Breathing is overrated

I've decided to take up yawning instead. All the time. I've just started and it feels good. Slightly woozy, but good.
Also, sneezing. Oh I like sneezing. I was filling my pepper shaker today (thrilling life, right?), and I started sneezing so much I thought I was going to burst a brain vessel. Now, as much as sneezing is close to having an orgasm (I'm not the one saying that, OK, I'm just the one repeating it. Research backs this up.) (Cue single people everywhere rushing to make naked angels in what little snow there is left, just so they get a little bit of excitement.), and I'd love to die a big petite mort, I'm not sure that dying of a sneeze attack would have quite so much glam attached. And I'm not quite ready to check just yet.
Hiccups. Now that's one thing I don't want to replace breathing with. Although the annoying power of a loud case of never-ending hiccups certainly has its appeals... Is there even any breathing involved in the hiccups?
God, I love yawning.

Puzzling stuff

Last night, I came across Guest House Paradiso on the telly, with the two guys from "Bottom". Because I couldn't remember Bill Nighy's name (yeah, yeah, yeah), I looked the film up on the IMDb. Now if you scroll down the IMDb page, you'll see that if you liked this movie, they recommend... The Godfather Trilogy. ?
gmail may not be all it's cracked up to be. It does seem to fall apart a lot lately. However, they keep adding features and stuff to it. Why not make sure it works properly before adding all the bells and whistles?
Is it normal that just when I thought I had hit rock bottom, I'm proven wrong and something else hits?
Why is it that I can have the same conversation with my mom over and over, and still she doesn't seem to hear?
Remakes. Of good movies. Of excellent movies. Point?
Why is there never any chocolate in this house when I crave some?
When is Scorsese finally going to shoot his Dino movie? And, relatedly, please will he change the rumored cast?
In the grand scheme of things, how exactly is dust useful?
So many questions. So... many... questions.

Tinnitus woman

It sounds a bit like a soul song by Lenny Kravitz on acid, doesn't it?
It's not - it's a condition. To be honest, I'm not sure it's tinnitus. But it's annoying all the same. The bizarre thing is it only strikes in the evening. And it's not your regular, middle-of-the-road tinnitus either. Of course not, that would be too... normal for me. Sure, there's the buzzing and the whistling, though at irregular intervals, and not continuously thank god, but mostly there's a weird echoing sound like a pneumatic drill. Right there in that tiny little space between my eardrum and my brain. It's really rather uncomfortable if you ask me.
By the way... Having never heard a pneumatic drill, I don't think I have anyway, I wouldn't know what it sounds like. But you ask me to describe, so I tell you. In girl's words.
Now, I don't want any of this "oh my god, anne, maybe you have a brain tumor...!" nonsense, all right? I'm crazy, I have a slew of problems, but I do not have a brain tumor. Creutzfeldt-Jacob, maybe. You know, the mad-cow disease. That would be fitting, wouldn't it?
But Creutzfeldt-Jacob has no symptoms like "hears sounds of a pseudo pneumatic drill at night".
Oh my god. Maybe I have a brain tumor.

French 101

Inspired by Alan's tirade against the mispronouncing of words, I have decided to lash out. First, because I haven't done that in a while. Second, because I felt like it, really.
You see, people have stopped saying "oui" in France. Surely that deserves a good lashing, no? They now say "tout à fait", which is just about the most unbelievably moronic-sounding phrase ever, in the "oui" context.
Sorry, I forgot. Let's get a few details out of the way. Oui, is French for yes. Tout à fait, is French for unbelivably moronic-sounding, in the oui context.
OK, now that we have the bases covered, let's proceed. This is especially true of people on TV, from the journalists, to the ordinary people and the moderately famous to completely overblown celebs. It's almost as if as soon as a camera's rolling, we can't use simple words anymore.
Ca va? (You OK?) Tout à fait. (Unbelievably moronic-sounding.)
Isn't it cool that it's spring at last? Tout à fait.
Don't you feel like a moron saying tout à fait all the time? Tout à fait.
I rest my case.

Chastity

Monkey0's fault.

"Chastity!"
Chastity turned around. Someone had clearly called her name but no one seemed to be looking at her.
She heard it again.
"Chastity!"
She frowned. That didn't sound like the tone of someone who was calling her.
"Chastity is the answer! The Messiah is coming! Do you want to stand tainted before your Lord and Savior? The Messiah is coming soon!"
She tuned the manic street preacher out. Heaven. He was calling her name in vain, and she couldn't even sue.
She hurried on, Dave was waiting. God she needed that fix. It was the only reason she was still ready to play blow-up doll to middle-aged, balding men with clammy hands.
"Hey."
"Hey. I thought you'd never get here."
"I'm here now."
They heard cars approaching. Approaching fast.
"What the fuck?"
Dave didn't look surprised.
"Sorry, babe... They had me."
"Fucker. Oh god. You fucker!"
"Hey, Chastity! Long time no see..." The cop snickered. "I told you last time that I'd see you again... Jesus, you never learned to stay out of trouble, did you? Come on, girl, on we go."

Ready, steady, stop...

Or cut down anyway - on the smoking. Beware, life is about to get very... complicated around here.
And Canada has still not seen fit to tell me whether I'm hired or not, so I've decided that enough was enough and to take that annoying silence as a no. Maybe I was completely deluded to think that something good would come of this, huh.
This doesn't mean that if they were to condescend to hire me in 3 months, when spring thaw is complete, I'd say no, by the way. I have no dignity. I'd swim across the Atlantic if that's what it takes.
Anyway. Right now, I'm looking for other options. No kidding, people, know of anyone who needs a French translator? Copy-editor? PA? Maid?

Book club for dummies

I'm reading Sophie's World.
I'm not enjoying it.
And I don't like not enjoying books.
Especially when a few people have been bending my ear about it, going on and on about how great it is.
It's... boring.
Thing is, I like philosophy. I like the idea of talking for hours on end around concepts that I haven't the faintest clue about, going back and forth, raising questions that I'll never find the answer to. You know... philosophy.
But this book, I don't know. It's... too simple somehow. Too "I have the answers, and they're pretttty good answers too, so don't disagree." So while it's about philosophy, it seems to be defeating the point somehow. Or maybe it's being extremely cunning by making the reader question - everything.
Plus, that Sophie person is not very believable.
Now, granted, so far I've only read roughly up to the point when Socrates guzzles his hemlock cocktail, but still. I'm not enjoying it. So I might have to put it aside for a while. Except if I do that now, I have this feeling I'll never pick it up again, and it'll be on my shelf, accusing in a resigned sort of way, pitiful, abandoned only to collect dust, of which I have way too much already, until it dies in a freak, albeit carefully planned, flooding accident when I try to come into some home insurance money.

Hold on. I knew there was a reason I was blogging, and I may have just found it. As I went to Amazon for a link for you, dear reader, I had a look at their review, and the mild "spoilers" there have given me just enough incentive to go on - all the while kind of agreeing with my assessment of it - i.e. Publishers Weekly properly expressed what I really meant to say. I guess it just got granted clemency then.

In any case, if you're into that sort of novel slash educational book, there's an excellent novel called Le Théorème du Perroquet (don't fret, it was translated. I used the French title because I felt like it) that does the same thing with the history of mathematics as a "backdrop". I don't remember much of said history, but I know that, after many years of peace, I did try to solve second-degree equations while I was reading it. Needless to say, I couldn't.
Good book, though.

Err... Hmmm... Um...

I'm with the... other... site today.
But don't be sad: as I'm feeling unbelievably guilty, you'll be getting flowers and a very expensive piece of jewelry soon.
Or it could be divorce papers, but how can we know for sure?

Happy St Patrick's Day

To think the layout of this blog is useful one day in the year makes me go all teary-eyed. Have a great one – no reason not to, there's a whole weekend to recover. And while you're nursing your hangover, you may want to have a look at the last day of the Six Nations Tournament tomorrow. Do cheer the right teams on though. Here, I'll help you work out which ones with my little pep talk.
France, go on, beat Wales or don't bother coming back. Ireland, do your thing, this would really be the weekend not to screw it up. Scotland... Scotland. Don't let us down now.
There, I believe you have all the info you need.

OK, let's give that a shot, then. A story, in 69 words – where will they stop?

I was blissfully alone in the middle of the lake when suddenly it dawned on me: what if… there was a shark? Nobody would hear me scream, I would die before anyone reacted. But I couldn’t die, I wasn’t even married yet! I couldn’t let a shark take my life when it still held so much promise – my life, not the shark. Quickly, I swam back to the lakeshore.

Yeah...

The shame. I was sorting some papers the other day, and I came across some old writing of mine. I was young, I was impressionable - och, what am I saying, I was bad, plain and simple. These are skits, if you want, that I wrote when I was something like 16, probably thinking that I could actually speak them in front of an audience. Thank god I never did. But I haven't changed. My penmanship has hardly changed (handwritten, how quaint...). My writing hasn't changed. My attempts at humour haven't changed. Well. Let's hope that these have, at least a little bit, because otherwise, you have no excuses, really.
There was also a speech I'd written for my parents' wedding anniversary, and that was OK. But then, I was around 20 at that time. What a difference 4 years make.
But it's made me think. What have I done with all the novels I started? Did I - shudder - throw them out? The stuff of which Nobel prizes are no doubt made? Or, at the very least, Jilly Cooper novels? Without the sex? Man, that woman... taught me English, and what English!
So yes, my novels... Always full of enthusiasm at the start, but unravelling pretty early on. Ring a bell?
Still, I would have liked to read them again, if only to see whether I could steal anything...
Steal from myself, can I be any more desperate? Well, yes, I can, people! Just you wait and see.

Forgive me for I knew not what I was doing.

After twenty years, I've just watched Gremlins again.
In full. Without being forced.
And that's really all I'm prepared to say about that.

There is a faint chance I might be deluded.

Seriously.
I need to stop with the "24" obsession. Apparently, I've taken that "suspending disbelief" one step too far and am now completely believing that I'm living a real-life 24 episode. Strike that, a season. A life.
I had to go to the managing agent yesterday. Now, for those of you who haven’t been reading this site with the religious zeal of the recent convert, consequently don't have the faintest idea what I'm talking about, and are already jumping to conclusions, first things first. What have you been doing instead?? And second, I’ll fill you in, but I’ll need to make this fast, and will only be saying this once, so listen very carefully, OK?
I’ve had this blog for a little over a year now, and during all this time, the managing agency, whose mission supposedly is to make sure that the building doesn’t collapse in on our life savings, has been faffing about, probably drinking cocktails on a tropical beach somewhere thanks to our sweet fee-paying, gullible asses. We’re three weeks from the end of our contract with them, and I'm thinking of having one taken out on them. Violence being no solution blah blah blah, we're simply not renewing.
As we are evidently as incompetent at protecting our own interests as they are at securing their own source of income, and due to some weak link in the security chain, we weren't completely clear what the actual date was, so I had to go there this morning to check a specific document. The secretary wasn't too helpful, I gotta say this. It's like she didn't want me to have it, really - you'd think I was asking for a list of nuclear facilities and their access codes. And that's when she made a mistake. She tried to get me to leave - by saying something as inane as "we'll post it to you". Oh boy. What else could I do but insist? Especially as that silly girl told me that our dedicated manager was in a meeting when I'd just seen her go for a ciggie. It was all I could do to physically restrain myself (in case you’re wondering how exactly one does that, one doesn't move.) from pointing a very threatening finger to the secretary and shouting "Get me the document! NOW!" while at the same time flicking my cellphone open and saying "Chloe, I need you to uplink a blueprint of the building to my phone and monitor the whereabouts of everyone in here. I'm going to find that manager. I’ll call you back as soon as I can."
Oh, I can sense your worry. No need - I did get the document, and no blood was shed. Man, I'm good.

Following on.

As I had confirmation this weekend that spring was indeed upon us. Several confirmations even, and not just through the voices that keep muttering on and on and. on. inside my head.
First, Sunday was the first entirely beautiful day we've had in Paris for at least two weeks. And let me tell you, my dears, that two weeks of quasi-uninterrupted rain? Long time. Looong. Tiiime. I know I hadn't mentioned it before, but that's just because really, I don't like to complain.
And I'll let this sink in.
Second. In between my various social engagements - amongst which (yes, I'll be using "amongst" and "whilst" as of now, I think the class and elegance they bespeak becomes me. Or... something.) So. Amongst my various social engagements was an afternoon at the pub to watch the French rugby team whirl England above they rooster-apparelled bods (and what bods, but I'll be getting to that, so to speak) and launch them at some impressive speed out of the rugby arena. That really was unnecessary gloating, but boy does it feel good... Allez, les Bleus.
And to come back to my original sentence... In between my various social engagements this weekend, I watched a few episodes of two TV shows, namely 24 and Prison Break. The men in these shows. Honestly, people, why are you doing this to me? I'm having trouble concentrating on the dialogue, that's how flawless their... performance is.
And we're cunningly coming back to the rugby. Because some of those rugby players are really... good too. Let's just say it's no wonder that more girls have been watching the games lately. Well, us girls do like quality, and although there is a certain shortage of that in rugby, when there is quality, there is quality. I've been sort of following the rugby for a long time now (and that's not even a lie) but it's only this weekend that I realized why, really...
All of that combined, the top-notch acting, the sun, the game quality... that I enjoyed this weekend - well, somehow it's wreaking havoc on my hormones. I don't really understand the inner workings of this, but my hormones, they are going crazy. Cray. Zee.
Spring I tell you.

Is it Friday already?

It's Friday already.
It's Friday already!
Wow.
Lately I've been having trouble keeping up with how fast time flies. Especially when compared with how slowly things are changing.
We're now in 2006. Had you realized that? We're now in March 2006. March! Where did January and February go? Oh, yeah, I remember where January went. Down the drain, that's where. And February crawled slowly back up to find itself on the tarred surface of a very crowded highway, trying to avoid zooming lorries left, right, and center. Hmmm.
And, today is the 1Oth of March. That's it, we've reached double digits in the third month of the two-thousand-and-sixth year of our lives. God I feel old all of a sudden.
But it's Friday.
See, when I realized that, I hesitated between cause for celebration (but let's face it, I don't really work, these days, so does Friday really mean something to me? And am I really that much of an altruist that I'd celebrate your weekend? Truthful answer to both would be, "yeah, kind of, no, really...") or reason to plunge down the deep, dank and dreary sewage system of depression. Go back to my friend January, so to speak.
But then I thought, hang on a minute, you sly, sly, sly... dammit, what's the word?! so-and-so. It might be Friday, it might already be the first-double-digited day of March, it might be March for that matter, but what does that tell us?
Only ten days before spring, that's what! And I am so ready.

What, already?!

I'm already being unfaithful. Gosh, it's true, what they say, isn't it. Comes the first lithe, young being or blog, you forget all about that dependable first wife. Or blog.
Does that even make sense? No. Of course it doesn't. What I mean is, I didn't write anything for this here site, because I posted something to Voice of a City. And considering what little brain I have, it was unlikely - to say the least - that I would have two interesting entries on the same day. Now. That's not to say that the Voice one is interesting. It's just my way of filling up space. 'Cause I love to. Fill up space. You know.
Mind you, I could have talked about how today's the birthday of the only girl that I ever fought with. As in, physical fight. As in, random slapping and shrieking (no mud). But I ain't gonna, because, after all, I fought with her, I'm hardly going to give her more space/time than she deserves, am I.
So how have you been?

Aaaannd... action!

You probably don't remember... Hell, I almost didn't.
Wait. Did I start a post exactly like that not so long ago?
Anyway. Last year. Beginning of August. Seven months ago. To the day. Coincidence? Maybe. But I don't think so.
Right. Now that little stuttering phase appears to be over, let's have it, shall we? So, last year, I was advertising a site (and when I say "I" was, it's a figure a speech. As when I say "advertising". Hey, let's make a deal, you and me. Let's consider that whatever I say - figure a speech, aw raaht?), a collective blog, if you will, about Paris. Apparently, people think that in Paris, we live thrilling lives. Let me square things a little. We don't. If what you might read sounds thrilling, it's a bunch of lies! Or not. But chances are you'll never really know... because we'll never really tell...
However, lies or not, "they" thought that if you read about our pseudo thrilling lives, you might want to come and see the City of Lights for yourselves and get a taste of that pseudo thrilling life.
To that end, they had a first selection process. And I was given a rose. Then they had a second selection phase. And I got another rose. Then they got into a lengthy testing phase (sorry, guys, you did a stellar job there, but come on. The testing phase? Lengthy.) And I finally got the bachelor.
Well. Nine of us got the bachelor, but we're hardly going to quibble now, are we?
So. Here. Voice of a City, live from Paris. Go visit. And then come visit.

No brains, no headaches?

There is something very unsettling in seeing certain athletes outside of their natural habitat, don't you think? They're stupid, aren't they? Well- some of them are: I wouldn't want to engage in blind generalization here 'cause, well, that's just not what I do.
And don't even think I'll be naming names to make this travesty of writing more... I don't know, is 'interesting' the word I'm looking for?, because I just can't afford the hate mail or the libel lawsuits.
Also, don't think I don't love them, because I do. Yessiree Bob, I do love me some athletes. Those of you who thought I was working at the Sydney Olympics for love of the game, my, aren't you silly. Of course it's the prospect of seeing muscles ripple and testosterone fly.
It's hardly going to be about the conversation, is it?
Because - and since I've already started bragging, I might as well go on - I've had conversations with athletes. Yes I have. I've even had a whole two hours to myself with a triathlete. For work, more's the pity. He was really sweet too. Very good-looking, and really sweet. And that was it. The kind of "it" that makes you wonder if two hours have ever seemed so loooong. Of course, two years before the Games, he was also a major contestant, so I was showing off to anyone who would listen (and even to some who wouldn't, really) about my little "affair" (no one was ever going to check, were they?). Eventually, he didn't even make it to the Games. Typical.
So that's one example. And then there are all the medallists who are coming back from Torino. And on they rush to give interviews. Wrong move. Seeing them giggle at everything the interviewer says just makes me wonder if their brains haven't suffered beyond any hope of repair from that one too many fall they took during warm-up.

Will write for direction

In so many ways...
Will also sacrifice a chicken for spring to start early.
Will cry for a proper answer from Canada.
Will cook for help in moving stuff in the event said proper answer is still yes.
Will stop talking for ten minutes for a sizeable lottery win, so will not need help to move stuff. But will still cook. And no, this is not a bad thing. Cheeky.
Will use drugs for a good night's sleep.
Will use alcohol for a good idea.
Will... No, will stay decent.

Now, this I had to share.

Stuart, bless his heart, has given me a new addiction.
I started soft. And went on soft still. But then, it kind of got out of hand. And well... I just couldn't stop.
Go on. Show us what you can do.
(And just so you're warned, they change the clips every day. I'll never stop now.)

Sniffle, sniffle, sneeze. (I was going to add "lather, rinse, repeat", but it somehow seemed inappropriate.)

Hate colds.
Hate.
Want someone to please mop my brow and drop grapes into my mouth.
No chicken broth, that's bound to hurt.
Mind you, if you insist on chicken soup, you may spoonfeed me.
But the grapes will have to be dropped. Peeled. Also, seedless. And dropped.
Apply within. Pictures appreciated (no cheating).

Of mice and techniques

Well. Really, of techniques, but "Of mice and techniques" had a nice ring to it.
I mean mice are nice and all - and I might even discuss the comparative merits of mice and ferrets in a future post - but my big question today is about techniques. Namely, what kind of technique can I adopt (and potentially even use - the daring! the boldness! the audacity!) to actually remember the various ideas that may venture through that wild maze of a mind of mine?
By the by, "various" does not even remotely imply numerousness. They vary in degree of interestingness, from 'not interesting but I'm sure I can get a hundred words on this' to 'not particularly thrilling, but it will have to do' - hence, various.**
And I don't mean that blogging/writing is the most exciting thing happening in my life right now - ach, who am I kidding, of course it is.
Anyway. It won't be for long if that blank thing that seems to be my brain these days carries on for much longer.
So. I actually like writing. Surprised, right? The way I carry on lately, you'd think writing was as much fun to me as a colonic (and to the minority of readers who do enjoy their monthly colonic - I am not judging), but in actuality, I rather enjoy it. And every now and again, when I'm doing cool stuff or interesting stuff or intelligent stuff or, hell, just stuff - and it's not such a frequent occurrence these days - an idea will pop into my head.
You'd think if an idea appears, I'll want to hold onto it, feed it, water it, make it feel loved and wanted and loved some more, so that it will stay, and grow to be the Pulitzer Prize-winning piece ever written in English by a French girl with no journalistic integrity, right? ("you'd think [...] right?" Just helping.)
Well I try. I do try, honest. Surprisingly, though, the idea always leaves. I know, the ungratefulness and all that. And yet, they all have, they all do, and I'm beginning to suspect that they all will. I can't have a proper, long-term relationship with my ideas. So I can't help but wonder*. Is it me? Am I doing something wrong?
I know relationships are all about compromises and self-sacrifice and the basic giving-up of your own personal ambitions to make sure your significant other's get fulfilled, but come on. That's exactly what I'm asking of my ideas. And they wouldn't even have to pay the bills and support the household while I study to get my degree, how much nicer can I get?
And I have tried the notebook. That bastard left me too.

*Honestly, that Carrie Bradshaw person has nothing on me. Nothing.
** For*** instance, this particular post would fit nicely in the second category.
*** You thought I had the star-thingy order wrong, didn't you? I hate being predictable.