Gore Vidal Unhinged

One of the best/worst Dimbleby moments ever... Gore Vidal on election night.
It gets really good around 1:30

Free At Last

It's been a long time since I felt comfortable with telling people I'm an American. I'm cynical to the core about more or less everything that is about being part of a group: religions, nations, political parties etc.
But I would lie if I didn't say I feel proud of being American again, and I love the fact that an intelligent man was finally voted into office, and even more proud that this man is African-American. I tear up every time I see this man on television.
Let's hope that this majority vote and record voter turn-out is a sign to the rest of the world that the better part of Americans recognize their role on the world stage and aren't the isolationist radicals that we were perceived to be.

the anger phase of unemployment

First came denial. I dreamt about work, I was planning projects and tasks in my head, working on a new and improved cheaper way of doing things, and making sure that we kept on a tighter "philosophy" about marketing campaigns. In my dreams.
Bank account: £800. Expenses: £2000
Then, I would wake up and think, "This is like being on holiday. I am on holiday."
Even at the Jobcentre, I said "Oh I hope I won't see you again!" and the phone rang constantly with recruiters who had the perfect job all lined up.
Then, about two weeks later, the phone got quiet, and I thought, it's ok, I'm not going back to that place, didn't really want to anyway, I'll get something newer and better. It's going to be fine. They're just considering the applications.

Then two weeks later, we all get sick. Husband has a toothache. The letters start coming, asking why we've cancelled direct debits. I've been rejected for at least three perfect jobs, one of which I know I could have done with great success.

What I am doing wrong? Recruiters love my CV, or so they say. At last count, 31 had been putting me forward for a job, but only one is left that might - might - have an offer on the horizon, pending new contracts that I have no control over.

To date, I have no benefits coming in, not housing, not job seekers allowance, because of a constant need for more paperwork. When I think they have what they need, I get a letter asking for more, like proof that I call the UK home because I have lived abroad. There was a small essay bit for me to fill in. I said: If I find work I'm staying. If I don't, I have to leave. I have no choice.
Please don't make me leave.

I know negativity doesn't help, but how does one keep from feeling completely defeated? I would happily move into a one bedroom flat and start cooking again for the feeling that I could stay there the rest of my life, without worrying about having this feeling ever again. I'm just at a loss.

Ok, I'm back. Sorry.

Peer in to the nearly 2 year old mind of Enzo parading between the washer and dryer, stopping briefly to attempt to put on a wet sock.

hilarity

Giggles part one
Uploaded by EgbertEnzo

stretch.... and feel the burn

The writing muscle is as weak as the other near-atrophied muscles I possess, having been reclining pleasantly in (f)unemployment as I have been. As I do not expect anyone at all to read this rarely-updated bit of reflection, I will just recap for posterity and my own enjoyment in the future.

Enzo's development is rapid to the point that I expect him to be lifting cars baby-superman-style any day now. He's outgrown the clothes appropriate to one so young (4 and a half months) and has moved well into 9 month territory, and entirely without getting chubby, just long. We will meet other parents or grandparents in our travels, and he never fails to shock those with standard sized kiddies. I am pleased about this, because I hope it signifies a healthy tendency toward strength and athleticism that would be unknown in my lifetime... I can see cellulite saddlebags on my wee thighs in photos of myself nekkid-swimming around the age of one. As an aside, I attribute this to soy-formula's estrogen punch- supposedly a standard feeding was the equivalent of three packs of birth control pills a day back in the early seventies. Don't even ask me to substantiate this information- "they" said it on the "internet tubes", so fuck it.

My own post partum self is wavering in and out of a hearty depression, albeit not a serious one since I was able to cure it with some clothes shopping (at a 70% discount- hurray Monsoon!). New clothes and a trip to the south of France to interview for a new job have quelled all my fears that I had shut down into the fabled milk-fog and was essentially good for nothing but sitting in my pajamas singing to my son in between our shared naps, stopping only to cook fatty, old-fashioned comfort food.

Enzo's begun solid food, at his own demanding. That begging dog-like unblinking stare was a subtle clue that he really wanted to tuck in, so I introduced the four month plain banana cereal, with a tepid response. Then, while in France and sitting at the hotel breakfast, I had grabbed a small container of applesauce for myself that was of fine enough consistency and offered it to the kid. His reception was enthusiastic, to the point of grabbing my hand to guide the spoon into his mouth while leaning far forward and grunting, mouth wide. After my own heart- I love a good eater. Speaking of which, my mother tells me I began solids at THREE WEEKS. I don't even want to consider what sort of hell that was for her or me. So now we have two solid meals a day, one of a mild baby yogurt I picked up in France, and the other of some standard Gerber banana or prune or something.

Now, my brain muscle hurts, although rambling would be an option...

Four Months Old!

featuring shoes by
TROGDOR THE BURNiNATOR!