Peaks and Valleys

Anyone who knows me, knows my emotions tend to peak and valley more than Frodo's route to Mordor. With age I have gained the wisdomosity to recognise when they will be valleying, which is of course a great step. They always say the first step is admitting you have a problem. Well done. Now what to do with that information.

First of all things that I now know set me off:
- loud noises
- bad smells
- crowded spaces
- disappointment
- shattered expectations (which goes hand-in-hand with my "problem" of setting extraordinary expectations, leading to my hopes always being shattered. For example a typical night out would result in a daydream of starting the dancing on the dancefloor, being watched while I complete an outrageous routine in a circle - usually involving several others joining in to my steps, being signed to a dance team, and as a result hosting SNL...it could happen.)
- douchebaggery
- snarky comments - from others, never my own
- hunger
- not being able to get a hold of someone by either phone, text, email
- negative feedback

That is a small list considering some people are set off by women in the work force...right?

One of my moment's of revelation was when I worked at a call centre and boss made all the supervisors take a personality test as a part of team building. We all found our results dead ringers of who we were and I was quite pleased with mine until I got to the second last comment "often plagued by dark thoughts, if you hear 99 positive comments and 1 negative, the 1 will stick in your head to fester." The test was overall positive and things I happily related to, but this one seemed to just stay in my mind. I turned it over and over in my mind and made a list of my so-called "dark thoughts." What a bullshit test.

Anyway, I have come up with several coping mechanisms to overcome my mini-rages such as

- watching episodes of Seinfeld (this is interesting to mention that this is opposite for my mother. In fact, this could be added to her list of things that set her off. One day I was home sick on a day that coincided with one of her mornings off. Just as my mum was about to sit down - cheeks centimetres hovering over the couch, I flicked to an episode of Seinfeld and she sprang back up like a Jack in the Box. She unleashed a slew of curses and refused to watch such "infuriating garbage" and if I didn't turn it she would withhold love from me from the rest of the morning. My mother feels very similar to South Park)
- reading - fiction, non-fiction can never break me from a funk, who wants to get out of their mood by reading about other people's struggles? Not me.
- writing
- dancing to Whitney Houston's I wanna dance with somebody...RIP
- looking at pictures of baby animals particularly kittens, puppies, pandas, piglets, and rodents (odd choice, I know, but have you seen a baby mouse? You are dead inside if you don't at least let out a sigh)
- speaking to my family and Mr. Bond - obv

I have recently been put to the ultimate test of emotional strength and positivity. My partner in crime, Mr. Bond has ventured to the lovely Mauritius for a work trip. Now before you start to groan, I want to clarify I am a fiercely independent person - I live in England away from all my family and friends for Christmas sake, so give me some credit. As I look out the window of my London flat, I think I recognise one of the emotions at play - jealousy. Bond has already messaged that he is starting to tan while I am here with my British tan (white as snow) and looking at a Spring grey sky.

I am also nearly in complete isolation this weekend. I spent a lovely Friday night with my closest friends in London and had a fabulous time but I needed to return to the flat to lesson plan and get back to life. The weather and workload are keeping me from exploring the city but now I know why solitary confinement is a severe punishment in prisons. I have begun to scratch out a daily tally chart on the wall with my fingernails and I swear Pinkball is following me with her eyes. I will play a game of monopoly with her later to make sure she stays happy enough to not kill me in my sleep.

Coupled with my beginning insanity, I do generally miss Mr. Bond as he is very fit. And funny. Oh and I do generally love him. Also, I am beginning to starve as he does cook the majority of the meals to ensure my bones don't crumble by the age of 30, my teeth stay in my skull, and I have something called an "immune system" to fight "sickness". I have begun to boil and chew my shoe leather as I saw it in an episode of Due South once.

I have begun to notice a slight shift in my positivity and I believe I might, just might, be heading for a valley. In preparation I have made my desktop a picture of a baby piglet, purchased the Hunger Games trilogy, made a Whitney playlist consisting of I wanna dance with somebody, and planned out a rigorous skype schedule. I am also writing this blog daily to see how I do. Check back daily to see if Pinkball has locked me in the bathroom and supplied me with only my wellies for a meal.

Now for a cheer-you-up, take a gander at what I mean:

Baby badger. Awww

Payback

Well there have been no further mouse spottings or deaths in the Haus of Mousie. so this is a different kind of payback.

I love to read. I need to read everyday and before bed or I can't sleep. I have stacks of books on my bedside table and reading lists from 2009 that always seem to carry over to the next year. One problem great thing with London is that there are bookshops everywhere and every station I go into has a bookstall close by for me to creep through. This inevitably leads to me purchasing new books and expanding my reading list. Sadly, the moment I feel I have control over the books I am going to read, WH Smith has a book sale (buy 1 book, get 6 free) and I have another huge stack to get through. I have been meaning to read Wuthering Heights for months now, but a new We Need to Talk About Kevin comes out and I have to snatch it up.

 

Why I read.

My book club doesn't help this sick addiction either, because 80-something year old ladies refer to me all these life-changing books that I just HAVE to read. This also brings with it their movie adaptations that I must see because it-is-nothing-like-the-book-but-just-as-poignant-and-life-altering-as-its-literary-match. Book club also messes up the order of the reading list, because there is a time pressure that comes with it. I have to read and research my latest book before our next meet, otherwise I will look like a chimp when Maggie (the 70-something year old retired English professor) says "the book has sweeping metaphors and symbolism similar, but not equal to that of Poe. Don't you agree Katie?" leaving me blank-faced and awe-inspired over these brilliant and revolutionary women. Something in their British accent also gives them an authority that makes my North American twang sound Neanderthal, "I think dem der books are mighty fine reads ma'am and I likes de looks of dem pages with all thurr words on it." So I am left to read book review after book review, and wikipedia pages of authors, publishers, print dates, etc.

One anthology we read in October had the ladies referencing the time periods the short stories were written in and they were comparing their previous works to this snippet. The women had of course NOT read the book in order from start to finish, but instead read by author according to those they liked the most to the least. They also referenced printing presses, cultural influences, and the authors' pets who undoubtedly shaped the entire text. I was baffled. I had read the book from start to middle and begrudgingly so as the stories used too many words like whilst and henceforth and I couldn't make out if the main character was happy or sad most of the time because the subtext was too coded.

Anyway, the point is, I have a lot of books and I search out only really classic, literary novels to read that will shape me as a person or entertain whole-heartedly. This is why I am deeply disappointed, if not disgusted, if a book misleads me. If I pick a shit book because I am in a hurry and don't put in the time, then it is my own fault. However, if I put in a solid 20 minutes into selecting your book, it better damn well be worth it. The last book I read had this on the front "Winner of the 2011 COSTA Novel Award" and "'Irresistibly compelling' - Daily Telegraph" "'Gripping' - The Times" and on the back a blurb of

Paris, 1785. A year of bones, of grave-dirt, relentless work. Of mummified corpses and chanting priests. A year of rape, suicide, sudden death. Of friendship too. Of desire. Of love.. A year unlike any other he has lived.

I think...win. This will at least be a thrilling novel, something like a Dan Brown to occupy my mind and rip me from my rut of non-fiction texts. The front of the book even has gold shiny bits! GOLD! The front-illustration is enough to draw me and many a ferret in. 

So when I get halfway through the book I am enraged. Halfway is about when you know, just know, this book won't pick up. It isn't getting any better and you have resigned yourself to boredom. Now, I am not as near death as some older readers, who might say "you don't have long to live, put it down and choose another." I still feel I have endless time so I NEED to finish a book. If I don't it's blasphemy AND it might turn into a Life of Pi, having a huge twist at the end, which completes my life. So I, of course, read a few book reviews and get a resounding womp womp from fellow readers. It is as boring as it is long. I express to Bond my boredom and how I am dragging through it just to finish and be rid of it. 

Now here comes my payback. In 1999 Mom and Sean gave me, A Book Lover's Diary which I have written in since. The front is inscribed, "Merry Christmas Katie! Keep on reading!" which I can't help but read in a Southern accent with intense twang, so it turns into a "keep onnnnnnnn readin!" It is here where I harbour my vengeance. I give the book half a star (can you believe it!), with a malicious review and undoubtedly tearing the author a new one. Ranting about pointless words, and plots that never amount to anything; unable to draw the reader in if it had my own name woven into it. I know it might seem small to you, but I give a maniacal laugh after I place my last full stop on the page, writing something like "Who should read this book? No one." MUAHAHAHA! Revenge at last. Eat that boring authors! I will recommend your book to no one! MUAHAHAHA! It is the ultimate shame to be placed in this part of my book diary. They WILL never know my rage!

2011 Fall 2012 Spring Booklist

Mousecapades

The time for sentiment is over. I purchased a second box of After Eights to replace my the mouse's first and left it on our desk in the living room. This morning I found this:

They have managed to crawl up a table leg onto the desk, sort through the papers, find the After Eights and nibble the chocolate off from the mint.

Rage has led to retaliation...
and here it is.





Fool me once shame on you, fool me twice...

Sadness - warning for the animal lover

Unfortunately and very sadly, war means murder. Not death, murder. I was saddened today that one of the mice was found in our traps that we set. In the B & Q store (our Home Depot) Bond and I stood in the aisle staring at the various ways you can rid your house of pets. We looked for humane traps, things to deter them from entering, and unfortunately we had the tough decision to make about how to kill them. Bond was very sensitive to me, seeing my eyes with tears most of the trip. Why are mice made so damn fluffy? Why do they have the most adorable whiskers that twitch when you speak to them and they sniff your hand? Having owned mice for three years, the thought of trying to actively kill them was tragic. I wish our house was invaded by creepy crawlies, which I have no problem removing having Bond remove. However, even then, I ask Bond to move the creature outside instead of squashing in a tissue.

It didn't help that at the moment we decide for a mousetrap, that a crazy old lady starts spinning a tale of how she caught them with just a few tools from Poundland. Her graphic description of their capture and inevitable torture was enough to and did, send me over the edge. I think she got the message when Bond just about stabbed her in the throat with his eyes.

To appease me, we bought copious amounts of mouse deterrent such as sound sonars to irritate them, but we did have to buy several traps.

This morning, first one up because my bladder is the size of a walnut with the elasticity of skinny jeans (none), I saw the little friend dead on the carpet with a shining silver necklace. I know this is a First-World problem, but I do feel really saddened by its death and I have cried several times. I guess this is why Britain started the plague in the first place, a bunch of genuinely kind-hearted animal lovers refused to kill the fuzzy rodents and instead shared some bread with them (and skin cells). We have reset the traps and I fear the worst. Also, to add to my sadness, the poor fellow left a stain on the carpet which will haunt me much like Lady Macbeth.

Out, out damned spot.

This is war

It's 11:45am and I want chocolate. I know, don't judge. I remember that I just purchased a fresh box of After Eights and they are sitting in my purse. I go into the bag, see some of the chocolate scraped away from the sides but without a worry plop it into my mouth. Seconds later, while the chocolate is still dissolving, I see nibble marks all over the side of the box and funny...all the tops of the chocolates! MIIIICCCEEEEE!!!! I spit out what's left in my mouth and scream. Mice were in MY purse, eating MY chocolates! I continue to dig through after cursing to Bond for several minutes, only to find dozens of mini-poops and pee! I know it is pee because it is yellow on the ball of kleenex I have stuffed in their for my cold.
No animal comes between me and my morning pick-me-up. No one.









I would also like to add that there had been no sightings of mice until I brought home THIS from Canada after my Christmas visit, a mouse doorstop. This must have been a BIG welcome into our home, having such a false idol laid at their feet. Similar to a light in the window of the Underground Railway, all mice welcome here. Something must be done.

The Great Mouse Detective

So as usual, I promise to blog more only to do my usual one post per month. Get in and get out. It's a shame because I have great ideas to write about during my day, however after the commute home in pitch-black London fog, I lose my gusto to write. So again, I am losing my fan base faster than a Lost-J.J. Abrams hiatus. For that I am sorry.

I guess I just need to be truly inspired or compelled to write something and here it is...a sweet nugget of a tale that just popped up in my life.

I got a text from Mr. Bond on Thursday that read something like, "hey darling hope you have a great day, can't wait to see you tonight. By the way, some bad news, we have mice. Talk later." Oh ok, we have mice. Thanks Bond. Is that a British term for dust bunnies? Are the mice frozen because you have purchased a larger reptile that needs mice to eat to survive? Are we in the business of mice? I, of course call to clarify only to hear Bond confirm a terrible fear that we in fact have mice infesting the house as evidenced by a chewed-through bin bag on the floor and a pretend sighting of the mouse scampering across the kitchen. (Bond swears he saw the mouse, however stories keep changing under pressure and I am certain the sighting was created to add credibility to a shady encounter).

I have now reached THE greatest dilemma of my adult life which intersects my beliefs in a germ-free living space and an animals-have-souls philosophy. Let me remind you of an earlier post where I apologize to my old and decrepit stuffed animal when he/she falls onto the floor in the night. I still have dreams that Strawberry is just hiding in the closet and I will open it to be reunited with that sweet smell of old cat dander. Of course I realize that if something isn't done, our flat will become something like Apocalypse Now where I enter the room only to find Bond huddled on the tile kitchen floor surrounded by rows of mice on the countertops, fridge, and cupboards - all sporting red bandanas and bows and arrows made from toenail clippings and staples. So I ask around the workplace and hear of this fantastic option to simply buy a high-pitched noisemaker that emits a whistle sound, out of range for human ears, the mice don't like so they kindly pack their cheese and go.

So when I get home before Bond, I inspect the area and do in fact find evidence of critters (small bag nibbles) but no droppings or fur. I have deduced that they have only taken residence in the last 24 hours as we left the bag on the floor the day before to leave more room for rubbish. (This should be an entirely other blog entry where I comment that bin bags are made to hold 3 times the amount of waste that a can holds and what a waste of a earth-destroying plastic only for a few items). Bond comes home and decides to spend our Friday night cleaning from top to bottom with bleach (appreciated, but having owned mice I am not too bothered, and would rather them join us on the couch for a few episodes of Modern Family and a bottle of wine).

Anyway, there have been no further sightings of mice and I have now deemed in my head (not in Bond's) that a high-pitched noise-maker would be equally as cruel as we do not know how painful this will be for said critters. Having removed all sources of mouse attraction, I am certain they will not return. However, last night around 3am I woke up worrying whether or not the mice would have enough food to last the winter. It is snowing here in London now, and they might not have anywhere to go outside of our humble yet welcoming flat. I had to stop myself from leaving a small sliver of cheese in the crack of our wall. Again guilt plays on my mind as my childhood flashbacks of Muppets Christmas Carol enters my conscious; "No cheeses for us meeses."

Possible other sources of this guilt:
- reading books such as School Mouse, Mouse and the Motorcycle, the Witches, and Desperaux during critical growth periods
- owning mice - three beautiful bundles of piss, Toonce, Magillicutty, and Johnson
- watching a documentary on mice brains waves in university (they THINK like US)
- definitely reading above-mentioned books

All I can picture now are a family of mice wearing tiny hats, with over-sized ears popping out from under them, riding around on my electric toothbrush, and typing emails to their friends on my mac when I am at work. Who could kill/pierce their ears with noise?

House mice - friend or foe...you be the judge.

Liquid Glow

Well a two week visit at home flies by so quickly. I spent as much time as I could with people but it still wasn't enough. I didn't get to spend as much time with family and friends (especially bffs) as I wanted and there are some important people I didn't even get a chance to see. All I can say is blame time not my heart.

While sitting in the airport I realize it's not the country, open spaces, family, or friends I will miss the most but instead...the water. Yes, I will miss the tri-city area's water the most. We complain about it's quality and people are still lobbying to take certain things out or put more chemicals in but quite frankly, shut up. My skin has never been more fab than it is now when returning from London. London water is like bathing in a swamp. I swear I have seen algae squirt out of my tap and I have washed my make up off with a lily pad. I am dreading the first wash when I touch down in the New World, so I have decided to prolong much to Mr. Bond's disappointment. I just can't risk the red flare up that will surely ensue. There is also the threshold point of prolonged wash - to - grease factor. If I wait too long, perchance I will make my skin situation worse. Either way, I know I won't be seeing this Canadian glow for a long time.

It was good to be back. I missed everyone and the little things like hearing my accent everywhere. I hope to be back soon to visit. Good bye Canada, and thank you for the water.