I used to be Messier, and the story of Polly the skinny Posh English Cow.

This is the wee painting I scored at the Helensville Hospice for $5

                                               Wednesday 23^rd of May 2012
                                       The Ritalin Diaries (be prepared for detours)

I’ve got the Ritalin. I’m going to take one tomorrow morning, around 6.30am, before I have coffee or breakfast. I’m excited about it to be honest; what if this really does make a difference to my ability to focus, finish projects and tidy my living environment?

My kitchen/dining area. I know I can change, I can change I can ...

I’ve taken a ‘before’ photo of my kitchen and dining area. I’ve lived in this flat for a month, but the truth is, I could live here for a year and this room would look just as chaotic. I’m really sick of it. I do try and make rules for myself, but other things just keep coming up. I’m going to take another one in a month and see if there’s any improvement in my ability to get things done in the flat. I won’t cheat either, like suddenly tidying up on purpose in one month because I have to take a photo of it.

In my twenties I didn’t give a flying monkey’s rectum about being messy. I was a hell of a lot worse than I am now, and I honestly wondered what people were getting so uptight about. I couldn’t explain it properly, but the truth is, I couldn’t really ‘see’ it clearly the way other people could. Every now and then it would seem obvious ‘oh, the bin is overflowing, I’ll attend to that immediately’, or ‘the stove is disgusting, I’ll just spent two hours cleaning it’ (but not do anything else for a week). Turns out that lack of dopamine is a major factor.

The greatest tensions in flatting situations arise due to housework arguments (or someone not paying rent, but that’s another story). About six years ago I had this posh English flatmate. We’ll  call her Polly. She was thin, blonde and earnest, but still boiling with rage at not being treated well by her last flatmates. She seemed to think they had PURPOSELY put their ciggie butts in her burgeoning garden. In revenge she stole their bookcase and a few other things when she and her nice Aussie boyfriend moved out. 

They were cool at first, but as time went on, her stress levels increased. She had this job that was haunting her. It was something to do with preparing documents to present to doctors on women who had been recent victims or possible victims of domestic abuse/rape.

In addition to the stress from her job, she went a bit funny when I started going out with Andrew. Her face went all puckered up when he would come over, like she had not only sucked on the lemons, but then inserted them up her bum hole and was trying not to show it. I felt a bit horrible, knowing she disapproved of my flagrant disregard for the age difference, but I’d fallen in love, so what could I do? I asked her directly if she found it really weird, the age difference. She couldn’t look at me as she said ‘no, it’s fine’. 

He was 19 and I was 35. If I were a man I guess people would say I was a dirty old bastard, and as it was, I got a lot of the ‘toy boy’ kind of commentary. Whatever the case, Andrew and I are still friends six years on,

and I have no regrets whatsoever. Sure, I probably should have been husband hunting or something, but the heart wants what it wants. Our commitment to each other was quite lovely;

 ‘to love each other and learn together for as long as it feels right for us, and to be honest with each other’. That’s what we did.

This is what I had for dinner tonight

It was so good, I was in absolute mouth bliss

This is: kumara and potato roasted in olive oil with rosemary and coriander seeds dolloped with aioli, half an avocado with lemon juice and pepper, pan fried tarakihi dusted in cumin and rock salt with fetta cheese on a bed of baby spinach

One day I was rushing around getting ready to go out, and I was of course running late. I grabbed my rubbish bin from my room and set it down next to the big bin in the kitchen, ready to empty it.

When I got home, I found my little rubbish bin sitting right in the open doorway of my room.

‘How weird, I thought I’d emptied that’.

Then I looked at the top of the bin and saw that there was a condom packet there. Not the used condom.  Just the foil packet. With a sinking heart I KNEW what had happened. Polly had come home in a depressed rage after a shitty day at work, saw that her happy sexed up flatmate had left her bin un-emptied in the kitchen. Of all the cheek!

I picked up my bin, and took it back into the kitchen. Polly was there.

I said hello and she barely responded. I tried to bring up the bin issue without getting annoyed, but before I could say much she off-loaded:

“I think it’s DISGUSTING that you left that bin in here! I’m SO GLAD you’re having LOADS of SEX, but I DON’T WANT TO KNOW ABOUT IT!”

“But Polly, it’s just the foil wrapper. It’s not as if it’s a used condom all full of come or anything. I don’t get it.”

“Oh gross! That’s DISGUSTING, I DO NOT WANT TO KNOW!”

( note: the way this was expressed suggests she had a subconscious desire to know, as the last part of both statements is 'know about it' and 'want to know!')

To be honest, things were fairly tense after that. For whatever reason, she seemed suspicious of my every move,  as if I’d purposely planted a condom packet there for her to get annoyed about. God, if I’d wanted to purposely gross her out I could have done many far more annoying things. I felt sorry for her boyfriend. He was so cool. I wonder what became of them? They moved out, her in a big huff, imagining I’d purposely been having great sex and whatever else especially to piss her off.  I doubt her boyfriend was getting any, or perhaps they had to do it with surgical gloves on. You can imagine it:
"Now please don't do that, it's disgusting ..."
"But ... it's just kissing ..."

One day she was blathering on about the housework, and I found myself suddenly imitating her. To her face. This was the equivalent of being punched for dear Polly. What kind of ghastly beast would do such a thing? Well yeah, me of course. But come on, I’d been tip toeing around her tulips for far too long.

Andrew said she was jealous of me. But why? She was thinner, posher, richer, skinnier and had a really nice (age appropriate) boyfriend. She had no logical reason to be jealous. I was probably supposed to be jealous of her. Only I'm rarely jealous of anyone.

From a spiritual perspective, perhaps I was just the mirror she needed? If she was my mirror, then she was showing me the uptight, c-nty side of myself I couldn’t face. She thought I was absolutely ‘horrid’ for imitating her.  I’m absolutely ‘chuffed’ that she is now one of my favourite voices to ‘do’ in order to entertain people. Peter loves my ‘Polly’ voice.  His eyes light up considerably if I start doing that posh English whine.

I really should have asked if she needed some top tips in the boudoir.

 I’m good like that.

Oh, I'm so happy because now I have three friends who can come to The Kings Arms gig on Friday! Yay!

Ritalin tomorrow, tally ho!