twangypearl the elastic girl

writing is good for you

..it says so here. And so, despite the lack of any satisfying news or pleasing narrative arc, I persist in my quest to fill the internet with Twangy-related minutiae. It's funny, I find the process of recording My Fantastic Life slightly embarrassing, but oddly, quite enjoy re-reading it when a decent stretch of time has passed. My memory is so poor that it is nice to rediscover the events of the past. Almost a blessing, you could say.

The JB is away again being fed vol-au-vents and Ferrero Rocher chocolates at a ball at the Embassador's house, or whatever it is you do at a large political science conference. Or, he might be polishing the choreography for POLITICAL SCIENCE! The Musical. We already have put some thought into the opening sequence, where the JB leaps in front of the audience, making the wipe dance move made famous by John Travolta in Pulp Fiction, growling with maximum drama: Welcome to POLITICAL SCIEEEENCE. I, for one, think this would be a great way to kick off the first years' first ever politics class. They would never forget it.

Somehow all the compensations that the freedom to eat/watch odd things at odd hours/sleep in the middle of the bed like a starfish afforded by his absence are not as fun as I might have hoped. The laughs per hour quota is so much higher when he is around. However! I am getting out and not exclusively talking to the cat. Which is positive. Today Dazzle (my neice) is five - I was going to add again, but the poor child has in fact never been five before. It's just the strange phenomenon I suffer from - the rest of my life hurtles along at the speed of light, it seems, but Spike (nephew) and Dazzle seem to move along at a comfortingly leisurely snail's pace. Anyway, in the slow universe, she is having a party. At which 12 five-year-old girls will bounce on a castle and Have Their Nails Painted. [Insert my childless person's judgemental comment on this here. I do wonder how much of a killjoy parent I would/will be. Quite a big one, I would have thought. Here, a cardboard box and a stick for Christmas, and Use Your Imagination, like in my time? Who knows. Seriously, though. Don't you think it's important to allow a child to yearn for things a little? The yearning was half the point of being young, wasn't it? Don't you remember that delicious longing?]

In other news, a weak and pathetic version of Spring may have arrived. I have planted my potatoes, anyway. This happened:


See? BLOOMS!

And having been quite productive this week, I now decree a Fun Friday, during which I have decided, I escape the studio, and do a bit of writering and drawing in a cafe or/and the local library. See? FUN. Sure, other people have another idea of fun. But let me tell you, it's is not just a beer ad with all the good-looking and well-adjusted young people laughing their heads off together. No.

Good Heavens, it's racing up to lunch time.
Have  a good weekend, everyone.

T

daring

Friends.

I do actually have some legit excuses for not grappling with my proposed topic: Let's Talk About Adoption! I have been on a short snowy tour of West Britain, during which (HIGH POINT!) I met the delightful HFF and May and H. Like, in the real, physical world! (Blog friends are wonderful, you know. You don't have to explain yourself to them. They already know you! And, you already know them! It is truly a rare and wondrous thing to feel accepted in that way. Also, these people are very funny, clever and kind. They are great.) Then I have had a minor cold leading to distracting thoughts on the subject of Lemsip: why must it taste like lemon-scented air-freshener? There was some workiness. A choir performance. Little Car went to the Scrapyard. And so on.

But, of course, the real reason is my head was firmly implanted in the sand, and for no other reason than habit, really. Well, habit and an unwillingness to crank up the ricketty ould machine of Hope. As I mentioned last time though, there actually are things in progress. The Minister for Children went to India a few weeks ago and initial reports as to what went on are "positive". Some members of a group I belong to are to meet her (the TD/minister) and get a more detailed report on it. Also, there are positive signs over the USA's "imminent" opening, both in terms of private and state adoptions. (We may still switch.) So! That's all very good.

But, as I say, there's a reluctance deep within to allow myself to feel hopeful: I feel I am driving with the handbrake on. Like this tortuously slow arrival of spring: the temperature grudging rises a degree every few days from the preposterously frigid temperatures of last week. But then sometimes, I can feel it, and I entertain a brief fantasy flashforward of our future: there we are in a wooden house built on the hill at my parents' house in Wicklow, sheltered by my father's silver beeches, with our lovely Indian daughter. There's a fat pony swishing her tail at the gate, a black cat sleeping in the sun, (Yes. Though the transport of said Kittalo thereto is not something to eagerly anticipate.) It's sunny. We are where we've been going to all these years.

T

tally

A rapid fire tally of events of the last few weeks:

Item of wondrous news: one*
Miles walked around the Ikea vinyl pathway: a marathon
Window panes cleaned: a lot
Posts composed in my head re adoption situation: many
Posts composed outside my head: zero
Curses muttered under breath: also many
Nights in bed by 9.30pm: too many
Days with Betty-head**: 8?
Illustrations made for fairy tale: 12
Tears: a few
Laughs: quite a few
Snow and sleet showers: innumerable
Stuff given away on gumtree: 2
Lady in tank-style, enormous jeep come to collect nasty veneer table: 1


And that is why I have not posted. The idea of seeing this dull and chilly reality reflected back at me from my computer screen was not enticing. And here, at this point in the post, friends, I was going to insert a photo of the slowly reviving garden, as a symbol of hope and regeneration - but, with the rich irony of which the universe is so fond, then it hailed, for a long, long time. The hail bounced around the grass energetically and made me long for Other Long-ago Times and Places. How could I have complained of the heat in Andalucia, for instance, that summer I spent on a horse farm when I was 19? Qué calor, my eye.

So instead let us contemplate this other. less conventional, symbol of spring: The Chitting Potato.

Yes, there it is. It is not chitting at the speed of light, it has to be said. Perhaps, sensibly, it has decided to wait until after the Ice Age.

And that is what has been going on. Next time, possibly even in this millenium, I will update on the adoption saga - the Irish Minister for Children is in India this very week to try to make headway on the inter-country adoptions agreements.

Fingers crossed.

Tell me your tallies?

Till soon then,
T

 * Suzy has arrived, and I am utterly utterly delighted for Valery, and her DP.
** My term for my weird, non-painful but nonetheless wearing and unpleasant ocular migraine.

adult life

So, my lovelies, The Woman couldn't make it that Saturday night, and my readiness to Say Something has therefore been thwarted. Heaven help the next person who makes me feel I should, is all I can say. A river of somethings is likely to gush over his or her head.

(Oh dear, that sounded a bit disgusting.)

Anyway! On to other first world moanings on the nature of being an adult. Isn't it hard work? Isn't it? Or are there people to whom this comes naturally? I certainly feel the manual that I should have been given at birth called: Life: operation thereof, has been lost, if I ever had it. My mother was not bossy and a bit untidy herself and I was the absent-minded, dreamy type. I was probably staring out of the window when she tried to teach me stuff. I can, if I really make a huge effort, remember all the stuff you function as an adult. The bills, the servicing of boilers, taxes, vitamins, the cleaning of the washing machine filter, the cholesterol checks, the birthday cards, the visits to the vet. But, if another minor thing intervenes, like, you know, a Job, or a Mood, or if I just see something shiny, it all collapses instantly, leaving me with the uncomfortable feeling that not everything is being taken care of. When I was single, oddly enough, I was more functional. I knew it was all on me, and I had - if not a system - certainly some folders. Now, no. Now, the JB and I look at each other in dismay and say what? I thought you were taking care of that.

Somewhat relatedly, on my apartment, the one recently abandoned by The Hungarians of the Hunted Look: when we (I brought a unflappable male friend, just in case) burst through the door, the place had a messy, suddenly abandoned look, part-Tracy Emin, part-student digs, but there was no damage to speak of, just a little wear and tear. Why they pushed off in this flighty, imprudent, way, I will never know. Interpol? Mafia connections? Just young and dramatic? Anyway, anyway, I am relieved, and oddly enough quite enjoying cleaning the place and making it presentable.

(I put this down to the recent return of Betty, my alter-ego, who appears when I have one of my strange ocular migraines. She likes mundane tasks.)

What was I saying? Yeah. The Hungarians of the Hunted Look left behind enough hair and beauty products to sink a battleship.Which led me to distracting thoughts about feminity: I had not realised how low-maintenance I am. Soap, yes, shampoo, also. Enough make-up to not seriously ill, eh, you know, some clothes, and out the door with my hair wet. How about you? I have heard stories about women who get up at five to dry their hair and put their eyelashes on, but this is all as a fascinating mystery to me. I'd love to hear how it is chez toi. Am I missing something? I wonder, for instance if Products make a difference to my hair which has made the leap from Orange Cocker Spaniel to Richard III since my last haircut:


Yes. Definitely Richard.

Thoughts welcome.
Till later,
x
T

(Sorry about the lack here of anything of any consequence whatsoever. I am working up to explaining where things stand vis-a-vis the adoption, but it requires thought, and, you know how it is, it's rather demoralising not to have Exciting News. Bleah. )

the things I feel like saying, the things I do say, and the gulf inbetween

Ah, folks, the things I feel like saying, but don't. They are many.

The other day, for instance, I had occasion to ring a woman I hadn't spoken to in 8 or so years; once, around the turn of the millennium,  we were all souprun volunteers for a charity that works with homeless people. After several years (Gah. Quite embarrassing, really) of talking about it, I am hosting a Shindig tomorrow night, wherein we all meet up in my gaff, and talk the ears off each other. I am looking forward to it. They are a great crew.

So. I remind her who I am. She remembers me only because I married a Kerryman, if you ask me, she being from the same place, but anyway. Now I speak to her, and she despatches our common acquaintances right and left with labels marked: MARRIED or THREE CHILDREN or WORKING IN AFRICA or such like, I remember her stunning lack of tact, albeit tempered, as it is, with true kindness. However, we move along through Various Pleasantries, about my co-converser's fantastic grandchildren and children. How people are the thing! And everything is beauuutiful.

Then:
Have you a family?

I feel like saying: Yes. I have my very own Kerryman, my parents, my brother and his children. I have my brilliant friends, and a cat of uncertain temperament.

But I say: No

And she says: Well. That's okay.

I feel like saying: Is it? Is it? How is it? Explain. I'd love to hear how it is that you have arrived at this conclusion. PLEASE, I AM ALL EARS.

But I say nothing.

And then she launches into a Whole Thing about IVF and how it is Great, and how a friend of hers after treatment has three kiddies, and They Are Magic and Can Fly. And really, People are the thing! People!

I feel like saying: No, no. Monkeys are the thing! Monkeys! Trained ones! Also, crisp sandwiches. And I know nothing of this Eye Vee - what was it? - of which you speak. Did you invent it yourself? IT SOUNDS MARVELLOUS. Babies! JUST LIKE THAT. You should get a sainthood.

I say: Hmmm.

Then I guide her deftly off the subject. And hope she doesn't do it again tomorrow night. Or I might have to say something.

Ooh, I feel better now. I love my blog. Big hug, internet!

xx
T

Rude suggestions on what to say to such people very welcome, of course.

delirious weather

I have been in what the JB refers to as "an artistic delirium" (I presume with no irony. Maybe I should be retro-offended? Hmph.) due to Having A Job On. Hence the lack of digits where usually there runs a stream of nonsense. 

++
I weakly proffer these delirious pieces of news (these news? These newes? I am knackered, as we say around here. I am in fact comatoast as a malapropist well known to me says.):

My friend L (aka Sister One) and I are at the really good Italian Cafe called, rather hilariously, Eataly (Eat a Whole Nation!), across from the Met Office. 

A TV weatherman comes in. A titan of the Irish Weather World! Watch out, mortals! For he could blithely smite you with a mighty flash of lightning. He sits down to have a little anti-cyclone, or a warm weather front or whatever it is these greats consume. We are impressed. After some heady moments in his august company, he is joined by a Weather Lady, also a Big Name in Weather. L and I look at each other in alarm. Who is looking after the weather?
I mean, really. No wonder it's such a mess.

++

There's a minute fieldmouse in the kitchen. Kittaloo is showing some mild interest in it. Well, I say interest. She's patting it on the head gently with her paw. The JB is persuaded to let the mouse out and he runs off unharmed. I am strangely proud of the kitty's lack of killer instinct/complete dedication to Sloth. Kitty, my sybarite friend, you feel no need to be anything but completely useless, like an objet d'art, only furry. Well done.

 ++

My Hungarian tenants of the Hunted Look, who moved in to my apartment a little over a year ago, seem to have skidaddled. Or perhaps have gone off the whole paying rent thing. They're not in a renty kind of mood, maybe? Though I always thought there was something a bit desperate about them - they judged the apartment to be "safe" when they saw it. They were on the run from Interpol, I think, was the Only Logical Explanation. I am going over there to spy on them tomorrow.

I do hope they haven't wrecked the place.

++

More of this thrilling stuff later. Also, perhaps, actual news on the subject of Adoption - though not the breakthrough news we were waiting for - just inbetween news. I have long resigned myself to the idea that this will be very slow, but that if we can persist long enough, it will happen.

Thank you for sticking it out with me.
xx

T

triggers

We must rush these to the New World, asap. Andie needs them urgently.

How are you, nice human visitors? And occasional internet spider?

Chez Twangy, all proceeds apace. Telly Ban Tuesday was a moderate success, once I suppressed the initial slight feelings of panic. What to do? I ironed a lot, listened to the radio, then I went to my friend around the corner, who is the tormentor inventor of Telly Ban Tuesday. She made two loaves of bread. I watched. It was easily as good as television! Then I went home and feel into the Sleep of the Virtuous, to wake feeling like a new woman.

Just as well. I have been visited recently by the twin horrors: insomnia and (what, thanks to you, I now recognise as) ocular migraine. I haven't been having pain with it, (THANKS BE TO ALL THAT IS GOOD) but I have some visual disturbance, feel slow, spacey and queasy, and - I know this is odd, even for me - I don't feel like myself. I don't know how else to describe it. Don't worry, it's not like I have suddenly changed into someone called Betty who has a Proper Job and wears those matt tights that stick to everything.* It's just as if someone got into my brain and moved stuff around a bit - maybe redecorated it with ochre flock wallpaper? And animal print cushions? I feel a bit off, at any rate. My usual razor-sharp focus ability to have some coherent thoughts has slowed, too, though otherwise I am pretty functional.

I suppose I better go to the GP, eh? It's just, you know, doctors. Unfun. I prefer to pretend there is no need of them. Also I need to consider triggers (not JAFFA CAKES? SAY IT ISN'T SO) though I believe it's simply a matter of Disturbed Sleep Patterns myself, brought about by holiday laziness. And maybe hormones.

It's odd to think as your character as just a collections of chemicals, cells and electrical impulses, isn't it? This is the kind of thing that leads to unhelpful thoughts on the Absurdity of Everything.

Umm. So. There we have it! Maybe we should all lie down in a darkened room now, on our separate continents.

Opinions/comparisons welcome as usual.

T

*Not really! That's a joke - the bit about Betty. No need to call the men in white coats. I mean, of course she doesn't have tights! That would be ridiculous. 

with resolve

Let the boldness begin.

The brain fog has cleared; just as well, because it's the time of the year where I make rash promises. I wouldn't even mention it, but Some Sort of Magic happens when I document my resolutions here: unbelievably, it really works! As evidence: (No need to read. Is one of my more demented posts.) I actually did do and am still doing the running, the drawing, the comic-making. (The boldness: am working on. As above.) 

What have I stumbled on here? A subconcious-programming device? A direct line to the inner me? I feel all powerful!

So now:

• Keep the running/drawing/comic thing going
• Be more career-oriented and (dare I say it) commercial
• Institute telly ban Tuesday, in which (gasp) I will do Other Things. Crafty things, maybe. Or social things. Which brings me to:
• Get Out More. Actually go to Meet-ups in efforts to see other humans, as opposed to just planning to. Converse more. Hey! Pay people, if necessary, to make conversation with me.
  [Ooh.This is an idea. A sort of X-factor for conversationalists!]
• Read more - before brain turns to mush entirely
• Be more confident
• Take a breath. Believe that the husband and I will get there - even while we cherish what we have now.

 I wish you all so many good things in 2013. May it be great, healthful and joyful for all of us.

T

 

first world problems of the ridiculous order

I was in the kitchen the other day playing doing important nutrition-related research on our new breadmaker, while the JB was in the living-room playing making vital technical adjustments to the new flatscreen TV, when these things occurred to me:

• We now have two fewer reasons to Get Out (I refer to the flicks. See also: Trips to bakery)

• We are now officially bourgeois.

While clearly a thing to celebrate, (I know, I know, I DO REALISE) the social mobility afforded by the husband's meteoric rise to fame default, civil servant-style promotion (Oh, you're still here. Well. Look, have some more cash.) it has provoked some reconfiguring of the mental furniture. I've been a starving artist for so long, it's ingrained to the point where it's part of me. I like to live in the grittier parts of town, with the "real" people, for instance. (No, I don't even know what I mean by this. Are South-Siders made of plastic? Are they trained monkeys? Are they?). Should we now give in to the forces of the market,  move to a leafy suburb and start listening to country music? Also, how will this work henceforth given that thus far we've been a fifty/fifty type of couple? His salary may be enlarged, but mine is still the familiar runty one it has been lo these many years. If he says: Let's get a Mercedes/an indoor gym/some tickets to Paris/whatever mysterious things well-off people do, do I repressively shake my head like some sort of puritan?

I accept this makes me as odd as two left shoes, of course. But any virtual kicks up the arse/advice/comparing of notes, anyone on this the eve of the new year?

I will return tomorrow, brain fog permitting, for resolutions and good wishes. Though I quite like the new page feel of the first day of the year, I am not really one for what I (would, wouldn't I) see as the enforced jollity of New Year Eve (Insert repressive, puritan head-shake.) - it brings out the melancholy in me. Maybe it's that I simply hate saying goodbye, even to years? The beginning of the academic year fits me better as a starting point, and it's the beginning of the autumn which I love, being of the Reverse SAD disposition.

But you lovely, normal, healthy, people do Have The Fun! I'll be in the back room with the lights off,* drinking cocoa and eating jaffa cakes.**

T

*Only joking! I am going to a partay!
**My mother gave us a YARD of these. (People not of these shores, they are a very sweet spongy biscuit with a jelly-like orange filling. (Well, orange flavour, anyway. I doubt if any natural ingredients are allowed in a Jaffa Cake. It would be improper.) And a chocolate coating.) And since the JB believes the chocolate/orange combo is a thing of the divil, every inch is MINE ALL MINE.
MINE I TELL YOU.

 

Merry festivities and a very happy 2013 to all