Fudge

No, not a failsafe recipe for sweet, golden indulgence but rather a euphemism for a general feeling of being out of kilter, Do you know those days tainted with discontent, discombobulation and the thoughts of being a blunt needle on a record player?

My ceaseless quest for harmony is no secret but the gathering storm beats a loud and strident rhythm.

This “don’t tell” policy with DH’s mother and her dementia is ready to explode – the catalyst is on the horizon. Envisage primer cord and a flame thrower!

Work is beginning to resemble a teepee being attacked by wood rot from the inside out. Although perhaps a diseased body is a more appropriate analogy where the core is rotten and affecting the whole system. I have no answers for the staff that are looking for guidance.

My intent for this diatribe is not for it to translate as a pity party or a self-indulgent quest for acknowledgement. Scripting malcontent is cathartic – I’m still at odds though to find a solution or a clear path to follow!

In a nutshell, even the most ordinary of lives is littered with an infinite number of potholes.

Thursdays with me

So I’ve taken myself to lunch – a sad and sorry state of affairs when there’s no suitable blushing swain available to squire a lady to an elegant soiree but my “blushing swain” is otherwise occupied with a host of tasks that are too many and too tiresome for such abominably hot conditions.

My rising irritability is the driving force behind this sudden left turn (luncheon is normally take behind my computer with the telephone in my other hand). The apparition whose name is stridently emblazoned on our letterheads sadly doesn’t live up to its upright and steadfast font and is delicately disassembling my last synapse today.

In an attempt to avoid a serious attack of motor mouth and a probable spot in the unemployed queue, I have abandoned my climatically chilly salt mine for a spot under an umbrella at a local eatery. The air is thick with moisture and the wind lazy in its musings but the waitron approaches with that which will make it all better. A steaming mug of aromatic chai latte and two slices of nutty bread heaped lusciously with freshly sliced avocado pear. I imagine the thought of a hot drink seems slightly left of centre but the heady infusion of ginger and cinnamon is just what ticks my box today (besides it’s too early for a glass of champagne and probably wouldn’t do my reputation any good by arriving back at the office with a slight swagger and a glint in my eye).

Bon Appétit

“Everything I eat has been proved by some doctor or other to be a deadly poison, and everything I don’t eat has been proved to be indispensable for life. But I go marching on.” ~George Bernard Shaw

Is your glass half full or half empty?

I’m routinely a half full exponent (which does conjure up all manner of alcohol related anecdotes none of which have any relevance here so moving swiftly on!) However there are days where the finely-crafted crystal goblet of life seems to have a permanent leak!

Let me expand on my theory:-

Scenario 1 – the drive to work

Your burst onto the motorway, full of vim and vigour, raring to get to the office (or not, completely the opposite – whatever, you’re on the road!) One sandal clad foot teeters towards the accelerator and is firmly brought under control by the following manifestation in your line of sight. Left lane – two middle-aged women, yapping (involved hands) and obviously with all day to arrive at the gym/tennis club/coffee shop and hence an average speed of 2. Right lane – articulated truck trying to overtake, driver on mobile phone to boot. Would like to do 120, 2000 tons vehicle, logistically not possible – he doesn’t care, average speed 2.

Scenario 2 – the work day

Twelve seconds ago they all worked – computer, printer, land line phone, mobile. Now any combination thereof has decided to strike, no warning, no negotiation – a simple case of I’m going to down tools and bugger you if you need me to complete a critical task. I don’t give a jot, so there!

Scenario 3 – the grocery store

Most womens least favourite venue for retail therapy but you have to eat and therefore our daily wonder through the aisles (what, you buy in advance for the week!) I shop at odd hours because of my work schedule which usually means empty aisles but every so now and again you come gambolling around the corner to find ……….

Two trolleys horizontally placed to create an impenetrable barrier. Critically important to note that these have not been abandoned and thus cannot be summarily shoved asunder – they are owned and have drivers in situ! I have the utmost empathy for the need to chat, I’m a girl – I get it. I could also go down two aisles and across three to get what i want which is just behind you but I may not want to. After negotiating the aisle accident and thinly veiled barbed stares you arrive at the till. That “special” buy two get one free ………. the techno fairy hasn’t tweaked the computer!

Aftermath – so much heavy breathing and counting to ten, shares in a paper bag factory would have quadrupled.

“Both optimists and pessimists contribute to our society.  The optimist invents the airplane and the pessimist the parachute.”  ~Gil Stern

Aging is a state of mind

The passing of another year recently came amongst overwhelming (well may be not, since I’m still breathing) circumstances – illness, work-stress of epic proportions (which probably accelerated the illness – go figure) and a general malaise: big dark clouds of anxiety and exhaustion. My healing – a conscious effort to batten down the hatches and protect the source – in other dramatic words – me.

I literally went to ground (awfully reminiscent of my favourite Mole  – “The Mole was bewitched, entranced, fascinated. By the side of the river he trotted as one trots, when very small, by the side of a man who holds one spell-bound by exciting stories; and when tired at last, he sat on the bank, while the river still chattered on to him, a babbling procession of the best stories in the world, sent from the heart of the earth to be told at last to the insatiable sea.” Kenneth Grahame, The Wind in the Willows)

– I went to work (no other rotten choice), I came home and I did just enough to function. I took the time to be kind to myself, to occasionally put myself first and remember just why I’m happy with being me. The sum total of the process (liberally sprinkled with a few curious glances from my other half and the odd “are you ok darling”) is that the phoenix has arisen – well perhaps more appropriately the ash has been shaken off and I’m beginning to preen, liberally.

Oh yes, the big news is I have a secret – being 43 is outrageously fabulous.

Guilty Pleasures

An attention grabbing headline if ever there was but in this instance there is no leaning towards the hedonistic interpretation thereof. Instead, a mild deviation from the norm, a slight kink in the road which brought as much selfish enjoyment as any libertine derives from a session of sybaritic indulgence. My run-of-the-mill work day chimes from about 7.30am to 6pm, most of which is spent rooted in front of my computer, utilising some form of “modern” communication.

The weather gods set the tone for yesterday, blustery, grey and overcast with persistent rainy squalls. There was a clear message from the heavens that the only place to be was enveloped in the cuddliness of home. Fate was in cahoots and it was with great pleasure that I observed the back of my bureaucrat disappearing down the stair en route to some “all day gathering of like-minded idle chasers”. By 4pm (my official finishing time – hah!) the left-shouldered red devil, after an intense and philosophical battle with the white version on the right (she of virtuous intent), won the day and it was with a most ludicrous sensation of “breaking the rules” that I gathered up my worldly goods and headed out.

I crept home (can you “creep” in a red jammy of ancient lineage and double-box noisy exhaust? – I gave it my best shot) and slid indoors doing my most worthy impression of uriah heep. Choices, choices  – a veritable flower garden of options and decisions over what delightfulness with which to while away two precious hours of “me time”. Paramount was the choice of attire and without a second thought for decorum, or fashion for that matter, I was transfomed into the bit part actor “Bag Lady” – baggy tracksuit pants, voluminous sweatshirt in a bright purple hue and New Yorks socks – buttercup yellow with a taxi patterns 😉 DH’s worst nightmare 😀

There was a momentary relapse with thoughts of grout scrubbing and floor mopping but these traitorous intruders were soon overwhelmed with an army of eat, drink and be merry warriors. Accompanied by a whipped cream fleece blanket, three chapters of my Karen Rose book, a decadent hot chocolate and the most luscious avo that ever dropped into the world from some far flung tree (only slightly tweaked with a twist of sea salt) I ignored the intrusive blue message light blinking on my cell, the impatient squawking from a squadron of hungry garden birds waiting for their feeders to be replenished and the creaking, tottering pile of folded washing glaring balefully at my prone form. One hundred and twentyish golden minutes later my “heaven on earth” came to an abrupt end when the “white one” reasserted her dominance and I remembered to my horror that culinary servitude was required to manufacture a batch of cupcakes as a donation for the girl child of one of my dearest friends who is raising funds for some scholastic venture.

It was good while it lasted.

“There is no such thing as pure pleasure; some anxiety always goes with it.”  ~Ovid, Metamorphoses

Emotional Stuff a deux – the goo continues

So yes, a kindergarten day one might say. Never let it be mooted that adults cannot revert to their childhood with a flick of a switch – today in the world of me …….. Little Johnny didn’t want to share his toys and threw not one tantrum but three when he couldn’t get his own way. Susy Q put the round peg in the square hole for the 95th time and had to have her tears dried – again. Teacher Wildie put her stern face on and admonished all and sundry with great severity – Little Johnny and Susy Q were very sad. Once the children went home Teacher Wildie was very relieved!

 (shutterstock.com)

Now for the goo – suitably frothy I strode out the office to visit with a work mate from along the corridor who fortunately didn’t have a Little Johnny today (lucky girl). En route the old grey matter took a left turn to the wilds of Dublin and a glass of Guiness at said factory. There is a fabulous viewing deck with a 360 degree view of the city – it’s a great place to be irish 😉 I adore Ireland and am feeling wistfully green today (Happy St Patricks Day – Sláinte).

30 min later I wafted back to my perch on a cloud of pink frothiness, we laughed so much that all my ill humour fled for the hills (powerful thing is a good giggle). She has a 26 year old colleague who is really funny with a dry, acerbic sense of humour and he was in top form today. Needless to say the poo pile is still high but not quite as smelly (dreadful analogy but particularly apt).

All things Irish – Favourite Band: The Corrs / Movie: In the name of the Father / Writer: James Joyce / Place: The Ring of Kerry / Thing: The Book of Kells.

Best Irish Blessing received today (and there have been many) – “May you be in heaven a full half hour before the devil knows you dead”.

Medusa Moments

This is purely an accumluation of splintered thoughts intended to allow me the pleasure of venting my frustrations, it’s cheaper than alcohol and doesn’t give me a headache.!

Why is that men in general are so utterley useless at getting anything done? I work in a totally male dominated industry (have I already said that? cant remember, must be an age thing) and for the last 48 hours everything with testicular genitalia (and there have been many) that has crossed my path has failed dismally in his purile efforts to finalise, tie-up, wind-up and conclude. You know that old saying about men being unable to multi-task – so true!

As a long suffering breasted being I throw this question out to the men in industry – why are your issues more important than mine? Why should your computer glitch, your written epistle disaster, your need to re-analyse the same “hypothetical” problem for the umpteenth time take preference over what I’m doing to deal with daily comings and goings of the company that actually (literally) keep the wheels turning. I don’t have time to change your nappy or wipe your tail!

If I was a biter, I would have no nails left at all in my efforts to contain my errant tongue that is frantically squirming about in its efforts to verbalise my fractured feelings. If I was Medusa , I would be surrounded by my own personal army of concrete mannequins that I could utilise as targets and exercise my stapler throwing arm with great alacrity.

\”Men are from Mars / Women are from Venus\” should be renamed Planet Pomposity versus Reality Street on the corner of Get on with it Avenue!