Stuff Female People Like - No. 14: Handbags

This series is inspired by www.stuffwhitepeoplelike.com.

14. Handbags

Most of the men I know are completely baffled by how and why female people like handbags. It'snot just that they don't understand why we like them so much, why we pay so much for them or why we have more than one. It's the very concept of a bag that they don't get.

If you don't believe me, suggest to your nearest and dearest straight male that you buy them a Manbag and watch his face contort at the very idea.

So why do female people like handbags so much?

They hold all our stuff

Yes, that may seem obvious, but it is no small thing.

Maybe it's an evolutionary thing. The man - the hunter - had to travel light because he may be away for days on end chasing the woolly mammoth and avoiding the sabre toothed tiger.

The woman, on the other hand, was stuck with a thing sucking on her breast and had to carry tools to gather fruits and vegetables, as well as have a way to carry those back with her. And she had no damn hands to carry them because of the little baby.

And even if you put businessman and businesswoman side by side, with their mobile phones and their pens and their moleskin mini notebooks, the businesswoman still has more stuff. There's the goddammit-I-might-get-my-period stuff, there's the I-might-need-to-take-care-of-the-kid stuff and, last but not least, there is the grooming stuff - lipstick, at a very minimum.

They complete the look

Ever since industrialization put soap making on the assembly line rather than in the home, and the work of the housewife - making candles, preserving food, sewing clothing and linen - was no longer a valued job, middle class female people have primped and padded and pouffed and painted themselves to produce maximum effect regarding their presentation. What the hell else did they have to do all day, after all?

Being well groomed is a head-to-toe business, you know.

The clothes, the shoes, the earrings, the belt, the necklace, the eye shadow - hell, even the lingerie - must all come together in a seamless assembly of color, shape and texture. And the handbag, my dear, just like the shoes, can make or break the ensemble.

Blue outfit with black handbag. Ah, non! Quel horreur!

They are little works of art

Yes, they are.

Like shoes, artisans who make handbags are designers who combine form and function, portability and beauty into one gorgeous little package.

Handbags are things of beauty.

Bedecked with jewels, cleverly interwoven leather, stunningly colored fabric. Hell, handbags can make seatbelts look pretty. Just take a look at the picture in this post.

Isn't it lovely?

Handbags reflect who we are

Woebetide the husband who buys his wife a handbag without knowing exactly what she wants.

A handbag says something about a female person's taste, her sense of color, how zany/traditional/silly she is.

If you see two twin female people and one has a cloth bag with a hippie peace sign on it, and the other had this season'sLouis Vuitton, you are looking at two verydifferent women.

Expensive handbags are status symbols. They say how much the female person is valued (if it was a gift), how much she values herself, how successful she is. Handbags are the sports cars of the female midlife crisis.

And so, female people love handbags.

And long may it continue!

I remember, when I was a kid, going into my mother's cupboard (closet) to look at her handbags. She had one - an evening bag - covered in what seemed to be metal sequins stuck together, which moved like shimmering waves.  The lining was beige silk and the whole thing spoke to me of glamorous evening like in Dallas or Dynasty.

I've had various handbags that I've loved.

There was the antique one found at a vintage shop - with the bone clasp and the silk lining.

There was the little Donna Karan given to me by FB - my first (and only) designer bag.

There was the sloppy green bag with lots of pockets and buckles that was like Mary Poppins' carpet bag... you could fit anything in there.

There was the hairy bag made of cow hide we found on holiday in Mexico - with one small white patch which gives the bovine origin away.

And then there's the red leather bag which I bought, on sale, when I got my last job and knew I was going to be earning a shitload of money. I also bought the matching purse (wallet) to go inside it. It's bright and bold and beautiful.

Like me.

Being a Doggy Mama - 10% Velociraptor

 

This is a guest blog by everywhereventually.

Think back to the movie Jurassic Park.

Think back to the moment when the grizzled hunter ranger is showing the visitors the Velociraptor cage.

Think back to when he is in full exposition mode, telling everyone what clever hunters the velociraptors are... testing the electric security fence by "never testing the same place twice".

The relevance of this to Puppy Dog?

I have been invited by my friends, PD's alpha and beta pack leaders to stay in PD's den. As PD is a rescue hound, my friends cannot be 100% sure of what breed or breeds he is.  He looks very much like a Chocolate Lab, but there are a few differences in his tail and muzzle to the pure-bred lab.  My experiences of waking up in the PD den over the last two mornings lead me to suspect that he is 10% Velociraptor.

Why so?

The room I am sleeping in has two doors that access the hall. Each morning at around 8am there is a thump on the left door.  Then you hear clatter clatter clatter of claws on floor and on the right door another dull thud... 

Clatter Clatter Clatter followed by a snuffle and a snort by the left door.
Clatter Clatter Clatter scratch at doorhandle height on the right door.
Clatter Clatter Clatter whole body thump on the left door.
Clatter Clatter Clatter shoulder bump on the right door.

You see what clever PD is doing?  Testing the security and never in the same place twice.

Then there is a game changer.  In Jurassic Park, it is when the power fails and the Velociraptors are free.  In PDs den this morning, it is when my partner goes to the rest room, and only pulls the door 90% closed...

Clatter Clatter Clatter. Thump. 

I hear the sounds of the door swinging open and the sounds I am hearing start to change.

Pant Pant Pant. Clatter Clatter Clatter and then Lick Lick Lick all over my barely awake face!

Puppy Dog... 90% Lab, 10% Velociraptor.

To read more in the Being a Doggy Mama series, click here.

Being a Doggy Mama - Don't mess with the Birdies

  

We have a little bush outside our front door, next to the steps up to the front porch.

The other night I was sitting outside getting some air (OK, OK, having a cigarette), and Puppy Dog was with me.

He generally sniffs around the front porch a bit, then sits and sniffs the neighborhood air, listening to all the sounds.  That evening, however, he kept sniffing the bush.  Then he walked down the steps to the porch, around to the other side of the bush, and kept sniffing.

Then I saw it.

There was a small bird sitting on a branch at the top of the bush, completely still.  The minute I saw it, I sent Puppy Dog inside the house. 

I looked at the bird - it wasn't moving.  I know I'm an imbecile, but I didn't realize it was roosting.  I thought it was dead.  The annoyance, ickiness and general blergh of having to pluck a dead bird off the bush, and get rid of it somehow, ran through my mind.

I gently touched the bush.

The bird's head moved - turned so it could see me better - and it blinked.  Once.

OK, not dead.

I went inside and left the bird alone.

The next morning, I went out to see if the bird was OK.

Where it had been roosting, it had left a little message for us.  It clearly was not impressed with having a human and a dog disturb it's sleep. 

It had left us a massive pooh.  White and black, it was about an inch and a half in diameter.  A round, smelly, gooey message of dissatisfaction at room service.

Quote Unquote - Office politics

 

From New Tricks, a British series about a group of formerly retired Police officers who are contractors to Scotland Yard, solving cold cases.  They are managed by a full-time Police officer, called Sandra.

In this scene, she is in the pub, talking to her boss.  She complains about some HR tests being done on her team.

"You never were very good at politics, Sandra," he says.

"With all due respect, Sir," she replies, "that's like telling someone they're not a very good arsehole!"

Memory Lane - My Mother

 

I miss my mom today.

I don't know why.

My mother died - many years ago - from a seven year battle with cancer.

She was an extraordinary woman and, I am very pleased to say, I realized this before she died and told her so.

My mother did many things that made me into the woman I am.

Making me well-rounded

My mother encouraged me academically, but also taught me an appreciation for the arts and for sport.

We would to go the theatre, to film festivals and to the public library twice a week.  She made sure I took part in team sports at school, but also took me to swimming lessons, dance lessons, speech and drama lessons, tennis lessons. 

The tennis lessons finally stopped when the coach took my mother aside and said:

"I can't keep taking your money, Mrs ---.  Your daughter will never be a tennis player."

Making me open-minded

My mother made sure that I experienced as much as possible in spite of our conservative, suburban surroundings. 

When it came to the issue of age, she took me with her when she volunteered at the retirement home, so I learnt respect for the elderly.  She made sure to introduce me to people there, and leave me alone to talk with them.

One year she sent me to a film festival with her friend - let's call her Sally.  Sally would buy two tickets for every film she wanted to see as soon as the festival program came out, and then try to find people to go with her.  She'd always ask my mom because Sally knew she loved that stuff.  I don't know why, on this particular day, my mother sent me instead of going herself.  Maybe she was busy.  Maybe she was tired.  Maybe she saw what the film was about and sent me on purpose.

The film was about gay women, and it was graphic.

Sally was mortified in the car on the way home, apologizing to me and saying she would have to apologize to my mother.  I told her my mother wouldn't mind, and I was right.  But I also learnt how much my mother wanted me to learn and be open that day, when I heard her tell Sally:

"It's OK, really. She has to learn about these things.  It's real life."

With the then-thorny issue of race, she taught me to treat the only black people I was exposed to - the servants in our house - with respect. I was never allowed to talk down to them or order them around like I saw some other people do in South Africa back then.

My mother had me take tea and lunch out to the man who worked in the garden, and gave me a duster to work alongside the woman who, throughout my childhood and teenage years, cleaned our house.

Although we were classified as white, and lived with all the attendant privileges, my mother made me understand and be proud of our family's mixed background.

"We," she would tell me, in that excited tone of voice you might use with a child when describing Disneyland, "are a Russian salad!  We are all mixed into a lovely dish!  We have all sorts of backgrounds in our family.  Do you know that you have a great-great-uncle who is Chinese!"

To me, it sounded like the most amazing, exotic thing in the world.

The value of friends

My mother led by example.  She had old friends and new friends, Jewish friends, Christian friends, Atheist friends, elderly friends and young friends, friends nearby she could stop by and have tea with, and friends afar she regularly wrote letters to. 

She would visit an old couple from our church who couldn't drive anymore, and take them to the grocery store with her.  She would invite an widowed friend - who was lonely and lived far from her children - to stay at our home for weeks at a time.  She held a back-to-school celebratory tea party with the local mothers when vacation was over.

Like me, she was an immigrant, and far away from her family.  Following what she showed me, I have been able, in both the UK and the US, to make a family from my friends.

Teaching me independence

My mother taught me how to stand on my own two feet.

It would take a lot for my mother to come to the school and fight with a teacher or the principal on my behalf. 

"You fight your own battles, my girl," she'd tell me.

But, if I really needed her - like when I hated my science teacher and asked to change classes - she and my dad always had my back.

Part of teaching me independence was to shatter the White Knight Myth for me.  Perhaps not so much anymore but, back in those days, women really did think that all they had to do was be good, kind and pretty and the white knight would ride up on this big white horse and rescue them, paying for everything as they galloped, together, to their castle in Suburbia.

When I went to university, a high proportion of the female students studied non-marketable disciplines:  art, speech and drama, languages, social science.  They used to call it "BA Mansoek" in Afrikaans, which translates as Bachelor of Arts in Husband Hunting.

"Don't listen to your friends' mothers," she told me.  "You don't need a good man.  You need a good job!"

The secrets of marriage

My mother taught me two fundamental things that help me, I think, to maintain a healthy marriage.

Mantra No. 1:

"Marriage n'est pas badinage!"

It roughly translates to "Marriage is not a joke."  What she meant was that marriage takes work, and any of us in a long term relationship of any kind know that to be true!

Mantra No. 2:

"Marriage is compromise!"

Well, that doesn't take a genius to figure out.  But we could all do with being reminded of that sometimes. 

If I want to drive half an hour out of town to go to a dance lesson, then it isn't too much for Fluffy Bear to ask me to drive him to a drinks get together some of his friends are having.  And no, I don't have to go with them - they have a hobby that I don't share.

Compromise.

The only thing I didn't learn

My mother tried to teach me how to cook, but I didn't listen.  She'd invite me into the kitchen to help her, to watch, to learn, but I was too lazy, or perhaps too stupid, to take her up on the invitation.

I never realized that she had an exceptional talent in the kitchen.  I thought all mothers were like her. 

I passed on the chance to learn how to make some of the best food I have ever had in my life.

My mother made:

• Cheese soufflé
• Prawn cocktail
• Chicken curry
• Briyani
• Creme caramel
• Macaroni cheese
• Marinated ribs
• Smoked ham
• Pepper steak
• Chinese beef with green pepper
• Venison
• Guinea fowl
• Sweet and sour pork
• Chicken with cashew nuts
• Tripe
• Chocolate cake - the best you have ever tasted.

And these are just the things I remember off the top of my head.

Even with her old recipes I am useless in the kitchen.  What is written on paper doesn't include the pinch of this and the sprinkling of that which she added to make a dish superb.

The only thing I can make well is the chocolate cake, and I'll share the recipe, below.

To sum up, my mother taught me well, and I will always be grateful to her.

I hope she's up there having someone cook for her while she sits and exchanges stories and witticisms with Daphne Du Maurier, Lawrence Olivier, Grace Kelly and the other people she admired.

Ittybittycrazy's Mother's Chocolate Cake

Mix together one cup of boiling water with half a cup of pure cocoa and leave aside.

Sift together 1.5 cups flour, 1.5 cups sugar, 3.5 teaspoons baking powder. 

In the middle of the dry ingredients, make a well.

Put in 4 egg yolks and set the whites aside.  Add half a cup of oil and the chocolate mixture and stir it it all into the dry ingredients.

Beat the egg whites to a soft peak, then fold into the mixture with 1 teaspoon of vanilla essence.

Bake in oven at 400 degrees farenheit (200 celcius) for 25-30 minutes.

Thank you, Mom.

Hell is other people - I don't need you to narrate my life, Bitch

 

I fucked up today.

There's no other word for it and there's no-one else to blame for it. 

It was me - and I was fucking up. 

But what I didn't need was some uppity Bitch making it worse.

I was driving Fluffy Bear to a drinks thing with his friends and I ended up in the wrong lane.  I needed to turn right.  Perhaps, I thought, some kind soul in the right turning lane will forgive me for being stupid and let me in.  So I put my indicator (signal) on and was watching the rear view mirror to see if the little white car would slow down and let me go.  And it did.  How nice!

What I wasn't watching was the pedestrian crossing and, as I turned, I suddenly saw some poor girl on a bicycle, on my right, brake at the last minute and nearly get hit by our car.  I braked hard and said I was sorry to her.  She said it was OK and got her balance back. 

I wanted to say more to her when Bicycle Bitch came up on my left.

I just want to say up front that Bicycle Bitch stopped me from making another, proper apology to the poor girl I nearly ran over, and that is what I am most mad about. 

Second, I am mad that she rode accross from the other side of the road to come and shout and me.  Because that is fucking sad and pathetic.

Third, I am mad that she thought it appropriate to yell at me immediately after what could have been a horrible accident, when I was still in shock.

Last but not least, I am mad about what she said.

"Geez, Lady!" she yelled.  "You just turned accross oncoming traffic [note - not true] and then headed right accross the CROSSWALK!

"Thank you so much for pointing that out to me," I told her in my most upper class, withering, look-down-your-nose, British accent.

"That was," I continued, "very considerate of you.  It was also so very helpful, because I am completely incapable of recognizing or analyzing my own mistakes."

Fucking Bitch.

Hell is other people.

He said She said - Infidelity?

 

"Morning, Honey," he yawned

"Fuck off!" she said.

"Well, someone got out of bed the farty side this morning!  What's wrong?"

"We were at a big wedding.  We were in the wedding party. There were so many people that they put boys and girls in bunk beds in separate rooms.  You got really drunk at the wedding.  Then, in the middle of the night I hear this noise.  I peak into the boy's room and there you are, being fucked by some small guy called NJ and you are shouting out his name and everyone is awake and watching you. And then the next day I have to go to breakfast in the hotel with the rest of the wedding party and I am so humiliated!"

He paused, then took a very, very deep breath. 

"Honey," he said softly, "it was-" his voice rose (he couldn't help himself) "-a DREAM!"

"It was very vivid!" she sniffed.

He wrestled her to the couch, dragged a blanket over them and cuddled her. 

"It was a dream...." he soothed.

They lay there a while, warm and cosy.

"Who is NJ anyway?" he whispered.

"I have no idea," she said, "but I'd like to know what he has that I don't!"

He thought about the fact that, if he had been gay, the answer to that question would've been pretty damn obvious, but he decided not to go there.

Much, much safer that way.

He kept hugging her for a few minutes, then got up.

"I have to get some coffee," he said.

"Oh fine!" she snapped.  "Off you go then!  ADULTERER!"

To read more in this series, click here.

Post-its of wrath - Scifi PC

 

This series is inspired byThe Blogess's post about stabbing Victor.

These post-its are not real.They are just in my head. I love my husband. Seriously.

Dear Fluffy Bear

We watch a lot of science fiction.  Well, you do.  I just follow my mother's "marriage is compromise" advice.

Anyway, I've learnt that anything is possible.  I was on Mulder's side in the X Files.  I always thought Scully could do with having a good shag to loosen her up.

Anyway, I digress.

So here's the thing... Is there an alien in your PC?  Is it a Stargate?  Are you drawn to it, against your will, bathed in an eerie blue-green light and with high pitched Woo-ooo-ooo music in the background?

Is that what happens?

Why else would you go straight to your keyboard before brushing your teeth, having breakfast or FEEDING THE DOG?

How do we fight this evil power?  Is there a code we need Starbuck to find?  An artefact we need to steal from Warehouse 13?  Should I call The Doctor?

Help me Fluffy-wan-Kanobi.  Explanation is YOUR only hope.

To read more in the Post-its of Wrath series, click here. 

Post-its of Wrath - Three days

 

This series is inspired by The Blogess's post about stabbing Victor. 

These post-its are not real.  They are just in my head.  I love my husband.  Seriously.

Dear Fluffy Bear

It is three days since you got back from your trip, and your suitcase still isn't unpacked.  THREE.  DAYS. 

You were in a very hot place.  Your clothes were sweaty.  THREE.  DAYS. 

You took one pair of shoes and wore them the whole week.  They were in the suitcase.  THREE.  DAYS. 

We have guests arriving on Monday, and we have to clear out the room we use to dry clothes in.  That means all the washing needs to be done and hung ASAP.  I know this.  You know this.  THREE DAYS.

And so I tried to respect your privacy and not rifle through your stuff but, finally, this morning, I had to empty your suitcase and start your laundry because I didn't have a choice.  Because we're running out of time. 

Because it has been THREE DAYS.

To read more in the Post-its of Wrath series, click here.

Update on Tuesday, August 25, 2009 at 6:38PM by Ittybittycrazy

I think you enjoyed my response of severely tickling you and giving you a hard slap on the arse far too much.

Firstly, mold does NOT grown on dirty clothes in three days!

Secondly, the computer is where I work!

I work to keep you in the manner to which you think you have become accustomed, young lady!

Diary of an Ex-employee - Day 101.0

 

I gave in yesterday.

I called our Cleaning Company.

I was standing in the dining room, looking at the dusty, untidy, dirty house and thinking about our guests from the UK arriving on Monday, thinking about a whole weekend planning cleaning, arguing with Fluffy Bear about cleaning, and actually doing cleaning, and I suddenly found the phone in my hand. 

Then I was leaving a voicemail asking for a one time clean.  I heard myself begging, pleading, and saying something about being saved from having to kill my husband.

Pammy, the lovely lady who runs the company, called me back and, after checking the Fluffy Bear was still breathing, promised to get me our usual cleaner, Mrs Amazing, this Saturday morning.

Thank God I have a 9:30am meeting this Saturday, otherwise I am sure I would completely humiliate myself by standing at the front door, open-armed and sobbing as she arrives.

Hello from Puppy Dog - Mama is crazy

Hello friends!

Today Mama started calling me Oughty-Wan-Ka-Naughty and started waving a the broom at me. 

She kept making funny noises - something like "Vrrrrrrmmmmm Vrrrrmmmm!"

Then she seemed to lose her mind. 

She talked about the part of the living room where my bed is being Dark Side and that she knew I was making a Death Fart.

I am really worried.

If Mama goes nutty, who will feed me?

Lots of licks and woofs,

Puppy Dog

That's life - Old lady

 

So I am at a Depeche Mode concert.

On my left there are two young girls, then a young boy, then a guy who looks older than me.

The young girls are dancing and singing with me, and I am pretty impressed that they know the old DM stuff as well as the new songs - especially considering they weren't born when some of these songs came out.

Eventually I turn to the adorable little blond next to me and, thinking they are a family, point to the older guy and yell over the music:

"Is that your dad?"

She looks at me as if I am insane.

OK, not a family.

I change tack.

"How old are you?" I yell.

"Nineteen!" she shouts back, pointing at herself and her friend.

"Oh wow!" I screech. 

And then I have one of those moments where I say something which, even as it is only half way out of my mouth, I realize is so impossibly, totally stupid.  So lame.  So uncool.  So Whatever-the-fuck-word-kids-use-for-moron-adults-these-days.

"It's so cool that Depeche Mode has young fans!"  I scream, giving them the thumbs up.

And there you have it.

Suddenly I'm the old lady at the concert who was, like, around when, like Depeche Mode was, like, first coming out and why is she, like, even talking to us?

Oy vey.

Hell is other people - Get the fuck off your arse

  

I went to a concert a little while ago.

I grew up in South Africa and, because of Apartheid, bands wouldn't tour there.  This was the extent of my live concert experience as a teenager:

• Rolf Harris
• Richard Clayderman
• Boney M

Yes, I am scarred for life.

Ever since I got to the UK, I've been making up for it, and I've continued that in the US. 

For me, it's not about keeping up with new music.  It's about catching up on those bands I've missed.  So I tend to go to the shows by 80s bands that have reformed, or are still going.

Enter Depeche Mode - one of my absolute favorite 80s bands.

So there we are, Bill and I, at the concert.

Behind us are sitting four Suburbanites who, when we arrive, are talking about the last time they came to the arena.  For all of them, it's been years, and the last time they were there it was for a sporting event.

Then the Cute Crazy Couple arrive.  Two guys, probably in their 30s, ready, willing and able to PARTAY.  They come into seats in front of us, and the more outgoing of the two introduces himself to everyone sitting around him, talks about how excited he is and generally just gets the fun going.

"Oh my GOD!"  I hear spat out from behind us.  "Imagine if we were sitting behind him!"

The Suburbanites continue by criticising the opening act and, when Depeche Mode finally take the stage, their arses stay glued to their seats and polite clapping ensues. 

They sit throughout 80%, silent.  At one point, the one on the aisle starts an argument with a girl who has walked down the steps to the edge of the seating block to see the stage because, as he is sitting down, she'd be obstructing his view.

Eventually, when the concert rises to a crescendo and Depeche Mode are belting out some of the old No. 1s, with the crowd singing every word and generally going insane, the Suburbanites stand up.  I turned around at one point and almost burst out laughing right at them... the oldest guy, pot-bellied, was swaying from side to side, shuffling his feet.  In his head he was 16, greasy-haired and covered in acne all over again. 

As for Bill and I, we danced pretty much the whole time.  We sang, we clapped, we waved our arms in the air.  I was sweating like a piggy wiggy, my voice was hoarse and my palms were red from being hit against each other.

Tell me, what is WRONG with these people?

If you want to listen to the music without participating, get a high quality CD and sit sipping lite beer in the basement media room of your McMansion!

Years ago, I went to a Pet Shop Boys concert in London.  It was a strange venue - the Tower of London.  I guess that what would have been the moat back in the day is now a strip of grass between the main part and the outer wall.  They put up a small stage and mostly, during the festival, there were jazz and classical performances. 

There was a tent where you could buy a picnic with champagne to have before the concert on the grass.  It was that kind of festival.

The first block of seats were beige deck chairs.  They hadn't been offered for sale, but rather given to media types and music reviewers.  My friend, Cameron, and I were in the first row of the second block of seats.

As soon as the Pet Shop Boys came on stage, we jumped up and started dancing.

I got a tap on the shoulder. 

I turned around to find a very red-faced, small man who spewed the following invective at me in that vicious camp tone that only gay men can pull off.

"I didn't pay 30 quid for my ticket to come here and watch your fat arse jiggle!" he spat.

Cameron is gay, fearless, extremely intelligent, blessed with an extensive vocabulary and has been exposed to a very wealthy and refined lifestyle, so he can look down his nose at HRH Lizzie if he wanted to.

Cameron said several very rude things to the man which included the phrases "fuck off" and "fat old queen," something that, as a straight woman, I would never have been able to pull off.

By this time people were starting to move into the aisles to get closer to the stage, and were being shooed off by Security.  Cameron noticed that, in the front block of free-ticket-giveaways, there were several people leaving their seats to head back to what must have been a well-stocked free bar.

We sneaked down the aisle and slipped into seats left by two people who were clearly not into "this modern crap they call music" and ended up in the second row.  We spent the first five minutes there turning around to our detractor, even though he probably couldn't see us from way back where he was sitting, and making rude hand signals at him.  We were very, very close to Neil and Chris, so God only knows what they thought we were doing.

Again, what is WRONG with these people? 

Did Mr CampyBitch really think that the Pet Shop Boys is the kind of music you sit and listen to, with reverence?  If he wanted that he should have come back the next day, bought a champagne picnic and bloody well air-conducted to some Mozart.

The whole point of a live concert is to sing and dance and clap and wave and be part of thousands of people who are singing and dancing and clapping and waving too.

At a live concert there is always someone, somewhere, singing the wrong words to the song, and that is exactly how it should be.

Because it doesn't matter.

It's about being there. It's about loving it. It's about letting go and having fun.

Hell is other uptight concert people.

Get the fuck off your arse!

Diary of an Ex-Employee - Day 97.0

An explanation for my friends who don't live in the US, and don't follow US politics: Healthcare reform is a hot-button here right now. President Obama wants to reform the system, and everyone is talking about it.

I don't know the statistics regarding private health insurance - which many cannot afford - vs. what those who are against reform, here, call "socialized healthcare." (Note the clever insertion of the concept of the dreaded socialism in that phrase.)

I don't know what having people who are uninsured going to the A&E (ER) costs vs. them having access to GPs (family doctors).

I don't know how healthcare reform will change the once-mighty US of A.

What I do know is two things:

1. Having "insurance" for something that has a one in one chance of happening (people getting sick) is a flawed concept
2. My personal experience with the healthcare system.

So let's talk No. 2 - my experience.

Stage 1 - Reasonable health coverage

When I first got to the US, I was covered under Fluffy Bear's policy. Different companies offer different levels of cover which means that, if you go to work for a very small company, healthcare coverage may be more expensive for you.

One could argue that small business is therefore not generally attracting the best talent, because people may choose to work for the larger companies which, getting bulk rate, can afford to give employees better cover.

But that's a generalization.

Back to stage one of my healthcare coverage. We had to pay what they call a "co-pay" when we went to the doctor. Sometimes it is a fixed amount, sometimes a percentage, I think. I'm not sure. I just know it was strange to hand over my credit card in a doctor's reception.

Some plans also have what they call a "deductible," just like when you insure your car. So the initial cost of any repairs you undergo, as a sick person, need to be covered by you. It may be $500, or $750, or whatever. I don't remember what ours was.

Stage 2 - Excellent health coverage

At my previous employer I got excellent health coverage. I could go to the doctor when I needed to, I didn't have to pay for medicine (drugs), I could be referred to a specialist without the axiety of cost.

I didn't realize how lucky I was compared to others.

Stage 3 - Limbo

Now, see, here's where I start to get pissed off.

The way the system works - from what I can tell - is that they have this thing called COBRA.

Here is the best online definition I found for it.

COBRA stands for the Consolidated Omnibus Budget Reconciliation Act, which became law in 1986. COBRA gives you the right to choose to temporarily keep the group health insurance benefits that you would otherwise lose after you reduce your working hours, quit your job, or lose your job. It also lets family members choose to keep health insurance after your job loss or other qualifying event that would normally cause them to lose the coverage they have through your employer.

Before this law went into effect, when employees left their companies, they and any covered family members lost their health insurance immediately. If the employee or a family member were ill, they were often not able to get new health insurance because they were already sick. COBRA allows an employee to buy health insurance through the employer even though the person no longer works there or no longer works full time.

I don't know who sets the rules for how transition to COBRA coverage works. i don't know if the healthcare insurers, or the government, or my previous company set up this process.  All I know is what I experienced.

First, even though I called my previous employer twice prior to my final pay day to see if I could set things up early, I was told that details of COBRA coverage are only sent out on the final day of your employment. Cover, I was assured, will be retroactive to the day that you left your prior employer.

I waited almost a week to receive the pack of information.

Second, once I got the information, I had to go online and say that, yes, I did want COBRA coverage, and what level I wanted it at. Prices vary according to coverage levels. I chose to stay at the level of coverage - for Fluffy Bear and myself - that we had previously had. Normally, this would cost us $960 dollars a month. Thanks to a temporary government grant, 65% of this is now covered.

Third, my information chewed it's way through the system. This lasted over a week. Then I was sent a pack of "coupons" which I had to put together with my check and send to my previous employer so they could reactivate my coverage from the date that I had left their employ.

I waited for coverage to restart.

I called my health insurance provider and explained that I was out of medicine. The woman on the phone was sympathetic, but unmoving. She asked me if she could put me through to a doctor who could talk to me about what to do. God forbid they should open themselves up to lawsuits, after all. I can just hear it: "We did try. We asked her if she wanted to talk to one of our doctors, for free.  It's not our fault she can't afford health insurance."

I kept going to the pharmacy, only to be told that I had no coverage and, if I wanted to pick up the two prescriptions I had pending, I would have to pay $350. Eventually I had to call my health insurance provider and had the good fortune to have my call answered by one of those gems - a proactive, customer service oriented person - who, even though it was not their job to do so, had to chase up my previous employer for their payment so I could get coverage again.

Bear in mind that health insurance was, throughout this entire process, the SAME coverage through the SAME health insurance provider, paid for by the SAME company, my previous employer.

And yet, I spent a month uninsured, in a heatwave of summer, with no asthma medication.

Does anyone get that, during that period of uninsurance, even if you can claim back money spent on medicine, you just may not be able to afford to pay for it in the first place?

Does anyone get that going off medication suddenly can be incredibly dangerous?

Does anyone get that, if you are in the middle of treating something, stopping treatment could delay overall cure? One of the medicines I needed was my poopershoot cream. The last time I went to see the nice man who sticks things up my anus, he said I was almost cured and that one more treatment should do it. Try not medicating for a month. When I say "it burns my ass", I bloody well mean it.

Does anyone get that it takes more money and administration to turn off my coverage and then turn it back on rather than just allow me to make my elections one month before going off payroll?

Anyway, it's all fixed now, and we are onto...

Stage 4 - Paying for health coverage at a time when we can last afford it.

Goddamn annoying, that's what it is.

Hell is other people - Health shop girl

 

I love Nordstrom.

It's the best store in America.  It's that simple.

I'm too poor to walk into Barneys or Saks and get served and people who shop at places like that and pay over $300 for a scarf are out of touch with reality.

Macy's is OK, but often dirty, and I just don't like the tought of buying sweat shop clothes at the cheaper stores.  Not to say that I don't ever buy from them - I do (especially now that I am an Ex-employee) - but I don't like to.

Why do I love Nordstrom?  Well, because this would never, ever happen there.

I walk into a health shop near my house.  I need a few things, including rice protein for my morning smoothies.

The shop is small, and I am the only customer in there.

Then I hear her.  

A shop assistant talking, at high volume, to a colleague.

"You know this lotion?  Well you know how it's made of organic stuff and, if you open a bottle and let air in, you can't sell it?  And you know that there is a tester on the shelf below it, right?  And it says 'Tester' on it?  Well I've had another customer open one of the bottles to smell the lotion!!!  I mean, dude!  I'm like, this is a thirteen dollar bottle of lotion.  And now we can't sell it!  This is, like, the third customer to do this!  I'm like.... what?!?!?!"

OK, so let's break it down:

• At Nordstrom, they would never talk about customers doing something silly in front of another customer
• At Nordstrom, sales people actually have more than half a brain, and they would realize that, if something happens three times, then their set up is confusing for the customer and has to be changed
• At Nordstrom, sales people are empowered to make changes and, instead of bitching about it, they'd change the display so that the tester bottle was in front of the real bottles rather than below it

So I got my rice protein, waited at the till (cash register) for Little Miss Monologuing Diatribe to finish and walk over to me, paid and left.  I did not buy any of the other stuff I needed, which I chose to go somewhere else - where I didn't have to listen to a stream of invective - and buy.

The little fountain, the wooden and bamboo interior, the soft music.  These things were clearly set up by the owner to create a soft, welcoming and soothing atmosphere in their store which, I'll remind you, is all about health, natural remedies, etc.

Waste of money when you don't train your staff how to behave correctly.

Hell is little, loud sales people.

Being a Doggy Mama - Beta Bitch

    

My husband, Fluffy Bear, is the Alpha Dog, which makes me the Beta Bitch.

He is away at the moment and, ever since he left, Puppy Dog has been misbehaving because, of course, I'm just the Beta - no need to pay her any respect.

Nothing major, just a low-grade evil, like:

• Constantly pulling on the leash - hard


• Not heeling when told


• Not coming when called


• Jumping out of the back of the SUV before being given permission to do so


• Having to be asked three times to sit before he listens, so I can put his food bowl down and give him permission to eat


• etc., etc., etc.

Today, we came back from a walk at a local park.  He'd been pulling my arm off, ignoring commands and just generally being a little shit.

We pulled up in front of the house, and I parked the car.  I gathered my stuff, got out and went round to the back.  I opened up the boot (trunk) door of the SUV and, again, without pausing till he was told it was OK to get out, he bounded off.  He then didn't come back to me when I called and, instead of going straight up to the house when told "Home!" he trotted about, sniffing trees and the sidewalk.

I'd had enough.

"Your father,"I yelled, "is coming home tomorrow night and then we'll see about your misbehaviour!  Just you wait till Daddy comes home!"

It was one of those moments where, even as you hear yourself say the words, another part of your brain is quietly, rationally explaining to you that you are being totally insane and that - worse still - you're doing it out in public.

But I couldn't stop myself.  In that millisecond before I said it, it made perfect sense to me.

When I say that he is my furkid - my substitute child - I guess it's not so much a joke, but a deep-seated reality.

And he knows something is going on because I've been ignoring him for the last four hours that we have been home and he has been very, very quiet, laying on his cushion and not a peep out of him.

My little boy has pushed Mama too damn far, and he bloody well knows it.

Health is Wealth - Paradigm shift

 

A strange thing is happening to me.

I don't feel like eating naughty things anymore.

You may remember:

• the dark days of Eatathon I and II
• me eating whole pints of Chunky Monkey in one go
• the cupcake cravings which led to me devising "surprise outings" with Fluffy Bear as an excuse to go to specialists cupcake places around the city. 

I even found a new cupcake shop online before it opened in our town, and waited in anticipation for the big day.

That has all changed.

I don't crave sweet things anymore and I am just not as hungry as I used to be.

I actually went into a donut shop this week and all I bought was coffee!

That may sound like nothing to you but, for me, it's a minor miracle.

It's not that I have more discipline.  Something inside me has shifted.

• I looked at all the donuts in the glass display case and I didn't feel like having one.
• At my usual coffee shop, I don't stare longingly at the chocolate bundt cake anymore.
• When I go out to eat, I often genuinely feel like having a salad.
• I took three chocolate biscuits (cookies) with me to the living room with my cup of tea and only ate one
• I am not drinking half as much wine as I used to.
• I have chocolate frozen yoghurt in the fridge and it has been there for more than a week.

Something, somewhere, has been realigned.

And I really like it this way. 

Hell is other people - Being neighborly

 

I got home this afternoon and I had a strange burst of cleaning productivity. 

It all started when I drove Bill and Ted (yes, I tend to be a childish when I give my friends pseudonyms), to get a BBQ.  To fit it in, I had to put the back seats down.  That's when I saw it... a quarter inch deep stripe of tightly packed Puppy Dog hair in the crease where the chairs fold flat.  Blergh!

Later, as I pulled into a parking spot in front of our house, all I could think of was the hand-held vacuum.  I spent the next half hour or so, using the brush attachment, trying to scrape and suck the hair out of the car, and occasionally cursing Puppy Dog.

The hand-held vacuum ran out of charge before my housework energy burst did, so I grabbed the garden hose.

A week or so ago, Fluffy Bear bought this amazing attachment for the hose which has a dial on it. You can turn the water in a jet that reaches 20 feet away, a shower of big raindrops, a soft mist... pretty much whatever you want.

I can stand at the top of the bank that lies between our front porch and the sidewalk and, using different settings, water all the grass and plants on that side of the house. 

So I'm standing there, spurting the plants next to the sidewalk with the Jet setting, making rain on the grass with the Soak setting and gently spritzing the Lavender plants with the Mist setting.

Then a neighbor walked past.

"You know," she said, "it's going to rain tonight."

"Really?" I replied, looking up at the gray, cloudy sky as if noticing it for the first time. "Oh, yes, I see." 

I smiled and shrugged, and she went on her way.

I was being neighborly. 

Yes, I was.

Because, you see, here's how the conversation went in my head:

Neighbor:  "You know, it's going to rain tonight."

Me:  "Is it going to rain tonight in Mexico, too?"

Neighbor:  "Why do you want to know if it is going to rain in Mexico?"

Me:  " I don't.  I was just wandering how far you'd go with spouting useless information that I really don't give a shit about."

Neighbor:  "What?"

Me:  "LEAVE ME ALONE, BITCH!  I'M HAVING FUN!"

Hell is other people.

He said, She said - Whisky vs. Shoes

"Honey," he said, "you have to come get me, the other car won't start."

"OK," she said.  Then: "Why don't I just pick up what you need on my way home?"

"No, I need some alcohol to take with me this weekend.  I don't know what I want.... (pause).  Actually, I'll probably get some whisky."

"Well I can get you that."

"Honey, I have to choose the one I want.  That's like you sending me to buy you a pair of shoes!"

"AAAARGH!  I see your point!" she said.  "I'm on my way!"

To read more in this series, click here.

Being a Doggy Mama - The Sarcasm Walk

 

Well.

That wasn't what I'd call a nice walk.

I took Puppy Dog out about 40 minutes ago.  We headed off, with him on his extendable leash, sniffing things here and there.

He came and stood by my side at street junctions, and heeled as we crossed the road.

It was all good.

Then he decided to poop on a hedge.  It was about 1.5 feet tall, a little decorative hedge, about a foot across, around a tree.  Of course, the minute I tried to scoop the poop, it fell down into the hedge and, although my hand was protected by the bag, I got poop smears up my arm.

Delightful.

I decided to go up to the open park, which he loves.  I don't usually take him there, and you'll soon find out why.

Squirrel 1 - he listened to me when I said "Leave it!" and stood still.

But Squirrel 2 was obviously too much.  He sprinted off, ripping the leash out of my hand.  The kazing of the leash burnt my finger, my arm was wrenched out of its socket, and I broke a well-manicured-in-time-for-tomorrow's-job-interview nail.

Fabulous.

Oh, and let's not forget the couple sitting on a nearby bench who thought my scream and disobedient dog were hilarious.

So pleased, dear Sir and Madam, that I could be a source of amusement for you today.

I didn't run after him.  I didn't have to. 

He was stuck in place at the bottom of a large tree he couldn't climb, staring up at a squirrel he couldn't catch, quivering.

I got hold of him, held his snout, said "NO!" again and again, and put him on heel.

Walking with Puppy Dog on heel, when he doesn't want to do it, is difficult.  Eventually I had the leash locked on just the right length to keep him next to me, and I was holding it behind my back, with both hands, to keep hold of him, walking on my left.  When he pulled too much, I stopped and turned my left hip away from him, so he was yanked back into the right position next to me.

But he wasn't interested.  He was pulling, and choking himself.

And so, we waddled down the street:

Block no. 1: Pull. Cough! Cough! Pull. Yank. Pull. Cough! Cough! Pull. Yank.

Block no. 2: Pull. Cough! Cough! Pull. Yank. Pull. Cough! Cough! Pull. Yank.

We must've looked like two nutters dancing to an even nuttier soundtrack.

Then we passed a house with a big yard and a nice fence.  The dogs inside always bark, but I could see one of them and it seemed relaxed, lying down on the front lawn.  I was sure it could see Puppy Dog was on a short leash, and that he wasn't even looking at the dog, or stepping towards its fence.  So I relaxed.

Big mistake.

Just as we reach the end of the yard, the dog lurched forward, barking and growling.  Puppy Dog pulled towards him. 

Oh, joy!

Still holding the leash behind my back, I was almost pulled off-balance trying to hang on, and had visions of kissing the sidewalk.

But, somehow, I held on till the dogs took a breath, and I dragged Puppy Dog down the sidewalk away from the insane guard dog.

Block no. 3: Pull. Cough! Cough! Pull. Yank. Pull. Cough! Cough! Pull. Yank.

Eventually, in the middle of the fourth block, he stopped pulling.  Thank God.

So, on block 5, I let him have the run of the full leash - about 12 feet.

And on we went.

Then, suddenly, he squatted for what I call an "Auxiliary Poop." This is when he has dropped a big volume already but, for some reason, has to add an appendix to his oeuvre.  No problem, I'll just get my reserve bag---

No bag.

It must've fallen out of my pocket.

Oh, lovely!

So there I am, in a nice neighborhood, committing the ultimate dog owner crime.  I walk away from my dog's poop on the grass in front of someone's house.

Screw this, time to turn towards home.

And so we did.