e-roar

My Internet service provider and its hotline technicians can all take a flying fuck at a rolling doughnut, preferably in space, preferably without any sort of oxygen source, preferably while an Alien is hatching somewhere close.
Hello people, I'm back, and I'm in a bad mood.

Blah blah... bleuargh?

Damn, I can't remember! My fingers have been poised over the keyboard for, like, ever... or two minutes, but two minutes can feel like an eternity when you're dying for the loo. Right?
Anyway, I can't remember the important topic I had picked for today's endeavour. And it was important, I swear. Not like Wednesday's... debate. Wow, that went well... The good thing is the response was overwhelmingly in favour of my opinion. You... beg to differ? Tough. You should have said something then. That's democracy for you. Or... something.
Awright, m'darlings. I can't find it in me to drag this on and on until Monday comes along, especially as I have a wedding to attend, a bag to pack, several litres of assorted wines and champagne to get through, and no one to hold my head over the toilet bowl. That particular McGyver contraption is not going to build itself.
Have yourselves a merry little weekend.

It's high-school debate society all over again!

Hello people... she says with her most engaging smile. How are you all doing on this fine grey and crisp day*?
I need your opinion on something. I mean "need", as in "will stop breathing until I actually get your opinion" kind of slightly tantrumy need, but need nonetheless. Now is the time to start using that comments link until it fades into the background, because I would very much appreciate a heated debate, the likes of which could make the French Socialist Party green with envy. But let's not get political...

A Year in the Merde.
That's it, that's what I need your opinion on. I had a sort of preview of said heated debate with a friend recently, because I find the book to be a not-very-funny catalogue of stereotypes (with the occasional chuckle, thank god), but he accused me of showing bad faith, and of not being able to look at (down on?) my own country with a little bit of self-derision. Pah!, I say. As if.

So here goes. Have you read it, and if you have, what did you think?

Small aside, for Stephen Clarke himself - should he ever stumble upon this site (or Voice of a City, because I'm obviously posting this there too...), pharmacies in France never ever ever go on strike. And when the EDF personnel does, you still have enough of the old elektron in the copper wires to boil one kettle or a thousand. There, my bile is spent.

Apart from those petty quibbles of mine, it's probably a pretty good book for people who want to come live in (or visit) Paris. See? See? I am unbiased. There.**

*this is pure conjecture, seeing as, right now, it's more of a "fine cold and dark night" kind of moment.
**Come on, peeps, I'm trying to leave this country. Obviously I love it with my eyes wide open.

Celebration of life

All right, my brother's been a dad for a week, so let's take a moment to celebrate this tiny wee new (and really, honestly, unbiasedly gorgeous) life.
Done? OK then. Let's not get too carried away here. Remember we're all about restraint on this site.
Rather, let's move swiftly on to feeling sorry for me-me-me. Because let's face it, that's why this thing exists, isn't it? ("This thing" referring not to my new-born niece, but to this site. Hard though I may try, I'm not quite that callous yet.)
See, I have lost any trace of novelty that I may have held for my parents and extended family. You know, the whole "she's gone far away to live her life, how's it like overseasin Paris then?" kind of thing.
Well, that's a thing of the past. It's all about the brats now, even more so than before. And I've been relegated to the ranks of spinstery, if a little eccentric, old aunts. It's not completely official, you understand, but I'd started noticing the oblique glances last time I saw everybody, so I can tell it'll be full-blown next time I'm home. For Christmas, for instance. Ugh. Can't wait.
It's all right, though. I'd already started perverting my older niece (she's only eight, but compared to a one-week-old, she's older. Tough, but they gotta learn early. I may have to ask her soon if she's finally met someone.) with inappropriate language and songs, and last time I talked to her, I planted seeds for her to come visit without her mom so I could fully accomplish my life-mission. And I intend to do the exact same thing with the young one.
I'm evil.

"My bed was shaking. I can't get to sleep."

For the love of all that is holy, please make the spinning stop!
It's like this. It's 6:00 am, and I've been awake for about an hour now. Don't believe what the time stamp says, it'll probably have taken me a very long time to write what's about to spew forth from my brain and build semi-coherent sentences with it.
Yes, I was out last night - on a school night, I know... naughty - and I think I'm still drunk. The problem though is I was in bed at around two, couldn't sleep for, like, ever, and now this.
No, I'm lying - which does fit in well with the whole 'Exorcist' theme, but whatever - the real problem is that when I woke up, over a whole HOUR ago, it felt like all my chakras were open and I had access to oodles of information I didn't even know existed, certainly didn't care about until that point anyway, and it was all there, accessible and ready, and it wouldn't stop tumbling the big empty expanse that is my skull at the best of times.
Wouldn't stop, that is, until I got up. Bastard information.
I'm holding on to this little revelation though: I want to marry Lemsip and have its yellow powdery children. The cold that has been making the cyberworld's headlines (please see this (through BoingBoing - in George Clooney's eternal words, "what else?") for other, often more interesting excuses) has come and - all together now, let's cross our virtual but industrious little fingers - gone in less than two days, all thanks to Lemsip. I love you, Lemsip.
See, if I was a TV show host, I'd be in supply for the rest of my life now. Damn the unfairness of it all.
Unless it was the wine last night, in which case, fine, wine, I want to marry you and have your yellowred velvety liquid children. Now, if I was a TV show host, would I receive cases of wine from grateful winegrowers? See, this is probably information that was readily available to me before I got up.

It's going to be one very, very long day.

Got plans?

Now you do.
Wednesday next, be in Paris. One of my friends is playing his very funky* music at 9 Billards, in the 11th arrondissement. And it's free. So really, you have no reason whatsoever not to splurge on that plane ticket you've been dying to book anyway. (And I'll be taking names.)



* Funky is a word I loosely use to describe any music I like. The words true musicians such as himself use are "a rapper? A punker? Some electro-geek type? Or yet another French singer with a heavy debt to the late Serge Gainsbourg? The correct answer is probably: all of the above!"
There you have it (which apparently is my new favourite phrase).

"Because there are heterosexual couples left"...

One wedding down, one to go.
Boy was I tempting fate with Friday's post - and not in a good way.
To recap. No hired job - just more assignments. No lottery win, which, I guess, makes it a net loss. And of course no man.
Although it must be that I'm too picky, because I almost scored on the way back from the wedding.
At 3:30 am—yeah, the dinner and party were fun. The wedding mass was lovely until the priest decided to go on an anti same-sex marriage (and probably not a little homophobic) rant, which did give me the title for this post, so I guess I should be grateful.
As I was saying... At 3:30 am, the taxi dropped me home, or, more precisely, outside of the ATM next door, because he was rather adamant that I pay him, the moneygrubbing bastard. When I came back to his window in order for my newly acquired cash to change hands before I could get too attached, a man was already hopping in back, about which fact the driver was surprisingly none too happy. Apparently deciding that walking was better than having to hear the driver's griping, however, the man left the car. As I was crossing the street, he approached me, preceded by his perfume, a pungent mix of his own B.O. and, I assumed, the two kegs of beer he'd drunk —so far?— that night. He then proceeded to talk to me, which made me up my estimate. Make it three kegs then.
"Ma'am?"
"Yes?" I replied calmly, while frantically wondering inside how in the world I could ever fend off the inevitable request for my purse.
"Can I go home with you?"
How irresistible can I get? It's anyone's guess.

Finally...!

I'm about to sign a contract for the job I always wanted.
Also, I'm meeting someone tonight.
My lonely jobless days are finally over.
And if my calculations are right, the lottery is mine, mine, MINE, mwahaha!

It's Friday the 13th, people. Surely today, luck will be on my side, no?

The fly in the ointment

Not the one I killed, though - there's that to be thankful for, I guess.
It's a funny thing. You know how I'm slowly getting ready to be a successful freelance translator in Paris, seeing as I can't get a job as a staff translator anywhere else... I'm not exactly looking for assignments - because looking for a job is a full-time one, isn't it... - but when I'm phoned, I'll usually choose to accept my mission.
If we are to believe the weather forecasts, today was the one day of beautiful weather that we are going to get this week. And I don't care that that sentence shows appalling syntax. Nobody wants me as a translator, they're certainly not going to hire me as a copy-editor, are they? Well then.
So today being the beautiful, sunny, warm day that it was, I decided I was going to enjoy the city in the crisp (whatever) and not, oh no, sprawl on my couch and watch whatever crap the telly was showing while pondering the various vicissitudes of my life-changing decisions that have, so far, led to my simply trebling my consumption of chocolate, but not much else.
Now. What was I talking about. Oh yes. So I was getting ready to go out and enjoy life without a proper job like everybody else in the same situation does, when suddenly - ta da - the phone rang. A job.
The way I figure it is this. If I accept translations, I get to exercise my brain a little - and lord knows that's a luxury I certainly can't afford to forgo - while earning a little money, and I get to watch televised crap, since I'm working from home. Almost the best of both worlds, isn't it?
Now, of course, in this particular case, by the time I finish the job and hand it in, Noah will be coming back in a foul mood, hollering something like "Couldn't you learn when I showed you the first time, you bunch of lame-ass shipbuilders?!"
So yeah. I can't remember what my point was when I started this, but there you have it anyway.

Starting a family

Please don't let me reproduce.
The world's stupidest fly has taken up residence at my house. Seriously - the world's stupidest fly. It just keeps flying into me, even though I keep swatting at it, and it keeps missing the windows I leave wide open for it.
It's also the world's most stubborn fly: it has decided to stay whatever I do to make it leave, force it to leave, cajole it into leaving, bash it effing head in (and boy is that hard to do...). It never dies, and it never leaves.
Not to mention it's a little scary at times. Sometimes it just hides for ages, and when I finally decide that it's probably left, it just zooms straight into me several times like I'm its personal Pearl Harbour.
Thing is, I'm probably perfect for it, as I suspect I'm the world stupidest fly owner. In fact, I suspect that my neighbours might have collectively come to that same conclusion after spotting me several times - through the wide open windows - flailing my arms at very odd angles, trying, with words I didn't even know I had in me, to discourage the fly from moving in, using blankets or magazines as my weapon of choice.
The problem is, that cretin is kind of endearing, the same way you expect a huge and slightly retarded man to be extremely clumsy hence annoying, but well, you get used to him bruising your arms and back because he wants to hug you by surprise.
I'm not making the least bit of sense, am I... See? Perfect owner for the world's stupidest fly.
It did take me four days to kill it, after all.

Oops, I did it again...

Yeah, I'm nothing if not repetitive.
Something's wrong with me. We're not on the job-hunting front anymore, here, although predictably, the above-mentioned (below? logic dictates 'below'. Screw logic, I say.) people did not call back, but I'm past caring that something might be wrong with them too...
We - and by we, I mean I, because that is the beauty of the blog: you cannot interrupt me - are talking about my complete, utter and shameless lack of sense of direction. So I'm a girl, what can I do.
Thing is, I would expect a little help from the powers that be, and in Paris, they would be the metro and train people. Well, they're not helping, and so I get lost. A lot. It's gotten to such a point that I suspect that one day, I will just stop even trying to find my way around the maze that is Paris transport system and will just be seen here or there, depending on my whim, dragging my worldly belongings behind me, trailing wild hair (it already is wild and bloody unmanageable, that's a step in the right direction, no?), probably mumbling strings of profanities. And I cannot wait.
Talking of making the same mistakes again and again, a friend of mine was over for a couple of days, so we went for a stroll in the Père-Lachaise cemetery, because the weather was lovely. I was greeted there by the perfect opportunity for a photo. No batteries. My camera even refused to switch on.
And then there's this tiny quirk that I hate weddings - and I think I've made that clear in the past, to my friends as well. Nevertheless (yes, the crusade to save this beautiful word is still on), I have accepted two invitations. October is shaping up to be one incredibly good month.
Also. Grouching. Chances are I'll be doing even more of that for a while.

Oops, I did it again...

It is entirely possible that I have finally cracked the secret to a successful job interview. Of course everybody had it cracked before me, but what can I say, I'm slow.
So, anyway, apparently the trick is not to give a fuck. In fact, the less you care about the job that you're being interviewed for, the more likely it is that you'll be seriously considered. And therein lies the rub, doesn't it. When, on the other hand, you do care about the position, you're such a sweaty mess of I-want-to-please-everyone neuroses that no one in their right mind would be prepared to hire you.
So. How to show you don't care? I'm going to just go ahead and take me as a shining example of what to do - or not as the case may be.
The first time I didn't care, I just went there and we both established that I shouldn't even have come. So far so good...
Then I went for a job that I actually wanted, and ten months on, I'm willing to bet a nice chunk of my next salary that my ex future potential employers are still laughing about me, over there in that country that is never getting named here again.
The second time I didn't care about a job, I went and actually said "I'm here because the job office forced me but I'm being considered for a job in a country that I vowed never to blah blah blah, and honestly, I'd rather go there than come here". They phoned me a couple days later to say that if the country-that-blah-blah-blah were to change its f#@king mind, they were very interested. Have you no self-respect, people?
And on Friday, I had an interview for a job that I do not, do not, repeat do not, want. I arrived late - like twenty minutes late -, I'm pretty sure I visibly zoned out several times during the interview (blame my sleep issues, but also? boooring...!) and I asked for more money than they'll ever be willing to give me. They're phoning me back tomorrow. Honestly, if they really do phone me, and if they make so much as a pretend effort to up the salary, I think I'm just going to take the money and run.
Because it's all well and good to have principles and to want to stick by them, but seriously, who gives a fuck?
Life... it just keeps getting better.

hallelujah... or... is it?

Sleep and I are finally reunited. It's been a week now, and I can't keep my hands off it. I don't know how I could live without it so long, because it's the only thing I'm interested in right now. I wake up in the morning (in the morning! not 'several times at night'!) and I think of joining it again the following night. I go to bed in the evening, and I marvel at the softness of my sheets.
Yes, everything's better now and my sheets are softer. Sleep is magical like that.
So after a week of newly found bliss, I think we're good. We might even be in it for the long run.
Except sometimes, I wonder whether our relationship is healthy. I mean sometimes, it feels like if I'm doing anything else that is remotely boring, like, say, working, sleep will be the only thing I think of. That's a bit excessive, isn't it? Shouldn't I be thinking of chocolate every now and again?
And yesterday, I was watching 'The Meaning of Life', which, even though John Cleese hated it, is my favourite Python movie, and guess what. I fell asleep. Right in the middle of it. On my couch. Before M. Creosote's segment. And I even turned the volume down at some point during my sleep.
So now I'm a bit scared. Will I have to turn my whole life around to accommodate it? Will I have to give up everything that I care about because it cannot stand to not be the only one in my life? What if I don't and it leaves? Oh god. I'm going back to bed now.

It's official

I am a great person.
Yes.

OK, so it's not really official, but I hereby proclaim that I am a great person, and surely that makes it official.

Also, I'm a very tired person. I suspect this explains that - or vice versa.

Also, after mulling this over for about 3 seconds, it transpires that I might not be quite that great after all.
Damnation.

Still, it's good to be deluded every now and again. Not only because in those deluded and delusional moments, one can believe in one's own greatness, but also because if one plays one's cards right and with a little help from one's friend, aka the right medication, one might believe in it forever.

It's difficult to sustain a sentence with "one" as a subject, isn't it. Yes.

God, I wish I could go back to bed.

Content may be unsuitable for sensitive minds

My eye itches every now and again. When that happens, I usually rub it. As a rule of thumb (ta da...), I'll use my index finger. However, it sometimes strikes my fancy to use my pinky. Which, as is the case with everyone, I believe, is a lot smaller than my other fingers.
The other day, my eye was itchy. Fancy struck, so I rubbed it with my pinky.

Now is a good time for squeamish souls to look away.

The sneaky bastard slid right underneath my eyelid.

Now, those of you who didn't believe the title or subsequent warning, or believed both but thought that you could handle the truth, and went ahead and read anyway, if you found that was a leetle too close to information overload and went 'ewwwww', well, that'll teach you. But know that it reads a lot more icky than it actually felt.

Still. It did feel icky. Also unsettling. And, in Carrie Bradshaw's own slightly overused words, I couldn't help but wonder. Shouldn't my own pinky finger be grateful that I have use for it every now and again, instead of turning on me like that? Will the infernal cycle of death ever end?
Nah, don't answer that.

Well, hello, sunshine

8:20 a.m., the phone rings, caller unknown. Now, class, what does this spell? Anyone? Anyone? Telemarketer. Or my mum, but she's learned not to call at such ridiculous times.
"hello my name is robert langdon* i work for bleuargh marketing company* would you mind answering a couple questions this won't take long" (audible lack of punctuation.)
"(Chuckles (more like snorts) in an annoyed (and possibly annoying) way.) Er, yes, actually I do mind. No time, too early."
"OK, then I'll be quick. What do you think-'
"I'm hanging up now. Bye**."

Seriously.

* Names made up because I didn't think I would need them and they didn't register. Infuriating as it was, believe me, I wish I could spell both out.
** I also wish I would have been less polite.

Oh. Good. God.

Yeah. Whatever, right?
Hmmm.

OK. I've calmed down a bit.
So. Who's in for a huge big hearty laugh straight from the belly?

You know the company that contacted me back in December, from a country that is never ever getting named on this site again? The company that made me take three tests, all of which I apparently passed? That made me sit two interviews, both of which were apparently conclusive? That, every time I called them, all the way to that country that is never getting named here again, told me that they were still very much interested in my application? That sort of offered me several cities to choose from? And that just dropped off the face of the bloody earth?

Yeah. Them.

They've just posted another job offer on a professional board.

Something is obviously not quite right with me, karma-wise.

Brussels!

Yes, two weekends in a row, I know, deal with it.
And just so we're clear, I know it might be annoying for you, but you really do have to realise how much fun it was for me.
You may however take comfort in the fact that the weather was gorgeous only one day out of the two, that no excessive amount of beer was consumed, that no excessive amount of waffles was consumed, and that no amount of mussles or chocolate was consumed at all. We did make up for that seeming exercise in moderation with an orgy of fat, there can be no other word, on Sunday. Even though the sausage, fries and churros were all organic so, really, healthy, right?
Still, I suppose that actually feeling your bloodflow slowing down is as good a sign as any that now is the time to start enjoying the car-free day and walk all over the city. And man, walk we did. And pictures were taken - not all of them good of course, but some even with people in them!
And then it was already time to go. Oh how time flies when you're having fun.
However, for some of us, the fun didn't quite stop in Brussels. I would like to take this opportunity to publicly thank the really very pretty girl on the train for providing us with some mean-spirited entertainment as she slept, oblivious to the fact that we could almost see her tonsils, while we eagerly waited for either some healthy snoring or some light drooling. Unfortunately, neither came, but the suspense does make for a very short journey.

Caution, self-linking ahead

Haven't talked about the building from hell for a while now, have I.
Changes are afoot in the landlords' council, or whatever this thing is called. I for one am going to escape this thing soon, although they don't know that yet. It's a matter of life or death, or sanity, or something equally important like that, you understand. I fear they're trying to do me in. In fact, I believe they have cunningly planned this so that I will do myself in and they'll be a bunch of happy bunnies frolicking over the ruins of...
Hmmm. To think I was so close to being certifiable, all they had to do was wait...
Anyway.
My neighbour - the infamous err-ing and emm-ing person - has stopped phoning, lord be praised for small blessings, but she's now taken to sending several emails in quick succession, most of which say the same thing. Even though, to her credit, she doesn't spare her efforts for the building, this particular trend annoys the shit out of me. Call me quick-tempered.
My other neighbour, the previously cool guy, is making a mountain out of a molehill these days, and he's been calling everyone with the same quavering voice that I used on the electricity repair men. I'm obviously not about to swallow that particular line.
Back to my favourite neighbour of them all - the infamous err-ing and emm-ing person. She's found a new ally. And this new girl, wow, she just takes the cake. I'm not going to hold it against her that she plays trance music all day loud enough that I can sense the bass in the back of my throat, three floors up*, but she speaks in such a high-pitched tone that it's a wonder she's not being constantly followed by a pack of dogs howling at the moon. And the two of them together... well, wow, really.
In two weeks, we'll all be gathered in the one room. And there'll also be all the other neighbours. Good times.

* might be a slight exaggeration.

London!

Extortionate prices - check.
Works complicating an already complicated underground network - check.
A very cute hotel receptionist, who looks so young that you wonder whether talking to him qualifies as statutory rape - check.
Blue skies and balmy temperatures the whole time - check.
Indecent amounts of money spent on all those good book and DVD deals - check.
Many a picture taken while my friend frowned at the silliness of most of them - check.
Reasonable amounts of beer consumed, all things considered - check.
Sore feet from all that walking - check.

Fish 'n' chips - not check.
Supermarket visit for day-to-day groceries - not check.
All the other books and DVDs that I had thought of - not check.
Buying those really very cool clothes in Camden Lock - not check.
Getting to talk more than fifteen seconds to that seriously charming guy at the restaurant on Friday evening - not check.

I'm just gonna have to go back soon, aren't I.