Entry eleven - 8 January 2000


In which loobylu tries to snap out of itů


Oh boy. A general malaise has settled in over our little apartment. I can't get myself into a better frame of mindů 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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