Recently in Mutterings of a Crazy Lass Category

The Switch

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Every night, Sylvain and I have the same discussion.

"Can you turn off the light?"

"No, can YOU?"

"Oh, you're last in bed, can't YOU turn off the light?"

The lightswitch is only 10 centimetres away from my pillow.

Lazyness?

No.

I just like to mess with his head.

It's surprising he still puts up with me.

Giggle fits and secret sounds

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You know what it's like, sometimes, when something makes you laugh and laugh and laugh until you can't breathe and you're hyperventilating and tears are pouring down your face and you snort a little as you try to catch your breath? And someone else is there with you, laughing hysterically over the same thing, which only makes you laugh even harder?

And sometimes it's the stupidest thing... Something which wouldn't necessarily be all that funny, but after a long day of work, it just falls well?

And days later, when you come across it again, it makes you laugh so hard that even the cat looks at you in surprise?

Kyliemac may kill me for this, but if you've got a few minutes, go over to k&k learn french #59 : ça tombe bien. Listen to the whole thing, then go back and listen carefully from minute 4:37 to 4:52. Just after the maniacal "youpis" of Kylie and Frog, and just before my "No one messes with...", you'll hear this really weird sound. A REALLY weird sound. Which had us in hysterical fits of laughter as Kylie edited the episode on Saturday.

It may not be as funny to everyone else (maybe you had to be there?), but it's a REALLY weird sound. And we can't figure out what it is. Do YOU have a theory?

And every time I listen to it again, my stomach clenches in anticipation of the giggles, and just as it comes along, I burst out laughing.

Every time.

Which is what I need this week.

It falls well.

Dear #5,842

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Dear creepy guy on the train, 

With only 5 people in this carriage and therefore HEAPS of places to sit, WHY do you have to sit in my space, et en plus, sit facing backwards and stare at everyone.

Sadly, my passive-agressive strategies (mastered by Parisians) of sighing heavily through my nose, wriggling uncomfortably and curling my top lip don't seem to phase you (in fact, I suspect I look like I need to visit the bathroom - I need to keep working on this). 

You're creeping me out. 

Love Katia

Heating up

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So, other than putting my foot up, guess what I'm doing on my super exciting housebound Friday night?

Making custom ringtones for my iphone.

Phil, you've got GoGoGoJoseph.

Ok, that's all I've done so far, but I'm only just getting started! The question remains : who will be next? and what song should I give them?

Seriously, if this Friday night got any hotter the place would be on fie-aaarrrrr.

(Ps. Self-pity aside, thankyou to all the people who have offered to come and visit me during my toe-valesence. The first couple of weeks were pretty tough, and I'm not a very social sick person which is why I said no to all the offers to wipe my poor sick brow... Now? I'm going to break down the front door with my crutch if Sylvain doesn't let me out soon!)

(Pps. Sylvain is not actually keeping me hostage and it is in my own best interest that I stay inside and not move around too much. And this is totally only temporary. But still. Self-created drama is keeping me highly entertained during my house arrest.)

Up the wall

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So, I was supposed to go back to work this week. Then an infection set in, which (after an emergency trip to the surgeon to make sure I didn't need to go back under the knife) has set me back another week.

First was the happy meds. Then was the novelty of being able to watch endless bad tv while lying on the couch (finally the life of a lady of leisure, even if there was pain involved). Then I started working from home, knowing that this will mean I don't have to work 20 hours a day when I go back, even though I'm on an arrêt de travail and am really not supposed to be working, but I get so much more work done at home. Then Sylvain brought me a present, to make up for the fact that he keeps yelling at me to use the crutch to get around instead of walking on the side of my foot (ie. a twisted ankle waiting to happen).

But all these things are good in small doses.

Now I'm going totally stir-crazy and am starting to climb the walls with frustration. I am not used to being cooped up like this. The other day? I actually voluntarily spent ten minutes answering a customer service questionnaire over the phone. I am even considering a forbidden shuffle down to the supermarket just so I can have a conversation with someone other than Sylvain and Symphony.

If I don't do that, I fear I might end up shaking my fist at the young'uns who are camped out under our window at lunchtime and thinking that equates human contact.

I need my toe to get better already.

By the way, will you be in Paris on the December 6?

Unravelled

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So, the last nurse was female. The new one is male. He's cute too.

But it WAS a bit weird to welcome him into the apartment, say "the bedroom is this way, we'll do it in there" and proceed to sit on the bed expectantly. Ahem...

Before he proceeded to take them out today, I asked him how many stitches I had in my toe.

(Animesh, you win).

Where YOUR stitches at?

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People keep asking how many stitches I have in my poor toe.

Is it bad that I can't actually say?

Every time the nurse (who is super cute, by the way) comes to change my bandage, I cover my eyes until she's done.

The revenge of the pith

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Sylvain takes out a plate and a sharp knife, then reaches into the large glass bowl on the coffee table and helps himself to an orange. He proceeds to peel it carefully with his knife. Once the peel is gone, he starts on the pith, which he removes meticulously until he is left with a little pile of yellow on his plate. He removes the last of the white veins from the centre of the orange.

Then, and only then, he eats the orange. Piece by pithless piece.

I grab an orange from the same bowl, and crouch beside the coffee table. I bite into the peel with my teeth, trying not to let my tongue or lips touch the acidy shower that inevitably sprays out and hits me in the nose. I pull off the peel, quickly, and rip the orange in half, chomping down on it, bit by delicious bit.

Juice drips down my chin and I wipe it off with a tissue that I find in my pocket.

I realise that Sylvain is looking at me in horror.

Lucky I have other charming qualities that endear me to him.

Not sure what they are yet, but they've gotta be in there somewhere.

Of resolutions and rugs

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Just for the record, these are the things that I shouldn't do when I am not well :
- watch scary movies. The dreams I have when I'm well after having watched a scary movie are bad enough. Combine that with a fever and, well, let's just say that Sylvain wasn't sleeping well either.
- anything remotely creative. This just results in bad decisions and unnecessary stress and a lot of wasted time.

And these are the things that I should do when I am not well :
- listen to what the doctor says and take the time off that he recommends I take off rather than arguing with him and saying, "oh no, I'm sure I'll be fine". He has more training in this field than me.
- rest. Rather than run around like a crazy thing, and going back to work too early. See previous point.

With all this in mind, I'm now a little worried about a rather big decision we made a couple of weeks ago, when I was in a fog of flu : the ordering of a new rug for the lounge room. Sylvain keeps reassuring me that he is quite confident of our decision, but we have not been able to agree on the matter for a year and a half and I find it rather suspicious that we were able to walk in and out of the rug shop in under 15 minutes, having made a decision together without one of us having to back down. I'm therefore a leetle bit nervous about what will turn up when they call to say it has arrived.

Tis the season

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Because I am apparently the most disorganised person on the planet and didn't realise it was December until last week, I've been fretting a little about Christmas presents. The guilt-o-metre got pushed up a notch as gifts and cards from thoughtful friends overseas started arriving in the mail box (people who are a lot more organised than me and who I'm sure I don't deserve to count as friends).

I sat down on the weekend and wrote out the list of things to do. I've ordered a few things online, and picked up some bits and pieces, but am nowhere near "done", and I simply couldn't think of anything to offer Sylvain's mum and his sister. Sylvain was being no help whatsoever on that front. They've both got everything they could possibly need, and have very particular tastes, so it makes things very difficult to find a thoughtful and meaningful gift.

So I did what any disorganised and guilt-ridden girl would have done, and I threw a hissy fit. Complete with foot stamping and dishevelled hair at the end of it all.

Sylvain looked at me solemnly, with worry in his eyes, and said "Listen, if it's upsetting you so much, I can do the shopping for you. There's a shopping centre near my work and ..."

There was a moment of dead silence as we looked at each other.

The way his face changed colours, from pink, to white, to green, as he realised the magnitude of what he had just offered to do, especially given his tendency to break out in a rash when he is in large crowds, was very interesting indeed, and more than worth the energy of my hissy fit.

"I mean... I mean..." he stammered.

I shook with laughter. It took me a few minutes to stop. Sylvain's face needed that time to slowly return to its normal colour.

"It's ok, my dear." I said. "I can do it."

"Oh good," he spluttered. "I don't think that it would have been pretty..."

Every time I've gotten cranky at myself for not being more organised this year (a fairly common occurence actually, who ever said 'tis the season to be freaking jolly?), I think of Sylvain's face turning a multitude of different colours and know that even if I'm having trouble thinking of presents, at least I enjoy shopping and I can handle the crowds.

I just asked him what he would do if, in a parallel universe, I wasn't here to buy the Christmas presents. He looked at me in confusion, which in turn rapidly transformed into full-blown panic.

I patted his arm and told him not to worry, that he could always rely on gift vouchers.

I've got to stop torturing the boy.

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