Whining About Wine

I get the keys to my flat tomorrow. This is the nice flat, not the navy walled flat. I'm glad I didn't just take the first one that came along. Also, tomorrow is the first day of Spring.I think it's quite apt that I should make the move then.

It's a well known fact that when a person quits smoking their sense of smell and taste come back. A couple of weekends ago I landed home with a bottle of wine. I poured a glass for mum, Bert and myself. One sip was enough for me to know that the wine was bad. Mum agreed. Bert, who still smokes, thought there was nothing wrong with the wine. Then again, Bert's tastebuds are accustomed to eating all manner of pickled delights, fish heads, and such like. A gene, no doubt, inherited from his mother who would rather leave an egg and onion sandwich to sit in her bag for 3 days before she deemed it fit to eat.

But no, the wine was definitely soured so mum and I went back to the off licence I purchased it from to exchange for something that was actually drinkable. It just so happens that the off licence is attached to the pub which my mate Half Term Kerm frequents. It is separated by a wall but Kerm must have either heard me, or the fella that served me told Kerm that his mate was in complaining about the wine. I jumped back into the car with mum and looked at a message that had come through on my mobile.

"Gypsy" it read. From Kermy

Knowing full well that he was in the pub I sent him one back that read:

"Ha, you'll probably end up drinking that bottle of sour wine. Gypsy"

"It was mentioned" he wrote back.

A few more texts were sent back and forth before Kermy adhered that if the wine was bad enough for me to bring back then it really was not worth consuming.

And as for my sense of smell, when mum picks me up after work she smells of whatever dinner she happens to be cooking. Last week she smelt like meatloaf. All mum's should smell like dinner. Either that or Zoflora.

Fever of the Cabin Variety

If anyone was to ask me what I'd like for my birthday I'd ask for a clown. Or a jester. Or Bill Bailey. Anything to make me laugh. I remember a time in my life when laughter echoed all around. It's amazing how lonely and quiet it can seem without it.

I am a little frustrated at the minute. Kind of sick of Ballymena but realising that I am officially stuck here and I'm trying to make the most of my situation but it's not always easy. All my friends are scattered around the world and I long for their company. I am always trying to make new friends but people my age seem to think they don't need any more friends. I suppose it's because people my age settle down, have kids, get married, etc, etc.

When I lived with J I was constantly inviting people round for music making, or just for a few drinks. When I go to the pub I'm always the one saying to people that we should have more get togethers. No body seems to care that their social lives are average at best. Why settle for average. Everyday can be good if we let it. But I can't do it on my own.

I always had the best parties. That isn't me boasting it is merely the truth. Because my parties were always centred around everyone having fun, not just me. Right now I am excited about loiving by myself but I remember the flat I shared with my friend Romy when we were at uni. It was a happy flat that people always wanted to visit. I hope I have that again some day. But, in truth, my party days are nearly over or, at least, will have to go on hold 'til I figure out what it is I want out of life.

Lucky

It's been a quiet weekend for me. I went for a walk down the back lane today and made friends with some baby bulls. They are very tame and sweet. I fed one a brussel sprout and it licked my coat and boots. Their tongues are raspy, like a cats only bigger. I petted them on the nose and ruffled the fur on their necks. Baby bull hair is very soft and fluffy. I thought about the possiblity of riding one like a horse and wondering how fast they can go. I wondered if I could turn that into a story about a cow girl who actually rides a cow. And I wondered who the baddies would be because almost every story has a baddie and, therefore, a hero. So I decided that the bad guys would be Ronald McDonald the mean old freaky farmer clown and his posse of big, fat, capitalist, burger-munching blimps. And I, of course, would be the hero. Me and my cow, Lucky.

Home Is Where The Heart Is

So I went to view a flat yesterday. It was ok, a doer-upper, which means it's basically a blank canvas for me to make all homely and cosy. It does, however, have navy walls in the living room. Navy? Whoever thought navy was a good colour for any room ? I was saying to Jayney that it's probably not a good idea for someone with depression living on a flat with navy walls so a new lick of paint is definitely in order.

So the cons are, it's a pretty shabby flat, which costs a small fortune for a single person surviving on minimum wage. And the walls are navy. The pros, however, do outweigh the cons. It's round the corner from Zoe's meaning I am on hand for emergency babysitting duties. This is mutually beneficial as I take great pleasure in spending time with my nieces. It's also an end terraced house converted into 2 flats so I only have one set of neighbours. The kitchen is a decent size and I may spend quite a bit of time in there cooking nice meals and baking buns. I am especially looking forward to having my own place. I haven't had my own place ever. And yes, it's only a shabby little flat, but it will be my shabby little flat.

Trying

I mentioned a few days ago about how I was grieving a lot of different things all at the one time. Well, I forgot something. Me and J had been watching a TV series called 'An American Horror Story'. I really am not a TV person but it was nice to get into a show. It was nice to get excited every Monday when the new episode would be shown. The last one aired 2 weeks ago. It coincided with the death of everything else. Perhaps it is what pushed me over the edge (it's a shame there isn't a font for melodrama, I could see it being useful).

I was also giving off about TV and video games as a form of escapism. I still don't agree with it but in my time of struggle it has proved a great comfort to me. Both mum and I are obsessed with watching 'Hoarders'. It's a U.S. show about people who accumulate an awful lot of toot and never throw it away. Mum can identify slightly. The whole prospect of holding onto inanimate objects is alien to me. I just don't get attached to things the way some people do. That is why I am ruthless in a clearout. Perhaps I should head over to the states and get myself a job as a personal organiser. Not that I'm much good at organising my own life. I'm just good at getting rid of crap.

I'm taking Rocky to the vets today. He's lost a lot of weight and doesn't seem himself. I feel so bad for the poor wee guy (I can't call him big guy anymore). The past few weeks have been so tough on him as well and, unlike me, he hasn't the ability to understand it. First Pepe died and he was so sad. Then we got the babies and he was ok for a day or two. Then me and J broke up and I wasn't around for a few days and when I came back I took him somewhere totoally different to what he was used to. I kind of feel that I should have left him at the flat with J but he would have been starved of attention due to J's training regime. It's so fricking hard being a parent. At the back of my mind I am picturing worst case scenario, which is Rocky having a respiratory infection like Pepe did. I don't know if I can cope with anymore loss. Hopefully, whatever it is, I'll be getting him to the vet before it's too late. Please God let him be ok. Please.

Hanging In Their Hat

I meant to put this video up a while ago. It's Rocky and Pepe in their hat. As brother and sister they were really close. The dynamics are a bit different now that Pepe's gone and Rocky has two young ladies to contend with. I think he's just taking it all in his stride. Sometimes Rocky lets the two wee ones snuggle in the hat while he has the hammock to himself, sometimes all three of them share the hammock or the hat, but all in all I think Rocky and Meka are a little closer than Rocky and Polly. I can't help but adore Meka because she not only looks like Pepe but she's quite meek and mild in her way of being. Polly is a lovely girl too but I just know she's gonna be hard work cos she's so naughty. Like Pepe, she is always trying to escape and do her own thing. God bless their wee rattie souls.

Another Loss

Just when you think you can't possibly deal with any more heartache life (or rather death) throws another obstacle in your path. Not to make you go crazy, just to remind you that the circle of life continues regardless of what's going on in your own. Poor Paddy departed yesterday. He was my mum's dog but I'd spent a lot of time with him. The year that I lived in Ballymena with a certain ex boyfriend was spent, mostly, taking Paddy and Rosie for walks. I know this seems like a callous thing to say but it was the only decent thing that ex boyfriend ever did. But, as we all know, dogs do not discriminate and Paddy was rather fond of him. Paddy was a bit of a schmoozer though and was fond of many folk.

Paddy was old and sick and that's a lethal combination. In a word he was done. I kinda know how the poor fella felt but us humans have a habit of feeling done, even when we're not. So, the past few weeks have been nothing but grieving. Apparently, when a smoker decides to give up cigarettes it is akin to grieving. The cigarette has been your friend for so long that when you quit it feels like that friend is dead. So first I lost my pet rat, then I gave up smoking, then my relationship with my boyfriend crumbled to pieces and now Paddy has gone too. Yesterday I was too numb to feel sad. Today I just feel like everything I've known and grown comfortable with has been ripped from underneath my feet. But this is all part of the process. The circle of life means that with each ending there is a new beginning.

The Times They Are Achangin'

Please let the spring come fast. New beginnings and all that. The past few weeks have been tough as hell. I guess I didn't realise how badly Pepe's death would affect me. And the quitting smoking. And just life in general. I can't be bothered to explain the ins and outs because I've talked to everyone just recently. They all promise me that my life is not over and things will get better. I do believe them but it's been an exhausting time.

I generally do not like blogging when I'm down but, if I waited 'til I was happy, the few readers that I have would slowly lose interest. And besides, things are never that bad really. I have my niece to give me joy and hope. I have my rats to snuggle with. I have the very best friends and family anyone could ask for. I just have to have faith that everything else will fall into place.

I used to feel guilty about not appreciating all that I have in my life because I know that, compared to some, I have a lot. But, just as some people are unlucky to have illnesses such as diabetes, or epilepsy, or asthma, I am unlucky to have depression. I think it is very much ingrained in our society to believe that depression is merely a sign of weakness. I am learning that though I suffer from a mental illness, it is just as real as any physical illness.

I have put an awful lot of pressure on myself for years and years. I am not a perfectionist the same way as most people are but when it comes to how I believe I should live my life I set myself very high standards. Standards that are so high it is inevitable that at some point I let myself down. And I do it again and again and again. And I've done it for years and years and years. And I am so, so, so tired. So now it's time to cut myself some slack and hopefully change the negative thought cycles so that I can get to a place in my life where I am content to be me. Because, being me isn't that bad. And I think the sooner I realise this the sooner I will conquer this depression that has hung over me for so long.