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One of the phrases that is used alot in the feminist blogosphere is ‘performing femininity’. Or gender, or sexuality, or anything. It’s one of those phrases that can start to sound pat and meaningless, but it’s one that sticks with me, that I think about all the time. Performing rather than experiencing. When is performing good and fun, and when are we obliged to do it for society’s sake, making it often tiring and oppressive?
Don’t get me wrong. I love to femme it up. And butch it up, frankly, as my weekend’s experience with power tools showed. It’s just that, more often than not, I cannot be bothered. I do not naturally fit the modern day requirements for femininity – as most people don’t. Well, I have shapely eyebrows that don’t require plucking. But that’s about it. I have dark hair, I have a shadow moustache and my legs look prickly an hour after I shave, my hair is naturally limp and uninteresting and if I wear eyeshadow my eyelids itch and I rub it all over my fave in ten minutes anyway. And while I am enjoying longer hair and the opportunity to do interesting things with it, I am also constantly cheesed off with it – at how much time and effort it is to make it do what I want it to. And then I can’t, like… move my head quickly or whatever. Which is boring. So it does, more often than not, end up in a ponytail. That’s a compromise I’m happy with. I now own both a hair dryer and a curling iron, although I have admitted that they will be used once a month at most. When I want to perform. Which is not every day. I think that’s part of the reason I like having blue hair – it always looks like I’ve put some effort in, however minimal. And it takes me out of one performance category and into another.
I haven’t shaved my legs in about a month, though. Today I am wearing knee socks, and you can see my heairy knees peeking over the top. I wore shorts all weekend (with birkenstocks, no less, hello new stereotype). I didn’t do this on purpose – it was winter and I couldn’t be bothered, and then I got some eczema on my legs so I thought I’d better not. And before I got around to doing anything about it, I read this post from definatalie. And I started to think about it. Why do I shave my legs? Lots of reasons. I think I have decided not to shave my armpits or nair off my moustache anymore. But the legs? It’s confronting.
The week after I read Definatalie’s post, I said to S ‘I think I might stop shaving my legs’. He said ‘ok’. Like you might say if someone told you they thought their favourite colour was now blue instead of green. I mean, that was pretty much the reaction I expected, and I don’t need permission anyway. But it’s nice to be validated, I guess. His response, when pressed was ‘well, you’re a mammal’. Which I think is an excellent phrase that I might need stitched onto a cushion. (You’re a mammal. Get over it.) His other contribution, when I said I wasn’t sure if this was a Thing for me, was that I don’t have to decide. I mean, obviously. But I feel like I have to. Like I am required to pick which team I belong to, or something. But I am not sure, yet, whether this is a ‘I NEVER shave my legs’ stance, or a ‘I don’t, unless I have a reason to do so’ or even ‘I do it whenever I feel like it’. Fine distinctions, maybe. But somehow I feel like they’re important.
I think it’s because I feel like people make certain assumptions, if your legs are not shaved. Not all of those assumptions would be wrong about me, but I am not sure I wish to place myself so heavily in whatever camp that puts me in. On the other hand, who cares? They’re legs, I’m a mammal, people can either get to know me and work out which assumptions are right and wrong, or not. It’s not like I’m not going to get a job because I have hairy legs, or people will refurse to serve me at shops. And, anyway, I already have blue hair. I am CLEARLY a freak (I love my blue hair). Then again, and this is more relevant, I feel a bit… ungroomed. Scruffy. I pretty much live in skirts, although not recently since I got too fat for them – but then my jeans have all worn out in the thighs, so I am back to skirts. And skirt mean exposed legs. And to me, exposed legs mean smooth, clean shaven legs. I have yet to work out if this is because that is what I have been taught, or because it’s what I like, for myself. I almost shaved this weekend, when I knew it was going to be warm and I’d be in shorts. And then I decided to wait and see. Because maybe I am just unused to looking at it.
I feel a bit daft, writing an angsty post about my leg hair. Like, welcome to the party, young one. Also, get over yourself. But I think it’s not too frivolous (almost, though) because my main sticking point is what it makes me look like. To others, and also to myself. I’m waiting to figure out what that is, and how I feel about it. Meanwhile, my temperature is better regulated, and I have more time in the mornings, so I’m sort of happy with that. Also, no stubble! That bit is great.
In a semi-related note, you should go read Frances’ post about her bikini. And look at her fabulous, kick arse photos. I want to give her a big hug because of that last photo. Fabulous! I am determined to buy myself a bikini this summer. I have a sensible swimming one piece, that is thick proper material and holds all the bits in appropriate places. But I was a bikini so I can go to the beach and just hang out. S burns in about 30 seconds (seriously, we went out yesteray and I could SMELL his head burning. It was pretty gross), so I forsee many twilight swimming sessions. So I’m not worried about skin exposure and cancer, in my bikini. And I REFUSE to have any body hang ups about this. So there. Do you hear me? REFUSE. The last time I had a two piece (actually, the first time, too) I would have been 13. And about five adults told me ‘well, good for YOU’. Which I found confusing, because I hadn’t realised it was a Thing, yet. Anyway. The point is, I am going to get my belly out this summer. I just have to deal with the expense. Oh, nice things. Why do you cost so much, always?
I was readings someone’s blog and they did a meme which started with ’10 years ago, I was…’
Ten years ago, I was 16. I know, right? I was, exactly 10 years ago, right in the middle of my exchange to China. I was living in a forieng country, eating with chopsticks, trying to do maths WAY above my level (after a certain point I just sort of stopped bothering to go to class) and, for the first time, I wasn’t living with my mother.
I have such vivid memories of that time. Not complete, but vivid. Smells and sounds and sights. Sitting at the hot pot restaraunt eating good food with the foriegn teachers and drinking pepsi or beer. Going into the city to the japanese supermarket and getting crepes (which I will still make myself sick on, for nostalgia’s sake). The dorm room (I stayed at a boarding school) and going home to stay with my dorm mates on weekends. Their crazy rich parents. The boy who asked me to be his ‘Australian girlfriend’ and how completely disinterested I was. The impassioned farewells and greetings and letters and emails from my friends at home.
It seems so close and so far away at the same time. It definitely happened to someone else, someone who isn’t me anymore. And yet, at the same time, I recognise myself so fully in some of those memories. It was a weird moment of vertigo, especially when I realised that I am wearing a jumper today that I bought on that exchange trip.
All I can really say, to sum it up, is that I am so, so glad to be where I am now. That the 16 year old me couldn’t have dreamt of this life I live now – one in which I am, most days, happy. She didn’t know that it was an option.
And I am sad when I think about her, and so pleased to be able to tell her, the bits of her that still make me up, that we did it. We made an awesome life, with the help of some lovely wonderful people we met along the way, and a whole lot of luck.
Gosh, I’m deep this week, aren’t I!
You sure do get to interact with some interesting people, when you catch public transport!
I catch a bus into town, and then a bus out to get to work. Because of the way the Adelaide public transport system is set up, this is the only possible way – everything goes into the city and back out again. I used to like a 10 minute drive from work but it took me about an hour bussing because I had to go in a long pointy triangle. This morning, I missed my connection by about a minute, as usual, so I was settled in at the bus stop in town to wait. There were only two people on the bench, as usual, and they were all spread out along it, as usual. I barged in anyway, as usual. Unusually, one of the people – a man – said ‘oh, sorry!’ and smiled at me as he moved his stuff. This man was WELL bogan. He was dressed neatly, but his hoody had a Jack Daniel’s logo on the front. The was carrying an iced coffee and smoking, and his teeth were almost completely rotted away.
A couple minutes later, he turns to me and asks if I can hear him (I had my earphones in) and if it’s ok to interrupt. I say, of course! and he asks a question about what bus goes where. I’m not sure of the answer but a primary schoolgirl does and she chimes in. After she left to catch her bus, the bogan dude asked me, wasn’t she lovely and friendly? He had no tickets on himself, most kids would be scared of him (he bared his teeth at me) but she was a bright spark, so helpful and non-judgemental. Then he asked me why I knit, was it to relax? Seems like a good hobby – you get clothes at the end of it! And then we had a lovely conversation about coffee and knitting and hobbies and the weather. I got the impression that he was just a lovely, open person.
I get on the bus, which is the same one he’s catching. We don’t sit together, though, which I sort of appreciate – you know when you talk to someone at the bus stop and then they never leave you alone ever again? (Like last week, when I got the paranoid woman who thought someone had followed her into town to bash her – well, maybe they had, I don’t know her life.) The bus I catch to work is also the airport bus, so there are always a lot of people who don’t catch buses much on it, looking uncomfortable and lugging huge suitcases. I sit on the back-to-back seats in the middle, and behind me are a posh old lady and her posh son. From overhearing their conversation I can tell you that they are going up to Brisbane to go to a remembrance ceremony for a hospital ship that was sunk in the war, which has just been found. The posh old lady’s dad sunk with it. When I sit down, she is saying ‘She married Jim Butterworth, you know’ and telling a story about how he was an engineer who had however many children and a story about him falling through the second floor of a derelict building.
Favourite overheards from this couple:
Her She has three sons, you know. Well, two professional sons. The other one is a painter. He paints houses.
Him: Oh, THAT kind of painter! Haha! Not an artiste! (He really truly said ‘artiste’) (also, I bet the painter son earns more and is a happier, nicer person, you old bag, I don’t know where you get off implying that the man only has two sons, because one of them does a real job. Grrrr.)
Him: Those school children don’t look happy, do they?
Her: Shakespeare spoke about a schoolchild, going reluctantly to school.
Him: I am surprised that they sent all the kids to Catholic schools
Her: They chose them because they are cheapah.
There were plenty more of that type, but I can’t remember them all. She had that kind of artificially plummy voice that slips when she has to raise it, as she did on the rattly bus. You could hear how she would practially hiss at you, if she were mad. And she said ‘Mercedes’ like ‘Meerceedees’, which seemed a bit ridiculous to me… but what do I know? I’m not posh. In a nicely timed lull in their conversation, I could hear my bogan friend up the back, on the phone to his son. He was telling him how much he loved him, that he couldn’t wait to go fishing with him again, that his ‘little mate’ should be nice to his mum, cos she’s going through a rough patch, and that he’d see him soon, and how MUCH he loved him.
I know which chance encounter I’d rather be friends with.
I was chatting to a friend and to demonstrate a point which I can’t remember anymore I showed her this.
It’s Sweet Honey in the Rock singing verses from Khalil Gibran’s ‘The Prophet’. Those two things have a whole bunch of associations for me, but the base line is, I love this song a whole, whole lot for so many reasons.
Anyway, later in the day I was thinking about it as regards me and my own mother, and whether it’s still relevant (conclusion: yes). And I had a moment where I just intensely missed my dad. The first one without grief all tied in. The kind of missing you might do if someone were overseas, or you just hadn’t had a chance to catch up for a while.
And then of course I was even sadder afterwards. Because I am sort of used, now, to the emotion of missing my dad with anger and grief mixed in, or for feeling bad for missing my dad because he made dealing with my mother easier, or any of those things. But I am not used to missing my dad in a way that makes me think ‘I should call him’.
Clearly, I cannot call him.
And I am angry that, because of the way he chose to leave us, and because of my mother, it has taken me TWO YEARS to be able to just miss him. To just want to hear his voice and share a joke with him, without any other emotional meaning behind that impulse.
There we go. Anger AND grief. That’s more familiar…
Last week I came down with the black lung. I spent Thursday and Friday in bed, coughing and achey, completely unable to do anything. Even reading was too hard. By mid friday, I was bored out of my mind and VERY whingey about it all.
Luckily, entertainments had been booked! S’s kids are in Scouts, and they were performing in this year’s Scout Shouts.
Guys, a word of advice. Never, ever go to see a pantomime performed by young children when you have a fever. Especially not if it’s Peter Pan and appears to have random things thrown in just because they had extra people and costumes. Like adolescent girls in lycra catsuits. Just wrong. They were led onstage by an adorable 5 year old and then BAM! My involuntary reaction was ‘woah! That’s confronting!’ and the lady next to me turned around and agreed. It also involved an Indian scene rife with cringe-worthily inappropriate racist puns (although I did enjoy the scene that went: Hook:where’s my redskin? *first mate hands hook a lolly* Hook:no, where’s my REDSKIN? First mate: OH, you mean your nativeamericanprincess!)
And the second half of the show was a series of sketches themed ‘the human body’ and was apparently written by the young performers themselves which makes me feel a bit better about the amount and quality of the puns. Sample sketch: two adorable young blonde girls run on stage in nurses uniforms (no, I don’t know why). Someone chucks a bunch of plastic ears on stage. The two adorable girls chorus ‘WELL THAT WAS EERIE!’ and scurry off stage in delight.
Actually, I kind of enjoyed it, and the small children were incredibly adorable (especially the ones that popped out while they were changing scenes and sang ‘never smile at a crocodile’ over and over, complete with hand actions. That song will not. Get. Out. Of. My. HEad) but it was very, very surreal. And ended quite late – about 11ish, I think, which was WAY past my poor invalid bedtime.
Then we had to get up early to vote (and wasn’t that all very exciting! I am not commenting until it is all over because while i am not particularly sorry that Australia has registered its displeasure, the Mad Monk still scares the shit out of me) and collect my chickens.
YES I HAVE CHICKENS.
They are Bantam Langshans and they are adorable, as are the teeny tiny eggs I am getting from them. I have photos on my camera, and I will get them to the internet eventually. They are black and shiny green, like beetles.
I spent the rest of the weekend doing not much, pottering around and coughing. And this week I have had zero energy for anything, and the house is trashed. It’s highly irritating.
I realise that I have no time because I am spending it bundled up on a couch with a snuggle buddy, and as such I am not complaining. But given the amount of sorting and organising there still is to do of my sister’s stuff, it’s a bit irritating. The spare room and laundry is literally just heaped with stuff. I am hoping to get time this weekend to clear that out and get all of my sister’s stuff that’s left into boxes and in the shed. And then I can start on my OWN stuff.
When I semi set up my craft room I sorted my wool stash and pulled out some rejects. Mostly murky greeny brown colours that I will never use. There’s more in there that I am determined to use before buying more yarn. Well, except that I just did, but that was for specific things – white for my semi-abandoned hexagon blanket and some yarn to knit S something for his birthday which I was thinking was nicely away in October but guys. August is almost over. And I only just remembered to turn my calendars over, so I’ve been missing out on Janet’s lovely photo of her sewing machine, all that time! HOW is August almost over? I nearly missed my sister’s birthday (luckily she’s already had her present). So anyway, considering what a tardy knitter I am I probably should get going. So I ordered more yarn.
I haven’t been doing much crafting, to be honest. I am still knitting away on a couple of WIPs, ones that don’t require much thought or input. Thing is, I can’t really GET to anything – my stash is now accessable, but all those bits and pieces you might need – notions, scissors, measuring tapes – have no home. That is also part of the projected tasks for the weekend. Locating and amalgamating craft stuff. Even if it WILL still be on the floor of the craft room for a while before I can get a new desk, at least it will all be in one area. Things need amalgamating, Like needs to be with like, WIPs need to be sorted and assessed.
While thinking about but not doing all of this, I’ve decided that, as well as having too much of my sister’s STUFF, I myself have far, far too much STUFF. I have too many plates and glasses and bowls, too many knick knacks (not that many, but definitely too many) JUST enough books, so please stop buying them unless you plan to finally read all those ones that you never got around to and then maybe pass them on. Some things can be gotten rid of altogether, some, like the excess crockery, can be put in the shed in case I suddenly decide to entertain 30 people (ahaha). Problem is, by the time I get home, it’s cold and dark and I’m tired and lazy and just wish to sit by the fire with the cat. And I get a little bit done on the weekend, but I really need a good two hours at LEAST with no distractions. S would be perfectly happy to sit and read while I putter – last Sunday he sat in the sun while I pottered around weeding and watering and the like. But I feel guilty and, more to the point, would rather join him in the sun reading, or on the couch talking, or whatever other activity is in the offing. But I am DETERMINED to get at least the spare room and maybe the laundry sorted this weekend. That would mean I could have a table to eat at, and the other organising can be done in half hour lots.
I am trying to curb the wanties, too. I want new, more, better. My life would be shinier if I had this shelving system or that single use tool. Mostly this is a symptom of inaction (buying feels like doing something, and if I don’t have time to make something I am more likely to buy it ) and of feeling poor. Which I am not. But I have a backlog of largish purchases to make, like more mulch for the front yard and a new desk, and bird wire for the rabbit run, and I really need new glasses but I’m putting it off. I got my tax return, and the same week I got a water bill, a gas bill, an overdue phone bill (the post office has been losing our mail) and council fees. Bye bye, tax return. Which, you know, is fine. At least it meant I wasn’t stressed. And hopefully bills will be lower now my sister isn’t taking two showers a day and sitting in front of the heater all night. I mean, there’s no one living there most of the week, since I am at work. That should cut down the $$, one would think. And I’ve downgraded the internet plan and decided to eat less meat (mostly because all that stodgy winter food was making me feel a bit icky), so hopefully the pennies will start to add up. It would be nice to be able to buy those large things I want, and then maybe start paying more off the mortgage. Well, there will always be something else that I ‘need’, I guess, but I’m trying to keep the wanties to a minimum.
Well, that was a tad whingey. But I feel like that. It’s friday, and I’ve been mildly sick and listless all week, and work has been irritating while I do bitsy work and wait for people to get content back to me, and I feel scratchy and bound down. I bleached and dyed my hair last night – I had massive regrowth and the blue was fading, and I was SICK of it. But it takes about 5 hours all up, so I had to stay up late to do it and now I’m tired, and I’ll have to top it up later because I missed some bits and didn’t leave it on as long as I’d like. But I couldn’t see a free weekend when I was going to be ok walking aorund with gladwrap on my head for 5 hours, so I just went for it. On top of that, I’ve been dragging up my mother issues this week, which has made me generally a bit glum and a bit churned up. But that’s a blog post in itself. If I ever get around to it.
But, on the other hand, it’s friday! Tonight I am heading up to S’s place in the hills, so I will get a good dose of lounging around guilt free on Saturday (while at the same time meeting one of his best friends, no pressure or anything) and then Sunday I might achieve things. I’m hoping to use my pent up purging urge while it’s around. What are you all up to this weekend?
Sorry I haven’t been around these parts. One of my aunts, to whom I was not very close, has killed herself. The selfish bint. I realise that is not the correct reaction, but, really! Anyway, while I am not personally particularly devastated, there have been the family events and of course it’s consumed much of my thinking cycles, leaving not too many for blogging. Funeral is tomorrow. Will let you know how it goes.
Anyway. To the point!
Occasionally I’ll have a chat conversation with Bek about books we like. I don’t really do much reading, anymore, which makes me sad. This is partly because working full time drains the brain, but also, I’ve realised, because I have so much trouble finding good, readable books that aren’t rubbish. There doesn’t seem to be much middle ground between Mills & Boon and heavy duty Smart Books. Both of which I enjoy, but there is a time and a place for both, and it isn’t on weeknights. And I can’t just keep reading Kerry Greenwood books over and over – she does churn them out, but there aren’t that many! Plus, they do get a bit irritating if you read too many in one gulp.
Oh, dear, I don’t appear to be able to keep from rambling.
When Bek and I chat, it’s often about books we liked as kids. I personally rousingly endorse anything that Tamora Pierce has written (I’m currently voraciously reading the first Beka Cooper books again) because of their strong female characters, strong male characters, excellent themes and, heaven above, PLOTS! And in these chats I realised that I really miss speculative fiction.
For those not in the know, Spec Fic (or sf, depending on if you want a fight with the SciFi-ers) is anything encompassing Fantasy and Science Fiction genres, as well as some horror, apocalyptic fiction, distopias and utopias and possibly anything else that is just a bit weird. The description’s in the name, really, but the wiki article is pretty good if you’re confused. Spec fic used to be my genre. If it had a unicorn or a spaceship on the cover, I’d read it. The trouble is, there is so much truly truly terrible spec fic out there. Kings with big swords and troubled loners with the urge to discover unknown frontiers and conquer some spacebabes. Gimme a break. So I’d sort of stopped picking up anything with a flying horse or an alien on the cover, because the odds were it would be rubbish.
But Bek recommended the Chrestomanci series by Diana Wynne Jones (criminally, I had never previously read any of her books), and I bought the first two in one book. And I read it in a day and a half. And it was lovely. Not only did I enjoy the book tremendously, I enjoyed reading it tremendously. I had sort of forgotten what a rush it is to sit and be absorbed by another world. To think about the book while you weren’t reading it. To rush to the end, only to be sad it is over. I have bought the next books in the series (from Better World Books, natch, where books are cheap and second hand and the service is beyond compare), and am waiting impatiently for them to wing their way to me accross the sea.
But then an idea occured to me. Not a very novel one (ha! A pun!) but still. People keep seeing the Chrestomanci book in my bag and recommending other things. And I was wondering if I could collect some of your recommendations. And then I would collect them and put them up on the internet somewhere and maybe review (in a very amateurish way)some of them as I get to them, along with some of my favourites. Who wants to play? I would particularly like to emphasise children/young adult books because I feel that there are many more engaging stories in kids’ books, and it’s hard to keep selling the same tripe to kids over and over. Whereas grownups will read a whole series that is essentially the same plot with the names changed. But I want it to be something you have actually read as a grownup (or almost) since the point is for me to read them, and sometimes what is good for kids is not good for adults, unfortunately. Luckily, there is some crossover.
I also want to hear your general spec fic recommendations (there doesn’t have to be a crystal sword or anything, just something that’s about a world a bit different to our, or our world, but a bit different too). I want to know specific books rather than authors – for instance, if you tell me you like David Eddings, I might have a panic attack because there are fifty kajillion of them, and some of the series are excellent for the first three books, and then the next ten books in the series why would you do that are a bit ordinary. I am thinking I might do a review of some authors whose works I know pretty well, eg, Anne McCaffrey, and detail some of the series’. So if you want to do that too, that would be ace.
When I get a chance I will find the list I have started from my real world friends, and take it from the back of a crumpled reciept and put it onto the immortal internets. Maybe I’ll reactivate my Goodreads account and keep a list there. It depends on you, gentle readers, and on how much reading momentum I can gather. I know I could look on somewhere like goodreads for recommendations, but that feels the same as reading amazon reviews. You, on the other hand, are people I know and whose opinions I value. So let ‘er rip! If you find you are typing a mile-long comment, and you don’t already have my email, it’s kaviare [at] gmail.com.
On the Tuesday after craft camp, it was obvious that I was actually ILL, not just sniffly. My throat was sore, my ears were sore, I felt like someone had been using me as a punching bag, I was all stiff and achey and poorme. The last two hours of work were a trial worthy of hercules. As I left work, my sister rang me, squealling that the cat had caught a baby mouse and was playing with it, and she (the sister) had to go to work, so if the mouse was not dead by the time she left, I would have to deal with it.
Luckily, the cat appeared to have consumed it by the time I got home.
I put myself to bed at 8.30 that night, anticipating a restless night. I always sleep badly when I’m sick. And I always have horrible epic dreams in which I have to endlessly search for things or perform repetative tasks.
Surprisingly, I slept pretty well up to about 3.30am, when I woke up and then dropped back off at about 5.30, just in time to be very surprised that my alarm was going off.
I did have lots of vivid dreams, though. They were almost exclusively about craft camp, and were quite wonderful. What a lovely bunch of women to spend time with, even in my subconscious.
I did have one nasty dream, though. About my mother, of course. They always are. I don’t really remember much about the dream. It was set at the parental home, but although my father was dead in the dream we were younger – I was a teenager and my sister young, although she didn’t feature in it except inasmuch as I felt the need to take flak to shield her from my mother, as was usual. I had to perform some dream task – looking for something, maybe – and my mother either wanted me to do something else, or wanted me to do it in a particular way that I knew wouldn’t work. But she wouldn’t listen to the reasons for why I had to do whatever it was my own way. She was just talking over the top of me, being quite rude about my general capabilities and grasp on reality, until she found some way to force me to do it her way.
It was a pretty unremarkable dream, really. Except that when I woke up I still felt all the emotions – that soul deep frustration and anguish and powerlessness and lack of agency. That terrible loneliness of being caught under someone else’s power and not even allowed to acknowledge that. The anger at having one’s will not even heard, simply squashed, for arbitrary reasons.
It was nice, in a way. It was good to remember the way I used to feel, all the time. That these were genuine emotions, caused by real things that my mother did, not just teenage tantrums. That I am in a better place now, thanks to hard work on myself and also limiting the amount my mother features in my life. Phew! I will be remembering those dream emotions the next time my mother tries to emotionally blackmail me or guilt me about something. Those emotions, remembered in my dream, are why I have no positive emotions about her now.
Tangentally, I realised that although I grew up calling my parents by their first names, I hardly ever do anymore. They usually feature as ‘my mother’ and ‘my dad’. Mostly because very few of the people who are important in my life actually know/knew my parents. But also, I think, because it’s easier to refer to my mother as such, when she refuses to treat me like a fellow human being. It’s easier to give her a label and a niche and file her away as a symbol, because that is all (all! ha!) she really is. The same goes for my dad, for a whole barrel of different reasons, obviously. I don’t really miss having a dad, I must say. I miss Tim, though. On the other hand, I don’t miss Theresa, but I sometimes miss having a ‘proper’ mother – whatever that means. A mother who it is safe to allow access to my life, I guess.
Oh, well. I feel remarkably little angst about it at the moment, but I suspect that that is a result of the new-relationship brain drugs and also the fact that I haven’t had to have much to do with my mother lately. Oh, and having blogged out some angst, and figured out some connections. The angst will be back, I’m sure. I’ll keep you posted on that, shall I?