Weirdest week ever.

The guy I met is cuter than I remember, thank God. We had dinner last night; I was terrified I wouldn't recognise him as the last time I saw him was filtered through about a litre of vodka martini at Ani's birthday party. As opposed to beer goggles, which make you think that everyone else is more attractive than they actually are, vodka goggles make you think that you are more attractive than you actually are. I'm not sure which is worse. ("What do you mean, you won't let me into your tiny, exclusive club? Can't you see how astoundingly good-looking I am?" "Ma'am, you're wearing a garbage bag." "Shut up! You suck!")

Anyway, rather than relive how I ruined an intimate part of the evening by being momentarily overcome by Bad Previous Relationship Memories (great timing, as usual), I'll move to a related topic: What's the worst way you can dump someone? By SMS is pretty bad, though I think it's so common now that it's become part of life. E.g.:

Five years ago
"He dumped me in a text message."
"What? He what? In a text? On your phone, right? How dare he? How could he? What kind of evil person does this? Let's burn his house down!"

Now
"He dumped me in a text message."
"What a bastard. You're better off without him. Hey, have you met my friend Sergio?"

Anise was once dumped by a guy who left a note for her at the cafe. With Jonathan, of all people. You can imagine how that went down. (At least it wasn't with Bessie; she may never have received the message. Awkward phone calls would have resulted.) I don't think anyone has dumped Siobhan; they're usually lifeless husks after a few hours in her company. No one would have the strength to thumb the keypad. Dad said once that he sent a girl a photo of his bare arse with a message scribbled across the cheeks, but that's just Dad. He probably actually did it in person. And me? Well, once I tried to cushion the blow for a guy by listing all of his great qualities. Boy, did that backfire; when I finally got to the point and dumped him, he was completely shocked because I'd spent about half an hour puffing him up. Nice work, Ruby.

And then there was that other nameless person who dumped me at my own birthday party without actually being there but let's not visit that unhappy moment. The scars haven't healed; I still cringe at the sight of birthday cake candles.

In better news, I have a new job! It may or may not have something to do with the class I went to. Keep it under your hat for now, though; I'm not sure how it's going to work out because it seems really, really, really weird.

More later, I promise.

Irony is mocking me.

I should probably explain that a bit better by summing up recent events. In seventy-two hours, I've managed to:

• quit my job;
• have my fortune (sorry, "fortune") told at Ani's birthday party;
• meet someone, although I can barely remember what he looks like;
• attend my first meditation class;
• get kicked out of my first meditation class; and
• be diagnosed with a disorder I've never heard of.

This afternoon I'm supposed to be going to a class for people with said disorder. Apparently we're sensitive to noise, which is interesting as someone who spent most of her uni degree drowning out the world via her iPod. I'm still debating whether or not to turn up.

Re: the job thing, I was hoping to break the news to my parents gently -- preferably by ringing them in several months' time to tell them I had a different work number -- but by the time I saw them on Saturday, they already knew about it. (Thank you, Siobhan. Remind me to poison your coffee.)

To cheer myself up about the money that's not in my bank account, I'm making a list of all the reasons why I'm happy not to be working for K#nobbe (take that, Google search!) & Sons any more, which will either by posted later or ceremoniously burnt.

Off to class. (Or not.) Wish me luck.

p.s. Siobhan is even scarier when dressed like a clown.
p.p.s. Fortune tellers are a crock.
p.p.p.s. Possibly so is meditation.

Sorry about that. I spent several days in a haze of green. Doctor Sweetpants was of no help. (That's my cat, by the way.) Seriously, every time I hear one of those feel-good "pets know when you're ill!" stories, I feel like sending a letter bomb. Other people's pets summon a neighbour/ambulance, snuggle beside them, or even just look sympathetic, for Christ's sake. My devoted cat sat on my head. On. My. Head.

[It would probably be worth noting at this point that anyone hoping to see an entry written under the guise of said pet will be disappointed. People who write to others while pretending to be their cat/dog/wombat ("Dear Grandma - today I caught my first mouse! I ated the whole thing, and then threw up. Mummy was ever so cross, but that's OK, because I pooped in her shoes to give her something else to worry about. Kisses!") are WEIRD. Besides, if the Doctor could type, we all know what he'd write:

Feed me. Feed me. Feed me. Feed me. Have you fed me yet? Yes? How about a bit more? Are you sure? What if I lie on my back and wave at you? Come on! You know it takes me a good minute or so to roll over. Feed me. FEED ME, YOU EVIL WOMAN.]

I wonder if I can squeeze in another sick day. What are they going to do, fire me?

Ow.

Hung over. It hurts to type. Going back to bed.

[Note to self: absinthe cocktails = bad idea, even for a birthday.]

The secret blog of Ruby White

I am banking on the fact that my parents will never find this website. Dad would insist on guest blogging. Things I Will Be Lecturing You On In The Near Future, by Charles White, covering such scintillating topics as:

• Why Tea Is A Drink, Not A Meal;


• Why Do Women Insist On Wearing Those Puffy Sleeved Tops At The Moment (You All Look Ridiculous); and


• Why Engineering Students Should Not Be Left Unsupervised At Any Time.

Fascinating. I can hear the reader numbers dropping from here. Anise, in fact, is the only person who knows about this blog, and she has promised to keep it a secret from her staff (especially Jonathan), as well as her scary sister Siobhan, upon pain of death*. Anise also doesn't have a computer, so there goes her chance to post sarcastic comments. "I prefer my sarcasm to be made in person," she is now saying from the corner chair. Touché. So there we have it: as long as nobody we know finds this page, we'll be good to go.

Must run and buy Ani a birthday cocktail, although her actual birthday isn't for a week or so. Rumour has it that the abandoned butcher's shop next to the florist on Hurt Street turns into a club after sun-down on Sundays. Will let you know how we get on.

*Read: being made to watch You've Got Mail again.