The Animals Are Revolting (Again)

Well, another weekend has come… and is, despite my best efforts to sleep through it, still here. I’ve been neglecting BLU, so a tardy half-assed blog entry will have to do.

Pete has single-pawedly taken on the roll of Cat, and although he hasn’t yet managed to catch the mouse living under the washing machine, he has at least managed a fine “get off my land” thump and a decent growl (which, uttered from the depths of a ball of white fluff, can only strike fear into the most timid of creatures).

Dorris has clearly been reading the newspapers as well as shredding them, and will now be renamed Amy Winehouse for her bizarre antics. Except without the coke – Dorris much prefers dried mango, fingers, the tip of the dog’s tail, wires, and plastic bags. We are now on stasis watch, although as she’s currently picking a fight with the laundry bag and playing king of the castle on the boxes, I think we can safely assume that Destructobunny will live to destroy another house. Although at the rate she’s going, I’m threatening to take the Bunny Swap too literally and put her in a box marked “f.a.o. Borris The Frog”.

Indigo, who turned six at the end of November, is celebrating his old age by developing psoriasis and being cantankerous. And, if it’s actually possible, sleeping even more than usual.

I've been thinking again

ok, i've been thinking *pauses for expressions of shock and surprise*

it's probably not an original idea, but bear with me. The trend these days is for women to be slender ("boyish") and relatively small - but big breasted. However, if you look at porn stars, magazines etc, the lauded woman is hairless - certainly compared to porn mags from the 70s and earlier. Breasts and body hair - particularly pubic hair - are both secondary sexual characteristics.

If you look at classical nudes, pubic hair is generally left out; this isn't due to a fashion but because pubic hair was seen as "sexual" - and women were not presented as sexual beings. Come the 70s and the second wave, and women were sexual beings - and we've got a lot more hair and people are starting to accept that women enjoy - and have a right to enjoy - sex. But then comes the backlash.

off comes the pubes. ok. but now let's look at our porn again (although I'm generally talking about magazine porn). You've got no hair, so the genitalia are now more exposed - but further to that, they're bubblegum pink! Now go look at a cunt - particularly one during arousal, and it's not bubblegum pink. Yes, she might be sexy, but she shows no sign (other than a few gurns) of sexual arousal - she is no longer a sexual being.

Add to that the fascination with big breasts (which, by sheer necessity sometimes are artificial) and the "ideal woman" is not only asexual - while definitely female and sexy in appearance, she's not in herself a sexual being; she's not there to enjoy herself, but to be enjoyed - but fake. Effectively, a sleek, shiny, user-pleasing machine.

fears

This money thing is getting worse. I've got to wait until the weekend, when MornMama comes to stay (which I'm really looking forward too) - before I can send the new forms off as she needs to sign them. Despite her having signed everything already. I hate the pettyness of these things; they have both our details on file, but because the form has a different heading - despite being nearly identical - they can't do anything until they've sat on it for another week or ten (at which point, they will probably tell me I have to send in documents they already have).

I have to pay my fees for uni. Now, thanks to the wonderful grants system, they won't decide my fee status until they decide what loan I'm getting - and so I currently have to pay all the fees (that would be a little over £3000). Not at once, just every month, for nine months. When you add that to my rent, you're looking at an outgoing of nearly just over £900 per month. My dad is helping out, thankfully, with the rent (I don't know how I'm going to pay that back, if ever, considering the amount I already owe him).

I'm looking for a job. But I have a problem - I'm either too qualified (I have a teaching qualification) or not qualified enough (I don't have a degree). I don't have any experience in anything except teaching (but I don't have a degree) or working in a shop (I've been turned down for the three jobs I've applied for), and I don't have the interpersonal skills or patience to work in a bar, especially if I have to be up at sparrowfart to go rowing.

If it was just me I was supporting, I wouldn't be so worried - I could, ultimately, live on beans. But Indigo needs his vaccines doing and his teeth cleaning, Dorris needs fixing (and an xray doing first), both she and Pete need thier vaccines. And they both need to eat proper diets, with vegetables and vitamins and what-have-you. I can't scrimp on thier food, certainly not any more than I'm doing by switching them to cheaper food and hay (although it smells good and the buns seem to like it). I can't find cheaper vegetables than what I'm paying. We're already crowded into our smaller place where the buns can't go out as much as I'd like them too, and Indigo doesn't get the run I want him too (and he has to go up and down the stairs). I just start to wonder if I can offer them the life I want them to have.

no money more problems

I've moved house. Hurrah for me.

Well, sort-of. I have no shelves, but I do have five dining chairs (two different pairs and one folding chair from the grandparents) and several boxes of booksbooksbooks. And no wardrobe, so I still have suitcases waiting to be unpacked - which reduces the space I've got.

I could cope with that if I actually had the money to go and buy some bookshelves in order to make a start. But, thanks to the general ineptness of Northamptonshire LEA, I still don't have my student loan, so every day takes me further and further into my overdraft (and, as a result, I still have to pay my fees).

Sometimes it seems like every time I turn around something else goes wrong; I'm starting to get worried about being able to provide for the buns and Indigo, whether or not I'm going to be able to stay in uni, whether or not I'll be able to eat this week.

Halloween Mix

R.E.M - I Walked With A Zombie
Banjo Kate - Zombie Jambouree
The Zombies - Spooky Little Girl Like You
Tom Waits - Cemetary Polka
The White Stripes - Little Ghost
Charlie Daniels Band - Devil Went Down To Georgia
Flogging Molly - Devil's Dance Floor
Siouxie & The Banshees - Halloween
The Zutons - Nightmare Part II
Tilly & The Wall - Night Of The Living Dead
Washington Social Club - Dead Kid Town
The Awakening - Vampire Girl
The Rapture - The Devil
Xiu Xiu - Brian The Vampire
Tangiers - Spine To Necklace
Clap Your Hands Say Yeah - Satan Said Dance
Bloc Party - Hunting For Witches
Billion Dollar DJs - Hella Halloween (Mix)

Depression

I go through terrible periods where I don't want to get up, interact with anyone (I get a crippling dislike of crowds, which makes attending lectures really difficult) and I can't even motivate myself to shower or eat properly. The easiest description I can think of is a numb feeling like you've been out in the wind and everything hurts but you can't really feel anything - but I have to hold onto that feeling, because otherwise I panic and become wholly irrational (like when you get pins and needles, except it's all over and you want to crawl out of your skin just to get away from it even though it's all in your head and no matter where you go it's still with you).

I wrote this trying to explain to Jim what depression was like - at least for me. I liked it, so I'm going to keep it around.

you know what I hate...

Weird dreams, and then rolling over to snuggle against him, only to wake up to realise he's not there, because I'm in the wrong country. Or he's in the wrong country. One of us is.

Have a gratuitous photo:

Good Things and Bad Things

I hate not seeing him when he's ill.
I hate it when he cries.
I hate that he won't talk to me when he's stressed.
I hate it when I can't put my arms around him and tell him it's all going to be alright.
I hate not being able to make sure he eats and doesn't live off whiskey.
I hate it when he doesn't talk to me.
I hate being so far away.
I hate it when I wake up reaching for him across the pillow.
I hate that he doesn't look after himself.

I love that he worries about others.
I love the anticipation of knowing that I will wake up next to him in a week, a month, a day.
I love the sound of his voice.
I love that he shows emotion.
I love that he hates upsetting me.
I love that he cares.
I love that he loves.
I love him.

I just wish it was easy and simple and clear and that he was close and well and happy.

But I know that I wouldn't change him for the world.

the buns are home!

and to celebrate, I built them the condo I've been telling them about.

I used an actual outdoor bunny run (they need a roof to stop them getting out and the dog getting in); it used to be outside, but I always wanted them to have a condo - now seemed like the perfect time

The spotty fabric is in fact a fleece throw from primark; I wanted something to cover the carpet and give them a nice soft surface to lie on. The cage is just under 4foot by 5foot.




I've put the old base from their last cage in, partly to create something familiar, and partly to give Dorris newspaper to shred! The corner litter tray and hay rack are in there as well.


Then I've put another litter tray at the other end, next to the water bottle (which I tied on with ribbon, but I need a new bottle anyway). This is so they don't pee on the new flooring so much


I also added the little house from outdoors; they don't seem to interested, but they can always eat it or sit on it


the result:

Utata Thursday Walk no.66

They've Got The Land But We've Got The View


Farm Path

Desert Island Discs

Based on the beeb's programme; ten songs, one book, one luxury item, the collected works of Shakespeare, then either the Bible, the Torah, or the Koran.

Songs:
1. Bubblegum On My Boots - Springbok Nude Girls
2. Soho Square - Kirsty MacColl
3. Love In A Time Of Visas - The Buckfever Underground
4. Portions For Foxes - Rilo Kiley
5. A Sweet Summer Night On Hammer Hill - Jens Lekman
6. Road To Joy - Bright Eyes
7. Girl Anachronism - The Dresden Dolls
8. Ballad Of A Lonely Construction Worker - Cuff The Duke
9. We Both Go Down Together - The Decemberists
10. Fear Of Dying - Jack Off Jill


Book: American Gods, by Neil Gaiman
Luxury Item: balls of wool, crochet hook and scissors.

And one record: A Sweet Summer Night On Hammer Hill - Jens Lekman

Thursday Walk 64

In an attempt to improve my photography - I'm rediscovering how much I love taking pictures of things - I've joined Utata - a "salon" that encourages the arts. I like it, and even though I'm no way as brilliant as the people on there, I enjoy the projects they set along a particular theme. Yesterday, being Thursday, was the day of the weekly Thursday Walk. I didn't take many pictures, as my little point-and-shoot camera ran out of battery, but this is what I did take:

The Faded Dreams of Summer

























Bark Bark



And I'm thinking of taking on another bunny.

hooray!

As of yesterday, I am no longer a vet student. I didn't quit, but I'm not going to appeal after I failed my exams again. I tried - if I'm honest, I probably could have tried harder, but at the same time, my heart wasn't in it.

I hated large animal work - I hated animal husbandry, spending hours trying to find somewhere that will house you, feed you, and then working for two weeks without pay on something you have zero interest in (pigs anyone?). It just never gelled with me, and I resented it, resented how stressed it made, how tired I felt, and how completely disillusioned. I just wasn't interested in it, I never, ever even considered working with large animals, and I wasn't raised around animals - and I was always irritated by the amount of knowledge we were assumed to have about farm animals.

That was my biggest problem - the sheer disillusionment. I wanted to be a vet, but being a vet student... not so much. I didn't like the atmosphere, the attitude of many of the students en masse (while on an individual basis, I liked the majority of people) which was so competitive, so "look at me, I'm fantastic", "work hard party harder" and very, very cliquey. It wasn't a good place for someone whose depression is so triggered by stress (both mine and others', which is why I avoided the place a lot of the time).

I'm relieved, though. I really wasn't enjoying myself at all, and what I did enjoy was such a small part of what was going on. I didn't feel supported, or even noticed (for fuck's sake, I was still on the lists for second years, and kept getting angry emails because I wasn't at a second year lecture/workshop/whatever).

So... now I have to decide what to do now. I don't want to do something for the end result, but for the sake of doing it. I'm probably going to go for something with women's studies (probably english lit., international relations, or sociology). Something that interests me, something I'm curious about - but not something that is going to lead to a specific career. I've got my CELTA, I could go into teaching, or journalism, or working for a NGO. I could do anything, I don't have a single line to walk along any more.

projects

I have a monstrous to-do list, as usual.

• Make dresses, plural - I have fabric for three dresses, and patterns for them; two wrap dresses (red knit and a printed jersey), and one vintage 1950s vogue dress that I have to make up in white polycotton to make sure the sizing is right before I start. I then have to find suitable fabric.
• Fix the dress that i've got hanging in my wardrobe, and has been half-finished for a year now. I really need a dress model
• Make dress model. For this, I need an assistant to wrap my torso in masking tape - any volunteers?
• Make a dog coat for a certain hound.
• Make something for F - probably a hoodie or cardigan. For this, I need F, or an item of his clothing, and I currently have neither.
• Do something with my cross-stitches. I now have three squares, and an idea for a fourth, and I really ought to do something with them.
• Find something to do with that pink cord.
  
• Learn to crochet.
  
• Tidy my house
  

the dog...

in his new bed.

it's half-empty!

The mothership and I went to ikea today, after dropping off BoyWonder's cricket and hockey bags at one of those storage companies. I love ikea, but hate it too. It's full of the most wonderful, useless stuff - ok, some of it is dreadfully useful, but that's the stuff I don't need. The useless stuff is what I want. I ended up buying another dog bed for Indigo - this wonderful soft donut shape, covered in fun fur with legs and a tail - because I'm trying to persuade him to sleep more on the floor.

But, pleasantly - and surprisingly enough - the store was quiet. There were blissfully few people, few screaming babies (except for a few delightful preschoolers who needed putting on a lead). I know ikea is a family friendly shop - they're proud of it. And I do like kids (well, most of the time... except for the screamy ones, and preferably if I know them) but sometimes it's just so lovely to not have to dodge prams and toddlers.


Other thoughts... I've become addicted to wardrobe_remix on flickr. I love looking at the pictures; they're far more inspiring than the skeletal identikit models in the magazines, and show a gorgeous range of styles and ideas than you see just walking along the street. It's driving me to be more creative about what I wear, but also reminding me why I don't read women's magazines regularly.

*shock*

You Are 98% Feminist

You are a total feminist. This doesn't mean you're a man hater (in fact, you may be a man). You just think that men and women should be treated equally. It's a simple idea but somehow complicated for the world to put into action.

Are You a Feminist?

big bad feminist

Feminism isn't the easiest thing to define. Well, it is. It's belief in the equality of men and women. But feminism means different things to different people - ultimately, feminism is what you make it and what it means to you.

I suppose I'm writing this for two of my friends - well, not specifically for them, but they inspired it. They don't - won't - define themselves as feminists, and so I asked Ellie why. Her answer was simple - because she would happily stay at home and be a housewife. Now, I define myself as a feminist, and I think that's fair enough. If she's happy to do that, then she can, with my blessing. What I don't believe is that women should be housewives first and foremost - I believe that women should have the choice to become housewives or executives or air hostesses or authors or doctors. Whatever they want to do. Some women wouldn't be happy staying at home - I know my mother wasn't, and I don't think I would be. I'd always seek something else to do. But if you are, and that is what you want to do - then that's cool.

For me, feminism is about choice, and the right to make those choices yourself from the same options as everyone else, regardless of the labels that society has otherwise given you. Women should be able to walk down the street without getting whistled, hooted or shouted at. Women should be listened to, their opinions given equal weight. We are not decorative objects for other people's amusement, but intelligent self-determining individuals. Women should be paid the same as men, considered on merit rather than looks or the likelihood of them having kids in the next five years.

Feminists aren't hairy-legged man-hating bra-burning militant pagan emasculating lesbians. Ok, some feminists are gay, or non-religious. Some feminists probably do hate men. I mean, just because I haven't met any genuine man-hating feminists, doesn't mean they don't exist? When I began to identify myself as a feminist, I didn't turn my boyfriend and my razor in at the door. I kept my bras, my tottering spike heels, my make-up, even my sense of humor. Militant feminists are a minority - the most militant most feminists get is going on a Take Back The Night march or taking a self-defence course. And, if you look at the definition of militant, engaging in a peaceful protest rally is hardly posing a threat to others.

Feminists don't hate children. We don't kill babies for sexual gratification (no matter what this guy might say). Feminists aren't pro-abortion, they're pro-choice. As a feminist, as an individual, I believe every woman should have access to safe, legal abortions, whether for medical or social reasons. But more than that - I believe abortion should be rare. Everyone should have proper sex education - and starting young. It shouldn't be taboo to talk about preventing unwanted pregnancy or STDs or the right to say no or what constitutes rape. But it's no use just talking about it - everyone should have access to contraception, whether that's the pill, condoms, or a coil; it's your body, you have the right to say what is done with it.

Feminists come in all different shapes and sizes, and they believe a wide range of things. But what it boils down to: women and men are the same, and they should have the same choices and opportunities. That's it. Really.



linky: "Yes, you are"

Daphne

It's a strange thing to think that she's been gone nearly a year. I know people will say "she was only a bunny, they don't live long", and I tell myself that, but... Daphne way my bunny. My baby, my friend and confidante and comfort. I got so used to waking up to her bouncing on the bed by my head before climbing onto my desk - she knew that was the one place she wasn't allowed, and therefore the one thing guaranteed to get me up. So used to hearing her thump and charge up and down the halls, sniffing everything, playing throw with her ball or my shoes or a book or whatever caught her attention and clearly needed a good chewing.

She was such a foul-tempered thing when I first brought her home. She would chase T out the room, bite anyone foolish enough to put a hand under the sofa, snort and hiss and snarl like the Killer Bunny itself. But part of her was always loving, sudden moments where she's sit happily in my lap, or by my feet on the floor. She had to know where I was; she became my shadow, and I couldn't move without her taking notice.

I cried when she first kissed me. I was lying on the floor, desperately trying to communicate with my cantankerous bundle of fluff and spite, nearly asleep... when she decided that I wasn't so bad, after all. And that my hair was tasty too - so she licked my face, thoroughly. It became a routine; I'd sit, she'd hop up beside me and lick my hand... and I'd stroke her ears. We did it every night.

It's still quiet without her; literally as well as metaphorically. She was a noisy so-and-so, really. Full of bounce and adventure - I can remember her climbing all over my bed, along the back of the sofa - getting everywhere and into everything.

And then, a few days after we moved, she became ill. She lost her appetite, and lost her will to explore. She would sit in my lap, ignoring Pete completely, but lying so still and heavy. She faded over a few days, but she would still try to kiss me, even when she couldn't breathe properly, when I was syringing fluid down her and she would still try to fight back.

I don't know how long it will take for me to really get used to her not being around. Somehow, I don't think I ever will.

For Indigo

It seems strange that we lie here together, wrapped in blankets and sound,
me reading, you dozing,
watching me with those patient brown eyes half-sleepy half-adoring.
Your head is resting on my hip,
your paws jutting into my legs as you insist on taking up two-thirds of the sofa,
lying along side me.
You have inspected the book I'm reading,
decided that it's not worth chewing, as you prefer textbooks or schoolbooks or secondhand romance novels.
Either that, or you approve of Neil Gaiman (but don't like a-level drama texts).
As I type, you've rested your head on my legs, causing pins and needles to invade my feet,
but move when prodded, groaning and sighing as though I've asked you to perform some impossible feat.
It seems strange that we've been together for nearly nine months now,
at once the time has gone quickly, but I can't imagine not having you at my side, underfoot, stealing my clothes or waking me in the middle of the night by kicking me in the face as you did last night.
You're my good dog.