Positively oozing, or *A Freudian Moment*

Last night’s dreams were chaotic and involved my cat again.
Now, after two decades and a bit of obsessive moggy-related dreams I have finally figured out that the cat in the dream is in fact *scoop* Me; and that’s considering that I don’t subscribe a 100% to the popular theory that every character in your dreams is actually you.

Under cat disguise, I have done the following things in dreams:
*struggled out of my own arms and tried to run away in crazy traffic, and risked getting flattened (a constant since I was about 7)
*puked up a gigantic heap of yellow, lumpy substance not unlike Covent Garden’s soup Company, the smoked haddock chowder variety.
*Filled up a room with explosive diarrhoea.

At this point I would like to say I’m so sorry about the references to unsavoury bodily functions. But science demands certain sacrifices, you know.

So; why such excretions in my dreams?
It would be easy to jump to conclusions and say that I’m simply full of shit; but not only would it be not very nice, wouldn’t it be pure blasphemy in the face of the well of wisdom that is dream analysis? Yes, it would.
Well I do have a theory, but I don’t feel like going into it for now. End of the Freudian moment. Thank you for listening.

Role models
People of blogdom, I’m as excited as a rabid flea! well, as jaded and unenthusiastic me can be: Margaret Cho is coming to London! As I was striding into my favourite café I spotted an A3 poster advertising her upcoming ‘state of emergency’ tour; it was tucked under the staircase between vegan lesbian flatsharing and crunchy home-made granola adverts, so I wonder what the turnout will be. Of course she is virtually unknown in this country, so just as well I’ll be there in my lamé dress throwing my chones underwear at her. (see footnote #1) In the little blurb I noticed she was cleverly reinvented as a lesbian activist by her PR people. How opportunistic. Still, I’ll be there; come to London, I’ll put you up, I have a futon.

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I saw Bridget Jones being on the edge of reason today.
I know.
The synopsis goes like this: Bridget repeatedly shoots herself in the foot when around object of affection, (figuratively, it’s not a western), conveniently doesn’t remember that it’s a bad idea to carry fertility statuettes for men met when travelling in Thailand, soon finds that Thai jails are pretty fun places to hang out that and all the girls just dance around singing Madonna songs and share boyfriend stories and satin wonderbras. Then heroin is saved by boring, poker-in-the-arse but big earner lawyer boyfriend, and the film culminates in, what else, a marriage proposal, because that’s all that we should aspire to. Yes, internet, since you ask, I managed to switch off the cynical filter long enough to laugh and actually enjoy the film. With the exception of the marriage proposal. Cinematic marriage proposals and their implications invariably make me cringe, slow poison that they are!
Margaret Cho will work fine as my antidote.

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Footnote #1 : to be added later. Good night.

Fish and chips
Fishboy suggested starting a support group for those who, despite their 'pinko lefty faux-Gothy underachieving alternative cool façade', fail to worship Radiohead, and actually like Dire Straits. If I manage to get past the old dilemma of whether I would like to be part of a group that would have me as its member, I will apply straight away. I have tried, people of Blogland, I really have; but Radiohead is just like avocado, not in the way that it tastes like wax crayons, but in the way that I would love to like it because it's supposed to improve your life, but just can't. And Brothers is arms makes my eyes well up every time, possibly because it brings back memories of that night at a Dublin funfair in April 1989 when I did all the rides then threw up my fish and chips and Fergal Murphy handed me a tissue and then we kissed. No, not strictly right after. So, Dire Straits. Yeah.

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Isn't it typical. Just when I am all psyched up and ready to go, high on cravitamins and ginseng and guarana, and my coolest boots have been polished to an eye-catching shine, and all the voices in my head concurr to scream in unison 'go out and be merry and get some drinking and flirting done and be careful with those heels', then of course my drinking and flirting partner is ill in bed with a temperature.
Just as well I have another day of merriment planned for tomorrow with an altogether healthier, and possibly cuter friend. Yay!

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From a work colleague on Friday : Oh, your earrings certainly are ..different. You're such a punk!
Well, this punk is going to make mulled wine now, and have fish and chips. To honour the memories, you know.

Get cultured with your mom


'I've dusted your library', my mom says on the phone.
'oh no', I think.
'You have some interesting things in there', she adds, tentative.
'I do?'
'Yes, all those erotic novels, and erotica anthologies you have!'
'shitoh yeah, those old things...'
'If they''d been put on the shelves properly and not with their spines facing in, I would have spotted them earlier!'
'precisely oh hum?'
'Quite engrossing really; oh and I also learned some new words!'
'please don't tell me which ones you have? I mean, you have. Has it been cold recently? Any snow yet?'
'The ones I didn't really enjoy were all a bit too violent though, with whipping and things like that.'
'ok. Look mom I've gotta go, dinner is getting cold.'
'Do you have anymore?'
'No. I don't think so. I just have.. the classics. Really. Nice talking to you, mom.'

It's not quite as bad as your mom finding your porn stash under your bed. Mainly because I'm older now.

I don't think she would enjoy Pat Califia.

Hey, I found a new hobby that's got nothing to do with this blog!

This is what I want for Christmas.
And all my friends will get their own cross stitching kit, too. Say 'yay!'

Post break-up revisionism, or it looks like I'm not done yet.

A. How to become a relationship revisionist in easy steps.

B. Definition:
· Among historians, revisionism has traditionally been used in a completely neutral sense to describe the work or ideas of a historian who has revised a previously accepted view of a particular topic.
· More generally, revisionism is used by non-historians as a pejorative term for biased historical work which denies that some past events took place.

C. Instructions and mode of action
1 Block out all good memories. Things that you thought were good then were only a figment of your imagination. Diagnose self-delusion, and a subsequent happy recovery.
You never were in love with a wonderful person, you never planned to buy furniture/steal kitchen utensils/adopt a Chinese orphan together, and the sex was never amazing, or if it was, it was only thanks to you.

2 Revel in bad memories. The time s/he snapped/ignored/hurt you. Forget you ever snapped/ignored/rejected/hurt her/him.

3 Establish that things that sucked then suck more now, with hindsight; bad things can be dragged out and highlighted, turned into anecdotes and fables.

4 At this point, consider finding a derogatory nickname for the ex friend or lover you're trying to get over. Suggestions: Arseface, The Cunt, Crazy Sarah (everyone knows a Sarah.)

5 Said nickname will help safely compartmentalise the terminated relationship and label the ex friend or lover.

D. Results

What's a little self righteousness/self deceit/denial in the face of oblivion/a brand new page? And amusing stories to tell your friends about your ex that was so, so bad.

E. Honesty no section E. Sorry.

F. The final quote : Toute histoire est histoire contemporaine.

Today I spent an hour with a famous actor, but I didn't know that until he'd left; I'm not good at recognizing celebrities. So that explains his charisma, then.
Today's discovery was that you can get a molebeauty spot tattooed on for 50 quid at a salon near you. Tattooed lip liner, on the other hand, will set you back £250. So that's 300 quid to look like a tart, then.
Today's closest thing to joy took the form of a chocolate soufflé.

Next time, Internet, blogpeople, I will explain what life lessons you may reap from television series. Or not.

Patch
People of blogdom, I haven't had a haircut in over three months.
I do have a regular hairdresser; Luisa's Spanish, she talks a lot and offers me red wine, and we chat about Barcelona and her attempts at pregnancy and how much cost the Gaultier watch her husband got her; she's perfectly delightful, and bubbly, and seriously overenthusiastic. When she's done with me my hair is perfectly cut and in place, but because she is so enthusiastic and wants to give me value for money I invariably look like my little brother, aged 12. Too enthusiastic, so too neat, too goddamn short. I console myself with the thought that it'll be fine in two weeks' time after all, this stuff grows so fast, and put a hat on.
So over the past 90 days or so I have been hacking at my growing mop; a little snip here, a little snip there, nothing drastic, with those clever scissors that cut through hair, y'know? Fantastic. I love my girly hair. It's tickling my ears quite becomingly, I think.
But I am only postponing the inevitable, people of blogland. For there will be a time when I must go back. When the random snipping has taken its toll and I look like those brooms you use for reaching cobwebs. And then, what will I tell Luisa to explain the interesting gradations I've created? 'My mom did it'. Oh, how very grown up. I used that one when I was 19 and getting a telling off from the scary woman who tried to set right a colour gone really, really bad. I'm ashamed to this day. 'A friend begged me to be his guinea pig'. 'It was a dare and I lost.' 'Well, it's all you can do in the jungle, you know' might work, but can I pull it with a straight face? The real question is this :how can I get over this need for approval and just tell Luisa the truth, that against all expert advice I took my hair's fate into my own hands and hacked at it with reckless abandon? 'Luisa, I'm weaning myself off the need for approval, yours or anybody else's. Approval, approval, shmaproval. Soon I won't need it anymore. I'm so quitting; I'm on a patch right now, and next thing you know, the patch goes, and yes, goddamnit, I have been cutting my hair myself, without even a mirror, that's right, and even your dog's hair is better cut, and I look like shit, so please fix it. Please?'

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My lovely friend Zabelie got her birthday present. I think she is pleased: her first comment was - 'have you heard of fountain women? Well, I now know that I am one.'
Yay! I hope I get extra karma points for that.

And this is why we're here now
One morning in the fourteenth century, young Francis P. went to church, as one did, and wham, he caught a glimpse of a complete stranger named Laura. For the rest of his life he harboured a deep, completely unrequited love - she never even knew the poor guy existed - and, in order to channel his troubled feelings, churned out over over 360 love poems dedicated to some bint he'd only seen for 30 seconds between two church pillars. For all he knew she could have been a complete idiot; talk about idealisation. Anyway; not only did she never get to read them, but she also died of the plague, a fairly fashionable death at the time. As a result, his personal literary catharsis became a symbol for the birth of romantic love and other humanistic notions. Before him and his ilk, there was no romantic love to speak of, was there. People happily pillaged and raped their way around. And then, 366 poems about pure and overwhelming love later, courtship and romanticised notions of coupledom became all the rage. I blame Francis P for this unshakable yearning for.. for.. all this mess I'm in.
Better get a start on the poems, then.

Taking the orange obsession to a new level.
Next time, Internet, friends, I will explain how I blame Petrarch for all my troubles.