Wednesday, June 11, 2008

It must be that other time of the month...

My head is full of romance and possibility and wonderment and joy so I must be ovulating. Isn't it funny how we women can go from a "Don't touch me!" to "Touch me everywhere and Now or else," in a matter of minutes hours weeks days? Seriously, we're screwy. I could never be a lesbian because women wear me out mentally and emotionally. Some women send out an energy that is like neon, blinding, alarming plaid and I just have to turn and walk away before the headache hits me. Think Cyndi Lauper, 1986 and a case of Jolt Cola where she starts the conversation with "Let me tell you about my mutha..." and then descends into a vagina monologue. With a strobe light in your eye. and a flea in you knickers. And your bra is too tight. So are your shoes. (Click Continued to read the rest...)

Non sequitur - You know when the same weird thing happens more than once and you think to yourself - this can't be a pattern because it's so completely random it would be the equivalent of winning the lottery and damn it - Did I just wasted my chance card on this obscure nothing coincidence sequence rather than winning the lottery? I'll be seriously pissed off if I did. you've thought that haven't you? Well, My random weird thing is; I bought this book from my local library years ago, it's called English Literature From 1785. It's a college textbook, well more like a Cliff Notes synopsis collection, but I liked it so I bought it for 20pence. The weird thing is, every time I open it, I open it to the same page. Now, it's not got a cracked spine, dog ear or anything that makes it flop open automatically to this page - it just does. If this book were alive it would be saying "Will you read this fucking story already!! I mean geez, how many times do I have to show you this page before you figure out I'm trying to show you something, you fucking dishit! Read it! Read it now! Arrrrrrggg!!!" (Because my book has a possessed by Sam Kinison feel to it for all it's Eng. Lit. from 1785) (Kind of weird really that my Sam Kinison book is going to tell me a love story. Considering) The story is the real life love story of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett. Did you know their romance was a love story all in itself?

In a quick paragraph (taken mostly from the book, of course) because my CTS is acting up, Robert admired the poems of Elizabeth, a semi-invalid who rarely left her house. He wrote to her and asked to meet her; when he did he found her very attractive. Her father was a tyrant who forbade his daughter to marry, but in 1846 Barrett eloped with Browning and escaped to Italy with him. they lived there for fifteen years, and she regained her full health, and they had a son.

Isn't that great! I just love that wee story - can you see her sitting in a chair chaise lounge, quilt over her legs, occasional cough from possible TB or more likely allergies and asthma, and then this dashing city poet man comes into her home and flood, rush, crash: In Love. The wicked Dad says no you can't marry my daughter - no one will marry my daughter! And the couple plan an escape and run away together to sunny Italy and live HEA and have a son...And this is real life! Not fiction at all. I suppose, what we call it is history.

So I wonder why this book kept opening to this page as if insisting I read their story. It's barely a paragraph, and yet I can't stop thinking about them. I see them fleeing in the night to escape from Elizabeth's father who, oddly, forbade any of his twelve children to marry. How can someone have twelve kids and still think marriage is bad? Was it a duty bound thing? Did he hate himself for liking sex? Did he love his wife a whole lot and was sickened by the anxiety, worry and fear of her dying in childbirth - twelve times! - and couldn't bear the thought of his kids going through the same? Was he just a dick?

The mind is just buzzing!

I met a woman yesterday, new to the area. She says she's from London and she's a freelance. A freelance what I ask - she never answered me. I now will have to badger her to death until she tells me. You can't just say "I'm a freelance" without saying what you freelance in! It's like saying "I'm a painter" and not clarifying house, canvas, erotic body paint, decorator etc. Oddly enough, and trust me this is odd, she approached me and asked me about where certain things are in town. She said she saw me walking around town earlier - I was on my way to the dentist - perfect teeth BTW if you were wondering - and it turns out we live a few houses away from each other, our kids are in the same class...and I just want to fucking know what her freelance fucking job is! So I'll have to invite her for coffee one morning and ply her with caffeine until she dishes the story about herself. Or I'll Die. We may become friends, I'll just wait and see. She was asking about nanny agencies and how we folks manage out childcare so I'm cautious that she wants to arrange some kind of kid swap thing with me.

You all think I'm crazy now don't you...well. I blame the hormones.


Weary Hag said...

Nah, not crazy. Except maybe about the bentos. :) kidding.

Loved the Browning/Barrett story.Thanks for sharing that one. Pretty weird about the book continually opening to that section though... [hears Twilight Zone music].

Women (in real life) kinda bug me too. I choose female buddies VERY carefully. There are requirements. First one? Don't friggin annoy me... at all ... EVER.

The blogger's female to female experience is totally different. We actually have to go out of our way to risk being annoyed by 'em. Even then, it only lasts as long as a post read.

You, my dear, have never annoyed me. So there.

Revel in your hormonal state. It all changes before you know it. Bleh.

Lyvvie said...

Yeah - Women bloggers are awesome! You've always been aces for me too, Weariness. *HUG*

Lightning Bug's Butt said...

Why Lyvvie. I'd forgotten how charming you are.

What a sweet story -- a guy sexing an invalid back to health.

Maja said...

Great love story that one.

And how paranoid are you of being used? Just make friends already. If she's rubbish you can blow her off.