Tuesday night is Shrink Night

"But that’s perfectly normal behaviour, Y".
"What have you just called me? "
"You’re just like everybody else", he adds.
"Look, I’ve always been nothing but perfectly nice to you", I do not say because after three years and thousands of pounds, I know better than to defuse.
"I have a headache", I do say.

He gets up and dims the light a little.

I feel guilty.

"How does it feel to have someone do something for you?" He changes topics with a half smile.
"Don’t like it. It means I owe them, you, people, something. Even if it’s just a thank you."
"How does it feel when your special lady friend does something for you?" That guy is paid to be insistent, and it makes me fidget.
"Well, that’s ok actually. Because if I let her, then in a completely effed up way, I owe her, therefore I’m giving her something. And she’s good at doing things for me, and never makes me feel like it’s a huge favour. So it kinda works out. "

I don’t know if in the long term it’s really going to pay off knowing that I’m an overly self-reliant, ungrateful cow.

Don Limpio

And.. into the tunnel again! Work has started again, nights are shorter and in the morning I can’t just sip my tea reading my book with the cat curled up inside my pyjamas. It’s up at stupid o’clock again, and wearing clothes that match, and why do I seem to sweat only when working?
When last week ended, everything was noisy; all I wanted was to sleep, alone, and be quiet. Since so much of my job involves talking with, to and at people, there are times – at the end of every day for at least half an hour, in fact- when just saying one sentence becomes physically painful. It’s the Daily Grump. I come home, slump, and to disconnect a little, I read whatever light reading there is in the bathroom: the august issue of PSN (the magazine of HM Prison service), comics, the Little Book of Complete Bollocks. Or I listen to history radio programs.
When last week ended, everything was all over the place, grimy, unbearable; I hurt my girlfriend’s feelings when I chose housework over seeing her.
As soon as the Daily Grump is over, I should call her, since the house is clean now.

Paging Dr Freud

I wonder what it means.
See, blogpeople, it’s like this: my Special Lady Friend reads a lot, and I happen to have a large book collection, which I’m more than happy to share. When she’s done with one book, she brings it back and leaves it on the little table by the sofa.

I wonder why, since she got it from the bookshelf herself. It’s not like my bookshelves are so tidy that one dares not put a book back or anything.

Is there an implicit message?
Does she wish to engage me in some in-depth literary conversation?
Is it an attempt at eliciting approval of some kind?
And what is the best way to respond?

How I enjoy creating small pseudo-psychological enigmas for myself!

Sigh

1. Blogfolks, do you know what my problem is? I don’t like asking anybody for anything.

2. I blame my grandmother, who at 86 years of age chops up her own logs with an axe for fire, and forbids anyone to wind up her clock, even though winding up the clock involves standing on a chair, which itself has to be placed on the kitchen table. Every other day. We tried giving her one with batteries in it, but she gave it away for the village’s summer raffle.

3. I think all I want to say is, thank you Special Lady Friend for looking after me when I was ill, bringing me food and making me tea and bullying me into steaming my face at regular intervals. In exchange I’d like to wind up your clock, or something…yes.

4. Blogfolks, February is fizzless and lumpy and cold, even when you tango. Fortunately, an impending holiday complete with an imported friend, my SLF and my Spanish homework are keeping me afloat. (I like doing my homework.) Still, I can’t wait for Spring, can you? Thank you for stopping by, and be well.

Cartwheel

1. September, 1979, Wednesday morning.
I’m plaiting my long blonde hair, carefully, symmetrically, making sure the parting is impeccable and the bangs just right. I pause and look at my reflection in the mirror; I consider adding little red bows. This afternoon is important, I’m going to my very first gymnastics class. I wonder if they’ll like my hair.

2. Wednesday afternoon.
The gym is crammed full of 5, 6, 7 year olds wearing red leotards and white gym shoes. No one gives a shit about my plaits and their little bows. I can’t even do a cartwheel yet, I’ve so lost my edge. I can’t bear the thought of not being special but I won’t cry. When I go home at 4, I’ve lost the bows anyway.

3. October, 2005, Tuesday morning.
What to wear, what to wear. This afternoon, my Spanish class is starting.

4. Some things never change.

1. am·biv·a·lence .
Pronunciation: am-'biv-&-l&n(t)s
Function: noun
simultaneous and contradictory attitudes or feelings (as attraction and repulsion) toward an object, person, or action -a heightened ambivalence which is expressed in behaviour by alternating obedience and rebellion, followed by self-reproach —am·biv·a·lent /-l&nt/ adjective —am·biv·a·lent·ly adverb
Latin ambi-valentia

2. March 2005 :
It’s not a comfortable place to be, is it, he says with a knowing smile. It’s a bit like chemotherapy: you bombard the bad cells and in the process kill the good ones too. Doesn’t your ambivalence stop you from enjoying the good sides?

I think: I’m not sure I understand.

3. August 2004:
The problem I have with you is that you’re so.. inconsistent, and I don’t want to deal with it anymore, she nearly screams, trying to keep her voice down. She can’t take the risk to shout. I won’t listen to shouts. If she manages not to shout, she’ll be right.

I think: I have failed again.

4. Look at me.
I thought ambi-valence could actually be a good thing. Valuing both sides. Being able to weight pros and cons, making balanced decisions, understanding other people’s diverging opinions. I thought it could be a strength, an asset, and extra something that would lend me clarity of vision. I thought it would always guard me from believing in greener grass. I thought it was both sides of the coin, the reasoning to my dreaming, the sensible to my silliness, the ‘I love you with al my soul’ to my ‘there’s no such thing as forever.’

5. Why does this word have such negative connotation anyway? Again – to value both.

6. So, if being ambivalent is such a bad thing, where do I go from here? And do I really want both sides to reach symmetry? Will people like me better?

---

I’m tired, people of blogland. I’m also cold, so,,automatically, eating too much.
Last night I had a dream about A’s friends. I liked her friends and the way they obviously cared about her. Maybe it was in my job description to hear her complain about them and criticise them, but I rarely felt she gave them enough credit. I don’t know why I’m even writing this. That dream, strange day, stream of consciousness. I don’t know. Thank you for stopping by. Be well.

Things I am proud of
Right.
Let's think.
……
# 1 The first English word I learnt was honeysuckle. That makes me ridiculously proud. It's the randomness of it, as well, as, perhaps it's the sheer uselessness of it for a 6 year old.

# 2 In 1976 when my mother took me along to Hippie Camp and was frolicking about with naked strangers, I was the only child there who adamantly refuse to take off her swim suit. For the purpose of this list I'll sweep aside the possibility of childhood trauma and its cognitive sequellae, and focus on the unshakable strength of character I was endowed with. *Proud me *
What do you mean, pig headed?

# 3 I have never, ever forwarded a chain letter. So, so proud of that one.

(to be continued as soon as I've achieved something else in life.)

---

* And now for something completely different *
Some time ago Jacqui said : you'll pull with this blog.
Pull? Hello?
Let me recapitulate: mild flatulence, a tendency to chronic antisocial behaviour, an unhealthy attachment and rumination of ex, a propensity to symptoms of depression on public transportation, occasional bursts of pompousness, a fondness for obscure words along with wobbly syntax, only minor achievements, and a blatant lack of general direction..
Wow.
So, pulling - I don't think so.

Positively oozing, or *A Freudian Moment*

Last night’s dreams were chaotic and involved my cat again.
Now, after two decades and a bit of obsessive moggy-related dreams I have finally figured out that the cat in the dream is in fact *scoop* Me; and that’s considering that I don’t subscribe a 100% to the popular theory that every character in your dreams is actually you.

Under cat disguise, I have done the following things in dreams:
*struggled out of my own arms and tried to run away in crazy traffic, and risked getting flattened (a constant since I was about 7)
*puked up a gigantic heap of yellow, lumpy substance not unlike Covent Garden’s soup Company, the smoked haddock chowder variety.
*Filled up a room with explosive diarrhoea.

At this point I would like to say I’m so sorry about the references to unsavoury bodily functions. But science demands certain sacrifices, you know.

So; why such excretions in my dreams?
It would be easy to jump to conclusions and say that I’m simply full of shit; but not only would it be not very nice, wouldn’t it be pure blasphemy in the face of the well of wisdom that is dream analysis? Yes, it would.
Well I do have a theory, but I don’t feel like going into it for now. End of the Freudian moment. Thank you for listening.