Thursday 19 September 2002

Thankfully, I've calmed down a fair bit since the last entry.  While I'm still frustrated and deeply disappointed about the whole damn sad mess, I'm glad to finally have an answer, a decision made, plans to make, things to do. My mental condition is akin to having taken a shuddery breath after a crying jag, squared my shoulders, and now it's time to get on with practical matters.

Truth to tell, I am fecking relieved. I'm glad to be making definite plans to go HOME. Even though the forms and paperwork to be completed for the Australian Department of Immigration is daunting; and the list of things-to-do to the house prior to putting it up for sale is growing by the second; and then there's job-hunting, and and and ... The point is, we have already started making plans, and drawing up lists, and updating cv's, and contacting employment agents and "networking". No matter how daunting, at least it's something real, something I can get my teeth into.

Sam is so keen to go too, he's enthusiastic and interested and full of child-like glee and bounce, which cheers me up immensely. The family and friends back in Australia have already expressed unconditional delight that we're moving over, and while we have not yet told the in-laws (I'm very reluctant to tell them, obviously; I know that we can't really put off telling them until the "For Sale" sign goes up outside the house, but I would if I could), Sam has let some of his work colleagues and bosses and HR people know, who are all exceedingly jealous of him, and congratulating him on his cleverness in having a missus who is Australian so he can make such a move. So that's all positive reinforcement.

And talking about positive reinforcement (well, I was, so what if it's a clumsy segue), here's what Sooz had to say via email in response to the last two entries:-

THIS ISN'T YOUR FAULT!!! Repeat after me....THIS ISN'T YOUR FAULT!!! This is a stupid, archaic, fucked up, dickhead system that has failed YOU. Those motherfuckers don't deserve the honour of you living there so you don't even think for one second this is your fault. So you just say fuck them, I am taking my wonderful husband and leaving them to fester and rot in the black hole they have created for themselves. You can say that to your in-laws as well.

Ok, I've calmed down now.

You can see why I adore this woman, can you not? She's one in a kerzillion-trillion, as far as Best Friends go.

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I've been feeling a lot free-er and more relaxed since the decision to go back to Australia and all the tension leading up to the necessity to make that decision. This is most evident, I think, in my willingness to talk about personal stuff, particularly the pain and health and emotional issues, which I've tended to bottle up - in Real Life at least, I don't talk about "that kind of thing" very often, and then only to my nearest and dearest, and then only in general terms.

As well as a more relaxed approach to what I will or won't talk about on the personal agenda, I feel more free to voice my opinions - even if they're inflammatory (eg, my 11 September entry, to which strangely enough I've received only positive and "well said" comments, then again I've only received comments from Aussies and Oirish, and not any USAns). I'm also being maybe just a little bit cheekier in responses and conversations. Not with the inlaws I hasten to add - discretion is definitely the better part of valour in the department - but in a number of conversations and communications of late I've been chirpier and cheekier, kind of releasing that side of my personality a little more readily. Which is fun; I really hate being Grim and Humourless, and I am a bit that way inclined (oh, for obvious reasons, and quite understandable, but not much fun for anyone least of all me, and I'm the important one here, right?), even though - I think - I'm naturally an optimistic giggler (albeit a black-humoured optimistic giggler) (if that makes sense, and I'm sure it doesn't).

I've also been singing a lot more. I love singing, of course, but when I'm stressed in the bottled-up as opposed to the violently pissed off way*, I stop. Total radio silence. Otherwise, I sing when I'm happy and relaxed - mentally/emotionally relaxed that is, as even when I'm writhing in pain and waiting for the morphine to kick in I've been known to warble a Mozart aria or two. The last week I've been singing lots, from Mozart to Madonna, and enjoying myself enormously. I'm also happy with the sound of my own voice - oh, stop laughing. I mean it. I have quite a good voice, maybe a little thin, but it's sounding fuller, richer even, which is most pleasing. It's all good stuff. Although it makes me miss choirs and small group work even more ... Ah well, soon soon. 

* when I'm in violently pissed off stress mode I sing a lot - for release, to cover up how I feel, and to cheer myself up and take my mind off bloody and imaginative homicide. I sang almost constantly during working hours, the last few months at The Abattoir.

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I had a totally pig-in-shit Self-Indulgent Day today, the first in months and months, maybe well over a year (I suppose I should count the whole wedding-preparation stuff but that was my job, as a bride, but I really didn't do that much in the way of primping and pampering compared to many, also I had a high ratio of Stress Allowance going on at that time, thus cancelling out any self-indulgence which may have occurred) and it was absolutely dreamy, wonderful, heavenly, divine, scrumptious .... and all about mememememememe. Whee.

First up: Hair Appointment. I had an appointment at our usual hair salon, a fairly trendy place but not too edgy, but with a different hairdresser (oops, I mean "style technician"). I used to have my hair cut by G1, but was very put out last time I was in, for when I asked an innocent question about home coloration and styling (it being pretty damn clear that while I can afford a good cut I cannot afford a Salon Colour Technician) she responded with totally over-the-top snootiness and superior attitude that made me want to bitch-slap her from here to Norfolk Island. So I voted with my feet (or in keeping with the metaphor, my split ends) and booked this cut with G2, who had cut Sam's hair last time (snooty bitchface not being available at that time) and done a really lovely job.

G2 turned out to be charming, chatty in an intelligent and sympathetic way  rather than the usual "so are you going out tonight" inane babble, not the least bit snooty, and also a damn good cutter of hair. She understood straight away what I wanted - A Trim - and gave me exactly that, and a damn good one too, which I believe is unheard of. I mean, how often have you gone into a salon saying "A Trim, please" and came out with the latest Rachel/Cameron/Meg/Cate and electric purple highlights?  G2 also understood how to work with long wavy hair, also unusual. To add to her perfection still further, when I asked her about (a) smoothing/shine serum and (b) styling brushes, instead of flogging the entire expensive salon range, she glanced around surreptitiously and whispered "Go to Boots and get x and y". Wow. What a woman.

After Hair, looking glamorous and sophisticated (highly unusual indeed) I headed to Boots to buy the recommended - and much much cheaper - hair products, plus some yummy bath treats and then skincare stuff. I intended to get my favoured Clarins products - the Beauty Flash Balm and Moisturising Mask, being in dire need of both - but on checking the prices and recovering from the resulting brain spasm, went and bought comparative products (a deep moisturising mask and a skin pick-me-up) from one of Boots' own ranges at approximately half the cost of a single Clarins product. Yay, me. The new products are also very nice, so given my recent change-over to Olay moisturiser, I reckon that's bye-bye to my years of being faithful to Clarins.

Then off to Debenhams for a lightning raid on the M.A.C. counter. I adore M.A.C. stuff, and had made up a list of exactly what I wanted and in which shades, having drooled over the website and gloss.com for some days. Approximately 15 minutes later, and to the open admiration of the saleswoman - more used to dithering indecisive females with no colour sense - I had me a Studio Tech compact foundation in the perfect shade, a sheer blush - Gingerlily I think, a spicy red-brown lustrous lippy and a dark dark grey-black kohl eye-liner. Mmmmmm. I almost - almost - fancied myself, what with being all made up and with pretty hair.

The make-up artist/saleswoman also told me I was really very good, not only at picking out the exact right shades for my skintone straight away, but also on my make-up application skillz. Wow. I always thought I was hopeless but obviously my love affair with M.A.C. and playing with paints in general in the last year has been beneficial.

Final stop, the Origins counter, where I bought Tealights Shampoos in both Red and Auburn (my solution to the hair colour problem has been to avoid both salon and home colouring jobs on the grounds that they are too expensive and never last, and to go with colour shampoos, where you can control the tone and shade just by alternating or mixing or skipping washes).

Oh my oh my, that just felt soooooo good. Mmm mmmmmmmmm mmm.

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Sam, I love you.

I've made a kind of vow of silence in re: to Sam, from now on. Not because he objects to me writing about him here, or that we're having lots of rows (because we're not, he's the epitome of fabulousness), or anything, but because I'm aware that it may be a trifle sick-making. The whole "oh he's so wonderful to me" thing. I mean, he is, but I'm wonderful to him too, which is right and proper and how it should be. Also, I was thinking for the kerzillion-trillion-billionth time today how lucky I am to have him in my life; then I thought, in a very matter-of-fact way "hang on, he's goddamn lucky too". So there. Maybe I'm finally learning ... Anyway, I shall try not to be so worshipful and goo-ey, at least not in this particular forum. Is that okay? If you want the goo and detail, let me know, and I shall oblige.

He is pretty nice, though, as fellas go.

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