Dear Diary - I'm vicious in a dream

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Dear Diary,

 

I just had the strangest dream.

 

Perhaps a feminist dream.  Perhaps an animal activist dream.

 

For some unknown reason, I was part of, or close to (I don't know) an episode of Top Gear.  (Warning: There's a short advertisement at the start of this Youtube video.)

 

If you don't know what Top Gear is, it's a show where three men review new cars.  Unfortunately, over the last few years, it has morphed into them only reviewing aspirational cars, like the Bugatti Veyron.  They also go on challenges all the time, like to buy a car for $400 and compete to drive from New Orleans to Dallas.  They drive and defend their car choice to each other, experience their cars breaking down, etc.  It is, I have to admit it is often funny, but the underlying (perhaps subconscious?) sexism drives (no pun intended) me insane.

  

As an uncessary sideline, there has recently been an attempt to create the same show in the US.  We watched a few episodes and, I am sorry to say, it's totally shit. 

  

Anyway, back to the dream.

 

Jeremy Clarkson (key sexist prick of the three presenters), was test driving some sort of sportscar.  It looked like the Ferrari which Magnum used to drive, but it was red, and they were reviewing it because it was new i.e. not the model Magum drove 20 years ago.

 

We were somewhere in a place that looked like the French countryside, with farms and houses dotting the surrounding hills.  There were winding roads, which is why this place were chosen to test the car and showcase it's stuff.

 

Jeremy Clarkson was describing the car to the cameras, explaining that is was a true sportscar with no frills, not even a radio or CD player.

 

Then he went off on his test drive, careeing through the countryside.  For some illogical reason, I was able to see him, although I don't remember being with the camera crew.  In fact, I don't even remember the camera crew following him.  

 

Then he stopped at a farm fence.  On the other side of it stood a beautiful jet black horse.  Jeremy drew out a gun and shot it.  I was utterly horrified.  And then the black horse was lying over the left side of the car hood, with Jeremy explaining that the weight of the horse was going to help demonstrate the car's handling.  And off he went again, at high speed.

 

Then I was back at the starting point of the whole thing.  Jeremy pulled the car in, and they rolled the horse off the car.  It stumbled, but it was awake again.  That's when I first realized it had been a traquilizer gun.  But, still, I was utterly furious.  

 

Jeremy was making his wrap up statements to the camera, expressing how much he loved the car.

 

Next to me, I saw a metal rod, about the length of the floor to my hips.  It had a twisted design on it, as if two pieces of metal had been wound together to create the rod.

 

And that's when I had a plan.

 

I jumped into the car and took off.  I had decided I would get my revenge on the pompous arse and the camera crew and producers who had allowed the horse to be used in that terrible way.  My plan was to drive to some high point, use the rod to wedge down the accelerator, jump out of the car, and get it to go over a cliff, to be crushed as it landed.  

 

I knew that the manufacturers of the cars reviewed on Top Gear loaned them to the show, and that those producers would be in a world of hurt after I destroyed something really expensive which they did not own.

 

But, as I drove through the countryside, I could see that the surrounding hills of the valley weren't that high, and I was concered that there wouldn't be a cliff high up enough to allow the car to be damaged beyond all recognition.

 

I was looking around frantically, trying to find a high enough hill.

 

I drove up the steepest road and, close to the top, found a farm.  Maybe, maybe it was high enough from the valley floor below.  I drove into the driveway and parked.  Getting out of the car to check out the land.

  

No dice.  It didn't have what I needed.

  

I got back in the car and drove further up the road.  These were all dirt roads, by the way.  

 

A driveway to the left, but closed by a gate.

 

I got to another flat place where I could stop, and parked the car.  I started to climb up to a higher part of the road (I have no idea why I didn't drive up there).

 

A cliff!  I flat place large enough to back up the car, start it heading directly towards the cliff and enough space to dive out of it in time!

 

I headed back down to where I'd parked. 

 

The car was gone.

 

Shit!  Buggery buggery fuck arse wanker bollocks!

 

I was really mad at myself for not driving up to the higher flat point.  Why had I walked up?

 

Perhaps I just couldn't remember where I parked the car.  I ran down to the first house where I'd parked.  

 

The car wasn't there.

 

How had they found it?

 

Fuck!.  It must have some kind of GPS Theft Recovery System.

 

For some reason I kept believing I just couldn't remember where I'd parked, and kept walking around, trying to find the car.

 

And that's when I woke up.

 

Why do all my dreams end with me frantically trying to solve some kind of problem?

 

I have no idea.

 

Maybe I need a shrink.

 

 

 

 

 

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

 

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• Dear Diary - Death Stalking
• Dear Diary - My First Seder

  

 

 

Alien Encounters - Washing and Drying

These are imaginary conversations with an Alien new to the planet. I have never met one, been abducted or probed (although an ex-boyfriend did once ask, and that was the end of THAT).

Alien: So, let me get this straight... You get wet, then cover your body with a cleaning liquid, when you get wet again to wash it off?

Me: Yes.

Alien: Then you dry yourself with a big cloth?

Me: Yes.

Alien: Then you make sure the cloth gets dry?

Me: Yup.

Alien: Then you do it again the next day?

Me: Right.

Alien: Then, when the cloth has been used a few times, you put the cloth in a box with a different cleaning liquid, the box fills with water and moves the cloth around with the cleaning liquid, then the box fills with water again and washes off the cleaning liquid?

Me: YES. We've been through this. I showed you.

Alien: Yes, yes, but I want to make sure I understand.

Me: OK, OK.

Alien: So then you put the cloth in another box which spins it around and makes it hot and takes out the water.?

Me: YES!

Alien: Then you use the cloth again when you make yourself wet?

Me: What is so difficult to understand?

Alien: This seems like a lot of work, and uses your precious water supplies on your planet.

Me: I know that.

Alien: Why don't you use an Hygeniconizer? I can show you. You get in, it switches on, you wait five minutes, and you're clean.

Me: We don't have those.

Alien: I can give you one.

Me: Does it have side effects for humans?

Alien: Hmmm... it might give you cancer after you use it for a few Earth years.

Me: I'll stick with our way, thanks.

Alien: Um... we're working on the cancer thing...

Me: Good for you. Would you like to try a shower?

Alien: Are there side effects?

Me: Well, you get wet.

Alien: AARGH! Disgusting!

Me: OK, OK, let's each clean ourselves the way we're used to.

Alien: FINE.

This is the first post in this series, but, once there are others, you'll be able to hit the Tag link below, or the Category link on the left to read more.

That's Life - The Ick Rules

 

I live my life by certain ick rules.

You may find them useful. You may find them thought provoking. You may even find them completely and utterly ridiculous.

You're entitled to your opinion, whatever it may be.

My rules, my life, my itty bitty crazy.

Rule number 1 - Toilet seats on planes

Always close the toilet seat on a plane after you are done.

They ask you to do that anyway, but there's another incentive. If a man comes in and the whole shebang is closed, he'll likely life up both the upper lid and seat lid to pee. If you leave things, however, in the woman/poo position, I'm betting the guy who walks in after you pees and splashes the seat.

If you're on a long haul flight, you can imagine the consequences. Even in business and first class, your wash bag does not include a butt sanitizer.

Rule number 2 - Toilet seats at parties

Always put the toilet seat in the man position after you are done when you're at a party. This counts for your house or a friend's.

Once the alcohol has started flowing, the same conditions as for Rule number 1 apply, except the offenders may be males or sideways teetering females.

Rule number 3 - Magazines at your doctor

Never, EVER touch the magazines in a doctor's waiting room. They are germ factories.

Take your own book, or play Angry Birds.

Rule number 4 - Other people's bathroom cabinets

Never touch stuff in anyone else's bathroom/medicine cabinet.

We all know it's despicably rude to ferret around in someone else's private stuff, but curiosity gets the better of us.

Trust me, don't do it.

Here's why:

First, every morning the man of the house opens that cabinet to get to his medication or shaving stuff. Dollars to donuts he's scratched his sweaty balls before that, and not washed his hands in-between.

Second, you don't know what form of contraception is used in the house or where it's stored. Therefore you may be opening a cabinet where hands covered in reproductive body fluids have scrabbled through everything in the panic to find the Trojans.

Rule number 5 - Your workplace

Never touch buttons or handles at your workplace in winter.

I'd estimate that, over the winter months, a minimum of 20% of your colleagues are wafting about sharing a cloud of vicious airborne cold and flu germs.

They aren't all those arseholes who insist on being heroes and come in when they are sick, treating us all to coughing fits in meetings and the constant sound of sniffling over the cube wall.

No, they may be responsible people who just haven't got to the stage where symptoms are showing, so they have no idea they're sick.

They could also, of course, be insecure, who know damn well what the achy back and sore throat signals, but feel they have to wait till they start to lose their voices and cough uncontrollably, so their boss won't think they're malingering and their colleagues will bathe their little woeful egos with commiserations as they leave for home, a tissue pressed dramatically against their nose.

No matter which category your colleagues fall into, the point is this: one of them fuckers is harboring hostile germs that want to colonize your body and attack your immune system.

And every single one of your colleagues has pressed a lift button, opened the door to the lobby and clasped the whiteboard markers in the meeting rooms.

There's nothing you can do about the whiteboard markers. If you rubbed them with sanitizer before reaching up to the board to illustrate your point, you'd seem like a freakazoid. You just have to take your chances or find a way to make your point with a visual allegory and hand gestures.

For instance: "It's like when you bring in a new pitcher" or "It's like when you bake a cake."

As for door handles into the lobby, the best strategy is to walk in behind someone who holds the door, or slip in while the door is closing after them. If that isn't an option, try to grab the handle at the bottom, where most people don't touch it. If the handles are horizontal, clasp them at the edge. Yes, I know the edges of those steel handles are sharp. Would you rather be coughing up green slime? No? Then suck it up.

Anyway, it's winter. Use your gloves. But NEVER put your gloves up to your face.

The other option, which works well for all handles, and is the lift button strategy, is to pull your sleeve discreetly over your hand.

A cover of a knuckle is all that's required for the lift buttons. A knuckle works just as well as the end of your finger to choose your destination floor.

A slick pull of the sleeve over the palm has you covered for door handles. Just keep your fingers out straight, rather than curling them to touch the bottom of the metal germ farm.

Again, it's winter. You're wearing long sleeves. Trust me, you'll become, with a little practice, a master of this slight of hand, especially if you wear sweaters. 

You think I'm crazy?

Well, in my defense, when it comes to this blog, the clue's in the name, buddy, so whatcha expect?

By using these tactics, I believe I hide my crazy pretty well. I don't keep sanitizer at my desk or in my bag, so there's that attempt at disguise. In all the years I've been trying to integrate my crazy into the thinly disguised horror show that is the corporate world, only one person has noticed the door handle trick and, due to his own issues, was someone that I knew could appreciate the value of discretion.

Rule number 6 - Your seat on the plane

If someone sitting anywhere near you on a plane is blowing their nose and coughing, change seats if you can, to a seat as far away as possible.

Planes are germ cans.  The air is recycled.  You just have to go on an overnight flight to understand this.  Within 3 hours of everyone going to sleep, the entire cabin smells of farts.

So, trust me, get away from the sick bastards if you can.  

Rule number 7 - Use clean spoons in jars

Mould is caused by foreign things being introduced into a jar of something - it doesn't occur on its own.  

So your jam/chutney/whatever will keep just fine in the fridge if you use a clean spoon every time to get it out.  

Let's face it, there is nothing worse than making a peanut butter and jam (jelly) sandwich, only to open up the jam jar to find that disgusting green and white growth.

Rule number 8 - The handle on the inside of the public loo

Most public loo (restroom) doors open inwards, so you can just push it open without touching the handle.  But, on the way out, you have to unlock the door and pull to get out.  And the wash basins are outside the door.

Think about it.  

Every person who has opened that door has done so with dirty wipe-my-foo-foo or, worse, wipe-my-ass hands.

So take another pieces of toilet paper and cover your hand to open that door.

Rule number 9 - Clean the sink, clean the sponge

Your sponge used to wash dishes is full of germs, because your sink is.  More evidence here.  

Always wipe your sink down, wash the sponge out in hot water and then wring it out to get it as dry as you can.

Never leave it in the sink.  Leave it leaning on it's thin side, next to the tap (faucet).

And for shit's sake, put it in the dishwasher now and again or, with water (but not soap) in it, stick it in the microwave for 30 seconds.

Rule number 10 - Wash your ears and eyes in the morning

Noticing someone at work with ick in the corner of their eye, or yellow wax coming out of their ears, is vomit-inducing.

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

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Being a Doggy Mama - The 9 Circles of Hell

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Going to the offleash dog park should be fun, right?

 

Well, not today.

 

Today was hell.  Dante's Nine Circles of Hell.

 

(Yes, there were nine circles, not seven.  Look it up.)

 

 

Circle 1 - Limbo

 

The dogs have been in Limbo for the last three days, because I've been sick.  They haven't been walked or been to the park.

 

So I should have seen this coming.

 

 

Circle 2 - Lust

 

Puppy Dog lusts after other dog's balls. 

 

No, not those balls.

 

Tennis balls.

 

So there I am in the offleash dog park and, while my back is turned, kicking a ball for Puppy Girl to chase, he steals another dog's squeaky tennis ball.

 

This is the part where I think:  "Oh, shit!" because I know what's coming.

 

 

Circle 3 - Gluttony

 

Puppy Dog chews the ball, making it squeak, and starts to froth at the mouth like a rabid wolf.

 

He circles the park, chewing and chewing, tail held high, his Victory Laps.  This is what he's saying to the other dogs who, just by the way, don't give a damn:  

  

"I gotta baw-hawl!  I gotta baw-hawl!  Nyah nyah-nyah nyaaaah nyah!"

 

 

This is the part where the Ball Owner starts to approach, and I have to go to meet him.

 

 

Circle 4 - Greed

 

You have to understand something about Puppy Dog.  

 

Puppy Dog has been known to fit three tennis balls in his mouth.  One squeaky ball is child's play for him to hang onto.

 

This is the part where both the owner and I start to chase Puppy Dog and he deftly avoids us, running up close when I tell him to "Come!" then dodging artfully to prance off again, victorious.  The Ball Ower almost catches him, his hand grazing down Puppy Dog's back, like he's chasing an oiled pig.

 

Next, I try offering Puppy Dog another ball, even throwing it.  No dice.  He has something that squeals like a mouse - a Ferrari - and he's not going to give it up for no stinking Volvo. 

 

 

Circle 5 - Wrath

 

Puppy Dog will not, under any circumstances, let go of the ball. 

 

He is a Field Lines Labrador, bred over decades and decades to do one thing - hunt.

 

A squeaky ball may be, to your sweet dog, something that belongs to him which he dutifully chases, retrives and runs back to drop at your feet.  To my dog, it's just prey.

 

This is why, as I have said before:

 

 

DO NOT BRING A SQUEAKY BALL TO THE DOG PARK,

YOU STUPID FUCKING MORON BOLLOCKS

WANKER FUCKWIT SMEGHEAD!

 

  

If had had money, I'd make signs saying that and nail them to the gate of every fucking dog park in my State. 

 

This is the part where I'm thinking the above, as the Ball Owner and I finally catch Puppy Dog, and we're both attempting to pry the ball from his mouth.  We stick our hands into the spittle-spattered maw, we pull, we yank.

 

Hah!  Nice try.

 

 

Circle 6 - Heresy

 

Here's the thing.  Puppy Dog does not believe that we, as the humans, have a right to take his prey from him.  This is his nature.  

 

To him, for us to violate this doctrine is utter heresy.

 

And if you think that an animal's nature can be overcome by training, you're wrong.  Very, very wrong.  

 

Even we, as humans, labor under the misapprehension that we are evolved, we are cerebral beings, we are in control.

 

Not so.

 

Every man who gets slightly hard when he sees a beautiful female and imagines fucking her, is responding to nature's call to spread his sperm as widely as possible.  Every man who buys a flashy car is trying to indicate to females that he is the head of the herd, and should be chosen as the rutting male.  Every man who buys a stunning house, and furnishes it impeccably, is trying to show a female his lavish nest, so that she will breed with him.

 

Every woman who worries, just before penetration, that maybe, maybe, this time the contraceptive device won't work, will one day experience a completely irrational desire to take a mate and bear a child (she may choose to resist it, as I have, but the impulse is always there).  Every woman who paints her lips is creating an allegory to attract mates - she is indicating the juicyness, the softness, the sweetness, of her other set of lips.  Every woman who shares a living space with other woman, and slowly sees the synchronization - the utterly baffling and ridiculous synchronization - of her menstrual cycle with her living mates, has a body which is adjusting so as to be able to compete with them for winning the mate.

 

This the part where I realize that I can't you blame my dog, my less evolved dog, for following his true nature.  That's heresy.

 

Ball Owner is committing the same sin.

 

 

Circle 7 - Violence

 

A dog evolved - lest we forget - from a wolf, and so will do anything to defend his prey.  Centuries have taught the dog that, if it does not guard his prey against other predators, he may lose it, and therefore potentially starve and die.

 

This is part where my dog, my dog who loves me, my dog who cuddles me, my dog who comes to me when I cry or cough to make sure I am OK, clamps his jaws with 58 pounds of jaw pressure (yep, look it up) down onto my hand.

 

And it bloody well hurts.

 

But I am committing violence too, because I shove my finger down his throat to try to make him let go of that damn ball.  I don't feel good about it, trust me.  But I'm desperate.

 

And Ball Owner, hanging onto my dog's jaw, pressing his lips against his teeth (don't think I didn't notice, Fuckwit) is guilty of exactly the same sin.

 

 

Circle 8 - Fraud

 

Every time Puppy Dog has a ball stuck in his mouth, Puppy Girl can get it from him.  He has given us the impression that sending his little sister after him to get a ball from him works every time.

 

And so I hide the other balls I have in my pockets and encourage my younger baby to:

 

 

"Get the ball!  Get your brother's ball!"

 

 

But Puppy Dog is determined to prove that my foolproof method isn't going to work.

 

He runs faster, he puts the ball on one side of his mouth and turns in circles so she can't get to it, he growls at her.

 

All those times he's given up the ball to Puppy Girl, he was just being nice.  He could've kept it the whole time.  Little fraud.

 

This is the part where I turn to Ball Owner and offer him two of my balls for his.  The balls I offer him aren't mine.  My dogs found them in the dog park.  They aren't as new as the yellow-green shiny ball he had.  I'm a grifter.  But he won't be conned.

 

 

"No!" he snaps.  "The ball I have is much more expensive than those."

 

 

The Kong Squeaker he has costs $2.99.  I just looked it up on Petsmart.com.  A normal Petsmart tennis ball costs $0.99.  So he is arguing with me over ONE STINKING DOLLAR!!!

 

So who, I ask myself, is more of a fraud in this situation?

 

 

Circle 9 - Treachery

 

You may have noticed, as we have worked our way through the levels of hell, that the sins are becoming less and less committed by my dog, and more and more by the humans around him.

 

This is the part where Ball Owner throws a tantrum.

 

 

"OH, FUCK IT!" he yells, stomping back to his dog.

 

"I'm sorry!" I say.  "He's a rescue, and they come with certain behaviors that no amount of training will---  I tried!"

  

 

But he's gone. 

 

He is the traitor.  The traitor to all dog owners.  He brought the fucking squeaky ball.  He thinks he's been robbed when there's only a dollar at stake.  He doesn't get that these things happen at dog parks and sometimes, you just have to graciously let it go.  

 

I mean, he's a dog owner.  Do you honestly believe that his dog has never done something naughty?  That it's never jumped up on someone it shouldn't have?  Or peed somewhere it shouldn't?  Or tried to grab a toy and made contact between tooth and skin?

 

Give me fucking break, Mate!

 

 

Exit from Hell

 

This part takes a while.  

 

First, I have to vent.  Luckily for me, I have an amazing husband, and we tend not to have crises at the same time, so one of us can always talk to the other down.

 

 

Me:  "You won't believe what Puppy Dog just did!"

 

Fluffy Bear:  "He stole another dog's ball."

 

Me:  "Yes.  A squeaky ball."

 

Fluffy Bear:  "Why did someone bring a squeaky ball to the dog park?"

 

Me:  "I KNOW!"

 

Fluffy Bear:  "You can't get it back, can you?"

 

Me:  "NO!  I tried everything.  I tried showing him another ball.  I tried to prise open his jaw.  I tried sending Puppy Girl after him."

 

Fluffy Bear:  "Even that didn't work?"

 

Me:  "NO!"

 

Fluffy Bear:  "Did you try treats?"

 

Me:  "I COULD HAVE A WHOLE ROAST CHICKEN!  IT WON'T MAKE ANY DIFFERENCE!"  

 

Fluffy Bear:  "I know, Honey.  I'm sorry."

 

Me:  "Its so embarrassing!"

 

Fluffy Bear:  "I know, I know."

 

Me:  "He's obsessed!"

 

Fluffy Bear:  "I know.  There's nothing you can do when he gets Froth Mouth."

 

Me:  "I KNOW!"

 

Fluffy Bear:  "Go for a walk along the path with them.  Take deep breaths."

 

Me:  "OK."

 

Fluffy Bear:  "I'll see you soon."

 

Me:  "OK." 

 

 

And so I walk, the dogs follow me, and then they came - the tears of humiliation.  There I am, snivelling down the dog path, with Puppy Girl dropping a ball (not the same one) in front of me, me ignoring it and stepping over it, her picking it up, running to catch up to me, and dropping it again.  I also have Puppy Dog circling me, still doing Victory Laps.  And I wipe my face with saliva-covered gloves.  And I keep my head down so nobody will see that I'm blubbering in public.

 

And, of course - of course - ten minutes later Puppy Girl gets the ball from her brother.  But Mr "Fuck It!" has probably left the park in a huff by now and, anyway, I had my head down looking at my dog during the Ball Battle, and I no idea what the man looks like.

 

Half an hour later, we're home and I face the final stage of the exit from Hell.  Because after I've slammed the front door and stomped through to the kitchen, I turn to see my little boy standing in the dining room, looking at me, tail down, back legs shaking.  He doesn't know why I'm mad.  Miliseconds after the Ball Battle, he's forgotten the war.  He has no idea why I'm upset.

 

I have to quash my feelings.

 

It's just like a mother of a new baby whose been crying for two hours at 3am in the morning.  As the mother gets more anxious, the baby's yells go up one octave + three decibels, because the baby is accutely attuned to its mother's feelings and it knows Mummy is fantasizing about picking it up by it's little feet and smashing it's head against the wall.

 

I exit Hell with an act of contrition.  I kneel down and console Puppy Dog.  Soft voice, soft strokes, soft kiss.  Slowly, his tail starts to wag, first low down, then higher and higher, until he feels better.

 

And, with that, we're both in heaven again.

 

 

 

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

 

Similar posts you might like:

• Being a Doggy Mama - Two Exhausting Hours
  • I make the grave mistake of taking Puppy Dog for a Reiki treatment
•  Being a Doggy Mama - 10 Ways Puppies are Like Human Children

 

 

 

 

 

Divided by a Common Language - Perception Deception

The next time an American pokes fun at the blandness of British food, I am going to reply:

"Well, you have to remember, we don't have slaves to cook for us. Are yours good in the kitchen? I'd love some recipes for traditional American dishes!"

Then, when they ask what I'm talking about I'll say:

"Here's the deal. You let go of your ridiculously outdated perceptions of England, and I'll return the favor about your country."

To read more unnecessary invective (and occassional humor) in the Divided by a Common Language series, click the Tag below or the Category link on the left.

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9 to 5 - Joan Knows Best

 

I was thinking in the shower this morning... who could I talk to who would make my work predicament funny?

The answer, of course, is the one and only Joan Rivers

So in my fantasy world, I am at a Joan Rivers standup show, in one of those more intimate settings where you get to sit at little round tables with tiny lamps on them and order cocktails.

Joan is talking about The Change, with her wonderful saggy titties joke like: "I can breastfeed China from my bedroom!"

Then she turns to the audience and says: "Who are the other women here who are going through menopausal stuff?"

I immediately stand up. She turns to me. Someone gives me a mike.

"You look far too young, Darling," she says, "to be going through menopause right now."

"I get to have all the fun earlier than most," I answer, "because I grew a grapefruit."

"Oy," she says. "Was it cancerous?"

"Nope," I say, "just a grapefruit of flesh." Some people in the audience groan in disgust.

"Was it one of those ones that have hair and teeth?" Joan asks.

"No," I reply, "we don't want children."

"I hear ya," she laughs. "But it's not like it would've cried or needed nappies, right?"

"I don't know about that. Even with just hair and teeth it would've probably demanded a college fund."

"Get up here!" she says, pointing to the stage. "I like you!"

"Um..."I hesitate.

"Aw, come on! I don't bite!" she says, as someone brings two chairs, setting them up to face each other. The audience starts to applaud, egging me on. I shrug, and get on up there.

"So are you a wannabe comedienne?" asks Joan.

"No. Like most people, I have a 9 to 5 job that I hate." Some people in the audience laugh and one person yells "WOO!"

"What's so bad about it?" she asks.

"Well, I always say - Hell is other people."

"Aw come on! Do you just hate working 9 to 5."

"No, no, not at all," I protest. "My last team was great. We had fun together, we collaborated... it was fun to go to work every morning."

"Then why'd you switch?"

"Well, imagine you're starting to climb on the comedy circuit. You're regularly working a small comedy club. You know everyone there, and the whole crew gets on well - lighting people, management, the whole shebang. But then you get the chance to go to a bigger theater. You head over there, and everyone's a bit of an asshole. People condescend to you, you get the worst comedy slots, like 12am, and you never have any fun. But, here's the thing... it's a bigger comedy club, bigger audiences, better opportunities. See what I mean?"

"I'm so with you," she says, reaching out to pat my arm. "There's only one solution."

"What?"

"Every day, just think to yourself Fuck 'em! Fuck 'em! Fuck 'em! Fuck 'em! That's what I did."

"That," I say, "is excellent advice. I might even turn it into a little song in my head."

"There you go!" she exclaims, standing up, indicating that our time together is over. "Thank you, Honey," she says, hugging me. "You head back to your table and I'm buying you a cocktail, OK?"

"That," I say, stepping back and smiling, "is exactly what I need."

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

He Said She Said - Playing the Percentages

"Honey," he said, coming into the kitchen and catching her muttering under her breath, "what's wrong?"

"I HATE HOUSEWORK!" she yelled.

"Uh, what have you been doing?"

"You don't want me to answer that," she said, in a low, threatening tone.  "You don't want me to tell you all the stuff I've done while you've been sitting on your arse at your PC."

"Um..." he faltered, taking a step back, trying to regroup, as he was completely unprepared for this attack.  "Would you like me to make you some tea?"

"No!"she snapped.  "I can't have tea, because if I sit down, I won't want to do housework again and the stuff in the dryer won't get brought upstairs and the wet washing won't get hung and the dry washing won't get moved off the rack to make room for the wet washing and the dishwasher won't get unpacked!

"And, anyway," she continued, "I can't have tea made in a dirty kitchen!"

"Honey--" he said, then caught himself and clearly decided not to voice his initial reaction.  Instead, he put his hands on her shoulders, saying: "I'll do the dishwasher, OK?"  

"Oh, no you don't!" she countered.  "When you say you'll do a piece of housework, it doesn't mean you'll actually do it.  What it means is that there's a 1% chance you'll do it now, a 9% chance you'll do it in the next 2 hours, a 20% chance you'll do it today, a 30% chance it'll be done this week and a 40% chance you'll forget to do it altogether!"

"OK," he said, getting irritated.  "That's not fair.  I do housework."

"Yes, Honey, you do.  It's just your timing that sucks.  You do housework in one of two cases - things are so bad that they stop you from getting something done, or you happen to decide you want to do it.  Neither of those times is actually achieving a regular maintenance clean."

"OK, OK, whatever," he said, giving up a battle he couldn't win.  "I'll get the stuff out of the dryer, and empty the dishwasher.  You get the dry stuff off the racks and hang up the wet stuff.  Then we'll both have a cup of tea and a biscuit, OK?"

"OK," she sighed.

"I just have to finish one email first," he said, ducking as she lashed out to punch him in the arm.  "I'M JOKING!  I'M JOKING!" he yelled, as he ran to the basement.

To read more in the He Said She Said series, click the tag below or the Category link on the left.

You might like: He Said She Said - Pill Popping

That's Life - Insomnia vs. Snorephony

  

 

 

 

  

 

 

Insomnia is like diarrhea - no bloody fun.

 

Get up, they say, if you can't sleep, and do something.  Or take deep breaths, in and ooooout, to relax.  Count sheep.

 

None of those sage advisors, however, has had to deal with insomnia in my house.  None of these sage advisors has the sleepytime stylings of Puppy Dog, Fluffy Bear or Puppy Girl in their lives.  None of those sage advisors has had to deal with the Snorephony.

 

First, there's Puppy Dog, the percussion section.  

 

From his beloved donut bed in the corner of the bedroom - covered in his disheveled, smelly, fake fur blankie whose lining has seen better days - he lies, fast asleep, snoring.  

 

His brand of snore is a consistent, growling noise, like Harley Davidson passing by, far in the distance.  

The tempo never varies - it's the base rhythm of the orchestra.

 

Then there's Fluffy Bear.  He's the wind section.  No, not that kind of wind, although that does tend to happen too.  No, he's everything from flute to trumpet to bassoon, because his snoring is the kind that builds.

 

The first part of the cycle is a deep, whooshing noise, like he's practicing yoga Pranayama breath.  Then, two or three breaths in, the first inkling of a deeper tone.  A slight snorting noise, just at the middle of the breath.  The ratio of breathiness to snortiness changes slowly, in a melodic way, like waves lapping on the shore as the tide rises until, eventually, we're at full Gnnnnarrrrrrrrrgh!  

 

Then the slight pause.

 

And then back to breathiness again.

 

And last but not least, Puppy Girl, the strings.

 

She's in her corner of the bedroom, also in a donut bed - with her scraggly woolen blankie and the first teddy we ever got her (it used to have a warming pack and a beating heart thingy) which is the only toy she has never laid a vicious tooth on.

 

And she's dreaming.

 

You can hear the scritch-scritch violinish noises of her claws on the bed as, in her dream, she chases the evil squirrel.  Along with these go the rapid sniffing noises, like when violinists pick at the strings very fast, instead of using their bows.  Finally, the soft wrrrrf-wrrrf cello sound, as if she was barking while gagged, as she vocally rejoices in the pursuit of her prey.

 

And now imagine all parts of this orchestra being conducted by some petty, mischievous, evil little fucker of a demon, floating in the air above us all, waving his baton, bring one section to the fore and then another, varying volumes and tempos and accents and...

 

You try and bloody get to sleep with all that going on.

 

And so, like any good blogger, I thought I'd come to the couch, open up the laptop, and bitch about it.

 

Whew. 

 

I feel better now.

 

But, sadly, I still don't feel tired.

 

 

 

 

 

 

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

 

You might like: Ten things designed by people who don't have to clean them

Dear Diary - Mansick

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Dear Diary,

 

Fluffy Bear is mansick.  Yes, that's what I said... mansick.  

 

Not sick.  

 

Mansick.

 

See, it's different for men. 

 

OK, maybe that's too much of a generalization.  It's different for MY man.

 

I may have a fever, I may feel nauseous, I may have to plug wads of toilet paper up my nose to stem the flow of mucus and I may be coughing up globules worthy of horror movie special effects BUT... I am not, and will never be, as sick as he is.

 

Because, you see, Dear Diary, unlike me, he has Death at his side.  His time has come.

Yep, Death.  Black robe, skeleton face, shiny silver scythe.  

 

That Death.

 

And Death - being the mean, horrible and nasty being that he is - is toying with the idea of taking Fluffy Bear -- taking him any second now.  

 

Isn't that SCARY?

 

I can't see Death, because he's not here for me.  But Fluffy Bear can.  What else would explain the haunted facial expression, the soft moans of despair and the occasional writhing of the body?

 

As Fluffy Bear lies on the couch, in snuggly PJs, covered in a warm comforter, a hot pack nestling around his neck, all I can see (if I look really, really carefully) is the hairs on the top of his head moving just a little, as if they are being kissed by a light breeze.  

 

But it's cold outside, so all the windows are closed and the chimney flue is too.  So why, why would the hairs on the head of a poor, sick man move?

 

There can only be one explanation.

 

Death.

 

Death - laughing an evil, soul-wrenching laugh - is swinging his scythe back and forth, millimeters above Fluffy Bear's head.  

 

Why?  Because he can.  He's DEATH.

 

He's deciding, Death is.  

 

Now? [Swish!]

 

Or later? [Swish!]

 

Now? [Swish!]

 

Or later? [Swish!]

 

Poor, poor Fluffy Bear.  

 

But, wait!  It doesn't end there.

 

Sitting on the back of the sofa, leaning nonchalantly against the living room wall, sits, Azrael, the Archangel of Death.  A beautiful, beautiful man - stunningly awesome in that impossible way that only an angel can be.  It's almost painful, I imagine, to look at his shiny hair, his glowing skin, his square shoulders, his rock hard six pack, his petrifyingly huge... wings.

 

Even if Fluffy Bear tries to talk to Azrael, to ask him "Why?", to ask him "Why now?", he gets no reply.

 

Azrael sits, with a golden emery board, softly filing his perfectly manicured nails.

 

Occasionally, the slightest hint of annoyance flits across his face. If you weren't watching carefully, you'd miss it completely.  But the choir doesn't.

 

What choir, you ask, dear Diary?

 

The choir.  The Chorus of Angels!

 

No, no, this has nothing to do with Azrael.  These guys are in a totally different Heaven department.  They have a different manager, different Annual Performance Reviews and a different mission statement.  

 

They are far, far lower on the heavenly corporate ladder than Azrael is.  That's why, if they break into a requiem he doesn't happen to like, they switch to another one right quick.

 

And they're a shitload of the white robed, haloed buggers.  How they fit in our living room I'll never know.  Well, I guess that's the magic of heavenly creatures.  

 

They must sound (I can't hear them) really amazing.  Like those little boys, perhaps, with disturbingly high voices who sing at St Paul's cathedral whenever a member of the Royal Family gets hitched.  Or maybe they're more like one of those gospel choirs, big boned (I'm phrasing that kindly), covered in large, purple robes, with their hands raised high in the air.  Or maybe it's a more formal affair.  Thirty to sixty-something white folks, the kinds you'd find in German cathedral, hymn books in hand, serious faces, with one guy at the back with a voice like a bassoon.

 

With all of this, can you imagine how awful poor Fluffy Bear feels?

 

Poor, poor Fluffy Bear.

 

Poor, poor, poor Fluffy Bear.

 

He can barely see or hear the TV to figure out why Danno ought to book the perp in Hawaii Five-O. 

 

And so, naturally, it's up to me to comfort him.  I must stroke his head, and squeeze his hand, and pour his apple juice and get ice and fast forward the DVR through the ads and make a little dry toast and heat up the hotpack in the microwave and keep the dogs from licking his face and get some Immodium and put the fan on in the bathroom and spray the air freshener and warm the hot pack again and get fresh ice.

 

Because it's the least I can do.... right?

 

 

 

To read more of the Dear Diary series, click the Tag below or the Category link on the left.

   

   

Hell is Other People - Networking

 

Yes, it’s time for me to rant again.  Today, it’s about networking.

Do you know why there are so many courses, books and training opportunities around networking?

BECAUSE PEOPLE ARE STUPID AND DON’T KNOW HOW TO DO IT!

And when I say stupid, I don’t mean that these are dumb people.  No, these are highly skilled people, who have worked in a trade, have business acumen or a major artistic talent.  These are qualified people, who have excellent knowledge and are experts in their field.  These are high achieving people, who manage teams, command high fees and have climbed the ladder of success.

These are people who should know better.

And yet they have no idea how to treat other people well, have no idea that networking is mutually beneficial, and have no fucking manners.

Let’s start with treating people well. 

If you are introduced to someone through a connection, the first question to ask yourself is:  Do I trust and respect the person who made this introduction?  If the answer is yes, you are supposed to work on the assumption that the person making the introduction is doing so with positive intent, and would never introduce you to someone who was a loser or who would be a drain on your precious time. 

If you are making an introduction, the first question to ask yourself is: Do these people I am introducing both represent a good reflection of me?  This is because both of them will be thinking of you when they meet/talk, and be judging you by whether they think the introduction is worth their time.

I choose to treat people well. 

I choose to network strategically. 

If I make an introduction it is only because I trust both parties involved. 

What pisses me off is when I find out someone doesn't reciprocate.

You don’t trust me, and so you don’t trust the person I’m trying to connect you with.  And so you delay, or outright reject, the introduction.  That tells me that our relationship is not as strong as I thought it was.  And you know what else it tells me? 

It tells me I CAN’T TRUST YOU!

You are hereby officially demoted on my list of networking contacts.  You’ll never know that, and you may not care, but you can suck it, anyway.

Next, networking is mutually beneficial.

I can’t tell you the number of times I have made an introduction and one party thinks they are doing a huge favor to the other. 

Are you kidding me?  Who do you think you are? 

If an 80 year old can learn from a 2 year old (and, trust me, they can), you can friggin’ get something out of the meeting that I set you up on, otherwise I wouldn’t have set it up in the first place. 

And it’s up to YOU to make sure you get something out of it, even if it’s just the chance to express your opinions and advice, and therefore have the opportunity to think through what you hear yourself saying.

You may have read this post, about the smack down I got when I made an introduction recently.  The person punching me in the gut works for a well-respected national company.  She’s in a relatively senior position within one department.  She’s close to one executive, and this is the only really senior person she’s worked for.

The person I was introducing her to works for a global company that is a powerhouse in its field.  In a previous career, she worked for a politician.  She has since worked for 2 senior executives in this global, massive, powerhouse company that has penetration in every home in the Western world.

Yet person one rejected the opportunity to talk to person two, and person one absolutely believed that she was the Alpha in this meeting.

Are you out of your friggin MIND?  

You work for a smaller company.  You work for a smaller executive.  Your work is mostly internal.

She works for a massive company.  She works for an executive who manages millions and millions of dollars.  Her work is seen by vendors and partners from all over the world.

So who the FUCK died and made you Queen?  

 Unbelievable.

Last, but certainly not least, have some manners. 

I don’t care if you can shoot off an email these days rather than hand-write a thank you note.  I don't care if you can look at your phone screen, see who's calling and choose not to answer.  I don’t care if you can tolerate issuing evites and allowing people to forward them to their friends, who you have never met, and yet have to entertain, with no notice, in your home. 

Manners are fundamental to an effectively functioning society, and should not die.

If you tell me about something you need, and I then take the time to think through my contacts, choose someone for you and then make the connection, have the common decency to goddamn well follow up. 

When I see the person I’ve connected you with, and I thank him or her for responding to my request, and agreeing to meet with you, the one thing I do NOT want to hear is:

“Oh, he hasn’t got back to me yet.”

Are you completely unaware of how to behave within a working context? 

Are you really this unprofessional?

I will NEVER help you, EVER again.

Hell is other people. 

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

Puppy Talk - Potty Time

   

   

   

   

   

   

   

   

   

   

   

   

Puppy Girl:  YAY!  Mama's opening the door!  Potty time!  I reeeeeeally need to pee!

 

Puppy Dog:  What the hell is this?

 

Puppy Girl:  I heard Mama and Dada talking.  It's a fence.

 

Puppy Dog:  What?

 

Puppy Girl:  Oooooh, that feels good... What?

 

Puppy Dog:  I said: 'What?'

 

Puppy Girl:  No, I said What.

 

Puppy Dog:  Oh, for God's sake!  What's the fence for?

 

Puppy Girl:  They said it's for the grass.

 

Puppy Dog:  That's ridiculous.  It's not on the grass.  It's on the path.

 

Puppy Girl:  I dunno.  You better hurry up and go potty.  Mama's calling us.

 

Puppy Dog:  I can't go potty.  My potty place is over there.

 

Puppy Girl:  Too bad.  You can't get there.  You'll just have to potty here on the bark like I do.

 

Puppy Dog:  This is ridiculous!  I refuse to go potty there.  That is your potty place.  My potty place is on the grass.  The nice, soft, damp grass.  Wait.  Maybe I can get under the fence over here--- No.  Maybe over there?  No.  Maybe around the end here...

 

Puppy Girl:  It's not gonna werrrrr-herrrrrk! 

 

Puppy Dog:  Screw this.  Unlike you, I'm a big boy.  I can hold it.  I'm not going potty.  I'm going to bed.

 

Puppy Girl:  Too bad for you, then.

 

Puppy Dog:  Dammit!

 

Puppy Girl:  HAHA!  Mama sent you outside again, didn't she?  You'll have to go potty now!

 

Puppy Dog:  Shut up.  You're so annoying.

 

Puppy Girl:  You're so annoying!  

 

Puppy Dog:  How come your potty place doesn't have a fence around it?  So unfair!  I hate you!

 

Puppy Girl:  I hate YOU!

 

Puppy Dog:  Oh, shut up.

 

Puppy Girl [gasping in horror] : Are you going potty against the fence?

 

Puppy Dog:  Yes.  It's as close to my potty spot as I can get.

 

Puppy Girl:  You're going to get into truh-hubble!

 

Puppy Dog:  Shut up.  Mama wasn't looking.

 

Puppy Girl:  I'm gonna tell!  Mama!  MAMA!

 

Puppy Dog:  I can't tell you how much I hate you.

 

Puppy Girl:  Mama's busy.  She's going potty.

 

Puppy Dog:  HAH!  So there!

 

Puppy Girl:  You're so naughty!

 

Puppy Dog:  Just shut up!

 

Puppy Girl:  No, YOU shut up!

 

Puppy Dog:  No, YOU-- wait, forget this.  I'm going to bed.

  

  

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

    

  

Flavors of America - Vroom Vroom

He Said She Said - Pillow Talk

  

"I'm so tired," he said, getting into bed.

"Me too," she said, "and my feet are cold."

"AAAARGH!" he yelled.

"What?  You're supposed to warm my feet.  It's a husband's duty."

"Not when your feet are ICE BLOCKS!"

"Aw, Honey, come on..."

"No!" he said, wrapping himself up in the covers, creating a comforter wall between them.

"You know what?" she said, poking him.  "This is why the bed is in such a mess in the morning and the fitted sheet has come loose!  When you are away on business and I wake up in the morning, the bed is perfect.  There's just the triangle where I've folded back the stuff to get out of bed.  I swear, next time you travel I'm going to send you a picture to prove it to you."

"Actually when I was at that conference two years ago and R--- and B--- and I were sharing a room, they shared a bed and left me alone.  B--- said I'm the messiest sleeper he's ever seen."

"Ah-HAH!  So now the truth comes out.  Why didn't you tell me this before?"

"It - uh - slipped my mind."

"HAH!  Did B--- also say you snore?"

"Oh, hang on a second!  Last night you and Puppy Dog and Puppy Girl were giving me a snore-symphony!"

"Uh, no, if there's anyone who takes part in the snorephony, it's you.  And by the way, when you fall asleep and dream, you twitch, just like the dogs do."

"I do?"

"Yep," she giggled. "I can hear their nails scritching on their beds, and you rock our mattress in tandem.  I know they're dreaming about chasing balls, but what are you dreaming about?"

"Chasing boobies!"

"Wow.  I'm so shocked I don't think I can sleep now," she said, yawning.

"Good night, darling," he said, kissing her.

"Night night," she sighed.

To read more in the He Said She Said series, click the Tag below or the category link on the left.

Puppy Talk - Close call

 

Puppy Girl:  This is such fun!  I love going on walks.  Don't you think it's fun?

Puppy Dog:  [Sniffsniffsniff]  Hmm... Cockapoo.  About half an hour ago.  

Puppy Girl:  I love the grass, and the flowers, and the trees, and the people who walk past and the sun...

Puppy Dog:  [Sniffsniffsniff]  Cat, one day ago.

Puppy Girl:  Why do you keep zigzagging about?  You're tangling the leashes!  That means I can't move!  What are you doing?

Puppy Dog:  [Sniffsniffsniff]  Boxer, ten minutes ago.  Ooh!  Pup-bearing potential!  [Sniffsniffsniff]  Yes, definitely potential...

Puppy Girl:  STOP IGNORING ME!  

Puppy Dog:  [Sniffsniff--]  SQUIRREL!!!

Puppy Girl:  SQUIRREL!!!

Puppy Dog and Puppy Girl:  SQUIRREL!!! SQUIRREL!!!  SQUIRREL!!!

Puppy Girl:  Ooh, look!  Mama let go of the leash!  I'm free!  

Puppy Dog:  SQUIRREL!!! SQUIRREL!!!  SQUIRREL!!!

Puppy Girl:  I'm free!  What fun!  I can go here.  And I can go here.  And I can go here.

Puppy Dog:  Aw, Mama why did you make me come back to you?  Can't you see the furry-tailed Evil?  It's RIGHT THERE!  I can get it!  I can!  Oh, OK!  OK!  So unfair!

Puppy Girl:  Free!  Free!  I'm free! Weeee-heee!  Oops!  That moving den nearly hit me!  Mama!  Mama!  That moving den nearly hit me!  That wasn't fun!  Hey, why is Mama mad at me!

Puppy Dog:  You went into the road, Stupid.

Puppy Girl:  So what?  I was FREEEEEE!

Puppy Dog:  We're not allowed into the road, Stupid.

Puppy Girl:  Why's Mama so upset?

Puppy Dog:  Because.  You.  Could.  Have.  Been.  Squished.  You.  Stupid.  Stupid.  STUPID!

Puppy Girl:  Stop calling me names!  You're the one who went after the Evil Squirrel first!  You freed us!  I just celebrated that freedom.

Puppy Dog:  You are not.  Allowed.  In the road.

Puppy Girl:  Well, this is no fun.  I hate Heel.

Puppy Dog:  It's your fault we're on heel.

Puppy Girl:  Pffft!  You went after the squirrel!

Puppy Dog:  So did you.

Puppy Girl:  You did it first.

Puppy Dog:  You went into the road!

Puppy Girl:  It's your fault!

Puppy Dog:  IT'S YOUR FAULT!

Puppy Girl:  I HATE YOU!

Puppy Dog:  I HATE YOU!

Puppy Girl:  [mumbling]  You weren't even fast enough to get the squirrel, so there!

Puppy Dog:  WHAT?

Puppy Girl:  Nothing.  I hate you.

Puppy Dog:  I hate you.

Puppy Girl:  Look!  We're home already!

Puppy Dog:  Shut up.

Puppy Girl:  I still hate you.

Puppy Dog:  Shut up, I'm going to nap.

Puppy Girl:  I'm going to ask Mama to throw the ball for me!  Yippeee!

Puppy Dog:  Yeah, g'luck with that.

To see more in the Puppy Talk series, click the Tag below category link on the left.

Quote Unquote - Weinerbashing

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

Democratic Representative of New York, Anthony Weiner, on the floor of the Congress, on the Republicans trying to repeal the Obamacare Healthcare bill:

  

"First they start by making stuff up. You kinda have to wonder if any of them actually read the bill.  

  

'130,000 new agencies' - NOT TRUE! 

  

'New IRS agents' - NOT TRUE!

  

'Death panels' - NOT TRUE!

 

'Members aren't covered' - NOT TRUE!

 

No Tort Reform in it - not true.

 

You know, I wanna just advise people watching at home playing that now popular drinking game of you take a shot whenever a Republican says something that's not true... Please!  Assign a designated driver  - this is gonna be a long afternoon!"

   

No matter which side you're on, that's f-ing funny.

 

Watch the rant here.

 

  

For more in the Quote Unquote series, click the Tag below or the category link on the left.

  

  

9 to 5 - Weather

 

Baristo: "Your usual?"

Me:  "Yep."

Baristo:  "So how are you today?"  

Me:  "Oh... OK, I guess.  So sick of this gray, gray, gray weather though."

Baristo:  "I know, right?"

Me:  "And the rain isn't even real rain.  I wish it would just pour down and then stop.  But instead this drip, drip, drizzle, drizzle... Urgh!  It's the same every day!"

Baristo:  "I don't mind it that much.  I just put on a hat to walk to work."

Me:  "Me too, but you don't wear glasses.  I end up seeing the whole world in soft focus, as if I'm watching a Doris Day movie!"

Baristo:  "[Laughing]  Well, you know that they say about our weather.  If you don't like it, wait fifteen minutes...[He paused] Then kill yourself."

Me:  [Laughing] "Awesome!  Although I heard something a bit different."

Baristo:  "What's that?"

Me:  "Living here is like being married to a beautiful woman.  Except she's sick for half the year."

Baristo:  "Good one!  Here we go.  Tall, skinny cap.  Enjoy!"

Me:  "Thanks!  Have a great day!  See you tomorrow!"

To see more in the 9 to 5 series, click the Tag below or the category link on the left.

He Said She Said - Colonoscopy

 

They were watching Men of a Certain Age.  The 3 male leads were heading to Palm Springs to go to a recommended doctor to have colonoscopies.

They were discussing who was going to have anaesthetic and who wasn't.

"Wait a minute," she said.  "You can have anaesthetic for a colonoscopy?"

"Of course," he said.

"That's ridiculous!" she snapped.  "I don't get anaesthetic when I get a speculum shoved right up my woowah!  They don't even warm the fucking thing up!"

"But you need anaesthetic!" he said.

"No you don't!  They just said on the TV that the doctor told them it's optional!"

"Honey," he sighed, "it's not like it just goes a little way up."

"Neither does a speculum!  You saw that dildo-camera they put up me when I had to have an ultrasound!  That thing was huge!  It was brave-gay-man size!  You think that only went up a few inches?"

"Honey.  Honey.  When you have a colonoscopy the thingy goes up your boomboom ALL THE WAY TO YOUR NOSTRILS!"

"Stop trying to win this by making me laugh," she giggled.

"When I turn 50 and have a colonoscopy, I'm having anaesthetic," he said.

"And the next time I go for a pap smear I am going to ask for anaesthetic and watch my ObGyn roll on the floor with laughter."

For more in the He Said She Said series, click the Tag below or the category link on the left.

The Incredible Journey - 11 April, 1994

In 1994, I did what most white South Africans my age saw as a right of passage.  I went on a tour of Europe with a schoolfriend and her girlfriend.  I was in my early 20's.

 These are the letters and faxes (this was before everyone had email, Children) I sent home.  They are all real.  I couldn't make this shit up.  

The trip started in January 1994.  To read the posts in order, go the Itinerary Post.

11 April 1994

Bordeaux

Letter

   

Dear Mom and Dad and family,

    

I must try and think when it was that I last wrote so I can tell you what's happened since then.  I think it was from the Laverie [laudromat] at Chatelallion La Plage.  That was on the 7th.

 

After leaving the village we headed towards Bordeaux.  It was getting late so we stopped before the actual town and had supper at an Auberge in Pugnac.  I don't think the food was traditional.  Basque fare as such, but we really enjoyed it nevertheless.  FF50 for potage, plat de charcuterie, turkey leg and pasta, cheese and dessert.  Then cafe and - of course! - baguette and WONDERFUL house wine.  We asked the owners if we could park in their backyard and they were very kind [this means we spent the night in their parking lot].

  

 

8 April

 

Decided not to go to Bordeaux but find a chateau in the area at which to taste wine.  Not much open on a Saturday, but found a sweet little farmer at "Graves d'Ardonneau" [see the link - they seem to have come a long way since then].  He was bottling so the cave was cleared of the bar and usual reception facilities, but he let us taste a wine anyway [He was clearly charmed by the prettiness of Carrie and Varla.  His wife wasn't and came into the shed and was clearly hoping we would leave].  We bought a bottle for FF21.50.

  

Bypassed Bordeux and went to the Dune de Pyla.  45m high and 3km long.  Amazing.  Climbing up it was hell.

  

[There were guys sand surfing down the back of the dune into the forrest below.  It was bizarre.]

  

   

   

   

   

Down to Behobie - no-one at the border post.  Tried to get info and all I got was: "There is no more border post!"  So we paid for Spanish and Portuguese visas for nothing [for more on this, see the Post Script in this post].  Then Shengen thing is in effect.

  

Anyway we carried on down to San Sebastian Donisto.  Lovely tourist town.  Perfect bay with island in the middle - it's called La Concha [the shell] ]because of its shape - the island being the pearl.  Camped at a site called Igueldo - 10 layers of parking carved into the moutainside overlooking the bay.  Really nice facilities. 

  

  

9 April

 

Had a look at the little funfair on Monte Igueldo, then went down into town.  By this time tensions were building because we all wanted to do different things.  Carrie and Varla want to go to the beach all the time and I don't see the point.  Why fly all the way to Europe to go to the beach when you can pay much less and go [from South Africa] to Mauritius? 

  

Anyway, we headed towards Santander and, as it was getting late, camped in a town about 10km before Santander.  Awful campsite - left early.

  

  

10 April

   

Drove to Santander, sat a little shop on the beach and sorted out our differences over tortilla, rabas [fried calamari rings\ and "hamburguesas" with cafe con leche (served in a glass - lovely).  Went into town to try and find out how to convert our visas into a Shengen visa.  We are travelling on our French one, which is only for a month because we spaced our visas out according to the dates we'd be in each country.  Oh no, sorry, I'm wrong.  Our French visas are till end Aug, but we need to find out if they are valid for Germany and Benelux or if we have to have a Shengen visa.

 

Anyway, no luck on that score, so we found a campsite just out of town.  Nice facilities but not in full swing because it is not high season yet.  It has a bar, restaurant, pool.

 

 

11 April - today

  

One of our decisions made was that we must slow down and stop driving every day, so we stayed here today and went to the little beach nearby.  

 

It was completely enclosed by cliffs so sheltered from the wind.  Very dirty though - lots of litter.  Topless tanning all around us, of course.  The Spanish have a different attitude to nudity.  

 

I spent a few hours there and then had had enough, so I came back to the camper [van] and ended up talking to 4 Spanish guys camping on the "parsella" (campsite) next to ours.  Communication difficult.

 

And that's about it.  We are now cooking supper - our gas stove and fridge work like a charm - and we leave for Madrid tomorrow.  

 

I will be sending a cuddly toy I bought on the Champs Elysees (Disney Shop) for [my nephew ].  It is "Flounder" - the fish in The Little Mermaid.  If you think it's too childish for him, give it to [my niece].

 

My love to all.  Missing you and looking forward to having a letter waiting for me at [my Aunt's house].

 

Buenos Dias!  Or Ciao (?) 

 

   

   

 

Post Script

My key memory from this time was us going to a bar and Carrie asking the barman for "Tapas".  He didn't speak much English, but pointed to a menu on the wall behind him that listed various small dishes.

 

We read it and there were things like patatas bravas, but nothing called "tapas". 

 

Carrie was confused.

 

"No," she said, "we want Tapas!"

 

I began to get the picture, and tried to explain to her that "tapas" was an umbrella term, but it took a little while for it to sink in.

 

This is the thing when you are a foreigner.  You grow up hearing vaguely about something and you think it is a particular thing.  Like Silicon Valley.  You won't be able to drive along the 101 highway and find an exit marked Silicon Valley.  It's just a slang term for a general area.

 

But, when you live in another country, and you hear a term, you form a picture in your mind, and it's there for years until, sometime in adulthood, it's challenged.

 

On the surface, you could look like a total moron, but it's a clash between an assumption you've held for ages and the evidence in front of you.

 

Still, I got to take the piss out of Carrie and it was bloody funny!

  

  

The trip started in January 1994.  To read the posts in order, go the Itinerary Post.

  

   

Dear Diary - From a dizzy, dizzy height

 

Dear Diary

Fuck the calorie counter, and fuck propriety.  I am drinking a very large glass of white wine and eating peanuts.  Yes, I need a savory snack with my whine.

Yes, whine.

That is not a spelling mistake.  

Watch out!  Here it comes...

Today was my day to be shat on.  From a dizzy, dizzy height.

Three.

Fucking.

Times!

The first was from a colleague.  

She was shitting on me because I had sent her an introduction to a ex-colleague of mine from a previous job.  My ex-colleague wants to network with people who do a role similar to hers, because she has worked for the same company for a very long time and she is interested in how the job is done in other companies.

I made a mistake, I admit it.  

I should have talked to my current colleague first, and asked her if I could send an email introduction.  I screwed up.  I know I screwed up.  When she first contacted me, I immediately knew it.  I went away and thought about it and I figured out HOW I screwed up.  I tried to mitigate the screw up.  I tried to learn from the screw up.

When we met, I apologized immediately.  I explained what I had done to reset my ex-colleague's expectations, so that my current colleague does not have to follow up if she didn't want to.

But, here's the thing.  When someone wants to shit on you, it's unpleasant for them.  So they seem to want to spend ages justifying to you WHY they are shitting on you.  

So I had to sit for twenty minutes to hear, again and again, the same reasons why what I had done was not the best way to go about things. 

If I had $5 for every time I had to nod, agree, or say "I understand" I'd be able to buy that pair of boots I've had my eye on, which would have been a much more enjoyable and far better use of my time than wiping poop out of my eyes and spitting it out of my mouth as it rained down on me.

Shitfest No. 2 occurred in what I thought was an information gathering meeting with one of the stakeholder groups for my project.  

Why is it that the sword of Damocles drops on the back of your neck at the END of a meeting?  If people come with an agenda, why aren't they just up front about it?

Why can't they sit down at the start of the meeting and say: "Look, we need to address the elephant in the room here..." and just lay it out for us to solve together?

Instead, 5 minutes from the end of the hour, I'm sideswiped with the fact that my project which, until today, I thought was an internal thing, for my team primarily, with a few secondary stakeholders, seems to be, according to this team, THEIR project.  It exists, they think to satisfy THEIR business goals.

So, apparently, I need to get their boss to "have a conversation" with my boss so we can sort this out.

I took this job with the understanding that I had to implement an internal project.  Now it turns out someone thinks they are my "business user" with requirements?

ARE.

YOU. 

FUCKING.

KIDDING ME?

This is a political shit storm.  It wasn't raining shit.  It was snowing the damn stuff, and it was building up in poop snowdrifts all around me.  

I managed to get out of the room, explaining that I had to go to the dentist.  

I was ready for that.  It was my annual teeth cleaning and I knew I was going to get flak about not flossing.  Happens every year... grin and bear it.

But, nooooooo.

Seems I have a small cavity, which sparked a detailed analysis, by the dental hygienist, of my current diet and it's sugar content.

Do I drink sugary drinks?  No.

Do I have sugar in my tea or coffee?  No.

Do I eat candy?  No.

Do I chew sugary gum?  No.

And on and on and on.

And all of this while a small metal pick is scraping away at my teeth, poking my gums and making me bleed.  

Then it hits me:  Christmas!

"Werw, okorz, ova Kizmiz ah ade a lodda stuv..." I said, trying not to get my tongue under the metal instrument of torture.

So that's it.  One week a year I let go and indulge in cookies, Christmas pudding, mince pies, chocolate truffles and cake and what do I get for Christmas?

A FUCKING CAVITY!

So the "You Gotta Floss" shit machine, strengthened by the "You Sugar Eating Loser" ammunition, rained down on me much harder than ever before.  I would go so far as to say they were hailstones of poop.  

And so, the wine, and the peanuts, and the strong likelihood that, seeing as Fluffy Bear is away at a conference, this is all I am going to have for dinner.  Apart from a complete bar of chocolate, of course.

Fuck you, shit storm.

For more in the Dear Diary series, click the Tag below or the category link on the left

The Incredible Journey - 7 April, 1994

In 1994, I did what most white South Africans my age saw as a right of passage.  I went on a tour of Europe with a schoolfriend and her girlfriend.  I was in my early 20's.  

These are the letters and faxes (this was before everyone had email, Children) I sent home.  They are all real.  I couldn't make this shit up.   

The trip started in January 1994.  To read the posts in order, go the Itinerary Post.

7 April 1994

Chatelaillon La Plage

Letter

Dear Family,

I am sitting in a laundromat in Chatelaillon La Plage.

As we were in the car leaving the B's [friends of my parents that we stayed with in Paris], Mrs B told us that the North coast is lovely and we should go there.  So we changed plans at the last minute (they thought we were mad) and decided to head towards Brest instead of Bordeaux.  

We went up to St Malo and camped just outside it at St Servan.  If you look France you see a headland on the Northwest which juts out.  That's where we were.  Anyway, the campsite was on a hill overlooking the sea and was beautiful.  We cooked on our little stove.  Next day we braved the showers (YUK).  Camping the night cost us 62 French Francs.

We drove to Dinan and walked around the medieval bits of the city.  Had a hamburger for lunch.  We needed to taste familiar food again.  We then drove to St Brieuc and took the subsidiary road which winds along the coast.  We got lost and were driving around in the dark [this was before GPS, Children].  We kept seeing signs saying "Camping", following them and not finding anything.  Eventually we found ourselves on a road in front of which was a tiny patch of grass next to a river.  There were boats parked and houses behind us.  So we stopped and slept.  I will never know where were were that night.

In the morning we drove to Camaret and saw a circle of menhirs.

Seems they don't really shape them as well as Obelix does.  

We drove to Point de Penhir which is a point that juts out [into the sea].  We parked at the flat parking which is about half the size of a soccer field and encircled by rocks put down as markers.  There were rock faces down to the sea all around us and it was very misty.  We could only see about 50m out to sea.  It was a very weird scene.

We drove to Quimper, bypassed it an went on to Nantes.  Argument as to whether to carry on to Bordeaux or not.  By heading West from Paris we had completely messed up our planned budget and it irritated me that we only saw 1/10 of Paris and now suddenly we were slowing down and seeing every damn coastal hamlet.  It is still cold here and I think it's pretty pointless to seek out the seaside when we'll be on the Costa Brava and South coast of France when it's really hot.

Also, I don't want to end up bypassing Bordeaux.  I don't care where we go in other countries but, in France, I have certain demands.  Carrie and Varla are interested in totally different things to me.  For instance, I don't see the point of spending an entire morning at a marche [outdoor market] no different to the Bruma Lake Flea Market.  

So, anyway, Carrie suggested the compromise of stopping half way to Bordeaux, so we ended up here.  The beach is boring, empty and cold.  You can imagine how charmed I am.  I am beginning to think I really should take advantage of the face that our visa is still end of August and come backpack by myself.  The way visas are going we will only do France, Spain, Portugal, Switzerland and Austria, anyway [HAH!  We ran out of money way before that].

Well, we will hopefully be in Bordeaux by tonight and, if they'd rather go to a beach than on a wine route tomorrow, I swear I will pack my backpack, buy myself a Eurorail pass and do this thing PROPERLY.

Missing you (and the sun)!

Love to all

Post Script

 In Varla's defense, she was much younger than us (about 18) and had lived inland all her life, so I guess seeing the sea was important to her.  She had come on this trip to be with Carrie - they were each other's first true loves - and I had come to absorb as much European culture as I could.  These two goals clashed, as did our girlfriend vs. old friend claims on Carrie, who was constantly torn between the two of us.

In truth, there was no way I would have had the courage to go backpacking on my own.  I needed them, and I could probably have been nicer.  If I had to do it again, I'd have left them alone for a day or two and then met up somewhere pre-agreed.  But this was before cellphones and email and IM and Facebook and so, if you weren't where you were supposed to be, when you were supposed to be there, you missed each other.  A real deterrent for striking out alone.

I was, of course, a total gooseberry, because they wanted to spend time together.   They ended up buying a tent and letting me sleep alone in the camper van.  Score for me!

There is also a story to tell about the visas.

This was before the official unification of Europe so currency and visas were a real pain.  But that's not what caused the real problem.  That came from a total bitch who I hope rots in hell, experiencing constant pain and degradation.

She ran a visa agency and, instead of telling us at, on the 5th of April (four days after we left), the Shengen visa came into effect, which meant we only needed one visa for Belgium, France, Germany, Luxemburg, Portugal and Spain.  Instead, she charged us for a visa for each country.  So she made three young women, who were using a currency that was very weak against the pound, by 4 visas they did not need.  That's 4 X 3 X £10, plus each embassy's fee.  She made over £200 out of us, unethically.  That was enough for us to travel an extra week.

Fucking bitch.

When we were in Spain trying to get a visa for some country or other that we didn't even get to, a nice young man explained to us that we didn't need it.  We had been worrying about visas for later countries and spending whole days at embassies.

I don't do voodoo or juju but, if I did, I'd have cursed that woman the day I found out.

My only solace was the knowledge that her piss-ant visa agency was probably going to go bust, because holiday travelers to Europe wouldn't need her, and business travelers that went further afield would probably not use a small company like hers.

BITCH.

Yes, I'm STILL bitter.

BITCH!

The trip started in January 1994.  To read the posts in order, go the Itinerary Post.