Note to my neighbours: listening to a panpipes instrumental version of Celine Dion's My heart will go on will never ever ever be OK around here. Ever. The fact that Celine Dion's voice cannot be heard is definitely a good thing, but don't think it makes it OK, it doesn't.
Plus it's panpipes. Plus it's Titanic. Plus plus plus...
Anyway. So 9:15 yesterday morning, someone in the building or its immediate vicinity had a craving for a panpipes version of My heart will go on and on and on and on. 9:15, people. I'm barely on my fifth cup of coffee, and definitely not ready for that kind of crap yet.
I stayed in and closed the windows. Should I have resorted to violence? I'm only asking because my first reaction would be to say I'm opposed to violence in that case: see, I think violence should be an end in and of itself, not a means to an. If I had used it then, sure I probably would have felt great joy at trashing their sound system or whatever it is you call those big machines that make sound through little pinholes, but the violence cycle would have started as a way to eradicate the sound that was attacking my delicate ears, not because I had a sudden urge to use brute force and make my neighbour cry. So I don't know. What was I supposed to do? What? What?
13 octobre 2005
12 octobre 2005
Pfft
So, we're on to the final phase of the WorldCup and Ireland isn't. Sorry about that, and thank you for keeping Switzerland at bay. Maybe someday we'll repay the favour (I wouldn't hold much hope, though).
Yes, soccer - the Americans among you can now run away screaming -, or football, as it's known around our part of the world, and really there was no reason to change the name. Now, I don't know shit about football, and I'm about to show it rather gloriously. But nature abhors a vacuum, and I have bugger all else to talk about, plus I have two football-related pet peeves.
First. I like Domenech, I really do. Everybody in France has been slagging him off, but I stick by my opinion: I like the guy, and I certainly hope that he'll show all the nay-sayers wrong. The whole thing reminds me of 1998, in fact, when the whole country (except me, of course) had united against Aimé Jacquet. Then we won and all was forgiven/forgotten. I'm wondering if the journos and football fans aren't doing it to Domenech for good luck now, after the 2002 fiasco.
Second. Zidane. He's a brilliant player, of course he is, but come on. Nobody seems to see just how blatantly wrong it is that he's become so indispensable. You can't depend on just the one player, people, it's a team sport! Granted, he's the team leader, but he's 33! If you made me run on a field for 90 minutes, I'd die wheezing after 90 seconds tops. And I'm only 32!
OK, so maybe that isn't a show of good faith, and yes, he scored first today, but he wasn't particularly convincing against Switzerland, and he's not in great shape these days, and he'll be a year older next year, what do you think he'll be doing? Cheerleading from the sidelines, I bet. And I'll be expecting nasty laughs in my face in June-July if it turns out I was wrong.
Ooh I'm glad I got that off my chest. I'll go back to talking rags and lipsticks now.
Yes, soccer - the Americans among you can now run away screaming -, or football, as it's known around our part of the world, and really there was no reason to change the name. Now, I don't know shit about football, and I'm about to show it rather gloriously. But nature abhors a vacuum, and I have bugger all else to talk about, plus I have two football-related pet peeves.
First. I like Domenech, I really do. Everybody in France has been slagging him off, but I stick by my opinion: I like the guy, and I certainly hope that he'll show all the nay-sayers wrong. The whole thing reminds me of 1998, in fact, when the whole country (except me, of course) had united against Aimé Jacquet. Then we won and all was forgiven/forgotten. I'm wondering if the journos and football fans aren't doing it to Domenech for good luck now, after the 2002 fiasco.
Second. Zidane. He's a brilliant player, of course he is, but come on. Nobody seems to see just how blatantly wrong it is that he's become so indispensable. You can't depend on just the one player, people, it's a team sport! Granted, he's the team leader, but he's 33! If you made me run on a field for 90 minutes, I'd die wheezing after 90 seconds tops. And I'm only 32!
OK, so maybe that isn't a show of good faith, and yes, he scored first today, but he wasn't particularly convincing against Switzerland, and he's not in great shape these days, and he'll be a year older next year, what do you think he'll be doing? Cheerleading from the sidelines, I bet. And I'll be expecting nasty laughs in my face in June-July if it turns out I was wrong.
Ooh I'm glad I got that off my chest. I'll go back to talking rags and lipsticks now.
I have heroes
Cereologist: One who specialises in investigating crop circles.
I am amazed at human ingenuity. So two clever pensioners think "wey-hey, let's have a bit of fun, shall we, and pretend that aliens have mowed (or whatever) circles in the wheatfields and see how everyone reacts".
Which I think is brilliant on its own, as a prank, as a plot, as anything. Guys, I salute you.
But then somebody came and was even more clever. Somebody saw right through them and said "oo ooh, I'll invent me a new job and pretend that's exactly what I study! Surely, gullible as they are, people will fall for it!"
And now it's today's word on Wordsmith.org.
Some people deserve to rule the world, I tell you.
I am amazed at human ingenuity. So two clever pensioners think "wey-hey, let's have a bit of fun, shall we, and pretend that aliens have mowed (or whatever) circles in the wheatfields and see how everyone reacts".
Which I think is brilliant on its own, as a prank, as a plot, as anything. Guys, I salute you.
But then somebody came and was even more clever. Somebody saw right through them and said "oo ooh, I'll invent me a new job and pretend that's exactly what I study! Surely, gullible as they are, people will fall for it!"
And now it's today's word on Wordsmith.org.
Some people deserve to rule the world, I tell you.
10 octobre 2005
Open letter
To the fucker who nearly ran me over today,
Dear Mr. Fucker,
When the bus stops right before a crossing, there's usually a good reason, considering Parisian bus drivers are not exactly known for their indolent driving. Now, I understand that due to the bus, you might not have been able to see the light, but I'll give you a hint. If pedestrians are crossing the street in droves right in front of you, if the bus has stopped, and if cars are zooming across said crossing transversally to you, chances are the light is red for you. That's your cue to stop. Not, repeat NOT, to press the bloody gas pedal. Let's have a little practice, you and me. Gas - right; brakes - middle. Got that? Gas - right. Brakes - middle.
The fact that you cannot see that the light is red will never ever ever mean you're right in the eye of the law or of your insurance company; and I suspect that, considering the car you have, you don't want to increase your premium any.
I am single, childfree, and jobless, and you could almost say I have no real prospects right now, but those are no reasons why I should just be an easy target and stand there to let you drive over my unattached body.
Also, when I almost die of fright because you stop millimeters from me and I look at you disbelievingly, it is not a good idea to try and stare me down. A simple hand up, meaning "sorry, or whatever", would have sufficed. The fact that you tried to stare me down made me want to yank you out of your death machine and shake you until the walls of your brain collapsed. You see, that's the difference between you and me: I thought about it so I didn't have to stop at the last second.
Don't hesitate to contact me should you need any more driving/avoiding-to-kill-people lessons. I can also provide you with a list of driving schools, which I have no doubt would be delighted to have your custom for a while.
Yours sincerely, xoxo, etc.
anne, your almost dead victim
Dear Mr. Fucker,
When the bus stops right before a crossing, there's usually a good reason, considering Parisian bus drivers are not exactly known for their indolent driving. Now, I understand that due to the bus, you might not have been able to see the light, but I'll give you a hint. If pedestrians are crossing the street in droves right in front of you, if the bus has stopped, and if cars are zooming across said crossing transversally to you, chances are the light is red for you. That's your cue to stop. Not, repeat NOT, to press the bloody gas pedal. Let's have a little practice, you and me. Gas - right; brakes - middle. Got that? Gas - right. Brakes - middle.
The fact that you cannot see that the light is red will never ever ever mean you're right in the eye of the law or of your insurance company; and I suspect that, considering the car you have, you don't want to increase your premium any.
I am single, childfree, and jobless, and you could almost say I have no real prospects right now, but those are no reasons why I should just be an easy target and stand there to let you drive over my unattached body.
Also, when I almost die of fright because you stop millimeters from me and I look at you disbelievingly, it is not a good idea to try and stare me down. A simple hand up, meaning "sorry, or whatever", would have sufficed. The fact that you tried to stare me down made me want to yank you out of your death machine and shake you until the walls of your brain collapsed. You see, that's the difference between you and me: I thought about it so I didn't have to stop at the last second.
Don't hesitate to contact me should you need any more driving/avoiding-to-kill-people lessons. I can also provide you with a list of driving schools, which I have no doubt would be delighted to have your custom for a while.
Yours sincerely, xoxo, etc.
anne, your almost dead victim
08 octobre 2005
Untitled
Second picture from the top here.
Mark was running. He'd been running for a while now.
He didn't know if running was going to bring him answers, but at least, focusing on his breathing kept him from thinking, and he'd done way too much of that lately. It was time he acted. Of course, action could mean decision, choice, responsibility, and he wasn't sure he was quite up to that yet. Better to run and exhaust himself that way than to think of things he could do, things he wanted to do, but things he was scared shitless of doing.
OK, so maybe running wasn't quite as efficient as he'd hoped in preventing the same train of thought he'd been following since he'd met her. Don't. Think about her.
The road was too easy, that was the problem. Mark suddenly veered into the cornfield on his right. The cornstalks were high, slapping his face as he ran. He had to find a rhythm. Breathe, run, swat the stalks out of his way, breathe, run, swat, breathe, run, swat.
Good, that seemed to be working.
Mark suddenly heard a rumbling noise, and felt the ground vibrating. Shit. Harvest, or something equally annoying. A tractor was apparently coming his way. If the guy on the tractor - hopefully there was a guy on the tractor, otherwise his indecisiveness would seem the least of his trivial worries in a few minutes - spotted him, he could be in a world of trouble. Trespassing or some such. Mark had no idea if private-property laws applied to cornfields by the side of a public road.
"Hey!"
Shit. He just wasn't catching a break, was he? He contemplated continuing to run, pretending he hadn't heard. Then he envisioned his own body in a tractor-trampled mess, stopped running and turned around. The sun was extremely hot, he hadn't realised. He was covered in sweat. Mark shielded his eyes as he looked up to the driver who was approaching at a leisurely speed. Maybe there wouldn't be trouble.
"What do you think you're doing? These are delicate, you know. What if you ruined any?"
"Sorry, sir. I don't think I did, though. I was careful."
"Yeah, sure you were. Running like a maniac across my field, I'm sure you took very good care of my corn. You in trouble?"
"No! Not at all", Mark chuckled "I'm just trying to... escape my thoughts. If that makes sense."
Oh good, now he sounded like a pretentious city boy. That was going to help.
"Yeah well, couldn't you use the wood further up? It's dense, you'd have plenty to swat at. And stop thinking."
Mark looked at the man on the tractor. Seventy-ish, laugh lines, and a very kind look in his eyes.
"Hey, listen, I'm sorry about the corn, if I... broke any, I'll pay. It's just... I'm... Ugh. Sorry. I'll... go now."
"Yeah. Try that, and I'll be seeing you running in circles tomorrow. You're pretty far in, y'know, I doubt you'll find your way back. Hop on."
Mark hesitated a second.
"Oh, come on. Never wanted a ride on a tractor, city boy? I'll drop you at the road. Besides, it gets lonely up here, I could use the company for a while. You tell me what it was that was so appealing about the corn. Earn your wreckage a little bit." The man smiled.
Mark hoisted himself up on the seat. Tight, but comfy. The man let him have a little bit more sitting space.
"Lionel", the man said, extending his hand.
"Oh, um, how do you do, sir, I'm Mark".
Lionel laughed.
They drove in silence for a while. The field was beautiful from above. Like a sea of green leaves and yellow foam. Oh god. He had to stop. Thinking. Ever.
"So. Don't mind me asking, but seeing as you potentially ruined some of my plants there, I sure would like to know what it is you're running away from. Hmmm?"
"Oh, just... this and that, you know. Annoying thoughts. Hey, that "city boy" shot. That stung a little. That obvious?"
Lionel let out great peals of laughter. It was a perfect soundtrack to the whole scene. Oh dear lord, stop thinking!
"Y...", he started laughing again, "yeah... The whole 'running' thing screams city around here. Y'know?"
"No, I don't, actually. I'm just here on a whim. I took the first bus for a week-end-in-the-country thing. Stopped randomly. I don't think I could even tell you where I really am staying."
"You must have stopped at Dyersville, that's the closest from here. Still. Quite a while you've been running, here."
"Yeah. I feel it."
The silence wasn't uncomfortable.
"So, you don't wanna say. That bad?"
"Oh", Mark chuckled self-consciously, "no, it's... really silly actually. Boy meets girl, boy can't get girl out of his head, boy decides to run to stop thinking. Simple."
"Yeah, cause running will definitely help you make the right choices, eh."
"Uh, no, it's just... I don't... Yes. I don't want to make choices. I don't want to take a risk. I don't want to end up biting the dust. Do you often do that?"
"What?"
"Play shrink to people you find running in your field?"
"Yeah. Corn doesn't pay that much, you know. I had to diversify. Psychology is as good a way as any, I guess." Lionel laughed again. "Don't be silly. You're here, you need to talk... You talk, I listen, is all. Here's the road. You wanna keep running away, or you wanna keep an ol' man company?"
"Oh. Oh. Um, I'll be happy to stay. If you don't mind."
"Yeah, I do, but what can I say, I'm all about other people."
They laughed. It felt strangely natural, to be sitting there with a man he'd only just met. Mark knew then he was going to tell him the whole thing. He knew he was going to listen to what the old man had to say. Hell, he knew he wanted to listen. He was so glad he'd taken that bus. He was even gladder he'd hopped off where he had.
Not thinking. Sometimes that was key.
Mark was running. He'd been running for a while now.
He didn't know if running was going to bring him answers, but at least, focusing on his breathing kept him from thinking, and he'd done way too much of that lately. It was time he acted. Of course, action could mean decision, choice, responsibility, and he wasn't sure he was quite up to that yet. Better to run and exhaust himself that way than to think of things he could do, things he wanted to do, but things he was scared shitless of doing.
OK, so maybe running wasn't quite as efficient as he'd hoped in preventing the same train of thought he'd been following since he'd met her. Don't. Think about her.
The road was too easy, that was the problem. Mark suddenly veered into the cornfield on his right. The cornstalks were high, slapping his face as he ran. He had to find a rhythm. Breathe, run, swat the stalks out of his way, breathe, run, swat, breathe, run, swat.
Good, that seemed to be working.
Mark suddenly heard a rumbling noise, and felt the ground vibrating. Shit. Harvest, or something equally annoying. A tractor was apparently coming his way. If the guy on the tractor - hopefully there was a guy on the tractor, otherwise his indecisiveness would seem the least of his trivial worries in a few minutes - spotted him, he could be in a world of trouble. Trespassing or some such. Mark had no idea if private-property laws applied to cornfields by the side of a public road.
"Hey!"
Shit. He just wasn't catching a break, was he? He contemplated continuing to run, pretending he hadn't heard. Then he envisioned his own body in a tractor-trampled mess, stopped running and turned around. The sun was extremely hot, he hadn't realised. He was covered in sweat. Mark shielded his eyes as he looked up to the driver who was approaching at a leisurely speed. Maybe there wouldn't be trouble.
"What do you think you're doing? These are delicate, you know. What if you ruined any?"
"Sorry, sir. I don't think I did, though. I was careful."
"Yeah, sure you were. Running like a maniac across my field, I'm sure you took very good care of my corn. You in trouble?"
"No! Not at all", Mark chuckled "I'm just trying to... escape my thoughts. If that makes sense."
Oh good, now he sounded like a pretentious city boy. That was going to help.
"Yeah well, couldn't you use the wood further up? It's dense, you'd have plenty to swat at. And stop thinking."
Mark looked at the man on the tractor. Seventy-ish, laugh lines, and a very kind look in his eyes.
"Hey, listen, I'm sorry about the corn, if I... broke any, I'll pay. It's just... I'm... Ugh. Sorry. I'll... go now."
"Yeah. Try that, and I'll be seeing you running in circles tomorrow. You're pretty far in, y'know, I doubt you'll find your way back. Hop on."
Mark hesitated a second.
"Oh, come on. Never wanted a ride on a tractor, city boy? I'll drop you at the road. Besides, it gets lonely up here, I could use the company for a while. You tell me what it was that was so appealing about the corn. Earn your wreckage a little bit." The man smiled.
Mark hoisted himself up on the seat. Tight, but comfy. The man let him have a little bit more sitting space.
"Lionel", the man said, extending his hand.
"Oh, um, how do you do, sir, I'm Mark".
Lionel laughed.
They drove in silence for a while. The field was beautiful from above. Like a sea of green leaves and yellow foam. Oh god. He had to stop. Thinking. Ever.
"So. Don't mind me asking, but seeing as you potentially ruined some of my plants there, I sure would like to know what it is you're running away from. Hmmm?"
"Oh, just... this and that, you know. Annoying thoughts. Hey, that "city boy" shot. That stung a little. That obvious?"
Lionel let out great peals of laughter. It was a perfect soundtrack to the whole scene. Oh dear lord, stop thinking!
"Y...", he started laughing again, "yeah... The whole 'running' thing screams city around here. Y'know?"
"No, I don't, actually. I'm just here on a whim. I took the first bus for a week-end-in-the-country thing. Stopped randomly. I don't think I could even tell you where I really am staying."
"You must have stopped at Dyersville, that's the closest from here. Still. Quite a while you've been running, here."
"Yeah. I feel it."
The silence wasn't uncomfortable.
"So, you don't wanna say. That bad?"
"Oh", Mark chuckled self-consciously, "no, it's... really silly actually. Boy meets girl, boy can't get girl out of his head, boy decides to run to stop thinking. Simple."
"Yeah, cause running will definitely help you make the right choices, eh."
"Uh, no, it's just... I don't... Yes. I don't want to make choices. I don't want to take a risk. I don't want to end up biting the dust. Do you often do that?"
"What?"
"Play shrink to people you find running in your field?"
"Yeah. Corn doesn't pay that much, you know. I had to diversify. Psychology is as good a way as any, I guess." Lionel laughed again. "Don't be silly. You're here, you need to talk... You talk, I listen, is all. Here's the road. You wanna keep running away, or you wanna keep an ol' man company?"
"Oh. Oh. Um, I'll be happy to stay. If you don't mind."
"Yeah, I do, but what can I say, I'm all about other people."
They laughed. It felt strangely natural, to be sitting there with a man he'd only just met. Mark knew then he was going to tell him the whole thing. He knew he was going to listen to what the old man had to say. Hell, he knew he wanted to listen. He was so glad he'd taken that bus. He was even gladder he'd hopped off where he had.
Not thinking. Sometimes that was key.
06 octobre 2005
Let us reflect...
... upon the brevity of life, especially for an ashtray that crashes at my place. No pun intended, but it's really rather appropriate considering that it plunged to an untimely death this afternoon, causing an ear-shattering noise and quite a few shards.
I suppose it is only fair that it should go out with a bang, considering I loved it to bits. It was a beautiful glass ashtray, round and smooth.
I'm sad. I might even quit smoking now, but I'm not sure, I have other little ashtrays who need my full attention, even though or especially now that they have lost their more beautiful brother.
Rereading that, I should really stop smoking. I'll probably end up alone, or with cats, lots of cats, same difference, and I'll burn to death in a freak accident involving my friend the bottle of vodka, a lit cigarette and a broken ashtray. I can tell. Unless I'm certified and put away for the good of society, not to mention to avoid harming myself and/or others.
That's a distinct possibility.
I suppose it is only fair that it should go out with a bang, considering I loved it to bits. It was a beautiful glass ashtray, round and smooth.
I'm sad. I might even quit smoking now, but I'm not sure, I have other little ashtrays who need my full attention, even though or especially now that they have lost their more beautiful brother.
Rereading that, I should really stop smoking. I'll probably end up alone, or with cats, lots of cats, same difference, and I'll burn to death in a freak accident involving my friend the bottle of vodka, a lit cigarette and a broken ashtray. I can tell. Unless I'm certified and put away for the good of society, not to mention to avoid harming myself and/or others.
That's a distinct possibility.
Yay for lovely evenings
And pooh for all the cleaning that ensues.
A couple of friends came over for dinner and a movie last night - I'm considering watching the second part of La meglio Gioventu without them, they were so funny. If I ever give you one piece of really useful advice, let it be this one: don't watch a sad-ish drama with funny people because that is bound to be somewhat counterproductive. Lacrymal glands need practice, and tears do not stream down my face when I laugh my ass off. My ass doesn't fall off either, mind you, and more's the pity.
Oh, also, white wine (Californian, mesdames-messieurs, my first foray into America's vineyards), yes. Mead? Not so much. I had an unopened bottle of mead in my fridge, so we decided to try it. Anyone wants a three-quarter full bottle of mead? And no, mead isn't just something out of Harry Potter. But now, I wish it were.
And that translation is still there, lurking and taunting "you'll never finish me, you'll never finish me". No, not before I do the washing-up I won't. But once that's done, I'll be kicking your anorexic and botoxed TV-show ass. Yes, I know - hope, anyway - that asses don't get botoxed, call that... poetic licence.
A couple of friends came over for dinner and a movie last night - I'm considering watching the second part of La meglio Gioventu without them, they were so funny. If I ever give you one piece of really useful advice, let it be this one: don't watch a sad-ish drama with funny people because that is bound to be somewhat counterproductive. Lacrymal glands need practice, and tears do not stream down my face when I laugh my ass off. My ass doesn't fall off either, mind you, and more's the pity.
Oh, also, white wine (Californian, mesdames-messieurs, my first foray into America's vineyards), yes. Mead? Not so much. I had an unopened bottle of mead in my fridge, so we decided to try it. Anyone wants a three-quarter full bottle of mead? And no, mead isn't just something out of Harry Potter. But now, I wish it were.
And that translation is still there, lurking and taunting "you'll never finish me, you'll never finish me". No, not before I do the washing-up I won't. But once that's done, I'll be kicking your anorexic and botoxed TV-show ass. Yes, I know - hope, anyway - that asses don't get botoxed, call that... poetic licence.
04 octobre 2005
Or soy sauce? Is soy sauce bad for you?
And this time, I shall mention it straight away, lest I forget to part with that valuable piece of information. I love soy sauce. Probably as much as I love cumin seeds. I might have spontaneously decided today to stop buying salt and use exclusively soy sauce. I'm not completely sure though, because it's hard to know when you're taking such a momentous decision on such short notice, isn't it? I mean, who can tell that it's actually a decision, and not an "ooh, let's taste the wind" moment... ew. Did I mean test? I might have meant test. Rewind. I mean, who can tell that it's actually a decision, and not an "ooh, let's test the wind" moment?
Not me, that's who. Who can say that I won't be craving salt in a couple days, when I'm not even sure if I want short or long nails? That's more manageable as a day-to-day situation, and yet, guess what... I'm lost! I had long nails until this morning. Not Florence Griffith-Joyner long, but you know, girlie long. After a couple repetitive mistypes on the translation from hell (apparently, I make my own hell: I was praised for my thoroughness and told - at the same time! people manage to juggle job-changing decisions in a split second, why can't I choose between salt and soy sauce? Hmmm? - to not bother and go for quick and easy), I decided that it was all the nails' fault and trimmed them. A lot. I feel I have to say a lot, because in my mind, trimmed means a little. Well, no. In that case, it was a lot. And of course there have been as many mistypes since then. And now I miss my nails. And they're going to take for ever to grow back, and we'll be back at square one.
So maybe I should just buy both soy sauce and salt. But it feels like a cop-out.
Or I could say I keep salt for the guests.
Oh yeah, before you go all "but what are you talking about, soy sauce is sweet!", it's the salty soy sauce I like. Sweet, not so much. Well, I do like it, but I'm never sure if I like the salty one better.
Oh god.
Not me, that's who. Who can say that I won't be craving salt in a couple days, when I'm not even sure if I want short or long nails? That's more manageable as a day-to-day situation, and yet, guess what... I'm lost! I had long nails until this morning. Not Florence Griffith-Joyner long, but you know, girlie long. After a couple repetitive mistypes on the translation from hell (apparently, I make my own hell: I was praised for my thoroughness and told - at the same time! people manage to juggle job-changing decisions in a split second, why can't I choose between salt and soy sauce? Hmmm? - to not bother and go for quick and easy), I decided that it was all the nails' fault and trimmed them. A lot. I feel I have to say a lot, because in my mind, trimmed means a little. Well, no. In that case, it was a lot. And of course there have been as many mistypes since then. And now I miss my nails. And they're going to take for ever to grow back, and we'll be back at square one.
So maybe I should just buy both soy sauce and salt. But it feels like a cop-out.
Or I could say I keep salt for the guests.
Oh yeah, before you go all "but what are you talking about, soy sauce is sweet!", it's the salty soy sauce I like. Sweet, not so much. Well, I do like it, but I'm never sure if I like the salty one better.
Oh god.
03 octobre 2005
When is eating cumin seeds eating too many cumin seeds?
OK, people, I've now finally understood something vital for the rest of my career (heh, I said career), life, happiness. I am blatently disorganised when working from home. You could probably call it a disgrace. I prefer to say it's... not quite well thought out yet. Or ever. Really, I shouldn't be fooling myself here, and I certainly hope I'm not fooling any of you.
See, one of my friends phoned me when I was at my parents'.
Her: "We have this TV show-related thing to translate. Wanna do it? Well. Part of it?"
Me, shrieking down the phone: "Ooh, ooh, do I get to meet him, do I get to meet him?".
Her: "No. Wanna do it?"
Me: "Oh. OK. How many words, what's the deadline?" (Notice how professional I can be? Blink, and you'll miss it.)
Her: "11,000 words, due in 10 days. Don't think it's easy."
Me: "Excellent. And I'm so not thinking it's easy."
Me, inside of my own head, where only my other me's can hear me: "So easy! I'll have done that in no time! Ha ha ha! And the world will be mine! Ah ah ah!"
Oh how the world laughs now. Mainly at me. Also because it turns out it won't have to be putty in my hands, and it's a hysterical, relieved, nervous little chuckle. But mostly at me. And the bugger is loud.
See, one of my friends phoned me when I was at my parents'.
Her: "We have this TV show-related thing to translate. Wanna do it? Well. Part of it?"
Me, shrieking down the phone: "Ooh, ooh, do I get to meet him, do I get to meet him?".
Her: "No. Wanna do it?"
Me: "Oh. OK. How many words, what's the deadline?" (Notice how professional I can be? Blink, and you'll miss it.)
Her: "11,000 words, due in 10 days. Don't think it's easy."
Me: "Excellent. And I'm so not thinking it's easy."
Me, inside of my own head, where only my other me's can hear me: "So easy! I'll have done that in no time! Ha ha ha! And the world will be mine! Ah ah ah!"
Oh how the world laughs now. Mainly at me. Also because it turns out it won't have to be putty in my hands, and it's a hysterical, relieved, nervous little chuckle. But mostly at me. And the bugger is loud.
02 octobre 2005
Untitled
Through the bars, Sam could make out a tiny rectangle of gray sky, with a dark blob in the corner. A rain cloud, she figured, considering the tap-tapping noise she had heard continuously for the past two hours. She could have done without the rain. Rainy days had a funny way of bringing her back to her first hours in the US, a full two years before.
She'd been eager, back then. She had barely been able to contain a childish scream of joy when the cabin crew had opened the aircraft door. She was in New York! Who cared that it rained, that the temperature was 53°F., she didn't even know what that was in Celsius - although, judging by the way people were dressed, she should have taken a jacket. Who cared? She'd made it to New York City. The place where she would start over. That was the plan and she fully intended to carry it out. She'd joined the flow of passengers into the terminal, with a tiny apprehensive pinch in the stomach when the police booth came into view. She couldn't stop the apprehension. She'd been waiting for this moment for so long, she'd die on the spot if there was a hitch.
Right in front of her in the queue, a family with a lot of pink was chatting away. The little girl was dressed top to toe in pink, with a pink Barbie suitcase, her mum was also dressed in pink and had her own pink suitcase, and her dad was wearing cream-coloured cords and a cream-coloured denim jacket. Sam couldn't see his shirt, but she would have wagered her first monthly pay that it was pink. She'd have gagged if she was still back in Edinburgh. She wasn't, though: she was in NYC, and she felt very forgiving. The old lady right behind her was also very obviously relieved to be out of the plane. Something to do with her legs and her bloodflow, or the stuffiness of the carriage, or both... Sam tuned her out quickly.
Looking around, she saw several couples happily making out in front of everybody, all alone in the joy of being together again. Seeing them, she felt like chuckling quietly and crying at the same time. Chuckling because there was nobody waiting for her, and it actually felt really good to be that free, and crying because if he hadn't screwed up, Paul would have been with her.
What a twat. They'd been planning that trip, that exile, that second birth, for months together. They'd even tried to decide exactly what area of New York they would want to live in, and of course they hadn't agreed, she wanted Brooklyn, he was set on Soho. One thing was for sure, they were sharing the same dreams, it was only a matter of time before they all came true.
And then he'd cheated on her. And the arse had told her about it. Sam had been devastated. There was no fucking way he was going to New York with her now. But there was no fucking way he was going to live happily ever after with that tart either. Oh no. She'd never been so mad. Five years they'd been together! Five years! And he'd blown it.
Sam took a deep breath. Thinking about Paul wasn't going to help her get started in NY, now, was it? Especially where he was. Ew. Sam didn't want to think about that. She couldn't even believe she'd done it. How possessed had she been that she'd actually done it? How could she have even thought of doing it?
She had to stop remembering, though. It was the pretty-in-pink family's turn - bingo, dad's shirt was indeed flesh-coloured - and right after that, it'd be her. She got her passport out of her bag, opened it on the picture page, pinched it with the boarding pass and inhaled deeply. This was it.
She smiled at the police guy, handed in her papers, and waited. He looked at the passport, at her. Back at the passport on his tablet. Sam tried to still the shakes in her left leg. What was taking so long? The passport was valid! He picked up his phone. She panicked. Two armed, uniformed cops appeared as if out of thin air, grabbed an arm each and dragged her away screaming. Turned out there was a hitch, and she hadn't died. But a killed dream was not a pretty sight either.
After spending all of five hours in NYC, Sam'd been deported that same day. She'd been heavily medicated during the whole trial, but the psychiatrists had declared her sane, and she'd been rotting away in that cell in HM Prison since then. Rainy days were the worst.
She'd been eager, back then. She had barely been able to contain a childish scream of joy when the cabin crew had opened the aircraft door. She was in New York! Who cared that it rained, that the temperature was 53°F., she didn't even know what that was in Celsius - although, judging by the way people were dressed, she should have taken a jacket. Who cared? She'd made it to New York City. The place where she would start over. That was the plan and she fully intended to carry it out. She'd joined the flow of passengers into the terminal, with a tiny apprehensive pinch in the stomach when the police booth came into view. She couldn't stop the apprehension. She'd been waiting for this moment for so long, she'd die on the spot if there was a hitch.
Right in front of her in the queue, a family with a lot of pink was chatting away. The little girl was dressed top to toe in pink, with a pink Barbie suitcase, her mum was also dressed in pink and had her own pink suitcase, and her dad was wearing cream-coloured cords and a cream-coloured denim jacket. Sam couldn't see his shirt, but she would have wagered her first monthly pay that it was pink. She'd have gagged if she was still back in Edinburgh. She wasn't, though: she was in NYC, and she felt very forgiving. The old lady right behind her was also very obviously relieved to be out of the plane. Something to do with her legs and her bloodflow, or the stuffiness of the carriage, or both... Sam tuned her out quickly.
Looking around, she saw several couples happily making out in front of everybody, all alone in the joy of being together again. Seeing them, she felt like chuckling quietly and crying at the same time. Chuckling because there was nobody waiting for her, and it actually felt really good to be that free, and crying because if he hadn't screwed up, Paul would have been with her.
What a twat. They'd been planning that trip, that exile, that second birth, for months together. They'd even tried to decide exactly what area of New York they would want to live in, and of course they hadn't agreed, she wanted Brooklyn, he was set on Soho. One thing was for sure, they were sharing the same dreams, it was only a matter of time before they all came true.
And then he'd cheated on her. And the arse had told her about it. Sam had been devastated. There was no fucking way he was going to New York with her now. But there was no fucking way he was going to live happily ever after with that tart either. Oh no. She'd never been so mad. Five years they'd been together! Five years! And he'd blown it.
Sam took a deep breath. Thinking about Paul wasn't going to help her get started in NY, now, was it? Especially where he was. Ew. Sam didn't want to think about that. She couldn't even believe she'd done it. How possessed had she been that she'd actually done it? How could she have even thought of doing it?
She had to stop remembering, though. It was the pretty-in-pink family's turn - bingo, dad's shirt was indeed flesh-coloured - and right after that, it'd be her. She got her passport out of her bag, opened it on the picture page, pinched it with the boarding pass and inhaled deeply. This was it.
She smiled at the police guy, handed in her papers, and waited. He looked at the passport, at her. Back at the passport on his tablet. Sam tried to still the shakes in her left leg. What was taking so long? The passport was valid! He picked up his phone. She panicked. Two armed, uniformed cops appeared as if out of thin air, grabbed an arm each and dragged her away screaming. Turned out there was a hitch, and she hadn't died. But a killed dream was not a pretty sight either.
After spending all of five hours in NYC, Sam'd been deported that same day. She'd been heavily medicated during the whole trial, but the psychiatrists had declared her sane, and she'd been rotting away in that cell in HM Prison since then. Rainy days were the worst.
01 octobre 2005
It's official, I love smart people
Through them, and aren't they the epitome of smart? I found this, this, and this: revisited movie trailers, so you can imagine The Shining as a rom com, West Side Story as though it'd really been done by George Romero, and Titanic as a sequel to The Terminator. Or something. Although I do have reasons to believe that Titanic really was a scary movie, but I guess it's a matter of taste (haven't seen it, couldn't face the prospect. Plus I knew the ending, and that just spoilt the whole thing).
30 septembre 2005
29 septembre 2005
Enough with the silly presents already!
All right, who's with me here, I've decided to create an association for the safeguard of taste in presents.
Here's what caused my seeing-the-light moment. In my parents' sitting-room, I was struck by a horrendous lamp, made from a conch shell, which I can only assume is real, stuck onto some other horrendous shell, which I can only assume is plastic.
It's ugly. There's really no other word to describe it.
While acknowledging its ugliness, my mum, touched by the intent, has decided to display it anyway. The thing is, the people who gave it to my parents have made it a habit of going on holiday and bringing back horrible souvenirs. Before you go and say I'm a heartless spoilt little brat, I do think it's the thought that matters, I do. It's just that I don't understand why my mum thinks we should be made to suffer by looking at it each and every day. Or why they should be made to suffer, more accurately. After all, I am only there one week every six months, if that.
Understand me: there's a horrible clock in the kitchen, a horrible lamp in the sitting room, a horrible vase (thankfully tucked away in a cupboard, but I have no doubt that the day my mum needs it, there won't be enough pleading for her to use a cut plastic waterbottle instead of The Vase), and I have a Barbara Cartland book. Need I say more?
Now, this goes for Mother's day presents too. If I ever have kids one day (which I doubt, look at me, I'm tottering on the brink of old age as I type, but let's pretend I might, for the sake of argument), they will be expressly forbidden to bring back curtain-ring frames, noodle necklaces, tin pen holders, generally covered in felt, and all that useless crap that every kid (yours truly included) from kindergarten to age 10 (no idea how this translates in your language/country/school system/head) brings home, once a year, without fail, eyes full of anticipating joy at the idea of the pleasure they'll be inflicting (and I use the word carefully) on their mum.
My niece, whom I love to bits, who is the cleverest 7-year-old girl on the face of the planet and maybe even this side of the galaxy, who is the most beautiful little thing around that same vicinity, sent me a postcard this year. The postcard is heart-shaped. Can you feel my pain? It's my bookmark now. Every time I open my book on the metro, on the train, in a café, anywhere, I think of her sending me a heart-shaped postcard. And I smile. And then I think of me actually using the heart-shaped postcard. And I wince.
Enough, I say!
Here's what caused my seeing-the-light moment. In my parents' sitting-room, I was struck by a horrendous lamp, made from a conch shell, which I can only assume is real, stuck onto some other horrendous shell, which I can only assume is plastic.
It's ugly. There's really no other word to describe it.
While acknowledging its ugliness, my mum, touched by the intent, has decided to display it anyway. The thing is, the people who gave it to my parents have made it a habit of going on holiday and bringing back horrible souvenirs. Before you go and say I'm a heartless spoilt little brat, I do think it's the thought that matters, I do. It's just that I don't understand why my mum thinks we should be made to suffer by looking at it each and every day. Or why they should be made to suffer, more accurately. After all, I am only there one week every six months, if that.
Understand me: there's a horrible clock in the kitchen, a horrible lamp in the sitting room, a horrible vase (thankfully tucked away in a cupboard, but I have no doubt that the day my mum needs it, there won't be enough pleading for her to use a cut plastic waterbottle instead of The Vase), and I have a Barbara Cartland book. Need I say more?
Now, this goes for Mother's day presents too. If I ever have kids one day (which I doubt, look at me, I'm tottering on the brink of old age as I type, but let's pretend I might, for the sake of argument), they will be expressly forbidden to bring back curtain-ring frames, noodle necklaces, tin pen holders, generally covered in felt, and all that useless crap that every kid (yours truly included) from kindergarten to age 10 (no idea how this translates in your language/country/school system/head) brings home, once a year, without fail, eyes full of anticipating joy at the idea of the pleasure they'll be inflicting (and I use the word carefully) on their mum.
My niece, whom I love to bits, who is the cleverest 7-year-old girl on the face of the planet and maybe even this side of the galaxy, who is the most beautiful little thing around that same vicinity, sent me a postcard this year. The postcard is heart-shaped. Can you feel my pain? It's my bookmark now. Every time I open my book on the metro, on the train, in a café, anywhere, I think of her sending me a heart-shaped postcard. And I smile. And then I think of me actually using the heart-shaped postcard. And I wince.
Enough, I say!
28 septembre 2005
No idea
For a title, that was.
It's a bit annoying, isn't it, this commandeering tone that Blogger takes? Title. Link. Font. Size. Papers. Body search. Oooh, body search.
Sorry, got a bit carried away here.
Honestly though, do you always have a title when you start a post? I don't. Or I do, but then I might change it because of all those tangents I go off on, and the title ends up bearing no relation to what eventually is the main topic of the post.
Which is not going to be the case today, obviously. Not because the title will be summing up the substantific marrow of this post, but because there is no title. And no substantific marrow, but that's something you've grown quite accustomed to by now, I expect? Cunning, or what? No title, no substantific marrow, you'd almost hope that there was no post, eh? No such luck, darlings, I feel creative tonight.
Listen, those of you complaining at the back, I was going to write about doctors and nurses, and not in that way, you pervs. So, which would you rather have? My errant lunacy and verbal diarrhea that you can quit any time and no one will be none the wiser (that whole fragment might display an appalling lack of structure, grammar, or vocabulary - or all three - but try typing in a foreign language with a keyboard that is not your own and no dictionary at hand, and then we'll talk), or a diatribe against doctors and their insensitive dealings with patients in pain? Diatribe which, need I stress, you'll feel compelled to read because if you stopped reading while I was pouring my heart out, you'd feel guilty - or worse, it'd bring you bad bad bad luck and your blog publisher thingamajig would be down for maintenance for ever and you would never be able to post ever again even though you'd been good all your life and this was a one-time-only lapse. Well, tough! That lapse was the one that mattered.
Or you can quit now because you're really scared that I am really mad (I am). It's all right either way. I lied, you see. Not about the blogging curse, that's not for me to say, the witch forbade me to give any details. No, I lied about the fact that I felt creative tonight. You didn't even suspect, did you? Boy, I'm good. Or evil, but that's a debate I'm not starting.
It's a bit annoying, isn't it, this commandeering tone that Blogger takes? Title. Link. Font. Size. Papers. Body search. Oooh, body search.
Sorry, got a bit carried away here.
Honestly though, do you always have a title when you start a post? I don't. Or I do, but then I might change it because of all those tangents I go off on, and the title ends up bearing no relation to what eventually is the main topic of the post.
Which is not going to be the case today, obviously. Not because the title will be summing up the substantific marrow of this post, but because there is no title. And no substantific marrow, but that's something you've grown quite accustomed to by now, I expect? Cunning, or what? No title, no substantific marrow, you'd almost hope that there was no post, eh? No such luck, darlings, I feel creative tonight.
Listen, those of you complaining at the back, I was going to write about doctors and nurses, and not in that way, you pervs. So, which would you rather have? My errant lunacy and verbal diarrhea that you can quit any time and no one will be none the wiser (that whole fragment might display an appalling lack of structure, grammar, or vocabulary - or all three - but try typing in a foreign language with a keyboard that is not your own and no dictionary at hand, and then we'll talk), or a diatribe against doctors and their insensitive dealings with patients in pain? Diatribe which, need I stress, you'll feel compelled to read because if you stopped reading while I was pouring my heart out, you'd feel guilty - or worse, it'd bring you bad bad bad luck and your blog publisher thingamajig would be down for maintenance for ever and you would never be able to post ever again even though you'd been good all your life and this was a one-time-only lapse. Well, tough! That lapse was the one that mattered.
Or you can quit now because you're really scared that I am really mad (I am). It's all right either way. I lied, you see. Not about the blogging curse, that's not for me to say, the witch forbade me to give any details. No, I lied about the fact that I felt creative tonight. You didn't even suspect, did you? Boy, I'm good. Or evil, but that's a debate I'm not starting.
27 septembre 2005
Ode to my bed
Bed.
I love you bed.
I miss you during the day
And when it's nighttime I never say nay.
Always my sleep you have guarded
Even when my attempts were thwarted.
You make me feel very cosy
And soon my eyes are all dozy.
Please make sure that I don't wake up
Because surely that'll have me worked up
And tossing and turning I like not
Even when it's you as my cot.
Come on. Applaud the effort, at least.
Then we all can have a snicker.
I love you bed.
I miss you during the day
And when it's nighttime I never say nay.
Always my sleep you have guarded
Even when my attempts were thwarted.
You make me feel very cosy
And soon my eyes are all dozy.
Please make sure that I don't wake up
Because surely that'll have me worked up
And tossing and turning I like not
Even when it's you as my cot.
Come on. Applaud the effort, at least.
Then we all can have a snicker.
26 septembre 2005
Get on the pavement, all of you
I'm saying this for your own good: you see, until yesterday, I hadn't driven a car (or anything else, for that matter) in over a year.
Well. Well well well, even. Let's just say it was high time I was behind a wheel again, and leave it at that.
Or not.
For one thing, I have no sense of orientation. At all. None. Sad sad sad stuff. So I may have to make a very abrupt and sudden right at a half-second's notice. Bad, right?
For another thing (?), I love love love to drive but have no sense of how to actually handle a car. Bad, right?
Also, I'm a sore loser in this particular instance, so everything that goes wrong while I drive is the car's fault, not mine (like the clutch and gearshift making bizarre sounds as I go into second gear? Not. my. fault.). Oh no. Which tends to drive (no pun) my dad up the walls as we're on our way to and back from the hospital. Bad, right?
See? A dire situation.
Oh, lie by omission. It's not quite as dire as I make it out to be. I nearly made a friend today. As I was parking - in reverse, because nothing scares me - at the hospital, I noticed a woman was looking my way, showing not a little worry. My window was open, so I smiled and said "It'll be fine, don't worry." And went on to park with a number (not over 10, though, don't be petty) of swerves and reverses and ahead again and back, and... (I have no idea what the actual vocabulary for driving is, can you tell?) but parked the car beautifully. Beautifully.
After nearly fighting with my dad as well. Oh yes. So I stormed out of the car and lit up a cigarette while he went on to my mum's room, and the woman goes "I didn't mean it to sound mean, OK? But I thought you were backing straight into that car there..."
No worries, darling, so did I.
Well. Well well well, even. Let's just say it was high time I was behind a wheel again, and leave it at that.
Or not.
For one thing, I have no sense of orientation. At all. None. Sad sad sad stuff. So I may have to make a very abrupt and sudden right at a half-second's notice. Bad, right?
For another thing (?), I love love love to drive but have no sense of how to actually handle a car. Bad, right?
Also, I'm a sore loser in this particular instance, so everything that goes wrong while I drive is the car's fault, not mine (like the clutch and gearshift making bizarre sounds as I go into second gear? Not. my. fault.). Oh no. Which tends to drive (no pun) my dad up the walls as we're on our way to and back from the hospital. Bad, right?
See? A dire situation.
Oh, lie by omission. It's not quite as dire as I make it out to be. I nearly made a friend today. As I was parking - in reverse, because nothing scares me - at the hospital, I noticed a woman was looking my way, showing not a little worry. My window was open, so I smiled and said "It'll be fine, don't worry." And went on to park with a number (not over 10, though, don't be petty) of swerves and reverses and ahead again and back, and... (I have no idea what the actual vocabulary for driving is, can you tell?) but parked the car beautifully. Beautifully.
After nearly fighting with my dad as well. Oh yes. So I stormed out of the car and lit up a cigarette while he went on to my mum's room, and the woman goes "I didn't mean it to sound mean, OK? But I thought you were backing straight into that car there..."
No worries, darling, so did I.
25 septembre 2005
Feels like growing down
Funny. Conflicting feelings have been preying on my mind since I've arrived at my parents. Most of them I remember having when I was a wee girl, and France was a holiday country. When a cornfield was a whole world of possibilities. The mountains, the sun, the blue sky, a cool breeze - that was all I needed to imagine a future life that would see me happily settled around this place. I remember feeling like that, and thinking that everything was so very fleeting: after all, I was only there for the summer holiday.
Oh how people change. I wouldn't want to go back there for longer than a week, now. Hell, even a week seems too long.
It has however struck me that the scents, the light, the colours, the houses, the whole landscape that is my parents' village have induced the same kind of feelings this time. The "worldful" of possibilities feeling, which I quite like, I have to say, even when tinged with the tiniest bit of nostalgia for a moment that is already passing.
Or maybe I'm full of crap and kidding myself. Wouldn't put it past me.
Oh how people change. I wouldn't want to go back there for longer than a week, now. Hell, even a week seems too long.
It has however struck me that the scents, the light, the colours, the houses, the whole landscape that is my parents' village have induced the same kind of feelings this time. The "worldful" of possibilities feeling, which I quite like, I have to say, even when tinged with the tiniest bit of nostalgia for a moment that is already passing.
Or maybe I'm full of crap and kidding myself. Wouldn't put it past me.
23 septembre 2005
The best laid plans of mice and men... or not
You know how sometimes you really want to see people, and you really want to do something specific, and it's just great because it all fits in?
Last night was not one of those nights.
I'd talked two friends into going out for a drink, even though they had planned to go see Dead Man as one of them had never seen a Jim Jarmusch film, yet - I love disrupting plans. Then again, their plans had been disrupted way before I came barging in, as both guys were in fact supposed to be on a plane to Istanbul tonight but decided against it when they found out that the chartered plane belonged to a company with a long history of incidents, an airline which has been blacklisted in the UK and many other countries, but strangely enough not in France yet. So they cancelled at the last minute, spontaneous little devils that they are. Needless to say, I'm now religiously following the news to see if they were right or not to back out on what could have been a fabulous week-end. But that's just because I'm evil.
We opted for a small bar with an even smaller pool table. Of course it would have to be smaller to fit in, but what I meant was... oh forget it.
We had agreed to meet at 8:30. The bar being a 7.5 minutes' walk from my flat (and I walk slowly), I thought leaving at 8:22 would be fine. (Hey, I learned today that according to Freud, neuroses stem from frustration. Funny, no?) Wrong again! Coming down the stairs, I heard my groundfloor neighbour, a little old lady who lives alone and likes to speak when she sees people. Right there, I knew my timing was screwed. It was all worth it, though. Apparently, there's a giant monstrous leak in the basement. Woo-hoo! It's just never-ending, this, isn't it? I need to change countries badly, now, if only so I can get rid of this troubling bit of brick and mortar.
Managed to extricate myself from a plumbing talk that was threatening to take all evening, rushed at breakneck speed (aye right, walked leisurely, more like) to the bar, only to find my friends standing with their heads hanging low: bar is no more! No more pool games at a moment's notice! Honestly, what is the world I live in coming to?
Last night was not one of those nights.
I'd talked two friends into going out for a drink, even though they had planned to go see Dead Man as one of them had never seen a Jim Jarmusch film, yet - I love disrupting plans. Then again, their plans had been disrupted way before I came barging in, as both guys were in fact supposed to be on a plane to Istanbul tonight but decided against it when they found out that the chartered plane belonged to a company with a long history of incidents, an airline which has been blacklisted in the UK and many other countries, but strangely enough not in France yet. So they cancelled at the last minute, spontaneous little devils that they are. Needless to say, I'm now religiously following the news to see if they were right or not to back out on what could have been a fabulous week-end. But that's just because I'm evil.
We opted for a small bar with an even smaller pool table. Of course it would have to be smaller to fit in, but what I meant was... oh forget it.
We had agreed to meet at 8:30. The bar being a 7.5 minutes' walk from my flat (and I walk slowly), I thought leaving at 8:22 would be fine. (Hey, I learned today that according to Freud, neuroses stem from frustration. Funny, no?) Wrong again! Coming down the stairs, I heard my groundfloor neighbour, a little old lady who lives alone and likes to speak when she sees people. Right there, I knew my timing was screwed. It was all worth it, though. Apparently, there's a giant monstrous leak in the basement. Woo-hoo! It's just never-ending, this, isn't it? I need to change countries badly, now, if only so I can get rid of this troubling bit of brick and mortar.
Managed to extricate myself from a plumbing talk that was threatening to take all evening, rushed at breakneck speed (aye right, walked leisurely, more like) to the bar, only to find my friends standing with their heads hanging low: bar is no more! No more pool games at a moment's notice! Honestly, what is the world I live in coming to?
21 septembre 2005
Ego is one tricky bugger, innit?
So tonight was our umpteenth meeting of the flat-owners-who-are-oh-so-unhappy. Some useful meeting that was.
Upshot, upshot! I hear you clamour with the fidgeting that rightfully belongs in this kind of situation. Well, let me put it quite bluntly and proudly, we stood our ground and quite adamantly decided that, although it is the managing agency's fault that the building is falling to pieces, we are in fact going to pay for everything anyway. We will however make the adequate and necessary tutting noises when sending the checks in, just so somebody on the street or in the post-office knows that we're very disapproving of said agency's workshy attitude. Because that's the kind of people we are: proud, adamant, and disapproving. And let it be known.
So. Now that this earth-shattering conclusion has been duly laid to paper, let's get to the real findings this meeting has enabled me to come up with. First - and foremost really - there are in fact two em-ing and er-ing neighbours. The famous one, and another woman, who, to her credit?, only does it when she's addressing more than one person at the same time, or when she's decided to speak because it was important that her voice be heard, but hasn't, before piping up, found out what exactly it was that she was going to say.
Second - and foremost also, on second thoughts - it was a study in psychological leadership. And the results are this (I'm not sure yet whether there are several results or not, hence the cunning use of both singular and plural). Apparently, when you want to have the upper hand in a heated discussion, be it about paying extortionate fees or pregnancy, the thing to do is to raise your voice. Preferably if you don't know what it is exactly you're going to say, or if your vocabulary is comprised of a ginormous amount of er's and em's. Or both. Both works fine too. And if another lady speaks quite loudly too, not because she wants to be heard, but simply due to the fact that her parents (or brother - brothers can be extremely useful like that) never told her to turn it down a little, or maybe she's just a little deaf in one ear and I'm being unfair - in any case, get three girls to speak louder and louder at the same time, and well, it doesn't get much better than that, if you ask me!
Ah yes. Other finding. If you were absent from a previous meeting, but want to retain a certain competitive advantage, keep using the loud voice and start resorting to fallacious arguments that are bound to get discarded or disproved by those people who did, in fact, waste a previous evening. Then (and that's when I admitted defeat in advance for all future shows of bad faith that I may have been tempted to try, because there is no way I could have ever won), in one spectacular reversal, go "yes! exactly! that's exactly what I'm saying!". You haven't lost face and may now go on to more essential suggestions and advice.
Now, in case you're wondering if I may have been one of the loud-speakers, er-ers and em-ers or unbelievably skillful orators, I was busy stuffing my face with sweets. For two reasons. First, I needed the sugary comfort, and second, it so happens that, by sticking my jaws together, gummy bears tend to prevent me from blurting out things that I'm bound to regret during endless rides up elevators that are way too cramped for small talk.
Yes, you may also say it's cowardice.
Or boredom.
Upshot, upshot! I hear you clamour with the fidgeting that rightfully belongs in this kind of situation. Well, let me put it quite bluntly and proudly, we stood our ground and quite adamantly decided that, although it is the managing agency's fault that the building is falling to pieces, we are in fact going to pay for everything anyway. We will however make the adequate and necessary tutting noises when sending the checks in, just so somebody on the street or in the post-office knows that we're very disapproving of said agency's workshy attitude. Because that's the kind of people we are: proud, adamant, and disapproving. And let it be known.
So. Now that this earth-shattering conclusion has been duly laid to paper, let's get to the real findings this meeting has enabled me to come up with. First - and foremost really - there are in fact two em-ing and er-ing neighbours. The famous one, and another woman, who, to her credit?, only does it when she's addressing more than one person at the same time, or when she's decided to speak because it was important that her voice be heard, but hasn't, before piping up, found out what exactly it was that she was going to say.
Second - and foremost also, on second thoughts - it was a study in psychological leadership. And the results are this (I'm not sure yet whether there are several results or not, hence the cunning use of both singular and plural). Apparently, when you want to have the upper hand in a heated discussion, be it about paying extortionate fees or pregnancy, the thing to do is to raise your voice. Preferably if you don't know what it is exactly you're going to say, or if your vocabulary is comprised of a ginormous amount of er's and em's. Or both. Both works fine too. And if another lady speaks quite loudly too, not because she wants to be heard, but simply due to the fact that her parents (or brother - brothers can be extremely useful like that) never told her to turn it down a little, or maybe she's just a little deaf in one ear and I'm being unfair - in any case, get three girls to speak louder and louder at the same time, and well, it doesn't get much better than that, if you ask me!
Ah yes. Other finding. If you were absent from a previous meeting, but want to retain a certain competitive advantage, keep using the loud voice and start resorting to fallacious arguments that are bound to get discarded or disproved by those people who did, in fact, waste a previous evening. Then (and that's when I admitted defeat in advance for all future shows of bad faith that I may have been tempted to try, because there is no way I could have ever won), in one spectacular reversal, go "yes! exactly! that's exactly what I'm saying!". You haven't lost face and may now go on to more essential suggestions and advice.
Now, in case you're wondering if I may have been one of the loud-speakers, er-ers and em-ers or unbelievably skillful orators, I was busy stuffing my face with sweets. For two reasons. First, I needed the sugary comfort, and second, it so happens that, by sticking my jaws together, gummy bears tend to prevent me from blurting out things that I'm bound to regret during endless rides up elevators that are way too cramped for small talk.
Yes, you may also say it's cowardice.
Or boredom.
20 septembre 2005
Good things come in threes
And I can't fucking wait.
New man, new job, new life. That would about cover it.
For now, I hate it to break it to myself, but it's bad bad bad.
So one of my best friends has left (and her boyfriend has made it safely across the border, so that's comforting), my building is getting some long overdue works that are literally going to cost me an arm and a leg (and I'm wasting one more evening tonight debriefing about some meeting or other - but is it going to mean that I pay less? I think not), and my mum is back in the hospital next week, so I'll be spending next week at my parents'.
You remember that excellent, excellent line by Rachel in Friends? "There's rock-bottom, then fifty feet of crap, then me"? Sounds about right.
No actually, that sounds like the crappiest self-pitying line I've ever heard. Or uttered. And hey, let's face it, I've uttered a few. Whatever happened to that "I'm a new person" bla de blah theory? I can't even stick to one puny resolution? Shame on me. You're allowed to castigate me - only, be nice.
Oh yeah, and autumn starts tomorrow. AUTUMN! Where did the summer go?
New man, new job, new life. That would about cover it.
For now, I hate it to break it to myself, but it's bad bad bad.
So one of my best friends has left (and her boyfriend has made it safely across the border, so that's comforting), my building is getting some long overdue works that are literally going to cost me an arm and a leg (and I'm wasting one more evening tonight debriefing about some meeting or other - but is it going to mean that I pay less? I think not), and my mum is back in the hospital next week, so I'll be spending next week at my parents'.
You remember that excellent, excellent line by Rachel in Friends? "There's rock-bottom, then fifty feet of crap, then me"? Sounds about right.
No actually, that sounds like the crappiest self-pitying line I've ever heard. Or uttered. And hey, let's face it, I've uttered a few. Whatever happened to that "I'm a new person" bla de blah theory? I can't even stick to one puny resolution? Shame on me. You're allowed to castigate me - only, be nice.
Oh yeah, and autumn starts tomorrow. AUTUMN! Where did the summer go?
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