No more Crisis

No longer a midwife in crisis.

Have moved.

Please send chocolate.

(Lindt, preferably)

Just to let you know...

So, I decided, what with all the artsy craftsy fartsy stuff I tend to get muddled up in, I'm going to start a new blog specifically for all that.

Midwife Crisis still remains, and hopes to entertain you for some time yet, but the t-shirts and name boards etc etc will be exposed on another site.

If you're interested, and would like to know what's REALLY keeping me busy, follow the link on the side for ParafinnayLiya, or go to www.parafinnayliya.blogspot.com.

Check you later, blogfans!

Me according to FaceBook

So, I didn't give this exercise much thought before I started it, but the idea behind it was to trace back my status updates on Facebook for the year, and decide for myself, according to these little descriptions of brief moments in my life, what kind of a year it's been altogether. I've listed my status updates oldest first. Here goes:

(JANUARY)

Jessica awaits the arrival of a little princess with great excitement.

Jessica wishes she could be in the desert playing dolls.

(FEBRUARY)

Jessica tried pilates.

Jessica loves her Mac.

Jessica is blogging. Check it out!

(MARCH)

Jessica is a dedicated blogger.

Jessica is trying to skype face-book. Ouch!

Jessica is a blog addict.

Jessica is freaking out a little. On the inside.

Jessica has arrived - safe and sound.

Jessica is torn in two. Again.

(APRIL)

Jessica is back to reality.

Jessica is bravely going where no mom has gone before... naaa, maybe tomorrow.

Jessica really likes her friend wheel.

Jessica is having fun with her new toy.

Jessica has found her wall!

Jessica is a jungle-gym. Apparantly.

Jessica wants everyone to go to www.freerice.com.

Jessica is willing for her baby to come home.

Jessica is back to being a nurse.

Jessica wants to play scramble!

Jessica has hit a mental block.

Jessica is sunburnt.

Jessica is www.midwife-crisis.blogspot.com

Jessica is wondering what family actually means?

(MAY)

Jessica is bracing herself.

Jessica is soft and fluffy

Jessica is turning the page.

Jessica is covered in blue!

Jessica is finding direction.

Jessica is wondering who decides week to weekend ratio...

Jessica is planning.

Jessica has repacked the toy box. again.

Jessica has a sore tongue.

Jessica is so so.

(JUNE)

Jessica is boiling...

Jessica has a new baby. Apparently.

Jessica is back home after a gruelling 3 days in hospital. Yay.

Jessica digs her fully connected friend wheel.

Jessica is alone. With kids. You trust me?

Jessica says "Trust me!"

Jessica is contemplating holiday strategies for the kids.

(JULY)

Jessica is inviting anyone who would like to, to come for tea tomorrow afternoon.

Jessica says the invite for tea and birthday cake is still on!

Jessica had the best birthday. Thank you everyone for making it so special!

Jessica has got a cake hangover.

Jessica feels funny. Funny huh? Not funny haha.

Jessica hasn't received an email in a whole week - what's going on?

Jessica is TIRED.

Jessica says it's all good! Cold, but good!

Jessica is blogging. Again.

Jessica had a great weekend away!!!

Jessica is finding herself.

Jessica is content.

Jessica needs a friend who has super interior decorating ideas.

Jessica is tired again. What gives?

Jessica is regarding the bills. Skeptically.

Jessica knows chocolate makes everything better.

Jessica is thinking about how some things change and some things stay the same.

(AUGUST)

Jessica is finding the distinction between business and personal relationships tricky.

Jessica is an aunt. In French!

Jessica is smug. Hmph!

Jessica thinks L's boobs are great!

Jessica is wondering how?

Jessica won tickets to a show.

Jessica is bracing herself.

Jessica is not school ready.

Jessica has dot a cod. Sniff.

(SEPTEMBER)

Jessica is frizzing!

Jessica is grateful for the little things.

Jessica is weekend-ready!

Jessica is scratchy.

Jessica has a cactus in her froat. Ow :-(

Jessica is mulling.

Jessica can't believe it!

Jessica is peanut butter and syrup.

Jessica is allergic to cats. Yuck.

Jessica is stupid without sunshine.

Jessica has faced her demons.

Jessica is TIRED. And uninspired. Funny how that rhymes, right?

Jessica is curling.

Jessica is bracing herself.

Jessica does not want to be a mommy today.

Jessica is just breathing.

(OCTOBER)

Jessica is red-eyed and scratchy.

Jessica feels weird now that the kids are back at school.

Jessica wants to donate her eyeballs to science. Or the garden.

Jessica is typing and skyping.

Jessica knows what insomnia feels like.

Jessica is crispy. Er. Make that well done.

Jessica is up to here.

Jessica has received a double dose of perspective.

Jessica is planting.

Jessica is tired again.

Jessica is addicted to Caramel Choc Digestive Biscuits. Oh dear.

Jessica is fighting with the sandman.

Jessica is feeling strange.

Jessica seems to taste nice to spiders. Again.

Jessica wants to let it go. Really she does.

Jessica is still reeling from a prostitute's proposition. Oh. My. Word!

(NOVEMBER)

Jessica is glad to be home. And boring. Once again.

Jessica thinks the new frog display at the aquarium rocks!

Jessica is loving MSG. Yeah Baby, yeah!

Jessica is planning a perfect party.

Jessica has the kids in bed before 7:30; hubby's out for the evening. Hmmm. I might just indulge in a chocolate!

Jessica says: scratch that! I'm home alone with two sick pukey kids!

Jessica is full.

Jessica says: If you really love me, you won't give me chocolate.

Jessica is painting a fire hydrant.

Jessica is having potato salad for lunch. And for supper. And probably for breakfast as well.

Jessica is missing my other baby.

Jessica has to choose between Tertia and Deepak.

Jessica was a bad mommy, and now she's paying the price...

Jessica is quilting. What gives!?!?!?

Jessica is wondering how my babies got so big so fast.

Jessica is another day in the garden - another spider bite. When are those super powers going to kick in?

Jessica needs her pal.

Jessica is arranging and planning and sorting and organising.

Jessica would rather be eating peeled grapes in a luxurious milky bath.

Jessica wants a flying pony and a castle in the valley too.

Jessica is scratching for crumbs in the bottom of the 2008 bag.

Jessica wants to have fun.

So that's me according to Facebook 2008.

What this exercise has taught me is that my life goes in cycles. Things repeat themselves. And also that I am fated to be arachnid fodder for a long long time.

The most beguiling status updates have no blog posts (L's boobs/ prostitute's proposition) - that must be infuriating!

Oh. And I talk about food. A lot. I should stop that. 

And Jessica says. Again. A lot.

Ah well. Signing off. Again.

A to Zzzzzzzzzzzzz

Whenever I sit down to metaphorically put pen to paper, the first thought that springs to mind is "I'm tired". But I always seem to push that aside and focus on things less mundane than that to express per my keyboard.

But, I just have to say it. Just once, and then, maybe, it will be better. 

I am tired. Dead tired.

...

And I'm tired of being tired.

...

Nup. It makes no difference. Still tired.

I wake up tired. I plod through my day tired. I answer my mail tired. I make sarmies tired. I drive tired. (Yip, that's me swerving just ahead of you!) I get to the end of the day and fall upon my bed, you guessed it, tired.

For the longest time (Ok, 6 years and counting. Pretty much since I became pregnant for the first time), anytime someone has asked me how I am, I have had to fight the urge to reply, honestly, "I'm tired."

It's not for lack of sleep. I get my 8 hours as often as the next mother. It's just that I wake up tired. Sure, I went through those torturous nights with new babies, colic, and three-hourly feeding schedules, but surely I should be recovered by now?

It's not my iron. Last blood test showed it slightly low, so I swallow a tablet whenever I remember. But I'm still tired.

I'm not pregnant, before you get all diagnostic on me. That option was taken care of a long time ago.

It could be insufficient aerobic activity. Yes, I am a gym deserter. And one of the reasons for that is that gym made me feel tired. Go figure, right?

It could be my cipralex. So I changed the time of day I was taken that little happy pill. It didn't seem to help much. Over the last 2 months I have halved my dose, hoping that that would help too, but no luck. I'm still tired.

It's really not my kids. They are generally a dream to care for. Sure there's the whining and the bickering that can get to unmanageable levels, at times, but for the most part, they are easy kids and a pleasure to have around.

And while we're on family, it is definitely not the mother of the year either. That poor guy has had so little of me due to my flailing energy-levels, that he doesn't even try push his luck for more than dinner and clean underwear. Now don't you feel all sorry for the bloke. It's not like he don't get none. It's just that I'm kinda in a bit of a slump right now, and he maybe doesn't get none more often than he'd like...(?) Anyway, I mean it on a greater level than sex alone. Poor baby has had to do with dwindling levels of enthusiasm on all fronts, from affection to paying bills. Pretty much, I have been lousy company.

By tired, I mean depleted. I have to dig really deep to get my get up and go to get up and er, go. If I could, I would sleep wherever I happen to be. And sometimes I do - much to my daughters' amusement and my embarrassment (my apologies to the other ballet moms last week. Yes. I did. I know. How embarrassing, right?)

I don't even have to be excessively comfortable to fall into a near-unconscious sleep. I've lost count of the number of times I have tended to a restless child at night before I've gotten to bed, and ended up sleeping through the night in that child's bed. On about 30cm of mattress. With my belt embossing my belly, my underwires piercing into my chest cavity, my trouser legs twisted like climbing ivy around my legs and with only a smidgen of blanket to keep out the cold. Hmmm. I just read that again and a little light went on in the back of my mind. Briefly it flickered, but then the batteries gave in. Yip, still tired.

If you want to do something really nice for me, give me a pillow and a blankie, close the curtains, take everything and everybody away and leave me the hell alone for, say, three days!? That'd be a start, anyway.

The truth will set you free

I've been asked a fair amount of times, recently, why I write about the stuff I do. In fact, in the last 2 days, it's come up in conversation 5 times. So why do I display myself, warts and all, for the whole world to see? Why do I ask for the criticism that comes with being so blatantly honest?

Well, I've thought about this for some time, and the answer is that total honesty gives me room to breathe. When you aren't pressurised to put on a face and insist on just how fine everything is, when really everything isn't, you can actually make a sanctuary for yourself to muddle over the intricacies of your human brain, and find a path out of the entanglement. 

I like being honest - it's not always easy to do, but it's easier than remembering what story I've told what person, and trying to maintain illusions for those around me. No, that is just too much effort. This is me. What you see here is what you get.

And, since I lack a sense of humor, I may exaggerate from time to time just to make a completely banal blog post slightly interesting. But apart from that, I wear my blog on my sleeve.

Just not that into me

I know someone who is fantastic. She's wonderful. Kind, gentle, admirable in so many ways. From the day I met her, I thought of her as a friend. I felt like we connected. We view so many things in the same way.

Well. Punch me in the gut! Guess what? Having things in common is not what makes people friends. Who would have thunk it!

You see, I have cared for this person. Loved her. Comforted her. Spoilt her when I could. Loved her children. Supported her in the ways that I could. 

Sure, there were times where I thought she let me down. Thought she could have been more caring and supportive of me when things were rough. She wasn't. And sure, it hurt, but I put it down to the fact that she's a busy girl. She has a lot on her plate. A lot of people are expecting a lot from her. So I didn't put pressure on her to show a degree of commitment to me. I just blindly went on assuming that she was my friend.

And now I think I understand what the last few years must have been like for her (especially my down-in-the-dumps-months where I was verging on the edge of insanity). I think that me hanging around all gaga-like and playing "friend-friend" was like have a horny toy-pom trying to shag your leg in polite company. You try to shake them off, discreetly, but everyone tends to notice a tiny mammal bonking a flapping shin, so you stop. You quietly let the mutt get off on your ankle and hope that no-one's gaze drops below knee-height. That's how it has been. This gorgeous individual is the proverbial ankle, and I am the testosterone-driven canine.

It's kind of embarrassing really. She is just not that into me. Ouch. It's been a hard lesson to learn. But I think I've got the message now.

It's made me wonder about being so open about my feelings, my thoughts, my state of mind. Perhaps honesty is not the best policy after all. Perhaps putting my emotions into this blog is just stupid. Perhaps giving people a really clear view into my soul is more detrimental than not. People don't actually want to know about your short-comings. They don't want to know how you're struggling with issues from your past. The fact that you're on anti-depressive medication is shameful and frightening - if they spend too much time with you, they might catch what you've got too. And, if you are going to be honest about things, you had better have a lot of money to throw around to keep your "friends" close.

Guess I can't be friends with every superhero that walks into my life, right? 

Time to move on, Jessica.

Bye-bye, Baby! Baby bye-bye!

My baby is all growed up!

Eeek - she's four! Where did the last 1460 days go?

See now how hard it is for me to leave the whole birthday blogging thing alone? Little Air-Bear celebrates her birthday one week after mine. (I find this rather convenient as I can leave the balloons up from my birthday and just shove over the Happy 30th cards for the Happy 4th ones! I don't go so far as to save cake, though...)

Fortunately for us, the next immediate family member's birthday is at the end of September, so we can take a break from the festivities for a little while.

But 4!

Four is the end of an era - especially when it's your last child and there really don't mean to be any more. Four is like the full stop on the Infancy sentence. Like this: INFANCY. or INFANCY four 

It means that the babies are departed. They have officially left the building. Enter the age of the terrorists (with whom I refuse to negotiate). And it's funny how that happens, isn't it? I mean the whole switchover from baby to big kid. It's so sudden. Abrupt, almost. One moment she's all cuddles and let-me-do-stuff-for-her, and the next it's all, "Mo-om!" (two syllables), "I'm not a baby, you know!"

Still, they will always be my babies, these girls of mine. I've warned them about that already. They know that one day when I'm old and incontinent and their own offspring are picking the azaeleas from my old-age home flower pots, they will still be my babies. And the funny thing is, that they're ok with that. At first it's all, "Arrrgh, Mom," but the resistance dies down and the next thing I know these beautiful mini people are obliging and approachable and completely pick-up-and-rock-them-to-sleep-able.

Lucky me.

Something else...

Not feeling very loquacious today.

So.

How are you?

...

...

Hmm.

Well, there is this one thing I can show you, that some of you might find interesting:

Didn't taste too bad, either.

Toodles.

The lighter side of Melancholy

Ok. So I could have thrown this juicy little morsel into the 100 Things blog, but I had to devote a little more explanation to it than that post would allow. Thing is, apart from being a little screwed up, on anti-depressants and holding my stuff together, I'm in therapy.

There. I said it. Now you can think I'm a complete loser, but I'm working at turning that around.

So why did I mention it, then. Well, something kinda funny has been developing over the course of my sessions. And I wanted to show you that even though I'm classified Depressive, I still see the brighter side. Sometimes. (And hopefully, it will also explain to those who see me during the school pick-up, which is usually half an hour after my appointment, why I look like kak).

So, I'm 3 sessions in, right? You'd think that I'd be making progress, right? That things would start to be ironing themselves out, right? That I'd be getting better, right? 

Well, I've been measuring my progress on the Kleenex scale. This is a very accurate measuring device. The way it works is that after a session with the shrink-lady, I empty my handbag and count the number of tissues I managed to sog through during our discussion. Seeing as I haven't discovered a bin in the consulting room, I discreetly shove each drenched tissue into my handbag, whilst reaching for the next one.

Session one was a hefty 11 tissues. I thought that it would be difficult to match that, but session two left me with a slightly greater tally of 12 icy crumpled tissues in my handbag. I was convinced that that would be my maximum excretory sum. In fact, today's session started with me claiming how together I am and that I hope not to blubber as badly as I did in our previous sessions. But oh, how the mighty fall! I just about dehydrated this morning with the awesome tissue-tally of 16. And one of those was a whopper Gary Player Special Large Men's paper Hanky that was already in my handbag, and I didn't want it to get secondary snot so decided to use it first.

Sigh! Someone pour me a drink. I'm dry. Er, and I could use a drink.

Hello Out There!

I'd just like to take this opportunity to thank my faithful readers for their support, and er, their reading. Without readers a blog is like a diary, except that you can't lock it and leave it under your mattress so your brothers don't find it.

Really, knowing that you're out there, reading away while you wait for your tea to brew, your nail polish to dry, your internet transfer to go through, your FaceBook instant message to actually send through to your friend who is already offline, your solitaire game to reload, the kids to come home from school, the 6 o'clock news, the housework to go away, your ship to come in, or just because you're bored out of your mind, or I've threatened you with life and limb to catch up with my latest news, or you're just curious to figure this chick out. For whatever reason it is that you end up here (on a regular basis), it's nice to know that you're out there keeping track of my life. Someone has to.

On a more personal note, B, I really think you need to pop around more often. A, don't take things so personally. R, whatever happened to you? Am I dog poo on the pavement, or just not famous enough to keep you interested? M, you should just say "no" - it will be good for you. T, remember to take me with your morning vitamin, or your evening contraceptive, whichever you're more likely to remember. W, nice to know there's someone who spends as much time on the net as me. Other B, you need to spend more time on the net - ask W. L, I hope this serves sufficiently in place of those restrictive text messages.  T, see, I can be a bit funny too sometimes. P, I hope I can provide you with a blog to grow hair by. Other T, thanks for not writing me off completely, even though you really know how crazy I am. G, I'm surprised you care enough to check in! Surprised, but glad. D, whenever you're ready, let me know. And last but not least, Another Other B, I don't mind your comments, just so you know.

Catch ya'll later, blogfans.

Porn to be Mild

Have you ever been minding your own business out there in cyberspace, browsing through virtual malls, smelling the digital daisies, when all of a sudden your PC is bombarded with the sort of things that you would never admit to your mother that you have even heard of? Of course it's happened to you! If you are reading this right now, you would be lying if you said that cyber-porn had never crossed paths with you.

So there I was thinking that my sweet little blog was floating around in a sea of equally sweet and polite collections of ramblings from around the globe, with the odd horrific incident or blasphemous retort thrown in, when all of a sudden I tripped up on a 9 inch dildo and fell face first into somebody's very naked crotch. 

Now I'm a nurse. I am not shocked by the human body. I have seen it all. I've had plenty of very intimate encounters with all manner of anatomy. If you want stories, I could regale you for hours with descriptive, sometimes disgusting, often hilarious tales of wobbly bits and other important body parts. And yet there is still something intrinsically disturbing to me about cyber-porn that floats around just waiting to poke it's horn into my Internet Explorer Cookies Folder.

Call me old-fashioned or naive or whatever, but really, couldn't they just keep all that stuff in a little Pandora's box that isn't lying around for any John, Dick or Hairy to trip over and drown in? Look, I'm not being a prude. If you want it, by all means help yourself, but please don't leave it lying around in between my blog and my kids' school's website. You know what I'm saying?

I mean there really is no value to the cyber-surfer who isn't actually looking for it, to find it. There are enough free porn sites out there that you could get so completely submerged into it without another single person actually even making a cent out of it. So where's the value of slipping a leaflet under every single virtual windscreen wiper then?

I guess that the truth of my gripe is that I'm really moaning about real estate. If you have ever spent an idle hour reading blogs, you will know that you can generally skip from one blog to the next at a randomly generated order, never knowing exactly what the next page holds. And if it all comes down to LOCATION, LOCATION, LOCATION, then it concerns me that in a brief moment of binary calculation I may end up next door neighbour to a Barely Legal Teen doing something Exceedingly Acrobatic to a Very Lucky Cowboy. It's just not the reputation I'm going for at this point in my life, see?

So I guess what I'm saying is, if you happen to drop in for a browse around and then shuffle on to the next site and it turns out to be a Lonely Housewife amusing herself with a Vacuum Cleaner and a Candle Snuffer, well, I had nothing to do with the town planning. OK?

Defending the Blog

It has come to my attention that some people are not happy with the recent state of my blog. I have received complaints about how sparse and uninteresting it has becoming over the last week.
I shall now defend myself and my blog:
Firstly: I'm on holiday! I'm resting and and reviving and regenerating so that by the time I return to my precious family I will be energetic, enthused with vigour and ready to do supermom-type stuff.
Secondly: I'm living with other people at present. Now I know how entertaining it's been (for me) to write and (for you) to read about all the goings on in my little unkempt abode. But it would be kind of rude for me to start writing about other people's STUFF (and trust me when I say I have some serious competition on this level), and other people's PILES (although I have a feeling this may be an infectious condition that you get from your visitors, because if I survey the room I am currently sitting in, about three of the five piles I can see belong to yours truly!)
Next: I currently find myself in a country that regularly gets doused in a seasonal sandstorm, so anywhere I look I see dust (for lack of a better word). There's dust on the streets, dust on the trees, dust on the cars, dust on the stray cats, dust on the people. All this dust sort of affects the levels of inspiration an aspiring blogger can muster up. I mean how stimulating can a greyish sky be, really?
Also: back home I enjoy the mental debate triggered through people-watching. Here people-watching is a tricky activity. Firstly it's pretty hot outside, so the number of people I'm likely to see just by looking out the window is minimal, so I would have to set off to an airconditioned mall to discover some homo-sapiens to research. When I do find a group of people going about their daily business, it's pretty difficult to be inspired much as everybody wears exactly the same thing and, when it comes to the women, well, I can't tell you much about them except that they mingle in groups of floating apparitions and that's about as much as I can see. Being covered head to toe in black makes further investigation very tricky.
So please parden the lack of exciting information or entertaining life quirps at this point in my vacation. If it makes you feel better, I will hopefully be resuming the good ol' blog you've been familiar with pretty soon. So please bear with me.

Stuck on a desert island

For more than 24 hours I have had no access to the internet. I am half way across the world away from my home and family and suddenly I was cut off from blogging, from facebooking, from googling, from cyber-surfing. Ouch! Can I even begin to explain how uncomfortable the last day has been? It felt a lot like having your tonsils out. Without anaesthetic. While you've got a wedgey. In the front. And your socks are too tight. And there's a bug trying to attract the opposite species from the confines of his cozy new home which he's just set up in your ear. And your hands are tied.
No amount of coffee, sleep or crafting has been able to relieve my anxiety.
But I'm back, Baby! And I am breathing easy once more. Phew!
My separation from the Holy Grail that is an internet connection lead me to think of times gone by. How on earth did we ever, ever survive without internet, without mobile phones, without satellite TV, with Apple? How did mankind plod along for thousands of years worrying about building their pyramids to imitate the stars and connecting them to life out there somehow, when they could have been chatting up a storm on Skype?
The thought of paying a runner with a cleft stick to take a message home to my peeps did cross my mind briefly, but in the dash across my mind, the runner tripped up on some of the mental debris I have been sorting out lately and twisted his ankle. So much for that then. I also thought about writing a letter to post off, but my handwriting seems to have deteriorated, I'm ashamed to admit, but what with the advent of the PC, well, the keyboard kinda killed the caligraphy star, didn't it?

Me vs my greatest enemy

I am in the middle of a very heated argument.
One that I know will not end satisfactorily. And it's because one of the feuding parties will be convinced of how undeniably stubborn they are, and the other will be frustrated by unchanging circumstance.
This is a no-win situation.
Let me introduce you to the opposing teams: In the left corner we have Jessican't, mild-mannered mum, more the lover than the fighter, the intellectual. Dressed in pyjamas. Comfy ones. With sheep on. Munching a digestive biscuit. Because it tastes nice. In the right corner, exploding with energy, optimism and a long list of To-Do's, and desperately aware of her rapidly approaching thirtieth birthday and all the changes in metabolism which she has been severely warned arrive on the morning you turn thirty, and very aware of the spare tyre inflating around her middle ("You have had two children, dammit!" interrupts Jessican't from her Lazy Boy chair) is the overactive, tracksuit- and sneaker-clad Jessican, nature-lover, sun-worshipper and all-round health-nut. Chewing on a celery stick. Because it's good for you.
Yes, it's true. I'm fighting with myself. Jessica, the blogger, is being pulled back and forth by two uncontrollable personalities fighting to have things their own way.
This is the argument I have to put up with all day long: I must get back to gym, but I hate it. I must eat better, but healthy food is so blechy. I must blow dry my hair, but my hair has a mind of it's own, and without threatening it with a blow-torch, never mind the hairdryer, it pretty much does it's own thing. I must garden more, but I hate getting all dirty like that, and do you even know what size spider is lurking in the agapanthas? I must swim more, but the pool net is SUCH a mission to take off and put back on again. I must be a better lover, but I'm so tired that the moment I enter my bedroom, my body shuts down - which explains why sometimes, when I go to bed at night, the bed hasn't even been made yet, because I have refused to go into that room the whole day for fear of falling asleep at an inappropriate time (like, for instance, lunchtime). I must tidy the house, but I want to blog (oops - third party sneaks in an opinion).
So you see, I really am a mess. And it's an argument I just can't win.
Perhaps it is because there is just SO much that I know I need to get to, need to change, need to do, that I actually don't know where to begin. And trying to do a little bit at a time doesn't really help, because just when you've done that pile of washing, or washed that sink full of dishes, there's another pair of socks, or another dirty teaspoon to start the load all over again. It just never ends! Where is the satisfaction of completing a task, when actually, (and really, this was all clearly laid out in the brochure!) the task has no end!
Jessican and Jessican't battle it out. Daily. One, ever the optimist, insists that the job be done and be done now. The other digs her heals in, knowing that if the job gets done now or later, there will still be more of the same job to do tomorrow. And I am stuck between these two, their stubborn arguments clanging around in my head. Like empty pots crashing together in the sink. Like a tough stain refusing to relinquish itself to a potent detergent.
Jessica, the mediator, retreats to the sanctuary of her ISP. I am absolved of this madness, for a short time, bowed before the cyber-throne of my Mac, offering my daily blog as a penance. Armed with a sense of purpose and salvation, I set off to face the challenges that await me and my split personality. And hopefully, by the end of the day, I will have come to some amicable compromise allowing me to live to fight (myself) another day.

About Blogging

It has taken me just too long to get into blogging. When I was first invited to view a blog, I did so with a little curiosity and forgot to return. So the idea became a neglected seed at the back of my mind. But now that I'm here, at last, I find it rather addictive - a bit like Facebook without the throwing of sheep and brain-dead-fruitless-friend-finding-missions; you know the kind: you get poked by somebody you don't know. It was probably accidental. But you wonder how they know you, so you start scrolling through their list of friends. You see a couple of names that either look slightly familiar, or have intriguing profile pictures. You click on their friends. Before you know it your scrolling through friends of friends of friends and all of a sudden you're late to fetch the kids from school - aaaargh! Mad dash! You get home and sit right down again picking up where you left off. Next thing you know you're actually filling in answers to the never-ending movie quiz...

And so it goes.

But back to blogging. In blogging I have found an ever present friend ready to lend an ear to my woes and sorrows. Sometimes my friend is quiet, but sometimes he offers me a couple of responses (which are always nice!).

Blogging helps me vent, helps me put my thoughts down in language. I find this very therapeutic. Plus it's cheaper than therapy, so I can't complain!

As a way of practicing my literary ability, I'm finding blogging helpful. A bit pressurising at times - the thought that there are readers lurking out there quietly critiquing my work and possibly vowing to block my blog for future reference is somewhat intimidating.

The other pressure linked to blogging is coming up with new ideas. Nobody really wants to hear about my day (on a boring day. Of course, if the neighbour's house is on fire, that's another story!) Mostly my day is pretty standard. So to post a "Dear Diary, this is how I spent my morning..." would be painful, to say the least.

So I find that I sit pondering over ideas and events, figuring out what would entertain as well as alleviate my inner-turmoils. I find that if I try too hard, I get nothing, zip, blank slate. I figure it's best to just let it flow.

Perhaps a little alcohol would help to loosen things up a bit?

Which brings me to a point I have been mulling over for some-time: substance-assisted performance. Have there been any specifically prominent and outstanding artists who have excelled sans some mind-altering substance? I guess the question I'm asking is: would the afore-mentioned artists still be as good without the drugs and booze?

Every flourishing pop group on the planet is smoking/ spiking/ sipping something. Writers, sculptors, dancers, athletes. Sure they may have an initial talent, but to really be the best, are they not artificially-enhanced to a degree?

Do you think MichaelAngelo could paint the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel, lying on his back for 4 years working on a project he was not even interested in doing but being forced to by the pope without the assistance of some magic potion he kept tucked in his sock? He claimed to be a sculptor, not an artist, so the ceiling was not really on his list of things to do. (There now, you've learnt something new!) Looking at the results today, can you think for one second that he did all that without a cocktail of paint thinners and clay precipitate coursing through his bloodstream?

How about Stephen King? What normal, unintoxicated human actually has those kind of bizarre thoughts floating through his head just waiting to flow out of the writer's pen? I'm not a Stephen King fan, but I gather he's a fairly popular author and is quite good at his craft.

I'm telling you, the good ones are on something!

And we all know about top athletes and steroids, so I'm not even going to go into that one.

All I'm saying is, perhaps there is some extraordinary ability locked up in each of us and to set it free, to actually enjoy the fullness of one's potential, perhaps illegal substances can be a quick kick start? I'm not condoning drugs and alcohol abuse here, I'm just musing on what I see. Feel free to disagree.

And then keep reading my blog, because there will always be something more...