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July 2009

emotionally labile


Cheering: Da walking straight-backed with a stick down the broad corridor of the Rehab
Depressing: Da not eating chicken stew Ma spent ages making for him.
Cheering: Big on-going David Sedaris' marathon. I have even been buying them, I mean, as in, purchasing, (with actual money!) though normally am very reluctant to clutter shelves with books, and go in austere fashion to library. Love Sedaris though. Love. So funny and twisted, but never bitter.
Depressing: Mean neighbour leaves poor dog alone all day in a horrible bare garden. Loathe neighbour.
Cheering: Our 3rd wedding anniversary dinner - was perfectly edible! winning back some culinary self-esteem. Also fact that have remained married all this long long time - very impressive.
Depressing: Husband's comments on how divorce (see above) is just a pragmatic way of moving on if someone is in miserable marriage. Cavalier! and tactless.
Cheering: Am more motivated to make marriage work, strangely enough.
Depressing: Lack of pregnancy
Cheering: Husband's new optimism and motivation re adoption process. We should have edged up nearly to the top of the list now, and expect to be called in one of these weeks for the course.
Depressing: Film we watched last night with Ed Norton, Evan Rachel Wood and one of the Culkin clones. After a creepily rosy start, it derailed and quickly plummeted over a cliff into the darkness.
Cheering: My beans came up. (This is not a euphemism. My beans did come up).
Depressing: Home and A.way (my secret passion, it's just so dramatic and entertaining) is "taking a break" for a few weeks, till mid-August. Urg. Why, why H&A? Was it something I said? Come baaack! 

So, in conclusion. You know, kind of :) and then kind of :(

Your emotionally unstable
Twangy :( :)

Edited to add:

Cheering: Nursing staff at rehab call my Father "Nevs". HA, ha ha, this is a brilliant first.
Depressing: Arm still banjaxed since April when while attempting a breast-stroke in the pool in Eindhoven, it went ARRRgggg! and EEEeekk, and the teres major got torn. Can't lift arm over 90degree angle. Just as well I have no pressing need to make Na.zi salutes.


the slugs are invading

My garden - well, I say garden, it's more of a slug reproduction unit, is covered with the things. Our gastropod friends are all over the gaff. They cover the ground where at sundown they can be witnessed in crowds, heroically crossing the stone path like the Great Wilderbeest Migration over the Mara river, and they're all over the grass, and the hedge and, (amazingly), over the peanut container I thoughtfully provided for the birds them. One met an untimely demise as s/he climbed the door bravely, only to be crushed to smithereens in the jamb of my shed-door. (I had to get JB to dispose of the corpse. This exposed me to ridicule, and cries of murderer, but it was worth it). Another was found to be in the living room with us, watching TV. (Mistresses, in fact - bet s/he thought it was hilarious, what with the torrid affairs and the compulsive cheating and the lack of monogamy, I know I did).
I just hope they don't turn nasty. I fear I may be carried off in the night, or be eaten in my bed, by an daring slug band, avenging the death of their erstwhile one-footed friend.
Your about to be consumed in slug-revenge, with only hours to live,
Twangy


old photos

Sugarloaf
While Da and Ma had some quiet reading time after lunch yesterday, JB and I dug through some of my old photos, the better for our entertainment.
Ah de oowell days! Dey were gre'.

One of things that I love about the JB is the objective and utterly un-jealous interest he takes in my old boyfriends, whom he likes to refer to as my Friends. Many an entertaining hour has been whiled away as we discuss their relative failings/strengths.
(Well, might as well be honest, it does tend to be mostly the faults we dwell on).
He has them all down to a tee:
Tea-drinking Man, the Irish ad exec workaholic who preferred Tea to what JB calls "relations" with me, if you know what we mean, and I think you do.
The Italian, Enrico, the political science student, pinball machine player and bald-faced liar that preferred relations with everyone and the more, the better.
The American, Eduardo, the paranoid would-be screenwriter and New Yorker, whose enthusiasm for relations (with me this time, luckily for my ego) was unparalleled.
And so when we sat on the floor in my old room leafing through the various phases of my life, the JB was intrigued to see my Friends. (I am a bit tempted to scan the photos and upload them here, but I fear no good would come of it. Although there's enough material there for a book..
Like the time the Italian's ex-girlfriend went ape-shit when she discovered he had cheated on her and ripped her way through his monologued shirts with a scissors and then through his cassette collection (which would have taken an impressive amount of determination, I would have thought.) Or the way Enrico used to ask me to come and watch him playing pinball. Or
[Nostalgic aside: remember analogue? Wow. We used to actually rent CDs from a shop in Pavia, because they were considered to be so expensive, and record them onto tape.])
Ah yes, dose were de days.
Oh look it's racing up to 11.30am. More on this later,
Your nostalgic,
Twangy


reprieve

Well now. Where to begin? Gal.way Arts Fest. That was good. The show was in a thatched cottage in town, with tiny crooked rooms. The curator was one of Those People. You know? Those People. Who can do everything - she curates, shows, organises everyone and did I mention she does it all with calm and good grace? and is only about 25? Very impressive. We stayed in the Radisson which was a slightly futuristic and dehumanising experience. I mean, they didn't make us feel particularly special as they took our e150. And since we got back, I seem to have morphed back into Twangy The Housewife. Many many domestic and gardening chores ave been completed this week - including the installation of a gardening chest, and potting of a ton of plants and tidying and cleaning. I mean, not that there's anything wrong with that, but I want to be out, in the world, moving and shaking. On the other hand, I don't, I like being at home with my plants and slugs, making art and freelancing on the side.
The constant dilemma.
Speaking of Those People, my Friend, OldFriend, she of the eight children, was on this week. In addition to her 8 CHILDREN, (three of whom are on the autism spectrum) her part-time DEGREE in PSYCHOLOGY, she and her husband are making a business proposal the ambition of which would make your head twist off with awe. They want to start a farm/riding centre for special needs children/young people. AMAZING. I am going to help her with graphics, logo and whatnot.
On the Da front, things are looking better all the time. We are cleared to take him home for lunch on Sunday. I feel like a first-time parent bringing a new-born home. He is excited to get out. As well he might be.. He talks a lot about "good behaviour" and what he can get away with, with the screws. (Okay, not that bit). I mean, he really seems to hold the view he is in rehab prison.
So things are ticking along. I feel a sense of reprieve - Bad Things happened and we survived. I am happy in a relieved way. I went for my Day 3 blood tests, and that was fine. It required some suspension of the thought process during it - you know, when you just float through, and engage the brain after? All is okay.
Your well if voluntarily brain dead,
Twangy

putting the UCE into what the DEUCE

I would have loved to update before but somehow for the last week I found myself working in a sweatshop of my own devising. For through an unfortunate confluence of events, the flip clocks I was waiting for from a "certain" company in Glasgow were delayed to the cliff-hanging point where I had only 6 days to take out all the flippers, (cursing and mood-swinging all the while), spray-paint them and draw on top of them, as per my insane proposal for the Gal.way Ar.ts Fes.tival. That's 84 images per clock, and multiplied by 6, that's.. that's a lot, folks.
(This is just more evidence for my theory that Artists are just suffering from a disease. A mental illness called the Urge to Create Art - UCE.)

I have so much to blog about. It's all heaping up in my over-worked little mind, all about my father and the support group I plan to set up for people who look calm on the outside, but are in turmoil inside, and about my shed, and my State of Mind, and my blood tests at the fertility clinic, and so much more.

But today we are off, clocks in bag, to Galway to stay in a nice Otel, and relaxify.

See you on the flipside daddy-o!
Twangy