My liver and I have officially survived a week in Barcelona. There was a day in there somewhere around the third bottle of wine when I was sure the liver wasn't going to make it, but it pulled through with flying colors.
I'm kind of craving a bottle of rioja right now. Can one become an alcoholic in a six days?
Full details (and pictures) to follow when I'm better rested. For now, I will say that this was possibly the best birthday I've ever had.
I am off to the wilds of Barcelona for a week to celebrate my very first quarter centennial. Frankly, I consider it an toast-worthy accomplishment to have somehow avoided accidently offing myself over the course of the previous 25 years. Cheers!
Pictures will be forthcoming with all the alacrity displayed in posting the photodocumentation from my Morocco trip.
And when I return it will be time to plan the next vacation, as I will have only one upcoming trip on the books and that is simply unacceptable.
Every year I spend eleven months not giving a flying fuck about the French rugby team. And every year, at about this time, someone sends me a link and I remember: the french rugby team are as gods. Yes, that's right, it's time for the Dieux du Stade calendar.
Well, almost. The link I was sent was for the preview. Doubtless some humanitiarian will order the calendar and scan the pictures in short order, but in the meantime we must content ourselves with this. (You may not wish to click that at work unless you have a remarkably accepting workplace environment. Cirque, permissive as ours is, I'm not sure I'd click.)
If you click on that link, you'll note that there seems to be a manacle theme this year.
I KNOW, RIGHT?
UPDATE: Possibly I missed last year's calendar as none of these looks familiar. Sigh. Only the French.
The thing about mimosas is that you really don't think you're drinking much as you down glass after glass. So light! So bubbly! So fruity! It's mostly juice, right?
You don't realize how much you've consumed until your basic motor skills start to fail. Pulling out a chair? Whoaaa, crazy! Trying to type? Awfully dyslexic!
And that's why mimosas are awesome. Cheers, Cirque, to a wonderful birthday brunch.
So I took this online career test: 39 questions that would allegedly indicate the kind of careers I would be interested in (note: not necessarily good at). The top ten list is as follows:
1. Research Analyst (Financial)
2. Economist
3. Retail Buyer
4. Investment Banker
5. Purchaser
6. Cartoonist / Comic Illustrator
7. Venture Capitalist
8. Desktop Publisher
9. Management Consultant
10. Health Care Administrator
And here's my interpretation of the list:
1. Money
2. Money
3. Money
4. Money
5. Money
6. Humor
7. Money
8. Lame
9. Money
10. Money
I can live with anything but 8. Seriously? Desktop publisher? Seriously? God, kill me now.
Anyway, I think I like to deal with money. I don't necessarily need to earn pots of it (cf nonprofit job), but I do so like watching its unending flow. People are so funny about it; their behavior is inevitably entertaining. Sign me up for the crazy! I've got a sharp knife and a clear conscience, as O'Brian used to say.
Also, how do I not have a navel-gazing tag? Fixing that NOW.
In lieu of telling you about the really weird dream I had last night in which I completely unexpectedly had a penis* (I know, right? It was so weird.), I will instead talk about the couch I am about to buy.
People, this couch is so awesome. I mean, yes, I was really excited about the chairs, but I'm beyond excited about the couch. You saw it in an earlier post; aren't you consumed by couch love at first sight? Let me tell you a secret: it's even better in person. The arms, they curl toward you as if to say, "hey baby, stretch out, I'm here for you." The leather, it glints flirtatiously in the light. And the flared back has all the magic of spontaneous jazz hands. Oh yeah.
To be honest, I would have sex with this couch if it were at least two of the following: human, male, and over the age of consent. I'd be all about opening a bottle of wine while turning down the lights and turning up the Barry White.
Ha ha, I bet you are so wishing this post were about the penis dream, aren't you? Seriously, the penis dream is probably less disturbing that my relationship with the couch.
But the couch, the couch. You're going to love it as much as I already do, I just know you are. Get excited: it's coming to a living room near you in six to eight weeks.
* Sorry, was the mere mention of it enough to freak you out? My apologies. Here, have a soothing video of polar bears. Better? Good.
Now that I have chairs on order, I'm rather in the mood to complete the living room. We could have it fully installed for Thanksgiving! Think of it: actual places to sit! Here's my angst, though: 1) I'm moderately improverished and 2) choosing furniture is really stressful.
To couch or not to couch! You tell me:
I would be paying this off until, oh, December or January, given my current budget and my imminent trip to Barcelona. Is it worth it? Eek. I have to buy furniture sometime, right? Right? God, ANGST.
This is actually quite horrible, but the "putting it in context" section at the end of the article is pure brilliance:In 2005 The Sun told how squirrels in Brixton, South London, became hooked on crack cocaine hidden by addicts in gardens. Residents said the tufties had bloodshot eyes and were “digging desperately” in flower-beds. In the US, crack squirrels are a recognised problem in New York and Washington DC parks.
(Emphasis mine.) Yes, that's right, by "crack squirrels" they mean squirrels that are addicted to crack. And they just threw that in there as a "The More You Know..." addendum. God, our tabloids are such crab compared to British tabloids. When was the last time you read about crack-addicted rodents in the Red Eye?
Public transportation: 99% of the time, it is one of my very favorite things about living in a real city. Runs all night! Involves next to no thought! No designated driver necessary!
And then there are days like today when I long for the privacy of my very own carbon footprint.
Unattractive middle-aged man: *rubs inappropriately against P&G* Hey, let's share a pole.
P&G: *looks horrified* ...no!
Contributions for therapy are welcome.
I have a tendency to lean on my left hand while working, reading, or doing anything else that requires seated, stationary behavior. I do it so frequently, in fact, that I have a semi-permanent, barely noticable callus under my chin. Gross, right? Anyway, that's not the point.
Because of the leaning, when I have sleeves pulled over my hands due to Xtreme!air conditioning or general immaturity, I end up with my nose buried in my cuff. As usual, that happened today at work, resulting in the following train of thought:
Hmm, my shirt smells like Morocco.
Well, not Morocco, precisely. More like the laundry detergant I borrowed in Morocco.
That's so weird. I know I've washed it since.
God, Morocco was so awesome.
I wish I could travel more.
I could get a job that involved serious travel.
But I'm awfully happy at my current job.
But being happy is no reason not to change. In fact, it's a terrible reason.
But there's no sense in making myself miserable simply for the sake of change.
Maybe I should do more research on those international job options.
But...happy!
But...smells like Morocco!
And that's when I realized: my shirt smells like existential crisis. God. Life sucks.
