I went away for the weekend and suffered a traumatic incident.
It started off quite innocently. I was at my parents house, and they have properly (wastefully) good water pressure and gas hot water and so I had a very long shower and eventually followed that with borrowing Mum's hair dryer.
Ever since Hitchcock's shower scene, we have known that bathrooms are dangerous. Behind the clean white lines lurk danger, and yesterday was no exception. There should have been high pitched violins playing when I decided to step on Mum and Dad's scales.
The scales told a message I was not interested in hearing, using numbers I did not think should have relevance to me. I thought they might be broken, but my longsuffering and ever loving husband just talked supportively about exercise when I told him, which is not the same at all as declaring the scales corrupt and incorrect.
So it's no bloody wonder that I'm looking at dressing in stretchy jeggings and flowy merino tunics. …
I have a cleaner lined up! Whilst cleaning green algae off the bath about ten days ago, I decided that something had to change. Given that I may be increasing my paid working hours again this year, whatever didn't work last year was unlikely to miraculously work this year.
So H, our new cleaner, is coming to see the house on Saturday (and possibly starting the job on Monday) and I have been working hard to create floor space so she can clean effectively and also a reasonable enough impression so she even agrees to clean the house. The rubbish bin is full, the recycling bin is full, I've been to the Sallies with more bags of goodies and there is another at the door for tomorrow, I've gifted more clothes and craft items to local acquaintances with younger children, and there is still more to do. Still, p-r-o-g-r-e-s-s is distinctly obvious.
I didn't quite fit in supercooking today as well as supercleaning, but I did buy up terakihi and turbot at the fish shop and no…
I never seem to read anything in sequence for book group anymore. Wrong book for the wrong meeting, or I have to go home because I was falling asleep because I spent three hundred hours of my life filling in forms for the government to satisfy itself that I am doing my job (generally ensuring that I don't have time to do my job) or some other thing.
So here is my record. Not even all about books. After the wonderful America is not the Heart by Elaine Castillo, I read Nora Ephron's Heartburn, (originally published c.1983 and recently reissued by Virago Classics, for the first time.
After reading almost everything I could find about Elaine Castillo after finishing her novel, this is what stuck in my mind: What is striking about “America Is Not the Heart” is how it’s unapologetically Filipino, peppered with expressions in Ilocano, Pangasinan, and Tagalog and nuances like wearing tsinelas, calling everyone Ate, faith healing -- with no italics, no footnotes, no glossary of terms…