Where the author finds herself energetically proclaiming the way of the least effort to be the way to go

Y'all are aware of the fact... OK I can't really finish this sentence without asking if this "y'all" sounded about right? Can't blame a girl for trying, eh?
Right. So you know I'm half Corsican, yes? Which means I'm not a big fan of efforts. Just, you know, not a big fan. Some would say I'm lazy, well, that's not exactly it. I just think that there are ways around pointless expenditures of energy. Surely that's a defendable position?
So when I found myself going to see some friends who inconveniently live on the sixth floor, and no lift was in sight, I sighed loudly, and racked my brains for a potential accelerator. Needless to say I am not now and wasn't then in possession of any super-powered tights and cape. This wasn't going to be easy.
Six floors. Six flights of stairs. Five landings laughing at me. Heavens.
That's when my survival instinct kicked in. Have I told you how much I love my survival instinct? I love my survival instinct.
Something happened. Call it a brain wave if you want, I'll still thank my survival instinct. A long scarf was loosely wrapped around my neck. I grabbed both ends, around shoulder level, arms at a rather imprecise 45° angle, and pulled myself up. It felt like somebody else was dragging me. Quite surprisingly effective, really.
Of course, every now and again (and 6th floor, remember - 'every now and again' could make a few times) there was the odd surge of power on my part, when I was dangerously close to chocking myself to death. Now that would have been a sight. Thank god I'm not a British politician. "Girl found dead in stairway. Erotic game suspected." Hmmm.

I smell a conspiracy

My insomnia problem has become really really bad lately. And I mean really really bad. But I'm not here to complain.
Really really bad though. Actually it doesn't even qualify as insomnia anymore. It qualifies as insomnia-plus-fitful-sleep-when-I-do-get-some-actual-shut-eye-time. Hardly resting. But I'm not here to complain.
For instance. Friday and Saturday, I must have had about seven hours sleep in total. Now I'm not here to complain but let me grump a little. Sunday morning, right as I felt I was finally falling asleep for good, at around eight*, the phone rang. Who goes back to sleep after the phone has rung at eight in the morning on a Sunday? And -- more to the point here -- honestly, who phones at that time?! My dear dear brother, that's who.
Now, my brother hardly ever phones, so it's always a pleasure. When he does phone, though, he certainly picks his times.
Case in point. Fourteen years ago, we were sharing a flat. Fourteen years ago... wow.
One evening, he goes out on a date sort of thing, saying "We're only going for a drink, I won't be too long." OK, whatever, dude, your life after all. Midnight, I'm on the phone with my friend, my brother is not back yet. We're not really worried. His life, yes? Next morning, I wake up at 6:30 as my brother walks through the door. That your idea of "not long"? I could have been worried, I go. Hardly convincing, right? Exactly.
In the evening of the same day, he goes back out again, adding, "I don't think I'll be late tonight, but don't wait up, eh?". Sure. Enjoy.
I go to sleep. Suddenly, in the middle of my blissful state of not thinking, not seeing, not doing anything except with my subconscious, the phone rings. It's 3:15 in the morning. The only thing I can think is ohmygodohmygodohmygod, something happened to Brad**, ohmygodohmygodohmygod.
I still answer, because my courage knows no boundaries.
It's my brother. Again. Or already. My brother phones to say, get this, "hey, listen, I just wanted to let you know, I don't know when I'm coming home. I'm at Jennifer's**. But don't worry, OK?" Brad**! I was asleep! I had better things to do than worry, OK?
Apparently, he's never learned. Or he has, but he enjoys hurting me. Which is a possibility.

* I'm not here to complain, but you may feel sorry for me if you feel so enclined.
** Names changed to protect the innocent. And I am current with what's going on. My brother's not dating Jennifer anymore either.

Bugger. It's Easter.

A word of warning. Too much chocolate is...
Oh hell. There is no such thing as too much chocolate. Have too much chocolate. Stuff yourselves overflowingly full of the chocolatey goodness that is too much chocolate.
Do retain a modicum of dignity after you've had too much chocolate, though. Please be considerate. Be sick behind closed doors and do not moan after hours.
And have a good one!

"hello... 'lo... 'o...", went the echo

During my numerous - albeit rarer now - moments of complete deludedness (not a word, I'll grant you that, but 'delusion' doesn't actually cover what I mean. Think nuance. Think subtlety. Yeah, I know.), I used to think I could probably work on TV. This is completely stupid not only for obvious reasons like the lack of a famous uncle and things like that, by the way. Mostly, I can't stand seeing my face on pictures or on a screen. Which, I'm sure you'll agree, is one great big high hurdle for a 5ft3-tall girl on her way to fame and riches.
Am I making sense? No, don't answer that.
A-a-nyway.
So this particular fad of mine was in a very faded state already, and its remains got violently smashed today when I suddenly realized that there were moments of great, great loneliness in a TV studio. I was watching a silly lottery gameshow where people spin a wheel to win between €20,000 and €1,000,000. Scratch me happy indeed. The host, a woman, looked kinda happy that the day's winner was a good-looking man, who had come with his brother, another good-looking chap. So she tried to engage in conversation with them both, as she does, so that the show can look less like a retake on "grab the money and run" and more like a friendly "we're giving you the money, there's no need for the weapon" kind of thing.
Except she got mostly blank stares and silly giggles. Which are annoying sounds when a girl is making them, but when it's a man... it's kind of embarrassing. Now, I don't want comments like "he was on TV, it was probably just shyness". Yes, it probably was. It doesn't change the fact that you could almost see the woman's eyes screaming "I'm a celebrity, get me out of here...!". Cured me for good.

Yeah yeah yeah

I know.
There's a piece on Voice of a City that might interest girls of the jewelry persuasion.
Apart from that... I got nothin', darls. The ideas, they come and they don't stay, what can I say.

Oh the frustration.

Here, have another snapshot into my thrilling life: I run errands every now and again. I know, I know... Too much excitement and I might lose touch with reality, but I'm willing to take that chance.
Still. Yesterday, I did just that. Run errands, I mean... You thought you were going to get me there, didn't you. Nice try.
Now, I don't know if you're aware of this (although... who isn't?) but Paris has this major problem, namely - and not to put too fine a point to it - dog turds.
Sometimes it gets to the point where I don't feel guilty that I'm not practising any sports, because honestly, avoiding our canine best friends' offerings on the pavements can quickly resemble one hell of a slalom course.
And it almost goes without saying that it has been known to trigger many a killing impulse in me. Seriously, what else did you expect? There are some memories that I don't really want to have to stir, but take my word for it, some of those impulses were amply justified.
So yesterday, as I was sauntering none too happily from one smelly present to the other, I saw a little old lady walking her four-legged companion. And I got really excited, in joyful anticipation of the bollocking I was going to give her when she simply left the clear and present danger to hip bones everywhere just lying around, threatening every living, intelligent presence in a 500-meter radius.
Already imagining how I was going to rub her face in it - figuratively, come on -, I gleefully slowed down to a very dignified pace (yes, it's possible when you live in my world, shut up.), hoping she would slink away from the crime scene so that I could POUNCE!
We both waited for her leggy sausage to finish its business. When it had, she got a plastic bag from her purse, and picked it up.
Honestly. The cheek.
Nothing is working out as planned these days.

A picture is worth...

It depends on the picture, I guess.
I'm using my voice, today. As are others, then, and more literally so, apparently.

Ever felt like the sky was the limit?

Nah, me neither.
Still. Right now, I have this deluded feeling that I can achieve anything I set my sights on. Provided I'm the only one involved of course. Which means I'm not sorting the job situation, the boyfriend situation, or the money situation just now. But... It does leave the DIY situation, and I could deal with this one right now if I felt so inclined.
And right now, I do feel so inclined.
Oh how the DIY situation is scared of its suddenly considerably reduced life expectancy.
See, this can prove a dangerous feeling. Not the fear, the "I can do it" feeling. Consider this. I am the unfortunate owner of two left hands made up of ten thumbs, each or not each, depending on how much I've had to drink. Yet right now, I'd love nothing more than a power tool of some sort. Surely it's a bad idea. I want to put shelves in, hang frames, repaint the bathroom ceiling... and maybe install a staircase, just for the hell of it.
If I trusted my instincts, I'd start drilling holes right now, juggling drill and hammer with the occasional nail and MDF board, and would probably end up causing a major, Paris-wide black-out.
I guess my neighbors, Paris, and the DIY situation can thank their lucky stars that it's usually around 1 a.m. that this sort of feeling sets in.

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.

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?