Spent most of last night uploading photos and trying to fix pc error (Win 7 hates McAfee and Dell software, there are conflicts) so there wasn't much tv viewing or any writing or typing (sigh). I did find the B/W Supernatural episode on cable, though. I'd forgotten, or rather, traumatically repressed, the sight of the lederhosen. And now I will have to do so again (shakes head as if to flick out the offending vision).
Is it just me, or is the chick of the week on SPN sourced from the same Mattel factory that White Collar get theirs? So interchangeable, so plastic. Oh, what was I watching where the chick of the week did the honourable thing and carked it before the end credits? Something 70s, no doubt, when they knew how to do things properly - grin. Actually I think it was late 60s, but you get the idea.
Last night I was late home so I missed most of the Clint episode in Maverick, curse and damn, because he's just so Clint in that (and giving Timothy Olyphant a real run for his money in the snake hips department). And while I agree with Clint's disparaging little speech about not being able to shoot a man if you fan your gun, what was he doing in the picture of him fanning his gun in those 70s westerns, as shown on QI the day before? Clint! Tsk. You actually did know better, so no excuse. Ya can't shoot a man if ya fan ya gun.
Oh, and when are we getting more Justified? I needs it. Less arc, more stand alones, please (and that goes for every show going, seriously, no leaden arcs, please).
Heh, they just played Frontier Psychiatrist on the radio. I love it when the soundtrack synchs.
Lately I have been amused when I've heard a song that was playing inside my head, outside my head, if you know what I mean. Having broken yet another mp3 player (they're too delicate for my daily and rough 100km round trip) I have to hum them mysef, but it's just a device to remind me what I was thinking of while standing on the bus until I can get a chance to jot it down, so it's usually a song to go with a scene. These last few weeks, and I've been overworking the beginning and the end so we've had (on various speakers about the place):
- Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers - They Can't Take That Away from Me
- The Beat: "Save It For Later"
- Heaven 17 - Let Me Go
- Mumford and Sons - Little Lion Man
- Wicked Game - Chris Isaak
Which probably demonstrates that the course of true love is somewhat potholed in my fics. Potholed and littered with IEDs, to be brutally frank.
(last) Thurs: Feeling a bit better today. Don't know why. Maybe these late nights have restored me to my natural state of sleep deprivation. Maybe it was watching Chuck last night, mercifully Bomer free, for now, though I will have to get over it. I found Carnivale on cable the other night so I've already accepted Tim back into my life. Which is probably why the fic is all yay Peter right now, though it usually is. I mean, Neal is a sweet guy, but he's seriously bad boyfriend material. All the lying, cheating and stealing he's made Peter do, the way he's turned Peter's world upside down, it's all terribly exciting, but terrible as well.
Ah, yes, the fic. I will never get it typed in time, even though I've cleared Saturday, it's like four solid notebooks now, but this morning, again, mainly due to the sleep deprivation, the characters started talking for themselves again and making up their own lines and doing their own thing, which is fun, if I can get it down on paper before I forget it. So much easier than having to do all the hack work myself, anyway. Though trying to capture one of Peter's incredulous splutters on paper is a challenge. That Neal, he's a handful. Poor Peter. Poor, poor Peter.
I also have tea. Tea is good. I like tea.
And it was quiet this morning. The temp is gone so I had a good run on getting some stuff done sans interruptions. And stuffs was done yesterday by the suddenly eofy underemployed house boy, which freed up Saturday, yay (so my cloud does have a tin foil lining, at least).
Oh, the tea is good. Instead of stressing I was just giggling over how most of my teachers at my school, and being a girl's school, I suppose I know why, were all flamboyantly gay, like really out there gay, like glittery unicorn my little pony gay and I suppose it was the 80s, their first flush of gay pride and all that, but yeah. My fave was my most beloved geography teacher. Geography, smography, I just attended to catch up on the latest installment of whatever snit he was having with his BF at the time. No detail was left unturned, including the pubes in the soap controversy. It was such an ongoing, ahem, soap. I know, you're all nodding now, and there was me, in my formative years, pretty much in a gay disco, daily. Aw, I loved my gay teachers. They were sweet and hilarious. Sweet and hilarious is important. Sweet and hilarious is good.
The only straights were the chem teacher (110 per cent Gene Hunt), my most beloved wee leprechaun of an English teacher and the American english teacher who'd come out with a plane load (I met another on the plane to the states, there must have been a recruitment drive at one time). They all married students and stayed. Which is no doubt why I ended up with all the dancing queens. Oh, boys, where are you now, eh? Still dancing, I hope.
I do not know why I am, so far, so unbothered today as I duck the usual slings and arrows. Yesterday was a dog of a day. I was hauled into a two and a half hour tribunal where they all sat on the other side of the desk and asked me to explain why I couldn't do this or that on the website. Because it's a cheap nasty table based HTML 2.0 cms from the 90s that you bought over my very strong objections that doesn't support css, js, xml, ajax, flash, php or anything else and so, no, you don't get anything fancy and yelling and screaming at me and banging the table loudly ain't gonna make it happen. And this is on top of everything, I mean everything, being due on 1 July so I'm having to do a year's work in a day, because you don't think they actually started to send me stuff until yesterday, did ya?
Maybe I'm just burnt out and have finally achieved that not caring nirvana I've long hoped for. Here's hoping. Because otherwise, it's a pretty grim outlook, quite frankly.
Oh, the Style insert in today's SMH has an article on how to dress like the Lord Mayor, Premier, Prime Minister and Governor-General. All women. Is that not amazing? Okay, yes, it was all about their frocks and not their policies, but hey, it wasn't just the wifeys this time, and that is, well, wow. They issed out the Governor of NSW, also a chick, bit what they hey, four made a nice quad on the page. We have too many top women to fit on a page now, all of a sudden. Outstanding.
It's 3 pm and I'm a little less bemused. Come on day, I got things to be doing, better things than this. Wouldst that I had a cubicle to call my own because then, then, my friends, I'd be typing like a blue fiend, but alas, no, this is about as much as I dare, opened up in my code window, looking like codey stuffs. Sigh. So bored, and so much to do. No wonder I get cranky. And frustrated. And fed up. And overtired when I attempt a second day's worth of work late at night. Grumble. So bored, waiting for folks to accidentally on purpose delete another month's worth of work. Let me get out of here so I can start on the real stuff, stuff folks (well, one or two) actually care about. Sigh.
(last) Fri: Still not Saturday yet? I could really do with a snooze. It's been a week. Why everyone has to have everything go off on 1 July I will never know.
You know what was sad, so sad I laughed out loud? I had to put together the monthly stats report and I noticed that in the top visitor cities, New York had suddenly popped up out of nowhere with high numbers, and then realised that was me, working in my hotel room every night. How freakin' sad, especially as I had anticipated going out every other night, I even had tickets, none worth the paper they were printed on, as it turned out. It's hard to not to be disappointed. Especially when I know, I will always know, I missed out on seeing something like this.
Sigh. And, at the same time, splutter (and I was coughing all over the place anyway, but, well, jeepers!). Oh my, Matty. Oh my indeed.
They say if you have a commute of more than an hour it'll make you ill and miserable. Mine was three and a half hours last night. Sigh. I coulda really done something with that time, I'm sure of it. As it was I made another cup of tea I forgot to drink and barely had time to sit down for The Tudors, on the second screening at that.
I'm gonna miss watching Mr Cavill, especially as the dear boy refuses to ever cast himself in fillums I would actually, voluntarily watch, sigh. So Tudors is it, really. And there was some quality HC time this week as poor old Chuck was having a fit of the Banquos (well, someone has to have a conscience in the Tooders) and I really felt for the poor duck as the tears were pumping down those perfect cheekbones. Real tears, too, well done, Henry, I'm so proud. No, that's unkind, I was actually quite moved by the supernatural distress the lad was suffering at the time. PTSD much? (Or is the dear Duke losing it a bit as he seems to be seeing spectres around every corner, he really needs to ease up on the mulled wine or whatever).
As for the rest, well, anyone could tell Fat Harry that you gets what you pay for with skinny blonde trophy wives, but nobody would dare, and so it unfolds. I must say, the Tooders tends to make the chicks who got the axe really deserve it, which is, I don't know, a bit hard on the wimmins who were usually doing what wimmins had to do to get ahead, ahem. I mean, I know it's H8's story, but he does tend to come across as more sinned against than sinning in ways I don't feel he's quite entitled to. Not a feminist revisionist history, then, though who cares, we're all just watching for the Duke of Suffolk, are we not?
Oh, Henry Cavill, the weeks are going to longer and darker once you no longer grace my screen. Get another series, and soon, dear.
Still no typing but I did get a bit of a scrawl going. Not so much new stuff but going back and giving some important scenes a harder edge. Made sure I splashed a bit of tomato sauce around, Neal's, of course. You can decide whether he deserves it or not (I dare say my fic Neal is much like the fatal femmes in the Tudors and guilt is in the eye of the beholder). I do feel sorry for my fic Neal but he does bring it upon himself with some of those very thoughtless moves that he has shown himself quite capable of (in canon). Usually that's his modus operandi, and he just moves on, fast, but now he has Peter keeping him tied to one place and so stuff has a chance to catch up with him. Oh. Dear.
Neal also have a terrible habit of trusting and putting his faith in people he really shouldn't, which will also cause a great deal of grief, if I can ever get onto finishing this blasted thing.
At least the trip to NYC achieved one of its main aims: to paper over memories of a previous trip. No, not my first one, that was brilliant and peachy keen. I'm talking about the one I don't talk about much. The one with the boat anchor. I mean, I won a trip to New York. It should have been the most wonderful time ever, and she ruined it, nothing pleased her - people there actually commented upon it (so it wasn't just me being oversensitive) and she never spoke to me again. What did I do that was so wrong? I still have no idea, and I still feel that if I was that annoying she should have said something so I could have tried to salvage what should have been the time of my life, somehow, even if it meant ditching her and moving to another hotel (which I should have done, but shoulda coulda woulda). And if she hated me that much, she should have had the stength of character to say no, outright, before ruining my holiday for me.
Boy, I was still so furious when I got to NYC, but thanks to further setbacks, it's just blurred into a series of missed opportunities and regrets. Oh well, and don't think you're getting off that easily or I'm giving up, New Tork. I finally, finally mastered London, and, you, too, will come to an understanding with me one of these days. I refuse to let New York beat me. You hear me, I refuse. So there (though the dismal state of the savings is gonna give that too proud city some breathing space, dammit). One day, New York, I will get the hang of you, and then everything will just fall into place, and I will understand, and it will all make sense.
The way I understand London now. It was hard work, but I did it. Not that I know everything, but I understand enough to get around, to get how things work, just a sense of place (though it helps to walk where my ancestors walked, a sort of 'feel it in my bones' cheat sheet, if you will).
One day, New York, I will see your tricks, and sidestep them, and you will cease to upset me and start to delight me, and then, well, then I'll leave you in peace. So you see, New York, it was in your best interests to behave, and you didn't. You've only got yourself to blame if you feel the itch and burn of me walking your streets again, you know. I could have left happy and satisfied, but I left distraught, undone, incomplete and disappointed. I can't let that stand, I just can't. So you and me New York, Round Four, some day. Count on it.
Meanwhile, day a bit of a suckfest, bored but frustratingly no opportunity to use my boredom constructively, as we might say. Grumble.
Monday: Good grief, still have't posted this. Gonna be another one of those weeks. Like yesterday, I was supposed to go out, I'd promised to go out, I wanted to go out, but by the time I'd done the washing/watering/weeding/sweeping/cookin
Popped down to the bottle-o for another cheap bottle of cooking grog for cooking purposes and my gosh, the neighbourhood is in no danger of being gentrified any time soon. Not even Dickens has characters as coarse as the lot staggering in and out of the local bottle shop (yes, including me, in my fave Viking t-shirt from York).
I'd like to say I made progress on the typing on Sat at least but as I'm the world's slowest and most typo friendly typist, that'd be a no. Man, I hate typing. Now you know why fics never see the light of day. Worse, I thought I had this story all sewed up, but no, there's the dreaded missing middle bit again. Sigh.
TV? Tried to rewatch the Tudors but the Peanut Gallery was in fine form, and when poor Charles was wishing ghostly Darcy would stay, the PG piped up with "We could solves crimes together, like Randall and Hopkirk." And when I glowered he shrugged and excused himself on account of me making him watch Being Human.
Oh, Being Human, how much do I love you? I was wheezing over the bad date machinations, especially George maliciously picking a German film (Bastard! hisses Annie, approvingly) because, oh yeah, been on those dates, oh yes. But it was Mitchell's rant over his fave tv show being shifted in the schedule that finally ends with the flail in the marigolds (rubber gloves) that had me weeping with fits of empathetic giggles. I need to find a clip of that and just post it every week instead of my blog. Oh, here it is. What he said.
Poopy. I ruined my marmalade, and it was shaping up to be a real good 'un, too, best crop of manadarins in years and I go and get distracted and the bloody thing burns. I'm not sure how it did but it did. Damn and blast. I shall proceed to sulk for the rest of the week.
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