All the same

I must've mentioned many a time that I like when things are unremarkable. It means that there's no impeding disaster and being the boss, I am the one who solves problems. I hate dealing with problems caused by other people's stupidity and since my underlings are not the sharpest knives in the drawer, most of the problems are caused by negligence, lack of literacy (seriously, I can't believe that some of the folks passed the basic school) and several other sorts of idiocy not described by science yet.

My mother is having a tough time as well but apparently she's not losing good humour. She has a degree in theory of education or something along those lines and the stuff going on around here reminds her of a daycare for slightly retarded children. She thus promised to find me some courses in special education and social pathology to help me understand the mentality. I stopped planning to run away, not that I wouldn't want to but because I don't have enough mental capacity to plan something so complicated but from what I hear from other people, it's all the same all over the place with the exception of academia where one would need courses not in special education but rather cat herding and a double dose of social pathology.
Mom also wants me to make notes so that she could coauthor a book based on my experience. Which means that first, I'd need to move away, far, far away because the persons involved would recognize themselves and the persons not involved would recognize themselves too. If I get my caustic sense of humour back, though.

Seen my shrink and got new antidepressants. So far, I got a steaming helping of side effects so I sleep badly - not that I'd slept too well but there's always some space for worsening, right? - and I stopped eating almost entirely. Due to somewhat busy week, I've been nomming my dear benzos to prevent my head from exploding and I can't really judge my mental status. Or, I can, it's shitty but I haven't noticed any new variations of that shitty.

I'd add a gratuitous cat picture or something but my camera died and I can't afford a new one. Go and pet your own kitty.

Random observations

I went cycling, it was windy and I had a rather good idea to inspect yet another path to check what's growing around. Not much interesting flora was spotted but compared to what I remembered from last year, the path was awful. My knees and hips were on the verge of submitting a relocation request in quintiplicate to... wherever body parts may complain. I decided to take a shortcut through the nearby village to the nearby normal road because at a certain point, my only wish was to go home and soak in a hot tub. This very good idea proved idiotic. There are several cattle and horse farms at the end of said village and someone quite reasonably decided to give a good airing to stables, dung heaps and silage so I rode two kilometres on a shitty road full of potholes, against rather strong wind and in horrible stench. I was cussing the Virtanen guy who thought that fermenting hay was such a good idea - he should have gotten the Nobel Prize for something less stinky. (1) The other day, I was in Anyplace, there's an area where several species of Gagea grow. I locked my bike to an apple tree, climbed the hill, saw plants, picked some, went down and there were local ladies standing. They saw me coming and getting my bike and asked me what I was doing up there. I said I was looking for flowers and they expressed their wonder, having thought that it's only nettles growing there. Two days ago, I was coming back from another bike trip. I'm well trained in gestalt botany so while riding and thinking of upcoming dinner, I noticed a change in shapes and colours somewhere at the periphery of my vision. Some early blossoming Carex? my brain remarked and replied itself Not likely, I'm no expert at this genus, it's probably some random stuff. I stopped, leaned the bike against a nearby lamp post and went to explore. It was indeed some Carex and there was some grass that didn't look familiar to me. Both of them were some 8 cm tall so I went to my knees (the left one complained)... and the folks, which were doing outdoor things as it was a nice sunny evening, dropped their scythes and screwdrivers and observed. Yesterday I rode to check the local swamps for interesting flora. I pedalled, minding my own business, around a convenience store. A few guys were standing on the corner in front of said store and felt the need to inform me that (a) I have boobage (b) which renders me highly fuckable. Just a while ago, I went to the post office and back and I got two more comments in the same vein. At least sans profanities. The money level in the breast reduction jar is dwindling, I should stop buying shit... but the yarn was for less than half price and it was pretty. I went to the post office. It means that I finally mailed some stuff. I'd announce the readers to stalk their mailmen but I'm not sure the recipients follow my blog. I improved my packaging style. After lengthy and frequent correspondence with Japan, I got ashamed of things wrapped in newspapers and very recycled boxes and neatified matters. I'm still a cheap tree-hugging European who gets boxes in recyclables bins but I started to use actual wrapping paper or well-preserved bubble wrap for the contents. Add a point for globalization. (Which reminds me that I promised H. some risotto mix and I can't find flat-leaved parsley anywhere.) ------------------------------------- (1) I know that silaging happens in anaerobic conditions. The stench of rotten vegetables was however unmistakable. It may be badly maintained compost and Mr. Virtanen is innocent but I don't want to inspect the issue.

Tough life of a perfumista, part II.

The previous perfumista adventure described how inadvisable it is to nuke a towel for three minutes.



Now about something entirely different: how to get into a bottle with the glass topper stuck and broken off.
I browsed the good ole fleabay, spotted a bottle of Gucci III for very affordable price... well, the stopper was broken off but I have big brain and epoxy glue so whut.

It arrived, I put it aside until sometime later when there's more gluing so that I don't mix the stinky epoxide every now and then. The sometime later happened last week. I put the two parts of the stopper together and found out that the stopper was in angle to the bottle. In other words, someone was trying to screw it open and the rotational movement created too much torque and broke the glass. Which means that I wouldn't be able to unscrew it anyway because it wouldn't hold.

Another idea occurred to me immediately. The newer flacons come with stoppers covered in a layer of plastic. Plastic is soft. I can cut through it somehow. After all, I can keep the bottle as an objet d'art. I cut as much of the plastic with a Swiss army knite as I could. Apparently, my brain had a high because there wasn't even a bit of Now what? as I grabbed a hollow needle and used it for small scale core drilling.

It took me about an hour until I reached the promising liquid.

The revelation that it was actually a factice bottle was not exactly pleasant.

Being a perfumista is tough.

"You cooked something, am I right, and burned it."
"No. I just set a kitchen towel on fire. Don't ask me anything."
"WHAT?"
"Uh, I set a kitchen towel on fire."
"How the hell you did it? [In this entirely electrified kitchen, the steaming hot hell]"
"I heated it in the microwave. And no, I didn't set the microwave on fire. The towel just turned brown and stinky."
"For goodness sake, why did you nuke a kitchen towel?"
"Um, I needed to heat it up."
"What else have you burnt? And why did you need to heat up a kitchen towel, of all things?"
"It was the towel only, and, frankly, I was advised that to open a stuck bottle, one should heat up a towel in the microwave and wrap said bottle in the heated towel."
"[sniff?] Are you sure you didn't set anything on fire? It stinks awful here. And what sort of idjit told you about this?"
"The towel caught fire. But only after I took it outside to stink here. It's the wind, too much fresh oxygen. And I opened the door to the terrace. I beat the shit out of the burning tower with a stone so that the flames die out. And, a friend advised me on the stuck stoppers."
"Your friend is freaking crazy. Are you hurt? And are you sure nothing else caught fire? It stinks awful in here."


A few side notes

1. The friend in question was Elena.
2. No, I didn't open the bottle this way. Remember, I threw the towel outside, it caught fire and... well.
3. The bottle did get opened. I tried to heat it up by immersing it in hot water which cleaned the outside of the bottle nicely and released a bit of smell. Then I gave up and asked dad to do something with it. He tried, cussed and went to the garage to find a wrench.
4. It was Balenciaga's Fuite des Heures, it smells nice and expect a rant sometime soon.
5. Yes, my mom thinks I'm a bit crazy.
6. No, the towel wasn't salvaged, it burned and evaporated entirely but for the bit under the stone.

Oddments, part 1

My laptop is acting up and it should be covered by the warranty. It means that I needed to move all data to safekeeping... and at this occasion, I removed all the movies into a folder named not Movies but Films, cat pictures were relegated to two folders, Kitty for Tähti and Kittehs for the rest of the world's catkind.

And then there were random pictures meant usually for the blog or for some ephemeral purpose which didn't fit any category. Which is why I'm posting them here.

1. Thirty kilos ago.


Taken in around 2003 on our holiday in Australia with the oldschool camera that used actual film, children. This image is a digital photograph of the print, thus the quality.


2. My poster for one of the Ravelry fundraisers.



3. Blahniks.


I got these shoes a few weeks ago and wanted to brag. I'm a beginner shoe freak and these are my first Blahniks. Hopefully last, I intend to recover fast.


4. Fat household


The picture was taken by such a good friend that I didn't wear a bra when she was visiting. Now L. has moved back to across the world and I badly miss her, while Tähti is moreless permanently stationed at my grandparents', excelling in her therapist job.

5. Storage box.


I'll get a custom made cabinet for my perfumes someday. Meantime I need to make-do.

The Winter 2012 Top Smells - a joint blogging project

I had a reliable trio of winter fragrances: Donna Karan's Black Cashmere, Annick Goutal's Encens Flamboyant and L'Artisan Parfumeur's Dzongkha. Especially Encens Flamboyant which smells like fire.

It's either because I'm getting old or because this winter is taking a toll on my nerves. Or because this is not a proper winter. I just didn't feel like using my winter classics and way too often, I went around without any fragrance at all - me who carries a bottle or two in her bag, just in case. (I would still carry those without using them.)

I got a Christmas bonus just before, well, Christmas so I decided to invest it wisely. I bought a few books, an Issey Miyake purse (no idea what I will do with it but it could hold a small knitting project, I envisage), a pair of Blahniks and a few other things I'll be painfully decluttering in a few years' time... and somewhere between a crapton and a shitload (the decision which of them is bigger hasn't been reached yet) of raw materials.

It all happened to arrive within three days - four different orders from four different directions, mind you. I'm often surprised how raw materials smell differently from the plants they come from (I haven't had a chance of a close encounter with a civet cat and I know the musk ox only from the fine fibre it yields). I'm a wood freak so now I'm richer by one big bottle of Atlas Cedar essential oil, which is so much nicer and more interesting than the generic cedar oil I used to get in the local fancy faux handmade cosmetics store, more smoke, more of a certain harshness. Or oakmoss - the absolute is dark green, smells faintly of crushed vegetation and glowing embers and it's totally different from the smell of actual oakmoss or whatever I thought it in fragrances that contain it.

Should a dear reader remember some of my former perfume musings, I have a certain predilection for weird stuff. Eyewatering leathers (such as Cuoio di Spagna by Santa Maria Novella), patchouli that needs three or four baths to disappear from one's skin (I'm looking at you, Patchouly Indonesiano) or just something plainly extraordinary.

Being pretty choleric, once again I chose the DIY path. Upon careful reading and considering my financial situation, I ended up with several bottles of basics - Siberian fir, vetiver, cedar, cypress, rosewood or benzoin, and hear me say, there's never enough benzoin and cedar, several bottles of basics I was able to afford only due to huge discounts, such as neroli or vanilla absolute.... and then the odd stuff. I wouldn't believe what can be distilled, dissolved, absoluted or extracted.

I spent a fruitful evening trying to render a cuir-cologne version of a perfume I've been making for myself for a few years but that needs maturing or I need to mature and find out what my opinion actually is. I don't really like citruses and I can smell that damn petitgrain and neroli in it but day after day, it appears to be more and more promising

Meanwhile, the ugly brown jus made of birch tar and many a viscous dark thing is living its own life. I blended the dark and viscous things with all things leathery I could think of (which amounts to exactly two, ylang-ylang and vanilla) and some odd-smelling plants - mainly but not exclusively tagetes. I wanted to render a salty floral and I was hugely disappointed when it smelled of vetiver and vanilla - nice in itself but not what I wanted. Things kept happening, though, and this is the magic of natural materials - they keep changing. Now, four days later, I'm wearing the would-be salty floral which is actually.... sweet and leathery. I need to find someone to blame yet but meantime, to put it in Elena's words, I'm walking around wrapped in an olfactory equivalent of expensive fur - warm, pleasant, protecting one from however evil the surroundings may be.


Speaking of fur, I got half of a fleece the other day. For those who don't happen to be fibre maniacs, fleece is what comes off a sheep. Half of a fleece... go figure, my dear smart readers. Almost a kilo of sheep fibre along with an occasional bit of twig or grass. It was washed but not totally devoid of both lanolin and vegetable matter so bit by bit, I soaked it in hot water with some soap and it's then when wool yields the most beautiful smell of lanolin. I did a cursory search but I couldn't find any information regarding possible existence of a lanolin absolute or any other sort of extract of whatever the fragrant bits from the complex composition may be.


And now excuse me while I go and bury my nose in my virtual fur. Meantime you can check variations on the same theme at Abigail's, Katie's, Gaia's, Ines', Carol's and Elena's blogs.

Added two hours later: Reconsidered. My newest thingy was a virtual fur yesterday. Today it's approaching towards the salty garden. Life is interesting.

Eternal end of November

The weather is still misplaced.

In general, I detest discussing what the weather is, was, will be next Thursday. That's what we have windows for, to look out and decide whether it would be useful to add a layer of woolens and rubber boots to the outfit. And my problem is not actual weather but the wet, semicold days typical for late autumn. They're getting on my nerves.
And on my unconscious.
Today I had a dream, in which I was sitting in a small public park or a large flower pad in front of a railway station in a different climate zone because they had real spring. There were almond shrubs blossoming - not the proper Amygdalus nana (1) but something that reminded me of garden anemones coloured surgical appliance pink - and some other stuff grew there (a cross between wisteria and kapok, I dare say....) and I started digging up bulbs thinking that I may grow them on my window sill.
I woke up, went to water my seedlings and bulbs growing on my window sill and cussed the weather.

Apparently, it is Caturday today.

I went to the post office for some more fleabay loot. I don't know every cat of the neighbourhood in person, some are not exactly stranger-friendly and I believe that there are some strictly indoor cats, too, but I thought I was well acquaintained with the local feline population.
On the way there, I met a big and well groomed orange and white tom who looked at me with keen interest when I was making sounds and gestures in order to lure him to the fence. On my way back, I spotted two white and tabby kitties, one big and one small, sauntering around the Big Villa.

It's still dark, wet and cold outside. I'm going to hide under my comforter, tell me when the spring arrives.


-----------
(1) wikipedia decided to irk me a bit and says that it's actually Prunus tenella. It's the dwarf almond, there's a growth across the street and one day I'll steal some.

Drunk before sunrise

We landed at Benalmádena, a bit west from Málaga.

Spain is at the very west of the timezone so there's dark until around half past eight, maybe.
And mom discovered that the breakfast buffet includes champagne. Go figure.

We suffered through some mass tourism, being taken to Malaga and then to Mijas. Malaga is a town so there're actual things to see and I could see many more if it weren't for unnamed parents who needed coffee, water, rest and to pee; I had around five coffees and with the help of my Pocket Guide to Spanish Conversation, I learned a few more useful phrases. If there were more organized bus trips included, I might be able to lead a reasonably sophisticated conversation at the end of the week.

Mijas, on the other hand, is entirely virtual reality. A random village, no different from others, turned a tourist attraction and nobody will give me those two hours back. Someone with excellent marketing skills was behind this and hopefully, they'll burn in hell. Parents claimed that this experience was not entirely regrettable and we argued.

Yes, why, I'm not entirely sober when writing this. So sue me.

Exploding fish

I would explore Madeiran shrubbery but mom made faces whenever I plunged into growth or squatted to observe a specimen of particularly interesting weed. which reminds me that I failed to pick some of that pretty Juncus thingy. I tried to be nice at least for a while so I limited myself to exploring Madeiran cuisine.
The local specialty, the espada fish (I have to look it up for exact name yet), baked with banana, was offered in the hotel restaurant so I went for it and it was nommy

For the day after, we had booked a round trip. I mentioned that the whole thing was meant for elderly people getting some travel. I must have ranted on and on about my hate of tourist crowd - in case you missed it, let it be noted that I hate tourists, I hate the crowds who totally need to take a picture with every odd-shaped rock, old-looking house or a place where Betty Famous sat down on her hike from Anytown West to Podunk. So, we ended up in a place where Winston Churchill spent a few days holidaying, and in that fishing village, said espada fish is fished. The guide started explaining that said fish lives in depths around 1800m, at which point I gagged because obviously, pull it out of deep waters and it explodes. Guide continued with gory details of how the fishermen never saw said fish alive because on its journey upwards, its stomach explodes, and its eyes explode, and I had a hard time of not throwing up my dinner.

I got a swordfish for my lunch and from then on, I stuck to fish of whose death I knew nothing. Yes, if I were to hunt my own meat, I'd be a vegetarian, I guess, and I thank all the developed and decadent society that I can get my dead animals dead, degutted and neatly sliced.

The Madeira landscape is magnificent, though. The trip was good for two things: some street anthropology concerning mass tourism (and reinforcing my view on that) and seeing that landscape. Among the rugged rocks or laurel forests, we started telling to each other that we totally need to bring Dad here the next time.

On hardware

My computer got too packed with movies, pictures and general clutter. I decluttered (there's various smart software that gets you rid of lots of something that you never miss later on) but still, the thingy was slow and such. I got an external harddisk. Tried it, had it on my table for that day when I'll move my files there and then it disappeared. I looked to all possible places and many impossible ones but it was just gone. I decided that the possibility of me placing the box with said harddisk on the paper bin and my mom taking the trash out was the reason of missing gadget.
I got another harddisk, moved my movies there, whined about that small but perceptible dent in my budget - I could have bought some yarn, spinning fibre, perfume, shoes, things... and went on with my life.
Today, I put a bag of roving on the piano and when I took it to put it to place, harddisk was under it. The cat is away so I blame the gnomes.

Also, my monitor is borked. Very borked. I consulted that special sort of borkedness with the internets, which say that the graphic card is dying, that it requires servicing and that it sucks. Sigh.

Gah.

I'm writing a history textbook and I'm editing another one so I'm happily immersed in various epochs finding out random interesting things. Too bad that I'm getting oxhide ingots, Standard of Ur, Piero della Francesca and John of Luxembourg mixed together into some sort of history pizza.

I have my little obsessions and quirks so just now I'm planning to insert something on Manuel Chrysoloras into the book I'm editoring and embellishing but the editor-in-chief doesn't know who this guy was so it might be a bit of challenge. I can be pushy, though, and I have a weak spot Early Renaissance and consequently, all things Florentine. Manuel Chrysoloras was invited by Coluccio Salutati, chancellor of Florence , to reside at Santa Maria degli Angeli (where the Arts Faculty of said university is now) (gah, I should finish my thesis, or, well, start the bulk of the work, for that matter) and to teach Greek, to anyone interested, I hear, and if I remember well, he was paid by the city council (gah, I should've bought the catalog of the Salutati exhibition that happened at Biblioteca di San Lorenzo a few years ago, now I'd know).
And this should be translated into Humanist Latin, incised in stone and used to hit the world leaders on their precious little heads because education is the bestest thing in the world. Well, along with knitting, indoor plumbing and sliced bread.

...

A friend works in a bookstore. BIG bookstore. She has an employee discount and an ability to search databases and stock of the actual stone stores for things. It has already proven useful when I found a rather obscure book that has been out of print for five years and she has it on her table now, waiting for the right time when we meet for a coffee.
Today I was browsing through Hartt, that big book on Italian Renaissance art where Frederick Hartt was one of the authors when said friend messaged me that today she had folks from Thames & Hudson there and that they'll be ordering books from them from time to time and that she can get them for bulk price. I eyed my well-worn beloved copy of Hartt, published by said Thames and Hudson, for which I had paid arm and leg a few years ago and just now I'm perusing their online catalog.
A thing struck me recently. There seems to be a general lack of books on Japanese art but for those damn woodprints. I care a damn about woodprints, I mean, they're pretty but there's moar. I must be doing something wrong because I doubt I'm the only person who speaks English but not Japanese but is interested in said matter.

I'd probably better be knitting.

Upon digging in the internetz, I discovered that part of what Leonard Woolley dug up in Ur ended up in Penn Museum and that there are actual books with coloured pictures of Sumerian (?) thingies. Darn, how am I supposed to write something sane about Mesopotamia when I can't get sane literature in this country? In the National Library, they have an issue of something like Acta Sumerologica. Published in Tokyo. Some of the Mesopotamian stuff is inherited in our culture, not theirs, but they do have some research and publications going on. Alright, someone gets a point for bringing said journal to the library but...

Erm, I need a new bookshelf anyway and I might get a book on Sumer, too. Just because. And the stuff is pretty.

Now I'm going to knit. For real.

Random observations

Today I ventured out after four days. I'm doing things from home, which is wonderful because I don't need to go anywhere. Just with trash, from time to time, because it might stink. Which I did. I checked from inside that the weather looked very unpleasant... and indeed it was. Along with a lack of visual appeal, it was windy and rather cold.

I lost appetite. Next time when I'll go out, I'll buy some chocolate to see what that does. Midnight chocolate in bed is one of my most persevering vices. I don't miss it but maybe the brain decided that there's no point in craving for chocolate when there's none at home.

Spinning rocks.

I was rather grumpy all day long. Not that this would be any news. For some reason - either I was being narcissistic or I was looking for something - I was reading through my old blog posts and I found out that a year or so ago, I was the same grumpy pessimist planning a better future. Better future hasn't appeared yet.... upon which I thought to myself: And why should I expect that my life should be happy? In fact, how could I dare? Or, from another viewpoint, why should I bother to expect something above the very lousy baseline? Maybe life sucks as per definition.

More grump to follow, stay tuned.

News

(1) Internship rocks.
I went to the library yesterday and it felt good. I did my hair, put on a bit of jewellery and felt all proud. Well, for a while. When I arrived to the office where I supposed I'd be working the next six weeks, I was exhausted so I had hard time understanding and sorting out what Z., the sort-of-a-boss is telling me.
But, mainly, entering the stuff to the database can be done from home. No need to do my hair or to exert any physical effort. What a relief.
(2) Doc called. Mycoplasma confirmed, chlamydias confirmed. He consulted an antibiotics specialists because these two bastards are regularly treated with tetracyclins, whom I met last in around 1997 and I remember it very clearly because I spent five days with my head in the toilet bowl. Well, mostly my head, I had a diarrhoea as well. Or it can be macrolids that give me itchy hives. Antibiotics expert recommended something from the quinolone group and I did the studip thing to consult Wikipedia and learned that the side effects may include my tendons melting. The advantage is that I'll only need to take that stuff for ten days while both tetracyclins and macrolids need to be used for four to six weeks. Uh, that ciprofloxacin or what I'm getting must be a tough shit.
Yeah, and I still might be having toxo but the nurse forgot to write it down on the lab sheet so I'll have to go and get some blood drawn some other day.
(3) I dyed a heap of pencil roving and some random yarns, too. Looks good.

Shopping spree: random new stuff.

Today's primary mission was to check perfumeries and drugstores to get a few handfuls of blotters. Checking autumn releases would be an inevitable side effect, though. So, my impressions, with no particular order (as the blotters come up):

Prairie's Life Threads, Ruby, Emerald and Sapphire: expensively and exquisitely boring.

L'Occitane's lavender cologne: Now that's interesting lavender, unlike another lavenders. And they have the essential oil. It's A. O. C. (1) and they had a little flyer with the picture and name of that lavender farmer but I forgot to take one.

Bleu de Chanel: erm, well.

Etro's Messe de Minuit: I can't still decide on this one. But I wanted to try Guerlain's Habit Rouge, which I did, and I had a blotter at hand while testing this one. And then I found out that Habit Rouge is exactly the piece of puzzle I miss in Messe. Should you please me, give me both at once.

Lalique's Encre Noire pour Elle: Encre Noire pour no-one was a hit and apparently someone decided that since it was already marketed to guys, it can't be claimed unisex so they made a ladies' version, which was specified as such. It's a waste of good alcohol, black glass and just about everything. Instead of a variation on that swampy vetiver (a friend of mine said once that wearing Encre Noire, he feels like a posh corpse. Yes, he's somewhat gothy type), it's an indefinable fruity watery something. I do bet that it sells well, that those ladies who are terribly scared that they may be perceived as weird for wearing men's scents, will be buying it and persuading themselves that it's almost like the good ole Encre Noire sans.

Guerlain's Habit Rouge: I love that one. But, the thing is that I was hanging around the store, sniffing the blotter, and an assistant asked if she may help me, I said Well, not really, I'm just checking what's new, she showed me something and I mentioned that I have this Habit Rouge here, isn't it prety, and she jumped up and said Ooooooops, madam! But it's for men!, to which I soothingly replied that indeed, and I'm well aware of it but that I like it quite a bit anyway. I got a look that said Warning, weird customer.

Gaultier's Le Mâle Terrible: fine with me. I've loved Le Mâle ever since it was launched and I'm still wearing it but it has a very strong chemical undertone which I do not mind at all but I don't always feel like wearing it. The terrible version is in fact much lighter, soapier, cleaner and without this chemical whatever-it-is so it would be an excellent complement. Now they need to make a version with extra cade and frankincense.

Lanvin's Marry me: Yawn.

Floris' White Rose: Here with it.

Masaki Matsushita's Fluo: I haven't smelled that much synthetic fruit since... since I had very non-organic hard candies that were free of natural colourants and flavourings. Not that bad as it may sound, in fact I wouldn't mind if I got this one for free, some days, I feel like I was 12. The bottle is horrid, though.

Masaki Matsushita's M;O°C: what the fuck this is for a name? Also, it smells of tap water and mint. Not that bad as the bottle might be hinting.

Masaki Matsushita's Aqua: Now that one is a pretty lemony scent. In a horrid bottle.

And at last, Estée Lauder's Sensuous Noir: for me, much better than the rather simple but nice Sensuous. The noir version (which lives in a blue bottle) is woodier and incensier (2). It would make a good trio with Habit Rouge and Messe de Minuit. Again, horrid bottle.

At the end, I discovered a discount corner and everything by Annayake was 70% off. It means that their cosmetics got to the rather expensive range, (the usual prices being damn fucking above the roof) and I got their Matsuri, of which I'll write some other day. No nail varnish today, after all, I have five bottles of turqouise nail paint already.


--------------------
(1) Appellation d'origine controlé (pardon my French). In other words, it's known where exactly it comes from, unlike Made in EU, just somewhere there, and it may well mean that somewhere in the EU, someone mixed lavender oils from who knows where.

(2) See? I made a word.

Just... just...

I acted totally studip today and also totally studip sociophobic chickenshit way. Not that the latter surprised me but in the circumstances, it almost made me cry.

I decided to do something productive and decided that taking the trash to the bins would be the thing. So I packed up that box of used nappies K. left here, bag of kitchen trash, another bag of plastic and a handful of milk cartons and while trying to get through the door without dropping any of these, I grabbed the keys, slammed the door at attempt three, went out and noticed that although I have keys, it's not the set with blue keyring with a red diode light, two big keys and a small one for the mailbox but just two big keys that however did vaguely look like the right ones. I turned around and went to try but vaguely looking right doesn't mean looking right.

I went to throw away the trash hoping for a miracle or something.

I live on the ground floor. After having the place burglarized and after my flatmate lost the cat through the window (story omitted but it makes my blood boil years after), I just don't keep the windows open when I'm not around, which may mean not in the room, depending on the momentary paranoia level. No, I don't have a yard where I could keep the spare keys in a birdhouse. No, I don't have a car parked around the corner with spare keys taped to the inside of the bumper. Since I went with the trash, I didn't take such useful things as my celly or some money. J. has the keys and should be somewhere around but I have no clue where, he was due to arrive yesterday evening but I haven't heard from him.

I sat on the stairs and pondered about the possibilities. The obvious one, ring the doorbel to any random neighbour and explain the situation via the intercom, asking them to let me in and to let me use their phone to call a locksmith was just impossible. Like, making-me-sick-to-think-of-it impossible. I decided to wait for something to happen because nothing can be worse than talking through the intercom to someone whom I barely know and who has hardly any idea who I am.

A while later a lady I rememered vaguely having seen before was arriving, she said Hello, are you waiting for someone? and then I said Yeah, well, I locked myself out... etc.

I called a locksmith, got the door opened, paid him what was to be my food budget for two weeks and decided that trash is not that bad house company after all.

Also, I am stupid.

Edited to add this cool graph that explains just about anything:
. I needed a bitter grin with my late morning coffee.

I sense a problem

Sadako finally taught me how to download movies from teh internetz. I could think of a handful from the top of my head and then there're catalogs from film festivals where I'll be able to find out whatever I missed, would want to see again... I'm doomed.

In other news, another sign of apocalypse has been spotted. Coffee makes me nauseous. I drink impossible amounts of tea, then, and I hope it goes away somehow.

Random observations

I have quite a heap of odd balls that don't match anything in a reasonable manner to knit them into a decent stripped sweater. The rainbow-coloured boucle looks okay when knitted so there's another baby sweater in the making.

I bought hair dye from a hairdressers' online store. There's a box of powder and a bottle of liquid. Big box, big bottle. Should be mixed together but the whole amount would dye the whole street. Yet another reason to buy a digital scale.

In an attempt to do something about my last new size 41 shoes, I soaked them in the stretch foam, wore them around the house and then decided to go out. I was wise enough to plaster the most potentially problematic posts with the foam toe wrap. but at the metro station, I was sort of forced to change in the much less stylish but comfy Birks.

Bizarre in peoplewatching:
Two Nazi types wearing distinctively feminine perfume of a fashionable sort - that synthetic flowers and patchouli thingy. Think Idylle, Idole or just about every other release of 2009.
A female tennis player. Rather fat, wearing a tennis dress one size smaller than herself. With a very short skirt. Not that type with sewn-in underpants. Some things just shouldn't be done.
A gal wearing a kimono. Along with ugly and worn-out suede shoes on high wedges and a big winter jacket (think Michelin Man).
Mother with a toddler girl. Toddler girl dressed head to toe in pink and ruffles, mother with loooong fake nails, hair extensions, ten centimetres heels, all fashionable, cool and in. And travelling with the pram and two suitcases. Whining how travelling is tough.

Random observations

I'm on a skiing holiday.

It is raining so we're not anywhere on the pistes, instead, I'm slurping my umpteenth coffee as usually at non-holiday time, checking the internetz, carefully poking my research project and generally doing nothing.

Yesterday, the police car stopped under our balcony, the cops got out and started poking the contents of a trashbin. Then they photographed it. Later, they returned, met with the hotel owner who was in charge of the trash bins and had a talk which made the hotel owner not happy at all. Then we went skiing (snowboarding in the case of your truly).
Later in the afternoon, the hotel owner and two more folks were sorting out the trash.
Even later, there were two more guys, all of them had long rubber gloves, they were taking apart the trash bags and processing them somehow.
Today, the police came to check whether the trash has been dealt with.

The last time I was snowboarding was five years and twenty five kilos ago. I feel muscles of whose existence I did have a clue, after all, as a kid with artistic vein, I redrew half of the anatomy atlas. I just wouldn't believe where it can hurt after a bit of physical effort. I should go to the gym more often, apparently.

A while ago, the Swedes that stay above us came back from the pistes, drenched to the bone from the sleet. Mom hid under the duvet and keeps waiting for spring.

On a related note, how long may it take to lose 25 kilos?

The weather is not improving. Dad is making coffee umpteen+1. I'm joining in.

I should've taken some knitting with me. I was told I was an intolerable pessimist when I packed a first-aid kit. At least I have books.

A bit of introspection

I spent some time going through old posts and old comments - maybe I'd better get a filing folder and keep printouts of my blog posts because sometimes I seem to lose track. The thing will be pondered upon, I don't have a printer at hand anyway.

For some time, I kept thinking where the blog is going. Like, what is it about. I discovered that it's going nowhere in the sense of having no definite purpose of existence, and that it's about random stuff that catches my attention (1). Guessing from the comments, most of the readers seem to be caught by the perfume stuff which means that I should advertise the blog among knitters and gardeners and whoever else, or that only the perfume rants are worth commenting. Now, do I toss knitting and random book comments and what else is there? Or my blurbs along the lines of I have a new sweater and it rocks are studip, I wonder? Should I add kitten pictures because everybody likes kittens? Should I start reviewing chocolates or wine (2)? Should I throw in another totally unrelated theme? Should I get another drink? And, where does one buy prefabricated answers to any question by dozen?

I think I need another drink.

I started saving yoghurt cups. I saw lots of interesting flora in the curbs and I plan to enrich my garden. Just sayin'.

--------------------------------
(1) such things don't necessarily need to be shiny but it helps
(2) which is another can of worms. I've wandered into the deepest cellars where mom insisted spare flowerpots should be hiding. There were no spare flowerpots, just some planks to be used for a fence which might be slowly succumbing to dry rot over the ages, and in a rather dark corner, my small and not particularly exquisite shelf of wine. The question is, do I drink them, do I keep them, do I keep only the reserve ones and drink the rest?

Preview

Tee hee.


I'm working on umpteen things at a time:
I cannot wait when I have finished the second sock because the first one fits nicely exquisitely. Yarn: Unicorn by Fyberspates. The fibre content is already revealed, it was a secret for some reason. Silk, cashmere, llama. Llama I had already guessed, the yarn is smooth and alpaca-ish slippery. Silk, too. The rest I would have bet on lambswool. I guess that one skein could make two pairs of ankle socks.
I also got somewhat fed up with my current sweater and wanted some instant gratification project. The bluish cluster is Noro's Suzuran, pure wool, same pattern as the Ravelympics sweater - when I got an idea, it's such a rare occurence that I stick to it. To the idea, I mean, not to the occurence.
Tape measure. Comes handy while knitting.
A handful of samples to review: Idylle, Basala, Sagamore, Sira des Indes, Courreges in Blue, Detchéma, Naked Honey, Vetiver Dance, Derby, something from Susanne Lang.
Anti-wrinkle cream: did I say that I have body image issues? Well, and I'm fighting my wrinkles before they get serious. I seem to have a hint of bags under my eyes. Welcome, middle age.
Psych meds. Allergy meds.
The glass brick is a stand for the flacon of Quand vient la pluie. I don't have the flacon so I stick needles in it.
Knitpicks Harmony: that's the needles. They are interchangeable, I can screw the tips onto cables and it was one of the best buys in my life. Smooth joints which I particularly appreciate after having knit quite a bit with circulars made of indefinable grey metal that splintered. Cables that don't tear off the needle - ditto. They are smooth, pointed and pretty. I could stand the needles a bit longer, I have big paws, but still.
Blotters. I'm careful with applying fragrances on skin without trying beforehand. That could be said twice for Idylle which is crap.
Chanel's pressed powder in Sickly Pale. Nope, the shade is called Lilas, lilac (Syringa for the sciencey types) and it's sickly pale, my natural colour if you forget the freckles.
Coffee = fuel. I've slept badly and the psych meds do a bit weird things.
Snustad's textbook on genetics. Exam looming ahead.
Diary.

Life as if nothing had happened. Not that there would be anything going on. I'm still somewhat shaky although the side effects of the antidepressants are slowly diminishing. I'm reading and knitting, no big deal. I take an immense pleasure in knitting, that mindless sort. It probably does something to the serotonine levels.

Something will happen.