Cath's 2004 Wrap-Up

At the close of this earthly transit around the sun, I felt it appropriate to look back over the last 360 or so days, and perhaps contemplate the coming year. As has been chronicled before, I am not one for making resolutions when all others around choose to do so. Nevertheless, the long weekend does give one more than ample opportunity for a little naval gazing. So what has 2004 brought me?

1. Well firstly, and most importantly, this Blog began this year. A creative outlet on occasion, or just a forum to vent. Thanks to all who visit, and even more so to those who re-visit and comment.

2. An outstandingly large number of bad dates and bad men. Who can forget Tracksuit Man, and of course, the lovely, but most unfortunately visaged, Shrek. There were many other men this year that I attempted to date, or at least, had sex with - but they were not mentioned due to a variety of reasons. Possibly due to me not wanting to look like too much of a tart - or maybe they were just not blog-worthy.

3. I think the year wrap-up would not be complete without some mention of B. Such joy and such despair, all within 5 months.

4. Another fabulous Tap Show and special glamour notations to the wonderful "Sunny Boy Showbags". A lovelier bunch of show-girls I daresay you will never find. Supportive, loving and glamorous, all in the same wonderful collective of ladies.

5. Work has not been as fabulous as I would have liked. But, it is still there and paying me - end of story.

6. I gained a flatmate, who certainly challenges me. The stress levels have increased, but so has the bank balance.

7. Personal growth, as well as some new and wonderful friends. I can happily add Goldie, and probably most significantly, S. L7 as always, whose friendship is never wavering despite the many challenges I throw up at her. Big kisses to all.

8. Some friends got married , and some others, surprisingly, had a beautiful baby. All happy moments that I am proud to have been part of.

They seem to be about it for now. Lots of other more dull things of course, overseas trips and the like, but not worth the mentioning.

As for the New Year, well I had said at the start of this year that if I didn't have a relationship by the end of the year, I was going to get a cat. I fear that tomorrow may see me at the RSPCA, but I reserve the right to change my mind. Who knows what should happen by midnight tonight?

That's a little hard to swallow

I have never been squeamish when it comes to what I put in my mouth.

I will eat anything - and any part of anything. Brain, liver, tongue, stomach - all is good - when cooked right of course. But I must admit to failing in further stretching of my gastronomic wings. My parents are visiting me at the moment for the festive season, and I wanted to take them out to lunch yesterday. In very non-yuletide style, I took them for Yum Cha, where I had previously dined with my Mother. The feature dish to impress my Father, who is known for his iron constitution, was to be Chicken Feet.

The dish presented itself midway through our repast. The lid of the steamer was lifted to present four delicately spiced aforementioned appendages. My Father eagerly dove and retrieved his foot. I also reached forth eagerly and grabbed a portion for myself. To our great surprise, my Mother also helped herself to one.

My Father devoured his and praised the heavens for such a morsel of flavour. I looked at my plate and inspected the foot. Up until this point, I was just as eager to try something new. But as I looked at it, I realised that it looked far too, well, "foot-like" for my taste. I could imagine the feet clawing the ground - each phalange prominent and looking very much like it would rather be scraping some seed, than being shoved unceremoniously in my mouth. I paused.

I looked up to see my Mother opposite me, taking her foot, and pretending to stroke her face with it in a manner of some affection. She then proceeded to savour each part of the foot. Sucking on the toes (a la Fergie), and lingering over the lower leg.

It was all too much. I passed the foot to my father, and took another serve of rice.

Alas, I have finally found my epicurean limits.

Which instrument are you?

As tempted as I may be to pine about B, I will refrain for the moment. Of course, it still hurts, but it doesn't make good reading.

In the next few days I will be losing my "Messiah" virginity.

Having been in a large choir of one type or another for quite a few years now, I am considered a bit of an oddity not to have performed a "Messiah" yet. Circumstances beyond my control have meant that it has not been possible until this year. So, it is a bit of choral milestone that I am about to face.

Looking over the faces of the members of the orchestra last night, one can easily draw conclusions about the people and their instrument of choice. I once heard that people don't choose an instrument; it chooses them. Maybe so, but what would you say if the instrument that chose you was something completely un-sexy.

Many people find the cello the sexiest of all instruments. Having dated a cellist, I cannot disagree. Perhaps it is due to the fact that the instrument is so lovingly cradled between the legs, that it renders a certain erotic value. Artistic interpretations of cellos, like the beautiful work of Man Ray lend a feminine and sensuous mystique to the instrument.

But, I ask you - what would possess anyone to play the French Horn? I am sure it is a fine instrument, but any instrument that requires fisting as part of the playing technique - is not for me.

Hello Shelf, my old friend - I am back again.

I gave myself one task at the beginning of this year. It was to actively seek a fulfilling and meaningful relationship. Did I achieve this goal? Well, yes. But perhaps I should have specified that I also desired longevity.

My romance and relationship with B, as has been chronicled here, has been one of the most wonderful experiences of my life. He encompassed so much of what I have always wanted. But now it is over. My heart hurts. I can't stop crying. It takes all my strength to attempt to be sociable.

When I told this news to a friend this morning, he said, "Well you should be good at being dumped by now - it happens so much!". In time, this will get funnier, but right now, it just feels a little too true and painful.

As B was breaking up with me, he said that he loved me. But it would appear not enough.

All Hail the Great Moody One!

If someone were to be kind in a description of me, they might use the word passionate. (They might also use the word loquacious but that is for another blog entry I fear.) When I am "good", I can be full of joie de vivre and provide sparkling repartee (and an inappropriate joke for good measure) in any situation.

But when I am "bad"... as according to Longfellow's poem, I can be just "horrid".

The problem of course is not just the fact that I have these incredible moods. But that they change so quickly and with seemingly little provocation. When my moods are in full flight, I can make Carrie look like she was just mildly annoyed.

So I decided to go to the doctor earlier this week and request a blood test. I have had thyroid problems in the past, and one of the more curious side effects is its effect on mood. Although I have been in remission now for well over five years, there is always potential for it to return, so I remain on the alert for any symptoms. I dutifully presented my arm to the phlebotomist (described by my GP as the "lovely Paul" - and she was right), confident in the fact that the numbers would show quite clearly that the thyroid is misbehaving and I am not insane.

Well the results came through today and sad to say, I have nothing wrong with my thyroid. Here I was hoping to pin my nightmare moods onto something physiological, and it turns out that I am simply just a BITCH.

So as they say in the classics "BITE ME". (They say that in the classics don't they - I am sure they do!)

The perfect afternoon out

I went to the movies by myself on the weekend. Not a big thing to reveal really. I would much rather have gone with someone, but noone was available and really I couldn't be bothered to go down the list of contacts.

I remember my very first time at a movie by myself. I had been separated from my husband for all of about a month and was working away from home for a couple of weeks. Working in a small town, with little to entertain me, I decided to catch a movie at the local cinema. But the whole experience turned rather traumatic. As I lined up to get my ticket, I felt like the entire town had come to witness it. "Look over there, that newly single woman is trying to secrete her way into the cinema....".

The only way I could alleviate the stress of the whole moment was to pretend I was there with someone. I pulled out my phone and rang a good friend and had them talk me into the cinema. I tried to go in when the lights were sufficiently dimmed so that noone would spot me. No such luck there, and worse still as I looked at my fellow patrons, it seemed to be "couples night" at the movies.

Eventually the lights dimmed and the movie began. I can remember the movie not only by the personal trauma involved in seeing it, but also by virtue of the fact that it was so goddamn awful (for those into details it was "Mickey Blue Eyes". For such a life-changing event, I should have waited for something a little more worth the memory.

Now, many years on, I can safely see a movie solo without the necessary phone calls to get me to my seat. I can in fact enjoy the whole experience without fear of any stigma - well, not much anyway.

So, Sunday brought me to a nearby cinema, unfortunately one of those horrid multiplex type things, but one at which I could get a cheap movie, and a free popcorn. I settled into my seat and surveyed my surrounds, as one does. Now this was a movie safe for a woman to see by herself. No couples clutching one another in desperation. A few gatherings of other women out for an afternoon together. And, more importantly, a healthy quota of many lone women, all seeking a little escapism on a miserable weekend afternoon.

Sometimes it is nice just to enjoy the company of oneself - as much as other people might find me difficult at times and high maintenance - I can always understand myself - lucky I reckon.

Four and counting....

I had dinner last night with a very good friend. During the course of the evening we discussed one of the taboo topics - Religion. Apparently, despite any or all of his current actions, he still classifies himself as Catholic. I admit to being a member of the ever-growing religion - lapsed Catholic. It has been a long time since I could identify with the ideals and motivations of the main-stream church. Further still, I find it difficult to believe in a deity of any type. But I digress.

My dear friend then contemplated the Ten Commandments. Firstly, we both had a great deal of trouble actually recalling them. The obvious ones were easy. Lots of "coveting" and the like, plus the ones about killing and adultery. Then it started to get a little scratchy and hazy in the memory banks. But his next contemplation was actually how many of the commandments he has broken. Perhaps a shocking thing to consider for someone who has just admitted to still identifying with Catholicism as his religion-du-jour.

At a rough guess, he estimated that he had broken seven of the ten. I am reckoning on about four for myself (although I am still a little hazy on the "coveting"). Anyone able to beat us?