Birthdays, And How I Learned To Celebrate In My Own Way

Thirty today, I saw
The trees flare briefly like
The candles on a cake,
As the sun went down the sky,
A momentary flash,
Yet there was time to wish.


~ Donald Justice

On the other site, I read a post today from Kel, one of my favorite bloggers, about how Sept 11th is her kid's birthday, and since 9/11 celebrating hasn't felt the same. A lot of people on her post were saying that you must still celebrate, keep thinking of it as a sacred day, but I'm not sure that you ever can get past a thing like that.

The two weeks around my own birthday are marred with tragedy in our family - personal tragedy, nothing on the scale of 9/11, but tragedy nonetheless. Until this year, I have never had a birthday that was happy. I knew from watching other families that birthdays are supposed to be times of celebration, but I've never known one that didn't involve guilt for existing and a mother who wished she didn't. Even the years that she was fairly stable, and made an effort, I always knew that if the world had gone the way it was meant to then my brother would be here and I would not.

As a kid, I tried to celebrate anyway. We had parties, balloons, jelly cups, played Pin the Tail on the Donkey. Laughed, danced, and hid the fact that ten days from now Mom would be wailing and telling her four-year-old (or six-year-old, or ten-year-old) how much she wished she was dead. And once or twice, in the earliest days, actually attempting it...but I digress.

It's not that I blame her. She tried. And because she knew that she'd never succeed in making my birthday what it should be, we had other times of the year that were really special. Halloween parties where we did all the things that you'd normally do on a birthday, as well as trick-or-treating and carving pumpkins. Christmas Craft Clubs, held every Saturday morning from Thanksgiving until Christmas, where my schoolfriends came over and each week we'd make a different Christmas decoration. (Paper plate Santas and manger scenes and baubles when I was five, stuffed felt stockings to hang on the tree when I was six, cotton sacks decorated with fabric paints and gutta and stuffed with candy or home-made pot pourri when I was seven...) Thanksgiving dinners, Valentines masquerades, Easter egg hunts in the garden or on the beach. Living with a bipolar (even if never truly diagnosed) mother meant that when she wasn't depressed and suicidal, she was on top of the world, rejoicing in the beauty of life and celebrating every possible occasion. And most of the time she was a good mother. A wonderful mother. We did all sorts of things, had all sorts of adventures, that most kids - especially most English kids - never dream of.

So with all that, the birthday thing shouldn't bother me, right?

Wrong.

I think part of the stress was that we always tried. Often trying to enjoy a thing, whether you like it or not, is infinitely more painful than just treating is as though it's nothing. The years I was twelve and thirteen, Mom and her then boyfriend agreed to let me have a huge party in a local hall, with fifty or sixty kids invited from school (and another fifty or sixty who gategrashed, LOL ) and a DJ. Nothing personal, nothing family-oriented, nothing that would mean I needed anything from my mother. That worked well. But by the time I was fourteen, I was missing two thirds of my classes at school, and drifting apart from a lot of my schoolfriends, and throwing a big party when the teachers were demanding to know why I wasn't attending classes seemed like a sham. So I said, no more birthdays. And none of the family accepted that, and the stressful cycle of trying and failing to enjoy ourselves started up again.

Then I started getting sick around or on my birthday. Stomach bugs. Appendicitis. Kidney infections. Pneumonia. Mono. People always asked how I could have such bad luck, but I never wondered. I may work in the medical field, but I also have a lot of respect for the effects of emotional state on the body. For the last couple years I've begged the family and friends to forget my birthday, treat it as just another day. They wouldn't. I explained the illness and the past tragedies politely, several times, to everyone who asked. They ignored me. I explained not-so-politely, and said that I really didn't want to be reminded of things that happened in the past. They persisted in asking me what I wanted to do, and showing up with presents and cards and telling me they were taking me to dinner, and told me what Kel's posters are telling her - that you have to push through the pain, and reclaim the day as your own. I threw a tantrum, scorching the earth with my anger, and asking everyone how they could be so goddamn disrespectful as to ignore my wishes when it's MY day. They told me I was being horrible and unreasonable when they were only trying to help. I bubbled over with rage and resentment for a couple weeks, and eventually shrugged and decided that birthdays are like funerals - they're for the benefit of the guests, not the host.

I gave up. This year I told everyone that they could do as many presents and parties and evenings out as they wanted, on the condition that they did it three months later, on the third of May. They looked at me strangely, and asked me a dozen times if I was sure, but they respected it. We had a lovely BBQ and loads of cards and gifts, and cake, and everyone sang to me. On my actual birthday, I went shopping alone and bought a couple of books and a Beyond Sudoku magazine and some presents for Mom, and everyone left me alone. I didn't get sick. It was a strange compromise, but one that worked.

My profiles online, store cards that give you gifts on your birthday, diaries - all but the most official documents - have my birthday down as May 3rd. I still identify with the Aquarius horoscopes, but for all other intents and purposes I consider myself a May child. February can never be a happy month for me, not after more than a quarter-century of misery. But birthdays can...you just have to think laterally.

Catch A Falling Star And Put It In Your Pocket...

...Save it for a rainy day.


I feel like I should have a buffer of rainy day stars. Or posts. I did write a bunch awhile back, actually, but I seem to have filed them somewhere where I can't find them. Presumably while under the influence of insomnia. Just silly posts, things like lists of my favorite obnoxious T-shirts, and the things I love best about Autumn, and random thoughts that don't have to be tied into Events, either in the world in general or in my life. Things I can post whenever, just to let y'all know that I haven't deserted you.

Yeah, I'm still alive. Just about.

Been a while, hasn't it?

It's not so much that I don't have anything to write about, it's more that I can't quite get my thoughts and feelings out.

I want to tell you about heartbreak and idiot ex-boyfriends who come and seduce you and then afterwards admit to you that they're still with their girlfriend, and they're still not "supposed" to be talking to you. And also of the idiot girls who fall for their shit for the third time unlucky.

I want to tell you about the people who've jacked me around lately, and how mad I am that so many of the people who are supposed to be close to me totally fail to respect the fact that my time is precious - I have little enough of it - and when I get mad because I get stood up five times in six weeks, after frantically rescheduling things because you begged to see me, I'm not angry because we didn't get to have fun after all, I'm angry because the message behind your actions is that you think that YOUR free time is more valuable than MINE.

I want to tell you about how, more and more, I'm finding myself resenting people because they don't have the same value systems that I do. And how much I hate that resentment, because I don't want to be that girl who dislikes people for being different - but at the same time, I can't help being mad when I try so hard to do the right thing, make so many sacrifices for my loved ones, and they don't even bother to try. And it's all so confused and frustrated and I don't know what to think.

I want to tell you about my health, and how things are happening to my body that are scaring the pants off me, and so many of the symptoms that I'm getting are leading to one specific condition - but I don't want to talk about that condition until I'm a little more sure, can't even go and say to my doctor that I think I may have it, because it's a zebra diagnosis and I already have a reputation as being a hypochondriac, and if I say something and it turns out I DON'T have it then none of my doctors will ever take me seriously again. So there's nothing I can do but wait and watch and observe to see if things get worse.

I want to tell you about LOML, and his problems - but I can't do that, because I promised myself that I'd stop writing personal stuff about him in here. And may have to delete what I've written. Even though I've never mentioned his name. Because I know he would hate me talking about it, even while his life and problems affect me enough that I consider it part of my own life stuff.

I want to tell you about how the three men who mean the most to me outside my family have all dropped me like a hot brick this summer, two of them with little to no explanation, and how I feel horribly alone, even when I'm in a room full of people who love me. And how I don't know how to deal with loneliness, because it's not something that's ever really affected me before. Until now I've always thrived on being alone, and had enough inner activity to never feel lonely or bored. And now I don't know how to deal.

I want to tell you about how much I miss Kurisu-San, but God knows I've told you that enough.

I want to tell you about the utter shittiness that is hypoglycemic dysphoric disorder / neuroglycopenia, that has affected me since I was seventeen but has, for some reason, gone out of control this summer, so that when I get low blood sugar my mood takes a downswing that can be anything from mild irritability to black despair to extreme paranoia to suicidal thoughts to crazy rage, that makes me so upset and irrational that I don't realise I'm being irrational, that makes me wonder if I've suddenly had a psychotic break - until I eat something. And then I feel fine. Even though I was diagnosed by a specialist back in Sixth Form, I still feel like I'm going mad when it happens. How can a basically happy, well-adjusted (OK, stressed-out, but that's temporary) person suddenly become irate, paranoid, even suicidal, just because she skipped a meal? I don't know, but it happens. Craziness.

I want to tell you the fun things, too - the wonderfulness that is Ms Babs who I met two weekends ago, and how much I love Autumn, and how Michael at the bank finally sorted out my finances so that I shouldn't be totally screwed for the rest of the year, and might even have some money for college clothes.

But...yeah. I have all those posts in my head, but getting the words down, so that they sound right, is just beyond me right now.

So here. Have a taste of the best thing that happened to me this week.





No, I didn't make it - it's from Dixie's Cupcakery in town. They actually bake a full-sized Oreo into the bottom of the cake itself. Bliss. I should have only eaten half a one, though - I think my teeth are about to fall out. The ones I have left, anyway.

(Written two or three days ago, and somehow I forgot to post. Oops.)

Time And Time Again I've Said That I Don't Care...

...That I'm immune to gloom
That I'm hard through and through
But every time it matters
All my words desert me
So anyone can hurt me
And they do.

~ Evita

The first time I ever got my heart broken, I was fifteen and I was acting and singing in my theater group's version of Evita. Not the whole play - young voices aren't capable of that, or they shouldn't be - but an abridged version. Still a challenge, and I loved it. I lost my love of performing right after that - perhaps because of what was going on in my life at the time, who knows - and it was actually the last time I ever set foot on a stage for anything other than speeches and lectures. But at the time, I loved it. For nine months I threw myself into being a different person. Being someone else got me through the first few months, when Julian's and my relationship started to go bad, and it sure as hell got me through the last couple months, when our life together - and his life, full stop - ended.

Perhaps it is not entirely coincidence, then, that every time that my heart's been bruised or broken in the last twelve years, I've immediately turned to Evita. Some of you have Joni Mitchell, some have Adele, some have Randy Crawford or Nina Simone or Billie Holiday. I have a whole host of Evas - Elaine Paige, Siobhan McCarthy, Elena Roger (not Patti LuPone, though; I'm sure I'll draw a bunch of hisses, but I don't think she was good in the role AT ALL ) - and yes, Madonna. I thought she did it brilliantly, although I accept that a lot of people disagree. The movie version is usually my first stop, since our theater production was more like the movie than like the Broadway / West End play. Plus, it's easy to get hold of.


When Richard brought Kerry home, and the two of them treated me like I wasn't welcome in my own house. When he fucked me and then refused to talk to me for several days. When Curt told me he loved me and then decided he liked my friend better. When Siji dumped me - twice, actually - for his ex. On these occasions, and probably a couple others that I've forgotten about, Buenos Aires in the 1940s is where I immediately head. It provides a sanctuary.


I've worn out my video of it in the last year or so. It's been played a heck of a lot. Time to get a DVD, methinks.

It's funny, though - I spent so many months being Eva, escaping from my own life into the life of another, that even half a lifetime later I can remember what it feels like to become a person who's known what it's like to be betrayed and emotionally bruised, but who also knows that she's better than that, that she's worth more. Sati forgets this sometimes, but Evita remembers what she deserves out of life. OK, sometimes she thinks a little TOO much of herself, but she makes it work for her. The music plays in my head, and I remember what it feels like to have that confidence and self-worth. And I can feel my shoulders straightening, my chin lifting and my head being held a little higher. And if I also feel myself becoming a little harder, a little more cynical...well, those will probably be temporary, and even if they're not it's a small price to pay.

French Apple Cobbler

(Sorry about the poor-quality picture - unless it's really sunny outside, there's virtually no light in my house, except my bedroom.)


I'm not sure where this recipe came from - my Mom's friend Bernadette, maybe. Mom's been making it for a quarter of a century.

You need:

Ingredients (topping):

~ 1 cup all-purpose flour (UK users, use plain. Also, a US cup is a little bigger than an English one - about 2/3 of a standard British mug.)
~ 1 cup sugar (I'm an unrefined person, but white works fine, although it's not quite as sweet.)
~ 1 tsp baking powder
~ 1/2 tsp salt
~ 4 tbsp butter
~ 2 eggs

Ingredients (filling):

~ 2 large Bramley apples. (We use Bramleys. Proper French people use dessert apples, since they don't really have sour apples over there. You can use dessert apples, or actually any apples, but use a little less sugar if you're not using cooking apples.)
~ 3/4 cup sugar
~ 2 tbsp flour
~ 1/2 tsp cinnamon
~ 1/4 tsp salt
~ 1 tsp vanilla
~ 1/4 cup water

Equipment:

~ 1 chopping board
~ 1 peeler
~ 2 large bowls
~ 1 small bowl
~ 1 electric mixer OR 1 french whisk and 1 wooden spoon
~ 1 sieve
~ 1 spatula
~ 1 cobbler dish. You can use anything made of ceramic or pyrex - lasagne dishes work well - but it should be about 2 inches deep. You can use deeper if you need, but you have to double the cooking time.

Method:

1 ) Fill your first large bowl with water, and add a couple pinches of salt. (This will pull out any bugs in your apples, and keep them from going too brown.)
2 ) Peel and chop apples into slices. (Thin slices or chunky slices - it's nice either way.) Put the apple slices in the bowl of water.
3 ) Mix all filling ingredients (except apples) in small bowl.
4 ) Add sliced apples and mix around until all slices are coated with filling.
5 ) Beat egg in other large bowl. Add all the other topping ingredients, sifting flour as you add it.
6 ) Lightly grease your cobbler dish. Doesn't need to be as heavy as you'd do for a cake, since you're not expecting it to come out of there in one piece. You can get away with not greasing it if you have a dishwasher.
7 ) Pour apples and filling into cobbler dish. Dot topping around on the top, using the spatula. Don't worry too much if it doesn't cover perfectly.
8 ) Bake at #6-7 for 35-40 minutes.

Makes one large cobbler, which is good eaten hot or cold (although I like it hot), with cream or ice cream or just on its own.

There's Only One Acceptable Reason To Hide Under The Covers, And This Ain't It

Yes, I'm still alive, but spending a lot of time trying to catch up on the sleep I missed last week.

Money is extremely tight - worryingly tight - and that always makes me want to crawl into bed and pull the covers over my head. I do have to go see the bank manager sometime this week, though, and make an appointment with my financial consultant to figure out how to pay off the overdraft. Because at the rate they're taking it from me, even if I put all my wages into the account and spend nothing on anything other than basic groceries - which is what I've been doing for the last month - the reserve fees are so punitive that the debt still gets larger. They're actually taking more from me in overdraft fines than I'm earning at work, the scoundrels. So I need to find out if I can get a short-term loan where fixed interest rates are calculated into the monthly payment, or a (horrified gasp) credit card, or what. Jaz will know, I just have to stop being an ostrich and go see her.

(Ja, I know ostriches don't really bury their heads in the sand...it's just one of those images that's hard to break.)

Of course I'm having panicky nightmares of having to declare bankruptcy, and having the bank steal my car and clothes and shoes. You hear stories about people who borrow fifty quid from a moneylender and end up £15,000 in debt even though they didn't borrow any more money, because the print on your contract that you need an electron microscope to read said that you're willing to pay 4000% interest. Compounded weekly. And if you don't, we'll repossess your babies and sell them to Madonna, and break your kneecaps so we can collect on the insurance.

Um, did I mention in the last couple of months that I've been overreacting? To everything? I think it must be hormones, or lack of sleep, or something. Every minor mishap feels like a crisis. (Actual crises I deal with just fine, but that's just how I roll. I usually work better under pressure. Except for the times that I retreat and ignore the world.)

Curt went to Jersey a couple days ago. And there were promptly six murders on the island. An island with basically zero violent crime. I swear, that guy has the worst timing in the world. It doesn't appear to be anything to do with him, but somehow he always manages to be around when things go to hell. So of course when he gets back, I imagine I'll demand a visit and frantically examine him for bullet holes - even though the news reports say that all the victims were Polish, and I don't think anyone could mistake a tall skinny black guy with a very proper British accent for a Pole from Jersey.

I have to sign up for college this week, if I can get the money. I don't even know that I want to go this year. Right now I'm so tired I don't want to do anything. But if I don't, then I'm not moving forward with life, and life isn't going to get better unless I have more money, and that means work, and THAT means education. I'm totally unemployable right now. Your self-esteem has to take a bit of a hit when you're so unwanted in the workplace that you can't even get a job in Wilkinson or McDonalds.

I know. I've tried.

Plus, there's Kurisu-San. I miss him. Like, a LOT. If he doesn't sign up for school then I don't know that I'll have the heart to continue - oh, I'll probably do it, I'll just feel weird - but if I don't sign up, then I definitely won't get to see him. So I suppose I have to take my chance. He still isn't answering texts from me, and with any other man that would be a warning to stay away, but this one is different; he thinks differently to other people I know - and I think that if I can talk to him in person, things will be okay.

I know some of you will feel duty-bound to give me your opinions on this, but all I can say is: you don't know him.

Of course, he may tell me to leave him alone. I'd be surprised if he did, but he might. Even that would be better, though. I don't like silence, I like to know what's going on. If I've caused offense, I like to know why, so I can either try to make amends, or at least consider changing my behavior in the future. And if I just knew that he was OK, then I could get rid of this sick feeling of dread that I sometimes get when I think of him.

And the only things I can imagine are that either I've offended him, or there's something wrong with him that makes him feel like he can't talk to me. Logically, there must be something wrong, yeah? For a guy to be happy and open and friendly with you at night, and cheerfully planning to come and see you in the morning, and then totally block you from his life in the afternoon - something must have happened. I just need to find out what. And I imagine I WILL ferret it out sooner or later; I'm not a person who can let things like that lie.

But Lord, I miss him. It seems so strange, to miss a person so much when you haven't actually seen them in a year or more. I don't remember going this long without talking to him, though. Oh, there probably was a period this long, but I don't remember it. I think it's only been about four months, but it seems like forever. I think maybe that's one reason I've been so crabby over the last few months. Every time something goes wrong, whether it's a major crisis or just a stupid little thing, I think, I wish I could talk to K. K always makes me feel better. And when I have nightmares about him, which I often do - ones where he's really sad - I think, I wish I could talk to K. K always says that I make him feel better.

I have friends and family, of course, and Curt, and I even talked to my ex the other day - but one person is no substitute for another.

Well, this note has certainly taken a depressing turn.

Hopefully autumn will come soon. That, or some nice hot August days. Either way I hope we'll get some dry weather. I always feel like shit when it's damp outside.

Waffle Sundae

I was having such an awful time today, what with insomnia last night - I haven't slept in thirty-six hours now - and pain that I couldn't shake off, I gave up on the idea of salad for lunch, and had waffles with ice cream, banana and cinnamon sugar.


I know you're jealous. It's OK, you can admit it. 'Cause I have the recipe here. It's actually fairly healthy - more so if you use low-fat ice cream or frozen yoghurt, and make your own waffles - and so easy even Wayne Rooney couldn't fuck it up.




Ingredients - for the waffle batter:


~ 125g butter or vegetable spread
~ 150g sugar (I use unrefined for just about everything, but any kind of sugar except powdered should be OK, depending on your tastes)
~ 250g plain flour
~ 1 cup (250ml) milk
~ 3 large eggs
~ 1tsp baking powder
~ OPTIONAL: 1tsp vanilla extract
~ OPTIONAL: juice from one lemon


NOTE: Please bear in mind this recipe is to serve 6. That's 6 fairly large eaters. You can freeze the extra batter for up to two months though, which is what I usually do, or refrigerate it for two days. It's easier than trying to scale down, unless math is your thing.




Ingredients - for the fixin's:


~ Vanilla ice cream
~ 1 banana per person
~ Ground cinnamon
~ A sprinkling of brown sugar (just a teeny bit - or leave it out if you want)


Alternatively you can swap the cinnamon and sugar for maple syrup, or chocolate sauce. I'll give you a recipe for chocolate sauce at a later date, I don't like the ones that come out of tubes.




Equipment:


~ 1 set of scales
~ 1 mixing bowl
~ 1 sieve
~ 1 cup (that's an American cup - about 2/3 of an average British mug)
~ 1 teaspoon
~ 1 waffle iron
~ 1 balloon whisk
~ 1 ice cream scoop
~ 1 serving bowl
~ 1 spoon to eat with




Method:


1 ) Measure out dry ingredients and chuck together in mixing bowl, sifting flour as you go.


2 ) Add wet ingredients.


3 ) Whisk together until you have a runny batter.


4 ) Lightly grease your waffle iron (or don't, if it's non-grease) and heat up.


5 ) Gently spoon batter into iron. Don't overfill, it rises a bit, although not a huge lot.


6 ) Cook until golden. Or a bit more brown if you prefer.


7 ) Place waffles on the bottom of serving bowl. Top with ice-cream, banana and cinnamon sugar.


If you don't have a waffle iron, or don't like to cook, you can use pre-made waffles from the supermarket - just make sure to get the sweet or plain ones instead of the salted ones. If this is the way you're playing it, you get to skip steps 1-6, lucky you.


See - idiot-proof, and it's really good!

Somebody Tell Me What's Wrong With This Picture...

...How long will it take before it hits ya
And you begin to understand
The dirty underhanded kind of plan
To place pandemonium upon the land
Face to face with the faces of death
On a daily basis
To the point we embrace this
Demonic debauchery
Negatively affecting the psyche
That's why we like to see
Some type of monster, chasin'
Erasin' people from the face of the earth like Jason
When that was just a movie really illustratin'
The illy type of shit that they really got waitin'
And I can't be condoning 'em
Sick minds perpetuating pandemonium


~ The Pharcyde




I am completely torn in half right now. Torn between anger and sadness. Between understanding and condemnation. So angry at both sides, for completely different reasons. (Thanks, Kidfos, for putting that so simply and clearly before, in a way that I was unable to.)


In this, as in so many other things, I straddle the line.


I haven't been back to London, but I understand things are a little better. Not good, but better. I don't know if this is just the eye of the storm, so to speak, or if the rioters have burned themselves out. Or perhaps it's just that the city's basically on lockdown now, and the police now have permission to use water cannons and plastic bullets.


A YouGov survey today said that nearly a third of people surveyed were in favor of using live ammo on the rioters. Evidently totally missing the point - or not caring - that use of unnecessarily strong force by the police was what sparked this crisis in the beginning.


These are our children. And they're in pain. Yes, they're dangerous. Yes, they need to be stopped. Yes, they need to be brought before a judge and held responsible for their crimes, and find a way to pay their debt and help rebuild the city. They do not deserve to be killed because of a feverish madness that has infected them briefly. And it is a form of temporary insanity, or they would do this all the time. Perhaps it takes someone who straddles the line to see that.


I'm supposed to be at work. I hate that I'm not. If I were a bank cashier or a shop assistant or a veterinarian, I'd be perfectly justified in staying home. But I'm not. I'm a youth worker, and a crisis support worker. Dealing with situations like this is my job, although we've never had anything on this scale. Public transport isn't reliable enough to get me in every day, even if I could afford the train tickets, but if I had someone in London to stay with...but then there's Mom. Perhaps that's the biggest area in which I'm torn in two. Wanting to go out and do my job, do what I know is right - but morally bound to stay home and protect the family and castle.


Times like this are when I most resent having people who depend on me. For so many years my job has been to look after my mother. And I love my mother, of course I do. I love her more than anything - evidently more than my kids at work, which is why I'm here instead of there. Yet I am past the stage in my life where I'm content to protect the home front, and it chafes on me that I am unable to go out and perhaps help a dozen people, because of that one who requires me above all others.


Stay home and ignore my job, and the kids who rely on me. Or go to London, do my job, and leave my mother unprotected. Nothing major has happened here - we had a gang of kids outside the front yesterday evening, talking loudly about wanting to loot, but after awhile they just went home - but you can never be sure. If they're kicking off in Gloucester, for pete's sake, then there's no reason they won't here. It's not so much the idea of leaving the home undefended, though, it's more the risk to me that going into London would cause. My heart and soul find this risk low and perfectly acceptable - I am not a coward, not someone who runs from danger. My mother does not find any kind of risk acceptable when it comes to me, no matter how long the odds of being hurt. And because of that, because of that refusal to loosen the bonds, my brain constantly bombards me with the same question - If you put yourself in danger and something happens to you, how will Mom survive?


This is not a question that most children have to deal with. Usually the people you have to protect are your kids, not your parents. But since I started walking and talking my main focus in life has been to make sure that mother is okay. And that means *I* have to stay okay.


I wonder how many parents feel this way. How many feel the burden of love that precludes putting themselves in any danger, not because they're scared of dying, but because doing so feels like abandoning their families. How many men want to join the military and fight for their country but feel unable to leave a clinging wife and children, amid unspoken accusations of desertion. How many people want to do the right thing, even when that involves some physical risk, but the guilt keeps them at home. Obviously not everyone feels that crushing burden, or nobody would ever leave home at all.


I have always known that love can smother as easily as warm, but at times like this that knowledge is amplified.


So I sit here, watching other people doing my job for me, and feeling totally useless and unnecessary.

Your Values Is In Disarray, Prioritizing Horribly...

...unhappy with the riches 'cause you're piss-poor morally. ~ T. I.

Romance novels. Pokemon. Beethoven's Emperor Concerto. The smell of freesias. Hiragana. Kurisu-San.

Focus, Sati. Focus and breathe.

I do not do well with fire and explosions. I have far too many memories where burned-out cars and buses and homes - and eyes - feature highly. I remember the Brixton riots of 1995, and I believe I remember the Brixton and Broadwater Farm riots of 1985, although I was still toddling around in diapers at the time. Loud noises and smouldering cars have the ability to send me into a post-traumatic state. So no, to answer your texts and messages, I am not okay. I am at home in Alby now, where it's safe and mostly peaceful, but I am not okay. I am, however, safe, which is more than I can say for Curt and his sisters, or my ex boyfriend Siji, or several dozen of my friends.

I can feel it out there, all that anger and fear and hate, and I can barely breathe for it.

I am full of rage. Full of sadness, and full of rage. And that is precisely why I can't judge the people I'm angry at too harshly - because I know where they come from. I know what it's like to scream and scream and know that nobody hears you. I too have felt that free-floating anger, that ire without a focus, that lividity that bubbles through my veins and obstructs my vision so that I cannot see where to aim it. I see so many people causing others pain, and I want to hurt them back. I want to grab all the looters and smash their heads in. I want to do the same to Cameron and Clegg and all the politicians who live in luxury while their people struggle to feed themselves. I'd gladly smash in Dumbya's face, too, for starting a war that led to a global recession. And all the faces of the fundies-who-call-themselves-Muslims who attacked on 9/11, and precipitated the war. And all the people who taught them that hurting people is ok - their teachers, their leaders...and the westerners who bombed their people way back when, to make them want to take their vengeance on America.

In fact, bring me everyone who thinks that hurting people is okay, and I'll have to restrain myself from ripping their fucking heads off.

Oh, I'm sorry - irony, you say?

This is the problem with cause-and-effect, of course. You can never trace a thing back far enough.

Rebel without a cause. Rebels with plenty of cause and without a focus. They come to mean much the same, in the end.

I see so many people wanting to judge. To place blame. I see very few willing to accept it. They did this. Nothing to do with me. It's the fault of all those pampered kids who sponge off the government. I have a job, I don't sponge or steal. It's the fault of the government for not providing enough help for the poor communities. Not my fault - I didn't vote for Cameron or Clegg, I didn't vote at all. The blame goes to the parents who raised their kids with the same lack of values that they were raised with, to the poor role models portrayed in the media, to the ministers who cut funding to schools, to everyone else. I didn't do this, THEY did this. We all have such set ideas of who to point the finger at.

We all did this. We, as a society, have a lot to answer for.

What do people need? They need food and water and shelter, obviously. And they need love and affection, and they need to be heard, and they need to feel like they have choices. Lack of choices are what cause depression. Eating disorders. Suicide. That frantic need to take control of your life, at any cost.

I do wonder how many of the fingers that are pointing are attached to people who have spent significant amounts of time in Tottenham or Brixton or Peckham. Choice - or more accurately, the feeling of having choice - is rare and valuable there. Whether the kids who are raised in those areas ACTUALLY have choices available to them or not is almost irrelevant - they FEEL like they don't. Oh, there are always success stories, about kids who were smart and motivated and found a way out of the ghetto that didn't involve a life of crime, and those stories are wonderful. But the flip side of them is that people who weren't raised in that kind of poverty think that those cases are the norm, that everyone should be able to make a success of themselves if they just tried a little harder. We forget that behaviour is learned. Nobody - or few people - are born bad. People are not born miserable. We get that way because of how we are raised, and then we raise our kids the same, unless we're lucky enough to have an external influence that teaches us another way to live. You cannot break a cycle from inside without help.

I am not justifying. There are no justifications for what we've seen over the last three days. But there are reasons. There are always reasons. We, as a community, as a country, need to be able to look back and try to find out the why's and how's of this situation. And the why is not simply that a bunch of bad kids spontaneously decided to take what they wanted and harm people for fun. Happy people do not harm others.

I'm so mad at the rioters for shooting themselves in the feet. Again. And yet, I understand. I understand a mentality that says, even if unconsciously, maybe if I shoot myself in the foot then someone will notice and give me the treatment I need for this gangrenous arm.

I don't have the answers. Not any of them. I don't know if we can trace anything back to an original cause or if the pain that our children feel goes back right to the beginning of time. I don't know how to fix a society that's broken. But I know a place we can start. So I'd like you all to do a favour for me, if you can. Tonight when you go to bed, and you get to feeling righteous about the way you've conducted yourself this week, give yourselves a pat on the back for being a good person. Congratulate yourself for resisting temptation. You could have chosen to be part of the violence, could have chosen to sacrifice others to take what you want, and you didn't. That's significant. That's wonderful. And then, after you've congratulated yourselves for making the right choice - think for just a minute or two about how lucky you are to realise, to have the knowledge, that that choice is yours to make. And be thankful.

Kickstarting a New Blog

A first post should always be a happy post, I think. Start as you mean to go on. Things are not happy now, but they were, and will be again, so I shall give you this post from a month ago.


My name is Sati, and I love people. That is what I do. It is my job, my passion, my compulsion, my need.


There's a London based rapper and singer, who's been around for a few years but really rose to prominence this year. His name's Example, and he's more than a little bit fabulous. I intend to write more about him in a post soon, but for now, it's not actually him that I'm concerned with, but one of his songs.

Kickstarts. Like when your bike stalls out, and you have to get it going again. At least that's what my biking friends tell me - although what do I know, I've only ever ridden pillion.

He's doing mostly dance music right now, so it's repetitive. One verse, repeated. One hook, repeated. That's OK. It works.

You should probably YouTube the video, if you're interested. You don't have to or anything, it just might explain this post a little better if you had the images to go along with it.


You want me to come over, I got an excuse
Might be holding your hand, but I'm holding it loose
Go to talk, then we choke, it's like our neck's in a noose
Avoid the obvious, we should be facing the truth
Start to think it could be fizzling out
Kinda shocked because I never really had any doubts
Look into your eyes, imagine life without you
And the love kickstarts again.

And that's me and Light of My Life, right there. Whether this is a good thing or a bad thing is, as yet, unclear - and really, it's moot. It's us. It is what it is.

Ten years. Half of our teens and half of our twenties. Many partners for both of us. A handful of whom I've loved, and been in love with - really, truly. A couple times when we tried to make it as a couple, only to be tossed aside by fate and chance. Countless times that I've fallen in and out of love with him, and then back in again. One episode of cheating when we were just getting together, one rape, one miscarriage, one year of amnesia, one bad marriage.

And always, just when - like now - I think we're fizzling out, I look at him and my engine catches, and my heart remembers who it beats for again.

I do have more to say, but...but.

Fragmented

[Written at the beginning of April.

What were the nine words?

Words of love, and pain, and affection, and need, and an affirmation that Sati Marie Frost has plenty to offer the world, and you.

Perhaps one day, I'll tell you.]

Sometimes

life is easier to process

in fragments.

nine words

nine words
can break a heart
or make one whole.
they can creep down inside
and claw at you
or they can fill you
with such
Radiance
that your heart
wants to explode.

nine words
can fill my veins with crimson snow
or act
like a
phosphorus burn.
once spoken
they cannot be unspoken
but will consume me
until all their fuel is gone.

months later
i stare at
nine words
and
still
i do not understand them.
they could be greek
except
of course
i understand greek
better than i understand
You.

nine words
can confound
or make things simple.
nine words
make problems irrelevant
as all the issues
that came before
that came between
no longer matter.

because

nine words
say more to me
than all the others
you ever spoke.

nine words
can show me you
and can show me me.
because of those nine words
the path is clear
there is no other
possible way
for this to play out
and stay true.
to me.
to you.
and so
i pick up my suitcase
and i pick up my credit card
and i pick up the phone.

Coincidence Beats Me In The Humor Stakes

One thing about me that not everyone knows is that I really have a deep appreciation for the ridiculousness of the world. Sometimes I wonder if the reason why I'm not particularly funny, why I don't make jokes, is that I realize instinctively that nature and coincidence make this world more amusing than anything that *I* can think up.

I bought MP3 downloads today, from a Christian music shop. (I'm not much for religious music, but this is nice, it's just instrumental stuff that you wouldn't recognize as praise music unless you saw the titles.)

What made me laugh today was this:



Normally that wouldn't be funny, but given the context, it cracked me up.

Or maybe it didn't. Maybe I was cracked to begin with.



That's all I've got for you tonight, I can barely keep my eyes open.

Shopping At Westfield

The day before yesterday was good. Zia's a lot better than she was last time I saw her. Part of that's to do with the fact that the weather's warm, as she always feels a lot better when the cold isn't there to leach into her bones - much like Mom and me, actually - but she seems generally more stable emotionally. Which is good, although I'm not making any assumptions - after all, she was fairly well the whole time she was away at uni, and I thought that she'd got over the suicidal phase from her teen years, and then this winter just gone the whole thing started up again, which freaked the hell out of me. It's not easy to see your life get stuck on replay. And I worry.

But yeah, she seems a lot better. We talked - a lot - about her depression, and Curt - who dated her when we were in college, although she didn't go to the same college as us - and my health and basically everything. It's good that she can be open and candid about things, because she couldn't when she was a teenager - everything was either secret or overt and dramatic. Mind you, I suppose that's something that most teenagers could say about themselves, me included. So many of my friends are surprising me with their new maturity lately. Cam was right, my friends HAVE grown up. I don't know why this is such a surprise to me - perhaps because I haven't. When you stop growing and maturing, you forget that everyone else keeps doing it.

I showed great restraint and did not buy the £160 cream silk jacket from Reiss or the £19 single Shiseido eyeshadows or the beautiful white lace bra from Rigby & Peller with the green and lilac flowers on that cost £90. I didn't even LOOK in Gucci or Prada, although I was very tempted by the Gucci handbags - Zia has one that she had with her yesterday, and I practically had multiple orgasms just from touching the buttery suede interior. Of course, I am a youth worker, and an average Gucci handbag costs about four months' income for me - and THAT'S including the carer's allowance I get for looking after Mom. Shit, I hate being poor. I especially hate being poor with expensive tastes. It's so funny, I laughed so loud for so many years at girls who spend hundreds if not thousands of pounds on one item of clothing, openly mocking the idea that being expensive makes something better - and now I'm one of them. Or I am in my head, anyway. I'm far too practical to ACTUALLY spend money on a thing just because I want it, when I know that having it means that I won't be able to meet my responsibilities...but I do covet. Not everything, and never *just* because something costs a lot of money - but some things, things that are beautifully designed and put together, and made from fabrics that are a delight to the senses...yeah, I do want those things. I love beauty, whether it's flowers or the sky or crystal prisms that make rainbows or a designer bag or a pair of Manolos. And if I can find genuine goods on sale, in TK Maxx or in a seconds sale because they're slightly damaged! Oh hellz yeah. If they're damaged, I can fix 'em. I have a red silk dress from Hobbs that I got for £40 last winter because it was missing two buttons and had a couple of threads that had pulled loose. I have - or had - lilac and silver Louboutin pumps that were 90% off in TK Maxx, that I've had to pass on to Selena because they're too high for me. Somewhere, I don't know where, I have a flowered pink silk Dolce & Gabbana dress - also from TK Maxx - that I got down from £899 to £80. I'll never get my boobs into it now, of course. I wish I'd bought the white strapless CK sundress I found a couple weeks ago; I didn't want to spend the money at the time, but I should have.

What can I say, I like a bargain.

Of course, you'd never see me drooling over something I didn't actually LIKE, just because it was expensive. And there are a whole heck of a lot of expensive things that I don't like at all.

We had a mild scare when Zia left the aforementioned handbag in a shop, and when she realised it wasn't on her shoulder she went back to the corner where she was trying shirts on, and found it wasn't there. Luckily the security guard had turned it in - I was NOT looking forward to consoling her over that one. Silly girl doesn't even have it insured. *sigh* Then she went to thank the security guard - who didn't speak much English - and he thought that she was telling him off for moving it, which made us giggle a bit.

Westfield is pretty big, and I was tired by the time we got there - I always forget how London takes it out of me. Plus, it was one of those really disgusting humid days, and although I was pretty and fresh-looking when I left the house in my white cotton sundress and mint-green cardigan, by the time I even met up with Zia at Oxford Circus I was crazy sweaty. What I should have done is bought a cheap sundress on Oxford Street, backtracked to St Pancras and used the showers there, and changed into fresh clothes. But I didn't want to waste time, so the shopping was a little uncomfortable for me, feeling grimy as I did. (Naturally, TODAY was a gorgeous day with virtually no humidity - go figure.) So the grime and the exhaustion meant that I didn't shop nearly as much as I wanted to, and I need to go back soon, and look in Zara, and some more of the lingerie shops, and a whole bunch of other places. It's a really nice mall, though, and I would like to spend time there on a regular basis, exploring all the different outdoor restaurants, if it weren't so darn expensive to get to London.

We had dinner in Nandos, and Zia ate a chicken wing platter that was meant for 2-3 people.

=))

It shocked me a bit, but I was also thoroughly impressed. She blushed a lot, and said that one of the new meds she's been taking makes her hungry all the time, and that she's put on a lot of weight. It's true, she has, but she looks fabulous now - she was painfully thin as a teenager. And although with anyone else, I'd have teased them mercilessly about eating nine chicken wings and a bowl of mashed potato, I couldn't tease her because it was just so good to see her eating. The kid I knew absolutely loathed food, and had such body issues that she thought she was obese even when she wore a size 6 (US 2), and even getting her to eat enough to prevent her from ending up in hospital from diabetic complications was like pulling teeth, and usually involved a mixture of bribery, threats and soothing words. I like this way a whole lot better.

We had cocktails in a terrace bar - Mango Bellini and Mojito for her, Strawberry Daiquiri and something called an African Dream for me. The African Dream was nice, kind of like a Screaming Orgasm, but with Grand Marnier instead of amaretto. And the daiquiri was wonderful. It's funny that I've never drank or made a daiquiri, since I spent several years as a barmaid, but it's just not a thing that ever really caught on in England. I always imagined them being like a milkshake, but Babs told me that they were more like smoothies, and she was right. I'm never particularly daring when it comes to alcohol (okay, okay, or anything else), although I did drink a lot of cocktails at Hot Coles happy hour on Thursdays when I was in college. But it's like with restaurant food - I don't eat out all that often, so when I do I stick with things that I know and like. If I've mixed it, chances are I've drank it, so I picked a few basic things out of my repertoire and stuck with them. I loved Cosmopolitans a couple years before the rest of the country caught on, and anything with Midori or Blue Curacao has my vote. But the rest...meh. I'm not much for exploring. When I lost my memory, every day was an influx of new things, but the terror of not knowing who you are made that less of an adventure and more of a series of tests that I had no way of studying for and no hope of passing. I started keeping extensive lists about myself, stupid little pieces of information that a person with a healthy brain never bothers to think about, everything from the books I read that first year to the fact that I liked cheese and anything orange-flavored and didn't like brown bread or anything too sweet. I never quite broke myself of the listing habit, although these days at least I throw them away when I'm finished with them.

Getting home was a nightmare. I was stupid enough to ride with Zia to Mile End, thinking that I could take the District to Blackfriars and pick up the overground there - totally forgetting that Blackfriars is closed till the end of this year. I used to always go that way to work, but since it closed ages back, I've been changing to the Hammersmith & City at Farringdon, and then transferring to the District at any station along the way. Somehow the fatigue and the alcohol made me forget that, until I was already on the District Line. So I had to get off at Mansion House, and wait for a Circle train, and take that to Farringdon. But THEN, Farringdon overground lines were closed so they could repaint the lines, so I had to get on another Circle train to King's Cross St. Pancras - which is where I'd have been an hour and a half before if I'd been smart, and got off the Central Line at Oxford Circus and let Zia carry on to Mile End alone.

I feel like I zigzagged across half of London. St Albans to St Pancras, walk through to King's Cross, King's Cross to Oxford Circus, where I met Zia. Oxford Circus to Shepherd's Bush. Then on the way home, Shepherd's Bush to Mile End, to Mansion House, to Farringdon, to King's Cross, walk to St Pancras, and home to St Albans. I've done more than that, back in the days when Sanjeeta and I didn't have anywhere to go and it was raining outside so we bought a cheap travelcard and station-hopped, just exploring the Underground. (Sanjeeta loved the artwork at Tottenham Court Road; I loved the extra-wide marble platforms at Angel; we both loved Stratford's weird architecture and the whole of the DLR. We were such geeks.) But I've never done it at 1am, after a long day.

I ran into an uber-hot guy at St Pancras, who I used to go to school with - he was just getting off the train that I had to get on to get home. And he seemed like he wanted to chat, but I was so exhausted, and if I'd missed that train, after all that trouble, I'd have had to beg him for a place to stay, or find a cheap hotel room. Actually, if I had to have a night crashed out in London, that night wouldn't have been too bad, because I had my medication in my handbag, and purely by chance I'd bought some Ruby & Millie makeup (on 70% off sale, yay) and two pairs of panties, a cheap shortie T-shirt, and a basic cotton sundress. If someone had been able to supply me with a bed, a shower, a towel and some toothpaste and deodorant and shampoo, I'd have had clothes to sleep in and a change for the morning, and been perfectly fine, and that's not something that I can always say when I'm in London. I try to travel light these days - the days of carrying spare shoes and a jacket and an umbrella and all the other things that Mom tried to force onto me are over, thankfully - but the downside of that means that if I am caught out and have to stay somewhere for the night, I don't have a change of clothes. And I absolutely loathe putting dirty, sweaty clothes back on when I'm clean - although not as much as I hate staying in them. I do not have a high tolerance for dirt.

I really miss having PaPa and Stepmama's London house as a base. And Curt, who is one of the few people I know who I'd feel comfortable phoning at 1am and begging a bed from, is still spending his weekdays in Norwich and has a wife occupying his London flat. If I run into old friends, I can usually ask them for a place to stay and they'll give it to me, because people tend to be nice to me, probably because I never ask them for much. But I don't really feel comfortable doing it. Not only the asking, but the sleeping next to someone. I don't sleep well when I share a bed with anyone other than Curt - and not even with him, all the time.

Although I think I'd sleep well next to Kurisu-san. I don't know why, I just have a feeling.

So I had a nice time. I'm still exhausted, and my bank account is glaring at me sullenly. But I did have a lovely day, and now that Zia's seen me once, it'll be easier for her to keep in touch on a more regular basis.

My Panties Smell Like Cake

WARNING: This post contains sexual references.

Yeah, really.

Three courses of antibiotics means that not only are the nasty beasties gone from my system, but also all the friendly beasties too. Therefore, no more salt-and-lemon smell, at least not for now. For the last couple of days, I've just smelled and tasted a teensy bit sweet, but not really like much at all. But combined with the vanilla bath foam I used a couple of hours ago, and the lavender-scented feminine wash I have, the whole thing has combined to make me smell like a sponge cake. I've been lying on my bed for the last hour and a half, going crazy trying to figure out where the cake smell is coming from, and who could possibly be baking at nearly two in the morning, and now I realize - it's me.

I guess the status posts I've been making on the faceplace for the last couple months, about how my sheets smell like cake, and my bedroom smells like vanilla, can all be traced back to this. That's a little embarrassing. :D

This all seems a bit unfair to me, because now I'm hungry. I suppose I could get up and actually MAKE a cake, but then I'd chance waking Ma, and I'm supposed to be dieting. Or I could get up and make a cocktail, but I'm not sure that I have the ingredients for a Screaming Orgasm, and nothing else will satisfy my sweet tooth. And frankly, cocktails at nearly 3am, alone, when I'm half asleep, seems a little overly hedonistic. If I were awake and dressed, or if I had a date or a girlfriend here with me, then no problem, but I'm not really someone who's comfortable drinking alone. Probably because I'm such a lightweight.

I had written a whole bunch here about my shopping trip yesterday, but I realize now that it does not belong on a post about my doodah. So I'll post that tomorrow.

For now, I guess I'll get some sleep - my eyes don't want to stay open anyway. And most likely the smell will give me gorgeously Sapphic dreams that make me blush when I wake up in the morning and remember them.

Depression, Abuse, And All Those Miserable Things - And Shopping, Which Is Not

[This post contained personal information about a friend of mine. I need to speak to her before I put it up, and she may say no.]

Half-Nekkid Wednesdays - Week 2 - White Dress

WARNING: This post contains pictures that may be seen by some to be suggestive.

[Yes, I know the glasses are in a weird place.]

Well, it's Wednesday in England.

And carrying on the demure theme again this week, I shall offer you one of my new sundress. My boobs are a bit squashed against my chest in this one, but I like it because it looks like I'm promising something.

You can decide whether I'm trying to pull the strap up or down. ;)

If I decide to go a little racier one of these weeks, I'll let you know!

Oh, and someone needs to let me know if the image shows - after a couple days of having pictures back, they've gone away again. *sigh*

Affirmation

"What did you do today, Sati?"

"I made five people feel loved."

The family can bitch. Let them. What I do, at work and at home, matters.

Accents

Lulu wrote a post about accents recently - let's make sexy talk, part II - and in true Sati-style, I wrote an essay as a reply. So much so, that I decided perhaps I should post it here.

It's not as organized as my usual blog posts, but oh well. As stoned out of my skull as I am right now - three different painkillers, two different antibiotics - we're all lucky that I can put one letter in front of another.

I said:
Bite your tongue my Lady! British is not an accent, any more than American is. If you met me and Kidfos, you'd swear we were from opposite ends of the world.

I could go on forever about accents. I love them. I love learning them, too. I have a pretty good ear (and mouth?) for accents, and if I'm fairly well-acquainted with the area they come from (obviously I can't do it if I have no prior knowledge) I can often pinpoint, with quite good accuracy, where they come from. I was with a South African guy a few weeks ago who was amazed because not only did I recognize him as being South African, I also recognized that he was raised in the Jo'burg area - even though he lived in Cape Town - because his AH sounds were broader than most Cape Towners. Also, after spending an hour or so in someone's company I can usually pick up their pattern of speech.

Can't do it all the time, of course.

I love all white South African accents, and most Black South African accents too - although I find the tribal ones a little hard to understand sometimes. Probably the Port Elizabeth area is my favorite, it's very gentle and sounds really friendly at the same time as sounding like the guy's undressing you with his voice.

I had a Ghanaian boyfriend with a gorgeous accent, and another whose accent I didn't like. Likewise, I had a Nigerian boyfriend whose voice made me instantly wet, and a one-night-stand whose voice did nothing for me. I don't know enough about either country to be able to tell whether this is regional or just unique to each man.

I like all Spanish accents, although they can be quite different. Central and Southern Spanish is the most romantic-sounding, and the closest to "true" Spanish. Catalunyan (the area around Barcelona) accents are quite broad and sibilant; the Catalan language is probably closer to Portugese than Spanish, and the accents when they're speaking English reflect this. Northern - the Basque territory - accents are much more staccato, a little harsher and choppier. Still sexy though, if not quite as much as the Southern ones.

Likewise, I like Central and South American accents, although I don't know enough about them to distinguish more than the basics. Like, I can tell the difference between Mexican and Nicaraguan, or between Cuban and Peruvian, but not much more than that.

Russian accents are hit-or-miss for me - if they're on a handsome man or beautiful woman they're divine, but if they're on someone I'm not atttracted to I find them hard to understand and just faintly disturbing. Yeah, I'm shallow, what of it? *sticks tongue out* And I know NOTHING about Russia - I can't tell the difference between a Moscow and a St. Petersburg accent, although I imagine I could if I actually spent some time around the people. (I only know one Russian person, and I don't remember where she's from.)

I love everything Japanese - big surprise there - but I find the far North and far South accents a little hard to understand, at least when they're talking in Japanese. I've never heard a Southerner (I mean south like Okinawa, not south like Tokyo) speak English, but the first Japanese person I knew was a half-Ainu northerner, and his English was really easy to understand. I can't comment on whether it was sexy or not, I think I was three.

The first guy I loved was Australian - from far north Queensland - and he had the sexiest accent EVER. I loved the way he said my name...sort of like SAA-dee. (Should be SAH-tee.)

Cajun accents make me hotter than just about anything I can think of. I have a friend from Louisiana who likes to teach me how to cook, and every time I try I have to be careful not to drool into the roux. I like Creole, too, although I haven't met so many of them.

I like the Luso accents you find amongst a lot of the Maine fishermen of Portuguese or Azorean descent. Even when they're on an old grizzled guy, they're still hot if I close my eyes. *grins*

Boston accents make me giggle a bit (sorry Molly), especially when they're on men, but they also make me inexplicably happy. I suppose because through most of my childhood, till I got sick, I always figured I'd end up at Harvard, and it still kind of feels like home.

The honeyed drawl that you sometimes find in the Carolinas makes my panties wet. I don't always go for Southern accents, but I like the lightness of the NC / SC ones.

My Mom has a Minnesota accent, although it's tapered off over the years - I think I retain more of it than she does, actually - and I really like that. I like the borderline Canadian-American accents a lot. Actually, her accent sounds a bit Alaskan - I guess they share some qualities. I hate to say it (like, I really REALLY hate to say it) but I like Sarah Palin's accent, it makes me smile and think of my Mom, the way she was when I was a kid.

I met a Navajo guy from NM last week, and for the last week I've gone to sleep thinking about his voice. Divine.

My own? Well, Brits pick up on the American in it, although none but the linguists can ascertain which part of America. Americans hear the British. I'd call it Home Counties with a dash of Minnesota, but then I'm like tofu - I pick up the flavor of whatever I'm around. If I spend a few days at work, and stay in London, then it's pure East London, almost cockney. If I visit rich friends in the country, I get that very proper, posh accent - I don't think it really has a name, but I always think of it as British Aristocracy - that sounds like I should be playing on a polo field. Of course, then I have to go back to work, immediately throw myself into talking street, and never EVER let on that I know what a chukka is.



If you're really interested, I have videos on the face place. Most of them are upside-down though, I can't always figure out the right way to hold the camera.

Enough detail for you, oh Goddess of Order and Indexing?

(I think I'd better pimp this on my blog, it's certainly long enough for an entire post.)
So I ask the same question - what do you find sexy, accent-wise?

Oh, and the videos - yeah, they're just random ramblings of mine, usually sleep-deprived ones. Nothing sexy, but you can hear my voice. I was going to put some up on here, but then I'd have a bunch of jackasses asking me why I'm wasting space for things that aren't sex-related, and I can't make them friends-only because most of the people I interact with here aren't on my friends list. Dagnabbit people, if we talk on a regular basis, or even a semi-regular basis, and if you're a frequent commenter here, then add me to your list! I can't add, I don't have the shiny balls. I'd like to be able to make friends-only posts sometimes.

Half-Nekkid Wednesdays - Week 1 - White Corset

WARNING: This post contains lingerie pics that some readers may find offensive.

Everyone's dear friend BlackHeatLust set up this lovely game here - Half-Nekkid Wednesday: The Body Is such A Beautiful Thing!!!! - and I've been greatly enjoying everyone's submissions. So much so that I decided to play today.

I'm not sure I got all the rules right though.

Happy Wednesday!

Ask Sati Anything! Roll Up, Roll Up, One-Time Offer...

The kidney infection seems to have mostly gone, but I have a really nasty case of trigeminal neuralgia. Also an impacted wisdom tooth that seems to have gotten infected. Between the two of them, this is agony that I've only felt when I've had the ear infections.

So I'm totally hopped up on pain meds, which are only making a few dents in the pain, but are making me act very, very drunk. I'm finding it hard to type this, in fact - every second word I have to go back and correct typos.

I have NO barriers right now. So go ahead, ask me anything. Anything you ever wanted to know but didn't feel like you could ask. Anything I haven't covered in a blog post. Anything at all. This is your chance to get total candor on any subject, even the ones that would normally make me blush.

It's a one-time only offer, ladies and gents. Or even sluts and pervs.

OK, I lie. Maybe it's not a one-time only offer. Maybe I'll make this a sticky post - a couple of my friends have them, and I think they're fun.

I shall respond between bouts of wailing and periods of knocked-out sleep.

Kisses.

England Is Still Here...I Repeat, England Is Still Here

Full of alien creatures whose behaviors I cannot understand, but still here.

Although the last few weeks have been strange enough for me to wonder if something's up with those prophecies after all. ;)

Signs that the world may be coming to an end:

1 ) I actually bought something in Primark. This only happens once in a blue moon, since I don't really like Primark. I'm more of a Jane Norman / Calvin Klein / Tommy Hilfiger person - or at least a New Look / H&M person - but I couldn't resist £9, 100% cotton sundresses. You know how hard it is to find 100% cotton anything?

2 ) After many years of running small, Primark's sizes now run big, and the size 16 dresses - US 12 - are considerably too large. I should have bought the 14s, but they were too small up top. I guess not everything changes.

3 ) I've been ordering new dishes from the Indian takeaway. Normally I am not inventive when it comes to restaurant food - home cooking, sure, but I eat out (or takeaway) seldom enough that I usually stick to things I know that I like, and am not allergic to. But I missed the college days when Sanjeeta and Ivy and I would go to new places all the time, so I experimented. And it was good.

4 ) I found a gorgeous pair of cream satin pointy-toed shoes...and THEY WERE IN MY SIZE. I'm always finding and coveting shoes like this, and they're always a size 4, whereas I wear a 7-8 in heels.

The Date That Didn't Happen

I promised to tell you what happened, yes?

Well, the short answer is, nothing. We'd arranged for him to come and visit sometime in the late morning, after a music rehearsal and before he had to go to work at 4. He texted me at about 2, saying that his rehearsal ran over and he wouldn't be able to make it, as it took about an hour to get here on the bus (buses in this town are ridiculous; even though he lives at the uni in the next town over, less than 10 miles away, when we were doing the Japanese it took me an hour and a half each way) and as soon as he got here he'd have to turn around and go home.

Fair enough, I said. You're busy, you're working two jobs and going to school full time. I figured he'd text me later, since a couple hours before he'd been saying I should message him anytime and he'd always reply.

And then in the afternoon he either blocked me from his faceplace profile, or he deleted it. Because I can't find it, and he's disappeared from my friends list. And when I texted him asking if he was OK, and mentioning that his profile had disappeared, he didn't reply.

*sigh* People are strange.

My best guess is that he's feeling embarrassed with me, even though he told me emphatically - both the night before last, and several times before - that he doesn't ever get embarrassed about speaking his mind, and that once he comes to trust a person he always says what he feels. I believe him, too - I haven't met many people in my life who can say that they never lie about their thoughts and emotions, but he's one of them. Although he was reserved when I first met him, and had walls that I wondered if I would ever be able to scale, since we became good friends he's never hidden any of his feelings from me that I can tell, even the darkest and most painful ones. And I've never once known him to tell a lie, either. If he doesn't want to talk about something he says he doesn't want to talk about it - he did that a few times, back when I was first getting to know him - but he doesn't lie.

I've kind of taken a vow to treat him the same way, and never lie to him. This won't be easy for me, since I have a habit of - well, not lying exactly, but evading, and occasionally misleading, and not disclosing the whole truth, in order to try and spare a loved one's feelings. But my instincts tell me strongly that he is a rare person, one of the few left with a totally open heart - an innocent, if you like - and that total honesty is the only possible way to make this thing work. Whatever this thing is. I don't yet know what it is - first and foremost he's my dear friend, and I want him to always be my dear friend. Would there ever be anything more? Only time will tell.

And no, I don't feel that he's being dishonest with me by avoiding me, or by telling me he never gets embarrassed. There's a first time for everything, after all.

Chances are we'll talk again soon. I hope. Whatever happens, we'll work it out.

I do miss him, though. Already.

9am Is Not A Myth

[K did not come to visit, and never spoke to me again after this point, with no explanation given. And my world went dark, and still hasn't quite lightened up again yet.]

Oh yes, my lambkins. It's not just something that's made up to scare people. I'm sure I knew this once upon a time, but I think I buried all memories of this ungodly hour along with other traumatic experiences of high school.

Of course, I was up till 6.30. Night shifts and all.

Why am I up, you ask? Well, my plans for the day involve meeting up with Kurisu-san, who I still have just a teensy weensy crush on (um, OK, a crush the size of Jupiter) and hanging out, catching up, and somewhere along the line convincing him that he doesn't really want to sleep with me, he needs to try and work things out with the girlfriend he still loves, or at the very least sit down with her and have an honest talk about why they're having problems.

Why am I doing this? You know, I've been asking myself that for awhile and although I've come up with half a dozen answers, I don't have one that's completely satisfying. I'm doing it because people need to communicate in relationships, and when you love someone you don't throw aside what you have when it gets hard, until you've at least made a decent effort to talk it through and try and come to a solution, or at least an understanding of how you both feel. I'm doing it because he's young, and lacking in self-confidence, and he doesn't understand that there are a hundred reasons why a woman might not seem like herself for awhile, and most of them don't have anything to do with whether you're still attractive or not. I'm doing it because he's a close friend, and I love him dearly and I want to see him happy. And because love should be fought for.

Never mind that last night he seemed very flirty and very interested in me. Never mind that I still respond to him emotionally, and that even though our conversation wasn't particularly risque, the thought that he finds me attractive was a huge shock and a huge turn-on.

Fuck. Why am I doing this?

Oh yes, because I'm Bambi. I'm all moral and shit like that.

Even though I haven't had sex in months. And even though I know instinctively that sex with K would be something on a whole new level to anything I've experienced up to this point.

Rargh.

Karma. Focus on the karma, and the potential disaster of hooking up with a friend because he's in a bad place emotionally. Not a good situation.

Focus. Be a friend. He needs a friend more than he needs a hormone-riddled booty call.

I'll catch you up on how it goes later. For now you can go and read more about K if you want:

(In chronological order, earliest to latest: )

[None of these links work on here. I'll try and put in ones to the posts on this site soon.]

On Euphony And Dissonance, OR Why Kidfos Needs A Spanking

Kidfos is so gonna get his ass kicked!

Anyone who's been reading me more than a couple months - which I think is most of you; I haven't gained many new watchers lately - know that The Kid took over my blog awhile back, when I got cut off the internet. Much mayhem occurred, resulting in me nearly getting kicked off the site, Kid getting warned to stop fucking with guys on IM, and a couple of people stopping watching my blog.

In hindsight, when he told me he signed me up for a bunch of groups, I should have considered the possibility that he was telling the truth. However, we all know I'm a bit naive (<-- did I spell that right? For some reason my spelling's been off for a couple of days; I'm forgetting words that I've known perfectly well for most of my life) and I thought he was just joking. I never go on the groups page, and I only check out my main profile page when I've changed something. So it wasn't until last night that I actually saw them on my profile.

Apparently for the last month or two, Sati has been a member of "Girls Watching Guys On Cam" and "WhiteWomenWhoCraveBlackMen".

Of course, I immediately picked up my phone and yelled at him. "KIDFOS, YOU S.O.B., get your ass on here and explain!" Well, no, I didn't say that, quite. It was four in the morning, and I have enough problems with sleeping that I try not to disturb others when they're getting their shut-eye. But I did text him, and then spent the next half hour holding my head in my hands and calling him a fucktard.

Now I'm trying to figure out why I'm embarrassed by this, when there should be nothing embarrassing about it. I don't actually cam with guys, but if I did, so what? As for the other - yeah, I like Black guys. I like white guys too, and Asian guys, and Hispanics and Native Americans - not that we get a whole lot of those last two around here. None of my dating habits have ever been a secret, not since I started dating properly when I was 17. That's part of living in London. With the exception of a handful of religious and cultural groups, in London nobody bats an eyelid when it comes to dating different races. When I'm dating Americans, or people from outside the South East of England, the subject of race comes up quite a bit, particularly when they're a different race to me. I'll meet a (non-white) guy who's not a Londoner, and if we're interested in each other, I can guarantee that during that first conversation he'll ask me if I've ever been with a Black (or Asian, or Middle Eastern etc) guy. And we'll talk about things, and ascertain that neither of us has a problem with it. By contrast, London guys never ask me this, because it simply does not occur to them that it COULD be a problem.

But I digress. I was talking about the embarrassment. Obviously it's not because I care about people finding out who I'm attracted to. Lord knows I talk enough about droolworthy men in various blogs of mine. I think the embarrassment that I felt - and still feel - is connected to the word CRAVE. I associate cravings with wickedness and sin. I crave Krispy Kremes. I crave a lazy afternoon on my bed with Beverly Barton romance books or Frank Downey erotica. I crave encounters in dark alleys with men who'll push me up against the wall and have their wicked way with me. All of those things, and anything else that I would use the word CRAVE for, are things that hold some element of naughtiness. I would never say that I craved cranberry juice, or the ocean, or sunshine, because none of those things have that darkness, that wickedness, that I always associate with the word.

Word choices can be funny things. I've always had a good head for words. Until my head injury, my mom used to laugh at me and call me her walking talking thesaurus, because I had such an extensive vocabularly - but it was more than that. I had an innate sense of how a word should be used. I guess this was partly some inherent quality, but also something that grew - unintentionally - as I grew, and read so many books. Mom found it amusing and charming, but PaPa really thought it was a gift, and tried hard to nurture it. I remember countless times in my childhood and teens, and even early twenties, when we'd play word games.

LIKE:
"Don't say weird, darling. You use weird too much. What are some other words for it?"

"Um, odd?"

"Good, what else?"

"Unusual. Unorthodox."

"And?"

"Strange, bizarre, kooky, outre, atypical."

"Carry on."

"Abnormal, aberrant. Uncommon. Unique. Wacky, crazy, eccentric. Quirky, offbeat, off-the-wall. Nonconformist. Idiosyncratic. Phantasmagorical."

...
And so it went.

Since the head injury I've been less skilled with words. I have many days now when I can't even put a coherent sentence together, let alone write something worth reading.

I'm digressing again. It happens, especially lately.

But word choices...those have always fascinated me. I love to write, even now when I'm not so good at it. I love just letting my thoughts flow from my brain to my hands, and knowing that the right words will come at the right time, knowing that I'll be able (I hope) to find the ones that will create maximum impact. And although it can be uncomfortable, I also love watching the discord that sometimes happens when the wrong choice is made, particularly when the word chosen is one that SHOULD be synonymous.

For example, I've always been particularly intrigued by the word erotic. Erotic, taken from Eros. Used to describe the tantalising aspects of sex. (That's my definition, btw - I'm sure any dictionary you find will have a better one.) Eros was an ancient god of love, as Venus was a goddess of love, so by all rights you should be able to substitute venereal for erotic in any given sentence - but you can't. It doesn't work. Something - perhaps the modern-day usage of venereal to describe sexually transmitted diseases, or perhaps some inherent dissonance in the word itself - prevents it from sounding right.

Likewise, the word CRAVE in the context that it's used here leaves me feeling strange. You could substitute LIKE, or LOVE, or even WANT, and I would not feel the embarrassment that I do. Belonging to a group called Women Who Love Black Men? Big whoop, so what? That doesn't bother me in the slightest.

Now the cam group...that's another matter entirely.

How about you guys? Got any examples of words that should fit a situation, but sound completely wrong? Or even any cravings you'd like to tell me about? *grins*

So, Um, Yeah...It's My Birthday...

And I had a WONDERFUL day.

Nothing too active, since I'm too darn sleepy. I spent the whole of last night in a miserable, wired-up state (it's that whole exhausted = doped up thing again) but by about 6am I felt OK. I texted Light Of My Life, who has his Organic Chem exam today, and wished him good luck. He was panicking a bit so I talked to him for a while, and tried to remind him that he's a smart, competent guy and there's no reason he shouldn't do well. Well, aside from the fact that he's spent most of his time this year working and trying to placate his gold-digger wife, but I didn't mention that. *rolls eyes*

(Can we pretend I didn't say that last sentence? Cheers.)

He asked me what I was planning to do today, so I jokingly told him, sit in the front garden in my blue bikini and worry about you. And then I sent him a picture (although not in the front garden, at 6am it was too cold to go out there) to which he replied, "Haha, lucky bikini!"

I have no idea if that means, "Oh, a lucky bikini, just like you have lucky earrings / socks / hair ornaments," or if it means, "Wow, lucky bikini to be covering your breasts." Knowing him, it could mean either, or both, and I didn't like to ask for clarification. It's not a great picture; I'm still at that phase of chubbiness where I don't look good unclothed unless I use weird angles. Oh well.

So I obliged, and lay in the sun for him while he was in his exam. And then I opened cards, and presents, and ate cake. God, I love birthday cake, even though I know that all that sugar gives me a stomachache. Tony and Debbie and Christie gave me this beautiful rustic wood sewing box, and Mom gave me TrueBlood seasons 1 and 2 - which I was overjoyed with - and some really lovely black and royal blue underwear, which I'll try and get a picture of later. I think it's going to be too small in the boobs, but oh well, they'll just have to spill over the top. I got a check from Papa and Stepmama, but of course I had to deposit that back in February when they sent it to me, or it'd be out of date by now.

I'm supposed to be going to dinner with Ma now, although my stomach has been acting up a little bit, and I'm not sure if I should put it off for a few days. I'll see how I am in a couple minutes.

And of course the party is on Sunday. I'm still a little nervous, but things seem to be coming together - Tony and Debbie are coming, and he said he'd try and bring the big BBQ round tomorrow so I don't have to go buy one, and Ma said she'd make a vegetable pancake bake and a potato salad and an apple cobbler, and I have affirmative responses from a handful of people, plus a couple nos (Ricky can't afford the train fare, Zia is visiting a cousin that week and Ellie, my best girlfriend, has to put her doggie down - very sad) plus one or two who aren't sure yet. Curt says definitely yes, although you can't ever be quite sure of him until the moment he turns up, so that'll be really nice; I haven't seen him in a couple months.

Yeah, I'm still worrying a bit, but I'm remembering to breathe.

So yeah, that's about it. It was a nice day, aside from the stomachaches. Although - the weather reports are now saying that Sunday we'll have rain. After I deliberately chose Sunday instead of Saturday because it was supposed to be the best weather of the week. Bastards.

(I'm not sure who are the bastards...the weather sprites, maybe?)

But I'm keeping my fingers crossed.

I wish you were going to be here, though.