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Oh boy. A general malaise has settled
in over our little apartment. I can't get myself into
a better frame of mind… wallow wallow wallow.
Good things -
I am listing to the Buena Vista Social
Club soundtrack which is so fantastic
I have the french windows open onto
the courtyard and it is a truly magnificent day and all potted
plants look very cute
A friend of Dad's has expressed
great interest in investing in our company (yey!)
Lil'Bro proposed to his lovely
GF this morning
Big-P and I went for a long walk
by the river (which we discovered is amazingly close to our
apartment)
Sez, Special-K, Small and I are all
going out dancing tonight and I have a nice out fit picked
out
I am drinking delicious green tea
(with roasted rice) freshly brewed in my new Christmas tea-pot
I have been receiving emails from
really excellent diaryland people that make me smile
So what's going on? I'm
guessing in a day or two I will realise the entire thing was
hormonal but Big-P is so sad and I don't know what to
do and I don't know how to keep being so strong.
I read Tama Janowitz's newest
novel over the last 24 hours A
Certain Age. Talk about relentlessly cynical. I had
to keep reading to find out if she was going to spare the
heroine from a life time of misery before the end of the novel.
The back of the book says it's a "wickedly funny and
glistening dark novel that takes as our subject our current
obsession with conspicuous consumption - especially in the
form of one very misguided young woman, desperate to secure
a mate and a certain lifestyle". This is (coincidently) the
third book about fashionable, poor, society women who are
looking for a rich husbands that I've read recently -
Ask Any Girl by Winifred Woolfe was the first, which
was really enjoyable, set in the 50s, then I read Gentlemen
Prefer Blondes which was also pretty amusing and pretty
racy for a book written in the 20s, and now this one which
was comparatively very depressing. The other two ended with
the gals getting the old rich boring guy, but that doesn't
seem to happen in a end of the century version of the same
tale. As an antidote to all this gold-digging literature,
I need to read something a little more real - something earthy
- maybe some Seamus Heaney poetry. You can't get more
earthy than poetry about bogs in Ireland.
Yup yup yup.
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