My Life in the Slow Lane

I sat there on the lounge, fidgeting. I couldn’t move and couldn’t sit still at the same time; the adrenaline rushed through my veins and made my skin elastic as it seeped in.

“Ok Dan, in you come,” the woman said.

I got up, hands trembling, and walked into the back room of the studio. She sat me down across from her, a stool between us. All the paraphernalia sat in place on a shelf to her right: Alcohol wipes, sorboline, tissues, the gun.

She wiped my arm with alcohol and wiped it dry. Then she picked up a piece of paper with writing on it and placed it on my arm. She saturated it in alcohol and quickly whipped it off. The words remained, printed in purple on my arm:

“So what does it mean anyway?” Ben asked. We sat outside on my veranda, smoking most likely, one quiet evening a few weeks or months ago. I don’t remember the exact date or time of this conversation, only its contents.

“It’s a quote from Santa Teresa de Avila,” I explained. “The translation is ‘It is love alone that gives value to all things’.”

“Awesome, man!”

“I mean, I guess after the last few months in particular, I’ve been thinking about love a lot, right.”

Ben nodded.

“I realised something recently that has got me to the point where I wanted it tattooed on my body. I guess after everything with John, right, that I realised that although I was kinda pissed off at ‘love’, like it’s a person or something, I still believe in it. Because, ultimately, after everything that happened between us, everything he did to hurt me, everything I regret about the break-up, none of that shit negates the love I felt. None of it disproves love’s existence. And none of negates or will negate the love I will experience in the future.

“That’s just love of a partner, anyway,” I continued, taking a long drag from the mostly unsmoked cigarette in my hand. “There’s love of God. There’s love of your mother and father. Your family. Your friends. Yourself. That’s the thing, man. Love is everywhere, in all our relationships, and it makes them valuable. It gives them meaning. Without love it’s not a relationship, I think, it’s an acquaintance.

“And, yeah, love hurts when it’s abused, but it’s the value of the relationship, which is borne of the love you share or shared, that makes it hurts so much.

“Even in heartbreak, this quote stands true.”

“You ready?” she asked.

I nodded.

“Cool. Let’s begin.”

She dipped the gun in the small thimble of ink and hovered it above my skin. She looked me in the eye for a split second, then returned her concentration to my arm.

The needle went in. And out. And in. And out.

At first, I didn’t dare look at my arm. I was petrified that if I saw the needle going in, saw the words being imprinted into my skin, that I would have get faint and have trouble staying upright. I couldn’t resist—I was too excited—so I took a peek. I watched as she slowly moved the needle around, carefully tracing the purple pattern and the black writing took shape.

Only at that point did I realise it was permanent. Not like permanent-texta-permanent, but actually indelible; no amount of metho could get this out.

Now it’s etched into my skin, on my arm where I can always see it, to remind me when I start to forget that “it is love alone that gives value to all things.”

I’m having a sick day today.  I got half way to work and thought better of it; my head was pounding, my nose was blocked and I felt like crap.  I turned around, went home, and went straight to bed.

This afternoon I got up and made some cookies, because I figured I needed some comfort food.  They are so tasty, and so easy to make that even I can’t fuck it up.

Chewy Peanut Butter and Macadamia Cookies

Ingredients:

• 100g margarine or butter, room temp
• 125g crunchy peanut butter, room temp
• 1 cup brown sugar, firmly packed
• 1 egg
• 1 teaspoon vanilla essence
• 1/2 cup crushed, unsalted macadamia nuts
• 1.75 cups self raising flour, sifted

Method

• Preheat oven to 180 degrees (my oven is an electric convection, so adjust accordingly for fan-forced or gas).
• Beat butter, peanut butter and brown sugar until creamy.
• Add the egg, vanilla essence and macadamia nuts and mix well.
• Gradually fold in the flour and mix until well combined.
• Roll heaped teaspoonfulls into balls and place on lined trays, making sure you leave room for them to spread a little. Flatten them slightly with a fork.
• Bake for 10-15 minutes, until golden. I found I had to swap the trays around after the half-way mark to make sure they cooked at the same rate.   Don’t overcook or they will lose the chewy texture (though you could also leave them in for an extra 5 mins for a more solid short-bread texture).
• Remove trays from the oven and cover with a teatowel for 10 mins to give them a chance to harden before placing on a place or wire rack to cool.

Recipe adapted from BarefootBride’s recipe on Good Recipes.

For the last eight weeks, I can’t tell you how much I’ve appreciated having The Midnight Cat around. She’s always here, ready for cuddles, and totally doesn’t mind being used as a sounding board when I’m feeling miserable (as long as it doesn’t impact on her quiet enjoyment of life). Sometimes, however, late at night, I think that perhaps The Midnight Cat is trying to kill me. That site shed new light onto the devious ways that felines incorporate their dastardly plans for assassination into everyday, prototypically “cat-like” behaviour.  Then this happened:

The cause of this aggression: The Cone of Shame

Last week some time, possibly on Tuesday night, I began noticing her strange behaviour. If piss bolting out of a room is failed ambush, I can only describe the unpleasant events of that night as an all out offensive attack. While Ben and I were cooking dinner, she charged towards us from the lounge room, hesitated menacingly in front of us, legs still poised for sudden flight, and then took off out the open door to the yard. A few minutes later she returned and dashed through to the lounge room and up the stairs. This worrying display of aggression continued a few more times as we became increasingly worried about our safety. For some time after the initial onslaught, she appeared to be lying in wait under the bed. When I returned to the bedroom she sprinted out, daringly darting between my legs, and ran down stairs. At the bottom of the steps she paused and looked back up. I had walked back into the landing to look down the staircase to see what she’d be doing. In the dim light, she looked up and me, her face a contorted picture of hatred. Without warning, she shot up the stairs. She lost her footing on (about) the sixth step and proceeded to face-plant herself into the seventh step in front of her. For a split second she stood, stunned, and took stock of the situation. She turned, and gracefully sauntered down the stairs and outside, whistling to herself as if to say “I know that looked clumsy, but I totally did it on purpose. Just saying.” I won that round, but was my safety assured? Not by a long shot.

The Midnight Cat trying to act all innocent looking

Last Friday, I came home from work early because I have a cold and I just couldn’t concentrate on the computer screen in front of me. I ambled home and, immediately, stripped off my jeans and went straight to bed. Sensing my obvious weakness, The Midnight Cat executed her second assault. It was ingenious really; first, she lulled me into a false sense of security by pretending to overjoyed to see me. She knew, I am certain, that I was tired, drug-fucked, and feeling a little sorry for myself so she miaowed affably and sauntered up the bed and lay down on my chest. Feeling a little better for having such a friendly creature around me in my hour of need, I drifted up to sleep. At this point, I woke up, because I was suddenly inhaling her fur rather than the air in the room. I should have heeded the advice of that site and recognised this clever plan for what it was: An attempt to smother me. I pushed her off; she miaowed testily.

Curled up asleep in bed.

The next night I was still sick in bed. I lay there, reading in bed with the electric blanket on. I lay on my back, as usual, with my legs crossed at the ankles. As I read my novel, I absentmindedly moved my right foot from one side to the other, under the blankets, so that a moving bump appeared on the surface of the quilt cover. The Midnight Cat sat, transfixed, at the foot of the bed, watching what can only be described as a Rogue-Imposter-Bump move around, totally unbidden. The fact that her attempts at homicide had failed twice was, I am sure, a devastating blow to her pride; for me to introduce a Rogue-Imposter-Bump to the bed was a slap in her face, a battle cry of “Ha! I am in charge here!” I had pushed her to the point of rebellion and outright aggression and, without warning, she attacked the Rogue-Imposter-Bump. She continued frantically biting and scratching the surface of the manchester for a full minute. I am fairly sure that at this point I snort-laughed, but I cannot confirm nor deny that because I was too busy laughing. The laughing was the last straw for The Midnight Cat! I stopped moving foot. She noticed that the Rogue-Imposter Bump had stopped moving so she sat, staring at it, daring it to move. I moved my other foot. She leapt over my legs and attacked from the other side. This time I felt her jaw engulf my left foot through the linens. The only way to stop her was to tuck my feet down, so the Rogue-Imposter-Bumps disappeared; The Midnight Cat miaowed triumphantly, I continued reading, no blood was spilt.

I’ve told a few friends about that unsettling week and they’ve all told me how lucky I am to has escaped her claws and avoided being turned into mince meat. One friend, however, simply pointed out that maybe she just wanted to be around me and was feeling cold so she wanted a hug? I conceded she had a point, however weak, but I chose to agree. After all, I’ll take temperature regulation over homicide any day.

It’s funny how you can get stuck on you tube for hours, clicking one link to another, finding the most amazing videos to wile away the boredom and misery. I’ve been looking for live music of my favourite songs; this is my journey this morning:

I started out with The Weakness in Me by Joan Armatrading, sung live by Melissa Etheridge.

This led me to another of her songs, Love and Affection, as sung by Jewel and Melissa Etheridge.

Next, Tangled up in Blue, by Bob Dylan as covered by the Indigo Girls.

And last, but by no means least, my all-time favourite motown song, Midnight Train to Georgia by Gladys Knight and the Pips, as covered by the Indigo Girls with Ani Di Franco.

Well that’s enough procrastination… Off to catch up on my stats work!

Sólo amor es el que da valor a todas las cosas.

I love this quote.  It was penned by St Teresa de Ávila, and it translates as It is love alone that gives value to all things. On dark stormy nights, when I am feeling unlovable, I think about this.  I am reminded that despite the heartbreak I’ve been dealing with the last few weeks, despite the fact I feel so thoroughly miserable and doubt my worth because of what happened with J, when I doubt if he ever really loved me at all, there is a lot of love around me from amazing friends and family members.

I’m saving up to have this tattooed on my chest, on my right breast, just above the nipple.  That way, whenever I feel low or abandoned, I can look down and see some hope in the choppy sea of emotion I seem to be swimming in these days.

After an interesting New Years Eve, Janek and I returned to reality.

Janek moved out of The Family Home, to a new place a mere two doors down the road from me. It’s like living together only without the actual living together part. Which is great because I’ve found that if I don’t get some space to myself I get really antsy and things get a little unpleasant.

I’ve been insanely busy at work lately too. I’m working on a casual basis with one day as “core duties” and one day for a special project. Between the special project and another big project that’s part of my “core duties”, I’m swamped. I could comfortably work five days a week at this point and still have stuff left over.

I’m waiting for March to come so that things can settle down a little when uni starts. It’s going to be a hectic week: one and a half days at work, three half days and one full day at uni. It’s a little daunting but the amazing thing is that just twelve months ago I never would have thought such a schedule was possible for me! My health is picking up, I can work a full day, study, all that kinda stuff, my only problem is the pain that hasn’t gone away.

So that’s life up to now…

Christmas is my favourite time of year. Always. I love the anticipation; I’m like a little kid waiting for the arrival of Santa (which I never was, mind you, because we were never told that Santa brought the gifts down the chimney on Christmas Eve. This was partly because we celebrate Christmas on the 24th so by Christmas Eve we already have our gifts, and partly because Mum thought it was stupid to believe a big fat man brings you gifts only to be disappointed at the age of ten).

Each year we celebrate Christmas on the 24th at Grandma’s place. We arrive at about 5pm for pre-dinner drinks and enough peanuts to sink a small rowboat. Once everyone has arrived, usually by 7, we enter the dining room for prayers. As a child we were never allowed into the dining room until we heard the dinner bell so this is when we’d see the decorations and the Christmas tree for the first time. Since I’ve got older, I’ve been the one who actually puts the tree up, so the dinner bell has lost some of its magic. When we enter the dining room, we kneel before a nativity display that sits atop a table the size of your average dining table. The entire scene has been hand-carved and painted by my grandfather and it’s simply stunning. After the prayers we sit at the three tables, all twenty-three of us, while my grandfather reads the gospel of the nativity story in Slovak, followed by one of the “children” (ie my generation) reading it in English. Then comes dinner!

The dinner is huge. In typical Mediterranean and Eastern European fashion, it is totally over-catered. Traditionally, each household makes three dishes. As we’ve grown older and moved out of home there are more households and thus more food. There is so much food that the two fridges, the standalone freezer and the tuckerbox freezer struggle to contain it all. And it’s all delicious.

Following dinner come the presents! Admittedly this was a little more magical when we were younger, partly cos we were smaller so the pile of gifts looked even more enormous, and partly cos the gifts we get these days are more compact, but still. This year Christmas was just as magical as ever it was. The night passed way too quickly as it always does but I had a great time with Lala, Cal, and the whole family.

This year it didn’t end on the 24th. I decided to organise a Boxing Day lunch at our place so that Janek could spend some time with us and perhaps have an enjoyable Christmas for once. Having working in retail for the past five years, when he thinks of Christmas he imagines rude customers, standing for long hours on the floor at a major department store, and family arguments.

The guest list included Mum, Dad, Sister, Janek, and my aunt and uncle (Dad’s sister and her husband, who used to live with Pop). On the morning I got up and went to say good morning to Mum. “Good morning,” she said, but she sounded a little worried about something. She told me that my aunt had called this morning and that another aunt and uncle were coming, and asked if that was ok. “Sure…” I said, not quite sure what the big deal was. “Well,” Mum began, “It’s just that your uncle is a bit…” Her voice trailed off in a way that meant “your uncle is a homophobe”. “So? I don’t give a fuck if he’s a bit…” I said, allowing my voice to trail off in the same way, “It’s my house!” “Perhaps you should give Janek your gift in private?” she said. To be frank, I didn’t see any reason why I should but I could see the worry on her face so I promised her that we would exchange gifts in the privacy of my bedroom, and promised not to fellate each other in the presence of company. She seemed pleased to hear this.

Janek came, as did the aunts and the uncles, and we had a great lunch. Everyone loved him (but then that was totally unsurprising) and we all had a great time. This has been one of the best Christmases ever.