Look! A Car Goodvert!

I find this commercial for the new Fiat 500 Riva, "The smallest yacht in the world" absolutely delightful. So I've found a link to it, and I'm sharing it with you.
Enjoy!

^_^

Less Growling? (Brexit-free.... Almost)

Am I growling less? Nope. The state of the world and my latent allergy to stupidity are still making me growl (or even howl at the Moon) on a regular basis.

It's "just" that I'm not growling here because I started recycling my growls into plot bunnies: my Sci-Fi universe needs feeding, and I'm using our world in order to describe a planet as I dream ours were.

For example, you can bet that a certain veeeeeeeeeery recent referendum will prominently figure in one of my Sci-Fi universe novels. Honestly, I went to bed before the results of the Scottish and the EU referendums were announced, and I woke up to weirdness; I'm beginning to think that I shouldn't go to bed to keep an eye on what's going on when there's a big vote (yea, because my staying up could change anything - of course <- this is my Sarc font being firmly on).

As well, the publishing team and I (the infamous triumvirate) are working on registering more books - and I'm doing all that between spots of renovations. I'm knackered, but the muscles are nice.

I haven't forgotten my blog. I'm still the growly gal you read. I'm using the nuttiness of our planet to feed the plot bunnies (and right now, I've got a dictatorship that's going to be invaded by an army led by a fierce gal - it'll be fun... but not for everybody).

I'll wave and post as often as I can, and if you'd like not all the growls to become plot bunny food, say so... ^_~

Victim Blaming Is Alive and Well

I really should read fewer newspapers.

I really should not read the comments.

I was reading a new article about the latest "scandal" about a courageous rape victim who was betrayed by the sentencing judge (because the culprit, as a fellow star athlete, deserves to not be properly punished).

It's this New York Times article (it's good, and I've got nothing to say against the journalist).

No, my problem is with whichever plonker picked a victim-blaming comment as a NYT Picks:

There are other similar comments on the thread. Of course. Gosh! My Sarc font is on again!

It's not about showing both sides of an argument. There's NO argument; one does not betray a victim yet another time by giving "air time" to a caveman. Full stop.

Oh, and for good measure, here's the mug of the culprit's protector judge:

I could add something about the letter that the culprit's father wrote, but there's no point in risking my lovely brain cells. Go read about that other caveman; he's a piece of... something.

Interesting Nightmare

*points at title* No, I'm not talking about the launch of the publishing company (though it's rather entertaining - in a weird way, and the launch's the reason for my being so quiet around here these weeks).

When I have fever (and with the defrosting of the last millimetres of my nerve VII, it happens a lot), I have nightmares. Usually, most nightmares dissolve from my brain when I stand up and go to the kitchen to make breakfast, but sometimes, I remember the nightmares.

I put a notebook next to my bed in order to write bits about the nightmare plots (years ago, I had a terrible nightmare - properly scary and all. I remember thinking that it'd make a very, very good story, and the moment I got up, "Poof!" most of it was gone. I still hope my brain will give me that plot bunny back one day - even if it's scary).

Last night's nightmare is still in my head. It's not a plot bunny candidate this one... It's just... odd.

It brought me back to my college days, back when I was still a student and I was a teacher as well. Until I sat for my PhD, I was afraid that something would happen, and my delightful, feverish brain brought me back to that time in my latest nightmare:

I was teaching at my old college (that was odd, because I taught a few classes at another college back then), and I was planning to sit for my PhD in a couple of weeks when someone from administration came to see me and informed me that they thought I was missing a unit for... my BA.

I protested that I could prove that I had my BA - and my MA, and my M.St, but they were going back to my BA and were quite cold.

No one was helping me until... one of my colleagues decided to fight for me. That colleague? Oh... just Mr Gary Sinise (let's blame that one on Criminal Minds, shall we?).

He did manage to help me, but he did it not in the way I wanted to prove that I had my BA, and I was quite angry.

He tried to apologize by bringing a small military band (like the ones that play at St James's Park) to play for me, and... I woke up.

It's very strange because Mr Sinise was quite nice, but the fear of losing all my hard work because someone had lost an old file of mine was quite vivid and unpleasant (yes, I do see the possible link with the stress caused by the company launch, thank you).

Back to work...

See you "soon"...

Walk in My Shoes

It's funny how people on Twitter (I'm not on Facebook, but I guess it's the same over there) retweet and like things, but they seldom actually chat. I'm not such a big fan of silence, so I try to talk to people when they send something that touches me one way or the other.

Yesterday, Louise Brealey sent a link to a video about abuse. Even though I'm fine these days (that's a wonder with the amount of stress generated by the launch of our company!), that short video made me cry because it reminded me that my own mother is either in denial about what my abuser did to me or she really believes that I should have been back to normal five minutes after he left.

This is not how it works.

My soul is scratched - but healing.

My heart was broken - but I've found some glue to repair it... though the tiniest pieces are fucking hard to put back where they belong.

When I met my abuser, some people I knew could have warned me against him. They didn't.

It took him six hours to worm his way into my coat of armour and toss me into a tiger trap where I woke up, broken, hurt, lost. Lost... important part of the issue in my case. I couldn't figure out what was going on.

One day, I remember thinking, as it's often the case with victims, 'Why do I allow him to do these things to me?' and then... it hit me. It was the wrong question.

The right question was, 'Why does he think he has the right to treat me like this?'

He had no right to hurt me.

Too bad for me, he was a manipulator, and he'd found all my buttons within hours of meeting me, and he could abuse me all he wanted.

Fast forward a few years, and I'm healing.

Yesterday, someone at @BoxRoomFilms tweeted me with kind words after I mentioned being a survivor. That was quite nice. It was 'Hey! Stay strong, fellow human being!'

And this morning, I got this:

Ah.

So it's my fault if I was stupid enough to pick up a snake. I was bitten, and I'm the only one to blame - because me, myself, and I, we picked up a snake.

That was a lovely punch to the gut.

Miss Valicia thinks victims are the only ones to blame.
Miss Carla felt the need to remind me that I was stupid enough to pick up a snake, so I deserved being bitten.

Thank you so much, sisters.

No wonder my friends in town don't want to hear what I have to say when I feel a bit low because of the long-term consequences of the abuse, and no wonder my own mother wants to forget about the whole thing.

As I told Miss Carla, this is victim-blaming AND my snake looked like a bloody canary when I met him. He was delightful until he morphed into his own version of Mr Hyde. AND, to the rest of the world, he was ALWAYS Mr Charming.

I'm not stupid.

I wasn't stupid back then.

I was targeted by a sick wanker, who, unfortunately, was twisted enough to find a way to control me long enough to do with me as he pleased.

It's frigging easy to say 'Don't pick up a snake if you don't want to be bitten!'. These creatures don't show their fangs until it's too late and the VICTIM cannot escape.

I wish we could eradicate all forms of abuse, but it seems that there's still a lot of education to do if we don't want the Valicias and Carlas of the world to hand out useful advice to not pick up the snake, but it seems that people who haven't been walking in the shoes of a victim of abuse simply cannot understand how devastating and paralysing it can be to find oneself into the clutches/fangs/whatever of a gifted abuser.

We're not stupid.
Our abusers are twisted. They're the ones who must be blamed. To keep working on the snake image, the issue isn't 'Why did the girl pick up the snake in the first place?', but 'Why did that snake think it had the right to bite its rescuer?'.
Victim-blaming isn't nice. There's no need to pile up more negativity on the backs of victims.
I suspect that Miss Carla is in the US. I'll see if she answers when she gets up, but I doubt it...

My first play will be out in June, and I must say I'm 'happy' that it's about abuse and the dire consequences it can generate.

Work Woes (Sort of)

Things are so weird right now, and I must admit I'm tired and tense (and... yea, scared a bit).

College work is okay, which is not normal. In my years of teaching, there's always been one thing that was negative (be it the one student who tried my patience or the merry war between two offices - war that started in the '60s, and that was still being kept active by people who were barely born when it started). Of course, I've got the classroom management snafu, but I do wonder if I should be prepared to face some kind of storm soon...

I tried to find a complementary teaching position, and I'd found something that could be nice... Too bad that the online recruitment form wanted to know so many private things that I had to withdraw my file.

I don't mind answering work-related questions, but they were being properly nosey about things that were completely unrelated to the (temporary!!!) position.

Has it become the bloody norm? Do potential employers want you to give away your soul with a contract signed with your own blood now?

I'm not built for that.

We're still in the process of launching our company, and... specialists (the guys who get paid to register what needs to be registered) don't even know what to tell us, where to send us, or what bumph they need from us... I'm going to end up with an ulcer, and my cousin is considering upping her stress meds.

We had to choose a particular status. It exists. It's on paper. We've read pages and pages on the net about that (yes, rather new) status. The specialists look at us as if we were speaking Etruscan.

It's exhausting.

My cousin's in charge of the bumph, and I think she's planning to send everything we've got to the appropriate office and tell them to deal with it and contact her if they need anything else. I can't blame her.

The whole situation really feels like this:

May we avoid Bedlam...
ô.O

It Would Be Funny If...

... it were not so sad.

My cousin and I are spending a few days with our friend DeForest.

We've been observing the world together and trading plot bunnies, and it's been great.

And then the world's nuttiness caught up with him.

Nothing bad, but it makes you wonder how silly bipeds can be...

For a few months, some idiot in California has been giving De's address to several companies (Microsoft, Netflix, a dating site, a car seller, etc). He even gave De's address to a charming woman apparently quite fond of him, who contacted De (being the gentleman that he is, he pointed out the mistake - and didn't even get a "Thank you!").

De's address is "yadda" dot "yadda" dot "yaddayaddayadda" @gmail.com, and since the bloody geniuses at Google don't care about the dots and they don't make any difference, De's been getting messages sent to yaddayaddayaddayaddayadda@gmail.com, which is the address that the Californian idiot has been distributing around.

Seriously, that bloke's lucky that my friend's nice or he could have completely messed up with his dating profile since the company had sent the non-encrypted password to De.

After getting yet another message from the car selling company, De blew a fuse and e-mailed them to point out the mistake made by that guy.

He quickly got an answer... with an offer to help him if he wants to buy a car (he'd said that he isn't in the US!).

Gosh! He turned the sarcasm font on, answered the message, and unsubscribed himself from everything he ever received from that company (they're one sandwich short of a picnic in my book).

I'm a good friend. I gave De a plot bunny inspired by the incident, and he's having fun on my laptop...

We're writers. We turn the strangeness of the world into stories.

Bonus for me: I get to edit the story, and he'll probably never spot this post since he's mostly only reading newspapers online... *mwaha* (if he spots it, I'll give him another plot bunny... ^_^)

Who Wrote THAT?!!! [Criminal Minds: Beyond Borders s01e05]

I am not going to do a full necropsy of the plot (like I did for this unfortunate episode of NCIS), but too many things bugged me, and I need to growl.

When I read about the idea for this series, I was quite happy, and the casting's really fantastic.

The first episodes were rather nice (even if the studio "make-up" for the lots during the few outdoor scenes can be somewhat clumsy), but when they gave us an episode in "Paris", I started growling from the start.

Spoilers from now on, and I'll just make a list of the things that need work (Oh, and yes, I would do better, because I avoid clichés, and I always do my homework. Ta. Muchly.).

- Stop showing massive landmarks like the Eiffel Tower or the Champs-Élysées. Have "Paris" written on screen and go for something more original.

- Stop using accordion music. In everything that's supposed to be French. Always.

Do you know where one can listen to accordion music in France? In places that are tourists' traps because the (non-native!) musicians know that this is what tourists are expecting.

Accordion music is a bloody cliché.

- Stop using songs by Joséphine Baker or Edith Piaf.

CLICHÉ!!! (Oh, and there's good French music that was released... since the end of WWII - sheesh!)

- Stop using that bridge in Los Angeles. You know, the one that's so conveniently right behind the studios. It's supposed to be approximately all over the world.

You can't afford to travel, we understand, but that bridge is becoming ridiculous. Find something else.

 - Hire French people to play French characters.

Some in the cast were okay, but others would have made me die with laughter (if it were not so pathetic) the moment they spoke and pretended to be French.

- If you're going to show something written in French, don't use the Internet to translate it from English.

I didn't read everything that was supposed to be in the French ME's report, but I did catch a "femelle" translating "female". Sorry, guys, but "femelle" is for a non-human animal; it should have been "femme".

I know it's just telly, but that series could be a good way to educate people about other places, cultures, and traditions. 

If the writers don't do any research and listen to their grandads' souvenirs of their time in Paris in 1945, the festival of cliché is no longer a surprise - but it's a pity.

The conclusion that Paris is a lovely city was cute, but some other things leave a nasty condescending taste around.

Expect a potential additional growl when they go to London... and other places I know.

Dru in April

Life's properly nutty here, but I'm taking a moment to wave and say "Hello!"...

We're approaching exam time for my students, and that's a proper time-thief.

As well, the launch of our publishing company needs us to be involved in time-consuming and bumph-creating things (but things are taking shape). Chi va piano, va sano, e va lontano... Ne?

Our family's rather addicted to Lucifer (the series on telly - start breathing again, for Merlin's sake), and we really hope it's going to be renewed.

By chance, our cousin Jacky lent us her copy of Kingsman - the Secret Service, and it's awesome (the pub fight scene made my month!!).

I have predictions about Kingsman II (well, at least, I know where I'd like it to go on a couple of points).

The casting people must still be giggling (if they're not, what's wrong with them?).

I also watched Lilting (and cried a river), and now I've got this stuck in my head:

Lovely song...

In completely unrelated news, apparently, my hair's turning quite light grey/white.
Just last week, a lovely lady (a pensioner!) gave me her seat on the bus. I may look a bit tired, but I think the hair colour's doing something to the way people interact with me.
Honestly, I hesitate between:
- doing nothing because I don't give a fig
- turning to blond henna (but that's a lot of work)
- trying to turn all my hair white and be done with it forever (recipes that wouldn't kill my hair more than welcome)

I'm going to post a specific post about the latest (as I write) episode of Criminal Minds: Beyond Borders, coz I need to growl... and I think that's about it.

If I'm silent again, it'll be that I'm launching a company, making books, or writing them...

Cheers!