For the first time in eons, I've been just dicking around on the Internet. It's an old fashioned sort of fun, surfing.
I still remember when it was difficult to find what you wanted on the web. Before comprehensive searches or tags. I still remember before it even was called the internet, and was just a bunch of networked nerds in DOS, but I suppose that's not really the point.
My point is, now you can actually do anything you want.
Behold, a hidden page of google I was as yet unaware of : http://www.google.com/intl/en/help/features.html
I love free information. It's like being high, but more fun.
24 July 2008
23 July 2008
lost
Today, I feel aweful. Somedays I just don't know how other people are even walking around much less being nice to each other or eating healthy or saving orphans.
As I shuffled home from a grueling day at work, my eyes glazed on the middle distance, I wondered what had gone so wrong. Where was I? Because I sure as hell wasn't in my body living my life.
I took a picture to record this feeling. And I didn't even recognise me. I looked like this:
I tried to look objectively, at this washed out, dried up, hollow shell of a person and wonder what happened. Not really what's wrong, because lord knows I'm not leaving my job or giving up on the lifetime's worth of social functions and stress bandying about at the minute (this isn't about problems I told myself, it's about solutions).
So I asked, what is missing in this photo? Apart from a bad hair cut, tired clothes and an over all dismal walk to imbibe everyday, there is no person there.
So I detoured. I walked barefoot through a graveyard I'd not visited in a while. I stopped to listen to the trains whistling below my feet. I looked up at the castle and tried to guess how tall it was.
Because the thing that is missing is me. What do I do? What do I enjoy? What am I looking forward to? When do I do the things I love?
I suddenly don't have answers for these, and that revelation is a great sadness.
I want to look like this again:
This was only 3 weeks ago. Chucking down rain, horrible cramps, no sleep, staying with the psuedo-in-laws. But a whole person, a contentment shines out (although it is quite a terrible picture of liam)
I want to feel like this:
This was a lifetime ago, or three years anyway.
And I just don't feel the magic anymore.
As I shuffled home from a grueling day at work, my eyes glazed on the middle distance, I wondered what had gone so wrong. Where was I? Because I sure as hell wasn't in my body living my life.
I took a picture to record this feeling. And I didn't even recognise me. I looked like this:
I tried to look objectively, at this washed out, dried up, hollow shell of a person and wonder what happened. Not really what's wrong, because lord knows I'm not leaving my job or giving up on the lifetime's worth of social functions and stress bandying about at the minute (this isn't about problems I told myself, it's about solutions).
So I asked, what is missing in this photo? Apart from a bad hair cut, tired clothes and an over all dismal walk to imbibe everyday, there is no person there.
So I detoured. I walked barefoot through a graveyard I'd not visited in a while. I stopped to listen to the trains whistling below my feet. I looked up at the castle and tried to guess how tall it was.
Because the thing that is missing is me. What do I do? What do I enjoy? What am I looking forward to? When do I do the things I love?
I suddenly don't have answers for these, and that revelation is a great sadness.
I want to look like this again:
This was only 3 weeks ago. Chucking down rain, horrible cramps, no sleep, staying with the psuedo-in-laws. But a whole person, a contentment shines out (although it is quite a terrible picture of liam)
I want to feel like this:
This was a lifetime ago, or three years anyway.
And I just don't feel the magic anymore.
22 July 2008
slept
Sleeping with someone else will never be like sleeping alone.
Yes, I cannot describe how totally awesome it is. It means falling asleep as the little spoon every night, and someone to pet your head when you have a nightmare. And the whole waking up to the person you love, beautiful in the dappled sunlight, lazy morning sex routine is truly unbeatable.
But it also means that without a fuck off big bed and the ability to be comatose no matter what your environment (and without a care for the feeling and comfort of your bunkmate), completely solid night's sleep are fewer.
This may not be true for everyone, it may not even always be true for me. But I feel like after two years I should have settled into a pattern by now. And jesus, sometimes is it hard.
Not anyone's fault. Not unbearable. But sometimes, on small occasions of insomnia, oh do I miss that spread eagled, not a care in the world, crashing, blackness of sleep that you can have in complete solitude. a10 or 12 hour slab of solid, thick rest without interruption. That is some sort of bliss.
Yes, I cannot describe how totally awesome it is. It means falling asleep as the little spoon every night, and someone to pet your head when you have a nightmare. And the whole waking up to the person you love, beautiful in the dappled sunlight, lazy morning sex routine is truly unbeatable.
But it also means that without a fuck off big bed and the ability to be comatose no matter what your environment (and without a care for the feeling and comfort of your bunkmate), completely solid night's sleep are fewer.
This may not be true for everyone, it may not even always be true for me. But I feel like after two years I should have settled into a pattern by now. And jesus, sometimes is it hard.
Not anyone's fault. Not unbearable. But sometimes, on small occasions of insomnia, oh do I miss that spread eagled, not a care in the world, crashing, blackness of sleep that you can have in complete solitude. a10 or 12 hour slab of solid, thick rest without interruption. That is some sort of bliss.
19 July 2008
bachelorettes & bourjois
Having lived in the UK's number one (and one of Europe's top 10) destination for hen parties for the last 4 years, I am sad to say the honeymoon period where you find drunk women wearing a random array of ill fitting costumes and penis paraphernalia funny, has sort of ended.
I must say, the middle aged slutty disney princess parade was a laugh, but I felt bad they were so cold, wearing so little, and had accidentally stumbled into the strip club soho block of town where they might have been mistaken as staff.
Now, I've never really been offended by theae gatherings (I bet it's probably pretty fun actually, with the right mind set), but getting dolled up to go catcalling and clubbing it's not really my cup of tea on a random tuesday evening, no matter what we are celebrating.
But that is beside the point. The question that is on my mind today gentle reader is- why do women assume all other women enjoy this sort of wild, girly, raunchy activity? It's one of these stereotypes - like we all want to bitch about how our boyfriends and husbands give bad head or want to oogle calvin klien models and george clooney.
I don't mean these might not be true for lots of people, lots of the time (he is very pretty jennie, I know). But why is it naturally branded into my consciousness because of my gender?
Of all the women I have known who throw or attend these parties, no one ever asked the bride much less the guests if they are comfortable with the donning of a penis (there is totally a greek myth geek joke in there somewhere) and screaming in pink fire engines.
It's sort of like in college where it's impossible to imagine someone who wouldn't enjoy being shitfaced, and teetotalers make you feel weird. It's an almost backward peer pressure - where no one coerced you, they just naturally expected you'd want to.
And today, I am a little baffled on how we got here as a culture. Assumptions defining our social interaction to a point where in certain instances, no one even asks 'what do you want to do' anymore.
I heard once about a friend's husband on a business trip and went out for drinks one evening. After, his colleagues were all shocked he didn't want to go to a strip club and meet hookers, and they just went without him. He went home, dazed at the weirdness, and called his wife.
It's fucking strange. And for the record: I never want to wear a bridal veil in a sports bar, do body shots off a waiter, be taught how to give a blow job in my living room or eat a lollipop with 'nads.
Of course, if you want to, I'll go ahead and give it a shot as a chum - and if it's awesome all the better - but in case I ever get married, as is the catch phrase of the week in the media, "not in my name" please.
ps - Yes, this thought experiment was prompted by my sister's forth coming nuptuals, but the activities in question are unrealted, so don't expect this to bare any resemblance to our real lives or pass any judgement on anyone involved - I'm just playing curious.
I must say, the middle aged slutty disney princess parade was a laugh, but I felt bad they were so cold, wearing so little, and had accidentally stumbled into the strip club soho block of town where they might have been mistaken as staff.
Now, I've never really been offended by theae gatherings (I bet it's probably pretty fun actually, with the right mind set), but getting dolled up to go catcalling and clubbing it's not really my cup of tea on a random tuesday evening, no matter what we are celebrating.
But that is beside the point. The question that is on my mind today gentle reader is- why do women assume all other women enjoy this sort of wild, girly, raunchy activity? It's one of these stereotypes - like we all want to bitch about how our boyfriends and husbands give bad head or want to oogle calvin klien models and george clooney.
I don't mean these might not be true for lots of people, lots of the time (he is very pretty jennie, I know). But why is it naturally branded into my consciousness because of my gender?
Of all the women I have known who throw or attend these parties, no one ever asked the bride much less the guests if they are comfortable with the donning of a penis (there is totally a greek myth geek joke in there somewhere) and screaming in pink fire engines.
It's sort of like in college where it's impossible to imagine someone who wouldn't enjoy being shitfaced, and teetotalers make you feel weird. It's an almost backward peer pressure - where no one coerced you, they just naturally expected you'd want to.
And today, I am a little baffled on how we got here as a culture. Assumptions defining our social interaction to a point where in certain instances, no one even asks 'what do you want to do' anymore.
I heard once about a friend's husband on a business trip and went out for drinks one evening. After, his colleagues were all shocked he didn't want to go to a strip club and meet hookers, and they just went without him. He went home, dazed at the weirdness, and called his wife.
It's fucking strange. And for the record: I never want to wear a bridal veil in a sports bar, do body shots off a waiter, be taught how to give a blow job in my living room or eat a lollipop with 'nads.
Of course, if you want to, I'll go ahead and give it a shot as a chum - and if it's awesome all the better - but in case I ever get married, as is the catch phrase of the week in the media, "not in my name" please.
ps - Yes, this thought experiment was prompted by my sister's forth coming nuptuals, but the activities in question are unrealted, so don't expect this to bare any resemblance to our real lives or pass any judgement on anyone involved - I'm just playing curious.
16 July 2008
I might someday finish the catalogue of our trip, but I am too fucking tired.
The short version:
wedding in brighton to mixed reviews
pseudo-in-laws will probably never be easy
Dover Castle is outstanding
The water there is so hard it changed my plumbing.
I miss sunshine so much it hurts.
But today, I was cheered by two things:
1, I am going to look at a new flat tomorrow. It's on a river.
2, I still in my spare time collect good signage. Silly, odd, badly translated or just charming.
Not only did I see a van marked 'Scotchick' which isn't about under age scottish lasses doing stupid things or about liqour of any sort. It is followed by the subheading "Scotland's number one for whole flavoured chickens". I kid you not. I'm not sure if you can get grape or tar though which would be my obvious first two choices.
But my current favourite is a construction sign (that bold white font on a red background) - "Heavy Plant Crossing". the options are mindboggling.
The short version:
wedding in brighton to mixed reviews
pseudo-in-laws will probably never be easy
Dover Castle is outstanding
The water there is so hard it changed my plumbing.
I miss sunshine so much it hurts.
But today, I was cheered by two things:
1, I am going to look at a new flat tomorrow. It's on a river.
2, I still in my spare time collect good signage. Silly, odd, badly translated or just charming.
Not only did I see a van marked 'Scotchick' which isn't about under age scottish lasses doing stupid things or about liqour of any sort. It is followed by the subheading "Scotland's number one for whole flavoured chickens". I kid you not. I'm not sure if you can get grape or tar though which would be my obvious first two choices.
But my current favourite is a construction sign (that bold white font on a red background) - "Heavy Plant Crossing". the options are mindboggling.
13 July 2008
Our Last Two Weeks, part II
So, after a day back at work post-Queen-spotting, and a day of housework, we were on the road to Brighton on Friday 4/7/08.
From halfway up Scotland to the centre of the south coast of England would take a conservative 8 hours in our rental Micra. Armed with juice boxes, and trail mix we hit the road at 7am.
It was a beautiful day until roadworks and the M25 (the highway that circles greater London) at 5pm on a Friday almost killed us. 8 hours stretched to 10 the 12.
By the time we arrived, we'd had a pointless crabby car fight and had to walk into a cocktail party sweaty and tired and 3 hours late to meet Liam's new step-family of about 50 people who are exactly like my Canadian cousins.
In a word, they are a good laugh, but not the calm, reserved and thoughtful faces one wants to see after a long day. More the - hand you a shot, yell in your ear, give a big hug and expect mildly entertaining conversation - types. Fun, but tough.
But of course, the 4th of July - the night was not over. So post-cocktails, Liam's brother and sister took us to a kitchy american dinner for amazing milkshakes and mediocre burgers to celebrate - then went to the beach (Brighton faces out onto the North Atlantic) and lit sparklers from some hippie's bonfire and danced around in the pitch black of the night sky to the sound of the waves.
It was freaking adorable.
Next time: Nuptuals and Nightmares
From halfway up Scotland to the centre of the south coast of England would take a conservative 8 hours in our rental Micra. Armed with juice boxes, and trail mix we hit the road at 7am.
It was a beautiful day until roadworks and the M25 (the highway that circles greater London) at 5pm on a Friday almost killed us. 8 hours stretched to 10 the 12.
By the time we arrived, we'd had a pointless crabby car fight and had to walk into a cocktail party sweaty and tired and 3 hours late to meet Liam's new step-family of about 50 people who are exactly like my Canadian cousins.
In a word, they are a good laugh, but not the calm, reserved and thoughtful faces one wants to see after a long day. More the - hand you a shot, yell in your ear, give a big hug and expect mildly entertaining conversation - types. Fun, but tough.
But of course, the 4th of July - the night was not over. So post-cocktails, Liam's brother and sister took us to a kitchy american dinner for amazing milkshakes and mediocre burgers to celebrate - then went to the beach (Brighton faces out onto the North Atlantic) and lit sparklers from some hippie's bonfire and danced around in the pitch black of the night sky to the sound of the waves.
It was freaking adorable.
Next time: Nuptuals and Nightmares
Our Last Two Weeks, part 1
It is time, ladies and gentlemen, for a fortnightly round-up of the exciting adventures in my life.
First, let's travel back in time (doodle loodle loo, doodle loodle loo)
Tuesday, 1 July.
After having a massive meeting with one of the 5 largest banks in the world (I am not stupid enough to risk their six figure annual donation here), I went home from work at lunchtime.
I had to put on a newly dry cleaned dress (the first time I have ever paid this middle-class right of passage), and help Liam tie the unfathomable and yet utterly dashing windsor knot in his burnished copper silk tie - because at 2pm a taxi came to pick us up.
destination: the palace.
Today was the Queen's Garden Party - an annual event that gathers together the disgustingly rich, the public service sector and a random smattering of boy scouts, marching bands and diplomats to celebrate her majesty's birthday.
She has 3 in London and one in Edinburgh, and I was invited, I suppose, as one of the up and coming of the city. So, we went. I even bought a hat (it was required) with veil - it was totally Casablanca or some shit.
And by the way, it is prohibited to be unaccompanied in the presence of royalty (in case I was to bog off with a prince and cause a scandal I guess), so I brought my trusty british arm candy decked out like a Paul Smith model, and my passport for the ID check at the gate.
Upon arrival, we witnessed the royal procession down ed carpeted stairs to the garden while a brass band played God Save the Queen - which it turns out is the same song as America the Beautiful but with different words. Looks like we even thieved that out of spite. It was very diginified. Then, we ate copious amounts of cake.
Luckily, and also sadly, were dressed infinitely better than everyone else. Turns out rich people stop trying after the first few fetes and the number of people invited for 50 years of postal service or some such thing pulled out whatever semi-formal they wore to wedding 10 years and 15 pounds ago with a JC Penny Hat on top. Some of it was ghastly.
My new official dress code for formal occasions is you cannot show the backs of your knees in royal company. It's distasteful, no matter what your gender or age. (The number of past-middle-aged men whose kilts were hitching up in the back and showing just too much leg was appalling. )
In general, it was adorable and hilarious though, and so very pseudo-posh British. The Queen was in a lemon suit, just like always, and looked at the rabble of hysterical middle aged women who would RUN (when you didn't think it was possible) to stand near her with a steely resignation. It was a sight to behold.
The most bizarre part was when we all took tea (or lemonade or iced coffee), it wasn't the gold foil royal crest on the chocolate petit fours that got me. But the royal tea tent. Princess Anne needed respite I imagine and I think Philip was sneaking a tipple of something into his coffee, so they process to a private marquis. But the tent was glass sided on two sides - so about 700 middle aged loons could stand on the outside peering at them like a zoo observing to each other if Ma'am takes one sugar or two. They even stood on chairs and pushed like they were at the day after thanksgiving sales at Hudsons. Needless to say, we ceceeded from the madness and wandered the rose garden and medieval abbey ruins embedded in the lawn instead.
It was outstanding.
Of course, the version I tell my grandmother will significantly up the ante (more about the royal guard of archers - with real bows and arrows! - less about the tasteless fashion), and ever the royalist she will weep with joy that I've witnessed the upper eschelons at tea.
Next on our agenda: a weekend in Brighton.
First, let's travel back in time (doodle loodle loo, doodle loodle loo)
Tuesday, 1 July.
After having a massive meeting with one of the 5 largest banks in the world (I am not stupid enough to risk their six figure annual donation here), I went home from work at lunchtime.
I had to put on a newly dry cleaned dress (the first time I have ever paid this middle-class right of passage), and help Liam tie the unfathomable and yet utterly dashing windsor knot in his burnished copper silk tie - because at 2pm a taxi came to pick us up.
destination: the palace.
Today was the Queen's Garden Party - an annual event that gathers together the disgustingly rich, the public service sector and a random smattering of boy scouts, marching bands and diplomats to celebrate her majesty's birthday.
She has 3 in London and one in Edinburgh, and I was invited, I suppose, as one of the up and coming of the city. So, we went. I even bought a hat (it was required) with veil - it was totally Casablanca or some shit.
And by the way, it is prohibited to be unaccompanied in the presence of royalty (in case I was to bog off with a prince and cause a scandal I guess), so I brought my trusty british arm candy decked out like a Paul Smith model, and my passport for the ID check at the gate.
Upon arrival, we witnessed the royal procession down ed carpeted stairs to the garden while a brass band played God Save the Queen - which it turns out is the same song as America the Beautiful but with different words. Looks like we even thieved that out of spite. It was very diginified. Then, we ate copious amounts of cake.
Luckily, and also sadly, were dressed infinitely better than everyone else. Turns out rich people stop trying after the first few fetes and the number of people invited for 50 years of postal service or some such thing pulled out whatever semi-formal they wore to wedding 10 years and 15 pounds ago with a JC Penny Hat on top. Some of it was ghastly.
My new official dress code for formal occasions is you cannot show the backs of your knees in royal company. It's distasteful, no matter what your gender or age. (The number of past-middle-aged men whose kilts were hitching up in the back and showing just too much leg was appalling. )
In general, it was adorable and hilarious though, and so very pseudo-posh British. The Queen was in a lemon suit, just like always, and looked at the rabble of hysterical middle aged women who would RUN (when you didn't think it was possible) to stand near her with a steely resignation. It was a sight to behold.
The most bizarre part was when we all took tea (or lemonade or iced coffee), it wasn't the gold foil royal crest on the chocolate petit fours that got me. But the royal tea tent. Princess Anne needed respite I imagine and I think Philip was sneaking a tipple of something into his coffee, so they process to a private marquis. But the tent was glass sided on two sides - so about 700 middle aged loons could stand on the outside peering at them like a zoo observing to each other if Ma'am takes one sugar or two. They even stood on chairs and pushed like they were at the day after thanksgiving sales at Hudsons. Needless to say, we ceceeded from the madness and wandered the rose garden and medieval abbey ruins embedded in the lawn instead.
It was outstanding.
Of course, the version I tell my grandmother will significantly up the ante (more about the royal guard of archers - with real bows and arrows! - less about the tasteless fashion), and ever the royalist she will weep with joy that I've witnessed the upper eschelons at tea.
Next on our agenda: a weekend in Brighton.
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