In which the Vengeful Travel Gods take a day off and I set about ruining my own day...
Allow me to set the stage. It is Friday. I have been traveling and working all week non stop on the West Coast. Mentally and physically exhausted, I am relieved to finally be heading home for the weekend. With an estimated arrival to my home airport of 7pm, I have very definite ideas about being home by 8pm and unconscious before 10pm.
Here then the chain of events:
3:00am: My alarm goes off. Boo. Auto pilot. Up. Dress. Pack.
4:15am: Taxi
5:00am: Airport
6:00am: In the air.
9:15am: Arrive in Denver for 3.5 hour layover.
I spend the next 2.5 hours on the phone and email, working diligently and being productive.
I arrive at the gate an hour before my flight departs and spend the time speaking to my boss who is leaving on holiday in a few hours.
30 minutes to boarding. The gate is closed but it says Tampa. Continue talking.
0 minutes to boarding. No agent, no boarding. Sign says Tampa. Continue talking.
30 minutes past boarding. No one. Continue talking, assume delay. I'm still right next to the gate, they can't get past without my seeing them. It still says Tampa.
10 minutes to take off. It says Houston. Hang up. Seek out gate agent. Did they move my gate, this flight should be leaving in 10 minutes and hasn't boarded?
Agent: What flight?
Me: The flight right now, the 12:45pm flight.
Agent: You mean the 1:45pm flight to Houston?
Me: No, the 12:45pm flight. To Tampa.
Agent: It left at 12:45pm.
Me: That's now! Where is it?
Agent: Um, it's 1:45pm. You know you're in Mountain Time, right?
Me: I... wha... Bastard!! Not you.
Someone forgot to change their watch when they landed in Denver because they we're busy taking a work call as soon as they landed.
So that was the last direct flight home for the day. Of course, it was.
They can get me home by tomorrow evening. Right.
Can I take yet another connection to get home instead of going direct? I can.
Can I get home tonight? I cannot.
After an embarrassing conversation with a customer service agent (who laughed at me hardly at all) and scouring all available flights in every direction, my fastest route home is to fly to Houston, spend the night, and take a 6:30 am flight home which puts me home before lunch. So much for sleeping in on Saturday. Let's do it.
What about your bag, she asks?
I answer automatically, I never check a... Oh. I checked my bag. Is my bag here, I ask?
No. It is not. My bag is in Tampa. Because it knew it was on Mountain Time.
Clothing. Toiletries. All in Tampa. Super.
My laptop back pack is ridiculously heavy and I had tradeshow items stuffed into my carry on size roller bag. It was free to check it so despite my rule of always traveling with a clothing as a carry on, I break my own rule and decide to check it. I am now forced to endure another 3+ hours in Denver airport waiting for my flight to Houston and carting around a carry on that could give you a hernia.
One of the trade show items in my checked bag? A back pack with wheels that was given to me at the show. Oh, the irony.
I purchase a travel toothbrush, toothpaste, deodorant, hairbrush and aspirin for the emerging headache at the airport shop. Has no one realized they could sell underwear for stranded travelers? They sell diapers. Confident they won't fit.
Might as well eat as I won't have a chance later. I am sitting in a restaurant at the airport. I think to myself I should really stop wearing white Oxford shirts on travel days. I look down and discover a portion of my meal on my white shirt. The one, I'll be wearing fr the foreseeable future.
A baby at the table next to mine starts crying. I look over. She looks tired and miserable; she has clearly determined the only course of action left is to cry. I hear you, sister. I hear you.
Friday, October 10, 2014
Friday, April 18, 2014
Long Story/Short Story: Once more into the breach, dear friends.
Long story:
I stood there, frozen, staring at it like a jockey thrown from a horse; knowing that it had to be now or never. I must overcome the fear that paralyzed me.
I looked at it with suspicion. Was it homicidal? Had I gotten something wrong the previous time? A foot placed a fraction of an inch away from where it should have been? A momentary lack of concentration? Had I just gotten too arrogant? The process such a daily routine that I had taken for granted the risks?
I looked down, inspecting the blue and purple bruises blooming over my skin. I could still feel the stiffness and slow throbbing of strained joints. Had it really only been 48 hours?
I had forgotten to respect that which can kill you and I had paid the price. Not the ultimate price, no. I had escaped. Barely. A different day, it could have been lights out.
I took stock of my injuries. Never again, I told myself, never again.
I approached it slowly. Don't spook it, I thought. Easy does it. Nice and slow. With each halting step, the pain reminded me of our last encounter.
My eyes narrowed with suspicion as I looked it up and down. I would remember to respect its power but by God, I would not buckle to fear.
Slowly, cautiously, I drew aside the shower curtain and stepped inside.
Short story:
I slipped and fell in the shower last week. Seriously. What am I? 65? No, I have no excuse, I really ought to be able to remain upright in a shower without supervision. Anyway, it happened. That split second when you're certain you're about to crack your head open and be found unconscious (and naked) in your bathroom will really get your heart rate up. Also, you think for a brief moment that you ought not to have mocked the LifeAlert adverts ("Help! I've fallen and I can't get up!"). On the brigtside, it happened when someone was on their way to my house so it was at least comforting to know that it wouldn't take them days to find me. Bumps and impressive bruises aside, I was fine and yet, it was still with a surprising degree of nervousness that I stepped back into the shower. Tentatively. Two days later. That's right. It took me two days. Shut up...
Saturday, June 9, 2012
Vengeful Gods have delayed my flight... again.
I’m going to write a book. I have to. There’s just too much ridiculousness not to share it with the world. That’s the trouble really, every time I attempt to leave the immediate area to travel elsewhere absurd things happen that I feel sure can’t be happening to everyone else. Events lend themselves to the only logical conclusion one can draw under such circumstances: the Gods are toying with me. Much like in mythology, I sometimes feel that there are a large group of bored individuals lounging about somewhere very pleasant and exotic, slurping down mojitos and wreaking havoc upon my insignificant travel plans for their own amusement.
“Oh, she’s leaving. Hey, guys! Guys! She’s on her way to the airport. Where did I leave my lightening bolts? Someone fetch Bacchus and tell him to bring more of those little drinks with umbrellas, we’re out over here!”
I know this probably seems unlikely and above all rather self centered to most of you but it isn’t. It’s true. There’s no other reason to account for the frequency with which I am faced with delayed flights, inexplicable lightening storms, missed connections, freakish weather and out breaks of monkey sickness [click here for further information on HAMS Syndrome - High Altitude Monkey Sickness] suffered by children on board any aircraft I venture into.
The trouble is it’s never very funny at the time. It’s definitely not helping my blood pressure. When I finally get where I’m going and sit down to tell friends of my travel woes, it can be rather exasperating to have them burst into laughter as I describe how (to mentioned but a few highlights):
- after five hours of provocation above the Atlantic Ocean, I almost-very-nearly-but-not-quite retaliated by stabbing a six year old in the leg with my pen.
- I arrived in Bangkok to find my ticket for an overnight flight to London had accidentally been cancelled by a confused ticket agent several days prior during the rush to make up the cancelled flights from a Tsunami.
- the kid two rows behind spent what seemed like the entire duration of the flight standing on his seat rapidly turning the over head light on and off and on and off and on and off and on and off… you get the idea.
- we were delayed due to a mechanical glitch which caused the crew to have to replace a part and the woman in front of me had a panic attack. She refused to fly and also wouldn’t get off the plane. Enter police stage left...
- I was detained in a 3rd world country because I didn't have the right work visa in my passport. "You'll be deported," I was warned. "I'm trying to leave," I pointed out. "Hapana," ('no' in Swahili) they said almost gleefully, "you must be detained!"
- I was in a holding pattern circling an airport for so long that I was certain the pilot was lost but refused to stop and ask for directions…we had to be diverted to another airport because they didn’t have enough fuel to circle indefinitely.
My father travels far more frequently than I. He has amassed such a log of in flight hours that when you mention a plane being hit by lightening, he thinks nothing of it and sees little point in getting excited. So the part about all of this that which is most strange and simultaneously extraordinarily unfair is that my father who must easily have a 10 times more frequent flier miles than me…. he doesn’t seem to have most of these problems. And when on occasion he does it is certainly not with any more frequency than any other habitual traveler. Thus I can only conclude that petty gods beleaguer me for sport.
Under the circumstances, it would seem my only option is to throw the spotlight on this conspiracy in the vain hope that this unacceptable behavior ceases. Perhaps I can get a spot on one of those news features with undercover cameras and severe looking anchors that babble about ethics and demand justice on behalf of the common man.
Until then I shall be hard at work on my forthcoming book: “Vengeful Gods Have Delayed My Flight and Other Misadventures.” I have yet to decide if I should market it as a comedic work or tales of horror… surely my next trip will reveal the answer.
Saturday, January 22, 2011
Dem bones, dem bones
It's the holidays. Well it's not now but it was. And in America that means chockablock airports.
The trouble with airports, busy ones in particular, is you have no control over how other people behave. The sheer effort expent trying not scream at people who are, let's face it, holding things up with stupidity that borders on the criminal has at one time or another left me visibly shaking and moments away from what I'm certain is spontaneous combustion.
It's bad enough when you're trapped and watching the idiocy unfold before you while you check your watch every ten seconds and wonder if you'll make it through security before your flight leaves. But when passengers willfully slow things down? Criminal, surely?
And right around the time of the holidays some absolute nutters, in the name of civil liberties, decide it would be the perfect opportunity to boycott the airport x-ray machines. Sigh... does anyone think these things through before opening their mouths to protest? It's really not an infringement of your rights, people. It's an x-ray. However good or bad you think you look, the bored, exhausted and indifferent TSA agent probably couldn't care less how you appear in x-ray format. If they're taking nude photos of passengers and asking you to pose or look over your shoulder and pout then I can see your point. In actual fact, they're looking at what is for the most part a bundle of bones. Have people seen what an x-ray actually looks like? I mean, you do know you like like an idiot if you think some desperate TSA agent is going to be getting excited looking at an x-ray of you, right? I'm not an expert but I feel good about my chances regarding the accuracy of the following assertion: if the TSA agent is that desperate for excitement I'm pretty sure he (or she) is just going to go home and look at porn.
While I'm not at all one of these folks who wants to sign away my civil liberties for the sake of safety, an x-ray really isn't all that intrusive. What's next, boycotting of CAT scan's and MRI's for fear hospital technicians are getting hot and bothered looking at your irradiated bits and pieces? Try to keep it in perspective.
And here's the thing, x-ray: 10 seconds, full body pat down 4 minutes. 100 passengers body scanned, approximately 16 minutes. 100 passengers patted down, approximately 6 hours. Now, how do you feel about having to be at the airport 2 hours before your flight? How do you feel about having to be at the airport 6 hours before your flight? Stop being an idiot and go through the stupid x-ray. "Oh, but they can see my contours!" Yes, and I'm sure that makes all the difference between an x-ray being of interest or not to a TSA agent. And after 8 hours of looking at x-rays on the job, who the hell wants to look at more that might or might not be possibly stored on a TSA hard drive somewhere?
It's far more invasive to have someone's hands all over you, I'm sure. And you really can't be one of these people who thinks you can say no to everything.
X-ray?
No.
Pat down?
No.
You have to have something done.
I'd really rather just go straight to my gate.
Oh. Ok...uh, never mind then. Have a nice day.
**LOUD BUZZER**
Nil points! It doesn't work that way. You cannot have your cake and eat it too. I've tried, it's not allowed. You can have your peanuts and eat them too but since you only about 14 per flight, it hardly counts and you'll be hungry later.
So for the sake of everyone's sanity, just shut up, if selected go through the x-ray (that's right, it isn't even a guarantee you'll have to have one!) and get on the plane so you can go home and annoy your family instead of me.
In that spirit, I leave you with these very sexy TSA x-rays which I think, we can all agree, probably don't look anything like you when you go through the scanner. Unless you're wearing stilettos and get very creative when told to stay still for 10 seconds. Enjoy!
According to Gadling.com, these images were created by a German agency for a Japanese computer display company called EIZO, and apparently they are actually just very good CGI and have nothing to do with the TSA.
The trouble with airports, busy ones in particular, is you have no control over how other people behave. The sheer effort expent trying not scream at people who are, let's face it, holding things up with stupidity that borders on the criminal has at one time or another left me visibly shaking and moments away from what I'm certain is spontaneous combustion.
It's bad enough when you're trapped and watching the idiocy unfold before you while you check your watch every ten seconds and wonder if you'll make it through security before your flight leaves. But when passengers willfully slow things down? Criminal, surely?
And right around the time of the holidays some absolute nutters, in the name of civil liberties, decide it would be the perfect opportunity to boycott the airport x-ray machines. Sigh... does anyone think these things through before opening their mouths to protest? It's really not an infringement of your rights, people. It's an x-ray. However good or bad you think you look, the bored, exhausted and indifferent TSA agent probably couldn't care less how you appear in x-ray format. If they're taking nude photos of passengers and asking you to pose or look over your shoulder and pout then I can see your point. In actual fact, they're looking at what is for the most part a bundle of bones. Have people seen what an x-ray actually looks like? I mean, you do know you like like an idiot if you think some desperate TSA agent is going to be getting excited looking at an x-ray of you, right? I'm not an expert but I feel good about my chances regarding the accuracy of the following assertion: if the TSA agent is that desperate for excitement I'm pretty sure he (or she) is just going to go home and look at porn.
While I'm not at all one of these folks who wants to sign away my civil liberties for the sake of safety, an x-ray really isn't all that intrusive. What's next, boycotting of CAT scan's and MRI's for fear hospital technicians are getting hot and bothered looking at your irradiated bits and pieces? Try to keep it in perspective.
And here's the thing, x-ray: 10 seconds, full body pat down 4 minutes. 100 passengers body scanned, approximately 16 minutes. 100 passengers patted down, approximately 6 hours. Now, how do you feel about having to be at the airport 2 hours before your flight? How do you feel about having to be at the airport 6 hours before your flight? Stop being an idiot and go through the stupid x-ray. "Oh, but they can see my contours!" Yes, and I'm sure that makes all the difference between an x-ray being of interest or not to a TSA agent. And after 8 hours of looking at x-rays on the job, who the hell wants to look at more that might or might not be possibly stored on a TSA hard drive somewhere?
It's far more invasive to have someone's hands all over you, I'm sure. And you really can't be one of these people who thinks you can say no to everything.
X-ray?
No.
Pat down?
No.
You have to have something done.
I'd really rather just go straight to my gate.
Oh. Ok...uh, never mind then. Have a nice day.
**LOUD BUZZER**
Nil points! It doesn't work that way. You cannot have your cake and eat it too. I've tried, it's not allowed. You can have your peanuts and eat them too but since you only about 14 per flight, it hardly counts and you'll be hungry later.
So for the sake of everyone's sanity, just shut up, if selected go through the x-ray (that's right, it isn't even a guarantee you'll have to have one!) and get on the plane so you can go home and annoy your family instead of me.
In that spirit, I leave you with these very sexy TSA x-rays which I think, we can all agree, probably don't look anything like you when you go through the scanner. Unless you're wearing stilettos and get very creative when told to stay still for 10 seconds. Enjoy!
TSA Calendar
Miss January
Miss February
Miss March
Miss April
Miss May
Miss June
Miss July
Miss August
Miss September
Miss October
Miss November
Miss December
According to Gadling.com, these images were created by a German agency for a Japanese computer display company called EIZO, and apparently they are actually just very good CGI and have nothing to do with the TSA.
Wednesday, January 12, 2011
Deja Vu
Television rots your brain. Or so I've been told. Given the sheer volume of rubbish on television these days, it's not hard to believe. Outside of sporting events which make up a substantial portion of my viewing, there's not much else to choose from. When everyone is apparently religiously watching Jersey Shore and America's Next Top Model, it makes it quite easy to imagine tossing my television and aborting the monthly cable bill.
For my personal viewing, besides Fox Football ("Do you mean soccer?" - click for more details) Channel, I used to turn to BBC America. It was my 'happy place' amid the pain and misery of US television programming. I could get news (proper current events, not local school children constructing the largest noodle craft project ever unveiled), sitcoms (that actually made you laugh) and drama (that wasn't predictable). You've got to give credit where it's due, we do know how to write interesting television in the UK. Lately however, the selection on the BBC America has become tenuous. It seems whenever I do have some time to actually watch television, and switch to my trusty BBC America I'm greeted by Star Trek: The Next Generation. What? That's not a British show. Not even a little. One English actor does not a British show make. Cough up the cash BBC America and pay for some more programming.
The only thing more worrisome than the appearance of American shows on BBC America is the sheer lack of imagination in actual American programming. It seems many of the shows which are having (or have had) enormous success are remakes of UK shows, re-casted with American actors (language barrier?) - Sanford & Son (Steptoe & Son), All in the Family ('Til Death Do Us Part), Football Wives (Footballers' Wives), Skins, Shameless, Coupling, The IT Crowd, The Office, Queer as Folk, and most recently Being Human. In the case of reality shows, they get shifted over the pond with a ready made charismatic/villainous host (Simon Cowell, Ann Robinson, Piers Morgan) - The Weakest Link, Who Wants to Be a Millionaire?, American Idol (Pop Idol), America's Got Talent (Britain's Got Talent), Cash in the Attic, Trading Spaces (Changing Rooms), What Not to Wear, Undercover Boss, Super Nanny and now Top Gear.
Top Gear, at least, makes sense. It's immensely popular and there is a different market of cars in the US with it's own group of enthusiasts who would love a Top Gear aimed at the vehicles available here. Unfortunately, the US version lacks the exact ingredient which has made the UK version such a smash success: personality. I can count the number of things I know about cars on one hand. I'm not an enthusiast by any stretch of the imagination and I know nothing about engines (outside of the fact that I need one to go). And yet, I love Top Gear. Why? Because it's entertaining. Unlike the US version which is decidedly not.
It would be nice, if the US networks would hire a few more imaginative people and come up with some of their own rock solid entertaining shows. It can be done but someone out there is going to have to work on getting some television execs who aren't monkeys jumping to copy the first entertaining thing they see. A few less Jersey Shore's, a few more House/Lie to Me/Law & Order's would be a treat.
Without that, it's only a matter of time until some dull witted TV exec sees Star Trek: The Next Generation on BBC America and pitches it to his network as a brand new show....
"I just saw it on BBC America," he says. "It's a show about humans traveling space, the final frontier if you will. Exploring the outer reaches and interacting with aliens. They call it Star Trek. We'll call ours...um, Planet Exploration?...No...Space Expedition?....No.... Solar Journey? No, wait, wait, I've got it... we'll call it Star Trek!"
"That's where you started, sir."
"Oh, well, we'll sort out the name later. Right, what we need is a bald actor, go find me one! Is Michael Chiklis free?"
It will be half way through its first season before someone at the network notices the show seems somewhat familiar....
"Hey, who bought the rights to make this new show?" Scratches head, "Don't we already own this?"
For my personal viewing, besides Fox Football ("Do you mean soccer?" - click for more details) Channel, I used to turn to BBC America. It was my 'happy place' amid the pain and misery of US television programming. I could get news (proper current events, not local school children constructing the largest noodle craft project ever unveiled), sitcoms (that actually made you laugh) and drama (that wasn't predictable). You've got to give credit where it's due, we do know how to write interesting television in the UK. Lately however, the selection on the BBC America has become tenuous. It seems whenever I do have some time to actually watch television, and switch to my trusty BBC America I'm greeted by Star Trek: The Next Generation. What? That's not a British show. Not even a little. One English actor does not a British show make. Cough up the cash BBC America and pay for some more programming.
The only thing more worrisome than the appearance of American shows on BBC America is the sheer lack of imagination in actual American programming. It seems many of the shows which are having (or have had) enormous success are remakes of UK shows, re-casted with American actors (language barrier?) - Sanford & Son (Steptoe & Son), All in the Family ('Til Death Do Us Part), Football Wives (Footballers' Wives), Skins, Shameless, Coupling, The IT Crowd, The Office, Queer as Folk, and most recently Being Human. In the case of reality shows, they get shifted over the pond with a ready made charismatic/villainous host (Simon Cowell, Ann Robinson, Piers Morgan) - The Weakest Link, Who Wants to Be a Millionaire?, American Idol (Pop Idol), America's Got Talent (Britain's Got Talent), Cash in the Attic, Trading Spaces (Changing Rooms), What Not to Wear, Undercover Boss, Super Nanny and now Top Gear.
Top Gear, at least, makes sense. It's immensely popular and there is a different market of cars in the US with it's own group of enthusiasts who would love a Top Gear aimed at the vehicles available here. Unfortunately, the US version lacks the exact ingredient which has made the UK version such a smash success: personality. I can count the number of things I know about cars on one hand. I'm not an enthusiast by any stretch of the imagination and I know nothing about engines (outside of the fact that I need one to go). And yet, I love Top Gear. Why? Because it's entertaining. Unlike the US version which is decidedly not.
It would be nice, if the US networks would hire a few more imaginative people and come up with some of their own rock solid entertaining shows. It can be done but someone out there is going to have to work on getting some television execs who aren't monkeys jumping to copy the first entertaining thing they see. A few less Jersey Shore's, a few more House/Lie to Me/Law & Order's would be a treat.
Without that, it's only a matter of time until some dull witted TV exec sees Star Trek: The Next Generation on BBC America and pitches it to his network as a brand new show....
"I just saw it on BBC America," he says. "It's a show about humans traveling space, the final frontier if you will. Exploring the outer reaches and interacting with aliens. They call it Star Trek. We'll call ours...um, Planet Exploration?...No...Space Expedition?....No.... Solar Journey? No, wait, wait, I've got it... we'll call it Star Trek!"
"That's where you started, sir."
"Oh, well, we'll sort out the name later. Right, what we need is a bald actor, go find me one! Is Michael Chiklis free?"
It will be half way through its first season before someone at the network notices the show seems somewhat familiar....
"Hey, who bought the rights to make this new show?" Scratches head, "Don't we already own this?"
Sunday, January 2, 2011
Reformed Demon
At some point in our lives, we all need to slow down. In some cases, it's age, over work or burnout. In my case, I was told to. By the police. Repeatedly.
To be fair, I wasn't keen on heeding their 'advice' so we bumped into each other fairly often. But it was not their grim demeanor or arsenal of hand guns and tasers that made me see the light. No, what finally convinced me that a lifestyle change might be in order was the daunting prospect of a car insurance payment that had ballooned to the size of what I was sure would match a small home mortgage payment.
I have, since my 'rehab' almost six years ago, become a mainstay of a group of drivers who travel just over the limit but never to exceed by more than 8 mph lest we trigger some sort of alarm. I have committed to the actual use of cruise control which heretofore had been the equivalent of self destruct button in the car - DO NOT PUSH! I have forfeited driving red coupes and grimaced as my five speed transmission begs to be toyed with on deserted roads. All done to keep me on the wagon as it were. What I haven't been able to shake in six slooooow years though is my speeder's guilt.
Traveling down any given road, the sight of a police vehicle by the road side triggers an involuntary response whereby I immediately slam on the brakes and then, panic stricken, look down only to discover I was actually already traveling at the speed limit. The down side to this sort of behaviour though is the three car pile up I cause on the road behind me. I'm aware of it, I'm working on it. But I still have a guilty conscience apparently. So consider this a friendly suggestion - don't tail gate in my vicinity.
To be fair, I wasn't keen on heeding their 'advice' so we bumped into each other fairly often. But it was not their grim demeanor or arsenal of hand guns and tasers that made me see the light. No, what finally convinced me that a lifestyle change might be in order was the daunting prospect of a car insurance payment that had ballooned to the size of what I was sure would match a small home mortgage payment.
I have, since my 'rehab' almost six years ago, become a mainstay of a group of drivers who travel just over the limit but never to exceed by more than 8 mph lest we trigger some sort of alarm. I have committed to the actual use of cruise control which heretofore had been the equivalent of self destruct button in the car - DO NOT PUSH! I have forfeited driving red coupes and grimaced as my five speed transmission begs to be toyed with on deserted roads. All done to keep me on the wagon as it were. What I haven't been able to shake in six slooooow years though is my speeder's guilt.
Traveling down any given road, the sight of a police vehicle by the road side triggers an involuntary response whereby I immediately slam on the brakes and then, panic stricken, look down only to discover I was actually already traveling at the speed limit. The down side to this sort of behaviour though is the three car pile up I cause on the road behind me. I'm aware of it, I'm working on it. But I still have a guilty conscience apparently. So consider this a friendly suggestion - don't tail gate in my vicinity.
Saturday, November 13, 2010
"You mean soccer?"
I've never quite worked out why soccer is called soccer here. Whenever I start talking about football, most people stop me and say "you mean soccer?" No, I mean football. Round ball kicked about with the feet. You've got all these leagues but the names don't reflect the actual activities going on. Whenever I talk to the son of a friend of mine about sports, I tease him about petitioning to have all the leagues renamed. I'm not quite sure if he's worked out that I'm kidding yet as he seemed genuinely concerned after I mentioned it to him the first time but I thought I'd outline my cunning plan for all to admire.
MLS - Major League Soccer? No. Football? Yes. Ball spending most of its time connecting with foot. But you can't call it MLF (Major League Football) because that's a typo away from being MILF and that would just cause confusion with people trying to understand the already overly complex viewers guide on the television. Plus, Hugh Hefner and the other lads would be tuning in and wondering where the naked ladies are. On the other hand, may be a Playboy sponsorship is what the US league really needs to (warning: imminent pun) get kick started. Import a few more Beckham's and the ladies will be happy spectators too. So with MLF off the table, MLS will be converted to the new National Football League (NFL) sans commercial interruptions!
We can’t have two NFL’s so naturally the old American styled NFL will need to be re-marketed as the NHL (National Handball League) as it is, after all, mostly about running around with a ball in your hand or catching a ball.
Those poor hockey folks are next in line for an accuracy update and while there is a fair amount of actually hockey being played, there seems to be inordinate amounts of fighting going on. I mean, seriously, they have a box to put you in if you beat up too many people. Sounds like the Ultimate Fighting Championship to me. Get out of the box, have some fisticuffs. Oh, and here’s a stick to help you with that pesky puck which periodically gets in the way! So the hockey lads will revel under their new moniker of UFC…
...while the actual half naked fighters of the old UFC are handing out plain old fashioned beat downs with elbows, knees, knuckles, feet and blood (it can be a weapon!) we may as well pay them tribute by revamping the largest growing sport under the banner of the NBA (National Beatdown Association).
Bringing us to the current league with the largest group of shockingly tall individuals ever assembled, the National Basketball Association. Well let’s face it, when was the last time you saw an actual basket used? It’s a steel rim, a hoop if you will, thus the colloquialism ‘hoops’. National Hoopball Association it is! Congrats, lads, you’ve just been inducted into the NHA!
Which leaves us with one final sport: the sad and lonely national past time of the good ol’ US of A. Baseball. Major League Baseball…yeah, I guess we won’t need to change that one. ::yawn:: Which is fine as I’m not overly enthused about re-christening a sport that can put you to sleep. I’m more excited by the prospect of a league for full contact chess in the future.
Must dash, have to send a quick memo to ESPN about their programming updates.
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
The most expensive FYI ever...
Opening the mail tonight, I discovered a letter from the US Census Bureau. Short and concise, it contained exactly six sentences between the opening salutation and closing signature.
The letter can be paraphrased as follows:
1. Hi.
2. In about a week, you're going to receive a census packet.
3. It is very important you complete it and return it to us.
4. The Census results are used to determine how funds are allocated for roads, schools, health care and other important programs in different areas.
5. If you do not return it, the results will not be accurate and your community may not receive its fair share of funds.
6. Thanks.
If there are roughly 114,000,000 households in America and assuming each gets a letter, the federal government just spent $50,000,000 on postage. $50,000,000....to tell us we'll be getting another letter in a week. Fifty. Million. Dollars. For what amounts to an FYI.
There is no chance I suppose that you could have put this single sheet of paper, explaining the importance of the census, in with the packet you're sending me next week?
Points 1 and 6 would already be typed. Point 2 would become redundant and not need to be typed. So really, you just need to add points 3, 4 and 5 to next week's packet in big, bold, underlined letters. Any chance? No? Well done. If my expense reports looked like that, I'd be unemployed.
The letter can be paraphrased as follows:
1. Hi.
2. In about a week, you're going to receive a census packet.
3. It is very important you complete it and return it to us.
4. The Census results are used to determine how funds are allocated for roads, schools, health care and other important programs in different areas.
5. If you do not return it, the results will not be accurate and your community may not receive its fair share of funds.
6. Thanks.
If there are roughly 114,000,000 households in America and assuming each gets a letter, the federal government just spent $50,000,000 on postage. $50,000,000....to tell us we'll be getting another letter in a week. Fifty. Million. Dollars. For what amounts to an FYI.
There is no chance I suppose that you could have put this single sheet of paper, explaining the importance of the census, in with the packet you're sending me next week?
Points 1 and 6 would already be typed. Point 2 would become redundant and not need to be typed. So really, you just need to add points 3, 4 and 5 to next week's packet in big, bold, underlined letters. Any chance? No? Well done. If my expense reports looked like that, I'd be unemployed.
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
The Grinch Who Stole Facebook...
I like to think that I'm convivial creature. I enjoy socializing. I'm quite happy to network. One would think this would be naturally conducive to regular use of social networking sites. And yet, for some reason, that is not the case. At least, not anymore. "Out of the loop?", someone asked the other day. Can't even see the loop from here, mate. Not entirely sure I want to be in the loop anymore for that matter.
The loop used to consist of written letters. With the advent of the internet, it became letters and photos emailed back and forth in lightning quick fashion. Gradually it morphed into online profiles with images posted in batches and short comments left here and there for all to see. I was content with all of those things. The loop now consists of my having to let you know my every movement six times a day in short one line bursts with mobile uploads of pictures where I am at the this very moment. In exchange, you haven't got to say anything - you can just give me a digital thumbs up. "Friend likes this!".
It is entirely possibly that lengthy conversations might have taken place online but that was back in the dark ages of social networking, before you had to spend time pretending to farm, clean a fish tank, pass drinks and form alliances in hopes of surviving the ongoing mafia war.
Instant messaging and mobile texting have vanquished the art of letter writing. And now, online applications have killed the art of coherent conversation reducing communication to the equivalent of a cyber grunt in the general direction of people you know (or don't know for that matter).
As if that weren't bad enough. You want me to spend time pretending to farm, clean a fish tank, pass drinks and form alliances in hopes of surviving the ongoing mafia war. And I'd rather not. I have 300 requests to spend time pretending to farm, clean a fish tank, pass drinks and form alliances in hopes of surviving the ongoing mafia war but I've ignored them all. What the online application hasn't killed though is your determination and persistence. For every request to spend time pretending to farm, clean a fish tank, pass drinks and form alliances in hopes of surviving the ongoing mafia war that I ignore, another pops up to take its place. Kudos to you!
In a desperate attempt to salvage some humanity, I went to your profile to see what you were up to and what your interests were or where you'd been. But alas, I couldn't find any helpful information as it was lost beneath a haze of farms, fish tanks, gifts and quizzes about which sitcom character you're most like. So I gave up. And I left Facebook. And I was content for a while.
But then I realized I was beginning to miss vital information. My incoming emails seems on the light side. Someone asked me why I wasn't at such and such. Hang on, did you send an invitation? Do you have my current address? Was there an email I missed somewhere? I distinctly do not remember a voice mail of any kind. "No, no," they said, "there was a message. On facebook."
So, after a six month or more sabbatical, I've come back to the new loop such as it is, albeit grudgingly. I will log in to facebook on a regular basis. I will catch up and be 'in the loop'. What I won't do is spend time pretending to farm, clean a fish tank, pass drinks and form alliances in hopes of surviving the ongoing mafia war. Life has enough drama without my waging fictitious wars with people I actually like. If I want fish, I'll set up shop with an aquarium in the living room. And if I'm going to have drinks given to me, I must insist that they come from a three dimensional person standing in roughly the same vicinity as me so that there is an actual possibility that I might be allowed to indulge in them.
I still won't farm though. In any capacity. Ever.
Sunday, February 14, 2010
The Eight "I'd Really Rather You Didn'ts"
Originally posted 19.May.2007
Some people are just plain funny and possess a superior sense of wit and irony than the rest of us. Thankfully, these people are occasionally ferreted out and forced to write books.
In 2005, Bobby Henderson, wrote an open letter of protest to Oregon State University against their decision to allow Intelligent Design to be included in the science curriculum as an alternative to evolution. In his letter, complete with illustrations, he declared his belief in an alternate religion he had founded himself for the purpose of the letter, and demanded that his 'Pastafarian' theory of creation also be allowed to be taught in the classroom.
Thus the Church of the Flying Spaghetti Monster was born and the Eight I'd Really Rather You Didn'ts. There were originally ten, just like our good ol' arbahamic religions, but two of the stone tablets were accidentally dropped and their contents never revealed. Here then for your reading pleasure, the 8 commandments you really ought to know about as described in the Gospel of the Flying Spaghetti Monster which Henderson was forced to turn into a book!
The Eight "I'd Really Rather You Didn'ts"
Some people are just plain funny and possess a superior sense of wit and irony than the rest of us. Thankfully, these people are occasionally ferreted out and forced to write books.
In 2005, Bobby Henderson, wrote an open letter of protest to Oregon State University against their decision to allow Intelligent Design to be included in the science curriculum as an alternative to evolution. In his letter, complete with illustrations, he declared his belief in an alternate religion he had founded himself for the purpose of the letter, and demanded that his 'Pastafarian' theory of creation also be allowed to be taught in the classroom.
Thus the Church of the Flying Spaghetti Monster was born and the Eight I'd Really Rather You Didn'ts. There were originally ten, just like our good ol' arbahamic religions, but two of the stone tablets were accidentally dropped and their contents never revealed. Here then for your reading pleasure, the 8 commandments you really ought to know about as described in the Gospel of the Flying Spaghetti Monster which Henderson was forced to turn into a book!
The Eight "I'd Really Rather You Didn'ts"
- I'd really rather you didn't act like a sanctimonious holier-than-thou ass when describing my noodly goodness. If some people don't believe in me, that's okay. Really, I'm not that vain. Besides, this isn't about them so don't change the subject.
- I'd really rather you didn't use my existence as a means to oppress, subjugate, punish, eviscerate, and/or, you know, be mean to others. I don't require sacrifices, and purity is for drinking water, not people.
- I'd really rather you didn't judge people for the way they look, or how they dress, or the way they talk, or, well, just play nice, Okay? Oh, and get this in your thick heads: woman = person. man = person. Samey = Samey. One is not better than the other, unless we're talking about fashion and I'm sorry, but I gave that to women and some guys who know the difference between teal and fuchsia.
- I'd really rather you didn't indulge in conduct that offends yourself, or your willing, consenting partner of legal age AND mental maturity. As for anyone who might object, I think the expression is go f*** yourself, unless they find that offensive in which case they can turn off the TV for once and go for a walk for a change.
- I'd really rather you didn't challenge the bigoted, misogynistic, hateful ideas of others on an empty stomach. Eat, then go after the b*******.
- I'd really rather you didn't build multi million-dollar churches/temples/mosques/shrines to my noodly goodness when the money could be better spent (take your pick):
- Ending poverty
- Curing diseases
- Living in peace, loving with passion, and lowering the cost of cable
I might be a complex-carbohydrate omniscient being, but I enjoy the simple things in life. I ought to know. I AM the creator.
- I'd really rather you didn't go around telling people I talk to you. You're not that interesting. Get over yourself. And I told you to love your fellow man, can't you take a hint?
- I'd really rather you didn't do unto others as you would have them do unto you if you are into, um, stuff that uses a lot of leather/lubricant/Las Vegas. If the other person is into it, however (pursuant to #4), then have at it, take pictures, and for the love of Mike, wear a CONDOM! honestly, it's a piece of rubber. If I didn't want it to feel good when you did it I would have added spikes, or something.
Insert Punchline Here
Originally posted 15.March.2007
Alright, you got me- I'll be the first to admit my sense of humour is slightly, well, off. But you've got to give me credit for some great witty remarks over the years. Those of you who know me seem to appreciate it but I'm feeling a little under-appreciated on the humour front by strangers whom I cater to.
For example, when being rung up by an elderly man at Home Depot a year or so back, he eyed me suspiciously as I purchased of 3 XL back belts and a massive amount of black electrical tape, I was certain he thought I using my company credit card unethically for accoutrements of some illicit sex act that I was prepping for. Having thought this, when he rung me up I winked at him and said "Don't worry, it's only illegal in three states!" Not a whisper of amusement from him.
Today, I was at a hamburger joint picking up a late lunch for myself and a co-worker. We ill-advisedly ordered our burgers with no mustard, no tomatoes and what have you, which apparently threw the cook staff in complete chaos and disorientation so our fast food took about twelve minutes to arrive. Twelve minutes is an eternity at a drive through I assure you, and it doesn't even qualify as medium paced food… it barely ranks as mall walker speed in my book. So, it's finally delivered and the bloke says "Sorry it took so long." To which I replied, "No worries. Did the cow put up a struggle?" Silence. Just a complete blank look staring back at me. Come on! That was a good one!
But my piece de resistance, my crowning glory of witty remarks, also went un-appreciated and for this I weep.
A few years ago, I was at the gynecologist's office having one of those annoying annual check ups. The doctor was this tiny frail old woman who was about 102… or 68 or something. After the check up she says to me and I quote "You have a very healthy vagina." And in lightening fast time I said, "Well thanks, I make sure it eats right and get plenty of exercise!" My best line ever, perhaps, and it was completely lost on this little old woman with her "that's nice, dear" demeanor who will never repeat it to a friend whilst hooting with laughter or tell it to a colleague so that my razor sharp retort becomes legend in the medical world. Nope, she probably won't even remember me …and I'm standing in gynecologist's office so there aren't exactly an abundance of friends nearby to testify to my stunning wit that day.
It's a crying shame, I tell you.
Saturday, February 13, 2010
Murphy's Law
Originally posted 14.August.2006
You've heard of Murphy's Law? We like to refer to it as Sod's Law in England, I'm not quite sure if that was an attempt to manoeuvre around a blatantly Irish name on our behalf or just a need to spice things up with our rather dry sense of English humour (if you're not sure about what this means you should probably look up where the term 'sod' comes from...), either way whomever's law it is was in full effect today. The law, by the way, for anyone who may not be familiar with it, is that whatever can go wrong, will go wrong.
I think I started this with the intention of listing each individual work related atrocity by line item to emphasize the sheer range of horrific events. I find now that I'm just far too tired to go into all the gory details. Instead, I'll simply say today was awful. Were I to write a poem now, it would probably be called "Untitled (A List of Events That Cause Me to Hate Everything)." I could even write a(n) haiku, although I'm damn sure that would centre around the repeated use of the word 'hate' as well. Meaningful yet compact.
So rather than continue my rant I shall depart so as to put on a new album, Eric Clapton's "No Reason to Cry" coming up (although I begin to question the validity of his assertion) and in exchange I leave you with this to chew on.
Sod's Laws and its Corallaries
(or The Twelve Laws of Inaccurate Perception)
- SOD'S LAW, ALSO KNOWN AS MURPHY'S LAW. If anything can go wrong, it will.
- O'TOOLE'S COMMENTARY ON MURPHY'S LAW. Murphy was an optimist.
- THE FIRST COROLLARY TO SOD'S LAW. Anything that is to go wrong will do so at the worst possible moment.
- THE UNSPEAKABLE LAW. As soon as you mention something, if it's good, it goes away; if it's bad, it happens.
- NON-RECIPROCAL LAWS OF EXPECTATIONS. Negative expectations yield negative results. Positive expectations yield negative results.
- HOWE'S LAW. Every man has a scheme which will not work.
- ZYMURGY'S FIRST LAW OF EVOLVING SYSTEM DYNAMICS. Once you open a can of worms, the only way to re-can them is to use a larger can.
- SKINNER'S CONSTANT. The quantity which must be multiplied by, divided by, added to or subtracted from the answer you get to give the answer you should have got.
- LAW OF SELECTIVE GRAVITY. An object will fall so as to do the most damage.
- JENNING'S COROLLARY. The chance of the bread falling with the buttered side down is directly proportional to the cost of the carpet.
- BARTH'S DISTINCTION. There are two types of people: those who divide people into two types and those who do not.
- NINETY-NINETY RULE OF PROJECT SCHEDULES. The first 90% of the job takes 90% of the time, the last 10% takes the other 90%.
- FARBER'S RULE. Necessity is the mother of strange bedfellows.
Practical Advice
Originally posted 6.March.2006
Having witnessed a number of situations abundant with unforgivable stupidity over the past few weeks, I feel obliged to point people in the right direction. If not for their own good then simply for the sake of my own sanity. Therefore, herewith I offer some practical advice:
1) If you have to wear a t-shirt proclaiming yourself a "rebel", you aren't one. Really.
2) When you take your small child to a shop and they spend innumerable minutes tugging at your clothing and very loudly saying over and over again "MummyMummyMummyyyyMuMummyMUMMYMUMMYMummy!"
ANSWER THEM! Jesus Jumped-Up Christ, answer them. How do you not know what the next step is? Say something, anything. Odds are 50/50 it will result in quiet for the entire shop!
3) What is the point of buying an extravagant pair of rims for a car that is, let's face it, being held together by the paint, hmm? If you own a car that is, in all reality, totaling only three digits worth of cash then perhaps it would be best to save your money and put it towards a new car that isn't falling apart and doesn't spew forth exhaust fumes that cause birds to fall out of trees unconscious as you drive past. I'm not an expert, but you really don't want the ASPCA breathing down your neck for mass bird homicides, do you? And face it, shiny rims don't make your on-it's-last-legs car go any faster so it would be rather embarrassing to be on the losing end of a high speed chase that involves a 15 year old Animal Police van, no? Save your money, please.
4) Let's say you submit a resume to a number of companies. One might assume, as I did, that you are in fact interested in working for these companies. At the very least, one would deduce that you are interested in having an interview so you can find out more about the company. This being said, when a company manager rings to offer you the opportunity to interview you should probably have already thought up a response to the request. Even if it is a polite rejection of said offer. Umming and ahhing over whether or not you're willing to make an appointment, is not endearing you to your interviewer. Agreeing to meet as though you're doing them a favour? Also not increasing your odds of finding employment. And honestly now, you gave us your resume, we're not randomly phoning you out of the blue. In fact having annoyed your interviewer immensely over the telephone and subsequently agreeing to meet early tomorrow morning, it's quite possible (having now seen your communication skills and professionalism in action) that we've decided not to interview you at all anymore. That being said, we'll be happy to advise you of said decision... once you've arrived. Happy trails, genius.
1) If you have to wear a t-shirt proclaiming yourself a "rebel", you aren't one. Really.
2) When you take your small child to a shop and they spend innumerable minutes tugging at your clothing and very loudly saying over and over again "MummyMummyMummyyyyMuMummyMUMMYMUMMYMummy!"
ANSWER THEM! Jesus Jumped-Up Christ, answer them. How do you not know what the next step is? Say something, anything. Odds are 50/50 it will result in quiet for the entire shop!
3) What is the point of buying an extravagant pair of rims for a car that is, let's face it, being held together by the paint, hmm? If you own a car that is, in all reality, totaling only three digits worth of cash then perhaps it would be best to save your money and put it towards a new car that isn't falling apart and doesn't spew forth exhaust fumes that cause birds to fall out of trees unconscious as you drive past. I'm not an expert, but you really don't want the ASPCA breathing down your neck for mass bird homicides, do you? And face it, shiny rims don't make your on-it's-last-legs car go any faster so it would be rather embarrassing to be on the losing end of a high speed chase that involves a 15 year old Animal Police van, no? Save your money, please.
4) Let's say you submit a resume to a number of companies. One might assume, as I did, that you are in fact interested in working for these companies. At the very least, one would deduce that you are interested in having an interview so you can find out more about the company. This being said, when a company manager rings to offer you the opportunity to interview you should probably have already thought up a response to the request. Even if it is a polite rejection of said offer. Umming and ahhing over whether or not you're willing to make an appointment, is not endearing you to your interviewer. Agreeing to meet as though you're doing them a favour? Also not increasing your odds of finding employment. And honestly now, you gave us your resume, we're not randomly phoning you out of the blue. In fact having annoyed your interviewer immensely over the telephone and subsequently agreeing to meet early tomorrow morning, it's quite possible (having now seen your communication skills and professionalism in action) that we've decided not to interview you at all anymore. That being said, we'll be happy to advise you of said decision... once you've arrived. Happy trails, genius.
For Unlawful Carnal Knowledge...at Home Depot
Originally posted 22.February.2006
I had to stop at Home Depot on my way home this evening for some work related D.I.Y supplies. Quick in and out job, nothing major as I was eager to get home because I'm starved.
Standing at the checkout with my gear, another queue opens up so I hop over to the next cashier who happens to be a little 86 year old man who has a look of perpetual suspicion on his face. He scans my choice items: 3 extra large heavy duty back belts (for my warehouse crew), 1 can of WD-40 (for getting stuck things loose) and a substantial amount of black electrical tape (for some hard wiring needed at an upcoming trade show).
Judging by the scandalized look on his face, one can only assume that he concluded I was purchasing accoutrements for illicit sex acts I was about to engage in with three burly men...on a company credit card no less. Not a bad way to spend one's evening, but not what I had in mind, at least not tonight.
I couldn't help myself. As I picked up my bag to go, I winked at the poor old man with his face in a permanent mask of disdain and said cheerfully "No worries, it's only illegal in three states!" I hope he didn't have heart failure as I made my way merrily across the parking lot.
Standing at the checkout with my gear, another queue opens up so I hop over to the next cashier who happens to be a little 86 year old man who has a look of perpetual suspicion on his face. He scans my choice items: 3 extra large heavy duty back belts (for my warehouse crew), 1 can of WD-40 (for getting stuck things loose) and a substantial amount of black electrical tape (for some hard wiring needed at an upcoming trade show).
Judging by the scandalized look on his face, one can only assume that he concluded I was purchasing accoutrements for illicit sex acts I was about to engage in with three burly men...on a company credit card no less. Not a bad way to spend one's evening, but not what I had in mind, at least not tonight.
I couldn't help myself. As I picked up my bag to go, I winked at the poor old man with his face in a permanent mask of disdain and said cheerfully "No worries, it's only illegal in three states!" I hope he didn't have heart failure as I made my way merrily across the parking lot.
Accidental Pets
Originally posted on 15.February.2006
I am, apparently, the proud new owner of a lizard. I say 'apparently' because I did not make a conscious decision to own one. It's not like I turfed up at the local pet shop and said "what 'ave you got for lizards? That one there, the little brown one, I'll take 'im." Nor was I the recipient of one of those insanely poorly planned pets-for-gifts ideas that the gift giver often believes to be the most splendid item one human could possibly present to another despite the questionable logistics and appropriateness of said animal.
"Happy Birthday! Look what I got you!" proclaims the gift giver.
"It's a cow" the gift receiver says, rather bewildered.
"I know!" exclaims the insane gift giver, grinning ear to ear. "Her name's Betsy. Isn't she fantastic? And you're always saying how cute they are when you see one."
"I live in a third floor one bedroom apartment," points out the cow receiver.
So no, I was not given a lizard by a mad family member, friend or associate. I simply acquired him through no fault of my own. He (the lizard) has, upon discovering my place conveniently located on the ground floor with direct access to patio and grass, community pool and close to shops and beaches, taken a liking to it and seems loathe to leave despite my best efforts to evict him.
I thought he'd finally left after a couple weeks holiday with us so you can imagine my surprise when sitting reading on my couch Sunday afternoon I spied him nimbly hopping from television to stereo speaker. Did you know lizards can jump? They can. Needless to say I tossed aside my book only to have him elude me between the TV and bookcase. Just when I finally had him cornered, he scampered under the couch [*exasperated sigh*]. My couch is large and cumbersome, not at all the sort of furniture one can simultaneously lift on one's own whilst trying to reach underneath with the other hand for a small evasive lizard. So I gave up, reluctantly deciding he can stay as it wasn't worth the aggravation of chasing him around. This I decided after forty futile minutes.
Live and let live. At least that was my thought until Monday night when I fell asleep on the couch, only to be woken in the wee hours by a small brown lizard loping up my torso.
"OUT!" (Points at door).
Now he's got to go. I'm designating Saturday to relocating my little lizard friend to the great outdoors. Enjoy it while you can, mon ami, moving day is coming.
"OUT!" (Points at door).
Now he's got to go. I'm designating Saturday to relocating my little lizard friend to the great outdoors. Enjoy it while you can, mon ami, moving day is coming.
Thursday, September 3, 2009
Swamp Castle & Other Senseless Projects
Originally posted 3.September.2006
On the heels of a hellish few weeks I decided to relax this weekend. The trouble with this plan, and if you know me you know there is almost always trouble with one of my 'plans', is that yet again there was something to distract me in a maddening sort of fashion. Something just minor enough to seem simple and make you think you can take care of it quickly and go back to "relaxing" inevitably turns into a battle of wits of major proportions and leaves you looking harassed and mumbling unintelligibly to yourself about how you can win against this (insert choice of inanimate object here).
Such is the case with my patio. In my defense, it's poorly designed, even my Dad and brother agree with this statement. Further to my defense, I didn't design it, nor did I build it. It came with the place. The thing about it is, well, its at the complete wrong angle. Thus when it rains my patio floods up to the door. I could live with that. I could, really. The bigger problem is the landscape design is crap so the resulting flood washes mulch, dirt, mud and whatever else it can find up to my back door. Once it dries up, I am forced to sweep everything back from whence it came. This annoys me. Greatly.
So I had a plan. I bought those decorative little fencey-thingies for putting along the flower bed and thought that would keep mulch and friends out during rain. Regrettably, the crap building/landscape debacle continued when I found cement only 3 inches down at the point the fencey bits needed to be pushed into. So scrapped I that plan. This was several months ago on a day off.
Plan B was to buy some bricks and place a layer across the opening of the patio which would stop the onslaught nasty bits. This plan emerged several weeks ago on another day off. Unfortunately, as it turned out, it wasn't high enough. Much to my consternation, the water from the flat above splashed down with enough force to somehow fling the mulch and dirt over the layer of bricks like champion bloody pole vaulters. The second problem that emerged was that the pool of water on the patio then couldn't drain back and the patio didn't dry off. *Sigh*
Well then I was off to travel and such so I've just gotten back round to the problem yesterday now that I've finally got a day off again. But, no fear, for I had a new idea. *Ding!*
I purchased more bricks and turned them on their sides to make them taller so they couldn't be pole vaulted by twigs and mulch. I then made smaller spaces between every few so that water could drain back out. Better, I declared with satisfaction. And then it rained in the afternoon...
Somehow, devious chunks of mulch and dirt found their way through my drainage holes and still my bricks were not high enough to deter them from pole vaulting activities. At this point, I began to think this project was turning into a Swamp Castle construction site a la Monty Python's Holy Grail.
It was then I devised a new strategy. Or "strat-eeg-eey", as I affectionately call them. I would buy still more bricks. This time there would be two layers of bricks on their side but the drainage spaces would be staggered so even if bits of dastardly twigs, mulch and dirt found their way through the first space... well they wouldn't be able to navigate two corners to find their way onto my patio. And I placed the 3rd set of bricks across the top of the first two, as a capstone if you will, to steady the staggered bricks and create such a height that I was certain would be over the limits of any Olympic-bound pole vaulting twigs that may train in my area. Genius, I declared last night!
And today it rained again. But not just any rain, oh no. God-like fury, end of mankind, Noah's Ark sort of rain. Rain with such force that it conspired with mulch and twigs to force a certain percentage of them through the twists and turns of my staggered spaces. Anger and threats of bodily harm to all landscapers everywhere.
So then I got still more bricks and took away the staggered spaces and filled them in. And it rained some more. (Editor's note: this is rainy season in Florida. I didn't know they had one of those but apparently we do.) And still some dirt made it through and the drainage is of course not so good. %#@*!!! Right?
I thought, do I need more bricks? Surely not, soon my patio will resemble a scene from Poe's "Cask of Amontillado" and I'll be forced to leave just a small slit through which I can spy visitors approaching and shoot arrows if need be. What? I'm English. We've got lots of castles with this technology and I've got to say slitty arrow holes help with Jehovah's Witnesses and such, no? Good idea!
Anyway, after conference call with others who have experience in these matters (read: Dad), the new-new-new plan involves going back to fewer brick design staggered drainage spaces but using netting to keep out everything except the water. Tomorrow, I'm going to buy netting. At the end of this project no doubt my Mum will ring and ask me how the relaxing is going. And I'll have to say, "well Mum, let me ask you this? Do you know anyone who needs some spare bricks?"
And now for your reading pleasure (a llama once bit my sister) courtesy of the Python lads...
King of Swamp Castle: When I first came here, this was all swamp. Everyone said I was daft to build a castle on a swamp, but I built it all the same, just to show them. It sank into the swamp. So I built a second one. That sank into the swamp. So I built a third. That burned down, fell over, then sank into the swamp. But the fourth one stayed up. And that's what you're going to get, lad, the strongest castle in all of England.
On the heels of a hellish few weeks I decided to relax this weekend. The trouble with this plan, and if you know me you know there is almost always trouble with one of my 'plans', is that yet again there was something to distract me in a maddening sort of fashion. Something just minor enough to seem simple and make you think you can take care of it quickly and go back to "relaxing" inevitably turns into a battle of wits of major proportions and leaves you looking harassed and mumbling unintelligibly to yourself about how you can win against this (insert choice of inanimate object here).
Such is the case with my patio. In my defense, it's poorly designed, even my Dad and brother agree with this statement. Further to my defense, I didn't design it, nor did I build it. It came with the place. The thing about it is, well, its at the complete wrong angle. Thus when it rains my patio floods up to the door. I could live with that. I could, really. The bigger problem is the landscape design is crap so the resulting flood washes mulch, dirt, mud and whatever else it can find up to my back door. Once it dries up, I am forced to sweep everything back from whence it came. This annoys me. Greatly.
So I had a plan. I bought those decorative little fencey-thingies for putting along the flower bed and thought that would keep mulch and friends out during rain. Regrettably, the crap building/landscape debacle continued when I found cement only 3 inches down at the point the fencey bits needed to be pushed into. So scrapped I that plan. This was several months ago on a day off.
Plan B was to buy some bricks and place a layer across the opening of the patio which would stop the onslaught nasty bits. This plan emerged several weeks ago on another day off. Unfortunately, as it turned out, it wasn't high enough. Much to my consternation, the water from the flat above splashed down with enough force to somehow fling the mulch and dirt over the layer of bricks like champion bloody pole vaulters. The second problem that emerged was that the pool of water on the patio then couldn't drain back and the patio didn't dry off. *Sigh*
Well then I was off to travel and such so I've just gotten back round to the problem yesterday now that I've finally got a day off again. But, no fear, for I had a new idea. *Ding!*
I purchased more bricks and turned them on their sides to make them taller so they couldn't be pole vaulted by twigs and mulch. I then made smaller spaces between every few so that water could drain back out. Better, I declared with satisfaction. And then it rained in the afternoon...
Somehow, devious chunks of mulch and dirt found their way through my drainage holes and still my bricks were not high enough to deter them from pole vaulting activities. At this point, I began to think this project was turning into a Swamp Castle construction site a la Monty Python's Holy Grail.
It was then I devised a new strategy. Or "strat-eeg-eey", as I affectionately call them. I would buy still more bricks. This time there would be two layers of bricks on their side but the drainage spaces would be staggered so even if bits of dastardly twigs, mulch and dirt found their way through the first space... well they wouldn't be able to navigate two corners to find their way onto my patio. And I placed the 3rd set of bricks across the top of the first two, as a capstone if you will, to steady the staggered bricks and create such a height that I was certain would be over the limits of any Olympic-bound pole vaulting twigs that may train in my area. Genius, I declared last night!
And today it rained again. But not just any rain, oh no. God-like fury, end of mankind, Noah's Ark sort of rain. Rain with such force that it conspired with mulch and twigs to force a certain percentage of them through the twists and turns of my staggered spaces. Anger and threats of bodily harm to all landscapers everywhere.
So then I got still more bricks and took away the staggered spaces and filled them in. And it rained some more. (Editor's note: this is rainy season in Florida. I didn't know they had one of those but apparently we do.) And still some dirt made it through and the drainage is of course not so good. %#@*!!! Right?
I thought, do I need more bricks? Surely not, soon my patio will resemble a scene from Poe's "Cask of Amontillado" and I'll be forced to leave just a small slit through which I can spy visitors approaching and shoot arrows if need be. What? I'm English. We've got lots of castles with this technology and I've got to say slitty arrow holes help with Jehovah's Witnesses and such, no? Good idea!
Anyway, after conference call with others who have experience in these matters (read: Dad), the new-new-new plan involves going back to fewer brick design staggered drainage spaces but using netting to keep out everything except the water. Tomorrow, I'm going to buy netting. At the end of this project no doubt my Mum will ring and ask me how the relaxing is going. And I'll have to say, "well Mum, let me ask you this? Do you know anyone who needs some spare bricks?"
And now for your reading pleasure (a llama once bit my sister) courtesy of the Python lads...
King of Swamp Castle: When I first came here, this was all swamp. Everyone said I was daft to build a castle on a swamp, but I built it all the same, just to show them. It sank into the swamp. So I built a second one. That sank into the swamp. So I built a third. That burned down, fell over, then sank into the swamp. But the fourth one stayed up. And that's what you're going to get, lad, the strongest castle in all of England.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)