Today is Valentines Day, so insert embittered grizzling from a grouchy chocolate free old spinster here.
Tired. Stayed back much later at work than I'd wanted or intended to, then I still had to trot accross to the other side of Smallmindedville to pick up the cheap sandals I'd seen from the bus the other day, replacing the evil cheap sandals that so crippled me last Friday. Hey, I try. I don't know why I allow myself to be bullied out of my Docs, as they're the only shoes I can wear without bloodshed. It's not like I have a boyfriend to drop me off at the door and pick me up at the door so I can wear shoes intended for posing only. No, I have to walk, and walk far, so comfy shoes it is, which means I'll never get a boyfriend...it's all a hideously depressing Catch 22 situation.
So, anyway, after obtaining said el cheapo very dyke-worthy sandals (so very my old teachers and uni lecturers) I decided to hop a bus, my poor feet still very upset over the whole new pretty sandals debacle. So I wait and I wait and I know Dr Karl says time is elastic, especially when waiting for buses, but everyone else was startling to grow very visibly restless, too, it being hot and steamy and I was sure there should be a bus soon and it was the every bus company but syndrome until one finally arrived after over an hour, forcing us to cram on like that rugby ad set in a Tokyo train station (love that ad). As we slowly got crammier and crammier sardinesville in the back of the bus (I'm talking about probably having to take a pregnancy test, we were jammed in that tight, like a phone booth stuffing contest) we crawled over the bridge and I discerned the hold up: one car had braked suddenly coming off the bridge and in peak hour traffic a good dozen cars at least had all rammed into the back of each other, up over the bridge and down over the side and there they all were out swapping info with the folks who hit them from behind and the front and the traffic was backed up to my place, a good 5km away, turning the main road into one big long car park. So that's where all the buses were, stuck in traffic.
Getting home now over three hours later than intended I'd missed all the birdies, whimper. Dinner was a dessicated affair and then I chucked my buckets on the garden and it was time for SVU. Big problem, actually. Kiefer on EC7, Callum Keith Rennie popping into Dead Zone on EC9 (and my god but he's looking old now. What is with with guys suddenly aging twenty years overnight. Saw a pic of Sean Patrick Flannery from the Dead Zone, too, looking suddenly, terribly aged when he was still cute back in Stargate just a couple of years ago. Maybe it's the Dead Zone, though I myself have aged twenty years in the last year, so maybe that's it. I used to look ten years younger, at least, now I look ten years older. I thought one aged gradually, not overnight. I mean, how are they going to do Indy IV when Young Indiana Jones is looking haggard and middleaged? But I digress) and Munch in SVU on Ten. Oh, choices, choices. 24 was a repeat, Dead Zone is lame and SVU is Munch lite and not at all as clevery written as Homicide and Chris Meloni never gets his gear off. Ended up flicking, a lot. Normally I'm extremely anti-flicking but as I don't have one of those wall sized plasma tvs that let you watch three channels at once (I know, you're asking why not? aren't you - cheeky buggers, it's not like I'm the Communications Minister) one has to do what one has to do.
By 10:30 or so we were into just Jack (heh) but I was actually writing by then and so not paying as much attention as anticipated. My last M7 fic has turned into a rather angsty triangle. Loving it. Poor Ezra, misjudged Buck's limits, pushed him too far, as the old Cure song goes. Poor Ezra, the road to hell being well paved by his good intentions. Thow in Chris, light the blue touch paper and retire to a safe distance :D
Midnight and I'm still writing and it's Buffy, the one with the zombies. worth watching just to see Giles huff "Americans!" in that endearingly disgruntled tone of his. BTW, I've been reminded again that my anti-American rants are upsetting my US pals. Please remember that all anti-American rants (and frankly, I won't stop while they annoy and frighten me so, the world dominating Nazis) all come with an asterix and a disclaimer that my comments are aimed solely at the two thirds majority of American fuckwits who apparently support Bush et al (duct and cover indeed) and their policies, not my few and intelligent friends who hopefully don't. So, not talking about you, okay? Just your country, and its current appalling attitude, in general (as is my right to do so).
I was also talking about my Scottish snarkiness which is allegedly is v.amusing unless it its you who's copping the buckshot (accidentally or not). Well, yes, I do spray indiscriminantly, but that's just me. I try to be good but it just doesn't happen. I think I'm being funny all the time. It's usually not meant as harshly as people take it, not at all.
After Buffy I'm still awake and hyper so I decide to try that banana smoothie I'd been craving all week and see if it'll send me to sleep. Don't try to make a banana smoothie using just a milkshake maker unless you want it Chinese style, ie with lumpy surprises at the bottom. Hey, I couldn't be arsed getting the blender out, it did for 1am in the morning and I love my shake maker. One of those silly extravagant impulse it was on sale buys that has nevertheless given me great pleasure and wide hips over the years.
So glad that some people were amused by my bird tales yesterday. Too bad I don't have a digital film camera or the space to host a little film of the nightly feeding frenzy. It's louder than a Tarzan film because they only used to mix a dozen or so Australian birds together for the soundtrack, whereas I can boast of a cast of thousands (well, okay probably more like 50 or so on the days the local fish shop's closed), all very squawky.
Hey, I can see sparks. The banging walls endlessly guy is now angle grinding a few desks down and it's like fireworks. Pretty, but it doesn't feel safe. Pretty, but I'm not sure I should be watching showers of sparks from my desk. It smells all dad-like too, ie the smell of burning metal, like Dad's ancient 1960s about to explode in my hands anyday now power drill. I think I like it cause of the sound and the smell, because I was the only one with nerves of steel enough to hold up brakets while Dad drilled between my fingers. Anyway, woke up all lumpy feeling from the smoothie, staggered into work (no Eggman on the bus, yay) and thus I sit, doodling before another staff meeting. More restructure nonsense no doubt, so much fun.
Oh, I'm disappearing for a week or so, so don't worry. Booked myself a cheap two star cabin somewhere in an attempt to write something, though if it's anything like my usual holidays I'd probably have gotten more done at work anyways. Always seems that way. Sigh. At least I'm trying, right? A lengthy report will no doubt follow upon my return.