"Lonely Moon" short-story contribution

As soon as he came to, Rafe started screaming for help. He yelled until his throat was raw, until his voice cracked, until he had no voice left. Fear was making him sick.
How long had he been out? How late was it?
He knew he’d hurt his leg when he’d fallen down the hole, but he didn’t dare reach down to find out how bad - as long as he couldn’t feel anything from the knee down, then he couldn’t feel the pain either, and that suited him fine.
He tried to sit up, but it felt like his bone was tearing his leg open and the pain was suddenly blinding, so horrible that he couldn’t remember hurting so bad, ever. He screamed and sobbed for his parents, his voice miraculously brought back by the sudden need for his mom’s warm touch, for his dad’s stern talking-to. How many times had they warned him not to wander out after sunset, and never behind the barn where the ground was known to be treacherous?
How could he have been stupid enough to do it on the one evening his parents were out? Would they ever forgive him?
Please God, please. Please let my parents come back and find me. Please God. I’ll never do it again. Please God. I’ll be good. Please God.
Still sobbing, he looked up through the opening, willing the clouds to move away from the moon. Surely, that would make it easier for God to hear.

Jason's blog here.
Competition rules here.

The use of brackets may not necessarily add clarity.

Let's see if this works... Yeah, the words do appear and they seem to make sense.
Hmmm. Not so much apparently, I typed "to make to make" and it took me a while before I realized that I was not, in fact, drunk and seeing things double, they were double.
A-a-nyway. Things are just a little bit hectic these days, and I'm not good when things are hectic. I tend to not write anything because well, things are hectic, and I am tired - even though, ironically, as things are hectic, the days are filled to the brim with hilarious events (deciding to take on a huge big long translation from a language I hardly ever use anymore), non-events (deciding not to take on a shortish translation from a language I almost use everyday), missed events (meeting with Colin Jackson - yeah, not really missed, and not really an actual event for that matter, but I'm hoping he'll google himself and land on this site one day), almost missed events (meeting with Terri and her husband and taking three hours to get there when it really should have taken half that time), stupid decisions (volunteering for an international sports event), etc., so it would be just the perfect time to try my funny writing bone, wouldn't it... (how they would fare in the retelling is another matter but hilarious they were. I guess you'd have had to be there...)
Life's unfair, innit. Oh. Well.

In other, real news, Jason at Clarity of Night is staging another short fiction contest, so I suggest you go have a look-see and maybe even contribute.

Salut les p'tits clous

That is one reference that none of you will get (unless you were growing up in France in the mid-eighties? I didn't think so), but I like to retain some mystery. Ha. Ha. Ha.

The meme monster has struck again, this time through Nome, who is apparently curious as to my musical tastes. She'd better gear up for a nasty shock - I'm hoping she'll be fine once she's read the answers. But she might need every help she can get, I'm counting on you.
Rules:
Post your top ten artists, the first song you heard by them, the one that made you fall in love with them, and your current favorite.

Riiight...
Numero Uno - Dean Martin. He gets first place even though I hardly listen to him anymore, but he had such an impact on so many things... First song I heard was probably Everybody Loves Somebody. The one that made me fall in love was probably Things, or Corrine, Corrina. Or Houston. Yeah, probably Houston, in fact. King of the Road? Hmmm, maybe... Anyway. My current favorite would be Hey Brother Pour the Wine, or Sway.
Living Colour. First song was a whole tape, in fact (yeah, that far back...), Pride. The one that made me fall in love (although the love of my at-the-time life made me discover them, so I was pretty much going to love them all anyway... I'm a lot harder to convince these days.) was Solace of You, and my current favorite is Love Rears Its Ugly Head (Soulpower Re-Mix).
Let's face it, I'll never make it to ten. I might copy Fence and stop at five.
The Beatles. The first song I heard was probably Girl, in school, when we started studying English. The one that made me fall in love would have to be Drive My Car, and my current favorite is definitely Come Together. Definitely.
Queens of the Stone Age. That's really all because of one song, conveniently the first one I heard, the one that made me fall in love with them, and my current favorite: Burn the Witch.
Four? Hmmm...
M. Yes, he's a singer. A French singer, ooh, ooh... Some of them are good, let it be known. First song I heard must have been the same one as everyone else in France, Machistador. It's also the one that made most fans fall in love with his peculiar style (can "peculiar" be used when reviewing a singer? Do you call that "reviewing"? Well then.). My current favorite, not sure... Qui de nous deux, maybe.
Camille Bazbaz. Also French. Very cool, slightly eroticizing, a mix of French variété and reggae, and, and, and... First song I heard, Sur le bout de la langue. Song that made me fall in love with him, Tutto va bene, and current favorite Souviens-toi.
And, ex-aequo for the rest of the rankings, Fishbone, Red Hot Chili Peppers, Cream, The Little Rabbits, Nappy Roots, Death Cab For Cutie, OMD, Spoon, etc., etc., etc. Etc.
My problem is I don't really go for artists, more for tunes. I know, I know, I know. But that's the way I do it.

By the way, lots of these could help you find the answers to the musical quiz. Just sayin'.

I'm drunk on power and melon juice.

Really more on melon juice than on power, but what can I say, it sounded good. Didn't it? Didn't it?
The power trip, if you really must know, came from my monthly walk to the post-office. August being what it is, it was almost empty: there was one person ahead of me in the queue. Now, that's really unheard of. Typically of course, there were more people manning the counters than at peak hours during the proper working months, when the lines are two or three folds deep, but who would I be to complain? Yeah, don't answer that.
So there I was, not believing my luck that this was really going to be that quick and painless.
Well it wasn't.
Two guys turned up behind me, waving frantically at the woman I was just. about. to go up to, going "you just phoned me?" in stereo, and advanced triumphantly to the spot that was rightfully mine, after a token 'sorry'. The woman at the counter apologized, saying something about parcels, bla bla bla, but they were kinda cute, and I was in a good mood. I smiled it off.
That unsettled her deeply, I could tell.
When it was finally my turn, she apologized again. Gave me my stamps, took my letters, apologized again, offered pre-stamped envelopes, which I turned down, apologized again, thanked me for my change, apologized again, and wished me a good day.
Those four-inch high shoes are working like I would never have believed.
Now, the melon. Well, it was very ripe. I suspect I'm on a sugar high. Thank god I've kicked off my shoes, or I'd be hitting the ceiling right now.

An idle brain is the devil's workshop

Ever noticed how, in the morass of set sentences that people will throw at you when they're at a loss as to what to say, one will shine through that is at least half-true? And how, if you look closely, this sentence may not, in fact, make sense?
Take my personal favorite for instance: "it's when you're not looking that you'll find it". Wrong! If I'm not looking, I'll just miss it, won't I?!
Or "the sun always shines after the rain" - tell that to Noah. The guy had to endure 40 days of unrelenting rain, and what for? He was the one left to scoop up all the happy couples' poop after that. I'm pretty sure he'd beg to differ.
Oooh, oooh, and "where there's a will, there's a way". Now. I wonder how no one (or if someone, for that matter) has ever used that one to justify rape, fraud, murder...
OK, I'll stop here. But you see? Three examples - and they do say that good things come in threes. And right there, we reach the crux of my quibble. Because they're not always good, those threes. I very much wish they were, though, because two of my friends whose lives had already taken a turn for the better have just recently found a job, and it would be much appreciated - very. much appreciated - if I made up the third part of that decent threesome. But previous experience tells me that a third friend will phone soon to let me know that they too are on their way to professional happiness.
Anyway. I do sense a pattern of threes these days. Like the number of bills I have to pay, or the number of films I've seen in the past three days (oh my god. two threes in one sentence?!), or the number of people I've seen picking their nose, for example. So there was the lady on the train the other day, and some undetermined person (surely there was some undetermined person, there's always an undetermined person picking their nose somewhere), but the one that will stay with me for a while is the guy on the street yesterday. He was being so thorough at it that I almost patted him on the back in congratulation when finally, after a couple of unsatisfactory forays up his sinuses, he was happy with what his finger had excavated. Definitely, for him, third time was lucky.

Poll time

Dear [insert name of potential boss here],

After reading your ad on [insert name of job forum here], I would like to submit my resume for your consideration, even though I'm not sure it will help my cause: it will tell you that I'm an English-French translator, hence that I should be able to write - who knows, though... -, but it won't really mention my passion for all things cinema, American or otherwise. Similarly, it won't mention that I'm a contributor on a collective blog about Paris, for a Britain-based readership (Voice of a City Paris*, if you want some writing samples). And of course, there is the conspicuous absence of any experience in production.

Having no precise idea of what this internship covers, it's difficult for me to say that I'm the best candidate for the job, but hey, it's worth a try: I'm the best candidate for the job, and I really hope that you will consider my application.

So... you think it would fly?

*Notice the clever plug...

i'm sorry - it's what?

August. We're in August.
I know we've been in August for a couple days, thank you, but I've only just realized exactly what it implies.
Paris is now deep in estination* (same as hibernation, except in the summer, and don't look it up, i don't think that word exists.) - half the shops are closed, half the people are gone, strangely though, the metros are as packed as ever. Also, it's cold. It took less than a week to go from sweltering to slightly chilly.
I wish that fifty years ago we'd all decided that body odors were something we could all deal with and that we'd collectively agreed to stink to high heavens, instead of using those CFC-filled cans of deodorant - the seasonal divide would be a little more reliable.
Whatever. Even though it takes the bulk of this post, I'm not here to talk about the weather. There are much more important issues at stake. What am I going to wear when this translation is over and I have to face the outside world, for instance - because it's hard to dress in this weather. Damn. Again about the weather. I'm turning British.
More importantly though, I'm wondering how time can fly by so quickly that my whole life will be over before I can say "where the hell did all the time and fun and games go that I can't even tell where the hell they did go question mark question mark question mark, and exclamation mark for good measure".
Seriously.

* estivation. there. that's the proper word.

Acting rich isn't all it's cracked up to be...

So I'm still as sane as I was before - or no more insane than... you get the gist.
And you know why? Because this is the first class that I had to deal with on my trip back: no fancy lamp on/in the head rest, hardly any leg room, a bit of tomato stuck between the window and the air vent... Second class, then, except cheaper.
I'm seriously considering asking for reimbursement.
Also. If you think that rich people act better, I have news for you. They pick their noses in public like the best of us beggars.
Now... when I say I'm no more insane than last week, I might be stretching the truth a bit. I actually lost the remainder of my marbles due to the very deliberate attack of a dragonfly, aided and abetted by a mammoth moth. Yes, they were ganging up on me, I could tell, stop it!
Now... when I say "attack", I might also be stretching the truth ever so slightly. Still. There was definite waiting. For me. For the right time to pounce. For the right area of flesh to be attainable for easy biting. I suspect that if my dad hadn't come back and killed them both ruthlessly to save me, I wouldn't be writing this. I'd be wearing a nice padded jacket, arms firmly folded against my chest, eyes rolling wildly, mixing profanities and high-pitched shrieks with the skill of a very experienced DJ, while a tiny but growing thread of spittle glistening in the glare of the neon light would finally justify the title of this blog.
But hey. They're dead, and I'm still loose. Acting rich mightn't be all it's cracked up to be, but it sure beats acting sane.

The wonders of balance

My going to my parents' place for a few days today has led to a strange experience of how good and bad can balance each other out quite unexpectedly.
I realized this morning with shock, horror, frustration that I was not, in fact, coming back on Monday, as I'd been telling everyone for a week, but on Tuesday. Evening. That may seem like a trifle to you, but you haven't lived with my parents (whom I love dearly, please discard that hate-mail draft now, thank you). To me who has, though, one more day means I am as yet uncertain to come back sane.
And I wondered for a few hours how I could have made such a rookie mistake. I have, after all, been going back to my folks' for a limited period for about 15 years now, I should be used to planning those breaks.
Well, it seems I'm not the creature of habit I feared I had become. Or else I slipped. Noooo, I didn't. The reason is this: train fare. It was apparently much cheaper to come back on Tuesday. And why was it that much cheaper? Because they had a promotion on first-class tickets. That's right, you plebeians. First-class tickets. And apparently I decided that dirt-cheap first-class tickets were after all a good reason to sacrifice my sanity and that of my parents.
Boy was I right. I may be short but hey, more legroom is more legroom, right? Not to mention a chair that reclines at the lightest touch of a button, air-con, and no crying children (I suspect that children are altogether banned from first-class. If, after a lengthy investigation, it turns out that this is indeed the case, I'm never travelling anything else.), and a very small tiny wee lamp on the headrest - I wanted to dismantle the chair right there and take the lamp home. I might do that Tuesday. Especially if I need the stress relief.
To sum up, then, so far so good. I'm still as all there as I was yesterday - for now, and that's not setting the bar or the expectations too high, is it... - and I may have a new lamp.

It's raining!

The wind, it very, very cool...! The thunder, it is scary...! The words, they are almost failing me...!
People are staring out their windows at this little miracle! Seriously, the way the tenants all around the yard have opened their windows to look out, you'd think a flying saucer was landing. I don't care, as long as the aliens are friendly and the flames from the engine thingies don't bring the temperature back up. I'm afraid to go to sleep, lest (lest... see what the cooling temperature is doing? I'm using "lest"!) I wake up, and the heat, it's back! (obviously, I'm not using "lest" properly, though. that's comforting.)
It was high time too, because you know how you've been complaining that the only thing I could talk about was the heat? Yeah you have, no use denying it. Well anyway. I was only talking about it. But some people, they were going mad from the heat. Mad, I say. Another couple of days like that, and Paris streets could have turned into something from Mad Max. In fact, some people sporting Tina Turner hair were already being spotted. Scary stuff.
I was at the supermarket yesterday, and Murphy's law being what it is, the queue I was in got held up because the till stopped working. It just stopped working. It was too hot, you see. Tills can get heatstrokes too, apparently. So we were waiting, and waiting, and waiting, and you know how tills are extremely rarely placed near the cool frozen food areas, but close to where the windows are, that let all the glaring sun in, and close to the exits, that let the four-letter word that starts with an h in every time somebody enters or leaves? Well, suffice to say, tempers were starting to flare. The cashier being an underage slave hired for the summer at a wage that would make Bangladesh jealous was evidently started to panick. I was tap-tapping on the conveyor belt with a close-to-hysterical grin plastered on my face. The man behind me was playing Joe Cool and cracking unfunny jokes every other second, and the older man behind him was being generally unpleasant while pretending to be joking. We were that close to tragedy. And then the till started up again.
All of which goes to show that sometimes, in the nick of time, miracles do happen to good people.
So why haven't I heard from those two (or three companies) yet? Nah, don't answer that.
The rain, it has stopped...

This summer just isn't pleasant

And no, I'm not just talking about the heat. Although I could. But I'll spare you: my fan is working! How to confuse an already confused left-hander? Invert the screwing directions. That's really all it takes. But I made it! Granted, the fan makes slightly worrying sounds every now and then, but I'm hoping that if it falls apart while in operation, the blades will lose velocity before they attack my neck in a Piranha II - The spawning fashion. Although, as freak accidents happening to single gals go, that probably is way cooler than being eaten by your own cat because it's unexpectedly turned feral.
Anyway.
Tell me one thing, am I missing something here, is it the new "in" thing to do to start a recruitment process and drop off the face of the earth once you got the unsuspecting applicant's hopes up? How can a hiring company that made you take a test and an interview (or several) not even answer an email? How can a hiring company not answer two emails, for that matter? Is there some sort of etiquette that I'm royally screwing with when I send said emails?
I don't mind them telling me I'm not good enough (obviously that's a lie, I'd mind that very much. very much indeed.) (plus it'd be blatantly untrue. I am good enough. I say so.), but I certainly do mind them not having the courtesy to answer.
So that's two companies so far - in two different (albeit neighbouring) countries. Maybe I should take the hint, stop looking and resign myself to a life of misery here, but that is, in fact, not an option.
Oh I so want to be a drama queen right now, and start wailing that life is hard, unfair, and generally just very very unpleasant, but truth be told, it's much more rewarding to do that out loud. I can screw up my face, start sobbing, make loud blubbering noises and complain that nobody understands just how hard I have it. Also I seem to prefer doing this in French. Man, you are one lucky, lucky bunch of people, aren't you.
Also. Oh yes. That big huge company that I was talking about the other day - tough luck if you don't remember - aw, all right, let me refresh your memory: they're big and huge and they're looking for my type of person - well, they're still looking. Except now their system won't even take my umpteenth application, because I've already applied.
Honestly. How do you type out the sound of an ear-splitting sob and accompanying blubbering noises again?

It's the weekend and I've homework

Fence, bless her cheeky yet oblivious little soul, has tagged me.
Let's get straight to it.

I am thinking about…
the heat. It's pervasive.

I said…
"bloody children" when they woke me up at way too early *cough nine cough* this morning.

I want to…
live in my fridge (the heat, it's pervasive - have I said that already?)

I wish…
I could unscrew the blade cap on my newly bought fan. Because until I do, I can't use my newly bought fan. And if I can't use my newly bought fan, then I will keep thinking about the heat.

I hear…
hammering. Several people have chosen the height of summer to redo their flats. It's fun.

I regret…
not telling some people that they (had) mattered.

I am…
what I am.

I dance…
like there's no tomorrow. You know, depending on the shoes, the music, the atmosphere, the weather, and all...

I sing…
on the PlayStation karaoke thingy. Once. I was a Young Talent. Yes I was.

I cry…
like there's no tomorrow. You know, depending on... not much, really.

I am not always…
that boring. Or maybe I am. I'll blame the heat anyway.

I make with my hands…
not a lot. DIY is not my forte. Cooking? Does that count?

I write…
hardly anymore. But I type a lot.

I confuse…
"we'll be in touch with you next week" with an actual commitment to mail me next week, hence...

I need…
someone who will really be in touch with me next week, preferably with a job offer.

And finally…
I don't know. It's still as hot as it was fifteen minutes ago?

You know I don't tag, but I trust you'll let us know in the comments if you decide to play, yes?

Also.

Don't get me started on the mosquitoes. For some reason, those little suckers seem to think that the fact that I'm leaving my windows open come evening - because, again, it's hot! - even though I know better than to switch my lamps on, is their cue to come in and perch on the ceiling, way out of my reach, threatening my sleep with their buzzing sound and their sucking little mouths, and no, none of this is a good sign.
And don't get me started on my neighbours either, who think that because it's hot, they're allowed to run around their homes buck-naked with their windows open and their own lights on.
And now that you have got me started on both, explain this to me. Why do the mosquitoes choose me over said neighbours?

Oh, yeah - and they want us to jump today. Aye right. Fat chance of that happening, I'm telling you.

OK. This is going too far.

Up the mercury thingamajig, that is.
It's so hot in Paris right now that even the inside of my flip-flops is hot.
Whoa. I was going to write "the inside of my thongs" and realized in the nick of time just how horribly wrong that whole thing could have gone.
I kid you not, though. My flip-flops are hot. And walking bare foot is not an option, even though part of the floor is tiles, because I'm slightly afraid I'll catch bilharziasis. Yes, my floor is dirty as Harry before he told a punk to go ahead, make his day, and redeemed himself forever. (Or after he did? I don't know. It's too hot.) And let's be frank here, I'm not going to risk a heat stroke by those temperatures by cleaning and wasting precious energy. Even though a close encounter of the fireman kind might do wonders for my social life - which is not a given considering the hygienic standards I've set here - the rise in temperature that would ineluctably follow my meeting a fireman would probably kill me. Which would, in fact, ruin any wonders that my social life might have briefly enjoyed. I hope you understood that particular sentence, because I'm not seeing the end of my thought process, and I'm not sure I could explain.
All kidding aside, life is hard here, I hope you realize that. So hard in fact, that I'm thinking of switching my entire diet (understand that to mean my feeding habit, not my starving myself in order to become more presentable. I've entirely given up on that.) to diet soda (OK, not entirely), ice-cream (told you) and ice cold melons and cantaloupes (just because when they're really really ripe, they're like healthy candy).
I haven't got air-con, I haven't got a fan, I haven't got a muscular man to fan me non-stop with a freshly cut banana leaf, and my freezer cannot make enough ice cubes for me to wait for fall in my bathtub. I'm screwed.

The weekend's here, and it shows

Hello, all of you people coming from your favorite search engine looking for "Zidane apology".
You're not going to find it here, I'm afraid (although I can point you to a civilized debate there), but we do have a few songs that remain to be named, a couple of posts below. The two are completely unrelated, I'll grant you that. But the songs are there, and they're titleless, you can't deny that, can you, and no amount of video refereeing will ever change that, will it? Unless... you give me answers, that is.

Today's the 14th of July. Fireworks, firemen, drinks, etc. More importantly (more important than firemen? Who am I kidding...), it means that most shops will probably be closed, hence that I'm severely screwed: I said I would bring a homemade dessert to a friend's dinner tonight, but I don't even have eggs. Which means I'll probably be running around like a headless chicken trying to think of what to do, what to do, until I give up, buy a bakery cake (hopefully, bakeries will be open), and pretend I've made it myself.

There was something else, but I can't remember now. All I know is that some birds should be killed. The loud ones. In public, so they set an example for the rest of the avian population. Maybe with a couple of my neighbors, just to be on the safe side.

One of these days these shoes are gonna walk all over me

I bought new shoes not long ago. I don't know, it was the sales, and I just splurged, shoes being only one of many items that I bought that day. And just to finish on this consumerist note, it felt good. Being self-employed is nice, but considering I'm not actively looking for gigs while I look for a job overseas (I blame a rare case of ADD), my finances aren't all that healthy. So going shopping felt extremely good.
Now to the real problem though... It is thus, people: I can't walk in these shoes. It's been a good few years since I last willingly wore heely shoes, and those, well... let's just say that I'm 5'3", and yet, with those on, I'm tall enough that I could apply to be an airline stewardess. Much like a straight drag-queen without the make-up, then.
I'm seeing things I never saw before, it's giving me a new perspective on life, trees, normal-height people... I'm dreading the moment when it gives me a new perspective on street surfaces. Although I guess I would then be that much closer to being a made-up wannabe drag-queen, and it would give me an excuse to go see my osteopath, so that would be nice. Oh wow, almost a win-win situation...
The way I look at it, though, is I'm giving many a girl a chance to get their own back on all those times when I laughed cruelly at their obvious lack of skills in the "walking in heels" department. And I guess that's just proof positive of my own total lack of self.

Everybody else is doing it...

... and it's not like I'm bursting with things to say...

OK. Dennis!, Alan, Fence, and ForgottenMachine have done their version. Crushed by peer pressure, I am now doing mine. Needless to say, I sucked eggs at that game, but that doesn't mean you shouldn't play...

Now for the rules: I shuffle-played (making up words, me? Shut up, Sue Ellen, you're drunk.) my mp3 music and posted the first line of the first 25 songs that popped up (discarding any really obvious ones where the title is in the first line, and only using the first one by each different artist). You lucky lucky buggers get to guess what songs (and artists) they are.
Correct guesses will be credited as soon as... I want to credit them. Check the comments if they aren't yet, what can I say.
NO GOOGLING, NO PRIZES (except for my endless admiration).
Right. Without further ado...
Oh, and NO CRITICIZING my shitty/easy/oldies tastes, thank you.
OK, here we go.
Oh no, one last thing. Some of those I didn't look up, the lyrics might be slightly off. Tough.

1. When I was a little girl, I had a ragdoll, only doll I ever owned - Fence has the artist, Tina Turner, we still need the title Ady has the title River Deep, Mountain High
2. She packed my bag last night pre-flight - Rocket Man (Elton John), Ben O.
3. Here come old flattop he come grooving up slowly - Come Together (The Beatles), Ben O.
4. Oh let the sun beat down upon my face - Kashmir (Led Zeppelin), ForgottenMachine

5. Don't you know that I'll be around to guide you

6. Maybe you remember, maybe you're locked away

[Depuis tout' petite, t'es très sympathique]

7. I could be loud man, I could be silent - Zebra (The John Butler Trio), ForgottenMachine

8. For millions of years, in millions of homes

9. Ready for action, nip it in the bud

10. I was working part time in a five-and-dime - Raspberry Beret (Prince), Ady
11. With your feet in the air and your head on the ground - Where Is My Mind (The Pixies), ForgottenMachine

[Quand j'étais petit, j'étais un jedi]

12. Yo, I snuck a dollar out my momma purse, headed for that juice joint

13. I always thought that our relationship was cool

14. It's getting near dawn - Sunshine of Your Love (Cream), ForgottenMachine
15. It was 100 degrees as we sat beneath a willow tree - Crooked Teeth (Death Cab for Cutie), ForgottenMachine

16. Pull me close look into my eyes

17. Well I'm saving some mystery for a gold-shackled bed

18. Don't ask me what you know is true - Never Tear Us Apart (not the original, who then?), Ben O.

19. I feel a boom and a bang beating in my broken heart

20. Waiting for the last time for my friend to change my mind

21. Son, she said, have I got a little story for you - Alive (Pearl Jam), Ben O.

[D'quelle imagination ça sort, la chose qui balance ses trésors]

22. This is just the basic, this is not the best

23. Oh we're drinking and we're dancing and the band is really happening - Closing Time (Leonard Cohen), Jen
[enta alakE kinnerasaani maavanI cherE allarI maani]
24. Holding hands, skipping like a stone - Burn the Witch (Queens of the Stone Age), ForgottenMachine
[Sous mes doigts il y avait ta peau]
25. Ahhh see, right see the thing that's got it all fucked up now is camera-phones - When You Wasn't Famous (The Streets), Fence

And those of you who may know French (or otherwise foreign) songs get more chances to make fools or heroes of themselves (in the fancy brackets).

The dreams, they keep crumbling

All right, so we're not world champions, let's deal with it.
Now to the interview. Well, it would be nothing short of a miracle if I got this job.
First of all, the test. All IT and then some. So when they said "we want to interview you", I thought, man, that's it, I'm that good that I passed that one even though clearly I knew nothing.
Well... no. The girl on the phone cleverly dropped DA bomb at some point in the conversation, going "I'm sorry, we haven't reviewed your tests yet, we've got a bit of a backlog", and that whole beautifully crafted card castle went fluttering gracefully but undeniably to the floor. And I refuse to pick up the ruins. I want to live in denial.
Because I really want to keep goiiiiiiing... Because. Get this. There are three phone interviews in total. And then. If you pass them of course, but let's pretend - for the sake of argument, also because if you wake up a sleepwalker, they headbutt you in the chest. Hmmm. I'm getting all of my experiences mixed up.
Right.
If you pass the various phone interviews... they fly you in for a face-to-face one!!! They fly you in!!! A translator!!! They fly a translator in!!! And if you pass that interview... there's a relocation package!!! And it would be on the beach!!! Who cares that it's IT when it's on the beach!!!
Yeah, let's stop with the exclamation marks. If it doesn't pan out, well, I don't know. I'll just join Zidane and we'll set up some sort of community of the disgruntled, I guess.

Who's laughing now, huh?!

Bleuargh. There you go.
Not only did Italy... Not only did Italy... nope, can't say it...
But Zidane expelled...
And ending on a f%#@ing penalty shoot-out...
F%#@rhhhh%#@!!!
Oh fuck it. Fuck. FUCK. There. Slightly better. Slightly.

Here we go here we go here we go

Hmmm. Not sure... This certainly wasn't the game I was expecting. Sure, we're through, so all's right with the world. But it is Italy we're talking about in the final, and unless we were trying to lure them into a false sense of security that we intend to shatter in spectacular fashion come the first minutes of the game Sunday evening, I shall be a bit worried. Have I mentioned that Italy cannot win the World Cup, especially not against France? Well, it cannot. I simply won't allow it.
Also, just so you know and/or acknowledge just how fair I am, I have officially withdrawn every horrible thing I may (or may not, but may is more likely) have said against Barthez as well.
Hoss - this was all about soccer, by the way.

It's fun watching football games in bars, it really is (Hoss - football, soccer, I'm really just trying to confuse you now, I'm mean like that...). Of course, shouting yourself hoarse in a smoky environment (smoke to which you obviously contribute, being French and all) when you haven't got much of a voice left to begin with, what with still being ill and all, and when you have a job interview, over the phone, in English, the next day, may not be the cleverest of moves, but I never really pretended I was clever, did I?
So what should I really hope for, a job in the US or a French win on Sunday? Man, I am torn. Och, I'll just go for both and hope for the best, shall I? Yeah, think I'll do that...

All bets about Sunday (not about the interview, thankyouverymuch) in the comment box below. Knock yourselves out, but I reserve the right to laugh Monday if it turns out you were wrong. I'll start. 2-1. For France, naturellement. (I also refuse to think that this may go into a penalty shoot-out.)

And you will know, my name is the Cold, when I lay my unpleasantness upon you...

Today is the fifth day - and a bit - that I've been ill now, with a mother of a cold. And a very insistent one, that - typically, that only happens with germs and general nuisances - grew quite fond of me over a very brief period, apparently. Sort of like the Alex Forrest of colds, really. Well there ain't no rabbit for you to boil here, missy, no use outstaying your welcome.
I'm not a very pleasant person to talk to when I'm ill. Especially not if you're an overly concerned neighbour - although I acknowledge that it's sweet of you to care, phoning me three times in two days when I'm already trying to get rid of a cold is not a good move: you will understand, I'm sure, that I can't really afford to waste my dwindling strength on two projects at once.
I'm also not very nice if you're the Post-Office, and I'm waiting for a parcel that was sent, and paid quite dearly for that matter, as express delivery, and that I still haven't received a full week after it's been sent. So I will pay a visit to you, germs, fever, sneezes and coughs in tow, and I will not be pleasant. And I will not be pleasant to you when I phone your customer service to give you a piece of my mind, and I will not be pleasant to you when you phone me back to keep me posted - pun not really intended. Especially since you're aware of my complaint, and you cannot possibly think it's unjustified, and still you try to out-unpleasant me. Just so you know: you can't - and I don't even have to be rude to be that unpleasant. And when you tell me that I'm about to receive it and you wait because you expect me to thank you, I will out-wait you. And you will sound silly when you give in and wish me a pleasant day.
Man, I hate colds so much.

So maybe I was wrong

France beat Brazil. And they played really well (I think, but, hey, clearly, what do I know...?!). I can't show it that much because I'm ill and sofaridden, but I'm really quite happy inside.
So I guess that means I've been owing Zidane an apology for a couple matches now. Here: sorry. There.
Still. I was right about Domenech.

Transition

Because I need one.

Jenn

If you haven't read Jenn's words, or seen her photos, you've been missing out - hugely. A beautiful mind, a beautiful young woman, a beautiful person.
Jenn passed away Thursday night. There is nothing that can be said here that will ever make this even close to bearable. She was robbed of her whole life, her loved ones were robbed of her whole life.
Jenn was one of the truly amazing people I am lucky enough to have met in that unlikely cyberworld. Of course we'd never actually met, but does that even count? She said to me recently that "when i end up in paris again one day i (will) bang on your door & demand that you drink wine with me...", and I so wish I could tell her that she's not off the hook...
Jenn showed me that writing could be a thing of joy, even in sadness.
Not this time.
It dawned on me yesterday that everytime I snap a picture of anything, everything, I think of her. Jenn showed me that photography was retaining a little of your childhood spirit, and letting it loose in the world. And I wish I'd told her that I am so very grateful to her for that.
It is possible to miss people that you've never met. I didn't want to know that.

Whatever happened to the "global village"?

I was watching a documentary the other day, The Yes Men, about two guys trying to undermine the WTO from the inside - pretty funny, in a Michael-Moore sort of way - when suddenly, disaster struck.
The translator doing the subtitles was obviously working straight from the video and didn't have a script. And when, at some point, one of the guys said something like "every columnist in the US", s/he didn't understand. Or rather, s/he understood "communist". And of course proceeded to translate "communist".
Now. A translation usually goes through a quality control. Subtitles supposedly go through a quality control too. That means that at least two more people didn't think there was anything wrong with that.
The same kind of annoying thing has already happened several times - let's face it, it's easy to spot mistranslations in subtitles, especially when you're, like me, actively looking for them, but still... - but the one that also stays is when some alleged translator had misunderstood "when he'd been wronged" and translated "when he'd been wrong". Which I'm sure you'll agree does alter the meaning slightly.

There's a job offer that keeps popping up on my e-mail: a very, very big company in NYC is currently looking for a French translator. In fact, they're looking for me, but they're in denial. Someone with my experience, in my field of experience, etc. Me, right?
Except they're not going to hire me. And believe me, I've applied. Three times. And I'm going to apply again. They said they were looking for the right person. Based on their ad and my resume, I can only assume that the right person will already have the right to work in the US because they're not going to sponsor. As they've been looking for a couple months now, they'll have to settle soon, because nobody looks for translators for ever. So they'll hire someone who doesn't meet their requirements, but hey, at least they won't have to sponsor. (By the way, I'm not saying I meet their requirements. I'm saying they could at least bloody check.)

So there you have it. That's the main reason why I haven't really been updating this thing quite so regularly as in the past - nice little bit of understatement, that. I'm not, in fact, a big fan of the bitchy whiny attitude - no, I'm not... - and it seems that all I want to be doing these days is bitch and whine. And it's going to last a while, I can tell.

They'll probably name a disease after me, you know

Or a particularly nasty and vicious neurosis. Something.
Apparently, I am, at certain times, hypersensitive to sound. All sorts of sound. Especially the disbelievingly non-stop PA announcements or whatever they're called that they were killing me slowly with on the train.
They were telling us that we were going to be 35 minutes late. Now that's annoying but we can deal with it like adults, I'm sure.
Yeah, at first I could.
And then they started translating everything they were saying into 3 more languages. All the announcements we had, we got them in French, Dutch, German, and English. All of them starting with the annoying Thalys jingle. All of them. Some of them were told on the oh-so-obvious spot by the train guard, who oh-so-obviously didn't really speak either Dutch or English. You'd think that while we wait in the scorching heat in an unventilated train is not the best of times to increase our blood pressure like that, wouldn't you? The Thalys people, they don't seem to mind. They must like living on the edge.
Especially as the train is crowded, and of course, of course, there will be people trying their mobile ringtone, making sure that it is loud enough - not to mention silly enough - to be heard in such a loud environment as a train. Because the mute option is taking too much of a risk, isn't it. One might miss a crucial phone call, and one certainly doesn't want to have to wait a whole 90 minutes to talk loudly and self-importantly.
By the end of the sound-testing phase, I was ready to gouge some eyes out.
Which is the exact moment that one of the guys out for a teenage romp in Paris with his pals, a couple of seats up, chose to start shuffling his deck of cards (no, that is not, in fact, a metaphor) repeatedly, getting ready for some devilishly daring game of solitaire (still not a metaphor). I just had to shoot him a look. And not a come-hither look either. Which he didn't see anyway because he was sitting with his back to me. Yeah, I was murderously annoyed, but not particularly brave. But his mate saw me and said a couple words to him. The shuffling stopped and I tasted power. It is good.
A couple minutes later, the shuffling was back on the cards. Power is also fickle.

So that's my excuse, huh...

You know what, it's kind of hard to write anything when Blogger is so obviously up the proverbial creek without its trusted cyber paddle.
Even if I did think of something funny to write about - which I don't, so don't hold your breath here, 'cause, well... you'd die - the fifteen minutes and four refreshes it takes for each page to load up on my screen before I even make it to the "new post" thingamajig do tend to make me let go of the plot entirely, as proved by the single string of profanities that seems to be going round on a loop in my head. And I've watched Deadwood, so that's a single, long, string of profanities we're talking about here. It is in fact possible that part of said string escaped the confines of my head and made it past my usually pristine lips. They're probably tainted forever now.
Yeah, so maybe my lips weren't so pristine nor my grasp of the plot so perfect to begin with, but I'll blame Blogger anyway.

Help! Help! I'm being repressed!

A funny thing happened yesterday. Not funny strange, funny ha ha. Well, not really funny ha ha, more like I-really-want-to-rip-your-bloody-throat-open-with-my-nails-bitten-raw funny.
You see, the people I'm talking to about a potential job are dangling the opportunity in front of me, but they have perfected the "tantalisingly close" thing to a work of art. So yes, but not quite. Or maybe but we're not completely ready just yet.
Also - or should that be hence - I am in the shittiest of moods today. You'd think that that could have happened when I was at my parents' and I had people to get angry and snap at for no reason except the intense satisfaction of seeing a look of utter incomprehension on their faces while their mouths opened and closed in a near-perfect impersonation of a fish that racks its brains for a killing repartee but can't find one, wouldn't you. No, surprisingly, that went quite well. And now, I'm back in Paris, where the weather is an absolute crime against my humanity, and there's no one around that I can calm my nerves on.
Well, I guess I am simply going to have to pay the unemployment agency a visit tomorrow and kill someone, then.

Slow come-back

Not quite fully "back" in Paris yet, so Voice of a City got a sort of a half-cooked rant, and you get a sort of a mumble.
But you know you're my favorite child, don't you.

So long, and thanks for all the fish

Today is Towel Day.
Do Douglas Adams proud and carry one around with you all day, why don't you. It might not give you the answer to Life, the Universe, and Everything, but, should the planet come to an untimely demise today, you'll find it can come in very handy indeed.

Now have a good weekend, everyone.

Bleuargh

Things are a bit all over the place right now, hence the temporary silence (enjoy it while it lasts, though. Or hopefully you enjoyed it while it lasted. Whatever...). Plus I'm nursing a right arm that decided to simply quit on me over the weekend, and it turns out that my right arm, even though I'm left-handed, is evidently a lot more useful to me than I ever thought, seeing as I couldn't do much for two days, apart from whining and crying and wishing that my life was completely different and blaming it all on my parents, because somebody had to be blamed, and I don't need to remind anybody that I'm single, now, do I.
Point taken, right arm. Come back now.
When it does come back*, there are a few things that need taken care of. I am however feeling all over the place too, bordering on out of control.
Soooo... Don't mind me while I huddle into a corner and lick my mental troubles into permanent scar tissue.
Oh, and also. There is only so much "anne, you're inadequate" shoved in my face that I can take, and I had to look up "UMD" today, because the Doom DVD, and UMD then, is out in France, so that quota was reached fast. Who on earth comes up with a technology but doesn't make sure that everybody knows what the acronym means before advertising for Doom?? And while we're on the topic. Doom??? Was there a need, a point, a redeeming feature?
Yeah, I'm in a foul mood. But you were kind of warned.
Completely off topic (or... is it?) , I'll be at my parents' for the next few days. Yeah, I take it very seriously, that blaming game... Anyway. If you don't hear from me by the end of next week, call the police. I mean that.
In the meantime, I want, nay, I need, a new haircut. Think about it, and get back to me. Ta.

*Truth be told, it has come back. But I could still do with some sympathy.

Words of advice

It's better to have been drunk and be home when the wind's blowing like mad than to be sober and out (when the wind's blowing...). No?
That's what I thought.
Also, and let's be serious here for a couple of seconds. Are there any restaurant managers among you? Well, you listen very carefully, people. Cockroaches. They don't look too good in restaurants. I'm just saying. Especially when they're huge big ones, of the kind that's not really supposed to exist in France.
First, spotting the presence of one because it's very very close to my bag will make me suspicious of your hygiene standards, and you don't really want your customers to be suspicious of your hygiene standards, now, do you?
[Ooops, a sound very similar to a gunshot has just been heard outside of the flat. That would be way too much excitement for one evening. If people start screaming and crying now, I may never get to the end of this post.]
And second, the sheer size of it will also make me wonder if the "restaurant" operation is not simply a cover-up for a chemicals business you might have going in back. Especially considering a hugely famous actress* is having dinner in that same restaurant. Think Kate Moss meets X-Men if you're lost.
Nevertheless, if you're going to have cockroaches roaming your fine establishment anyway, you might want to tell your waiters that squashing them is not advisable. Unless you really want more of them. A lot more of them. Which is your right, after all, but you're going to have to make a choice after a while: customers or cockroaches... And William Styron wrote it better than I ever will, it's a difficult choice to live with.
The good thing about cockroaches in restaurants, though, is that if you spot them before the waiter, alcohol's on the house.
[And about that gunshot? Apparently it wasn't one. Phew.]

* Yeah, OK, maybe not hugely famous.

Da Vinci load

So... The Cannes Festival started tonight, The Da Vinci Code is about to hit the entire planet, and I'm already sick of it.
It's so unfair that, having only just escaped Tom Cruise, we now find ourselves at Tom Hanks' mercy... The thing is, I'm probably going to go see it. I'm weak that way. And let's face it, it's not like I'm overbusy these days.
But how many unsubtitled Uzbek films will I then have to watch to make up for that? And I can't really use the obscure 'French' movie thing these days: there are no aloof pseudo intellectuals left to smoke and talk about death and sex, they're all busy trying to break some code about Jesus having sex before his death.
By the way. People, people, people. What is this thing about taking "Da Vinci Code" tours? Do you really think that the truth is going to leap at you from the Rose Line in Saint-Sulpice? Do you? Do you? Has it never occurred to you that it hadn't even fully occurred to Dan Brown? Who wrote the book? Has it never? Has it never? (Funnily enough, that doesn't sound half as snappy as "Do you? Do you?") Let's be serious for a second, now shall we.
And that stance of mine - good lord, I'm actually taking a stance - has nothing to do with the heated debate that's been featured in almost every news edition for the past week, between those who want to believe and, well, those who want to believe.
Once a year, we all believe that an initially pagan fat man in red does indeed manage to climb down chimney conduits to deposit presents that, again, we believe we deserve. You'd think that once that little feat is achieved, we could suspend our disbelief for a couple more pages and go along with a novel.
Hold on. I'm contradicting myself here, aren't I? Bugger.

Random thoughts

Yep. That bad. And that took me about 15 minutes to write.

Ready, steady... Oh, that's right. I can't do steady.

No, this is not, in fact, a post with lots of relationship advice and the secret cure to commitment-phobia in it. Those of you who were expecting that may now move on to the next page of Google results.
So many of you take pictures without even realizing how hard it is for us normal (or... you know...) people, that you're probably never going to understand this, but anyway, here goes my cry for help, understanding and maybe a little pity. With summer come longer days, beautiful dusk and night "light", and endless opportunities to shoot away, especially at night. And endless opportunities for me to snap, tremble, delete, snap, tremble, delete, etc. And I suppose I should really be grateful for digital cameras. Just think of the number of forests for whose destruction I'd be single-handedly responsible if I was using a camera with real, processable film in it...
Still... Frankly, it's annoying. I have tried a lot of things to remedy this problem, and none of them's worked. This evening, I tried a friend's shoulder. He moved. In fact, the picture with his "help" was a lot worse than the one without. Which is just typical, isn't it. Just when you're hoping you'll be able to rely, maybe even rest, on a man's shoulder, he fails you.
Honestly, though, this isn't about relationships.
Maybe I should just wander about with a telescopic tripod. (Minds. Out of gutter. Now.* This is not about relationships, I said.) Toss it in the bag with the umbrella (just in case), the wallet, the cheque-book, the sunglasses (if I'm taking the brollie, I sure as hell am taking the sunnies), the book, the MP3 player, the lipsalve, the tissues, the cell phone, the streetfinder, the camera, the Japanese ashtray, the huge keyring... Why am I bothering with a lady-like purse or even a girlie bag? A wheeled suitcase is obviously the way to go here. And at least my pictures would be showing the actual target, instead of a blurry mass of bleeding colors.

*They weren't? Sorry. Blame Coupling.

Frank

Courtesy of Monkey0.

For Jenny, visiting her great-grandmother had always meant stories galore.
Back when photography was a novelty, Louise had perfectly understood how important it was to have souvenirs, tangible images of people and places. The way they were, that way they would always be.
All it took was for Jenny to reach into the treasure trove of photographs that her gran had accumulated over the years.
The tradition was this. If Jenny was staying the night, they would settle on the sofa after dinner, Jenny would pick a photo at random, and Louise would tell the tale. The ritual, because no tradition goes without a ritual, included hot chocolate and marshmallows, plumped up cushions, and Danse Macabre on the stereo.
That day, two pictures were sitting on top of the big leather chest that Louise used for her photos. Jenny took one look at them, smiled at her gran, and said:
"Well, I don't think I need to look any further. Now who is this dashing young man, this... Frank... pray tell?"
"Oh, Jenny, no. Please pick another one."
"Gra-a-an! Come on, you know the rules. I pick the picture, and you tell me the story..."
"This is going to be hard for me, you know. There's a reason those photos were out, but they really should have been put away."
Jenny looked closely at her gran, gave her a kiss on the cheek, cuddled up to her on the sofa and waited, head resting on the crook of her great-grandmother's neck, one hand wrapped loosely around her.
"Frank. See the ring on his wedding finger? It was a present from me. We weren't married, not even engaged. We were just very much in love. It... It was very good. He was very good to me."
Louise paused.
"But he's not Granpa."
There was no interrogation in Jenny's voice, just some sort of vague understanding.
"No. That, he was not. For some reason, our... affair... was frowned upon, to put it mildly. We had to hide every time we were meeting, we were even thinking of eloping. I was afraid it would have killed my parents, but I was willing to take that chance."
"Killed your parents? Oh come on, Gran."
"Oh it would have been terrible, Jenny, about that I have no doubt. That was three quarters of a century ago, remember. So even if it hadn't actually killed them, the shame would have been a much worse fate. Thankfully... for them, they were..." Louise's voice faltered. "... spared the indignity, I suppose."
"What happened? Gran, are you OK?"
"He got shot in a hunting accident. He hated hunting. My father had threatened him into joining. Not threatened threatened, of course, but, you know, used his position of authority, to say the least. There was never a doubt in my mind that my own father killed the man with whom I was in love. That was 77 years ago yesterday. I left my hometown after the funeral and never saw my parents again." She looked at Jenny. "I'm OK, petal. I met your great-grandfather a couple of years after that. He was very good to me too."
"Oh Gran, that's..."
Louise's eyes were filling up, but no tears were shed.
"It's OK, sweetheart. These things happened."

You're forcing me to do this

Listen, people of various charities who choose to phone at lunchtime, dinnertime, and any time in between. I respect the job that you're doing as a member of, you know, the various charities that you represent. And I wish I could give more, to all of you, and end war, hunger, poverty and sexual frustration in the world.
OK, so that last one's not a charity. But I am pretty sure that if it were one, you would raise a lot of money for that. A lot.
So, despite that obvious oversight, which I just might tackle soon, I respect you, your job, your causes, etc. Nevertheless, you are going to have to stop calling me. Honestly. Everyday, a couple of times a day? There is such a thing as overdoing it, you know.
Now, I am more than willing to contribute to a joint effort, but I cannot do this on my own. Especially in these tax-paying times. And it does feel like you're relying exclusively on me. Which is an easy mistake, I guess, as I am a very reliable person.
However. You see, I am unemployed. In fact, there is a good chance that, if things continue down the slick, soap-covered slope they very clearly have embarked on, I might have to take full advantage from one of your charities. So you calling me at any time of day is not only a textbook example of "not efficient", but it could be construed as moral harassment. I could probably sue you for moral distraught: everyday, several times a day, you manage to make me feel completely inadequate and unhelpful. And you know, someone like me (reliable, then) needs to feel helpful. Obviously.
Yeah... So I would probably lose this particular case... and there is no such thing as bad publicity for you... Crap!
All right. Fine. Fine. I'll just take on standard telemarketers then. 'Cause there's a whole 'nother post in that.

Needles - who knew they were dangerous?

Substance abuse is no laughing matter. I know, I have it. Not one, not two, it. Name a substance, any substance, and there is a very real possibility that I will abuse it in an undefined future.
Like wool, for instance. I abuse wool. Hi, my name is anne and I'm a wool-abuser.
Knitting is all the rage right now. Every trendy girl in Paris has taken up knitting. Well, I'm not trendy, but I'm trying to cut down on the smoking.
How, you ask? Willpower, ladies and gents, willpower. And, you know, yelling at people, craving chocolate, gnawing my nails, knitting. Well, yeah, knitting: I need to keep my hands occupied...
Hence the abuse. Although it also signifies progress. I have replaced one addiction with a less health-hazardy one. Slightly less health-hazardy anyway, it is needles we're talking about, after all.
But honestly, wool has never felt so cheap than since I've started knitting again. You see, I used to knit. Well... Not so much knit as have two needles enter a deadly duel with one another, in a "I have no light saber but I like to pretend" kind of way.
However, I had to give up after a while, because my dad has never worn the bonnet that I knitted for him, and that made me realize that maybe, just maybe, the stuff I knitted was not, in fact, wearable.
But I'm nothing if not persistent, and, again, I'm trying to cut down on the smoking. So a while back, I googled "knitting" and came up with a bunch of sites explaining the various stitches (do you call them stitches in English? I googled in French. And I really can't be arsed looking up the bilingual version just now...)
It was that easy. Some leftover wool, a couple a needles, and off I went, down that heretofore untravelled (by me) road of fancy knitting. No wonder public health is going down the drain, considering the easy access to everything.
To be honest, I didn't travel that far down it. Apparently, I'm inventing new stitches. And they do not make for pretty sweaters. I might have to give up again for another five to ten years. It'll be hard to quit.
Smoking would probably make it easier.

The world might not be my oyster, but it's a definite mussel

You know that feeling you get sometimes, like you're lying in a hospital bed and your brain is superpowerful and can make planes crash just because the people that visit you get on your nerves?
No? It's just Richard Burton and me, then?
Well, count your blessings, darlings. Because I do, and it ain't a pleasant one.
Yeah, OK, it is, kind of, because of the all-powerfulness. But still.
Let's go back a couple of months. I was invited to a party that I didn't really want to go to, so when asked if I was coming, I made up an excuse that I had other plans, previously arranged, with former colleagues of mine. A lie, then, and badly fumbled at that. Shame on me, all right.
BUT...! Crime does pay some times. The same evening that I had made sure I was going to hell for fibbing, I got a text message, from a former colleague, inviting me to a party on the day that the other party was planned.
Coincidence? Probably. But spooky, right?
Well, wait, 'cause it certainly gets better.
So Friday, I wrote here that my building was on the verge of collapse, threatening "millions of innocent passers-by". I believe those were approximately my exact words?
Yeah.
Well, it hasn't exactly collapsed, because then I'd be in a straitjacket somewhere cackling that the world is mine, miiiiiine, mwahahaha...
Nevertheless,- No one ever uses nevertheless, it seems. Why? I think I'm going to make it my mission to use it more. Nevertheless, then, on Saturday afternoon, as I was getting ready to... oh that's right, do nothing, I got a phone call from a friend, telling me that firemen were all over the place outside of the building. Needless to say, I was outside in a flash.
Yeah, OK, so "in a flash" might be a slight exaggeration.
Hey, it was firemen, all right? You can't really blame a girl for wanting to look good in those circumstances.
So it turns out that a chunk of one of the balconies had fallen down on the pavement.
I kid you not.
After the initial shock of realizing that the building was indeed a threat to innocent people everywhere, after the initial thrill of seeing firemen and talking to them, after I'd almost fainted from hyperventilating, after all that, I felt like I was lying in a hospital bed and my brain was superpowerful and I could make planes crash.
So now I'm thinking lottery numbers, I'm thinking imminently successful applications in New York, I'm thinking handsome men vying for my attention, I'm thinking don't screw with me, destiny, because I can certainly screw you back.
Apparently.

Is it a bird? Is it a plane? No, it's my upstairs neighbor!

Let me tell you more about the building I live in.
The never-ending story, part 6002. And counting, by the sound of it.
So it's crumbling down and threatening millions of innocent and oblivious passers-by, so the managing agent has done fuck-all in the past three years, and so, after 6 weeks of faffing about, we might just be on the verge of a break-through with a new managing agent - but that's only if we make the bloody decision instead of going 'oooh, I don't knoooowww...'
And. Somebody bought the garden shed a couple of months ago. Understand, this is a very elaborate garden shed, where people have lived for a long time. And they have direct access to the garden. Which is not very elaborate, but hey, it's a garden.
So anyway, some people have bought it. And they're redoing it. Completely, by the sound of the works. And those clever, clever - and cheeky, cheeky - buggers are planning on adding, get this, two floors to said garden shed. Two. Floors. And why not, I ask? Look, I'm gonna buy a parking space, add several rooms on all sides of it, and a couple floors too, and hey presto, I have me a whole fucking building!
So that's their plan. Little do they know that they are up against a couple of very determined owners who do not want what little view they have of the garden to be blocked. And we have a secret trump... The neighbor! Super-err-and-emm-girl!
She phoned me today, and honestly, if I wasn't in such dire need of entertainment, I'd have probably killed her. Well, I don't really know what I would have done, considering the resounding success that was the assassination of the other neighbor with the maddening laughter, but... Oooh, oooh, I know! I should lock the two of them up in one room and wait for the end.
And, as training, I shall let her loose on the garden gnomes first. I give them half an hour before they agree to whatever she says just, please god, make her stop!
Well that was my reasoning when she phoned me anyway. I don't know that there is anything quite as simultaneously infuriating and debilitating as someone with a high-pitched voice who doesn't know what exactly she's about to say but still cuts you short because she thinks she knows what you are about to utter. Nothing. Well, I suppose I could mention my brother trying to make me go completely mental when I was 15, and doing a fine job of it too, but what help would that be to me in my present predicament, apart from making me burst a brain vessel, I don't know.
So yeah, twenty minutes on the phone with her and I was ready to get the blame - screaming - for just about anything, from stealing candy when I was 9 (between 7 and 12 anyway) to the entire Enron debacle.
I reckon the new owners don't stand a chance.

Here comes the sun

And it's really a good thing. I mean, now that my legs are back to a presentable state - dazzlingly white, but presentable -, it's a really good thing. You know, it's been said before, and much, much better than here, but basically, winter is fun for about a week, and then it gets real old real quick. So after the previous 730 straight days of cold-grey-and-drizzle, it's really good to see and feel the sun again.
Except.
Oh come on, of course there was going to be an 'except'. What did you think, that this had turned into The Sound of Music overnight? The sun is out, so all of a sudden I'm supposed to be all giddy? Perish the thought, my dears. Perish the thought.
Except when the sun is out and the temperature rises above the 20° (again, C., not F.) barrier, the thing that really comes to mind is to open the windows.
And the problem is that, wish as I might that I were exceptional and unique, I ain't really. No no, no use pretending, I know I ain't. And so everybody else around here thinks of the same thing. They all open their windows.
So here's the crux of the matter then. There is a not-so-cristalline sound that pierces my ears every now and again. A frequent every now and again, I might add. Often. Sometimes on a more or less constant basis.
One of my neighbours likes the sound of her own laughter. But see, I don't. And I'm in a bit of a puddle about that.
Puddle? Poodle? I so wish I could say poodle and get away with it. Anyway. Now is not the time nor the place to debate the merits of small curly dogs as metaphorical problem areas.
The puddle, then, is this. After around fifteen minutes of this "up and dow the scales I go", I'm torn between yelling a heartfelt "Shut up!" outside of my own open windows - and considering the impressive acoustic qualities of four buildings closely snuggled together around a yard, there is a very good chance that these two words will reverberate their way around and zoom across through her own windows, into her ear duct, and slam themselves right through her eardrum and into her brain, where they might be tattooed there for eternity and all I care - let me catch my breath. Aaaand ("between yelling"... and. Yes? You all with me?) running down the stairs like a maniac, slamming all doors open and shut very violently so that people know not to interfere, running up the stairs to the courtyard like 'something has survived', letting the sound guide me to the culprit's flat and, well, I don't know, kill her? That would certainly shut her up. The hitch with that option is that considering her laughter, the shrieks would probably lead me to suicide. What a waste of energy that would then have been.

Seriously, now.

There is a Robbie Williams CD, and, more shockingly, a Shakira CD on my shelf. Honestly... I know I said I had no musical tastes to speak of, but surely that's pushing it.
Let me rephrase this to reflect the fact that drastic measures have been taken. There were a Robbie Williams CD and a Shakira CD on my shelf. They've now been put away in a bag, said bag has been hidden where no one can see it, and they are currently waiting to be taken to a place where money - however little of it, let's not kid ourselves - will change hands in a very discreet manner so I can be washed clean of that particular sin.
And we need never mention this again. Ever.
With the money I get for those two, I'll buy new music, music that I won't be ashamed of, like, oh I don't know, an All Saints anthology or something. Baby steps.

Ooops

I lied.

Patience, grasshoppers...

I'm working on something for tomorrow which should be hilarious, if I dare say so myself.

Hard day's night

My entry for Jason's short-story competition.
There are real gems in there, I strongly suggest you go take a look.

Walk in the door, head straight to the bar and pour a stiff drink, maybe even drink the whole day into oblivion — that was the plan.
When he turned on the hallway lights, one of them was flickering. Would the hassle ever stop? Why did he need two lights in the hallway anyway?
The plan held. He would take care of the lamp after the first drink.
He kept the first sip of bourbon on his tongue a while, anticipating the rush of alcohol, looking forward to the light-headedness that would come with the second drink. No food all day would help ensure that.
Second drink down. Nice.
He poured himself a third one and went to have a look at the lamp.
He screwed the bulb tighter and turned the light back on. Still flickering.
For crying out loud.
He set his drink on the table, and under he went, fiddling with the outlet. No good. Maybe a wire was loose in the cord. He couldn’t be bothered with it now though. He felt nice and cozy under the table, like a child’s comfort place. And comfort was exactly what the doctor had ordered just now.
Startled by the phone, he jumped up and knocked himself cold against the sharp angle of the table, spilling his drink in the process. When the dripping bourbon touched the outlet, a spark flared up, and the flickering briefly worsened. The fire was quick to spread.
His last day could have been better.

Oh look!

Voice of a City has been updated!
It's for kids and for grown-ups! There's suspense! There's comedy! There's no sex!
Hmmm. That sounds a bit like Sabrina the Teenage Witch...
Anyway. Having used all of my limited brain power for that, you'll pardon the lack of update here. Will you? Will you? Yeah go on, you know you want to.

Blogger is screwed, my darlings. If you see this you see this. If you don't... you don't.
But don't blame me.

Hear ye, hear ye

All right, you'uns*. Jason, over yonder at Clarity of Night, is having a short-story contest. You might want to go, take a good look at the picture, and enter the competition. You might also want to make sure that what you write is good, but not too good, because I would really like to win. If I enter the competition myself. Which I may or may not do, it's undecided as yet, but still. In the event that blah blah blah... give me a chance.

Apart from that... Not much. Oh yes. Christopher Guest may just be my latest celebrity crush. You gotta love an understated actor. And please don't judge me by that picture. Obviously his agents don't like him much.
Other than that... Nothing really. Oh yes. Today is the 111th day of the year. I quite like that.
Can you tell I have nothing to say? Do I get points for trying? Or would it have been better if I'd just abstained? Yeah... See, trying too hard, that's my problem. All the time I just try too hard. But I just want people to love me... So I try, and I try, and I try, and I try... I can't get no... Sorry. Oh my god, I can't stop. Someone shoot me, please.

*Let it not be said that I do not rise** to the challenges thrown my way. Hope I used it right.
**Although I know I won't be able to meet just any challenge, so don't swamp my mailbox. Ta.

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

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

I smell a conspiracy

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

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

Bugger. It's Easter.

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

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

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

Yeah yeah yeah

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

Oh the frustration.

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

A picture is worth...

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

Ever felt like the sky was the limit?

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