This is not about now.

It's about yesterday night; suffice to say that yesterday night I was majorly pissed, and not in the happy drunk sense of the word.

Actually it was a lot like the kind of pissed that women get once a month (fucking PMS, I think I'll devote a whole post to that next time it happens), except it wasn't that time of the month, and it really was the-drop-that-makes-the-vase-overflow kind of total freak out.

Ever notice how many of the (slightly) good posts around here are about food? Well, it's going to be one of those again.

Did I mention that I am busy lately? As in, extremely busy. As in, what my brother does times 1000. So then, why exactly is it that I always get asked to do things? My brother, all jokes about his stupidity and clumsiness aside, is not a dunce. He knows how to use a computer, use a CD burner, and if it's one of his good days he'll even remember the water has to be boiling before you drop the rice in.

So why am I the one who gets to babysit/cook/play Technical Support all around?

But I'll do it. I'll cook the fucking pasta, cut the fucking ham, get out the fucking parmesan, I'll dress the fucking table, and I'll still get sniffed at by their Brotherly Majesties of Couch Potato Country for whom ketchup is the highest good. No, there's no ketchup and yes you'll just have to eat it dry with ham & cheese. May I remind you that it's not half as bad as the last time you tried  to make dinner? Ya ain't happy, ya can do it yourself, punks.

It's not like I could have been angry nicely, like mum & dad with their business partners, who send each other 3 page emails which basically mean "Take my proposition, frankly I don't give a damn you don't like it" and "Fuck you, my dear".


I got upset. I snapped at them and got in a murderous mood. Once they'd left the table, I did the only thing I can do when emotionally distraught, because I do not have a friend to phone and whine to. Call it what you want, feeding of the hungry heart, whatever, it just means I stuffed my face. I just plunged my hand in the pasta pot and stuffed a fistful of pasta down my throat.


I half hoped I'd choke on it.

Sad thing too, because it was really good pasta, al dente & everything. I had timed the five minutes like it was my reason for living (and as dinner depended on it, it probably was), but I hadn't thrown it against the tiled wall to do the 'al dente' test. Looking back, that might have lifted up my mood, causing everyone to have a much nicer evening, but hey, it was bound  to come out at some point.

And so this story ends, with the scene of me alone at dinner table being kept company by dirty dishes and a pile of postal junk, morosely shoving pasta down my throat as if it could solve everything.

*Sigh*

Dare not say I'm not pathetic now.

Starving my brothers

I have just decided my brothers won't get to eat tonight. If they're hungry, they'll cook themselves. I am not, and I am not their housekeeper. If my brother is hungry, he'll stop being busy soon enough. I am busy too. I'm watching great TV on my laptop, contemplating maybe studying a bit of Latin or looking for some Dutch subtitles.

I am not hungry. I am not their babysitter and I'm most definitely not their mother. Lazy pigs.


Oh, who am I kidding? Of course I'm hungry. As if I'm ever not hungry. But since I am supposed to lose weight and I refuse to be a housekeeper, I might just as well make a statement out of this. I'm not eating, you're not eating. Or you'll be eating very bad, because I know for a fact none of you can cook. My TLB is the only person ever who managed to screw up scrambled eggs. Scrambled eggs, people!

Imagine what he's going to do with the pasta. It'll probably end up looking like mashed potatoes and tasting like water. I seriously pity that spaghetti.

Shut up. Just... shut up.

There's a kid in my house.

There's a kid in my house that I barely know and that won't stop talking to me.

There's a kid in my house whose name is Jules and that I'd love to strangle.

Shut up. Just... shut up, you fat 'moulin à paroles'.

Shut up or I'm gonna kill you dead with my Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy Omnibus you've been stopping me to read by talking to me or to the TV. Shut up. It's a Wii. It's not gonna answer.

I think I like your sister Emma better. She might look and act in a slightly depressed way, she might creep me out, but at least he shuts UP!


Did shut up, anyway. They left now. They were the kids of a nice, real quiet guy, a hunter, that my mother is desperately trying to set up with one of her best friends. A totally doomed teenage enterprise only my mother could think up. But enough about all that drama, how have you been?

I've been okay, I guess. I had a nice evening. I had a 'groupe d'activités' thing, I usually hate everything related to that because the guys look at everybody either not talking to anyone but their friends or making fun of everybody, half of the girls are petty and mean and the other half looks at you as if they'd just discovered you in a heap of dinosaurs dung.

But this time it was okay. Perhaps because only half of the group was present, but more likely because the activity revolved around food.

I love food. I guess this isn't the first time I'm telling you, but I really, really love food.

We made a three-course dinner and ate it afterwards. I had more fun making it with the others than eating it with the others. I liked the 40 year-old cooks better than the people my age. The usual.

I have a theory on food. Making food makes people friendly. A cook is always better company than a dietician. People are chagrined when they are hungry (which is why you show your report card at the end of dinner and not before).
Posts on this blog are either bemoaning or euphoric. When they're euphoric, it's mostly because I achieved something in the kitchen.

One of the cooks was a Frenchman. I don't like them all that much: the ones I know that are grown up are bitchy. The cook wasn't. See there the wonderful effects of good food.

I  know I'm being irrational. There is a grown-up Frenchman I know that is friendly. Then again, he might be grown-up in body, I strongly doubt he is in mind: he still plays with cars. Admittedly, his cars are big live old-timers, but they're still his toys.

All that fuss to say that I barely passed the introduction of my omnibus and dinner was good.

*Sigh...*


Well, what are you still hanging around here? Go do something productive! Write a blogpost!

It iz fini, Madame.

It iz finished. I'm finally over that pathetic impossible love phase.

Only one thing I can say, 'bout bloody time. Really, I'm ashamed to think what a mess I've been on the emotional side for the past few weeks.

How I can be so sure?
Let's just say that I saw the guy and didn't feel the stupid pang of yearning any more. It seems my mind has come to terms with the fact the impossible does not happen, unless it's possible and trust me, this is just so phantasmally phantasmagorially impossible that doubt does not exist. Comparing it to last month's thoughts it seems unbelievable, but I'm just happy to let him be. Amazing that it stopped like that.

Makes one wonder if I was in love with the guy or in love we the idea of being in love. It's bound to happen when your fellow teenage girls spend the majority of their time talking about it and the majority of the songwriters advertising the 'wonderful feeling' (and there you go, now Flashdance's 'What a Feeling' is stuck in my head).

It kind of worries me that I'm unable to make the difference. This is gonna sound very melodramatic (hey! it's weird long word day!) but what if I meet my soul mate (yes, yes, that's cheesy) and I get that feeling again and dismiss it as 'oh no, my mind wants to be in love' while I actually am in love?

How do you know that you're in love? Let's face it, the popularly advertised symptoms are far from clear. 'You think of him/her all the time, he/she is constantly on your mind'. I know people whose stomach are constantly on their mind. 'When you're near him/her, you feel like the rest of the world has vanished.' Oh yeah? Even when crossing the street? My, my, lovers must be an endangered species. And let's not even mention the 'butterflies in your belly' myth. I feel that when my digestion is getting grumpy.

And the most irritating thing of all is 'When it happens, you'll know.' No, I won't! That's why I'm asking! D'you really think I'd bother asking if it's to get that kind of an answer?

Besides, what good is it to feel all those things and end up with a one-sided love affair, feeling miserable for months like a... no actually two friends of mine. I think the girl (one of two) has it worse though, 'cause she got a taste of it before the guy back-pedalled. Not interested in relationships at the time, or something like that. I was kind of honoured when she told me, because even if she's a very outgoing girl, what's deep she keeps to herself. She told me her story, I told her mine, and altogether we had a very satisfying drama-swap.

Right now, all I understand from what I've heard are the innumerable 'love is such a torture' songs. Because I've been miserable. Utterly miserable, stupid and totally not myself. And it's not even a sweet torture, it's just an elaborate mind fuckery.

What really doesn't bring us one step closer to the heart of the issue: how do you know you're in love? Don't know the answer. Don't wanna keep asking the question. So I won't. It iz finished, I'm gonna focus on more enjoyable things from now on. Like knowledge. And food! Yes, definitely like food. Speaking of food, today's Candlemas! We should eat crêpes (which are like pancakes, but better)! Apparently, if you can flip one with a frying pan while holding a coin in the other hand, your family is assured prosperity throughout the year.

If you do it while holding heart-shaped candy, is it assured love?


(Yes, this whole post was a monstrous massive cheese attack)