I decided to write this before the sobbing subsides. I am naturally (or as a result of my upbringing) a pessimist. Or a cynic. Or both. So I went into this month assuming that I would not be pregnant after the artificial insemination 2 weeks ago.
But, while I talked the talk, I obviously let a glimmer of hope in, as since my period arrived at 6am this morning I haven’t been able to stop crying. I felt like it might come yesterday and had contingencies in place - I would go out and buy litres of red wine to scoff to console myself… after having gone without for a few weeks.
Instead I lay there in bed last night. Wondering and waiting before eventually sleeping. Then, like clockwork, there it was up bright and early. With the birds.
Work has been busy and I had to leave a bit early Friday for other commitments so I felt I could not take the day off. After all, there may be a few of ‘these’ days of disappointment if I keep trying. So, I lay in the bath, listened to loud music over headphones and drank diet coke. Not having to worry about my caffeine intake or eating a healthy breakfast, I lay there, cried before getting dressed and to my bus stop.
What I endured then, was the bus trip from hell. I was greeted at the stop by a regular (and neighbour) who I don’t particularly like. The first thing she asked me was, what’s wrong. I must have looked that bad. So then it started. I attempted polite conversation with her but from the moment I got on the bus the sobbing started. And it didn’t stop. As the bus was full, I was not only at the front, but sitting side-on, in profile view of all of the other 7am commuters. Initially I tried to subtly poke at my eyes and turn my head to the front and wipe away tears before they fell. However, the 4.5km ride ended up taking 90 minutes. Every time I thought I had myself under control I lost it again. I blew my nose on my headband and kept wiping my tears away with my shirt. Every so often I faked a cough in the hope that my fellow passengers thought I was fighting a cold not bawling my eyes out, in front of 50 semi-strangers.
I thought that the busy-ness of work would keep me focused. It didn’t. I lasted for an hour and a half – constantly crying through the emailing and calls. Fortunately I face a wall. Unfortunately people need to come and ask me stuff. All of the time. I felt unprofessional. I felt devastated.
So, I packed up and skulked off. I can - and will - work from home, but I feel bad – that it has come to this. Me sobbing inconsolably. A friend offered to call. I said not to cos I can’t talk. I am used to dealing with things alone. I do want to talk to my mother though. She won’t mind if I cry down the phone to her. She hasn’t been supportive of this but she will be sad for me.
I had contingencies in place. I have felt so bad about myself recently that I decided that only a fat camp would whip me into shape. And I don’t mean a health retreat, where pampering treatments feature on the pricey menu – but a non-stop no frills boot camp type thing. After some investigating I discovered a former “Biggest Loser” competitor has one near Melbourne. At about half the cost of the pricey health retreats, it is akin to that competition. Big house, own room but shared facilities. Teams and training. You have to be 20kgs overweight and can only go in two week blocks. I can go from 10 May.
My contingency plan has been that I have this month (May) off the fertility drug / baby-making exercise and do this. Now I am thinking I might need to go for a month. I need something earth-shattering to wake me up and bring me back to life. I hate that my life has come to this. How could I ever love anyone else (anyway) when I hate myself so much?
So, perhaps I have that to look forward to. In the meantime I need to find some short-term coping mechanisms. It is 10.30 in the morning so red wine probably isn’t a good idea and champagne seems entirely inappropriate. Instead I will wait to talk to my mum, drink diet coke, do some work and keep crying.
Sunday, April 26, 2009
Saturday, April 25, 2009
Appreciating Joss
I check out other blogs from time to time and one caught my eye recently. Sufficiently impassioned, I felt obliged to respond to the author. In a positive way.
Kaye Dacus (http://kayedacus.com/) recently wrote about her favourite (new) shows which are currently airing in the USA. One of these was the new Joss Whedon show, Dollhouse.
I suspect it won’t be here (in Australia) for a while. Some of my recent favourite TV series (Mad Men, Dexter) are actually here on DVD before they appear on our Free to Air television.
Nonetheless, I will look forward to the show – whenever it arrives.
For those not-in-the-know, Joss Whedon is a director, come writer (etc) who created Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Angel, Firefly and now Dollhouse. I was thrilled to see that blogger and writer Kaye (a sane, intelligent woman and not a sci-fi freak, as you so often see with Joss’s fans) appreciated his work. And, as a result, I felt obliged to add my glowing recommendation (in response to her and in my own blog).
I became a Joss fan during the Buffy years. Not the early years, as a show about a vampire slayer wasn’t something I would have even considered watching. As it happened, in 2000 I was living in Asia and – in desperation – I succumbed to cable tv and one night (for something to do) watched an episode of Buffy. I was intrigued so went back for more. I then bought the DVDs to see all of the earlier episodes and waited for new episodes with a surprising impatience.
I am aware a lot of Buffy-viewers were ‘goth-like’ characters themselves and loved ‘all-things-vampire’. I must admit to fast-forwarding through some of the fight scenes, and cringing at some of the other-worldly characters as what I loved most about Buffy was the dialogue. The witty-repartee, the Buffy ‘catch-phrases’ were what stuck in my mind.
It would be easy to write off the show as trite, light-viewing, featuring some teenage-superhero-wannabe.
I was well into the series before I realized how incredibly talented Joss Whedon and his crew were. Through interviews accompanying the DVD series’, I learned that Buffy’s mother (Joyce) knew that she was to be killed off years before she was (and the episode of her death is one of the most poignant things I have ever seen on tv). The obscure references to her sister Dawn’s arrival a year or two before she appeared intrigued me as well. I guess I had thought the writers sat around informally and randomly came up with ideas and scripts. I hadn’t expected that much rigour, talent and intelligence around the process.
I read later that Joss is known for mapping out his shows in advance, but the commitment and adherence to detail that must go with that level of focus is amazing.
I can only imagine then, how devastating it was when his (post Buffy & Angel) TV series Firefly was cancelled after one season. He must have decided long before what would happen to these new characters he created. The movie, Serenity which came out later, I suspect was an attempt to get some closure. And not only for the fans.
Interestingly Joss has a habit of re-using actors he favours in his shows. Eliza Dushku appeared as the rogue slayer, Faith, in Buffy and now stars in Dollhouse. Nathan Fillion went from creepy bad guy in Buffy to sexy lead in Firefly.
He creates strong female characters: from the slayers and witches in Buffy; to River (the brain-washed and reluctant superhero in Firefly); to the ‘dolls’ being programmed in Dollhouse. In an era when so few female role models exist on our screens, and women still so-often play the sidekick to the lead detective, it is refreshing to see quirky and (slightly) flawed female leads.
So, I have missed Joss from our screens – he has an eccentricity that is rare and tries things others wouldn’t dare. He seems prone to some self-indulgence (writing his own theme songs, appearing in some episodes) and I gather he is a tad ‘precious’ – wanting things HIS way, which I suspect is usually the right way. Who else would think to write an entire episode of a show (Buffy) where no words are spoken, or another where all dialogue is sung.
But, it seems I can now look forward to Dollhouse, though gossip is that its network is considering axing it - already. Perhaps like Buffy it takes some time to whet viewers’ appetites and incite their addiction. In the interim, I will await its arrival here with anticipation.
Kaye Dacus (http://kayedacus.com/) recently wrote about her favourite (new) shows which are currently airing in the USA. One of these was the new Joss Whedon show, Dollhouse.
I suspect it won’t be here (in Australia) for a while. Some of my recent favourite TV series (Mad Men, Dexter) are actually here on DVD before they appear on our Free to Air television.
Nonetheless, I will look forward to the show – whenever it arrives.
For those not-in-the-know, Joss Whedon is a director, come writer (etc) who created Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Angel, Firefly and now Dollhouse. I was thrilled to see that blogger and writer Kaye (a sane, intelligent woman and not a sci-fi freak, as you so often see with Joss’s fans) appreciated his work. And, as a result, I felt obliged to add my glowing recommendation (in response to her and in my own blog).
I became a Joss fan during the Buffy years. Not the early years, as a show about a vampire slayer wasn’t something I would have even considered watching. As it happened, in 2000 I was living in Asia and – in desperation – I succumbed to cable tv and one night (for something to do) watched an episode of Buffy. I was intrigued so went back for more. I then bought the DVDs to see all of the earlier episodes and waited for new episodes with a surprising impatience.
I am aware a lot of Buffy-viewers were ‘goth-like’ characters themselves and loved ‘all-things-vampire’. I must admit to fast-forwarding through some of the fight scenes, and cringing at some of the other-worldly characters as what I loved most about Buffy was the dialogue. The witty-repartee, the Buffy ‘catch-phrases’ were what stuck in my mind.
It would be easy to write off the show as trite, light-viewing, featuring some teenage-superhero-wannabe.
I was well into the series before I realized how incredibly talented Joss Whedon and his crew were. Through interviews accompanying the DVD series’, I learned that Buffy’s mother (Joyce) knew that she was to be killed off years before she was (and the episode of her death is one of the most poignant things I have ever seen on tv). The obscure references to her sister Dawn’s arrival a year or two before she appeared intrigued me as well. I guess I had thought the writers sat around informally and randomly came up with ideas and scripts. I hadn’t expected that much rigour, talent and intelligence around the process.
I read later that Joss is known for mapping out his shows in advance, but the commitment and adherence to detail that must go with that level of focus is amazing.
I can only imagine then, how devastating it was when his (post Buffy & Angel) TV series Firefly was cancelled after one season. He must have decided long before what would happen to these new characters he created. The movie, Serenity which came out later, I suspect was an attempt to get some closure. And not only for the fans.
Interestingly Joss has a habit of re-using actors he favours in his shows. Eliza Dushku appeared as the rogue slayer, Faith, in Buffy and now stars in Dollhouse. Nathan Fillion went from creepy bad guy in Buffy to sexy lead in Firefly.
He creates strong female characters: from the slayers and witches in Buffy; to River (the brain-washed and reluctant superhero in Firefly); to the ‘dolls’ being programmed in Dollhouse. In an era when so few female role models exist on our screens, and women still so-often play the sidekick to the lead detective, it is refreshing to see quirky and (slightly) flawed female leads.
So, I have missed Joss from our screens – he has an eccentricity that is rare and tries things others wouldn’t dare. He seems prone to some self-indulgence (writing his own theme songs, appearing in some episodes) and I gather he is a tad ‘precious’ – wanting things HIS way, which I suspect is usually the right way. Who else would think to write an entire episode of a show (Buffy) where no words are spoken, or another where all dialogue is sung.
But, it seems I can now look forward to Dollhouse, though gossip is that its network is considering axing it - already. Perhaps like Buffy it takes some time to whet viewers’ appetites and incite their addiction. In the interim, I will await its arrival here with anticipation.
Family SATC-style
I rely on my parents, a lot. Even though they don’t live nearby, my mother is often the first person I go to when things are going wrong. I have close friends, but sometimes there are things I can only tell my mother. When things aren’t going well and when I feel like a failure. I know my parents will love me – no matter what. (After all, that is their job.)
I am sure I rely on them too much, though I suspect this would be different if I had a partner. I suspect those with lovers or husbands or partners arrive home and whinge to them about their day; seek a hug when they are stressed or fraught with despair; or share their tears when they don’t get a job they expected to.
I have some very close friends who know almost everything about my life, but sometimes I don’t go to them. They are mostly there for me, but I am not their priority and sometimes it is too hard to admit failure to those who don’t HAVE to love you.
I have a number of single and married friends in their 30s, 40s and 50s. Some have kids, some don’t. For most of these friends, their families continue to play a major part in their lives. Parents and siblings feature often in our discussions - in both positive and negative ways.
Like me, for some of my closest friends, their parents (mostly mothers and grandmother in one instance) remain confidants, offering constant and unwavering support and comfort.
As well as the emotional support family provides, there is also the practical assistance that comes from being a member of a family. You babysit, even when it is inconvenient and you help out when someone becomes sick. You attend family get-togethers; from celebrations to annoying family requirements. You make an effort even when you don’t want to. After all, when everything else goes to hell in a handbasket, family is all we might have left.
So, this is what I don’t get. They don’t really appear in Sex and the City. Relatives that is. In my recent spate of viewing random episodes on Pay Television, I watched Charlotte marry Trey. She faltered just before walking down the aisle and grabbed Carrie to seek reassurance. Concerns allayed, Carrie disappeared and an older man emerged from the wings and took Charlotte’s arm to walk to her down the aisle. I can only assume this man was her father, or step-father, or equivalent. But there he was – nameless and almost faceless. Was there a mother I wondered? While planning the perfect wedding, I don’t recall Charlotte ever mentioning a father or mother.
I know the show focused on the friendships, but it also focused on the girls’ lives – and I feel like there was a big chunk missing. In some ways the show was a ‘manual’ for living (albeit in a more luxurious, fun-filled, exciting and extreme world). So, while we learned lessons about men, relationships and friendships we were left in idle ignorance when it comes to dealing with our own families.
We meet Trey’s interfering mother and Steve’s annoying mother. I even have a vague recollection of someone’s mother (Miranda perhaps) dying during the series. But even from that episode, what I remember most is the support she gets from the girls, rather than the loss of a mother.
So, where are they the rest of the time? I mean, did Carrie even have parents? I don’t recall them offering support when she had been dumped by “Big” (again and again), or Aidan. Or any consideration of aging parents in her decision to move to Paris? What about the man who walked Charlotte down the aisle? Where was he during her stressful efforts to conceive a child and through her divorce?
So, I am intrigued. Where were their families? Carrie’s, Charlotte’s, Miranda’s or Samantha’s? We had the horror mother-in-laws, so what about the small-town mothers and fathers or siblings, not fitting into the girls’ NYC lives? A few embarrassing relatives wouldn’t have gone astray - but they are largely absent. Why I wonder? Is family not sexy enough for the city?
Did the four girls really emerge from their childhoods unscathed? What about some residual baggage? Sibling rivalries? Or even some backstories to fill in some of the blanks? After all, where did Samantha’s aversion to ‘love’ come from; and why was Charlotte such so desperate for Park Avenue and the perfect family?
Perhaps a prequel is called for?!
I am sure I rely on them too much, though I suspect this would be different if I had a partner. I suspect those with lovers or husbands or partners arrive home and whinge to them about their day; seek a hug when they are stressed or fraught with despair; or share their tears when they don’t get a job they expected to.
I have some very close friends who know almost everything about my life, but sometimes I don’t go to them. They are mostly there for me, but I am not their priority and sometimes it is too hard to admit failure to those who don’t HAVE to love you.
I have a number of single and married friends in their 30s, 40s and 50s. Some have kids, some don’t. For most of these friends, their families continue to play a major part in their lives. Parents and siblings feature often in our discussions - in both positive and negative ways.
Like me, for some of my closest friends, their parents (mostly mothers and grandmother in one instance) remain confidants, offering constant and unwavering support and comfort.
As well as the emotional support family provides, there is also the practical assistance that comes from being a member of a family. You babysit, even when it is inconvenient and you help out when someone becomes sick. You attend family get-togethers; from celebrations to annoying family requirements. You make an effort even when you don’t want to. After all, when everything else goes to hell in a handbasket, family is all we might have left.
So, this is what I don’t get. They don’t really appear in Sex and the City. Relatives that is. In my recent spate of viewing random episodes on Pay Television, I watched Charlotte marry Trey. She faltered just before walking down the aisle and grabbed Carrie to seek reassurance. Concerns allayed, Carrie disappeared and an older man emerged from the wings and took Charlotte’s arm to walk to her down the aisle. I can only assume this man was her father, or step-father, or equivalent. But there he was – nameless and almost faceless. Was there a mother I wondered? While planning the perfect wedding, I don’t recall Charlotte ever mentioning a father or mother.
I know the show focused on the friendships, but it also focused on the girls’ lives – and I feel like there was a big chunk missing. In some ways the show was a ‘manual’ for living (albeit in a more luxurious, fun-filled, exciting and extreme world). So, while we learned lessons about men, relationships and friendships we were left in idle ignorance when it comes to dealing with our own families.
We meet Trey’s interfering mother and Steve’s annoying mother. I even have a vague recollection of someone’s mother (Miranda perhaps) dying during the series. But even from that episode, what I remember most is the support she gets from the girls, rather than the loss of a mother.
So, where are they the rest of the time? I mean, did Carrie even have parents? I don’t recall them offering support when she had been dumped by “Big” (again and again), or Aidan. Or any consideration of aging parents in her decision to move to Paris? What about the man who walked Charlotte down the aisle? Where was he during her stressful efforts to conceive a child and through her divorce?
So, I am intrigued. Where were their families? Carrie’s, Charlotte’s, Miranda’s or Samantha’s? We had the horror mother-in-laws, so what about the small-town mothers and fathers or siblings, not fitting into the girls’ NYC lives? A few embarrassing relatives wouldn’t have gone astray - but they are largely absent. Why I wonder? Is family not sexy enough for the city?
Did the four girls really emerge from their childhoods unscathed? What about some residual baggage? Sibling rivalries? Or even some backstories to fill in some of the blanks? After all, where did Samantha’s aversion to ‘love’ come from; and why was Charlotte such so desperate for Park Avenue and the perfect family?
Perhaps a prequel is called for?!
Monday, April 20, 2009
SATC - The early years
There are a number of good things about this house-sitting gig. Not just being away from the building site-that-is-my-home; the larder full of cooking stuff (like choc bits, which I will have to replace before I leave); the excuse that I am out of my routine and can’t exercise; but also having access to Pay TV.
My brother doesn’t have the movies’ or sports’ channels. The focus here is predominantly on all-things-Disney, for my niece (who has a bit of a thing for Avatar, Hannah Montana and some show about two boys who live in a hotel with their mother). So I am spending most of my waking (and tv-watching) hours in front of ARENA and reveling in repeats of Sex and the City, which appears to be on constantly and usually in no logical order. The other evening, for example, there were two episodes in a row. The first one was the actual pilot episode (circa 1998). The next was from Season Four.
Why I am glued to them I have no idea. I actually have all of the DVDs at my place. All six Seasons. I could go and pick them up. Or wait until I get home and watch them. But instead, I am strangely transfixed to the randomness with which they appear on ARENA. I have to admit, I had forgotten how many men Carrie and the girls went through over the years. Samantha aside, the other three constantly dated with a never-ending stream of men through their lives.
Is this why we liked it I wonder? Not just for the clothes and fashions – and to see what strange combination Carrie would next don (and even more amazingly, pull off). Or did we just envy their seemingly glamourous lives and the fact that they seemed to be constantly in demand by the men of New York.
Critics railed at the realism of the show and the fact that – in the real world – similar women would be hard pressed to afford their apartments, let alone the lifestyle they portrayed; their clothes, their Jimmy Choos and constant stream of visits to the ‘happening’ restaurants and bars of NYC.
But did we care? Hell no! Who cares if, in the real world, one pair of Manolo Blahnik’s would set Carrie back a year’s salary. Instead we all envied their fabulous lives. We all wanted to be them. And, we’ve all done the Facebook quiz, wondering which of the four girls we really are. I suspect we probably all wanted to be Carrie (around whom the SATC world revolves) and I think the Facebook doyenne believed me to be so, but I always felt more like Charlotte with a bit of Miranda thrown in. Sweet but cynical.
So, having been exposed to a veritable kaleidoscope of episodes in the past week, not only am I surprised at how little the women changed over the six seasons (yay for botox!), I am reminded of a few favourite moments (and seasons) and amazed at the things I had forgotten.
Very importantly, I had forgotten that in the first episodes (and perhaps a few to follow – I will have to check later) Carrie speaks to the camera and the show featured mock interviews, with little captions. So, it started as a faux-documentary. Watching it now, I cringe. I resolve to watch the first season to see when this changes - when the producers realized they needed to go with engaging storylines, supported by narration, rather than a thought piece with a one-dimensional supporting cast.
I had also forgotten that ‘Big’ appears in the first episode.
I have also seen the final two episodes in the last few days. I remember – like hordes of others – being disappointed at the final episode. Unhappy that, for a show about how it is okay to be single and alone, the four girls all ended up partnered off.
I recall that when it first came out in 1998, the show was a celebration of independence and of strong single women. So, while I sympathise with the producers’ desire for a happily-ever-after ending, it fell like a sell-out. Carrie’s move to Paris was very much about her fear of being the ‘last-one-standing’ and being alone, rather than following her heart, or even her head. Bringing in ‘Big’ at the last minute, seemed too contrived, with the producers obviously in a rush to wrap six-years up neatly, tie the bow and present it expectantly to adoring fans.
This aside, when I think of the show, I think of it being about relationships and most importantly, about friendships. The scene I most remember from the movie, for example, is Charlotte’s anger (in the street) at ‘Big’ after he failed to show at the wedding ceremony. Her distress for her friend felt real and devastated me more than Carrie being left at the altar. It made me wonder about selfless relationships where true love, loyalty and devotion are fundamental.
The episode I watched (The Agony and the Ex-tacy) after the pilot was about the girls attending an engagement party for a guy they had knew (and several slept with).
The episode was about finding your soulmate. I hadn’t remembered that the show had really articulated the level of desperation evidenced in that episode. Miranda faking happiness at her singleness and Carrie’s despair (after everyone missing her birthday celebration) at perhaps never finding her soulmate. It ended with the girls deciding they were each others’ soulmates and the guys that came along were just a bonus. A lovely sentiment – but in my self-styled Miranda-cynicism I wonder if they were saying the same thing several years later when they were all paired off.
I have another week of house-sitting so who knows what morsels are before me. Either way, it has given me a taste of a favourite-but-forgotten treat. My appetite whetted, I will have to pull out the DVDs when I get home.
Finally, another perplexing question. Whatever happened to Skipper?
http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0159206/
My brother doesn’t have the movies’ or sports’ channels. The focus here is predominantly on all-things-Disney, for my niece (who has a bit of a thing for Avatar, Hannah Montana and some show about two boys who live in a hotel with their mother). So I am spending most of my waking (and tv-watching) hours in front of ARENA and reveling in repeats of Sex and the City, which appears to be on constantly and usually in no logical order. The other evening, for example, there were two episodes in a row. The first one was the actual pilot episode (circa 1998). The next was from Season Four.
Why I am glued to them I have no idea. I actually have all of the DVDs at my place. All six Seasons. I could go and pick them up. Or wait until I get home and watch them. But instead, I am strangely transfixed to the randomness with which they appear on ARENA. I have to admit, I had forgotten how many men Carrie and the girls went through over the years. Samantha aside, the other three constantly dated with a never-ending stream of men through their lives.
Is this why we liked it I wonder? Not just for the clothes and fashions – and to see what strange combination Carrie would next don (and even more amazingly, pull off). Or did we just envy their seemingly glamourous lives and the fact that they seemed to be constantly in demand by the men of New York.
Critics railed at the realism of the show and the fact that – in the real world – similar women would be hard pressed to afford their apartments, let alone the lifestyle they portrayed; their clothes, their Jimmy Choos and constant stream of visits to the ‘happening’ restaurants and bars of NYC.
But did we care? Hell no! Who cares if, in the real world, one pair of Manolo Blahnik’s would set Carrie back a year’s salary. Instead we all envied their fabulous lives. We all wanted to be them. And, we’ve all done the Facebook quiz, wondering which of the four girls we really are. I suspect we probably all wanted to be Carrie (around whom the SATC world revolves) and I think the Facebook doyenne believed me to be so, but I always felt more like Charlotte with a bit of Miranda thrown in. Sweet but cynical.
So, having been exposed to a veritable kaleidoscope of episodes in the past week, not only am I surprised at how little the women changed over the six seasons (yay for botox!), I am reminded of a few favourite moments (and seasons) and amazed at the things I had forgotten.
Very importantly, I had forgotten that in the first episodes (and perhaps a few to follow – I will have to check later) Carrie speaks to the camera and the show featured mock interviews, with little captions. So, it started as a faux-documentary. Watching it now, I cringe. I resolve to watch the first season to see when this changes - when the producers realized they needed to go with engaging storylines, supported by narration, rather than a thought piece with a one-dimensional supporting cast.
I had also forgotten that ‘Big’ appears in the first episode.
I have also seen the final two episodes in the last few days. I remember – like hordes of others – being disappointed at the final episode. Unhappy that, for a show about how it is okay to be single and alone, the four girls all ended up partnered off.
I recall that when it first came out in 1998, the show was a celebration of independence and of strong single women. So, while I sympathise with the producers’ desire for a happily-ever-after ending, it fell like a sell-out. Carrie’s move to Paris was very much about her fear of being the ‘last-one-standing’ and being alone, rather than following her heart, or even her head. Bringing in ‘Big’ at the last minute, seemed too contrived, with the producers obviously in a rush to wrap six-years up neatly, tie the bow and present it expectantly to adoring fans.
This aside, when I think of the show, I think of it being about relationships and most importantly, about friendships. The scene I most remember from the movie, for example, is Charlotte’s anger (in the street) at ‘Big’ after he failed to show at the wedding ceremony. Her distress for her friend felt real and devastated me more than Carrie being left at the altar. It made me wonder about selfless relationships where true love, loyalty and devotion are fundamental.
The episode I watched (The Agony and the Ex-tacy) after the pilot was about the girls attending an engagement party for a guy they had knew (and several slept with).
The episode was about finding your soulmate. I hadn’t remembered that the show had really articulated the level of desperation evidenced in that episode. Miranda faking happiness at her singleness and Carrie’s despair (after everyone missing her birthday celebration) at perhaps never finding her soulmate. It ended with the girls deciding they were each others’ soulmates and the guys that came along were just a bonus. A lovely sentiment – but in my self-styled Miranda-cynicism I wonder if they were saying the same thing several years later when they were all paired off.
I have another week of house-sitting so who knows what morsels are before me. Either way, it has given me a taste of a favourite-but-forgotten treat. My appetite whetted, I will have to pull out the DVDs when I get home.
Finally, another perplexing question. Whatever happened to Skipper?
http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0159206/
Saturday, April 18, 2009
Singleton envy
One of my close friends recently did the unthinkable. Despite having been single for most of her adult life, she broke the code. It isn’t uncommon. It happens all of the time, but nonetheless, I was surprised when someone-who-knew-better did it.
Other people do it all of the time. My pilates instructor goes on about how lucky I am to have so much time to myself. She constantly tells me how much she envies my long baths and my reading. She warns me that having a child will mean I can’t do any of those things. Particularly if I become a single mother. She tells me that she wishes that she could sit and watch television or spend time reading. But she is too busy. Because she is a mother (and a partner). I just smile, but what I want to do is confront her with the fact that she is essentially saying she regrets having her son. I know she doesn’t as she is devoted to him. So I know if I did say something, she would respond that, of course she doesn’t resent him and tell me that he is the most important thing in her life. I know that she is just lashing out. Envious that I am my own boss and that my time is my own. I don’t get annoyed at her as she knows no better. She is someone who has always been in relationships. To her, being single for a year after her divorce (though she did have her son) was a long time. She doesn’t know any better.
I know that some of it comes down to ‘the grass is greener’ saga. As singletons, we dream of being in a relationship: being part of a couple; having someone who cares about you; who wants to hear about your day; and who is there for you, through good and bad, sickness and health etc etc.
Most of us spend our lives searching for someone to share it with. Despite what we say. When we are young we go to parties and pubs. We hope to get asked for a dance, our phone number, or to even share a taxi home. As we get older, we bemoan the lack of single men (or women) in our workplace, our office buildings, our suburb or even the city. We give up on bars and clubs, filled with women ten years our junior and for the men (our age) they attract. We try internet dating, speed dating, we even go on blind dates. We run out of friends to go out with. Everyone else becomes half of a couple. Not needing, or wanting to go out.
So, we lower our standards, tell ourselves that looks aren’t everything. We look less for Prince Charming and more for Prince Charles. In summary, we would go to almost any extreme to find ‘someone’. Not necessary ‘the one’, but ‘someone’ with whom to spend our lives. So we are no longer single; so we no longer have to keep looking.
So what exactly did this friend say, you may ask. How did she break the code? Simply put, she did one of those things that those-who-should-know-better, don’t do.
She wasn’t someone who settled down at 20 and no idea what it was like for the rest of us. She didn’t spend her 20s and 30s with a partner, smugly peering at the world outside.
Not at all. This friend was single until her mid 30s. Five years ago she suddenly fell for someone, got pregnant and married, then pregnant again; and again. She hasn’t wasted any time in bedding down her family. Before that, she went speed dating, went to pubs and despaired of ever meeting the ‘one’. She worried about getting older and not having had kids. Like many of my friends, she became (subtly and in a way that most won’t admit) more desperate to meet someone.
And I am happy for her. While (inevitably) I don’t see her much anymore, she has remained one of my best friends. We have a long history. Which was why I was surprised when she broke the code. After all, she knew better.
We were talking about my Friday night. I had gotten home from work, opened a bottle of wine and taken it to the bath, along with chocolate and a book and remained ensconced there for the night. My friend said, ‘You lucky thing. I envy you. I wish I could do that, but with hubby and the kids I would never be able to do it.’
I was shocked. She should know better. I expect those sort of comments only from those who haven’t experienced long-term singledom. I shuddered to think that a long-term singleton could become a ‘smug-married’ (to quote Bridget Jones!).
In an unusual move for me (though I find I am speaking my mind more and more nowadays) I said to her that she should know better. I said that if I had a choice, I would prefer to be cooking dinner for a lazy husband and screaming kids than spending Friday night alone. Instead, I was left to read my 5th book for the week, binge on chocolate and get pissed in the bath, because my friends are all in relationships and busy and there is absolutely nothing on television. I reminded her that she (having spent many nights and weekends alone) should remember what that was like.
I may never be in a relationship or have a family. But, if by some miracle I have those things, I can only pray I am not one of those people who turns to single friends and tells them how fortunate they are that they aren’t responsible to, or for, anyone else. Or how I envy them and their self-indulgent lives. I hope I can remember how alone it can be when you have had a bad day and have no one to talk to; to cry to, or with; no one to tell you that it is okay and that you are okay. I hope I remember that single people ultimately only have themselves: their own coping mechanisms; and their own tenacity. I hope I envy them that, not the long baths.
Other people do it all of the time. My pilates instructor goes on about how lucky I am to have so much time to myself. She constantly tells me how much she envies my long baths and my reading. She warns me that having a child will mean I can’t do any of those things. Particularly if I become a single mother. She tells me that she wishes that she could sit and watch television or spend time reading. But she is too busy. Because she is a mother (and a partner). I just smile, but what I want to do is confront her with the fact that she is essentially saying she regrets having her son. I know she doesn’t as she is devoted to him. So I know if I did say something, she would respond that, of course she doesn’t resent him and tell me that he is the most important thing in her life. I know that she is just lashing out. Envious that I am my own boss and that my time is my own. I don’t get annoyed at her as she knows no better. She is someone who has always been in relationships. To her, being single for a year after her divorce (though she did have her son) was a long time. She doesn’t know any better.
I know that some of it comes down to ‘the grass is greener’ saga. As singletons, we dream of being in a relationship: being part of a couple; having someone who cares about you; who wants to hear about your day; and who is there for you, through good and bad, sickness and health etc etc.
Most of us spend our lives searching for someone to share it with. Despite what we say. When we are young we go to parties and pubs. We hope to get asked for a dance, our phone number, or to even share a taxi home. As we get older, we bemoan the lack of single men (or women) in our workplace, our office buildings, our suburb or even the city. We give up on bars and clubs, filled with women ten years our junior and for the men (our age) they attract. We try internet dating, speed dating, we even go on blind dates. We run out of friends to go out with. Everyone else becomes half of a couple. Not needing, or wanting to go out.
So, we lower our standards, tell ourselves that looks aren’t everything. We look less for Prince Charming and more for Prince Charles. In summary, we would go to almost any extreme to find ‘someone’. Not necessary ‘the one’, but ‘someone’ with whom to spend our lives. So we are no longer single; so we no longer have to keep looking.
So what exactly did this friend say, you may ask. How did she break the code? Simply put, she did one of those things that those-who-should-know-better, don’t do.
She wasn’t someone who settled down at 20 and no idea what it was like for the rest of us. She didn’t spend her 20s and 30s with a partner, smugly peering at the world outside.
Not at all. This friend was single until her mid 30s. Five years ago she suddenly fell for someone, got pregnant and married, then pregnant again; and again. She hasn’t wasted any time in bedding down her family. Before that, she went speed dating, went to pubs and despaired of ever meeting the ‘one’. She worried about getting older and not having had kids. Like many of my friends, she became (subtly and in a way that most won’t admit) more desperate to meet someone.
And I am happy for her. While (inevitably) I don’t see her much anymore, she has remained one of my best friends. We have a long history. Which was why I was surprised when she broke the code. After all, she knew better.
We were talking about my Friday night. I had gotten home from work, opened a bottle of wine and taken it to the bath, along with chocolate and a book and remained ensconced there for the night. My friend said, ‘You lucky thing. I envy you. I wish I could do that, but with hubby and the kids I would never be able to do it.’
I was shocked. She should know better. I expect those sort of comments only from those who haven’t experienced long-term singledom. I shuddered to think that a long-term singleton could become a ‘smug-married’ (to quote Bridget Jones!).
In an unusual move for me (though I find I am speaking my mind more and more nowadays) I said to her that she should know better. I said that if I had a choice, I would prefer to be cooking dinner for a lazy husband and screaming kids than spending Friday night alone. Instead, I was left to read my 5th book for the week, binge on chocolate and get pissed in the bath, because my friends are all in relationships and busy and there is absolutely nothing on television. I reminded her that she (having spent many nights and weekends alone) should remember what that was like.
I may never be in a relationship or have a family. But, if by some miracle I have those things, I can only pray I am not one of those people who turns to single friends and tells them how fortunate they are that they aren’t responsible to, or for, anyone else. Or how I envy them and their self-indulgent lives. I hope I can remember how alone it can be when you have had a bad day and have no one to talk to; to cry to, or with; no one to tell you that it is okay and that you are okay. I hope I remember that single people ultimately only have themselves: their own coping mechanisms; and their own tenacity. I hope I envy them that, not the long baths.
Thursday, April 16, 2009
Reinventing Justin
People reinvent themselves all of the time, but some do it better than others. In my (humble) opinion, one of those who has achieved the great rebirth, is Justin Timberlake.
This came to me while ensconced in front of channel V last night (damn school holidays and the TV repeats they bring! What, do TV executives think people don’t watch television while on holidays?!)
But, back to Justin….The fact that he is even now (mostly) known at JT is a big change from the boy who started his career in the Mickey Mouse Club with the girl who was to become his high-profile ‘other half’. In fact, what I remember most about JT’s earlier life, was the relationship with Britney Spears. More than his successful career with boy-band ‘NSYNC’ and all of the teenage adulation (and hit songs) that came with that.
Sure, it appeared that he could sing and dance, well as much as you expect of a boy band member. But it was pretty much cookie-cutter stuff. Nothing new, nothing amazing. And then came the 2002 Justin-Britney bust up. The childhood sweethearts were over. Rumours flew, but they kept quiet about the why.
But, rather than fade into oblivion, JT moved on to Cameron Diaz and a seemingly ‘grown-up’ relationship and, with his boy-band behind him, he struck out on his own.
I am not an huge music fan, but revel in Saturday and Sunday mornings with the papers spread before me, diet coke a-plenty, left over Chinese (if I am lucky) and music videos on tv.
So, I was surprised when JT first emerged post-Britney and post NSYNC with Like I Love You. There he was with some rappers, dancing and singing and looking kinda cool. With them. Not a boy-band pirouette/twirly-thing in sight. The curls were gone and cropped hair hidden under a skull cap. I wondered how the collaboration came about. I was shocked: that legitimate ‘cool guys’ would actually deign to be seen with JT, let alone record with him; and even more so, that it seemed to be a good fit. For him.
And then they kept on coming. The songs - as a solo artist and the collaborations – with very hip and legit producers and artists.
He has had a stack of hits since he started his solo career in 2002, from Like I Love You, Senorita, My Love, Rock Your Body to the more melodic Cry Me a River and What Goes Around…Comes Around.
But what I find interesting is that he has continued the collaborations with popular and obscure artists alike, from Beyonce to 50 Cent. As well as a long-standing relationship with the way-cool Timbaland (Sexy Back, Give it to me), he has recently worked with Madonna (4 Minutes), Rihanna (Rehab) and TI (the current, Dead and Gone). It interests me that, in some of these songs – Rehab, Give it to me – JT barely features. In fact, on some occasions I am shocked to even discover he was involved. I find myself admiring him. A guy who doesn’t need the credit, or the adulation. A guy happy to just get on with it, in the background. Just doing the thing he loves doing.
I remember hearing feedback from a tour he did here a few years ago. The die-hard (been-there-since-NSYNC) fans were disappointed. The musos out there weren’t. I gather that JT loves nothing better than just ‘jamming’ with his band, which is what he did on stage. So, in my eyes his reinvention was complete. He has pulled off what so many of his boy-band contemporaries have been unable to do. While still able to ‘bring’ the moves, he seems content to focus on the music. Don’t get me wrong, I have nothing against boy bands, or performers (hey, I like the Pussy Cat Dolls for God’s sake), but I find myself bowing to this guy who has gone from clichéd boy-band member to cool and legit muso in a few short years.
This came to me while ensconced in front of channel V last night (damn school holidays and the TV repeats they bring! What, do TV executives think people don’t watch television while on holidays?!)
But, back to Justin….The fact that he is even now (mostly) known at JT is a big change from the boy who started his career in the Mickey Mouse Club with the girl who was to become his high-profile ‘other half’. In fact, what I remember most about JT’s earlier life, was the relationship with Britney Spears. More than his successful career with boy-band ‘NSYNC’ and all of the teenage adulation (and hit songs) that came with that.
Sure, it appeared that he could sing and dance, well as much as you expect of a boy band member. But it was pretty much cookie-cutter stuff. Nothing new, nothing amazing. And then came the 2002 Justin-Britney bust up. The childhood sweethearts were over. Rumours flew, but they kept quiet about the why.
But, rather than fade into oblivion, JT moved on to Cameron Diaz and a seemingly ‘grown-up’ relationship and, with his boy-band behind him, he struck out on his own.
I am not an huge music fan, but revel in Saturday and Sunday mornings with the papers spread before me, diet coke a-plenty, left over Chinese (if I am lucky) and music videos on tv.
So, I was surprised when JT first emerged post-Britney and post NSYNC with Like I Love You. There he was with some rappers, dancing and singing and looking kinda cool. With them. Not a boy-band pirouette/twirly-thing in sight. The curls were gone and cropped hair hidden under a skull cap. I wondered how the collaboration came about. I was shocked: that legitimate ‘cool guys’ would actually deign to be seen with JT, let alone record with him; and even more so, that it seemed to be a good fit. For him.
And then they kept on coming. The songs - as a solo artist and the collaborations – with very hip and legit producers and artists.
He has had a stack of hits since he started his solo career in 2002, from Like I Love You, Senorita, My Love, Rock Your Body to the more melodic Cry Me a River and What Goes Around…Comes Around.
But what I find interesting is that he has continued the collaborations with popular and obscure artists alike, from Beyonce to 50 Cent. As well as a long-standing relationship with the way-cool Timbaland (Sexy Back, Give it to me), he has recently worked with Madonna (4 Minutes), Rihanna (Rehab) and TI (the current, Dead and Gone). It interests me that, in some of these songs – Rehab, Give it to me – JT barely features. In fact, on some occasions I am shocked to even discover he was involved. I find myself admiring him. A guy who doesn’t need the credit, or the adulation. A guy happy to just get on with it, in the background. Just doing the thing he loves doing.
I remember hearing feedback from a tour he did here a few years ago. The die-hard (been-there-since-NSYNC) fans were disappointed. The musos out there weren’t. I gather that JT loves nothing better than just ‘jamming’ with his band, which is what he did on stage. So, in my eyes his reinvention was complete. He has pulled off what so many of his boy-band contemporaries have been unable to do. While still able to ‘bring’ the moves, he seems content to focus on the music. Don’t get me wrong, I have nothing against boy bands, or performers (hey, I like the Pussy Cat Dolls for God’s sake), but I find myself bowing to this guy who has gone from clichéd boy-band member to cool and legit muso in a few short years.
Sunday, April 12, 2009
15-minutes pregnant?
It occurred to me, driving back to my cat-sitting residence at 7.30am on Easter Saturday, that I could be 15-minutes pregnant. But then I wondered, if that’s how it works or if something else had to happen. I searched the recesses of my mind for what I knew about fertilization and conception and realized it was very minimal. “Sperm enters, fertilizes egg. Nine months later, baby.” That was about the extent of my knowledge.
The obstetrician had inserted the donor sperm into my uterus. “Did that bypass some steps?” I wondered. Perhaps it gave the sperm a break from some of the usual swimming they had to do. Who knows. I have always been happily ignorant about physiological stuff. One of my friends is always talking about her internal workings and knows where everything is. “Should I be able to do this?” I wonder? Frankly, I feel I have better things to do. Best not to obsess and let it work itself out.
So, back to 15-minute old pregnancy. I am, of course, being facetious as I am working on the assumption that I am indeed NOT pregnant so that I will not be disappointed in a few weeks when I discover that to be the case. Nonetheless…. It makes you wonder. I have cramps, but that is nothing new, as I have had cramps on both sides of my lower stomach (perhaps my abdomen – who knows how specific one needs to be?!) for weeks. I have assumed it is part of the usual “I have eaten too much and feel fat” guilt-ridden angst which is a constant state of being for me. On the other hand, it could be something to do with the fertility drugs I took a week or two ago. I am sure they should have some effect other than feeling more teary than usual.
The insemination took place 2 days ago now. I did have some strange sensations that day. Almost akin to period pain. Then again, I did eat chocolate Easter eggs, a tin of caramel stuff with meringues and yoghurt as well as rice cakes with roasted capsicum dip, so it could just be my stomach (and whatever falls below that) rebelling.
I thought I would suddenly want to be healthy. On the off-chance that there was someone inside. But alas, that hasn’t been the case. While I have forced some fruit down, I have pretty much binged my way through the Easter long weekend. I went for a brief walk yesterday but found my stomach felt particularly heavy. Again, not the makings-of-a-baby, but possibly the concoction of food that I called breakfast - again involving chocolate, rice cakes, sour cream and diet coke. ( Note to readers who may not know me so well. These combinations are not pregnancy-related cravings. I have always eaten like this. My favourite breakfast is left-over Chinese, washed down with chocolate and vanilla diet coke. I can basically eat anything at anytime.)
On the other hand, I did slow my walk down a little, I have cut back on my diet coke consumption and am not having any alcohol. So, I am taking SOME precautions. The latter has been surprisingly hard as while cat-sitting I have access to Pay Television and have been privy to ‘Gilmore Girls’ and ‘Sex and the City’ marathons. As I have sat there, constant tears streaming down my face, all I can think has been how the experience would be so much better with some champagne to console me. I think the marathons continue today. Fortunately in the absence of champagne, I have procured more caramel, meringues and tissues. Am all set!
The obstetrician had inserted the donor sperm into my uterus. “Did that bypass some steps?” I wondered. Perhaps it gave the sperm a break from some of the usual swimming they had to do. Who knows. I have always been happily ignorant about physiological stuff. One of my friends is always talking about her internal workings and knows where everything is. “Should I be able to do this?” I wonder? Frankly, I feel I have better things to do. Best not to obsess and let it work itself out.
So, back to 15-minute old pregnancy. I am, of course, being facetious as I am working on the assumption that I am indeed NOT pregnant so that I will not be disappointed in a few weeks when I discover that to be the case. Nonetheless…. It makes you wonder. I have cramps, but that is nothing new, as I have had cramps on both sides of my lower stomach (perhaps my abdomen – who knows how specific one needs to be?!) for weeks. I have assumed it is part of the usual “I have eaten too much and feel fat” guilt-ridden angst which is a constant state of being for me. On the other hand, it could be something to do with the fertility drugs I took a week or two ago. I am sure they should have some effect other than feeling more teary than usual.
The insemination took place 2 days ago now. I did have some strange sensations that day. Almost akin to period pain. Then again, I did eat chocolate Easter eggs, a tin of caramel stuff with meringues and yoghurt as well as rice cakes with roasted capsicum dip, so it could just be my stomach (and whatever falls below that) rebelling.
I thought I would suddenly want to be healthy. On the off-chance that there was someone inside. But alas, that hasn’t been the case. While I have forced some fruit down, I have pretty much binged my way through the Easter long weekend. I went for a brief walk yesterday but found my stomach felt particularly heavy. Again, not the makings-of-a-baby, but possibly the concoction of food that I called breakfast - again involving chocolate, rice cakes, sour cream and diet coke. ( Note to readers who may not know me so well. These combinations are not pregnancy-related cravings. I have always eaten like this. My favourite breakfast is left-over Chinese, washed down with chocolate and vanilla diet coke. I can basically eat anything at anytime.)
On the other hand, I did slow my walk down a little, I have cut back on my diet coke consumption and am not having any alcohol. So, I am taking SOME precautions. The latter has been surprisingly hard as while cat-sitting I have access to Pay Television and have been privy to ‘Gilmore Girls’ and ‘Sex and the City’ marathons. As I have sat there, constant tears streaming down my face, all I can think has been how the experience would be so much better with some champagne to console me. I think the marathons continue today. Fortunately in the absence of champagne, I have procured more caramel, meringues and tissues. Am all set!
Saturday, April 11, 2009
The Fine Print
I have to admit to falling in love with people that I have never met. Well, not all of the people that I haven't met cos, well, that would plain silly. But a few of them.
I actually like to think that it is a sign of my maturity and sophistication that I am no longer drawn to men solely on the basis of cuteness. (Or a nice smile. Or nice arms. Or...)
In recent years I have found myself attracted to men based on their wit and repartee. Not in person or in conversations, but through their writing.
I first realised this when I came across a porn magazine while visiting a health retreat a few years back. The room's previous resident must have stashed it in a cupboard under blankets - presumably to hide it from the prying eyes of the cleaners - and forgotten it was there. Or something. Nevertheless, they forgot to take it with them and was left for my viewing pleasure.
While I have nothing against a sensible level of porn (the non-violent, not-involving-animals-or-other-weird-things-kind) I hadn't seen a magazine since discovering a stash at a relative's place 20 years before! It wasn't a well-known one and wasn't at all offensive. In fact, it was hilarious! Very tongue-in-cheek, rude but very witty. Mostly I ignored the pictures as the magazine gave a whole new meaning to 'buying it for the articles'.
The entire thing was obviously written by the one person. I suspect that, given the focus on the actual pictures, the article and caption-writing weren't overly arduous, so one person probably could have put it together in a month. But, there were enough words for me to completely become smitten with the author. I recall, at the time, pouring through the editorial info wondering who this author was. There was even a tone of irreverance for the target audience. I (very briefly) thought about writing to them to confess my undying love, but decided that would be, well... weird.
A year or two later (and magazine left for next health retreat resident) I discovered the next object of my desire. Reading a free inner-city weekly magazine I came across a weekly column spoofing political events (state and national). It was hilarious. The writer sarcastic and witty. Again, very tongue-in-cheek and obviously intelligently written. With no name on the column I scoured the editorial pages and the fine print wondering who authored it. I didn't go so far as to contact the paper to find out, but I did secretly hope the author was actually male. The fantasy wasn't as attractive otherwise. Each week I grabbed the paper, wanting my next fix until - suddenly there was a note to say the column was finishing. I thought of contacting the paper then to ask why, but again.... weird!
My latest fetish is for a cartoon called Vimrod (see link in my Favourites list). I know the authors are actually a couple, but my enamourment of the cartoon and the wit of its authors reminded me of my evolving taste when it comes to men.
I haven't 'fallen' for anyone for yonks. Once upon a time, all it took was a cute face, nice smile and nice set of biceps. From my discussions with friends, it seems common that - as we get older - we look for something different. My own 'wish list' has changed drastically over the past 20 years.
Intelligence, wit and sense of humour are at the top of that list (as well as a devotion to me, obviously!). I wondered once if it was just that (as we aged and the men-market dried up) we were becoming more desperate and were prepared to 'settle' for the less-attractive, but nicer guys. But it seems obvious that as marriages falter, the sizzle fades, the friendships become more important.
Last year I had the exact conversation with one of my best friends. As we bemoaned the state of our lovelives, I said that the most important thing for me now, in looking for a man, was that we had to have that 'banter'. I needed someone smart, witty and quick-minded, rather than just pretty to look at, or even just 'nice'. My friend said that she had accepted the fact that she wouldn't get that 'stimulation' from a man. It didn't matter if he wasn't her intellectual equal or able to 'chew the fat' on certain matters. She said that she could rely on her friends for that and no longer expected that in a potential partner.
The same friend has diligently dated over the enusing 12 months. Three months ago she had her first date with a guy she met over the internet. I met her the next day for a debrief. She liked him. Her only concern was that he was too much like her. He was her intellectual equal. She wasn't sure if that was what she wanted.
But, she perservered and they are still together. She sounds happy. I am yet to meet him, but am looking forward to it. My friend has always been a 'saver' and I love the fact that this time around, someone is there to meet her half-way. It is no more than she deserves.
So, what of this new revised wish list and my love of the witty writers.....? I have hung up my saddle on the relationship front for the time being. Not given up entirely, but am tired of 'looking'. Tired of not-finding and feeling rejected and alone.
In the interim, my love of the written word will continue and I will remain smitten about these men I come across, but don't come across (if you know what I mean).
I actually like to think that it is a sign of my maturity and sophistication that I am no longer drawn to men solely on the basis of cuteness. (Or a nice smile. Or nice arms. Or...)
In recent years I have found myself attracted to men based on their wit and repartee. Not in person or in conversations, but through their writing.
I first realised this when I came across a porn magazine while visiting a health retreat a few years back. The room's previous resident must have stashed it in a cupboard under blankets - presumably to hide it from the prying eyes of the cleaners - and forgotten it was there. Or something. Nevertheless, they forgot to take it with them and was left for my viewing pleasure.
While I have nothing against a sensible level of porn (the non-violent, not-involving-animals-or-other-weird-things-kind) I hadn't seen a magazine since discovering a stash at a relative's place 20 years before! It wasn't a well-known one and wasn't at all offensive. In fact, it was hilarious! Very tongue-in-cheek, rude but very witty. Mostly I ignored the pictures as the magazine gave a whole new meaning to 'buying it for the articles'.
The entire thing was obviously written by the one person. I suspect that, given the focus on the actual pictures, the article and caption-writing weren't overly arduous, so one person probably could have put it together in a month. But, there were enough words for me to completely become smitten with the author. I recall, at the time, pouring through the editorial info wondering who this author was. There was even a tone of irreverance for the target audience. I (very briefly) thought about writing to them to confess my undying love, but decided that would be, well... weird.
A year or two later (and magazine left for next health retreat resident) I discovered the next object of my desire. Reading a free inner-city weekly magazine I came across a weekly column spoofing political events (state and national). It was hilarious. The writer sarcastic and witty. Again, very tongue-in-cheek and obviously intelligently written. With no name on the column I scoured the editorial pages and the fine print wondering who authored it. I didn't go so far as to contact the paper to find out, but I did secretly hope the author was actually male. The fantasy wasn't as attractive otherwise. Each week I grabbed the paper, wanting my next fix until - suddenly there was a note to say the column was finishing. I thought of contacting the paper then to ask why, but again.... weird!
My latest fetish is for a cartoon called Vimrod (see link in my Favourites list). I know the authors are actually a couple, but my enamourment of the cartoon and the wit of its authors reminded me of my evolving taste when it comes to men.
I haven't 'fallen' for anyone for yonks. Once upon a time, all it took was a cute face, nice smile and nice set of biceps. From my discussions with friends, it seems common that - as we get older - we look for something different. My own 'wish list' has changed drastically over the past 20 years.
Intelligence, wit and sense of humour are at the top of that list (as well as a devotion to me, obviously!). I wondered once if it was just that (as we aged and the men-market dried up) we were becoming more desperate and were prepared to 'settle' for the less-attractive, but nicer guys. But it seems obvious that as marriages falter, the sizzle fades, the friendships become more important.
Last year I had the exact conversation with one of my best friends. As we bemoaned the state of our lovelives, I said that the most important thing for me now, in looking for a man, was that we had to have that 'banter'. I needed someone smart, witty and quick-minded, rather than just pretty to look at, or even just 'nice'. My friend said that she had accepted the fact that she wouldn't get that 'stimulation' from a man. It didn't matter if he wasn't her intellectual equal or able to 'chew the fat' on certain matters. She said that she could rely on her friends for that and no longer expected that in a potential partner.
The same friend has diligently dated over the enusing 12 months. Three months ago she had her first date with a guy she met over the internet. I met her the next day for a debrief. She liked him. Her only concern was that he was too much like her. He was her intellectual equal. She wasn't sure if that was what she wanted.
But, she perservered and they are still together. She sounds happy. I am yet to meet him, but am looking forward to it. My friend has always been a 'saver' and I love the fact that this time around, someone is there to meet her half-way. It is no more than she deserves.
So, what of this new revised wish list and my love of the witty writers.....? I have hung up my saddle on the relationship front for the time being. Not given up entirely, but am tired of 'looking'. Tired of not-finding and feeling rejected and alone.
In the interim, my love of the written word will continue and I will remain smitten about these men I come across, but don't come across (if you know what I mean).
Friday, April 10, 2009
And on the 13th day....
I got the call this morning and all I can think is, eek! What it means though, is that the next stage of the journey has started. The foreplay is over and we are at the ‘pointy end of the season’.
Last time I wrote about the ‘the journey’ it was with a sense of hopelessness.
When I first starting considering going down the donor insemination route, I wasn’t exactly sure when I would start. “When things were right,” I thought, which essentially translated to when I had lost weight. Other than a sense of nerves, my weight was the only thing holding me back. You constantly hear how being too overweight can diminish your chances of falling pregnant, so my original plan was to wait a few months and try and lose weight before doing anything.
Then I started the appointments. I was dieting and losing weight at the time and highly motivated to do so.
I was also highly motivated in the baby-stakes. More than I imagined. Apathy has dogged me over recent years and it takes a lot of ‘steps’ for me to do what I need to. So, my fast-tracking of this process has surprised even me. I went very quickly from ‘sending off an innocuous query email’ to appointments, to procuring donor sperm. Despite this, in late February I was still, however, shocked to hear that doctors expected I would progress this in coming months. In my mind, June or later was ideal. I had excuses other than the weight: I didn’t want to have a December baby (who would suffer as I did from lack-of-presents or joint-presents around Christmas and be younger than school friends); and I didn’t want to be heavily pregnant in summer. The reasons were (vaguely) logical. To me, anyway.
But then something happened. I don’t know what, but I decided (a la Nike) I would ‘just do it’. I was ready and raring to go. It was March. Then the roadblocks started – not just sending me on a brief detour, but briefly into a downward spiral I found hard to escape. I had to wait a month to settle my blood pressure down. This was exacerbated by the fact that obstetrician was having holidays in April. I despaired over another month’s delay. May seemed forever away and I worried about (probability) statistics dropping as the months ticked by.
Strangely, March passed. When I revisited my GP at the end of that month, the medication had worked and my BP was almost normal. I was free to continue the journey.
The next steps of were the important ones. Actually ‘trying to get pregnant’ meant taking a fertility drug called chlomid in the first few days of my cycle. Then, on day 12, I have a blood test to see if my hormones are where they should be (heightened I gather). If they are, then I am ready for the insemination.
Having said that, I don’t entirely know what the actual insemination entails, other than assuming it to be some cold and clinical process. What I do know is that the ampoule which I purchased, is with the obstetrician and ready for inseminating.
But, having been given the green light, instead of being excited I was torn. I had faltered badly during the month. March had seen me throw away my diet and put on the weight I had lost. The hard work had been lost. How could I go ahead now? I had to re-lose the weight! How could I say that I was determined to have a child when I couldn’t even ‘stay the path’ on my diet? Perhaps it was for the best that my obstetrician was away in April after all. It would give me time to get back on track.
April arrives, as does my period. Earlier than usual. I think this is more of a problem in terms of my obstetrician’s holidays. I tell myself it is karma or kismet or some other k word that means it is meant to be. But, I call the clinic anyway, just to check.
I am more-than-shocked when the nurse tells me that I can go ahead. I have to start taking the drug the next day (days 2 – 6 of cycle) and then have a blood test on day 12. Incidentally, day 12 is Good Friday. That would mean insemination over the Easter weekend. It seems that the clinic’s blood testing facility is open (briefly) each day over Easter. It seems that my doctor will be back from leave and is on call over Easter. It seems that it will be April after all.
Instead of relief, I am hamstrung. ‘But, I haven’t lost weight yet,’ I think. There are so many problems with April. I am cat-sitting for two weeks and pregnant women aren’t supposed to be around cats, and I can’t back out as I have promised my niece.
Then I realise. It is unlikely to ‘happen’ this month. I remind myself that I can’t allow myself to believe that I will be pregnant this month. It may not happen for many months. Or ever. It may also happen, but not last. So I start to plan for treats, for things to cheer me up when I am not pregnant. ‘Perhaps a two-week stay at a weight loss retreat would console me – and be of benefit,’ I think (before remembering that I will need to spend that money on more ampoules).
So I go ahead. I take the chlomid. I break the first one and worry I haven’t consumed every morsel. I have diarrhoea after the second one and worry I haven’t absorbed it. I wonder when I need to completely stop drinking alcohol and caffeine.
Today is Good Friday. It is day 12. I started cat-sitting today. I had my blood test at 7.30am.
At 10.30am I had a call from my obstetrician. It is all systems go. My hormones are where they should be. Despite the crumbling tablet and the upset stomach. I forgot to mention the cats, but will tell her that tomorrow. Pre-coital banter. (Or something.)
It feels strange. I think eek. It feels big. I wonder how women cope with this for months. The expectation; the trying; the waiting; and the disappointment. For me it has only just begun.
Last time I wrote about the ‘the journey’ it was with a sense of hopelessness.
When I first starting considering going down the donor insemination route, I wasn’t exactly sure when I would start. “When things were right,” I thought, which essentially translated to when I had lost weight. Other than a sense of nerves, my weight was the only thing holding me back. You constantly hear how being too overweight can diminish your chances of falling pregnant, so my original plan was to wait a few months and try and lose weight before doing anything.
Then I started the appointments. I was dieting and losing weight at the time and highly motivated to do so.
I was also highly motivated in the baby-stakes. More than I imagined. Apathy has dogged me over recent years and it takes a lot of ‘steps’ for me to do what I need to. So, my fast-tracking of this process has surprised even me. I went very quickly from ‘sending off an innocuous query email’ to appointments, to procuring donor sperm. Despite this, in late February I was still, however, shocked to hear that doctors expected I would progress this in coming months. In my mind, June or later was ideal. I had excuses other than the weight: I didn’t want to have a December baby (who would suffer as I did from lack-of-presents or joint-presents around Christmas and be younger than school friends); and I didn’t want to be heavily pregnant in summer. The reasons were (vaguely) logical. To me, anyway.
But then something happened. I don’t know what, but I decided (a la Nike) I would ‘just do it’. I was ready and raring to go. It was March. Then the roadblocks started – not just sending me on a brief detour, but briefly into a downward spiral I found hard to escape. I had to wait a month to settle my blood pressure down. This was exacerbated by the fact that obstetrician was having holidays in April. I despaired over another month’s delay. May seemed forever away and I worried about (probability) statistics dropping as the months ticked by.
Strangely, March passed. When I revisited my GP at the end of that month, the medication had worked and my BP was almost normal. I was free to continue the journey.
The next steps of were the important ones. Actually ‘trying to get pregnant’ meant taking a fertility drug called chlomid in the first few days of my cycle. Then, on day 12, I have a blood test to see if my hormones are where they should be (heightened I gather). If they are, then I am ready for the insemination.
Having said that, I don’t entirely know what the actual insemination entails, other than assuming it to be some cold and clinical process. What I do know is that the ampoule which I purchased, is with the obstetrician and ready for inseminating.
But, having been given the green light, instead of being excited I was torn. I had faltered badly during the month. March had seen me throw away my diet and put on the weight I had lost. The hard work had been lost. How could I go ahead now? I had to re-lose the weight! How could I say that I was determined to have a child when I couldn’t even ‘stay the path’ on my diet? Perhaps it was for the best that my obstetrician was away in April after all. It would give me time to get back on track.
April arrives, as does my period. Earlier than usual. I think this is more of a problem in terms of my obstetrician’s holidays. I tell myself it is karma or kismet or some other k word that means it is meant to be. But, I call the clinic anyway, just to check.
I am more-than-shocked when the nurse tells me that I can go ahead. I have to start taking the drug the next day (days 2 – 6 of cycle) and then have a blood test on day 12. Incidentally, day 12 is Good Friday. That would mean insemination over the Easter weekend. It seems that the clinic’s blood testing facility is open (briefly) each day over Easter. It seems that my doctor will be back from leave and is on call over Easter. It seems that it will be April after all.
Instead of relief, I am hamstrung. ‘But, I haven’t lost weight yet,’ I think. There are so many problems with April. I am cat-sitting for two weeks and pregnant women aren’t supposed to be around cats, and I can’t back out as I have promised my niece.
Then I realise. It is unlikely to ‘happen’ this month. I remind myself that I can’t allow myself to believe that I will be pregnant this month. It may not happen for many months. Or ever. It may also happen, but not last. So I start to plan for treats, for things to cheer me up when I am not pregnant. ‘Perhaps a two-week stay at a weight loss retreat would console me – and be of benefit,’ I think (before remembering that I will need to spend that money on more ampoules).
So I go ahead. I take the chlomid. I break the first one and worry I haven’t consumed every morsel. I have diarrhoea after the second one and worry I haven’t absorbed it. I wonder when I need to completely stop drinking alcohol and caffeine.
Today is Good Friday. It is day 12. I started cat-sitting today. I had my blood test at 7.30am.
At 10.30am I had a call from my obstetrician. It is all systems go. My hormones are where they should be. Despite the crumbling tablet and the upset stomach. I forgot to mention the cats, but will tell her that tomorrow. Pre-coital banter. (Or something.)
It feels strange. I think eek. It feels big. I wonder how women cope with this for months. The expectation; the trying; the waiting; and the disappointment. For me it has only just begun.
Thursday, April 9, 2009
Yes, I Can Can Can
I signed on before I really knew what I was getting into. So, it could have been disastrous. In fact, it has actually been quite fun.
At an end-of-year gathering late last year, one of my friends told me about some classes she had been attending. Always one to ferret out the unusual and obscure but very-interesting, KK had just finished a Hula Hoop course. Her enthusiasm for the 10-week program was effusive.
I had been thinking about signing up for something to do during the week. Another of my new year’s resolutions (like this blog) was to do more fun things during the week – so the week is less about work and… well, work.
So, a very-informal dance class seemed the perfect option and I asked KK for the dance school details. The options were overwhelming: as well as hula hooping, the school offered several versions of Hip Hop and Funk; Bellydancing; Bollywood; Tahitian and Polynesian Hula; Tribal Bellydance Fusion; and Burlesque.
As someone who doesn’t much like their body, I decided I should do something to help me feel more sensual and 'in tune' with my body. I recalled doing a one-off belly dancing class years before and the buxom instructor did make us all feel like sexually attractive and desirable women (I must admit,though, that this was at a health retreat and we were alcohol, sugar, caffeine deprived!).
I did however, want something a bit more energetic than bellydancing and when I described to KK what I wanted “something kinda like lap dancing, but without the laps,” she suggested that burlesque was the way to go.
The school’s website described burlesque as “Kylie's Showgirl tour fused with some Moulin Rouge sassy!”
My mind started to boggle as I imagined it: fishnets and garters, can-canning across the stage, or perhaps Nicole Kidman Moulin Rouge style – a sequined me on a swing – floating above the masses. Or perhaps it would more akin to PCD (or, for those not in the know – or, you know, over 20 – the Pussy Cat Dolls) and we would be gyrating in leather!
Despite all of this, I sent off my money and enrolled in the 10-week course before sanity or apathy could prevail.
I arrived late and stressed to the first lesson, having left work late and gotten lost en-route, only to be confronted by a swarm of 20yr-old skinny, bizarrely dressed women.
I was clad for exercise – leggings and big Nike t-shirt (and with sturdy sports bra for the high impact exercise ahead) so I stood out amongst the leopard print skimpy tops, tule skirts and ‘shorts-over-ripped-stockings’ look. I was also only one or two present unaddorned with tattoos. I almost felt bare. I was already regretting my decision. Amidst this group of sex-kittens (a-la Dita Von Teese), I felt positively frumpy and middle-aged. Of the 15 others, there was another woman older and frumpier (though normal-sized) than myself. Needless to say, we were a strange group and I often wondered what others visiting the dance studio, thought of us when they saw us en-masse.
Our instructor, Violet (a burlesque dancer herself and I suspect, not her real name…) had a seam tattoed down the back of her legs and a large wide tatto just under her neck, across her shoulder bones. She also had a long black ponytail falling from high on her head, perfect for flicking about when the need dictated.
Violet started the first lesson with the good news – that we would be learning a routine to (…wait for it), perform at the end of term concert. (Be still my beating heart, I thought and decided that I will be ‘sick’ or indisposed in some way.)
Nevertheless, we eventually kick off. The first lesson set the scene for those following. We began and finished with lengthy stretching sessions – though less for preventing injury and more for, well I am actually not sure, but increasing flexibility I guess. Many of the stretches were the kind that went out of fashion in the 80s, or maybe even the 70s – lots of helicopter arms swivelling to touch our toes. We were also required to do the splits – or as close to them as possible. I should have been sensible like the older woman, who did her own alternative stretches rather than Violet's as I often found myself aching in the days following our class, from overstretching as much as anything. (It may, however, interest my myriad of dedicated followers – ahem, I mean, readers – to know that I can actually do the splits frontways but not sideways… just for future reference!)
We did however, manage to fit in about 15-20mins of our routine each week. At this point I should point out that Violet was, and is, actually more of a performer than a teacher. We students and burlesque-novices regularly found ourselves looking at each other in confusion over which foot to start steps on, as the guileless Violet changed her mind each time.
Nonetheless, she was brimming with enthusiasm and poise (if not coordination) as she put us through our ‘burlesque paces’.
The movements of burlesque are fairly simple. Lots of hip flicks and circles, shimmies and body roles, with a few supposedly-sexy walks thrown in. (On that note and for future reference – again - unlike one’s normal walk, a ‘stripper’ or ‘burlesque’ walk involves planting the toe first and crossing the legs as you walk.)
In no way however, was my sports bra tested throughout the course. Our energy was focussed on swivells and shakes, not jumping around energetically. Even our can-can involved low, slow kicks.
Any self-consciousness I felt disappeared as we disparate souls giggled and strutted our way through the routine we learnt over the ten-week course.
Only 7 or 8 regulars attended most of the lessons and I would often find myself looking around, wondering what each was expecting to get out of the class. Not there for exercise I suspect, but more for something different, and perhaps because (I read that) burlesque is becoming the activity or exercise du jour!
Term 1 has now finished and we ‘graduates’ can now move to level 2. I think I might give it a miss though and try something different.
I don’t think I have come away from the course feeling more sensual, but I certainly have the moves if ever the opportunity arrives.
At an end-of-year gathering late last year, one of my friends told me about some classes she had been attending. Always one to ferret out the unusual and obscure but very-interesting, KK had just finished a Hula Hoop course. Her enthusiasm for the 10-week program was effusive.
I had been thinking about signing up for something to do during the week. Another of my new year’s resolutions (like this blog) was to do more fun things during the week – so the week is less about work and… well, work.
So, a very-informal dance class seemed the perfect option and I asked KK for the dance school details. The options were overwhelming: as well as hula hooping, the school offered several versions of Hip Hop and Funk; Bellydancing; Bollywood; Tahitian and Polynesian Hula; Tribal Bellydance Fusion; and Burlesque.
As someone who doesn’t much like their body, I decided I should do something to help me feel more sensual and 'in tune' with my body. I recalled doing a one-off belly dancing class years before and the buxom instructor did make us all feel like sexually attractive and desirable women (I must admit,though, that this was at a health retreat and we were alcohol, sugar, caffeine deprived!).
I did however, want something a bit more energetic than bellydancing and when I described to KK what I wanted “something kinda like lap dancing, but without the laps,” she suggested that burlesque was the way to go.
The school’s website described burlesque as “Kylie's Showgirl tour fused with some Moulin Rouge sassy!”
My mind started to boggle as I imagined it: fishnets and garters, can-canning across the stage, or perhaps Nicole Kidman Moulin Rouge style – a sequined me on a swing – floating above the masses. Or perhaps it would more akin to PCD (or, for those not in the know – or, you know, over 20 – the Pussy Cat Dolls) and we would be gyrating in leather!
Despite all of this, I sent off my money and enrolled in the 10-week course before sanity or apathy could prevail.
I arrived late and stressed to the first lesson, having left work late and gotten lost en-route, only to be confronted by a swarm of 20yr-old skinny, bizarrely dressed women.
I was clad for exercise – leggings and big Nike t-shirt (and with sturdy sports bra for the high impact exercise ahead) so I stood out amongst the leopard print skimpy tops, tule skirts and ‘shorts-over-ripped-stockings’ look. I was also only one or two present unaddorned with tattoos. I almost felt bare. I was already regretting my decision. Amidst this group of sex-kittens (a-la Dita Von Teese), I felt positively frumpy and middle-aged. Of the 15 others, there was another woman older and frumpier (though normal-sized) than myself. Needless to say, we were a strange group and I often wondered what others visiting the dance studio, thought of us when they saw us en-masse.
Our instructor, Violet (a burlesque dancer herself and I suspect, not her real name…) had a seam tattoed down the back of her legs and a large wide tatto just under her neck, across her shoulder bones. She also had a long black ponytail falling from high on her head, perfect for flicking about when the need dictated.
Violet started the first lesson with the good news – that we would be learning a routine to (…wait for it), perform at the end of term concert. (Be still my beating heart, I thought and decided that I will be ‘sick’ or indisposed in some way.)
Nevertheless, we eventually kick off. The first lesson set the scene for those following. We began and finished with lengthy stretching sessions – though less for preventing injury and more for, well I am actually not sure, but increasing flexibility I guess. Many of the stretches were the kind that went out of fashion in the 80s, or maybe even the 70s – lots of helicopter arms swivelling to touch our toes. We were also required to do the splits – or as close to them as possible. I should have been sensible like the older woman, who did her own alternative stretches rather than Violet's as I often found myself aching in the days following our class, from overstretching as much as anything. (It may, however, interest my myriad of dedicated followers – ahem, I mean, readers – to know that I can actually do the splits frontways but not sideways… just for future reference!)
We did however, manage to fit in about 15-20mins of our routine each week. At this point I should point out that Violet was, and is, actually more of a performer than a teacher. We students and burlesque-novices regularly found ourselves looking at each other in confusion over which foot to start steps on, as the guileless Violet changed her mind each time.
Nonetheless, she was brimming with enthusiasm and poise (if not coordination) as she put us through our ‘burlesque paces’.
The movements of burlesque are fairly simple. Lots of hip flicks and circles, shimmies and body roles, with a few supposedly-sexy walks thrown in. (On that note and for future reference – again - unlike one’s normal walk, a ‘stripper’ or ‘burlesque’ walk involves planting the toe first and crossing the legs as you walk.)
In no way however, was my sports bra tested throughout the course. Our energy was focussed on swivells and shakes, not jumping around energetically. Even our can-can involved low, slow kicks.
Any self-consciousness I felt disappeared as we disparate souls giggled and strutted our way through the routine we learnt over the ten-week course.
Only 7 or 8 regulars attended most of the lessons and I would often find myself looking around, wondering what each was expecting to get out of the class. Not there for exercise I suspect, but more for something different, and perhaps because (I read that) burlesque is becoming the activity or exercise du jour!
Term 1 has now finished and we ‘graduates’ can now move to level 2. I think I might give it a miss though and try something different.
I don’t think I have come away from the course feeling more sensual, but I certainly have the moves if ever the opportunity arrives.
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