My lover gets here in a few hours. I'd love to be my normal ice-cold, cool-ass self and be like, yeaaaaaaah, so, my lover gets here in a few hours. The first non-monarchical official female head of state was Sühbaataryn Yanjmaa, widow of Mongolian war hero Suhbaatar. Bet you didn't know that, punk.
But you know what? No.
EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!
giovedì, aprile 13, 2006
mercoledì, aprile 12, 2006
Cranky
How can my apartment not be clean yet? It feels like I've been cleaning apartments for years. Obviously I have far too much stuff if I can still be cleaning like, a jillion years after I started.
Cleaning sucks.
Yesterday Figaro and I were discussing the short lapse of time until he arrives, and I mentioned that I had to clean the apartment before he did. He explained that he was already aware of what filth I was content to live in so I shouldn't bother. I pointed out that I was aware he was aware, but as a reasonable hostess, if nothing else, I didn't want him to get an infection in here or something. And he laughed. Maybe because of his visual nature, he always has a tickety-boo household - meals on time and no rubbish strewn across the floor and stuff like that. I must say it's very attractive. I can hardly organise my ass into panties every morning.
I've started being rude to salespeople, which I suppose heralds my entry into the middle class. As in this exchange at the Hummingbird Centre:
Spliffe: Hi, a friend and I each have orchestra tickets for Thursday night's Wozzeck, but we'd like to go together. Can we swap these for two cheaper seats together on the balcony?
Salesperson: (Blank stare) Uhm, that person over there can help you. Wait. Uhhhhhhh . . . how much did you pay for them?
Spliffe: Hold on, I'll check.
Salesperson: Was it 20-something? Because if it's 20-something, there's no exchanges.
Spliffe: Okay, I'll pay a premium.
Salesperson: No, there are no exchanges.
Spliffe: Even if I pay a premium, for worse seats?
Salesperson: Yes, that's right, unfortunately there are no exchanges.
Spliffe: You realize that makes no fucking sense, right? Honestly, that's the dumbest thing I've heard all day.
Salesperson: Well, when you buy the tickets you're told . . . (Spliffe fucks off in a little huff.)
I did not need to say 'fuck' to the salesperson. I did not need to cut her off midsentence, but most of all I did not need to manifest anger at her for following procedures, even if those procedures were the dumbest thing I'd heard all day and made no fucking sense. But nonetheless, if the same thing happened today there's a good chance I'd do it again. Working in sales must be R_U_P_T rough. I've been in a position of authority over people making requests to me professionally for so long my intuition has forgot that - I know it intellectually, how it sucks working in sales, but my emotional reaction to rubbish like that is an anger against the institution that manifests by me swearing at some dead-eyed salesperson who almost certainly isn't paid enough to give a fuck about whatever he or she is selling.
Well, at least I'm not rude to wait-staff. When that day comes, so do the SSRI's, which a doctor with whom I'm on close terms claims she'll prescribe at the drop of a hat - not just for those who need it for clinical disorders, but also for the cranky. Don't like the idea - but people who are rude to wait staff need spanking and perhaps chemical help.
Cleaning sucks.
Yesterday Figaro and I were discussing the short lapse of time until he arrives, and I mentioned that I had to clean the apartment before he did. He explained that he was already aware of what filth I was content to live in so I shouldn't bother. I pointed out that I was aware he was aware, but as a reasonable hostess, if nothing else, I didn't want him to get an infection in here or something. And he laughed. Maybe because of his visual nature, he always has a tickety-boo household - meals on time and no rubbish strewn across the floor and stuff like that. I must say it's very attractive. I can hardly organise my ass into panties every morning.
I've started being rude to salespeople, which I suppose heralds my entry into the middle class. As in this exchange at the Hummingbird Centre:
Spliffe: Hi, a friend and I each have orchestra tickets for Thursday night's Wozzeck, but we'd like to go together. Can we swap these for two cheaper seats together on the balcony?
Salesperson: (Blank stare) Uhm, that person over there can help you. Wait. Uhhhhhhh . . . how much did you pay for them?
Spliffe: Hold on, I'll check.
Salesperson: Was it 20-something? Because if it's 20-something, there's no exchanges.
Spliffe: Okay, I'll pay a premium.
Salesperson: No, there are no exchanges.
Spliffe: Even if I pay a premium, for worse seats?
Salesperson: Yes, that's right, unfortunately there are no exchanges.
Spliffe: You realize that makes no fucking sense, right? Honestly, that's the dumbest thing I've heard all day.
Salesperson: Well, when you buy the tickets you're told . . . (Spliffe fucks off in a little huff.)
I did not need to say 'fuck' to the salesperson. I did not need to cut her off midsentence, but most of all I did not need to manifest anger at her for following procedures, even if those procedures were the dumbest thing I'd heard all day and made no fucking sense. But nonetheless, if the same thing happened today there's a good chance I'd do it again. Working in sales must be R_U_P_T rough. I've been in a position of authority over people making requests to me professionally for so long my intuition has forgot that - I know it intellectually, how it sucks working in sales, but my emotional reaction to rubbish like that is an anger against the institution that manifests by me swearing at some dead-eyed salesperson who almost certainly isn't paid enough to give a fuck about whatever he or she is selling.
Well, at least I'm not rude to wait-staff. When that day comes, so do the SSRI's, which a doctor with whom I'm on close terms claims she'll prescribe at the drop of a hat - not just for those who need it for clinical disorders, but also for the cranky. Don't like the idea - but people who are rude to wait staff need spanking and perhaps chemical help.
martedì, aprile 11, 2006
Busy beeeeeee
Yesterday was busy. The day before that was busy, today promises to be busy, and tomorrow will be busy. I don't forecast not being busy until the man I'll call Figaro (the FEB acronym is simply no longer appropriate - from now on when I use it, it'll be in reference to that nice prostitute in Italy who looked like Robert DeNiro) arrives on Thursday afternoon. Mutual busy-ness aside, last night I had dinner with Miss K, an old HR manager and a good friend who used to turn a blind eye when I went napsies in the basement of our old offices. Of course we discussed men and everything else, and it was all very interesting and not fit for print. Except once more it was driven home to me that I give people - even friends - the impression of calm, competent confidence, and that is just fucking hilarious, as I am none of those things. Or if I am, only for five minute bursts.
Anyways, I have to go get busy again. Something that's been helping me with the busy-ness is the fact that I've ended up with the Best. Mix. Ever. on my Shuffle. But if I told you the playlist, I'd have to kill you; this is the sort of shit that could seriously limit the development of the human race in the wrong hands - we'd all just sit around listening to it and not strive for universal improvement anymore. So instead, ripping a page from Mess's book (don't tell me you don't want this), I'll tell you the playlist of one of the CDs I just burned for someone, since the recipient doesn't read this. The CD is such a fun thing to play with. Don't get me wrong - I love being able to carry around a kajillion songs at a time and to play with iPod playlists - but with a 20-song CD, you can get so specific. This one, for example, was meant to soundtrack waking up to oral sex.
What A Wonderful World, Louis Armstrong
Bonnie and Clyde, Serge Gainsbourg
Your Name, Tricky
Bad Boy Clyde, Esthero
You Are My Sunshine, Ray Charles
Black Is The Color Of My True Love's Hair, Nina Simone
Closing Time, Leonard Cohen
Ballade de Melody Nelson, Serge Gainsbourg
Opium Tea, Nick Cave
Light As The Breeze, Leonard Cohen
Hallelujah, Jeff Buckley
Use Me, Bill Withers
You Got Me, The Roots Feat. Erykah Badu
Sexual High, Marvin Gaye and Radiohead
Are You Lonely For Me Baby, Al Green
Ain't Nothing Like the Real Thing, Marvin Gaye & Tammi Terrell
Can't Get Enough Of Your Love, Barry White
I'll Love You Until The End Of The World, Nick Cave
Lovely Day, Bill Withers
I Can Feel It, Sloan
Anyways, I have to go get busy again. Something that's been helping me with the busy-ness is the fact that I've ended up with the Best. Mix. Ever. on my Shuffle. But if I told you the playlist, I'd have to kill you; this is the sort of shit that could seriously limit the development of the human race in the wrong hands - we'd all just sit around listening to it and not strive for universal improvement anymore. So instead, ripping a page from Mess's book (don't tell me you don't want this), I'll tell you the playlist of one of the CDs I just burned for someone, since the recipient doesn't read this. The CD is such a fun thing to play with. Don't get me wrong - I love being able to carry around a kajillion songs at a time and to play with iPod playlists - but with a 20-song CD, you can get so specific. This one, for example, was meant to soundtrack waking up to oral sex.
What A Wonderful World, Louis Armstrong
Bonnie and Clyde, Serge Gainsbourg
Your Name, Tricky
Bad Boy Clyde, Esthero
You Are My Sunshine, Ray Charles
Black Is The Color Of My True Love's Hair, Nina Simone
Closing Time, Leonard Cohen
Ballade de Melody Nelson, Serge Gainsbourg
Opium Tea, Nick Cave
Light As The Breeze, Leonard Cohen
Hallelujah, Jeff Buckley
Use Me, Bill Withers
You Got Me, The Roots Feat. Erykah Badu
Sexual High, Marvin Gaye and Radiohead
Are You Lonely For Me Baby, Al Green
Ain't Nothing Like the Real Thing, Marvin Gaye & Tammi Terrell
Can't Get Enough Of Your Love, Barry White
I'll Love You Until The End Of The World, Nick Cave
Lovely Day, Bill Withers
I Can Feel It, Sloan
lunedì, aprile 10, 2006
Fancy seeing you here!
My cat caught a mouse this morning, for the first time in this apartment. Didn't see the actual catching - only the, shall we say, celebration afterwards. Lexie was throwing around the disgusting little corpse like confetti when I woke up. Must say, I've never seen such a pure display of gleeful viciousness first hand. Ever. She's my good good girl.
Awww.
Ottawa was nice. The drive wasn’t – god – sometimes people can be so fucking incompetent, and because of the most recent incompetence I missed dinner with my Mummy on her way to England, and that shit is just fucking inexcusable – especially when coupled with the incompetent driver trying to argue that the theory of the Electra complex makes sense.
Poooooo.
Yesterday I had my first ride on the back of a motor scooter. I’ve ridden on motorcycles before because Magnum and Luke Duke both had them – Magnum still has one, actually, I think Luke Duke stopped with them when he got into an accident with one close to Nice – but the motor scooter was different. It was extra fun because Blonde Bitch was wearing a pink pastel leather jacket and I was wearing a blue pastel leather jacket, and the birds were singing and it was springtime.
Weeeeeeeeeeeeee!
While waiting for my incompetent drive, Blonde Bitch and I scooted down to the new War Museum in Lebreton Flats because there’s an exhibition about propaganda from the two World Wars and the Spanish Civil War there. It was alright, but not alriiiiiight. It was set up like an art exhibition, but I wanted painfully dry substance. Chronologically organized on the secondary criteria of provenance, with long and detailed historical and sociological explanations – you know – that sort of thing. When I’m hungover, as I was without stopping all day yesterday, I want cold, exhaustive, booooooring precision. Especially when it comes to an exploration of propoganda, which is my favourite. Propaganda!
Yaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay!
Awww.
Ottawa was nice. The drive wasn’t – god – sometimes people can be so fucking incompetent, and because of the most recent incompetence I missed dinner with my Mummy on her way to England, and that shit is just fucking inexcusable – especially when coupled with the incompetent driver trying to argue that the theory of the Electra complex makes sense.
Poooooo.
Yesterday I had my first ride on the back of a motor scooter. I’ve ridden on motorcycles before because Magnum and Luke Duke both had them – Magnum still has one, actually, I think Luke Duke stopped with them when he got into an accident with one close to Nice – but the motor scooter was different. It was extra fun because Blonde Bitch was wearing a pink pastel leather jacket and I was wearing a blue pastel leather jacket, and the birds were singing and it was springtime.
Weeeeeeeeeeeeee!
While waiting for my incompetent drive, Blonde Bitch and I scooted down to the new War Museum in Lebreton Flats because there’s an exhibition about propaganda from the two World Wars and the Spanish Civil War there. It was alright, but not alriiiiiight. It was set up like an art exhibition, but I wanted painfully dry substance. Chronologically organized on the secondary criteria of provenance, with long and detailed historical and sociological explanations – you know – that sort of thing. When I’m hungover, as I was without stopping all day yesterday, I want cold, exhaustive, booooooring precision. Especially when it comes to an exploration of propoganda, which is my favourite. Propaganda!
Yaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay!
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