"I've not asked you where you and your family are going. Nor have you asked me why I am here." "Well, apparently we're both suffering from a
deplorable lack of curiosity."IN LONDON STOP
MEETING WITH ADVISOR WENT WELL STOP
ON VACATION SO NOT WORKING OR EVEN THINKING STOP
WILL BE BACK MONDAY WITH UPDATES STOP
"Aw, c'mon, look at me. I'm a gargoyle. What with the cauliflower ear, there, and the lizard lips..." "Little rat eyes..."
"Caveman brow..." "Don't forget that fish snout." I've got several different posts rattling around in my head (and pictures too!) but I've been feeling really not well and working on school stuff too much to blog a whole lot, buuuut, let's take a break from my icky-feeling-ness and work to complain (surprise, surprise). I love it here and all, but (but!) Frenchmen are hairy and in need of the eyebrow enlightenment that American men have enjoyed in recent years. Was chatting with a (French) friend, who was lamenting his inability to find a girlfriend. My first suggestion: be patient. That one was ignored. My second: lower your standards. That one was rejected. My third: lose the unibrow. That one... taken as a joke, when it most certainly was not. Most people could use a bit of a touch-up in the brow area even if they don't have a continuous (if faint) line of fringe. But really, when you already have a prominent (or perhaps "Neanderthal") brow bone, the last thing you need is a forehead-stache on top of it.
"Nobody can be this stupid, not even Peter when he took that blow to the head and thought he was Larry from 'Three's Company'!"
I took a knuckle punch to the right temple on Saturday night.
I was talking with MD the old French boyfriend, he did this annoying "I'm gonna pretend to hit you" thing, I moved "without authorization" shall we say, and ended up getting actually hit. I was understandably not happy, and even less happy - although surprisingly reasonable - when I was told it was my fault. Call me crazy, but if you accidentally hit someone (even though you really shouldn't be faking violence, in my opinion) wouldn't you feel bad enough to apologize profusely and not be offended when they respond "well, actually, it really hurts" to your mostly unconcerned "are you ok?" Believe it or not, but when I'm being simply straightforward about my discomfort, calling me a drama queen when I haven't done anything other than admit to pain in a calm voice is a *very* good way to piss me off. And calling me a drama queen while reaching around me waist with one hand to tickle/pinch me while poking my injured temple with the other? That's the part where I stop wanting to ever talk to you again.
The punch made me realize just how great my hockey helmet was back in the day, because I've been hit in the head (this is NOT the part where you make the standard "that explains a lot" joke) without being bothered really, whereas this punch to my head? Saw stars. Haven't bruised a whole lot yet (and probably won't, fortunately) but I've had a massive headache for the past couple of days and there's this two-inch-high bit from the corner of my eye to my hairline that's very, very tender. I mention this now because I'm trying to write right now, and every time I pause to think and rest my head on my hand I experience what one might describe as a shooting pain. You'd think I'd learn and stop doing it, but nooo... apparently, being completely (mostly) focused means that I repeatedly forget that bit where I keep hurting myself. Also, I can't sleep on my right side right now... it's annoying. And painful.
Today's Tip: don't pretend to punch your ex-girlfriend. It's a good way to ruin (or at least strain) the now-friendship.
"Ed had edited it."
I have had a hard time speaking French lately. I've also had a hard time with English, so I think it's a case of misfiring synapses or a lack of mental exercise or something, but that doesn't make me feel any better about the flaming sack of retardedness that is the language center of my brain. I was at church last Sunday, chatting with people or even getting blatantly hit on by the 21-year-old (formerly of
the 20-year-old fame) and it was like my ability to speak had just gotten shut off. You want to discuss the differences between driving in France and driving in the US? Do you mind if we do it entirely via hand gesture? And yes, I know you speak English; still sticking to the hand-gesture suggestion.
You know what gives you plenty of unwanted French practice even though you're so occupied with the stuff you're doing for school that you're not sure of the last time you left your apartment? Tech support. I've been trying to get a
freebox hooked up in my apartment for a few weeks now, and for the past couple days, I've gotten several phone calls from their tech support, setting up appointments, asking me about what the equipment is doing, etc. I got this one yesterday from this woman who rattles on for three minutes straight as soon as I answer, and when she finally pauses to ask me a question, I'm so thrown off I tell her that I didn't get everything she'd just said because it was so fast. Then, in the most condescending voice possible, she asks if anyone here speaks French, at which point, I say "I *speak* French; you just forgot to breathe." So she sighs and repeats herself, except in a much more concise manner. Honestly, I have nooo patience for people who take seven times as long as they should to say anything at all. (Ahem.)
"I'm a man who thrives on learning; we only have one life to live. We throw that one away, and what is there left?"
I have so much work to do, but for some reason (or really, just one reason), I'm absolutely incapable of doing *anything* today. I can't even think straight. That email from an old prof that's been languishing in my inbox for several months but that I *swore* I would answer today? Still there, along with the other few I'd planned to write today (hi Katie!). As for working on my thesis, well um, I read a few articles. Have I found my argument yet? Ha. Have I finished the paper I just found out I have to do for one of my courses? Nu-uh.
What
have I done, you ask? Mostly, writhed in pain and cursed my gender. Also, I tried to think about other things, like why Amazon thinks I want to buy books like
An Introduction to Aqueous Electrolyte Solutions, especially since I haven't taken a chemistry class since before Amazon came into existence. I thought about
koosh balls, and how I want one, but not in a Rosie way. Knowing me, I probably still have one in a box in storage at my parents' house, but that certainly doesn't do me any good right now. I might have semi-watched a couple of classic bad movies (
Howard the Duck and
Glen or Glenda), but if I did, I was mostly annoyed at the first, because it wasn't really even a good bad movie, and I was reminded by the second just how much I enjoy the works Edward D. Wood Jr. I think my favorite part would be taking note of all of his money-saving techniques; the man was nothing if not resourceful.
I even tried finishing the post I started on Saturday, but as previously stated I'm all addlebrained which resulted in a hot mess of boring, so I will recap it Reader's Digest-style: spent a second day giving a tour to some neighbors of my parents, and while it was fun, the socio-economic differences were noticeable: a woman's horror at my joke about being a size 10, or the stores visited for souvenir-shopping (the Chanel flagship store v. an out-of-the-way boutique). Also,"
show" was used. Now you have missed nothing; at least shorter means you're bored for a smaller period of time. I wrote this post thinking it would get me started - sometimes when it comes to writing you just have to start, right? - but since it's now almost midnight and it's taken me literally all day (or at least the part of the day during which I wasn't curled up in the fetal position), I suspect I won't actually get much written today.
Except for this. And what have we learned? Lea Thompson can sing better than you'd think, but plots about 3-foot-tall alien ducks aren't nearly as entertaining as you'd hope. An American size 10 is so fat that it inspires rich women to involuntarily convulse. And apparently, my body hates me.
"Nobody will ever notice that. Filmmaking is not about the tiny details. It's about the big picture."
Maybe you haven't noticed, but it's been a while since I've written anything. And it's been even longer since I posted regularly. Apologies if you've been waiting for fascinating stories like "The Tale of Getting Awkwardly Dumped for Not Putting Out" or "A Years' Worth of Creepy Men In A Day at the Centre des impôts," but along with that apology comes a suspicion that you're probably not too torqued up about having missed those particular anecdotes. Then again, what is the point of reading a personal blog if it's not for engaging in authorized voyeurism?
Annnnnyway (haven't missed the babbling either, have you?) I'm posting now, even as it's late and I need to go to bed because I have to go to the library in the morning because I have 20 days to come up with an argument for my thesis - I know! SO demanding after having done next to nothing for the past 6 months - because blogging is one of those things that's really just all about momentum and simply starting should get me back on track. And so, I share a bit of good news followed by a complaint that's been rattling around my head for a while.
First: finally signed my new lease for my apartment this morning. This is my third yearly lease, thus I'm now on my third year of living here in Paris, and... it's bizarre. I love it, but honestly, who thought I'd end up here for so long? Annnd then the complaint: the annoying Utah regionalism of calling a film a "show." I can handle the fact that things are for sell and that people send emells, and it's not like I'm from the most cultured area ever (anybody want a paaaaaaap? We could put it in a baaaaaaag) but this one wants to make me pop (or paaaaaaap) my eardrums. Call it a film, a movie, a flick; even a "cinematic experience" would be preferable to a "show." "Oh, Princess Bride? I love that show!" ...please, please stop.
(This is where you might be thinking that I either have too much time on my hands or I need real problems to complain about, which very well may be the case, but to which I... would make a reply if I weren't censoring myself. Turns out I'm cranky late at night when I've only got (now) 19 days left in which to find a magical, hidden source from the 16th century that's never been used before. Ha.)
