So, a friend of mine, let’s call her Wireless June-Day, likes the website pipl.com.  There are many arguments for why this site is wrong  – not least the fact that it is probably a stalker’s dream.  But for young Wireless, it’s funner than fun.  Because rather than dancing around the May pole of insipid small talk and banter when you are first getting to know someone, you can just jump straight to the meat of the matter by entering that person’s first and second names into the Pipl search engine…assuming it’s not “John Smith”, or similar – and get a pretty good insight into who they are by their web presence.   How old they are, what they do, the pics they post and that sort of guff.

So, my friend, Wireless, likes to dip into this site from time to time.  Having said that, my fandom Wireless’s fandom is largely fueled by the fact that searches for her on this site turn up very little of even the remotest relevance so it’s easy to be a fan of something the consequences of which one is largely insulated from.

Today, she checked out the Pipl page for someone she’s been hanging out with a little this week and found a thing about this person being arrested a while ago.  She shut the page pretty quickly after that – and didn’t stick around for details.  It was one of those “On <date> Person X was arrested for ….<click here for more details>” scenarios.

I did click (yup, ’twas me), but I clicked off the page.  Why?

1.    That really is none of my business.
2.    I don’t want to find out something I can never unknow.  What if it is something truly vile?
3.    I have zero internal filter and the next time I see person X I am sure to blurt out something really inappropriate like: “Hands up anyone who has been arrested during the last calendar year?”

Damn you, Internet.  You and your boundarylessnessnessness.  Some stuff really shouldn’t be for everyone’s consumption, should it?

For example there was that time that I did that thing and then that other thing happened as a result of it.  I’d hate for that to ever make it onto the intertubes.  Ever.

So, since I was last here I have  completely overhauled my life philosophy.  Or, more accurately, had a new life philosophy thrust upon me. It’s sitting kinda uncomfortably on my shoulders at the moment but I am wearing it as best I can to see how this experiment works out.   It started with a friend, a jazz bar and a moan (by me) that Shanghai is so over for the single expat girl and I was ready to hand in my uterus because it is impossible to feel remotely womanly or  desirable in the city of drunken hook ups and zero accountability unless you were actually into said hook ups and decide to abandon anything resembling standards.

But that’s a whole other sad story that we don’t need to explore right this second.  What has happened since then is that my friend, D, has given me a book.  A self-help book.  Cringe.  I mean how obnoxious and self-important do you have to be to write a book telling other people how to live their lives? God Complex much?    And how forlorn do you have to be to be prepared to hand over responsibility for the outcome of your life to some smooth-tongued, shiny-haired “Doctor” with dubious credentials and even dubiouser motives – just because his advice is in a paperback?

But read it I did.  And…it wasn’t awful.  The guy made a few valid points.   A few.  Except that in all his illustrative anecdotes, all the people ended up married and happy and fulfilled.  No one, not one single person in his book, had to deal with the crushing humiliation of rejection and scoop up the splintered shards of their obliterated hearts off a cold hard floor after investing too much too soon.   I dunno, but for me SHS (shattered heart syndrome) seems a more likely life outcome than HEA (happily ever aftitis).  I mean, have you met people?   Yes?  Then you know what I’m saying.

Anyway, that wasn’t really the point of where I was going with this.  Where I was going with this was that at brunch today, a friend of my friend – this guy I’ve met once or twice – was talking about a party that was thrown by some American marines on Friday night  – for Halloween.  Soldiers in uniform.  As soon as he said it, I got a pretty graphic image of how that party went down and thought: “Ew – green cards and green berets”.

Again, based on nothing I actually know of anyone who was there,  but you pack that many testosterone-spewing laowais (foreigners) into one place, coupled with an equal number of very…er…accommodating …er…non-laowais and…well, draw your own conclusions.

That’s what I thought.  It’s not what I said, though.   What I said was:

“Ooh, sounds like a lot of fun.  S, why didn’t we go to that?”

I can honestly say that I have no idea why those were the words that came out of my mouth.  Why I pretended like that kind of party would make me want to do anything other than run screaming, straight into the arms of the nearest, or, better yet, the farthest away, survivalist commune.  Preferably an underground one.

According to the book I’ve just finished reading, this is something that is called a “split” .  Two different faces of the same person.   I need to reconcile these two.  The things I think and the things I say.  But where does “being ‘real’” stop and “being mean / intolerant / offensive” begin?

Honesty is fabulous.   Insensitivity, not so much.   I don’t want to be a jerk.  And not all truths need to be told.  This much I know.

From time to time, me and my friend J wonder out loud to each other why we are not rich.  We are smart, single, hard working and ambitious.  So it’s a bit of a conundrum.  I should be able to swim in a ten-foot deep pool of the cash gleaned from my blood, sweat and tears over the last year alone.  Yet, in reality, financial freedom, in the truest sense of the term, is as far away now as it has ever been.

We’ve figured out why J isn’t loaded.  And I don’t guess she’ll thank me for blurting it out here, so…

Me? I’m apparently too much “creativity” – not enough “business”. Which I guess is kind of true.  I’m not enough of a hardass when it comes to chasing down forfeited payments.  Though, that has only happened to me once – one jerk – based in country X – for whom I wrote copious amounts of copy, which he then proceeded to pervert with his special brand of idiot-speak so that I had to rewrite it all over again.  And then, after I had done that, he extended the scope of the project by about 50% and I, stupidly, didn’t ask for more money up front.    In the end, he didn’t even refuse to pay, he just said “I’m really busy right now” to the two follow-up emails I sent and ignored my phone call when I rang.  I decided that I wasn’t that hard up for the outstanding x quid, so I let it go.  Wanker.  Luckily, I am not a girl who holds a grudge.

It always seems so rude to ask for x% up front, doesn’t it?  Don’t get me wrong, I do it, but I feel like I’m saying: “Good luck trying to screw me over, Buddy.  I’ve got your number.”

So this month, I have had another epiphany for the rest of my life.  One that means I will not see another weekend until Christmas.  One which means that every day between now and December 25 has already been accounted for and I am going to have to spend my “free time” hunkered down writing “letters of motivation” and résumés and “personal statements” and scouring the globe for people who will put me through school without me having to pledge my firstborn child to them.

Since the universe has failed to deliver my iPhone, I have decided on a combination of fervent prayer, finger-crossing, interminably long sleepless nights and caffeine.  That sounds like a cocktail for success, if ever there was one.

So I had a bit of a setback on the weekend.  I’m not sure I really want to elaborate on that because once I did elaborate on a blog – stupidly – and it totally came back to bite me in the rear.  Which was pretty unfun.  This was a while ago.  Back in my 20s.  Which I am now referring to as “The Lost Years”.  So let’s just call it Setback X.  “Setback” because that’s what it was.  And “X” because it’s a mystery.  Yeah.

And it made me think about patterns we repeat.  I am such a pattern repeater.  If there is a sure thing in Irisjumbania, that tiny island in the sea of shared experiences, it’s that if it is bad for me, I want it.   That’s pretty much a given.

So I was thinking about breaking patterns and doing something different and doing something that actually matters and making a difference to someone else’s existence other than my own and trying to be a big picture thinker rather than an insular navel gazer.

I’ve been thinking about it for a while.  A couple of months ago, I came up with a plan.  A good plan which involved me and Persons A, B and C.

But here’s the thing about plans: when it comes to actually getting stuff done: it is hard.  No-one tells you that when you are at the conceptualizing stage.  Concept: fun.  Implementation: draaaaag.

When the idea was in its very embryonic stages, I spent days and days writing proposals and contacting people, and coding everything into pretty, multi-colored html and getting the key players on board. And then when it came time to put it into play, to roll up sleeves and get on with it, if felt like there was suddenly this massively impenetrable wall in front of me.  Like in Langston Hughes’ As I Grew Older:

And then the wall rose,
Rose slowly,
Slowly,
Between me and my dream.
Rose until it touched the sky–
The wall

The wall really threw me.  I didn’t see it coming and I wasn’t really in a climbing frame of mind.

So now I’m left with two choices – jack it in so that 10 years from now I can wistfully muse: Whatever happened to that good idea I once had?  Whatever happened to that thing-doer I always wanted to become?

Or … get on with it and find a way to climb or dismantle or circumvent the wall.  Because there has to be one, right?  I like to think there is.   I just have to figure it out.  Let’s go, Brain.

“Dread remorse when you are tempted to err, Miss Eyre; remorse is the poison of life.”

Remorse, regret.  To err, to do nothing.  Potayto, potahto.  I agree with you, Mr. Rochester.

A friend of mine struggles with optimism.  She always jumps to the very worst conclusion.

• Phone rings late at night -  someone she loves has died, or been seriously hurt.
• Boss asks to see her – she’s going to get fired.
• Cabdriver takes unfamiliar route on the ride home – he’s going to kidnap and murder her.

And of course by “friend”, I mean me.  Can’t get anything past you, can I?

So one of the things I do is presentational training. Communication skills, public speaking – that sort of thing.  I’m quite good at it.  If that sounds a little bit obnoxious, it isn’t.  I just think positive reinforcement – whatever the source – is hugely important.

Last week I was setting up a seminar for a client and one of the assistants was confirming the participants with me.

Her: There’ll be the same people as last time  a total of 11 people.
Me: Great.  But last time we had 12…
Her: Yeah, Dan can’t make it this time because his wife-
Me: Oh my God – is she dead?
Her: She’s just had a baby.  He’s on leave.
Me: Ah, cool…So….just 11 people this time?
Her: Yes.

She must think I’m such a weirdo.

Overheard  in a conversation today…

Guy 1:    I don’t like burlesque
Guy 2:   No. Me neither – it’s just a bunch of fat girls trying to work out their issues on stage.

***

Don’t worry, fat girls – the revolution is coming.  And it will be televised.

Why is that every time you say: “I fell.” the follow-up question is “Were you drunk?”  As though that is the only way someone can have a misstep.

I wasn’t drunk.  I was me.

I seem to have done myself a bit of damage.  My knee has swelled to the size of my thigh.  (Eek!) Clumsiness, you are no friend of mine.

So, the choice that needs to be made: activate my newly acquired health insurance by going to the doctor – and watch my premiums skyrocket when I renew.  Or rely on my current cocktail of minimum movement, great big scoops of Deep Heat smeared on the joint and fervent prayer.

On the plus side, WebMD’s Symptom Checker is kinda fun.  I’ve managed to narrow it down to about six debilitating illnesses I could have.

Do you know what the best thing about being in a relationship is?

Synchronized napping.

Nothing like a long, lazy, mid-afternoon snooze next to the guy/gal/ferret of your dreams to make the heart sing.

So two blogs in one day.  I’m feeling very writerish today.  And my computer keeps on freaking out and deleting stuff so this is my answer to actually backing stuff up on an external drive.  Like smart people do.  Here’s a poem.  By me.  Shockingly enough.

Comments are off because:

• If you like it, thank you – but I’m not sure I believe you.
• If you hate it: bite me.  But at least you’re unequivocal.
• If you are completely indifferent: keep reading until you are in the “like it” or “hate it” camp.  Do it.

Memoirs of a Melancholy Who?

Come pretend with me awhile.
Slip your reality under mine.
Let’s fold them together and bury them away
Under something cool.

Come.  Be liquid with me.
Let’s spill darkly into tomorrow
Like mulberry juice from a loosely lidded cup.
And let’s be sweet.

We are young, you and I.
Can we regress, or even hope to stay this way?
Or will they gather up each footstep we trod before
Till all trace of us is gone?

Come adore me.  Just for a while.
Once, if I encountered an unhappy truth,
I twisted it until it spelled my name, polished it till it gleamed
And lost all semblance of itself

We still get high on the memories.
But was each breath we drew yesterday so harsh?
Like broken bits of pottery dragged against raw skin.
Why, today, does it hurt so to inhale?

Just when my faith in true love falters, I see these beauties: 

I’ve just watched this interview with Jay-Z. Apart from the “I have Obama on speed dial” comment that makes him sound a bit of a prat, I liked the way he talked. He made sense. Except: 11 #1 albums? More than Elvis? I can’t even name 3 Jay-Z songs so have no idea how on earth that happened.  But each to his own, I guess.

I hate Leona Lewis’s new song. This is terrible news because I adore Leona Lewis. A. Door. I just think she is so lovely and she is the only person whose music I’ll actually buy. Well, her and Tuku – who I’ve just found out doesn’t even have his own website. I blame Ryan Tedder for the Lewis debacle. He is the most collaboratively promiscuous horror show of a songwriter ever. He obviously struck on a formula that works with Apologize ans Bleeding Love. But maybe take a break, Monsieur Tedder.  Formulaic? Check.  Tired?  Check.  Lazy?  Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes.   Like that Diane Warren woman who single-handedly subjected us to about a decade of terror by ramming Celine Dion down our throats with ballad after ballad of schmaltzy tripe. I would link to the Leona Lewis song but it truly is awful, so just imagine an awful song, and you’ve pretty much got the gist of it. I do love Le-Lew, though.  I’m a big fan.  Which is why this is particularly disappointing.

Ooh and I’m detoxing for the next eight weeks. Today is Day 1 and already I feel like I’m going to pass out from all sorts of withdrawal.

And finally, because I really didn’t have anything to blog about today, but wanted to blog – if that makes any sense – I’m feeling quite pleased at having just bought a really cool domain name. That’s what I do: I hoard domain names. Just in case. It’s fun.  And fulfilling. And really makes up for all those other disappointments and missed opportunities in life.

Sometimes, I’ll be walking along the street half listening to my iPod, half trying not to trip over my feet and I’ll just think “astridblue.com”. And I’ll marvel at how cool that sounds. And I’ll congratulate myself for thinking of it all by myself because it’ll surely come in handy should I ever start a quirky fashion label, or write a story about a Scandinavian hooker  Then I’ll dash home, whip out my credit card and get ready to buy the domain name from those people who I assume own the internet – and words – because how the hell else do they get away with charging me for either?

Then I’ll find out that someone has already bought astridblue.com and no, I don’t want freakin’ astridblue.info.  And then we’re back to disappointment and missed opportunities.  Moue.