Thundercats are go

There are certain, seemingly inane moments in your life that you know you're going to remember forever and a day. Moments that shine through the fug of memories you collect and you know with absolute certainty that in ten, twenty, thirty, whatever-years time you'll still be able to remember everything about them. The sounds, the smells, what you were wearing, how you felt. All wrapped up in this pocket, tucked away in a little neuron in the back of your brain ready to be accessed whenever you need it. Whenever you need to travel back through time in your head and think clearly about the person you were versus the person you became.

I had two of those moments yesterday. It's rare for you to know in advance but, in this case, I honestly do.

Saturday night had involved a failed cinema plan that was usurped by drinking instead. Although I wanted very badly to see The Orphanage (which, strangely I've already sat down and watched in a dream. This happens sometimes, the last time that happened it was with There Will Be Blood and, as I recall, I was puzzled when I went to see it in real-life as there were certain scenes I didn't see that had been in my dream previously. I have the very definition of an overactive imagination and, as such, a wildly vivid dreamscape on offer to me most nights) going to a cocktail bar that can only be accessed by winding your way up a spiral staircase made out of an intricate bronze moldings is always worth it. I'm still in awe of this cocktail I had (of which I've forgotten the name) that involved vodka, apple juice and peach schnapps. Anything where you get to say, 'mmm - nice schnapps' whilst bitching and admiring the various clientele is always worth the effort.

Anyway, suffice it to say, Sunday I was just planning to sleep in and then spend the rest of the day in jim jams and bathrobe. Possibly, at some point in the afternoon, throw on some fake eyelashes and new wig and drink ice water out of a martini glass whilst listening to The B-52's. You know, the usual. However, instead of sleeping and being left to continue a dream where I was riding around in a taxi that was paid for on my expense account (I'd just reached the taxi depot and was trying to find the red wellington's I'd left somewhere in the back) my mother burst into my room with the following announcement:

'[Step-sister]'s had a 7lb 4oz baby boy and it's snowed'

I twisted awkwardly around and sat up to throw open my curtains and by god, it had snowed. Flakes that were the exact size that spiders have to be before I find them really scary were slowly meandering down to the ground. The world was a 3D 'paint by numbers' just waiting to be filled in. It was stunning. But, as if that wasn't enough to take in, step-sister had had a baby boy. This precious little cargo that had been a kind of ethereal concept before (albeit one that was looming fairly obviously right out in front of her at all times as a constant reminder that 'Hiya! I'm here! I'll be born one day!') was now out of her belly and in the world and real. Just like with the snow, I'd been told it was going to happen. On Saturday night when even my beer/cocktail/wine coat couldn't keep me warm the evidence had pointed towards it snowing. Just as the fact that step-sister had been fairly obviously pregnant for ever and ever had sort of tipped me off that a baby would be born eventually. But now the snow had laid and the baby was born. To coin a phrase; it fucked my shit up well bad dawg (in a good way. In nothing but a good way).

The snow was awesome. For maybe the first time in my life I gave up on sleeps to go play outside. The dogs loved it until their fur made it so they got snowballs instead of feet (which was HIL-AR-I-OUS) and went absolutely mental. The sun was straining to make it's way through the clouds but the thick greyness hung heavy in the air and stood its ground - for a little while at least - and I made the most of it while it did. But that moment, of being awoken with those two little facts on a normal Sunday in April when all I'd been looking forward to that day was some Columbo and a cup of tea or five and reading the paper uninterrupted, and looking out my window and it dawning that those two facts were indeed truth. That will stay with me always.

Later on, in the sunny evening (seriously though - wtf) when all the snow had disappeared and all that was left to prove it had not in fact been part of one of my elaborate dreams was unmelted-but-looking-to-be-in-some-distress snowman and the occasional white roof top, we drove to the maternity ward to see the baby. I had to sit outside for a while with the new dad (only two visitors allowed in to see mama and baby at a time). You want to see someone the happiest they'll possibly ever be? Go hang out with a new dad. I can't put into words the feeling of terror and joy he was emanating from every pore. He was utterly exhausted, completely overwhelmed, and frankly 100 per cent elated; 'I know you two are going to be kick-ass parents for shizz' is how I chose to comfort the sleep deprived, starving hungry, emotional 19 year old that now has a child of his own to care for. But, on reflection, I think it was kind of perfect to say that. It's exactly what I would want to hear in his shoes. And the best part is that I really believe it. Him and her are funny and silly and clever and awesome. They will make kick-ass parents.

Mama looked no less elated but infinitely more exhausted. Yet also strangely calmer, like she just knows she's got to get on with this now. Baby is as yet unnamed and baby is amazing. Baby has wrinkled hands and feet which are too big in comparison to his tiny little body (my mum likened it to how labradors often have limbs that are too big for them which makes them all clumsy and cute whilst they're puppies but signifies their eventual height in the meantime. I said it may be best to not liken newborn baby to dog in front of newborn's new mum). Baby has a conehead where she stopped pushing at a critical moment (alas I've been told this will soon correct itself as how cool would it be to have a constant reminder of a Dan Ackroyd movie in your family? Plus, as the new Dad said, 'Conehead the Barbarian would make an awesome name for him'. I suggested 'Columbo', middle name: 'Isawesome' but I don't think they're going to go for it. Which, thank God, cos that's totes what my first born - boy or girl - will be called). But whatever they call baby, when baby grows up something is going to click in my head every now and again and I'm going to remember looking down at this weird looking sleepy little guy with his tiny finger-and-toenails. Looking into his eyes which seemed to be conveying a feeling that pitched itself halfway between bewilderment and pissed-offness (wouldn't you be?) and at his tiny toothless mouth and button nose, and thinking 'dude, you're so awesome'. And you know what? I really think he will be.

Caring sucks.

Despite finding conversations with the majority of people I don't know to be tiresome and repetitive and useless, I don't actually mind being forced into certain situations where these sort of conversations take place.

Well, no. Obviously I do, as the above sentence says I do but, I mean, when I know I'm going to be stuck in a room with 'unfamiliars' for an hour or more I've reached the stage where I know, if I put some effort in (the 'if' forms the crux of the matter) then I can walk away safe in the knowledge that while they may not necessarily like me they certainly won't actively hate me. Or, they won't hate me enough that they openly flaunt that fact in front of my face.

To some this may not appear a remarkable feat. To those people I say, you know not of Sazz circa 1987 to 2005. That Sazz changed dramatically in appearance many many times (both in stature and in fashion sense: from dungarees to leggings to ill-advised purple cord flares - Blossom you have a LOT to answer for - to the tweed era, which, I'm going to kid myself, was the last time I committed any really punishable sartorial crimes). But where my personality is concerned - although there had been developments; there hadn't particularly been any dramatic changes. 'Wallflower' doesn't even begin to describe it. The thought of any sort of social interaction would make my throat close up and all concept of words, least of all sentences, would be lost to me. I'd get palpitations if a friend left me to converse with a stranger and would just stare blankly at a spot on the floor hoping against hope for the moment to end as quickly as possible whilst getting more and more panicked. Part of the reason I took up smoking as a hobby is that, if your mate has pulled and you're left standing on the edge of a dancefloor like some character from a Pulp song then, rather than being forced into making *shudder* small talk with an odd looking fellow who has similarly been abandoned by his better looking mate, you can light up a smoke and stand there with a scowl and be fairly confident of being left alone (except for all the times I wasn't and felt a bizarre need to not be mean or rude to these guys that had blatantly been told where to go by every other single female in the room so was left with the desperate option of trying it on with me). With a cigarette to hold you can take on the persona of a 'lone wolf' rather than just a 'loner' (seriously kids, smoking IS cool. Or, at least, you feel cooler while you're smoking even if you just look like a sad fat kid who's trying to be cool). This was me then.

Now, within the last couple of years, for whatever reason, I've found how to not be a complete social retard (although I haven't quite escaped the lure of the cigarettes I do still only mostly do it when I want to be left the fuck alone. Melancholy, in particular, works so much better accompanied with a park bench, a wistful gaze, and a roll-up). I couldn't pin point when things shifted exactly but I am aware that it's mostly down to a combination of three factors:
1. Realising that when I do pull out all the stops - it always ends well. As in, if I try hard enough I can make people walk away from talking to me thinking 'she's alright I suppose'. This is a vast improvement on people thinking 'she's seriously fucking weird, or a mute... in fact, she's probably both'.
2. Realising that, when all is said and done, I'm not a bad person. I can even be more-than-ok on occasion.
3. Realising that I don't actually care if acquaintances don't think that highly of me. It's obviously nicer if people do like you where the old ego is concerned but if they don't... meh. The weird thing is, this particular realisation gives you complete freedom to be yourself and thus, increases your chances of being liked. I know right! The crazy world of paradoxes continues apace.

However, even armed with all this knowledge. Even knowing that I'm a different person than before and not really phased by social gatherings one jot, on Friday night as I walked into the pub with the newest addition to my small-but-perfectly-formed circle of pals I was so nervous about meeting his friends that I thought I might throw up. This was bizarre for me. I remembered that feeling as soon as it hit and I remembered that I didn't like it. I'm so glad that I only found out how many people were coming as we were on our way there in the taxi. Had I had a whole week to mull over the number of people I would be expected to impress I probably would have been contemplating throwing myself down the stairs come Friday in order to legitimately get out of it.

The good thing is, this boy knows me. He knows I'm not really a people pleaser. I think it's one of the things he kind of likes about me as he does need the love and affection of everyone he comes into contact with. It amuses rather than disgusts him that I don't. However, I felt pressured seeing as:
- he's ingratiated himself with pretty much every single person I'm close to, without even breaking into a sweat. So, were we to compare our success rates with each other's friends, he pretty much already knows he's scored a home run (or whatever sporting metaphor makes sense when in context of 'won the game').
- I already have a lot of ground to make up as I suspect that, due to some of my history with this boy and some of the youthful escapades (read: being a psychotic girlfriend) this history contains, his friends used to despise me and are probably not thrilled that we're approaching friend-level now.

So there was that to contend with but, and the kiss of death for me acting like me, I was astonished to find that I cared what these people thought of me. Not caring has formed the basis of every social interaction I've had in the last two years. It's my key strategy in the war of the casual acquaintance encounter. Without my key strategy I was lost and frightened. Worse than that I realised I cared because I like him so much. He makes me laugh ("I'm going to call you 'Sazzalicious' because look what the addition of 'licious' has done for Fergie") and even though we haven't spoken much in the last four years or so every time we have met up we've connected again almost instantaneously (give-or-take the presence of 'eep! history and that' feelings). He's a good thing in a world of not-good things so I want him to stick around and be my friend for a while yet. That means having his friends like me too. In the end I gave it my best shot. After five minutes of sat there scoping out all the best escape routes (which the bastard cottoned onto almost immediately. I pointed out that him pointing out you could see the look of terror painted on my face did not help me feel more comfortable. This just amused him further) I sort of tried to join in. I didn't have much choice as he kept trying to draw me in to the table's conversations. I'm pretty sure they thought I was mildly retarded as, for one thing, I was much too enthusiastic with my facial expressions when someone was telling a story and laughed too hard at things that really weren't that funny. But I think I did alright. Not great but alright. Trouble is, my 'alright' is other people's 'one notch below wanting to punch someone in their face'. I haven't had feedback from him on my performance (and I'd be loathe to ever actually ask... make myself vulnerable to criticism or rejection! Ha! Maybe in bizarre-o world!) but at least he texted me to say he liked his birthday mixtape so he's not not-talking to me. This is as positive as I think I can be about the whole thing.

Lesson 1 of 5789 in 'being kind of lame at life'

I haven't written anything for an inordinately long time but having archived all my old blog posts with the idea of finally ridding myself of the shackles of myspace* and having read through all those aforementioned old blog posts (and maybe doing a little tidying up of grammar, spelling, general rubbishness - making me somewhat of a Winston Smith figure but less oppressed and more nerdy) I've realised that maybe this is something I don't completely suck at so maybe, just maybe, I should start writing again. So I set up this sparkly, shiny, happy, brand new blog address and tried to write things about my day. My new days where I'm no longer in Guildford, no longer an undergrad, and no longer getting stoned and-slash-or drunk every evening. And I tried to write. And then I walked away from the computer. And then I came back to the computer and looked through lots of facebook groups. Then I joined some of those groups. Then I felt a little sick with myself that I was using facebook groups to define my identity (and similarly judging others on the groups they had chosen to join). Then I tried writing again. Then I gave up and forgot all about it for weeks (until now you lucky lucky people).

Trouble is, what to write about when you've literally done nothing for the last two months. Oh there's been the occasional trip to the cinema, perhaps the odd jaunt to a friends' (I do have them you know) (just not very many of them) house, a day trip to a theme park (when I am made Emperor of the world then rollercoaster will be my preferred method of transportation - impractical yes but I'm intending to go down the wacked-out-lunancy route of leadership), buying coral-coloured short shorts in toweling fabric to make the art of lounging all the easier and infinitely more white trashified. Well, you get the general idea. When people discuss the decline of civilisation, how the youth of today are wastrels and fat and lazy and incompetent, they're pretty much describing me. I'm the poster girl for 'being kind of lame at life'.

However, last night I did finally make it out to the pub. I'd forgotten what it is to wake up with the 'fuck, why do I have to be such a twat in public?' feeling. This is not the sort of thing that bothers a hermit. A hermit's biggest worry is 'who am I going to manipulate into going to the shops and picking me up some orange juice and cereal?' (and therein lies the reason that hermitcy is often such an attractive proposition for me, I can do the manipulation just fine. I can do the 'dealing with life' thing less fine). But still, whatever, I made it out of the house. Left the quiet comfort of the safe zone with it's toweling short shorts and Harry Potter books** and Project Runway shows. Despite the fact that too much Kronenbourg makes Sazz a little pretentious chatterbox, the fact remains that I got out into the public sphere and laughed and giggled and, more importantly, survived the whole experience intact. Go team me.

Now, having got through all that, here's some internet treats for y'all:

Watch this.

Listen to this.

Read this.

Have satirical fun with this.

Make this and this (and become as obsessed with the whole site as I am).


*Which I still haven't quite summoned up the courage to do. Yeah I know. I hate myself enough for the both of us so don't bother.

**I've literally just started reading them. I love them. It be rare that a pop culture phenomena escapes me quite so completely and for such a long amount of time (with the exception perhaps of Dan Brown's output, where I would actually rather rip my toenails off with rusty pliers than subject myself to his writings... unfair to judge without ever having read it? Ok. Yes. But I ain't changin' my mind on this one sunshine. Call it a hunch).