My existence is so uneventful that even going out to get groceries is a big deal. I refuse to partake in this crusade more often than once a week, and even this with utmost disgust and only prompted by the threat of imminent starvation. Getting groceries is my weekly weight lifting workout. I will willingly suffer dragging a ten-kilo bag of shopping if it means I don’t have to leave the flat for the rest of the week. So, I engage my nonexistent abs, take deep and regular breaths, swing the bag over the shoulder and down the hill from Tesco I roll.
I take a great delight in my mad tetris skills. I don’t think there are many people in the world who could compete with my talent of bagging a week’s worth of items in a single bag, making sure that nothing gets squashed and that the side of the bag which will rest against my own side is perfectly flat and smooth, with no sharp edges poking my ribs. Bagging tetris-style is an art of which I’m a mistress. On a side note, no need to point out that there is such a thing as home delivery, it’s not available in my area. Also, a person gotta go out once in a while to confirm that the world still exists.
I feel like blogging but nothing is happening. Everything and everyone seems to be dead in summer. I am dead too, but I feel dead anytime, so it doesn’t count. To enliven myself a little, I put together this post of completely random uneventful shit that has (not) been happening in the last few days.
Just as this post lacks coherence and vision, so does my life and work. I’ve read some personal/professional growth books recently, however, I obviously don’t follow the advice. So yesterday I was thinking I’d start implementing some tools I’ve learned about and on impulse ventured out to buy a new notebook in which to sketch my vision, goals and other crap.
The notebook is pictured above. Sorry not sorry about the poor quality photo, my phone lens was filthy and my bloody but beloved cat wouldn’t stop headbutting me while I was trying to take the photo.
Do you think I did something and started to write in the notebook? Nope, obviously. Well, maybe later. At least I have a new notebook. I liked it in the shop but when I brought it home, I decided that it is super ugly and that I don’t know what I was thinking.
I also bought a set of colour fine liners. I’d like to use them but I wouldn’t like to use them unless for some proper, sensible and meaningful task. I’m a terrible case of decision paralysis.
My cat is as ubiquitous as my decision paralysis. She appears to be at several places at once. She also stalks me when I move around the flat. Recently I noticed she only tends to sleep on the bed when I’m in the bed too. I was so touched for a while, thinking that she seeks out my company because she likes me. Then it occurred to me that the poor thing may like me or may just have a case of Stockholm syndrome. My own thoughts scare the shit out of me.
When you think of it, though, I keep the cat captive (let’s put aside that she’s the quintessential household cat and doesn’t go out to explore even when I leave the door open). I have no way to tell whether she hates life as much as I do or whether she’s alright or even generally content (let’s put aside that she appears content and relaxed). So, maybe she just got used to me and decided to like me instead of hating me because she’s clearly stuck with me for life.
As a translator, I learn a huge amount of marginally interesting and completely irrelevant information. Thanks to my translating practice, I have in theory acquired skills including but not limited do:
How to help a dog deliver puppies. Which is ironic, as I’m a cat person.
How to take care of female hygiene during a hike. Which is ridiculous because I neither hike nor do I need to be told in which direction to wipe my ass or how to use wet wipes. Why the fuck does someone write such things and even have them translated into another language?
How to use a compass. See above. I was pretty lost when translating this one and so will be any readers of my translation, I suspect.
How to pick a Damascus knife. I don’t think I’m the target group for a Damascus knife. I own one universal knife which is probably made of toxic metal.
[I can’t think of point number five though there certainly is one, so I’m leaving this bullet empty and will face my OCD about it.]
As a translator, I also ask a large number of weird questions bordering on the perverse. First, I ask myself; then, I ask Google; and finally, I pick the phone and start calling people in my address book to ask them. My recent queries included the following:
What is the sheath of a dog’s penis called in my language? I didn’t crack this one because not even the cynologist I have on speed dial knew. I ended up terming it what loosely backtranslates to English as “furry container”. Cute, right?
Are trade unions what I think they are? Is it even legal nowadays for workers to unite? Are there trade unions for freelancers? If so, how do I join one in case I wanted to demand equal pay (equal to or greater than my elementary upkeep)? My questions remained unanswered, but I ended up desiring a job in the company whose bulletin I was translating. They looked like they had strong unions.
What is the part of the car called which gets warm, is located somewhere under the car and attracts cats and martens who perch there and chew on the wires and cables? My Phone-a-Friend friend knew exactly what I meant but also knew nothing about cars, so I called it “engine” and was done with it. I’m aware that a car’s engine is probably not located under the car but it was the only car part I could name. Also, the idea was that you should keep your pet away from it to prevent burns.