Smokey Dykes and Freudian Sleeps

Slow start today, Libran verbosity- chatting with lover about my concept of a "5-year plan", and the subtle differences of a "3-year plan" which she bore well (or was it I doing the boring?) Any conversation that has sentences which begin with, "Now, by 40 years of age..." and kicked off with a little recap of our life plans in our early 20s (we'll have been together 6 years next March)... is going to be long-winded.

I was working up to a brilliant point about how everything segued together to a pinnacle that was in itself the very exemplification of us both achieving self-actualisation and inner harmony (I’m a Libran). This all depended on a very particular and subtle perspective/ stance (pronounced “perspective stroke stance”, or maybe in some cultures it’s more slashing than stroking). Anyhow, I digress, there was an overarching reason for it all... and there, to quote the big E (Mme DeGeneres), I congratulated myself too soon, thinking my lover's going to be so impressed, she'll think how clever she is...and…. it all disappeared in a poof of smoke (or to coin a phrase, and why not, a dyke of smoke?) I continued rambling a little while to try to re-mount as it were (always important to get right back on if one inadvertently falls off somehow, I feel). Anyhow, the whole thing trailed into a negligible, forgettable point.

The upshot (or lack thereof) being, I don't know whether I should be relieved that lover didn't seem to notice the fizzle at the end, or rather concerned that such are her expectations of yours truly, that non-earth shattering anti-climaxes, albeit verbal, do not disappoint. Accordingly, I am currently in the in-between state in the nether regions of being peeved and relieved, which I shall dub peelieved to describe the phenomenon:

Peelieved:
The state of being upset that nobody has noticed how stupid one has been, inextricably coupled with bullying from the subconscious, which chalks it all down to expectations.

Speaking of Freud, which I wasn’t, but I was thinking of him, which is in fact the same thing: I am recently beset by a whole new type of Freudian slip. I shall christen this eponymously after an ironic error by yours truly, when I inadvertently said something very sexual in conversation and then to amend, “Freudian sleep”.

Freudian sleep (typing variety) aka Freudian slop:
The affliction whereby typos are inappropriately appropriate (or vice versa), and the simple slip of an over-eager butter-finger can produce entirely different results than intended. This is often undetected by spellcheckers and, unless colloquial, these neo-words slip under the radar and into general circulation.

My best examples are, by their very nature, non-reproducable here. Although I can, however, reveal a lesser offender where I routinely type the ubiquitous “it” as a three letter palindromic word and a small bird, contextually this can be incriminating.

This all culminates (or not as the point may be), in a recent job application for a lesbian company in which I professed to be “au fait with women’s cliterature”, I heard back from them too, so intrigued were they no doubt with my fearless feminist wordsmithery and while they were interested to receive my open application and definitely wanted to keep it on file (such was its comedic value no doubt), there were, for me at that time, “no openings”.
Oh well, I guess tit happens to the breast of us.

The tale of Huckleberry Nipple and the ipod

I turned thirty the other week, an event I had to wait awhile for compared to other Librans (but then I don't mind waiting my turn, as life has a certain chronological fairness to it). I embrace entering a new age group on questionnaires and apropos the ravages of time, my girlfriend loves my stray grey hairs- which become less deserving of the adjective premature as I age. Other than a few follicular clues and a reliance on Body Shop cocoa butter moisturiser, my Gregorian leap in maturity has dated me in only one notable respect: The inexorable slide into cliché has begun already.

An ironic topic to write about or discuss in any form- it becomes a form of self-fulfilling prophecy, and I start sounding like a traveler's phrase book. This can of course be passed off hopefully as an ironic double bluff: this is what I intend to do until normal service is resumed.

Even on the "big day", I found myself tossing (the cruder British connotations of this word are apt) out such bon mots as "to think what they can do with technology nowadays" (in response to a beloved little ipod from my lover). OK, two things: firstly, this is not my syntax: a linguistically sensititive soul, I can often detect the hyperbole of those relating a tall tale and misattributing quotes when the syntax is wildly out of sync. I just don't talk like that, or rather I didn't. Secondly, "nowadays" makes me sound like a Huckleberry Finnn character. In fact, in the gender confused swamp of my youth, I always wanted to be Huckleberry, before belated puberty ironically confirmed my androgenous look.

In the same vein, in my newfound state (it makes it sound like I've just found a country, but then I have entered a whole new psychological territory), I have taken to being nostalgic, and telling tales of the past with a golden hue as if groping for some far off Fantasia. In fact, my Huckleberry childhood identity brings to mind a true adventure my beloved and I had when we lived on a bohemian boat moored to an island (cue anecdote fondly refondled)...Once upon a time, one day, we set off, down the river upon which we lived, in a small Victorian raft with planks of wood for paddles. The sun beat down on our heads, water snakes spiraled by, "yours truly" accidentally trod a plank with protruding nail into the base of the raft and then counter-intuitively pulled it out. (The effect is reminiscent of the parable of the c/rudley titled "finger in the dyke"). Well, this fateful day as we padelled along with water rising around our ankles, packets of cigarettes swept away, and the delirious euphoric confusion of sunstroke...we met our alter-egos, namely Huckleberry Nipple and Breast Sawyer.

And so, I shall desist from such digressions and recollections, and "yours truly" is "signing off" to continue to boldly go where no man has gone before.