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My Blisters Have Blisters
Oct. 9th, 2010 04:56 pmKristine and I plotted a day of 'fab two', giggles, coffee and shopping, for Thursday. We failed the shopping – I've lost my purse, she didn't buy anything –, giggled too little, but we coerced Anette into cutting her hair. All part of a day's work for the fab two. Though, come to think of it, we giggled more than enough into our wine.
'Man, my heels are killing me,' Kristine said, somewhere between Zara and Paléet.
'I know. I think there are blisters,' I said.
'Coffee?'
'I don't think I really want coffee. Do we want coffee?'
'No, but we need sugar. Or we will collapse.'
'Right.'
'Muffins. Then bench, and loo. Or looing, then benching?'
'Man, loo first. Or we can't enjoy the muffins properly. You have to concentrate.'
We collapsed anyway, but made it to Grønland to wait for Are, after muffins. He cooked us a delicious tandoori for dinner; Kristine cut a potato, I conducted commentary. Sometime half-way through the boxed red wine, I gazed into the dredges of my dinner and predicted that I would get laryngitis. Thirty minutes later, my voice cracked, things went downhill from there. But the rest of the evening was fun. Are went out to collect Siri, so we were charged with fixing the stereo. There was a wayward cable, but it shouldn't be all that difficult. We crawled around, I theorised about what should be plugged where, Kristine experimented. It took Vibeke's iPod to get us music, we just couldn't make it work.
I'm ignoring Ozzie. (Nicknamed Ozzie after Osbourne Cox in Burn After Reading for no particular reason, other than being an Aussie whose name I forgot. He needed a name.) Are and Kristine approve of the plan. He kept calling, texting and being sickeningly sweet. Where's the fun in men who call three times a day?
The night's mission was to meet the buddy group at the student organised Octoberfest. That failed miserably, we only found Siri. At two we were thrown out of our stupor by the fire alarm, everyone was ushered out to shiver in lines. Teaching Anette to flirt is going well: she snared a lovely-looking man all on her own. Kristine and I exchanged drunk-subtle grins, high fives and gesticulated in joy. Anette and I ended the night on her sofa, and fell asleep in an attempt to watch Donnie Darko. I rolled out of bed at 8, fumbled around her flat and got up to campus in time for class.
Clothes and make-up from last night, hair less than pristine, no voice and no energy. I have class, clearly. The rest of the week? Spent furious about lack of purse, reading King Lear and finishing Great Expectations in a day. Now I'm making an effort to plan New York properly. Two philologists in New York calls for a plan.
'Man, my heels are killing me,' Kristine said, somewhere between Zara and Paléet.
'I know. I think there are blisters,' I said.
'Coffee?'
'I don't think I really want coffee. Do we want coffee?'
'No, but we need sugar. Or we will collapse.'
'Right.'
'Muffins. Then bench, and loo. Or looing, then benching?'
'Man, loo first. Or we can't enjoy the muffins properly. You have to concentrate.'
We collapsed anyway, but made it to Grønland to wait for Are, after muffins. He cooked us a delicious tandoori for dinner; Kristine cut a potato, I conducted commentary. Sometime half-way through the boxed red wine, I gazed into the dredges of my dinner and predicted that I would get laryngitis. Thirty minutes later, my voice cracked, things went downhill from there. But the rest of the evening was fun. Are went out to collect Siri, so we were charged with fixing the stereo. There was a wayward cable, but it shouldn't be all that difficult. We crawled around, I theorised about what should be plugged where, Kristine experimented. It took Vibeke's iPod to get us music, we just couldn't make it work.
I'm ignoring Ozzie. (Nicknamed Ozzie after Osbourne Cox in Burn After Reading for no particular reason, other than being an Aussie whose name I forgot. He needed a name.) Are and Kristine approve of the plan. He kept calling, texting and being sickeningly sweet. Where's the fun in men who call three times a day?
The night's mission was to meet the buddy group at the student organised Octoberfest. That failed miserably, we only found Siri. At two we were thrown out of our stupor by the fire alarm, everyone was ushered out to shiver in lines. Teaching Anette to flirt is going well: she snared a lovely-looking man all on her own. Kristine and I exchanged drunk-subtle grins, high fives and gesticulated in joy. Anette and I ended the night on her sofa, and fell asleep in an attempt to watch Donnie Darko. I rolled out of bed at 8, fumbled around her flat and got up to campus in time for class.
Clothes and make-up from last night, hair less than pristine, no voice and no energy. I have class, clearly. The rest of the week? Spent furious about lack of purse, reading King Lear and finishing Great Expectations in a day. Now I'm making an effort to plan New York properly. Two philologists in New York calls for a plan.
