So it doesn't begin

So I tried to do squats this morning. Because of a disease I have*, my body grows bone-like things on the muscle of my left thigh, which makes it easier and easier, and mostly unnecessary, to find excuses not to work out, like, ever.

But sometimes, I don't know, call it peer pressure, call it the stupid notion that it would be nice to be healthy in my old age, I give it the old college try. It's fun in an "oh isn't the novelty just darling" kind of way, it's super validating, and it means I get to not exercise again for a good while.

That being said, if you were a teenager in the 80s (fuck that shit, I am already old, man.), when Jamie Lee Curtis' Perfect was all the bleeding rage (what. It was where I grew up, all right?), your expectations of what working out is/feels like and of the benefits it will bring you (health, happiness, John Travolta?) are a teeny bit out of wack and/or proportion. So I'm gonna be honest, when I did all five of my squats and my body didn't suddenly transform into my Body with a capital B (potentially followed by a superscript TM), I felt a little bit cheated.

Which is a very dangerous thing to be when you're going to be having dinner at a Michelin-starred, tapas-style restaurant (it's a work thing!) and you are pretty universally known for your propensity to eat your feelings. My timing is impeccable.



* It's fine. Doctors assure me I'm not going to die from it, so I can absolutely go ahead and be all "I HAVE A RARE DISEASE" and complain about the pain and discomfort, and you can absolutely not give a shit.

Hey guys...

Listen, it's either writing or actually taking care of actual business, and I'm lazy as shit. 

This has been a very complicated three years. (Yes, I realize I haven't been on here for waaay more, but the past three years have given me a surprisingly energetic ass-whooping, and I'm only now starting to feel like I may in fact be able to crawl out of that particular hole.)

I've missed this. I've missed the writing, the interacting, the laughing, the cringing... Been spending a lot of time on Twitter, but it turns out, I think, that I'm more French than I care to admit and that I need the ménage à trois of Blogging, Twitter and my neuroses. Which, OBVIOUSLY, isn't to say I'm going to keep to any sort of regular bowel movement of the brains, because, have we met? But maybe I'll try. 

(And yes, I'm probably ruder, grosser and more of a metaphor-mixer than ever.)

(One thing hasn't changed: I'm still a big, big fan of parentheses.)

Creative outlets, take 666

Hello Hello ello lo o

So. One more notch on my failure belt, eh.

Here's the thing. Fence set up a forum, for readers and lovers and purchasers and downloaders of books, and there's a little niche for fiction as well, and i think i may use that if inspiration ever strikes. HA! As. If.
So i'm just going to officially abandon this*. I'll be there, i'm on Flickr, on Twitter, on Facebook and on LinkedIn. Surely the virtual world doesn't need me to be any more present than that.

Anyway. The forum is called Books are Dangerous! Which is true.
And it's at: http://www.booksaredangerous.net/

Go! Go!

* It'll stay up, however, because i don't want to lose the comments. Also, there are some pretty good links at right. And if statcounter is to be believed, my opinion on soy sauce and FloJo's nails matters to quite a few people, in fact.

I have excuses!

I've missed you, blog! Many a time, i've even had ideas! And then they were gone. Let's blame visiting friends, work, life, the universe and pretty much nothing, shall we?
Things are going about as well as an arranged marriage between a megalomaniac president and a power-hungry model-turned-singer (there may be extra dashes here. I like dashes, i don't care.).
I kinda feel like whining whining whining, whhhhhhaaaaa------aaaaaaa------yyyyy?! WHY do bad things happen to good people?!
Ooh, quoting from sitcoms that have been canceled for YEARS. Surely that's the acid test of things going bad. I'm not even sure i'm using "acid test" right. Although it has to be more apt than "litmus test", right? Anyway, full disclosure, i actually use the above quote all. the time. I have no shame, no credibility, no nothing.

All right, so that was last month.
Since then, i've stopped having to cross two rivers to go to work, i've visited Canada only to spot zero mountie, taken up a job as a part-time, temporary world-saver (kinda), had two MASSIVE (and pitifully unrequited) crushes, and changed the furniture around in my bedroom (i don't think the two are related). I've also had the first sunburn of the season, the first pedicure of the season (what?! i live in NYC! sacrifices must be made on the altar of Sex and the City even if you're not a church-goer), the first bomb scare of the season, the first health scare of the season, and i've been called "babe" by a cute, tattooed, bare-chested (male) bartender in a trendy gay bar. Win some, lose some, i guess.

On the other hand, if things go as they look like they're going to be going at the end of the year, i.e. not quite pear-shaped, but definitely not Chrysler-building-shaped either (see the afore-professed (etc.) love for dashes), i have plans to last me a lifetime. Well. Not quite a lifetime maybe, but at least 6 months. First of all, do let me keep my illusions. Delusions. Whichever. And second, in the words of the New York lottery: Hey, you never know.

Attack of the crazies

So i've made my craziest decision yet. After getting roundhouse-kicked in the stomach and spat in the face one too many times by the very people to whom i owe my presence in the New World, i have decided, if the bureaucratic process works out, to accept the mostly uncertain future (and i quote: "i can't guarantee that you'll be able to pay the bills, much less the rent") that a pretty prestigious world-saving organisation is offering me*.
To be fair to the aforementioned organisation, it really wasn't that hard a choice once the very people to whom i owe my presence in the New World (who will henceforth be referred to as "those fuckers") led me to understand that they would rather i left within the month than keep me on for another two years. And it was made even easier after i gave my reply to the aforementioned organisation, who then proceeded to say: "Thank you for making this decision. I hope it won't be detrimental to you".
An entirely different class of individuals, then.

Is this cryptic? Cryptic enough? Too cryptic?
I need help. Mostly of the psychiatric variety, but i'll take any i can get.

Having said that, if the bureaucratic process doesn't work out... well. I will need more help, and so will the Old Continent.

* Also, i need to stop mixing my social-networking websites (if such this might be called) because i almost finished this in the third person.

Commuter's rage

Right. I know i'm broaching a topic i've broached before, and I know i'm an impatient cow, and i KNOW i have a serious anger management problem.
Actually that's not true. My anger management is top notch. My inner Patrick Bateman is thriving, that's how good my anger management is: my Patrick Bateman is still INNER.
However repetitive and redundant i might be, the great truth is: i repeat because it is!
Today, i give you: the armpit of America.
New Jersey commuters who go through the World Trade Center Path station should be gathered on a island*, and... starved until they eat each other.
Holy cow, this is such an awesome plan. The last one standing could be left there until more obnoxious people, which i'm sure it wouldn't take too long to find, are corralled up and sent over... and on we go!
And there you have it, peeps. My inner Patrick Bateman, ridding the world of its morons, one cannibal reality show at a time.

*Nice try. A remote island. Manhattan is not an option just yet.

Blinky blinky

I'm having a sort of staring contest with the page screen. It's been going on for almost 24 hours. As far as staring contests go, it's probably a record (it is! in fact).
Considering that, in those 24 hours, i have, in no particular order other than alphabetical, gone on cigarette-break walks, got dressed, left the state to go to work, "made" "food", reentered the state to go to physical therapy, showered, slept, and watched Glengarry Glen Ross, it is safe to assume that the number of times i have blinked has probably broken a record as well.
In short: The page screen is kicking my ass.
Which, let's face it, isn't that big of a news story: i have pages of posts that scream that exact conclusion to anyone who's read them -- clearly not to the one person who wrote them though, but i'll blame that on the way the Internet keeps telling everyone that that book that everyone has in them? the Internet is so. ready. for it.
Anyway. Where was i? Ah yes. Well. The really really good thing -- and "good" doesn't really do it justice -- is, i'm willing to train my writing muscle(s). The Internet is going to be sorry it was born. And that, my friend(s), is how i will kick the page screen's ass right back.

The times, they are not a-changing all that much

Ha HA freaking HA. It's like i have Tourette's of the blog, kinda. No manifestation in forever -- in such a long time that you forget you even have the damn thing, in fact. And then, out of the mothercrying blue, without any discernible triggering factor, an "episode".
Yep.
So let's not even pretend i'm back, cause i've played that particular card before and the only thing it's done is left me without moral kneecaps. But i have just paid the commenting ransom to the service formerly known as Haloscan, so i'd better make it worth those $12, is all i'm saying.
Cheaper than a shrink, innit.

The queen bee wins! Again!

You know, it feels pretty nice to be "back" - however long this particular streak is going to be, no one knows, but one thing's certain: Blogger breeds more familiarity than Facebook.
Isn't it funny how we always gripe about high school "friends" and family and workmates, and yet we rush to reconnect with those very same people, with shrieks so high-pitched it's a wonder there aren't more dogs on Facebook?
Then again, maybe "funny" isn't quite the word i'm looking for.
I've decided to accept all the friend requests i get - as long as they come from someone i actually know (or even know of), of course, and not from some perv who likes it when his/her number of friends is odd - in many different ways.
I don't send out requests, though. Let's face it, i just couldn't cope with the rejection. Which is funny in so many regards i don't even know where to begin.
The whole social network thing is, in fact, pretty ludicrous.
All right, you know what? I haven't the faintest idea where i was going with this. I started this a few days ago, but since then, i've tried to figure out focal length in zoom numbers rather than mm, had to hedge $20,000,000 as if i was a corn producer, had to face a live cockroach first thing in the morning (don't squash it! don't. squash it!), had to outsmart (ha!) the subway people for a seat on the train or just a space on the stairways (did you know the NJ people did not want you to walk up - or down - the stairs on your way to work? they don't. they want you to die trampled to death by the oncoming mob of their "brains! brains!" chanting co-commuters. and no, this is not a rage-induced stammer.), and had to face my blatant inability to do either of those things*. And you want me to discourse at length on the irony that is online social networking? Aren't you naive.

* Actually, that's a lie. The roach was coaxed towards impending doom, the fool. And flushed down the drain. I DID NOT SQUASH IT.

Call it an itch that needed to be scratched.
I may or may not be back, but i felt like writing something. In fact, i've felt like writing for a long time now, but kept chickening out. And with good reason, it turns out: after giving this link to a friend of mine, i went back and re-read some of the stuff i'd posted*.
You mad people you. Were you that bored that you kept coming for more? The crap i've written. Dear Lord the crap i've written. I used to spell "weekend" with a dash and no one said anything?! Have you no dignity people?! (Actually, i still don't know how to spell "weekend". [One word or two?] Or "no one", for that matter.)
In the event that i should be back for good (or bad, or better, or worse, whatever), i'm not sure what this will be turn out to be - a blog blog, a fiction blog, or a ghostly abandoned blog (well, i could just look at it every now and again (that green really is very pretty) and technically i would be back.) Or maybe it'll just be the same old mishmash of-- dear Lord the crap i've written.

Two things, then i'll press the "Publish" button before i change my mind.
One, I've trashed the other blog, because we just weren't clicking. I mean, we had some good times, it and me, but was it ever anything more than a glorified one-night stand? I wasn't in it for the long haul, and it had already started demanding attention, posts, a tweak of the template, etc. Way too high-maintenance. Whereas this one here, well, it's as comfortable as stinky slippers that you know you should wash but you just don't want to because, hey, if they ain't broke, why wash them.
And two, man have i missed html tags! And brackets, square and otherwise! Can't wait to use footnotes again!**

* i probably won't be giving you much advice, because let's face it, who would want to follow it anyway? but heed this particular piece: don't do it.
** oh look!

OK, here goes. I need a do-over on this thing. I miss the writing, and I have an inkling that this place is just "before", "now" should be something else.
In around a week, I should be living somewhere a little (a lot?) more permanent, which, even though I hate the idea of leaving the area I'm in right now (but I guess that's what being a grown-up is all about, right? you do NOT in fact get to do what you want.) will change a few things in my mindset, I guess, so I'm hoping that it will all fall into place. Actually, I'm going to push and nudge (with love and care, of course) it all so it stays in place.
So here's the deal. I don't think I'm going to delete this place because I like it, but I'm thinking of starting maybe another site, and counting a little on your help here (there's three of you still reading, that should be quick and almost painfree) re the new page url and/or title...
Here are a few ideas, but please if you have other, better ones, give 'em up:
- My left hand is doing stuff my right hand doesn't want to know about
- George who?
- Where are the guns?
- Something 2 - this time, it's impersonal.
- I hate the A train
- So many bars, so little time
Ugh... Maybe i should just drop it altogether. No title, and http://beammeelsewhere.blogspot.com as url. Or... something.

"Cheese-eating surrender monkeys"*

So we kind of made fools of ourselves. Was to be expected, really.
Funny to watch it in NYC, where we couldn't find a good place to be - one pub (Kinsale Tavern, and that's NO advertisement) wanted $20 a pop to get access to the big screen, and the other one, 40 blocks down, was packed to the gills. So we stood outside on the sidewalk, with loads of other people, among which two English guys (bugger) who, after quoting the title of this post (hence) decided to buy us drinks in a consolatory (?) fashion.
Needless to say, I'm rather hungover (which explains how there ever could be a post these days: clearly, I'm simply not myself...) but politically, rather pleased that France got chucked out - it would take a while to explain, but Sarkozy must be mightily pissed off right about now, and that makes me feel a whole lot better about the whole thing.
Oh and also, what is it with the Scots cheering England on? Whatever happened to Bon Accord and all that?

* Seriously, peeps. A Wikipedia article. That's like, wow.

You see, it's like this. I'll start writing something, look something up on the internet to avoid making a complete arse of meself, and thank gawd, 'cause then I'll realise the whole premise of that particular post was completely wrong wrong WRONG, and then that'll throw me off the writing track for, like, ever.
It seems I just can't be arsed these days. Also, it seems I love the word "arse". Arse arse arse arse. Obviously Blogger doesn't like it, 'cause it keeps flagging it as misspelled, but NO IT ISN'T. I'm just having a little British-spelling rebellious moment.
Arse.
Also buggery.
I don't know. I feel like being rude in the Queen's English, or something vaguely approaching it.
Actually I blame one of my workmates: she's decided that the way I speak reminded her of the gecko in the Geico commercials - now, anyone who's heard me talk will know I sound nothing like a gecko, let alone a Cockney-sounding one.
No matter. Now I want to use "mate" every other word, and work on my glottal stop.

Whaaaa's wroooongggg????

Something's just not right here. No idea what is is, but something is. And it's killiiiiiiing me. And yes, I'll keep writing just like thaaaat, because that is exactly how I want to be taaaaalking right now, except no one is around to listeeeeeeen.
The weekend was boozy. Very boozy. Good boozy. Maybe it's all related. Then again, maybe not. I guess we'll never know.
Anyway. I've been accused of taking a break. I am NOT. My mojo is. Not that it was ever there to begin with, but, you know. I managed -- with great effort, granted, but still -- to string a couple words along in a way that made remote sense, to me anyway.
These days, wow. I can't even string two words along in my head. Even the voices there have decided that I just wasn't interesting enough, and they're talking among themselves now. Also they're whispering, which means that a) I can't hear what they're saying and transcribe it here for the world to see, and b) they're probably saying nasty things about me.
I am not amused.

Little bit of an update crisis

What, already? Yes. Deal.
It's a bit hectic at work, which is nice but got real old, real fast. Still, it's nice. But old. But ni... yeah, you get it.

I had my first actual political talk with people of the American persuasion today - I guess you can take the girl out of France, but you can't really take France out of the girl...
It ended up in me throwing my hands up in the air and abandoning all thoughts of debate for the more appealing fantasy of a very persuasive (or persuaded, at the very least) multiple slapping about the general face area in the hope that the brain would get switched on in the process. But that's what I never do when people disagree. Maybe I should try.
The good thing is I thought people didn't debate here - they do. And it was heated, even when I wasn't involved.

Oh, ooh, oooooh. Have I told you? No of course I haven't. There's a firehouse two blocks down from where I live. It's got firefighters in it and everything. I'm thinking of baking them a cake. Or... something.

That's all, folks. My brain, it has melted - blame it on some severe sun-slapping.

How do you tell someone you're sorry?

Sure you can buy them a diamond necklace, but I like to think there's more than money involved between you and me. right?
Plus it wasn't really my fault anyway - there's just no internet cafe anywhere in this town. City? I think we should redefine the concept of city/town. Surely in this day and age, internet cafes are the new cathedral, right? So if you can't find an internet cafe within 5 weeks, then it's a town, right?
I have to stop saying "right".
And I could bore you to high heaven and back with stories of me and my technomoronicness, but you want to believe that I'm the clever, brilliant, and generally super fantastic person you've always thought I was, right?
Damn.
Although, I have to say, that particular dream got shattered in a none-too-subtle fashion one day on the subway, when Earth Angel - should I pause for effect here? - got on and proceeded to tell us all about how he couldn't bear to look at guys because they are, and I quote, obsolete, and oh his eyes, his eyes... but if girls under 30 wanted to know eternal happiness, they should join him. Not over 30, mind, because by 30 it was too late, we were joining the obsolete ranks and oh his eyes his eyes again.
And all this time, it never once entered his mind that we might be going oh my eyes my eyes ourselves... Picture a middle-aged man with a dyed jet black crewcut-mullet, very likely a girdle underneath a tight black tee and long shorts. Trying to pick up nubile young things. Does it ever work?
So yeah, now I'm a technomoron too old to ever know what true happiness is really like.
But there's a cocktail bar just a block down from where I live, so I guess there'll always be alcohol.
So that was my attempt at apologizing. And yes, people of Britain, I now use z instead of s - a girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do to adapt. But rest assured: I still live in a flat, use the lift, and smoke ciggies. All isn't lost. Yet.

Whip... Whip... Whip...

That title here was for all the googlers who strangely land here looking for some sort of deviance.
As if.
Talking about titles, the previous one was a premonition of sorts, wasn't it. Almost two months. Wow. Which cunningly brings me to the current title, as it's all the apology you'll be getting, but believe me when I say it's heartfelt (seriously, though, thank you all for worrying. And I have the names of those who didn't).
Here's the drill: I've been at my parents' for the past six weeks. I'll let that settle a while. Six weeks. And no, it hasn't been quite so bad as it sounds.
The wait for the visa, now that's another kettle of fish... So after having it planned and organised so everything would go smoothly, it appears I'll be landing and going straight to work. Which, seriously, is hardly an exaggeration at all.
That is if I'm not rejected by the consulate, of course.

White rabbit white rabbit to all, albeit slightly late, but surely the moral of the story today is better late than never. Right?

Let's try and break a record

Let's see just how far I can go along the "sad and pathetic" scale - without even being prompted.

I have a tenant! Well, they haven't signed yet, but let's not stop at such paltry details. (and don't any of you dare warn me about crowing early or some sort.)
The stuff that I put on eBay got some bids before I had to withdraw it because said tenants wanted to keep it!
I feel validated.
People like me. And my stuff.
Take that, you stupid previous future potential tenant who didn't like my furniture and showed it!

There. Now you have a better idea.
Damn I'm tired.

What an obese woman wants...

Eddie Murphy grants.



There's no cellulite on those thighs, no siree!

"If certain British doctors hadn't asked "What is this fungus?", we wouldn't have penicillin today"

In the Muslim world, they have what's called the Hand of Fatima, supposed to keep the evil eye away - and you're never supposed to say that things are good, because that's bound to attract that bastard evil eye, envious bugger that it is.
I've had a Hamsa pendant for many years, but I haven't worn it very often. Lately, with everything going so well, I thought I should wear it again, considering I've been shouting my fantastic news from the rooftops, cyber and otherwise, for a while now. It just seemed like a sensible precaution to prevent that bastard evil eye from taking a renewed interest in me. Except I kind of forgot about it.

A few years back, a friend and colleague got me a little present: a heart-shaped keyring, very pretty and shiny - a lovely little present, really, so I used it. After a while, things started to go downhill for me at an alarming rate. Of course I put two and two together and the keyring at the bottom of a box where I keep all my rarely-used keys and where I quickly forgot about it.
And things started looking slowly up.
Last weekend, when I started packing, I emptied the box and decided I'd give the keyring to someone. It's been a sitting on a shelf for the past three days.
Out in the open.
Apparently, I've released the antichrist.

Everything is falling apart! I'm never finding a tenant here, I'm never finding a flat over there, and I'm never getting rid of all the stuff I want rid off! And my visa is never going to be ready on time!

Call it overreaction, but I reckoned an exorcism was in order. So the keyring is now buried deep inside the trash, and the pendant tucked safely inside my tee.

"I cast you out!"