Things that are different.....

Mood:  chatty
Now Playing:

.... Now that I live alone, I mean.

I go to the loo with the door open. Unless it's a stinker.
I cook too much food for one, and not enough for two. That's if I cook. Don't always remember the eating part.
No hairs in the bath. None!
I haven't been able to go into the main bedroom yet. Except to get some knickers in the morning. It's been 4 days. It's too upsetting, still. Is that weird?
Ice cream lasts for ages.
I can see my friends without two days of heavy rowing for the privilege.
The ugly woolly cursed big pink sweater ... (the one with the curse that means no-one will ever sleep with you again if they see it?) I wear it round the house now. No-one will see.
The washing up gets done. Well, give a day or so.
I can play music in the house. Though now that I finally can, I don't. Which is disturbing.
My cats are too attentive - they sneak under the duvet after dark and nestle painfully in the groin area. I'm covered in severe bored / langorous scratches in places that are too lean to bear that sort of treatment without me waking up screaming.
No more spit rings under the toothbrushes.
If you see something beautiful, you see it. You don't point it out to someone.
I dropped the remote control down the back of the sofa. It's been there a while, but it's no problem only seeing channel 4, as I only watch about an hour a week of teev, anyway. Makes the evenings quiet.
Really quiet.
I shower in the dark now. Okay, I always did that. Dammit, I like doing that.
I don't go to bed on time. In fact, I've stopped wearing a watch. I don't care if it makes me late, there are more important things.
The ripple of alarm from friends in couples has just started. Even they can tell they're rustling agitatedly at the thought.
I make lists of things that are different.

Divorce Me 4

Tonight, ex-DH came over to collect some more of her stuff. I politely ignored her, avoided eye contact, and offered to drive her the eight miles to where she's staying. After about half an hour, she asked me how I'd been. Not knowing what to say - what she wanted me to say, I replied "miserable."
Once we finally got there, she asked me in, but asked that I didn't stay more than a minute or so. I resisted. Better if we keep it cool. Stay in the car. Easier to talk shop that way.
We talked awhile in the car, before she went in. Resolved nothing. Offered nothing.
Being a pessimist, the comments I took away were these: that she's very angry at me. And that she thought our relationship was 'lousy'.
That's when I asked her to stop.

I don't do empathy after 7pm

Now Playing: David Brent reruns of The Office

One of my colleagues, Petite (I've named her that because she's one of those super neat immaculate types, the sort whom I can't visualise ever sneezing green gunk all over her shirt, like I do) asked me today if I ever find it difficult to talk to my partner on a weekday evening. I wondered for a minute about why she'd used the present tense, before deciding I can't be arsed dealing with that one yet.
I admitted that I never answer the phone after 6.30pm these days, which I always think make me more than a little spasticated.
I know what she means about failing to hold up my end of a conversation in the evenings, though. If you work dealing with the public all day, at the end of the day you develop a real weariness of being asked questions. Well, actually, pretty much a total interaction fatigue. Obviously, this could one day work out as a slightly destructive element in your life.
[I've been in my career for nearly nine years, so it's becoming interesting to work out what that sort of horror/stability in a job can do to change you.]
So you stop answering the phone, (and hope that your friends will understand the rather pathetic sounding explanation) but you can't not answer a partner. Petite finds the discussions difficult - sorting out a bill, or making some social arrangement. Not me. Pressed to discuss anything like some sort of normal human being at the end of a difficult day, I merely end up masculinising my answers. I provide a solution.
When, inevitably, this doesn't wash, and the problem is repeated (after all, I didn't discuss anything), I become snappy. I furnish an alternative solution. Snappishly. Didn't I just give you the answer?
On the third repetition of the very same problem, I will claim grounds to sulk. Even though I know what they want from me. They're not talking to a bloke, after all, and they don't want a brusque solution. They just want me to listen. It's what girls do.
Not me.
I don't do empathy after 7pm.

Sleepwatch: 11 hours.

dopey

Now Playing: Stupid neighbour's teev is way too loud

First time in ages that I had loads of things ready to blog (sad fucker, eh? ;D), and the lack of sleep caught up with me - zonked out at about half four today. Just woke up now, and will be back in the land of bye bye within an hour.
I love sleeping.

Sleepwatch: 3.5 hours

baking

Mood:  lazy
Now Playing: Krafty Kuts

Tonight I went to visit K in Gypsy Hill, who's generally quite an inspiring person. She's recently taken a drop in salary so she can have Mondays off to study to become a yogi. She's spending her New Year at a women's retreat in the far countryside. That sort of proper, sorted out inside inspiring.
She made me a huuuuuuge vegetarian lasagne, and also some herby spiced thing containing cracked wheat, followed by a tomato salad... all that stuff.
Made it. Properly. In front of me.
At one point, I questioned the state of the pasta sheets - she instantly chucked them out and used fresher ones.
Nothing came out of a packet. Nothing from a jar. Vegetarian, healthy, filling, tasty.

I drove home, slumped in front of the teev, and ate four loads of old, rancid steak chops, fried in butter, garlic, mushrooms, onions and cranberry sauce.

Now what the hell was that about?

Sleepwatch: 3 hours.

popcorn frenzy

Mood:  hungry
Now Playing: Channel Five is playing 'World's Wildest Police Videos'**

** = "The Russian police drag the ruthless renegade from the cloudy chaos to spend his next summers in Siberia.", etc.

I thought maybe Blade 2 was the worst movie in the world, but then tonight I watched Bulletproof Monk. It must be forty years since Yul Brynner made this sort of cack popular, surely SFX should have moved on? I shall stick to enjoying the re-runs of Monkey in future.
Ate two whole super-large bags of popcorn, then tried to start in on a tub of ice-cream but felt too sick to continue. I feel like a pincushion waiting to be popped.
I'd like to congratulate my bra on catching humonguous amounts of popcorn. I can't imagine how it must feel to be a man, and unable to catch the stray popcorn bits in your cleavage. You'd just be really hungry in the cinema a lot, I guess. Unless you were a really really fat bloke. And even then, you'd probably not choose to accentuate it with low cut tops.
I used to think men ate the foul cinema hotdogs as part of some transparent inferiority complex; now I realise the poor sods are merely searching for nutrients.
I had wanted to try out some sort of sad singleton lifestyle, where I deliberately ate too many girly things, while crying into my white wine. No joy. Too muntered from yesterday to even face the white wine, and all the ice cream companies were ready for me, and filled their tubs with disgusting stuff that oughtn't to be allowed in ice cream. (cookie dough - fucking foul stuff. Whose idea was that? Someone invent a cheese and chicken wings flavour ice cream, then we can start talking.)
Reminder to self: don't wear cropped tops when your navel is laced with cat scratches. At best you end up looking like a Russian immigrant in the video store.
Cheers to Duch, for ringing me to say ex-DH cried herself to sleep.
Mind you, cheers to me. Cheers to me.

< # Girls Blog UK ? > Powered by RingSurf! < # Gay Diary ? > < L DykeWrite3 # > < # Blogging Brits ? > < # BloggingBitches ? >

This is my blogchalk: United Kingdom, London, East London, Bow, English, German, Vanessa, Female, 31-35, Literature / Movies, Food / Eating / Drinking. Read THIS blog:

<< # Gay Brits ? >> Rate Me on BlogHop.com! help?

powered by bravenet.com

The Overnight Bag

God, it took eight cups of strong black coffee to stop shaking enough to type.
Yidaho's sleeping off the drink binge in the room with the clean washing in, so I couldn't get dressed or go out, despite a huuuuuuuuuge need for restorative fried foodstuffs at a greasy caff somewhere.
At least I thought I couldn't get dressed, till I found the bag I had ready packed with a change of clothes and a sleeping bag in the box room. The one I'd gotten ready last week in case anything at home got too much and I needed to get out of the house in a hurry. In case sleeping in the car, or driving 75 miles to my parents' house turned out to be preferable than staying in the house another minute.
How weird a life, is that, to have an overnight bag ready?
I've spent all my sober hours wondering if I've done the right thing, why I'm splitting up with someone whom I miss so much and whom I really really don't want to hurt.
But I look at that bag (or rather the contents, which I'm wearing now) and it must be the right thing. Who could spend their days in the box room next to a 'mental emergency' overnight bag and not go insane?

nice chips, shame about the place

Mood:  caffeinated
Now Playing: telemarketers won't let go of my doorbell

Went out for a beer or two, ended up really really drunk, stuffing my face with big chips in the same old same old gay bar, drinking champagne cocktails, shrieking obscenities and (same old same old) annoying the general public. And apparently, according to my phone this morning, sending extremely annoying drunken texts to all and sundry. Fortunately, people are tolerant.
Summarised and distorted:

"I notice you texted me this at 4am. No, there is no south London all-night lesbian bar that I can direct you to at this hour."
"I'm not getting a #40 taxi just to come to the pub"
"It is too your fault you split up. Everybody everywhere knows that."
"I was pleased to meet you that one time... I'm glad you're enjoying your evening so much. Yes, it is rather late."
"Yes you could get her back, but you would have to speak to her about it, not me."

London is too too full of bright eyed bushy tailed students with gleaming skin and toothy smiles. Even when you go to a shitty bar to escape them, you just hit the waves of third years who think they're so way cooler than the ones forced to spend their weekends in the non-shitty bars. It's a long time since I've seen so many men with full heads of hair in the same place.

Must remember not to cry in public. Not even in a snivelley quiet, corner-slumped way. Certainly not when shrieking drunkenly about phallus -shaped chips, and not when flicking moules tom yum (jeeeeeee-sus) at other diners.

Karma

I forgot: the sequel to this. The girl didn't kill herself, and I don't think she's going to now. I asked her what stopped her, and apparently I had telephoned her mother to explain why she was not home on time, so her mum wouldn't worry. I'd said all this on an answerphone message. Poor kid tells me next day she'd played the message over and over again, and as a consequence, hadn't done anything stupid.
It's incredible how much of what we do for each other is down to chance.

the whingeing retrouve

Sorry.
My head really really hurts today. Drinking didn't help much.
Thanks to the sage advice of many friends who undertook to calm my fury, I managed to rant, rave, scream and shout, but not to be violent. Which is good.
Ex-DH isn't a demon, in fact I get the impression it's all partly a delaying tactic, to be honest. But I've waited around for ten weeks, now, painful as it might be, I need a result. She finally agreed that her continuing to live here isn't the best idea in the world.
Sounds like either I get a lodger to stay living here, or I move out. I'll try the former, but it might not be possible. A solicitor is required. I'll get onto that.
So, I stayed in bed till four. Then ex-DH went to stay with Duch, today, to spare my feelings. She looked awful, she'd been crying all day, I think. I lent her the car to get her stuff there, but refused to come with her.
After that, I mostly cried a lot. At last.
It's like being a bit player in some awful melodrama. Well, two awful melodramas: the one where I desperately try to hang on to a place to live, as if that's the most important thing. The other where someone I love desperately goes away and I miss her.
Oh dear. Everything makes me cry now. Perhaps that's a good thing. My sister pointed out who'd want to be *good* at breaking up with someone?
I have to apologise to hundreds of people today for being embarrassing - getting them out of bed to scream at them down the phone, etc. How humiliating. I don't know why I'm blogging this, or blogging at all. I guess your mind returns to bad things on impulse, tries to make things safe for you, so you can think about painful stuff without the same gut wrenching feeling.
I had intended to go clubbing in SW London with yidaho tonight, but I think crying in a club is possibly even sadder than crying all the time at home. The house seems empty and scary now. Be careful what you wish for, eh?

If I could have anything in the world, right now, it'd be her. Maybe I needed her not to be here to have space to think about that.

Am drowning misery, till it rattles and dies. Go away.

Divorce Me 3

She wants One Hundred and Ninety Thousand pounds from me.

Three hundred and Sixteen Thousand US dollars.
Two hundred and Seventy Thousand Euros.
Equal to Eight hundred and Fifty One ounces of gold.

Plus the money for the furniture.

I couldn't find the exchange rate for pieces of silver.
To put that into perspective, she wants me to get a mortgage that is seven times my salary (despite the outstanding court judgements against me). And then to spend the next fifty years of my life paying for the mistake of having trusted her.

This is 'fair.' It will allow her to give up work, and to extend the appetite for travel which the 8 weeks in Australia I paid for whetted.

I've never even conceived that a person could segue into money grabbing usurer so quickly.

Do all this, and pay for the food, Vanessa.

If this is the deal, boy do I stand to take me some well-deserved slaps out of it.

Karma

Mood:  bright
Now Playing: Sounds of the neighbours giggling, barely perceptible over the violin parts in Arvo Part's 'Tabula Rasa'

I spent an hour today persuading an under-age rape victim not to kill herself. After, I did my duty and reported the case to the relevant authorities, who asked me for my 'professional opinion' as to whether I thought she was likely to top herself tonight, or if she might well wait until tomorrow. What did I estimate were her chances? Drawing upon my vast reserves of training to recognise and deal with such eventualities (approximately nought years of hard training, leading to nil qualification), I guesstimated that she would not die until tomorrow. And Derren Frigging Brown thinks he takes risks.
That surely cured me of this week's furious temper tantrums for a while - that and varying my drive home along the longer, scenic route.
At sunset, I drove across Blackheath, through the village, through the middle of Greenwich royal park (it's ok, you're allowed to -- not doing a Michael Douglas just yet), past the Naval Colleges, the Royal Observatory and through Greenwich itself, scanning the restaurants looking for somewhere to take my colleagues out for a meal, because they covered my stuff okay while I was off sick.
It was pretty, the parks, the architecture, the town market centres, the Thames, the ships and the view of Docklands beyond, all of it, and it calmed me down no end. Pay it forward, indeed.

I suddenly felt better for having acted my way through all of last night (dutiful reasonable ex-girlfriend role), for having been someone there, then, able to help that kid, and for having nothing worse to worry about than my own hurt feelings.
Yay!

blogtanian, prince and consumer of blogs

Now Playing: the cutesy iddle puddacat is snoring

Now that's weird. I definitely did visit Makky's blog this afternoon and read everything I could. When I saw tonight she'd left a comment on my blog, I had a trace memory of making wanky comments, and assumed that's why she'd visited here. Just checked back on Makky's blog ... no comments left by me!

Strangeness indeed.

So, of course, wanting cyberspace to be neat, I left a wanky comment.

Other news:
Lemonpillows was the first ever victim of a flashblog yesterday. Go congratulate her, and never ever partake of this sort of nonsense yourself.
And the Blog Iceberg is my new favouritest concept.

Diagnosis: over-charged Splenetic Sourness, characterised by Malodorous Humours

Mood:  chillin'
Now Playing: the sound of my nose running, against a backdrop of Sigur Ros

Reasons not to go to work today:
I overslept.
I feel crappy.
I can't get more than five hours sleep a night, and no I haven't tried the Vodka Method yet.
I can't even remember what today's schedule at work is.
I can attempt to get a doctor's appointment again, and ask for hard mentaller's drugs. (No? You don't think I'm a mentallist? Sigh.)

It's something like one doctor per 2000 patients on the NHS in London, and where I live in East London, if you're not a pikey slag with 18 screaming kids covered in cigarette stub sores, you'll never get seen by anyone qualified. But I still need a sick certificate for last week, so I have to make attempt number 7 to get into the place.
In fact, the service is so shit that a while ago, I gave up and had no doctor for a year or two (the old doctor closed his practise and threw all the records away. Without telling me. Yes, I know that's not what they're supposed to do, but you try telling that to the overstuffed dragonish matrons who work the reception areas ... "don't you take that tone with me, missy" is a direct quote.) Didn't notice any difference at all in not having a doctor - it's no more difficult to get an appointment with a doctor who doesn't exist, after all - but then switched |genericjob| and 'doctor's details' is another of those official type things, like next of kin, that they rather worryingly require from you.
[I don't see what it has to do with standing around and being obstructive all day (which is basically what I'm paid for). If you take too much time off and get formal warnings, they only ever believe their doc, not yours, and their doc is waaaay easier to fool. Ooops, giving too much away?]

So anyway, I signed up to a new doctor. First time I went in, I was sick with flu, and underwent the usual barrage of unhelpful barked instructions. They didn't notice the breaking into a cold sweat, and when I began the pre-fainting sway, I got "what's wrong with you?!" Like...um....aren't you supposed to tell me?
Usually, though, it's simply a matter of not allowing you an appointment for the next four years minimum. I used to love receptionists' seething inexpressible hatred when you fix them with a steely eye and calmly say 'emergency'. However, that's a little unfair, so I don't do it anymore, I try to play by their game and their rules.

I stubbed my toe. It keeps bleeding. When can I see a doctor.
You want a nurse.
I want a doctor. When can I see him.
Sigh. Four weeks from now. (This line shortened by sixteen minutes to save bandwidth.)

Nowadays, if it's serious, I just give up on a five hour block of time and go straight to a hospital emergency room with my stubbed toe. The ones with a million red signs outside warning that if you waste their expensive time and resources with something your GP could have dealt with, they'll take legal action. But five hours sat in bits of blood, vom and pee next to a nice old mad tramp who thinks you're Satan is a lot shorter than five weeks of trying to remember that you stubbed your toe.
But you can't get a sick cert from a hospital A&E.

I did try the doctor's surgery last week, when I was more visibly ill than today:
visit one: the surgery is closed.
visit two: the surgery does not take bookings at this time.
visit three: you missed the earlier time, for when the surgery does not need a booking. We only take booked appointments now. No, we have no appointments for you to book.
visit four: it's our two hour long lunch hour. We've pulled down a riot-shutter.
visit five: we've switched our phonelines over to the fax machine. If you're really honestly sick, you'll find a way around this.
visit six: we've decided not to open our evening or weekend surgeries any more. Go away.

Given that I haven't even gained access to the building with any effectiveness yet, the chances look bleak. I've still got to grapple with the dangers posed by Sixteen Year Old Illiterate Receptionist, then make my way up to the battle against the forces of Dragon On Phone, and finally wage war against the Angry Dragon Patently In Love With Doctor Who Wants Him All For Her Sad Frosty Self.
But wait! I spent two days as a doctor's receptionist in Harley Street this summer. What hypocrisy! I chased one paying customer away for being late. Where do I fit into this easy, disgruntled sarcastic diatribe?
Dragon Who Doesn't Give A Fuck.
I'm going back to bed.

Sleepwatch: 5 hours.

Countdown

Mood:  down
Now Playing: Norah Jones, Coldplay, MOR indulgent stuff

Best quote of yesterday, from someone I work with:
"Maaaaan, while you were off, we was livin' The Life!"
In a fortnight's time, I get a week's holiday. Thank christ.

Tomorrow, Harvardboy is coming over from Hamburg, so I'll be socialising with him and the ex-DH in the evening. Despite having spent years pointing out to each other that they've known each other longest, he has emailed me to let me know I shan't be automatically dropped. Which was considerate of him, but my current cynicism is so deeply ingrained by now, that I wonder what prompted it. As Vic pointed out, perhaps she intends to sell me half her friends?
Am making real attempts to not allow my sourfaced critical negative nature emerge in public till Thursday. Or Zero Hour, as I've been referring to it.

Sleepwatch: 4.5 hours

< # Girls Blog UK ? > Powered by RingSurf! < # Gay Diary ? > < L DykeWrite3 # > < # Blogging Brits ? > < # BloggingBitches ? >

This is my blogchalk: United Kingdom, London, East London, Bow, English, German, Vanessa, Female, 31-35, Literature / Movies, Food / Eating / Drinking. Read THIS blog:

<< # Gay Brits ? >> Rate Me on BlogHop.com! help?

powered by bravenet.com

Diagnosis: barely suppressed rage

Mood:  on fire
Now Playing: Frank Sinatra

Last night I got a break from acting as five hour trampoline for two insane cats who don't quite fit onto a single bed. (Apparently sleeping in the washing basket is quite the in-thing today, if you're a cat.)
You'd have thought this meant I get more sleep? No bloody chance. Took till 3am to get some shut eye, then all of that was wasted on weird nightmares. Which in itself would merely be irritating, but no; my nightmares would have to be bloody transparent even to a retard who spotted a flashcard titled 'Freud' in 1976.

Context: although splitting up with my ex-girlfriend, I've been doing my best to be reasonable. This involves being aloof when the waterworks start, not slagging her off to my friends, and being scrupulous about not blogging anything which would leave either of us feeling bad**.

The downside of being reasonable, as Briar pointed out yesterday, is the ensuing feelings of barely suppressed, simmering, near-homicidal rage.

Anyway, so last night I spent the twilight hours visualising limbs being torn apart (John Irving: 'The Fourth Hand' - not at all recommended), then continued the theme into the zzz-hours, with REM functions that involved me standing in front of a terrorist planted time-bomb.
My response to this obvious position of moral authority was to slowly and carefully kill in cold blood six potential bomb -defusers (is defusers a word?). I shot them one by one, and watched them scream and twist as they died.
When two were left, whimpering and crawling to get away, I quite deliberately, and without justification set off a semtex charge against my chest, exploding the incendiary device I was guarding, and killing everything within several miles.
[innocent girly face] Gee, I wonder what that dream means? [ end innocent girly face ]

I think I had better find some more rational way to express the anger I patently can't avoid feeling, before the cats find a premature end.

** I think we can safely say this phase is ending.

Sleepwatch: 3 hours.

Divorce Me 2

"I'll sell you my half of the furniture."

You'll what? You'll .... what?

You'll fucking what?

Things I wish I'd not said

(inspired by Looby's list of things he wished he *had* said, here are this month's things I wish I hadn't)

1.) (Being chatted up by gorgeous woman:)
GW: "I remember you, you have really long legs and you dance. Been dancing lately?"
Me: "Yes."
GW: "One syllable answers. Not good."
Me: "Oh."

2.) "The Chapman brothers might be as good as Goya one day. [...] Oh okay, alright, yes, you're right they're talentless and disgusting then. [...] Yeah, they're so over."

3.) "I liked Don Alfonso. I thought he had morals."

4.) (to a Trinidadian friend) "I've decided Trinidadian women are all high maintenance. Don't you agree?"

5.) (to people I don't really know, who had told me Alex Parks had won Fame Academy) "You fucking bastards."

6.) "okay, I'll take the cats."

7.) "I've been a c@#t all summer"

8.) "Your mate over there, has she got some sort of fucking problem? Miserable cow. [...] Oh, your Best Mate? Oh. No, no, she's lovely. Really."

9.) (on being asked if I'd done any dusting at all this summer) "Are you trying to feel fucking superior or something?"

10.) "When are you going to move out?"

11.) (talking to someone I manage about a senior manager) "FFS, stupid bitch. What's the difference? Premenstrual old hag."
(How do you spell m-i-s-j-u-d-g-e-d, again?)

Moral: don't blog drunk.

Sleepwatch: 11 [desperate, sweaty, gasping, dehydrated, twisting] hours.