A sign from god?

I'm being sabotaged in my own home.
The cats -who have now found a way to climb onto the kitchen table- have eaten, yes eaten, the contact address for the job I was going to apply for. I'd cut it out of the paper and hung it on the noticeboard, to remind myself of it. As we were sitting down for dinner just now, I discovered the e-mail address has disappeared down the stomache of one of the Terror Trio.
Does this mean I'll have to dissect their poo for the next few days?
Or are the gods telling me to stay where I am, no-one will ever be stupid enough to give me another job?

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Tired and lazy

Meh.
I'm not coming to much today.
I slept till 11 and never truly woke up I feel.
Had lunch. Managed not to kill any of the cats, who were behaving truly monstrously. Even fed them, despite my conviction to starve them into sleeping and behaving. The Girlfriend gave me orders to relax today and that is what I'm doing, even if I am looking for Oz Episodes and -fics. I'm on to my second can of Red Bull and the thought that I'm due back at work tomorrow depresses me to no end. I have three-day weekends, but they fly like... like... like things that fly very fast. Bugger it.
I still have to apply for this psychologist's job but I'll have to pull myself together a little bit first.
Tonight -after picking up The Girlfriend from work- it's off to my parents for a short visit (picking up the tape of Flikken, from yesterday) and then... no idea. I just want to crawl back into bed and sleep.

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Conversations with a gay man

"So Piglet, these bras with padding in them, I don't really get it. Are they especially for winter, to keep the boobs warm?"

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Thinking, thinking

Tomorrow is "think-day" at work (oh no, I'm not making this up). It means that we'll be in some god-forsaken hole in the middle of nowhere, probably freezing our arses off, thinking of a new design for the "welcoming brochure". Crikey.

I cannot believe I used the word Crikey.

In other news:
- yesterday a father commented that he didn't want his sons (three years old) to become queers, when the babies' mum admitted to buying them a hat with some pink in it.
- upon telling the colleagues about the Tom Lanoye-hating cats, The Secretary went "Tom Lanoye... that's a, that's a queer". OK....
- And I found out "makak" is a very popular swearword among 12-year-olds. Fabulous that.

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it's a magical night

I'm sorry, I'm listening to Alcazar, random lyric-quotage can happen in those circumstances.

I'll try to paint a picture here.
Two people (rather lovely people even if I say so myself), living together for about three weeks. Rather broke, as can happen when you have to go furniture and cat-shopping.
One of them (not me, I might add!) says "we need to go to Ghent, I'm all out of Kay Scarpetta books". The other protests heavily, we're broke, we need to go to Aldi for cat milk, et cetera. But the idea lingers in her head, all through the night.
The next day they do go to Ghent, to that fateful Fnac.

They're all out of Kay Scarpetta there. I think I know who might be to blame.
But you don't want to come to Ghent for nothing do you.
So you hop downstairs to the DVD section and you end up with Tipping the Velvet (fa-bu-lous), Maurice (aaaaaah! finally!), Little Britain (muhahaha!) and Aimee and Jaguar (get out your hankies).
This is way over our budget, we might have to live on bread and water for the next month. But I was a very good girl, I did a very difficult thing. I left the DVDs of The Brittas Empire behind, even though I had held them. "Later" I whispered to them, "I'll get you one day..."

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The ugly truth

This morning, as La Merlina and I were in the bathroom washing up and getting dressed, "The Power of Love" by none other than the female Skeletor Celine Dion came on the radio. As I expressed my outrage (very PC of me), the girlfriend starting singing along and swaying to the music.

It is true.
You only get to know someone for real when you live with them.
And now it's too late!

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Morning blues

Since I only started at 10.30 today, and the girlfriend was feeling exceptionally ill, I drove her to the doctor's.
After a swift visit (he didn't even ask for her address or allergies, must have thought we were "doctor shopping"), we encountered a very angry pharmacist (angry at her PC) and hordes, absolute hordes of middle-aged housewives at Aldi (shopping for chocolate milk, because sick people deserve some spoiling).
All of this before 9.30 am.
The world is very scary that time of day!

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I overtook a bus of the Belgian Air Force today.

It was empty.
I thought that was very fitting.

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Life's bloody unfair

I burnt my thumb on the iron.
Bloody bastards.
's Not my fault I was straightening Melissa's shirt collar when the iron started a vicious attack on my thumb.
Worst of all is the fact that you don't see anything on the thumb. No redness, no swelling, no ugly blisters, nothing.
So how am I going to get any sympathy for the pain I'm feeling? Eh?

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So

Who else is going to see

Kylie?

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Joy and disappointment are never as close together as here on Domino Day

The girlfriend is watching Domino Day.
I'm not kidding.
She is.
Fascinated by the little stones falling over.
I think that's telling me something about my own level of entertainment!

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Tonight on Canvas



Also, if anyone finds the Phillip Scott book I apparently lost during the move, I'd be eternally grateful. Especially since I had it ordered from Amazon. *pouts*

oh. And the wonder of the internet is happening in the living room. Long live UTP cables!

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They're watching me!

I feel like a goldfish in its bowl.
I am writing this from the front room of our house.
And by "front room" I do mean "front" room.
It's where the shop used to be.
A huge window, next to a glass door, with those see-through-when-the-light-is-on white curtains. Right next to the pavement. People are passing by at one metre from me, only separated from me by a single layer of glass.
They stare.
Well, who wouldn't.
My PC has been here since oh... since Sunday I think. And of course ADSL wouldn't work. The first cable extension we got (from the phone line in the "sofa area" to the "book area") was a TVS thingie. Big mistake apparently. We needed a VTV or whatever. So off we went, to five shops (Belgacom store made me wait for half an hour, didn't have any anymore), got it, hammered in the new cable (or rather, my dad did) to watch the miracle that is the internet in our own home. Fat chance. First the modem wouldn't configure, then it invented problems with the phone number. An 8-minute call to the ADSL helpdesk (to a very queer sounding slightly arrogant Belgacom guy), at 42 cents a minute, told me that I had the wrong cable, yet again. I need a FTP one. Could no one tell me this in the first place?

I have to pick up the girlfriend from physical therapy in a few minutes.
And as I write this our new lodgers are probably tearing up our sofa.
Gulp.
They're vicious cuddly animals they are!

More later, when the lights are off and no one sees me, or when I've overcome this feeling of shame and feel free to bare my soul in front of passers-by, on my laundry adventures, the funs of having a bath (but no pictures), the boxes in the front room, the lodgers, the gay songcontest and... whatever else happened while I was internet-less.
Oh. And the sad thing, the really really really sad thing. I think no one sent me a single email while I was away. Shniffles. But I did get loads and loads of spam. Wahey!

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