Hell is Other People - Yuppie Mummy Daddy Rules

Ten rules for yuppie parents

1) Pushing a perambulator bigger than a smart car makes you look like a dick. I don't care if you're head to toe in North Face and power jogging. Dick.

2) Human brains filter sound. Your child does not lose this ability in public. Lower your goddamn voice.

3) Interrupting an adult conversation mid sentence to turn your attention to your child means you could benefit from attending the puppy training class I went to. At 9 months, my dog understood patience and delayed gratification. Not for nothing, but if my dog grew up human, he'd be a WAY better lover than yours.

4) If you can't breast feed, get the fuck over it. Don't buy into a bullshit dogma that is set up to make you feel inadequate. Buy formula and stfu.

5) No, you don't know everything and no, your parenting experience is NOT unique. Older people's advice is free. Take it or don't, but listen with respect. Especially to your parents. I'd bet money that you were a pain in the ass to raise.

6) You are not special because you have a child. Nobody needs to get out of your way, you don't have to go first. You're not fucking disabled. Leave your stupid über pram outside the restaurant, quietly get a high chair and sit your ass down. And order what's ON the menu. Your child isn't special either.

7) Labor is incredibly intense and emotional. So is divorce, losing your job or the death of a loved one. Except none of those stories include gore. So keep it short and keep the horror movie elements out of it. It's gross.

8) Give your child a normal name, for fucks sake. It has to be defined by its name the rest of its life. Give the poor thing a break.

9) Enabling your child to make healthy attachments in life takes five things: Affection, Acceptance, Attention, Appreciation and Allowing. ALLOWING. Allow your child to experience. It doesn't have to be tethered to you at all times. The umbilical chord is cut for a reason.

10) If your child is your life, not only are you fucked, but you're fucking up your child. If you need codependency, get a dog.

He Said She Said - Fly

They were walking the dogs. Suddenly he stopped, coughing and gagging.

"What?" she asked, concerned. "What's wrong?"

"I--" Hack! Hack! "I swallowed something. I--" Hack! Hack! "I don't know what--" Hack! "... It was."

He kept coughing, bending over.

"Close your mouth and try to make some spit, then swallow," she said.

After a moment, he stood up, calming.

"I think it was a fly," he said.

"Gross!" she shrieked.

"Not a big one. One of those little midgey ones."

"Are you OK now?" she asked, rubbing his back.

"Yes," he said, starting to walk again, much to the relief of two very impatient dogs.

"Well," she said, taking his hand, "now we just need to find a spider."

"Wha--?" He paused. "Oh, VERY FUNNY!"

Encounters - Crazy Guy

So I'm early and I decide to walk to work. I'm walking through the park. I'm on the phone with a friend who I played voicemail tag with yesterday. It's a lovely day.

La la laaaa...

Then this man comes up to me and gets right up in my face and screams something at me then starts walking away.

He may have been homeless, or crazy or angry or a combination of all three. I don't know.

In the past, I have frozen solid when threatened like this.

I feel real fright and I physically jump. I feel his extremely negative energy hit me right in the chest, like a punch.

I lower my phone to protect the ears of my friend on the call and yell FUCK OFF at the man's receding back. I can almost see the energy that I throw right back at him, adding my own anger and fear.

He quietly says "Thank you" and keeps walking away.

He Said She Said - Earworm

He was checking Facebook.

"Bonnie Tyler is doing Eurovision for the UK!" he said.

"Yes I saw that last night," she replied. "And thank you very much, by the way, now I have that damn song in my head."

"What song? 'I Need a Hero'?"

"No, that one would actually be better."

"Haha! Listen to this comment: 'Bonnie Tyler does UK Eurovision. Total eclipse of the career?'"

"Aaaaargh! That's the song! Now it's in my head! It's my second worst song of all time!"

"I can help you with that," he said, and began singing the Chicken Song.

"Oh thank you VERY much," she said. "That REALLY helps!"

"Did it work?"

There was a pause.

"Yes," she sighed.

He threw his head back and laughed.

Hell is other people - Jingle Jangle

  

After  a long hiatus due to an injury and laziness, I have started to return to the gym and, like many others, I’ve caught the Zumba bug. 

Let’s face it, once you’re over 40 you seldom get the opportunity to dance.  Clubbing days are over and, unless you go to a wedding, booty shaking is a thing of the past. 

And so, even if it’s a regulated routine with the same music every week, at least Zumba let’s me fool myself, on the odd occasion that I know the steps and can actually let go and feel what my body is doing, that I am dancing.

But, as with any class at a gym, I have to suffer the elites.  You know the people I mean. 

They start class by loudly greeting the instructor, as if they’ve known him their entire lives.  Then they lay claim to the part of the room in the front row, directly in line with the instructor.  And, of course, they know all the moves.

I don’t normally have a problem with these people, even if I do find them mildly annoying.  I just take my place in back row and try to keep up as much as I can.

But my Zumba class has one Elite who takes things too goddamn far.  She straps on one of those belly dancing scarves with the little jingly metal bits so that, through the WHOLE CLASS, you hear her ass tinkely-tinkling.

I mean, are you kidding me? 

Hell is other people.

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

Hell is other people - Kiddie dinner

 

   

   

   

   

   

   

   

   

   

   

   

   

   

Overheard at a restaurant:  

 

Mother: "You want the mac 'n cheese?  You always have the mac 'n cheese!"

 

Kid: "No."

 

"How about fish 'n chips?"

 

"No."

 

"There's a kiddie burger.  You like burgers!"

 

"No."

 

"Ooh!  They have fried chicken!  Yum!"

 

"No."

 

"How about some fish tacos?"

 

"No."

 

"OK.  How about mac 'n cheese?"

 

"OK."

   

And this, dear friends, is why I am childless.

 

Hell is other little people.

  

   

 

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

 

A novel I won't write - Bike Mike and Samantha Jones

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 2:30 am and purely coincidental.

 

No, thinking about it, it probably wasn't.

 

It was more likely that divine provenance had puppeteered all of it, that it was - cue the music: Dun-dun DUN! - meant to be.

 

Let's examine it and decide for ourselves.

 

2:30 am and she was wide awake again, finding patterns behind her eyelids if she looked really hard into the dark and then blinked, hard.  It's a pretty boring game.

 

Losing the battle between relaxation techniques and medication, she headed to the medicine cabinet and wrestled the lid off the orange bottle, shook out some pills, put one between her teeth, shook the rest back in again and then took care to wind and press the lid just right to get it all closed up again.  She flipped the pill into her mouth with her tongue and bent over the faucet, lapping water from her cupped hand.

That's about the exact moment, as well as she can remember, that she heard it.

 

First there was the whining noise that those kinds of motorbikes make, the ones that go too fast.  She heard the change of key in the gearing and, just about to sail down a thought-stream of indignation and arseholes on fast bikes riding like the clappers on residential roads late at night, she heard the bang.  

 

That horrible bang that always comes as part of a quartet along with the crunch of metal, the squeal of brakes and some kind of low, frightening thudding noise.

 

She didn't really think through her actions. No plan, just reaction.

 

She put on slippers, grabbed a jacket, found her keys and left the house before the dogs even realized she was going somewhere.  Neither of them even came to the door.

 

She could walk, of course, the two blocks behind her house to where she knew it happened, but the car would give her light, so she clambered into it and took off, not bothering to put on her seatbelt.

 

She found the bike easily enough.  It was on the side of the road, perfectly parked in a 4 hour maximum parking zone... it was just lying on its side.

 

She drove past it, knowing he must have come off before the bike skidded away from him, and drove in a circle at 90 degrees to the road lanes, her lights scanning the park.  He was collapsed against the trunk of a tree.

 

Now that she had him, she called 911, explaining what had happened - or what she thought might have happened - and asking for an ambulance to come to the North East corner of the park as quickly as possible.

 

She got the courage to walk over to him - the body was big, it had to be a man - and see him.  She knew she couldn't move him, shouldnt touch him, even.  

 

Holy shit.... was he dead?

 

"The ambulance is coming.  It's coming."  She started to cry.

 

A grrrrmph sound came from inside his helmet, startling her.

 

"Don't move, don't!" She knelt down at his side.  "In the movies they always say never to move the head or neck..."

 

Another grrrrmph, quieter this time.

 

He was lying on his back, in full protective biker gear.  Gently, very gently, she took his left hand in hers, and they waited together.

 

The rest of it all was kind of a blur.  Having the EMTs shoo her away so they could stabilize him.  Explaining to the police officer that she didn't know the man, but could he please giver her cell number to the hospital so that any family might let her know how he was doing.  Getting into her car and very, very gingerly, driving around the block to go home, now that the sleeping tablets she'd taken were really kicking in.  Then.... bed.  Blissful bed.

 

It must have been at least two weeks till she got the phone call - probably three.  She was at work, bantering with her colleagues over something or other, all standing up so they could peer over the cube walls and have a conversation.  

 

"Hello?"

 

"Hi.  Is this... Samantha Jones?"

   

"Yes."

 

"I'm Mike.  The guy you saved at the motorbike accident."

 

He was still in hospital, and he wanted to thank her for what she did.  Because he was going to be in a rehab facility for a while, could she visit him sometime?

 

And so, possibly despite her better judgement, a few days later, Sam arrived to the swish of the automated lobby doors.  Once it was confirmed that she was on the list of approved guests - for that day only and only until 4pm - she was directed to his room.

 

She wasn't quite sure what she'd expected, but it wasn't this.  It wasn't to start to cry, long, silent rivulets down her face, as soon as his eyes met hers.  Standing next to his bed, she felt humiliated at her reaction, rubbing her cheeks with her sleeves and sniffing loudly.  Then she saw that he was crying too, and that was strangely calming.

 

"These are for you," she whispered hoarsely, holding out a bright bunch of flowers in a vase.  "I said you were a biker guy and asked them to not do something too feminine..."she turned the vase so he could see the rest of the arrangement, then set it down on a table at the side of the room.  

 

"It's lovely," he said, "and... these are for you."  He pointed to a very large bouquet standing on the same table.

 

"Oh," she stammered, "you didn't---"

 

"I did.  I want to thank you.  You saved my life."

 

"Don't be silly," she blushed.  "Someone would have seen..."

But they both knew it wasn't true.  He'd been thrown into the shadows of the trees in the park, and his bike had ended up 30 feet away in a legitimate parking space.  Anyone who saw it would have just thought it had been vandalized because it was on it's side.  In the time that they had waited for the ambulance, noone else had come out of their houses to see what was going on, no lights in the windows came on at all. 

 

She started to cry again, all the trauma of that night resurfacing, and turned back to the bed, taking his hand just like she had done in the park.  

 

"I was so scared," she whispered.

 

"Me too," he said.  "But you didn't seem scared at all."

  

"I'd taken a sleeping pill.  By the time I drove myself home I was probably as high as a kite."

They both started giggling and he squeezed her hand, softly.

 

"I'm Samantha, by the way," she said, moving her hand so that she shook his, formally.

 

"Mike," he said, grinning.

And so it began.

To read more in this series, click the Category link below.

Bucket List - Act in a Play

The Bucket List is a list of things I want to do/feel I should do before I die. I've done some of them already, and I'm telling one of those stories here. To see the whole list, click here.

I think everyone should experience a moment up on stage and, if possible, have it be in a play.  Sure, you can get a sense of the stage experience from singing a song or dancing a dance in a school talent show, but it's not the same as a play.

There's something about the silences, inbetween the lines of dialog, that make it clear that you are 100% on your own up there and, if you forget a line or let a silence linger, it feels like a small death.

The spotlight is brightest in a play.  There are few distractions to fall back on.  In real life a passing truck might hide your fart while you're out on the street.  In a play, if your stomach rumbles, everyone knows.  Everything about it is completely self-conscious and yet must appear completely natural.  And therein lies the gap you must fill, with acting talent.  And it's bloody hard.  But it's bloody exciting, too.

I've done, as I am sure you've figured out by now, various plays.  None of them were professional - that would have taken a gift of consdierably more talent from the Gods than they deigned to bestow upon me.  No, they were through drama club in Middle and High School.

In fact, the first time I was on the stage I was a little kid, probably 5 years old.  One day some teachers came into our classroom and stood around, muttering, looking at all the children.  I could feel it when their eyes lighted on me.  I was called up to leave class and follow them.  I was petrified.

It turned out they were putting on a play for Christmas and wanted to have children representing various countries walk up to the baby Jesus and offer him gifts.  This was all to be on a stage in the middle of school track field, with parents sitting in the bleachers.  Don't forget - I grew up in South Africa.  December is the height of our summer.

Anyway, I had been chosen to fufill the role of an Indian lady, complete with Sari and Bindi on my forehead (the best part of the whole thing).  You may not have seen me mention it before but I am from a mixed race background originating on a tropical island in the Indian ocean.  Growing up in South Africa, officiallly classified as White in the Apartheid years, gained me many sideways compliements about my "lovely tan."  Of course, they were barbed jabs at my mother who, standing at my side, shielded me from the bitchy innuendo and let me think I had gorgeous glowing olive skin.

I was so happy to be part of the pageant/play/whatever, that I didn't think about why I'd been chosen to represent India, and I dutifully waddled out clutching the folds of fabric wrapped around me that I thought were going to flutter away at any moment, and plonked a present at the foot of the manger.  My first spotlight moment.

There were various other school and drama club plays over the years, but the one that stands out for me is playing the villain, Lorin Chillingsworth, in a delightful melodrama.  I got to wear top hat and tails, say evil things and, most of all, flounce off the stage in a fit of pique once my dastardly plan had been thwarted.

As I stalked down the steps of the stage, heading to the exit, the audience laughed at my final joke, applauded and cheered.

I've never felt such a rush in my life.  

Cheering!  For me?

Delicious!

There's nothing like the feedback you get from a live audience when on stage.  As much as the silences can stab you in the heart, positive feedback - laugther, clapping, even booing if you're the villain - are like mainlining a special drug that's part adrenaline, part SSRI, part whiskey.  It's warm and buzzing and energizing and so very, very happy, all at the same time.

It's not the same buzz as winning at sport.  That's your talent, your prowess, your team.  On stage, it's just you.  Naked.  With a few lines to say, trying to say them in an enteratining way.  

When it goes right, and the audience is with you, it's like a mental orgasm. 

So put your daugther on the stage, Mrs Robinson, at least once.

Dear Diary - Living Pain Free

I've become one of those crazy middle aged people who wants to urge twenty year olds to live their life to the full.

"I was a virgin till I was 22," I whispered at my 18 year old second cousin a few weeks ago, accosting her with information that, not only had she not asked for, but had absolutely nothing to do with the general conversation in progress.  "I'd lose it much younger if I had my turn again!" I hissed, as she backed away.

Why this desire to shove copies of Gather Ye Rosebuds While Ye May into the hands of every young adult I see?

Because I'm dealing with aging for the first time.  And it hurts.

I put make up on the other day - a thick line of liquid eye liner, carefully applied.  A few moments later I turned back to the mirror to see a big fat smudge.  What had gone wrong?  I'd been so careful.

Then I saw it.

My upper lid has a little fold which is now drooping onto my lower eyelid.  It had touched the eye liner and messed it up.

So now there's no point to wearing eye makeup.  I'm not embedding powder into creases, thank you very much.  Fuck that.

Thank God I have full lips.  I'm rocking that shit.

Still, aging is here.  Drooping has begun and, as much as I resolved to age with dignity when I was younger, I am railing against it.

And so I look at younger people and, if I am not utterly convinced that they are making the most of every second, I want to tell them how precious their time is, and that it isn't going to last.

Of course that's a total waste of time.  I didn't get it at that age, and neither will they.  You just have to hope they're having fun and racking up some damn good memories.  

I bought my second cousin a dress.  A stunning, backless number that those of us over forty with under armpit droopage just can't wear.  She looked amazing.  I wanted to take her all over the store and buy her mini skirts and thigh high socks and boob toob tops.

I wanted to pile make up into her lap - neon yello eye shadow, blue eye liner, pink lipstick.

I wanted to sit her down in the coffee shop and explain to her that she should drink and laugh and have sex and look after her body because the more she could delay it's droopy betrayal, the better.

And I wanted to explain to her the beauty, the heaven, the precious gift she had of living pain free.

Yes, you heard me. 

Living pain free.

The TV ads make it sound like it's a revolutionary concept and, I suppose for people who have arthritis or back injuries or some other condition that causes them chronic pain, it is.  But that's not the pain free I'm talking about.

When you're young, you have no emotional scars.  Well, most young people don't.  I wouldn't tell Sandusky's victims this.

But, seriously, most young people haven't had anyone close to them die yet.  They haven't broken up with someone and always wondered if they did the right thing and should have been with that person the rest of their life.  They haven't got to a place in their career where they're wondering if their education provided them the right starting line in the rat race.  

When they watch movies with death scenes, the experience of grief doesn't sneak out of the shadowy recesses of their memories to poke and prod at their hearts again.

When their partner irritates them for the fifth time in one day, they don't wonder about that other guy from 1991.

When annual review time rolls around at the office, they don't stare at the document where they are supposed to "give feedback" on their own performance, wondering if they should have been a lawyer after all.

They live pain free.

And they should know - shouldn't they? - that it's bliss.

Somebody should tell them.

To read more in this series, click here.

You might like:

• Me, the Savior

9 to 5 - Bossisms 3

 

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 siloed teams not adhering to a new cross-functional process:

We're all in the same boat, but everyone is pulling on their oar at a different time.

On a team member being a key part of the team:

He's our tent pole.

On Agile being the new methodology du jour:

It's like a car full of cheerleaders.  Looks good, but how you gonna get from A to B?  
That 15 year old can't drive!

To see more in this series click the 9 to 5 tag, below.

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.

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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.

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• 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.

 

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• 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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