Wednesday Wonderings

There's only been one thing I've been wondering about lately: men. They, but L my husband in particular, are a complete mystery to me.

I've thought about reading Men Are From Mars and Women Are From Venus in order to help me better understand what goes through L's head in the vain hope that it might make me feel better. I suppose if reading it failed I could always then throw it at the back of L's head... that would certainly make me feel better.

Flippancy aside, even now when I try to imagine, understand even his thought processes or how he views his comments I draw a blank. Nadda. Zip. Zero. Nothing at all. As a person who always thinks before she opens her mouth and is painfully aware of the need to choose the right tone of voice in addition to the right words L's ineptitude, be it through ignorance or a blatant disregard for others, is jaw dropping. I dare say in someone else's husband it would even be entertaining, not so much in mine.

Here are some of the endearing and wonderful things he's said to me lately...

"You've been a little bit psychotic lately" - wtf?

"What's happened to your face?" well I'm just charmed.

"What's wrong with your face?" Nice.

"You're wearing that expression that makes women hate you" Well that narrows it down, cheers for that.

When I remarked that he said then nicest things to me first thing in the morning, that's usually when he decides is the perfect moment to enlighten me with these niceties, I was told "Stop being so oversensitive". How about I punch you in the side of your head? was my immediate first thought. I didn't. I felt like it, but I didn't. You can congratulate me now.

Holding up a diagram of what stress does to the body, "Look, it's like looking at you" Surprisingly enough he couldn't see what was negative about that?!

There have been so many gems lately I can't actually remember any more of them.

I understand men and women are fundamentally different - thank God! - but L's inability to think before he opens his mouth and the fact he is often so disconnected from emotion, especially other people's, is staggering. I'm beginning to think he wasn't just busy playing with the Lego at back of the room the day Mother Nature was giving out empathy, more a case of he was entirely absent - mentally, physically and emotionally. He was probably in his own universe.

Since I know I can't ever hope to solve the problem of the differences between men and women and I know when something has me beat...I'm going to turn my attention to wondering just how I am going to stop myself from throwing something at the back of L's head or punching him in the side of it....wish me luck.

The Cold, The Boxes and Me

I'm 11 boxes packed, dinner cooked and the house cleaned for L's return in about 15 minutes.

11 boxes with about 50 to go...*sigh*. How does one small 5ft woman accumulate so much stuff. Admittedly, most of my 'stuff' consists of books and academic studies not clothes or other female related paraphernalia. (Let's not mention my boots and shoes collection or jewellery). Yeah, let's not do that.

The boxes I have packed I've stashed in our spare room or in a cupboard but can I just say...IT TOOK HOURS TO WRAP AND PACK AND TAPE! HOURS!

I can safely say I ran out of excitement today.

I've had achy eyes, a dripping right nostril, a sore right ear, an achy head and hot flushes...ugh! Please don't let that be a cold coming on...I really don't have time for a cold!

Brave New World

It's my last weekend in this house, my last in Berkshire. I've a weekend of packing and indecision ahead of me, in fact some of that indecision has started already, how much and what do I pack? In theory, I love that mythical impractical thing, I should just be able to hand over the keys to the removal company and they should do everything. But I'm impatient and I have control issues and so this leaves me with what do I pack and where do I start??

Even as I descend into a dog chasing their tail with indecision I find myself turning toward our new house, the new area we're moving to, the new job I'm going to get...it is all very exciting. This isn't something you would usually find me saying, Usually I'd be listing the things I'm worried about, the things I fear may go wrong and generally being quite apprehensive about it. This time I'm not, this time I'm smiling, I'm eager, I'm ready and I can't wait to experience this new world - bravely!

"And that," put in the Director sententiously, "that is the secret of happiness and virtue-liking what you've got to do. All conditioning aims at that: making people like their inescapable social destiny."
- Aldous Huxley, Brave New World, Ch. 1

Couldn't have put it better Mr Huxley, couldn't have put it better.

Can't Sleep, Won't Sleep

Sleep is not my friend this last week.

I'm so sleep deprived my eyes are taking on that 'heroine chic' look which was apparently in fashion a few years ago. Personally if looking like you've reached the depths of despair and your eyes showing it is the height of fashion...I'm glad I'm vintage in the true sense of the word.

My dreams, when I do sleep, are pretty funky. Last night's Lewis Carrollesque weirdness could, arguably, be down to the double layer of cheese on the pizza I shared with a friend. The amount I ate and my stomach was struggling to digest would go someway to explain the dream I had in which I was pregnant and talking about nausea. No idea why this conversation was taking place in my old childhood front room with the same wallpaper stripped walls and uncomfortable floral two pieces. Not sure why my sister was telling me she was envious of the Jewish baby girl I was supposedly having either.

I wonder what I ate the night I dreamt of the black Pegasus and the sparkling scarlet rose and the vampire army?

See, this is what happens when sleep decides to take a sabbatical...my mind dredges up all manner of strange things, memories, that are hardly related. And I get this spaced out look as I follow the psychedelic meanderings of my illogical musings. At least I'm not dribbling when I do it. I don't think.

The other evening I had this dream about my back garden being full of sleeping wolves and the largest two cats, who looked suspiciously like very long furry slugs. I also dreamt of begging a man to call his dog away from my dog, Muttsie, because he was going to attack him. I ended up gathering Muttsie up into my arms to protect him, he was so heavy.

And don't even get me started on the number of times I've dreamt of being naked in public! I think dream Tasha is a bit of an exhibitionist. Hope she exercises more than the real Tasha, especially if she's parading around in the emperor's new clothes.

Oh, and we're back to fashion again! Uncanny.

A Battle of 2 Tashes

As I sit here in my onesie (I know, I'm ashamed I succumbed too) surrounded by chip crumbs from last night's sofa sprawled snacking two things have become glaringly evident:

1. L is right: I can not be left unsupervised because I turn into an 8 year old with 8 year old habits

2. I've fallen off the healthy eating and exercise wagon (AGAIN) and am stuffing my face as I amble oblivious to what I'm doing to my ass, thighs, butt and stomach along side it.

I'm almost inclined to defend myself here and put forward the argument (whine) that I'm comfort eating because L is away, however the grown up Tasha retorts tersely, 'Of course you are darling and I might believe you for a whole 2 seconds but I don't! It it's not comfort eating it's boredom eating and what's your excuse for not exercising?'

This could go on all day - grown up Tash arguing with 8 year old Tash - and probably will. As I'm in for the long haul, there's just no escaping this kind of thing when L's away, I'm going to prepare myself by having another cup of coffee and a banana. In the mornings grown Tash is in charge and in the evenings - prime snacking time when tv viewing is dire - 8 Tash sneaks into play. In a onesie.

The Wonder of Words

It's late, I really should be winding down for the evening and allowing the sleep fairy to lead me drowsily by the hand to the land of dreams. I'm wide awake however, thinking of literature and the wonder that comes with the complete immersion in another world.

I miss it, literature and immersing myself in it. I find myself thinking longingly of the three years I spent submerged in the words of wonder induced by writers, of being guided to explore and analyse the language, characters and motifs by intelligent and skillful lecturers. I long to experience again the hours I spent discussing books: putting forward notions of the author's intent, psychoanalysing the characters and pulling a part the prose to offer textual evidence. I long to read and debate the merits of different theories from academic essayists.

I dream of days and nights spent talking, studying, researching and drafting my own theories on novels. I think, idealistically, of one day pursuing my PhD whilst knowing the roof of my intellect is a Masters.

“What an astonishing thing a book is. It's a flat object made from a tree with flexible parts on which are imprinted lots of funny dark squiggles. But one glance at it and you're inside the mind of another person, maybe somebody dead for thousands of years. Across the millennia, an author is speaking clearly and silently inside your head, directly to you. Writing is perhaps the greatest of human inventions, binding together people who never knew each other, citizens of distant epochs. Books break the shackles of time. A book is proof that humans are capable of working magic.”
― Carl Sagan

Some things you wish were genetic

My mamma is one talented and gifted woman. She might not have the education of most women but there's no denying when it comes to creative talent she's at the top of the class!

Creative wise I'm average: possess a good eye for colour, have strong ideas, can make up stories very easily (ask me about the canary in the pelican doing reconnaissant work for taking over Torrance's water supply) and I can manage the basics in sewing. I can't draw or paint at all, in fact I'm still at the stick people level. My doodles are okay, nothing impressive though.

My mamma...she's a different story. She made this:

It's fully lined, handmade and a one off. This is a man's Christmas stocking and she makes a more feminine one for women too. I think they and she are amazing. This one is for a friend, who has asked for their child's name to be embroidered on it. My friend liked it so much she's ordered another for her daughter and possibly some bunting after Christmas.

I wish I had half my mum's talent and patience when it comes to things like this. I wish we lived closer so that I could watch her and soak in the know-how to make things like these.

I hope her creative talent is genetic.