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jawnbcIt was a very good long weekend. Socializing, hanging with his kewlness ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
querrelle, hosting a week dinner party Saturday night (querrelle cooked; I cleaned before and arfter), debating who will win Eurovision {Greece? Lithuania? Cyprus?) Copious amounts of buggery, housework, sunshine.
Yesterday arvo, a couple of guys with whom we've not spent too much time as of late asked us to join them for a cheap meal at 18h30. I got distracted by the computer and arrived around 18h40;querrelle had been at work and arrive 5 minutes before me. One of the guys works early early early shifts, and apparently got his knickers in a knot. Fair enough, then say so. Of course I was appropriately contrite upon arrival (sorry about being late; no grovelling).
We started gabbing and eating. One of the guys--we'll call him, oh I don't know, Ian Thorpe (not his real name; merely a size 7 if that)--tends to hold forth a fair bit. Then continues to natter. Eventually, if nothing else happens to prevent it, he tumbles in to blathering. I'm mindful of this, and I suffer tedium badly on a good day, so I commit to engaging in the conversation energetically. After he tells 3 or 4 anecdotes in a row--always about his work, the sort of stories that presume that a.) you're familiar with the highly specialized environment; or b.) you're just a pile of gristle and it's about him talking more than anyone else understanding. Or caring. His much less chatty (and very hunky) partner, ummm Grant Hackett, listens a lot.
Ohhhh, did I say that out loud?
So I start to add a story of my own, small, compact, doubtlessly brilliant and witty and insightful. But Ian Thorpe cuts me off after about 4 words and launches into another story.
And here's the problem: I'm very good at not taking on other's shite. Probably I'm an Olympic calibre 'tis-your-shite-not-mine-and-thou-canst-keep-it kinda fella. When he interrupted me there was a fraction of a second where I realized exactly what was happening, that it wasn't on, and that I should stop him and say "give it a rest, I was talking" (or perhaps something better worded. Nah, I like the ring of dat). And I hesitated. And missed my chance.
So I tried communicating non-verbally that he'd committed a faux pas, but he's clueless.querrelle sees it--and picked up on it. Grant Hackett catches querrelle and I exchanging withering glances, though we're not sure he picked up why we exchanged them [to be fair, being partners immures these things to some extent]. Shortly thereafter it was time to push off. querrelle and talked about it briefly before we left the resto, and again at home. I planted myself on the Chesterfield with my pacifer (iBook) to try and disrupt the rancour seething.
Sadly it distracted me, but didn't dissipate the anger. We went to bed, had awkward unsatisfying sex. Then we talked about it, had sex again (hawt), talked some more. By then I understood why I was so choked--I hate feeling like a victim to someone else's shite. We slept fitfully but snuggly, and today I feel better.
And the next time Ian Thorpe cuts me off, it'll be his fookin' left testicle on a plate.
querrelle, hosting a week dinner party Saturday night (querrelle cooked; I cleaned before and arfter), debating who will win Eurovision {Greece? Lithuania? Cyprus?) Copious amounts of buggery, housework, sunshine.Yesterday arvo, a couple of guys with whom we've not spent too much time as of late asked us to join them for a cheap meal at 18h30. I got distracted by the computer and arrived around 18h40;
querrelle had been at work and arrive 5 minutes before me. One of the guys works early early early shifts, and apparently got his knickers in a knot. Fair enough, then say so. Of course I was appropriately contrite upon arrival (sorry about being late; no grovelling).We started gabbing and eating. One of the guys--we'll call him, oh I don't know, Ian Thorpe (not his real name; merely a size 7 if that)--tends to hold forth a fair bit. Then continues to natter. Eventually, if nothing else happens to prevent it, he tumbles in to blathering. I'm mindful of this, and I suffer tedium badly on a good day, so I commit to engaging in the conversation energetically. After he tells 3 or 4 anecdotes in a row--always about his work, the sort of stories that presume that a.) you're familiar with the highly specialized environment; or b.) you're just a pile of gristle and it's about him talking more than anyone else understanding. Or caring. His much less chatty (and very hunky) partner, ummm Grant Hackett, listens a lot.
Ohhhh, did I say that out loud?
So I start to add a story of my own, small, compact, doubtlessly brilliant and witty and insightful. But Ian Thorpe cuts me off after about 4 words and launches into another story.
And here's the problem: I'm very good at not taking on other's shite. Probably I'm an Olympic calibre 'tis-your-shite-not-mine-and-thou-canst-keep-it kinda fella. When he interrupted me there was a fraction of a second where I realized exactly what was happening, that it wasn't on, and that I should stop him and say "give it a rest, I was talking" (or perhaps something better worded. Nah, I like the ring of dat). And I hesitated. And missed my chance.
So I tried communicating non-verbally that he'd committed a faux pas, but he's clueless.
querrelle sees it--and picked up on it. Grant Hackett catches querrelle and I exchanging withering glances, though we're not sure he picked up why we exchanged them [to be fair, being partners immures these things to some extent]. Shortly thereafter it was time to push off. querrelle and talked about it briefly before we left the resto, and again at home. I planted myself on the Chesterfield with my pacifer (iBook) to try and disrupt the rancour seething. Sadly it distracted me, but didn't dissipate the anger. We went to bed, had awkward unsatisfying sex. Then we talked about it, had sex again (hawt), talked some more. By then I understood why I was so choked--I hate feeling like a victim to someone else's shite. We slept fitfully but snuggly, and today I feel better.
And the next time Ian Thorpe cuts me off, it'll be his fookin' left testicle on a plate.
