About Me

Woman, girl, wife, mother, sex goddess, drudge, glamourpuss, her next door, female.

Saturday, 12 November 2011

bit of a pissed rant.

i'm watching rugby by default at midnight on a friday night.  talking to a VERY old acquaintance on facebook, tweeting like a bastard and my husband says he's going to teach me geography (patronising but much needed).

in amongst all this it feels very much like humanity has come to some kind of nexus like crossroads.  we can't carry on as we are can we?  i guess if we do armageddon awaits on so many levels.  something has to give in terms of globalised capitalism.  something has to give in terms of our interpersonal relationships.  something has to give in terms of our relationship with ourselves.  or we are properly fucked.

i sort of hope that's true.  i hope we've reached a tipping point.  i have a deep seated fear on a personal and macro level that we'll just continue to muddle through in the inauthentic (means what?) way that we are and nothing very much will change.

and that is no good at all.

 I feel small like a small thing.  and my ways of making myself feel big (booze, sexual attractiveness, story telling, playing on my difference) don't work so well at the moment and probably won't ever again.

can it be possible that creating space works?

i don't know.

Tuesday, 4 October 2011


I'm lost.  Well and truly and unutterably.

The career I trained for for 5 years feels wrong wrong wrong.  Motherhood is a joy but need something more.  Everything I do feels unsatisfying and blocked. 

It's at this point that I hope some kind of magic bullet/wand/wizard/hand from the sky comes along and makes it all better/exciting/work again.  There are lots of things that might do that, and I'm not doing any of them.  Like being depressed (flattened out) and staying in and not washing your hair.  It doesn't help.  Somehow though, taking that small step into a place that would feels not just impossible, but undesirable.

It's like being out of sync with the flow of life, chi, the universe, swimming against the tide, fighting against the current.  Wading through treacle my dearest once called it.  This was in relation to being in relationship in me, I can only hope that the treacle has thinned since that night.

So many things I could do at this point.  Some I have.  Some I will.  But somehow none of them feel right.  Right now.  So how can I alleviate this painful, numbing fight upstream?  Do I gird loins, galvanise resources and fight on.  Or let go?  I don't know. 

Saturday, 9 July 2011

finding a place for things

My mission to find the right place for everything in our home, for every view to bring joy, for every item to be - to paraphrase william morris - functional or beautiful continues.  Small changes make big differences.  Sometimes though, I hit a brick wall.  Namely an inherited possession of my darling other's that feel out of joint, doesn't work (read falling apart) or just displeases me.  Severely.

This is a tough one that we come up against again and again and again.  My inverted snobbery, alongside my propensity to view things as disposable, butts up against his ancestry, and painful need to hold on to things, for them to stay the same.  Within these paradigms lie our respective emotional inheritances, poured down through the generations and pooling within us, only to be passed on to our children, unless we decide consciously what is important to gift on, and what toxicity must be stopped in it's tracks.

Mine speaks of fleeing homeland with nothing but what you can carry, maybe just your children, nothing of any material value surviving the displacement of the Eastern European landowning peasant and the Eurasian dislocation that is my ancestral heritage.  It also speaks of a fucked up relationship with money, the root of all evil, cash to be kept under the mattress and ostentation a mortal catholic sin.

His speaks of pride in who you are,  your parents were, your parents parents.  And a poignant clinging to things when the people they remind you of are gone.  Maybe also a male if it ain't broke attitude, and his angry demand 'what are you going to replace it with, some shit from Ikea' repeatedly falls on my stony ground.  Yes, I think to myself, shit from Ikea would be preferable to your fusty, clunking, dark behemoth mahogany monstrosities.

One painting in particular, more suited to the curved stairwell of a grand country pile than a Victorian terrace, has been a thorny knot and endless subject of arguments that start reasonably but soon descend to slanging matches.  Invariably it ends with 'fine, i'll sell it, give it away or might as well drive it to the dump now' met with 'Go ahead, you always say that but you never do'.  Followed by jaw clenched sulks on his part and barely contained seething on mine.  It's wearing.  Today started out the same.  I wanted to try said ancestral portrait in the front room, so he sweated and huffed it down the stairs and onto the wall.  It didn't look right.  To me that is.  In fact it looked bloody awful.  So I suggested moving it across and the wall got marked and soon we were at it again, hammer and tongs, immigrant's daughter and public school boy, biff boff, ping pong.  Sulk.  Seeth.

He stormed out.  I whizzed upstairs with the painting narrowly missing the corners, idly wondering as I went what would happen if I dropped it causing irreparable damage.  And then it dawned on me that all his 'old shit' could find a resting place (RI fucking P) if there could be a space dedicated to them, a room to himself.  A man cave (thanks A).  It feels slightly as if the whole house has been a shrine to him, admittedly of my making.  Suddenly, as something shifts in me, some sense of deserving, there is a reversal.  Pictures I like are on the walls.  Less about his obsessive hobby.  More about our family. 

It's not exactly an equal compromise: you get a room and I'll get the rest of the house.  It solves a few painting problems but doesn't touch the enormous chests of drawers that went in through dismantled sash windows and that we'll need to axe in half to get them out.  It's going to be painful.  Whichever way it goes.

Friday, 1 July 2011

Please yourself and the whole world will be pleased with you..


The way I see it, the kinder and more pleasing you can be of yourself, the more replete you feel, the more you have to give to another. 

Doing things for other people is interesting as we all have myriad motivations for doing so.  Speaking for myself, I want to be special to people and loved.  This drives a lot of my effort towards other people including my partner.  However, it's not a great place to give from as two things have a tendency to happen.  I feel overwhelmed and drained and resentful.  Or, I am ungenerous in the first place as I am paranoid about being subsumed in the other.  Like most of us (I believe) I have issues around being separate but loved.  In fact if I can ever get to the place where I am separate, but can viscerally experience myself as lovable, beloved, then hallelujah the day.

Lots of the time when people do things for other people, they are actually sending out a message, a kind of smoke screened signal as to their own needs.  Sometimes I think when he says 'have a long soak', 'take some time out' what he means is 'I'm knackered, I'd love a long soak, but if you have one then maybe I'll get some time out too'.  We all know the uber considerate person, never a thank you note forgotten, never a birthday neglected...a lot of the time I believe that what's screaming out is 'look after me like this!  take care of me!'.  We're all doing it one way or another.

When I walked into the house just now, I caught sight of a beautiful red orchid that I bought yesterday.  It's in the right place, and I bought it ostensibly for the house, but actually for me.  It filled me up seeing it, not so much because it's beautiful and fits so well with it's position.  More because I did something kind for myself, it pleases me.  That feeling of fullness puts me in a place of genuine generosity: there's enough of me to go round in that moment.

The problem is knowing how to please yourself.  Half the time it happens by accident.  We're all so busy and full with the drossy shit of everyday living that we don't even know what we want, what would give us genuine pleasure.  It isn't (always) about shopping, buying more and more stuff, which is what global capitalism demands of us as consumers.  Sometimes it's about a rainy day with tons and tons of birds at the feeder because the cat's not outside.  What a moment that was last week, totally magical, and ruined by my attempt to film the (black and red not common green) woodpecker on my phone, birds evaporated by lafreud crawling across the kitchen floor.

I have decided that I am going to start by making the home I live in as pleasing both in function and aesthetic as possible.  No more will I return from a trip away to swear at the chest of drawers that won't close (too much stuff and a shitty sticking drawer), and snarl at the cupboard with shampoo bottles falling out of it.  I'll have my orchid moment every time I walk in the house, or wander through the rooms of my home, everytime I wake up and sit up to see my bedroom.  I can dream.  I think that this will please me.  And I do find, that when I am pleased, it's easier to be kinder, and more loving, to him.

Wednesday, 29 June 2011

When I see you from a distance, I fancy you more...

The trouble with marriage, or any long term relationship is that close proximity deadens the eye.  As the days merge and life's routine keeps rolling, it's hard to keep sight of what it is in the other that we want to be with.  Too close and you're in danger of not seeing each other at all, and that way lies taking for granted, boredom and the inevitable rebellion that ensues.

Most of us want to be seen.  I, like many, particularly want to be watched, looked at, beheld in all senses.  But if something is right in your face all the time it's hard to see it. 

Which is one reason why distance, separation, individuation are so important in relationship.  Separation is harder that you might think.  Most of us suffer from separation anxiety in one form or other.  The issue of separation needs further comment, suffice to say that it's crucial and difficult.  Difficult to manage being separate and also intimate.  Without separation an intimacy that works over time is impossible.

There are several really small but highly effective ways of shaking things up, separating out, and making sure that we see each other.  Take yourselves out of context: go out together, sit opposite one another (not side by side on a sofa being sucked into the life vacuum that is telly), look at each other, talk.  Go out without each other: cultivate a life beyond each other, give yourselves something to talk to each other about that the other one doesn't know!  Shake things up in your own life and inevitably there will be fall out in your relationship, one symptom of which is that you'll be seen.

I fear it may be true to say that despite it all, women are still less separate than we could be, than we need to be.  We have yet to achieve Woolf's 'Room of one's own'.  This holds particularly true if a woman decides to stay at home when her children are small.  I am staggered at the number of otherwise independent, educated, fabulous women who accept 'pocket money', a stipend from their husband, rather than considering themselves equal partners whether they work outside the home or within it and co-running a joint account.  And that deserves a post all of it's own.

Tuesday, 28 June 2011

Don't dangle your bits in my face...

If you want to have sex with me.  It's not erotic.  It doesn't turn me on.  Neither does saying 'do you want to lick my love pump (TM Spinal Tap).  Putting one leg on a chair and swinging your appendage back and forth whilst waggling your eyebrows doesn't work either.  It's really easy: kiss the back and sides of my neck and (very important this one) don't try to do anything else.  Works every time.  It's not magic, it's thinking less like a bloke and more like a girl.

Conversely, I suppose I am to assume that dangling my bits in your face, saying 'I want you to give me head' or putting one leg on a chair and lowering my breasts would do it for you.  So I should think more like a bloke and less like a girl.  Incidentally I've also found that walking round in stonking heels and nothing else is highly effective. 

And I guess that where this chasm between what each happy sex finds sexually stimulating might be bridged would involve humour...because giggling works for both right?

Introducing..The Happy Sex

Which is my uncensored ramblings on how we might contribute to our own and our partner's happiness.  It started out as a kind of 'tips for men' conceit, but that would be to make the huge assumption that women are better able to help men on their way to happiness.  I'm not totally sure that's right.

We're living in a happiness driven world.  In that respect the name of this blog is misleading in that happiness is a side effect of a life lived creatively, in relationship.  It's been paraphrased to oblivion but I think it was Jung who said that mental health equated to the ability to work and to love.  To work: to produce something, effectively to create.  And to love: to be able to exist in relation to another.

Who am I to pass comment?  No one.  Doesn't mean I can't.