Oh, it'd be cruel and unjust to suggest this was SOP on the Burn Notice set, now, wouldn't it - snerkle. Still, at least they're aware that for a show that started out so funny and shiny new, it's now deeply bogged down in tropes and cliches. Oh dear. But I still watch it. Sometimes. Even if the Peanut Gallery will call out from the kitchen 'is it still a point if someone else eats yoghurt?'.
We take our Burn Notice bingo seriously around here.
Meanwhile, I think my flu caught itself a dead cat bounce with the way I've been racing around the last week or so (and that's with cancelling stuff), even when I went to bed early last night. Halfway through Supernatural, in fact. I decided to watch it on the shitty telly in my room because I was suddenly very knackered and Sam was torturing the very cute demon (that was Whitney from Smallville, he grew up cute and a much better actor) and I was like Zzzzz. Sorry, Sam, it had been a day, you know?
Monday morning, the interwebs weren't working and getting to the crematorium, inconveniently located in remote rural hinterland, via bus, train (late) and a taxi that never turned up until I started screaming abuse at the operator (not my finest moment but I was desperate at the stage, with ten minutes to go) was, shall we say, fraught.
Anyway, I'm not a big funeral attendee (no place for an autistic or arsehole, whatever you want to think I am) but there were lots of people there, some I'd not seen in decades, and the group photos they had on display were surprisingly distressing. His family, though, sheesh. His brother pretty much just recited his resume verbatim because he had no clue. It would be hilarious if it wasn't so horrible. And as for throwing everything in the skip and taking over the house before the guy was even cold, it's just too dreadful. It's been a rude wake up call, that, that everything I own and cherish, all my memories, everything I was, will just be tipped in the skip. All those rare books I carefully and tenderly turn the pages of, if at all, all those autographs, carefully pressed into an album, the carefully collected music and dvds. All chucked. Shudder. Mortality, it bites.
Worse, it's the first friend I've lost to an old man's illness and not a young man's idiocy. They're not leaping out of planes (or falling off mountains) any more, just withering away. Another unhappy milestone.
That said, I was rocking the little black dress. It's the only half decent black dress I own so I figured why not? Nobody noticed at the funeral, and why should they, and I was only wearing it to be annoying, anyway, because I didn't want to look like a complete loser. I wanted to look like I was living well, as you do when fronting up to folks you've not seen in years/decades (did you think I'd crumble?). You know how it goes.
No, the wicked fun came when I went back to the office, as I had to, though the political sky had not yet fallen in (yet) and oh, the reaction, as I usually just slob in looking like Velma, because it's the office, as in why bother, and there I was, sashaying around the office in my little black Mad Men number (and trust me, I actually do know how to work a Mad Men dress, I used to wear 'em back in the day when I could only afford ancient op shop offerings and I was actually young enough to practice the sashay, as seen in old movies) and all the guys had their eyes sticking out like organ stops, giving me startled second, third and even fourth glances. I collected a 'pretty', 'beautiful' and a much treasured 'va-va-va-voom!', which is more than I've managed in my entire life before. Oh, little black dress, where have you been??? So worth the silly money I spent on it now. It shall henceforth be known as The Dress.
But, oh, those shoes. I love those shoes but I just don't live anywhere where high heels can be worn. No footpaths, for a start. Or street lights. Not to mention the swathes of broken glass. And my poor knees. If I wasn't feeling old before I kicked off those shoes, I sure was afterwards. Happily, I'm wearing my vaguely steam punky boots today with the the (new) vaguely Edwardian skirt and blouse 'cause it was raining (bucketing) when I left (in the dark). None of the chaps in the office glanced at me twice. Sigh.
The blouse, which I adore and picked up in M&S in my travels, is slightly the worse for wear as I held it up to the impossibly dim energy saving bulb (sure it saves energy, I can't see a fekking thing) to check for little bird hellos, and I thought there was a shadowy ball of fluff on it but the ball picked itself up and started to stalk off in high dudgeon, so I pretty much beat the poor shirt to within an inch of its life against the wardrobe door. Did I mention I hate spiders? Poor favourite shirt (and yes, if the wardrobe is now overrun with moths it's my own dang fault, but jeebus, I don't need critters in me garments).
Spiders everywhere, at the moment, draping cobwebs hither thither and turning the early morning stagger from front door to gate into a complete Hammer Horror job. Grumble.
So anyway, by the time I fronted the coffee shop this morning Capt. Awesome had a coffee ready to go, just from the state of me. Ah well. Rough week of highs and lows and I'll probably lose the house and the job but at least I can say I lived.
Btw, do you see what I see in the tv guide for Channel Ten this Sat? And I don't mean the hardwood shelving that is Mr O'Loughlin? Heh. Hello, Neal.
Oh, and don't get me started. Cue Bullshitters.
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