And so we meet again

Seeing as I am back in the attic yet again, doing my Cathy Dollanganger impression, I thought I should also blog, seeing as that appears to be the way of things.

However this time, I swore I would not go back 5 pounds heavier, like I do every time I visit the States. Especially when you're staying over the road from stoner munchies heaven, Wawa. You gotta have it. After all, as a wise man once said, you never go to America to get thin.

This adamant intention has therefore meant I have been getting up between 6 and 7 every morning to do Davina workout DVDs. Whether that makes an entirely sane individual, I'm not entirely sure, but it's worked.

However, it has left me rather too much time of an evening to read the utter tripe that is Love Lies by Adele Parks. (Obviously I missed something other readers didn't at Amazon) Granted, the title was written in swirly pink lettering, with a heart dotting the "i" in Lies, so I should have known what was coming, but this is seriously the Worst Book I Have Ever Read.

Basic premise is girl is living with guy. Guy not yet grown up, she nearly 30, wants marriage and babies. Gives ultimatum, "propose to me on my 30th or leave". (I really should have read the back cover while running through Smiths at Heathrow... you can tell it's not for me already.) Then, cue ridiculous storyline of her falling for some huge popstar, him proposing to her at his gig, boyf dumped, she moves to LA with pop prince, gay BFF florist boss in tow. Not only is it the most contrived storytelling I have ever read, but you therefore get to read both her idiotic, vomit-inducing simpering, and his vacuous self-indulgence. Can you wait to find out how it turns out? No, neither could I.

Adele, Adele, what happened? Having read Game Over and impressed with your catty one-liners and dry social comment, where did it all go so wrong? Are we women so two-dimensional that any level of civilised story arc is beyond us? Of course not.

Having been involved with a famous person myself, and familiar with the egos of those who court the fame dream, the story is, trust me, very short. Only they will understand each other, and we should remain in blissful ignorance.

So, having reached my trash level, perhaps, for both my emotional and intellectual education, this is a blessing. At least the only way is up. It is a new decade, and a new reading focus shall follow.

Now, where should I start and who should I try? Substance please, but be gentle. I do after all read military history in my spare time. Of which I very much recommend Tommy at Gommecourt, a self-published tome about a plucky WWI soldier who tells it exactly like it was.

(Beverage: Gin. US measures. Shoes: Nine West metallic silver heels. When it's not snowing. A lady has limits, and that's falling on her arse.)

Working Girl

Sometimes I wonder why I decided to go down the career woman path. Every day I wake up stressed out of my mind, too much to do, too much to think about, not enough time, no-one to help. As much as I love my job, there is nothing I'll look forward to more than a holiday, and then spend the whole time feeling guilty and fretting about all the work I have to do when I get back, now that I've lost that week. Bordering possibly on insanity about the whole thing, I'm sure.
I love my job, I really do, and I have recently gotten a promotion which means more money, stronger career opportunities in the future, and a chance to have a say in where the company goes. I am utterly flabbergasted, and still in shock. Yet with this, also comes added pressure, mounting expectation, and a boss who now demands every ounce of my being. Yet, when I think about it, I was just as happy being a waitress.
Granted, I can't be a waitress when I'm 45, well I suppose I could, but you don't exactly see many of them, do you?, and the pay is risky, especially now I imagine people are going out for dinner rarely, and when they do, angst over a bottle rather than a glass, which leaves thought for a decent tip somewhat unlikely. But what is it that drives me to be so far up the career ladder that there is nothing at the top but more work and nothing else, because there's no time and you're too knackered. I have neglected my friends, barely knowing anything about the ins and outs of what they are up to, because I'm just too tired and ratty to make the effort I should. As for relationships...
A friend of mine recently opted out of the next step up for something more relaxed, less all-consuming, and without too much drama, even though she took a pay cut and the job is easier. I admire her. For so long I have defined myself by my job, that I am realising I am nothing without it, simply because I have nothing left to give after it.
What to do about that, I'm not sure, but I do know that for the rest of this week, the laptop goes off, and I will do my best to switch the work head off and have some fun. Then think about getting more sleep, how to leave my forehead alone and spend more time on and with friends, because surely they're worth more than any promotion or pay-rise?

Attic fever

So here I am, cooking like the proverbial lobster, back in the attic while the teens play rock band and eat sugar. In light of this return, I realised it was also the last time I blogged. Seems the lack of sanity and random blitherings go hand in hand... So, then, what's new... Well not much by all accounts. However, I have put up shelves (with help, granted) - a descent into the world of DIY weekends and old age, clearly. My almost indestructible cat sadly proved the almost to be true. Snivel. I still wish I was a little bit thinner and a little bit taller. I am however, tanned. Which helps. Gin is a veritable life support machine, as ever was, and my friends, are as always, very fabulous.
I am still single, which irritates me far less than I thought, considering recent forays into, well, lets be polite and say "disappointments". But I do think I should probably pay more attention to that at some point soon. Someone to help with the cooking and carrying of bags, and indeed further shelves, wouldn't go amiss. Someone to hold the popcorn so I don't eat it all or throw it all down myself during bad action flicks is also, always useful.
I also continue to work incessantly, and have no idea when I'm going to slow down. Not any time soon I should think. Damnit.
So, I'm thinking of joining a walking club upon leaving the attic, which should help with the recently acquired sloth thighs, and I'm thinking about other ways to do things differently. Yoga sounds like an idea, as does regular trips to somewhere I haven't been before. More book reading, too, and more learning. More to think about.

(Beverage: H20. It's all too hot in here. Shoes: New. I fell into an outlet store and meanwhile, mountains were made.)