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.

The curse of the nearby seat

This was going to be among the "Things I hate" series, but I started feeling like a bad version of Conan O'Brien and decided to kill that segment. Or put it to sleep for an indefinite time anyway, and I wish I were so lucky - so there'd better be no complaints...

Let's face it, I am doomed. I'm not only talking of my inability to find a suitable boyfriend or, you know, a cool job, here, but also of the fact that I strangely seem to attract the misfits of society (that's because I've decided to stop using bad language) when sitting down at the movies or the theatre. And I've been going to the cinema a lot lately. A lot. Also saw a stand-up comedian - a very cute stand-up comedian, I might add.
OK, let me digress a bit. This is going to be one mother of a disjointed post, I can tell. It might not even always make sense, but bear with me. Or don't. Your choice. Not my responsibility. Yep.
So, as I was saying, I attract the misfits of society. I've always noticed that wherever I sit at the movies, they'll follow me, a bit like that Ricky Nelson song, you know the one, right? it was reprised in Sister Act. There. My musical culture battered to death in one fell swoop. So. Easy mix-ups notwithstanding, I'll get the whispering cretins, the ADD afflicted, the knee jerking right into the back of my seat... I've made my peace with that. Kinda.
Problem is, we've now reached the proper paranoia-inducing stage. Everywhere. All the time. At the oddest times. And no I don't mean in the dead of night, when I'd basically be looking for trouble, no, no, no. We're talking even in the afternoon, when the theatres are almost empty and it should be easy to watch a movie in peace.
So let's start with the normal situation when having a brain-dead moron (oops... is that bad?) sit down next to me could seem well within the realm of possibilities. That stand-up comedian, that very cute stand-up comedian. Full house. Of shrieking girls. Or women. One of which sat down right next to me. And started giggling. And commenting. The whole fucking show (ah, forget trying to be polite: I'm just not good at this, am I?). Actually not the whole show. At one point, I sighed and the friend I was there with whispered loudly "Tell her to shut up". She took the hint.
One day at the cinema, ironically I was watching Factotum, with all of twenty people in there, a very rancid-smelling bum sat down two seats away from me. Not far enough.
Yesterday, I was sitting two seats away from a guy who chortled quietly, more like snored, or snorted, I'm not sure, made some very irritating interest noises anyway, during the whole of Lord of War. Can you tell someone to stop sounding interested? How?
This afternoon, I went to see a lovely, lovely, lovely French film called Je ne suis pas là pour être aimé. Maybe seven people were already there when I got in. I picked a whole row to myself, and sat down in the middle of said row. Bliss. Said row being kind of at the back, a few rows more up front were still very much free. Five minutes later, a middle-aged woman gets in, spots me, zooms in - I could have read "target locked" in her eyes if I had looked, I'm sure - sat down right next to me - not even the customary in-between seat - and proceeded to snicker annoyingly during the whole movie. The two guys who sat down after her, right in front of me - don't forget I'm on the short side: it's easy to be taller, it's easy for a head to block (even a very small) part of the screen (it might be very small but it's oh so frustrating when you think you've just found the perfect seat - and don't even try to find a moral in that story) - kept turning round to try and understand what was going on. Nothing, guys, just me and my luck - seems like I've finally managed to share some of it, though. Maybe you'll think before you sit down next time.

Oh. White rabbit, white rabbit, white rabbit.

What goes around...

One year ago... gee, how time flies. To think I'm still in France. Anyway. One year ago, this happened. Go on, read it, it's... there.
Done? OK. See, I don't often say what I'm about to say, so pay attention: I was wrong.
Those two people I was talking about were indeed shooting a movie together. It's being released. Which can only mean one thing, other than I definitely blew my chance to ever marry George. It means I might be in it, one fleeting second, shot from the back - not my best profile, but hey. "Célibataires" means "single people", by the way. The irony is killing me.

Anyway... To remain humble in the face of my pending glory, I've accepted a tag, by her.

Seven dreams before death:
- You know how they say you should never tell a wish because it won't come true? Well then.

Seven things I can't do in this lifetime: (I'm just hoping the previous "list" and this one don't overlap)
- Forget
- Be a fighter pilot
- Meet Dean Martin
- Make a good espresso
- Roll a proper cigarette
- Buy a Britney Spears CD
- Win a Need For Speed race

Seven things that attract me:
- A good poster
- The promise of fun and games
- The sun
- The stars
- Water
- Coffee shops
- And apparently, any kind of sharp corner attracts my sheen and little toe

Seven things I say:
- etc. etc. (in French)
- brilliant (in English)
- oh for fuck's sake (in French...)
- bugger (in both...)
- excellent (in both)
- oh pooooh (in both)
- etc. etc. (see? That's how often I say it)

Seven books I love*:
- Anything by Alexandre Dumas
- Desperation, by Stephen King
- Harper Lee's To Kill a Mockingbird
- Alice Sebold's The Lovely Bones
- True History of the Ned Kelly Gang, by Peter Carey
- Charlotte Brontë's Jane Eyre
- Cancer Ward, by Alexandr Solzhenitsyn

Seven films I've loved*:
- My Fair Lady
- Rio Bravo
- The Sure Thing
- Jaws
- Cool Hand Luke
- Les Tontons Flingueurs
- The Philadelphia Story

Seven tags:
- Yeah. Like that's gonna happen.

*Just to add a little disclaimer there, there are many many more books that I loved, many many more films.
Also - I don't really need to link all those, do I?

Small piece of advice?

If your car makes the same noise as a harmonica, maybe it's time you changed your car. I'm just sayin'.

Time... for a confession

I am deep in the throes of something surely I should be ashamed of. I have this really bad crush on someone I've never met. We do that, right? There's a connection that builds between us, even with mere screen personas.
So every night when I go to bed, I take my laptop with me, and get ready for some quality time with him.
He makes me laugh, frown, snicker — sometimes even at him, because, thank god, I've retained a modicum of personality — reflect, shout (or gasp, when it's really late, but I admit that when I'm with him, I'm usually oblivious of time), cringe at the violence I sense in him, go weak at the knees at the sensitivity he tries so hard to hide, marvel at his bravery, tut-tut at his audacity and hard-headedness sometimes. The moments with him span the whole emotional rainbow, and then some.
This secret affair has been going on for some time now, and it's time I was honest about it. In fact, some of you might already know or have a sneaking suspicion about this. I was never really good at deception.
Jack Bauer, I really like you.

And not even crying for help.

Ever felt like your brain is in overdrive while at the same time, well... dead? I've been feeling like that for a while now. It's hard to write, hard to hold on to coherent thought for more than half a zillionth of a second, hard to remember what I've just done... Like this evening. I went to see Prime. Maybe an hour after I'd seen it, I couldn't even remember who was in it. Now, that might be due to the fact that it's not actually a particularly good movie (I feel cheated, by the way), but whatever the reason may be, it's still quite the source of concern.
This might also explain why this page - supposedly somewhere to couch down my arguably complicated thought process - has been neither very active nor very interesting lately. Believe me, it hurts me more than it hurts you, and I certainly hope it's just a phase. Who knows, though.
It might also be linked to the fact that for the first time ever, I have been following the winter Olympic Games. You know how they say that athletes have atrophied brains... Maybe I'm being very thorough in empathizing.

The wind hates left-handed people

It's time someone stood up and said it out loud. The wind hates left-handed people.
So the other day I was cleaning the flat before my parents arrived, just to prevent my mom's first gesture being grabbing the hoover and such other torture instruments... and the weather was unseasonably warm. Like 15 degrees (C, not F — 15°F is unseasonably cold even for Canada, right? Right? Please?).
I had opened all the windows to enjoy the fresh air, no electric heating, the wind blowing all the bad wintery vibes and stale cigarette smoke away, etc. And I was taking a wee breather from the noxious fumes of the floor-wiping product. And having a cigarette. As you do while airing your flat, really.
Let me say it again for emphasis: the wind hates left-handed people.
Also. It's now been raining for 5 consecutive days. Almost non stop. Where do I complain?

Miss Congeniality rocks.

Discuss.
(Can't talk, too busy being pampered by/annoying my parents.)

Quentin Tarantino is mad, isn't he?

No, I mean that. He is, right?
Also, it seems I can't use my laptop elsewhere than on my lap.
Hmmm. This doesn't sound right. Let's try with proper words and no shortcuts. You see, I've just tried putting my laptop on my coffee table and typing, and - and this I swear on everything that is holy, like cigarettes, and some of my friends - I didn't even realize that I took it up and put it on my lap again to type. In all of maybe 56 seconds.
That seems to happen to me a lot lately. I wonder if Harvey and Michael are available. For free. Soon. I'm obviously this close to shooting my first, and oh so very successful movie.
Oh, and also, also, I love- what, again? Damn. Can't remember.

Love is a many splendored thing

Monkey0 tags, and we respond.

Debra had worked on her plan for quite some time now. She'd saved a lot of money for it too. After all, it was her life-time ambition. All the unhappiness that she'd ever felt, all the frustrations, sentimental and otherwise, all of it would be eradicated. She'd quit her job a couple months prior, had sold most of her furniture, and rearranged what was left so that now the focal point of the lounge was the TV.
Suicide by bingeing. What a perfectly twisted idea. Junk food and inane TV shows, her idea of guilt-free bliss. Guilt-free because the end would certainly be punishment enough. Not that she wanted to think of the end right now. Right now, her priority was her soon-to-be-delivered meal and the rapid succession of cop shows that would make her evening. She loved guessing the culprit before the characters. That had driven Nicholas mad.
But she didn't want to think of Nicholas either. Nicholas had dumped her, and her whole life had snapped. Not that she didn't understand - he had his own problems, and hers... well, he couldn't do anything about hers. But he had been the love of her life, and her life meant nothing if he wasn't a part of it.
So she'd decided to let the madness engulf her. It was a good feeling, being free of all the constraints that "normalcy" imposed. Almost all the constraints. She still had to pretend to be normal every now and again. Like right now - the bell was ringing. She opened the door, the pizza delivery boy was cute as a button. She flashed him a coquettish smile, grabbed the two boxes while simultaneously handing him the required cash, and said:
- Mmm. I loooove pizza.

Sleepless, not in Seattle

Right. Maybe you didn't know that but I'm half Corsican. Now, if you're in France, you know Corsicans have a... dubious reputation, not only for their unfortunate propensity to want to be independant when clearly no nation can live off of ewe milk cheese and cured donkey meat. No, they are also reputed lazy. In fact, they are reputed so lazy that lifting their wrist to check the time while on their siesta is too much of an effort.
That might be true, I'm not judging. But come on now. I'm not that lazy (no, not even half). I love work. Yeah, OK, maybe saying I "love" work kind of blew my cover. But I actually miss work right now, and Canada is just not in any hurry to give me a proper answer, apart from "no worries, we love you, we want you". Maybe you do, but I'd like to see the prenup. That would be proof of your love, people.
The problem is, things are kind of unravelling these days. My sanity is holding by a fraying thread (it was always holding by a thread, so "fraying" at least gives you a sense of progression...), stress has reached levels as yet unseen in people with no professional responsibilities, yesterday was Valentine's Day, and my parents are coming over for the weekend. You get the gist.
So yeah, my insomnia is back. With a vengeance. These days, my usual bedtime hour is around 2 a.m., which is really kinda late and not reasonable by any standards. So last night, true to my new routine, I went to bed around 1:45, turned the lights off around 2:30, and was wide awake again at 3:45. Until 6.
Good news is, that enabled me to finish Ubik. Excellent stuff. Bad news is, there is no way in hell that I can be productive during the day with that kind of sleep pattern.
Also, and I guess that wasn't the point of this post, but maybe I've stumbled upon something, and who would I be to withhold that discovery from the world? Maybe the whole of Corsica isn't actually lazy. Maybe they have an insomnia problem. Maybe there is something wrong with the air (ewe milk or tanning lotion vapors, bomb fumes, what do I know?).
Anyway. Please send help, a masseur, Paulo Coelho books, and chamomile tea. Or drugs.

On strike

http://www.meish.org/vd/

Extreme Makeover

What a strange show. I couldn't even stop watching, that's how strange it was.
Soooo... in the spirit of... something... Here's to the new look of my blog.

Actually. I was going to change the look of the blog, and then I looked up the templates that Blogger offered, and really nothing tempted me particularly, and even if it did, it seemed like first, everybody else already had the same one anyway, and second, really it would be hard work to get all of the changes I'd made to this one transferred to the other one, and then I started thinking about my potential new nose, breasts and wardrobe, and realized, is this really going to change the person I am inside? No, right? It's always going to be hazardous grammar, use of words I'm not sure I understand (see hazardous), and lame attempts at sarcasm, fiction and general ugh-ness. Well, then, what's the bloody point?
So I'm back right where I was a year ago. But it was nice to dream for a little while. And on the plus side, you didn't get a shock when you got here. You can thank me later.

Oh, and please wish my mom a happy birthday. She doesn't read this, but she will feel all fuzzy inside, I'm sure.

Bad, bad person

Me.

Tell me something

Sake - warmed or not?
Waterworld - how?
Tiffani Amber Thiessen - why?
Sun in February - ice in March?
Canada - will they ever give me a bloody answer?
Hunger strike - a reason?
TV commercials - why do they turn the volume up on that? So we can hear them from the toilets?
Lack of inspiration - how/why fight it?

Do you like scary movies?

Is that scary? Think of your brains inside of your skull. Cooked. I mean, I don't really care for mine, because as far as I know they're boiled hard already. But yours, people, yours! Think of all the cell phones that are around, they're bound, at one time or another, to be in such a position to cook your brains. Right? I wonder if that's why some people speak horrendously loudly when they're on the phone - maybe the waves have already fried their auditive nerve and their hearing is affected? And that would make sense too - not the auditive nerve affecting the hearing, as I'm not even sure there is an auditive nerve but if there is, how does it affect the hearing? -, but the fact that the cooking process would spread from the ear up, after all, unless you speak with your little finger, à la Doctor Evil, in which case it will take a while to reach the brain. In fact, if you use your little finger as a cell phone, chances are it will never reach your brain; chances are the frying wave will ultimately feel like the David Vincent of egg-cooking cell phones, looking for a brain it never found.
OK, so that gives us a bit of time to react and decide whether or not we want to be soft in the head (I think that's funny. Then again, I'm also trying to work out how it is funny, considering it's in contradiction with the rest of the post, but I'm not past that kind of inconsistency, am I?), but what about that? That scares me witless: you never know when they're going to start attacking humans and I don't want wasps to hatch inside of me. Mind you, if my brains are fried by cell phone usage, I suppose wasp surrogacy is the last thing I'll care about... And conversely, if I'm turned into impregnated play-doh by a wasp, frying my brains is an opportunity I don't think I'll pass.
All is right with the world, both threats kind of cancel each other out. Phew.

Branded

With an L.

For luuuv.

Or loser, I'm not sure.

Lunatic?

Everybody else was doing it, so why not me?

2005 was a very good year for blogging, wasn't it? Very good as in very prolific, that's not a judgement on content's quality. Suddenly realizing how important their message to the world was, everybody started blogging, and approximative grammar, along with spelling that has to be completely illegal in several countries, started spreading faster than seasonal grumpiness around Valentine's Day. Having no personality, I was bound to get infected. So one year ago, I began my quest to destroy the last dregs of reputation I may have had, not only with my friends and family, who see me, know me, and shake their heads in despairing wonder, but with people who don't know me, don't see me, and don't realize just how lucky they are.
Thank you for reading, people.
And just so you know, I intend to remain nasty and generally unpleasant, with the occasional bout of niceness. Which will probably be alcohol- and/or disease-induced, don't be fooled.

In other news... yeah, nothing, really.

Slobbering babies, for or against?

For, I say.
Slobber on, babies, I say!

Censorship!

See, I was writing this horrible, horrible post about an EX friend of mine - what's a really childish way to say "well poo you, we're not friends anymore"? - getting all self-righteous and I'm so right this, and my EX friend is so wrong that, and I know that I'm perfect this and my EX friend isn't that, and suddenly Firefox just quit! One minute I had an open browser, a post being written (not my best, though, I won't lie to you (since I'm perfect (and my EX friend isn't))), and things were all right with the world (except with my EX friend), and the next, the only thing that was showing on my screen was my wallpaper and a slew of icons. Which reminds me that damn, I must tidy that desktop up a little.
So what happened? Well, I think my subconscious censored me. And so, with the sheer power of my mind, it just closed Firefox. No "are you sure you want to close several tabs at once, you moron?" from Firefox, no "You haven't published, don't come moaning that you've lost all your changes, you cretin" from Blogger... It's either very bad timing as it is preventing me from letting loose with some good, old-fashioned aggressiveness, and goodness knows there hasn't been too much of that here lately, or my EX friend is an avatar of Damian, in much the same way that helpdesk technicians are. Which is a possibility I wouldn't discard with a snap of my fingers.
And just so you know, even if my subconscious did close that browser*, it still doesn't mean I'm wrong. It's simply that my unbelievably pure, good and generous soul probably believes that there might be hope for my EX friend and me still, and doesn't want me to regret later any harsh words I might have uttered today. Spoilsport.

* I had first typed "even if my subconscious did fire me". Said subconscious is clearly on a roll...

Really can't talk today

... as I burnt my tongue yesterday, and it's exquisitely painful. Plus the lisp is just preposterous.
OK, I'm exaggerating slightly, I'm simply feeling lazy. I did burn my tongue though.
But I'll brave the pain and laziness for this: it's February! Yay! White rabbit, white rabbit, white rabbit, and all that, of course.
And don't forget to visit Fence: she thinks the whole month should be a celebration of her birthday, and we do not want her to be unhappy.

They lied! Again?!

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.

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!

Coincidence? I don't think so.

Look what I found at Dennis!'s place.

Your results:
You are The Flash

The Flash 70% Spider-Man 70% Green Lantern 65% Superman 65% Hulk 55% Robin 50% Catwoman 50% Iron Man 40% Wonder Woman 35% Supergirl 35% Batman 35%

Fast, athletic and flirtatious.

Click here to take the "Which Superhero are you?" quiz...

Though I'm really not sure about the costume.

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.

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.

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 was his 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.

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.

Brokeback Mountain

Oh wow.

Oh man.

Oh wow.

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.

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.

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!

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.

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?

Be afraid, be very afraid

Or be lucky, be very lucky... Whichever suits you best, really.

Have a KitKat

I'm taking this week off.

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?

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.

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.

The die is cast

Repeat. The die is cast. Over.

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.

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'm kind 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...

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?

Aren't you lucky...

Activity's been a bit slack around these parts, hasn't it? I know. Food, drink, and not-so-good movies do that to me (The Family Stone? Not so good, is it?).
So, anyway, quick, quick, moving on... in the spirit of the finishing year (that is a spirit, in my head, shut up), I've decided against yet another rant. Nice, eh? (Oh, don't rejoice too soon. You're getting the rant at some point.)
Instead... I give you... my new... "life project"!
(Apparently, you're better hearing this with a "let's get ready to rumble" kind of tone - well, that's what the keyboard says, and is the keyboard ever wrong? I thought so.).
To give you a bit of context... Nah, it's fine, you don't need context.
It dawned on me last evening that most American TV shows are titled with the location they're supposedly set in. So this is it - after a very perfunctory brainstorm with a friend (food, drink, and not-so-good movie, yes?), we decided I was going to tour the US, stopping only at those places that were graced with a TV show title. So far, we have:
- "L.A. Law"
- "The Streets of San Francisco"
- "Santa Barbara"
- "The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air"
- "The O.C."
- "NYPD Blue" (that's stretching it a bit, but I really want to go to New York)
- "Dallas"
- "Providence"
...
I wish I could do the whole "Little House on the Prairie" thing. Can I just go for "Midwest" and say it's an homage?
And "Deadwood". Does it still exist?
Oh, and just so you know, I'm avoiding "Silk Stalkings" by this much, because it uses 'Palm Springs' in the French title. This much.

Help?

I'm working from home
In subpolar temperatures
I just thought I'd share.

Conversation with my niece

We're in the car, she's given my dad a CD to listen to on the way. I'm slightly apprehensive of the music that's about to hit my ears.
It's a... surprising... mix for a 7-year-old. With soul, R&B, rap, and French "variété" (crap, basically).
She goes:
- Oh I looooove the next song - I mean I love it a lot more than the first one, that I already really really liked - but you don't have to ask Papy to turn the volume up, it's fine. I really love it, but it's fine.
- OK. I won't then.
Cue some really nasty piece of music.
- We're going to have to work on those musical tastes of yours, aren't we?
- What language is it in?
- That's English.
- Well then. Shouldn't you love it too?
Hmmm. Her teenage years should be interesting.

Crunch time, isn't it.

Joyeux Noël à tous.
Party hard, eat plenty, drink all you can, and don't be sick on your parents' couch.

Things I hate - Part the nth

Two days before Christmas, and wouldn't you know it.
Old people and pram pushers. Indiscriminately.
Well. When they behave like the world is their oyster, the shell of which is completely disregardable. That, not to put too fine a point to it, shits me.
I am fed up to the back teeth of being shoved front and back in the shops, because Saturday afternoon is the only moment that all of Paris' 75-year-old grans could spare for last-bloody-minute Christmas shopping, of being mumbled at because my standing self is taking up too much necessary space on the overcrowded bus that one of our friends the grans' older sister just had to take then, at rush hour, because her very urgent appointment at the hairdresser's for yet another blue rinse couldn't wait, could it, of hearing lengthy lectures about respect, how it was in the good old days when the youths knew to respect their elders, and BLAH.
I am very respectful of my elders. (Yes I am. Hey. Be on my side here.) Just stop shoving your age in my face like it earns you every goddam right on the face of the planet. It makes me mix my metaphors, and it's not good.
Similarly, the mother who steps up her pace, using her pram as a shield, because I might otherwise beat her to the boulangerie counter, or wants, nay, demands, oh forget it, grabs priority on the sidewalk because she has a pram, and actually uses said pram as a tank, just awakens all my killing, jungle-survival instincts and I instantly mutate into a blackened-faced, knife-between-teethed, combat-wearing, Rambo-like figure shouting "Don't push it or I'll give you a war you won't believe!"
So yeah. I'm now toying with the idea of setting up a non-profit, just-for-kicks association that would answer to the same basic principle as Death Race 2000. The more you hit, the more points you get. Who's with me?

Oh... er... Hmmm.

How odd. Apparently the Christmas spirit loves a good bashing.
And just what makes me come to this dubiously hasty conclusion? Well... Tonight I received an email with something very close to a job offer in it.
Granted, it's completely contingent on both a translation test and a job interview, but let me keep my optimism for a little while and think that maybe, just maybe, I've had something akin to a Christmas miracle.

Oi! You up there! Big fat bloke in red! There's a couple more I need! Don't you dare consider your job done just because I got an email! Plus it's in Canada, which means that that couple more miracles are non negotiable, you slob. Get cracking on the rest of them.

Hey, cut me some slack here, OK. Apparently nagging's the only way I'll get some stuff done around this place. So I'm not done being unpleasant just yet. Just so you know.
Oh, and also. Don't jinx me. Please.

I'm exceptionally brilliant and fantastic

Go on, contradict me. If you dare.

Yeah, I know.
But it's Christmas. I need to believe in something. So I've decided I would believe in me, myself, and all my other personalities. And you've all come to realize I am a miracle in and of myself, haven't you?
Don't worry, I've checked. 'Miracle' doesn't necessarily imply 'good', it can simply mean supernatural in origin.

But. As it happens, I have also had completely supernatural-in-origin moments where I was briefly kind, good-hearted, generous, funny, and totally, totally unrecognized. I completely qualify.

On this note, let me warn my family. Who hasn't read any of this in a long time (and who can blame them?), but hey, whoever looked for coherence and rationality on this site has got a worse sense of direction than I do, and that's saying a lot. So let me warn my family, I say. Your presents this year? Me. All of us. Aren't you lucky? Yeah, I think so too.

Weekend homework

Carl, over at Stainless Steel Droppings, has tagged me, the little devil. And why would he want to tag me? To know how weird I am, no less. Like you didn't know how weird I am already... After all, most of the memes I've been hit with had sumpin' to do with weirdness, idisyncrasies, quirks... Plus, let's face it, even without the memes, you had some inkling of the weirdness, didn't you, you perceptive little monkeys?

[Rules:
The first player of this game starts with the topic "five weird habits of yourself", and people who get tagged need to write an entry about their five weird habits as well as state this rule clearly. In the end, you need to choose the next five people to be tagged and link to their web journals. Don’t forget to leave a comment in their blog or journal that says "You are tagged" (assuming they take comments) and tell them to read yours.]

OK...
- I'm a compulsive shampoo buyer. I realized the other day that there are 5 bottles of different shampoo on my bathtub shelf thingy. That's five bottles of different shampoo. There'd be ten if I didn't think that would make me qualify as a fetishist of my own hair. Which I'm not. Honest.
Oops I did it again. Six bottles now.
- My memory is so good I've decided it's a handicap. There are so many things I remember that it's scary, mostly to people who forget that I do. If the conversation allows (contextwise obviously, I'm not totally bonkers... Or... am I?), I can quote back something that someone said to me in passing six days, six months or six years ago. If I push the concept, it means some of the stuff I wish I could forget... well, I don't.
Of course, I do lapse every now and again, and have been known to forget my current credit card PIN (but I do remember the PIN for the bank card I had in Scotland. Ten years ago.) or door code. 'Cause life would be no fun otherwise, would it.
- Although I have two left hands and ten thumbs and can't DIY to save my life, I am very good with connecting and generally sussing out electrical/electronical devices. That means that all cables are apparent at my flat. That's a lot of cables. If you'll punch holes in my walls and fix shelves and hide the cables for me, I'll come and fix your VCR or DVD writer's f#@&ing preset that is so complicated to work out that you haven't been able to tape "The Young and the Restless" for two whole months now, and I'll throw in some limited computer hotlining. Does that make me an idiot savant? No, don't answer that.
- Because my mind can hop from one idea to ten others through various associations in barely half a millisecond, I am the undisputed champion of non sequiturs. Or gaffes. Or both. Like, "ooh, talking of trowel-applied make-up, your skin looks much better these days". None of which even remotely reflects what I actually meant at the time, obviously. Oh the laughs.
- "Robinson Crusoe" was the most boring book I've ever read, and I hated Mary Shelley's writing in "Frankenstein". Don't know if that's weird, but I needed it off my chest.

There are a few people I'd love to tag with this, but I ain't gonna. What can I say, I'm weird.

The Christmas spirit strikes back.

It's alive! It's alive!

Oh sod.

A pounding headache is not the most pleasant thing to wake up to.

Some people are just bored silly

Emphasis on silly.

The phone just rang.
"Hey, how are you?" went the guy.
The sound of the most annoying ringtones you could ever imagine - 'Crazy Frog' (no, I'm not talking about myself) and 'Ode to Joy' leading - started going off in my head all at the same time. That's my cue for "alert! alert!".
Half a second's blank on my side to allow for the alarm bells to quieten down.
"Good."
I needed another sentence to work out if I knew him - and simply didn't recognise his voice - or not.
"Am I interrupting anything?"
Not.
"Working."
I don't know why I didn't hang up then.
"Oh, working, what is it you do?"
"Working. Bye."
Now the hanging-up on my part.

I hope to god he was random-dialling and doesn't actually have my phone number stored somewhere. What if he knows where I live?
That would certainly make for some lively blogging.
Hopefully.

To be completely honest, and although I wish I could say I was heroic and one-upped John McClane in the live-action one-liner department, he didn't sound threatening, just extremely, extremely irritating, with a voice, and matching tone, that says 'I'm irresistible, so why resist?', and makes me want to kick.

But the last time I had an anonymous caller was something like 12 years ago, the guy would press 'redial' all the time, and it was a bit scary.
Ooh. Maybe he found me again. I'm a sucker for reunions.

Things I hate - part the third

Aren't I on a roll with this? I'm going to get rid of all my aggressiveness and obnoxiousness and other words finishing in -ness and denoting general unpleasant(all together now)ness, and my family might even get to enjoy Christmas this year.

On with the programme then.
Working from home. I mean I don't hate it, because I actually enjoy it, but I hate it. Am I being clear? Do you understand how not completely mad I'm being, but just nuanced? I hate having to get up (ooh, talking of getting up, I had a nightmare last night, and for the first time in my life, I woke up screaming. Should I make a wish? Or if we tie this in with pretty much the whole content of this blog and this post specifically, should I just get myself committed? Hmmm. Decisions, decisions.)
having to get up, out from under the blankets in my polar flat (hey, you go back a couple lines, you'll find the beginning of that sentence, give me a break. Think of it as optical training. Keeps your eyes fit. We keep forgetting about our eyes. A couple of lines higher now. Go on! Move that lazy fat eye! It's important to push one's limits every once in a while.)
in my polar flat, because winter is here—oh yes, we don't know whether Christmas will be white, but let's not kid ourselves here, people, winter is here—and knowing that not only will I be freezing my butt off, I will also have to get to work in these inhuman(e) temperatures. And like, straight away. Barely time for a cup of (gag) instant coffee. I say gag, but hey, it's warm.
And there's so much daytime TV to watch. So yeah, all about decisions, priorities, choices. Or not.
Also, now that I have agreed to translate what is, in essence, a pop quiz, and that I'm basically stuck with it for a whole week, I realize—always too late, always too late—it's actually a lot of work. And I mean a lot of work. This is a British game we're talking about. Well, believe it, or believe it, but they didn't even pretend they were making an effort. It's all about British culture. Come on, now, game developers, get a little creative, why don't you? Next time you wake up not screaming and think "ooh I'm gonna develop myself a little game, rightee-o", just think a little bit further down the support line, of all those translators you're bound to stick in a bit of a puddle by asking questions about Blue Peter and Farmer George. OK? OK.
So yeah, working from home. Cool, and yet, not so cool.

Things I hate - part the second

Let's have a quick etiquette/politeness/simple manners rundown here. You meet someone, you say hello; you receive something, you say thank you; you cough, you cover your mouth.
Simple. Basic. Easy.
See, when I'm in the metro - not a mood-positive to begin with - and someone coughs right in my face without covering their bloody mouth ("bloody" being an unfortunate figure of speech at this juncture, but what the hey, I'll leave it in, it ties in well with what's to follow, consider yourself warned), it makes me want to charitably reach down their throat and rip out their lungs to get them rid of whatever it is that is obviously hindering their breathing so badly that they don't even have the strength to lift their hand to their mouth. Desperate times call for their desperate measures, what can I say.

Things I hate - part the first

The cold water that pours out first from the shower head.

Honestly, I do hate that with a good many fibers of my body. Quite literally.
I reckon that this cold water sneaking down on you is single-handedly responsible for people hating The Morning. Even when I'm in a good mood when I get up (and yes, that happens, shut up), the couple of seconds it takes for the pouring water to be warm are enough to make me extremely grumpy in the sub-polar temperatures we've been experiencing lately in the wee hours. And don't. Tell me it's not that cold. Just don't.
And I know the simple way would be to hold the shower head down for the first couple of seconds. But let's face it, I'm barely awake enough to remember my own name when I step into the shower, I doubt I'd think of unhooking the thing and holding it away from me.
Then again, maybe subconsciously I love the thermal shock.
I've already thought of a solution, that would potentially solve a few of my problems. I could go out in the buff and run around the block a couple of times before my shower, all the while chanting to the moon and the stars: that would probably make the pouring water seem boiling hot by comparison; the chanting might work towards either bringing about that seasonal miracle I've been ranting on for ever or making my upstairs neighbours move out - which might also count as a miracle, let's not be fussy; or I might catch pneumonia and die, and well, that'd pretty much solve all of it, wouldn't it?

Yes, it's Friday and I'm a drama queen.

Just. Bloody. Typical.

A couple of weeks ago, on Craigslist, there was an ad for a Czech translator/proofreader in NYC. I say Czech, but it was probably Spanish. I could have picked any language that I can't speak except to order beer, and there's a few of those. Languages, not beer, you cheeky monkeys.
I drafted a response anyway, thinking that if they needed a Turkmen one then, they might need a French one soon, and that when they needed the French one, I'd be one step ahead.
Am I smart, or am I smart?
Go for "or". It's your safest bet. To wit.
A couple of days ago, in a fit of draft cleaning because my gmail was getting out of control (and honestly, "2.6 MB and counting"? 1. they're counting slow, 2. just not good enough), I deleted all the drafts that I was never going to finish, send or... finish or send. There really are only two options for draft emails, aren't there? I mean, an actual letter I could also feed to the sharks, make a plane out of, tear to shreds in a manic fit, etc. but for an email?
Anyway. So I "moved to trash", with gusto, for a while, and my draft box is now blissfully empty. And feeling good. (I know what you're thinking. Of course I empty the trash every once in a while.)
Ah, the satisfaction fate must be feeling when it knows it's coming back to bite someone right where it hurts. Or stings at the very least.
This morning, Bloglines was telling me that people had gone berserk with updates during the night. Nosily eager to hear what half the world had been up to, I went to check, saw 7 new items in "jobsearch" (I am nothing if not a creative labeller), opened that, and bam. French Proofreader, NYC. I have now been trying for 45 minutes to rewrite that letter, and nothing - application letters are now coming out my nose, ears, and eyes I'm so fed up with them.
All I want to do is attach my résumé and say "pick me! pick me!". Literally. Reckon they'd go for that?

Wednesday?

Is today only Wednesday? I thought time flew when you were having fun, and yet (Terri did say I was blessed yesterday), time seems to have slowed down to a crawl so I can enjoy more of it. All. Of it. How thoughtful.
Still, I can't seem to have enough of it so I can do everything I want to do. How unpractical.
I need to: do some grocery shopping, do some girl shopping (lots of that - ojala), sleep off the alcohol we had last night (am I turning into an alcoholic? Ojala.)...
Oh dear. Almost forgot. I need to work.
That's only the tip of the iceberg, people! And that's only today!

A Christmas story

Horrible things have been uttered about the metro and the bus on this here site. Forgive me, reader, for I obviously knew not what I was saying.
This evening, my daily metro ride home was made much, much longer by a technical incident about which we were not given any details - but I can feel a rant coming on when I really don't want to sound anything but grateful, and filled with awe.
After all, it only took the driver four or five unexplained 5-minute stops to tell us that indeed some breakdown had occurred further down the line; sometimes they don't even bother to explain, so I should be grateful for that.
Plus that was her cue for a woman to start rambling on an on. and on. and then some, about the unreliability of metro lines in Paris, which I thought was very entertaining of her, especially as she managed to speak over my music, so I could hear her fine. Again, I thought it rather unusual, albeit in a thoughtful way, of RATP (the Paris metro authority), to provide their passengers with some quality distraction while we were stuck in there. Kept the annoyance degree to a minimum, if you ask me.
But wait, there's more! There's better! In keeping with the Christmas spirit that has been washing over all of us lately, they announced at one point that the train would not go any further, but that the next one was right behind us. Now you think I'm being sarcastic mentioning the Christmas spirit. Well, no I'm not. And here's why. We all stepped out onto the platform, while the rambling woman kept up her routine, and boy was she hilarious. I'm still smiling now just thinking of her. We waited for the next metro with her act on in the very very near background. My jaws hurt I'm smiling so much. And then the metro arrived.
And that's where the real Christmas miracle happened. It was full, you see. RATP had actually thought of all us lonely people, who hardly manage to stand upright during December, burdened as we are by bitterness, and reckoned some human warmth would be a comfort. Good thinking, I say, especially in winter. Now, if you think that's the miracle, think again. That's only part of it. The real thing is this: you think not one more person is going to fit in that tiny, cramped, and full to the brim space that is the metro car? That's forgetting about the miracle of rush-hour Christmas, buddy!
RATP have made human bodies infinitely compressible. Is that a miracle, or what?

Untitled but long - Part 2

First part here. I'm stuck. And hoping that something good will emerge at some point. In the meantime, I have to make do with the following.

The light inside was glaring, after the dark cushion of the outside, and the buzzing of the overhead lights made her feel like she had tinnitus. She'd never noticed it before, covered as it usually was by the chatter and general hubbub of people in stores, and it dawned on her that she was the only one there, apart from the clerk, a middle-aged man who strangely looked like he didn't belong here and seemed bored out of his head.
"Hi", she said with a smile. He smiled back, apparently numbed out by the lack of customers and lacking the strength or willpower to utter a simple "hi".
Hello, kindred spirit. You're bored, I'm angry and scared; shall we use the cover of darkness to share a little humanity?
She went straight to the healthcare aisle, grabbed a box of Maalox, browsed the magazine rack to buy herself a little time, and walked to the counter to pay.
"Not exactly a busy night, eh?" Small talk. Focus on the small talk.
"Um, no. It's been real quiet tonight. In fact, you're my first customer in over an hour. And there's nothing on TV either. That'll be 2.99 please. Apart from the usual reruns, I mean. And I've seen those so often I can play them in my head without the use of the screen. I'm bored silly, really." He chuckled quietly.
My, my. You want to talk, after all. OK, let's. She pushed some change on the counter.
"Oh don't I know what you mean. Hate those. Even if I did like the show to begin with, there is such a thing as overdoing the reruns. Someone should tell the networks."
"Ha, I know. On quiet nights, I usually think I should just write an angry-viewer letter, sign a different name each time, and send it on. Maybe after a while, they'd get the hint. No harm in dreaming, right?"
"No harm indeed. You should do it. Also, you've got a wide choice of gossip rags there, reading them might prove entertaining while you wait for their reply", she said in a joking tone. Could she be any duller?
"God no. No offence, but I hate those. I'd rather gnaw my right arm off than read them."
"None taken, I don't read them. Not at the doctor's, not at the hairdresser's. I'm that much of a poser that I bring a book with me."
"Hear hear. I do that too. It's great being a poser."
He flashed a smile that made her feel grateful she'd stopped here—the kind of smile that spoke volumes.
She laughed. And oh how good it felt. She caught herself looking at him not in the eyes, but at their underside. It looked so smooth it seemed to belie his age. She wanted to touch her thumb very lightly to the skin there, to see if it was as soft as it looked.
"I'll refer some people to you, shall I? You tell 'em. Been given hell about that for years."
"With pleasure."
"Thank you, sir. I hope the rest of the night passes quickly."
"It certainly will now. Drive safely."
"Well... Bye then."
"Bye. And come back soon!" That last was said with both heavy irony—as if anyone in their right mind would want to come back soon— and what she decided was genuine hope. Wishing she knew him, she looked back.
"I will. You take care."

She was humming 'Sitting on the Dock of the Bay' as she got behind the wheel. Had she really left the flat in a huff to end all huffs a mere half-hour ago?
It took her a while to start the car. The old heap was nearing the end of its useful life. Stephen’s argument for keeping it was its sentimental value—yeah, whatever, if you asked her.
Stephen. She was ready to talk to him now. This chasing after her own tail was not cutting it anymore; he deserved her trust, however much that cost her. And more than trust, he deserved to decide if he wanted to spend his life, or a moment, with her, once she'd let him know a bit more of her story.
Funny how things happened, how decisions were made, how lives could be changed. Sometimes it felt like chance encounters made free will redundant. The clerk had looked like a good man, but a sad man. She didn't want to be good-but-sad. She wanted to be happy. Serenely, selfishly so. Surely that also happened to good people.

Friday!

It's been a long week. A looooong week.

Blonde bimbos in helmets

There is something extremely frustrating about being in a bad mood, at home, with a knot at the pit of your stomach for wanting to scream - that's how much of a bad mood you're in - and not even being able to play some good, relaxing music like Metallica or Iron Maiden or Dean Martin because your neighbour has decided to play Die Walküre loud enough that you can definitely hear it above your own music, and low enough that it doesn't constitute much more than an annoying background noise.
So that wasn't relaxing.
And then I heard that the building-that-won't-die will in fact so not die that it'll cost me a literal arm and a literal leg to pay for the works that have just been voted on. Literally. Well, I'm going to have to sell something to pay for those, and I really want to keep my retinas. And to add insult to injury, the um-ing and er-ing neighbour has offered to see me for a debrief (because I was stuck in the office at the time of the meeting when all of this was decided. That was my excuse anyway.). Selling my retinas won't even be an option after that, I'll have clawed my own eyes out.
So... I'd say life is good, but the Christmas spirit hasn't reached me yet.
Oh yeah, cause Christmas is officially upon us, now that December has just started (white rabbit, white rabbit, white rabbit, of course). Bleargh. When are we allowed to eat the advent choccies? I mean, come on. Christmas gotta have some positive aspects...