Post-its of wrath - It's way beyond nagging

 

These postits are not 100% real.  I love my husband, seriously.

I feel the need - a deep, deep need - to help you understand my point of view on two key things.

1. Household repairs
2. Cleanliness

These two things are always a bone of contention in the modern marriage where income level precludes engaging staff, and are closely related.  So I am going to address them in combination.

Men have the gift of singular focus, women have the gift of holistic view.  Both are vital.  Both have their place.

This is why a man can live in the legendary state that is known as "Bachelor pad" - same sheets on the bed for over a month, fridge full of beer, only food in the house a suger-laden cereal aimed at children ages 3-7.  It doesn't matter to you because you are focused on going to work, or playing that video game, or shooting the shit with buddies over a beer.  As long as you can achieve what you need to, the state of your surroundings is, at best, a peripheral consideration.  There's probably a mother or cleaner who comes in now and again to take care of any food containers, socks or underwear that are approaching a health hazard, so what's the problem, right?

Now, let me explain a woman's point of view.

Our home is our nest.  

It is our refuge, our relaxation, our happy place.  

To be a happy place, it has to be a pretty place.  To be a pretty place, it has to be a clean place and a functioning place.

Take a leaf out of the Bowerbird's book:  They build a beautiful home to attract a mate, decorating it with colorful leaves and flowers, even creating a stunning garden around it!  And, by bird standards, it's a bloody big house, too.

Therefore, there are two things that we cannot bear: anything that lingers and lingers as an element that doesn't work, and anything that causes a sense of disgust.

Now, don't get me wrong.  I delay cleaning tasks just like you do.  I hate doing the laudry, I don't always empty or load the dishwasher immediately, I don't always sweep up the alarmingly multifluous dog hair that covers our house in a thin layer, and causes tumbleweeds.

But I have a threshold, and it's 2-3 days, or 2-3 daily mitigation events.

So, if I come out of the bathroom, having just spread a precious dime-sized amount of $50 anti-aging moisturizer on my hands, and I come into the kitchen, first thing in the morning (before my stomach has settled due to having a deal with the mucus of 8 hous of hayfever post-nasal drip) to find a revolting black, dried out avocado skin from yesterday's sandwich on the counter, and I have to pick it up up put it in the dustbin, but the dustbin is full to overflowing for the third day in a row, and I have to get some Bounty kitchen roll to shove the stuff in there down to get the revolting avocado peel to fit into it and, in doing so, some other trash touches my hand, and so I have to go and wash my hands and thereby wash off my expensive moisturizer, that's two things.  

Sound the alarm!

Disgust inspiration!

Tolerance level breached.  

I can't eat breakfast now, because I feel slightly sick.

I am ready to skin you alive with a blunt butter knife.

It's no use nagging you about it at that point.  It's first thing in the morning for you too, you haven't had your coffee, and I haven't shaken my morning fatigue enough to start an unpleasant discussion.

And so this post-it of wrath, allowing me to vent.

That is all.

To read other uberbitchy post-its of wrath, click here.

Memory Lane - At Dad's Office

  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

   

 

 

 

When I was a kid, we only had one car so, if my mother needed to go shopping or whatever, dad would drive to work, and then she'd take the wheel.

 

Indulge me in a little tangent a moment because, as I wrote that first sentence, a related memory surfaced.

 

My mother was pint-sized.  

 

Our car was massive.  

 

I know it was an Austin something-or-other and, having done some Googling, I suspect it was a Cambridge Countryman:

 

 

 

Basically, my mother wasn't tall enough, even with a cushion, to see over the steering wheel.  She drove, literally, imitating an old lady waving her hands from side to side above her head at an exercise class, to enable constant course correction.  It was like a drunk captain driving a boat.  Even as a toddler, it used to scare the living shit out of me when dad got out and mom got into the driving seat.

 

Right, digression over.

 

So we'd do the shopping, run errands, bla bla bla, and head back to the office to pick up my dad.

 

I thought his office was such a big deal.  The professionally dressed people bustling about, the imposing  foyer, the over-friendly secretary, my father's huge desk...

 

And in the top left hand drawer, he always - always - had Imperial Mints, and I was given one, and never more than one, as a treat.  I distinctly remember the green and white box and the taste of the saucer shaped sweet as I gobbled it up, the mintiness hitting the back of my tongue.  

 

 

 

So, one day, we're waiting for my dad to finish work.  His office building was built around a central courtyard, which had a rectangular fish pond in the middle.  As per the style at the time, it was surrounded by grey slasto.  There was a little wall thingy around it, probably about a 30-40cm high, with a top about the same width.  And, of course, bored as hell waiting - the 5 minutes worth of distraction provided by the mint over and having been told that I was not allowed to put my fingers in the water to poke the fish - I began walking round and round the pond on the little wall.

 

 "Stop that!" my mother cautioned.  "You'll fall in!"

 

I don't have to tell you - do I? - that I didn't listen.

 

Quite the opposite.  I increased speed.

 

And I fell in.

 

Yes, I know you saw that one coming.

 

My mother tut-tutted, and went into dad's office to borrow his jersey, take off whatever I was wearing and cover my dripping 4 year old body in a piece of clothing that was 20 times too big for me.

 

Word spread, as it does in any office, and it didn't take long for ladies from the typing pool (yes, this was a long time ago...) came over to "console" me, patting my sodden hair while choking back giggles.

 

I was completely and utterly humiliated.

 

And my mother, in that way that only mothers can do, wasted no time in telling me that she tried to warn me, and that next time, hopefully I'd listen!

 

Yeah, fat chance.

 

Ah, the things we remember...

  

 

 

To read more in the Memory Lane series, click here.

 

You might like to read more about my mother.

 

 

 

Work-Life Imbalance - Login

 

I did it again.  I just tried to log in to my blog using my work login.

FFS...

Work-Life Imbalance...

If you want to find out other stupid things that I do that prove I have no ability to compartmentalize my life, click here.

Hell is Other People - The Boss from Hell

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

My very good friend Barbara has a new boss.  And he's a Fuckwit.  

 

Think I'm being too harsh?  Read on...

 

1)  The Game

 

Fuckwit Boss decided that the IT Project Managers should be engaged in the company by having a game to play.  Keep in mind how far gaming has come.  Keep in mind the sophistication of the games we are all currently playing, even on our phones.

 

So this is what Fuckwit Boss does.  He gets excited, he jumps up in the meeting, he starts drawing on the whiteboard.

 

"Picture this!" he says, scribbling furiously.

  

"What we have is a Project Manager, and they have all these project tasks coming down at them from the sky, and they have to run and catch them so they score points to have a successful project!"

"AND!" he continues, his brainstorming genius cup overflowing... "They all have more than one project to run, so the tasks can be different shapes!  And different colors!" 

 

To her credit, Barbara said nothing.

 

Here's what I would have said:

 

"Would there be a soundtrack to this?  Perhaps a kinda bip-bip-bip noise?"

 

OR

 

"If the project manager doesn't catch a task, does it turn into a yellow circle with a little snapping mouth that chases him?"

 

OR

 

"Can the project manager jump to different levels?  Maybe, as well as tasks coming down, we have a scary monkey throwing obstacles down, and he has to jump over them, and maybe they aren't square like the tasks, but more barrel shaped?"

   

2)  Too Close for Comfort

 

Barabara and her team - including her boss - were at a conference.  These things are a lot of work and - if you've ever been to one - you'll know that, at some point, you have to let off steam.  

 

And so the whole team were at a dinner, followed by a party with dancing.

 

Barbara can get down with the best of them, and she and her colleagues are shaking their boot-tahys.

 

And then, out of the blue, Fuckwit Boss comes up to her, on the dancefloor, and hugs her... hugs her close.

 

Barbara is stunned.  Over his shoulder, she looks at her colleagues with, she told me, a mix of panic and revulsion.  None of them save her.

 

He stepped back - and this is kicker - says to her:

 

 "I hope that didn't make you uncomfortable.  I hope that was OK."

 

Barbara is a very intelligent woman.  I don't need to give you my opinion on this, because she put it perfectly.

 

"If a person who has touched a colleague has to ask that question," she said, "that's a clue that what you did IS NOT OK."

 

 

3)  No Respite

  

Barbara had minor surgery.  It wasn't anything life threatening, but it was surgery.  She woke up in the morning, and she really wasn't feeling well.

 

She works at one of those companies where they have all the latest technology, so you can log into your computer from home and get access to all your stuff.  If you work at pretty much any medium to large sized company, you can do that.

 

Also, there's this thing called the TE-LE-PHONE.  Even better than that, there's this amazing thing called THE CON-FER-ENCE PHONE.  So, guess what?  You can even take part in meetings from home.

 

So, at 6am, immediately after getting up, Barbara sent an email to her boss and her team to say wouldn't be in the office that day, but that she would be online and available on her cell phone.  

 

Let's face it, she should've taken a sick day.  A day when she could lie on the couch, watch crappy daytime TV, take painkillers and get paid by her firm to do it.  

 

But my dear friend suffers from a serious condition, one that endangers many of us in corporate America...

 

She has a strong work ethic.

 

She was managing a project that was vital to the company, and was at a critical stage.  She settled for a compromise - working from home.

 

Her boss is an ex-military man, so that will explain his reaction to her email.

 

"If you are not in the office by 10 am" he mailed back " I will consider you Absent Without Leave!"

 

I hereby choose not to comment on this.  You don't want to read a bunch of swearwords, and I think the response speaks for itself.

 

Hell is other people.

 

 

 

If you want to read about more people that I think epitomize a lifetime in hell, click here.

• Your children are revolting
• When you're in the cinema, shut the fuck up

  

  

Couch Potato - The Reality of Reality TV

  

Fluffy Bear and I were doing some housework in the lounge, and the TV was on the Food Network Channel.  

So there's this woman.  Her tits are so big and so high I wondered if she'd float away if they ever warmed up, but that's not the point...

So it's near the end of the show.  She is doing some cake for a New York Fashion Week shindig.  They invite her to the runway show, and there she is, assistant at her side, ooh-ing and ah-ing about the show.

Then the dramatic music starts.  They have to rush to the party venue to assemble the cake.  

DUN-DUN-DAAAAAAH!

She has various cakes, in the shape of shoes and handbags, and they are supposed to each sit on a little platform attached to a ferris wheel.  As the wheel slowly rotates, the little shelf that each cake is on should rotate in the opposite direction to remain horizontal.

Well - surprise! surprise! surprise! - it wasn't working.  The cakes were too heavy.

Cue the tubas, trombones and big bass drums... The music more scary than the Jaws theme.

DUR-DUH! DUR-DUH! DUR-DUH! DUR-DAH!

What is a girl to do?

Well, she starts by cutting a cake in half to make it lighter.  

There's a cut to an interview with one of her team, saying something about how, when things are tough, her Booby Boss "shows her creativity" and yells orders at everyone to solve the problem.  This woman clearly thinks her boss is the shit.

But... is she?

Let's break it down:

1. If you have a cake to assemble at a party, why are you going to the fashion show when you haven't done that already?  Why are you going at all?  You're STAFF, for fuck's sake.  Did all the waiters at the party get to go?
2. You're making cakes for a large party, you've decided to put them on a FERRIS WHEEL and you are on national television.  Don't you think it might be rehearse the whole thing beforehand?  Huh?  Huh?  Ya think?
3. Your team members think that you're incredible because, in a crisis (which you are responsible for creating in the first place), you bark out orders to deal with it.  Wow, you sure know how to hire the right people, Babe, because, if it were me, I'd tell you to stop fucking yelling at me and learn to do your job properly.

Don't get me wrong.  I watch Reality TV.  There are some shows I am addicted to including Ru Paul's Drag Race and Drag U, Real Housewives of Atlanta and Beverley Hills and Food Network Star.

But I really think this show - whatever it is, I didn't see the name - is a huge, steaming pile of bullshit.

Boobie Boss' little cake crisis is not as scary as a shark about to rip my legs off, a burn victim attacking me in my dreams or a man in a hockey mask about to stab me repeatedly.  The TV show is effectively creating something out of nothing by adding an inappropriate soundtrack and interviewing the Boobie Boss and her staff in such a way that they describe assembling a fucking cake as a matter of life and death.

Give me a fight between the Real Housewives any day.  

To read more of my musings that show I watch far too much television, click here.

You might like: 

• A review of a great B movie: So bad it's good - Shredder
• My thoughts on a movie so bad there is a critic who goes around the country doing a comedy routine about it: Showgirls

9 to 5 - CorpSpeak Construction analogies

"I’m thinking of how I can ensure I’m cementing my understanding here." 

 I am proud of myself that I didn't snort my derision into the phone. 

To see more in the 9 to 5 series, click here.

You might like:

• Three Letter Acronyms
• A job I could never apply for

FAIL - My Health Insurance 1

 

I have put "1" in the title because I'll place money on the fact that I am going to find more than one FAIL with my insurance provider.

So: Pharmacy process.

First, I have to order my medicine through the insurance company's mail order service. They won't let me fill a prescription for a specific medication more than three times at the pharmacy. Each of my medications finishes at a different time, so I can't even consolidate items in one shipment.

Ripoff, anyone?

Second, they will not allow me to order a refill until a specified amount of time before they believe the medication in question will run out. It's taken me three emails to find out that I can reorder when my medication is 60% done.  

Let's face it, the more confusing it is, the better they can fuck you over without you being able to resist.

And America just seems to think that this is how it should be.  It's like pedophile who abducts a small child, keeps her locked up for years and constantly tells her the world outside is an evil place and he is the only one who truly loves her.

I asked if they could send me a reminder over two weeks before my mediction is up, because their delivery takes that long.  They told me they send reminders when medication is 90% complete.  I have never received a reminder.

Now you tell me. How the fuck am I supposed to tell when it's time to renew? Count my pills so I know when I have 2 weeks worth left? I have four different kinds of pills that I take daily, in different dosages which require taking either one or two pills.

And, riddle me this: how the mother fucking bastard feck bollocks do I tell when my two asthma inhalers are running out? You know your inhaler is dead the day you squeeze the top and nothing comes out. Neither of them has a gage on top and, even if they did, what number on the gage guide = just over two weeks worth?

Their latest email told me that I could see the refill date on the bottle of the prescription.  The printed labels are written in about 8 point font.  Which means I have to take a large koki (magic marker) and write on the bottle what the medication is.  I wrote over the refill dates.  So sue me.

I'm an intelligent person who is not compromised by disease, and not geriatric. Can you imagine how awful dealing with this system is for people who don't have the mental capacity, the eyesight, or the physical energy, to decipher the quagmire?

American insurance companies are an EPIC fail. I long for the day when Obama care crushes their monopoly, forces improvement of their degenerate processes and destroys their carte blanche to treat us like shit.

FAIL!

To read more in this negativity fest, click here:  Fail

Note to Self - Who's your friend?

Today I was walking to the loo at work and the name Maurizio popped into my head.

"Do I know anyone called Maurizio?" I asked myself.

Then: "I'm sure I do..." and a face surfaced in my memory. Dark hair, olive skin, beautiful eyes... The kind of man you know can dance Latin style.

"Where did I meet him?" I was trying to remember.

"Friend of Fluffy Bear's? Old colleague? Networking thing?"

And then it hit me. He's Kyle's husband on the Real Housewives of Beverley Hills!

I was considering a reality TV person as someone actually in my life!

Note to self: Reality show people are not YOUR reality.

To read more in the Note to Self series, click here.

Being a Doggy Mama - 7 Rules of Dog Park Etiquette

 

I've written about this stuff before.  

But, sadly, it seems that Fuckwits still abound, so I have no choice but to reiterate.

Here are the...

7 Rules of Dog Park Etiquette

1) NO SQUEAKY TOYS IN THE DOG PARK

I am happy for you that you buy your dog special squeaky toys.  Bully for you.  

Just don't bring them to the dog park because - guess what? - my dog doesn't know that the thing being thrown in the air that is emitting loud prey sounds is off-limits to him.  

And my Puppy Dog is most likely a damn sight faster than your dog (because he can run like the wind) and - guess what? - my dog is going to get to the prey before your dog.  And then my dog is going to chew the prey which, of course, is going to continue to emit loud death cries.  And then I am not going to be able to get your fucking squeaky little piece of shit toy back from my dog to give it to you, it's rightful, righteous owner.

For an example of this kind of utter fiasco, see here and here.

2) PICK A LINE OF SIGHT

When you are throwing the ball for your dog, and at least three other people are too, don't you think it might be a good idea to make sure that the balls' trajectories don't cross each other?  Or were you not paying attention in Maths class when they covered Geometry?

If you have to cross trajectories because the park is full - guess what? - you can try timing.  Watch, just like you would when you're in your car, the relative speed, distance and direction of whatever the potential obstacle may be, and launch your ball accordingly.

It's up to YOU to makes these assessments and calcuations because - guess what? - my dog isn't going to.  And, most likely, neither is yours.  When they chase balls, they're not in fucking ballet class, Mate.  They have a singular focus, their instinct takes over and nothing will deter them from catching the prey. 

I don't give a shit if you don't like it - this is just the way it is.  If you can't figure out a way to play with your dog safely, in a way that doesn't endanger my dog, kindly fuck right off and play somewhere else in the park - like the ditch.

3) WATCH YOUR KID

Rugrats need training as much as dogs do.  If you insist on bringing them to the dog park - in spite of the fact that Snot Goblin parks outnumber dog parks in this city something like 10 to 1 - kindly instruct your Mini-me's on how to behave.

There is a strict etiquette to approaching another person's dog, which is not just about manners, but also safety.

You approach slowly, get the owner's attention and ASK if you may greet or pet the dog.  That way, I can make sure I hold Puppy Girl's collar so that she sits nicely and does not jump up to lick your Tinker in the face, smashing her stone skull into your poor little Nappy Crapper's chin.  

Because, you see, your Small Fry is not a miniature adult to my dog.  It's a playmate.  

My dog does not understand that your Brat weighs two thirds of what it does.  My dog does not understand that all your Scamp wants to do is reach out a tentative finger to touch it.  My dog does not understand that your Hatched Alien is above it in the pack order because, once again, my dog is heavier, faster and fitter than your Ankle Biter and it knows that she could take it down in a heartbeat.

Manners!  Etiquette!  Ignore these elements in your Snot Nose's education and you'll rue the day.  

4) WATCH YOUR FURKID

I am happy for you that you are a gregarious, approachable person who likes to gather temporary BFFs at the dog park.  

But, as you exchange inane pleasantries, kindly keep an eye on what your dog is doing.  Because if it's coming over to hump my dog, bark insessantly at her or get in the way of her chasing the ball, your dog is going to get a swift lesson in the power of the Alpha Female.

5) SCOOP THE POOP

This is a follow on from point 2.  

If you don't watch your dog, you can't see when it poops can you?  So pay a-fucking-tention and do what you are supposed to do.

And don't you dare use not having a bag as an excuse.  Less than 5 feet from you in any direction is another dog owner who'll have bags, or you can go to the ones provided by the dog park on the fence and walk your fat, lazy arse back to where the poop is and pick it up.

I do not want to step in your dog's poop.  I do not want my dog to step in your dog's poop.  I do not want my dog's ball to roll in your dog's poop and then her pick the ball up in her mouth.

If I see you repeatedly offending in this way, I am going to come to your house, shit on your doorstep and show you what it's like to not scoop.

6) IF IT DOESN'T COME TO YOU, GO TO IT

I can't tell you the number of times I've heard people at the dog park calling their dogs repeatedly.  If your dog isn't coming to you, move your lardy arse and go to it.

Yes, dogs can run circles around us and make it hard to catch them but, frankly, you wouldn't be in this situation if you had trained your dog properly in the first place.

Anyone who does not teach their dog the "Come" command is a monumental Fuckwit.

Don't stand in the dog park subjecting us all to your sing-song call that reminds us all of bad Karaoke.  

Train your dog, go to your dog and shut the fuck up.

7) PAY FOR YOUR DOG'S SINS

If your dog attacks another dog, do the right thing.  Go up to the owner, apologize and offer him or her your details so that you can pay a portion of the vet bill.  

You'd have to do it if it were a car wreck wouldn't you?  What makes you think you can just walk away when your badly behaved furkid has sunk his teeth into another dog?

Today, at the dog park, two dogs set upon a third, and they had him at either end, pulling him apart.  

The dogs' owners - surprise! surprise! - were chatting to each other and took at least 30 seconds after the volume indicated that this was a really-dangerous-incident-in-progress to run up and deal with their dogs.  

When I went to comfort the owner of the poor dog who was attacked, I asked her whose dogs had hurt her baby.  She couldn't even tell me because she was in shock, and nobody had had the decency to approach her to apologize.

I greatly regret not standing in the park and yelling: "WHOSE DOGS ATTACKED THIS DOG?" running up to them and telling them to remember some fucking manners and make amends to the poor woman who was about to have an Emergency Vet bill to deal with.  Nobody gets half price at the 24 hour dog clinic on a Saturday afternoon.

But, sadly, I was so freaked out that I didn't do it.

But I hereby officially curse those two Fuckwits who didn't help that poor woman.  May they be plagued with arse-pimples, halitosis, constipation and erectile dysfunction for at least six months from today.  And, the next time their dog sinks it's teeth into anything, let it be some soft, warm part of their owners' bodies where the pain will be as acute as possible. 

Read more in the Being a Doggy Mama series.

You may also like reading about how my dogs converse in Puppy Talk.

This Changed my Life - My Jerry Springer Moment

 

It was back in my Fag Hag days.  Yes, I was one of those women.  The phase lasted about two years.

I had a Fag Husband (is that what they are called?) and we were a couple in every way, other than sex. 

Of course, I did try to get physical with him.  Of course, I failed. 

I was completely unprepared for my Jerry Springer moment.  I had a cosseted suburban childhood.  My mother dressed her age, my father worked hard and was strict.  We went to church.  We had a nice house.  I went to the local schools - junior, senior and high school.  

I even told my mother, in one of those petty teenage rebellion moments, that we were boring.

"One day, my child," she replied, "you'll be grateful we were boring."

Annoyingly, as with other pontifications she made, she was absolutely right.

So there I am, young and relatively innocent, living with my Fag husband in a city far from home, working some piss-ant, dead-end job, experimenting with the most inane drugs you could dare to try, smoking cigarettes and deep into the Techno scene.  Yes, I was one of those people who went to a Rave with a baby bottle around my neck, filling it only with water, because a little tab of Acid had me on a psychadelic high that no alcohol could match.

And then my Fag Husband introduces me to his childhood friend.  This man-boy was not White, he was rich and he was well educated.  So you see the irony, he had left his culture of birth behind, been assimilated into White South African society through a private school education and parents rich as Croesus, but I saw him as so very, very exotic.  In fact, in the days of Apartheid, I thought, in my naeive way, that being attracted to him was a borderline act of political resistance.

And so I fell for him, even though he had a girlfriend, who was included in our social outings.  I found her intimidating, because I'd grown up strictly middle class and like my Fag Husband and his friend, she was private school educated and came from money.  I never felt, back then, that I fitted in with those Country Club-type people.

Mr Exotic was as interested in me as I was in him and, long story short, we ended up doing the Horizontal Mambo more than once behind his girlfriend's back.  I'm a firm believer, just by the way, that blaming "The Other Woman" is a crock of shit.  No-one kidnaps and forces your partner to flirt with them, fall for them and fuck them.  The third person in the triangle - male or female - has made no commitment to you.  Just as getting rid of prostitutes won't get rid of prostitution, blathering on that people should respect other people's commitments and "not give in to tempting the person in a relationship," is utterly unrealistic.

Anyway, one night, Little Miss Country Club came to pick up Mr Exotic at our house.  She went into my room and found a used condom.  Now there's a life lesson right there.  If you choose infidelity, at least cover your tracks.

Seeing as the only other person there at the time was my Fag Husband, it didn't take a genius to figure out who I'd be schtuping.

She went completely ape shit.

Now let's think for a moment about the term "ape shit."  It indicates a regression to a primal state and refers to the ape defense mechanism where they do, in fact, throw their feces.  

When two male apes are squaring up for a fight, they will posture, trying to establish, before physical contact, who is more dominant.  This posturing involves baring teeth, beating the ground and throwing things.  Any things.  Food, stones, sticks, and poop.  If one shows himself to be more dominant than the other, this enables the weaker ape to back down and avoid a fight which could injure them both.  It's the ape equivalent of the "naval exercises" that a government will coincidentally conduct off the shores of a country that's starting to piss them off.

So.  Back to the Ape Shit.  She's crying, she's screaming, she's calling me all sorts of names.  She slaps me across the face before Mr Exotic steps in to hold her back.  She lurches forward and tries to kick me in the head.  I can still see, after almost 20 years, her black boot and how high the heel was.  (Hmmmm.  I wonder if it was designer...)

Now here's the part that would not make for a good Jerry Springer episode:  I didn't respond at all.

I was in complete shock.  Not only had I never faced this kind of ridiculous display before but, back then, I really believed that rich, private school, Country Club types were upper class, like the Queen of England was upper class, and that they always behaved with strict decorum.

I remember I was somewhat removed, in my head, from the whole situation, looking at it from a distance thinking:   "I can't believe she's actually doing this.  Has she gone a bit mad?***"

Mr Exotic, rather muscly and at least one and a half times his girlfriend's weight, was struggling to hold her back.

My Fag Husband, being true to the cliche that gay boys only fight with witty barbs, was nowhere to be seen.

At that moment, our housemate came home.  His finance, sussing the situation immediately, gave me half a pill of some kind of anti-anxiety meds she was on, and I was soon sitting in my bedroom, completely zoned out, hearing the screeching recriminations from behind my locked door.

And I'm still thinking: Why is she doing this?

She should be breaking up with him, kicking him in the head or, even better, the balls.  She should be getting back in her car and tearing off into the night, stranding him here.  She was pretty, she was rich and I figured she could get anyone she wanted.  It wasn't like this was her future husband, for Christ's sake.  We were all in our early twenties!   

I realize now I was in some strange kind of Spock mode.

The only thing I could focus on was how illogical her behavior was.

It was probably the most surreal experience I have ever had in my life.

But I guess we all have our dramas to face.   

I have friends who grew up in families where their parents had fights like this on a regular basis.  I have a close friend whose husband hit her.  I even had a friend who used to create drama in her life with her boyfriend because, I realized years afterwards, that was the only mode of behavior she knew when it came to relationships.

So I guess I got lucky.  I've only had one of these Jerry Springer moments in my life.

But it taught me so, so many things:

• Rich people are as fucked up and badly behaved as the rest of us
• The victims of a partner's infidelity would rather blame the third party than entertain the thought that their love would choose someone over them
• Anti-anxiety meds are a blessing from our Lord God himself in high stress situations
• Never get too close to the boots of a woman who wants to kick your head in

And another thing.

I'd be an utterly terrible Jerry Springer guest.  Unless I take up Kick Boxing.

* Mad = Crazy, not angry in the English sense

To read more in the This Changed My Life series, click the Tag below or the Category link on the left.

You might like: This Changed my Life - Sex and the City 

Hello from Puppy Girl - Naughty news!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Hello my furry friends!

 

 

Oh my goodness!  I have so much to tell you since I last wrote to you! 

 

I can't even remember all the stuff!

 

Mama and Dada are still pretty weird.

 

But Dada does some amazing stuff in the The Food Place.  Mmmmmm... it all smells so good!  Yesterday Dada did something with chicken and sausages.  I love chicken!  I love sausages!

 

So, anyway, Dada did the stuff and then put all this other stuff in a big thing that feels hot and sits there for hours and hours.  Then he went out the Den and got in the Moving Den!  

 

Well, you know what that means, don't you?  He he he!

 

I got up and found the thing that still smelt of chicken and sausages and I licked up all the yummy fatty salty stuff.  Yum!  My brother is such a wuss that he won't climb up in The Food Place so he just stood there and watched me eat!  Nyah hah!

 

Then Mama and Dada came home and they had their Dinnertime and then they went back in The Food Place with their dinner bowls and Dada said to Mama:

 

"Did you clean up---"

 

And then he stopped.

 

Well, you see, I hadn't managed to get to all the yummy fatty salty stuff because some of it was far back in the Food Bowl that Dada puts on the big box that gets hot and, because of my lapping, some of the yummy fatty salty stuff flew out of the Food Bowl. 

 

Dada and Mama had a long conversation about me and looked at me.  Dada said something about too late to discipline because I wasn't doing anything right now and Mama said something about me being naughty.

 

But they didn't say anything to me!  HAHA!  

 

It was so yummy and nice and fatty and slippery and salty and yummy!

 

But the rest of the night wasn't so nice.  My tummy got sore and the fatty salty stuff was not so yummy and it started to come up my throat.  I had to cough it up before we went Bedtime and then I had to get up in the middle of the night to cough up some more.  Mama said something about serving me right.  I don't know how you serve a right.  I thought right is the way you run when you turn to the side?

 

Mama and Dada are soooo strange.

 

What else can I tell you?

 

Oh yes!

 

We went to a new water place the other day!  There was a huuuuuuge place where you could play in the water and there was nice wet sand.  Dada threw the Evil Ball that Must be Caught and Killed into the water, like he always does for me, and I jumped in!

 

It was cold but I love to swim 'cos it's fun!

 

But that water was a bit strange.  It wasn't like the other water I've been in.  It tasted strange and kept moving!

 

This one time I was swimming back to Dada with the Evil Ball that Must be Caught and Killed in my mouth and the moving water sorta carried me up and then it fell on my head!  

  

And Mama and Dada were standing on the wet sand laughing!

 

They are sooooo weird.

 

But sometimes my brother and I get sneaky on Mama and Dada.  HAHA!

 

Dada took us to one of the parks we always go to and we walked around the dry part and we chased the Evil Ball that Must be Caught and Killed again and again!!!! It was awesome!  

 

But then Dada took us back to the place where all the Moving Dens were, but we're not stupid, my brother and I.  Well, actually, sometimes he can be really stupid, like being too wussy to stand up and get the yummy fatty salty stuff with me, but... anyway... 

 

So Dada tried to get us to go back to the Moving Den but, when we are at the place where all the Moving Dens are, we know exactly how to get to the water, so off we went!  HAHA!  Then we were swimming (flat water this time - thank dog), and having such fun together!

 

But then Dada found us - darn it!  And he made us come out of the water and go to the moving den and said something about no towel and we were very naughty.

 

I am so tired of being told I am naughty!  I am NOT naughty!

 

OK.  Maybe I am.

 

Sometimes.

 

A leeeeetle bit.

 

But it's so much FUN!

 

HAHAHAHAHA!

 

 

 

Lots of licks and woofs,

 

Puppy Girl. 

 

To read more in the Hello from Puppy Girl series, click the Tag below or the Category link on the left.

 

From Puppy Girl's letters, you might like:

• How Puppy Girl came to her new home

From Puppy Dog's letters, you might like:

• Puppy Dog's confusion at Dada's new religion

To spy on one of their conversations, you might like:

• The Dysonmonster

Puppy Talk - Bonecall to Spirit

 

  

Unfortunately, my dogs were in the room when one of Puppy Dog's Tweetpals directed me to this site which tells the story of Ara and Spirit.

 

Ara is a chef, a writer, a father who knows the pain of outliving his child. Spirit is, like every dog, a companion, a friend, family. He is also the one who gets to sit in the sidecar wearing goggles and a helmet that says "Bite Me."

Now my furkids are obsessed.  Spirit is their hero and Ara is a god.  Everything is "Spirit this," "Spirit that."  So it's hardly surprising that they wanted to talk to Spirit.

 

Check out the site and you'll soon see why.

Puppy Dog:  Hey Spirit!  We saw your video!  So kewl, Dude!

Puppy Girl:  Omigod!  Sooooooo JEALOUS!

Puppy Dog:  Don't be rude.

Puppy Girl:  Well I am jealous!  And you are too!  Don't pretend you're not.

Puppy Dog:  Shut up, I'm not talking to you.  I'm talking to Spirit.

Puppy Girl:  Uh, yeah, about that... how are we doing that, exactly?

Puppy Dog:  The Collective Dogconscious. 

Puppy Girl:  The whatnow?

Puppy Dog:  Never mind.  It just works, OK?  You can connect to Spirit if you concentrate hard and talk to him.

Puppy Girl:  Are you winding me up?

Puppy Dog:  No!  Listen, a moment ago you talked to Spirit, right, just after I did?

Puppy Girl:  Oh yeah... I did!

Puppy Dog:  It's like that.  It just is.  You don't have to think about it.  

Puppy Girl:  Wow.... that's...

Puppy Dog:  Sorry about the interruption, Spirit.  My little sister can be---

Puppy Girl:  THAT'S SO AWESOME!

Puppy Dog:  AARGH!  Why are you yelling?  I was talking to---

Puppy Girl:  SO AWESOME!  SO AWESOME!  THE KLEKTIV DOGSHUSS!

Puppy Dog:  Ssh!  I'm talking to Spirit!

Puppy Girl:  Oh, right, sorry.

Puppy Dog:  Where were we?  Sorry again, Spirit, I---

Puppy Girl:  HEY, SPIRIT!  Where'd you get those goggly thingies?  They look awesome!  And the head cap thingy!  Awesome!  And you get to ride with your Dada and sniff everything and feel the wind in your fur and the sun on your head - well, not your head because of the hat thingy but the sun on your tail, definitely your tail - right? - and you get to go fun places and meet other dogs and see new things all the time!  YOU'RE SO LUCKY!!!  We can't even stick our heads out the moving den windows!

Puppy Dog:  Yeah, she's right.  Annoying, but right.  We mostly go to the parks in the moving den.  There are a few of them, but we pretty much know them now.  Hell, half way there we know where we're going.

Puppy Girl:  Yeah but there was that one time...

Puppy Dog:  Yes.  We went to see Mama and Dada's friends in Faraway.

Puppy Girl:  Faraway!  It was AWESOME!

Puppy Dog:  [Whispering]  I tell her that everywhere that isn't here is called Faraway because she---

Puppy Girl:  What are you whispering about?

Puppy Dog:  Nothing.

Puppy Girl:  Are you saying mean things about me to Spirit?

Puppy Dog:  No.

Puppy Girl:  LIAR!  Don't listen to him, Spirit!  He's just mean and nasty because I can run faster than him and I get to the Lil Round Green Critter first and bring it back to Mama and then she throws it and we both run but I get to it first again and---

Puppy Dog:  Will you stop blabbering?  

Puppy Girl:  Shut up!

Puppy Dog:  No, you shut up.  So, Spirit: Mama's promised us that she's going to show us more videos and read us your Dada's stuff about where you go and what you see.

Puppy Girl:  And we're going to get a sidecar!  Mama said!  And Mama said we can have one each because I don't want to sit next to my mean old stinky brother!

Puppy Dog:  OK, now you're just being silly.  The only thing Mama said about a sidecar was that it made her feel like a drink.  

Puppy Girl:  How does a drink feel?

Puppy Dog:  Oh for crying out loud!  Feel like A drink!  Like having a drink!

Puppy Girl:  What's water got to do with all this?  Mama said sidecar!  I heard her!  We're getting a sidecar each!

Puppy Dog:  Look, Spirit, we'll have to chat when I'm alone.  You can see what I'm putting up with here.  Seriously, Dude, I envy you on the open road, ALONE with your Dada.  Later.

Puppy Girl:  Stop ignoring me!  Mama said!  She said sidecars!

Puppy Dog:  So we're getting two sidecars, are we?  Do you even know what a sidecar is?

Puppy Girl:  It goes brmmmm-brmm.  It has a thing on the side what you sit in.  And a thing on the other side what I sit in.  Brmmmm-brmm!  Brmmmm-brmm!

Puppy Dog:  Did you even WATCH the video?

Puppy Girl:  You know I did!  I was right there with you!

Puppy Dog:  A sidecar is attached to a motorbike.  You can't have two sidecards on a motorbike.  Only one.

Puppy Girl:  A motorwhatnow?

Puppy Dog:  That's it.  That's it!  I'm going to bed.

 

To read more in the Puppy Talk series, click the Tag below or the Category link on the left.

You might like:

• Fur Blower
• The Pack Hierarchy

Short Story / Unfinished Novel - Casino Girl

 

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. 

"Table 17," Chad said, zooming in.

"Who?" she asked.

"The woman in the sequined jacket thing."

"It's a bolero."

He ignored her fashion tip and tapped the screen to the right, which had wider angle shot.

"There's Larry."

The Pit Boss was standing on the far side of the Roulette table, discretely keeping an eye on the woman who was winning.

Susan sighed.  "It's hardly like she's struck gold, the poor woman," she thought.  This wasn't a high end Vegas joint.  It only took $500 in consecutive winnings at a $5 table for the dealer to quickly and quietly press the button that alerted the control room.

No, this really, really wasn't Vegas.

Susan knew her old gang would laugh if they saw the equipment here.  Hell, they' wouldn't even get that far - they'd be sniggering at the carpet when they hit the lobby.  And none of them would eat in that pathetic excuse for a restaurant upstairs.

"Focus!" she chided herself, leaning into the screens.

 "So, uh, how's your mom?" Chad asked.

"Fine," Susan said, her voice flat, signalling that she'd wouldn't elaborate if asked.  

Her mother wasn't fine and everyone knew it.  

This was a shitbag casino on a highway and everyone who worked here came from the same goddamn pissant little town.  They all knew how her mother was, they all knew Susan didn't want to be here and they sure as hell all knew that 30 seconds after her mother's funeral, she'd be putting her Porsche into Flight Mode and hurtling back to the Strip.  Before they could say "Buh-bye" she'd be back at her old job where, if she was watching a woman on an unusual winning streak at a Roulette table, that woman would've won at least ten grand by now.

Susan ran through all the standard checks.  Servers sent to walk past the table signalled there was no cellphone, nothing visible in the woman's ears.  The woman's purse was one of those tiny things you bring to a fancy party, and hung on a long silver chain from her shoulder down to her hip.  The dealer had already been swapped out. 

"The report says she's here with her husband and two friends," Chad said, reading from a third screen.  "They had dinner upstairs, ordered pretty fancy wine.  All four of them are very dressed up.  They told the server it was a celebration for the husband."

"Well," Susan said, "I've seen cheaters use all sorts of ways of looking innocent."

"Yeah," Chad said, "but the server said they bought a wine called Malbuck, and hardly anyone does that."

"Malbec," Susan sighed.

"Whatever."

Susan knew she shouldn't have done that.  The bolero thing was OK, because it was a woman explaining the name of a garment to a man.  But correcting Chad's pronounciation of a type of wine was taking it too far.  His tone said the same thing she heard from everyone in town: "Don't think you're so fancy now, Missy, just 'cos you left to go live in Vegas and drive a sportscar.  You were born here.  You were raised here, just like us."

Distractions!  Focus!

"How much did she start out with?" she asked.

"I told you already," snapped Chad.  "A hundred."

The woman at the Roulette table was definitely not behaving like your average gambler.  She wasn't leaning in or watching what other players were doing or even looking at the table to choose where to put her bet.  She stood, breathing very slowly, eyes closed, all her chips in her hands and, when the wheel was already spinning, she'd lay down a bet on either black or red, a little before No More Bets was called.  Then she'd close her eyes again and breathe, waiting.  When the dealer called the win, she'd open her eyes and watch him add to her pile of chips, then pick them all up.  She'd close her eyes again, take deep slow breaths, and the whole process would restart.

Except... Susan leaned in a little further.

Every now and then, she didn't bet at all.

"How long? she asked.

"Only the last twenty minutes," replied Chad.

"I really don't see anything, apart from she's just a bit weird," she said, pressing the button on the console so that Larry, the Pit Boss, and the Spotters could hear her.

Susan saw Larry shrug his right shoulder, ever so slightly, on the monitor.  He didn't see anything either, then.  Same move from both Spotters, one pretending to play at the same table, and another standing behind the woman, a little to the right, holding a fake Whiskey Sour.

The woman didn't play for three rounds.  The slow, deliberate breathing, the closed eyes... more than a few of the other players at the table had noticed her strange behavior.  Only two of them were following her bets - the rest were too freaked out by her.

The wheel spun, the ball was spun in the opposite direction.  The woman put everything on Red.  She closed her eyes and put her palms together, as if she was praying.

Again, she won. 

But she also completely lost her composure.  Her shoulders started to heave, she took her winnings and turned to leave the table.

Susan quickly pushed the button to talk to Larry.

"Is she going to throw up?" she asked.

"Crying," said Larry quietly, into his mike.

"I'm coming down there," said Susan.  "Let me know where she goes."

Susan ignored the fact that Chad was whispering directions into her earpiece, pretending to be James Bond, and soon found the woman cashing in her chips.  Susan followed her to one of the sofas just off the North side of the casino floor.

The woman was still crying.  She was holding her little purse tightly to her chest.  "They always do that," thought Susan.  "Makes no sense.  As if we'd let anyone steal from anyone else in here."

Susan sat down next to the woman on the sofa, putting a hand on her shoulder.

"My name is Susan," she said softly, "and I work for the casino.  Are you OK?  Can I help with anything?"

"No."  The woman sniffed, blotting her nostrils with the back of her hand.

"Are you sure?  You seem very upset.  Did you have an argument with someone?  Lost a lot of money?"

"I won," the woman said, launching into a fresh flood of tears.

"Isn't that a happy thing?" asked Susan, taking some Kleenex from a helpful server, and handing them to the woman.

"Yes, yes." said the woman, her voice husky from the tears.  "It is."

"Congratulations..." Susan kept her voice moderated.  "How much?"

"$6,400.  I know it doesn't sound like a lot --" the woman blew her nose a little, took a few shaky breaths, "but my husband hasn't worked for eight months and he got a job two weeks ago and we're here to celebrate with our friends but we still have so many credit card bills and medical bills and they almost repossesed our car.  We're twenty grand in the hole."

"I'm so happy this is going to help you."  Susan rubbed the woman's back.  "But you still seem so very upset.  These don't seem like tears of happiness."

From the corner of her eye, Susan saw Larry on the casino floor escorting the woman's husband through the tables, coming over to meet them.  Larry kept looking over to check with Susan, but he also had his hand on the husband's arm and seemed to be reassuring him.

Susan gave an almost imperceptible wave, and Larry directed the husband round a table at a 90 degree angle, taking him on a detour to give the two women more time alone together.

"I closed my eyes," said the woman, starting to cry again "and then a voice told me what to bet."

"It's OK," said Susan, "a lot of people here bet by gut instinct or take time to get in touch with their inner voice."  

The woman snorted - half laugh, half sob - and blew her nose.  She dabbed her eyes, smudging her mascara even more.  

She turned on the couch to face Susan, looking her in the eye.  The woman placed her hand on Susan's arm, and squeezed it.

"You don't understand," she said.  "It was my mother.  She said red.  She said black.  She said when not to play."  

Susan flinched, but she had to push a little more.  She'd need to have the detail for her report.

"Why did you stop?  Two more bets and you would've been able to pay off almost all your debt." 

"My mother always said the same thing," the woman answered, starting to cry harder again. " Same thing.  When I sewed my wedding dress, when I had my first baby.  Even when I was a kid doing my homework.  She said: 'I'll help you, but I won't do it all for you'."

Susan started to cry.

To read more in the Short Story / Unfinished Novel series, click the Tag below or the Category link on the left.

You might like: 

• The Nose
• I Died

FAIL - Reporting on the Japanese Earthquake

 

This rant is about the choice made by the news show that I watched reporting the disaster in Japan.  They reported relatively fairly (until they got to the scaremongering about the nuclear reactor, but that came later).

But then they follow their Japan report with the story of how a somewhat larger than usual wave hit the California coast and how ONE man, clearly aspiring to win a Darwin award, went out to the beach to take photos, and drowned.

First, spending an equal amount of time on the death of ONE American - as sorry as I am for his family - as on the disaster in Japan which is on the same scale as 9/11 (except, Thank God, they can't choose to wage war on Mother Nature), is ludicrous, narcissistic and utterly tasteless.

Not only that, but they said the waves were a whole SIX FEET HIGH.  Where I come from, that's a good surfing day.  I'm not kidding.

To read more in the FAIL series, click the Tag below or the Category link on the side.

You might like: Cellphone provider FAIL

Being a Doggy Mama - The Venn Diagram of Life

Circle of Life - Kid: 

1. I am part of you

2. I'm coming out! OUCH!  OUCH!  OUCH!  OUCH!  WHAT THE HELL?  

3. I am part of you. FEED ME! CHANGE ME!

4. I love you.  What's going on?  Oh, this is kinda fun.  Playtime!  Tired now.  FEED ME!  CHANGE ME!

5. I love you.  Playtime!  AMUSE ME! FEED ME!  Go potty myself?  NO!  WHAT THE HELL? Tired now.

6. I love you.  Playtime! AMUSE ME!  FEED ME! Wait, I go potty.  OK, tired now.

7. Let's play!  This is fun!  I love you!

8. School is fun!  We play there!  I love my friends.  I love you.

9. LEAVE ME ALONE!  I'M ALMOST AN ADULT!

10. I HATE YOU!

11. College!  See ya!  Hey I'm back!  Thanks for doing my laundry!  Gotta go!

12. I have a job.  I'm MOVING OUT!!! I'm happy that I am making you proud.  I am going to tell you all about it.  I'm starting to understand how much you did for me, now that I have to do my own laundry and cook for myself.  I know how much you love me.  I love you too.

13. I'm working so hard, I'm so busy.  It's good to hear from you but I have to go.  Yes, yes, I love you, Bye.

14.  I love her.  I'm getting married. Can you help out with the wedidng?  Thanks! I love you.   

15.  Yes, we're very happy together.  I love you, but you have to understand - she's my wife.  I have to take her side.

16.  We're having a baby!  I'm so excited to share this news with you!  I can't wait to make you a proud grandmother!  I love you!  Work is wonderful, and I know that the way you brought me up is part of why I am so happy and successful now.  I won't say it out loud, but inside, I thank you.  Oh, one more thing... we're moving to another State.

17. It's good to be living close by again but you have to understand, I have two kids of my own now.  I'm so busy.  Sure, let's have Sunday lunch.  My kids love you and you're great with them.  Could you babysit?  Thanks!  I love you.

18. My kids are awful now.  I think back and know I was just as horrible to you.  I'm sorry.  I love you.  I appreciate you.  Damn!  I have to get home.  The boy just shot the neighbor's cat with his pellet gun.  I know!  What should I do?  Thanks, that's great advice - I love you.  I gotta go.

19. Thank God!  My kids are out of the house!  Shall we spend some time together?  I realize you had this whole life before you had me and there are so many things I don't know about the family.  Let's talk. I enjoy spending time with you.  I love you.  That was fun, but I have to go.  Things to do, people to see... you know how it is.

20. There were so many things I wanted to talk about.  Don't go.  I'm sorry - I should have made more time, I should have been more grateful, I should have respected you more.  I'm sorry.  I do love you, you know, and I realize now how much you have always loved me.  I love you.  I'm sorry.  Goodbye.

Circle of Life - Furkid

1. I can't see you but I'll snuggle. I snuggle birth mommy and drink... yum yum.  I snuggle my sisters and brothers

2. I snuggle you.  I pee.  I'm happy.  I snuggle you

3. I snuggle you.  Let's play! I'm happy! I love you!

4. I snuggle you.  Let's play! Let's play!  Let's play! I'm happy! I lovelovelove you!

5. I snuggle you.  Let's play! I'm happy! I lovelovelove you!

6. I snuggle you.  Let's play... I'm happy! I love you!

7. I snuggle you.  Let's play a little.  I'm so happy. I love you

8. I snuggle you.  Let's walk a little.  I'm happy. I love you so much

9. I snuggle you.  I'm happy. I love you so much

10. I'm going to rest now.  I've been so happy.  Thank you.  Thank you for playing, for feeding, for shelter, for scooping, for cuddles, for toys. I have always loved you and I always will.  Goodbye

To read more in the Doggy Mama series, click the Tag below or the link on the left.

You might like: 

• The 9 circles of hell - about how taking the dogs to the off leash park can be purgatory
• Breaking point - about how having a puppy isn't all snuggles
• Funny moments with Puppy Dog - episode 2

That's Life - Man Power

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Men think women are attracted to power.

 

And they're right.

 

BUT

 

They're not right in the way they think they are.

 

Power is like beauty - we take hours, spend thousands and even suffer the surgeon's knife to achieve it.  Or so we think.  All these efforts address only our exterior when, as anyone who can see clearly knows, beauty really does come from within.

 

Both men and women need to understand that they need to find their own inner, personal power.

 

Men who don't get this take part in a multitude of pathetic pursuits to gather a fake aura of power around them.

 

 

 

Exhibit No. 1: Muscle Man

 

This man is harking back to his inner animal.  He knows that the herd only has one rutting male at a time, and that the females will choose - he believes - the male with the most physical prowess, because those are the genes that will ensure their progeny are strong enough to fight, hunt and survive.

 

Fake Prowess Formula:  Become the guy who can kick ass = being the guy who gets ass.

  

And so this man runs, and he wrestles, and he kicks balls, and he pushes weights, and he HAI-YAs as he karate chops his opponents.  

 

Pecs, thighs, ass, neck, abs... rock hard, ripped and ready to go.

 

Take heart, dear Sportsman: some women will be into this.  Do 100 pressups over her while connected doing the ol' in-out in-out and, trust me, she'll like it.  But, my dear, underneathe the deltoid and the bicep, the hot groin and the tricep that makes her... oohoohoohoohoo... shake, you are still there.  Musculo-skeletal power will not hide a lack of inner power.

 

Your hero: Michael Jordan.

 

My reality check: OJ Simpson.

 

 

 

Exhibit No. 2: Politician

 

This man, like Exhibit 1, knows the leader of the herd gets the harem.  Within the human herd, therefore, policiticans (be they democratically elected or despots) are in charge and so they are the leader, right?  

 

Fake Prowess Formula: Become the guy in charge = get to be the guy in charge.  And being in charge of everything, means you can get anything.  Even her.

  

And so this man speaks loudly, gestures profusely, talks a good game.  He wheels and deals and wines and dines till he becomes the Go To Guy.

 

Bodyguards, campaign contributors, chiefs of staff ... All at his beck and call.

  

Yes, Mr Politician, you're entitled to say that I'm wrong about your power strategy.  You can show me the adoring followers - nay, believers - who hang on your every word, your staff who work 70 kazillion hours a week to spread your message, even the intern who let you shove a tightly rolled bundle of dried and fermented tobacco in to her humidor.

  

You still don't get my vote.

 

Your hero: You're probably looking at Bill Clinton as your proof that politician = power.  

 

Well, I hate to break it to you, Mate, but that guy's power comes from more than just the job.  It's INSIDE him.  As I write this, it's been 10 years since they played Hail to the Chief when he entered a room, yet there is still a long line of women who'd happily suck his cigar. 

 

My reality check: John Kerry.  Handsome, rich, powerless.

  

 

 

Exhibit No. 3: Money Man

 

This is the man who concentrates not on the herd, but on the tribe.  His subconscious is learning from his Paleolithic ancestors:  the man of the family has to be able to provide.  Find good shelter, hunt for meat to feed and pelts to clothe, and that dear sweet women that you clubbed over the head and dragged to your cave will choose to stay there.

 

Fake Prowess Formula: I can provide for you =  I get to have you. 

 

And so this man goes to the best schools, manoeuvres himself into the best jobs, climbs the corporate ladder and gets the stock options.

 

Yes, Money Man, your money will - pardon the pun - pay off.  Not only will you be able to afford as many hookers as you want, but you'll be able to set up a stunning female mate in a gilded cage.  Hell, you'll even have a choice.

 

Bachelorette No. 1: Thanks to the hangover from Jane Austen's time, it's still true that some women can only ensure their financial security by attaching themselves to a prosperous mate.  Look for a woman sashaying towards you who's part Marilyn Monroe, part Dolly Parton.  Except not as intelligent as either of them.

 

Bachelorette No. 2: This woman may stumble your way in her designer high heels, trying to morph into a seductive man-eating siren while still crying softly and holding a hand up to her forehead, soothing the dull pain caused by years of head-butting the glass ceiling.  She may be a little clumsier in the sex bomb department, but she'll have a better understanding of the tradeoff, and she'll bring as much intelligence and dedication as she wasted on the corporate world into your home and to rearing your sprog. 

 

Bachelorette No. 3: This woman is a social climber.  She grew up poor and wants to be upper middle class, or she grew up middle class and wants to join the Golf Club set.  She is no damn fool.  She's the ultimate honey trap.  Before you know it you'll have shelled out three month's salary on a garish engagement ring and you're standing at the top of aisle in front of 300 guests about to enjoy an excessively lavish occassion, while she floats towards you, a meringue of silk and tulle.  She will be, on the outside, the perfect wife and mother.  She will keep up appearances at all costs.  As long as you keep bringing in enough money for her to have more and better and shinier things than your social set.  If you impose any financial restrictions, or do something to embarrass her in public, she'll be gone faster than the Roadrunner.

 

They'll all wear the 5 carat engagement ring.  They'll all your snotgoblins around in the Porsche Cayenne.  They'll all your arm - the perfect accessory - at company parties, but, know this:

• Bachelorette No. 1 will make you the envy of your friends.  
• Bachelorette No. 2 will make you the envy of your friends AND their wives.
• Bachelorette No. 3 will make you envy your friend who married Bachelorette No. 2.

They'll all also schtup the pool boy.  Or fuck you sideways in the divorce.

 

Your hero: Donald Trump.

 

My reality check: Mark Zuckerberg.

 

 

 

Exhibit No. 4: Car Man

  

If you can't build the perfect body, become a pied piper of the people, or wake up every morning to the soft sound of cha-ching, then at least you can LOOK like it.

 

Fighter planes are a mechanical expression of the ultimate strong man, of having the ultimate say, of the ultimate hunter.  Because if you add technology to base instinct, there's nothing you can't do.

 

You can't have a fighter plane, obviously.  

 

But you can have, in your own little urban, corporate way, the next best thing.

 

A SMOKING HOT CAR.

 

Fake Prowess Formula:  I buy BRRRRM BRRRRRM... I get BRRRRM BRRRRRM

 

Bugatti Veyron.  Porsche Carrera.  Lamborghini Reventon.  Ferrari Enzo.  Koenigsegg CCX.  

 

Are you hard yet?

 

It looks like a perfect body, it rules the road like it's the goddamn president, and everyone who sees it knows that the guy inside had to shell out some rock hard cash to get it.  Pay the deposit, set up the payment plan, sign on the dotted line and you get to be Muscle Man, Politician and Money Man all in one!

 

It will work for you, Car Man... up to a point.  She'll get in the car, but she may not stay in it.

 

Let me tell you why.

 

Most women love getting gifts of assorted chocolates.  The pretty boxes, the tissue paper, each individual chocolate nestling in it's own pleated paper cup.  The chocolates themselves look delectable.  Just like your sportscar, if you think about it.  Great paint job, lovely interior decor and a few shiny knobs that do clever things.

 

But have you ever seen a woman eat a box of assorted chocolates when nobody's watching?  

 

No?

 

Let me show you.

 

She picks one up, enjoying that little rustling sound as it breaks free of its individual little indented hollow in the plastic base.  She bites the chocolate in half.  She looks at the interior of the half that's left in her hand, considering the color and filling.  She slowly chews the other half in her mouth, feeling the texture and testing the flavor.  The chocolate looked lovely, tasty, divine.  But it's promise isn't fulfilled.  Maybe the center is hard and stale, or it's nougat when she likes toffee, or it's too rich and sticky.  Keep watching.  See how her mouth curls into a small sneer?  See what she does?  She tosses the uneaten half of the rejected chocolate back in the box, and picks up the next one.

 

Your sportscar, my Dear, is that chocolate box.  That extra expense for the mag wheels is the bow.  You are a praline.  But if you don't taste good, you're done.

 

Your hero: Any guy with a sportscar that's more expensive than yours.

 

My reality check:  The stab of disappointment I feel every time I bend down to check out who the guy is in the hot car and see a skinny/flabby/wrinkly bugger.  The hot guys drive Audis.  Jus' sayin'.  

  

  

 

Exhibit No. 5: The White Flag Waver

  

The only thing worse than a man trying to fake rather than find his inner power, is the man who gives it away.

 

Let's start with Johnny Depp.  Blessed with beauty, brains and talent, this small and somewhat effeminate man used to hold everyone's attention when he spoke.  It's no accident that he was cast as the kooky Benny, the daredevil Captain Jack and the heart wrenchingly tragic Edward Scissorhands.  He has SOMETHING.  Something undefinable - as they say in French "un certain je ne sais quoi." 

 

I call it power.  

 

Note:  I said Power, not Fake Prowess.

 

I think Johnny HAD power.  I saw it all those years ago on 21 Jump Street - a presence.  A quiet force.

 

But he gave his power away.  Perhaps he was tired of all the attention.  Perhaps he doesn't want to look like a fresh faced 16 year old speckled with middle aged wrinkles.  I have no idea.

 

All I can tell you is that Johnny Depp now looks like one of those stoners women experiment with at University.  She's at a party, everyone's mellow, she ends up in a room with this skinny guy, she thinks "What the hell, I'm young, I should experiment."  She's tingling with anticipation at being slowly rocked back and forth by a penis for four hours and then, not only does he not get it up but she realizes he hasn't showered in a week.

 

Next, Brad Pitt.  His performance in Thelma and Louise is forever - FAW-EH-VAH - etched in my memory.  Strong, stunning, sexy, dangerous.  His power was such that, as a woman, you knew that if you were ever with him you'd lose all control, you'd completely let go and to hell with the consequences.

 

And then he uglified himself.  Oh sure, he cleans up when he has a movie role, but he's kinda slimy now.  It's as if he's constantly leaning his entire body slightly back and to the left.  He's a powerless slouch.

 

Frankly, I'd rather be ravished by Angelina.

 

 

 

So... what now?

 

I know, I know, I've blathered about the negative stuff for too long.

 

What's a modern man to do?  

 

Disaster is closing in on all sides: environmental erosion, economic collapse, war - all things he cannot control.   In the workplace, women fight, slashing desperately with perfectly manicured nails, at the closed doors of the Old Boy's Club.  And, at home, the wife not only expects him to help with the housework, but he now has to be in the operating room to see the bloody, slimy, googey horror of his progeny exiting her vagina!

 

See?  Things are WAY more complicated now.  

 

 

Exhibit No. 6 - The Power Pendulum Man

 

Power must be flexible, and this man knows it.

  

It doesn't matter who makes the most money - and this can shift between one partner and the other - as long as the overall financial goals are met.  One cooks, the other cleans up afterwards.  One empties the dishwasher, the other takes out the trash.  It's a lifelong 69.

 

Still not seeing it?  Still not getting who this modern man is, the one with the right kind of power?

 

Watch a show called White Collar.

 

Neal Caffrey - Intelligent, erudite, well dressed, exciting.  But also flexible.

 

In a woman's mind, one day Neal has her up against the wall, tearing her stockings and ravaging her, and the next she's handcuffing him to the bed and torturing him for three hours with an ostrich feather.  

 

AND at any moment Neal could get his hands free from those handcuffs and pin her down for a good seeing to.

 

AND at any time she wanted to get away from that wall, softly take his hand in hers and head for their bed, that would be fine by him too.

 

The point is that, just like the motion in the midst of the mmm mmm mambo, the power sways back and forth, a pendulum that's shared, but also always within reach for one or other of you to grab and pull back onto your side if you need to.

 

But all of this is dependent on one very important pre-requisite.  

 

YOU BOTH HAVE TO HAVE POWER IN THE FIRST PLACE AND THAT POWER COMES FROM WITHIN.

  

 

 

To read more in the That's Life series, click the Tag below or the Category link on the left.

 

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That's Life - A-poop-poop-dee-doop

 

WARNING:  This post is NOT for squeamish people. 

A long time ago, in a place far away...

Actually, no.  

It was a place close by.  In fact, very close by, because it was right here.  After all, it happened to me.

You know, I've always wondered about those stories that start with that whole "far far away" thing.  Even as a child, I was skeptical.  I mean, seriously.  If it happened that far from you and way before you were born, Mr Storyteller, how the fuck do you know anything about it?

But I digress.

So let's begin again, and be more honest about it.

...

...

...

A short time ago, in a place nearby, yours truly was having, as the TV ads like to euphemistically call it: "Tummy Trouble."

I could bore you with the combination of factors - illness, stress, medication, bla bla bla - that contributed to the condition.  But, frankly, who cares?  I had the problem, I'd tried some solutions, it was time to find another one.

So I decided to make an appointment at a lovely place where they give colonics.

Don't freak out.  Colonics can be very healthy if not overused/abused/done badly.  

In fact, I had one a week and then another the day before my surgery, ensuring my colon was empty.  Keep in mind that anaesthetic completely stops your colon and it can take time to get it going again after surgery.  You want to have food sitting in there for 4 days?  Not me, Mate.  I went into that operating theatre all shiny and ready in all sorts of ways.

If you don't know what a colonic is, let me enlighten you.  A tube is gently inserted into your lubed up bumhole and your colon is slowly filled with water which loosens everything up.  Then it is allowed to head out the other way (no harsh suckage, don't worry).  It's also odor free, so don't freak out.  You are nicely covered up with a blanket, have your knees propped up on a bolster pillow and your tummy massaged by the therapist.

Sometimes, things don't "release" (their term).  Or they take some time to get going.

On this day, nothing was moving.  That's not a problem.  A colonic hydrates you, even if there aren't results when you are still "plugged in."  The rule, in cases like this, is to make sure you stay at the nice colonic and massage place afterwards to wait until your body is ready to let go.

I broke this rule.

Worried about my dogs left at home, because of my errands and appointments, for four hours, I wanted to get back and let them out to potty.

There's an ironic comment in that somewhere, but I'll let you find your own version of it.

And so I paid, and left.

Five minutes down the road, my body gave me a clear signal that the time was NOW.

Should I turn around and go back?

No.

It would be too embarrassing to run hell for leather into their nice Zen environment and head straight for their loo while whooping "It worked!  It worked!"

So I kept driving.  Hold on, I told myself, it'll be fine.

It wasn't fine.

I saw a coffee shop ahead.  I turned a 180 degree into their car park.  I got out of the car and lumbered in, limping in a strange combination of trying to hurry, and keeping my butt as clenched as a bank vault.

Well, you know what's coming next, don't you?  If it had worked, I wouldn't be telling you all this.

As I am walking into the coffee shop, there is, of course, a line for the counter which I have to cross.

Then the spritting starts.  

Imagine a baby projectile-vomiting poop out of your ass while you are fully dressed and trying to walk nochalantly past 7 people.

Yes, my dears, it really was as  bad as I am describing it.

Thank God - thank you, thank you, thank you God - the restroom was free.

And then, as they say, the bottom fell out of my world.

A relief, yes, but then I had to deal with how much of the world had fallen into my clothes.

It's amazing how inventive you can be in these situations.  How you can wash, dry and rearrange what you have so that the irrevocably damaged elements are discarded, the odor evidence is mitigated, the environment is completely cleansed and your outfit is reconstructed so you don't betray a hint of what just happened.

I know what you're wondering...  No, the people I walked past did not smell anything.  Trust me, the hyrdration part of colonics makes sure that doesn't happen.

And so, reset button pushed, I emerged from the restroom and ordered a latte I had no intention of drinking.  I overtipped in a big way simply because the coffee shop had offered me a port in a storm.

And I made my way - a considerably lighter way - home.

To read more of the That's Life series, click the Tag below or the link on the left.

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Hell is Other People - You total arse

 

So I'm on the bus. 

Whatever.

I have my iPod in my ears, I'm being taken back to the heyday of my youth by Spandau Ballet, work is over, I'm on my way home to my Fluffy Bear and my adorable furkids.

Not only that, but my boss gave me a priority to work on yesterday, and I knocked it out of the park in by 4:30pm, and I am feeeeeeeling good (DUM, da-dum, da-dum, da-dum, da-da-da-da-da-da-da-DUM..)

Then this guy gets on the bus.

He's actually quite interesting looking.

He's got a Johnny Rotten look, dressed - of course! - from head to toe in black, leather jacket and boots, ultra-skinny jeans and earrings protruding from all sorts of places on his head.

He looks strangely IN place sitting next to the woman with bright red hair who has half of it in a chignon and the other half in a side mohawk fanning across the left side of her head.

It's all good.

The woman next to me is older, grey haired and knitting.

It's all very cosmopolitan and diverse.

We chug along, up the hill, down the dale... OK, not really.  I'm not even sure what a dale is.

Then we get to Johnny Rotten's stop.

And here's the thing with skinny, low waisted jeans, dear Reader, especially if the jacket or shirt you are wearing with them only comes down to your waist.  When you sit down, the jeans are so tight that they naturally pull down in back because, let's face it, you're bending your body and something's gotta give.  It's basic physics.

And so there's a simple rule:  When you stand up again, pull up your jeans in back.

But no.  Johnny Rotted doesn't do that.

We are all treated to the joyful sight of one and a half inches of his lilly white arse, and his disturbingly dark crack as he slowly progresses to the front of the bus.

Of course there is no one in the queue (line) behind him to obscure our view.

Of course Johnny is stuck behind other passengers who don't have commuter cards and so are taking time paying with cash (you pay when you get off the bus), trying to shove their crumpled notes into the automatic reader and dropping their coins into the little slot.

AND... of course it's like being in front of a train wreck.  As much as you want to, you can't look away.

Thoughts come, unbidden, into your head.

Bald heads.

Pale eggs.

White balloons.

You can't avoid it.  You can't forget it.  It's there, burned into your brain, like a song you hate.

I'd tell you which songs I really hate, but then they'd be in my head.

Just like that guy's ARSE.

Hell is other people.

This is a Coco Fesse a coconut only available from the island of the Seychelles.

Fesse is a slang name for arse.

If you want to read more in the Hell is Other People series, click the Tag below or the Category link on the left.

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Hell is Other People - Two-wheeled Bitch

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Yesterday, I was driving Fluffy Bear to a networking thingy.  I am on these three lane, one way streets that characterize our city.

 

I turned right from a one way street onto another one way street.

 

Let's call the first street Smith and the second street Jones.  Smith runs from West to East, one way.  Jones runs from South to North, one way.  I am at the traffic light on Smith, on the West side.

So I turn right from Smith onto Jones.  Because I would soon have to turn left, I started to change lanes onto the left side.

 

Then I heard someone yell HEY at me.  

 

I look in my rear view mirror and I see her.  A small woman on a bike, dressed in grey long shorts and a brown jacket.

 

I immediately move to the right, opened my window and yelled to her that I am sorry.  It was a genuine apology, I assure you I wasn't being rude.

 

I get to the next traffic light.  I stop.

 

Let me back-track a little.  Indulge me, dear Reader.

 

There was no cyclist behind me at the traffic light on Smith, also waiting to turn right.  I had turned from Smith to Jones at the start of the green light, which means there was no way she had come from traffic behind me at the traffic light on Jones... the lights for that road wouldn't have changed in time.

 

So you know where she came from, don't you?  

 

She had bloody well come down Smith street against the one way rules, and turned left onto Jones.  

 

Now let me side track a little.  

 

I don't hate all cyclists.  The people I hate are the ones who break the rules.  I have seen cyclists who wear the right stuff so they can be seen and who stop at traffic lights and who don't ride five feet from the sidewalk so that a car can't get past them.  It's the agressive ones I hate, who think they are allowed to make up their own rules of the road.

 

OK, let's go back to real time.  

 

So there we are, at the traffic light.  She comes up next to me, hits the roof of the car and starts yelling at me.  

 

OK, now I'm pissed.

 

I roll down my window and yell:  

 

I SAID I WAS SORRY!

 

 

Now, this is the best part.

 

She crosses in front of the car while the light is still red for us both, flips me off, rides across 4 (count them, FOUR) lanes to the other side of the street, makes a half-hearted attempt to look like she's riding on the pedestrian crossing, and RUNS A RED LIGHT to continue her journey. 

 

I fucking swear to God, if there handn't been cars on the lanes on my right, I would've accelerated like a banshee as soon as the lights turned green, crossed all four lanes like Jensen bloody Button and I would've pulled up a quarter of a block in front of her and I would've got out of the car and I would've run back to her and told her to get the motherfuck off her bike and listen to me while I told her that she was a total little bitchfuckwitarsewipe and that she fucking made the rules up for her own convenience and that cyclists like her were selfish and hypocritical and thought they were so bollocking better than the rest of us because of their hippy dippy bullshit about cycling rather than driving but that when you do whatever the fuck you want and don't follow the rules of a being on vechicle which you crapping well are and the two wheels are pretty clear indication of that then you shouldn't expect to fucking well being treated like a vehicle by us drivers and that not only do we not see see you wankers when you are riding on a rainy day and being too stupid to wear any flourescent stuff or an orange vest then, not only do I not see you but, when I see you pull a manoeuver like that, I FANTASIZE ABOUT HITTING YOU!

 

And then I'd walk away, get back in my car, put it in reverse, back it up reeeeeally fast to within 6 inches of her skinny arse, scare the living crap out of her and drive away.

 

But, of course, this is America, and the little bitch would probably be packing heat.

 

 

 

 

 

 

To read more in the Hell is Other People series, click the Tag link below or the Category link on the left.  

 

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9 to 5 - I fucking quit!

 

I guess we all fantasize about the grand speech we'd make on the day we throw our toys out of the cot and quit our jobs.  Except I've been fantasizing about that a little too much lately.

I dream about how I'd announce that I'm leaving to my team in one of our regular Wednesday meetings.  My boss would already know, of course, but this would be the big announcement to my colleagues:

"I have found a different role so I'll be moving on," I'd say.  "My last day here is Friday."

"We're sorry to see you leave," one of them would say.

And I wouldn't be able to help myself.  Before I can even think about it, before I can stop it, I'd hear myself laugh sarcastically and say:

"Well I very much doubt that!"

And there'd be little confused looks around the table, and then I'd just fucking lose it.

"Are you KIDDING ME?" I'd yell.

"Isn't this same group that shits on me every time I have a networking meeting because one of you believes that you own the relationship with whoever I'm talking to?

Is this the same team that, in my interview, promised to groom me for a role equivalent to yours, promised I'd learn but then steadfastly refused to teach?

Are you the people who, whenever I offer, or our boss suggests, that I help any one of you with what you're doing, even just by taking a small part of those massive workloads that you keep complaining about, make excuses about how what you're doing really takes more knowledge of the company than I have, or that you really need to run this particular initiative?

Isn't every team meeting we have at least 70% of you being negative and complaining about your workloads, your annoying stakeholders and the fact that things aren't the way they used to be, even if you are directly asked what a solutions we could try?

I mean, SERIOUSLY, the last person in my job lasted TWO MONTHS.

And the person who joined the team before me - do you EVER see him at his desk.  No, and that's because he's made sure that he's been loaned out to other teams as much as possible.  

The guy who joined before that has had to suffer voices being raised at him in the open cube farm (to his credit, he doesn't yell back) and he's had to ask at least two of you, face to face, to stop condescending to him.  

And, by the way, you don't reserve condescension just for him.  All of us newbies get to be constantly interrupted, excluded from meetings and told that "things don't work that way here" without any explanation of why, let alone consideration of how we could enable change.

So do you REALLY think that there isn't a problem here?

I joined this team to be among vastly intelligent people, whose work enables the organization to move forward and achieve strategic goals.  Because, of all the teams in our department, THIS is the one that actually gets to do that.

But I'm starting to see why people call this team "The Ivory Tower."  I'm starting to see why each and every person who congratulated me on my new role, or asked me how I was doing, had a strange sympathetic expression on their faces.

If I had a dollar for every number of times I've been told that I should hang in there because this is a difficult team, I wouldn't HAVE TO WORK!

I have tried.  I have fucking tried with you people.  I have asked for mentoring.  I have taken each of you to lunch multiple times to [airquotes] bond.  I sucked it up when I was told to shut the hell up and just listen and learn, but the only thing I hear is who owns what, how things used to be and why they can't change.

This team is like a bad tempered old man who won't give you your ball back when you make the mistake of kicking it into his massive yard.  A yard he doesn't even use.  The old man just doesn't get that, if he let the neighborhood kids use his yard, he'd be able to sit out on his porch and have some company, rather than living his grumpy little life all alone.

Your attitude is not only destructive to other members of the team, but it's going to bring you down too.  This organization is changing, and you're not morphing with it.  Nobody wants you to be the police anymore.  People don't want you to keep saying no, they want you to say 'Yes, and this is how.'

This ship is sinking.

And I'll be fucked if I'll go down with it.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go and clean out my desk."

For more in the 9 to 5 series, click the Tag below or the Category link on the left.

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