Skip to main content

Gotham in the Springtime

The city is warming up, and the cockroaches are coming in looking for the shade.

I killed one such creature last night by throwing a copy of The Andy Warhol Diaries on top of it -- the heaviest book I could lay my hands on at the time -- and then left the book, and dead roach I presumed under it, until The Prince came home 4 hours later to clean it up. Let me tell you Mamas, that is a service I value.

Now lest you think the bugs are here because of a lack of cleanliness on my part– well, while the floor is swept and washed every day, (well, I think about it everyday) the creatures still come.

I know I shouldn’t be so uptight about this – they’re only bugs, big ugly flying revolting scary heinous nauseating bugs, -- still, I just don’t like them. Call me crazy.

The rabbit mercifully hasn’t inherited my freak-out over these creatures. She still thinks it’s cool when fireflies land on her hand. (yet another flying insect I would prefer respect my personal space…)

And I am trying not to react as strongly as I want to (like running into the living-room and standing on top of the couch screaming ROACHROACHROACH!!!!…for example….) when she’s around. After all, I am not a summer person either. I understand wanting to avoid the sun. Fair-skinned as I am, I burn in about 10 minutes and can get a lovely heat rash blooming on my skin at any temperature above 95 degrees.

Still, I think we could achieve some kind of an agreement. They stay in the walls, where it’s even cooler – right? And I agree not to spray them with shaving cream and then toss 10-pound books on their bodies.

Sounds like detente to me.


Oh goodness. Sounds like my life growing up. I never learned to like them either!


Popular posts from this blog

Apologies for being incommunicado this week and hope none of you out there are too distraught not to be receiving the usual almost-daily MotV missives. The reason for the silence is that I'm up to my neck, metaphorically-speaking, in research papers for my first grad course assessment. This experience has made me realise how rigorously un-academic I am in my thinking. It has also illuminated how reliant I am on red wine in order to get through endless evenings typing furiously on my laptop, not to mention the fueling of increasingly colorful curses that I feel obliged to aim at the University's online library system which consistently refuses to spit out any of the journals I'm desperate for (I refuse to believe this is 100% due to my technical incompetence...)Oh well, if this is the price one has to pay in order to realize a long-cherished dream then it's not all that bad... No one ever said a mid-life career change would be easy. Wish me luck!

Recommended & the Mahiki dance-off

My GFs and I went to Mahiki last night, great fun as usual but made me feel a bit old; it seems that Thursday night is the playground of the just-past-pubescent. Oh well. Good tunes though, so whatever.In between taking over the dancefloor - the youngsters may have youth on their side but frankly that shrinks to insignificance in the face of two decades of clubbing experience - one of my GFs and I got into a conversation about why so many people are full of bull.It appears that many people we come across are content to live their lives in a superficial way, skimming the surface of what life has to offer and equating the ownership of stuff (cars, houses, boats, jewelry, designer clothes) with happiness. They converse in terms of status, strut their possessions as a measure of their own self-worth, take themselves far too seriously, are quick to judge others, easily annoyed, complain a lot about very little and their worries seem to far outweigh their joys. Personally, I think all that…


Following on from the realisation that my lungs are filthy and if I don't give up the smokes soon I face a life of wheezing at best, off I trotted to see the charming Dr T.

Dr T, who's charming by virtue of the fact that he's less jaded than the other doctors in the surgery (in other words, he treats patients as if they're human beings with a right to NHS services rather than annoying fraudsters trying to gain sympathy for imaginary illnesses) promptly put me on potentially habit-forming drugs to get me off the evil weed. Something doesn't feel quite right about this but since I'm so pathetically grateful to have a doctor who's willing to give me more than two seconds of his precious time, I have acquiesced to his demands.

Anyway, this wonder drug is called Champix and promises to have me merrily chucking my smokes in the bin in no time. Or it will if I can get past the possible side effects, the highlights being abnormal dreams, nausea, flatulence, snoring, …