I was out last night with Miss P., my awesomely awesome friend from Ecuador. Miss P. is one of those unassuming people who have had an amazing life: she’s lived throughout the United States, she worked for five years on the Galapagos Islands and has a Masters degree from Westminster University in London. On the Galapagos Islands, she met Kofi Anan, Hollywood A-listers and heads of state. The closest I’ve come to a brush with a celebrity is seeing someone who slightly resembled Paris Hilton when I was in New York last summer.
So, off we went to the movies last night to see The Taxi Thief; a Spanish film set in Barcelona. European movies fall into one of two categories: socialist propaganda or pornography and this was most definitely the former.
The indie cinema showing the movie was in my city’s party precinct, fabled for its food, and Miss P. and I went out to a Japanese restaurant for dinner. We took a table next to the wrought-iron railing dividing our sushi palace from the sidewalk and the (slightly drunk) revelers passing by. We were engaging in a conversation of intellect and sparkling wit over our raw seafood dinner when a shocked look on Miss P’s faced brought things to a screeching halt. In her gorgeous accent, she whispered, “Look behind you, I think that man is going to take out his pee-pee.” And sure enough, there was a man standing at the wrought iron railing fiddling down there. On our table was a soup spoon which I picked up and gave the guy a look which could only say, “If you continue with what you’re doing, I will remove your nob with this spoon.”
Our almost-flasher departed, but left behind a large suitcase; one of those suitcases on wheels…the kind you’d take on an international flight. We wondered if it contained some kind of explosive. Semtex, maybe? There was no ticking noise, so we weren’t THAT worried. A minute later, he came back to pick up his suitcase (how he could forget it, I don’t know) and wandered off, without going down there. And two minutes later, he was back, being dragged along by three burly cops and thrown into the back of a police cruiser. We didn’t see what he’d done, but we had a pretty good idea. And by the way the cruiser was rocking backwards and forwards, we think he was up to the same thing in the police car.
Sunday, 27 May 2007
Sunday, 20 May 2007
Genetic traits
I was doing grocery shopping yesterday and I needed apples. Not a problem, right? Wrong. Wrong because of my family's genetic malfunction which sees us tearing down delicate food displays. Back in the old country, I remember my Nan (God rest her soul) picking out a tin of tomato soup from the middle of the stack and the whole thing collapsing like one of those tower blocks on a Discovery Channel demolition show. Of course, the most memorable thing was Nan looking around like she was looking for the vandal who'd pulled down the stack of Heinz soup.
So, I think you can see how this went down. There I was, picking out apples and then it happened...I picked out the most strategically placed apple in the whole stack. The apples tumbled to the floor in a shiny green avalanche I was powerless to stop. I crouched to the floor to pick up the now slightly bruised fruit, returning them to the wood display box (let this be a lesson to you: always was your apples) and kicked a few of the deceased under the box...see, not THAT many fell on the floor, kindly shopkeeper.
I went to the gym around lunchtime and when I left, there was a message from Mum on my cell phone. "Your father's not feeling well. Can you take me to the mall?" I don't know why Dad keeps up the "I'm not well" charade on a Saturday afternoon - we all know he just fancies a kip on the sofa. Anyways, when I take Mum to the mall, I do get a free cup of coffee...albeit crappy mall coffee. But it's caffeine, which makes it good. And it's free which makes it pretty damn great.
Off to the mall we went. As we walked along, my tiny Mum gave me a sharp elbow to the ribs (a pretty good way to get my attention when I am otherwise distracted) and pointed at a woman. A woman dressed like a refugee from a 1960s sci-fi show. Think Lost in Space. Think all that velour on ONE person. Red velour. But what got me the most was the red shoes. I turned to Mum and said, "We're not in Kansas anymore, Toto!" Sadly, it was then a second genetic malfunction kicked: I had placed my size 13 into my mouth. See, I said my rather witty pop-culture-comment a bit too loud (add to that my unmistakable accent) and Ms. Lost in Space gave me an icy, icy cold stare. Like one of those super-power stares that can kill people at 20 yards. Seriously, folks, if looks could kill, I'd be dead.
I think there should be a dress code at shopping malls - it would stop incidents like this happening. Have some burly ex-linebacker with a dodgy knee at the automatic sliding doors, turning away people who have obviously NOT looked in the mirror before leaving the house. It would be better all around.
So, I think you can see how this went down. There I was, picking out apples and then it happened...I picked out the most strategically placed apple in the whole stack. The apples tumbled to the floor in a shiny green avalanche I was powerless to stop. I crouched to the floor to pick up the now slightly bruised fruit, returning them to the wood display box (let this be a lesson to you: always was your apples) and kicked a few of the deceased under the box...see, not THAT many fell on the floor, kindly shopkeeper.
I went to the gym around lunchtime and when I left, there was a message from Mum on my cell phone. "Your father's not feeling well. Can you take me to the mall?" I don't know why Dad keeps up the "I'm not well" charade on a Saturday afternoon - we all know he just fancies a kip on the sofa. Anyways, when I take Mum to the mall, I do get a free cup of coffee...albeit crappy mall coffee. But it's caffeine, which makes it good. And it's free which makes it pretty damn great.
Off to the mall we went. As we walked along, my tiny Mum gave me a sharp elbow to the ribs (a pretty good way to get my attention when I am otherwise distracted) and pointed at a woman. A woman dressed like a refugee from a 1960s sci-fi show. Think Lost in Space. Think all that velour on ONE person. Red velour. But what got me the most was the red shoes. I turned to Mum and said, "We're not in Kansas anymore, Toto!" Sadly, it was then a second genetic malfunction kicked: I had placed my size 13 into my mouth. See, I said my rather witty pop-culture-comment a bit too loud (add to that my unmistakable accent) and Ms. Lost in Space gave me an icy, icy cold stare. Like one of those super-power stares that can kill people at 20 yards. Seriously, folks, if looks could kill, I'd be dead.
I think there should be a dress code at shopping malls - it would stop incidents like this happening. Have some burly ex-linebacker with a dodgy knee at the automatic sliding doors, turning away people who have obviously NOT looked in the mirror before leaving the house. It would be better all around.
Sunday, 6 May 2007
There are currently zero (0) boiled bunnies on my doorstep
I received an envelope on Friday from the ex-girl of the moment. I did three things:
1. Listened for ticking.
2. Bent it. I was wondering if she was sending back the day spa gift voucher I bought her for her birthday. Fortunately, she was not.
3. Looked for a postmark. Yup, it was there so she had NOT been by the house.
Then I opened it – it was a letter. A three page letter! It was touching. She confessed her love for me, that she thought I was the one and said all these wonderful things about me. It was also scary; in a Fatal Attraction kind of way. She said she though of camping on my door step until I said yes (wrong for more reasons than I can count), but that I should NOT come back into her life unless I was carrying an engagement ring because she’d only have me back if it was forever.
There was a lot said in the three pages. Apparently I’m “so totally amazing” (uhh, OK), I’m the best kisser she’s ever had (that’s more like it) and it was the best sex of her life (and don’t you forget it). A bit more on the lovin, and I’d appreciate feedback. See, I banged her on Saturday night even though I knew I was going to break up with her. On a cad scale from 1 – 10, I believe that behaviour sits here:
|----------|-----X----|
Gentleman Manly Man whore
Anyone disagree?
I will write back to her – that’s a job for tonight. She put a lot of effort in and poured her heart out and the least I can do is acknowledge the letter and firmly and gently tell her it’s over. I also don’t want to ignore her and be bombarded with letters, texts, e-mails and deceased animals.
So, what brought it to an end? I’d been a bit so-so on her for the five-ish weeks we’d been dating. She was intelligent, had a sense of humour and there was a certain style and class about her. But…she was 25 and a part time student with no part time job, no real direction in life, no real goals or ambitions and she was the most UN-punctual person I’d ever met (she was 55 minutes late to the break-up coffee). Oh, I should also mention she STILL wore the engagement ring from her most recent relationship.
Being so-so, I introduced her to Mr A. & his wife, Mrs. L. to get some feedback. Their point: she doesn’t seem quite all there (how prophetic). So I took her around to my parents’ one Saturday night for dinner. She was HALF AN HOUR LATE and offered NO APOLOGY. That did not impress my parents. After dinner, she asked to look through photos albums (she did not have a normal childhood – her parents took no photos of her). While browsing through photos, she pulled out one of me with a friend: Miss R. She pointed at the photo: WHO’S THIS? She pulled it out of the album and turned it over looking for a date on the back. The odd thing is, in the letter she said I was very classy because I didn’t mention ex-girlfriends. Well, after the reaction to the photo of me with a friend, I was too fucking SCARED to mention ex-girlfriends.
The next night I saw Mum. I asked her, “Sooooo…what did you think?” She said, in her wonderfully honest way, “I think you can do better.” It was sealed.
Yesterday afternoon, I sent Miss K a text telling of the letter. And.She.Called.Me. Oh joy!! She’d ditched the guy she’d been seeing for a few weeks – he had a nasty habit of scratching himself:
Miss K: He scratched himself all the time.
Me: Scratched? Where?
Miss K: Where do you THINK?!!
Me: Uhh…that’s a sign of a venereal disease. And if he’s engaging in that kind of behaviour in front of you, where do you think those hands are going when you’re NOT around?
Miss K: Exactly. After I saw him scratching down there for 20 seconds, I never let him touch me again.
We talked for almost an hour. No denying, there’s a spark there. We’re having lunch on Wednesday. When I got off the phone, I had that feeling: the I’ve-been-plugged-into-a-socket-and-someone-had-thrown-the-switch feeling. The very feeling I had not felt with Miss L. Bring on Wednesday!
1. Listened for ticking.
2. Bent it. I was wondering if she was sending back the day spa gift voucher I bought her for her birthday. Fortunately, she was not.
3. Looked for a postmark. Yup, it was there so she had NOT been by the house.
Then I opened it – it was a letter. A three page letter! It was touching. She confessed her love for me, that she thought I was the one and said all these wonderful things about me. It was also scary; in a Fatal Attraction kind of way. She said she though of camping on my door step until I said yes (wrong for more reasons than I can count), but that I should NOT come back into her life unless I was carrying an engagement ring because she’d only have me back if it was forever.
There was a lot said in the three pages. Apparently I’m “so totally amazing” (uhh, OK), I’m the best kisser she’s ever had (that’s more like it) and it was the best sex of her life (and don’t you forget it). A bit more on the lovin, and I’d appreciate feedback. See, I banged her on Saturday night even though I knew I was going to break up with her. On a cad scale from 1 – 10, I believe that behaviour sits here:
|----------|-----X----|
Gentleman Manly Man whore
Anyone disagree?
I will write back to her – that’s a job for tonight. She put a lot of effort in and poured her heart out and the least I can do is acknowledge the letter and firmly and gently tell her it’s over. I also don’t want to ignore her and be bombarded with letters, texts, e-mails and deceased animals.
So, what brought it to an end? I’d been a bit so-so on her for the five-ish weeks we’d been dating. She was intelligent, had a sense of humour and there was a certain style and class about her. But…she was 25 and a part time student with no part time job, no real direction in life, no real goals or ambitions and she was the most UN-punctual person I’d ever met (she was 55 minutes late to the break-up coffee). Oh, I should also mention she STILL wore the engagement ring from her most recent relationship.
Being so-so, I introduced her to Mr A. & his wife, Mrs. L. to get some feedback. Their point: she doesn’t seem quite all there (how prophetic). So I took her around to my parents’ one Saturday night for dinner. She was HALF AN HOUR LATE and offered NO APOLOGY. That did not impress my parents. After dinner, she asked to look through photos albums (she did not have a normal childhood – her parents took no photos of her). While browsing through photos, she pulled out one of me with a friend: Miss R. She pointed at the photo: WHO’S THIS? She pulled it out of the album and turned it over looking for a date on the back. The odd thing is, in the letter she said I was very classy because I didn’t mention ex-girlfriends. Well, after the reaction to the photo of me with a friend, I was too fucking SCARED to mention ex-girlfriends.
The next night I saw Mum. I asked her, “Sooooo…what did you think?” She said, in her wonderfully honest way, “I think you can do better.” It was sealed.
Yesterday afternoon, I sent Miss K a text telling of the letter. And.She.Called.Me. Oh joy!! She’d ditched the guy she’d been seeing for a few weeks – he had a nasty habit of scratching himself:
Miss K: He scratched himself all the time.
Me: Scratched? Where?
Miss K: Where do you THINK?!!
Me: Uhh…that’s a sign of a venereal disease. And if he’s engaging in that kind of behaviour in front of you, where do you think those hands are going when you’re NOT around?
Miss K: Exactly. After I saw him scratching down there for 20 seconds, I never let him touch me again.
We talked for almost an hour. No denying, there’s a spark there. We’re having lunch on Wednesday. When I got off the phone, I had that feeling: the I’ve-been-plugged-into-a-socket-and-someone-had-thrown-the-switch feeling. The very feeling I had not felt with Miss L. Bring on Wednesday!
Thursday, 3 May 2007
Forever for her (is over for me)
I did it last night. I added another ex-girlfriend to the list. This one wasn't easy...it never is. I'd talked it over with one of my closest friends on Tuesday. Miss K was out of town yesterday and this was the e-mail which greeted her this morning...it gave us a starting point for our morning coffee:
I feel awful, K. Absolutely awful (but better than yesterday evening). I now know what a person's face looks like when their heart is ripped from their chest. When I got to Café 130, Miss L had just arrived and ordered - she remembered what I drink! As I walked in, she turned around, said, "Hey baby," and gave me this huge smile, like this was THE highlight of her week…she put her arm around me and kissed me. She was wearing a really cute white sweater and impeccable make-up…she'd put a lot of effort in...K, at that moment I wanted to die. Here she was, totally looking forward to seeing me, put time into getting herself ready and, maybe she was thinking after coffee, we'd maybe have dinner, maybe the whole evening together. And here I was about to drive a knife into her chest.
She had no idea it was coming. Absolutely none. We talked for a bit, then I summoned all the courage I had and asked, "How do you thinking things are going?" She thought they were going wonderfully well. Then I said, "I don't think this is the right relationship for me." Utter shock and disbelief from her. Utter.Shock.And.Disbelief. The reaction I'd expect if I'd told her someone had run over her cat.
We talked. She told me she loved me, that she thought I was THE ONE, that she was in shock and that she never saw it coming. She confessed she hadn't "put her best foot forward" after all the things she went through last year and she was getting better (this would only make sense later on).
I think it was the shock that meant she kept things together much better than I…honestly, I was a bit of a mess. We held hands the entire time. She told me she didn't want to let go of my hand because that would mean it would be real. She told me I was [supposedly] wonderful, how great I [supposedly] am. I certainly didn't feel like that. I walked her to her car. It was one of those beautiful autumn evenings and the cafe strip was alive and buzzing; bathed in a wonderful mix of twilight and incandescent light. We hugged. There were tears. We hugged some more. We kissed one last time and she told me, "You still have my number if you change your mind." And I left.
When I got home from karate, there was a text from her, "Did you see the medication in my bag?" I hadn't, but I'm guessing she was on anti-depressants given her comment earlier in the evening. I told her I hadn't seen them - which was true, I had not. Not that I would have judged her on it - definitely not.
Over the hour, I was honest, open, caring and respectful. So why do I feel like cr*p?
Sigh. It's going to be a long day. And if you're wondering, the title of this post is a White Stripes song.
I feel awful, K. Absolutely awful (but better than yesterday evening). I now know what a person's face looks like when their heart is ripped from their chest. When I got to Café 130, Miss L had just arrived and ordered - she remembered what I drink! As I walked in, she turned around, said, "Hey baby," and gave me this huge smile, like this was THE highlight of her week…she put her arm around me and kissed me. She was wearing a really cute white sweater and impeccable make-up…she'd put a lot of effort in...K, at that moment I wanted to die. Here she was, totally looking forward to seeing me, put time into getting herself ready and, maybe she was thinking after coffee, we'd maybe have dinner, maybe the whole evening together. And here I was about to drive a knife into her chest.
She had no idea it was coming. Absolutely none. We talked for a bit, then I summoned all the courage I had and asked, "How do you thinking things are going?" She thought they were going wonderfully well. Then I said, "I don't think this is the right relationship for me." Utter shock and disbelief from her. Utter.Shock.And.Disbelief. The reaction I'd expect if I'd told her someone had run over her cat.
We talked. She told me she loved me, that she thought I was THE ONE, that she was in shock and that she never saw it coming. She confessed she hadn't "put her best foot forward" after all the things she went through last year and she was getting better (this would only make sense later on).
I think it was the shock that meant she kept things together much better than I…honestly, I was a bit of a mess. We held hands the entire time. She told me she didn't want to let go of my hand because that would mean it would be real. She told me I was [supposedly] wonderful, how great I [supposedly] am. I certainly didn't feel like that. I walked her to her car. It was one of those beautiful autumn evenings and the cafe strip was alive and buzzing; bathed in a wonderful mix of twilight and incandescent light. We hugged. There were tears. We hugged some more. We kissed one last time and she told me, "You still have my number if you change your mind." And I left.
When I got home from karate, there was a text from her, "Did you see the medication in my bag?" I hadn't, but I'm guessing she was on anti-depressants given her comment earlier in the evening. I told her I hadn't seen them - which was true, I had not. Not that I would have judged her on it - definitely not.
Over the hour, I was honest, open, caring and respectful. So why do I feel like cr*p?
Sigh. It's going to be a long day. And if you're wondering, the title of this post is a White Stripes song.
Tuesday, 1 May 2007
A dramatic return
OK, it’s time to get this thing back up and running. I can’t possibly relate all that has happened in the last, uhh, month or so in one post, so the next few will be recaps. I think the first thing to recap is the triathlon. You know, the craziness of a swim, followed by a bike ride followed by a run. My actual writing of this post means that, despite the best efforts of the try-athletes I was competing with, I survived. I did not drown. I did not ride my bike into a parked car. I did not get a heart attack while running. I crossed the line in one piece, keeping down breakfast along with various vital internal organs.
The morning started at 5am, which was a revelation to me because I didn’t know 5am existed on a Sunday morning. I’d loaded my bike into the back of the car the night before, so all I had to do was eat and go. So I ate and went. And I got to the end of my street and turned around because I’d left behind my bike helmet: they were MANDATORY, hence my about-face. I arrived a bit later than the time agreed with my team – The Oracle and her partner, Mr. M. – and we headed down to the transition area to rack our bikes. I also needed to get my number written on my arm and there were kindly old ladies to do the task. “What is your number?” “Uhhhhhhh…uhhhh…ummmm…one one four…?” And “114” was written in magic marker on my right bicep.
A bit before 7am, we went down to the ocean’s edge for the pre-race briefing and to start the swim. We were given yellow swimming caps and let me tell you – absolutely no one looks good in a yellow swimming cap and spandex bike shorts. At least I’m not middle-aged, hairy and carrying a paunch. Despite it being a cold morning, the water was warm and it was a relief to get in the water. Not only to get out of the cold, but I also needed to pee. Hey, whales do it in the ocean, so why shouldn’t I?!
The swim was painful. I was smacked in the face by someone trying to swim. I had to swim around a guy swimming survival stroke. I was hit in the mouth again while taking a breath and ended up with every internal cavity filled with salt water. I was trying to get the taste of sea water out of my mouth for the rest of the race. Into the transition area, the first thing I did was check the race number of the front of my cycling jersey – 114!!
The bike ride was uneventful. A nice, flat ride with a hairpin turn at each end. My over riding memory of the bike and run legs was passing a lot of people. I ride & run a lot better than I swim!
In reality, my (drowning) concerns were unfounded. And the best bit? Going out for breakfast on a sunny morning with my friends. We went to breakfast after the worst bit: hearing an ex-girlfriend was around somewhere. On the subject of ex-girls, another one is going to join the list at 4pm tomorrow.
The morning started at 5am, which was a revelation to me because I didn’t know 5am existed on a Sunday morning. I’d loaded my bike into the back of the car the night before, so all I had to do was eat and go. So I ate and went. And I got to the end of my street and turned around because I’d left behind my bike helmet: they were MANDATORY, hence my about-face. I arrived a bit later than the time agreed with my team – The Oracle and her partner, Mr. M. – and we headed down to the transition area to rack our bikes. I also needed to get my number written on my arm and there were kindly old ladies to do the task. “What is your number?” “Uhhhhhhh…uhhhh…ummmm…one one four…?” And “114” was written in magic marker on my right bicep.
A bit before 7am, we went down to the ocean’s edge for the pre-race briefing and to start the swim. We were given yellow swimming caps and let me tell you – absolutely no one looks good in a yellow swimming cap and spandex bike shorts. At least I’m not middle-aged, hairy and carrying a paunch. Despite it being a cold morning, the water was warm and it was a relief to get in the water. Not only to get out of the cold, but I also needed to pee. Hey, whales do it in the ocean, so why shouldn’t I?!
The swim was painful. I was smacked in the face by someone trying to swim. I had to swim around a guy swimming survival stroke. I was hit in the mouth again while taking a breath and ended up with every internal cavity filled with salt water. I was trying to get the taste of sea water out of my mouth for the rest of the race. Into the transition area, the first thing I did was check the race number of the front of my cycling jersey – 114!!
The bike ride was uneventful. A nice, flat ride with a hairpin turn at each end. My over riding memory of the bike and run legs was passing a lot of people. I ride & run a lot better than I swim!
In reality, my (drowning) concerns were unfounded. And the best bit? Going out for breakfast on a sunny morning with my friends. We went to breakfast after the worst bit: hearing an ex-girlfriend was around somewhere. On the subject of ex-girls, another one is going to join the list at 4pm tomorrow.
Wednesday, 21 March 2007
Why family is a four letter word
I’ve been rather ill the last few days, which is always a bit unfortunate. To keep me at work, I got these wonderful drugs for my cold which contain codeine. Codeine has a wonderful effect on me and I can see how people get hooked. About 20 minutes after I take the tablets, my I feel a bit disembodied and my arms & legs feel heavy & light at the same time. Then I feel like I'm floating and my body goes all warm & I feel really, really relaxed and really happy. Then everything goes a bit grey and then next thing I know, it's six hours later. I should point out that I only take them at night or before a very long meeting.
A while ago, my aunt & uncle visited from England and it coincided with my birthday. We'd planned to go out to breakfast, but the place I wanted to go to had closed down, which we only found out when we got there. Curses. My aunt, for some reason, made things worse by laughing for the next five minutes. She found it very funny for some odd reason. But I'll get on to my aunt's insidious personality traits a bit later. Anyway, there was another place nearby, so we went there. I recommend the omelette with gruyere cheese & asparagus. We then did a bit of sight seeing for my aunt & uncle's benefit before heading home & hitting my birthday cake. It’s never birthday unless cake is involved.
My aunt has several disabling personality flaws:
1. She has a terrible laugh. It's not a laugh, it's a cackle and it's one of those irritating cackles that gets deep inside of you and makes you want to slap the person.
2. She laughs at the most inappropriate things. Like when the restaurant we went to for breakfast was closed. Or when she passes wind. Or when she makes a mess at the dinner table (see point 6).
3. She wears her bathrobe for most of the day. Family or no family, I don't want to go round to the olds' house at 11am on a Saturday morning and see my aunt getting round in a bathrobe and hair curlers. It's wrong for so very many reasons.
4. She's a tight wad. If it's free she will take it. She takes home those sugar sachets you get with your coffee at a café. When the crumblies & my aunt & uncle went away to the near-by wine region for three days, she cleaned their villa out of those little bottles of shampoo, as well as those little sachets of tea, coffee & sugar they provide you with. Mum also saw her stuffing her handbag with paper towels from the ladies’ bathroom.
5. She uses the word "toilet" in pleasant company. I know it's an American thing I've picked up, but please, call it a bathroom or a restroom, especially when I'm eating dinner.
6. She's a messy eater. Take smaller mouthfuls, slow down your eating, watch what you're doing, I don't care. I just don't want to be seated at a table where someone older than a toddler is using their napkin as a bib.
I was going to make a point 7. But you can combine points 2 & 6: she passes wind at the dinner table and then laughs.
I wanted to go to the airport just to make sure she got on the plane.
All of this reminiscing has reminded me: around the time of this visit, one of the trainers at my gym was dismissed for breach of conduct. I'm yet to find out what happened, but to me, "breach of conduct" is either (a) verbally abusing a client; or (b) riding an exercise bike with the seat removed for pleasure.
A while ago, my aunt & uncle visited from England and it coincided with my birthday. We'd planned to go out to breakfast, but the place I wanted to go to had closed down, which we only found out when we got there. Curses. My aunt, for some reason, made things worse by laughing for the next five minutes. She found it very funny for some odd reason. But I'll get on to my aunt's insidious personality traits a bit later. Anyway, there was another place nearby, so we went there. I recommend the omelette with gruyere cheese & asparagus. We then did a bit of sight seeing for my aunt & uncle's benefit before heading home & hitting my birthday cake. It’s never birthday unless cake is involved.
My aunt has several disabling personality flaws:
1. She has a terrible laugh. It's not a laugh, it's a cackle and it's one of those irritating cackles that gets deep inside of you and makes you want to slap the person.
2. She laughs at the most inappropriate things. Like when the restaurant we went to for breakfast was closed. Or when she passes wind. Or when she makes a mess at the dinner table (see point 6).
3. She wears her bathrobe for most of the day. Family or no family, I don't want to go round to the olds' house at 11am on a Saturday morning and see my aunt getting round in a bathrobe and hair curlers. It's wrong for so very many reasons.
4. She's a tight wad. If it's free she will take it. She takes home those sugar sachets you get with your coffee at a café. When the crumblies & my aunt & uncle went away to the near-by wine region for three days, she cleaned their villa out of those little bottles of shampoo, as well as those little sachets of tea, coffee & sugar they provide you with. Mum also saw her stuffing her handbag with paper towels from the ladies’ bathroom.
5. She uses the word "toilet" in pleasant company. I know it's an American thing I've picked up, but please, call it a bathroom or a restroom, especially when I'm eating dinner.
6. She's a messy eater. Take smaller mouthfuls, slow down your eating, watch what you're doing, I don't care. I just don't want to be seated at a table where someone older than a toddler is using their napkin as a bib.
I was going to make a point 7. But you can combine points 2 & 6: she passes wind at the dinner table and then laughs.
I wanted to go to the airport just to make sure she got on the plane.
All of this reminiscing has reminded me: around the time of this visit, one of the trainers at my gym was dismissed for breach of conduct. I'm yet to find out what happened, but to me, "breach of conduct" is either (a) verbally abusing a client; or (b) riding an exercise bike with the seat removed for pleasure.
Monday, 12 March 2007
Living by the maxims of life
There are three maxims in life
1. Play hard
2. Party hardy
3. Die young
I engaged in all three this weekend. It was a weekend with the highest of highs and lowest of lows. It all started normally enough with me working till 11:30pm on Friday night. Those e-mails don’t reply themselves. I am coming very close to automatically sending all my e-mails to the recycle bin.
As I have mentioned before, I am training for a triathlon. Saturday I ran, I went the gym and I swam. I wanted to go for a ride, but I NEEDED a snooze before I went out in the evening…
Saturday night brought The Oracle - my wisest of friends – her [insert number here]th birthday. It was a get-together, as opposed to any sort of shin dig or box social: seven of us were there and the stage was set for an awesome night: red meat, roast vegetable salad, champagne and cake. It’s just not a birthday without cake. What made it so awesome was the humour: seven people with a sense of humour as dry as a Texas summer. I got home at 1am, very tired and very happy. Excellent.
If Saturday was the high, Sunday was definitely the low. An acquaintance – not a friend, an acquaintance, you understand – had set me up on a blind date. Yes, I broke the first rule of dating: I went out for coffee with someone I did not know. I’d seen a picture. But, ya know how people gain something like 5 lbs a year…well…on meeting this blind date I can only surmise her picture had been taken somewhere around 1875. Anyway, not being one to judge a book by its cover (or a ship by its hull), I pressed on. I’d been told she was a bit of a fashion guru, but I think her fashion magic had run out that day because what she was wearing made her look like a beach ball. I don’t like empire-wasted dresses on slim women, let alone ones the size of a small planet, but my date was wearing one with vertical stripes. Note: vertical stripes only make you look taller when you’re not as wide as you are tall.
I did have a cunning plan to get out of this – which, given my job, shouldn’t surprise you (at work, we call it an "exit strategy"). The date was set for 3pm. I "had" to leave at 5pm to go catch up with my folks for dinner. Get out time couldn’t come quickly enough (ooo-err). I tried to drop some subtle hints about my predisposition towards her – limited eye contact in the main – without wanting to appear like a psychopath.
The limited eye contact was a useful ploy because I tired very quickly of her tendency to throw her head back when she laughed, revealing the long black hair up her nostrils. Oh, yes, this lady (and I use the term loosely), puts the ass in class.
It appears, unfortunately, that my lack of eye contact and my “gotta go – dinner time” has been less than successful. She thinks I’m adorably shy and she’s enamoured by how close I am to my family. And she's got my cell phone number. Fuck. I should have gone with the borderline psycho plan. She's off to the east coast next week for 10 days. I have 10 days to figure out how to draw her a scenic map to Dumpsville.
To top it off, I worked till 11:45pm last night and I have picked up a cold. Probably from being in her gravitational field. God knows what else she’s home to. On the plus side, I spent my three hours of work on Sunday night listening to Beth Orton…bliss.
So, this weekend I have played hard. I have partied hardy. How did I meet the third maxim? - I showed up to work at 8:30am this morning. The little Egyptian man was unimpressed.
1. Play hard
2. Party hardy
3. Die young
I engaged in all three this weekend. It was a weekend with the highest of highs and lowest of lows. It all started normally enough with me working till 11:30pm on Friday night. Those e-mails don’t reply themselves. I am coming very close to automatically sending all my e-mails to the recycle bin.
As I have mentioned before, I am training for a triathlon. Saturday I ran, I went the gym and I swam. I wanted to go for a ride, but I NEEDED a snooze before I went out in the evening…
Saturday night brought The Oracle - my wisest of friends – her [insert number here]th birthday. It was a get-together, as opposed to any sort of shin dig or box social: seven of us were there and the stage was set for an awesome night: red meat, roast vegetable salad, champagne and cake. It’s just not a birthday without cake. What made it so awesome was the humour: seven people with a sense of humour as dry as a Texas summer. I got home at 1am, very tired and very happy. Excellent.
If Saturday was the high, Sunday was definitely the low. An acquaintance – not a friend, an acquaintance, you understand – had set me up on a blind date. Yes, I broke the first rule of dating: I went out for coffee with someone I did not know. I’d seen a picture. But, ya know how people gain something like 5 lbs a year…well…on meeting this blind date I can only surmise her picture had been taken somewhere around 1875. Anyway, not being one to judge a book by its cover (or a ship by its hull), I pressed on. I’d been told she was a bit of a fashion guru, but I think her fashion magic had run out that day because what she was wearing made her look like a beach ball. I don’t like empire-wasted dresses on slim women, let alone ones the size of a small planet, but my date was wearing one with vertical stripes. Note: vertical stripes only make you look taller when you’re not as wide as you are tall.
I did have a cunning plan to get out of this – which, given my job, shouldn’t surprise you (at work, we call it an "exit strategy"). The date was set for 3pm. I "had" to leave at 5pm to go catch up with my folks for dinner. Get out time couldn’t come quickly enough (ooo-err). I tried to drop some subtle hints about my predisposition towards her – limited eye contact in the main – without wanting to appear like a psychopath.
The limited eye contact was a useful ploy because I tired very quickly of her tendency to throw her head back when she laughed, revealing the long black hair up her nostrils. Oh, yes, this lady (and I use the term loosely), puts the ass in class.
It appears, unfortunately, that my lack of eye contact and my “gotta go – dinner time” has been less than successful. She thinks I’m adorably shy and she’s enamoured by how close I am to my family. And she's got my cell phone number. Fuck. I should have gone with the borderline psycho plan. She's off to the east coast next week for 10 days. I have 10 days to figure out how to draw her a scenic map to Dumpsville.
To top it off, I worked till 11:45pm last night and I have picked up a cold. Probably from being in her gravitational field. God knows what else she’s home to. On the plus side, I spent my three hours of work on Sunday night listening to Beth Orton…bliss.
So, this weekend I have played hard. I have partied hardy. How did I meet the third maxim? - I showed up to work at 8:30am this morning. The little Egyptian man was unimpressed.
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