Norma, the scarf

I’ve done it!! I have finally completed my first scarf! It was a little rough, to say the least. If you look at the edges, you can see that I mean this both literally and figuratively ūüėõ The granny squares themselves were relatively easy to crochet, but I had a VERY difficult time connecting them all together! Now I just need to weave in all the loose ends and then block the entire thing (hopefully that will even it out a bit). In the meantime, I’ve decided to name it Norma. Do people do that, name their work? I’m new to this entire arts and crafts thing, so I’m not sure how else to discern between pieces!


I’m in France now (and it kind of sucks)

I thought that I might skip the social niceties and get right to the nitty gritty.

So I’m currently a language assistant in France. ¬†And seriously, it kind of sucks.
I had a really romanticized notion of what it would be like… envisioning myself, eating baguettes and writing poetry and learning the language and generally being worldly and cool. Instead, this is what I have turned into:

Ma Vie en France.

On the upside, I have eaten many baguettes. But I have not written any poetry because – turns out – that shit is hard. As is language acquisition. I feel like my brain is wired so that it’s impenetrable to any language outside of English. It’s like, bitch, I’m already using up enough RAM for l’anglais and its ridiculously massive vocab, I CANNOT CRAM IN ANYMORE.

At least ¬†that’s what it feels like. When people speak to me, it literally sounds like gibberish, even if it’s something as simple as “je suis une femme” (no one has actually declared their gender to me yet, but I’m sure if they did it would sound like they were reciting the Magna Carta).

Check out this chicken scrawl.

I really, truly thought within a few months I’d be conversationally fluent. As of this moment, I can barely say my name and age. I sound like a befuddled ¬†time traveling caveman. The wolfboy could speak more french than I can.

I guess it doesn’t help that I’ve become a miser (minus the hoarding of gold). Or hermit, whatever. Also, it should be mentioned that I am the laziest person ever, which doesn’t help matters. I’ve caught up on at least 6 different television shows since I’ve been here. Speaking of which, Game of Thrones is ace. I mean c’mon, who wouldn’t choose marathoning GoT over conjugating verbs? You show me that man and I’ll show you a fool!!

I love you, Jon Snow.

Anyway, sorry for the massive negativity in this post. It’s really not that bad, I just needed to vent. I’m sure in no time I’ll be blogging in broken incomprehensible french. Just you wait, world!¬†JUSTE ATTENDEZ, MONDE!!!!!!



How to please a gypsy

Dear friendly internet strangers,

I am so very sorry for my long absence from the interwebs! For this I shall never forgive myself. A lot has happened this past month, so much so that I’m not quite sure where to begin. First I should say hello, and that I hope you are doing well. I myself am fine, thank you for asking!¬†What have I been up to that was so pressing that I could not think to update my wordpress, you might inquire!?!?

Well firstly I was sick for a bit. Secondly my mother was in town (and for a whole MONTH. I’m sure you can imagine how that was). Also we went to Italy for a week, where she mercilessly taunted gypsies.

Okay that sounds bad. She didn’t so much taunt gypsies as she did confuse them horribly. Do not worry, I will explain.

So we’re in Florence, minding our own business (at least I was), when we see a few gypsies. My mom decides to approach them, and alarm bells start to go off in my head, as one does not simply walk up to a throng of gypsies!

But then she starts rummaging through her purse and I’m thinking, oh, that’s nice, mommykins just wants to give them some money. But no… no no. instead she takes out a bunch of bananas (why she was carrying around bananas I’ll never know) and hands them over. The gypsies, upon receiving this wondrous gift, looked at her something like this:


Luckily, they were not holding a baseball bat. I then urged my mom along, leaving the confused gypsies far behind us.

This was not to be a one time thing however… little did I know my mom was on some sort of banana blitzkrieg. Later in the day we encountered a gypsy mother and daughter, and once more she brazenly approached them and asked if they’d like a banana, to which they hesitantly nodded yes. Mi madre then realized she had none left, so she ran off to the closest market to get more. Only she returns not with the bananas but with a LOAF OF BREAD.

Of course the gypsies were like, what the hell is this shit. We were promised bananas.

Well, they didn’t say exactly that, but if the look on their face was any indication, they genuinely would have liked a banana. What I’m saying is… they’ve probably cursed us. Also my mom is some sort of sadist, taking these poor gypsies on an emotional roller coaster. You think you’re getting my loose change? Ha, here’s a banana instead! Oh, you’d like a banana? Well here’s some BREAD. Because we’re totally in Soviet Russia where bread is a hot commodity!!

Please, be good to gypsies people. Good day.

How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love Bullshit Work Seminars

Two weekends ago I had to attend a mandatory personal development training for work.

Essentially it was a goal mapping seminar that consisted of – you guessed it – us mapping our goals.

“How can someone even begin to map out their many hopes and dreams?!” you might ask as I had… so eager was I to learn! Well dear reader, the answer is simple. Through the mystical power of DRAWING.

I drew my future, and it looked a little something like this:

What is this

Suffice to say, my future looks pretty bleak.

My primary goal (center) shows a disembodied arm, floating ominously over a moth and/or book. Either it is stabbing the moth, or it is writing in the book. I can’t be sure of which.

To achieve this goal of becoming an evil entomologist and/or writer, I plan on either sprouting a few extra arms (to kill more moths?) or doing jumping jacks (to strengthen my arms for long bouts of writing?)

To achieve this I must… adopt the power of heart, like the poor foreign kid on Captain Planet.

Do you like my ring?

Once I have the power of love on my side, I can then wake up extremely early, perhaps even before the sun comes up, as I skip to some unknown place, emphatically yelling to the sky “lets go!” My stick figure embodiment is disciplined, enthusiastic and also a quadrupedal.

Then I publish a series of polemics, and am subsequently imprisoned due to how provocative and¬†politically¬†charged they are. If the scratches on the wall are any indication, I’ve been held prisoner for 10 days, yet I maintain hope by looking out a puddle of sky floating in the middle of my prison cell. I will later escape through it.

Afterwards, I obtain a pair of binoculars, and presume to spy on others in order to find interesting material for my book. Or maybe this is a commentary on how I am turning my work on you, the viewer. You are now the voyeur, not I!

My work is multi-layered…

By the last bubble I actually fell asleep, so was unable to finish my piece.

Now I am not only a better employee, but a better person. Thank you HR, for introducing me to a highly efficient way of organizing my thoughts. I will doodle all my latent desires from now on.

Another day in the office

Oh, hello! Well, here I am, back after well over a year. Have you missed me, world wide web? Or more simply, my blogosphere? Which consists of only myself?

Anywhoo. I shall start anew. I feel like at the beginning of any good blog (not that this blog is anywhere close to good! sub-par, or sub-sub par is more like it) the blogger in question should properly introduce themselves, maybe give a little background information, perhaps present some context or motive for their writing into the black abyss that is the internet.

But me? Mostly I’m just bored.¬†This is sadly not a food, fashion, or travel blog (though it very well could end up turning into one of those things!) It’s just a blah blog.



Anyway. Context. I’m sitting here at work, trying to look busy, and let me tell you – it’s pretty dang hard. I’d much rather have something to do. Yet here I am, wasting away in the corner… perusing Reddit… conspicuously¬†changing browser tabs when someone walks by.

I thought maybe I could learn french¬†while at work seeing as I have so much free time these days… secretly scouring language websites and murmuring to myself in le francais.

Also, I imagined the endless possibilities for my sci-fi erotica kindle single, which I’ve been meaning to write for perhaps a millenia. The details are unclear, but there was going to be a protagonist. An antagonist. Maybe a conflict. A series of revelations. Erotic things would happen. Science-y things would happen. Etc, etc.

The thing is, anytime I start to write this supposed “novel,” I spend way too much time on character development. And not the good kind. Mostly it’s my (often female) protagonist’s character description.

“She had long flowing stawberry-blond hair, curling surreptitiously around her shoulders, much like a forlorn snail”

That’s the kind of purple prose and hyperbole I indulge in.

Okay, like honestly what do people even blog about? Their day? Their interests? This is hard. Sorry for my internal monologue. I guess I could mention that I’m going to Budapest at the end of the month. With my “boyfriend.” I’m still not used to saying that word. Boyfriend. BOYFRIEND. I HAVE A BOYFRIEND.

And… that’s it. That’s all I got.

I don’t want to leave you high and dry of course, so here’s a photo of Rupert Friend (aka Poorlando Bloom):

Hottie mc dottie

Hottie mc dottie

You’re welcome.