Category: Modern Life

Loud like love…

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Since I work for myself, I am periodically required to do paperwork.  Yep, nothing so certain as death and taxes… 

I love my accountant, but I’m less keen on the rafts of invoices and receipts I need to submit each quarter. The only way I get through this is to pour a glass of wine – only one mind, clearly I can’t be doing with drunken submissions to the VAT man – and… to crank up the music. Placebo and Sugarcult usually do the trick.  There’s something about the nihilism of a good rock tune that makes my self-imposed bureaucracy more bearable. The louder, the better!

So today, as I find my feet tapping along with my fingers while I fill in yet another Excel spreadsheet… I’ve been thinking about the other things in life that are less certain than a P60.  Love, for instance…

It often arrives unannounced, unexpectedly and usually at the most inconvenient time. Boo yah!  If you aren’t factoring it into your life plan, it can be a bit terrifying. Sometimes it’s loud. Really, really loud. Accompanied by the bass beats of a hungry heart. Fireworks, even. Sometimes it sneaks up on you like a deadly assassin with a crossbow. You are bleeding terminally before you realise you’ve been eviscerated by cupid. Unlike death and taxes, if it’s real, it’s probably the one thing you can’t – and shouldn’t  – live without.  It’s also the one thing you can’t control, which for a control freak like me, is a bit like having those dreams where you are at school wearing pyjamas instead of a uniform…more on that in another blog! 

This post was inspired by the music of Placebo.

Sign your name across my heart…

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Here in the coastal reaches, modern pirates are alive and well judging by the proliferation of ink and wooden ear-plugs which seems to grace the limbs and lobes of 70 per cent of the population. Honestly, you’d think we were living with some sort of remote rainforest tribe. And I’m not talking feral youth here…body art is the new black it seems, as friends who are approaching landmark birthdays, or dealing with traumatic life events resort to the needle. Personally, it’s not my thing, but I’m endlessly fascinated by the images and the motivation of people who will willingly endure something excruciating to create something everlasting.

My friend David and I are probably the only people in town who don’t have some sort of tattoo, which makes us the minority. Still, with the help of my smartphone, I’ve managed to turn this to my advantage in the flirting stakes.  Anyone scrutinising my photos would be forgiven for thinking I’d turned into some sort of fetishist  – well, I am…but only for vintage champagne!  At last count I had about 20 pictures of naked male torsos & arms – each and every one a masterpiece of sorts. My secret to getting young men to strip down to their knitting and bare all…Oh, that’s easy.  I just say I’m doing a ‘photo-essay’ on signs. Which is partially true, but I’m photographing funny roadside signs, not funny boys. The best bit – apart from keeping me gainfully amused in our local pub – is that it works every time. So far, no one has said no…which makes me wonder if I’m actually living in a colony of exhibitionists, instead of pirates.  Now where did I put that camera…

Me, my selfie and I….

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Me selfie and I

For the longest time, I’ve been the person who avoids being in front of the camera. I really hate having my picture taken. It’s a bit like those Amazon tribes who believe that cameras steal your soul.  In my case, the camera doesn’t only steal your soul, it makes you look like a ghoul.  I’ve lost count of the number of photos where I’m pulling a face or have my eyes closed. Why, oh why couldn’t I just have supermodel genes from the neck up!

I think it stems from a pretty traumatic family photo shoot when I was about 13 – you know, that totally awkward age, when being self-conscious is as much a part of the scene as ill-fitting training bras and bad skin.  All I remember is having an almighty row with my mom, because I really, really, really didn’t like being in front of the camera. Tears & tantrums ensued. Cue blotchy cheeks and swollen eyes. Thanks parents – I will never live that look down!

So…as you can imagine, I have been mystified by the rise of the selfie.  Apart from the fact that it seems to be perpetuated by vapid celebrities or over-earnest self-promoters on Twitter, I for the life of me couldn’t bear the thought of taking my own photo.  Cameras are bad enough – camera phones…well, people there is a lifetime of therapy there!   Still, I had to applaud friends who bravely took selfies of themselves – without makeup – to support the recent Cancer Research fundraising campaign.

Since this is the year of living dangerously – and – because readers of this blog deserve to know that I’m a real person and not a bot…here goes. My selfie and I.

 

Where there’s a spark…

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So, you’d either have to be a Tibetan Monk or severely media deprived if Tinder means nothing to you.  Smartphones have revolutionised my life, and Tinder – along with Shazam and RingGo is rapidly becoming one of my most fave apps. Ever!

Now, I’m one of those women who has assiduously avoided Internet dating. I’m busy and don’t have time for a 2nd full-time job!  I’d like to use my weekends doing things in the real world, and if I happen to meet Mr.Unique, then fab. But on a whim, I signed up for Tinder on a night when I was once again travelling for work. Yep. Time alone in a hotel room, and no alcohol can drive even a sane woman to desperate measures. So I thought…how bad could it really be?

Bad…Apart from providing a ready supply of laughs – yes chaps, some of those pics are truly cringeworthy – Tinder has had an unexpected side effect. It’s providing real insight into the male psyche and I am definitely having a T.M.I. moment!  Depending on where you are in the country, single men are either called Darren or Paul. Most men over 40 don’t have their own hair and teeth and have clearly lied about their age! And a large majority think that posting pictures of their car and house is going to make up for their shortcomings in the looks department. As if women are shallow enough to be impressed by that Lamborghini. Looks yes, fast cars…not so much. And I haven’t even got onto the freaks and weirdo’s yet. So, Mark. 44. Married. – somehow I don’t think it’s a penpal you’re after!

And surprisingly…Good. Tinder takes all the malarkey out of mating. You like, you don’t like. It’s a bit like an Internet pub. You fancy someone, they fancy you. Ba-da-bing! And after a long time of feeling like I’d become invisible, suddenly I’m making matches with all sorts of interesting people. It’s truly a boost to female self-esteem and quite liberating. Maybe Mr. Unique isn’t so far away after all!

I am David…

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Men and women are truly different. Nowhere is this more apparent than in the neatness stakes. Yes, I know this also applies to standards of cleanliness in the smallest room in the house, but I’ve already written a blog about cleaning the toilet, so that is not today’s topic!

I am a Virgo, and I am (usually) organised. Tidy surroundings equal a tidy mind.  Tidy mind equates to zen calmness in my world. Not…so…much..anymore.  You see, I am living with a boy. A boy called David. Now before all my relatives rush out to buy their wedding hats, I should stress that aforementioned boy is a friend, and that I am camping like a refugee in his spare room, while my stuff is in storage and my house is being renovated.

When all hell broke loose earlier this month and I had to vacate the rental premises, David was first to step up and offer me a place to lay my head. He seemed genuinely pleased I was coming to stay. I was genuinely worried.  Now, apart from a few lost years when I was at uni, and the aberration with the ‘luggage loser’ – yes, that will be the subject of another blog –  I have not lived with a boy. I am as they say, used to having my own space. What if he was messy? Partial to leaving the lid up and roaming around the house in the all-together? Horrors!

So, I wasn’t really expecting to step into the oasis of order that is David’s house. David is…tidy. And I mean really  tidy! His takeaway menus – like his 2,000 CD’s – are alphabetically arranged. In his cupboards there is a place for everything. Even his stock cubes are colour coded!   This is such a revelation, that I am actually considering the merits of finding a live-in lover and moving them into the new house when it’s ready.  But only if they are as tidy as David.

 

 

History List…

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Red To Do List

These days my brain is terribly full. If it’s not a ‘to do’ list, then it’s a goal, a deadline or a commitment competing for space in my over-stretched noggin. I sometimes wish life had a ‘clear all’ button, just so that I could selectively delete thoughts, memories and experiences in the same way I clear the cache on my laptop.

I’d erase all those feelings of fear that sometimes conspire to try and keep me small in the world. Henry Ford said: ‘If you think you can, you can. If you think you can’t, you can’t. Either way, you’re right’. Why should we let our thoughts determine our potential? Why shouldn’t we risk it all on 22 red?

I’d erase a boyfriend or two. And that unsuitable six week-fling. And that hopeless crush on the boy from High School.  And while I’m on the subject, that dreadful man on the train who sat next to me picking his nose and eating it. Eeuwww!  De-lete!

I’d probably erase most of my wardrobe from the 80’s.  You know, the big hair, legwarmers and day-glo make-up.  But not the music. Oh no, definitely not the music! For more on that see my earlier post: http://atomic-temporary-39169623.wpcomstaging.com/2009/11/25/soundtrack-to-my-soul/

I’d erase worrying about money. Life is short, and as my mom says: ‘there are no pockets in a shroud’. Let’s be like the poem, and spend our pensions on summer gloves and brandy! In fact, I’d probably erase any ‘worrying’ – spending time wondering if you are good enough, thin enough, happy enough…or even if you are just…enough. You are. I am.

Still, I can’t help wondering…would creating additional emotional RAM really mean we’d have better thoughts? Be more creative? Sometimes adversity is the best determinant of character.  Maybe a spotless mind is soporific, instead of a spur to action? And what if you accidentally deleted all the good stuff?  Imagine waking up like a goldfish every day!

Sometimes in order to appreciate what you have, or be clear about what you want, you need to know what you don’t. Erasing bad thoughts and only thinking happy thoughts all the time might make us more zombie than zen…

Ah well, back to reality. If that means less headroom, then perhaps I should start making a list.

Guilty pleasures…

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I was catching up with a friend over a glass – or two – of red wine at our local establishment, and happened to mention  I’d got a particular thrill this week when I bought my new vacuum cleaner.  Sigh…I do live the high life here in the coastal reaches… but  before you begin to think this is an OCD homage to dust reduction, I should put you right.  If cleanliness is next to godliness, then I am not on my way to heaven just yet.  Like most busy people, my home is not immaculate, and often untidy. Although now it is definitely no longer dusty.

I do however get  a perverse pleasure from clean kitchens and bathrooms. So my worktops are scrubbed and my sink is shiny.  I am  also the only person I know who enjoys cleaning the loo.  Since I live by myself, it’s probably just as well.  I’m not sure I could cope with someone who left the seat up. Of course, this got me thinking about all the other things I like doing. Guilt-free pleasures. Small, and relatively harmless.  Unless you happen to be a French macaroon, in which case you will only last as long as it takes me to open the patisserie box. 

Modern life can be utterly rubbish. Being a grown up is hectic and complicated at times. The point is we all need some measure of escape once in a while. So it’s just as well I have an outlet or two. Some people take up  macrame to give them peace and the ability to turn string into bad-taste wall hangings. Each to his own. As for me, I like reading crime fiction on holiday. Going for long walks along the shoreline where I live. Listening to the sparrows in my garden. Cloud-spotting on a sunny day. Eating Nougat while watching diet programmes on TV. The list is unlikely to cause alarm, though a psychiatrist may wonder about that last one!  Now, where did I leave that toilet brush.

Just the facts, ma’am…

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This blog has been inspired by a C4 documentary about people who work on London Underground.  Actually…I should say this rant has been inspired by lazy journalism.  Apparently the individuals who work for the world’s oldest mass transport system do not want to be identified because they fear for their jobs…we are told that ‘actors’ are ‘speaking their real words’… What a crock!  Either they are just moaning Minnies or sniping backbiters who really should seek employment elsewhere, or they have a legitimate grievance. Either way, C4 have not realised that having Victor –  ‘I don’t believe it’  – Meldrew narrating the whole episode will only detract from their authentic purpose, not advance it.  And if you don’t live in the UK, you probably won’t get the reference, so check it out here: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Victor_Meldrew

As a small child, a Calvinistic work-ethic… and a love of knowledge probably set the precedent for me. If you are going to tell a lie, then make it a good one. Otherwise, just stick to the facts!  Of course, one should tell the truth as you see it.  Yes, the empaths amongst us would argue that there are always three sides to a story – and they may be right. Reality seen from multiple perspectives, is not necessarily the amalgam of truth. But facts are facts. 2 + 2 = 4 in this universe… And yes…sigh… quantum physicists, I know it doesn’t in others, but that is not the point!


The point is: if you are going to speak your mind, tell your truth, diss someone or spill the beans…at least have the guts to do it in your own name.  Don’t dissemble. Don’t lie. Don’t get someone else to read it for you. Just say…and own up to it! Be true to yourself, not the journalist at  the other end of the mike. As the man said, ‘Just the facts, ma’am’… 


If you want to know why I’m so annoyed, check out: http://www.channel4.com/programmes/confessions-from-the-underground/episode-guide/series-1/episode-1

Common Scents…

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The only thing I hate more than off-shore customer service (press #1 for some idiot who can’t answer your query and is reading this off a screen) is shopping for perfume. 

Perfume, like jewellery and underwear is a deeply personal choice. Women purchase these items based on a) their economic power, or b) their prediction of the outcome of the evening…snogging, sex and a wedding ring!  Men just purchase these items on the prediction they might a) get lucky or b) get away with it. They also buy perfume because they are in the airport and forgot your anniversary!

Either way, it’s important that the underwear matches, and that you smell good. After all, pheromones –  those tiny chemicals that trigger a social response in members of the same species – are probably responsible for the advancement of the species.  In scientific terms, they indicate the availability of the female for breeding, but that’s another story and another blog…

Pheromones aside, these days visiting a department store is guaranteed to bring me out in hives! Don’t get me wrong.  I love perfume, I just detest the vaporous assistants who see it as their mission from the God of Bad Smells to spray you with the scent they happen to be promoting as you walk through the door…Ooh yes, I have always wanted to smell like trailer trash…gimme some of that freshly ground rat, a.k.a. Britney Spears!

Call me old fashioned, but I long for the days when perfume had numbers. As a solvent woman of independent means, I do not – and I mean not – want to smell like Cheryl Cole or Jodie Marsh. They might be on the top shelf in the newsagent, but  I’m happy to be on the shelf. At least I smell better than they do…

Most of these new fangled, D-list celebrity scents pong like cat pee…Tonight I was privvy to an advert for Jimmy Choo perfume. As in J.Choo. Yes. Shoes. Feet. Really? We know these are good shoes, but honestly, do you want to smell like your feet do? I don’t think so!The obsequious sales people who promote it deserve to get shot by the fashion police – or at least sprayed with air freshener! 

The best smells in life are the ones that evoke memory. And our sense of smell is closely allied to our limbic system – the part of our brain that is prehistoric. Sense of smell is inbuilt. As is the emotional response we feel when something good hits our nose.  Cinnnamon. Cookies. The smell of clean laundry and lavender. Salt on skin. Basil, lavender and lemongrass – freshly mown lawn. Seaweed and spice. Tomatoes.  The way our babies smell. Clean, Pure. Fresh.

I’m not sure there is a perfume that does all of that…but if I could smell half as good as this summer has been, I’d buy it…

Postcards from the Edge…

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I use my brain for a living, so it’s funny how ideas pop into my head when I’m not actually trying to think.  One of my ideas was to go on holiday in Mexico.  Well, I figured I deserved a holiday after the cosmic butt-kicking that has been my life of late!  I canvassed a few mates, made some enquiries and before you could say El Jimador, we were lying on the Yucatan peninsula soaking up rays and enjoying the life aquatic!

 I usually travel alone, so it made a welcome change to be sharing cocktails at Miami airport with an old friend and getting to know the locals when we arrived. Another friend arrived. We spent the week talking about cats, philosophy & things that didn’t really matter. We shared the things that did…We hired a car and drove when and where we weren’t supposed to.  We swam in a lagoon filled with tropical fish and the odd Barracuda. We saw sea turtles and watched a mother lay eggs in the sand, and another clutch of babies battle their way into the sea. We went snorkelling in underwater cenotes. We developed a taste for ceviche and habaneros, washed down with frozen Margueritas.  We explored the ruins of an ancient civilisation, and saw the ruin created by a modern one. Blissful!

One of my holiday habits is to write a postcard to myself.  I jot down 3-5 resolutions to remind me of how I felt while I was away, and what I want to achieve when I return home. Just when reality bites and you have to go back to being a grown up, your postcard arrives to cheer you up and boost your resolve. This time, although I bought the card, it remains blank.  Perhaps I haven’t thought of what I want to accomplish, but I think it’s blank because after reaching a ripe old age, I’ve accepted that life is mysterious and challenging. It ebbs and flows like the ocean.

In Mexico, our past was in another country, our present in a place filled with colour and sunshine. Our future…well, a bit like the writing in the sand that gets washed away by the tide… that’s unwritten. Perhaps that is how it will stay.