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I feel terribly housewifely when vacuuming with the new dyson Wicked Fairy and I bought together. Our previous vacuum cleaners (there were two) were a tottering elderly mammoth technically owned by the housemate, and a manky, ageing upright my ex had before I ever met him (That relationship went for seven years, this one has comprised five thus far with a gap of about a year between the two... it was old).
Fairy saw a doco about Dyson and got terribly excited when we thought about buying a new vacuum and insisted we get that brand. I find this supercute.

I have had a very self-focussed few weeks and have forgotten birthdays, events and arrangements as a result. I am still working hard on achieving a healthy balance between committments and space in my life. The past month has been an example of my not achieving that yet.
My self esteem has grown enough in past years that I do not consider this A Moral Failing Indicative Of My Complete Terribleness As A Human Being, however.

Fairy has painted one of our MDF bookshelves (finally), so our loungeroom is coming together a bit more and looking a little less Uni-student (not to mention the shelves being more toddler resistant as a result of wipeable paint). For some reason pale blue enamel paint finish looks smaller than bare, mid-brown MDF.

There's a mountain viewable from some of our windows. I know when it's going to rain, because the mountain becomes crowned by cloud up to two hours beforehand (but usually less).
We have washing on the line and I am watching that mountain. So far, so good.

I think I'm going to ask my sister for help in thinking about my home business idea. She's a clever cookie about such things, and I hope it may give us something to do other than get ticked at each others' attitudes to social issues (She thinks I'm sanctimonious and deliberately nasty, I think she's hopelessly privileged and shallow and I expect her to be more aware because she's not stupid).

Being okay and content right in the moment is still a new enough experience to me that it surprises me. But I like it.
aphrodite: (Default)
From a woman younger than I, (who as far as I know didn't live at the house) in regards to the loud drumming (as in, from a drumkit) that I was complaining about emanating from the premises. She was about the right age to be the girlfriend of the fellow who drums. Whose parents own the house, so far as I know.

I lost it.
I didn't rant or rave or yell. I DID swear. Once. And felt dirty and ashamed, afterwards. Not just for the swearing, but for the blast of emotion, being overcome by feeling.

How long has control been a marker of breeding and class - specifically the upper classes - in Western society?
I have some notion that it's linked to the Victorians.
Certainly, in current society we consider control of emotion and reaction to be a marker of adulthood, as [personal profile] mossy pointed out in her recent post over at Mothers For Women's Lib discussing how "behaving childishly" is linked to behaving in a manner that is lower on the pecking order than the person doing the accusing.
Working class people are often depicted as being drunk (with attendant abuse and anger), joyful, exuberant in their expressions. I'm reminded of that Simpsons episode where Marge wants to join the country club, in fact - and the difference between Homer and the children's expression of their feelings versus the reserved manner that Marge's new friends used even when being nasty to her (such that it wasn't utterly ridiculous when it was revealed they were going to be welcomed to join permanently, towards the end of the episode).

Has all this pontificating and intellectualising helped my situation any?
Not especially, but I've calmed down significantly, and am probably going to be speaking to the local council; about Noise Abatement Orders!


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The Evening Star

July 2011

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