lights

Living each day as my last.

Black, white and brilliant.

My choice for who I’d like to dance with…

Francis and the Lights “The Top”

and proof that great things come out of Brooklyn…

White Rabbits “Percussion Gun”

carrie

5th December: Day 54 of doing one thing as if I was living that day as my last.

On Friday night I was in the binding closet, fidgeting with curly metal and hole punchers for a very uptight account manager until 7 pm.

When I finally finished that obnoxious request that came through at 4:30 pm, I thought about the fact that I hadn’t done my “thing” for the day and asked myself what I REALLY, REALLY wanted to do.

Drained from a long week and the news that twenty of my colleagues in New York were “made redundant” as the Brits say, I wanted comfort. And I knew the perfect thing: a bottle of wine, and this:

drama

3rd December: Day 52 of doing one thing as if I was living that day as my last.

Whilst Bronchitis and I were in bed together last week, we watched The Holiday. Since then I’ve been thinking a bit about the scene where the charming old neighbour tells Kate Winslet that she needs to the leading lady in her life: (at about 1:30)

The thing is, I sometimes feel like my life is actually a movie.

And so, when I am out in public, staring absently ahead, lost in troubling thoughts set to Jon Foreman’s “Learning How to Die” or William Fitzsimmon’s “Funeral Dress”, I am in a dramatic scene.  And whilst I don’t try to be over the top, I just feel whatever it is that rushes over me.  Right there and then.  And sometimes a tear will slip down my cheeks.

It happened a few weeks ago.  My hands were full of clothes that I was about to donate.  I was thinking about little daily things.  And then I started thinking about a certain thing I didn’t know how to do.  And it hit me.  Of how hard it was to lose someone that I lost two years ago.  A person I thought I was over.  And before I knew it, a wave of loss and sadness came over me.  My lip was trembling, and the tears were coming.  I turned from chucking my trousers in the bin and though I tried to avoid their looks, I saw the construction workers notice my emotion.  It actually was the thing that put a smile on my face, the thought that perhaps they attributed the waterworks to separation anxiety from my beloved clothing.

And then it happened on Wednesday.  I was exasperated about waiting for twenty minute for my first bus in Putney, and then missing the second bus in Richmond.  I sat on the bus and was overcome by the feelings that had been creeping up for the few days prior.  The “I feel so lonely and miss Brussels and friends that I connect with and can spill my heart out to… and “when the hell am I going to have close British girlfriends!?” and even more, the depressing realisation that in my honesty and the process of giving up on my friend from Brussels, I’m losing a friend. And he’s not even noticing it. (oh God, even more a sign that I’m the “unloved walking wounded” that Kate was talking about!) And so, as I stared out the window and the bus nudged forward towards Kew, I let it be an internally dramatic moment of catharsis.

By the time I made it to my front door, the whole world hadn’t transformed, but I was relieved to have vented out those feelings… and with the release came a clarity that I need to make the shift from passive to active… and that this British friendship thing is one very long haul. The black tie efforts are commendable, but I need to do the thing I only recently noticed I never do: take the initiative and initiate a one-on-one meetings… And so, I opened up my laptop and began the stream of emails for weekend plans…

rubbish

28th November: Day 47 of doing one thing as if I was living that day as my last.

Rubbish.

It’s the one British word that I’ve wholeheartedly adopted from all of the English as a Foreign Language classes my colleagues have been giving me (think: repeat after me: Wah-tah).

Rubbish is just such a fitting word. Especially for what I was feeling like on Friday. And before you start making your little leaps and great bounds to imagine me in the worst of sorts from the cranberry vodka cocktails, wine and gin and tequila shots, let me just tell you that I would much rather have been hungover. In that case I would have scrambled up some eggs, downed a 1.5 liter bottle of water and passed out on my bed with one leg draped over the edge, touching the floor. But instead, that horrible, awful sinus infection that visited me during the months of September and October came for a November visit. In a very big way.

I had been trying to lie to myself the day before and will myself to be healthy as I attended the St. Paul’s Thanksgiving service and got stuck into the family at M’s house, as there was no way I could cancel the day that I had been looking forward to forward to for months. But when I woke up on Friday at M’s house, my denial was no longer achievable as I used an obnoxious number of M’s tissues.

So I parked myself on the couch and did what I have been meaning to do for a long time: take my first English as a Second Culture class. First with Strictly Come Dancing (haven’t decided on a favourite yet), then with X Factor. Here’s who I’m cheering for:

Eoghan Quigg, doing a Take That! song (ignore the freaky nymph-like girls in the background!)

ikea

I’m going to be a cup-half-full-er with regard to Mark Malkoff’s recent shenanigan. His move into Ikea was clearly the realization of one of my dreams, harking back to one of my favorite childhood books, From the Mixed Up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler. In this book, two precocious New England kids run away to the Metropolitan Museum of Art. By day they enter the mix of school group tours, by night they bathe in the fountains and nestle themselves under the covers of antique beds.

Mark Malkoff is living the dream (as opposed to stealing the fabulous idea) I have each time I walk through the alluring domestic scenes of Ikea-land.

souvenir

Just returned from a hop over to Amsterdam… after seeing what great shopping they have (I’m perhaps swayed a bit by the huge 50% off sales) I’m tempted to make this three hour trip regularly… especially when I can find souvenirs like the one below:

For those curious, I didn’t buy this lovely hanging after visiting a “coffee shop.”

Speaking of kissing, though, I turned on my Belgian television tonight to find Laura Ingalls and Almanzo Wilder professing their love in dubbed French. Ahh, the days when viewers hold their breath for the climactic hug.

One more thing: today’s quote of the day comes all the way from M. in Thailand: “Have you ever really looked at old people?  I would not want to have sex with them!”

Cheers!

garçon: linguistical revelations

I find that some of the most insightful sermons are peppered with references to ancient languages. For instance, the Hebrew word kavodh (weight, honor, esteem) was translated as glory in the Old Testament, yet the word glory in the New Testament is often the translation for doxa (the way God makes Himself recognizable).

I would venture to say that a current comparison of language also provides extremely edifying insight – for example this summer’s very popular French song by Koxie, “Garçon”…. Check out this spoof:

Just in case you didn’t get that, a bit of Google’s apt translation:

(Note the most important slang not translated – garçon= boy, gar= guy, gare= train station, con= asshole, enlèves=remove, cedille= small punctuation on the c)

Just now,
J’roulais on my scooter in Paris,
On one car at the traffic lights, a guy said to me:
“Hey Madam, what time is it?”
J’lui say: “Midi.”
It m’dit: “Madam what went right! Want not m’faire a treat?”
His pals rigolent. At the time I did not understand.
J’réponds: “My great, it’s no way to talk to people. Tu we would not speak like that to your mother.
The guy looks at me. With a head of guard dog he m’fait: “Vas speaks not my mother or j’te trapping!”
J’lui say: “From quiet Alphonse. J’te not know, you m’agresses! What is this lack of sensitivity? We told you not treat women as princesses?”
It m’dit: “Yeah, but you j’te kisses!”
J’lui say: “Well not exactly, it is well that the malaise!”

((Chorus:))
You know that boy, if t’enlèves the cedilla it makes boy and cons station to my daughter, the station cons.
Beware cons, beware of cons who lose their cedilla.
Boy if t’enlèves the cedilla it makes boy and cons station to my daughter, the station cons.
Beware cons, beware of cons who lose their cedilla.

J’continue my way. At the next traffic light, I hear “Hey big naughty when you want j’te take!”
It is still with his head Alphonse glans.
J’lui say, “Here you t’enfonces is indescent!
I think so guy, down to your planet!
You take for Tony Montana, have you not even hairs on the quéquette … “
It m’dit: “Go ahead am not fulgaire! T’vas see where j t’la save.”
“You say qu’c'est me who is vulgar? But there it is the feast! I dream. For that you take? Now you t’arrêtes.”
I come down, it goes down.
J’dis: “It’s a mess in your head! Accounts What do you do? Here t’es in trouble.
I want an apology, I expect and j’lacherai not the case. “
He said: “No toi you t’excuses, kind of old witch.”
“This is the best I t’ai given time, I would have done better to shut me!”

And the language of reference if you’re interested.

ps – I’m not a man-hater – I just couldn’t resist!

celebrities make fools of themselves too!

Yes, sickening US Weekly caption. But it’s not just the Hoff that makes fun of himself in foreign media.