Ania M

I’m always a little depressed on New Year’s Eve. It has never been an occasion that particularly fills me with the urge to celebrate. Christmas, which is usually the fun part, is over, and all there is to look forward to is the artificial marker of midnight to mark the passage into another year. Another year that begins with two months of bleak winter, a return to work/school/reality, financial and often literal belt-tightening, as most of us begin the lengthy slog to lose the lbs gained over the festivities and it all kicks off with a stonking hangover* and a tongue that badly needs a shave.

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So what did I get for Christmas?

I got lucky, that’s what   See? It says so here –>

The card is from the rather lovely Vintage Erotica Tarot, just one of my many Christmas presents and the source of many of the previously mentioned giggles In case you can’t see it properly, the card is The Wheel and is subtitled “You Are Lucky”, which pretty much sums up how I feel about life at the moment.

This deck is a collection of, as you might reasonably expect, vintage erotica – lovely original sepia toned pictures of un-airbrushed ladies with naturally shaped bodies and plush, luxuriant lady beards (no Brazilians here, or if there are, it’s due to nationality rather than nether region hairstyling).

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Was this how your Christmas went? Or is that just the stuff of soap operas where everyone on the street/square/close has the kind of issues that make your toes curl?

Did your spouse have you fingering the carving knife longingly? Did your children turn you into a shrieking harpy? Was your head in danger of exploding like an overfilled balloon? Did the relatives have you reaching for the gin? Were you desperate for it all to be over for another year?

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I found myself posting on Facebook last night in response to the deluge of arty-farty perfume ads that pervade our TV viewing at this time of year. Look beyond the obvious glamour and artiness and you have to wonder about some of them: “What the hell were they thinking?”

There is one, in particular that has caught my attention, but for all the wrong reasons, I suspect. I’m afraid I can’t say what it was an advert for, not because I don’t want to name the product , but simply because I don’t know. Adverts tend to leave me apathetic* or bemused, in this case, the latter.

So I will just have to describe it. Here’s how it went:

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I am in the Christmas spirit. Appoximately a pint into the Christmas spirit. In my case, an earlier trip to the supermarket to lay in stocks for Christmas included a bottle of Southern Comfort, which I subsequently combined with a bottle of Crabbies, about half and half.

I’m not normally driven to hit the bottle, but it’s Christmas and, at times, Christmas is really quite depressing. Well, no, that’s not strictly true, it’s the build up to Christmas that’s depressing. The relentless “arthouse” adverts for perfume, the unremitting commercialism,  not to mention the certain knowledge that your Christmas grocery shop would feed a small village (and not even a starving African one) for a month and will probably take considerably longer to lose the weight you’ll gain from the over-indulgence.

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It’s turned a bit nippy of late and in addition to big, roaring fires, woolly socks (hand-knitted, naturally) and fleecy jumpers, what a body needs is calories to keep it warm. Forget starting a diet, (that’s a New Year’s resolution for the breaking), what you want is comfort food with lots of carbs. The obvious candidate for the basis of a warming carb-fest is the humble potato, but if your immediate thoughts turn to chips or mash, then think again.

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See that there picture? Do ya? Do ya?   –>

The one that says “Winner” in large letters for the NaNoWriMo challenge ?   –>

Well…er…..that’s not me.

That there Winner’s certificate belongs to none other that my darling daughter, who embraced the challenge and completed just after 9pm last night

Am I proud? You bet! <puffs up like a puffed-up proud thing>

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I confess: I’m a Bookaholic, a bookworm, if you prefer. I love to read and always have, spending most of my schooldays with my nose in a book.

Admittedly, these days, I tend to read in fits and starts, depending on how much time I can squeeze away from doing mundane things like eating and sleeping. Fortunately, it is possible to read whilst eating and a little light reading before going to sleep is usually a good way to wind down. I say usually, because it is not unknown for me to read all night, or at least until the chorus of over-enthusiastic avian abuse hurling that heralds the dawn reminds me that I probably won’t be much use to man or beast unless I get at least a short power nap. (more…)

I’d never really fully appreciated why the Sun is associated with masculine qualities, but it was arrestingly brought home to me yesterday by my own 11-year-old Darling Sun (sic). We had previously been discussing what extra curriular activities he should sign up for (me being pushy and he reticent and totally resistant to the idea of actually taking an interest in something that I would have cut an arm off to have had the opportunity to do at school). The conversation meandered onto other topics:

DS: I just found out today that X* has a girlfriend,she’s called Y.
*(X now goes to a different school)

Me: Oh. Really?

DS (nodding sagely): Yes. It happens around this age apparently.

Me: Oh. Does that mean you have a girlfriend now?

DS (smirking slightly): Yes. Her name’s Z.

Me (wondering if this is the reason for reluctance re:clubs): Ah. So what’s Z into then?

DS (shrugging) : Dunno

Me: You must have got to know her a bit if she’s your girlfriend. What is she interested in?

DS: She’s interested in ME.

And that says it all really. The Sun is associated with masculinity because the world revolves around it, all else is eclipsed by its radiance, it is invincible, peerless and it shines out of its own proverbial. Yup, the Sun is definitely masculine.

I went to see my Mum yesterday. She turned 91 last week and is in good health for her age, though she eats far too little. The only real thing wrong with her is her memory, which has increasingly deteriorated over the last few years and is now so bad she can’t remember how to make a cup of tea.

Until fairly recently, she did a passable imitation of being fine. I remember the time that I visited and it became apparent that she had not a clue who I was. I’d never have guessed, but in Polish, as in French, one doesn’t say “you” in the same way when speaking formally. When your mother effectively addresses you formally, it’s a fairly safe bet that she doesn’t recognise you as family, let alone her daughter. It was a huge shock and very upsetting (for both of us). I didn’t have the children with me then (fortunately) – although she seems to still recognise them most of the time and even remembers their names.

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