(no subject)
February! Egads. I think this has been the longest, busiest, most annoying January since... I can't remember, really.
It seems as though I've gotten nothing done, though, which is strange considering I've moved, and done some surface remodelling on my new flat, and subbed in extra hours for someone's two-week winter vacation. Maybe it's that perfectionist streak piping up, demanding everything to be done faster-harder-before-yesterday!
It's Sunday, and I've dedicated the day to being selfish - read, just being still. I haven't had a day since the beginning of December when I haven't had to go somewhere, indulge somebody, had to do something pre-scheduled, and baby, my body's aching. I think my folks will throw a sulky fit over skipping Sunday lunch with them, but damn it, a girl needs some time to mooch around home sometimes. (Not that I'd made any promises on the subject, but I still feel guilty about it, which just goes to show that the greatest gift I could give myself could well be just a holiday from myself.)
It's with this in mind I've prescribed myself a Sunday with Cuba Libres, the seventh season of QI, and good books. I've still got a stack of reading from Christmas awaiting ravishing - some translated early Margaret Atwood, Rob Holdstock (whose books Mum loves) and Lavinia, Ursula LeGuin's latest, which I'm rather looking forward to. I suppose Mum parcelling up Holdstock for me is a retaliation for surreptitiously leaving my Dresden Files paperbacks by her bedside - an amicable war fought with literary addictions. And yes, she loved Dead Beat.
I sometimes wonder whether my folks and I would have ever managed to live under the same roof for so many years if it hadn't been for books and music - Dad and I can notoriously out-sulk each other and go six months without speaking (besides monosyllabic grunts) while living in rather close quarters, but the exchange of records has always been the proverbial olive branch, charred and manky as that twig at times may be... I gave him the newest Mellencamp album for his birthday this year (not as big a hit with him as Seasick Steve was a few years ago, but he seemed pleased if puzzled), and he seems hell-bent on fattening out my CD collection with "decent albums" from his favourite artists - and he's surprisingly hard on Dylan and Moody Blues, for such a fanboy. I learned to operate the cranky Pioneer turntable he had before I learned to ride a bike, for crying out loud.
I've been catching up on Bones, and of this Friday, I'm right back on track. I have to say that while the sixth season (and the one before it, at times) seemed rather bland, there have been some stellar episodes to this date. Episode 9, "The Doctor In The Photo", really was a classic - it reminded me why I stuck by with this show in the first place, and the latest ep, #12 "The Sin In The Sisterhood" had one of those adorable dorky moments for Booth and Brennan that we haven't seen in a while - they just got to be themselves and be silly for a while. I'm not a shipper, but I miss that part of their partnership at times in between the mock Serious Business (dunn dunn dunn) and drama-llama races, when they just have that "hee hee, we're a pair of idiots, and we don't really mind."
Also: I'm sofaless! My geographically-closest friends have tentatively asked after a housewarming party, and I'd love to indulge them, but seeing as I've nothing but a pair of hard kitchen chairs and a patch of free floorspace available, the answer is still "nay." I'ven't yet stowed away my suitcase and biggest overnight bag, either, and the place is a bit of a mess - I've just cooked, eaten, and crashed here most of January after getting everything moved in and set up, and it sort of shows. A lot. I really ought to haul arse for second-hand shops next week and get a beaten-up filing cabinet put to pasture for all my pencils and art supplies, and yes, a nicely broken-in sofa on which Yours Truly could flop down on like a beached whale. Very picturesque, I'm certain.
Son of also: Am I the only person who shops for groceries shrewdly and rather like the Apocalypse was coming, ie. thriftily? Such hue and cry over suddenly not having any money left for food! And people give me a look as if I'm mental when I mention that I eat quite well, thanks, on 10 euros a week. Paella and pea soup, babies, homemade baguettes and the occasional potato fry-up... Maybe there's a market for a common-sense cookbook.
This was first posted here.
Talk back, or see what others have had to say... (
slips of tongue)
It seems as though I've gotten nothing done, though, which is strange considering I've moved, and done some surface remodelling on my new flat, and subbed in extra hours for someone's two-week winter vacation. Maybe it's that perfectionist streak piping up, demanding everything to be done faster-harder-before-yesterday!
It's Sunday, and I've dedicated the day to being selfish - read, just being still. I haven't had a day since the beginning of December when I haven't had to go somewhere, indulge somebody, had to do something pre-scheduled, and baby, my body's aching. I think my folks will throw a sulky fit over skipping Sunday lunch with them, but damn it, a girl needs some time to mooch around home sometimes. (Not that I'd made any promises on the subject, but I still feel guilty about it, which just goes to show that the greatest gift I could give myself could well be just a holiday from myself.)
It's with this in mind I've prescribed myself a Sunday with Cuba Libres, the seventh season of QI, and good books. I've still got a stack of reading from Christmas awaiting ravishing - some translated early Margaret Atwood, Rob Holdstock (whose books Mum loves) and Lavinia, Ursula LeGuin's latest, which I'm rather looking forward to. I suppose Mum parcelling up Holdstock for me is a retaliation for surreptitiously leaving my Dresden Files paperbacks by her bedside - an amicable war fought with literary addictions. And yes, she loved Dead Beat.
I sometimes wonder whether my folks and I would have ever managed to live under the same roof for so many years if it hadn't been for books and music - Dad and I can notoriously out-sulk each other and go six months without speaking (besides monosyllabic grunts) while living in rather close quarters, but the exchange of records has always been the proverbial olive branch, charred and manky as that twig at times may be... I gave him the newest Mellencamp album for his birthday this year (not as big a hit with him as Seasick Steve was a few years ago, but he seemed pleased if puzzled), and he seems hell-bent on fattening out my CD collection with "decent albums" from his favourite artists - and he's surprisingly hard on Dylan and Moody Blues, for such a fanboy. I learned to operate the cranky Pioneer turntable he had before I learned to ride a bike, for crying out loud.
I've been catching up on Bones, and of this Friday, I'm right back on track. I have to say that while the sixth season (and the one before it, at times) seemed rather bland, there have been some stellar episodes to this date. Episode 9, "The Doctor In The Photo", really was a classic - it reminded me why I stuck by with this show in the first place, and the latest ep, #12 "The Sin In The Sisterhood" had one of those adorable dorky moments for Booth and Brennan that we haven't seen in a while - they just got to be themselves and be silly for a while. I'm not a shipper, but I miss that part of their partnership at times in between the mock Serious Business (dunn dunn dunn) and drama-llama races, when they just have that "hee hee, we're a pair of idiots, and we don't really mind."
Also: I'm sofaless! My geographically-closest friends have tentatively asked after a housewarming party, and I'd love to indulge them, but seeing as I've nothing but a pair of hard kitchen chairs and a patch of free floorspace available, the answer is still "nay." I'ven't yet stowed away my suitcase and biggest overnight bag, either, and the place is a bit of a mess - I've just cooked, eaten, and crashed here most of January after getting everything moved in and set up, and it sort of shows. A lot. I really ought to haul arse for second-hand shops next week and get a beaten-up filing cabinet put to pasture for all my pencils and art supplies, and yes, a nicely broken-in sofa on which Yours Truly could flop down on like a beached whale. Very picturesque, I'm certain.
Son of also: Am I the only person who shops for groceries shrewdly and rather like the Apocalypse was coming, ie. thriftily? Such hue and cry over suddenly not having any money left for food! And people give me a look as if I'm mental when I mention that I eat quite well, thanks, on 10 euros a week. Paella and pea soup, babies, homemade baguettes and the occasional potato fry-up... Maybe there's a market for a common-sense cookbook.
This was first posted here.
Talk back, or see what others have had to say... (
slips of tongue)