Fall Into Those Single File Lines

Not A Sea Monkey

The BGF, unable to contain his excitement any longer, blurted it out. I got you an ant farm for Christmas! I fairly jiggled with excitement myself. I don't really know what ant farm is (though I doubt very much that it's what I picture in my head) but he so rarely uses exclamation marks that I reckon it must be pretty fucking exciting. I have decided not to google it, to preserve the element of surprise.

He got sea monkeys for my sister (though he called them something else that I can't remember, spell or pronounce) and I looked them up - they certainly don't look anything like I had imagined. Rather disappointing. I don't know what he's gotten for my brother (last year it was a volcano) but I'm gunning for something furred.

He had mentioned something about posting the second part of my present, cause for even greater excitement. I love getting things in the post. Was I getting an ant farm and a surprise? Yes and no. It turns out they post the live ants to you. Mam's going to be chuffed. What do they eat? we wondered. Lettuce, hopefully. Each other, more likely. And people (if those ants in my Choose Your Own Adventure books were anything to go by). Then he mentioned the note of caution on the website he'd ordered from. Do not order ants from different colonies for your ant farm as they may go to war.

Let the games begin.

I found the photo above on Found Shit, aptly enough. I also found this shit there.
My Day = Made.

Review: Dean Spanley

A sweet, dry film about reincarnation and redemption, stoicism and spaniels. I cried with Horatio Fisk, in sympathy and empathy for all that we had lost.

I did it quietly, though. The BGF hates when I pull that shit.

Review: Hunger

Well, said the birthday boy, I'm glad we went for dinner first.

Meet David Sedaris

We sat fidgeting in our assigned seats ("sit there" growled the attendant) avoiding the glare of the furious harridan who had been keeping them for her friends. We turned to watch David Sedaris instead as he made his way along the front row, shaking hands, signing books, smiling. "I don't want to meet him" muttered my BGF, and under the circumstances I was inclined to agree. The room was too bright, we were too sober, we had no books for him to sign and no sparkling wit with which to dazzle him. So we sat and snarked affectionately at one another, and we waited for the show to begin.

And we waited.

When I looked to the front again Sedaris was halfway down the third row. Everyone else in the audience seemed to be clutching one of his books, some enthusiasticators were clutching several of the fucking things. The lonely ones were reading them. The BGF scrabbled in his pocket for his ticket, and reread it carefully. "Meet David Sedaris, it says" he pointed out, somewhat redundantly. "What if this is it? What if this is all there is?" There was a note of panic in his tone. I laughed dismissively, then paused for thought. Sedaris was now just one row from ours, and the show was billed to start a half hour ago. It's not that I feared that I might be denied some earth-shattering performance; I had, after all, paid to see a man read out loud and perhaps answer a question or two. But if I had indeed misread the €12 invitation, then this was going to be very uncomfortable.

In an effort to maintain his cool in the face of impending awkward social interaction, the BGF had produced some heavy hardback tomes from the library and was attempting to educate me on matters of science. I was feigning interest, leaning over and pretending to be absorbed in the book to such a degree that I may have even followed some of the words with my finger. I glanced upwards and noticed that Sedaris had reached our row, and seemed to be inching his way along, smiling and scrawling witticisms on the proffered books. Seeing this, the BGF snapped the book shut and slid it under his jacket, nearly taking my finger with it. "Fuck" I hissed; the sudden movement had drawn Sedaris' eye and now we looked like we were up to something. Cue eye aversion so comically exaggerated that we may as well have started to whistle as we feigned fey nonchalance. Thankfully the Waterstones gonk who'd been hanging out of Sedaris' shirt-tails suddenly decided that it was (show)time and steered the author towards the podium, saving us from making even bigger tits of ourselves.

Later, I tried to think of what I might have said to him. What I might have asked him had I been lucky enough to shake his hand before he took to the podium, or confident enough to raise my own hand when he invited questions from the floor.

Mr. Sedaris, what advice would you give to a 27 year old girl who wants to be you when she grows up?

In Dreams

Via text:

You were in my dream last night. We were doing an English literature course and you were reading a book about Japanese symbols during it. What does it mean?

Rosie (optimistically):

That you miss me?

BGF (brutally honest):

I think it means that you're difficult and contrary.

Rosie (deflated):

Thanks.

[long pause]

BGF (pretending to be contrite):

And cultured. Forgot the good one.

Nerds

My brother, my BGF and I went to the Lightwave exhibition in the Science Gallery last night. I walked around with my mouth open a lot, admiring all of the pretty things and understanding little of what they were or how they worked. I badgered a few explanations out of the BGF ("No, I don't get it. So... no. I still don't get it.") and eventually just pretended to understand things because I was embarrassed at being stupid and he is a rocket scientist, or some such shit.

On Monday the three of us are going to PantiBar for Make and Do-Do. I'm nifty with scissors and glitter glue so I'll kick his know-it-all arse at that.

Crafty Bitches? I'm There!

I Am A Loser

I decided to stay in last night, to avoid the crushing disappointment of a shit night out on New Year's Eve. I hate the forced and fake bonhomie, I hate not knowing any of the words to Auld Lang Syne, I hate the mistimed countdowns and I hate not having someone to kiss at midnight. I hate waking up on the first day of the New Year with the same cunt of a hangover that I've carried for the past year, thinking plus ça change, plus c'est la même chose. (I sometimes think things in French because I'm very pretentious).

So I stayed at home with my brother, sister and BGF. We played Wii badly, ate too much chocolate, played the Game of Life (Simpsons Edition) until I became despondent (shit job, no kids, living in Crone Condo, paying off my college debts...) and then made the exploding plaster of paris volcano that the BGF had given my brother for Christmas. We cast the mound, fidgeted while it dried and then attacked a quadrant each with poster paints (it was a competition... my effort is pictured below. I lost - too precise and too pretty, apparently. The brother's effort looked like a dorky Dalek, the BGF's was covered in shite coloured flowers and a brackish rainbow. Marks for effort, but poor execution. The sister won as hers was "most realistic" - it looked like scuttery curry running down the side.) The highly anticipated explosion was a bit of a let down; the baking soda bubbled like weak beer when we added the vinegar and the kitchen fucking stank. So this is what happens when you leave two art graduates, a sober alcoholic and a theoretical physicist to their own devices for the night. Wild, huh?

The Losing Entry

Fuck it though, there is a limit to the enjoyment drink and drug fuelled nights of wanton debauchery can give a girl. One occasionally needs to redress the balance with a night of all-out family-centred spazz-nerdery.

Done.

Now bring 2008 the fuck on.

Screw This, CSI Is On

I'm too tired to blog tonight, worn out from commenting on all of your blogs (60 something blogs in my feed reader now... I think I need to have a cull).

It wasn't a terribly newsworthy day anyway. I had a nurse be mean to me this morning (surely it cannot be my fault that I have deep veins?), I had a late lunch with the Gorilla (no progress there, be still my racing hormones beating heart) and then later on tapas with my siblings and the BGF in the lovely Port House on South William St. Though with the day I have lined up for tomorrow (work, followed by my grammar class) I wouldn't expect much then either...

No-Fun Friday

Myself and the BGF went to see Atonement on Friday night. I'm not one for crying over films but I had to take a minute to compose myself before leaving to wipe the tears from my face and the snots in my sleeve. The BGF sniggered, he's not used to seeing me come undone. I don't think I'd have been as upset had I not read the book; I still remember the kick in the teeth I felt when I reached the final chapter and realised that she'd accidentally married her brother and that the man she thought was her father was really her aunt I shouldn't spoil the plot for anyone who may not have read it. Anyone who's read McEwan will know not to expect a happy ending, but though I've read the book twice the film's finale still felt like an emotional betrayal.

I went to the bathroom on the way out of the cinema to let the conspicuously dry-eyed crowd disperse so that I could leave with some dignity, and I got rightly pinkied. There I was, still snuffling and wincing at my red eyes in the mirror when the lady next to me smiled and said "Rosie! I thought it was you!" Em... who the fuck are you? It took me a moment to realise that she was a mature student who'd been in my class in college. "Guess who I'm hear with?" My brain did a shuffle, came up with the worst-case-scenario. Right on cue, there was an excited squeal and a flush from one of the toilet cubicles. Out she bounced, full of the joys. "Wow! Look at you! I'm thrilled, someone who looks as horrible and sweaty as I do after that cinema!"

I didn't. By any stretch of the imagination.

Being caught unawares and teary-eyed by someone who had relentlessly sucked the self-confidence out of me when we were in college together the last thing I needed. Honestly, I'd rather have been caught with my knickers down. So I smiled, tight-lipped, made my polite excuses, and left.

Did I fuck. Eejit.

I reddened, tripped into her recently vacated cubicle, tried to wee soundlessly and then forced myself to go out again, where they were waiting for me. "It's great to see you" I heard myself say. "Let's go for a cup of tea!". Shithead. We trooped outside to meet the waiting BGF, who noted the look of barely contained panic on my face and made a hasty exit. For the next hour I sat there swapping stories and being polite, wishing I was anywhere but there. They're both lovely people, don't get me wrong. The confidence-destroying comments are a manifestation of the blonde's own inadequacy complex, there's no malice in them, but the way she identifies herself with me (when I see us as polar opposites) horrifies me.

Meeting people like that (nice people, genuine people, people who really were delighted to have run into me) should be a pleasant experience and should leave me with a warm fuzzy feeling going home. Instead I felt lonely and mean.

Just one Cornetto...

I'm off to the opera tonight, to see Lucia as part of the Anna Livia International Opera Festival. Quite why the story of a Scottish highlands lass has to be sung in bloody Italian is beyond me, but I'm sure Donizetti had his reasons. Tis myself and the BGF* going, and we're not only going for free, but getting goodie bags into the bargain! What constitutes an opera festival goodie bag remains to be seen, but I'm hoping it involves sweets of some kind (the Ebola is receding, and my appetite returning). We're "volunteering" you see, surveying the other luvvies during half time the interval and being rewarded with a free night out.

The dress code is smart, I was told. Now I'm a natty dresser, it's true, but smart for me always poses a problem. Formal I can do, being the proud possessor of a few extravagant ballgowns. Casual I can do, being the proud possessor of many pairs of jeans. Eccentric and fancy dress I do very well, being the proud possessor of everything else in my wardrobe. But smart? That would necessitate a haircut for starters. So I'll compromise, and see what I can get away with. I'm currently in one of my more creative outfits as I sit at my desk in work, but give me 15 minutes in the office jacks, and I'll be transformed. I have my flared black tuxedo trousers (complete with shiny ribbon down the side) some high heels that I can't really walk in (and that make me an intimidating 5'10 tall) and a low cut black top in a vain effort to distract from the ridiculousness of the rest of the ensemble. Although I suspect all the low cut top will do is draw attention to my alarming lack of diddies. (I'm 26. They should have arrived by now). The overall effect should make me look either (a) very sexy and sophisticated or (b) like an extra from the Rocky Horror Show. Either way, the BGF is bound to be horrified.

*Not to be confused with the BFG (Big Friendly Giant) as he's kinda small, and decidedly unfriendly, or with a GBF (Gay Best Friend) as he's not my best friend. He'd balk at the idea. He is, however, my Best Gay Friend. And he likes to try to culture me.