26 novembre 2006


Don't wanna, not gonna.

21 novembre 2006

Damn this work situation thing

The work situation is busy, people. Busy busy busy. Busy.
And right now, I'm spending way too much time in front of my computer, which, ungrateful bugger that it is, is sending all sorts of noxious waves to my brain by way of my left eye.
Not in the best of conditions to write raving lunatic mad... stuff, then, except maybe in a stream-of-consciousness type of way, and frankly, consciousness is not a state I like in the best of days, so letting it stream out right now is not an option I'm willing to consider. Let's wait till the laptop's evil waves have fried the one remaining cell in my skull.
Sending that application today might not have been such a hot idea, huh.
Poo poo poo.

19 novembre 2006

You either have it or you don't.

A guy I didn't know raced me today while I was walking my butt off and my calf muscles into a painful lactic episode on my belated way to a movie.
Could that sentence be any more complicated?
I won.

16 novembre 2006

And the dragons were slayed.

George Clooney has regained the place that is rightfully his at the firmament of the world's sexiest guys. At long last.
I mean, come on people now. Jude Law? Johnny Depp? (I'm still reserving judgement about Matthew McConaughey. (Or spreading my options, I'm not completely sure.))
Then again, the good people at People Magazine (how not to make that redundant? I'm confused) seem to make it a habit of losing it every now and again. They must be kicking themselves every year when they look at the previous records and see... Nick Nolte. Wow.
Moving on... Michael Jackson. Not only do they let him sing again, but he's backed by tens of teens and pre-teens? They're just asking for trouble, aren't they (no, I'm not adding credence to, or believing, or saying, or implying, anything. I just thought it was funny. In a sick way, yes.)
And bam... It's 99.9% official: Ségolène Royal will be running for president. Whoa.
I tried to make up for lack of content with a flurry of links. Didn't work, did it. Ah well.

14 novembre 2006

It cannot be Wednesday already, can it?

Because if it indeed was Wednesday, then my ironclad willpower and discipline would insist that I write something - when I don't have much to tell, really, apart from the fact that I'm stuck on a Sudoku puzzle that resists so hard that it wouldn't be out of place in the French maquis. And try as I might to blame the numbers, the stupid buggers will not cower in fear before my ire. Mighty frustrating, that.
Although, my Sudoku obsession is to be thanked for a little moment of sheer, unadulterated joy when a little girl, maybe 7, decided to try her luck with me
on the metro:
- Is that a game?
- Yeah, it's sort of a game.
- How does it work?
- You have to fill in the missing numbers in the grids.
- That's easy. (cheeky so-and-so)
- Yeah well, it's not quite as easy as it sounds. Wanna try?
- Er, no.
And she went back to her mom, looking scared.
anne: 123456789 - little girls the world over: 0.

12 novembre 2006

If it wasn't so funny, it'd be frigging hilarious.

Saturday night, three of my friends were coming over for dinner and a DVD session. On the menu, cheese soufflé and "its" green salad, and lemon meringue pie.
Yes, all of this does, in fact, go well together, shut up. And that's not the point of my impending tirade, stop judging.
Soufflé and meringue. What to these two dishes have in common, apart from an apparent difficulty that is in fact, sheer myth? Egg whites, beaten if not into submission, at least into almost-solidness, that's what. I'm not completely down with the lingo, but you get the meaning, I'm sure.
With everybody expected around 8pm, I started on the egg whites at 7-ish. And wasn't that the exact time that my electric whisk chose to die on me? Wasn't that the exact time that my neighbours chose to be out or without an electric whisk of their own? Wasn't it? Yes. Yes class, of course it was.
It didn't even go gracefully, with a flash, a charred wall and a plug ripped out of the socket by the sheer force of the... something-something. Oh no. It just kind of spluttered to its demise like it was it that had been smoking all these years, and those egg whites were the one marathon that it should never have undertaken.
I did think of calling Pizza Hut to the rescue. And then, something that if I didn't know better I'd call pride - and I know it wasn't, 'cause that feeling is as alien to me as mercy is to the All Blacks -
took over, and I decided to go it unplugged. So I whisked. I whisked like a mad person. I whisked like there was no tomorrow.
And, let me tell you. For my arms, there wasn't.

09 novembre 2006

Shuffling my options

We've determined that try as I might, I'm never going to be an Oscar-winning actress. It's also been asserted that winning the lottery is not on the cards for me. So I wonder... How on earth am I going to get to the lifestyle of the rich and mighty that is rightfully mine? Yes, rightfully. You see, I'm a bit like Cinderella's poorer sister, but there's not a fairy in sight, if you discount my best friend. Which means that I'm a princess in hiding, and that particular chip on my shoulder is seriously weighing me down.
There's a poker show on TV right now, and I'm wondering if that couldn't be my way out of the proletariat. We've started a thing with a couple friends where we play belote, but no money's involved. I might have to change that soon and strip them of all their assets. That means I'll have to share the proceeds for a while, but surely that's nothing a good contract killer can't put to right, is it?

07 novembre 2006

Why gawd why?

I am ill. Again. Yes, again.
If things go on like this, I might have to consider giving up the cigarettes for good. Plus, I have this fabulous new red wooly jumper that keeps leaving unpleasant fluff on my butts - my cigarette butts, I'm just not flexible enough to check my rear end for fluff. This whole sentence is wrong on so many levels that I might just keep going down that particular track until my whole mental credibility is down the toilet. There. That should wrap it up nicely.
Needless to say, I am not looking forward to that particular prospect - giving up the ciggies, that is,
I'm kind of used to imagining the whooshing sound of my reputation as it whirls its way down the drain by now - especially as the tobacconists' protest in France is so effective, seven months prior to the elections, that the government has already postponed the smoking ban for one year. Forget public health if it means winning the presidentials, right? I mean, they did get rid of an awful lot of people during the 2003 heatwave, surely a surge in the lung cancer statistics could kill two birds with one stone: contribute toward the complete resolution of the pension problem (again, the heatwave helped) and ensure that we're so busy smoking ourselves to death that we kind of forget to hold our leaders accountable for... whatever.
Damn. I'm obviously running a fever.

05 novembre 2006

Whoa... easy there, tiger.

Either fashion has an extremely quick turnover rate, or I'm stuck in a very bizarre, and not a little scary, time warp. Allow me to explain. This weekend, I saw things that I thought only happened - nay, that should only ever happen off Broadway, in a production of Hairspray that would make John Waters have a tiny orgasm. Beehives that had so much Elnett in them that I could feel the ozone hole widen in sheer awe, female mullets that would make the most fashion-conscious of East-German football players green with envy, and the colours, sweet baby Vidal, the colours. Platinum blonde with black and purple highlights all together on one head? I'm lost for words. I want to believe, honestly I do, that somewhere, a well-intentioned hairdresser did that without snickering, but you see, this close to Christmas, my whole belief system is already stretched to bursting.
And the crux of the matter here - because my whole life is but a series of ordeals all happening in rapid succession - is that I know my own hair desperately needs attending to, but the idea of getting something even remotely close to a platinum-and-purple mullet
beehive - and let's face it, we all know that with the type of luck I've been enjoying lately, this is exactly what I might end up with - fills me with dread. It's OK, I'll just keep my thatch of longish, lank, nondescript but predominantly mousy strands until capillary trends are back to, at the very least, short and curly on top.

01 novembre 2006

Any resemblance to actual persons or events is unintentional and purely coincidental.

Let me tell you a little story.

Once upon a time, there was a girl who wasn't so fond of attending weddings. One year, as luck would have it, she was invited
to a wedding that, try cunningly though she did, she couldn't wriggle her way out of. Luckily, she was able to go with a couple of friends.
Once they'd finally managed to wind their way out of the usual pre-weekend traffic jams, the drive to the wee village where the wedding was taking place was uneventful. She even managed to not bend her friends' ears with a rendition of old musicals favorites that would have made The Sure Thing's Gary Cooper and Mary Ann Webster proud. All in all, an auspicious start to the weekend.
Little did she know.
On their arrival at the hotel, they discovered that one of the two rooms booked had two beds, and decided to unbook the second room, to give the weekend a more summer-campy feel.
The next day arrived - way too soon, if you asked her - and after much huffing, puffing and whining that they just. didn't. look. good enough.
, off they went. As they were departing from the hotel, a car parked, and a very good-looking male let his long legs out.
While the crowd was waiting for the bride and groom to arrive at the "town" hall, said specimen appeared again. Add the gorgeous weather, and things were decidedly looking up for our grouchy heroine, despite one of her friends' claims that his shoes were just ridiculous. Which they were not.
The incredibly stunning bride and groom arrived, said "I do" "I do" and happy-ever-after life it was for them. Lucky buggers.
And then
came cocktail time (not soon enough, if you asked the little pest at the origin of this tale). As she was drooling a lot over the long-legged man, she needed to drink a lot - also because she was kind of dreading dinner, as there was a guy that she really really really didn't want to be sitting anywhere near, and feared that she might be. Not him of the shoes fame, that would have been nothing short of a miracle. Thanks to very good nibbles, though, she didn't topple over before she had a chance to sit herself down to eat and drink some more.
This being a sort of a fairy tale, a miracle did happen, and she was sitting right opposite long-legged him for dinner. And when she finally heard the sound of his voice, he was funny! And single! What was going on?
As it turned out, just fate having a laugh, that was what. You see, he didn't have a room booked*, and couldn't find the hotelier on the premises when he arrived. But she didn't have a room to share anymore, did she**? Oh no.
Oh yes, and this being a sort of a fairy tale, all three friends suspect that he was, in fact, gay.
Ah well, a wedding, what did she expect.

* So what... good-looking, funny and single never meant organised, right?
** Just to give a poor soul shelter for the night, of course, nothing... fancy.
*** Every tale needs a moral, does it not?