My friends - well, some of - well, those who don't read this... - ooh, actually, no, some who read this, too - hmmm... - are convinced that I'm just a jealous cow. Let me explain.
Actresses. As a rule of thumb, not a big fan. I mean, I recognize when they're good actresses, when they act well, and everything, but as soon as they're off the silver screen, uh-oh.
They're either too dumb, too shallow, too dumb, too braindead (not the same as too dumb), too pretentious, too ooh-I-think-I-know-a-thing-or-two-about-world-politics-but-but-but-oh-no-I'm-TOO-DUMB... You get the gist, right? And you agree, right?
So my friends (but should I still call them my friends after their show of bad faith?) are of the (oh how misguided) opinion that I'm jealous. Er, no.
Not true. Libel, I say! Slander! I mean most of them (actresses, not my friends, don't go putting words in my mouth, now) are dumb, and I used to do a mean (in both senses) impersonation of Emmanuelle Béart - I can't anymore now that she has a duckbill in lieu of a mouth, my talents just don't extend that far - but surely that doesn't mean that I'm jealous.
And to prove it, I give you Kate Beckinsale. I like that girl. She's gorgeous, she's simple, she's funny. I like her.
Then again, I don't think she's a very good actress. Oh my god. They may be right.
30 janvier 2006
29 janvier 2006
Don't you hate January?
And aren't you really glad it's over?
It felt like all of the shite that didn't have time to hit the fan last year decided that January was its last chance and rushed on to splatter me all at the same time. Fair enough. But let me tell you this, shite of last year: you and me, we're through now!
I know we still have one full day to go (ooh, bugger, and most of today, too) and that really anything shudder bad shudder could happen still, but I choose to think that whatever occurs from now on will be good. Plus, all the girly magazines (or women magazines if you want to call them that but it makes me feel like a middle-aged pensioner, which I'm just not ready for yet, so 'girly' it is) have published their horoscopes for 2006 and they all concur. Yes they do. And we know that horoscopes are always right, don't we, girls? (Hey, I translated a yearly horoscope once, I know exactly what I'm talking about - anyone who bought a Gemini horoscope booklet in Paris for the year 2000 probably had the best one ever. Ever.)
So yeah, I'm now officially ready for what 2006 has to offer, and it had better be spectacular.
Bring it on!
It felt like all of the shite that didn't have time to hit the fan last year decided that January was its last chance and rushed on to splatter me all at the same time. Fair enough. But let me tell you this, shite of last year: you and me, we're through now!
I know we still have one full day to go (ooh, bugger, and most of today, too) and that really anything shudder bad shudder could happen still, but I choose to think that whatever occurs from now on will be good. Plus, all the girly magazines (or women magazines if you want to call them that but it makes me feel like a middle-aged pensioner, which I'm just not ready for yet, so 'girly' it is) have published their horoscopes for 2006 and they all concur. Yes they do. And we know that horoscopes are always right, don't we, girls? (Hey, I translated a yearly horoscope once, I know exactly what I'm talking about - anyone who bought a Gemini horoscope booklet in Paris for the year 2000 probably had the best one ever. Ever.)
So yeah, I'm now officially ready for what 2006 has to offer, and it had better be spectacular.
Bring it on!
28 janvier 2006
Coincidence? I don't think so.
Look what I found at Dennis!'s place.
Your results:
You are The Flash
Click here to take the "Which Superhero are you?" quiz...
Though I'm really not sure about the costume.
Your results:
You are The Flash
| Fast, athletic and flirtatious. |
Though I'm really not sure about the costume.
26 janvier 2006
Shit happens
Apparently, and swiftly following on from the superpowers post, I don't really know just how strong I am. So maybe I'm the Hulk. I'm afraid green's not quite my colour though. Poo.25 janvier 2006
Things I hate - here we go again
Helpdesk technicians - they are like Damien, except they're even badder. You don't think that's possible? You phone my cable company. I am incensed, enraged, mad, have been for the whole of a whole week, that's a whole seven days, it's a whole of a lot. Lord help me, I could kill with the sheer power of my anger. See how bad they are? I'm like the sweetest thing on the planet and they turn me into a bloodthirsty beast!
For the sake of helpdesk technicians who happen to read this site, let us get a few things straight. Telling me to clear my cookies when I tell you I have problems with Outlook isn't going to help me like you. Ending the free chat session, when I'm clearly not finished, with a "your problem requires a telephone intervention, may I suggest you call our 0892 number, for a rate of €0.34 per minute", when we both know that this call will last for half an hour at the very least, half of which will be made up of me holding, and will end with a "your problem requires a visit by a technician that will cost you €75" does not help me like you either. And, really, calling me "Monsieur" when my first name appears all over the place, makes me question your ability to read, and will definitely not help me like you.
Help me like you. If you work at my cable company's helpdesk, kill yourselves. Or quit. But do it quick.
And if you think I'm exaggerating out of spite (which I could be, but I'd be entitled to spite right now), just see how helpdesk technicians fit in every sentence of one of The Omen posters:
"It is the greatest mystery of all because no human being working for a helpdesk will ever solve it.
It is the greatest suspense because no man dealing with a helpdesk can bear it.
It is the greatest fear because it is the fear of the unknown brain of the effing helpdesk technician."
I rest my case.
For the sake of helpdesk technicians who happen to read this site, let us get a few things straight. Telling me to clear my cookies when I tell you I have problems with Outlook isn't going to help me like you. Ending the free chat session, when I'm clearly not finished, with a "your problem requires a telephone intervention, may I suggest you call our 0892 number, for a rate of €0.34 per minute", when we both know that this call will last for half an hour at the very least, half of which will be made up of me holding, and will end with a "your problem requires a visit by a technician that will cost you €75" does not help me like you either. And, really, calling me "Monsieur" when my first name appears all over the place, makes me question your ability to read, and will definitely not help me like you.
Help me like you. If you work at my cable company's helpdesk, kill yourselves. Or quit. But do it quick.
And if you think I'm exaggerating out of spite (which I could be, but I'd be entitled to spite right now), just see how helpdesk technicians fit in every sentence of one of The Omen posters:
"It is the greatest mystery of all because no human being working for a helpdesk will ever solve it.
It is the greatest suspense because no man dealing with a helpdesk can bear it.
It is the greatest fear because it is the fear of the unknown brain of the effing helpdesk technician."
I rest my case.
24 janvier 2006
Call me Clark Kent
Or at least find me a phone booth.
If you remember, I once saved the world, and went on to save a friend, from burning flames that unmanageable drafts and absent-mindedness (it was a friend, I can't really call that brain-deadedness, can I...) would have rendered totally uncontrollable were it not for my presence of mind and spirit of self-sacrifice.
Yeah, so maybe I'm waxing a tiny bit lyrical about my heroic prowess, but it does seem like I really was on to something when I said I was worried about my friend being in England without me to watch his butt now.
(Um. That butt-watching thing was a figure of speech, I'd never do that to a friend. Or maybe I would, but are we here to judge? I thought not. Plus he flaunts it anyway, so it's not like... OK, enough already! You're pushing me to say things that... You lying ol' dirty birdies... Hmmm.)
Hmmm.
You see, he recently had a little accident with boiling water, and burnt his face. Now, they're not serious burns and shouldn't leave scars, but still. Final Destination had it right: when something wants you, it gets you in the end. I guess it's lucky it washis face and not his butt water and not a gas explosion, at least he still has his eyebrows. I'm now left to wonder if he'll ever learn.
In the meantime (you know, before he does learn), anyone with sewing skills can send me designs for my future supercostume - make sure it has wings or fins or something equally handy, I might have to do a lot of to-ing and fro-ing between Great-Britain and France. Or Canada.
If you remember, I once saved the world, and went on to save a friend, from burning flames that unmanageable drafts and absent-mindedness (it was a friend, I can't really call that brain-deadedness, can I...) would have rendered totally uncontrollable were it not for my presence of mind and spirit of self-sacrifice.
Yeah, so maybe I'm waxing a tiny bit lyrical about my heroic prowess, but it does seem like I really was on to something when I said I was worried about my friend being in England without me to watch his butt now.
(Um. That butt-watching thing was a figure of speech, I'd never do that to a friend. Or maybe I would, but are we here to judge? I thought not. Plus he flaunts it anyway, so it's not like... OK, enough already! You're pushing me to say things that... You lying ol' dirty birdies... Hmmm.)
Hmmm.
You see, he recently had a little accident with boiling water, and burnt his face. Now, they're not serious burns and shouldn't leave scars, but still. Final Destination had it right: when something wants you, it gets you in the end. I guess it's lucky it was
In the meantime (you know, before he does learn), anyone with sewing skills can send me designs for my future supercostume - make sure it has wings or fins or something equally handy, I might have to do a lot of to-ing and fro-ing between Great-Britain and France. Or Canada.
22 janvier 2006
Hang tight.
Today is supposed to be the most depressing day of the year.
Hardly surprising really.
You slobs have been eating too much over the holidays, and no wonder: obviously you needed at least that comfort to deal with your mom's incessant yammering about your singlehood/boyfriend/father/all of the above...
You've spent too much in the post-holiday sales, thinking that after spoiling your friends and family rotten, you might as well do a little something for you, and boy had you underestimated that little something, and have now so maxxed out your credit cards that you're wondering if filing a complaint against your banker for moral harassment would work...
By today, you've realized that for the twentieth year in a row, your new year's resolutions - work out regularly, finally start that pottery class you always wanted to go to, be a better listener to your mom/friends/dog... - meant zilch to your willpower-deprived, self-indulgent brain...
Winter is dragging on, and due to the overeating, you don't fit in those beautiful flashy blue ski pants that you bought at the sales, which is just as well really, because after your fabled sales spree, you just couldn't afford a skiing holiday anyway, even though, out of the whole wide world, you're probably the one most deserving a week-long break on the slopes, complete with mulled wine, fireplaces, bearskins, writh- sorry.
Let's not even get started about those of you in a relationship that you're dying to get out of, and those of you outside of a relationship that you're dying to get into.
Plus it's Monday. You have to get back to work after a weekend of sheer debauchery and no constructive action whatsoever. That hated, despised, and oh-so-unfulfilling workplace that you'd vowed to quit last year to pursue your true calling, a career in pet makeover, and yet here you are, ready to play carpet to your boss's despotic fantasies involving stationery orders and filing cabinets.
And so today, you're even more depressed than usually.
Fret not, dear friends. I'm here for you.
Hardly surprising really.
You slobs have been eating too much over the holidays, and no wonder: obviously you needed at least that comfort to deal with your mom's incessant yammering about your singlehood/boyfriend/father/all of the above...
You've spent too much in the post-holiday sales, thinking that after spoiling your friends and family rotten, you might as well do a little something for you, and boy had you underestimated that little something, and have now so maxxed out your credit cards that you're wondering if filing a complaint against your banker for moral harassment would work...
By today, you've realized that for the twentieth year in a row, your new year's resolutions - work out regularly, finally start that pottery class you always wanted to go to, be a better listener to your mom/friends/dog... - meant zilch to your willpower-deprived, self-indulgent brain...
Winter is dragging on, and due to the overeating, you don't fit in those beautiful flashy blue ski pants that you bought at the sales, which is just as well really, because after your fabled sales spree, you just couldn't afford a skiing holiday anyway, even though, out of the whole wide world, you're probably the one most deserving a week-long break on the slopes, complete with mulled wine, fireplaces, bearskins, writh- sorry.
Let's not even get started about those of you in a relationship that you're dying to get out of, and those of you outside of a relationship that you're dying to get into.
Plus it's Monday. You have to get back to work after a weekend of sheer debauchery and no constructive action whatsoever. That hated, despised, and oh-so-unfulfilling workplace that you'd vowed to quit last year to pursue your true calling, a career in pet makeover, and yet here you are, ready to play carpet to your boss's despotic fantasies involving stationery orders and filing cabinets.
And so today, you're even more depressed than usually.
Fret not, dear friends. I'm here for you.
21 janvier 2006
20 janvier 2006
The truth is out there
So it'd be Montreal, or Moncton, or even Quebec, but Toronto is hardly likely.
I was asked to come for a second interview this morning, which I thought was good news, until I was greeted with a "How do you feel about Quebec"? "Not good!", was the reply that burned my lips, but I opted for a more diplomatic "It's... not a possibility I would contemplate outside of heavy drug usage?", which she seemed to get. Once that was clear, I said that Moncton being the lovely city that they depicted was all very good, but it sounded like a single girl would feel like Sigourney Weaver fighting an army of aliens out there. (Don't worry. You might not know what I'm talking about and fear that I'm losing my mind, which is a distinct possibility in its own right, but I know what I mean.) Which leaves Montreal, and, if miracles keep happening (see that title), Toronto.
Apparently, she really wants me, which is nice of her, I think, but I'll believe it when a Diet-Coke-commercial-lookalike worker lays (no pun) the first brick of that golden bridge I'm dreaming of. And that's not going to happen for the next ten days at least. If you're looking for me in the meantime, I shall be at the bar.
I was asked to come for a second interview this morning, which I thought was good news, until I was greeted with a "How do you feel about Quebec"? "Not good!", was the reply that burned my lips, but I opted for a more diplomatic "It's... not a possibility I would contemplate outside of heavy drug usage?", which she seemed to get. Once that was clear, I said that Moncton being the lovely city that they depicted was all very good, but it sounded like a single girl would feel like Sigourney Weaver fighting an army of aliens out there. (Don't worry. You might not know what I'm talking about and fear that I'm losing my mind, which is a distinct possibility in its own right, but I know what I mean.) Which leaves Montreal, and, if miracles keep happening (see that title), Toronto.
Apparently, she really wants me, which is nice of her, I think, but I'll believe it when a Diet-Coke-commercial-lookalike worker lays (no pun) the first brick of that golden bridge I'm dreaming of. And that's not going to happen for the next ten days at least. If you're looking for me in the meantime, I shall be at the bar.
18 janvier 2006
Oh man, what are we going to talk about now?
OK, people, after the whole translation test thingy, I decided to give you a bit of slack about the interview. So it's come and gone, and you didn't even have to cross your fingers. What can I say, I felt magnanimous.
Very bizarre it was too, extremely informal, so informal in fact that I'm wondering if I was supposed to leave at the end or if we were meant to start sharing details about ex-boyfriends and stuff. I'd hate to have screwed up on information retention grounds.
But anyway, it's done, and I want that job, even though I still have no idea how it would happen, or where for that matter, as they keep adding new towns (apparently, some of those you really can't call cities) into the equation.
And so, without further ado and beating around the bush... back to the real point of this. You didn't really think that me feeling magnanimous for the interview meant that this sorry state of affairs would last for ever, did you? Good, 'cause now would be a good time to start spasmodically crossing those digits, until they let me know if they've made the right decision or if I should have Chuck Norris come roundhouse kick them around the globe a few times.
Considering I still don't know whether my tests (notice the plural, I did write a few) were good enough (I was supposed to know before I went to the interview, which does sound logical, after all), this might take a while. But hey, at least your fingers are getting some exercise. You can thank me later.
Very bizarre it was too, extremely informal, so informal in fact that I'm wondering if I was supposed to leave at the end or if we were meant to start sharing details about ex-boyfriends and stuff. I'd hate to have screwed up on information retention grounds.
But anyway, it's done, and I want that job, even though I still have no idea how it would happen, or where for that matter, as they keep adding new towns (apparently, some of those you really can't call cities) into the equation.
And so, without further ado and beating around the bush... back to the real point of this. You didn't really think that me feeling magnanimous for the interview meant that this sorry state of affairs would last for ever, did you? Good, 'cause now would be a good time to start spasmodically crossing those digits, until they let me know if they've made the right decision or if I should have Chuck Norris come roundhouse kick them around the globe a few times.
Considering I still don't know whether my tests (notice the plural, I did write a few) were good enough (I was supposed to know before I went to the interview, which does sound logical, after all), this might take a while. But hey, at least your fingers are getting some exercise. You can thank me later.
17 janvier 2006
I'm an assassin
Yes. I figured people are coming here for p0rn (please tell me that's not going to worsen my case, please tell me that's not going to worsen my case, please...), they might as well get their share of violence too.
My ficus may be dying. More to the point, I think I may be killing my ficus, although, how, I'm not sure. I may have unwittingly stumbled upon the perfect murder.
Besides the fact that it's saddening to lose something that's been with me for the past ten years - well, apart from the year it stayed with a friend, who's not really a friend anymore but that's totally unrelated, when I left for Australia, and stayed there for another four years (the plant at my friend's, not, unfortunately, me in Australia) - it's very annoying to see so much ingratitude in one inanimate, potted, green for crying out loud (or yellowing in its current situation) creature. Very annoying.
I have cared for it for 5 years in total, watered it, fed it, repotted it, talked to it, furthered its musical tastes more than it could ever have hoped to have them furthered at the flowershop, way more, given it light and darkness in very thoughtful measures, made it laugh I'm sure (hey, I make more people, babies and animals laugh than you'd think, so why not plants? Plants have feelings too, you know) and suddenly, it goes all limp and starts shedding leaves like... like... damn, that metaphor escapes me, whatever... and blames me???
The cheek. I knew I should never have told it about my goldfish. Plus, flushing a ficus down the loo is certainly not going to be quite as easy.
Come on, ficus! Don't give up! Live! Live, for god's sake! Think of the water pipes!
My ficus may be dying. More to the point, I think I may be killing my ficus, although, how, I'm not sure. I may have unwittingly stumbled upon the perfect murder.
Besides the fact that it's saddening to lose something that's been with me for the past ten years - well, apart from the year it stayed with a friend, who's not really a friend anymore but that's totally unrelated, when I left for Australia, and stayed there for another four years (the plant at my friend's, not, unfortunately, me in Australia) - it's very annoying to see so much ingratitude in one inanimate, potted, green for crying out loud (or yellowing in its current situation) creature. Very annoying.
I have cared for it for 5 years in total, watered it, fed it, repotted it, talked to it, furthered its musical tastes more than it could ever have hoped to have them furthered at the flowershop, way more, given it light and darkness in very thoughtful measures, made it laugh I'm sure (hey, I make more people, babies and animals laugh than you'd think, so why not plants? Plants have feelings too, you know) and suddenly, it goes all limp and starts shedding leaves like... like... damn, that metaphor escapes me, whatever... and blames me???
The cheek. I knew I should never have told it about my goldfish. Plus, flushing a ficus down the loo is certainly not going to be quite as easy.
Come on, ficus! Don't give up! Live! Live, for god's sake! Think of the water pipes!
Heaven help Hollywood
Or French TV, I'm not sure.
See, let me recap for you my major problem these days (Hmmm. I'll edit slightly, shall I?). I'm looking for a job somewhere in an English-speaking country, preferably in North America (still waiting for an answer from Canada), I'm not really set on the actual job per se, but, you know, translating, languages, this kind of stuff. And I think I may have found just the thing.
I was just watching the Golden Globes (taped, time difference is a bitch (and I'm quite chuffed about the awards themselves, what did you think?)), and the French cable channel (?) had splashed out on two commenters. Two commenters. One for his knowledge of all things movie and TV, one for her knowledge of English so she could interpret for us.
Well. I am this close to sending in an application letter to replace them both. This close.
Also. Mariah Carey. Discuss. Please discuss.
See, let me recap for you my major problem these days (Hmmm. I'll edit slightly, shall I?). I'm looking for a job somewhere in an English-speaking country, preferably in North America (still waiting for an answer from Canada), I'm not really set on the actual job per se, but, you know, translating, languages, this kind of stuff. And I think I may have found just the thing.
I was just watching the Golden Globes (taped, time difference is a bitch (and I'm quite chuffed about the awards themselves, what did you think?)), and the French cable channel (?) had splashed out on two commenters. Two commenters. One for his knowledge of all things movie and TV, one for her knowledge of English so she could interpret for us.
Well. I am this close to sending in an application letter to replace them both. This close.
Also. Mariah Carey. Discuss. Please discuss.
16 janvier 2006
That big tease
Ever noticed how the New Year can be compared to a gold-digging slut that lots of people could say lots of nasty things about if they got together?
Let me (kind of) explain: surely all of you noticed the come-hither looks that 2006 was throwing our way back in December, and the "take-me take-me" voice it was using to utter false promises, surrounded all the while as it was with a thick cloud of cheap perfume?
Well, it seems that morning has finally come. My hangover is really quite bad. New Year's make-up has run in thick smudges around its world-weary and oh-so-cunning eyes and wrinkled mouth, and it really doesn't look appealing at all anymore. At all.
Problem is, apparently I signed something in my drunken stupor, and it seems I'm really going to have to stick this out.
Know of a way out?
Let me (kind of) explain: surely all of you noticed the come-hither looks that 2006 was throwing our way back in December, and the "take-me take-me" voice it was using to utter false promises, surrounded all the while as it was with a thick cloud of cheap perfume?
Well, it seems that morning has finally come. My hangover is really quite bad. New Year's make-up has run in thick smudges around its world-weary and oh-so-cunning eyes and wrinkled mouth, and it really doesn't look appealing at all anymore. At all.
Problem is, apparently I signed something in my drunken stupor, and it seems I'm really going to have to stick this out.
Know of a way out?
13 janvier 2006
09 janvier 2006
08 janvier 2006
Come all ye faithful*
Someone got here yesterday by googling "how to deal with sarcasm and big headedness". Honestly. The inventiveness of some people is simply mind-boggling.
This site is #2. I'll just let that sink in.
...
I think I preferred it when it was sad people with no sex life making bizarre queries to the Google Big Brother. At least I had a sense of my helpfulness, however unlikely that was. Now I just feel like a case study in human flaws.
I guess I'll just have to deal with it...
*Well, it is Sunday, right?
This site is #2. I'll just let that sink in.
...
I think I preferred it when it was sad people with no sex life making bizarre queries to the Google Big Brother. At least I had a sense of my helpfulness, however unlikely that was. Now I just feel like a case study in human flaws.
I guess I'll just have to deal with it...
*Well, it is Sunday, right?
05 janvier 2006
Things I hate - part the (n+1)th
Girls who scream like banshees. All the time. And shriek like it's the only way they know to express themselves when they're with their posse, pack, farrow, whatever the word for "group of hysterical girls" is these days.
Teenage girls I can kind of understand, if I go against all my instincts and jump right back to a time I'd really much rather forget, but anyway. Because teenage girls think screaming in a stupid, high-pitched, trilling tone will make them sound more mature, attractive, funny, etc., to whatevah living, breathing, preferably male, creature within a 5-mile radius.
OK. Newsflash, chicas. No it doesn't. At all. At best it makes everybody shudder and cringe and try to smile understandingly - usually resulting in some kind of grimace-y smirk - because let's face it, youth makes you stupid anyway. And I say that with all the love I'm capable of, which, granted, is not much. And at worst, it either makes at least one of us within said 5-mile radius lose an eardrum, patience, and many, many human characteristics; or forget altogether about the effort at an understanding smile and just think a string of profanities that my watertight morals forbid me to repeat here. And imagine a few unforgivable actions as well.
I've been known to gradually go through all three of those phases. Hard to achieve, and/but surprisingly not very satisfactory or gratifying when I do. Please. For the love of James Blunt and the Pussycat Dolls. Just stop shrieking.
Now. To all you adults who like to think shrieking is the new cleavage. Go jump off a cliff. Now.
Teenage girls I can kind of understand, if I go against all my instincts and jump right back to a time I'd really much rather forget, but anyway. Because teenage girls think screaming in a stupid, high-pitched, trilling tone will make them sound more mature, attractive, funny, etc., to whatevah living, breathing, preferably male, creature within a 5-mile radius.
OK. Newsflash, chicas. No it doesn't. At all. At best it makes everybody shudder and cringe and try to smile understandingly - usually resulting in some kind of grimace-y smirk - because let's face it, youth makes you stupid anyway. And I say that with all the love I'm capable of, which, granted, is not much. And at worst, it either makes at least one of us within said 5-mile radius lose an eardrum, patience, and many, many human characteristics; or forget altogether about the effort at an understanding smile and just think a string of profanities that my watertight morals forbid me to repeat here. And imagine a few unforgivable actions as well.
I've been known to gradually go through all three of those phases. Hard to achieve, and/but surprisingly not very satisfactory or gratifying when I do. Please. For the love of James Blunt and the Pussycat Dolls. Just stop shrieking.
Now. To all you adults who like to think shrieking is the new cleavage. Go jump off a cliff. Now.
How? Why?
1.60 m is 5'2".
When did that happen? Wasn't it 5'4" before? Am I really a midget?
The Imperial system stole 2 inches off of my height.
I don't even need to crawl into a corner and die now.
When did that happen? Wasn't it 5'4" before? Am I really a midget?
The Imperial system stole 2 inches off of my height.
I don't even need to crawl into a corner and die now.
04 janvier 2006
02 janvier 2006
Same player, play again
OK, so apparently the HR lady in Canada got caught up in a flurry of social activity over her Christmas break, and completely forgot that some poor soul in France was waiting for her test.
As she might give me a job and relocate me and offer me a golden bridge over the Atlantic Ocean, I'm not going to make any sarcastic comment on the fact that she kept me cooped up in my flat for the evening with nothing to do except stress over the fact that maybe they had hired someone already. Especially as the movie on TV was good.
But because someone always has to pay, it's going to have to be you again, I'm afraid. I'm not sure when I'm going to do this effing test now, what with the time difference and all. I'm hoping for tomorrow morning though, because I'll be working from home again for a couple of weeks, and considering my legendary organization, it'll be better if it's tomorrow morning. But that kind of luck would be uncharacteristic to say the least.
Does that make sense? Do you follow at all? Never mind. Just nod and go 'hm-hmmm' in all the right places, you'll be fine.
What I'm basically saying is, you go on crossing those chubby little fingers of yours until I tell you to stop. OK? Cool.
You know you're earning your own special slice of heaven, don't you?
To think you'll have to do it all over for the interview, if I'm not thrown off the island before that stage... But I'm hoping she won't forget about the interview time, so you'll have a proper, reliable timeframe for that.
Hot off the press. Uncharacteristic luck all the way. I'm so getting that golden bridge. She's just sent the text, and I'll be doing it in the morning.
9 a.m. to 1:00 p.m., people, 9:00 a.m. to 1 :00 p.m. (Paris time. Now is not the time to get mixed up.). Take turns.
As she might give me a job and relocate me and offer me a golden bridge over the Atlantic Ocean, I'm not going to make any sarcastic comment on the fact that she kept me cooped up in my flat for the evening with nothing to do except stress over the fact that maybe they had hired someone already. Especially as the movie on TV was good.
But because someone always has to pay, it's going to have to be you again, I'm afraid. I'm not sure when I'm going to do this effing test now, what with the time difference and all. I'm hoping for tomorrow morning though, because I'll be working from home again for a couple of weeks, and considering my legendary organization, it'll be better if it's tomorrow morning. But that kind of luck would be uncharacteristic to say the least.
Does that make sense? Do you follow at all? Never mind. Just nod and go 'hm-hmmm' in all the right places, you'll be fine.
What I'm basically saying is, you go on crossing those chubby little fingers of yours until I tell you to stop. OK? Cool.
You know you're earning your own special slice of heaven, don't you?
To think you'll have to do it all over for the interview, if I'm not thrown off the island before that stage... But I'm hoping she won't forget about the interview time, so you'll have a proper, reliable timeframe for that.
Hot off the press. Uncharacteristic luck all the way. I'm so getting that golden bridge. She's just sent the text, and I'll be doing it in the morning.
9 a.m. to 1:00 p.m., people, 9:00 a.m. to 1 :00 p.m. (Paris time. Now is not the time to get mixed up.). Take turns.
01 janvier 2006
Did you know that thawing snow made such an awful racket?
If you didn't, now you do. Take my word for it, it does.
Also... if you find yourself with five minutes' free time today, between 5 p.m. and 9 p.m. Paris time - och, let me make it easier on you: it's some time between 6 a.m. today, Honolulu time, and 10 a.m. tomorrow, Kiritimati time* - think of me. I'mkind of totally shit-scared for this translation test that will decide whether I have some sort of a Canadian future.
* No one from the Christmas Islands reads this that I know of*** but I like to brag.
** No, there is no double-star sign anywhere in this, but I have to ask: will all of you people with a 30- or 45-minute time difference please write to your respective governements and ask them why...?
***Yes, I like footnotes. No, that doesn't mean that people from Honolulu read this either. I'm just hedging my options. I really am scared.
Update, at 6:44 p.m., Paris time
Still waiting for the test to arrive in my mailbox and severely pissed off...
Also... if you find yourself with five minutes' free time today, between 5 p.m. and 9 p.m. Paris time - och, let me make it easier on you: it's some time between 6 a.m. today, Honolulu time, and 10 a.m. tomorrow, Kiritimati time* - think of me. I'm
* No one from the Christmas Islands reads this that I know of*** but I like to brag.
** No, there is no double-star sign anywhere in this, but I have to ask: will all of you people with a 30- or 45-minute time difference please write to your respective governements and ask them why...?
***Yes, I like footnotes. No, that doesn't mean that people from Honolulu read this either. I'm just hedging my options. I really am scared.
Update, at 6:44 p.m., Paris time
Still waiting for the test to arrive in my mailbox and severely pissed off...
Très très très bonne année 2006
A beautiful, beautiful year to you all - yes, even those of you who've never commented and don't ever intend to, bunch of lazy cowards...
Um.
Sooo...
I hope 2006 brings you most of what you wish for - don't be greedy now, make sure you don't get it all this year, you'd never be able to totally renew that wishlist for 2007 anyway.
Oh, and for the love of all that is holy (or, you know, expensive), don't make any resolutions if you don't intend to keep them, all right?
Um.
Sooo...
I hope 2006 brings you most of what you wish for - don't be greedy now, make sure you don't get it all this year, you'd never be able to totally renew that wishlist for 2007 anyway.
Oh, and for the love of all that is holy (or, you know, expensive), don't make any resolutions if you don't intend to keep them, all right?
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