>sniffle<

Tried to buy cold medicine last night.

Everything was non-drowsy.

Bitch, I wanted the drowsy.

I decided to drink a beer and take an Excedrin PM® which contains the number one doctor-recommended ingredients for relief of pain accompanied by sleeplessness.

My mother smuggled them into the country for me.

>sniffle<

Thanks Mom.

The the number one doctor-recommended ingredients for relief of pain accompanied by sleeplessness made me sleepy.

I zonked out watching Howards End, which gave me really strange dreams. I don't remember them now. Umbrellas and books were attacking me.

>sniffle<

I wonder if Emma Thompson hates Helena Bonham Carter.

I wish I could meet Emma Thompson because she seems like the sort of person who would be a fun mate. Someone you could get drunk with.

Kate Winslet too.

Not to say that Helena isn't nice, I don't know - maybe she is.

(Probably not.)

>sniffle<

I need to read E.M. Forster.

Probably not after taking an Excedrin PM.

I should go home.

Is it raining? It rained a lot today.

Have you ever noticed when you get off the Bakerloo line at Waterloo, the station smells like vomit. Take a big wiff next time and let me know.

I also feel like I am playing frogger when I try to cross over to the Northern Line.

Ok.

I'm going home now.

Bye.

Talk to you later.

>sniffle<

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Al is in the kitchen whistling The Indiana Jones theme. Ed looks up. “Why is he whistling the Indiana Jones Theme?”

I smirk, “What’s next Al? ET?”

Al comes over to our desks. “So try to do Indiana Jones, Superman then Star Wars. You can’t because they are so similar.” I have a feeling Al has been waiting all his life for this moment.

Ed takes him up on it. “Da Da Daaa Dad a Dummm Dad a da! Dad a dad a da! Duma duma duma dum dumma DA DA DA DA DAAA DAAA DAAA DA DA DA DA DA-DA-DA! Uhhhh I can’t remember how Star Wars starts. “

We of course piss ourselves laughing.

“That’s it you can’t do it!”

Ed was not to be detured. “Okay. I’ll start with Star Wars. Daa Daaa Daa daaa daa Daaa daaammmm da da da daaaa dummm dad da da daaammmm Duma duma duma dum dumma DA DA DA DA DAAA DAAA DAAA DA DA DA DA DA-DA-DA! Uhhh. I can’t remember how Indiana Jones starts.”

We piss ourselves laughing.

What’s funny about it isn’t that he can’t remember. It’s for the ones that he knows he is committing completely to the Dad a da’s. His Superman is rather inspired.

A few minutes later I look over to Ed and he is mumbling to himself.

“You’re still trying to do it, aren’t you.”

“Yes. . .”

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One of the things that I love about this country is you turn on the TV and there on More4 they are showing the Pinter play Celebration. Trust me when I tell you that it wouldn’t fly in America.

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When I was nine I ran for a position on the Student Council. I’m not sure if they have Student Council here. . . (It’s a little faux government body that makes the kids feel involved in the school but they don’t do more than make organise bake sales.)

I’m not sure why I ran. I wasn’t a really popular kid. . . my family had just moved back to the area after a year away.

I waited a bit late to make my posters and my little buttons saying Vote For Nicole! And I found the entire thing really embarrassing so it was no huge surprise that I didn’t win.

I don’t remember who really won, but I imagine it was Lisa who kept telling me she was going to bring me one of these troll dolls—

Bitch never did.

I don’t know why I wanted one of these trolls so bad. It was 1979. . . what can I say.

At work I sometimes get feedback to not be so ready to talk about what I’ve done wrong and to blow my own horn.

It’s not that I don’t think I’m great. . . I just find it a bit embarrassing to say how great I am and as much as I enjoy other people telling me I’m great, that embarrasses me too.

Not that I like negativity. People telling me I suck sends me straight to plotting their painful death at the hands of Tom Cruise shrieking the principles of Scientology at them.

What can I say. I’m complicated.

So if you dig the ramblings, the whinging and the occasional railing at British grocery stores for not carrying graham crackers that you find in this corner of the WWW, it might me nifty of you to nominate me for a Brit Blog Award.

If not, that’s okay too. I’m just happy that you’re here.

(I’ll bake you cookies and make you margaritas if you vote for me)

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It has been reported to me that folks at Stuart’s work noticed that I didn’t weigh in last week.

The reason is a bit TMI- so I apologise. . . I also didn’t post a month ago when this same thing happened. When it happens the numbers will be higher. . . It happens once a month so once a month I will probably skip that weeks weigh in (unless I like the numbers. Bite me if you find this arbitary.)

If you don’t know what I’m on about, I’m not going to spell it out for you.

Anyway I have no such excuse this week. This week the numbers are bad because I ate like complete and utter and complete pig last week.

162

What is really annoying is it said 157 a week and a half ago. . .

back on the wagon. . .

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I know it’s silly and insipid, but I love watching the Oscars. I love going to or hosting a party, making my pool pics, laughing at or coveting the clothes and mocking certain speeches (please see Halle and Gwenie). I get even get teared up when they do the montage of who has passed in the last year. . .

If you have ever seen the film Double Indemnity, the apartment where Fred MacMurray lives in was my apartment. It is just off of Hollywood, a hop, skip and a jump down the street from The Kodak Theatre (home to the Oscars the last few years). Traffic would be diverted around that area for days before and the subway won’t stop at the Hollywood and Highland stop on Oscar Sunday. You can’t help but notice that it’s going on. Even if you don’t work in ‘The Industry’, movies are everywhere and everyone has a screenplay in their back pocket and everyone has an opinion.

Here in the UK, once again the Oscars are on pay cable and ABC hasn’t wised up that maybe people would be willing to pay to watch them online, so I am out of the game again this year. We did just order Virgin cable, but I’m a day late, dollar short for this particular pop-culture banality.

Last year I made a roast dinner for something like ten/twelve people. (It was an accident that it was Oscar Sunday.) We got a bit drunk, everyone left or went to bed and I stayed up (my job hadn’t started yet. Oh the sweet days of freedom) listened to the telecast online (until it switched to the interviews) and drunk blogged play by play. If you go to the March archives you relive this pointless exercise.

This is the first year in a very long time that I haven’t seen 99% of what has been nominated. . . I’m off my game, but here are my pics.

I must go on the record with saying that my favourite film of 2006 was Pan’s Labyrinth. . .

Actor- Leading- Forest Whitaker
Actor- Supporting- Alan Arkin
Actress - Leading- Helen Mirren
Actress- Supporting- Rinko Kikuchi
Animated Feature- Monster House
Art Direction- Pan’s Labyrinth
Cinematography- Pan’s Labyrinth
Costume Design- Curse of the Golden Flower
Directing- The Departed
Documentary Feature- An Inconvenient Truth
Documentary Short- The Blood of Yingzhou District
Film Editing- Babel
Foreign Language Film- Pan’s Labyrinth
Makeup- Pan’s Labyrinth
Original Score- Pan’s Labyrinth
Original Song- “Listen” – DREAMGIRLS
Best Picture- Letters From Iwo Jima
Short film- Animated- The Little Matchgirl
Short Film- Live Action- West Bank Story
Sound Editing- Blood Diamond
Sound Mixing- Dreamgirls
Visual Effects- Pirates of the Caribbean
Screenplay - Adapted- The Departed
Screenplay Original- Little Miss Sunshine

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It feels much better this morning. Really. I’m ok. If it had still been as bad this AM, I would have gone to A&E (Emergency Room) but it is mucho better. I’m still keeping off it all weekend.

So relax ma. Your klutz child is okay.

Bad news of it being better is I can’t get crutches to beat co-workers with. (Sorry Colm.)

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This morning, around 9:07 if you were at Lisle and Wardour Street, you would have seen a woman take a serious face first tumble on the sidewalk. (Hint. The klutz was me.)

I’m no stranger to tripping through life.

Late April 2000 I was on a two-week holiday with my then boyfriend and his parents in New York City. We were staying at his Uncle’s house in Pelham Bay, a tony neighborhood in the Bronx.

Little ole me went to Yankee Stadium, The Met, The World Trade Center. I had the best cup of coffee on the planet that I ordered from a guy in a truck on the street. I ate Sabrett dirty water hot dogs and chocolate egg creams.

I fell in love with New York City and I had barely seen anything.

One day toward the end of the first week we met up with a Uni friend of mine that had just moved to Queens. The plan was to go to MOMA. Only problem was when we got there, the curators were striking. Being good liberals that we are we couldn’t cross a picket line. We broke out the travel book and decided to go to Greenwich Village. I was wearing these boots with a chunky heal that were all the rage at the time. They had the benefit of being stylish and comfortable.

Walking down the sidewalk, I managed to catch a patch of uneven sidewalk, lost my balance and fell.

I heard my ankle snap even before I hit the ground.

I guess it isn’t a trip to NYC without a visit to St. Vincent’s.

The next few months were not a lot of fun, although the vicodin did make my job much more enjoyable.

Last night Stuart and I met up with Jen, Richard and Matt for a drink and tapas. Jen’s knee is giving her some problems and we talked about how London would not be a fun place to get around in if you weren’t mobile. People run over folks on crutches and maybe two stations on the underground have wheelchair access.

I think I was tempting the gods.

This morning walking to work I looked right then left before I crossed the street and I managed to catch a bit of sidewalk and I fell, flailing, grasping to hold on to air. I wasn’t even wearing ridiculous shoes—they were very sensible Mary Jane wedges.

As I fell, I thought, “No, this can’t be happening.”

Well. That’s a lie. I think it was more like, “No motherfucker, No!”
There wasn’t a snap this time, but there was a pop. And it was my right ankle rather than my left.

I lay there stunned. I struggled to stand up. A few iPoder Londoners stepped over me. (slight exaggeration.) One gentleman, (Polish, I think) asked me if I was ok. I smiled through tears, “Yes, yes. Absolutely. Thank you.”

I shuffled off and the ankle seemed ok. A touch stiff, but I was fine. I felt myself limping around the office slightly but I thought I dodged a bullet.

At lunch, things took a bad turn. I kept whining, “It’s really starting to hurt.” When it was time to go, my slight limp and become a full on hobble.

By the end of the day, it took everything in me to just to not put head down on my desk and sob.

I called a cab and went home.

It was mortifying limping to the lift. (Am I becoming English?)

Stuart picked me up some paracetamol with codeine and a pizza which made life a lot more better.

So good news. I didn’t break my ankle. Bad news. I have a rather nasty sprain that is having me hobble around the house like an old lady. . .

I think I will need to quit my Lindy Hop classes.

Damn my klutzy ass.

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I’m upstairs in the bedroom working. I sip my coffee thinking that I will go downstairs in a few minutes to get another cup. I can hear Richard (see earlier post re friend smack dab thank you ma’am in a domestic) puttering around downstairs.

He IMs me.

Richard: thanks for the coffee
Nicole: lol

We’re in the same house in speaking distance from each other and he is IMing me. How modern.

Nicole: np
Richard: you don’t work from home today?
Nicole: i’m upstairs
Richard: oh

So he did didn’t realise I was home. How my God– that means. . .

Nicole: so don’t drink all my coffee
Richard: oh. . .

Scheisse.

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I have a theory that if you name any actor or any movie and play the movie game (You name a movie, next person names an actor, next person names a movie that actor is in, next person names a movie. . . never repeating an actor or a flick) that eventually all roads lead to The Godfather.

Example:*Gone With The Wind

Vivien Leigh/  A Streetcar Named Desire/ Marlon Brando/ The Godfather. . .

but that was too easy so I will say. . .

Superman/ Gene Hackman/ The Conversation/ John Cazale/ The Godfather. . .

It can’t helped.

I have another theory that if you get a group of co-workers in my industry together, regardless of country, culture, language or sexual preference and add a little alcohol. . .all conversations will lead to sex.

It’s not even necessarily about flirting with each other– although that does happen. There were tons of marriages and hook-ups at my old company. . .although it is a high wire act as so often the work hook-up is bad, bad, BAD news. One of mine really messed our friendship up because it always was a bit weird after- Was completely my fault. If I could have a do-over on that one it would be different. Well. Actually I would avoid all of the work hooks I have had- other than Stuart. . . but you don’t know that until you know that. . . Anyhoo. We all always end up talking about sex.
 
Things that I now know about my co-workers here in London.

1. R has been propositioned twice to be in a threesome. (I can see it. She is very pretty)

2. Once after crashing at a female ex co-workers flat after a late night of drinking, R woke up to the ex co worker (one of the people who had propositioned her in the past) sleeping naked in bed with her. R was rather disturbed.

3. E has discovered that his evil soon to be ex wife is now doing porn. Not San Fernando Valley - Girl Gets Gang Banged By Fifty Pizza Delivering Midgets Porn. She is posting online Home Movies Of The Act With Her Boyfriend Which You Can Watch For $25.00 A Month Porn. I wonder if she can get a tax break for having a home office?

4. T as a young man had a marathon session of sex with his GF and toward the end thought that he had run out of sperm. He had visions of no one marrying him because he had broken his penis. He went to the clinic where the nurse explained by drawing him a little picture that he hadn’t broken his penis.

5. T as a young man was at his GF’s house and it was a bit cold. One of his balls disappeared. He had visions of no one marrying him because he only had one ball. He called a mate about his conundrum and his friend told him to take a hot shower. Once again T had two balls.

I must say after T’s stories, I am rather concerned about the state of sex education in England.

 
*It must be noted that I am not clever enough to compose these breadcrumbs on my own and IMDB was heavily used.
 

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