I just wanted to point out here that it was in no way my intention to write a post saying I was back from hiatus and then immediately disappear for another month. I had thought that when my job ended and I had all kinds of free time, I would fall right back into regular blogging just like old times. What I neglected to take into account is that stress and depression are fabulous at inducing writer's block whilst simultaneously making even the smallest task seem like such a gargantuan effort that you are already exhausted before you even begin.
Here's a thing they don't really tell you when you are being treated for depression on a long term basis - being properly medicated and being able to cope with life for long periods of time can cause you to develop a false sense of security about yourself. This only becomes a problem when you get into situations in your life that you aren't able to effectively cope with, and something that would have been a really bad low before you got help and learned how to deal with things becomes even worse because you know, logically, that you are over-reacting and yet you still can't make it stop. The whole thing becomes one big downward slide into a pool of self hatred and an inner monologue is telling you that you KNOW what the problem is, so just fucking FIX it, but you can't fix it, so obviously you are a COMPLETE FAILURE AT EVERYTHING. And since you are a complete failure at everything, you start to reason that no one likes you because WHY SHOULD THEY SINCE YOU SUCK, and you fail to reach out to the people who love you and could help you back. But again, you KNOW, logically, that this is stupid and it's just the depression talking, and of course you should have reached out and asked for help, dumbass, but you're stupid and now you've let everyone down AGAIN because you are a COMPLETE FAILURE. Et cetera, et cetera, until either you crash and have a public meltdown on Twitter, or someone close to you calls you out on your poorly hidden breakdown and forces you to let them help you. Or both (I have amazing and supportive Twitter followers and the most incredible boyfriend on the planet, THANK YOU).
Anyway, enough of that. My point is, being done with work did absolutely nothing to alleviate the stress of moving to another country, or going back to school in the hope of starting over from scratch with a completely different career, or choreographing and costuming a solo burlesque dance routine for the first time, or, as I finally got around to yesterday, breaking the news to an emotionally fragile and somewhat dependent roommate that I am moving 4,000 miles away from him and he's on his own (it is not going very well). And that's why I disappeared again and why I can't promise you that it won't happen yet again right after this post either. But I'm trying. And I have plans. One of which is that I am thinking about reviewing another horrible book for NaBloPoMo this year. If you think this is a good idea, feel free to leave me some suggestions on what you think I would really hate (excluding Twilight because Mark over at Mark Reads has already done that as brilliantly as it will ever be done). I WILL get back to where I remember how to do this and be funny at it, I just can't promise you exactly when. I am really hoping it's now.
Tuesday, June 11, 2013
Is This Snails?
The trouble with trying to travel anywhere with me (for that matter, the trouble with trying to have a meal with me at home) is that at 35 years old I still have the palate of a child of 6. If it's not made out of pasta or bread I probably don't want it, and if it contains words I can't pronounce or sounds in any way exotic there is absolutely zero chance you are going to get me to put it in my mouth.
StereoNinja took me to Paris in March after finding out I had never been there, and while this was still in the planning stages I had decided, based on exactly no evidence or research whatsoever, that there was absolutely nothing to eat in France that wasn't made out of snails (except perhaps crepes, but those sounded suspicious to me in their own right because they've been described to me as "like a pancake" except they are not a pancake and why can't I just have a pancake? Plus they are probably stuffed full of snails) and I was probably going to starve to death. StereoNinja insisted both that this wasn't remotely true and French cuisine is some of the finest in the world, and that even if it were true, snails are delicious and I would love them. They are drowning in butter and garlic, he reasoned, which is what I drown practically everything I eat in, so there should be no problem. I countered that I would prefer to enjoy my butter and garlic without massive boogers floating in it.
In the end I managed to avoid eating any snails. In fact I ate very little of anything, not because I was being an obnoxious child, but because there are specific times designated for eating in France, and good fucking luck to you finding a single open restaurant if the time you are hungry is outside of those appointed times. What I did manage to find to eat was a Mexican restaurant just down the block from our hotel, because when you go to France for the first time in your life, it makes complete sense to eat food that you can get on practically every corner of the city you actually live in, but of better quality and 1/3 of the price. I didn't care - fajitas are something I know for a fact I don't hate and I wanted a friggin margarita (I drank four). Besides which, I now get to tell the story of how StereoNinja took me to France and I insisted on eating Mexican food the entire time.
We also spent a day in the Centre Georges Pompidou because StereoNinja is an artist and also CULTURE. Unfortunately, being surrounded by "culture" isn't something that typically makes me behave like a grown up in public. This day was no exception. It started with this kid who clearly fancied himself some sort of artiste as evidenced by his skin tight bright blue trousers and jaunty hat, which someone must have told him was the uniform. He was walking around looking very very serious about things and nodding solemnly and I was doubled over laughing. There was also a pink painting with a couple of dark vertical slits:
a giant room filled with ceiling high rolls of what appeared to be burlap, which looked for all the world like the back room of my uncles' floor covering shop where they keep all of the giant rolls of linoleum (this room caused me to turn to StereoNinja and say "I'm sorry but I really don't understand 'your people'."), and several phallic sculptures, every one of which I made StereoNinja take a photo of me pretending to suck off:
For some reason I was far better behaved at the Moulin Rouge despite being completely surrounded by boobies and drinking half a bottle of champagne, apart from the fact that there was one male dancer who bore a striking resemblance to my date, and I kept referring to him as "Young [StereoNinja]", much to Old StereoNinja's irritation. I'm really not sure why he likes me. I'm starting to think he's not a real ninja*.
StereoNinja took me to Paris in March after finding out I had never been there, and while this was still in the planning stages I had decided, based on exactly no evidence or research whatsoever, that there was absolutely nothing to eat in France that wasn't made out of snails (except perhaps crepes, but those sounded suspicious to me in their own right because they've been described to me as "like a pancake" except they are not a pancake and why can't I just have a pancake? Plus they are probably stuffed full of snails) and I was probably going to starve to death. StereoNinja insisted both that this wasn't remotely true and French cuisine is some of the finest in the world, and that even if it were true, snails are delicious and I would love them. They are drowning in butter and garlic, he reasoned, which is what I drown practically everything I eat in, so there should be no problem. I countered that I would prefer to enjoy my butter and garlic without massive boogers floating in it.
In the end I managed to avoid eating any snails. In fact I ate very little of anything, not because I was being an obnoxious child, but because there are specific times designated for eating in France, and good fucking luck to you finding a single open restaurant if the time you are hungry is outside of those appointed times. What I did manage to find to eat was a Mexican restaurant just down the block from our hotel, because when you go to France for the first time in your life, it makes complete sense to eat food that you can get on practically every corner of the city you actually live in, but of better quality and 1/3 of the price. I didn't care - fajitas are something I know for a fact I don't hate and I wanted a friggin margarita (I drank four). Besides which, I now get to tell the story of how StereoNinja took me to France and I insisted on eating Mexican food the entire time.
We also spent a day in the Centre Georges Pompidou because StereoNinja is an artist and also CULTURE. Unfortunately, being surrounded by "culture" isn't something that typically makes me behave like a grown up in public. This day was no exception. It started with this kid who clearly fancied himself some sort of artiste as evidenced by his skin tight bright blue trousers and jaunty hat, which someone must have told him was the uniform. He was walking around looking very very serious about things and nodding solemnly and I was doubled over laughing. There was also a pink painting with a couple of dark vertical slits:
 |
| I refused to believe this painting wasn't called "Two Vaginas". |
 |
| Evidence that I should not be allowed in public. |
 |
| Not pictured: maturity. |
For some reason I was far better behaved at the Moulin Rouge despite being completely surrounded by boobies and drinking half a bottle of champagne, apart from the fact that there was one male dancer who bore a striking resemblance to my date, and I kept referring to him as "Young [StereoNinja]", much to Old StereoNinja's irritation. I'm really not sure why he likes me. I'm starting to think he's not a real ninja*.
*OR IS HE?
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