9 to 5 - Bossisms 2

 

 My boss' boss is a character, and has a great way of observing and commenting on the ridiculous nature of the corporate workplace. We call his sayings "Bossisms."

I'm so sick of these half-baked requests without any information.

You know, you eat raw food, you get sick.

To read more in this series, click here.

You might like:

• Bossisms 1
• Corpspeak

A Novel I Won't Write - The Children

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I have ideas. I write them down. And then I do nothing. Because it takes too much self-discipline and time to write a book. So here it is...

Maybe it's a story. Maybe it's part of a novel I won't write.

 

 

 

It was bizarre - they'd had the photograph at least two years before she saw them.  

 

It was taken just before Christmas, a charity thing at work where a colleague who dabbled in portrait photography set up a mini-studio and took donations for some local charity or other.  Her colleagues had looked askance at her because she had brought not only her husband, but her three dogs.  Well, they were her children, these little dachshunds, so there.

 

It turned out very well.  She and hubby were smiling, the dogs were all looking at the camera...

 

But now, as she looked at the picture, two actual children hovered there, pale and ghostlike, but clearly visible behind and between her husband and her.  

 

They were both blonde - which made no sense seeing as she and Mike were brunettes - and robust looking.  The boy seemed about eight or nine, and the girl about six.  They both had glasses.  Now that made sense.

 

Wait.

 

Made sense?

 

What the fuck?

 

None of this made sense, she chided herself, turning away from the wall where the framed photograph hung.  It's an illusion, it's a dream, it's the new anti-anxiety medication.  It's something.  Because it sure as hell isn't real.

 

But they were still there when she turned around again.  

 

And then she found herself vomiting on the dining room table.  They'd both waved at her.

 

 

--- " ---

  

  

It took a few minutes to run to the bathroom, vomit more, calm down, clean it all up, then calm down some more.  

 

So much for the new meds.

 

Then she slowly walked back to look at the photograph again.  

 

They were still there.  They seemed different... concerned.

 

"We're sorry, Mum," the girl said.  "That was mean of us."

 

She was self-possessed enough to pull at a dining room chair to plunk herself down.

 

"What the fuck is this?" she breathed at them.

 

"We're the children you chose not to have," the boy said.  He seemed slightly bitter, not kind, like the girl.

 

"I'm Sarah," said the girl.

 

"Oh, please," she said, laughing.  "I'd never call my daughter Sarah."

 

"You wouldn't have a choice, Mum.  I would have been born two weeks after grandma died.  Dad would have asked you and you wouldn't have been able to refuse."

 

"I still feel sick," she said, to noone in particular.

 

"I'm Declan," said the boy.  "Dad would've won that battle too."

 

"Why are you here?" She stared the boy down, not interested in dealing with his beligerence on top of everything else.

 

"We're here to ask you to release us," Sarah said.  You could tell it was hard for her to say, and that she'd practiced it in her head many times.  Maybe they'd discussed it.  Agreed on just the right wording.

 "There's a couple we found.  They can't have kids.  We want to go to them. You had a hysterectomy, anyway.  You chose to grow a fibroid instead of me."  The boy clearly wasn't in the same psychological place his sister was.

 "I didn't choose to grow anything!" she snapped.  "Why do I have to defend myself to you?"

"Ignore him," said Sarah.  "He doesn't get that women have a choice."

 

"And men," she said.  "Your father is part of this too, you know."

 

"Not if you really ask him, and really listen," Declan snapped back.

 

"Listen," said Sarah in a calm-the-waters voice.  "Please.  Let's just resolve this."

 

"Resolve what?"  She started to cry.

 

"Let us go," said Declan, his voice slightly softer now.  "Let us go to another family.  Let us live."

 

"Of course you can live," she said, her voice catching.  She was almost sobbing now.

 

"You have to ask for it to happen.  You have to pray," explained Sarah.

 

"Pray? To who?" 

 

"It doesn't matter what the name is.  None of us know the name.  Just ask."

 

"Where will you go?"  She struggled to control herself.

 

"I can't tell you that," said Sarah.  "Besides, we won't remember anything.  Fresh start, new genes and all that.  What you are giving away is the potential of us, not us as we are."

 

She got up and turned her back on them, going into the kitchen and letting the door swing closed behind her.  She could hear them whispering urgently to each other as she walked away.  

 

Of course she'd let them go.  Of course she'd pray.  But how to deal with this?

 

It was just all so ridiculous.  

 

She thought back to that silly game you played with a silver necklace as a teenager.  Your friend held it above your palm and you asked what your first child would be.  If it swung back and forth it was a boy, and if it swung in circle it was a girl.  She'd had line, circle, then nothing.  A boy and a girl.  Two kids.  

 

"Whatever," she'd said to her BFF.  "I'm not having kids."

 

Even at  13 years old, she knew.

 

But - fuck! - to actually be confronted with them?  She hadn't been ready for that.  

 

The sobbing was slowly subsiding now, into dry heaves.  She had to do it.  She knew she had to do it.  She just couldn't do it in front of them.

 

So she knelt down, there and then, on the kitchen floor, and prayed so hard she felt she might burst.  All the emotion poured out of her.  Regret for a life lost - a parallel universe where motherhood danced.  Guilt and rebellion, for and against the feeling embedded in her by society about what she should have done, what she was supposed to be.  Relief and gratitude for her life lived - her career, her freedom, her knowledge that she was never meant to be a mother, never wanted it, not the reality of it, not really.  She asked forgiveness but, she explained to whoever was listening, she had done the right thing for her, for her husband even, if they went to a home that wanted them, for Sarah and Declan.  

 

Her knees hurt and she was cold when she came to.  How long had she been on the floor?  And, another thing... where had her kids been all these years?  Why did they look the ages they would have been and not still potential babies?  Was limbo real?  Had they been in heaven?

 

Questions reeled through her head as she burst out of the kitchen, lurching back to the photograph.  She lost her footing on the slick wooden floor and began to fall, twisting her head frantically to see them, to ask them.

 

She saw Declan smile softly, and Sarah blow a kiss, as they faded away.

    

  

 

To read more in this series, click the tag below.

You might like:

• Simon Says
• I died.

Puppy Talk - Den defence

 

"You are going to get in trouuuuuble!"

"What?"

"For peeing there.  You shouldn't pee there.  That's the hard part where the hairless apes walk.  You're supposed to pee where the bark is.  Mama said so."

"I'm defending the den, you little twit."

"A twit is a birdie.  I'm not a birdie.  You are mean.  But also dumb."

"Are you calling me dumb?  I'm the CETA.  You're the DELTA."

"Um... I said 'um' ..."

"Yeah, you better have said 'um'.  Anyway, I'm defending the den.  I'm marking."

"Eh?"

"Oh come on!  Didn't your ancestors teach you anything?"  

"Of course they did!"

"I'm marking in front of the part of the outside cave wall that opens because dogs walking past need to be able to smell that this is my den and I defend it - the outside part of the den and the inside part of the den."

"Oh."

"Seriously, your ancestors must be morons.  Don't you know about hunting, tracking, marking?"

"Um... yes.  I also know about walking nicely, doing a very good trot and having a strange person touch you all over to check how pretty you are."

"What?"

"It's about being the prettiest dog.  The doggiest dog.  I know how to show that I am the doggiest dog of my kind of dog."

"What?  How is that going to help you survive on the mean streets?"

"How will you ever show that you have the best breeding putt enshil?"

"What is that?"

"I don't know.  But my ancestors have it."

"My ancestors have scrummy, freshly dead rabbits.  And squirrels."

"SQUIRREL?  WHERE?  WHERE?"

"Oh, God."

To read more in this series, click here.

You might like:

• Sucky face and hairless apes
• Dysonmonster

9 to 5 - Blown away

   

We have a good time, our team. 

We joke, we laugh, we tease each other.  There are even in-jokes which are based on stories or traditions which go back way before  I joined the team, but which I have been included in through the telling and retelling, the referencing and rereferencing. 

Say the word "SURPRISE!" in a certain accent and we all collapse in stitches.

There are three of us that are the key culprits.  Let's call my dear partners in crime Sarge and Beetle Bailey. 

We go and buy coffee at the little counter in our building at least three times a day. 

So we're down getting our caffeine boosts the other day, and I was chatting to one of the baristos.  He was standing between me and the counter with the milk and sugar, so I was talking towards anyone sprinkling nutmeg on their latte. 

I was telling him about the conversation I had with Fluffy Bear about him continually killing his horse because he took the wrong route down a mountain while playing a video game.  I don't care if both he and the horse come back to life - it's just cruel, that's what it is.  The one time the horse even died because of a wolf attack, for fuck's sake!

Baristo laughed and told me we should get two TVs.  I rolled my eyes and he said that he plays video games on his TV, and his wife sits next to him on the couch, headphones on, watching trashy reality TV shows on her laptop.

"If she told me I was mean to kill my horse," he quipped, "I'd be like: 'What's up, Honey?  Did one of the people on your show break a nail?' "

Of course I burst out laughing, and I do not - to put it mildly - have a quiet laugh. 

On the other side of the counter, I saw my colleagues as I lowered my head from it being thrown back for the guffaw.  Sarge and Beetle Bailey were both going "Sh!"

"Shut up!" I snapped at them.  "We're not in the office!  I don't have to be quiet!"

It took a moment, but I realized that there was someone at the milk and sugar counter.  She was a small woman and - I swear to God - I had not noticed her at all up until this point.  And I had yelled at my colleagues directly over her head.  I felt bad.

"Excuse me.  I just realized that I yelled right across you," I said to her.  "I'm so sorry.  That was very rude of me."

She nodded, not turning towards me or making eye contact, and told me it was OK.  She then proceeded to detail her medical condition which caused her to react to sound especially unexpected sounds at higher than normal decibel volume in a way that made her lose her balance, and she didn't have her walking stick that day but she was able to grab onto the counter so it was allright and thank you and she had to go now.

And she hobbled away.

And I'm thinking... What.  The.  Fuck?

Sarge and Beetle Bailey then gleefully proceeded to both describe and - of course! - demonstrate to me the woman's reaction to my laugh, which had apparently been to be blown sideways like a poor innocent bystander when the Roadrunner screams by.

So now I'm known as ShesSoLoudSheBlowsYouAway.

Ha. Ha. Bloody. Ha.

To read more in this series, click here.

You might like:

• Bring back the humans
• Follow your yellow brick road

Being a Doggy Mama - Canine Complaint Call Center

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

<CLICK>

 

Thank you for calling the Canine Complaint Call Center.  

Your call is important to us.   Please stay on the line while we direct you to our state of the art system, which will make sure you receive impeccable service, dynamically customized to our needs and delivering up to the minute information.

 

<CLICK>

 

Please tell us how we can help you.  

You will hear a list of issues, so please have a pen ready to write down the number - or numbers - that correspond to your issue.  

You are welcome to choose more than one.  

If they are separate, please put a zero between them.  If they are connected, simply use your phone keypad to type in each letter, one after the other, preferably in the order of your perception of the priority of the issues.

 

Press 1 to repeat these instructions.

 

Press 2 to pause to go and get a pen and paper.  

 

Press 3 to continue.

  

<CLICK>

 

Press 1 for.  Issues with feces or urine.

 

Press 2 for.  Issues with your dog eating their food or drinking their water.

 

Press 3 for.  Issues with drooling.

 

Press 4 for.  Issues with your dog affecting your meal times.

 

Press 5 for.  Issues with barking.

 

Press 6 for.  Issues with excessive agression or timidity.

 

Press 7 for.  Issues with breeding.

 

Press 8 for.  Issues with training.

 

Press 9 for.  Any other issue.

 

<BEEP.  BEEP.>

 

You pressed.  

 

Four and.  

 

Three.  

 

Is this correct?  Press 1 for yes and 2 for no.

  

<BEEP>

  

Good.  If I understand you correctly, you have issues with.

 

Your dog drooling.

 

And.

 

Also with.

 

Your dog's behaviour affecting your meal times.  

 

Can you tell me a little more about these two issues?

  

First, what breed is your dog?  Please use the letters on your phone keypad to spell out the breed name.

  

<BEEP.  BEEP.  BEEP.  BEEP.  BEEP.  BEEP.  BEEP.>

 

I think you indicated.  

 

Labrador.  Is that correct?  Press 1 for yes and 2 for no.

 

<BEEP>

  

Drooling and.

 

Labradors.  Labradors do not tend to drool excessively.  

 

Does your dog have a medical condition that makes him or her drool?  Press 1 for yes and 2 for no.

 

<BEEP>

  

Good.

 

Is the drooling related to your dog seeing you eat?  Press 1 for yes and 2 for no.

 

<BEEP>

  

OK.

 

Does your dog sit in a special place, away from it's humans, when you eat?  Press 1 for yes and 2 for no.

 

<BEEP>

  

It is a good idea to train your dog to sit in a specific place, away from the diners, while the humans in the house are eating.

  

Does your dog sit right in front of you, or right next to you, as you eat?  Press 1 for yes and 2 for no.

 

<BEEP>

  

That is not a good idea.

  

Does your dog drool on your feet?  Press 1 for yes and 2 for no.

 

<BEEP>

  

That is not a good idea.  That is not a good idea.

 

Have you, or do you, give your dog food from your plate while you are eating?  Press 1 for yes and 2 for no.

 

<BEEP>

That is not a good idea.  That is not a good idea.  That is not a good idea.

  

Do you allow your dog to lick your plate after you have finished eating?  Press 1 for yes and 2 for no.

 

<BEEP>

  

You are a lost cause.  Good luck with that.  You will now be disconnected.

<CLICK>

To read the rest in this series, click the Doggy Mama tag below.

 

Dear Diary - I want my father back

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Why am I awake at 5am, sneakily searching every drawer in the house till I find that one lonely Nicorette gum that's been lying there for over 6 months since I quit?

 

Stress, that's why.

 

 

(For those of you who are ex-smokers who are yelling "NOOOOOOO!" right now, let me reassure you that the Nicorette has already made me feel ill and I am SO not back on the wagon.)

  

 

What's this got to do with wanting my father back?

 

Well, that took me about three months to figure out, and I'm still not sure I've got it sorted.

 

"I want my father back.  I want my father back."

 

It kept coming to me, rising up from my subconscious, so bad that sometimes I'll mumble it out loud.  This has been going on for a while, now.

 

Ah, therapy!  Thank God for therapy - muse to my self-knowledge.

 

"It's incredible," I said to She's So Lovely, my therapist, yesterday.  "When I come in here and talk to you about what's going on with me, a massive light bulb always comes on --"  I looked up to the right and then shielded my eyes -- "and it blinds me and I want to ignore it.  Aaargh!"

 

We spend the rest of the hour - which flew by - figuring this stuff out.  So let me break it down for you, Dear Diary.

 

I was stressed out becuase I'd had a bad day at work and I'd had been too passionate in a meeting, going up against a person who is considerably higher up the totem pole than  I am and - worst of all - that I like and respect.  

 

Her team is under a lot of pressure and people are complaining about them.  I feel like we're back in high school and she's the scapegoat that all the kids are talking about behind her back because, you know kids, once it starts, it escalates, and they all turn on one person in the pack, even if only through releif that they aren't the one under attack. 

  

I have tried, repeatedly, to defend her and her team, and to get her to engage with my team and others to talk through the changes she is making, the reasoning behind them and how we will work together in future.  But she's busy as hell and kept putting off engaging with us.  Finally, she came to our meeting 20 minutes late yesterday and she just wasn't getting that we need to talk this stuff through.  So I hit out a bit.  

  

I called her to apologize later, and explained to her my high school analogy and left a rambling, insane voicemail.  I can feel you cringing as you read this.

  

Not my finest hour.  

 

So I know you're still asking, what does my stupidity have to do with wanting my father back?  And where did he go, anyway?

 

Well, he's dead, for a start, so he's not coming back.  

 

And it's not about him, really, anyway.

 

That's what I couldn't figure out till yesterday.  My father and I did not have the best relationship.  He was very controlling (hence my issues with authority - don't get me near any sexist military men unless you want to see fur fly), and I guess he did his best, but he wasn't the most approachable man.

  

So why were the words "I want my father back" ringing through my head all the time?

 

Well, because of various things, I am having to step up these days.  I am the primary bread winner, I have a job where I stand alone, a team of one, achieving goals only through influence and having to prove the concept of a role that was created as a new function, a role created especially for me.  I interface with very senior people, I have to stay positive in the face of a culture of complaint, and everything seems to take five times as long as it should to get done.  I don't have my family to fall back - they live a million miles away - we don't have the money for a vacation or major enteratainment or a spa day and retail therapy is out of the question.  

 

And so it's up to me, and there's no respite.

 

I don't have my father - symbol of strength, provider, safety net - anymore.  I can't climb up on his lap and be embraced, held and just  know that he'll take care of everything.  He isn't here to fight for me, advise me, protect me.

 

And I'm tired.  

 

And I'm scared.

 

And I'm fucking up now and then.

 

And I want my father back.

 

 

 

To read more in this navel-gazing series, click here.

 

You might like:

• Mansick (Fluffy Bear gets a life threatening cold)
• Death Stalking (I see a man have a heart attack)

   

 

Short Story / Unfinished Novel - Simon Says

 

 

 

 

 

I have ideas. I write them down. And then I do nothing. Because it takes too much self-discipline and time to write a book. So here it is...

Maybe it's a story. Maybe it's part of a novel I won't write.

  

 

 

 

 

It had been a wonderful holiday, until someone grabbed him around the neck.

 

Simon had compared his hand and foot size to his idols at the Chinese Theatre, walked along Rodeo drive and finally - after endless driving up side streets and illegal parking - got a decent picture of the Hollywood sign.  As he walked back to his hotel room, his mind had been full of thoughts of the VIP Universal Studios tour he was booked on the following day.  He was therefore completely oblivious to the fact that this hotel corridor should be any different to the thousands of bland, instantly forgettable passage ways in the rest of the building.  

 

One doesn't expect to be grabbed from behind.  Simon froze, then flailed a little, then froze again.  The man was big, and well built.  He smelt of sweat, with the metallic tinge of blood.

 

"I'm not going to hurt you," he panted in Simon's ear.

   

Isn't it funny where your thoughts go in these moments?  Simon found himself thinking that he'd rather prefer the last words he heard not be such a damn cliche.

 

The man threw Simon into the room, falling backwards to close the door, then lurched after Simon, who was crawling backwards and kept on doing so until he hit the bedroom wall.  

 

Simon did a mental inventory of the contents of his backpack, which he had somehow held onto through all this:

 

• Let's Go California guide book
• Sunscreen
• LA Angels Baseball Cap
• Sunglasses
• Starbucks water bottle, empty
• Moleskin notebook
• iPhone charger
• US plug adapter
• Passport
• Wallet
  • $43
  • £20
  • Oyster card
  • Mastercard
  • Lottery ticket 
• Plain white T shirt from the GAP

 

All useless in his current situation.

 

Fuck it.

 

"Don't wet your pants," he muttered to himself.  "Don't be a hero.  Don't wet your pants."

 "What the fuck you sayin'?" panted the man, as he half fell, half sat on the bed.

 

Simon looked over at him, this man dressed in only a hotel bathrobe, breathing heavily, slumped a little to the right.  Then Simon saw him.  

 

"Bloody hell!" he spat.  "Are you Denzel Washington?"

   

There was a long pause.

  

"Sure," the man said, "I'm Denzel Washington, and I need your help."

  

Simon stood up and helped Denzel Washington lie backwards.  He didn't quite know what to say when Denzel Washington opened his robe, revealing his belly and... other things.

 

"I'm not gay!" Simon blurted.

 "I don't give a fuck what you are," Denzel Washington spat.  "Just take this."

   

He was pinching a bit of flesh and skin just above his hip.  Simon leant forward.  There seemed to be a small incision, bleeding slightly.  

  

 "I'm not quite sure what you---"

"Squeeze it out of me.  Squeeze it out.  Take it.  Go.  Take it to the nearest CIA building.  Tell them Orchid 73.  That's all you say.  Orchid 73, until they get you Pat Baird.  B. A. I. R. D.  No one else.  Make him show you his tattoo on his shoulder.  Betty Boop.  Say Orchid 73."

"Squeeze it?  You're, um, you're bleeding."

"Fucking do it, Motherfucker!"   

  

It was a small cylinder.  Simon washed the blood off it in the bathroom, panicking when he dropped it, then grateful he'd thought to close the plug in the basin.  

  

"Keep it safe.  Somewhere safe," Denzel Washington stage whispered from the bed.

"I am --- look."

  

He stood in front of Denzel Washington and took the ink cartridge out of his favorite pen and stuck the cylinder in it and dropped it into the inside zip pocket of his backpack.  

  

"Aspiring script writer," he explained, with an apologetic shrug that only those born and bred in England can perfect.

"Get out," replied Denzel Washington.  "Go. Go."

 "Right."  Simon switched to his Get Things Done Voice.  "Right."

   

The pop was practically inaudible.  In some part of his brain, Simon actually wasted time being disappointed that the whole window hadn't exploded inwards, showering him and Denzel Washington with a musical tinkling sound.  

 

No.  There was just a twitch from Denzel Washington, and a change in the sunlight through the window because of a small hole in the pane.  But it was enough to trigger the right reaction in Simon.

 

He dropped to his knees.  He scrabbled towards the door, grabbing his backpack.  He lurched into the corridor.  He ran into the fire escape stairwell.  

 

"The roof," he told himself as he pitter pattered upwards, taking one step at a time in an awkward jog.  "Always go to the roof."

  

The sunlight was jarring.  Simon mentally calculated the risk vs. reward of stopping to get his sunglasses out of his backpack, and decided being able to see was a definite strategic advantage.  

  

Unlike the shot through the window, this time, it was exactly like the sound in the movies.  There was the DOOF! and soft mini-hiss of the dirt on the rooftop rising when the shots hit a few yards in front of him.  

 

Shit.

  

He scurried between the wall and some kind of massive outlet pipe.

  

"I need help," he whimpered.

  

The voice came from under a massive satellite dish.

  

"Time to gooh, laddie!" 

  

Simon spotted his fellow roof mate.

  

"Sean Connery!"

"No, lad.  Bond, James Bond."

"Of course of course!  Um, how are we going to get out of here?"

"Jet pack."

  

There was a high pitched sound as James Bond activated a switch in his backpack (way cooler than Simon's), which then contorted to reveal a shining silver contraption.  James Bond gave Simon the thumbs up.

   

"You rrrrready?"

"Wait!"

"Wha'?"

"I don't have a jet pack."

"Bad luck."

"Can I come with you on yours?"

"Nae, Lad.  M made it ferrr me anna maximum a size 0, double D wiman under 120 pounds.  Goo luck!"

   

 

 

There's a flash as Sean Connery takes off into the sun.

  

Then Simon encounters Jason Bourne, who encourages him to jump across the alleyway onto the roof of the next building.  They run together, but Jason makes it across and Simon doesn't.  He ends up hanging onto the edge of the building, crying because it hurts his hands so much.  He looks up and asks Jason Bourne to help him, but Jason says he can't because he isn't real.

 

Simon bumbles through a spy situation, encountering major spy characters along the way who help him somewhat, but tend to stick more to their cliches.

  

When Simon finally does get to a CIA office, he gets put into an interrogation room, but they send him junior person.  He refuses to speak until Baird comes, and we see the CIA staff in a situation room looking Simon up.  They say that he has a history of mentall illness and just gave up a job at an Amazon warehouse West of London.   We hear Timothy Dalton and Pierce Brosan have restraining orders out on him.  

 

As Baird debriefs him, we slowly separate fact from fantasy, but Simon never does.

   

To read more unfinished stories, click here.

  

9 to 5 - Things I Didn't Say

Today was one of those work days where I could've cheerfully throttled somebody.

Things I stopped myself from saying out loud today:

1) We agreed that 5 months ago
2) There are two guide documents and one web page that are available to you to help your customers understand this
3) No, that wasn't a "training session." It was you justifying your existence
4) I'm sorry, I'm confused. Am I here as a meeting participant, or did you just gather us as an audience for your soliloquy?

Pic - Hope Springs Eternal

He Said She Said - Game on

"I'm home!" she said.

"Hi," he said.

"Oh, God.  Are you playing your Stupid Game again?"

"I tidied the kitchen, I put some laundry on, I get to play my game!"

"How can you sit there for hours and just clickety-click?"

"Go away."

"What are you doing?"

"I'm shooting a dragon."

"Why?"

"It's attacking me!"

"No, it's not.  I can see it.  It's just flying.  Look how pretty it is."

"It just frosted me!  Before you got home!  Luckily I'm immune to frost."

"Well of course you're immune to frost.  You're English!  Dragons don't frost.  That's stupid.  And you shouldn't be shooting at it."

"It's going to attack me again!"

"Leave it alone!  It's an endangered species!"

"Shut up.  Where's my horse?"

"You have a horse?"

"Yes.  Where did I leave it?  Oh, there it is!"

"You left it out in the snow, all alone?"

"It waits for me!"

"You didn't even tie it up!"

"I don't have to.  It waits for me."

"You can't even give it a measley carrot?"

"Shut up."

"Where are you going?"

"I'm trying to get down to that temple down there."

"Don't go that way!  You'll kill the hor--- AAAAAARGH!"

"STOP IT!"

"You killed the horse!"

"What about me?  I died too."

"I don't care about you!  You killed the horse!"

"Look.  I'm alive again.   And the horse is fine."

"Animal cruelty!"

"Shut up."

"Don't go that way!  It's too steep!"

"I'm trying to find a way to get to the temple!"

"Well why don't you bloody look where you're going?"

"I CAN'T!  It's a game!"

"The horse is slipping through the ice!  WATCH OUT!"

"Oh, shit."

"YOU KILLED IT AGAIN!"

"Honey, you're doing this on purpose."

"Doing what?"

"Do you want to watch something, Honey?"

"Actually, I do have an episode of Project Runway All Stars to watch..."

"I hate you."

"No, you don't.  But you clearly have it in for that poor horse.  What's his name, anyway?"

"HE DOESN'T HAVE A NAME!  IT'S.  A.  GAME!"

"How can you not name your horse?"

"That's it!  I'm turning off the Xbox!  Here!  Take the remote!  I'm going!"

"Honey?"

"WHAT?"

"Seeing as you're up, can I have a cup of tea?"

To read more in this series, click here.

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Hell is Other People - Bus Bitch

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

It's winter up here in the Northern hemisphere.  And winter here, unlike the idyllic home of my birth, means dark mornings and dark evenings.  This makes me crabby.  Very, very crabby.

 

Today was my first day back at work after a blissful week off where I rolled out of bed after 11am each day.  It was hard to go to work.  Puppy Girl kept pushing against my legs as I got dressed, jumping up to lick my face and making the very specific "Ngggarrrrr" noise that tells me she loves me.  It broke my heart to close the front door on her and Puppy Dog, looking up at me through the glass pane as I turned away.

 

And so, by 5:30, I was ready to go home.  More than ready.  Ever-bloody-ready.

 

The bus pulled up as I reached the bus stop - one of those gorgeous moments of serendipity.  I found a decent seat, and settled in to catch up on Facebook updates.

 

We were half way home when Bus Bitch joined us.  The bus was about to pull away from a stop when it jerked to a halt, throwing us all backwards in our seats.  

 

The driver opened the doors and, after the "Psssssht!" noise, I thought there must be something wrong with the door mechanism.  That is because all we could hear was "HUHNH! HUHNH! HUHNH! HUHNH!"

 

"Ma'am," yelled the bus driver, "you can't do that."

 

"HUHNH! HUHNH! HUHNH! HUHNH!"

 

"Ma'am, step back on the sidewalk."

 

"HUHNH! HUHNH! HUHNH! HUHNH!"

 

"Ma'am, you mustn't do that.  Stay on the sidewalk and wave at me.  I'll see you.  I'll wait for you.  Don't run into the street like that."

 

"HUHNH! HUHNH! I'm.  HUHNH! Sorry.  HUHNH!"

 

"Ma'am, it's very dangerous.  You gave me a start!"

 

"HUHNH! HUHNH! I'm sorry.  HUHNH! I was.  HUHNH!  Running so.  "HUHNH! HUHNH!  Hard for the. HUHNH! HUHNH!  No. 63 bus and.  "HUHNH! HUHNH! Just missed it.  HUHNH! HUHNH!"

 

"OK, Ma'am.  Get on."

 

"HUHNH! Thank.  HUHNH! HUHNH! You.  HUHNH!"

  

Now there's a part of me who sympathises with the bus driver and gets that public humiliation is one of the few weapons in his arsenal against a litigious public.   But, on the other hand, it's cold, it's dark, and I want to bloody well get home, thank you very much.  Move along, argue later.

 

Finally, the bus driver pulled away from the stop.  The wheezing continued, unabated.

 

I felt slightly better when someone behind me grumbled audibly about the delay caused by Bus Bitch.  I wasn't alone.

 

Now you might think, based on the exchange noted above, that I'm a bit mean to call her Bus Bitch.  

 

Wait.

 

It isn't over yet.

 

A few stops later, Bus Bitch got up to leave and, as she left, decided to take her revenge.  I don't particularly have an issue with someone who plays a bully bus driver at his own game, just do it while the bus is in motion, so you don't delay me.

 

But, no.

 

Bus Bitch stands half way down the steps of the bus exit.

 

"I'm really so sorry," she whined.  

 

"It's fine," the bus driver said.

 

"But I really want to thank you for educating me."

 

"Good night, Ma'am."

 

"No, really.  I appreciate it.  (Pause)  I do.  (Pause)  Thank.  You."

   

She paused again for effect, and then finally got off the bus.

 

I wish I could tell you that I am exaggerating that last bit.  But I'm not.  It really was that childish and Bus Bitch had now managed to delay us all, twice.  

 

Hell is other people.

For more in this series, click here.

 

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Pic - Naughty puppy

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Pic - Dawgeez

Heh

That's Life - DMV delights



I just had the most amazing experience.

I went to renew my Driver’s license, fully anticipating a rigmarole wrapped in bureaucracy and frosted with frustration.

Instead, the place was practically empty, with my number called while the annoying little ticket was still scrolling out of the machine.

At the counter, a lovely lady asked me where I was from and it was all fun and games from there. 

“I’d love to go to South Africa someday,” she said.

“You’d love it,”  I replied.  “There’s nothing quite like a safari.  It’s amazing.”

“Well, who has time to travel, these days?”

“I know.  You have to wait for retirement.  It’s crazy.  In the UK I got five weeks vacation a year, and that’s just standard.  Two weeks drives me nuts.”

“Well, I have more than two weeks, because I’ve worked here 15 years.”

“Wow,” I said, thinking that I would have committed Hare Kiri by now.

“I’ve been to Australia.  We were away 6 weeks.”

“Wow.  I’ve always wanted to go there.  But, then again, of all the countries in the world, Australia has the most things that want to kill you.  I mean, South Africa is bad with some snakes and stuff, but Australia’s bugs and reptiles are really scary.  I wouldn’t hike there.”

“Well, I’m not the hiking type—“

“Me neither!”

“—but they do tell you to get all your driving done during the day.  The people who drive trucks – or lorries as you call them – they have these special things on the front.  They look like this – ” Up to this point she had been working on the computer while she talked, but now she started drawing on a piece of paper.  At this point I got a little nervous, thinking the dodgy guy with the baggy jeans and the baseball cap pulled down over his eyes who was still waiting his turn might not appreciate this lady chatting with me. 

“—and they are to knock the kangaroos away.  The kangaroos are attracted by the headlights and run at the cars.  So if you have a normal car without those things, there can be a lot of damage.”

“Wow.”

“Yeah.  But you know, we didn’t have problems with bugs or anything.  We saw all the animals in nature reserves.  That’s where you have to go.  We saw kangaroo and platypus and koalas…”  Thankfully, she turned back to the computer screen and started typing again.

“Oh, I’d love that!”

“Yeah.  It’s really interesting.  The koalas were in this deep area with the trees coming up to our level and down on the floor I saw these bowls of kibble and I was thinking ‘What’s that for?’  They have guard dogs.  It’s to stop people reaching over an grabbing a koala and stealing it.”

“What?”

“Yes.  Because you have to go really deep into the wild to find a koala yourself, and they are kinda cute and dopey cos of the menthol stuff they eat.  So people try to steal them.”

“Aw.  I’ve always wanted to hold a koala.”

 “Oh, honey.  Just go home and get some eucalyptus oil and hold that.  Because that’s what koala’s smell of.  OK.   Here’s your receipt.  Head down that way, and they’ll call your name.”

To read more in this series, click here.

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9 to 5 - Bossisms 1

  

 

My boss' boss is a character, and has a great way of observing and commenting on the ridiculous nature of the corporate workplace. We call his sayings "Bossisms."

 

On people in other teams who overcomplicate simple tasks:

 

"They're trying to pole vault a mouse turd here."

 

On a colleague who was trying valiantly to make the best of a bad thing:

 

"Now you're trying to put a marshmallow on a mouseturd and tell me it's rocky road."

 

Following an HR-violation comment which had conjured the idea of a somewhat rotund colleague in the nude:

 

 "Don't you wish your mind's eye had an eyelid?"

For more in this series, click here.

 

Being a Doggy Mama - Beeeeeg steeeeeck

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Puppy Girl has a new hobby and, with winter setting in, she's getting ample opportunity to indulge it.  

 

She's become a Big Stick Chick.

 

When we're out walking, she somehow manages to find - every time - a big, spindly branch that has fallen prey to pruning or temperature change.  Tail almost at 90 degrees to her back (a.k.a Joy Tail), she grabs the stick in her teeth, gnawing on it, open-mouthed, as if testing the bouquet of a prize Merlot.  

 

It's all happy-happy-joy-joy... until she tries to move.

 

Then the ends of the branch, the little branchlets coming off it, start to snag on the ground.

 

She tries to walk sideways, find a way to keep up with us, now waiting for a few steps forward on the sidewalk.  The little branchlets scrape the pavement slabs.   

 

She keeps pulling, trying to walk at different angles to make progress in a generally forward direction.  Somehow, she ends up with the branchlets dragging under her, now scritching her tummy.  She looks like she has an alien extension.

 

Not to be daunted, she adjusts the thickest part of the stick in her mouth.  

 

CRACK!

 

The branchlets spit off.

 

She's free!

 

She tries to gambol foward, to join us, still waiting for her.  Her brother is invariably sniffing something, oblivious to the canine Harold Lloyd homage in progress.  The stick, now free from it's spindly arm which rested on the ground, can swing from side to side.  Each step which Puppy Girl takes proves Newton's 3rd law and she tries desperately to balance the branch, which touches down, first on the right of her and then on the left.

 

By this time our giggling has grown into guffawing.

 

She moves her head to one side, biting down to try to tame the pendulum.  Tip.  Bite.  Tip.  Bite.

 

Finally - blissfully, the stick is bitten in two again, and she is now left with a somewhat manageable chunk.  And the tail waves higher, and the paws prance higher, and she's by our side again, ready to find her way back home.

  

 

To read more in this series, click here.

 

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He Said She Said - Poinsettia

They were in the hardware store. It was a quick stop, to get light bulbs.

"Ooh!" she said. "Look! Christmas crap!"
"Honey, it's November. We don't need this stuff yet."
"Aw, come on! Don't you want the 6 foot blow up Santa and Rudolph on the beach?"
"Honey, the light bulbs are back there, just keep walking..."
"No. You go get the light bulbs. I just want to look at a few things."
"Honey! We have tons of Christmas stuff in the attic! We don't need anything! Weren't you telling me we need to declutter?"
"Nice try. I tell you what. The sooner you go get the light bulbs, the sooner you come back, the sooner we have to leave and I have to stop shopping."
"As if you'll leave when I'm done!"
"Honey, seriously. I'm just looking. It's OK. You can go."
"OK, see you back here in five minutes."
"OK."
"FIVE minutes!"
"Oh-kaaaaaay!"

When they met again, she was carrying two rolls of wrapping paper and a poinsettia. They fell into step beside each other, heading towards the cash registers.

"I see you've bought something to kill," he said.
"Oh VERY funny!" she snapped back. "I KNEW you were going to say that! I was going to count the seconds till you did."
"Honey, if we're going to play Dead Pool, we should do it for the plant."

To read more in this series, click here.

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Divided by a Common Language - Scrooge-o-ween

 

It's that time of year again.  The time when what was once a pagan festival, then a sweet neighborhood tradition, rears it's ugly, commercialized head.

Yes, that's right.  I mean Halloween.

How can I not love Halloween?

Well, firstly, I'm not American.  We didn't have Halloween when I was growing up in South Africa, and so I have no nostalgia about this event at all.  I see it for what it is, not what it once was.  

Second, those of you who know me will know that I am not that into children.  Beef has more flavor, lamb is juicer, chicken is lower calorie and pork makes better crackling. 

Last but not least, I have dogs.  Energetic, loud dogs who take it upon themselves to defend the den.  Brats knocking on my door for three hours stresses them out more than the fireworks on the 4th of July.

And I'm not the only one who feels this way.

On my last minute run to Safeway to get supplies, I saw a guy filling up his trolley with a lot of candy.  A woman next to him, waiting to reach over and grab a bag of sugary toothrot, made some joke about how much he was buying.

"Do you live around here?" he asked her, shoving more bags on the pile.

"Yes," she replied, "but I'm in an apartment block, so we don't get many trick or treaters."

"Well," he said, "last year I just stood at the door, from 5pm to 9pm handing out candy... (he started making a repetitive throwing gesture with his right hand)... We handed out $300 worth of the stuff."

"Three hundred dollars?" she gasped.

"Yeah," he sighed.  "I live on ______ street between ____ and ______.  They just keep coming."

"I hear ya," said an older gentleman, who'd joined our impromtu chat circle.  "It's like that around here."

"Do you think it'll rain tomorrow?" I asked, hopefully.

"Nope," said the older man ruefully.  "They say it'll be dry."  

And we all reached for more colorful corn syrup pebbles.

And that conversation pretty much summed it all up.  This is real pain for adults.  Oh sure, there are fun parties where you get to dress up and be silly, but the actual day?  Pain.  In.  The.  Arse.

I felt, after the chat broke up, completely vindicated in my Scrooge-o-ween plan.

And so I have put up my defences in readiness for tomorrow's suburban urchin assault.

Defence No. 1 - Crap decorations

I didn't bother to photograph them, because they are so bad.  There's one skeleton hanging on the wall by the door.  That's it.

Defence No. 2 - Crap candy

Defence No. 3 - Table 15 feet from the front door

Defence No. 4 - Lots of half-filled receptacles to put on the table

This way, it'll look like I bought a lot of candy, but other kids got to it first.

Defence No. 5 - Fire

Trying jumping over my 100 (I'm not kidding - not all are pictured) tealights to get to my front door, and that cheapass Chinese-sweatshop costume you're wearing is going to light you up like friggin' firework, brat.

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Health is Wealth - Certification Determination

 

I had to call my health insurance company this week.  

It took me two minutes and forty seconds to get through the automated system and get to a live person.  Trust me, when you have an accent, automated switchboards do not like you.

Example:

"Operator"

"I think you said.  Coverage and.  Benefits.  Is that.  Correct?"

"No."

"I'm.  Sorry let's.  Try that again.  Please choose from the.  Following fifty.  Three.  Options billing.  Find a.  Practit--"

"Operator.  Operator!  OPERATOR!"

So, anyway...

I finally get to talk to a real, live human being.

 "Hello this is ____.  How can I help you today?"

"Hi ______.  I need to find out what some treatments will cost me.  I went for a regular check up this week and the Nurse Practitioner advised me to get an MRI and go for genetic counselling.  I want to find out how much those will cost me."

"Do you have the Procedure Codes?"

"The what?"

"The Procedure Codes.  We need to know why these procedures have to be done.  So if you could call and get the Procedure Codes, then call us back and---"

"Hang on.  Isn't there some way that we can do this more efficiently?  Is there any way that the Clinic can give the codes to you through an automated system?"

"Well, they can get a Predetermination of Benefits."

"A what?"

"They can call us and get a Predetermination of Benefits."

"OK..."

"Well, actually, you can get them to do a Precertifiction of Benefits and then wait till they've done that and then wait till we've reviewed and approved it and then call us back and ask for the costs and just tell the operator that you speak to that there's a Precert so that they can look up the Procedure Codes."

"OK so let me see if I get this.  I have to call them, and tell them to contact you to get a Precertification of Benefits.  Then I wait till they do that.  Then I wait till you approve it.  Then I call you and ask for the costs."

"Yes."

"And how long will it take them to get the request to you?"

"I'm sorry, I don't know that."

"And how long will it take you to review and approve?"

"Well, I can't guarantee that it will be approved, but review usually takes 7 to 10 days from receipt."

As always when dealing with the American health"care" system, I was getting really, really pissed off.

It wasn't his fault.  He's a phone operator.  I get that.  But I decided to make myself feel better at his expense, anyway.

"Well, let's hope nothing grows too much in the meantime."

"Yes, Ma'am.  Is there anything else I can help you with today?"

"Well, you could pray for me."

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Divided by a Common Language - Why the USA needs the World Cup

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Rugby World Cup is currently being hotly contested in New Zealand.

 

Last night, South Africa's Springboks were eliminated from the competition in an amazing match against Australia's Wallabies.  

 

I am thus somewhat depressed today, and feeling that we were robbed.  If you look at all the stats, it was South Africa's game:

 

Australia forced to make 147 tackles, South Africa 53

South Africa had 84% of territory

South Africa had 55% of possession of the ball

 

South Africa were the better team all the way through the match.  But that doesn't matter, because the final score was Australia 11, South Africa 9.

 

Fluffy Bear is also pissed that South Africa lost, because England went out of the competition last weekend and so he switched his support over to my team.

 

We had a great time watching the rugby.  Because New Zealand is West of us, the games were at 10pm our time.  Our friends came round, we all wore our South African rugby jerseys, we made nachos and sausage rolls and, of course, there was gallons of beer.

 

We yelled, we cheered, we jumped up out of our seats.  We tweeted and Facebooked with South African friends and family back home, in Belgium, in the MidWest, in the UK.  And, when we lost, we held our heads in our hands and then spent half an hour bitching about the referee, who had overlooked several infringements by Australia, and disallowed a try (like a touchdown) that we felt should have been allowed.  

 

But then we got over it, and started talking about who we should support for the rest of the tournament, switching gears to yell for Argentina in the next game.

 

And that's when it hit me.

 

American's don't have this.

 

There is NO sport that unites the USA as a nation.  Every day, in small ways - laws, politics, eductation system - I am reminded that the place I currently call home isn't a country.  It isn't a nation.  It is the United States.  A bunch of places - large enough to be countries in the their own right (even the little ones are comparable to places like Luxembourg) - that have chosen, in some areas, to cooperate with each other.  In some areas.  That is all.

 

In fact, you could argue that nothing unites the USA as a nation.  

 

But wait, war unites a nation, right?  Hmmm, not in this case.  The current wars being waged by the US are so far away, and based on such questionable justifications, that many US citizens do not support them.  The US has never waged a war on it's own soil, like France, Germany, etc. and so has never been united against a common threat on the home front.

 

What about cultural unity.  Sure, the US has that to some degree, but the diverse ancestry of the citizenry is another thing that ensures there is a lack of unified identity.  While there may be regional differences, an extra thousand years of history have allowed England or Germany or Italy to develop a strong culture.  We all know - even if we cannot describe it in ten words or less - what it is to be Italian or French or even Swiss.  But what is it to be American?  This is something that is still, in some ways, being formed.

  

I think that the USA could really benefit from getting behind their national teams in worldwide competitions.  You have the Olympics, of course, but they are not a team sport, really, and they are so diverse that we aren't really united behind them, all watching at the same time on the same day and cheering for our team.

 

There are so many things that really supporting your teams in the the rugby or football (the original) world cups would give you:

 

• The opportunity to really unite as a nation.  Flags fly, strangers gather in pubs to watch the sport and make friends over it.  Everyone is discussing the same thing, even if they are expats dispersed all over the world
• The opportunity to face, and have to accept, defeat 
• The opportunity to learn that you may lose even if you shouldn't have, and that life is not fair
• The opportunity to understand the multiplicity of things.  Do you support the team of the country you live in or that your parents come from?  Once your team is knocked out, which other team should you support?

And, most of all, you get to experience all of this in the arena of sport, which is fun and good natured,

The USA needs to get behind their rugby and soccer teams and join with the rest of us in embracing world cup fever.  

You won't regret it.

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