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.
Wednesday, 21 March 2007
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.
Tuesday, 6 March 2007
Death drives a stick
Mr Scott is one of my longest and closest friends. We met as undergraduate engineering students back in 1993 when we both realized we were from not only the same country, but we were born in the same city. What are the chances of that in a campus of 20,000? But that’s not where the coincidences stop. No! After graduation, Mr Scott went away to work in a town 4 hours’ drive away, only to take up work with my company 18 months later. We’re also both young, single, make far too much money and, hence, we both love our toys. Mr Scott takes delivery of his new toy in August. This is when he returns from 11 weeks holiday in South America, including Costa Rica and Mexico. I don’t think he’s going to Cancún. He has too much class.
Mr Scott and I are both from England. It means we were born with two driving skills unique to our small island: from birth we’ve been able to parallel park and drive a stick shift. Neither of us have ever owned an automatic. We feel there’s something ungodly, not to mention uncoordinated, in not being able to use a manual gear shift. It’s really not-that-hard: clutch in, slam into the next gear, bring clutch up while mashing the accelerator to the floor. Easy! Mr Scott and I tend to treat speed limits as guidelines. The more remote the highway, the more hazy the guidelines.
As much as I like his new toy, and as much as I’m hanging out to take it for a spin (literally), I look at the Red Shark, parked in my garage, and I can’t part with my joy. It brings a smile to my face every time I jump into the heavily bolstered driver’s seat. And there’s NOTHING on earth like the scream from the engine as it hits 8.500 rpm…I never knew it was possible to have that much fun in the front seat of a car.
Mr Scott and I are both from England. It means we were born with two driving skills unique to our small island: from birth we’ve been able to parallel park and drive a stick shift. Neither of us have ever owned an automatic. We feel there’s something ungodly, not to mention uncoordinated, in not being able to use a manual gear shift. It’s really not-that-hard: clutch in, slam into the next gear, bring clutch up while mashing the accelerator to the floor. Easy! Mr Scott and I tend to treat speed limits as guidelines. The more remote the highway, the more hazy the guidelines.
As much as I like his new toy, and as much as I’m hanging out to take it for a spin (literally), I look at the Red Shark, parked in my garage, and I can’t part with my joy. It brings a smile to my face every time I jump into the heavily bolstered driver’s seat. And there’s NOTHING on earth like the scream from the engine as it hits 8.500 rpm…I never knew it was possible to have that much fun in the front seat of a car.
Monday, 5 March 2007
Sundaze
Yesterday was Sunday and, true to form I slept in. I dragged my sorry ass outta bed at 8:30am, which is very late by my standards. I went for a run, lounged around on the sofa for a while and went to the gym. Then I did the only thing I could possibly do with a fine, sunny Sunday afternoon: I knocked out some zeds.
The evening brought the obligatory visit to the folks for Sunday dinner. It’s one of those ex-patriot British things we brought with us. As opposed the polite-Christian-sit-round-the-table-and-say-grace things. There’s no politeness (my family’s honesty can be disarming sometimes) and there’s even less saying of grace. The Sunday dinner involves roast meat, vegetables, gravy and a moderately priced bottle of wine. And dessert. This is the one meal of a week where I have dessert and I make damn sure it involves chocolate. My dessert last night was chocolate brownie cheesecake, with chocolate fudge ice cream. Well, I had run 12 miles and spent two hours in the gym!
There was a minor incident with the ice cream. The old geezers’ freezer seems to be set to “Green Bay in mid-winter” and the ice cream appeared to be chocolaty-fudgy-brown concrete. So, as I dived in with the scoop, the tub of ice cream fired out behind me, skidded across the tiled floor, coming to rest under the table some five yards behind me. Oops. But it did stop right-side up! I managed to dig out a few cubic inches of ice cream and put the somewhat mangled container back in the freezer.
It was finished with coffee and, you guessed it, more chocolate. Excellent.
I fear my previous post on my quiet street was read by some hooligans: I was woken at 1:30am this morning by the sound of someone peeing on my front lawn. Still, it was quite funny seeing the guy waddling quickly down the street trying to pee AND pull his pants up after a fairly sharp yell on my part from the bedroom window.
Celts did a beat-down on T-wolves yesterday (OK, OK, it was only 7 points, but in Celtic-world, that counts as a "beat-down"). That’s now four on the bounce for the Green and five in their last 27. Do I hear the faint sounds of a snowball fight in Hell?
The evening brought the obligatory visit to the folks for Sunday dinner. It’s one of those ex-patriot British things we brought with us. As opposed the polite-Christian-sit-round-the-table-and-say-grace things. There’s no politeness (my family’s honesty can be disarming sometimes) and there’s even less saying of grace. The Sunday dinner involves roast meat, vegetables, gravy and a moderately priced bottle of wine. And dessert. This is the one meal of a week where I have dessert and I make damn sure it involves chocolate. My dessert last night was chocolate brownie cheesecake, with chocolate fudge ice cream. Well, I had run 12 miles and spent two hours in the gym!
There was a minor incident with the ice cream. The old geezers’ freezer seems to be set to “Green Bay in mid-winter” and the ice cream appeared to be chocolaty-fudgy-brown concrete. So, as I dived in with the scoop, the tub of ice cream fired out behind me, skidded across the tiled floor, coming to rest under the table some five yards behind me. Oops. But it did stop right-side up! I managed to dig out a few cubic inches of ice cream and put the somewhat mangled container back in the freezer.
It was finished with coffee and, you guessed it, more chocolate. Excellent.
I fear my previous post on my quiet street was read by some hooligans: I was woken at 1:30am this morning by the sound of someone peeing on my front lawn. Still, it was quite funny seeing the guy waddling quickly down the street trying to pee AND pull his pants up after a fairly sharp yell on my part from the bedroom window.
Celts did a beat-down on T-wolves yesterday (OK, OK, it was only 7 points, but in Celtic-world, that counts as a "beat-down"). That’s now four on the bounce for the Green and five in their last 27. Do I hear the faint sounds of a snowball fight in Hell?
Saturday, 3 March 2007
These foolish games
For some reason – probably that I can’t say no to my friends – I allowed myself to be signed up for a triathlon. For the uninitiated, a triathlon is a three legged event (no, not a three legged race, a triathlon is far more ridiculous than that), consisting of a run leg, a bike leg and…a swim leg. Aaaaand, that’s where the problem lies for me. See, I haven’t been swimming in, well, over a decade and a half. I hate swimming. Despise it. When I was in elementary school, we had compulsory swimming lessons. When I was in elementary school, I was gangly and very uncoordinated and, hence, shoving me in the water wasn’t dissimilar to dropping an anvil into a swimming pool. I am also sure the swimming teachers were all ex-East German swimming coaches. “NO, not like THAT, like THIS.” “Go over there and practice on your own until you get it right.” You know, the kind of stuff that’s soul destroying for a 10 year old.
The main issue I have with swimming is: it involves putting my head underwater. That’s a pretty big stumbling block when it comes to being able to move my body through the water at any kind of reasonable pace. So, that’s why I’d avoided swimming for these many years.
But, I had to learn how to swim because I had given my word to The Oracle that I would join her team. I think I should point out here that the triathlon is 25 March. I’d given myself three weeks to (a) learn to not drown; and (b) not drown while moving forward for 250 metres.
As luck would have it, The Admiral is a damn fine swimmer. He learned to swim in the Navy and he’s kept swimming, what, almost 50 years. So, we hit the pool for my first swimming lesson since the 80s. Believe me people, there are very few things in this world more HUMILIATING than a 63 year old man gliding effortlessly past you while you’re doing an impression of fish writhing about on a boat deck (I wonder, do fish have an expression, “writhing like a human in water”?). If anyone had any detergent, they could have thrown it in next to me, along with their dirty laundry.
I will confess that The Admiral was a wonderful coach. I had my apprehensions about his teaching style, but he was patient, gave good advice and didn’t let me give up. By the end, I swam the entire length of an Olympic pool (50 metres) without drowning, taking on a stomach full of water or feeling too out of breath. We’re going swimming again on Monday morning.
I think I’ll be ready for 25 March. Oh, the bike is 6.2 miles and the run 1.6 miles. Hardly worth getting out of bed for.
I also saw Mum during the week. She told me of The Admiral’s new found enemy in the exhaust fan in the kitchen. And she gave me this week’s edition of the International Express. It’s the weekly "summary" of that tour de force of British tabloid trash; the Daily Express. It's my bit of banality for the week. I like to read the headlines and see how a mundane piece of news becomes a call-to-arms through the use of emotionally charged adjectives. I also like their use of all noun headlines and to see how far I have to go into the paper before I find a mention of Princess Diana. I was very disappointed to see the late princess relegated to page 14 this week. It's only been, what, 10 years? In fact, she was beaten out by Margaret Thatcher, who was on page 6.
The main issue I have with swimming is: it involves putting my head underwater. That’s a pretty big stumbling block when it comes to being able to move my body through the water at any kind of reasonable pace. So, that’s why I’d avoided swimming for these many years.
But, I had to learn how to swim because I had given my word to The Oracle that I would join her team. I think I should point out here that the triathlon is 25 March. I’d given myself three weeks to (a) learn to not drown; and (b) not drown while moving forward for 250 metres.
As luck would have it, The Admiral is a damn fine swimmer. He learned to swim in the Navy and he’s kept swimming, what, almost 50 years. So, we hit the pool for my first swimming lesson since the 80s. Believe me people, there are very few things in this world more HUMILIATING than a 63 year old man gliding effortlessly past you while you’re doing an impression of fish writhing about on a boat deck (I wonder, do fish have an expression, “writhing like a human in water”?). If anyone had any detergent, they could have thrown it in next to me, along with their dirty laundry.
I will confess that The Admiral was a wonderful coach. I had my apprehensions about his teaching style, but he was patient, gave good advice and didn’t let me give up. By the end, I swam the entire length of an Olympic pool (50 metres) without drowning, taking on a stomach full of water or feeling too out of breath. We’re going swimming again on Monday morning.
I think I’ll be ready for 25 March. Oh, the bike is 6.2 miles and the run 1.6 miles. Hardly worth getting out of bed for.
I also saw Mum during the week. She told me of The Admiral’s new found enemy in the exhaust fan in the kitchen. And she gave me this week’s edition of the International Express. It’s the weekly "summary" of that tour de force of British tabloid trash; the Daily Express. It's my bit of banality for the week. I like to read the headlines and see how a mundane piece of news becomes a call-to-arms through the use of emotionally charged adjectives. I also like their use of all noun headlines and to see how far I have to go into the paper before I find a mention of Princess Diana. I was very disappointed to see the late princess relegated to page 14 this week. It's only been, what, 10 years? In fact, she was beaten out by Margaret Thatcher, who was on page 6.
Thursday, 1 March 2007
Feel the love
I got some lovin yesterday. Now, I’m not one to turn down a bit of affection, but I did feel a bit uncomfortable about the source: ET. Yes, ET was spreading the love. The miniature Egyptian man I work with gave me a hug. I’d found a way to save $150,000 in the project target cost, so I was deserving of a squeeze. It left me feeling a bit, uhh, weird. Here was a man who gets what he wants by yelling at people, giving me a bit o’lovin. I doubt anyone could feel ANYTHING but a bit stunned.
Miss K thought it was all quite funny when I told her. She said it shows he’s human (as opposed to the alien I maintain he is). But she doesn’t have to worry about the consequences if I find a way to save a million.
Karate was interesting (to say the least) on Monday night. A guy who hasn’t been training in over a year has returned. The only thing notable about this guy is his ego. He walked in announcing to all and sundry that he wanted to fight anyone and everyone. Those just aren’t words to be used in a dojo. Of course, he did not get the reception he wanted: no one took any notice of him! He didn’t show last night and the sensei asked my training partner & I if we’d scared him off. Definitely not a good sign when the sensei is making fun of you!
Celtics dropped the Knicks last night. Time for me to buy a lottery ticket.
Miss K thought it was all quite funny when I told her. She said it shows he’s human (as opposed to the alien I maintain he is). But she doesn’t have to worry about the consequences if I find a way to save a million.
Karate was interesting (to say the least) on Monday night. A guy who hasn’t been training in over a year has returned. The only thing notable about this guy is his ego. He walked in announcing to all and sundry that he wanted to fight anyone and everyone. Those just aren’t words to be used in a dojo. Of course, he did not get the reception he wanted: no one took any notice of him! He didn’t show last night and the sensei asked my training partner & I if we’d scared him off. Definitely not a good sign when the sensei is making fun of you!
Celtics dropped the Knicks last night. Time for me to buy a lottery ticket.
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