3rd October last year I surely wrote this. May not branch into poetry...

I'm sad today. I'm not ok.

It's not the answer they're looking for,

Or I don't volunteer it, if it is.

I'm fine, I'm good, I'm ok,

Easier to say, less hassle.

I'm not sure which is true.

I think it's just too much,

I've run out of headspace.

Everything has weight.

I'm never free,

It's never light and easy.

I have baggage.

Extras...

I'm going to try some more sewing too...maybe even with pictures, from far away so you can only see the general effect, not the actual messy handiwork.

At some point in the future, sometime, probably. Maybe.

Reappearance, vitamins, moody coos.

Well, hello there, where have you all been? I've been busy writing time-sensitive posts, the "this post will self-destruct in 5 seconds..." kind. You probably missed them.

Anyhow, I am endeavouring to be back, to make writing part of my plan. I've just had a week off work, and discovered how very intolerant and moody I am. Now anyone who actually knows me may not find this to be a huge surprise, as far as I've been told I've been prone to grumpiness since my very early days, but I think I am now worse. I think my reserves of calm and tolerance have been lowered. Actually, how I see it, which fits quite well with a Buddhisty thing I think I posted before, about emotions or personalities being like the sea where you can have a depth of calm, which isn't fazed by storms and waves, or you could be at the beach end of sea, where every thing is lived out in that top wee bit, every wave, high, crash, storm, splash is all you have, now I wouldn't say I'm in the latter group, I like to hope I have some depth, but it's a bit like now I have a shipwreck or something on my seabed. Or a giant sea monster maybe, or a rock, at least that is erodible...so that's changed the profile of my feeling, sometimes it doesn't get in the way, and I'm calm and tolerant, but sometimes the monster gets very in the way, and the waves and crashes have nowhere to go.

That makes me sound a bit mental...

So, I have a new plan, I think I need to do things to improve this. Generally I think I'm fairly happy, so not my mood in general as such, more my reserves, to flatten out the ups and downs a bit. Maybe I'm a bit manic...mood controllers, there are probably lots of things that affect moods, I've changed some over the last year, like trying to stay away from negative people, who moan and groan, and try and trick you into moaning and griping too, until you've accidentally agreed you hate everything, and everything is horribly unfair, and woe is you, it really is a slippery slope with some people...best to steer clear. I've also tried to adopt some perspective, in a fairly crude way, where I think "is this the worst thing that could happen?" generally the answer is no, and I can stop worrying, so I'm probably less of a worrier now. The bits I've paid less attention to are the things I do, I know i feel better if I do exercise, get fresh air, and am generally fitter, and I know I've been moaning about being a chunker for a long while, so changing those will make me feel better, and food, and drink, these definitely affect how I feel. Whether in a mood enhancing or a fatness/thinness way I'm really not sure. Either way the better I eat, the better I feel, the less caffeine I have the better I feel, and I have started getting the most godless hangovers (now that I'm old), drinking doesn't seem to suit me much anymore.

I am going to try to fix these things, I'm doing a pedometer challenge at the moment, I'm going to start running again, netball season is starting soon, I'm going to eat straight forward food, I really don't mind boring once I get started, and drink less tea and coffee. I'm hoping the side effects of this will be me being less moody and irritable and generally nicer (I'll soon find out which are actually character traits and cannot be blamed on ingestion...), slim lining a bit, having beautiful glowing skin and a glossy coat...and maybe one day being happy having my photo taken...

I'm also taking vitamins, I'm anticipating a big placebo effect of these probably, but who knows, the might do me some good on the inside too, some vitamin B(chosen because it had pictures of little tablet with sweatbands on...I have a sweatband on order...), vitamin D + calcium, as we're severely lacking in sunshine up here, and vit D deficiency seems to be getting trouble for causing all kinds of things these days, and fish oil, because my mum thinks fish oil is the saviour of the universe I think, and she's right about most things (annoyingly...). A fairly watertight method for self prescription of vitamins I think.

I'm going to write too, in the hope that it'll be calming, or therapeutic maybe. I did consider going to bereavement counselling, but I don't think I really I need it, I think I'm getting on ok, you surely have to be a bit sad sometimes, as long as your overall face is leaning towards happy I think you're generally ok. I might have to write some secret bits I suppose, if they are not for public consumption...not in ay kind of incriminating way, just in a peerie bit secret way. We'll see, I'll not tease you when I do with ay kind of hints or clues, or dramatic proclamations. That would be mean.

I've boiled an egg for tomorrow's breakfast, to have with some beans (exciting I know), and have some salary stuff for lunch. Pretty sure I'll be thin when I get home. LOL, JOKES. Eugh, I shouldn't do that. I mean, pretty sure I'll be happy when I get home...

Night all.

Things boys are rubbish at - a longish term, unverified, unblinded study.

As well as being unblinded, unverified, very biased and with no real method this study has a very small sample size. Namely males who have, to their great misfortune, been in some way involved in my life. So, you may well be one of them, or know who I'm talking about. I'm not sure if these are universal truths, I'm sure there are exceptions. I have in fact met some exceptions. But, largely, I think these things are true.

I've never been one to hanker after feminism. I feel like I was born a little too late for it, apart from an incident in Primary 1 when I was forced to make an Easter bonnet instead of a Red Indian headband, because that's what girls do (if only Pocahontas had been more famous then, I could have constructed a better defence), I've never really felt the weight of inequality on my terribly delicate feminine shoulders. I think I did take part in the "girls are the best" chants in the playground, but that was more leisure than feminism. I'm more than happy to accept now that there are some things that boys, generally, are better at, often for biological reasons. I'm not talking fathering children, or reaching high stuff, I'm more talking spatial awareness things. Though on spatial awareness skills I think I'm fairly masculine. And I genuinely think I'm quite good at parking.

Bearing all of these things in mind, there are a few things that I think boys are rubbish at. And I am quite prepared to say I think they're rubbish at them because they're boys. This has been quite some build up for what are a few small things. I've limited myself to 3, I'm sure I could possibly find more. On informing my peerie viking of this impending post he was not too offended, and suggested I might need many volumes to record all of the things boys are good at. A suitable, and probably quite boyish response of acceptance, something which, generally, I think girls aren't very good at.

I hope noone has read this far hoping for some boy bashing - boys are so mean! They play games, and are horrible to girls, or some single girl woes - I'm afraid you may be disappointed.

1. Boys are rubbish at hanging stuff up. Wet towels, washing, clothes...I'd have thought this was quite a logical thing, hanging for optimum dryness. But no. Scrunchled, bundled, rolled, piled, creased, squinty. All of these words might apply. And the very next day (I'll admit this is more related to my current situation than to my previous observations...), where's my towel? Which one's my towel? Why's it still wet? He appears to be learning on that front. Still terrible at hanging up washing, or putting things on coathangers though.

2. Boys can't change bedcovers. I always thought a greater armspan and height from ground level would give you unimaginable advantages in this arena, but, in fact, any boy I have ever met in the process of changing bedcovers (at least 5...) does it in a completely ridiculous way. They haven't learned the inside out, shakey, shakey (I'm pretty sure everyone does it that way?), instead they blindly stuff it in like putting ferrets in a bag, shoogle it about a bit then plop it on the bed. Come bed time you find you have a corner of duvet cover with no duvet friend snuggled into the inside corner, and the pillow ridge is masquerading as a  soft pillow middle. And there you are, head propped 12" off the bed and only an empty triangle of duvet cover to keep you warm.

These first two annoy me because they're things I don't specially like doing, but they're not worth not doing, for fear of the terribly executed consequences...the last is a personal irk, that may not apply to anyone else in the world. It comes to light regularly, and can almost never be admonished, as it generally becomes apparent off the back of great kindness, and what kind of horrible witch complains about something so trivial when such great kindness has been done? I shall set the scene.

Such a horrible witch is feeling a little unwell, and sorry for herself, after puking up her burns supper in a non-drink related vom-incident. I tossed and turned and dozed. And then, like an angel, it came to me in a dream. Marmalade on toast. That was what I wanted. And, like a person lost in the desert who hasn't had a sip of water in days, I croaked "maaaarrm...aa...lade...!" rather dramatically. I didn't think we had any, and the disadvantage of living remotely and rurally, shops aren't often open. But my peerie viking had a marmaladey lifeline, in the form of an RNLI jar of the orangey goodness which had come in a Christmas hamper. "Do you want me to bring you some tea and marmalade on toast?"

"Yeess..." I whispered, weakly, from my death bed.

And he did. Except the toast, were we to study the surface area, was only roughly 15% covered in marmalade. That 15% was good, the rest was just toast. The kind with no marmalade.

Had this been an isolated incident I might have sent it back, but it was anything but. I ate it. It was a very kind gesture, it is, as they say, the thought that counts. Except when it's the marmalade that counts.

Later, (this bit is by no means essential to the story, but I'm beginning to wonder if we're starting to have differences. And, as an inexperienced girlfriend, I just don't know when differences become important - marmalade, and him not liking peanut butter - are we incompatible? It is a worry.) anyway, later, in the shop, I thought marmalade - I might want that again. I should have just put some in the basket, but now we're all domesticated we have to discuss items, give them a context, dedicate them to a meal, justify them, agree, then put them in the basket. It is quite an event, shopping. "Shall we get more marmalade?" "No, there's loads left". Now I should never have asked, because once you have conferred it is very difficult to overrule, especially when you have not, as they say, had your knife in the marmalade jar (a much underused metaphor).

What I thought, at this moment, and had I been a bit more highly strung and shop stressy, like the girl I saw pushing her trolley into a display of bagels in a rage in Tesco (she was about 30), I'd have said "No, no we do not have enough marmalade - we had a tiny, tinsy, winsy, show jar out of a hamper. It is approximately the size of a thimble and I could easily use it on 2 slices of decent sized bread. If you weren't so rubbish at spreading, and covered even 50% of the toast surface area we would soon run out - on your war-time rations, however, of course we have at least enough to feed a family of 12 for a year. You can't spread! I know, I said it. You. Can't. Spread!" And then I'd have stormed out of the shop, it could have been the end.

In actual fact I haven't used any more marmalade yet, so we do have plenty, the jar is still tiny however, and just to make a point I might go and buy an enormous jar. So he was right. But, as previously observed in many boys:
3. Boys can't spread.

I may have to revisit these cavernous differences that are appearing in our relationship. Spreading and peanut butter may only be the beginning...we might not last the month.

Hair and punctuation. A beautiful combination?

The title suggests a connection between the two which I'm not about to demonstrate. There probably is some kind of tenuous link...mostly I've just thought to write a wee bit about both, but neither's hugemongous enough for its own post. Though once I get started on punctuation you never know where I might finish up...

I have, over the last year or so, by way of a number of haircuts, gotten myself a hairstyle, which I think might actually suit me. I'm still working on some finer points, but it is, all in all, falling the right way. For most of my early life my mum cut my hair, which was fine, but meant I developed a fear of hairdressers. They all seemed so cool, and pretty and fashionable. I was not any of these things. I realise I'm paying them lots of money for a service, but I'm still worried I'm not cool enough. That I'd really need to dress up to fit in, to know some kind of hairstyle related description, some of the secret hair language, or a celebrity I wanted to look like. I don't know celebrities, the only ones who spring to mind when thinking about hair are Little My from the moomins, Hey Arnold(though I think he's more head than hair, and Princess Leia from Starwars - I could confidently say, "do not make me look like any of these people!" but I suspect they might need more guidance.

And so, over the years, I have been collecting intelligence. When I vaguely mumble and make choppy gestures with my fingers I listen to what they say, banking the terms for my next visit - choppy, feathered, shaped, layered. I'd, fearfully, gone for "Just tidied up a bit" for a few haircuts, then felt a little disappointed in myself when I came out looking exactly the same. I spent the obligatory time drying and straightening for nights out, swishing and swooshing, trying different products, mousses, hairspray, magic oomph...who knows what else...it largely looked about the same, not very exciting. II tried dying it, but every time realised I liked my own colour better and waited for it to wash out.

Then, one momentous day, I uttered a word I had known for a while, not one I'd picked up in the hairdressers, one I'd never thought I would use. The f-word. "Uhh...maybe...maybe, I thought I might, if you think it would suit me...I don't really know but, maybe what about a bit of a fringe?" A side fringe? No...like an actual across your head eyebrow tickler fringe.

And so it was. And still is. I now (mostly) have to take some care of my hair, by way of drying it in the right direction, though it is fine to just leave it, it drives in a fairly non-nonsensical way. I still tell some lies at the hairdresser - how do you normally wear it? Uhh...just like straight I suppose (or wet, part dried by my car heaters then scrunchled on top of my head. What products do you use? Oh...normally Aussie stuff, not much though (or, shampoo...and quite often conditioner.). I have also recently broken out of my book your next appointment cycle too, which I realised was detrimental to my plans of growing hair. So I shall leave it a while, maybe go for a fringe trim in between (obviously this will involved outfit planning and hair-doing before attendance, lest they refuse...). My words of choice for next time - "dry cut trim please"...I'll let you know how I get on.

And so we come to punctuation. I don't like to be too much of a grammar/punctuation/written english nazi, the odd out of place apostrophe doesn't really annoy me, lots of people have trouble with apostrophes. And commas - they are my very best punctuation friend, full stops and I are a little estranged, except the little triplet ones. I use them far too often. I failed an english writing exam once for using too many commas, in something I'd written about conversation, the same year we were studying stream of consciousness technique in a book with about 1 full stop in the whole 100 pages. Approximately. I didn't actually read the book, so couldn't say exactly, but you get the idea. It is obviously not something that weighs heavily on my mind now.

The punctuation that really gets me, that makes me want to not cry, but be physically violent, is the inappropriate exclamation mark. With every extra unnecessary one like another little stab in the eardrum as I feel the person shouting at me. Or jumping up and down, waving their arms, breathlessly exclaiming. I hate it. I had to temper my hatred a little in the not too distant past, or I should maybe say my hatred was tempered, as it snuck up on me somewhat. Or, it snuck up on me!!!! When I first started the modern day courting correspondence of facebook messaging and texts with my now peerie viking, there were many unnecessary exclamation marks. The first I saw it I mentally noted it, but soon I stopped noticing them, and now he uses them less often. My senses were clearly clouded by some kind of affection...the exclamation marks were like bouncy, excitable, labrador puppy marks, not yuppy, inflected, self-centred, knobber marks. Unfortunately this effect only seems to work with him, exclamations from all other corners of the globe irk me. Or get my goat (?) which, if it's right, is a saying I might start using more often. Probably not followed by exclamation marks, because I don't ordinarily shout in people's faces, so why would I write like that? I suppose it may well be representative of how some people do speak, maybe they are giving a warning - "I'll probably shout in your face!!! Cos I'm so excited!! And loud LOL!!! You'll probably hate me!! Stay away!!!" Like a warning bell. Maybe I should be grateful.

On a lighter note I think my favourite punctuation misuse is inappropriate quotation marks. My favourite find of these so far, was the mystical door at uni which bore the sign:

'In order for the door to keep "revolving" please keep "walking" '

I loved that sign. Even better when acted out with bunny ear gestures, try it for yourself.

10 minutes of mindfulness

I think I'll add some mindfulness to my New Year's themes list. I've had a bit of a change in thinking this past few months, I feel like a bit of my half full glass has been tipped out. I've gotten a bit morbid, and turned into a bit of a worrier. And a crier. I cry at adverts sometimes, though not the one with the donkeys...I'm fairly indifferent about donkeys.

Twice this week I've been reminded of worrying, and mindfulness. In an article about Worrying, and in the Tedtalk about making room for 10 minutes of mindfulness. 10 minutes is less than 1% of your day (which seems unlikely...but I'm fairly sure my maffs is right), less than 1%...but just so hard to spare, apparently. So I thought I'd write my list of worries, as a step to distancing myself, and then by mindful about it. Something like that. My research into this has been limited...I might need to learn a bit about mindfulness, but I've gotten some to be going on with. My mind wandered a bit during the tedtalk...which really makes me an ideal candidate for practicing this mindfulness jazz. Mindfulness jazz could be a whole new musical genre...

My worries list, which I've talked about before, was a list of things I wrote, things I was sad about or worried about, a good while ago, back in August, when I was sad every day. Which is not very nice, I only had it for a wee while, don't think I could suffer it every day forever.

Ahem...3 false starts later, the list...

I worry. I cry. But then I act like nothing's happened.

I know it's awful, I know it's selfish, but I don't want to know that your friend has depression. My little brother is dead.

What if someone else dies? What if we fall apart?

What if I'm just like him?

I don't have things to say but I want someone to know when I'm sad. I don't want to make Duncan sad too...

I'm worried people think I'm not sad enough. I don't want to upset them too, there's nothing to be done.

What if it happened to my child too?

I haven't had to tell anyone yet. I'm scared of what might happen when I do.

What are you meant to say to "I'm sorry about your little brother..." I know? Thank you? Me too...?

I wish he could have seen in himself what he was so quick to praise in others.

I don't care about your stupid grumbles. It really could be worse.

I wish he could be here and happy.

I'm not very good at being alone now. I need to fill my head with something or I think too much. Maybe I'm avoiding it.

I'm scared something will happen to Kate when she's away. I don't know what I would do. I panic when mum phones in case something bad has happened.

End of page.

Things have changed a bit since then, it's all dampening down, but it's still very definitely there.

Go get yourself some mindfulness.

http://www.ted.com/talks/andy_puddicombe_all_it_takes_is_10_mindful_minutes.html

Peerie Snurty and the New Year's Resolutions.

3 weeks seems a reasonable run in to some New Year's resolutions. The first of January has never seemed a good time to start anything new. Come the 3rd the only thing my days had had in common were getting up after midday, red wine and chocolate. Retrospective resolutions weren't looking hopeful, though a year of indulgence might not be an entirely bad thing. Anyway, I was still on holiday, who has resolve on holiday? Then I was going back to work, unavoidable by-product of being on holiday, and planning going to a funeral, and being on holiday again, then going back to work again...and then...now. Well now have a wee cold. Or a peerie snurty nose and a cough, which is certainly on its way away, but still serves as a valid excuse. So really, as you can well see, resolutions have not been convenient. I have, however, gone quite beyond all expectations and planned some resolutions.

A good three week cooling off period lets outrageous resolutions be reigned in, levels the excessive and gives an idea of the reasonable. I have gone for some themes, more than specifics.

First off is writing - blog, letters, cards, diary, notes, maybe even some short stories. Possibly about bras, a delight that may grace the blog....grafitti maybe. Maybe not, I'm not very good at breaking rules. Grafitti with wipeable pen. On a whiteboard. Check...

Then running - which will cover all kinds of activity, bit of netball (more on that sometime), bit of running, walking, jumping, leaping...a bit of something most days. I really need to move more. I've bought something bright pink and visible to run in. I've even worn running kit once this year. I drove all the way home in it. It was quite exhausting.

Packed lunches - This has begun in earnest, mostly through a combination of shame and preparation by my dutiful, and unexpectedly domesticated peerie viking. I'd always thought they were all about boat burning (to cries of "It's not a boat, it's a GALLEY! And its not a parade, it's a procession, it's not gay pride day."), raping and pillaging, ransacking and the like - they don't tell you about the soup making, shopping, meal planning and packed lunching in ye olde stories. When "Need anything from the shops?" brings the answer "Maybe just some broccoli, bacon and stilton, I might make soup while you're away." rather than, "Sausages, bacon, black pudding, white pudding, sausermeat, onions, eggs, beans, bread (insert any other breakfast item you can think of, bar hot tomatoes)" you know something has changed. He dutifully makes his lunch every night, though every new things he thinks up for lunch seems to go in combination with everything else. There is no subsitution, only addition. Hungry work, evidently. And if he makes his own, how can I not? Long may it continue. It seems to be working out. I might need him to play at rugged and manly every once in a while. Can't be a broccoli and stilton man everyday.

Being lovely. This one is more difficult, but is mostly about effort, on two fronts - smile and be lovely, and get-out-of-bed-in-time-to-brush-your-hair and be lovely. I think, for the first time in a long time, probably ever (no offence intended in the direction of some of my mother's early years attempts, though offence was almost certainly caused at the time) I have a hairstyle. As opposed to just hair, which is what I had before. Its still the same hair, just chopped a bit differently. And I think I owe it to the poor girl who chops it to try and make it look at least half as nice as she makes it when she cuts it. More on hair will follow...it is an ongoing, ever-growing (har har) saga.

Save some cash. Or stop spending money on things I don't want or need - which really should be straight forward.

A nice round 5 - writing, running, packed lunches, loveliness and money. The essence of life perhaps. Now for bed. Then some more regular updating...I seem to have developed something of a social life this week though, so I'll maybe just need to squeeze a wee blog in somewhere.