentoring my consultants, cultivating a network of
positivity, heart, hope and kindness.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
love the possibilities, the challenges, overcoming the challenges, the rewards,
the advancement and having the freedom and choices to work when I want, with
whom I want, wherever I want.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I am
soooo<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>grateful I am not confined or limited
to a grey job I hate, but every day I get to choose.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have the potential of making a difference
in someone else’s life.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That’s pretty
awesome.</span></div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">8)</span><span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="font-family: "calibri";">My tribe.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Wow do I have some empowered, empowering friends.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Lionhearts, Yogis, Director-friends, Customer-friends,
Greenridgers, Reader-Friends, Supportive Community Peeps who do good
things.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s the people who make a
place.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Thanks for making this my home. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri";">9) Coupling. It gives me no small amount of delight to see my friends finding their people. Whether they have traveled from PA to the west coast and found their new bearded beau, or upped sticks to St. Augustine, or found someone in PA right under their nose, it's a joy to see the ridiculous smiles on their beautiful faces. I'm grateful that they are happy.</span></div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">10)</span><span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="font-family: "calibri";">Love.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Because it’s a pretty wondrous thing when at last you realize you can
give someone your whole heart and expect nothing in return.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And it’s okay.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Have a joyful, grateful, loving, meaningful, silly, music-filled,
word-stuffed, food feast today.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Hug your
people hard and avoid lumpy gravy.</span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Eleanorgjhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00672862557542492003noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7436717201345268718.post-28402013877320383912013-07-19T07:21:00.003-07:002013-07-19T07:21:48.121-07:00Fuckery and Food Truckery!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Confession: I love a bit of food porn. Truly. No, I'm not talking 57 Shades of Heinz bedroom games, but rather food can be <i>really</i> sexy. <br />
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There's ritual in the preparation, (the foreplay) and the consumption (consummation). It's just so god damn sensual! The hunger: the thought of it, the sight, the smell, the taste, the feel of it on the tongue, the roll around the mouth, the... mastication. (Yes, that's a word.) And I love a good book that involves, nay celebrates the love of food: from Lily Prior's <i>La Cucina</i> and her romps with Ragu; Adriana Trigiani's<i> Big</i> <i>Stone Gap</i> Series, in which I learned a sandwich could be so much more; Joanne Harris's <i>Chocolat</i>, I will forever suck and savour my quality truffles, because shit, a lot of work goes into those things; <i>Promises to Keep</i>, by Jane Green--it even has recipes, and they are good (!) and anything by Jennifer Weiner, because her heroines hunger for something more in life. Amen and pass the salt!<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOJwGLavbbA5ARRUBK2ESba8I4yeo85viPgwS47WVdyFQAgPB7sZ9L78hKgm_1q5LVihO0Vxd5sMMYYcg0OmGYV89ZJ6UCIaBPd73SplpTCVxH2k9-VAU4GtvnZ5_l9_DmvK7lKIdj392w/s1600/GemmaBurgess.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOJwGLavbbA5ARRUBK2ESba8I4yeo85viPgwS47WVdyFQAgPB7sZ9L78hKgm_1q5LVihO0Vxd5sMMYYcg0OmGYV89ZJ6UCIaBPd73SplpTCVxH2k9-VAU4GtvnZ5_l9_DmvK7lKIdj392w/s200/GemmaBurgess.jpg" width="160" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Gem. She's lovely and hi-LA-rious!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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So, when I learned my friend and fabulous Britty in the Big City, Gemma Burgess, had tippy-tappy typed a new adult novel, about a headstrong twenty-something living in my old hood, fucking and food trucking, I knew I HAD to read it!<br />
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Now, now, Boys! When I say 'fucking' don't get the wrong idea, this is not some erotic blow-by-blow (pardon), but it's... real. The gaggle of <i>Brooklyn Girls</i> living in a house on Union St are living life and making mistakes, a lot of mistakes. This punchy opener sets the tone beautifully:<br />
<i>"Never screw your roommate's brother. A simple rule, but a good one. And I broke it last night. Twice. Oopsh."</i><br />
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Ta dah! And the heroine, Pia, and I bonded immediately! (Not that I have ever done that, Mum. Dad. But simply, I love a good, ol' flawed heroine with a lust for life.) Pia can party her socks off! Well, her bra off anyway, and that's unfortunately the photo that ends up on Facebook and gets her fired from her PR job. "Oopsh!" indeed. Pia is cut-off by her parents and forced to survive (pay rent and afford tequila) on her wits and ingenuity! She buys a food truck using--perhaps not the best choice--ten grand from a loan shark. Thus her food truck business, Skinny Wheels, and financial debt, begins!<br />
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The whole, "getting cut of from her parents" thing you might find reminiscent of Lena Dunham's <i>Girls</i>. Funnily enough, Gemma Burgess had written this first novel of the series before the award-winning HBO show aired. I hope this novel is as successful for Burgess as the show is for Dunham, because it has all the ingredients to be so.<br />
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So let's cut to the meat and potatoes, shall we? Why did I enjoy this book? Pia Keller is a truly likable protagonist with a Masters in Self Destruction: she is clearly an Arseaholic (addicted to Arseholes); and, she suffers from anxiety and rage. (This is not familiar at all. No Siree! Not me!) Pia is riddled with flaws, but is so likable. She'd do anything, ANYTHING, to help her girlfriends; she is passionate about bringing the public fresh, organic food; she drives a pink truck; she's often treated as an alien due to her Swiss/Indian parentage; oh, and she is pretty and fashionable. <i> I like her! </i><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2x99cw9NkWJRqIgnApaJh8Rj6-4FUnshAEm45Cuk7MwUDE_1rsbXslMDQtEaMB92xZ3AcvqrOBOUBDNXXEf0AMujrhdxfKGBQiYx_SrGukWXVPfpsl9bRULnzTF1x-A_ZAUo4O8KRlfoG/s1600/What+the+fork.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="160" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2x99cw9NkWJRqIgnApaJh8Rj6-4FUnshAEm45Cuk7MwUDE_1rsbXslMDQtEaMB92xZ3AcvqrOBOUBDNXXEf0AMujrhdxfKGBQiYx_SrGukWXVPfpsl9bRULnzTF1x-A_ZAUo4O8KRlfoG/s320/What+the+fork.jpg" width="320" /></a>Pia is a bona fide foodie! I'm going to put this out there: a girl's gotta eat! Writers who don't let their characters eat are, quite frankly, cruel. Is your character an anorexic? A camel? EnduroMan? Jesus in the desert? No? Then fucking feed her/him! Pia et les femmes eat. They eat a lot, and in Brooklyn, they are certainly in a good neighbourhood for that. Whether drunken feasting on eggplant rollatini, baked ziti, and spinach and ricotta pizza at Bartolo's; or simply scarfing down Coco's homemade cookies; or creating the nutritious and delicious salads of Skinny Wheels; food is the uniting factor that brings these girls together, that comforts, that sobers, that gives Pia a place to help others. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwMwr_3DskUapyFv7XrW0O3qZgMdnHkIGNbiT50A8TAeLpTGUCY5P9tgQD61MSZrDJm74RjYLpSVcD97l3Km9c-4paJ7qDduw8StoOnIiYHXVHadsDHi4_CQ022NkaIA7EIRLGJTnSIZuw/s1600/wtf+truck.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwMwr_3DskUapyFv7XrW0O3qZgMdnHkIGNbiT50A8TAeLpTGUCY5P9tgQD61MSZrDJm74RjYLpSVcD97l3Km9c-4paJ7qDduw8StoOnIiYHXVHadsDHi4_CQ022NkaIA7EIRLGJTnSIZuw/s200/wtf+truck.jpg" width="195" /></a>120 miles north of New York City, my now home town of Scranton is ga-ga-hoopla-Kelly-and-not-Regis-mental about food truckery! It's fresh, it's new, it's mobile! What the Fork is there not to like? I've been reading the ravings about the grain-fed beef sliders with bacon jam, the pork tacos with sriracha slaw, the amazing fries. I've gorged on their left-field breakfast items: the sweet corn waffles with sauteed banana and blueberries and chili maple syrup--wackadoodle, but unbelievably tasty. It's innovative. I cannot wait to see our local What The Fork Truck on <i>Kelly and Michael </i>on Thursday 25th July, the business owners truly deserve a forking good review. After reading of Pia's hard prep work, the licensing, the calorie counting, the assembly, the marketing, the clean up, the shopping, sleep and repeat, makes me appreciate our local food truck even more. Go local business, GO!<br />
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So, if you are looking for a fun read that will make you laugh and whet your appetite, <i>Brooklyn Girls</i> is it. It's new adult, but I don't think it's limited to a young readership. Whether 22, or 34, or 66, life can be a daring adventure--crikey, I still haven't figured it out--but I hope that, like Pia, if you don't settle, if you dream big, and work hard, and never give up when you are passionate about something or someone, even if all the odds are stacked against you and there are baseball-batted loan sharks at your door, everything will work out in the end. <br />
Patron, anyone?<br />
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Eleanorgjhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00672862557542492003noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7436717201345268718.post-58962403394149229872013-06-07T07:27:00.000-07:002013-06-07T07:27:13.756-07:00Don't Let A Dicktard Dangle You, Old Sport!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
This week, I want to discuss a particularly frustrating, fickle foible of the Dating Players' Game. It's a strategy which I have entitled the 'I don't want you, but I continue to randomly text you, just to keep you dangling, because I am a... Dicktard.' <br />
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I'm sure you are familiar. These specimen tend to have options and they know it! They also let you know it. On Facebook or out-and-about you will see such him or her, photographed in the arms of the non-you. These Players are cautious about entering into an <i>actual </i>relationship with <i>actual</i> feelings, placing all their eggs or squirmy semen in one life raft! Much better to drift and send up a flare every now and then, to see if the eggs or semen of the rejected castaway, come whooshing back for more. <br />
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It's definitely a trend I am seeing and hearing of more and more, and guess what, it is by no means gender specific, women throw out that text lasso as often as men. So what does it say? What should we do, how should we react to this?<br />
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Let's break this down. It's just a wild stab in the dark--pardon--but if someone of the opposite sex, who you may have had a dalliance with at some time or another, is contacting you, it is generally not because they are concerned about your happiness quota, or to discuss the weather. <br />
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Textual comms. are usually resumed because Mr. or Mrs. Dicktard Dangler wants to know if you are still 'on the hook'. Do you still give a damn? I guess this is a power and control thing. It's part of their game: will they/won't they respond? Maybe he/she is lonely and misses the witty textual repartee. Maybe, but either way, this re-connection is more about them than you.<br />
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But your reaction says a lot about you. Perhaps the 'ping' and glow of one's phone revealing the name of him/her and their inane sentiment, sends you breathless with longing, delighted that, though spurned, you are not forgotten. (It is, after all, horrid to be easily forgotten.) Maybe, as tortuous as it is, you would rather be stung by remembrance, than shrivel with neglect. And if you've been more stung than little Macaulay Culkin in <i>My Girl</i>, then maybe re-evaluate why you are attracted to someone who persists in hurting you. You are a masochist. Seek help.<br />
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I have a dear male friend, who was kicked to the curb recently by the gal he'd been dating. She revealed she was dating someone else--TA DAH!--and that someone else was not him. Booooo. So--because he has a spine--End Scene. He was actually fine with it; he's buoyant like that and can't be kept down for long. He sulked for a few hours and then got on with things--chaps can do that compartmentalizing so well, can't they?<br />
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Well, he is going about life, setting up dates and then BAM! There it was...like kryptonite glowing green from the face of his phone:<br />
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<b>Ms. Dicktard Dangler</b> 6.09PM<br />
<i>Hey! How are you? I miss you!</i><br />
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Well, that's as maybe. She might very sincerely give a crap, she might honestly care as to his well-being--I'm sure that's what she would say to him if he asked; but odds are, she just misses the attention and her Texan-sized Ego wants to know that she's still got it and could get him back if she chose. But when you choose someone else, you relinquish the right to feel lonely and tell the one you jilted about it! It's not sweet, or thoughtful, it's selfish.<br />
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I'm all for remaining friends with past flames, but to fan them just for one's ego, makes you an Arse-onist. Certainly, you may be thinking, "Well, surely if you don't want to play the catch and release game, if you have been rehooked and gaffed enough to know that that shit hurts, then block their number! Simply don't respond. Ignore. Delete. Move on." But when you care, it's really hard to give up, Jay Gatsby never gave up.<br />
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I wonder how <i>The Great Gatsby</i> would have ended if Daisy Buchanan had had the ability to text. She would have been the prime example of a Dangler. I imagine her in her sheer, gauzy, draped world, languishing on her chaise, tapping idly on her I phone:<br />
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<i>Jay, darling. How are you? I miss you!</i> (She's sad for herself of course, but rather oblivious to all else.)<br />
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<i>Daisy! Old Sport! Come away with me</i>. Jay would reply, sucked back in, as hopeful as always.<br />
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<i>Oh darling, I would if I could. It's just impossible!</i> And there, reassured, she would go back to... what? Lying on a sofa, playing with her drapes, being fay and slightly pathetic.<br />
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Maybe that's harsh, maybe Daisy just annoyed me because here was someone wanting to give her the moon on a stick, someone she loved in returned, but she was too spineless to communicate that. She just kept Jay dangling... promising much and delivering nothing.<br />
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So what am I saying here? When you end things, chatty check-ins are not on? Well, poor Jay Gatsby doesn't get the chance to find out, but for the rest of us... heck, we are adults in this crazy communicating circus. I think it would be pretty sad if former flames did not communicate, but maybe there needs to be a period of time, a statute of limitations, during which there's a text ban. This gives Danglee time to galvanize spirits without the passive aggressive, emotionally-regressive influence of constant texts, designed to whip, lasso and reel him/her back to heel. Then maybe, when a season of other deliciously awful, or--hopefully--awfully delicious dates have pushed disappointment into the darker, distant whorls of memory, maybe, just maybe you can be friends. Though whether opposite sexes can ever truly be platonic friends... well, that's a whole other blog, isn't it?<br />
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Eleanorgjhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00672862557542492003noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7436717201345268718.post-46571577069313495002013-05-24T11:05:00.001-07:002013-05-24T14:16:06.381-07:00I'll take Happiness Squared. In which I Accept a Surprising Proposal...<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Bermuda. I was
there. Last week, actually. This was not your usual break away to escape the gloom and build an early tan to boast to your friends. It was not a girls' trip to read chick-lit, drink frozen margaritas and eye up shirtless male travelers. It was not a solo voyage to clear my head, fill my lungs and relax; or one to inspire the little grey cells, imprinting them with vision anew. It was, in fact, a trip I cavalierly agreed to, going with someone I barely knew, just... because... he...asked. No prior dates, no uncomfortable flirtation, just an invitation... to Bermuda. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPTxc8HkHryox4HFDL_nn2YuhY6sF-PqlgWanVK3VSMzzaCNwxFFV1d74MItN5nR0V_-FioAn2J2SYvbvFHZlJJHIGSLZDvoRGNBjH_0BHdjkPxNV_CIfW1S3iG21jPOrZg6CpFtYrbWha/s1600/cruise.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="128" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPTxc8HkHryox4HFDL_nn2YuhY6sF-PqlgWanVK3VSMzzaCNwxFFV1d74MItN5nR0V_-FioAn2J2SYvbvFHZlJJHIGSLZDvoRGNBjH_0BHdjkPxNV_CIfW1S3iG21jPOrZg6CpFtYrbWha/s320/cruise.jpg" width="320" /></a>Let me back track...it was a cold January, I believe snow was on the ground and my fishnets weren't cutting it. I needed a vacation, badly. Recent relations had faded without feeling or fanfare; friends were largely unavailable to just up and leave and sally forth. But then, this chap! What a ballsy move to invite someone who, for all he knew, could have been a raving, bunny-boiling, non-armpit shaving weirdo. I rather admired his savoir faire. Lots of my friends said he was a decent fella, why not?! And I spoke to a couple of pals who said they would take advantage of this great deal and we would go as a group! TA DAH! High seas and Sea Breeze(s).<br />
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So he booked, and I booked and... they didn't book.<br />
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Kinda, sorta interesting social experiment don't you think? Can a girl and boy with a penis go away together? Is that OKAY? <br />
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Apparently not, according to the flack I received. Two people of the opposite sex can't possibly keep things kosher, can they? What an interesting test, thought I. So I didn't really let the lack of friends hold me back and I decided that this modern woman should and would go! It could be Bon Voyage without Bon Vagina!<br />
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Flip through the next few three-ring circus-tour high-wire months, but needless to say talk of Bermuda and social activity did indeed bring us closer. I really liked the Boyo. And then... BERMUDA.<br />
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There is so much I could say about this small
island: how I felt like a wide-eyed child to discover that over 500 shipwrecks
fringe the coast; that the indigenous dishes were few and untempting—fish
soup? Anyone? Anyone?; the Disney-esque, translucent aqua
marine of the sea, too clear and too azure to be believed; the pastel hues of the painted houses peppering the hilly
landscape; the fortifications on every corner of this much-invaded isle; the
crystal caves pierced like a conjurer’s box with sharp stalactites and
stalagmites; but you can see all that on the postcard, or the glossy brochure,
if you care to look. </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4-NF8CkT57DqHKovfPIZsJc1kt3eTtGJgys4oT-3vzPkGA82v_62Z3oHtkgw3EiwImS4y0-kocwZr1Ac-leiCuDL_jnsCnnIn1gPa7BantDbk3wwKfrS5iXe4ZOjcYMNh_gfIeBAJ4nfK/s1600/Stalagmites.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="190" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4-NF8CkT57DqHKovfPIZsJc1kt3eTtGJgys4oT-3vzPkGA82v_62Z3oHtkgw3EiwImS4y0-kocwZr1Ac-leiCuDL_jnsCnnIn1gPa7BantDbk3wwKfrS5iXe4ZOjcYMNh_gfIeBAJ4nfK/s320/Stalagmites.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Background: The Crystal Caves. Foreground: 1980's Fame Retard.</td></tr>
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I could tell you how I sailed there on a ship, alongside
2000 fellow passengers, enjoying nightly entertainment from Broadway Star, Liz Callaway,
Las Vegas Illusionist, Jason Bishop, Bill Cosby entertainer-impersonator, not to mention the
exhausting-to-watch singer-dancer cast from Blighty. I was jazz-handsing in my sleep. </div>
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Of course, the food was plentiful. I think I feasted on more courses in 7 days,
than I usually consume in 7 weeks, but all was sumptuous, unctuous, fresh and
flavourful. It was a gourmand’s paradise. No, really, it was. </div>
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But that's not what you really want to read about, is it?</div>
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I have been criticized before for being too public and too open, so I will seamlessly glide over the method and results, but this was my analysis: I think all opposite-sex friends or dating partners should go on a cruise early on in their acquaintance, because having to share a bathroom, that is about as big as my handbag, with someone who is not family or ultra close friend, will have major repercussions on the course of your friendship/relationship! You have to share shit.<br />
<br />
I can't imagine I am the easiest travel companion: I wake up early; I demand silence to write; I don't like it too cold; I want to go to every entertainment show; I don't want to lie on a beach; I want to run around the island and see everything, do everything, swim everywhere; and if I get the chance to see dolphin I will make you wait for hours in the rain while I watch them. So it is truly a test for any sun-loungered male to join in and keep smiling. <br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5n4T-BFmun0MXy9M4Rc4Lmh6xVRdLPE1IEXWX-dBdv2tpyiUHLVibgv2j9WAkLxlTbG5CbQfzN5WnLne9aoBkm1EARWLMEkL65TXvgxa0JZYxjpvY-ivGNDRB6lLt5-NbDFQxfZSpq1Kd/s1600/bermuda+beach.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="191" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5n4T-BFmun0MXy9M4Rc4Lmh6xVRdLPE1IEXWX-dBdv2tpyiUHLVibgv2j9WAkLxlTbG5CbQfzN5WnLne9aoBkm1EARWLMEkL65TXvgxa0JZYxjpvY-ivGNDRB6lLt5-NbDFQxfZSpq1Kd/s320/bermuda+beach.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Near Tobacco Bay, north on St. George, Bermuda.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
And yet, said Bermuda Boyo, made the adventure so much more fun, by being there, always at the ready with a terrible pun, an equally awful joke, a witty commentary on odd sightings and sayings, "She has a smile in the face!"--the Captain's introduction about one of his crew, that Boyo repeated throughout the trip, making me snort with laughter. Maybe I just love that someone over 35 would race me down 11 flights of stairs and slide down the banisters on the last flight to fall headfirst into the elevator door! ;)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I am an independent 33 year old woman and it’s an internal
struggle to admit to needing someone there.
Not a need, I’m fine, as long as I have words I could survive as a
hermit, but crikey life is more fun when you have someone to share it
with. (Maybe I need a dog.) I am reminded again of <i>Into the Wild</i> the true survival story of Jon Krakauer “Happiness is
only real when it’s shared.” So maybe,
if a problem shared is a problem halved, maybe happiness shared is happiness
doubled? Is there an equation to
calculate one’s happiness quota? If we
all just shared a bit more, would we be happier?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I don’t know, I’m just trying to work it out and not sound like a Hallmark card, or a high Julie Andrews, but maybe there's truth in there them cliches? I want to proceed
through life on the path that is fun and exciting; that helps others most and
hurts others least; a path where doing the right thing and the good thing are
one and the same. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Conclusion: I want to "race" to "adventure," to sweat through the foot hills and speed along the coast road. I want to find the hidden bays, with rock pools teaming with anemones, starfish, crabs and green things that go "squelch." It really doesn't matter if it rains, or if you are conned into buying the local tourist trap overpriced rancid cocktail, with good people at your side you will always be sure of someone to
share with. I suppose the difficult
question is sorting the wheat from the chaff, and finding the most compatible peeps
to adventure forth with. I’m working on
that, and I think I am getting there. But a companion who likes to share
appetizers and desserts, is always a good sign.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6oEZlOEIEVeDSyw_Bc5Lw4gw7f0R9YGq6kPFjYoWBEAA7MdNTsCDUmiVDLLYx6PCUg4fBGxvFisBH_8oMBi2WwUzklx9ohSRtM8QXI2AN7Nsi9MuGCGyp10cTxzYHy-bvaI7P9-Apjm6W/s1600/Bermuda+boner.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="191" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6oEZlOEIEVeDSyw_Bc5Lw4gw7f0R9YGq6kPFjYoWBEAA7MdNTsCDUmiVDLLYx6PCUg4fBGxvFisBH_8oMBi2WwUzklx9ohSRtM8QXI2AN7Nsi9MuGCGyp10cTxzYHy-bvaI7P9-Apjm6W/s320/Bermuda+boner.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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Eleanorgjhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00672862557542492003noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7436717201345268718.post-29332071683332546182013-04-26T05:59:00.000-07:002013-04-26T05:59:28.208-07:00The Conversation... In which I discuss Exclusivity (and die a little inside).<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUA5J2Q6onZ4Use_2q5dddEVtnW6aOzI-OS269BtvJmY8CNJFskU07TX12HuUivjeKSINBITXHs2SB3LH19vCMDe4wt2U0g3xM5h9OGRLieleSojgFegJXGpoZhBGvOJqhmU5Xc4vaZBu1/s1600/not-only-person-dating-confession-ecard-someecards.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="178" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUA5J2Q6onZ4Use_2q5dddEVtnW6aOzI-OS269BtvJmY8CNJFskU07TX12HuUivjeKSINBITXHs2SB3LH19vCMDe4wt2U0g3xM5h9OGRLieleSojgFegJXGpoZhBGvOJqhmU5Xc4vaZBu1/s320/not-only-person-dating-confession-ecard-someecards.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Overheard in the ladies bathroom of a well-known Masonic
building, an enclave of slightly well-beered and overly-blurry females:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Sweetie, you owe him nothing. Nada.
Nicht. He may think what he
likes, but unless you’ve had <i>the
conversation</i> you are just dating and therefore you can see who you like,
when you like.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I cringed as I hovered silently over the toilet seat. It’s hard enough to pee in a public bathroom,
but throw in a juicy conversation and a gaggle of on-listeners and it’s urine
shut down. I emerged, sheepishly from my
stall, wanting to look up, but English repression forbidding it. Hurrah for many mirrors! It was as cliché as it gets: one holding the
glasses, one the purses, one taking her turn in the mirror and smearing her
come-get-me gloss lavishly across her lips.
</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Under the loud flow of the faucet I missed a bit, but
never did a pair of average-sized hands take so long to dry.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“But you’re missing the point!” Said the one who had now reinserted the wand
to the gloss and was wiping the smudges of shimmer off her lip lines. “If this were two weeks in, fine! I’d agree with you. But it’s not and I’ve slept with him. That redefines everything. There may not have been<i> the</i> <i>conversation</i>, but
there was conversation alright.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I ferreted in my purse—my Mary Poppins hearse purse is
enormously useful for such time-stalling situations; it takes minutes to find
anything in there it is so cavernous—and finally drew out my hairbrush. I began to fuss and count the strokes. (I wasn’t really, of course.)<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“DIS-A-GREE!” The slightly more looped of the three,
triple-fisting the glasses returned, “No conversation, no exclusivity! Sex makes no difference, it’s neither here
nor there.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“No, believe me. It
wasn’t here. But it was definitely
there, and in the kitchen, the bedroom, the living room …” They cackled, gave
one last nod to the mirror, and the three drifted from the basement bathroom
and back into the hubbub of the Brews.<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I looked at myself in the mirror: I was not meant for this
harsh, unfeeling world of dating. I
brushed my locks and considered the issue.
Had anyone ever broached the conversation with me? No.
Relationships had just… happened.
Organically. There had never been
any verbal contract of exclusivity, I had just—rather foolishly I realized then—assumed
it. If someone wanted to spend their
time with me, it had really never even dawned on me that they would on the
other nights—while I toiled like a dung beetle—be other with other
women at the same time. It never occurred
to me that there needed to be an agreement made, insisted on. I was wide-eyed at the thought that one could
be sleeping with one and dating many others—that just sounds exhausting. Of course, I know people do, but I was thinking
of it in relation to the anti-romances I had had.<br />
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</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Is this, <i>The
Conversation</i>, something that one should insist on? If so when?
And what—oh dear God—if one wants to say “no thank you very much, I do like
you, you’re a jolly nice bloke, but actually I rather want to consider other
penises right now. No offense! Tally ho.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Or what if—Heaven forfend—a chap says to you, a lady, “Sorry
there Toots, but I want to explore my… options.” Does one smile, shrug shoulders and continue,
after one has been so snubbed? My mind
was a whirring cosmic fire of unrest. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I just find the whole topic unsettling, because it is so far
from my romantic ideal. To use James
Fleet’s expression, from <i>Four Weddings and A Funeral</i>, I rather hoped it would just be “Thunderbolt City,” and he
would forget all ideas of anyone else, as I would. And nothing would corrupt this mutual feeling
of yearning, not conflicting schedules, not friends of the opposite sex, not
long absences, not all the little fucking stupid things that are thrown up by the projectile vomit of our past; that there would be this mutual acceptance. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I suppose that’s what happens when it<i> is</i> Thunderbolt City. Maybe the ones that get so easily
derailed, and need such contracts and verbal reassurances, are the ones that were
never headed anywhere anyway.
Regardless, it makes me sad. Sad
that I've never asked for this conversation, but that maybe it would have saved many hurt feelings. This oral tornado would blow in and sweep misunderstanding up and away. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I have discussed this with a few friends this week. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“So…Shera, Princess of Power, what’s your take on
exclusivity?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Non-negotiable. I sat He Man down and said, ‘Look, Mister,
are we together, or are you screwing every underage cutesie at the Backyard Ale
House on a Saturday night? Because if
you are, ding ding, stop the bus, you are getting off. And not with me.’” I applauded her bravado, but knew I could not
be so forthright. Mainly because, I am
not sure I would like the answer. If one
asks, but is told there <i>are</i> others--gulp!--is it so easy to walk away if one is invested? </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I asked my dear male friend on his take, “Absolutely, there
needs to be a conversation.” He said
adamantly. “I wasn’t always like
that. But I got burned, and that means
now I’m not putting all my eggs in one basket, so-to-speak. I can date more than one woman at the same
time with no remorse.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And then there was a third and final take on it, without me
even asking he told me clearly where he stands, because he will not even allow
the female he is dating to have male friends—even if her intentions are well
meaning and she only has eyes, lips, heart, longing for him. He has little trust in her, because of his
prior experience. Can a partner not have friends of the opposite sex? Can she/he not meet him/her for an uncontracted, but understood, mutual friends drink? Do we need to classify every interaction we have just to make sure intentions are interpreted correctly? "Hey, Will, Buddy-oh-friend-of-mine, fancy meeting for a beverage and a non-sexual-interaction-because-we-are-friends-who-don't-share-bodily-fluids?" Not every male-female friendship turns into Justin Timberlake and Mila Kunis reaping the benefits!<br />
<br />
<br /></div>
<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/wYl4RhlI-9A" width="560"></iframe>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
GAH! I would that we
could start every relationship as if we’ve never dated. As if this is new and we haven’t become
jaded, mistrustful, cynical and sad. Forget what has gone before, damn it! That's not to say don't learn from experience, but don't assume the new partner will be like the old. We are individual, different human beings, who strive for success and make mistakes; we are largely just as confused as each other, because, guess what, we are not mind readers!<br />
<br /></div>
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; line-height: 115%;">Trust, jealousy, longing, contracts. I suppose, the conversation--however
unromantic it is, as much as I’d prefer to plunge my fist down my throat and
rip out my heart as more eloquent proof—is necessary. Maybe there are so many mixed signals these
days that one simply can’t trust the organic process. Maybe there needs to be that clarification
that both are singing from the same hymn sheet.
That one is not getting overly invested in a heart that is overly
invested in many other mutual funds. And
maybe the triple-fisting girl, swaying slightly in the reflection of the
bathroom mirror, was right all along, her unromantic, practical negotiation stamping on my open heart.</span></div>
Eleanorgjhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00672862557542492003noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7436717201345268718.post-62541841467626457032013-04-19T07:13:00.001-07:002013-04-19T07:13:58.828-07:00Ding Dong, I love your Pong! In which I discuss Pheromones.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheuUXdFOwehka7Vzyyw-bozRGW_pQjrgFBb632xQeV2Ww7EsnxX4VC_rRtFbeHTW47jBJMP9PC_q9H5TEbt3MGhGxxGCD8_dkRSybSopS0elfucnKYv66AhlTBDpSVosfBvzaiUa04KQKJ/s1600/pepe.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="152" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheuUXdFOwehka7Vzyyw-bozRGW_pQjrgFBb632xQeV2Ww7EsnxX4VC_rRtFbeHTW47jBJMP9PC_q9H5TEbt3MGhGxxGCD8_dkRSybSopS0elfucnKYv66AhlTBDpSVosfBvzaiUa04KQKJ/s320/pepe.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Imagine: you met him on Match, or Eharmony, or wherever. He has teeth, a job, and likes animals. You arrange to meet in a public place. He suggests that chic, fine dining place that
you know you shouldn’t really afford, but what the heck! </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He is there, waiting at the bar, with his neat amber measure
bathing on the rocks. He looks good,
better than his picture, and you start to wish that maybe you hadn’t hurried
straight from work, but had stopped to tame the humidi-fizzed nest on your
head, that maybe you had spritzed with your perfume and sucked on a Listerine
tab, reapplied the lip gloss that feels like a weight in your pocket. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But the date goes off well.
He compliments you, asks you questions, orders the wine with alacrity;
suggests a couple of appetizers to start.
He waves the waiter over and speaks with bon homie, like he’s been there
a thousand times before and he and the waiter are great mates. You notice the way he treats people and
acknowledges them with a raise of his dark brows and a Cheshire Cat beam. He is confident. People like him, and you like that. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You share dishes. It’s
surprising, this sudden coupling, but you go with the flow and enjoy his
attention. At the end of the date, you see
your reflection in his eyes. His focus is all for you and it’s consuming.
You know you shouldn’t, but you do want to kiss him, to feel his hot
lips on yours, the rhythm, the taste of him.
It’s a long unawkward kiss as you hover by your car—knowing that you
should get in and drive away, but that kiss!
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The next dates pass just as the first, but the kisses are
deeper, longer. He’s full of stories! So entertaining! He wears charisma like a leather onesie. He makes you feel special. And then IT happens, x number of dates in,
maybe after three-too-many white lotus martinis: the frantic peel of clothes, the clash of flesh, the flail, the push, the pull, the thrust, the pneumatic motion as your bodies writhe in unison, pumping to catch that elusive wave that will bring both of you to shore, beached. You fall asleep
a tangle of sweaty spent limbs. Morning
comes early, you roll over and inhale the daylight, and UGH! GOOD GOD, WHAT IS
THAT STENCH? </div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUZ7gG4iVvVwOfDSxyWpZ73k-ks3gghFZyvbc3H21JkhlzOLaoguwZhK-j1sOeQ8fapbMAAUucb6UKFkbcU2FoFz6VoPt8ZdXyGeSXmFfDT94_5knP8XFT-6_Epb1ufXzNI21AkTPi-0M1/s1600/StinkyPete3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUZ7gG4iVvVwOfDSxyWpZ73k-ks3gghFZyvbc3H21JkhlzOLaoguwZhK-j1sOeQ8fapbMAAUucb6UKFkbcU2FoFz6VoPt8ZdXyGeSXmFfDT94_5knP8XFT-6_Epb1ufXzNI21AkTPi-0M1/s320/StinkyPete3.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hereeeeee's... Stinky Pete!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Just imagine.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Now, you are pretty sure he didn’t consume a double bean
burrito last night. He shared your
flatbread and salad and drank from the same bottle of wine you did. And you don't smell like a toxic wasteland. No, you smell of vanilla and linen and sex. He has not been poisoned by some dreadful unholy
explosive gastric virus. You are
sure. He sleeps. You sniff.
You tent the sheets over your head.
Dear God, is this Auschwitz? You
rotisserie-chicken yourself over, not to disturb the slumbering form that was,
pre-coital, quite lovely, but now… noxious.
You tentatively nestle back into that nook beneath his armpit, your
flushed cheek burning through his cool contracting and expanding chest. Maybe you were wrong. You inhale again. It’s not deadly farts, or inexplicable
breath, it’s just... him. He has a smell, and ain't no Gucci.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Pheromones. Tricky
little fuckers. The scent that can drive
a woman uninhibited and legs akimbo, or… sorry Chaps, running for the shower,
or her keys, or the door. Or all
three. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Scents are used to influence the senses. This can be done defensively, ie: my brother
pinning me to the ground and farting on my head; or as a lure, to turn a head
just as a peacock tail, a six-pack, a delicious raucous laugh, a red Ferrari. Scent can be key in sexual selection. And I suppose this topic appeals to me
because I can’t figure out how a chap, who could not be a good match in any way, shape
or form, but—nice one Evolutionary Biology—has a smell so delicious to you that the bitter-sweet inhalation
as your nostrils fill with the scent emanating from his skin, the waft of his manliness as you brush your
cheek next to his in some faux display of civility, JUST GETS YOU, like someone has stabbed you in the intestines and twisted the knife like a
Sicilian. What is this Sense and Olfactory
Captor? What is this elixir that can drive
us buck wild or headache-bound? </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjO_Fk9YtrGQIYwWjOZyie2jhB2K5AqSFlsDDuY5JmtoctB5gDah7Bv9JYtV8hyphenhyphenACRQYyCY7kgOqE6KK93iA9hjpvJung-lEIpNCiFWQubva9KqzaUtwGaJAJCwIRSLodfEnFCT7usjgwk/s1600/Beast.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjO_Fk9YtrGQIYwWjOZyie2jhB2K5AqSFlsDDuY5JmtoctB5gDah7Bv9JYtV8hyphenhyphenACRQYyCY7kgOqE6KK93iA9hjpvJung-lEIpNCiFWQubva9KqzaUtwGaJAJCwIRSLodfEnFCT7usjgwk/s320/Beast.jpg" width="248" /></a>Humans possess three major skin glands: sebaceous, eccrine
and apocrine. Apocrine glands occur in
greatest concentration on the hands, cheeks, scalp, breasts and body hair and
they are thought to produce this sexual elixir.
Interestingly, male apocrine glands are larger than women’s. Women’s olfactory receptors are greater than
men’s, and when women are ovulating their sense of smell becomes heightened. It could be because the parental investment
of women is greater than in men—we have to put in 9 months at least—so sniffing
out a suitable mate has more consequences to a female. Yup, the onus is on us.</div>
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So, Ladies, whilst it may seem like we are just suckers for
Aqua Di Gio , Hermes, or High Intensity, we are not. The underlying odour our nostrils are
pulsating for, has deeper and greater significance for our offspring. No wonder the perfume industry has been
trying to bottle that bewitching ‘Love Spell’ for years. Sadly, slaughtering deer for their musk,
tigers, or goodness know what other poor creatures. But it is not a fruity, oriental, musky,
woodsy headache-inducing synthetic pong, it’s sex-smell from skin and hair that
tells a potential partner about your DNA profile, a sequence of genes that
broadcasts info about your immunity, and has us ovulating women snuffling for
pheromones, as if for truffles!</div>
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In research on mice, females were found to choose males whose
gene sequence least overlapped their own.
Ie: she wants her offspring to have as broad DNA and immunity profile as
possible, so ensure a greater chance of survival. In
mice, the female sniffs out fitness by smelling her suitors urine. In monkeys, they they rub urine on their feet to attract mates, advertising their immunity and therefore sexual fitness. Now, I don’t know about you, but I have never
sniffed my potential chap’s pee or rubbed my urine over myself. (Hmm... maybe THIS explains why people enjoy golden showers? Weirdos.) However, I have made some shitty choices, so maybe I
should. Dogs waste no time in
crotch-whiffing.</div>
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“Hey, I’ve just met you, and this is crazy, can I sniff your
crotch please, and call me maybe?” </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgC6QQX-psHev3egO1b6taDA9dEGjCZu7La508WxztF2R-ehW3ec9T0gKClpjIerWOrog5-TCvjem2jnx3W8xGPQwjeL5QnHnv9Z4gq_fnYB2z1V1y1Yo7EgnIbky28jbOpkXxBrbpVuCC/s1600/Pheromones-gone-wild.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="286" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgC6QQX-psHev3egO1b6taDA9dEGjCZu7La508WxztF2R-ehW3ec9T0gKClpjIerWOrog5-TCvjem2jnx3W8xGPQwjeL5QnHnv9Z4gq_fnYB2z1V1y1Yo7EgnIbky28jbOpkXxBrbpVuCC/s320/Pheromones-gone-wild.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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There has been extensive research, not just on rodents, but
I—a young college-attendee En--was part of such a project when I had to sniff
male ‘T’ shirts and rate them for attractiveness—oh Phil Le Pelley and Dr.
David Goulson, I remember—and women do prefer scents exuded from men whose MHC
(major histocompatibilty complex) differs from their own. And in terms of offspring fitness, that makes
a lot of ‘sense’. Lordy, innate
instincts are clever. </div>
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But there’s a twist—oooooh—yes, oral contraceptives can
screw a female’s olfactory senses. Since
the contraceptive pill fools the body into thinking it is pregnant, it reverses
our natural preferences. So maybe if he
smells irresistible, and he is a prize Bastardly Dicktard, it is just because
you are being betrayed by your daily baby blocker. OH NO!
To really get a sense of him, you, ladykat friend, should take a break
and give him a good old whiff around a more hairy area. If you want to puke, you might want to
question your choices; if he smells like sex and desire wrapped in a weirdly
attractive non-six-packed body, then maybe he’s for you.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWeCIKtNGv5a7XJbIICpfeaeg2YiMFVN-mm8tWR6OGeJsB9jH96zMPXxtOlFHm5TdmQCaiK4Isx_vWj7Qosz_XDVaN0V7LqJCQGdilvPFk1Zx3M85tCFuDTmpMV2TZS4RJ11XDu_VNNpNZ/s1600/dog-sniffing-butt-copy-22.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="216" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWeCIKtNGv5a7XJbIICpfeaeg2YiMFVN-mm8tWR6OGeJsB9jH96zMPXxtOlFHm5TdmQCaiK4Isx_vWj7Qosz_XDVaN0V7LqJCQGdilvPFk1Zx3M85tCFuDTmpMV2TZS4RJ11XDu_VNNpNZ/s320/dog-sniffing-butt-copy-22.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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Maybe he nuzzles your neck to get to those scent releasing
factories behind your ear. His
olfactory receptors are not as receptive as yours, but he can, according to research, subconsciously detect the pheromones females release when ovulating, and accordingly, testosterone levels in men are higher during these times and lower when not ovulating! Way to go, Evolution, conserve manliness for times of need! Yup, LadyKat, he is inhaling you there, because he knows you like his warm, whiskeyed breath behind your earlobe, it's because he's sensing your fertility, like a rutting buck. </div>
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Soapy cleansers and perfumes make it harder for humans to detect true histocompatibility, but in the morning, sans contraceptive pill, when the Gucci has disappeared with the stars, take a good inhale of him. If you click, if there
is chemistry, if his stench and your waft make a nasal cocktail of chemical
desire, that sends loins into overdrive, then tally ho! If not, perhaps it's another biological siren that you should heave ho.</div>
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Caveat: I am not necessarily recommending sniffing crotches or asking for urine samples on a first date. Second date? Well, absolutely!</div>
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(And, if you do happen to take a contraceptive break, I am not responsible for the consequences. Thank you. PONG ON!)</div>
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<a href="http://www.psychologytoday.com/blog/homo-consumericus/201010/your-fertile-smell-is-affecting-my-testosterone-levels">Your-fertile-smell-is-affecting-my-testosterone-levels</a></div>
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<a href="http://www.psychologytoday.com/articles/200910/the-smell-love">The-smell-love</a></div>
</div>
Eleanorgjhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00672862557542492003noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7436717201345268718.post-73843882558604555862013-04-12T07:15:00.000-07:002013-04-12T07:15:08.881-07:00Facebook Formu-lay: In which I discover The F.L.O.P System<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<i><span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Formula: A method of doing or treating something
that relies on an established, uncontroversial model or approach</span></i><span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">I knew from an early age
that most things in life have a formula to them, an approach where x + y = a
result. Study + Go to University = a Degree. Work + Effort = Reward. Planking + Bakasana (crow pose) = Rocking Biceps. Vodka + Club Soda = tasty, low
calorie beverage. Sperm + Egg = 9 months of Ice-Cream. But
relationships? Relationships defy any
kind formula. You can’t predict them, or
determine their longevity; they are the radioactive isotopes of the formula
world. There is no secret formula of
Chemistry + Effort = Relationship. The
components are inconstant and unstable and have the tendency to explode at any
minute… 3—2—1…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Kaboom!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNeUtOooR4-UbY4IcgNNpZ1z14fAc3U0oZ9pd1oSSw-UQ4UsijUHHMfb04ntzbazkeHgJhlWrqR6fXil6pwMq9AKHdv0B8ohFH3qtmWBZMqFUC8-T7k-YNMQfd7YNz7O-uVXeqa2tAAv2y/s1600/Formula.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNeUtOooR4-UbY4IcgNNpZ1z14fAc3U0oZ9pd1oSSw-UQ4UsijUHHMfb04ntzbazkeHgJhlWrqR6fXil6pwMq9AKHdv0B8ohFH3qtmWBZMqFUC8-T7k-YNMQfd7YNz7O-uVXeqa2tAAv2y/s1600/Formula.jpg" /></a></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Lately, there has been
a wee thimbleful of introspection in the Chernobyl Cataclysm of the Dating
World of Eleanor and Friends. Reader,
come closer, let me whisper into your little peach-fuzz-coated ear, “It isn’t
pretty.” I’ve heard of dating disasters so
diabolical, they would turn your skin Springfield green. And it was thinking of this little Tour de
Farce, that I realized there <i>is</i> a common thread here, a formula of sorts, not
of components, but a formula that set the whole toxic leak flowing, it’s…
Facebook. <i>The Facebook Formu-lay</i>.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Seriously.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">I canvassed women and
men--well, a man--on the subject and it seems that Facebook is just another online dating site without the online dating stigma. You
may be a happily-coupled FB user merely chatting with old friends and uploading hundreds of photographs of your delightful little child caked in whatever it has been eating. You may be content in your
little fuzzy wuzzy world of joint bills and laundry-folding. My clean linens swoop the floor as I try to
fold them single-handedly like a drunken Tyrannosaurus Rex. (And I HAVE relatively long arms. How midgets fold king size bed sheets blows
my mind. I digress.) Brace yourself, Contented Couplet, for as you post your Easter pictures of eggs and bunnies and unseemly amounts of chocolate, some FB acquaintance somewhere is messaging a woman/man they don't really know.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUdqdzl_lLa_BL9GlTcA-b-tDMaE2OFKb5GpA1fQREbw2NFwBqRc6COf1O_pK0nuPbNXE64OaCbjhiufQjbuM-8SydOBrBBPfBF_XQHrVZ2AsbOo6xPjGu1snFv3pIU7G3Hbhfb8rVgnpj/s1600/Tyrannosaurus.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUdqdzl_lLa_BL9GlTcA-b-tDMaE2OFKb5GpA1fQREbw2NFwBqRc6COf1O_pK0nuPbNXE64OaCbjhiufQjbuM-8SydOBrBBPfBF_XQHrVZ2AsbOo6xPjGu1snFv3pIU7G3Hbhfb8rVgnpj/s1600/Tyrannosaurus.jpg" /></a></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">The canvassed male, let’s
call him ‘Bruce’--his identity protected for the sake of his reputation with
the fair ladies of Scranton—was in denial at first that any such system existed,
that he had even used it himself. But he
had! I showed him the volley of messages
he had started between us, when ours was but a foetal friendship.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">“It’s just how people
communicate nowadays,” said he.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">“But, examine the
evidence, Bruce! There is an undeniable
system here. Say a chap ‘friends,’ a
lady; say he ‘likes’ a few pictures, maybe makes a few funny comments, he
engages her in a private message, asks her questions about herself—that’s the
small talk. And this is the weird female
bit, ladies who often have absolutely no interest in FB fella, who find this
unsolicited attention a complete nuisance at first, sometimes even borderline harassment,
suddenly become almost addicted to the attention. The flurry of messages in a lady’s inbox makes
Suzie FB Surfer completely enamoured, because she feels special.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Bruce listened,
unmoved, silent, processing. I blathered
on,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">“And there will be some
exchange of telephone numbers. He will
create some kind of plausible excuse to volunteer his digits or ask for
hers. A ‘Well, I’m going to be downtown
at First Friday too, probably at the Radisson or wherever. Text me if you want to know how it is over
there, I’ll give you the 411.' Or, 'I’m
driving down to South Carolina, so I’m not going to be able to Facebook. What’s your text number?' Or, 'If you’re not going to chat with me via
text I’m not going to bother writing to you anymore.' So you give your number because, even if you
weren’t interested at first, now you rather enjoy these messages! They are exciting. And, let’s face it, even if they weren't who
wants to be the arsehole who doesn’t accept the friend request or refuses to
give her number? You know you are only
going to see them at the bar, and you will awkwardly slosh your martini down your
dry-clean only dress in a quick elbow-jerk reaction, and smile tightly over
your brim, as you wish to Christ you lived in a bigger town."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">“And THEN you are text
buddies. That’s the way it works,
Bruce. You may be strangers before, you
may be freshly-friended acquaintances, you may be reunited old school buds, but
that’s how it flows, from the natural springs of unpolluted friendships, to the
stagnant cesspool of FB dating.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Bruce rubbed his face, soberingly, his beard bristling as he did so.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">“Okay, okay. So that may be true, but it’s not just
men. I’ve been solicited by women on
Facebook.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">“Really?” I think I sounded more surprised than I
intended.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">“Yeah, I’ve even been blatantly
propositioned by a married woman who works with my Dad. So does her husband. That was awkward.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Which brings me to a
side note: Facebook, text, email, it
makes cowards of us all. We think it
makes us brave, that we are taking a chance and sending someone a compliment,
maybe typing something bold, risqué, adjectives and verbs that you would never
dream of saying out loud to their face; but surely, if we would never <i>say</i> it to their face, should we type it? Sorry Sexty People, but breathless
descriptions are best gasped into the ear of the Intended, not typed to be read
out loud to friends or forwarded to others.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">“I’ve got it!” Exclaimed Bruce. “It’s the F.L.O.P. System.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">“I’m sorry?” (I was still imagining him being cornered by
the photocopier by his father’s busty, over-zealous married co-worker.)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">“The F.L.O.P. System:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">‘Friend’—that’s
self-explanatory.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">‘Like’—like a few of
their posts or pictures so they get familiar with the name and knows the new
friend to be friendly.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">‘Observation’—take an
interest in what they do, where they go, who they are friends with. There is only one degree of connection in
NEPA, so that’s a great way to start. 'Oh, you're friends with So-and-So!' To a lesser degree, this is due diligence; to a greater degree it’s
surveillance."</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">"Or stalking," I interjected.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">‘Private Message’—engaging
in private messages can be very revealing.
‘Pokes’ and other FB comments one can ignore without seemingly being
rude, but a private message is harder to shrug off."</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">"Especially," said I, jumping in with alacrity, "since you know you will see
them at that bar over the sloshy rim of that that martini again! It’s fate! It’s going to happen. </span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">That’s how it works,
Bruce!</span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"> </span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">YES!</span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"> </span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">The F.L.O.P!</span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">
</span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">It doesn’t always secure a date, but the investment time of private messaging
certainly increases the chances.</span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"> </span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">And if
the date is firmed, it’s really F.L.O.P.D.!”</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">(this is when we
laughed: “BHAHAHAHAHAHAHA. Ha. BHahaha. Hee.”)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">FB has been the conduit
that lead to 1, 2, buckle my shoe, 3, 4, maybe more, of my recent dating
misadventures. Heck, I suppose you have
to ‘meet’ and get to know people someway, and at least on FB rather than some
dating website, there are usually mutual friends who can vouch for Suddenly
Chatty Chuck not being a complete weirdo who thinks he’s a Jedi Warrior, owns a
collection of dolls and only eats jello.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"> </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">I don’t mean to be disparaging, especially in the light of the whirling
gauntlet we all duck, dodge and dive through, there just isn’t as much time to
go around socially as if campaigning for an eligible male. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">“Hello” *shakes hand* “My
name is Eleanor and I’m campaigning for a bachelor with good teeth and …” Can you imagine?</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">I have some friends,
who worked the F.L.O.P.D. system and now they are happily living together and
that’s great. Yay! Go them.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">I have some other
friends who have <i>been</i> worked by the
F.L.O.P system, desolate after the Flopper has flipped off and never
communicated again. It seems so ironic
in a way that a tool that can be used for aiding and abetting communication,
can be withdrawn at any time, or used against one in a hostile stand-off of
silence. I see some Machiavellian
moustache-twisting and maniacal laughter as the Flopper ‘defriends’ his conquest. Did Facebook founder Mark Zuckerberg foresee
that his social networking could be used as a game of sexual strategy, a
communicatory/non-communicatory Battleship to find ones’ needs, ones’ weak
spots?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">As I thought more about
this cruel retraction of ‘friendship’—that clearly was no true amity to begin
with—I recalled the “D.E.N.N.I.S System” from <i>Always Sunny in Philadelphia. </i>A
girlfriend uploaded it on Facebook after her supposed boyfriend had ‘Separated
Entirely.” Sure, it’s funny. Because it is true. There are some men (and women, I am sure) who
enjoy the power of game play, and I have to wonder what weird positive feedback
they get from hurting people. Were they
not hugged enough as an infant?</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Mindlessly disposing of people without a care in the world is beyond my
ken, and a dangerous sociopathic path that seems all too common. Perhaps behind the shield of a computer people feel disconnected and can
dissociate words typed from words spoken. Piffle! There’s no excuse. Interact with
the human race, communicate, use Facebook if you must; and if you no longer want
to do that then have the decency to say so using words, not silence. We are not 10 years old, Dennis.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
</div>
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Eleanorgjhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00672862557542492003noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7436717201345268718.post-83197908392719785802013-04-05T06:25:00.000-07:002013-04-05T06:25:41.928-07:00Break Ups and Break Downs. In which I find my internal GPS.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Oh it’s funny how art imitates life. The little fucker. Just as I had romantically, poetically,
lyrically ended things with Blogette and driven off into the sunset; just as I had watched out of my rear view mirror and told Self that those were not pangs of regret, but a dodgy piece of sushi; just as I had looked wide-eyed and I realized I had no effin' clue where to begin with this vast expanse of novel lit-scape to chart... there it came! A dawn chorus! Voices, melodic and mellifluous
to my ear, a caramel-coated clamour that cut through the confusion. It was as if my internal GPS had finally found it's satellites and could, at last, give me direction. Recalculating...</div>
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<br /></div>
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I was merely putty in the palm
of the Writing Gods. Praise. That’s all it took. A little bit of praise. A few echoes of “don’t go,” “we’ll miss
you,” and a “what will I read in my bath tub on Sundays?” and my pace slowed. Then, an almost annoyed, </div>
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“Typical! I just nominated you for the Best Blog in The
Weekender!” </div>
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You did?! </div>
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And the final siren, flaring from the comments of my Break Up Blogette: “<span style="background: #F0EEFF; color: #222222; font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 8.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Ummm...is this a bad time to mention that
we've decided to feature your blog as the NEPA Blogs Blog of the Week, to be
shown on WBRE's PA Live! on April 16</span>?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br />
After I had perfected a litany of swear words--perhaps in the manner of a deeply religious Tourette's sufferer, or my Dad--two very different but almost simultaneous
notions, spaced by seconds in observation, crested my cerebellum.<br />
<br />
First, that one little bit of
praise, that just a smidgen of acknowledgement, can mean the world to someone
ready to give up. In my pink and perky
world--no, my other job is not in porn--we are told all the time that most
people give up when they are inches from success. I didn’t really <i>want</i> to give Blogette up. I thought it would be a sensible thing to do. I could save my verbage for longer verses. And, I
didn’t really think anyone would notice if I shut up for while. </div>
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A writer friend tweeted that I should carry
on blogging as it "keeps the writing sharp."
And it’s true, two weeks without Blogette and I can feel my little
Walnut Whip of a Brain has atrophied. My
writing muscles are as sharp as a sock.
I don’t claim to be a literary best-selling author with an MFA and an 'in' with Oprah. I just love writing,
wordsmithery, creating images and committing acts of ungodly grammar. I am a card-carrying Word Nerd. Yesterday, I discovered this page of awesome obsolete words: <a href="http://www.deathandtaxesmag.com/195348/18-obsolete-words-which-should-have-never-gone-out-of-style/">18-Obsolete-Words</a> and I haven't stopped trying to use each and every one. I mean, "jirble"! It's even onomatopoeic! It makes me want to take on a part-time bar gig just so I can jirble liquor whilst chatting in brogue to the fine folk of Scranton! I digress, but writing, language, literature make my "beef-witted" brain tick and my pulse race.</div>
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Praise is a gift we
can give and it is amazing what a simple nod of encouragement can do, in life,
in artistic or scientific endeavours, and relationships. I have thrown the romantic towel a few times
over the last three years of Singledom. If I had been given just a word of
encouragement, praise of strengths rather than criticisms of my weaknesses, the
Blogette might not have been the only break up that lasted less than a week.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Colliding into this positive bubble of empowerment and
bursting it like an overworked grimy white balloon of gum, was the pointy, disapprovy
finger of my conscience. The pointy,
disapprovy finger waggled furiously at me.
I was being swept away by the romantic ideals of readers wanting me
back! I was not staying the course,
standing firm, I was not taking my own advice! </div>
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Wasn’t it me who huffed and puffed a lot of guff about letting go and moving
on; putting away what doesn’t serve you; donating it to the jumble sale and not
looking back? Aren't I the one that blusters, that
verbally struts a wordy marmalade of saucy abrasiveness, that adds tang to
one’s tongue and clears one’s senses? Haven't I chastised dissatisfied partners from going back and expecting
different results? Yes, dear Reader, ‘tis
I. *Hangs head*<br />
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It appears in the light of breaking up, I can breathe
through it, I can clench my teeth and bit down like any British bulldog, but
when I hear the disappointment, when I see effort made, and praise given, how can
I not lean into that palm for a scratch? I hope that doesn’t make me a hypocrite, but rather a human who is
learning what or who she wants. Sometimes,
it’s okay to change your mind, if you can be principled and honest and true to
YOU without hurting others. So
JellyBe-ings, my point is, we are human and we have choices; everything we do
is a choice: to put time aside to blog, or not; to spend time with someone and
try to get to know their core, their chords, maybe even their cords, or not.</div>
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And I realize I have been harsh, with the dating world
and with Self. I saw it all so clearly,
in high contrast: he is making an effort; he is not making an effort, and, if
the latter, life is short, so click your heels, take flight and hope to land
upon something more conducive to your ideal. I have been plagued, in writing and dating, with these ideals. I have not been able to look beyond the inflated monochrome visions in my head: that prospects should be judged lacking if
they are not the exact agent, publishing house or fella, I have imagined. </div>
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However, just because
we have envisioned life a certain way, doesn’t mean it can’t be just as good, or
better, with something or someone else. And
I have, I realize, been weighing my options with some pretty funky weighing
scales: not based on actual enjoyable interactions, but some snooty
ridiculousness that rated a reputation and pressed suit over good manners, effort and kindness; that mistook
attention as love, not control; that thought a divorce, or a not-ideal living situation, or a pair of beautiful
children too much baggage to fit into my head compartment. Aren't the unplanned, improvised bits always the best anyway?</div>
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So, I’m back. Thanks for not giving up on me. I’m a writer, so I’ll
write. I’m a romantic, so I’ll keep
trying.</div>
</div>
Eleanorgjhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00672862557542492003noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7436717201345268718.post-63757416569218403342013-03-22T09:25:00.000-07:002013-03-22T09:25:35.422-07:00It's not you... It's me. <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Dearest Darling Blogette,<br />
<br />
It is with a heavy-heart that I type these words onto your illuminated face. You, always so eager to see me; so anxious, so curious to see what words I would splash upon you; what colorful pictures you and I would create together! You were often as surprised as I by the finished portrait. You reflected back the indelible letters, words and sentences that possessed my heart, like some literal <i>Dorian Gray</i>. <br />
<br />
At times, how you cringed as the words I'd painted on your screen were used against me. How you stood rigid in your black and white defense, reluctant to give up the letters and erase the self expression that was so lampooned by those who didn't understand us.<br />
<br />
Yes, Blogette, you stood by me! When the world came tumbling down around me, you were there! You were there for me, beguiling, always tempting forth another image from the darkest recess of my walnut brain. What sanctuary you gave my addled mind; what outlet to vent the words that corroded my heart and burned through my vocal chords; what opportunity to let those who mattered know how much I cared--if they chose to look beyond the glossy tales screen-deep and saw the meaning submerged under the pixels. Ugh! Maybe I used you, Blogette!<br />
<br />
Yes, damn it all! Do you not see? To be heard, a British whisper in the swirling tornado of noise, one must be flamboyant, one must utilize figurative flares. "Look at me! Read me! Love me, you delicious Word Nerd! You know you want to!"<br />
<br />
Oh, it's true. I treated you like a trophy date, I dressed you in finery with your silky sibilants, your mohair metaphors and your cashmere characters. I wanted you to be noticed. Can you blame a writer for that? How else are we supposed to be heard when other initialed writers simply slap-dash words of tongues and lips and whips, that scream like a literal red-lipsticked hooker? That trashy broad appeal was never you, my love. You were not cheap, repetitive, or monosyllabic. Okay, so maybe a bit repetitive on the subject of relationship effort--but wearing effort on your sleeve was never a bad thing. You, you had imagery woven through your words like the finest gossamer thread. You could be bold and brassy, but that was in fun. Truly, at your core, I know I painted you to be of value, and truth, and honour. Even if people did not interpret you that way.<br />
<br />
And I'm sorry, Blogette, my darling, my love, my weekly amour, for this tryst must end. My fingers seize, as if in rigor. How can I give you up? How? But I must. Those words I so lavishly threw upon you like robes of the finest silk, I must rob you of now. I must take them back, I must undress you and wipe those cosmetic characters from the screen.<br />
<br />
My darling, no! Think not that you bore me! How could you bore me? Sometimes you frustrate me, you get me into trouble with those wanton words, but no! Dressing you up in polysyllables and flaunting you over Facebook and Twitter, would never bore me.<br />
<br />
And no. I have not been cheating. I look into your beautiful screen, that inspires me, that makes the cogs in my walnut churn and how could I ever cheat? How? Your white innocence, that I get to take on this journey and experience everything anew through, is a joy to me. And yet... Oh B! Forgive me! It's not you, it's me! There<i> is</i> something else. It's... Another Novel. <br />
<br />
Please don't, Blogette! Spare me your recriminations! I would that I could have you both, spoil you and lavish strings of pearlised words around you both, but it wouldn't be fair to you. I cannot split my love, my time, my words equally. So I will, I must, ask you to be brave, my Sweet. <br />
<br />
I can't expect you to appreciate this now, but I do this for you; I do this for us! Because I will be back! I know that this must be hard to read: that I need to give the Other Novel attention, but you, Blogette, will always have a place in my heart. And after I have given the Other Novel the love she needs, I will return, a better writer than before. Don't think of this as some ghastly literary swinging; let's not cheapen our beautiful relationship. <br />
<br />
I will return to you my darling. I will return with adventures! Tales of daring-do, of romance, of chaps with bronzed torsos, swarthy faces, and capable arms to sweep one up in--even though one does not need rescuing! Tales of Caribbean seas, tropical fruits and frolicking mammals! Tales of fun and hope and redemption! You will allow me that freedom, I hope. You will let me go for now and wish me well? Say that I may go with your blessing, with your support?<br />
<br />
I know I can't expect you to be waiting here when I return-- how arrogant of me to think your screen would stay a blank, without the words of others dressing you up and taking you a spin around the blogosphere--but please Blogette, remember what we had. What we still have! This is not the end. Far from it. It will be a brand new start for us and we will create word-pictures like never before! <br />
<br />
Yours, literally and figuratively,<br />
<br />
Eleanor Elizabeth Rhiannon Gwyn-Jones.<br />
*Cue the dancers, the lip gloss, the wind machine.*<br />
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<br />
<br />
And, for those of you who don't speak Italian:<br />
<i>There is no light in a room where there is no sun,</i><br />
<i>And there is no sun if you're not here with me...</i><br />
<br /></div>
Eleanorgjhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00672862557542492003noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7436717201345268718.post-77849780254229889202013-03-15T06:30:00.001-07:002013-03-15T06:30:52.064-07:00Welcome to The D.M.V! Behold, the Circus of Sadness!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
It was my unenviable displeasure to have to visit and
malinger at two D.M.V Centres in the last fortnight. I had some easy but painfully-protracted
paperwork to do re. address changing, and some paternal bureaucracy to
oversee. And as I waited, and waited,
and waited I realized that the D.M.V was a Circus of Sadness.<br />
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Holy Hand Sanitizer, protect me Jesus! Have you ever been to the D.M.V? Spent time there? Actually watched life, or life forms? “It is life Jim, but not as we know it.”<br />
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Now, I like to be positive.
I generally consider myself to be Tigger, not an Eeyore, but egads! The mind boggles. What happened? Where did all the normal people go? Was there an apocalypse and I, with my
strange British DNA, survived and made it through along with all the
mutants? Does each D.M.V emit some kind of radioactive
nuclear ugly ray that sudden makes all people who enter toothless, bald and
overweight? And that’s just the
women! Sorry, I’m not being mean. Really.
But crikey, I saw some sights even I couldn’t work Mary Kay magic
on. <br />
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But—here comes the Tigger bit—it made me realize how
incredibly lucky the accident of my birth to parents who value and preach
dental hygiene is. I don’t have
children, admittedly, but isn’t it just commonsense and far less expensive to teach them to brush their teeth and floss, and gurgle, than to have to drill and fill
whatever ungodly disaster has been left unattended? I had new appreciation of the fact my parents
did not inflate me to blimp portions with soda and crisps, but ‘deprived’
me of sugary drinks and enforced water and frozen peas—my strange choice, for lack
of any other snack. I blessed my back-seamed
stockings that I had a mother who dressed nicely and taught young Eleanor, that
thongs and bra straps showing were just not done; that yoga pants, Uggs and
knickers cranked high up your bum and showcased for the delight of the D.M.V was
not meant for public display; that dirty jeans and shapeless androgynous lumberjack
shirt with some—forsenic teams would surely concur—egg globbed down the
front, was not seemly. I mean, PEOPLE! It’s not a class thing, or a money thing, it’s
self respect! <br />
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And you know, I realize, once again that all of this, starts
with parental example. In my blog: <a href="http://eleanorgwyn-jones.blogspot.com/2013/02/love-is-like-riding-or-speaking-french.html">Love is like riding, or speaking French</a> Love and so many other things are templated by us as children: how to behave, how to dress, how to treat people, speak; all is caught and taught as you grow up. C'est vrai! As I marveled at the circus, parading in
front of me, often there was an older version, lined and worn--probably far
younger than their leathered skin portrayed--similarly unwashed, unbrushed and
untailored. There is no class at elementary or middle school on how and why one
should brush their teeth, is there? If not, maybe there should be.
In fact, a hygiene class should be mandatory. Deodorant companies and toothpaste
manufacturers should hand out free samples to school, get kids addicted to cleanliness rather than glue.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">No, I didn't see a man in a thong at the DMV, but I wanted to be equal opportunities. Enjoy.</td></tr>
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I’m not typing this in a holier-than-thou glass house. Yes, I have worn a shell suit. Affirmative, I wore my brother’s hand-me-down
baggy jeans with a transfer of Fred Flintstone and Barney Rubble on the
thighs. I have made and continue to make
many fashion faux pas. I like
individuality; I embrace quirky style. Crikey, I can often be found as a stunt double for a "blue cockatoo," or so I have been told. I think as an advocate for W.A.V.P.L. (Women Against Visible Pant Lines) thongs, or 'G' strings as we musical Brits call 'em, are brilliant! But I do think there is a place for them--below a waistband--and--don't hate--sex and body type, that they are intended for. And I am absolutely sure no one could mistake the cold, grey Dunmore D.M.V for South Beach, Miami. <br />
<br />
I also do not include globs of breakfast Jackson Pollocked on my ‘T’
shirt as style. I classify it as gross,
and lazy, and lacking in effort. <br />
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And I think <b>that</b> is what pisses me off in this line-up of slumped, oblivious, finger-up-nose, hand-creeping-down-pants, aforementioned
wedgy-removal, not-listening-for-their-own-name-so-it-must-be-yelled-five-times-before-someone-elbows-them; it is <b>effortlessness</b>. I hate it in
relationships, and I loathe it in life. <br />
<br />
I probably sound like a pompous arsehole. Does putting effort into your
appearance really mean anything? Is a
well-dressed and groomed person any more intelligent or deserving than the
ill-kempt man who stands so close to me that I can smell his halitosis and his
general eau de vomit? No. But, you know what, bullshit baffles brains,
and the first thing people see coming is the appearance, then the smell, and
frankly it is difficult not to judge on a first impression. If you look and reek like an old sock, I am going to think that you have just rolled out of bed. And that you don't launder your sheets often. You may not have. You might have been up since 5 am doing virtuous things, but that's not what I'll be thinking. I try to keep an open mind. I try to like everyone, but if you are
jamming yourself close to me that I can see your straggly nose hairs, or count
your pimples, and I can guess what you had for breakfast, then it’s pretty hard
not to form an opinion. Or maybe I just have an issue with people invading my personal space. Jesus, the amount of times I silently screamed "Spaghetti arms! This is my dance space!" are too many to count.<br />
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And as I watched the parade amass and nudge passed me like
some weird game of sardines that no one told me I was playing, and I counted
the moments of my life waiting in the D.M.V that I could never get back, I
looked at the grey bewildered faces behind the counters and wondered if it were
anyone’s childhood dream to work stamping documents and taking money orders for
the 'noble' cause that is PennDot. No,
thought I. These are merely people
trying to earn a crust. And, let's face it, they are probably not that well paid. It's just a job. They have given
up on dreams, they merely need to pay the bills and keep the wolf from the
door. And that is noble. It is honorable. But boy must they go through hand
sanitizer and wine and Diazepam.<br />
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Ultimately, the whole soul-corroding and then galvanizing
experience made me bewildered, disgusted, then grateful for my own upbringing,
and recommitted to my goals. May you
always put in effort. May you never
spill egg or whatever down your shirt, or, if you do, I wish you a Tide
pen. May you strive and thrive, and
never work a job just for a paycheck, but because it ignites your being, it
fills your eyes with vision and heart with hunger, because then, then an effort
isn’t such an effort, it’s a pleasure. </div>
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Eleanorgjhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00672862557542492003noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7436717201345268718.post-61302725439702422752013-03-08T09:41:00.001-08:002013-03-08T09:42:29.029-08:00My! My Darling! What Mighty Mitochondria You Have! I want to get into your Genes! <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<br />
So! I promised a delayed but technologically advanced bells-whistles-cute-fluffy-animals-driving-cars-kinda-hullabaloo of a blog, didn't I?<br />
<br />
Err... truth is, I wanted to upload the video from the Oscarpalooza Party to share the japes and jollies that can only be two women in gowns wearing faux Lincoln beards and over-sized Argo glasses singing about <i>Zero Dark Thirty</i> et al., rhyming Osama with "llamas," "bananas" and "pyjamas"! But my Techie-tardness kicked in, and I realize now, in my return to what my co-host and I call normality, that might have been an... EGO BLOG! I would have been one 'g' short of frozen-waffle indulgence! And, you know, I like to make a point with this here mincing of words. I don't want this to be flat and microwaveable, or saccharine sweet, drizzled in sticky sap! I want to be sharp and spiky and lodge in you throat. Or brain. Or... whatever. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Silver (actress and Beeb Presenter, Tara) loves her kale.</td></tr>
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<br />
So, apology accepted? Huh, huh? Can we be friends again? Huh? Because, dear Reader, I do think of you as my friend, and so the ego blog has been elbowed, balled up and thrown away in the rubbish along with all the other frozen and fake consumables. Because I ack-shually want to share something of importance with you today. YES! Importance! Brace yourself!<br />
<br />
My fabulous stunt woman actress friend, Heidi, lives in LA and is all about health and physical conditioning. Yesterday, she shared a video. Now, I don't know what made me do it. Usually, I do not indulge in 17 minute videos during work hours--which for a writer and self-employed Britty-in-the-City, is really ALL hours--but something struck. Perhaps her wording, "Mom, watch this! This is how I strive to eat and live to be healthy and disease free." <br />
<br />
Now, you know sometimes in life when you keep getting the same signals, and you think, "Hmm, maybe the Universe, or God, or the little Pink Fairy in the Sky, are trying to tell me something?" You know what I mean, right? Like, say, for instance, maybe when it dawns on you that you keep being sent chaps from above (or below, as is probably more appropriate) and they play the same half-arsed, effortless, phoning-it-in tune, and yet you still don't get the message that maybe, just maybe, you ought to break free from the quagmire of douchbaggery and date someone who actually makes an effort! You know, repetitive signals? Not saying that I've experienced that! No Sireee! <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Seriously, Tara, it was bloody yummy!</td></tr>
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But sometimes, I do see signals! Signs! Messages! No Jesus on my toast, or Moses in my cereal, but definitive "Hey, Eleanor, look at me! Look at me," flares. There's the clean-eating Empress impressing upon me that ten hours between lunch and dinner was a bad thing; the example and FB recipe posting of my Yogi Wonder Women who champion nutrition without being nutso; my dear actress friend Tara bringing a raw kale salad to my dinner party and leaving it for me to polish off at some ridiculous hour of the morning--which proved to be a palate and mind-broadening experience; and then--the five bell alarm--waking up at 4 am, rolling over to my phone for entertainment and finding it frozen on a nutrition guide about how to avoid cancer; all of these flashing, arresting flares have caught my attention. I am becoming more and more aware. Now, I did study biology. I am hardly a cretin, but there was/is much I don't know, much I am always learning! Am delighted to be learning. So when this 4th of July firework display flash of information flickered up on my Facebook feed, I was laser-beamed in. My finger hovered over the cursor and, for some inexplicable reason, I followed the signs and, I played it, dear Reader.<br />
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I am no doctor or dietitian. Am not going to be all preachy, holier-than-thou, because shit, I adore State St Grill's sweet potato fries, cheese--oh God, the things I would do to make cheese a super food--angel hair pasta, sushi, sushi, sushi, Coldstone Creamery's Founder's Favourite, creme brulee, cheesecake... STOP! No, I am clearly riddled with foody weakness, but I'm just a gal blessed with great genes, trying to keep in her jeans and be a good example and a fit and able role model should I ever have mini-genies. I worry that I forget things. I worry that this will get worse. I worry that one in three Americans are diagnosed with cancer. But one can't live in fear, can one? However, if there is a path that one can journey and lessen the chance of illness, wouldn't you take it? Wouldn't you choose to? As my Yogi says, "Life is all about choices." I hope you choose to watch this. (And then chomp on some kale, seaweed, grass-feed meat and omega-3 rich fish.) <br />
Namaste, you Mighty Mitochondrion-harbouring Souls!<br />
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Eleanorgjhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00672862557542492003noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7436717201345268718.post-51514504556413129402013-02-22T14:00:00.001-08:002013-02-22T14:00:24.820-08:00OSCARPALOOZA<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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OSCARS OSCARS OSCARS OSCARS OSCARS OSCARS OSCARS OSCARS<br />
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Can you tell where my brain is this week? DJa, Dja!
(The ‘D’ is silent.) It’s Oscar
Fever! Now, don’t get me wrong, I am not
some popcorn-tossing, 3-D glasses wearing, foreign-film-director-name-dropping movie aficionado. This is not a movie
blog. Oscars, for me, aren’t really about
who wins, because it’s subjective, right?
I know I enjoyed <i>Django Unchained</i>, <i>Zero Dark Thirty</i> and <i>Silver Linings Playbook</i> most, but will my fav three get the nod?
Unlikely. So the actual winners
are kind of secondary, tertiary or quaternary in importance; it’s about the
party, the shebang, the hootenanny, the hullaballoo!<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(That said, I still have my lil' fingeeees crossed for the incomparable, many-tongued Christoph Waltz. Grrrr! )</td></tr>
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<br />
<br />
The Empress and I are hosting our fifth Annual Shindig
Soiree on Sunday, and it is consuming every waking moment. I am writing, inhaling and hallucinating lyrics
right now, and you know what? It feels
great! For those of you who live far and
wide, for my reader in Latvia—“Hello, Latvia!”—for poor souls who have lived
with us right on your doorstep but never attended, this isn’t any ordinary
gathering of dry, beige movie conflab, or drab collective of friends recycling
old bridesmaid’s dresses and commenting on red carpet fashion! This is Tina Fey and Amy Poehler meets Weird
Al, with a sprinkling of Ru Paul. And if
that don’t sound fun, I’m a militant lesbian communist bishop!</div>
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This year, the Empress and I have written songs--well, parodies is probably a better term--for each of the best picture nominations
which we will “sing/rap/perform” for the delectation and delight of our
togged-up party-goers! (Yes, I typed 'rap'. Which I am learning is really quite the challenge of brain and mouth synchrony.) So, that is where
my writing brain has been this week, and I hope you forgive me, because this
blog is mainly a long-winded explanation of why my syllable-stylin’ is spent; and
if this serves as a subtle-as-a-belly-dancing-turquoise-elephant-crooning-<i>Non, Je ne regrette rien</i>-and-smoking-cheroots plug, then so be it!<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8MZ_XqVEZrRkSl_3coOht9vvwQGty7kQb7pbG1a2AxGoobbYhrxQRBDrLwDycPZ6GWZxAi9Khw2K50nxt5wMWdqxciyUGQZOl542Y8FGHUOjpSS6l4VWmQkHqeNocjnWvfPg1M8dXkyko/s1600/elephant.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="243" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8MZ_XqVEZrRkSl_3coOht9vvwQGty7kQb7pbG1a2AxGoobbYhrxQRBDrLwDycPZ6GWZxAi9Khw2K50nxt5wMWdqxciyUGQZOl542Y8FGHUOjpSS6l4VWmQkHqeNocjnWvfPg1M8dXkyko/s400/elephant.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;">"Elephants like belly-dancing. Entertaining their friends. Watch their bellies wibble-wobble. Even when the music ends."</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Would it spoil the surprise if I revealed my favourite
rhymes? It probably would, so I will
leave you dangling in the hopes that you will instead decide to join us at Posh;
that you will venture forth on Sunday night because you are fun, dear
Reader! You are! And maybe you enjoy a delicious meal, or
champagne and canapés in raucous company!
Perhaps, you enjoy a flutter on the Oscar nominations and want to jump
in the pool, or fancy yourself a trivia fiend and want to win the array of
kindly donated prizes. Clearly, you like
to give back and support special needs children—not the Empress and I, but Camp
Create, which half the pool will go to help fund. Maybe, you just like getting gussied
up! Whatever your reason, willkommen! Bienvenue!
Welcome!</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Because meine damen und herren, this year will be like no
other! This is the year we sing of naked
mandingos! (And no! We don’t mean hairless
Australian prairie dogs who eat babies!)
We belt songs of angry men and odes to Daniel Day Lewis’s beard! We trill of bi-polar crazies in need of pfa’s! We make strange noises about a child in the
grimy Bathtub! We coo of pigeon’s not
crapping indoors! We see a little silhouetto of man with a mullet! We start singing bye, bye little Indian
Pi! With gusto we chant of a starving
bald single mother forced into prostitution and a cast in desperate need of anti-wrinkle
skin care! (I can help, Hugh, I can
help!) And we rhyme llamas and banana
with Osama! WHERE, fair reader, WHERE
would you find this?</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Posh, at the Scranton Club on Sunday 24<sup>th</sup>
February, of course! <a href="http://poshatsc.com/">visit Posh!</a> So come! Get gussied and gastro-ed and giggled. It’s for the children! <a href="http://www.waverlycomm.org/commcamp.html">Visit Camp Create</a> (And for fun.) (And
our egos’.)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There. Turquoise
elephant on the screen. <br />
And enormous thanks to the musical genius and magical fingers of newly wed Marko Marcinko! <a href="http://www.markomarcinko.com/Site/Welcome.html">Meet Marko!</a><br />
<br /></div>
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Namaste.</div>
</div>
<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/tjmNgPkAp4g" width="420"></iframe></div>
Eleanorgjhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00672862557542492003noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7436717201345268718.post-75329301856169941582013-02-15T07:38:00.000-08:002013-02-15T07:38:25.433-08:00"Love is like riding or speaking French." <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Love is like riding or speaking French. If you don’t learn it young, it’s hard to get
the trick of it later.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjHEbWV-5jtIzuqcxemqXvZoi0-lpPFmBgG1X02qle0zzAE5n_rhFGpm2R9s48DZXirHLuXrSzBJlOru94Dai-CranXXUfxCY3Ew2hICetqLoAtMA3OmpBAA4dzsghdvS_kMrfPOZeGPx9/s1600/love+in+french.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjHEbWV-5jtIzuqcxemqXvZoi0-lpPFmBgG1X02qle0zzAE5n_rhFGpm2R9s48DZXirHLuXrSzBJlOru94Dai-CranXXUfxCY3Ew2hICetqLoAtMA3OmpBAA4dzsghdvS_kMrfPOZeGPx9/s1600/love+in+french.jpg" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Profound, ain’t it, Guvnor?
I’ve been thinking about this <i>Downton Abbey</i> quote a
lot over the last couple of days, as a possible apology and reprieve for the
characters in my own romantic saga, namely: The Bastardly Dicktard, The Space Cadet, The Beloved and The Heart Crusher. Why does someone do the
things they do? What would cause someone
to act callously without any reason?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I mean, we are—most of us—born with a heart, but we are not
born learning how to use it. Babies
don’t care about kindness or affection or sex; they want warmth, food, familiar
smells and faces, they don't want cold pants full of poo. The affection babies are given is something
they learn to enjoy and crave. What we
pick up from our parental example, is what we see and absorb: how to act; how
to treat people. And I realized, as I thought about this quote, that knowing
how to love someone, or expecting that they know how to love you, how to act
towards you, how to be kind, is not a guarantee. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I mean, like swimming or riding or speaking French, we are
born with the tools to do these things, but being able to utilize those tools
or that muscle is something that is not just caught, but taught and developed by
regular exercise and example.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsnuRRueoOdVKTYqDcHXuDYC9zFxwcqNJ9rHLKQ04SenmNLJPrunY5VQmnYaXOu5MNSvGh7g2_GApaT8S6YPF-gRTpEC9_PdOZrk_LB1nlAnhpYdhMTzbt2G2CBMXZR_L638M9s8RZm3HY/s1600/baby+lifting.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsnuRRueoOdVKTYqDcHXuDYC9zFxwcqNJ9rHLKQ04SenmNLJPrunY5VQmnYaXOu5MNSvGh7g2_GApaT8S6YPF-gRTpEC9_PdOZrk_LB1nlAnhpYdhMTzbt2G2CBMXZR_L638M9s8RZm3HY/s1600/baby+lifting.jpg" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So maybe on those online dating profiles, or at speed
dating, or during those first few dates in between those awkward silences, we
should really ask: “Are your parents happy and affectionate? If not with one another, at least with
someone?” I think it’s a pretty
interesting question.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Thing is, we are kind of screwed either way, aren’t we?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Take Papa Smurf and Bridget Jones, they are awesome. They are my parental unit. I am not just saying they are awesome because
I know Mum will read this and therefore I might get a better birthday gift or a
random, feathery hair accoutrement dans la poste; I say it because they
are. They not only taught me from the
earliest memory the age-old parental mantra of “honesty being the best policy,”
but they showed me by their own actions how to be receptive and open to people,
how to listen, how to act with kindness and courage; and between them how to be
a team taking on the world together.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
They rather set the bar for me. They set it high, and that’s a wee bit of a
poke in the eye with a sharp stick, because, not everyone has been taught or
shown or expects the same. They follow
the innate instincts to fuck like bunnies, but actually having a mature
relationship? That goes against innate
instincts because most men should want to cop off with as many fertile women as
possible; and women should instinctually want to have spawn with as many
different fathers as possible! It makes
biological sense! She would have more
chaps looking after her and her brood, and less chance of the competing fathers killing her
offspring, because one or more could be his; but also because the greater the
diversity, the greater her chances of her genes surviving to the next
generation. But we HAVE learned this
monogamist behavior, some apparently more than others.</div>
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</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj14WDTEzIcom0Vr_FBKCfjEYoYp2gRJod62ScoGIf05o7NLEvwo40r_T6AJMmzS4FlXGmLYVzwfbriVaE25gGwoCmn7ckhDwqqugTqtTIlkSRt2yO83tXIWryB8Nn9lahYNjgkDiPdUXXr/s1600/monogamy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj14WDTEzIcom0Vr_FBKCfjEYoYp2gRJod62ScoGIf05o7NLEvwo40r_T6AJMmzS4FlXGmLYVzwfbriVaE25gGwoCmn7ckhDwqqugTqtTIlkSRt2yO83tXIWryB8Nn9lahYNjgkDiPdUXXr/s1600/monogamy.jpg" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Now, I’m no psychologist; I don’t watch Dr. Phil—although I
am sure he is great--so these are just my own musings, but here it is, let’s investigate four upbringing styles as experienced by men who may or may not--don't sue me--acted dickishly.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
1) Unnurturing</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijBG5Fbrn9mnyL15MqaQtORwB3ZxzFN6dDluA8nuKsAV-kiurnfg2FkjB8pFQUG7dWLoI1zmwNc99oNZ2YImawKNfiXucc1SAhIIh0gJ0aigHllUPYnm0Z29SDPUChWwDqr__OPnEgb7ZH/s1600/scotch+child.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijBG5Fbrn9mnyL15MqaQtORwB3ZxzFN6dDluA8nuKsAV-kiurnfg2FkjB8pFQUG7dWLoI1zmwNc99oNZ2YImawKNfiXucc1SAhIIh0gJ0aigHllUPYnm0Z29SDPUChWwDqr__OPnEgb7ZH/s1600/scotch+child.jpg" /></a>He had high-powered, status-is-all,
don’t-interfere-or-make-a-peep-you-annoying-little-shit-son Parents. Now, I wasn’t there when he grew up. He was sent away fairly early and what love
he was exposed to in a school full of competitive boys, goodness knows,
and—thankfully—our time was short so I never got to find out, but he was rough
and rude, and whilst he had all the shows of being a gentleman, he had none of
the substance that put the ‘gentle’ in man; because a real gentleman will not
put his ego first, a real gentleman does not have to be humorous by making fun
of others. This was all learned behavior
to protect and inflate his ego. He treated people, all people, with a kind of disdain. When I
had outgrown my usefulness to him, I was disposed of by Blackberry Messenger. My quirky reply, never read. Dickish.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
2) Shuttlecocking</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwFpm_pKJ02wMc0Z0jGxrPE-UybUnS-8tYgbueZ2CVUY-L25_q2V0RN9sc-50ltaqKSOWEibq4q0KDnMZofA4T6ApqjupgjlUm-BPj1HLZF1xz_pf0vmMnqySbilZn9Xs2UmQInHB22Wc2/s1600/Shuttlecock.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwFpm_pKJ02wMc0Z0jGxrPE-UybUnS-8tYgbueZ2CVUY-L25_q2V0RN9sc-50ltaqKSOWEibq4q0KDnMZofA4T6ApqjupgjlUm-BPj1HLZF1xz_pf0vmMnqySbilZn9Xs2UmQInHB22Wc2/s1600/Shuttlecock.jpg" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The Shuttlecocked Child was the product of parents who never really had any place being together. His conception was a bit of surprise, to him especially. He saw no love or affection between these two he calls Mom and Dad and it obviously confused him at an early
age. When they split up, divorced and moved apart he was a shuttlecock between the two. The
mother remarried, the father did not, but lives fairly reclusively, sheltered from the world. That is the example, for the Shuttlecock. So is it any wonder that he launches off to his own safe haven? He shuts himself away, makes himself inaccessible, his heart impenetrable, because
that way no one can get to him. He can call the plays, make the shots, but he is closeted away from the action and he can never get
hurt.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Thing is, sometimes you just have to open yourself up to the
possibility of getting hurt, because if you don’t take that risk, if you spend
the rest of your life shuttered away against the potential for hurt, you are
sure to miss the things that would also bring you joy. When you entrust someone with your time, your
energy, your body, you have to take it in trust that they are a good person who
wants the best for you. The Shuttlecock may occupy himself with trivial things, but he will never know that
heart-soaring wonder of looking into a set of eyes that see only him, that safe
vulnerability of someone holding his face in her hands and wanting to give him
the world. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
3) Pragmatic</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJr2mBTEa965gGTyOdsPI8FaZb4DUSJGvN1HPRpciyyD1CC2e8HywSaXPl75I8T9riSylsbMbCs3tF_wuJJZ_-2oJHw_QzCNTVPBfbwjDRKi-ipb5uvQEn1MLu-oT4dgJJvgIaZ02msm0h/s1600/victorian.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJr2mBTEa965gGTyOdsPI8FaZb4DUSJGvN1HPRpciyyD1CC2e8HywSaXPl75I8T9riSylsbMbCs3tF_wuJJZ_-2oJHw_QzCNTVPBfbwjDRKi-ipb5uvQEn1MLu-oT4dgJJvgIaZ02msm0h/s320/victorian.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Beloved had good pragmatic parents. Parents that loved him beyond imagining,
because he was the shining light, the all-star, the Great White Hope. They would have flapped their arms to the
moon if he asked them too, and vice versa; he became a loving man who would do
anything they asked of him. But whilst
giving him tsunami’s of love, they did not show it towards each other. So that is what he learned. That couples were a team for the family, but
not for each other. I know Beloved will
make a fabulous father, because he has learned that. But couples who don’t watch TV in the same
room; who don’t go out together, but with their friends; for whom a show of
affection is giving an extra helping of meatballs and sauce, not a hand hold or
a kiss, let alone a wild night of rampant, button-popping, knicker-tearing sex,
are teaching their children that affection is a ‘Hollywood thing’ and has no
place in a practical marriage. I don’t
want a practical marriage. I want a
heart-leaping, breath-stopping, knicker-ripping union. I want to live with passion! </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
4) Tyranny </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You know what I mean here, the old-school style of
parenting, where the father generally treats the mother like slave while he is
lord of the manor. He probably has
affairs. He might get frisky with his fists. He has a booming temper and his
children are frightened shitless of him.
Maybe there is a slipper, or a belt, or a ruler, but there is something
hard that is brought down on tender young skin and that’s just the way it is
done in this family. I’m the product of
a good, hard slap, but it was rarely unwarranted and I harbor no ill will, but
my parents—argue thought they did—would have never dreamed of laying a finger
or the other. So I learned that was
unacceptable behavior. But if you were a
little boy or girl in a household with a tyrannical father, or mother, who
lashed out at their partner, that would be the norm, wouldn’t it?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So, here’s my point—there are a few: maybe the Dicktard
wasn’t really a Dicktard after all.
Maybe he was just a boy whose parents never gave him the attention he
needed; maybe his mother never took two minutes to turn around and hug him
tight and tell him that she was proud of him.
Perhaps the Shuttlecocked Space Cadet did not mean to be heartless, he has just never
seen or experienced what a real partnership is, and he retreats from the
unfamiliar. Maybe Beloved will find
someone who is happy just to be practical; or perhaps he will find someone who
will teach him that the impractical can be make the
practical even better! And maybe the man brought up to be the domineering alpha will just find someone who adores him so very much he will forget what
has gone before, and he will transform his mistrust of the world to the passion
and love that he is capable of.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
How we treat each other as partners, as equals, is how we
are teaching our offspring to behave.
For love is not something we prove by vows, or cards, or hearts or
flowers; it’s our everyday actions.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I played Viola, from <i>Twelfth Night</i>, when I was 15 years old. I remember this speech and can recite the
whole monologue as clear and as heartfelt now as then, but here’s the crux:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“We men may say more, swear more; but, indeed,</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Our shows are more than will; for still be prove </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Much in our vows, but little in our love.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
May you prove much in your love and practice it like French or riding! Happy Valentine’s, mes chers lecteurs.</div>
</div>
Eleanorgjhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00672862557542492003noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7436717201345268718.post-43750194132050576782013-02-08T08:16:00.001-08:002013-02-08T08:16:33.338-08:00"Let's Date!" "No, thanks!" In which all the Romantics Reach for the Smelling-Salts!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3CVaRJb4qBCpJM6JnEJDPjbTD-IXdQc8LfOnuts394moGP5s_Lcy95iR7DwDDI_ePA-8Mkj_0u3BJF1X-cXutgkuHQScWLzrp4g79p7FTJntdQME4Z6NetubmtLk84xf7ljdwWuP7S6s5/s1600/dating+internet.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3CVaRJb4qBCpJM6JnEJDPjbTD-IXdQc8LfOnuts394moGP5s_Lcy95iR7DwDDI_ePA-8Mkj_0u3BJF1X-cXutgkuHQScWLzrp4g79p7FTJntdQME4Z6NetubmtLk84xf7ljdwWuP7S6s5/s1600/dating+internet.jpg" /></a></div>
<br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17px;">Sometimes I think I was born a century too late. Not that I would have enjoyed living through World War I or II, but there is something I find comfortable in the whole well-mannered, polite, corseted existence where one knows the rules and what is expected. One doesn’t dare speak of such awkward things as dating and disappointment; one's papa and mama simply have it all arranged. </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17px;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17px;">Perhaps I have watched too much Downton Abbey, or have read too much Edith Wharton. The problem being with this type of existence--where time seems only to be measured by society balls, meals and whether it is time to change for dinner--is that I like making my own choices and loathe being limited. </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17px;">I am not sure I could ever surrender Self to the whims of elder matchmaking, being paired off, discussed like an item at auction, my stats being compared with others to find the most fitting match. Yet, I realize, it's alive and kicking, maybe not dressed up in a hoop and crinoline, but it is there, and it is huge, it's a multi-million dollar industry! It's...ONLINE DATING. Maybe it's necessary. After all, we've done such stellar job of coupling ourselves--what's the divorce rate now? 50%?--that is it any wonder we want to entrust this job to a third party? </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17px;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 16.890625px;"><i>"</i>In the U.S. alone, the target demographic for these services is 90 million singles that are between 19 and 45. </span><b style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 16.890625px;">Then there are the forty percent of frequent users that are already married."</b><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 16.890625px;"> (Marty Zwilling,<i> Start Up Professionals, Inc.</i>) I get it, I do. You</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17px;">ng professionals working all hours... who has the time to trawl restaurants and charity doodahs to meet nice folks? Specimen loitering at bars are easier to approach, but really are they the chosen one you can take home to mother? Instead, Generation X and Y are putting their fate and faith in the hands, not of The Dowager Duchess, but the "29 dimensions of compatibility" of eHarmony, Match.com, Ok-Cupid, Plenty of Fish, Christian Mingle, J Date... Oh lord, shoot me.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17px;">I don’t mean to poo-poo it. (I like doughnuts, once in a while.) I like to think I am liberated, and gung ho, and huzzah carpe diem! But this morning I found myself reading of this new app for the I-phone called “Let’s Date.” My eyes widened with alarm, my pulse quickened. I needed a good rousing waft of the smelling salts, so I reached for my coffee instead and inhaled deeply. </span><br />
<br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17px;">Let’s Date came out of the Apple Closet at the end of 2012, so I am probably WAYYYY behind the app - ball here. I bet you Krazee Kids have been using this wangle-dangle technology to lure and hook and gaff a mate for months, but, ever a tech-tard, there is a little lag for Ennie. It’s not that I’m incapable—I tweet, I Facebook, I instagram, I reluctantly Link In—but the thought of sifting through dating profiles of potential snaggle-toothed offerings who probably aren’t telling the whole truth and nothing but the truth, just leaves me cold. “Granny,” as Lady Mary Crawley would call her, would do a far better job! </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17px;">Don’t get me wrong, am not being a snotty little bovine, but, well, I guess the thought of a) openly serving my heart on a page, trying to explain me without jazz hands, and putting Self out there for the perusal of weirdos, psychos and inmates... erm... not tempting; b) I never imagined explaining the story of how I met the love of my life would begin, “Well, William, I saw your father’s picture on a dating website..." Fuck the doughnuts, I'd rather eat a lizard, shave my head and join the foreign legion.</span><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUOBROOdo7OA9sgFF9ma19Jw0B21jgzYFUKiy0WK25pEYkmjAQFIXglg0atqdSaCTNUfbg6oY_TPeuywYckDMdR7YbzfTt4Wl1ZcZa2I_EIW7PrAUKTVE_9RULWgLxVIm9QLf_Kzpu8t2L/s1600/dating+steve+carell.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUOBROOdo7OA9sgFF9ma19Jw0B21jgzYFUKiy0WK25pEYkmjAQFIXglg0atqdSaCTNUfbg6oY_TPeuywYckDMdR7YbzfTt4Wl1ZcZa2I_EIW7PrAUKTVE_9RULWgLxVIm9QLf_Kzpu8t2L/s320/dating+steve+carell.jpg" width="320" /></a><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17px;">Many of my friends use online dating sites however, and I am vicariously enthralled! And is it any wonder, thus far the friends' online trail has unearthed many Disappointments, one Illiterate who "doesn't read... because (he) doesn't have any books, one Ego-Maniac, a Stalker and a Midget. (Sorry, I know midgets have feelings too, but if you plan on dating a 6ft tall lady, I believe there should be some pre-date disclosure, right?)</span><br />
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<br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17px;">But this Dating App has me truly befuddled, because now Daters, you can eliminate people on-the-go, and I am stinkin’ fascinated! Like watching-plastic-surgery riveted! I know I don’t want it, but I want to watch it! I want to know exactly how it works!</span><br />
<br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17px;">The concept is to have as many daters pass before your eyes, like a human buffet, each offering shown on a card (a profile) with five adjectives, or ingredients, that make them appealing to you… or not. It’s a speed dating of sorts, a microwave meal, a rapidly-served amuse bouche to give you a little flavour. It rather reminds me of Top Trumps, or baseball cards with players stats, and you compare the adjectives and photograph to see which win a “Let’s Date” touch of the screen, or a “No, thanks.” (I do like that rejection is polite, even when micro-waving away this poor untried Human Entrée.)</span><br />
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<br /><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17px;">You can also highlight with the handy dandy touch of your screen the characteristics or preferences you dislike. This information, combined with the Daters you decline, gives the programme more detailed info about your likes and dislikes, and will present the cards of potentials who similarly do or don’t like that trait or activity. The more cards you decline, the more traits you highlight and dislike, the more accurate a vision of what your ideal would be. It is basically a computer model that uses the power of elimination to whittle the field of potential suitors and propose a specimen you might enjoy. </span><br />
<br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17px;">When you select your dish of the day, your own profile goes to near the top of their virtual stack of cards. If they like the sound of <i>your</i> menu, and similarly click, “Let’s Date,” well, colour be happy, no diggety, the Let’s Date app suggests a public meeting place based your joint interests. A conversation window pops up and apparently—how traditional!—it suggests that the chap treats the lady!</span><br />
<br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17px;">From the stats and science point of view, I think this a really interesting concept. Certainly, for quick, easy breezy cavalier, thumbs up, thumbs down, ruthless dispassionate rejection, it surely can’t be beat! </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17px;">But crumble my macaroons, should there be stats and science when it comes to dating?</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17px;"> </span><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17px;">Here’s my problem, one can’t cover the complexity of human attraction in an i-phone photo and 5 adjectives. Sure, the model of preferences and dislikes might be a science, but it fails to include chemistry or biology. What about pheromones? You can’t add that on an app. And I know some of the chaps I have dated and enjoyed fabulous, all-consuming relationships with, I would have never picked in a squillion years; yet, there was something irresistible: a fire in his eyes, a contagious laugh, an enquiring mind, a generous heart, a bon vivre—things you just can’t relay on a five adjective long MENu. </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17px;">So it worries me that the science stats, or ill-chosen five adjectives might potentially knock out that computer geek who doesn’t own a suit, or the hunter who makes you laugh and smells so delicious to your senses, or the older man who just makes you weak-kneed with one look.</span><br />
<br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17px;">Am I saying don’t give it a go? No! Go for it, my fine Dating Friend! Enjoy, meet publicly and act kindly. But the hopeless romantic in me just quakes at the sterility, the lack of adjectives! Give me more adjectives! And maybe this will be a gateway to a longer conversation, I hope so, but the adjectives that don’t conform to your ideal, the ones that would have surprised you if you'd given them a chance, are lost in a click, consigned to cyber purgatory.</span><br />
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<br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17px;">If you are traditional, confident and out-going, it’s not apps or online sites you need, it’s good people. Surround yourself with positive friends, friends with gumption, friends to have a coffee with, lunch or dinner with, friends to adventure places with, and it's whilst enjoying life, just as you are, that you'll catch a glimpse of those intriguing eyes which stop your smile, suck the breath from your lungs and make you feel like you are the corseted heroine in an Edith Wharton novel,</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17px;">“Oh… hello!”</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17px;">“Hello there. Dreadfully cold, isn’t it?”</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17px;">“Rather. I’ve lost complete feeling in my fingers.”</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17px;">“Lord, you are looking blue. Perhaps… can I get you a coffee…?”</span></div>
Eleanorgjhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00672862557542492003noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7436717201345268718.post-31129011983997757402013-02-01T07:50:00.001-08:002013-02-01T07:50:34.868-08:00Sense Sabotage. A Tale of Letting Go and the Regretting Foe.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Back in Blighty, we have "Jumble Sales." They are rather like yard sales or small-scale flea markets, usually held in dank church halls, or rearranged and bleached school canteens. They are frequented by elderly ladies who smell of lavender and have dangerously sharp elbows. The point of a jumble sale is to get rid of all your shit that you no longer have use for, and for the church, charity or endeavour to make money. The point of attending... well, it's slightly less well defined, but those treasure-seeking, antique-snuffling, bargain-hunting floral octogenarians, froth at the mouth to get elbow-deep in piles of jettisoned tat.<br />
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When I was about six or seven years old, old enough to know not to suck my finger, stick it up my nose or in electrical sockets; when I knew what a thunder clap crying or screaming in public would bring to my thigh, arm or any exposed part south of my head; when I knew throwing my skirt over my head was not the best tactic when playing hide-and-seek; I was asked to donate my toys to the school jumble sale. Yes, I was asked to de-clutter my life at such an early age. I was given the choice to pick, the Empirical power of dolly life with me, or dolly life with someone else who was not me--surely, Dolly Death!<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpiC03ztzvPuaDEZxOyLlAXITHMhzLb0bJeiU3IFUszJVZF-B6F6yb74EGoYAthcVdnscC6DZf1jfJGWgCFuyBpA92Rfs4UTLx4Oou7J3JTF6bS1jIWpToQtC0QJByC82TuJs1AfIH4euM/s1600/Leo+Dicap.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpiC03ztzvPuaDEZxOyLlAXITHMhzLb0bJeiU3IFUszJVZF-B6F6yb74EGoYAthcVdnscC6DZf1jfJGWgCFuyBpA92Rfs4UTLx4Oou7J3JTF6bS1jIWpToQtC0QJByC82TuJs1AfIH4euM/s1600/Leo+Dicap.jpg" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnPVshXg0MrVeWa6Rq3ubsYKN7t00Z0QVbILbCRxGSid7Z9YtQE4qIm7O_PuiRsEBcG5jJhsNqLN7fS6BR_nbO5BjO1W0tK_Hnte6lMALKs6K6qpxM57T_4EAXa3Bk6oaexLkqx2CV9AH2/s1600/Cabbage+Patcher.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnPVshXg0MrVeWa6Rq3ubsYKN7t00Z0QVbILbCRxGSid7Z9YtQE4qIm7O_PuiRsEBcG5jJhsNqLN7fS6BR_nbO5BjO1W0tK_Hnte6lMALKs6K6qpxM57T_4EAXa3Bk6oaexLkqx2CV9AH2/s1600/Cabbage+Patcher.jpg" /></a>I had a lot of toys. I was like the Octomom of the Cabbage Patch nursery. Certainly, I didn't NEED all those weirdly-named adopted children with squidged faces like Leonardo DiCaprio, or brightly coloured animal mutants. <br />
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I was almost nightly drowned in a sea of soft toy, smothered by Cabbage Patch Doll hair, asphyxiated by Wuzzle trunk, or tail or horn. I was often found--so I am told--half out of bed, limbs dangling from the edge of my mattress, in slumbering retreat and surrender to the toy sprawl. <br />
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And thus--very maturely, I thought--I bundled up a bag of...rejects. Katie was my one-eyed, hair-hacked plastic baby. I think she was probably second-hand when given to me. (As the youngest of two, and then of all the cousins, and a June baby to boot, so youngest in my school year, most things were second hand; by the time they got to me, someone else had loved and squeezed the shit of them, but heck, they were new to me and I was grateful.) Katie was such a foundling. I might have loved her at one stage, but she didn't have the cornsilk hair of my Cabbage Patch clutch; she didn't have nice clothes--she sported a knitted yellow onesie with a patchwork grass green pocket; she didn't make noise or cuddle well at all. Frankly, she was ugly, and blinded, and, since I had got scissor-happy with her blonde hair, she rather resembled a strange lesbian pirate baby in a custard-yellow prison jumpsuit. <br />
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I gave her up without much soul-searching. I had grown out of her. Why not give her away at the jumble sale? I didn't want her anymore. <br />
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She was tossed in the plastic bag, face down, yellow feet up, the handles were tied together and the bag was thrown into the back of an open truck. I felt so mature being able to give up my things. I had let go of something that no longer served me. I had decluttered! I had move on! I had put away childish things... and other grown-up cliches. <br />
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I must have slept well. I was a content kid, the over-thinking consciousness was yet to kick in. I can only imagine that I must have awoken to the sea of stuffed toys and plastic dollies in my bed and felt a <i>Home Alone</i>-esque, cheek-clasping realization that one of my babies was missing: "KATIE!" <br />
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I remember running to Mum in a panic. I had made a big mistake! I didn't mean to give her up. I wanted her back! How could I get her back?! I loved her! She was my one-eyed lesbian convict pirate baby! <br />
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I cried. I wailed. Yes, I was old enough to know better, but sometimes our hearts speak without thinking. I couldn't bear the thought of someone else cradling my baby, singing her sea shanties, and telling tales of her lost eyeball. I didn't care that someone might love her or look after her better than I, or that I had many more pretty dolls, without bad buzz jobs. She was mine and I wanted her back!<br />
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Mum phoned the school secretary, Mrs Windsor. I watched intently, eyes awash and over-spilling with hot, stricken tears. She was laughing! How could she laugh? I had lost my baby! <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjw9qimFU4E7hrQ9n6tO9aYmCaM-kQs5EALfWt_DhMy0ZWhu1OqOPRRxHIkb26WFbDLg36sFXGb1iCjcW9SXagP0Lz_AXsMcM7bCoSgTUyPMt-6LgHrbuIz-djFKM05LZru64Pkisz06rel/s1600/LA+Jan+2013+071.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjw9qimFU4E7hrQ9n6tO9aYmCaM-kQs5EALfWt_DhMy0ZWhu1OqOPRRxHIkb26WFbDLg36sFXGb1iCjcW9SXagP0Lz_AXsMcM7bCoSgTUyPMt-6LgHrbuIz-djFKM05LZru64Pkisz06rel/s200/LA+Jan+2013+071.JPG" width="149" /></a>When she replaced the receiver she reeled me into her, my hot face buried at her waist. Mrs Windsor would look for Katie she promised. Don't worry, there would be a way to get her back.<br />
<br />
And so it was, I later learned, that Mrs Windsor, her own children around my age, picked through the jumble of discarded belongings, through bag upon bag until she located the odd one-eye baby with the razored hair and the unenviable wardrobe. Katie was restored to me. I forget what happened then. I probably made a fuss of her, told her I loved her all along and would never let her go again, but of course, I did.<br />
<br />
<br />
I thought of that this week, decades later, as I watched a friend release their former loved one for reasons of sound judgement, and then, the panic... the self-sabotage, as the innate instinct of familiarity and belonging and ownership screams to get them back, reel them in again, bring them home, love them more. Sometimes the screams are so loud they drown out the many little voices that raised discontent in the first place. And this panic is human. The thought of you without, in bed alone; the thought of your baby with someone else. It hurts, even if you <i>did</i> instigate it. But, and here is my point, if you had the gumption to let go, don't grasp back on, it's just confusing and time-wasting and pointless. <br />
<br />
A good friend said once, "There are plenty more Muppets in the Sesame Sea," and some day, you will find one that you never consider letting go of, or donating to the jumble pile. So chin up, dear friend. Thrive on!<br />
<br />
<br />
(And remember, if you get weepy, it's just "an inflammation in your tear gland.") ;)<br />
<br /></div>
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Eleanorgjhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00672862557542492003noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7436717201345268718.post-16704092544859690952013-01-25T05:54:00.000-08:002013-01-25T05:54:26.719-08:00Dumping Etiquette. Or, How to Avoid Relationship Roadkill.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Relationships: when they are good, they are great; when they
are bad, they are horrid. To this we can
all attest, but huzzah, yahoo, chocs away, cut the cord, thank God we live in
a day, an age and a society, when we can choose who we want to be with, and, if it
is not working out as we would like, we can say "Adieu." </div>
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What is tough, is when the cord is wrenched, ripped untimely
and we are left, bleeding, bruising from beneath, battered by implosions of
hope; when we have been driven to the edge—sometimes thinking that we are going
on a nice little road trip--only to be pushed from the speeding vehicle and thrust off the Scenic Look Out Point. So long cosy town called Relationship. Welcome to Rejection, Population 1.<br />
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It’s an ugly state, none of
your friends understand why you visit; you are perennially beaten when you
go there, after all; you hate yourself for not reading the map, seeing the signs; you
always proclaim that NO ONE will ever take you to that rotten fucking place again... and yet, here you are! Ta dah!<br />
FUCK.</div>
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Whether expected or
not, being dumped and left for dead in the town called Rejection, is one of the
brutal aspects of dating. It’s inevitable. Or is it?
I think when one or other parts ways and drives away, there is a way to
do it without relationship roadkill. </div>
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I was reminded of this recently as I watched, in glorious technicolour and bioluminescence, Yann Martel's <i>The Life of Pi </i>brought to life by the superb Ang Lee.<i> </i>The screenplay is slightly different phrasing from the novel--the novel verbose, the script succinct--I think both are valid here. </div>
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"What a terrible thing it is to botch a farewell...It is important in life to conclude things properly. Only then can you let go. Otherwise, you are left with words you should have said, but never did, and your heart is heavy with remorse."</div>
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From the movie--typed furiously undercover in the black out of the movie theatre: "Life is made up of acts of letting go. What hurts is not taking a moment to say goodbye."</div>
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<br />
<u>The Face to Face Goodbye</u></div>
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This is the bravest form of relationship termination, because
the reaction is always unpredictable. It
takes a steady, even, well-brought up Dumpee to keep his or her cool. It takes a thoughtful, kind Dumper to
tactfully put forth all the many and varied reasons why their journey is over. The Dumper knows that he or she may be on the receiving end of a melt down, perhaps a few “But Why(s)?” But then it is done. Hollywood, Jerry Springer, or Taylor Swift autobio-songs may spice it up a bit with an ice-pick, some suit alterations with a pair of sharp pinking shears, or boiling poor innocent bunnies, but REALLY, <i>REALLY</i>, don't most intelligent people just take it on the chin and walk away? <br />
<br />
The F-to-F break-up <i>can</i> be honourable. It <i>can</i> be kind. In this disappointment in person, face to face, voice to voice, there can be a finality between former fond friends, flames, lovers or partners. A final look, an acknowledgement of what was, perhaps a kiss, a last embrace, one last glance of what could have been. And perhaps then both can take heart that once they shared a closeness: memories, comedy lines, pet names, songs and jokes that will never mean the same when explained to anyone else. </div>
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<span style="text-indent: -0.25in;"><u>The Telephone Goodbye</u></span></div>
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Alexander Graham Bell, has a lot to answer for: namely,
inventing the conduit that facilitated my own 17 year-old heart to be
pulverized, pummeled and pulped; when Tom Long told me that “he just wasn’t
into relationships.”</div>
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I clenched the receiver in my right hand, my knuckles so
taut they went white; I curled the twirly cord around the fingers of my left
until they pulsed purple.</div>
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Breathe.</div>
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“Oh. That’s
okay. That’s fine. Fine!
You know, I’m not really a relationship type person either.” Came the
voice from the pole-axed teen, desperate to save face while her heart was
imploding. I could hardly believe it was
my own, so calm, so at odds with the voice inside screaming NOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!</div>
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I don’t know what he
said after that. Maybe that he’d see me
at army cadets on Friday, or that he hoped I’d make it to the rugby match on
Saturday. I only know Mum had to wrestle
the receiver from my grip, the handset blaring audibly from the hall to the
kitchen, that it was off the hook. He was
off the hook. My poor pulmonary was not.</div>
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In spite of this early telephonic rejection, I generally
think telephone dumping is good for all involved, because, as Dumpee, you can
retain your pride if you want, (and hopefully not cut off your circulation);
and if you are the Dumper, you can save yourself the risk of being stabbed in
the eye with a fork. However,
it is kind in its way because it means you care enough to listen to the
Dumpee’s response. That’s important
folks. Everyone wants to feel
special. Everyone wants to have their
opinion count, to mean something. If you
have any common decency, as a Dumper, you have to give the Dumpee a chance to
say their piece too. It is
considerate. It doesn’t mean you are
going to like what they say, but suck it up, Buttercup!</div>
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<u><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;">The Voice</span><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; text-indent: -0.25in;">mail Goodbye</span></u></div>
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On what planet is this acceptable? It is the cheat. The easy way out. It is the medium that allows a one-sided conversation. Not even a conversation, it's a con. The rug pulled out from under your feet, landing you flat on your back, winded and breathless, with nothing but the ghost of your relationship ruffling the curtains and rippling the shutters on it's way out.</div>
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<u>The Dear John Goodbye Letter, Post it or Email</u></div>
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<span style="text-indent: -0.25in;"> A letter is hardly the popular method of communication these days,
but</span><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;"> </span><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;">I love to receive a handwritten epistle.</span><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;"> </span><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;">The last letter I received was
from an ex-boyfriend thanking me for being such a lady during our sad break-up
scene.</span><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;"> </span><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;">You know, that showed real class. He acknowledge I had broken it off with reason and honour, but that when we had been together, he had "always felt like the luckiest man in the room." I treasure his kind words and his acceptance and release. He marked himself as a gentleman. However, a</span><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;"> letter written to break-up with someone?</span><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;">
</span><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;">A “Dear John, it’s not you, it’s me…” and then all the many reasons why it was not meant to be…? </span><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;"> </span><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;">Oh
please!</span><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;"> </span><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;">And telling me that the Dumper
has taken extra time and effort to unite pen with paper, is bullshit.</span><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;"> </span><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;">That’s like trying to convince me that
all-natural, reduced-fat peanut butter tastes good.</span><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;"> </span><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;">It doesn’t, however you package it, whether
it is healthier and took months to organically churn it, it still sucks.</span><br />
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<span style="text-indent: -0.25in;"> Email is, I expect, more popular a form of dismissal, but is no more thoughtful. Less so, because it is more convenient. At least the Writing Dumper has bought a stamp.</span></div>
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And a Post It? A written one-sided goodbye, but without the effort of full sentences or monogrammed paper? It’s all so effortless. It's so disposal. It’s the McDonalds break up choice: cheap, full of bloated lips and arseholes, that are swallowed fast, the wrapping balled up and thrown away. Done. Forgotten.<br />
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A text is almost as bad, but at least Dumpee can decide whether or not to reply.</div>
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"The Mother Fucker's concise." Yes, Samantha, but sometimes, you deserve an explanation.<br />
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<u>Slow Fade</u></div>
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Are we children? Terminating relations simply by not responding leaves so much unresolved. It is rather gutless not to tell someone it is over, isn't it? I mean, the Dumper is just trying to avoid dealing with the shituation. Man up! I know it's not fun, but at least acknowledge the end. There doesn't have to be tears and fanfares. But disappearing without a bye or leave is just not cricket!</div>
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I have been the Dumper.
I have been the Dumpee. Neither
is easy. Hurting someone, unless you
are, in fact, Dr Crippin, is never, never nice.
I have cried more tears over hurting someone’s feeling than I have
mourning my own. Watching or hearing
someone cry and look into your eyes and ask “why?” is probably the most
awful, gut-wrenching, puppy-killing kind of experience. </div>
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So Dumpers, People, be kind! Don't fling your former flame from the moving vehicle, or push them out like the rubbish, to plummet from a great height. Release them gently back into the Dating Sea, maybe a little breathless, and gaffed from the insides, but they will recover. Allow your castaways to swim off like Esther
Williams sans plastic swimming cap. Do them the courtesy of watching them clamber out of the
water in their polka dot bikini, bronzed legs slightly wobbly as they get to
their feet; have the heart to appreciate them as they suck in their stomach, stick out
their chest and sally forth, teeth-clenched into a smile as they wave to you from the other
side. </div>
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Don’t slink off like a spineless mutant. Communicate. End it with respect. Do it in person, or pick up the phone. Read the reply. Return the call. Whatever, but SAY GOODBYE! She/he will think much better of you. We are sentient beings--most of us--we cry, but we survive.
We are vertebrates—most of us--we are supposed to have a backbone, so show it. Stand up straight and look people in the eye. We are mammals, one of two species in the
animal kingdom who mate face to face.
So, here’s my thought: if you fuck face to face, the least you can do is
say a friendly “fuck off” face to face. OR, as Carrie says:<br />
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Now, where's my champagne?</div>
Eleanorgjhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00672862557542492003noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7436717201345268718.post-80586989299363905952013-01-18T08:08:00.000-08:002013-01-18T08:15:28.251-08:00Silver Linings. Or, it's okay, EVERYONE'S a little bit mental!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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On New Year’s Day, before the Oscar nominations, before the
Golden Globes, before I had realized I had only 7 weeks before hardcore
rehearsals for my Oscarpalooza Party Parody, I watched the trailer for<i> Silver
Linings Playbook</i>. Odd title, methought. Not exactly punchy, and what the cat’s
dumplings is a ‘playbook’? (Rest easy, I
know now, sports fans.) I clicked the
icon over ‘play.’</div>
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I was stuck to the screen like Martha to her hot glue gun;
drawn to it like mercury up a thermometer, iron filings to a magnet, wine to my
face. It was the Lumineers soundtrack, the
dialogue, the intensity, and I realized, as the trailer finished and I gulped
for air, I had forgotten to breathe. I
made an agreement with Self that, with or without a date, I would see this
film. So, as the snow fell late on
Tuesday night, while all the sensible people were tucked up at home, battening down
the hatches, polishing their shovels and weighing their pounds of Miracle Melt,
I thought, fuck it! I’m going to the movies!</div>
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I’m not going to review it, for movie-going is subjective,
and I don’t want to be responsible for awkward date nights booked on my advice;
neither am I going to blow it for you and reveal the intricacies of the plot,
but I am going to share how it made me feel: hopeful. <br />
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You’ll remember, I was not thrilled with the 2011 hit <i>Crazy Stupid Love</i> (if you
don’t—tsk!—here it is: <a href="http://eleanorgwyn-jones.blogspot.com/2011/08/crazy-sexyoh-dear-god-just-tell-her.html">http://eleanorgwyn-jones.blogspot.com/2011/08/crazy-sexyoh-dear-god-just-tell-her.html</a>). I just hated the fact Steve Carrell’s character did
not fight for his beautiful wife. (Well, not until the end.) In SLPB, Pat Solitano, Bradley Cooper, is
released from Baltimore Nuthouse and will not <i>stop</i> fighting.<br />
<br />
He’s the underdog who refuses to take his
meds; who endures <i>Farewell to Arms</i>, <i>Lord of the Flies</i> etc., to improve himself
and impress his English teacher wife; who works out fanatically in a rubbish
bin bag to get in shape and be a better version of himself. Okay, it’s Hollywood, this version is already
pretty good—I certainly wouldn’t nudge him out of bed for a cup of tea
and a buttered crumpet—Cooper portrays a character so hurt, so vulnerable,
so unstable, so riddled with shortcomings, but he <i>tries</i>, and THAT,<b> THAT</b> is utterly endearing. (And the fact he eats cereal. Bless ‘im!)<br />
<br />
He is an unusually flawed hero with heart. And I think that is why this odd, confrontationally charming rom com written and directed by David O. Russell
actually got a nod for Best Picture. It
doesn’t have CGI, or 3-D effects, or malnourished actors shaving their heads,
or almighty flesh-ripping shoot outs; it has emotion, a visible beating
heart. <a href="http://thechive.com/2013/01/11/2013-oscar-movie-titles-if-they-were-honest-13-photos/">Best Picture Nominees, if the titles were honest!</a><br />
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De Niro—who I am used to seeing
as some mean badass mofo—weeps, actually weeps!
In the scene where he wakes his sleeping son and stokes his hair,
telling him how he should have been a better father… his chin gets wobbly and his lips tremble and—Holy
Carumba—droplets quiver in his saggy eye skin (Bob, I have tube of eye renewal
with your name on it). It was a really
touching quiet moment. But the movie is
made up of them, each scene someone’s heart is served up on a platter to be held,
squished or stamped on. Each scene is
driven by dimensional characters, nuance, by deft acting, not effects.<br />
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You can read every emotion, every jolt of surprise, bright
gleam of delight, moony haze of remembrance, flicker of rage, every sad halo of
disappointment as it passes through Cooper’s eyes. He is the exuberant puppy who gets kicked,
and goes a little psycho, but really I get that.<br />
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For all his violent kray-kray, wacko mood swings he has really good intentions. I mean, I feel pissed off when I read
Hemingway! I do get a bit WOO WEE
*colourful explosion of expletives* when I have lost something I cannot find. For instance, when searching for my AWOL passport at 4am, hours before my flight, that sort of thing. I certainly think—you know, just a
hypothetical, I’m not giving the plot away AT ALL—but if I came home to find my
husband chowing down on lady bits in our shower, yup, I might throw a few
things. Probably stilettos. At Miss Lunchables head. It’s a natural reaction. It’s human.
Pat’s human, he just lacks a fuse. He has an instant ignition, and no filter,
like a small child without artifice, or pretense, just genuinely reacting, albeit in a socially unacceptable way.<br />
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Pat, his passionate father and enabling mother, try to cope
with his bipolar behaviour, assisted by the pleasant staccato of Dr. Patel. I hope this is not too un-P.C.—you know how
that would bother me deeply—but it was really lovely to hear a clipped Indian
accent—are my British roots showing?
Really, it’s true. It’s a big,
old country is India, I know because I’ve been there, and I listened in
Geography, yet I don’t hear the unique strains of the Indian melodious chirp in many
Hollywood films. I digress. Pat’s therapist recommends he find a
strategy. Pat focuses like an Olympian
on being positive and is able to overlook the bathroom buffet, except when
Stevie Wonder’s <i>Cherie Amour</i> is playing. He puts all his energy on the one thing that means everything to him,
his wife; or the memory of her. The
problem with looking ahead and seeing the goal posts in the distance, means you
are not watching the man about to tackle you, or perhaps the wing woman team
player that is there by your side all along.<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When he meets Tiffany, played by Jennifer Lawrence, he is
challenged in the crazy stakes. She is
an equally imperfect heroine. Though not
bipolar, she is a recovering sex addict and depressed widow, so it’s not her
brain lacking a fuse or filter, she just doesn’t give a shit about convention,
so does what she wants (or who she wants) and says what she means. I have to admire that kind of ballsy
woman. She is not afraid of asking for
the things she wants.<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgss_N2wfaUgdG0Lq9T1BuXhXjcTRBXvfkdLx-bXqYwGiIY5ScBfievN2E-gwnXrdd0LbGbET_yqzT2EX4FQ2gZBjcLcQPy68hfpmX6B26D3eT0BZ0b2THMbtVOmemUmszbm5QKoDbTKz_q/s1600/Friends+with+Benefits.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgss_N2wfaUgdG0Lq9T1BuXhXjcTRBXvfkdLx-bXqYwGiIY5ScBfievN2E-gwnXrdd0LbGbET_yqzT2EX4FQ2gZBjcLcQPy68hfpmX6B26D3eT0BZ0b2THMbtVOmemUmszbm5QKoDbTKz_q/s1600/Friends+with+Benefits.jpg" /></a>They are friends, with a capital ‘F’, because, he is—don’t
forget—completely obsessed with getting back with his wife, but she challenges
the crazy in his eye, and together, they make sense. He helps her, she helps him; tit for tat;
quid pro quo. But platonic relationships
are never really that even, are they Steven?
Nope. And in Lawrence’s iced
gaze, which most times could freeze kittens, you see a reflection of affection
forming and warming her cold front.<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He reluctantly agrees to learn a dance routine with Tiffany,
in exchange for her contacting his wife—the restraining order preventing him
from doing so. To push them closer into
“hold” his book making father wagers to win all his money in a parlay based on
the success of the Eagles and… Pat and Tiffany’s dance scores.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6_375tgurdVUv7rcpInM8-PMfioT5hEXaUpF7a2c1rKrUTkMdaMCenkWrdoCcvZPJk4Ad1Mgk903s_J8TiJ_NNCjemQ2dV3eqQCXGhcMSEEXEgxWRDaFQhiISpYjZ3OqEA5gCSTg0dZfv/s1600/Friends+with+Bene+dancing.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6_375tgurdVUv7rcpInM8-PMfioT5hEXaUpF7a2c1rKrUTkMdaMCenkWrdoCcvZPJk4Ad1Mgk903s_J8TiJ_NNCjemQ2dV3eqQCXGhcMSEEXEgxWRDaFQhiISpYjZ3OqEA5gCSTg0dZfv/s1600/Friends+with+Bene+dancing.jpg" /></a></div>
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Yes dancing. The
activity that brings men and women together like no other. (Well,
not including sex.) It is where flesh
and sweat and touch meet, sizzling like fine filet on a hot hibachi stone. It is Pat, in the end, for whom the dance
becomes more important. And they are
lovely together, not like Johnny and Baby, it’s more natural than that: no
professional polish, no stiffness, fake tan or plastic smile—and he still hasn’t
found a razor—it’s just unadulterated fun they have together, and, crazy or
not, shouldn’t that be what relationships are all about? Two people who are better versions of
themselves together than apart? Who are a team? Who laugh and can be naked and ridiculous and FUN together?<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So, I said that this film made me hopeful. I don’t mean to wrap mental illness,
addictions or afflictions in a cutesy chocolate box. Approximately 5.7 million American adults are
currently affected by bipolar disorder.
Approximately 40 million American adults suffer from anxiety disorder
which can include one or many of the following: panic disorder,
obsessive-compulsive disorder, post-traumatic stress disorder, generalized
anxiety disorder, social phobia, agoraphobia, etc.<span style="background-color: #f4f7fa; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 6pt; line-height: 115%;">
</span><br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Approximately 17.6 million American adults are
alcoholics. Apparently, though I am not overly sure how they projected this figure, but, according to the
American Association for Marriage and Family Therapy, nearly 12 million
American’s are sex addicts.<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Clearly, everyone is fucking nuts, so maybe we should be fucking
Nuts. But let’s get back to the hope
bit. It is this: that with all these disorders,
phobias, addictions, the human spirit is mighty and it can fight, and when you
fight and you try, and you don’t stop trying, that’s when you find those who are
important, cheering you along.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiKLo4ZnoUTbXCfCkJRFkzKgkFc45eml0ydYUbnJz8iYBJV7jyII8ZfwJeVfAi6g8bEfP-jClyzoIZap8bZ327TViCLzcyvT4iiu-xKF9F8SLtrgf_FQm2sOAzDm4aKEkHkoMnJtnhDFYS/s1600/Silver+Linings+PB.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiKLo4ZnoUTbXCfCkJRFkzKgkFc45eml0ydYUbnJz8iYBJV7jyII8ZfwJeVfAi6g8bEfP-jClyzoIZap8bZ327TViCLzcyvT4iiu-xKF9F8SLtrgf_FQm2sOAzDm4aKEkHkoMnJtnhDFYS/s320/Silver+Linings+PB.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Never give up, dear Reader. Never.
Give. Up.</div>
</div>
Eleanorgjhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00672862557542492003noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7436717201345268718.post-82631124655421822132013-01-04T08:47:00.000-08:002013-01-04T08:47:42.917-08:00'E' is for Effort. The Cautionary Tale of Smidgen and her Yo-yo Man.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Oh, we got trouble.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Right here in Datin’
City.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>It starts ‘T’ and it
ends in ‘E’ and that stands for … TERRIFICALLY-EN-noying YO-YO MEN!<o:p></o:p></i><br />
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj95avfg1Ye5KDDFJ9Y7LYpOzNYGuo2tF-GAP6Lka92WyTeXqGmoLGDU6pcfRGhK3LWpqdwp_ttvirmIhqkvB8I79lOq_oD2L-zdNPpjzPfbOMEc0_ScsAHijT0w31UEQn-a7bJrAAcHcGH/s1600/Yoyo+Man.JPEG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj95avfg1Ye5KDDFJ9Y7LYpOzNYGuo2tF-GAP6Lka92WyTeXqGmoLGDU6pcfRGhK3LWpqdwp_ttvirmIhqkvB8I79lOq_oD2L-zdNPpjzPfbOMEc0_ScsAHijT0w31UEQn-a7bJrAAcHcGH/s1600/Yoyo+Man.JPEG" /></a></div>
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Yes, Dear Reader, my hackles have been raised like rabid wolf
mother, caught in the midday sun, kicked in the ribs and stung by a wasp. Not on account of my own misadventures—well,
not that I can disclose here—but on behalf of my great friend, Smidgen. <br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It is worse than Samantha’s “Friday Night Soup-making-Date-with
Mother.” <a href="http://eleanorgwyn-jones.blogspot.com/2012/08/not-so-souper-in-which-i-discuss-lame.html">Not So Souper!</a> Far worse. In fact, think of an awful date. Let’s say… being stood up. Imagine, if you will, the painful scenario:
there you are, sitting all gussied-up, your uncomfortable knickers jammed
up your crack, your boobs launched skyward, and he still hasn’t
arrived. The restaurant is bustling and
the couples beside you giggle, and paw, and order. You ask for water and play solitaire on your 'I' phone. Appetizers grace other tables,
but you try not to notice; you try to pretend you are not bothered that he hasn’t
arrived because you are sure, absolutely positive, that he must be caught in traffic, or off saving the
world, or something. The entrees are served beside you
and you regret that all you have had to eat today was a Luna bar. You’ve been sitting alone for an hour now.
You realize, with an ache, you have told all your friends, nay, the
entire Facebook World that you are going on said date. Shit!
You even told the mouthy hairdresser who spent three hours getting the new
shade, cut, blow and curl just right for this evening! And then, as the table beside you clears and
is reset, in walks your Ex, as smiles, as is his way, parading some little bit
of Non-English Muffin, who wears the same dress you do, only better. He waves at you on your own and immediately
starts laughing, ordering with largesse, including a drink for you—oh how
noble--and they start kissing, nauseatingly, sharing their
appetizers as well as their saliva. <br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
That didn’t happen. I’m
just painting a picture. But you have to
admit, that would be a pretty darn shitty date. My heart goes out to anyone who has gone to dinner with
expectations, has been left dangling, neglected, forgotten, emotionally and
mentally crushed. But that kind of mean
neglect is short-lived. It ends at that non-date. What happened, no, what IS HAPPENING to poor Smidgen is worse. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
*Gasp*</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
*Intake of breath*</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I KNOW!<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIClAE8n18zwRDef9mJigBxjGqSEDsT9DVkHnUil9jaeKnUpn8i-fEQud58azXrPau_b-LZ-FYuJoMiYWlehoozXq0yZEKI_Rs3xVAM1JyrNuQK2vj782GH3rM4Gg2_rc2xSGd_8Sr4c-_/s1600/yoyo+roll.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIClAE8n18zwRDef9mJigBxjGqSEDsT9DVkHnUil9jaeKnUpn8i-fEQud58azXrPau_b-LZ-FYuJoMiYWlehoozXq0yZEKI_Rs3xVAM1JyrNuQK2vj782GH3rM4Gg2_rc2xSGd_8Sr4c-_/s1600/yoyo+roll.jpg" /></a>What in this vast Universe could be a worse slap-in-the-face-with-a-smelly-week-dead-fish than that?
(If you had a worse dating disaster, I’m sorry. *Head tilt* *Pout* Do share it below so
Smidge can feel better.)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Well, Dear Reader, I’ll explain. You see, Smidgen is being emotionally stood up EVERYDAY. She is dating a… Yo-yo
Man. He is not a rapper, or a chap who
is addicted to mint chocolate biscuits from the UK, or even a fellow talented
in the arts of string and spool dexterity, but he is a classic yo yo…wind her in,
let her drop, wind her in, let her drop.<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxLdULd1vGyHVg0DMYEUhcfFPVM-wO0ifFn2n7_Kgd1syR_EG6VjrALwMV0cX6ny8AIDo5zXpzSa9qJk_buJHUwLKvSnsgpxeLdWrPDkLD37ejtIH43O3Vh3IJzfhuSOJ99sON5JStN0ZX/s1600/cat+cute.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxLdULd1vGyHVg0DMYEUhcfFPVM-wO0ifFn2n7_Kgd1syR_EG6VjrALwMV0cX6ny8AIDo5zXpzSa9qJk_buJHUwLKvSnsgpxeLdWrPDkLD37ejtIH43O3Vh3IJzfhuSOJ99sON5JStN0ZX/s1600/cat+cute.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hard hats ON! Hard hearts? Woof,<br />Smidge will never have that.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
She adores him, she won’t say a bad word about him, but Yo-yo
Man is starting to really piss me off on her behalf. Smidgen is a darling. It’s an apt name because she is just a sweetie! She is cute and little, and you just want to
give her a hug. There’s no side to
Smidge, everyone loves her. (She is also:
clever, funny, she smells great, she blows at time management and is a sucker
for small animals—namely cats.) She
makes her own way, independent is Smidge, and any man would be lucky to have
her.<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Yo-yo Man seems … okay.
He is not drop-my-knickers-have-my-lovechild funny or handsome, but he
is rather nice. I can see why she might
date him to start with, but now? Now, I
am rather at a loss. <br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You see, he makes no effort.
She is on a string, dangling, waiting for him to roll on in, dazzle her
with the charisma she says he possesses, wrap her up in his mighty grip and then, just as things are getting friendly, propel
away again, leaving her reeling, feeling inadequate that she can’t keep him for
longer; discouraged that he doesn’t want to stay; heart-heavy that he would
rather sleep alone than nestled into the soft, clean sheets beside her and her new
Victoria’s Secrets purchases. <br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We met at our favourite Sunday brunch spot, State St: Smidge, The Empress, The Goddess, The Nymph and me. It had been a wee while since the five of us
had met and news came flurrying from all angles, excited rapid fire of tales of
love, of work, of cats, of life. All
angles except for Smidge’s. She was unusually reticent. It wasn’t until I had finished my eggs
benedict, and she had pushed away most of her house salad, that she spilled her
sorry state of relations and admitted things were not going as well as she had
hoped. Largely, that her chap had
indeed, become a Yo-yo. A day would go
by without even a “hello” text; whole weeks would pass without seeing his face;
things that would not seem so bad if he had been aloof from the start, but
he hadn’t. <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAwHY99JhCVKYMAaPeDQKs1lNOa2ChkeNeTDx1yY99-G5b9GJc8fLHAbEXn1yhxnpUNIruj_V-5sbidAWa3wdUyZIMaFyI7i51ke6LFXetVO0odOCAcKPL70M8O2_VHQE8-p7QkORb6_D0/s1600/Shakespeare.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAwHY99JhCVKYMAaPeDQKs1lNOa2ChkeNeTDx1yY99-G5b9GJc8fLHAbEXn1yhxnpUNIruj_V-5sbidAWa3wdUyZIMaFyI7i51ke6LFXetVO0odOCAcKPL70M8O2_VHQE8-p7QkORb6_D0/s1600/Shakespeare.jpg" /></a></div>
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Think of your relationship as a pie chart.” I said, trying to present the emotional shituation
logically. “Divide the pie into the
slices of time he makes you deliciously, soaringly, climatically happy, and the
slices of time he makes you look as sad and forlorn as you do now. Because I have to say, you look about as pale
and puffy-lidded as a Halibut.” (We are close.
I can say things like that.)<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“It’s not that easy.”
Smidge wailed, stabbing her fork futilely at an escapee leaf of argula. “Because this is a new thing. He didn’t do this at first. He made an effort and I felt special, but now…
it’s not a happy pie chart. It’s a
shitty poo chart!”<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgp_lTwpzgNrdcH5Jke_0KbDTSJkZA9NQgE2-qgGII_LQkOPdEikMag9dc2yNiQaiOoCz1oiEF9n-Vtaz2nAxgtWevfOBF1foTN2SuvqtYfHwyxvduHDEXpWVWWYhILfyZyjEvjS7UIN0YW/s1600/yoyo+throw.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="224" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgp_lTwpzgNrdcH5Jke_0KbDTSJkZA9NQgE2-qgGII_LQkOPdEikMag9dc2yNiQaiOoCz1oiEF9n-Vtaz2nAxgtWevfOBF1foTN2SuvqtYfHwyxvduHDEXpWVWWYhILfyZyjEvjS7UIN0YW/s320/yoyo+throw.png" width="320" /></a></div>
The Empress, the Goddess, the Nymph and I collectively sighed. Our friend had regressed to high school and
he was the cause. You see, we know what
she is worth, we know what she deserves, but Smidge is so distracted by the
rose-tinted memories of their romance initially, she cannot make a logical,
dispassionate decision. She will not
give up, she will not let go of this man who clearly only wants her at his own
convenience, because she’s a naïve trier. And good for her. I’d rather be a trier than a wimp, a fighter than a flee-er, an optimist
rather than a pessimist; but, if she is making all the effort, if this is all
one-way traffic, if he has lost interest after just a month, it doesn’t exactly
bode well for a future happy harmonious relationship, does it?<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She should be with someone who actively wants to <i>be</i> with her; who wants to do things with
her and for her, EVEN if he doesn’t particularly like those things. He should be so friggin’ blinded by Almighty
Cupid that he would do them anyway, and would human torpedo himself to her side
at the slightest suggestion of ripping her clothes off and getting her naked. <br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
To make Yo-yo Man’s distance even more alarming, was the stark
contrast to the Empress’s new beau, a sterling chap who is the very opposite of
Yo-yo Man; he’s a No-Don’t-Go Man. Their
nascent relationship is already years old in couple comfort; they look and act
as if they have been together for decades.
They know each others’ flaws and love them anyway. They shop together—looking rather like a
prima donna and her Body Guard; when she dances, he will, without eye-rolling,
hold her purse; he will—on occasion—dance with her; he will cook meatless meals
for her, although he is a committed carnivore; he makes an effort.<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And I think that is what shocked everyone around the brunch table,
especially Smidgen. As we listened to
these contrasting tales of togetherness and separation, I saw Smidge’s eyes
well with tears (or dust and allergies), and I knew that she got it too. It’s about trying, about effort, and Yo-yo Man
just didn’t care enough for her to make an effort. <br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Maybe she’ll give up soon, cry a little more, hold her head
up and get on with things. We did
converse just yesterday, as cities away we both lay on our respective couches
watching <i>Jerry Maguire</i>, text-commentating
on when Tom Cruise got weird and about Renee Zellwegger’s character’s lack of fashion
sense, and she texted with many exclamation marks that she had completed
assembling a flat-pack desk thingy from Target.
“I did it all myself!!!!!!!! I did it without *****. I don’t need him to complete me. I complete me.” That’s the spirit, thought I. But my Romantic Self spasmed with sadness, I
don’t want Me to be the greatest love of my life, and I know Smidge doesn't either.<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I know she’ll be fine, but it is an interesting concept, don’t
you think? Being constantly left dangling, without
plan or agenda, is far more hurtful than being stood up as one’s Ex and his Muffin
exchange bodily fluids an arm’s reach away; it’s mentally more demoralizing
than a couple’s Christmas squabble; it’s there, chipping away at her confidence
with every hour of every day he doesn’t bother.<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So remember Datin’ City Folk, if you truly like this one,
make the effort. Go out of your way to bring
her/him a coffee; text her to ask how her day is going/text him to ask if he
has eaten; make plans; do things that you wouldn’t normally do; meet her/his
friends. It shouldn’t be hard, it’s
easy, because you will <i>want</i> to. That drive, the desire, that pounding in the
depth of your stomach that scares and delights and fires you to make someone
happy, makes even difficult tasks a pleasure.<br />
<br />
Post Script: In researching whether to spell yo-yo with or without a hyphen, I stumbled upon the Urban Dictionary's version of Yo-yo: abbreviation of "You're Own Your Own." How apt. Poor Smidgen.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
</div>
<iframe allowfullscreen="allowfullscreen" frameborder="0" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/qam1fbQmA_s" width="420"></iframe></div>
Eleanorgjhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00672862557542492003noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7436717201345268718.post-44974749777336835072012-12-28T16:00:00.001-08:002012-12-28T16:27:32.761-08:00Slammin': Things are about to get "Orated."<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
When the delightful Pam Hill asked if I would compete in the third ever Scranton Story Slam, my initial reaction was one of surprise, nausea and overwhelmingly reluctance. A bit like oral sex. In what universe does that sound at all appealing? But, I am ever swayed by peer pressure; I knew others who had done it, friends who I am sure wouldn't lie to me, who told me I would be "awesome at it and have a damn good time!" And so, I donned my best underwear, sprayed twice, and took a deep breath.<br />
<br />
I give you my oral all:<br />
<br />
<br />
<iframe allowfullscreen="allowfullscreen" frameborder="0" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/OvuEyCrYqpc" width="560"></iframe>
<br />
<br />
I won't give you the running commentary. But let's say, if you ever catch me flicking my hair nervously like that again, please give me a Chinese burn. Thanks muchly. <br />
<br />
The seven minutes or more--probably more--flashed by in a blur. I was nervous, not just the flutter of small lepidopteran wings in my colon, but like, oh God almighty, Sigourney Weaver Alien Baby about to breach, and Lord knows there was not enough room in that dress for any kind of stomach issue! <br />
<br />
Now, dear Reader, I know what you are thinking, "But Eleanor, you were an actress, this talking in front of people mullarkey should be a cake walk!" Well, no. No, acting is quite different. Acting you can be someone else. Acting, you are regurgitating lines from someone else's mind. You can blame them. Story Slamming, is all you. It is YOU under the lights, strapped to an imaginary chair, a chainsaw whirring through your cranium to cut a slice of brain for microscopic inspection. You are judged: for delivery, for eloquence, sometimes boob retention, but mostly for content. It's one thing to be thought talentless, quite another to be considered dumb.<br />
<br />
There were several times I tried something new--I was spontaneous--and it didn't quite hit the spot, but the peel of laughter from the Thespos at the back, implied I was, at least, going in the right direction. Then I got to the broccoli bit--the physical flailing where I am in danger of losing my mind as well as my boob, apparently--and the adrenalin was hitting hard. I just wanted to get to the end, reach the climax of the story and roll off the stage for a glass of pinot noir and tuna bite. I writhed, shrieking like a banshee and as I dropped to my knees, I looked up, eyes wide, took a breath and it was the best feeling in the world; my vision sparkled with the glint of white teeth, the reflection of eyes, spectacles, pints of beer, glasses of wine; the glisten of sweat, and gums, tongues and tonsils; people were listening to me.<br />
<br />
I didn't win, but it was okay, I'd had my own personal victory. I had made it through my oral! I had found my voice, "Yes! Yes!" People had listened and laughed! And I had done it all without a wardrobe malfunction.</div>
Eleanorgjhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00672862557542492003noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7436717201345268718.post-23457798454021959062012-12-21T14:31:00.000-08:002012-12-21T14:31:26.960-08:00My Lowes Point. In which I learn I cannot find studs alone!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6z6uFo2RA04sKD044hZtq5SCF1MGOJgsvBSXoJIYRgtxar_yYGrtx3_7P-1PBdU58Ot9gOr6t5s9fyfoJnD_oZ_v0O-aIdAh7URDhW79_4h8f_K7AaaH7C4xshbHO9ViTYyAOo1_8G7zH/s1600/axe+woman.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="224" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6z6uFo2RA04sKD044hZtq5SCF1MGOJgsvBSXoJIYRgtxar_yYGrtx3_7P-1PBdU58Ot9gOr6t5s9fyfoJnD_oZ_v0O-aIdAh7URDhW79_4h8f_K7AaaH7C4xshbHO9ViTYyAOo1_8G7zH/s320/axe+woman.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I am a fish out of water in home improvement
stores. I walk through the automatic
sliding doors, crossing the portal into—Gloria Steinheim, forgive me—Mandom,
and I have landed on the moon, or in a swamp, or Nanticoke; somewhere that is
clearly, clearly uninhabitable. The air,
it’s heady mix of wood, and oil and GRRR power tools has a chemical composition
that is impossible for me to breathe.
That’s it, dear reader, it’s a chemical thing: I drown in home
improvement air.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfO108owbs-jWxu7Bk1VoB6Bkz0V9ooCf5g9HXQPvcy9BEqLvgSo21aul4ohVM9tl3-OLrUvG1qtuoZXbw7giIVj5hLtgTIVnjZ5gbLPi1uKRDhq_Yv7FxK-7F7BdLN8Rv58_4_fp77EXi/s1600/Phelps+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfO108owbs-jWxu7Bk1VoB6Bkz0V9ooCf5g9HXQPvcy9BEqLvgSo21aul4ohVM9tl3-OLrUvG1qtuoZXbw7giIVj5hLtgTIVnjZ5gbLPi1uKRDhq_Yv7FxK-7F7BdLN8Rv58_4_fp77EXi/s1600/Phelps+2.jpg" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">It shouldn’t be foreign to me. It should be air I can suck on like Michael
Phelps does a hookah—I mean, like he does oxygen… when breaking through the
surface… when swimming and winning gold—oh what? Wait.
Nevermind. The point is, I should
not be out of my element here. Home
Improvement is not rocket science. I’m a
woman, that means I actually READ instructions.
I should have this DOWN!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I remember
visiting frequently enough as a child and more recently, Friday or Saturday
date nights with the ex-Beloved. Pre- or
post- dinner often involved a stop to trawl the aisles of Lowes for some
mind-numbing screw, flange or whirligig.
(Perhaps this is why we are ex-?) </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Dating tip #354: when your date is all dressed up and excited to spend
time with you, do not add in a “quick trip” to do a chore on the way or return
journey. Firstly, it’s never quick. Secondly, do you want all the bearded people
in Lowes to stare at your sequined and sparkly date like she’s the freak
show? Thirdly, she doesn’t care if you
need to spackle your sheetrock. Spackle
can wait. There are more important
sheets to rock.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Since home-owning, not to be confused with
ho-moaning, I have counted Self quite lucky.
So sure, I had a run in with the furnace and the local fire department <a href="http://eleanorgwyn-jones.blogspot.com/2012/11/i-am-invincible-in-which-i-learn-pride.html">http://eleanorgwyn-jones.blogspot.com/2012/11/i-am-invincible-in-which-i-learn-pride.html</a> ;
I had to change my internal bath tub plug thingy doodah; and I almost decapitated Self when trying to take down an unexpectedly heavy light/fan, but really, I am blessed. My Lady Lit friend who recently bought her
first house had a calamity and schooled me that home-owning was not all it was
cracked up to be. Her sewer pipe backed
up and she had to wade through a sea of poo in her basement. Really, that makes one reframe, doesn’t
it? Everyday I don’t have to be
calf-deep in cesspit of piss and shit, must be a good day! <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">However, although I grasp a challenge with two
manicured, yet determined hands, although I can read, there are things I just don’t
know; there are items I just cannot lift; there are heights I just cannot
reach.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Take the TV.
Simple enough, you may say.
Nope. Incorrect, Sir. Not easy.
It’s a project. I bought this
wangle-dangle TV. I gave in. After the torrent of outrage following last week’s
blog (<a href="http://eleanorgwyn-jones.blogspot.com/2012_12_01_archive.html">http://eleanorgwyn-jones.blogspot.com/2012_12_01_archive.html</a> ) that I did not have a screen to place Papa Smurf in front of, I folded and
decided, maybe it was time to join 2012 before it ran out. Sadly, Papa Smurf flew to Blighty the day I
bought it, so he has yet to enjoy the technology dans la maison. Also, I have been doing much entertaining of
late and gathering a friend or group of friends to cluster around your
much-smudged laptop to watch fuzzy, interrupted youtube clips and re-runs of
Dancing with the Stars, does not an equipped host make. I capitulated. I surprised Self. I really did.
I went to a certain grey goods store (it was almost as hard for me to
breathe in there as Lowes, but I held my breath and smiled broadly), and I
became educated on the difference between plasma, LED and LCD. Oh yes, people, I know shit now.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">After the general spiel, I opted for the Smart LED TV. Bill explained I could do lots of
wangle dangle things with it. Oh
goody. I did explain to him that I don’t
really watch TV, and that I also have an ‘I’ phone that I don’t really use to
it’s full capability, but still, it sounded like maybe, if I read the
instructions, I could do this! I could
enter the modern age.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">After the deal was done I decided a bracket was what
I needed. No clutter or table to dust, I
wanted it on the wall, preferably behind a secret sliding panel, a la James
Bond, but failing that, definitely mounted!
I bought the mount. Then began my
endless visits to Lowes.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I walked up and down each aisle, squinting at the
labels, looking high, crouching low, scouring for dry wall anchors like some
crime scene investigator in glorious, impractical Technicolor. I spent twenty fruitless minutes combing the
area and regretting the sequin mini skirt that made bending over relatively precarious. A bearded chap—I see Home Improvement Junkies
all have beards—approached me and asked if he could help me. Of course, the little purple pack was right under my nose. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">During his weeks
here, Papa Smurf had equipped me with a drill and a spirit level. Of course I told him I would never use them
and ungraciously asked him why ever he would bother getting me those useless
items—though the level did, I notice, have a nifty ruler on it. Yet, he was right! Now was the time, the time for TOOLS! I tip-toed down to the basement and retrieved
the new drill, the level and the plugs and laid them next to the TV. I felt very accomplished; a bit like a chef, with all the ingredients
chopped and minced neatly in little white bowls all
ready to start creating!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">But, GAH!
There was one ingredient missing.
A vital one. I couldn't just nail it to the wall. I needed... a Stud
Finder. I put a message out, certain
that my handiest dandiest friend would respond. He didn't. Instead a number of kind offers to lend me their Stud Finder. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Side note: I have never been very good at learning the right song lyrics. I have always preferred to make up my own--it masked errors through originality. I'm telling you this, because just hearing the words Stud Finder, regressed me to 1980's <i>Grease 2</i> and I was a Michelle Pfeifffffffffer’s singing: “I need a Stuuuuuuuuuud Finder!
A Stuuuuuuuuud Finder!” If you are a Chap Reader, that will mean nothing to you, so here's the video. (No need to thank me.) If you are a lady reader, I hope you find this as irresistible to sing along with as I do. I digress. But one last thing, don't you love how she is supposed to be 17 years old? Yeah. 17 plus 7 years. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<iframe allowfullscreen="allowfullscreen" frameborder="0" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/Hk3IpNbltyw" width="560"></iframe>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Despite these studly offers, the logistics
proved more complicated. And so I
thought, Fuck it! I'll buy my own and do it
myself. You never know when a stud
finder might come in handy.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">So I returned, breathed deep and with the help of
the bearded people, found the Finder of the Studs. What a great little tool! If only I could take it out in public and hold it up to every likely lad. It could save much wasted time. I found my studs, lying inert under the surface, like a diamond, or gold, or a decaying corpse. </span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIr4vzyczDdGFplblIHSQftVTx3Ux7rAS9Lro4LODSsbGkK_BVHEuECTqaQf4Q9eUxHjsZn_GaWl_nHx6-9OnRV4Zjn-Q1hagsIOkS7VQRL5qdblg6A10u15D4spyXb9upxAhI4Ro3lCqM/s1600/cell+phone+June-Aug+2012+250.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIr4vzyczDdGFplblIHSQftVTx3Ux7rAS9Lro4LODSsbGkK_BVHEuECTqaQf4Q9eUxHjsZn_GaWl_nHx6-9OnRV4Zjn-Q1hagsIOkS7VQRL5qdblg6A10u15D4spyXb9upxAhI4Ro3lCqM/s320/cell+phone+June-Aug+2012+250.JPG" width="239" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I imagine I looked a bit like this. <br /> (And that's shadow in my armpit. I am British, not German.)</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Now, you know this is not my thing. I write, I teach people about their skin, I
do not roll up my sleeves and transform into Tim Allen. I am lanky, gawky and ungainly. I
make drunks look elegant even when I’m sober.
So picture me now, trying to hold up this
large TV above my head—like Atlas—with a pencil in my mouth and the spirit
level clenched under my arm, trying to get an idea of where the TV should go. How do men
do this? Don’t they have the same two
hands I have? How do they hold all these
things? Does a penis naturally endow a chap with an extra hand? Does it have elephant trunk like skills? </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I juggled the awkward screen in
my hands, propping it up with my head, the lightweight television becoming
lead-weight with every passing minute.
What didn’t help was the telephone which persisted on ringing, and the
slippery hardwood that I had mistakenly spray polished when dusting the dining
room table. I juggled and slipped, dropped the spirit
level on my toe, and in the end, slid to the floor, holding the prized screen
up like some chalice I must save from the swamp of defeat.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I felt pretty demoralized. I am sure Papa Smurf could have done it on
his own. Yet, I had failed. I just couldn’t do it alone. Sorry womankind. So, I lit the bat signal, shone it over Scranton, and the cavalry arrived, in the form of my dearest friend's boyfriend: big capable hands, strength and oodles of patience. The screen that I had sweated under, juggled, death-gripped, he held in his hands like it were cardboard. He explained the mechanism of the mount and tossed the TV up on the wall with the effort I take to place a fridge magnet. I was about as useful to him as a scuba diving tank to a fish.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I like to think I am pretty capable. I like to think I am not a damsel in distress, but a dame with power tools and a dress; yet, sometimes there are tasks one woman cannot do alone; she needs a broader arm span and bigger hands. Now I just need Mankind to need me for a task that requires smaller hands, a loud voice and bad ass limbo skillz. No, I can't think of anything other than cat burglary either. Don't ask me to do that, but if you need these able digits to twiddle the hard-to-reach wires in the light fixture, I'm your gal! Or snake to reach the pipes at the back of the dishwasher, I can do it! Or sit back and watch her new smart TV, ah yeah, I'm on it!</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Thank you, Batman. </span></div>
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Eleanorgjhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00672862557542492003noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7436717201345268718.post-24435222413842248042012-12-14T06:48:00.000-08:002012-12-14T06:48:38.811-08:00FUCSSUE. In which I read something I shouldn't have.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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I read something that was not meant for me today. I didn’t mean to, but I did. It wasn’t like I picked the lock on someone’s
diary—I am not twelve—or that I scrolled through their text messages—I am not
jealous soul--but it was just... there and I just… oh whoops, read it. </div>
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Of course you can’t “accidentally” read something, can
you? It reminds me of the Sandi Toksvig
novel <i>Flying under Bridges</i>: "How do
you get accidentally pregnant? You don’t
just fall off a stool and <i>accidentally</i> land on a penis, do you?"</div>
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Reading takes intention.
You have to focus your eyes and string the words together, your brain
makes a choice to do that. You could, at
any moment, stop yourself after that first “oopsie” word; realizing it’s not for
you, you could close your eyes, turn off the computer, throw your hands in the
air and wave ‘em like you just don’t care.
You could. But would you?</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgziFVd7xU1xcdG3R7at1e2fZydEbP65pka4-8HFDW2Nv2TdnGXu_lHlYdM-BYccHcKYPvN4Dd467lvqbg9e7UD_0bb6G7RuSyOVIr4ec4QANOrr6tciD0qe5dpS9EBv9lxg_N9Uclayhkh/s1600/text_message_gone_wrong_5466.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgziFVd7xU1xcdG3R7at1e2fZydEbP65pka4-8HFDW2Nv2TdnGXu_lHlYdM-BYccHcKYPvN4Dd467lvqbg9e7UD_0bb6G7RuSyOVIr4ec4QANOrr6tciD0qe5dpS9EBv9lxg_N9Uclayhkh/s320/text_message_gone_wrong_5466.jpg" width="241" /></a>You see, Facebook chats being left visible; texts popping
up, readable under the nose of someone they are not meant for; texts sent to
the wrong person, it happens every day. I have heard many of the Closests lament to me
that they have sent or received or left messages visible for an
Unintended. And then they have laughed, or cried, or both. Ah Technology! You can be a cunning little fucker when you want
to be. </div>
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There’s a term for this Reader, it’s a Communicatory Fucssue:
a fucking issue, that literally, “fucks you.” I have never really been exposed to this kind of exposee. Well, not in adult life. As an annoying little sister it was only my
duty to steal into my brother’s bedroom and try to read anything that was
specifically not meant for me. An
invasion of privacy, certainly, but don’t worry, I was always on the receiving
end of a sound beating after every reconnaissance mission. How did he always know when I had been in his
den? How? I was always so bloody careful! I was like a seven year old pink ninja, in a
leotard, ballet shoes and gloves. That
scene in Entrapment with Sean—GRRR—Connery and Catherine—Queen of Wales-It
should have been me-Spartacus-Zeta-Douglas-Jones, sliding and crouching and
planking through the security net of laser beams? That was me!
Yet, every bloody time:
“ELEANORRRRRR!” I would hear
yelled with obvious <i>I’m-going-to-beat-the-ever-living-shit-out-of-you-you-little-turd </i>tone and I’d be up like a character in the <i>Hunger Games</i> listening for the direction and speed of his
footfalls and sprinting in the opposite way as fast as my little pink legs would carry me—never fast enough—and I would always be apprehended, upended and tackled to the ground, my legs kicking uselessly in the air and screaming for Mum. Yeah, ninja.
Completely.</div>
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Perhaps it was this early, painful punishment of childish curiosity that made me resolutely, vehemently fanatical about others’ privacy. I have never read anyone else’s mail, email,
texts or FB messages without their approval, or rather insistence, that I
should for some reason. In fact, I like
to think that I veer the other way; when the Pavlovian conditioning, that makes
me look to the cell display on the table as it illuminates and vibrates, is finally overridden by the realization “Oh shit! That’s
not my phone,” my neck almost snaps to look away in the opposite
direction. Messages are only supposed to
be seen by the sender and recipient, right?
Right.</div>
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But this, this bait and lure left visible on my own computer
was just too much. </div>
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Let me set the scene.
Papa Smurf, known to some as Michael Caine, has been visiting his
favourite daughter. Well, his only
daughter. Oh we’ve been bonding (by that
I mean eating and drinking) and aside from the pressures that a visit around my
busiest work time of the year, multiplied by the aggravation of
uncooperative household projects, we’ve been having a jolly good time, I think. </div>
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But it’s hard, when you have lived independently from your P.U.
(Parental Unit,) not to get a wee bit claustrophobic. The '1's On The Ridge is hardly Wayne Manor; I can't send him to the east wing, the billiard room or the library. I don't have a TV to plop him down in front of and distract him while I get on with things, so it's a smidgen awkward. Writing this has been the most constantly-interrupted piece of all time. I can only look at the screen for so long while he is talking at me before politeness kicks in and I have to break away again. I have, however, put specific days and
evenings aside to see my Papa—I was feeling very Good-Daughter-Cordelia-Smugface about this.</div>
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Dad has become reacquainted with the area and has been enjoying the
company of my friends. I threw a dinner
party—okay, he cooked, but he likes that, and it was my idea; I threw another
party, complete with St. Germain and champagne, and a veritable fromagerie of cheese—I may be crap at throwing balls, but boy do I like throwing parties;
we’ve been to jazz at Bazil, Blues at the Back Yard Ale House, I took him to Gannon’s for beers and wings, what more
could a darling daught do? I did shit,
People! </div>
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And I was obviously doing a bang up job, because..."recalculating"... Papa Smurf 180-ed and decided that instead of buying a home and a boat in North
Carolina, he will buy a home in NEPA!
I was rather surprised by this idea and the sudden geographical “U”
turn. Long have I thought about how nice
it would be just to call my parents in the morning and say, “Let’s go for a
trot around Lake Scranton and then out to lunch at State St!” Many are the times that I have wished I was
able to include them in a Bond Party, or Oscar Doodah, or seasonal shindig. There are so many places I want to take
them; so many people I want them to meet.
And yes, there’s always been that little silent speech bubble in my
brain: where will you be if I have a baby?</div>
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But then the idea of North Carolina appealed too. Oh, somewhere new to visit! Somewhere warm! Somewhere in the same time zone!</div>
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This new turn of events, therefore, made me quite
discombobulated. Did Papa Smurf really
want to be here with the welcoming community I had fallen for; what about his boat, sunshine and retirement idyll? Surely, thought I, both are mutually exclusive.</div>
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Yet, he is gung ho! He has been salivating all over the property websites like I salivate over the cheese section at Wegmans. He has been in cahoots with my darling friend Kathy Casarin from Coldwell and they have set up property viewings (without me)! So, it's fair to say, Papa Smurf is serious.</div>
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It’s as we were discussing
this around the kitchen island that he said, </div>
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“Well, you mother has written me a
long email about it. She thinks I am
giving up my dream of having another boat…”
</div>
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“Oh. Well, round here
it’s not really boating weather 9 months of the year. And the local lakes aren't really, you know, the Atlantic Ocean.”</div>
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And that was that.
Papa Smurf went to the bathroom to continue the endless and
soul-destroying many-layered wall paper stripping, and I clicked closed my lap
top and toddled off to work.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuLl-xln_DB2Kr4Cvs3TyyUZx5Y6ah7TfZAP_pXNJ6F28kNpB6x2C3CH_ZQEG5msU1-aj5p4RD7HwOBAKw0wraR_7E9pBtz1xgUvdPWLg-D2acByiKD8Y2ZMoWdRhTegQVVbnD09TWe9ji/s1600/Smurf.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuLl-xln_DB2Kr4Cvs3TyyUZx5Y6ah7TfZAP_pXNJ6F28kNpB6x2C3CH_ZQEG5msU1-aj5p4RD7HwOBAKw0wraR_7E9pBtz1xgUvdPWLg-D2acByiKD8Y2ZMoWdRhTegQVVbnD09TWe9ji/s1600/Smurf.jpg" /></a>Then it happened. In my
studio in Wilkes-Barre. I opened my
laptop, restored my Google Chrome and there it was: the email on MY Google
Chrome. Papa Smurf never uses my Google
Chrome. Papa Smurf always used the
regular blue Windows Explorer internet dooberry. But this time, he had logged in, and the tab
was there, restored in front of my eyes.</div>
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I should have closed the tab. It would have been easy enough. But I didn’t.
After all, I was interested to know what dearest Mama had said. I wanted to read her opinions on this sudden
life changing decision. And it was from Ma! The person I know best in the whole wide world. So, Dear Reader,
Mum, Dad, I read it.</div>
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I won’t go into detail.
(I’m trying to make a point it was private after all.) But, to read one's mother's carefully thought out opinions, including the concern that their daughter never has time for them and she
probably will never have children anyway, made me realize five things:</div>
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<ul style="text-align: left;">
<li>I must make more time for my parents.</li>
<li>I really hope they move whenever they will be most happy,
and if that is near me, I will be pleased.
We can always vacation somewhere warm with beaches and lighthouses.</li>
<li>My eggs protest and heart fibrillates at such a death sentence.</li>
<li>2013 is going to be interesting.</li>
<li>You should never use someone else's computer and leave your messages open.</li>
</ul>
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Eleanorgjhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00672862557542492003noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7436717201345268718.post-73655713176835059112012-12-07T05:58:00.000-08:002012-12-07T05:58:16.496-08:00Pussy Sitting. Tales from the Nanny Poppins Diaries...<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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A friend in need, is a friend in…DEED. Or rather, compels a friend do deeds she’d
really rather not. This was the position
I happened to face-plant in over the Thanksgiving hols. And boy, did I face plant in poo. Kitty poo to be precise.<br />
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Monica is one of my very best friends. When I pulled the keystone block out of life and “JENGAAAA-ed” Self, she was there, helping to scrape up the pieces,
feed me wine, drink me hummus (no, really, drink hummus) and she has helped rebuild the strong, happy
tower I have today. When I crashed my
car, she is the one who took the call, who picked me up, who hugged me tight. She has mopped up
my puke; I have Cloroxed hers. She has broadened my mind:
introducing me to yoga; the Four Agreements; flax seed; recycling; Obama maybe
not being as bad as all that; not being afraid to ask for what you want.</div>
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She is a truly wonderful, empowered and empowering
woman. But Monica has a problem. She likes cats. A lot.
And they like her. A lot. (Or as much as pussies can like a
human.) So it’s reciprocated, which is
nice. She is, in fact, like the Pied
Piper of Felines; some magical, musical refrain jingles from her door—imperceptible
to the human ear—but as loud and clear and alluring to a kitty eardrum as the
strains from an ice-cream van on a 95 degree summer day. </div>
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Monica has FIVE CATS.
FIVE. That is four more than
one. Three more than two. In fact, there has to be a collective noun
for it. If it’s a murder of crows, a
pride of lions, a muster of peacocks, a charm of finches, Monica has a
“Shitload of cats.”</div>
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So, when dear, beloved Monica, decided to join her family
over the Thanksgiving break, she was left with a little pussy-sitting
problem. Who, oh who, would she entrust
the care and protection of her furbabies to?
Yup, dear Reader, you guessed it.
(She did exhaust all regular avenues first, but being that it was
Thanksgiving, and other local cat-lovers had families to cozy in the bosom of,
I was it… her last resort.) “Help me Obi
Wan Kenobi, you’re my only hope.”</div>
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What could I say? “No
thank you very much. This idea doesn’t
appeal at all! Your furchildren hate
me! They run from me, hide from me,
perch places to spy and frighten the b’Jesus out of me! They plot and conspire against me! They trail their little toys to the top of
the stairs to do away with me! They’ll
probably poo in my shoes!” But then, she
might think me paranoid. No parent
really wants to hear the truth about their children.</div>
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So, I agreed. Sure it
was an inconvenience to drive 20 minutes every morning and every evening, but
she was my friend and I WOULD DO IT! I
would do it with grace, with a happy face, I would be their cheery, saccharine-singing
Nanny Poppins! What I didn’t realize was
a) tasks never take the time instructions say they will; b) her cats REALLY do despise
me, c) it’s really annoying to have to leave a date to go and see to your
friend’s pussies, and d) 5 cats produce enough fecal material to fertilize
China. </div>
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I was sent a list of instructions. (Monica is nothing if not meticulous about
her pussy care.) The essay was broken
down in to bullet points ranging from whose bowl belonged to whom?; the menu
and portion size for each individual feline for breakfast and for dinner; and a
“play time” regime, in which the kitties needed to be “played with” with
feather ticklers and laser beams and what-have-you for “at least 10 minutes
each day.” I felt rather sorry for poor
dead Boot, who put up with my childhood mawlings and dinner presented only once
a day. This service at Kitty Manor was
surely, the Pussy Ritz, the whole five star spa and wellness with an organic
sprig of daily love. </div>
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I was under-trained, and
over-committed for this. Pass the vodka. And a straw.</div>
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My first day of Pussy Sitting was right, slap-bang on Thanksgiving
Day. I was happily enjoying the company
of friends, halting on libations, aware of my imminent duty, and that is when
the first text came.<br />
“Have
you fed the kitties yet?" My heart
slumped. It was already 7 and I had
missed their first feeding window. (My
instructions were to try and serve dins between 5-7.) Oh God! Bad Nanny! How could I mistime my first pussy task? Ugh! And now she's checking up on me! She probably has a Nanny Cam and has seen, from her cabin in the mountains, that I am yet to breach the threshold. Shit! Shit! Lemon shit! <br />
<br />
“It’s okay! I’ve got this.” I texted as I waved to my hosts and squealed out of the drive. <i>Ain’t no mountain high enough… ain’t no river wide enough… </i>As I drove at the speed of light I thought of the new parents who
go out on a date and spend the entire duration on the cell to the babysitter:</div>
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<i>“Is baby okay? Is she still breathing? Put the receiver to her head so I can hear. And what colour is her poo? And it's consistency?”</i> Reassurance, reassurance. I would text or email her photographs of her delightful little fluffies, then she'd be content.</div>
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There they were, five sets of eyes, shining in the dark and
bolting for cover as soon as I flicked the switch. The two newest additions to the “shitload”,
fostered from Indraloka Animal Sanctuary in Mehoopany, Luna and Leo, were the
first to give in to my charms. I greeted
them hello with apologies for my lateness.
I had quite the one-sided conversation.
Luna, fluffy and moon faced, just stared at me quizzically as I
collected their licked-clean breakfast dishes, and started to fill their dinner
bowls, carefully following the instructions, precisely left for me on the
counter top. </div>
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<br />
I was talking to myself at the time. Rehearsing, if you can call it that, for a
Story Slam I was partaking in the very next day. As I chatted to the reflection of Self in the
stove back-splash, doling out the revoltingly stinking organic cat food, three
of the other felines, slowly slinked into the kitchen. Ears cocked, nostrils flared, limbs primed,
eyes saucered. Only Lulu sulked
elsewhere, determined to out wait me. </div>
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The orange tabby, Padme to Monica, Pad Thai to me, stared at
me in the back splash. </div>
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“So,” her eyes said, as she leaned back in Monica’s kitchen
chair and took a drag of her cigarette, “it’s Nanny Fucking Poppins!” She blew out a long stream of smoke. “I suppose you think you rule the roost here,
but listen to me, British Bitch, you’ve been away for a while and things have
changed around here. I rule this joint
now, ya hear?” She flashed her claws, heaved
her drooping cleavage and stubbed out her cigarette. “Now, what’s a broad gotta do to get a square
meal around here?”</div>
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I served her last just for spite. She viewed me with contempt and as I lay her
dish down and I told her in no uncertain terms:</div>
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“I will not be eye-spoken to like that, Pad Thai. I’m here for a while so you better get used
to it, or I will tell your mother.” She
looked up from her dish, paused her languid eating, that moist cat food squelch
making my skin prick, and I swear a small, smug smile crossed her lips.</div>
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Why did I feel like she had won? Why did I feel like I would return in the
morning to find something… nasty?</div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
Of course I did. And
although, I cannot assuredly identify the perpetrator, I am pretty sure it was
her. There it was, beneath where the tabby
curled in her ball of orange fur, a splatter of puke. Hmmm.
I tried to remember my Nanny persona, I really did, but Mary Poppins
only had to tidy up a play room, she did not have to scrub carpets clean of kitty
spew. Also, it’s not a bloody jolly holiday with
Kitties, because you have to sieve the litter for clumps of poo, EVERYDAY. No,
this is not supercalifragilisticexpialidocious.<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This was surely my least favorite kitty task. I felt like I was panning for gold, only asphyxiating
myself at the same time. I’m not into
kinky no-breathing games. I like
breathing, very much, but breathing and sieving cat shit is mutually exclusive. As I panned one of the six litter trays, the
elusive Ms. Lulu—the white and grey who appeared in Monica’s kitchen one day
and never left—emerged from under the bed.
She’s a spoiled little madam is Lulu and the previous night she had
stubbornly demanded room service.</div>
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“Go away!” She
whispered to me.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Look Princess! I am
panning your shit!” I replied—so demeaning!—“I
could leave, but really, do you want to have a poo tsunami here? No. I
think not.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“But you scare me, with your clicky clacky heels and your
high-pitched voice. Can’t you just be
quiet and invisible?” <br />
The kittens,
bounced up the stairs again interrupting our telepathic tete a tete.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“What’s happening?
What’s happening? What are you
doing with our poop?! Let’s PLAYYYYY!” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“NO. Ugh! Do you kids not understand? Eleanor is VERY busy and important and she doesn’t
have time for your shit today.” I shook
the sieve and dumped the last of the poo into my slop bucket. “Okay, patently, she is making time for your shit
today, but she has no more! None!” I think that when, in frustration, I actually touched poo with my gesticulating hand. Ew.</div>
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“But… oh… but… Mommy
said you’d play with us.” Luna
eye-implored.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Yeah. Mommy said you
were nice. You were just a bit
eccentric, but that’s because you’re British.
Maybe Toby was right. You are
just a meanie.” Leo chimed in.</div>
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“I am not a meanie.” I replied, waving my poo-scooper in the
air. “Oh, o-fucking-kay. Which feather toy should I pick?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“OOOOOh! Yay! The blue one!
The blue one! Please Nanny
Poppins, please!”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I sighed. I heaved my
non-maternal bosom. I dumped the shit, and I played unenthusiastically whipping
the feathers for exactly ten minutes.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
During this time the two eldest reappeared from their
stalking perches. It was Pad Thai, chain
smoking again, this time in a stand-off with the hereto anti-social Toby. They could not stand further apart and still
be in the same room. It was like a wild
west saloon shoot out. Pad Thai was
packing her claws; Toby was armed with his giant green eye daggers. They hissed, arched their backs, and
exchanged expletives.</div>
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“Interloper!” Toby
jeered.</div>
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“Fat bastard!” Pad retorted.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“No ear…”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Now, children. Come
on!” I interrupted, “Pad Thai, speak
nicely to your adopted brother. Toby,
just… close your eyes, for God Sake. It’s
like living with frigging Feline Medusa.”</div>
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“It’s not Pad Thai.”
She blew a smoke ring in my general direction. “It’s Bet.
Bet Miggins. And I run this bar
and all the Pussies in it.” It was true,
I had drunk a lot in Monica’s living room, why not be a Saloon of cat iniquity? “Toby is an ‘it’, he’s got no balls, no junk
in his Tom Cat trunk! He can’t handle me
changing things up here. Look at the
little Princess up there, forever in hiding and spoilt in her
room! She won't come down for you, Poppins. And these kittens, they wouldn’t know a feather from an ostrich. Dumb balls of fluff. I’ve lived. I could tell you a thing or two. I have the
power here. Mwahahahahaha!”<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I flicked the feather more out of habit than as a diversionary
tactic. But it caught her eyes and she
broke her focus, suddenly bewitched by the object in my hand. Immediately she pounced, bounded, rolled and
frolicked. This was not at all the evil Pussy
House Madam I had imagined. She was
suddenly not old and conniving, but lithe and a-living. Leo and Luna joined in the tussle, Toby
watched transfixed, Lulu hid.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But three, thought I, three don’t hate me. That’s progress!</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Thank you, Nanny Poppins.”
Luna purred.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Yes, thank you, Nanny Poppins.” Chorused her brother.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Yeah,” came the smokers rasp, “You’re okay, Poppins. You can come again. I may not even spew in your shoe if you treat
me right.” And she brushed her fur up
against my calf, weaving between my heels to get closer to me.<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And so it was… you can’t make people or cats like you. You just have to follow the rules, do your
thing, break the rules, and hope that creatures like you just as you are. Or at least when armed with feathers.</div>
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Eleanorgjhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00672862557542492003noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7436717201345268718.post-16238998072271545922012-11-16T13:14:00.000-08:002012-11-16T13:14:30.976-08:00From Deadwood to 'Doble, Rome to Rumba! In which I Learn Dancing is Animal!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<br />
<br />
I used to have good televisual taste. Way back, when the nights of the week were
differentiated by what show was the daily highlight. <i> Deadwood</i> Day! <i>Rome</i> Day! Those were my favourites. </div>
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<br /></div>
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<i>Deadwood</i> with it’s
blood and sweat and filth; characters so real I could smell them reeking from
the screen; cursing with their “cocksucker”-ready mouths, depicting a society so degenerate and
uncivilized, I squirmed with delight from the corner of my leather sofa.<br />
<br /></div>
<iframe allowfullscreen="allowfullscreen" frameborder="0" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/LJlIllpw2Sk" width="420"></iframe>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Rome</i> was similarly
base and lusty, but with grapes and togas and incest! Corruption and betrayal usually triumphed over
honor and integrity, and love? Forget
that! Whatever was good and noble was
crushed or squeezed by sandal or fist, was thrust at with knives, delivered
with a twist. The female led, Atia, played by Polly Walker, was my heroine of an anti-heroine; she was neither nice, nor kind, but she was a passionate force to be reckoned with. </div>
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<br />
The characters were vivid, the script was sharp, tight,
witty and wonderful; amid the grit of these lavish productions, I would often
find myself laughing until I couldn’t breathe, snorting like an asthmatic
guinea pig.</div>
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Every Monday, my weekly wait for HBO Sunday would seem
interminable.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But then, both shows were cancelled. Both were touted to be made into films, but
alas, projects that were obviously too costly, or too risky to gamble on.<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I started singing, “Bye, bye, my historical porn,</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Perhaps it was the cocksucking that won only scorn?...”<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But the TV didn’t die.
It thrives on. I just get can’t,
or rather, I don’t allow myself, to get into <i>True Blood, Mad Men, Games of Thrones, Once Upon a Time, Revenge, Nashville</i>, the televisual
circus --God, all the hours that would take up!
I have found a replacement though, and it’s not what you would
think. It’s my guilty pleasure, my dirty
little secret… it’s hot and lusty in it’s own gyrating way; oh, there is vertical
thrusting---lots of it—there are rippled men lifting scantily-clad females up
and down and round-about like they weigh nothing, and the competitors are fed
to the lions, the judges giving thumbs up or down, it’s… oh God, don’t judge
me… <i>Dancing
With The Stars</i>.<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Yes, bring on the too-white teeth, the spray on tans, the hair lacquer, the lettuce-diet. We're not in Deadwood anymore, Toto.<br />
<br />
I know. I know. I should not be condoning reality TV. (Jobbing actors don’t hate.) I know this is cheap programming taking acting
opportunities away from professionals, but BOY this is entertaining! The relationships, the effort, the
physicality, the flesh, the sequins!
It’s a visual feast, this celebration of dance. And it boggles my mind that someone who loved
two programmes so seemingly opposed to reality TV, could be enjoying this harmless
family-fun show so much! Where’s the
bleary-eyed, greasy-haired, pale-faced Al Swerengen, delivering his dramatic,
almost Shakespearean, monologues to camera, shouting for more whiskey, whores and blowjobs? Where’s the tangible, breath-holding lust of Mark Anthony and Atia going at it like rabid rabbits in a Roman orgy
of wine and silk, with servants listening at doors?<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s a different type of drama, but there <i>is</i> drama; there is life, there are
stories, there are emotions in dance.<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Now, perhaps I should confide to you, dear Reader, that I have always had a bit of an emotional tango, a love-hate relationship, with dance. Ballerina
Eleanor, was not a thing of beauty.
Ballet En, was in fact about as stiff and wooden as a stick. A flat, straight, unbending, uncurved,
inelegant stick. I started ballet at
about the age of six, one of a small group in pigtails, pink up-the-bum
leotards, itchy-mcscratchy tutus and hand-knitted pink wrap-around
cardigans. There was nothing comfortable
or practical about this strange ensemble.
I recall, I regularly froze and spent the whole class itching. The one item I did like was my fairy wings: a
gauzey, iridescent panel of fabric that my mother had sewn for me, that
gathered up the back and attached to my middle fingers with elastics. <br />
<br /></div>
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I thought I was amazing in those wings! That this pointless, highly-flammable
synthetic material conferred on me the power to dance! I
didn’t need Superman’s unitard, or Ironman’s metal, or Batman’s reinforced
bat-shield armour; I had NYLON!<br />
<br /></div>
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Most of the little girls in my class dreamed of being
ballerinas, or princesses. I
didn’t. I think this was principally
because I wasn’t very good. My limbs
didn’t curve, so there were no such things as elegant swaying arms, they were
goal posts; my jete leaps were vicious karate kicks with the attendant facial
expression that was far from ballerina-serene.
In the <i>Nutcracker</i>, I was cast
as a rat. I think that really says it
all, doesn’t it?<br />
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But, even though I did not dream of ballet shoes, I did love
to dance. I really clearly remember-- I
couldn’t have been more than 6 at the time— my great Auntie Joanie had come
down on the train to visit. She sat in
the big, red chair, by the window, and, as I flapped around the lounge,
pirouetting and slamming into the splits with the grace of an intoxicated, baby
giraffe, she asked me if I wanted to be a ballerina. <br />
<br /></div>
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I didn’t know this then, but this was quite the loaded
question, as Auntie Joanie, back in the day, had been a dancer. She lived to dance! (She
now has replacement hips to show for it.)
But the war scuppered her dancing dreams and lead to a career in the WAF
instead. <br />
<br /></div>
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It is one of my
earliest memories: Auntie Joanie’s face in the soft light, her sparkling
expression, her twinkling eyes watching me dance. Her hands clasped, encouraging and applauding
my improvised moves that probably looked as if I was in pain or being
electrocuted.<br />
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“So you don’t want to be a ballerina? Tell me, what do you want to be?”<br />
<br /></div>
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I flapped my wings, shucked my itchy tutu, kicked it off
into the air, and told her I wanted to be a stripper! </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She gasped, and then she laughed, and my mum laughed, and somehow
it wasn’t scandalous, or perverted or anything, it was just me being a show
off. Now, don’t ask me how or why I even
knew strippers existed, because I don’t know, but I thought if I would get to
flap my wings and dance with no clothes on, that was alright by me!<br />
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<div class="MsoNormal">
Times have changed of course. Shit, I have to be sedated before I peel off
my togs in front of someone. Give me gas
and air, a vodka, a valium, a glass or three; but, give me strategically-placed
sequins (or fairy wings) and I could dance the light fantastic until 3 am!<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So when I finally stop working, I draw the curtains, light
the candles, pour Self a glass of pinot noir and I get down and dirty with DWTS. It’s quite the guilty treat. Some
friends mock me for this bizarre down shift in En’s programming. But I won’t apologise for it. There is merit in such a show, and while it
may not be winning Emmys, like <i>Deadwood</i>
or <i>Rome,</i> it has all the elements to
make you <i>feel</i>. And isn’t that the point of entertaining
television, to make you think and feel emotions? I sit there transfixed, holding my breath, mesmerized
by the wardrobe, the talent, the choreography and I can’t help but sway and feel
like I am wearing my fairy wings; slinking like an alley cat as the couples rumba,
breaching like a serpent as they tango, flaring my nostrils as they paso doble; and in my mind, I can really dance. <br />
<br />
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Eleanorgjhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00672862557542492003noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7436717201345268718.post-82557575006825274812012-11-09T11:09:00.002-08:002012-11-09T11:09:56.514-08:00"I am INVINCIBLE!" In which I learn, pride comes before... a fire truck.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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You recall that character in <i>Golden Eye</i>, Boris the Computer Programmer, played by the
incomparable Scottish pixie, Alan Cummings; who, thinking himself the master
brain, the King of Computer Code, raises his fists in victory and shouts in his
rolling Russian accent, “I am invincible!”
RRRRemember? Yeah, I was feeling
like that: a Smug-Face, a Cock-Sure, a Chest-Puffer. </div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
In spite of my inability to read the
instruction pamphlets for new appliances; in spite of the fact I have not
replaced the blown light bulb that died oh… two months ago; I felt so sure of my
abilities, I took on the… plumbing. And
I thought I won. I thought I was, indeed,
invincible. But pride comes before a
fall, or before a small drama involving a fire truck, five disgruntled firemen,
one Scranton cop and a British bird in furry boots. But I am getting ahead of myself… </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Since moving, Home Ownership has been fairly
uneventful—thank God—because I am not the kind of girl at home in
overalls. Please don’t misunderstand me
here, dear Reader, I was not brought up to be a princess—I believe I have told
you of that sad hospital mix-up in which I was not born to Lord and Lady
Fortescue-Asquith-Smythe-Smythe-Featherbottom—the sibling and I were always
made to help. I'd be forced to collect the grass cuttings, fling the dog poo on
the compost, weed the garden, iron the linens—oh yes, I was a regular little
Cinders. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Dad could and would fix anything,
whether building walls, plastering, wiring, installing bathrooms and kitchens,
making dressers, vanity units… you name it, my Dad put the ‘D’ in D.I.Y. There was no electrician, builder or plumber,
he was just known as “Dad.” This was my
paternal parental example.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My mum had a Singer sewing machine. She was a post
war baby—she would want me to make that very clear—but still the attitude of "make do and mend" was instilled in her upbringing. She was hands on. A do-er and a fixer of material things. This was my maternal example.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But a little confidence, and no skill, should not a newly
home-owning instant plumber make.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When I walked into my home yesterday, I expected the
bone-chilling freeze of the outside to quickly
dissipate and my breath to disappear in front of my eyes again. It didn’t.
I sat attending to my emails and kept my coat on, clouds of carbon
dioxide puffing from my mouth.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“By heck, it’s chilly!”
I texted to a friend, which prompted me to inspect the thermostat. It was 54 degrees of chilly. It was then, dressed like a Christmas Carol
reject, in pink fingerless mittens, I realized that the reason I was cold was
that there was no heat dans le maison.
Quelle horreur! Sacre bleu! Mon Dieu!
MERDE! </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEio4sf_LzQEzC-ITt5IzdUilJi5_97ZrEIopWdUFIdjqWdAch9cQjkR1bxxdfgR9CDuc2he8FhbAS4o8NH8zqWQxd6857mMMLTxKg_EYyG1pljCKEs9LGqTOT8KDe-3nK6UWugkIXgaxaQf/s1600/cold+card.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEio4sf_LzQEzC-ITt5IzdUilJi5_97ZrEIopWdUFIdjqWdAch9cQjkR1bxxdfgR9CDuc2he8FhbAS4o8NH8zqWQxd6857mMMLTxKg_EYyG1pljCKEs9LGqTOT8KDe-3nK6UWugkIXgaxaQf/s1600/cold+card.jpg" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I twiddled the thermostat.
I cranked it all the way to the right, beyond the 80 degrees. Nothing.
Not a sound from the usually vocal old radiators, not a bump, thump or
hiss. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And so, with phone in hand, I made my way down the narrow,
darkened stairs to the underbelly of 1111.
There it sat: the mighty, sleeping metal monster, surprising
silent. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Clutching the phone, a friend text-structed me to light the
pilot light. Sounded easy enough,
thought I. But as I removed the cover,
the flame was clearly there, snoring away.
What followed was a comedy, a farce, an hour of feverish texting of photographs
of every tap, faucet, lever, spigot; twisting, turning, with eyes half-closed,
squatting in cream woolen mini-dress, furry boots, fluffy hat and fingerless
mittens. Finally a reluctant yank of the yellow lever
and an oily black liquid gushed into an existing and—fortunately for my
plumbing-inappropriate fluffy footwear—well placed pitcher. The water line in the tube bobbed. Things were happening! </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvQ-qst5v06iDWR2NWEBDfw_tmyJ2YdI9-6oL_jY3-JfpXF1LU8D8ebIl7BkFU8EXNKddeUa7gYglf7CL_LjG5wBi1ZntI3KLUhkVLPDQLGnvUtfxBGkfoyJRhGW1-svKZyJTUG-uOAXzw/s1600/Phone+pics+Nov+2012+200.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvQ-qst5v06iDWR2NWEBDfw_tmyJ2YdI9-6oL_jY3-JfpXF1LU8D8ebIl7BkFU8EXNKddeUa7gYglf7CL_LjG5wBi1ZntI3KLUhkVLPDQLGnvUtfxBGkfoyJRhGW1-svKZyJTUG-uOAXzw/s200/Phone+pics+Nov+2012+200.JPG" width="149" /></a>And then my dear, dear friend hit on the motherload… “How to
flush out your American Standard furnace” courtesy of Youtube. Because, guess what, Reader? Furnaces, boilers, whatever the hell they
are, GO OUT WHEN THE WATER LEVEL IS TOO LOW!
Duh! Why did no one tell me
this? Do Americans learn this at school,
because we Brits don’t! Because every
single smug son-of-a-goat has nodded sagely when I have retold this part of the
story and said, “Oh yes, didn’t you know that?
You need to flush the old water through.” NO!
No, I did not know that. Had I
known that I would not have spent the best part of an hour dancing like a
constipated gazelle fannying around with phone in hand, twiddling knobs and
pledging sacrifices to the Heating Gods.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
However, Youtube-enlightened, I was able to half-fill the
water, as instructed! And the
whoosh! The roar! The beast was awake. I DID IT!
I WOKE THE BEAST! AND I STILL
HAVE EYEBROWS! YESSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS! And there, in the depths of 1111 I partied
for one with the hoots and hollers of a match-winning Superbowl touchdown. It was ridiculous. I WAS INVINCIBLE!</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<object width="320" height="266" class="BLOGGER-youtube-video" classid="clsid:D27CDB6E-AE6D-11cf-96B8-444553540000" codebase="http://download.macromedia.com/pub/shockwave/cabs/flash/swflash.cab#version=6,0,40,0" data-thumbnail-src="http://0.gvt0.com/vi/Tl0LZsyi_tA/0.jpg"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/Tl0LZsyi_tA&fs=1&source=uds" /><param name="bgcolor" value="#FFFFFF" /><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true" /><embed width="320" height="266" src="http://www.youtube.com/v/Tl0LZsyi_tA&fs=1&source=uds" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowfullscreen="true"></embed></object></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Or so I thought...</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I grabbed my bag, reapplied my lip gloss, and sallied forth
into the cold, breathy night. I shan’t
discuss the who’s, and where’s, but I enjoyed the bar banter, reenacting the
story of my plumbing victory and crowing about my new skillz!</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Hours passed. Wine
was sipped, pool was played, topics were traversed, finger tips touched, lusty
looks exchanged. And high on this elixir
of surprise success and hungry hormones, I toddled off home excited, content and looking forward to a well-deserved
one-to-one with my pillow. It was nearly
2 am after all. But it was not to
be. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As I closed the garage door and stepped ever closer to the
house, I could hear something. A sound I
had not heard before in this obnoxiously loud, rattle-and-thump house. It was a beeping. A constant, pro longed beeping.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Gingerly, I twisted the door handle and pushed. The house was warm now and I could feel the
wall of newly-encouraged heat greet me.
I breezed through each room, trying to find the source of the
beeping, the constant, tinny alarm.
Finally, I found it, the First Alert smoke and carbon monoxide detector,
right at the top of the landing. I rushed
back down the stairs, nose in the air, inhaling deep yoga nostril-fulls. (Okay, in hindsight, not smart, but I had to
eliminate smoke as the cause.) </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I pressed
the basement door handle tentatively, alert to the temperature of it; wondering
if behind it, the woken beast was hungry for more than just water, and was
burning up the underbelly of my house.
But the handle was cool. I opened
the door just a crack, then wider until I was assured I would not be flash
fried by back draft. I clipped down the
stairs, the furnace greeting me with it’s familiar heat-producing growl. Nothing a foot. And yet the alarm still beeped.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I ran back up the stairs, texting frantically,</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Are you awake?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Houston, I think we have a problem.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“My alarm is going off.
No smoke. Perhaps carbon
monoxide?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I pulled off my boots and started leaping for the
alarm. I jumped, stretching, reaching
high, but precariously placed above the top stairs, I could not touch it. I brandished the screwdriver neatly stashed
in the bathroom—don’t ask—and leapt with it aloft to hit the alarm off. Still it would not stop, in spite of my
stabbing. Finally, I neatly hauled Self
up on the wobbly banisters and plucked the battery from the alarm. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Ah! Silence.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
By this time my phone was blowing up. Concerned replies, pleas to “GET OUT NOW!”
suggestions to open windows, call the fire department, to bed down elsewhere.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I replaced the battery.
It continued to beep. I removed
it, sighed, and dialed the emergency number.
The voice on Dispatch was kind
and courteous. He said it was probably
nothing, but I shouldn’t risk it with carbon monoxide, you know, being a silent
killer and all.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiczoEfiNwtVEAX_v9rjpQQBE2qtcYJV8oAxmob6wp8KCngA4OSJ04ATktWCAJ6FhwIYg_6YqEhEUoC_qqxr26Cb3NjqU3yVKu5Uw2jjWqlxfP-b_MuLyH17LaLYgzr1DziOd1tAguVQfs6/s1600/firefighter.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="315" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiczoEfiNwtVEAX_v9rjpQQBE2qtcYJV8oAxmob6wp8KCngA4OSJ04ATktWCAJ6FhwIYg_6YqEhEUoC_qqxr26Cb3NjqU3yVKu5Uw2jjWqlxfP-b_MuLyH17LaLYgzr1DziOd1tAguVQfs6/s320/firefighter.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My! What a big hose you have!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So there I stood on my porch, in the early hours of Thursday
morning, hopping from one foot to the other, trying to keep warm, welcoming the
disgruntled, ruddy faces of five middle-aged firemen. Slowly, they alighted from the huge fire
truck. A policeman arrived separately in his car and they converged on the porch, the first two firefighters and the cop trudged into my house. FD calendar models, they were not. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It was like a weird, late night, home tour. “So, this is the reception room. Please excuse the lack of furniture, I
haven’t committed to any yet.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“And this is my yoga mat…”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I filled the smokeless air with rapid, embarrassed
explanations, as they led me straight to the furnace. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“So, you …err… you did this yourself?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Yes,” I replied, with far less enthusiasm and chest-swelling
than a few hours previously. “There was
a video on YouTube…” even I thought I sounded ridiculous.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Well, no carbon monoxide down here. Looks like you did it right.” Thank God!
Thank God! Thank God!</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Looks good to me,” the other fireman chirped in.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Take me to the alarm,” demanded the first, still all
business.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
At the top of the stairs the 300 lb fireman balanced daintily
on his tip toes and reached high, plucking the whole alarm down from its
attachment. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Ah! 1999. See that?
1999. It was made in 1999. It’s old.
You need to get a new one.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“But… but… you are saying it was beeping because it is
old? That’s it? I find it very hard to believe that it would
go off just hours after I have flushed the furnace, it’s too co-incidental!”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Yeah, coincidence, that’s all. So, what’s your name?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Eleanor.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He raised his brows, “Is there more?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Gwyn-Jones.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“You’re Welsh?” His
eyes lit up. “My family was from Wales…”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And so it was, that the cop stood down and peeled off in his
car; the troop of tired firefighters slumped back to their truck, one of them a
little less irked by this B.S. alarm after sharing his memories of his Welsh
grandma; and I, exhausted, but happily not suffocated to death, closed the door
and switched off the porch light. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And as I wiggled my toes between my sheets, replaying the eventful
evening, I thought that life truly had become a cliché: for pride does come
before a fall; but it <i>is</i> better to be safe than sorry. </div>
</div>
Eleanorgjhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00672862557542492003noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7436717201345268718.post-45170486527294156072012-11-02T05:39:00.002-07:002012-11-02T05:39:56.963-07:00Bite Your Tongue! It's about to get lyrical, not political.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDgtpR6r4fFJ-_HHj1Gda1podLkBIk0OsK7WPo_u-3XnOZ5KRLqAz8EBrZSHHrr6vi22HdNC8k1WkoepAurVux4mT3ShNJKvM3_OtSYdx4PNTeHWHd-qsymuRnI7ucN3XL3j-12MOJEJ6s/s1600/pig.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDgtpR6r4fFJ-_HHj1Gda1podLkBIk0OsK7WPo_u-3XnOZ5KRLqAz8EBrZSHHrr6vi22HdNC8k1WkoepAurVux4mT3ShNJKvM3_OtSYdx4PNTeHWHd-qsymuRnI7ucN3XL3j-12MOJEJ6s/s1600/pig.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Naked: vulnerable or confident?</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Define deceit. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Is it that you wear opinions all too neat, and tailored?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A costume of counterfeit to keep your cheeks from glowing
red?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You bite your tongue, turning puce, all to be polite,</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Waiting for the question that's sure to cause a fight.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
While your skin crawls with hypocrisy,</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Brawls with the fallacy,</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
That underneath is clamouring for clemency,</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Please, dear God, let me be heard!</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Stop with the drivel, give me a word!”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But the cloak is pulled tighter, stifling the heckles</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Smothering the sound of the honest but reckless.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It's moral mutiny! It's insubordination!</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Instead you must practice public relations.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Silencing the clack of the tongue in your head,</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As you allow yourself to be too easily fed, wed and taken to
bed.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This shroud is a false skin you should shed, </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Burst through the cocoon, not afraid to be alone.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There in the flesh, say what you think,</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Shrug off the stares, tuts and blinks.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Laugh as they go cross-eyed and stupefied,</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Stunned by the audacity that you step outside </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The limit. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Pirouette and pivot!</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Gambol and frolic!</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Eschewing the accepted, infected established bollocks,</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
That makes us merely mindless drones, all for profit:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Automated, fixated, fish-eyed, robotic.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7Kq4qS52Zu35iIPmHNcXlqcDuPvdHuOgfxx9hp2_ZD7pyMCVxGUe92zSjNo3iD5e3I_uCN6KD2UBDI3llrPm0Vtrjif5UNJVlPsSm4PwuXsm2tBLhhG5UyIDY6kKtTcVXi2f_o1p-kTdz/s1600/suit.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7Kq4qS52Zu35iIPmHNcXlqcDuPvdHuOgfxx9hp2_ZD7pyMCVxGUe92zSjNo3iD5e3I_uCN6KD2UBDI3llrPm0Vtrjif5UNJVlPsSm4PwuXsm2tBLhhG5UyIDY6kKtTcVXi2f_o1p-kTdz/s1600/suit.jpg" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Because wearing this clothing, people make assumptions:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
That you're okay, assured, a clown at all functions.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The real deceit is wearing a suit that doesn’t fit,</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
That itches and pulls and disguises the real shit.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Fuck, where's the lust? </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s
smothered into unwitting acceptance,</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Crammed into Cinderella’s shoe that seemed to fit first.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Not now! Every step,
it cuts into your marrow</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Leaving it hollow, a fertile field fallow,</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As your real passion flows out in furrows.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It rapidly goes.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Leaving the bones empty-full of echoing space,</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A place that rattles with grace, but no passion.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You wear it with sad smiling face, this deceptive fashion.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOYXjX3IAPwPs4K18bmLHtM_L3VDrcDeNKzg7dblCbY3X2a647mHlQmgBJ0tiUe2YA-NFSzvL1vz8XifR-q9zDt7lsIuAZum_iOhHVmak73BGfqZr-MoIhNwzS307xkrb_9_BKSCEMh7m9/s1600/Be-You.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="261" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOYXjX3IAPwPs4K18bmLHtM_L3VDrcDeNKzg7dblCbY3X2a647mHlQmgBJ0tiUe2YA-NFSzvL1vz8XifR-q9zDt7lsIuAZum_iOhHVmak73BGfqZr-MoIhNwzS307xkrb_9_BKSCEMh7m9/s320/Be-You.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
</div>
Eleanorgjhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00672862557542492003noreply@blogger.com0