Gaga! Insane, beserk, talking in tongues, you know… gaga.

The remains of the day: I saw a crumpled piece of newspaper on the tram today. It was from last night, had a photo of Sarah Palin giving her resignation speech and the headline ran “Bye-bye Lady Gaga”. Spot on. Just. Spot. On.

And remember: if your drill says Binford, get out of the house. Tools aren’t supposed to talk!

You guys know I love stand-up comedians. After falling in love with some Irish ones, I fell for some Scots. Then some Brits, one or two Americans and then, then came the Australians. Adam Hills, why oh why are you married? We were supposed to be together! Well, that is if David Duchovny, Dara and Angelina fell through. Which they did. Adam, marry me! Gosh people, you should see Adam’s wife. She is a bombshell and a smarty too. I hate her so much right now.

But Adam made me discover this fellow Australian fella (married too, unfortunately): Tim Minchin. Tim is a musical stand-up comedian. And he’s brilliant. Which is why today, I give you another excerpt from my YouTube’s favourites list, which by now is bursting with Tim Minchin stuff.

First up, in all it’s glory and because it’s my absolute, absolute favourite by Tim: The Adam Hills Song

He talks awfully fast doesn’t he? I just love how eloquent he is! Here are the lyrics to this song, for all my readers who might have had trouble understanding him. And because I love them. And him. And Adam.

The Adam Hills Song by Tim Minchin

At night I dream of your kind and intelligent face / I wistfully wish for your monopedal embrace / But I am just a fan / You are the father of humanity / But if you’ll be my man / I would give a rib to be your Eve / Adam Hills are made for climbing and I’ll climb them all for you / And them valleys you traverse I’m not adverse to going down into / Wherever in your Eden you might travel / I will follow / And if a serpent with an apple entices me to swallow / I’ll not be tempted by the fruit the Serpent offers / Though I’ve never been that great at resisting offers made by / Adam Hills are made for climbing / And oh boy I’ll do my best / But if the apple proves too sweet and shiny to resist / I swear that I’ll try not to choke / As with my guilt I grapple / But I inside my throat I feel a lump / It’ll be my Adam’s apple / Be my Adam’s apple

Ahem.

Next in line, a funky Minchin song: Bears Don’t Dig On Dancing

Weird huh? I love it.

Next Tony the Fish! I wholeheartedly concur, Mr. Minchin, I wholeheartedly concur. Now everybody, say that five times fast.

He married his highschool sweetheart. Awwwwww. Here’s If I Didn’t Have You. As always with Minchin, there’s a twist or two.

Here’s another song I bet we all can appreciate the relevancy of: Some People Have It Worse Than Me. I especially feel him on the supermarket being fucking miles away. Then again, I also wouldn’t like to be a policeman in Bagdad.

And finally, a slightly wobbly but nonetheless magnificent video of Tim Minchin singing Leonard Cohen’s Hallelujah. With the incredible Geraldine Quinn. I wonder if she’s in a relationship because seriously, I want her more than I want Angelina, David and Keanu together. Please, please listen at least until she starts singing. It’ll change your life, I guaran-damn-tee it. Or at least your day. I also fancy my voice being somewhat akin to hers when I sing (certain songs that go well with my voice, this being one of them). I love this song all by itself, but the two of them singing it gives me the goosebumps. And no, I haven’t built it up too much. Listen for yourself.

That’s all for today folks. Live long and prosper, peace!

Anna

No code, no riddle, no fancy little countdown.

It’s meme time again! I found this fun countdown one floating about the web and adapted it to myself. If I shamelessly ramble on about myself, I’m at least going to try and give you stuff you haven’t read here before. So here we go, the Countdown Meme. Feel free to snag it!

9 Currents

Current Mood: Helpless
Current Taste: Freshly brushed teeth
Current Clothes: Black cotton short-shorts and a comfy grey sleeveless top (I’m in my comfy home clothes, obviously I’d never go out like that)
Current Desktop Picture: A hot pink wallpaper with lots of crazy stuff on it (Radio Rock button, Go Naked button, stars, vinyl records) and in the middle, Midnight Mark and Young Carl. Designed it myself at the The Boat That Rocked homepage.
Current Toenail Color: None, my toenails are natural right now. Maybe I should do something about that though… I like my toenails painted red in summer, makes them look like cherry candy.
Current Time: 8.38pm
Current Surroundings: My bed, in my flat, in Zurich, the world, the universe!
Current Annoyance(s): The fact I need to go to the post office tomorrow and pay some more bills.
Current Thought: Will my flat ever look like an atom bomb didn’t explode in it?

8 Firsts

First Best Friend: She was called Lilli and had two sisters, whom she incessantly fought with.
First Kiss: A girl whose name started with J. (if you count the fact that she did it to prep me for my first real kiss – though we prepped more than was probably necessary) – if you don’t count her, the dude’s name was Paul.
First Screen Name: Oh lord, I’ve had billions of screennames in my time… I think one of the first was WetDana though. I went through a weird phase at 14 when I still played with my Barbies but at the same time endulged in quite a lot of cybersex. After about half a year, I was tired of it. I’d perfected my shtick to hook all these guys (who, I want to add, did not know I was 14! I always said I was 19) and I got bored.
First Pet: A hamster called Moutche (pronounced mooch)
First Piercing: Don’t have any. I’m scared to death of needles and am a real pussy.
First Crush: I don’t remember the name of the boy I assaulted with kisses at two, on my first day in kindergarten. After that, my first crush was a boy, still in kindergarten, called Isidor. Are we seeing a pattern of precociousness here?
First Music You Remember Hearing: My Mum and Dad always sang me lullabies, so these were definitely the first. I very vividly remember my Mum singing “La Mère Jeanne” to me and my Dad singing “Fuchs, Du hast die Gans gestohlen” (fox, you stole the goose). I loved it when they sang me lullabies (we didn’t do bedtime stories, for some unknown reason). My Mum would usually let herself be convinced to sing one more, sometimes even two more. My Dad only ever sung the same one, but that didn’t matter at all because he used to mime all that happened in the lullaby and that usually involved some tickling. Wow, I haven’t thought about all this in years!
First Car: is yet to come.

7 Lasts

Last Cigarette: Can’t exactly say when that was, but I know it was back when I still worked at the call-centre. About twice a year, I’d sneak one from a co-worker (almost everybody there smoked) when I was feeling really down and out.
Last Drink: As in any drink or as in alcoholic beverage? If the former, a drink of water. If the latter… I can’t remember.
Last Car Ride: Probably some cab I took… but I truly can’t remember when that was. Might have been when I got back home from Munich the last time and had to take a cab from the train station because my hand was still in a brace and I couldn’t have managed all my luggage alone.
Last Kiss: Steve. Oh my goodness gracious, that was almost three years ago. How sad am I?
Last Movie Watched: In a theatre or any movie? They’re not very specific, are they? Last movie I saw in a theatre was last Sunday night, La Dolce Vita. Last movie I saw at home: Aeon Flux. It just looks so good!
Last CD Played: Can’t remember, all the music I listen to is via iPod and iTunes. The last album I put on my iPod was “Have A Nice Day” by Roxette though. I still buy CDs, yes.
Last Pee: What?! Why I never! Ladies don’t pee. And if they did, they certainly wouldn’t talk about it.

6 Have You Evers

Have You Ever Dated One Of Your Best Friends: Slept with, twice, yes. Dated? No.
Have You Ever Broken the Law: Maybe once…?
Have You Ever Been Arrested: Hell no. I try hard not to get caught when I do evil things.
Have You Ever Skinny-Dipped: Yes, but as a kid. I don’t think that counts.
Have You Ever Been on TV: Yes, twice. Once for a kiddies TV show that came to our school in first or second grade. The other time when I did Model European Council and was President. They didn’t show me for very long though (although I was arguably one of the key people they should’ve shown). Judging by the leggy, doe-eyed blondes they chose to show however, I simply was too ugly. Who can blame them?
Have You Ever Been Drunk: Never. Don’t intend to either. The closest I’ve come to that was when I had my very first cocktail and didn’t know that one shouldn’t drink on an empty stomach. I was a bit tipsy after that cocktail, but nothing serious, since I stopped right after that one drink.

5 Things

5 Things You’re Wearing: I’m wearing two things (see above).
5 Things You Can’t Live Without: Films, my laptop, sushi, my iPod, hope.
5 Things You Can Hear Right Now: A Thousand Kisses Deep by Leonard Cohen, my typing, cars in the street… that’s it for now. What is up, how come I can’t complete this list properly? Even the wind that was blowing earlier has stopped. Should I be worried? This is usually the point in the movie where something bad is about to happen.
5 Things You Hate: My body, my inability to change certain things that need changing, the fact I have to work on tedious stuff in what is supposed to be my summer holidays, my mask, bills.

4 Places You’ve Been: Luxor, Egypt – London, UK – Karlsruhe, Germany – Paris, France – Göteborg, Sweden

3 People You Can Tell Anything To: My Mum, my Dad, my dead dog Mara.

2 Choices

Black or White: Black – as my soul and because it’s slimming!
Hot or Cold: Cold

1 Thing You Want to Do Before you Die: Have lived by the sea.

Live long and prosper, peace,

Anna

What’s that supposed to mean?

Hi folks and welcome to another post starting with… funny-phrases-that-led-people-who-obviously-googled-for-something-else-to-this-blog!

First up is a brand new one from today: hot striper girls wearing golden bras. Striper? As in candy striper maybe? But… don’t they wear candy striper uniforms…? Instead of golden bras? I find this one thoroughly confusing because all I can picture in my mind is Carrie Bradshaw nursing Mr. Big back to health in a candy striper outfit, but with a sequined golden bra on top of it all and steam coming out of every one of her pores. Gross, weird, surreal and not, well, hot.

Next in line, yet another variation of an all-time favourite: we fremen have a saying: god created arr. Didn’t know that, God must be a pirate! Or at least he’s into Yul Brynner and Errol Flynn movies. Or it’s just talk-like-a-pirate day among Dune fans! Or maybe talk-like-a-pirate week, since I’ve had this specific search term entered for at least the last 7 days. Well, shiver me timberrrs mateys but therrre arrrn’t any pirates sailin’ in the Golden Lasso waters! Pick another porrrt befarrr I sink yer puny vessel with my lasgun! Arrrr!  AAARRRR!!

Hey, talking like a pirate is fun. AAARRR!

Yet more proof that there probably still aren’t enough Dune websites around is that people continuously end up here when searching for Dune terms. Or maybe I just can’t shut up about Dune. Anyway, our third and final funny search for today is: what do you call the shadow of a mouse.

Ummm, the shadow of a mouse? I’m pretty sure even Fremen call the shadow of a mouse… the shadow of a mouse. So, sweethearts, let me quote the computer of the Enterprise: please specify question. What y’all wanna know is: what do you call the mouse shadow on the second moon? And because I’m just that kind of nice gal, I’ll tell you right here so you won’t have to Google any further: it’s called Muad’Dib. MUAD’DIB FOR CRYING OUT LOUD! How did you even become a Dune fan without knowing that? Seriously! Unless there is an actual zoological term for a mouse’s shadow, in which case I apologise for shouting and admit that I have no idea. There, I think I’ve got all my bases covered.

In other news, I’ve had to call the police on my crazy neighbour yesterday. The woman is psychotic, seriously deranged. She has screaming fits in the middle of the night, sees signs for everything everywhere, is convinced she’s telepathic (and not in the sweet, cool, psychic kind of way) and is a pathological liar. In addition to that, she disappears for weeks on end. Or doesn’t but stays closeted for weeks on end. It’s hard to tell because her shutters are always sealed shut. Seriously, a week ago I was considering calling our landlady to ask if maybe we should check if Miss Psycho wasn’t dead. ‘Cause I’m not sure at what stage corpses started to smell and I’d kinda prefer getting in there before it’s really bad. But then after 6 weeks of invisibility, she turned up on Saturday with groceries to feed an army and a mondo pack of toilet paper. So I figured that at least, she wasn’t dead. I’m so perceptive. Just call me Sherlock. (I was going to write “call me Ms. Holmes” but that could have been confusing, since anyone married to Tom Cruise and raising his probably axlotl tank engineered baby is obviously NOT very perceptive.)

Anyhoo: yesterday around 6.30pm, I heard things bumping and barrummping next door, followed by high-pitched screams. I looked through my peephole (I’m not about to face a madwoman like that off) and saw Miss Psycho ransacking her apartment, knocking things over with what looked like a huge black canvas bag and yelling, at the top of her lungs, “NOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!” and shrieking and screaming and tearing at her hair. After about five minutes of this she closed her door but the yelling and bumping continued. Since my landlady has previously talked to me about Miss Psycho and explicitly asked me to call the police if I got worried, that’s what I did. Again, they were a bit weird and a bit too relaxed. What is up with the Swiss police? First, it rang for ages. You’d think that calling the equivalent of 911 would get you a police officer on the phone in less than 10 rings, wouldn’t you? Then I had a lovely, serene woman officer on the line. “How can I help you?” she asked and it sounded as if she were playing with a basket full of kittens while talking to me. I explained the situation as fast and concisely as I could. She listened and then fell silent. “Hello?” I eventually ventured, wondering if she’d hung up. “How do you think we should proceed?” She sighed lazily, in a way that seemed to say “Oh, you want me to do something about this?” and then, finally, said she’d send someone over right away. Isn’t there some law prohibiting police officers from smoking pot on duty?

About 10 minutes later, the police finally came. Two hunky-hunky pieces of police ass stood in front of me when I opened the door. At least they did something right! They went inside and when they tried talking to her, she tried telling them it wasn’t her they were looking for, that she wasn’t Mrs. N., she was Mrs. G! Then she tried to bust out of there but they held her back. I’m not sure what happend in the next half hour that they were there but they kept calling for more officers. In the end, there were four of them! All of them tall, muscular, clean-shaven. And with those cuffs on their belts and their metal batons dangling at their hips… Yummy and cute with a capital Q! If this had been a porno, you bet it would have turned into an orgy but quick! Sigh… I wish it had been a porno…

Well, they ended up not taking her with them, since she’d calmed down somewhat and they said she didn’t seem to be a threat to herself or others. It’s been quiet over there ever since but I’m kinda scared she’ll break my windows, tear in here and try to kill me in the night. I wouldn’t put it past her, especially since she’s already once lurked into my windows at night, a few months back. Luckily, I basically sleep with a hunting knife strapped to my shin and I’m not afraid to use it either.

A final note on the Indian and then I’m out of here: I had a dream about him the other night. It involved me, him, a Dutch city at night, lots and lots of rain and two orphans we were trying to help. I wrote him an email about it and he wrote back today saying that was interesting, since he is into helping people and in the future, once he has a long-term job, he plans to take a month off every year to do humanitarian work in his native India. Could this man be any more perfect? He’s so dreamy!

However, I talked with him on the phone tonight and while it was fun, I realised once again how inscrutable he is. He says he likes talking to me, listening to me and had fun on our date but at the same time, he seems a bit reluctant about a second date. It’s like he wants to but at the same time, he doesn’t. He’ll be evasive when I try to fix a time and place and in the next sentence, he’ll make allusions like “Well I wouldn’t watch a modern movie on my own, but I would if someone came with me” or “I don’t usually listen to that kind of music, but I totally would listen to it together with someone”. The fact that the phone connection from him to me sucks is an added hindrance. What does that MEAN? Does he want to see me again or doesn’t he? I tried sorta asking him point blank tonight, saying “You’d tell me if you had a horrible time and if you didn’t really want to see me again, right?” He laughed and said he couldn’t imagine any reason as to why he would react that way, that I shouldn’t worry about that. Sounds good but I had a major Adab (it’s Dune terminology and means the demanding memory) come over me when he said that. Last time somebody told me he didn’t “see any reason” why he’d break-up with me was Steve, who then turned around and left me three weeks later for a woman he’d met at some wedding. Maybe I should just let go of all this Steve crap and stop seeing the similarities between him and the Indian, even if they are there. Maybe I should really just stop comparing the situations and go at this new thing (if you can even call it that) with the Indian with my slate wiped clean. Yes, I think I’ll try that. I don’t want to be a mistrusting, burned person who can’t open up to something new just because it happens to remind her of an ex.

Live long and prosper, peace,

Anna

No. No booze. Sex. I want sex. That one. The sultry bitch with the fire in her eyes. Bring her to me. Take her clothes off and bring her to me.

I’ve been without the internet, again, for two days. On Sunday night, my modem fried. And while trying to determine if it was reparable or not, I almost managed to slice off my left pinkie (as if that finger hadn’t had enough grief lately). It wasn’t reparable. Luckily, the bleeding subsided after a good ten minutes. Silver lining, eh?

But there I was, once again stranded without the power of the internet. First thing on Monday, I called the hotline to tell them all about and make them find a solution. I had a male technician on the line, from the sound of his voice probably in his mid-thirties. And he took to me. Boy, did he take to me. We spent about twenty minutes on the phone and he was being helpful and sweet as can be. I’m not sure what he figured might happen, but it was obvious he was trying to get into my pants. He told he’d “play Santa” for me and fix it to have a brand new wireless modem shipped to me. Usually, that thing would cost 200 bucks. I got it for free. Why, you ask? Because of my sexy, sultry voice apparently. There’s a Dharma and Greg episode in which Dharma says: “I’m a leggy blonde, trouble finds me.” Well, it seems that once again, my voice is doing that for me. I still can’t fully fathom what others (especially male others) hear in my voice but judging by all the help and freebies I’ve been getting from those studs at my phone company, it’s a bloody siren song. Which is fine by me. By the end of that particular phone call, the technician said “It’s ok, I totally understand, what with you being a student and all, I wanna help you. I always want to help willing students such as yourself.” Willing students??!! Mr. Man noticed that more than Freudian lapse and tried correcting himself but by then, it was all way beyond correction, so he settled for telling me how nice I was and then hung up in a somewhat embarassed hurry.

Today, my modem arrived and, without fail, I was unable to complete the set-up without… you guessed it, another hotline technician’s help! This time, it was a younger bloke, probably around my age or even younger. And, without fail, he seemed charmed by my voice. I spent half an hour on the phone with this one, because some of the programs took a lot of configuring and time to load properly. It got so complicated that he actually had to set up a connection with my PC so that he could govern it and type in the proper coding, etc. It was kinda hot, in a very nerdy-geeky virtual way. Seeing my mouse click on stuff and opening channels, ports and whatnot, typing in code… There’s a Futurama episode in which Fry asks about how the “What If”-Machine from the Professor works and the Professor launches into a detailed, scientific explanation. After about 10 seconds Fry cuts him off and says “Got it. Magic.” That’s how it felt watching Technodude roam around on my PC.

And in between all that programming and loading, we had a lot of time to chat. He totally initiated that conversation and then he managed to tell me what he did last weekend (drunkenly jump from a bridge with a friend), that he was free the next three weekends and where he lived. He also revealed a minor company secret or two but I won’t disclose any of that because I don’t want him to get fired or something. Suffice it to say that I could become the world’s leading over-the-phone-only investigative journalist with those mutant vocal chords of mine. Remember Eden from Heroes? Yeah, that’s me. Except I’m not as cute. By the end of today’s conversation, he was asking me if there was anything else I needed help with. I wanted to say yes to please him but there really wasn’t. So I told him that. Undeterred, he asked again twice. That time, the helping me definitely seemed to be angled at helping me out of that pesky underwear of mine and onto his rocking hips.

Conversations like this always make me chuckle and yes, they make me feel desirable and a little powerful too. But of course, I can never help but wonder what these guys would react like if they met me in vivo. Probably not in a way that I’d like. I can hear in their voices how they imagine this sultry, leggy brunette with pouty lips and a waist like a bee. I am not that woman. Yes, I’m sultry, leggy, brunette and have pouty lips. But I have all that wrapped in a layer of flesh (please don’t make me say that other word, this is hard enough as it is) that most guys would recoil from in horror.

Still, it’s nice to be wanted sometimes. Even if it’s only as a fantasy. And it’s good to know that if all else fails, I can always go and work for phone sex companies. And make a million.

In other news, there’s this. I have finally stopped procrastinating and started work on my ghostwriting assignments. I have also moved around so much furniture and stuff that my flat looks almost remodeled. I have lots of tidying up to do now. And dishes piling up. Oh how I hate dishwashing! Seriously, at this point, I’d pay somebody to do it for me.

I am also putting up another recent poem on my poetry blog. I have been writing a lot of poetry again lately, which is always the result of my emotions being on a rollercoaster. Be warned though, they are dramatic (I can be such a drama queen) and were written in the middle of the night. Doesn’t always make for the best or most refined poetry, but what’s gotta come out, gotta come out.

In that spirit, I have something to say which will sound cryptic to most of you but which I need to say, after many weeks of mulling it over. My poetry is a way for me to keep my emotional sanity and balance. So is this blog. A lot of poems I wrote at some more or less distant point in time now strike me as tacky or over the top or not true anymore. Others remain valid, beautiful and profoundly true. It’s the same for any entries in this blog. I have chosen to chronicle a part of my life this way and this is my prerogative. I have specifically created The Golden Lasso with the intent of not altering, editing or deleting posts that I was uncomfortable with at a later date and more importantly, that others were unhappy with. I did this a lot towards the end of my first blog, The Good, The Bad and The Ugly, and I almost hated myself for doing so. A blog, my blog, is not an arena in which I want to be dishonest. I may have things that I simply don’t share with the world out there but all the things I do share are truthful. My opinion, my point of view, my feelings, all that is related to you here is nothing but the truth I felt at the moment I wrote it (and often beyond that point as well, though not always). And not just truth in the sense of “this is a fact” but in the sense of emotional truth.

And so it goes that I don’t retract or edit posts for my or others’ convenience. This was recently demanded of me in a more than commanding and deprecating way. I agreed to think it over but the more I have, the more obvious my position on the issue has become: I can’t and I won’t. I have sufficiently blurred people’s recogniseability as far as I’m concerned (that goes for all those from whom I haven’t permission to write out full names or those who I write negatively about). Others would have to do one hell of a Google search in order to find the dirt about you here. And even then, it’s not sure they’d find you here. Of course, if the shoe were on the other foot, I wouldn’t like finding dirt about me on the net either. But the net is the net. First of all, we who have a playground here aren’t always nice. And second, even if I were to delete a post, chances are high you’ll find them, not very safely tucked away, in Google’s cache. So just because I have edited or deleted something, doesn’t make it disappear. Similarly, as my friend Miriam has pointed out, like harmful words said face to face are not erased from our memories just because we have taken them back or apologised for them. And we all know that a person with a grudge will hold that grudge and focus on it  as long as s/he wants to, even if the world has kept turning.

Anyway, my blog and my mission statement stand as they are. My regular readers read me, well, duh, regularly and know how stories I tell here evolve and end. They see the shades of grey. It’s common sense that a single post (or even, if you wanna get nitpicky, a string of posts) are not The Truth Forever Carved In Stone and that stories are fluid. And what I write here, I can defend and explain if need be. Past that explanation, you’re on your own.

And it a nutshell: this is my land, this is my life story, this is me. Deal with it or don’t, but don’t ask me to recant something that is no longer even relevant. There’s no point.

I am well aware that this might fully obliterate a relationship (used to be a friendship, but let’s face it, it hasn’t been in a long time). But there’s no longer any point to that relationship anyway if the person in question doesn’t understand and is able to roll with what I have stated above. It would be a damn, damn shame if that happened, but if it does then so be it. It may not sound like it right now, but this is my peace offering. If you know me like you claim to do and, once again, are able to wrap your mind around the concepts explained above (and in person, at least large parts of it), you will see this peace offering as what it is.

Live long and prosper, peace,

Anna

ps: on a totally random note – my crush on the Indian is growing by the day. Help!!

Doc Hayward said you needed familiar stimulants, so we figured what the hell, kazoos!

Sometimes things happen to me that make me see myself in a movie about my life. Or doing a stand-up routine, relating that event.

This is the conversation I had yesterday with the doctor who treated my left hand.

Doc (in a hey-bebeh kind of voice) : Aaah, I knew I’d see you again. Something just told me I’d see you again! (At the end there, he expertly throws in a Dev-Patel-you-are-my-destiny look and tone)

Me (thinking): Umm, yeah, ’cause you told me to come back for a check-up three weeks ago?

Doc (gallantly ushering me into the room, offering me a seat and watching lustfully as I sit down): So, how’s that hand of yours been? Let’s take that brace off and have a look.

Me: The pinkie still hurts but the index is better.

Doc (feeling all around my hand, pressing down on certain areas): Mmmmhhhh… How about here, does that hurt? (He presses down hard and it hurts)

Me: Ouch, easy Doc!

Doc (taking my other hand, now he’s sort of pressing and stroking both hands, all the while with a big happy grin on his face): So have you been keeping it still. No… naughty exercises with it?

Me: Well, since I do live alone, I’ve had to take it off more than I probably would have if I had someone to help. I suppose doing dishes counts as a naughty exercise.

Doc (very distracted, he obviously is still savouring the living alone part): Yes, yes… (Presses down on another painful joint)

Me: Whoa, Doc! You really know where to touch me, huh? (At this point, I’m obviously having fun and being a saucy minx with him – he loves it)

Doc (chuckling, rubbing my hands harder): Yeah…

Then he told me what was up, gave me some more medication and we were done.

Or were we…?

Doc (holding the front door open for me): If you need anything, just come back. Even if you just need… (extra hey-bebeh in his voice)… comforting.

Me: Tempting, but you do know you’re wearing a wedding band, don’t you?

Doc gasps, his eyes almost pop out of their sockets. In the background, his assistant has just swallowed her coffee the wrong way and is coughing and laughing, while at the same time trying to suppress it.

People always seem surprised by the things I notice and/or remember about them. I’m a journalist. It’s my job to notice and remember things. I’ve always been like that but in recent years, that quality of mine has reached new heights. So if you wanna come on to me, at least try to hide the wedding band.

I know this seems like I thought the situation was uncalled for but I have to admit, I thought it was funny as hell. And he’d already been flirting with me like that last time, so you know he liked it.

Speaking of noticing things, I noticed he had dry hands. Maybe I should send him a manly handcream with a cheeky note, just for the heck of it. What do you think? It doesn’t happen every day that somebody thinks I’m hot stuff. I should probably milk it.

Live long and prosper, peace,

Anna

Hey, that light? At the end of the tunnel? Guess what? That’s not heaven… That the C-train!

But I’ll tell you what heaven is: heaven is getting an email from the Indian, defusing all my worries about our date.

You see, our date on Monday night was fine. Short but sweet. A few, brief, nerve-wrecking silences but all in all, nothing that didn’t seem to belong into a first date. And then he didn’t call. The Indian, who called, texted and emailed me for weeks prior to our date simply didn’t call. After two and half days I finally cracked and sent him a text, real casual-like, asking if everything was ok. You know, the kind of text aimed at being perceived as laid back and non-clingey, non-needy, whereas in your mind, there is just one very loud voice shouting “WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON? WHY HASN’T HE CALLED? OMG, HE HATED THE DATE! HE NEVER WANTS TO SEE ME AGAIN! WHAT DID I DO WRONG?”

Yeah, we girls are just delightful. Not psychotic at all. Nooooo. Nuh-uh. Bipolar? Never heard of it.

Then today, I got an email from him, saying he was so sorry to reply so late, his phone had been whacky and he hadn’t checked his texts all week. Simple. He hadn’t looked at his phone. I was so relieved that I typed up a reply, which I sent almost without thinking about it. I said something alone the lines of “Oh… ok, and here I was thinking I did something majorly wrong.” He keeps his emails real short, so I try to do the same. I’m overwhelming enough in person

And then, then I got a brief taste of heaven an hour later, when he sent me another email (before leaving to Germany for the weekend). That email said (full text): “Oh no!! You seem to be worrying too much. Don’t you worry.”

How. Cute. Is. That? That obnoxious shouting in my head stopped. All I could hear then was this:

Oh boy. Oh boy oh boy oh boy oh boy. Oh boy. He didn’t hate the date with me. There was no real reason why he should have, but I’ve been burned before. The last guy I went on a date with vanished into thin air afterwards. And that although we’d had the most perfect first date I’d ever had (ok, except my first date with Steve). That scar is still quite visible and now I’m wary of first dates that seem to go well.

But maybe, just maybe, this Indian is giving me a shot. I hope he does. I really want to know more about the magnetic properties of water cooled down to almost absolute zero. And I’m hoping I’ll get him to teach me some Hindi. If there’s one thing I love, it’s learning new languages and I do it any which way I can.

Other good news: my brace came off today! I still have to be very careful with my hand for another three weeks, but the doc says if I keep the brace on any longer now, the ligaments will heal but be too short and then I’ll get a different kind of pain. So now I have to do all these mild stretch exercises with my hands. And speaking of exercise, I need to get back to the gym. That brace was a good excuse to take a break but I’ve got to get my butt back in gear. Especially after this bit of conversation from Monday night.

Moi: So, you said you went running earlier today? Is that a hobby of yours?

Indian: Not really, I just do it to keep fit. How about you?

Moi (very proud): Actually, I joined a gym in March and have been working out there.

Indian: And you go?

Seriously. Why does everybody keep asking me that? I know I don’t look (yet) like I go to a gym regularly. I know that! But really, everytime I mention it, people’s first question always is “And you go?” Like that is completely beyond the grasp of their imagination. So yes, goddamn it, yes, I go. I shelled out 800 CHF for my torture chamber, you bet I go. I don’t particularly like going. I don’t relish the fact that everybody there stares at me with either pity or disgust. I don’t like it that the receptionists always look at me with big surprised eyes every time I walk in there. I don’t savour the you-don’t-belong-here-you-disgusting-fat-cow looks I get in the sauna. But I fucking go. So back the bloody fuck off. Sheesh…

Anyway, I have to go back to the gym now that my brace is off. Hopefully I’ll catch a time when it’s a bit emptier. Ugh.

Other than that, I’m procrastinating on my ghostwriting. The urgency hasn’t really kicked in yet (which is a bad thing) but I can’t help it, there’s something in me screaming that it wants some REAL free time. Apparently, there’s a lot of yelling happening inside me at the moment, isn’t there? My parents keep nagging me in their sweet way about an article I’m planning to write. I plan to write it. I really do. But I just want some free time that belongs to me and to me only. Just for a few weeks. Is that really too much to ask? I think not, considering I haven’t been on an actual holiday since 2003. Sure, I was with my parents for almost two months last summer. But I was quite weakened by my Hashimoto’s and if I recall correctly, I did do a certain amount of ghostwriting during that time too. An actual holiday? I can barely remember what that is.

Right now, I have recurring and increasingly wild fantasies about taking my 1000€ safety net out of the bank and disappear to some sunny island for two weeks. Let everything else go to hell, fall off the earth. I’m doing my best to do the responsible thing here and actually do something productive every day. But I need a breather. I really, really need a breather. And some sex.

Live long and prosper, peace,

Anna

If I’m going to spend two hours sitting there, watching Kate Hudson commit suicide again, then we are ordering Indian food.

Wow, so many things to blog about, so much pain in my left hand.

Quickie birthday recap: waited till midnight, congratulated myself, tore into the presents. Got a pepper grinder, a salt shaker, black pepper, white pepper, homemade DVDs from my Dad (I officially have every version of any King Kong (or just King Kong related movie made before 1950) and a homemade housecloth from my Mum. Awwww. Then went for what was supposed to be brunch but turned into breakfast at almost 2pm. Yummy Karkadeh (Egyptian hibiscus flower tea) was found and gulped down. First time anybody got it right outside of Egypt. Yay! Then went to Café Felix, got strawberry cake and a strawberry mousse in the shape of a heart. Completely delicious. Got a great phone call from dear Roxey (link to the side), finished watching the X-Files season four. Had a small heart attack around 12:01am when I realised my first day as a twenty-four year-old had begun.

While we’re on the subject: I’m not just turning old, I’m turning into an old man. More specifically: a balding, overweight, lecherous old man. My Hashimoto is causing my hair to thin. I’m…. umm… how do I put this elegantly? Rubenesque. And since summer has hit the city (but hard!) I’ve been continually drooling over all the nubile young women running around town in only a few molecules of material. So there you go. I think the day is nearing when I will whistle at someone and yell “Yeah baby, mama wants a piece of that!!” Ahem.

Date newsflash: had the date with the Indian tonight. I was half an hour late. So we were a bit rushed (crap). It wasn’t my fault though! Public transportation utterly failed me tonight. The only thing that kept me from committing suicide on the spot (or killing the next best tram driver) was Nikita. “Se faire attendre, c’est se faire désirer.”

I was nervous and I think he might have been too. There were a few pauses in the conversation. Yikes. But we did have lots to talk about and things in common. When I asked him about himself he answered and then asked me something right back about myself. That is a really good sign. I appreciate people who are not full of themselves. He’s even more dreamy than I remembered him. The sweetest eyes, the greatest smile, the fullest hair. The cutest Indian accent. My own personal Sharukh Khan. Except he looks nothing like Sharukh Khan. But the effect on me is the same Sharukh would have. *swoon* He told me about his work and it is utterly fascinating. He’s doing all these really interesting physics experiments. I could have sat there all night and listen to him talk about them. I actually told him this and as the words came out of my mouth, with a seductive languor I hadn’t intentionally built in, I got scared for a minute that it might have been too much. We’ll have to see.

Now I’m hoping he didn’t find me awful and I’ll get to see him again. It is such a great, great shame to think that whatever happens, he will be gone by November at the latest. He says he will take whatever academic job comes his way and that might be as far away as America. What rotten timing! Oh well, I should be glad I got to meet such a wonderful human being at all. Guys, he is so intelligent and so… his own person. He’s great.

Anyway, gotta cool down my crush and let my hand rest, for I have a column to write tomorrow (on the TV show Dexter – any opinions?).

Live long and prosper, all ye who are lucky enough to have a Sharukh-effect person in your lives, peace,

Anna

ps: I have gone header-making crazy! I have been creating lots of different headers for my blog lately. I’ll showcase them all if I can. The choice will probably be made depending on my mood, my most recent post or simply the weather. I love making headers! And I only need one hand for it too. Credits that I know of for this header go to: Dita von Teese, David Lachapelle and Amanda Lepore. The other images have been lying around on my hard drive for ages, don’t who they are from. If you know, I’ll credit them as well.