Note: Not me, I just relate to the face.

Yesterday I was really tired from a tedious Sunday flat-cleaning, still nursing a tinge of hangover from a weekend wedding, and my left eye was studiously applying itself to the development of an infection via clogged oil glands.  The main reason this was different from a typical Monday was that I had a hot job interview scheduled this morning (Tuesday) with the COO of a company in which I’m quite interested.

In preparation, I spent time reviewing their website and sector, but was admittedly feeling mentally fuzzy and physically icky.  Saturday champagne and Sunday bathtub-scrubbing make for dreary Mondays, especially combined with client tantrums and not enough rest.  Obviously, I needed to whip myself into interview-ready shape, like a Cosmo article for your most fab, fearless self, but without the ice cube enemas or whatever it is they prescribe.

The one thing for it, I sensibly decided, was a solid night’s sleep, especially given that the interview was at 7:30 am and I needed to get up extra early to anchor-bob my hair and pretend to be someone who is professionally pert at the ass-crack of dawn.  I was home from work Monday by 7:00 pm, ate a high-protein dinner, painted my nails, and ironed made my boyfriend iron my blouse in readiness.  By 9:30 pm, I was tucked into bed with a “demanding” Sudoku puzzle and an Introduction to Venture Capitalism.  Normally, that would be sufficient to dull my senses towards comatose, but I wasn’t taking any chances.  A refreshing sleep was crucial, so I took a quarter of Clonazepam to aid my efforts.  Ahem. (more…)


So, I’ve been in this long-term relationship – five-and-a-half years, to be exact – and things haven’t been going well recently.  To be honest, it’s been a rocky relationship from the start, and I can only ascribe its duration to my own complacency, oft-misplaced loyalty, and perhaps a mutual recognition of tenacity.  There have been good times, no doubt, but also a fair share of bad times, and throughout it all, a nagging sense of boredom and of things left undone and unsaid.

When Johnson and I got together, I was 22 years old and coming out of a nasty patch; I latched on to him with enthusiasm.  He was a foreigner in my hometown, we were both looking for some security, and the mutual benefits were immediate and obvious.  It didn’t take long for me to invest my heart and time, shrugging off the occasional errant suitor in the face of Johnson’s promises of longevity and fulfillment.  If I was good and devoted to him, he would be good to me, and together, we would go places.

It didn’t take long before I could see we were going to have problems.  He had a roving eye, as is his wont, and I was going to have to fight to remain in his affections.  Over the years, other pretty girls came and went, but I continued to declare my commitment and one by one, they dropped by the wayside.  I wanted to prove I was dutiful and in it for the long-haul, but sometimes the frustrations of all this struggle to stay visible and important overwhelmed me.  I didn’t understand why we couldn’t just sail on an even-keel; maybe we weren’t so well-matched after all, and I should be seeking attention elsewhere. (more…)

Right Arm and Hand

A few months ago I started taking weekly classes in hand-to-hand combat.  I needed some exercise, hate gyms, fantasize about being an action star, and “have a lot of aggression,” so it seemed pretty logical.  I’ve also been assaulted in real life and nurse an obsession with horror films and literary thrillers; I am fully alert to the presence of danger! walking down a city street and have a tendency to plot evacuation points whenever I am in a room for a prolonged period of time, so why not put all this occasionally justifiable paranoia to use and actually learn how to defend myself rather than just fantasizing about it?

The classes have been everything I hoped for and more.  I mix it up by attending beginner’s-level classes to work on my basic skills and advanced-level classes for variety.  While already outnumbered 10:1 in beginner’s, I am usually the only woman in advanced classes, and I thrive on it.  Aware that I may be regarded as weaker, more delicate, and less intense (and therefore an undesirable sparring partner) intensifies my aggression and need to prove myself.

I am not just a girl, I think, I am a threatI may be physically weaker, but I can be faster, smarter, and unexpected, and that is what makes me more dangerous.  It’s getting into a mindset that I think will serve me well in life in general.  Focus, train, emphasize your strengths, protect your weaknesses, and if ever cornered and in doubt, go for the balls.  Hard. (Note:  That’s not the playground tip – read on).

Particularly in the advanced sessions, I am often outclassed by people who have been training months and even years beyond my experience.  Almost all these guys are gracious partners and, while still challenging me, offer useful tips and assistance.  In turn, I do my very best to learn from them and give them the opportunity to get the training they are paying for by being a good partner (and it is a lot easier to attack than defend, so I think I do alright).

And sometimes I get the shit kicked out of me, if it’s a good class.  What follows are a lot of pictures of bruises, and a few thoughts on the nature of injury. (more…)

From AskReddit:

If you had a magic orangered button, and pressing it meant you would get 500 million dollars, but someone on your Facebook friend list would die, would you press it?

submitted by witide

edit It would be a random person, you can’t control who.

Had this conversation at work today. It’s a 50:50 split between those who put a human life as priceless, and those who have enough randoms on their friend list that some near stranger would die.

What’s your price, reddit?

ANSWER:  HELL YES.  I knew I friended Sarah Palin and Glenn Beck for a reason.

When I moved to Scotland over two years ago, one of the things I purchased on my very first trip to the grocery store was a bottle of Glenfiddich Single Malt Scotch Whisky, aged 12 years.  The handsome green bottle was encased in a tall, serious, emblazoned tin, with the prestigious history of the whisky detailed in gold lettering on the back (for quickie course of the proud tradition of whisky/whiskey, the Wikipedia entry is as good as any a place to start).

I stocked up on a number of basic necessities that initial trip – it was a new home, never mind a new country! – but the bottle of whisky still made the list of must-haves.  I was already entertaining fantasies of newfound friends, colleagues, and yes, gentleman callers, popping round for a chat, a smoke, and a civilized drink.  I was ready to embrace Scotland, and if Scotland would embrace me, I would greet it with a glass of decent Scotch and amusing banter!  I was ready for this new life, and eager to partake in the cultural mores of my new home.

Ignoring the fact that I was never actually swept up in my envisioned social whirlwind (due to my inherent loner tendencies and the reality that it was so freezing cold six months out of the year that I left my apartment only to go to work and Blockbuster), the whisky did not go down as smashing a treat as I had imagined.  Oh, I did have people over, but I quickly discovered that the offer of whisky was far less compelling than the offer of beer, wine, or a vodka mixer (all of which I fortunately kept on hand).  It turned out to be a good thing I never sprung for a proper whisky tumbler, after all, as I couldn’t convince anyone to drink the stuff. (more…)

My Boy Person had to go out of town for five nights last week.  Since he moved in, he’s been job-hunting, so has taken on the vast majority of the housework during the day and, ’50s-style, has dinner on the table for me when I get home from the office.  Were he not bored senseless, and did we not need the money, I’d say it’s a pretty sweet set-up.  I’ve been doing some light cooking on the weekends (mostly egg-boiling) and some laundry here and there so as not to get totally spoiled, but he’s definitely taken over the day-to-day chores and I’ve been able to work later in the evenings (yay).

Before he left, he joked that he couldn’t imagine how I survived without him.  “Ha ha,” I said, and thwacked him, “I managed just fine living on my own for the last ten years, so I expect I’ll manage.”  What rubbish, right?  As though I am thoroughly undomesticated!

Except I forgot that I kind of am.  I had big plans for the week.  I was going to take a bubble bath, paint my nails, bleach and depilate my various ladyparts.  I was going to call my family at home to catch up since the holidays, hit two different exercise classes, and had grand notions of reorganizing the closet.  I even planned out my menu for the week (I did have vague recollections of how much I hate cooking when I get home from work), and bought stuffed pasta and pre-seasoned pork escalope and a head of broccoli I could steam in minutes.  It was going to be so productive and relaxing!  (more…)

“Airline pickpocket strikes as passengers sleep.”

See, this is why I don’t trust people, they’re shifty motherfuckers just waiting to steal your shit.  Every now and then you come across a person who actually displays some goodwill and helps you out but for the most part people are too fucking selfish and worried about their own ass to bother helping out a fellow man.  And why are we so pre-occupied with our own shit?  Because of shit like this!  I mean, come on, on a fucking airplane?!  At 30,000 feet you still have to worry about getting jacked?!

The people who know me think I’m crazy for the way I never let my stuff out of my sight, but this is exactly why.  The two times I’ve been ripped off were both because I was stupid and/or careless with my stuff; the first time I stupidly left a brand new Louis Vuitton bag (with wallet, damnit) in the car because I didn’t want it to reek of tobacco choke in the bar and the second time was because my boyfriend and I had chugged a handful of e and I told him to stay in the car while I went to get punch-balloons and razor blades but he got out and wandered around looking for me and left the window down and my bag on the seat.  And so I paid the price, fraudulent charges and identity theft not to mention losing fabulous bags and good makeup/numbers/bottle openers/etc.

Now?   I eye everybody like they’re the Boogeyman, I don’t trust none of you John Q. Public’s to do me a solid.  Don’t get me wrong, this doesn’t mean I’m not sociable and pleasant with people, because I am.  I spend my whole life smiling at people I will never trust.

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