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.

You might enjoy:

• Bring back the humans - don't you just hate those automated switchboards?
• Follow your yellow brick road - a story of how fate gets us in the end

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.

 

You might like:

• 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.

You might like:

• Ten things designed by people who didn't have to clean them
• Old Lady

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.  

 

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• Being a Doggy Mama - Two Exhausting Hours
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•  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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• Getting Emotional
• Lesson Time

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.

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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.

 

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