My Internet connection is being a bitch today, so while I wait for this effing FTP session to finish downloading I figured I'd put up some updated info & fill in some blanks on the cast of characters.
*ahem* When we last left our heroes...
Showing posts with label Sette Camicie. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Sette Camicie. Show all posts
21 February 2011
02 December 2004
Sesso e la Città Eternà - Shithead Goes Fishing
I'd like to say that things have been rather quiet without BG around, but that would be a patent falsehood as I've been dealing with everything from
- a shower leaking into the bakery below our flat (Curly is no longer allowed to use power tools in our flat)
to
-the Noisy Doorwoman Bitch continuously commenting on the number of 'strange people' coming out of our flat.(They're our friends and SO's, bitch. Unlike you, we are young, beautiful and get laid on a semi-regular basis.)
to
- some dumbshit that BG had rented her room out to for a month of her absence turning out to be a complete pain in the ass (She now owes me close to 300€ and that's not counting this month's rent. Color me pissed.)
Plus I have a veritable assload of work to get done before I leave for Dallas the 14th and I have no fucking desire to do any of it (hence the blog post)
Quiet? No.
Thanksgiving was good. I got recognition for the divine cooking goddess I am (though I've just about run out of creative leftover turkey recipes) and mass amounts of wine were consumed; unfortunately we didn't get a chance to piss off the Noisy Doorwoman Bitch as she was out of town that day. Pity, that.
- a shower leaking into the bakery below our flat (Curly is no longer allowed to use power tools in our flat)
to
-the Noisy Doorwoman Bitch continuously commenting on the number of 'strange people' coming out of our flat.(They're our friends and SO's, bitch. Unlike you, we are young, beautiful and get laid on a semi-regular basis.)
to
- some dumbshit that BG had rented her room out to for a month of her absence turning out to be a complete pain in the ass (She now owes me close to 300€ and that's not counting this month's rent. Color me pissed.)
Plus I have a veritable assload of work to get done before I leave for Dallas the 14th and I have no fucking desire to do any of it (hence the blog post)
Quiet? No.
Thanksgiving was good. I got recognition for the divine cooking goddess I am (though I've just about run out of creative leftover turkey recipes) and mass amounts of wine were consumed; unfortunately we didn't get a chance to piss off the Noisy Doorwoman Bitch as she was out of town that day. Pity, that.
18 October 2004
Oh Dear.
I broke a minor rule of mine. Well, not rule per se, more like a corollary of a corollary of a rule.
Rule: Never sleep with someone you work with.
Corollary: Don't kiss friends.
Corollary of the Corollary: Don't kiss friends of friends.
So Saturday night BG & I went out for seafood and then headed back to the pub at work, intending to have a bit of a quiet one. We were both a bit tired, I had my glasses on thanks to the pink eye and neither of us felt like changing to go out. Best laid intentions and all that, around 2am Monkey Boy and Eyebrow Boy show up and persuade us to meet up with Almost Perfect Boy & his new semi-scandalous girlfriend (she's his new waitress) and go dancing at Piper. Without changing. Looking rather dorky.
Monkey Boy is so nicknamed because he climbs all over everything, especially once he starts making unsubtle disappearances to the bathroom.
Eyebrow Boy has some really wicked eyebrows, the kind that give him a rather piercing sguardo. He's been sniffing around me all summer.
Rule: Never sleep with someone you work with.
Corollary: Don't kiss friends.
Corollary of the Corollary: Don't kiss friends of friends.
So Saturday night BG & I went out for seafood and then headed back to the pub at work, intending to have a bit of a quiet one. We were both a bit tired, I had my glasses on thanks to the pink eye and neither of us felt like changing to go out. Best laid intentions and all that, around 2am Monkey Boy and Eyebrow Boy show up and persuade us to meet up with Almost Perfect Boy & his new semi-scandalous girlfriend (she's his new waitress) and go dancing at Piper. Without changing. Looking rather dorky.
Monkey Boy is so nicknamed because he climbs all over everything, especially once he starts making unsubtle disappearances to the bathroom.
Eyebrow Boy has some really wicked eyebrows, the kind that give him a rather piercing sguardo. He's been sniffing around me all summer.
09 September 2002
What Part of "It's Over" Do You Not Fucking Understand?
A couple of my ex's just don't get the hint.
Che figura di merda. My cell phone rang with an unlisted number just now. As my cell phone is on it's last legs, sometimes distinguishing voices is not very easy (not that I've ever been that good at "Guess who this is" over the phone. As a group of us have plans tonight, I thought it was one of the guys. The one who took me to dinner at Castel Gandolfo, to be exact. So when the voice at the other end said, " Do you know who this is?" I said "Ciao *******". And we proceeded to chat for a minute. When he asked me if he could take me out to dinner, I said, sure, but aren't we going out to dinner tonight with everyone? "With who?" So I named the rest of the group. "Who do you think I am?" Uh, I did say "Ciao *******", no? "No this isn't *******, but my name is similar."
Shit. Rebound Boy Toy. Who, despite the fact that I dumped his ass over 10 months ago, occasionally calls asking me out. "So can I take you out to dinner?" Fuck, fuck, fuckity fuck. "Uh, we'll see." "Meaning no, correct? Too bad I'm not *******"
Che figura di merda. My cell phone rang with an unlisted number just now. As my cell phone is on it's last legs, sometimes distinguishing voices is not very easy (not that I've ever been that good at "Guess who this is" over the phone. As a group of us have plans tonight, I thought it was one of the guys. The one who took me to dinner at Castel Gandolfo, to be exact. So when the voice at the other end said, " Do you know who this is?" I said "Ciao *******". And we proceeded to chat for a minute. When he asked me if he could take me out to dinner, I said, sure, but aren't we going out to dinner tonight with everyone? "With who?" So I named the rest of the group. "Who do you think I am?" Uh, I did say "Ciao *******", no? "No this isn't *******, but my name is similar."
Shit. Rebound Boy Toy. Who, despite the fact that I dumped his ass over 10 months ago, occasionally calls asking me out. "So can I take you out to dinner?" Fuck, fuck, fuckity fuck. "Uh, we'll see." "Meaning no, correct? Too bad I'm not *******"
13 August 2002
Saturday 11 August - Of Hickeys, Tans, and Colds
Let's play the good news/ bad news game.
Good News: I met a tall good looking blonde guy on Thursday night, a friend of a friend of a friend.
Better News: He has a brain to match the looks and we went outside the bar and talked for a long time.
Even Better News: He's a good kisser.
Mo Better News: He has a tongue piercing.
Bad News: He left a huge hickey on the left side of my neck. We're talking more black than purple. I am now attempting some friends' advice and am rabidly applying toothpaste to the hickey, as rumour has it that toothpaste is good for getting rid of love bites, as well as drying up your spots and whitening your teeth.
Worse News: He has a girlfriend. This I find out during a break in the snogfest. Thanks for the hickey, don't call me I'll call you, bud. *sigh* I really know how to pick 'em, eh? And trust me, you don't even want to hear about a few of my ex's. Celibacy would be so much easier; unfortunately, that persistent sex drive I have tends to screw with my best laid plans of spinsterhood and an apartment full of cats, with cupboards full of batteries.
Good News: I met a tall good looking blonde guy on Thursday night, a friend of a friend of a friend.
Better News: He has a brain to match the looks and we went outside the bar and talked for a long time.
Even Better News: He's a good kisser.
Mo Better News: He has a tongue piercing.
Bad News: He left a huge hickey on the left side of my neck. We're talking more black than purple. I am now attempting some friends' advice and am rabidly applying toothpaste to the hickey, as rumour has it that toothpaste is good for getting rid of love bites, as well as drying up your spots and whitening your teeth.
Worse News: He has a girlfriend. This I find out during a break in the snogfest. Thanks for the hickey, don't call me I'll call you, bud. *sigh* I really know how to pick 'em, eh? And trust me, you don't even want to hear about a few of my ex's. Celibacy would be so much easier; unfortunately, that persistent sex drive I have tends to screw with my best laid plans of spinsterhood and an apartment full of cats, with cupboards full of batteries.
30 July 2002
Clarfication
I'm starting to take some cultural differences for granted.
Upon reading yesterday's rant on vainglorious preening cocks, some one asked if I had been honest or if said strutting peacocks suffered from selective listening skills. The simple answer is yes on both counts. "I don't want to dance right now, I'm talking with my friends" seems (to me) a pretty obvious brush-off, not to mention somewhat tactful. I might be a rude bitch, but I do know how to interact with society at large. So Drool Boy suffered from selective listening skills, right? Hmm, not that simple, methinks.
Upon reading yesterday's rant on vainglorious preening cocks, some one asked if I had been honest or if said strutting peacocks suffered from selective listening skills. The simple answer is yes on both counts. "I don't want to dance right now, I'm talking with my friends" seems (to me) a pretty obvious brush-off, not to mention somewhat tactful. I might be a rude bitch, but I do know how to interact with society at large. So Drool Boy suffered from selective listening skills, right? Hmm, not that simple, methinks.
27 July 2002
The dating game
Jumping back into the dating pool is not without hazards. Jumping back into the dating pool in Roma - Ack.
I've never been fond of dating. Maybe because I was a goody-two shoes ballet geek growing up (well, for the most part; there were those late night games of strip Twister and the occasional make out session). I didn't go out on many dates in high school. In a way it was a relief; you know the movie "Meet the Parents" (I think that was the title in English. Ti presento i miei)? That's my dad, minus the spy thing. Even to this day, an ocean away, Dad will give me the third degree about any male I casually mention in conversation. Doesn't matter if I tell him "Dad, he's a friend". What's his name, how old is he, what does he do, how long have you known him... It's a daddy thing to do. At least he doesn't ask me about my sex life (that's Mom's speciality.)
Dates make me nervous. Dressing up is not something I do on a regular basis. I'm not the world's greatest conversationalist, so the prospect of an evening trying to make polite chit-chat gives me the heebee-jeebees. And when I'm nervous, I'm a klutz. Which in turn makes me even more nervous as I hate making an idiot out of myself. Nice little cycle of nerves I create for myself.
I've never been fond of dating. Maybe because I was a goody-two shoes ballet geek growing up (well, for the most part; there were those late night games of strip Twister and the occasional make out session). I didn't go out on many dates in high school. In a way it was a relief; you know the movie "Meet the Parents" (I think that was the title in English. Ti presento i miei)? That's my dad, minus the spy thing. Even to this day, an ocean away, Dad will give me the third degree about any male I casually mention in conversation. Doesn't matter if I tell him "Dad, he's a friend". What's his name, how old is he, what does he do, how long have you known him... It's a daddy thing to do. At least he doesn't ask me about my sex life (that's Mom's speciality.)
Dates make me nervous. Dressing up is not something I do on a regular basis. I'm not the world's greatest conversationalist, so the prospect of an evening trying to make polite chit-chat gives me the heebee-jeebees. And when I'm nervous, I'm a klutz. Which in turn makes me even more nervous as I hate making an idiot out of myself. Nice little cycle of nerves I create for myself.
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