I am so glad this guy doesn't phone me up to talk. Because this guy did. Until I got a work colleague to tell him to stop phoning. My younger brother says if it involves math, it must be true! Of course, he is also worried that the American people are getting stupid quicker than can be accounted for by mere evolution. Then again, he lives in Texas.

The Blessing no longer looks like her photo. She decided to cut her hair last night. Considering she is 4, didn't have a mirror and had never attempted something like this before, I think she did a pretty good job. We are, however, having an emergency trip to the hairdresser today.

Watched a couple of videos over the weekend. Lots of blood. I think a debt was owed to the Monty Python school on blood splattering.

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Off to Bushmills (after dying hair Harold Roark Red) and going to the cinema. Lucky will be all alone and very lonely.


George Orwell: Nineteen Eighty-Four. You are the
classic warning against the threat of
totalitarianism. To you, politics and
philosophy are inseparable, auchtorities suck
and the reality might not exist outside our
imaginations.

Which literature classic are you?
brought to you by

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I need to apologise to my friend Dawn here at the very beginning. I am sure she will be dismayed by my peverse reading habits and well, I have no defense except I have perverse reading habits.

I don't blog about my work much. Mainly because my work isn't that exciting and well, I don't know how I would feel about blogging about the casual interactions in my life. Strange that I have no qualms whatsoever about blogging about relatives. But we can just chalk that up to peversions. I have, however, had a major epiphany in regards to work this week. First, you may need some background.

No matter where I have worked, there has always been an anti-kathy. Indeed, I first met Dawn through our shared love of Elvis Costello and our shared antipathy towards the anti-kathy when we all worked a children's clothing store. I went elsewhere, found other anti-kathy's. Strangely enough, I met Pansy also through a shared workhell experience but she never had the same loathing for the anti-kathies that I did. Indeed, if we for a moment entertained the idea that the anti-kathy could be male, she positively liked the person who I would have thought was the first anti-kathy (there were several, and a few potential ax-murderers and let's not even start with the guy who dressed his guinnea pigs up like Mexican wrestlers) at the big V. I don't hold this lapse in judgement against her. And she doesn't even like Elvis Costello. I've left boys for that.

Well, it took over a year for the anti-kathy to manifest itself in the current workplace. But she is here. And she is fearsome.

Now it is the shameful confession time. Several years ago, while in California for a month I picked up a big weighty novel that I had heard of at someone's house. Being pregnant and often bored, I read it. It was http://www.atlasshrugged.tv/. I enjoyed it. It was so over the top and ridiculous. Didn't believe that kindness was a vice. But I was entertained. So, I recently bought The Fountainhead from Amazon because it was on sale. It's great. I'd buy it again if only for the sex scenes. I am having such a fun time! Then it hit me. The anti-kathy is a classic ayn rand villain. Really. Honestly. Idealistic. Wanting to make the world a better place. Worrying about the downtrodden and those that are marginalised. Look, even the pacificst vegetarians of this office think that perhaps the anti-kathy doesn't live in the real world and this is why she is so unhappy. So I am now casting office politics in randian terms. I am of course Howard Roark and tomorrow will dye my hair red in an attempt to more clearly emulate my hero. The Anti-kathy is Paul Keating because she isn't clever and fiendish enough to be Ellsworth Toohey. I think Toohey actually saw the future and ran off to South Africa. But is not, as far as I know, involved in any coup attempts.

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The best part of the day has been the debate in the office over which is more intellectually-challenged animal, sheep or cow? And my favorite part was the co-worker illustrating how cows all stand next to hedges when it starts to rain, with their bums, posteriors, hind-end sticking out. She, was of course, arguing that cows are far stupider. But then she also doesn't like their eyes.

The H had to tell me about his Sunday night dream. Paula Radcliffe was in it. Trying to have sex with him. She maintained it was part of her training regime and that she needed to have sex with as many men as possible. He claims he turned her down. I suppose it is as good as theory as any as to why she didn't finish that marathon. Of course, if she had been training in Tehachapi she would have been used to the heat, used to the hills and would have gotten used to an altitude of 4,000 feet. Hard to imagine Tehachapi useful for anything.

I will be attempting stand-by in 16 more days. It will be nice to be somewhere it isn't raining.

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Of course if I were Billy, I would want to be somewhere inside. Where it is dry. With maybe a hot whiskey.

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I do hope they have a good time and I am quietly confident that I will get a mp3 player out of it.

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Sometimes you have to ponder just how much of a geek you were. Yes, I played. With anyone who would have me from about (i think) 1979 until 1984. Yes, I was a mathlete. (even typying that word makes me squirm at the sheer geekness of it) I like to tell myself I grew out of the geekness. Moved to the big smoke. Listened to cool 'alternative' music. Learned to drink vodka and wine. Dressed in clothes from trendy shops and second-hand places. Dyed my hair. Travelled the world (alright, europe). Upon reflection, I realise that not only do I still have a set of dice (in lovely green jewelled tones) but I now participate in an on-line by email rpg. It's so sad.

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It was an interesting night on tv. MTV were having a sort of cribs/pimp my ride marathon. Alas, none of the cribs were that interesting (I have no desire to see Peter Andre's living space) but pimp my ride, as always, was sublime. I want a yoga land cruiser. I do. I do. However, I didn't watch nearly enough of it. Somehow I got caught up in the whole men's overall gymnastic championship thing. I do not understand gymnastic commentators. i don't understand why dips may be bad and why sometimes you want your body to look one way and then another time you can't have your arms that way. Yet still I watched. And yes, I know lots and lots about whether or not that German woman should have been disqualified on the three day eventing and whether or not it was a refusal (but we can blame Jilly Cooper for mu understanding three day eventing).

While my sister-in-law was in residence, drinking vodka and russian cognac, eating an awful lot of salsa, i started to tell her all about how i came to believe i had managed to break my tailbone while spending the night in ballymurphy. And the story reminded her of the great let's drink in the park and eventually get my legs waxed story of several years ago.

It was actually one of those Augusts when Belfast had good weather. They do happen. We sat in Botanic and drank white wine. Then a couple of guys tried their chat up lines on Julia and we decided it was time to move on. Headed up the Lisburn Road because a)I was living in Finaghy at the time and b) I had an appointment to get my legs waxed which was the first of my whole waxing experiences. Decided to stop off at Tatu and drink some red wine. While at the bar noticed there was a guy on his own, reading The Guardian. Well, you know what happens. Guy on own, with my favorite newspaper. We sat down to talk to him. He was a brief. He told us he was waiting for someone. This guy shows up and they tell us we have to leave because they need to talk business. Who does business in a bar in the middle of the afternoon in Belfast? With a lawyer? Anyway, at some point, they conclude business and then invite us over and buy us drinks. I feel nervous about said waxing appointment drink a whole bunch. And postpone appointment. Eventually lawyer rings. Second guy knew some friend of my sister-in-law. He gives us a lift up the road. I get my legs waxed (I actually throw up all over the pristine white treatment room because of all the red wine and stress). We go home. I resolve to never drink again. Sometime that weekend, the second guy gets arrested. For having a whole bunch of illegal sky boxes. And cannabis. With intent to supply. My sister-in-law maintains he is still serving at her majesty's pleasure.

Drinking with me is always an adventure. Always.

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Do you think bears get hangovers?Do you think he'll be back looking for more Ranier ale? Do you think he could be converted to wine when he gets a little older? What if he brings some friends with him the next time? Would he like 'date' an ugly female bear after such a binge? Is that what the panda bears at the National Zoo need?

I know, I know, I am thinking abou this too much.

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I can assure you it is still raining. No Lucky isn't kicked out to enjoy the weather. Yes, I feel like I swam to work. Is this global warming?

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4 am. Meow. Meow. Meow. Sound of a 12 week old kitten throwing his body against closed bedroom doors in the attempt to get someone to get up and play with him. The sister-in-law was the sucker that opened the door and then had the cat torture her for a while. Tonight, Lucky sleeps in the kitchen.

Glad I am not going anywhere further away than Bushmills that weekend. Wonder if they will settle in time.

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The Blessing torturing Lucky. 

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This is Lucky. 

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How could I resist?

1. Most of us go by pseudonyms on the internet to avoid rabid ex-lovers, identity thieves, and dirtbags that have nothing better to do. These names have special meaning to each person and often tell a bit about that person. If you use a pseudonym, list it and explain why you chose that particular name. If you don’t, well, just tell us your name.
   

Kate. Oh the reasons. I maintain I am not Kate (there is some disagreement around this). Kate is an alter-ego. Who can do magic and does birthings. She is also what Pansy (also a pseudonym) calls me and whenever I hear that voice shouting Kate (particularly in the vicinity of a bar) I get a nice warm feeling. Also, Kate is a character, in a never-ending story. That managed to include Elvis Costello in the first chapter. And has the perfect role for Johnny Depp (he would have to dye his hair).
2. Are you single?
No.

3. If yes, do you believe in marriage as an institution?

When I got married, I didn't take the H's name. My mother was deeply disappointed in me (see question 5). But all I could think was how can I betray the feminist sisterhood. I didn't.

4. Do you have any children?

A daughter, the blessing.

5. Was your mother a feminist?

No. She is a sweetie. But not a feminist (ask me about the money conversation before I got married). My father, however, I think very well could be.

6. Reach back into your brain and remember what made you a feminist in the first place. Tell us the story, and let us know if those things still weigh heavily in your decision to continue being a feminist.

I think I always was. I remember arguing against the registration for the draft (look I show my age) because I thought it was terribly unfair that boys were being made to register, but I wasn't. Didn't the US Military realise what they were passing up by not having me?!? Then at 22 I read The Second Sex. It articulated all those thoughts swirling around in my mind. And thoughts I hadn't yet had.

7. What would you call your ‘personal style’? Do you like makeup/hate makeup? Jeans and t-shirts or flares and babydolls? Do you own any high heels? Give us an indication of the types of things you like to wear and the image that you portray that makes you the most comfortable.
High heels equals death. I am the clumsiest person in the world. I buy make-up and then have no idea what to do with it. I love make-up and am a sucker for packaging. But I dress 'cas' and classic. I have cashmere cardigans and ox-blood penny loafers. I am also spending my life searching for the perfect Hawaiin print shirt. And I would be lost without a pair of converse high-tops in the closet at all times.

8. Are you a crazy cat lady?

Now that I have Lucky, I feel I've joined the club. All my friends have cats. Princess Tigerlilly, Fenway, Zuma. And let's not forget the cats who have gone on, Smokey, Mike Ditka.

9. What do you think of men in this crazy world? Are they the problem or the solution? Are they all guilty by association, or is it a social ill that we all have to face?

Years I worried about the what about men. Cos as much as I like lesbianism as a political statement, I lust after men. This body is wired for them. And well, I think my father is a feminist role model (he pushed for that on-site child care centre). Men, can't live with them, can't shoot them. Besides the H is a good cook, cleans regularly and is the primary care-giver of the Blessing.

10. Who do you think is more dangerous to feminism: Women who portray feminism as dirty and unfeminine, or men who wish to control their wives through monetary and other means? Or do you have another theory all together?

Men, definitely. We have to allow women to find there own ways.

11. What is your political affiliation?

Registered democrat. Candidate (on more than one occasion) for the Alliance Party, Northern Ireland. I have also been known to dream about Gordon Brown.

12. What is the last book that you read?

Currently reading Midnight's Children. Just finished re-reading The Handmaid's Tale which I gave to the H for his birthday.

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My mother is losing her sight.

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Two men, BBC1, Eurosport. The H is in heaven because he can get up early every morning and watch a bit of rowing. I am going to get sick of athletes really soon. Also it might explain why I got the news of Julia Child's death from another blog. And I agree with the poster, I want that woman to write my obituary. I always liked the advice that you should never cook with wine that weren't going to drink. Not advice I followed when I was young, a student and broke. But definitely advice I follow now. And I like that idea, 'you are alone in the kitchen'. Rarely true but at least the chef in this house gets to pick the music.

Rest in peace.

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I talked (and linked) about the BA strike and how it could affect my upcoming travel plans(badly). I told cute little stories about Mike my cat and the scratching post I tried to buy. I also moaned a bit about a) the H's desire to spend £3599 on a new bike and b) my sister-in-law drinking all my absolut. I finished it with a horrible quiz on what kind of shoe I am (a great big black boot, if you are wondering). And now all this wit and link and wit has disappeared. Admittedly Blogger did try to warn me not to hit that button. Boy was I a fool!

Here is a different quiz. I am not sure it is completely accurate. I am sure I could have been a snob in so many ways (on the food and wine side, on the music side--though I don't for Sibelius. That's the H's territory. Give me Coltrane any day of the week).

You speak eloquently and have seemingly read every
book ever published. You are a fountain of
endless (sometimes useless) knowledge, and
never fail to impress at a party.What people love: You can answer almost any
question people ask, and have thus been
nicknamed Jeeves.What people hate: You constantly correct their
grammar and insult their paperbacks.

What Kind of Elitist Are You?
brought to you by

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I like this story for so many reasons. Maybe because I just got a kitten myself (an all-white 11 week old tom) who is just so placid that he would never attack a pilot. He hasn't even attacked the Blessing yet and I think she provokes him. The H said when he got up yesterday. Lucky and the Blessing where in bed doing a puzzle together. Maybe because I wonder how the cat got into the cockpit. Aren't they supposed to be locking the doors to keep out terrorists? Could cats be Osama Bin Laden's next secret weapon? You could get them through the metal detectors? But what if you ended up with a cat like Lucky? He'd only attack the food cart. And wouldn't really attack. Just wander around meowing and trying to look half-starved.

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And it is a killer. I think I may be getting about 10% which means I am obviously spending summer doing something other than indulging in culture.

And I just want to complain now that I am going to be forced into watching Big Brother tonight. I might have to watch Beauty and the Beast enhcanted christmas with the blessing instead.

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What I don't know is if I have unfailing good taste in television (which is probably doubtful) or I am just such a Guardian reader that I no longer have any independent thought (I guess even asking this question means that Emily would never speak to me. But I am okay with that because I don't find the co-poster nearly as compelling as Emily). Anyway, Saturday's Guardian's listing section (TV) had on its front-cover Xzhibit. In side was a story about how they tried to get the man to 'pimp' a mini. I would love to link to the story but I seem completely unable to find it on The Guardian site. Why am I tell ing you? Look at that first sentence. Is The Guardian finally recognising the genius that is Pimp My Ride? The best thing of television as CSI is in hiatus. Not simply entertainment but also a useful exploration of the wetern conceit that you can always reinvent yourself. Or am I just a Guardian dittohead? And which is the scarier scenario? I am on a quest to get everyone in the office to watch it. Everyone with a skybox that is.

Oh, and I am thinking of renaming the blog. Courtesy of our receptionist who has a really surreal grasp of the Spanish languange.

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I still think this is wrong. Just fundamentally wrong.

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Everyone will be pleased by the return of the cocktail of the week. I know it isn't the first Saturday in May and I am not in Kentucky but the herb garden is just so lush at the moment. And mine is the house of whiskey (I think we have five different bottles in the house) so when the wine ran out on Saturday (because I am not sharing the new french bottles with anyone else) and well I had no cranberry juice for cosmos, juleps seemed like a natural choice.

The H spent a bit of the weekend complaining about music but he also suggested that as I have decided I can't be bothered to make it to my 20th high school reunion, that it could very likely be time to stage a 9 year (or is it 10?) reunion of the University Challenge team and we should go and find us a nice pub quiz to terrorise. Now I can see some problems with this idea. One of the members lives on the continent. One of the members has left the dominant (in quiz terms) political party. The Four in Hand no longer exists and no longer does quizes. But I can also see the attractions. Ah, the days of quiz supremacy. Anyone interested?

So yeah, the H was complaining about a particular song. He absolutely loaths Dry Your Eyes. I suppose I am indifferent to the whole matter. That does not mean that I only listen to Lordgodking Elvis and Saint Coltrane with the occasional Frank for work in the kitchen. I have other tastes. I am much better informed about Pharrel Williams than my Big Brother watching sister-in-law who was traumatized not just by the contestant in BB self-gratifying himself last week (he's a man. He's been in the house for 9 weeks. should this shock anybody? disclaimer: Saturday night was the first episode of BB I have ever watched and it was only because she asked) but also by the NERD video for Lapdance. I think she has a rather naive view of men. But I am quite surprised to find out that I am better informed on pop culture matters than the sister-in-law who also tried to convince me that clothes need details like buttons, bows and ribbons. I suppose that is what I do like about getting older. I know I don't need any bows. And I am quite content in that knowledge. I still think turning 40 is going to hurt. Now that hurt could be cushioned by say a new car (if the H is reading this).

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I so want one of these. I do. I just don't think they would like the country antrim address or my sterling cheques. I suppose this is when I also need to confess that I can't seem to save for the Blessing's university education. I keep raiding the account once a year. She is just going to have to get a job. As soon as she turns 8.

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