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...

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.

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"

1. 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.
2. 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.
3. 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.
4. 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.
5. 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*******.
6. 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):
   1. Ending poverty
   2. Curing diseases
   3. 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.
7. 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?
8. 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.

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.

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.

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.

I have been rendered immobile.

No time to chat. Right now, I face a more serious crisis... Christmas cards.

The trouble is not the cost of postage or even the fact that if I have to write one more long UK address my hand may simply fall off. Nor is it the fact that every year at some point I think it'd have been worth getting some return address labels but I never do because I think I'll never need them, then four weeks before Christmas having written my own address 83 times I wonder why I don't have them.

No, problem is the dangerous nature of the cards. All the 'good' cards (and by 'good' I mean ones I find aesthetically pleasing or amusing in some way) seem to have glitter on them some where. I actually bought some this year thinking they didn't and upon opening them discovered they did in fact have glitter. It was hidden apparently. Glitter gets EVERYWHERE. It's like sand to Nth power. I've washed my hands three times and I still have glitter on me. I vacuumed around the card-writing area and still I see sparkles when I walk by. Perhaps most disturbing though is the fact that glitter can turn your own hands into deadly weapons. Having rubbed my face, I somehow got glitter in my eye. This caused me to writhe in agony and smash my knee against the table leg. Okay, so not deadly per se but on par with assaulting yourself.

All I'm saying is if you've got glitter on your Christmas cards- be careful! Wear gloves...or a haz-mat suit (you know, if you've got one lying around). If you get a glitter card from me, it's not that I'm trying to hurt you, it's just that they're too dangerous to have lying around my house since I live alone at the moment and don't have one of those medical emergency cally-button things.

From Teeny Bopper to Hardened Criminal

In my general observations about society I've discovered that there are three basic principles which all children must learn. It hit me today whilst I was grocery shopping, checking out to be specific. There was a tiny girl bagging all my bits and she was, by teenage grocery-bagger standards, inordinately polite. "How are you today, ma'am?", "would plastic be alright ma'am?", "would you like to hold on to your gum, ma'am?" [My immense discomfort with being referred to as 'ma'am' every five seconds is a whole other blog that will probably start with the words "You can't call me ma'am, I'm wearing a Sex Pistols belt and have tattoos damn it! I am not your respectable old Auntie!" Note: If T&J are reading this I'm totally capable of being a respectable Auntie when I have your munchkins in tow.]

Anyway, I'm standing there thinking how proud her parents must be at the having raised such a happy, polite, if somewhat overly smiley, child in this day and age. Then I get to my car and start putting things in the back. As I unload my swag from shopping cart to car, I suddenly find myself wondering why the head of lettuce is on top of the bread, why someone would try to fit three obviously over sized boxes into the same obviously ill-equipped-to-handle-those-sort-of-dimensions plastic bag and what sort of idiot imagines that a sheer plastic bag can be moved between any two locations further than six inches a part when it has a gallon of milk, bottle of wine and medium size jug of laundry detergent in it?

I began, at this juncture, to question the judgment of the parents of overly-polite-smiley-bagging-girl. Surely, anyone, who was raised properly and has parents who themselves have common sense must be able to put different size objects into bags in an orderly fashion? Am I expecting too much from today's youth? I mean its not a dastardly complex mental test is it?   We're not talking Mensa exam.  The teeny bopper IQ should not be directly proportional to my chances of making it to my front door with my groceries intact should it?

This led me to the conclusion that there are in fact three distinct skills which every child should have before they are allowed out of the house unsupervised.

First, they must be able to tie their own shoe laces. This is a fairly simple one and exists mostly because I can't bear the thought of children falling over every few feet. Also, because this saves me having to stop what I'm doing all the time to pick one up.

Second, they must be able to cross the road without getting killed. And I don't mean the run for it and hope for the best type of road crossing some kids engage in, nor do I mean the alternate format which involves brazenly stepping into the road, bringing traffic to a complete stop and then casually strolling across the road at a snail's pace at an angle which will ensure it takes as long as possible to reach the other side. This last version makes me want to commit cold blooded murder in my car. No, what I'm referring to is proper training given to STOP, LOOK and LISTEN prior to putting even a toe into oncoming traffic. Lack of proper training in conjunction with all traffic being required to stop for school buses is making children think they have the right of way against a ton of metal headed in their direction. Calm down! I'm not suggesting seven year olds be forced into playing Frogger: The Home Game after school but when we're stopping for teenagers who will be driving themselves in the next couple of years, well, I think it gets silly. If you can't cross the road properly, you're a liability to our species and unlikely to be either helpful (or even involved) in our future evolution.

Finally, all kiddies must know how to put things into a grocery bag in an orderly fashion. All parents should offer hands on training at home if necessary. This will prepare their children for a variety of difficulties that life has to throw at them, not the least of which will be a part time job bagging groceries so they can save for a car and finally discover first hand how maddening it is when people amble across the road at a five degree angle.

So consider this a warning. All children should have the upbringing which allows them to capably put things of different shapes, sizes, weights and compositions into bags without compromising the the things or the bags themselves. If they don't have the mental capacity to handle this, they will never be successful in a world which requires them to exercise common sense and throws all manner of hurdles at them... like knowing how much furniture will fit into their living room, or parking which requires you to judge space and what will fit where.

Without these necessary skills, they will be unemployable, likely to fail their exams, people will make fun of them for repeatedly trying to put their books, calculator, gym shoes and a small classmate into their edgy-emo messenger bag. Eventually, they will feel like an outcast and turn to a life of petty crime to subsidize their new drug habit since they can't get a job.

It's shame you know, about overly-polite-smiley-bagging girl, she had so much potential but now, sigh, one of us will probably be picking her out of a police line up before she turns 18.

Post Hoc Ergo Propter Hoc

I-Tunes: Disc burner or software missing...
Me: It's there, the same place its been the last 1,200 times you've burned something. There! In that folder between the programme files and drivers!


Before annoying I-Tunes error:



After annoying I-Tunes error:



Final stages of 'trouble shooting' completed:




I am now well hacked off and I'm going to bed. If ANYONE has heard of a way to fix the I-Tunes error that causes the message "Disc burner or software not found" on I-Tunes as well as the insanely annoying inability to suddenly burn ANYTHING, please let me know. Even Apple's tech support forum doesn't seem to have the answer.

If not, I'd appreciate someone lending me a blow torch so I can get some enjoyment out of my laptop...

The Dreaded Lurgy

Well, it's a been a week now. And I'm still sick. ::cough::cough::inhale::cough::

I spent Wednesday in bed, with my laptop, instead of at work and essentially all day was spent practicing my moaning (death scene not sex scene variety in case there was any confusion in my neighbours minds).
On the bright side... is there a bright side? Er, ok, well the fever's gone. That's good news. I'm no longer forced to walk around my apartment wearing two layers topped off with a hooded sweatshirt and blanket while people ask meekly if they can put a fan on since I've refused to have the air conditioning on. So that's something I suppose.
I also no longer resemble this:

which is how I've spent most of the past 4 days feeling and more regrettably looking.

Alas, it's now turned into a cough in the chest over the weekend which I shall tell you now, from a seven-time bronchitis winner and three-time runner up, is not good news. Tomorrow, I will finally venture to a clinic for some sort of antibiotic. Since my voice is now back at least I'll be able to tell them what's wrong with me.
 

The War at Home

At precisely 8:48pm last night, an explosion rocked Pinellas county. The reverberations reached me all the way in my living room, shaking me to the core. Under normal circumstances, I would have been both astonished and horrified at the prospect of the blast originating in my own kitchen but my brother is staying with me so I wasn't quite as surprised as one might think.

"What," I cried, "in the hell was that?"

"Nothing," called back the voice in the kitchen.

'Nothing,' as it turns out, was actually an egg. A hard boiled egg to be exact, which having resided in the refrigerator until short moments before the incident, was being heated for the purposes of a quick nibbly.

My brother, it should be pointed out, is not a complete idiot. The egg heating began with 20 seconds in the microwave. I mean, how many seconds could it possibly take to heat a single cold hard boiled egg sans shell? I think 20 seconds was an alright start to be honest. Where the wheels fell off though, is when he discovered that 20 seconds did not, in fact, a warm egg make.

Enter a mild case of idiocy: rather than try half that again, he re-programmed the lone egg for another full dose and then some, 25 additional seconds. At no point did it enter his mind what might happen to a single egg micro-waved for a 45 full seconds on high.

To be fair, I hadn't exactly considered the ramifications of exploding eggs in much depth either, but then I wasn't the one programming the microwave. Fast forward.

BANG!

"What," I cried, "in the hell was that?"

"Nothing," called back the voice in the kitchen.

"That did not sound like nothing," I answered.

"Er, it was, ah, an egg…" came the trailing answer.

I ventured over to the kitchen, pleasantly surprised to note that the impact hadn't knocked frames off the wall or caused systematic damage throughout the entire area. It did, however, break plastic Tupperware with what I can only describe as 'considerable force.'

The heart of every funny story contains some element of exaggeration. The exploding egg and the Tupperware wreckage are a true story with very little exaggeration.

It would appear that the weapons of mass destruction have been hiding in my fridge this whole time.

A single egg and Tupperware lid were inadvertently harmed in the making of this blog.

The Weekend Wrap

I went to my first Sox game in an age. I've been to handful of Red Sox games at Fenway and yet have never seen them win a game in person. That's over stating it though… I've never even see them play well in person! They've been spanked, losing by 9, 10, 11 runs. The only benefit was paying for a bleachers seat and ending up 3 rows behind the dug out by the 5^th inning!
 

So Saturday night, I went to see them in St. Pete against the Devil Rays. Strangest thing though, I walked in and there were THOUSANDS of Red Sox fans. You couldn't turn around without stepping on someone wearing some sort of Sox merchandise. It was just so very bizarre to witness when they were on the road and I'm walking in with my Red Sox cap on expecting to catch lip from frat boy Devil ray fans. Whenever the Sox did something great (surprise, surprise, I saw a little bit of greatness in person this time), the Sox fans completely drowned out the Rays' fans. And when the Rays did something good (unexpected though it was), their celebrations were completely over ridden by hostile Boston fans. To make it even more a baffling experience for me, Boston won which NEVER happens when I go to see them. Obviously I'm only allowed to watch in person on the road!? Anyway, complete twilight zone episode overall. Below...Mr. J. Varitek... [for KD].

..

On Sunday, I went fishing….which is good, I like fishing and I haven't been at all this year. I particularly like fishing when it's warm out and I can multi-task by both fishing and cooking (me, not the fish, I like to be tan). The part of fishing that eludes me personally is the mentality that you have to fish in the rain or at 2am to do it properly. It's just not necessary. I can fish perfectly well in the light of day at 3pm whilst tanning. Occasionally, I'll even catch something. The point of this is that I agreed to go fishing for the day on Sunday with my Dad, his mate and some other people. A day fishing? Brilliant, count me in.  

The part of the 'fishing itinerary' which was apparently not explained very well was that I'd be home by lunch, I must have missed that part and the dangerous meaning behind it. I got home from the Sox game (a night game of course) and set about deciding what to make for sandwiches, my Dad tells me we don't need sandwiches. " Of course we need sandwiches," I replied, "we'll be hungry at lunch time." And my father tells me we'll be home at lunch time. WHAT? How can we possibly be home at lunch time? I thought we were going fishing for the day, you know like 5 or 6 hours, we'll need sustenance surely. He explains to me that I need to be up at 4am. WHAT? 4 am? That's not morning, that's nighttime! No one said anything about nighttime. My father regularly gets up at such times and considers me to be wasting my day off if I sleep paste 8 am. He has, for as long as I can remember, functioned perfectly well with a fraction of the sleep most of us get. I, on the other hand, turn into an axe wielding psychotic grizzly bear after too many night of only four hours sleep or less.

So now I'm looking at my watch in horror because it's already nearly 12:30 am and all I can think of is Monty Python's 'Four Yorkshiremen' sketch with Eric Idle going "I used to have to get up in the morning at 10 o'clock at night a half an hour before I went to bed." So I did. Get up at 4 am. And I insisted on taking a shower before we left because otherwise I couldn't chisel my eye lids apart. And we did go fishing. And we fought many honourable battles against the ocean's greatest warriors and here is what I have to show for it….

Oh, and I guess I have this to show for it too which is proof that it's not that bad to be up at 4am... once the grizzly bear syndrome wears off.  Maybe.

Invitation

Invitation

You are cordially invited to a meet and greet social for all residents!

Date: Wednesday 18^th April, 2007

Time: 3:15am – 5:00am (approximately)

Location: Building Parking Lot

Attire: Informal (Casual and Sleepwear are acceptable)

RSVP NOT NECESSARY as social will be marked by fire alarm sounding throughout the entire duration in order to facilitate full participation of all residents.

Come on out and meet your neighbours!

~ Property Management

**************************************************

This is how my day started. On the upside, I've finally met some of my new neighbours since moving in back in November. On the downside, it was dark and we were all asleep so I'm not convinced we'll actually recognize each other in broad daylight anyway.

And now for something completely different...

...Even an evening chat to your Mum can end in internet porn.

When you're dealing with six different time zones for work, most of them nearly opposite to your own normal business hours, inevitably someone needs an immediate answer about something at an odd hour. It means that from time to time the phone will ring at 7am, 10pm, 11pm. The major difference between my job and most of my friends can probably be summarized by the following: last Thursday night, I got a call an hour after I went to bed and had already been asleep. Most people who wake you up would apologize and tell you they'll speak to you first thing in the morning. In my case, they must have thought 'well you're awake now so I may as well ask you some questions' because I was told "oh, well I'll make it quick then." Twenty-six minutes later the call finally ended. Twenty-six minutes is an eternity when you've been woken up and just want to shut your eyes again.

Anyway, I digress. Most of my calls oversea are done via Skype on the computer which lets us IM, have regular voice conversations or video conferences and the cell phone is reserved for calling you should you venture out and aren't online. We use Skype everyday everywhere because it's free and cuts down on international calling expenses. So as a result my laptop is pretty much on 24-7, getting a brief rest whilst I drive to my office and home again each day. My mother has discovered that Skype is a great way for her to keep in touch with my brother and I since were both so far away from her these days and so now we can chat to our folks via Skype when we call home as well. Win-win.

Now here comes the really pertinent part. I hate video conferencing. I don't really want other people to see me roll my eyes, grimace, doodle and such while we're talking so I don't use my web cam. I didn't actually want a web cam truth be told but my mother bought my brother and I web cams because she doesn't just want to speak to us, she wants to see us. This is her mother's way of gauging how well or unwell we may be. "You look tired, are you getting enough rest?" "Your eyes look puffy, how are your allergies?" I know it's very sweet really. And it took me ages to actually hook the thing up and use it and because it makes her so happy, I agree to use this silly camera when I speak to my mother so we can see each other while we chat.

Tonight I'm tired and I'm chatting to my Mum, whilst propped up on my bed with my laptop. I've had dinner and I've got my drink, and I'm pretty relaxed as we chat away. So. I get another Skype call coming in and it's a work call from California. Their office is working on something for me so I decide to take the call in case its urgent. I switch over to accept their call completely forgetting about the stupid bloody camera being turned on. And these normally very chatty and easy going people have this shared look that says "Oh, we've interrupted you in a private moment, look at the time out there on the East coast, we're terribly sorry. We just wanted to tell you this....ok, bye!" And then it hits me that people have just seen me on video which in and of itself is unusual and added to that they see me with a drink in my hand, looking rather relaxed with my dress shirt open perhaps more than usual [I'd been cooking dinner and it was warm, okay?] reclining against a pillow in what is obviously a bed room.... yeeeaaahhhhh.

So now these very nice people I have to work with are, I'm quite certain, under the impression that I was just getting under way with a pornographic web cam party or some such similar thing. 

There is to be no doubt that this is obviously and unequivocally my mother's fault and she ought not be allowed on the internet any more. Nothing is innocent on the internet these days, even an evening chat with your own mum.
[Editor's note: Okay, she can play on the internet but I'll never live this down at work.]

Clean Up in Aisle Four!

Originally posted 22.January.2007

Collecting my mail this evening I noted a new sign tacked on the community board. "S & M Cleaning" it said. Despite an initial outburst of laughter, I composed myself and looked at it more closely and they're serious. That's the name they have apparently chosen to go by. So two options then:

Option 1:

S&M really can get so messy that you need to bring in cleaners post copulation and apparently these specially trained cleaners know the secret to removing blood and other questionable fluids from fabric and such. Where were they when Monica Lewinsky had that frightful stain on her dress? If such a thing exists, it is further evidence that S&M isn't for me... I hate a messy house.

Option 2:

And regrettably the more likely scenario, some newly arrived entrepreneur still not all that familiar with the language upon opening his 1^st business has yet to realize that if his name starts with 'S' and his partner's starts with 'M', they may not want to refer to themselves as "S&M Cleaning"...for no other reason that even the amused and satisfied customer will stop using them when it occurs to them that some desk jockey at the bank is updating their account and commenting to their co-workers and friends about the crazy customer who has to pay specialized S&M cleaners to come in once a week like clock work.

______________________________________________

Follow up from friends suggestion other potential alternatives (thanks guys)...

MB offers: Here's how it works.
The cleaners come in dressed in black leather, and fit you with a ball gag. Then, they proceed to clean your house and tell you what a dirty pig you are. Sounds like a business that would do well in D.C.

BG offers: Imagine being this newly arrived entrepreneur, and showing up at homes where the lady or man of the house opens the door... already dressed in leather, a ball gag, mask, and holding a dildo/whip.

From around the ball gag, the "host" manages to convey the words "please come in..." and our entrepreneur is just standing there on the threshold...

RMV Performs Miracle Sex Change

I am no longer a man. Why? Simple. The RMV (Registry of Motor Vehicles) has finally deemed it so. About a year ago when I moved to a new state, I was issued a new driver's license. Lovely. Check it over for mistakes they said. I did. My address was wrong, I pointed out casually. No problem, we'll fix it, they said. And they did. And thus I trundled off with new license, plates and registration in hand. And everything was fine… for about a week. For about a week later, the woman at the video rental place called me 'miss….ter' in a very confused sort of way. I dismissed it. A few days after that, the same thing happened with the bank manager. "Here you go, Miss….ter." I confess at this point I began to wonder what exactly was going on and discovered (to my horror) that my new identification, courtesy of the state of Florida, displayed that I was in fact not a woman…so much as a man. 'Sex' it said and then it was following by a very large 'M' and not, in fact, the 'F' that I had been accustomed to my entire life.

Naturally, this was some thing of a point of entertainment among my friends. The identification in question was handed around at bars like part of a get-to-know-your-neighbour party game. It was by far one of the most bizarre pick up lines any of my friends have used: "Hey, wanna see something funny? Look at my friend's license! Isn't that a riot? Let me see your ID..."  

By and large it was not a problem. When I traveled through airport security I simply used my passport, even on domestic flights, to avoid any confusion. I'm not generally asked for ID to buy alcohol so I wasn't having to drag it out very often. And though I was not, in fact, keen to have anyone who didn't know me see my ID, I really managed to deal with it. Finally, finally I have made time to get it corrected. I fully expected a battle at the RMV for nothing is ever easy in that foreign place, especially for me. I seem to have had nothing but aggravation where it is concerned and thus we have reached the amicable solution that they will continue to make me miserable and, in return, I will do my utmost to inflict the same misery upon their clerks when I am required to visit every so often. It's not fair exactly but there you go, sometimes all you can hope for is to go down swinging!

The RMV are an authority unto themselves. They follow no laws of logic that are known to me. As an example I once had to pay for a duplicate title to a car I owned because the Massachusetts RMV claimed they had already posted it to me despite my claim that it had never been received. "Here," they pointed to the screen, "it was mailed in October 2000." Feeling the battle was won now, I said "yes, but I didn't own the car in October 2000. This letter from the bank," I said holding it up, "clearly says that as of last month (January 2002) they no longer have an interest in the car as the loan is paid off!"  "Doesn't matter," they said, "we mailed it to you." Then you didn't mail it to the right place, I reasoned patiently, because I didn't own the car then someone else did!  "We understand that," they said, "but the fact remains that the one free ownership title which you are in fact entitled to has been mailed already so you'll need to buy a duplicate."   Forty dollars in duplicate title fees later I had my first and only copy of the ownership title for said car.

Knowing then the sort of twisted nonsensical sort of logic I'd be forced to face at the RMV, I came armed to the teeth with evidence of my sex. No red tape would stand in the way of my quest to be re-categorized back in to the female population. My weapons were as follows:

1. Birth Certificate: indicating birth of GIRL driver.
2. British Passport: indicating FEMALE driver and citizen under protection of British High Consul.
3. US Passport: indicating travel of WOMAN driver to various exotic locales in last few years.
4. Photos of me wearing swim suit: thus showing proof of girly bits in question.
5. Sworn affidavits from various ex-boyfriends testifying to my ownership of other girly bits not allowed to be shown in above mentioned photos.

I felt confident that with such compelling evidence, the RMV could do nothing but apologize for their error and restore my status. Here then, my progress in the face of RMV denial of said error:

RMV Receptionist (no authority): Oh, I see! That is quite a mistake we've made. Here's your ticket, they'll be no charge for us to correct this for you.

RMV Counter Clerk (general decisions): Have you had a sex change?

Me: No.

Counter Clerk: Are you about to have a sex change?

Me: No.

CC: May I see your other identification please?

Me: {slides across US passport}.

CC {inspecting passport}: Is this correct?

Me: Uh…yeah.

CC: Did you change your sex after the passport was issued?

Me: No, I've never changed it. This passport was issued seven years ago. My license was issued eleven months ago.

CC: Well this is obviously wrong. Didn't you check your license for errors when it was issued?

Me: Yes, I checked all the general information, some of which was wrong but it never occurred to me to check whether or not my gender was accurate.

CC: You should always check it, these things change you know. [sighes] It'll be $5 for a replacement, I need to speak to my supervisor.

She wanders away and I'm left wondering how exactly 'these' things change. Is the RMV changing our political party affiliations while we're not looking as well and rigging elections?

RMV Supervisor (the decision maker): Do you have another form of ID?

Me: You mean besides my license and passport?

S: Yes.

Me: Here's my birth certificate.

S: Do you have anything else with your picture on it?

Me: I have another passport {handing it over}.

S: This is a foreign passport. Do you have your green card?

Me: No, I'm an American citizen. I have two passports because I was born overseas.

S: Do you have any other form of ID?

Me: I have more ID's than most people. What else do you expect me to have with my picture and sex on it besides my license and multiple passports?

S: We'll you'll need to pay $25 for a replacement license since you failed to correct it at the time of issuance.

Me: What? A minute ago it was $5. When I first got here it was free. Does the fee increase every time you need to consult a new person? I have more ID's that anyone else I know and I'm supposed to pay because some knob at a desk either can't type or doesn't know a pair of boobs when they're standing across a counter from him?

Ten engaging minutes later…

RMV Counter Clerk (again): That'll be $5 for the replacement.

Me: Fine. Excellent. Here you go.

CC: Are you addicted to any drugs?

Me: What?

CC: I have to ask you these questions. Are you addicted to any drugs?

Me: No. Do people actually answer that honestly?

CC: Has your license to operate been revoked or suspended in any other state?

Me: No.

A bundle of inane questions later…

Me (thinking to myself): {I won! I finally won a battle with the RMV! Hahahaha!}

CC: You'll need to step over there to take a new picture.

Me: Wha... Why?

CC: We're issuing you a duplicate license and we're required to take an up to date picture of you.

Me: It is up to date. It's me, only eleven months younger. I looked good that day. That is by far the best license picture I've ever taken.

CC: I'm sorry, it's procedure.

Me: I just got out of bed. I'm not ready to take a picture.

CC: Would you like to come back to correct this another day?

Me: Where do I stand?

The RMV always have their revenge. Now I look like a Nick Nolte mug shot on my ID photo...