My cats are getting up there in years. They’re over 12 years old now; I have the feeling that they might be getting a bit senile.
About a week or so ago, they began defecating outside the litter box, and generally making a mess around the house. Well, the solution to this was to put them outside when I wasn’t home and overnight when I was in bed.
They’re old, but still quick. I have had them banned from my bedroom now for longer than this total house ban when I’m not home. I had left my bedroom door open one evening as I was going back and forth from the living room, and of course they always want to go in a room where they’re not allowed. As I return to my bedroom, my black cat Luna looks up, caught red handed in my room. She nimbly jumps over this weeks washing piles (sorted into delicates, white and dark colours) and speeds out the door. As I step to where she was I notice fresh poo.
Well, I was furious.
The litter box is clean, and accessible. I haven’t changed my schedule, their food, so I was very unclear why they were acting this way. I grabbed both cats and rather like Dino and Fred from the Flintstones launched them out the front door.
That night at around 3am I was waked by a “crunch, crunch, crunch” sound. As it’s summer, and hot, my windows are open. Noise travels a long way at night, so I thought it might have been some cat outside munching away on food left for strays by various neighbors. As I tried to settle back down to sleep, the “crunch, crunch, crunch” continued.
Had I left the door open? Was there a hole in the window screens that the cats had definitely climbed through to take their “rightful place” inside the house? Cause it seriously sounded like it was coming from within my house.
I got up and went into the kitchen and turned on the light. There, on the seat happily feasting on cat food was a baby opossum. This was the nasty thing that had been besmirching the good name of cats the world over. This was the evil creature that had been pooing and peeing with such abandon wherever it wanted. This was Satan’s spawn that Luna had been trying to warn me about in her trip into my forbidden room.
Seeing the light come on, the opossum hissed, jumped off the chair and ran under the sink. So began my next hour. Me, armed with my broom and various other objects trying to corner the opossum and get it back outside where it belongs. The opossum using its natural defenses of smells and nimbleness to escape under the old heavy stove trying to stay in what it considered its new home.
I finally had to get some sleep, but got up again after about 3 hours to try again. By this time, the opossum had retired to the lounge, where it had been climbing shelves, rearranging knick-knacks and tabletop items to suit opossum esthetics.
I located the evil looking thing at the bottom of my bookcase. I moved my couch giving it a straight line to the door, and opened the front door nice and wide. Then I grabbed my broom and vacuum for round two.
My cats hate the vacuum, and always head outside when they even see me grab it. I turned it on, and the opossum was no exception – but rather than going outside it squeezed itself under the bookcase.
The broom followed giving the opossum a sharp series of smacks each time I was able to locate it. Finally the punishment grew too much and it ran out from it’s refuge and up the side table leg. I managed to whack in on the head and it fell to the ground. I quickly flipped the broom around and began sweeping the spiteful thing towards the door. Just as I had it at the door it dodged a particularly fierce sweep that would have had it sailing out the door and it sped back inside to the kitchen and underneath the stove.
I had to get to work, so I informed my landlord, who:
A. laughed & laughed
B. said he’d help me move the stove that evening
We missed each other that evening – and the next morning there was more opossum opoo in the lounge.
When I returned home that evening, my landlord informed me that he had heard noises from my apartment that day, had gone in, and the opossum had decided it’s last redecoration of knickknacks hadn’t been quite right, so it was shelf climbing again. He’d swept it outside, and had hopefully scared it so much that it wouldn’t come back.
But, like some horror movie, that evening when I returned home, there sitting on my deck were the mother opossum and her two baby pups, waiting; just waiting for a door to open so they could scurry inside.
I slipped past the evil trio, grabbed a basin full of water and doused the lot of them. Then I grabbed my broom and sent them scurrying off the deck with sharp smacks to their hindquarters.
Yesterday afternoon, the baby devil opossum was back on my deck, and as I opened my door it ran towards it. My broom is now stored by my door and I grabbed it to smack it away – however it spotted the bristles heading its way and ran into the laundry room instead.
Well, if nothing else I owe my cats’ chicken dinners for a week. I’ve now begun disinfecting my entire house. It was in cupboards, under bookcases and my piano. Just everywhere – Luna has decided she doesn’t want to come back in the house, and she’s not convinced it’s opossum free.
As for me, it’s now constant vigilance my friends, constant vigilance.
Sunday, August 05, 2007
Tuesday, July 31, 2007
Birthday Riches
When my brother and I were young, one of the highlights of the year was our respective birthdays. The party, the cake, the presents – but, what we looked forward to at 5 and 6 years old was the money.
Our grandparents gave us a dollar for every year we turned older. $7 for turning 7 years old, $6 for turning 6. GRAND!
We used to have discussions before, during and after our birthdays, counting our riches – and speculating on turning 100, NO – wait, 150. This was a sure fire way to make money and get rich. All we had to do was just keep having birthdays, and, if the trend of getting a dollar extra every year continued there was no end to the amount of money we’d be bringing in on a yearly basis.
To my six-year-old self, $150 was more than enough to live on for, well who knew how long $150 would last. Kbars were 10c at the local dairy, sherbet was 25c, and comics were 75c. So, that was – hmm, carry the 1 – well, it was a lot. A lot more money than I usually had. I knew counting to 150 took a long time, so it surely was a lot of money. Every year, just more and more money pouring in.
My grandfather passed away in the early 1990’s.
The one flaw in the plan that the child in me failed to see was that things never stay the same. People aren’t always with you, that what you have today isn’t necessarily what you’ll have tomorrow. Well, the other flaw was I wouldn’t always be living at home not paying rent and being fed for free. But I’m pretty sure that’s a secondary flaw.
Still, a dollar for EVERY year – just think about turning 500…
Our grandparents gave us a dollar for every year we turned older. $7 for turning 7 years old, $6 for turning 6. GRAND!
We used to have discussions before, during and after our birthdays, counting our riches – and speculating on turning 100, NO – wait, 150. This was a sure fire way to make money and get rich. All we had to do was just keep having birthdays, and, if the trend of getting a dollar extra every year continued there was no end to the amount of money we’d be bringing in on a yearly basis.
To my six-year-old self, $150 was more than enough to live on for, well who knew how long $150 would last. Kbars were 10c at the local dairy, sherbet was 25c, and comics were 75c. So, that was – hmm, carry the 1 – well, it was a lot. A lot more money than I usually had. I knew counting to 150 took a long time, so it surely was a lot of money. Every year, just more and more money pouring in.
My grandfather passed away in the early 1990’s.
The one flaw in the plan that the child in me failed to see was that things never stay the same. People aren’t always with you, that what you have today isn’t necessarily what you’ll have tomorrow. Well, the other flaw was I wouldn’t always be living at home not paying rent and being fed for free. But I’m pretty sure that’s a secondary flaw.
Still, a dollar for EVERY year – just think about turning 500…
Saturday, July 14, 2007
Message from Ashley
I woke up the other day and checked my email. I know, probably a bit sad, but it’s a habit now. Roll out of bed and on over to the computer; I click my nice gmail widgit and it tells me if I’ve received any new mail whilst I've been away from the computer.
I've always loved getting mail, physical or virtual - so I really like to see if I’ve received any missives from my various friends and family around the globe while I've been asleep. I mean they've had hours and hours to message me while I've been out with the sandman.
Anyway, the other morning my little blue message notifyer informed me that I had a new message from Ashley, on my MySpace page. Well, I only know one Ashely, she's in my improv troupe. I didn’t exactly recall adding her as a friend on my MySpace account, but we are in an improv troupe together, and we did have a show coming up. A rather big show in fact, where we were also going to be performing some originally sketch comedy. I'd written some material for the show, so perhaps something had come up regarding that.
Keep in mind it's the wee small hours of the morning, and as such I wasn’t that surprised to be receiving a message from her – though she does have my direct email, so it was a little curious as to why she’d be emailing me indirectly rather than directly.
Well, I brought up a new browser and diligently logged onto MySpace and saw the “NEW MESSAGES” icon. I went ahead and clicked this - which is when I received quite an eyeful for first thing in the morning.
Turns out it was THIS Ashley that was messaging me:
Not THIS Ashely:
I mean there’s anything wrong with either Ashley, but Ashley1 had a slightly different message for me than I was expecting at 6:30 in the morning.
Apparently Ashley1 wants me to respond to her outside email, she's got some really great pictures to share with me, but she "hardly ever" checks her MySpace account. Which is curious to me, I mean she logged on and took the time to message me....
I've always loved getting mail, physical or virtual - so I really like to see if I’ve received any missives from my various friends and family around the globe while I've been asleep. I mean they've had hours and hours to message me while I've been out with the sandman.
Anyway, the other morning my little blue message notifyer informed me that I had a new message from Ashley, on my MySpace page. Well, I only know one Ashely, she's in my improv troupe. I didn’t exactly recall adding her as a friend on my MySpace account, but we are in an improv troupe together, and we did have a show coming up. A rather big show in fact, where we were also going to be performing some originally sketch comedy. I'd written some material for the show, so perhaps something had come up regarding that.
Keep in mind it's the wee small hours of the morning, and as such I wasn’t that surprised to be receiving a message from her – though she does have my direct email, so it was a little curious as to why she’d be emailing me indirectly rather than directly.
Well, I brought up a new browser and diligently logged onto MySpace and saw the “NEW MESSAGES” icon. I went ahead and clicked this - which is when I received quite an eyeful for first thing in the morning.
Turns out it was THIS Ashley that was messaging me:
Not THIS Ashely:
I mean there’s anything wrong with either Ashley, but Ashley1 had a slightly different message for me than I was expecting at 6:30 in the morning.
Apparently Ashley1 wants me to respond to her outside email, she's got some really great pictures to share with me, but she "hardly ever" checks her MySpace account. Which is curious to me, I mean she logged on and took the time to message me....
Friday, June 22, 2007
I want it now, not later
I like the fact that the local sandwich place/coffee shop near work in Pasadena has espressos late.
Though as they actually shut pretty early, perhaps “late” is a relative term.
I mean COME ON - didn't *someone* at the sign place say "hey guys, this isn't how you spell latté"?
Wednesday, June 20, 2007
I'm on the phone!
There’s a new kid at work. Work being my second job, and “new” in a relative sense; he’s been with the company for about 2 or 3 weeks now. So he’s newer than me, but he’s not so new as not to know what to do.
We were closing the store, and as the evening hours climbed ever higher, his output got ever slower. Until by the end of the night, I really wanted to do something like smack him, or poke, or anything – just to get him moving.
I was wondering if he was the slowest worker I’d ever had the misfortune to be working with, until I remember an old Toys R Us colleague – who TRU paid to do nothing, literally.
This was back in the earlyish 90’s, and our TRU store had just got itself a new hands-free telephone answering system. It came with two phone packs, employees would wear these – a nice headset, and while you were working on the floor you could take calls. This was especially great for stock checks on the fly, when a customer HAD to know if you had one of the new Cabbage Patch Picnic Time kids in, or how many Megazords were left in stock.
The arrival was precipitous, as it was Christmas time, and the phones lines were red hot with inquiries and parents searching for the must have toy. Miranda was an Indian girl, she was hired during the Christmas rush – the managers weren’t too familiar with the new headsets – but wanted to get them out right away to relieve some of the hold time potential customers were experiencing. Miranda volunteered to wear one of the sets on her shifts.
Miranda could then be seen walking the aisles, purposefully looking for items and talking into the headset. You could hear her tell callers how many Pink Power Ranger figures were left in stock, what Super Soakers were available. Miranda was clearly on the phone, so customers actually in the store were never able to stop her and ask for assistance, as she was clearly already assisting someone else – on her headset phone.
If someone was wily enough to ask a question in-between her sporadic speech into the headset, she make her way to the stock room for a quick check of an item that we were out of on the floor – but would helpfully send the customer to the front desk for more assistance as she disappeared into the cavernous “employees only” back stock room.
This was her regular routine for a few weeks leading up to Christmas, and about this time we got a new manager in the regular TRU managerial rotation. This manager happened to notice that Miranda’s headset was never turned on – in the back.
So all those phone calls hadn’t really been phone calls at all. Miranda had been coming in for 8 – 12 hours a day (with overtime) and just been wandering the store, talking out loud to herself. She’d been taking breaks, her lunches, and then heading back out for more....talking to herself.
I was impressed with her ingenuity – the amount of time to actually come up with these one sided communications was well played. But, I can’t help thinking that it would have been more interesting to actually take the phone calls.
We were closing the store, and as the evening hours climbed ever higher, his output got ever slower. Until by the end of the night, I really wanted to do something like smack him, or poke, or anything – just to get him moving.
I was wondering if he was the slowest worker I’d ever had the misfortune to be working with, until I remember an old Toys R Us colleague – who TRU paid to do nothing, literally.
This was back in the earlyish 90’s, and our TRU store had just got itself a new hands-free telephone answering system. It came with two phone packs, employees would wear these – a nice headset, and while you were working on the floor you could take calls. This was especially great for stock checks on the fly, when a customer HAD to know if you had one of the new Cabbage Patch Picnic Time kids in, or how many Megazords were left in stock.
The arrival was precipitous, as it was Christmas time, and the phones lines were red hot with inquiries and parents searching for the must have toy. Miranda was an Indian girl, she was hired during the Christmas rush – the managers weren’t too familiar with the new headsets – but wanted to get them out right away to relieve some of the hold time potential customers were experiencing. Miranda volunteered to wear one of the sets on her shifts.
Miranda could then be seen walking the aisles, purposefully looking for items and talking into the headset. You could hear her tell callers how many Pink Power Ranger figures were left in stock, what Super Soakers were available. Miranda was clearly on the phone, so customers actually in the store were never able to stop her and ask for assistance, as she was clearly already assisting someone else – on her headset phone.
If someone was wily enough to ask a question in-between her sporadic speech into the headset, she make her way to the stock room for a quick check of an item that we were out of on the floor – but would helpfully send the customer to the front desk for more assistance as she disappeared into the cavernous “employees only” back stock room.
This was her regular routine for a few weeks leading up to Christmas, and about this time we got a new manager in the regular TRU managerial rotation. This manager happened to notice that Miranda’s headset was never turned on – in the back.
So all those phone calls hadn’t really been phone calls at all. Miranda had been coming in for 8 – 12 hours a day (with overtime) and just been wandering the store, talking out loud to herself. She’d been taking breaks, her lunches, and then heading back out for more....talking to herself.
I was impressed with her ingenuity – the amount of time to actually come up with these one sided communications was well played. But, I can’t help thinking that it would have been more interesting to actually take the phone calls.
Wednesday, June 13, 2007
Yum Cha!
I don’t know if I find this funny, worrisome, or just sad.
I enjoy Dim Sum, or “Yum Cha”, depending on which part of the world you’re in. I will try new things, but am still too western in my thinking to get down with chicken feet – and my dislike of tripe makes me stay away from the beef tripe when it rolls by in a little steaming silver cart. And I get worried about silly things like, will the waitress think I’m stupid, what if I don’t pronounce the dish correctly when I order it – anyway, I get through this and order. Generally I’m with friends, sometimes with someone that speaks Chinese, sometimes not. But every time I’ve had a delicious meal, and I always want a lotus/sesame ball.
So, when I was with friends this evening and heard the following I didn’t know what to think.
Rog and his wife went for a Chinese meal this past weekend in Chinatown in LA. Their favorite place was closed, so they went upstairs to the Dim Sum place.
They knew what Dim Sum is, but didn’t “know” what it was. He explained they were expecting a menu, so after sitting down and having the lady arrive with a cart offering the steaming dumpling she had within the cart, they were thrown for a loop. Hence, they waved her on, the next lady was approaching, they looked at each other, said “no” (to each other in the way that couples have), and left. In the space of about 30 seconds.
Then, I was asked by Amanda where I’d gone on my vacation. I said Thailand. The rest of the conversation went like this:
Amanda:
OH! Have you been to Thailand before?
Me:
No, but now I have!
Amanda:
Did you like it?
Me:
YES! IT was AMAZING! Great people, great food, it was just awesome. I loved it! I would really love to go back.
Amanda:
So, did you meet any nice Taiwanese guys on your trip?
Me:
......Yes...... I did, in Taiwan. I also met some super nice Thai guys in Thailand. That’s where I went, Thailand.
Anyway…..
I’m not sure which interaction disturbs me more, and I’m not sure if I’m mad at myself for being disturbed. I have SO confused people and places before; I’ve also been worried about new experiences. Then again, the new experiences worries have generally been in a country I’m visiting rather than the one I was born and live in.
However, these are people that can vote in this country that I’m currently living in, and have some very definite views on immigration and other subjects.
I enjoy Dim Sum, or “Yum Cha”, depending on which part of the world you’re in. I will try new things, but am still too western in my thinking to get down with chicken feet – and my dislike of tripe makes me stay away from the beef tripe when it rolls by in a little steaming silver cart. And I get worried about silly things like, will the waitress think I’m stupid, what if I don’t pronounce the dish correctly when I order it – anyway, I get through this and order. Generally I’m with friends, sometimes with someone that speaks Chinese, sometimes not. But every time I’ve had a delicious meal, and I always want a lotus/sesame ball.
So, when I was with friends this evening and heard the following I didn’t know what to think.
Rog and his wife went for a Chinese meal this past weekend in Chinatown in LA. Their favorite place was closed, so they went upstairs to the Dim Sum place.
They knew what Dim Sum is, but didn’t “know” what it was. He explained they were expecting a menu, so after sitting down and having the lady arrive with a cart offering the steaming dumpling she had within the cart, they were thrown for a loop. Hence, they waved her on, the next lady was approaching, they looked at each other, said “no” (to each other in the way that couples have), and left. In the space of about 30 seconds.
Then, I was asked by Amanda where I’d gone on my vacation. I said Thailand. The rest of the conversation went like this:
Amanda:
OH! Have you been to Thailand before?
Me:
No, but now I have!
Amanda:
Did you like it?
Me:
YES! IT was AMAZING! Great people, great food, it was just awesome. I loved it! I would really love to go back.
Amanda:
So, did you meet any nice Taiwanese guys on your trip?
Me:
......Yes...... I did, in Taiwan. I also met some super nice Thai guys in Thailand. That’s where I went, Thailand.
Anyway…..
I’m not sure which interaction disturbs me more, and I’m not sure if I’m mad at myself for being disturbed. I have SO confused people and places before; I’ve also been worried about new experiences. Then again, the new experiences worries have generally been in a country I’m visiting rather than the one I was born and live in.
However, these are people that can vote in this country that I’m currently living in, and have some very definite views on immigration and other subjects.
Oasis
I felt as though I’d been transported to Egypt yesterday. Walking with coworkers down to Famima!! for an afternoon coffee, we cut through the Vroman’s parking lot in Pasadena.
Then, appearing like a mirage in front of us, a woman emerged from the bookstore and walked past our group – stopping me in my tracks - literally.
It was a hot, sunny afternoon, she was wearing tan, Capri knee length shorts, reminiscent of an Egyptian desert – and in the midst of all this “sand” was a very large camel toe.
As she walked away from us, (ostensibly to her car) Vroman’s bag in one hand, purse in the other we had clear VPL.
There are some things I just don’t expect to see in an independent bookstore parking lot. And there are some things we should never have to see anywhere.
This fits both categories.
Then, appearing like a mirage in front of us, a woman emerged from the bookstore and walked past our group – stopping me in my tracks - literally.
It was a hot, sunny afternoon, she was wearing tan, Capri knee length shorts, reminiscent of an Egyptian desert – and in the midst of all this “sand” was a very large camel toe.
As she walked away from us, (ostensibly to her car) Vroman’s bag in one hand, purse in the other we had clear VPL.
There are some things I just don’t expect to see in an independent bookstore parking lot. And there are some things we should never have to see anywhere.
This fits both categories.
Monday, June 11, 2007
So fugly it hurts
OMG
I can not stop reading this site. I am having to have the very painful silent laughter at my desk at work while waiting for my next project to arrive.
Acerbic, sweet, insightful, informative and just plain funny.
READ!
http://gofugyourself.typepad.com/
I can not stop reading this site. I am having to have the very painful silent laughter at my desk at work while waiting for my next project to arrive.
Acerbic, sweet, insightful, informative and just plain funny.
READ!
http://gofugyourself.typepad.com/
Deux cafés s'il vous plait monsieur
I was in Target this afternoon picking up some Father’s Day cards, cat food, etc – and as I was selecting my items a woman with her screaming toddler were slowly perusing the same aisles.
The toddler looked to be about a year and a half old, and was screaming/wailing/crying up a storm. His mother was attempting some half hearted “calming down” techniques as she searched for what ever it was she needed.
I marveled at her forbearance, and her ability to block out piercing sound. This brought to mind a trip to the mall I made just prior to heading over to Thailand. I was in need of some new shorts, and wanted to stop by the mall to see what Guess had on offer.
As I entered the Galleria via one of their department store main entrances, I happened upon an 8 year old rather chubby child – he was on his knees sobbing, tears running down his round red face, and he was being dragged towards the door by his father.
Now part of what impressed me here was the father’s strength. The father was a short Mexican man, and his son was rather generously proportioned – the father was having very stern words with his son in Spanish as he step, by slow step dragged his crying son across the slick floor towards the doors.
The son replied in English to everything his father was saying in Spanish – saying how he’d be good, how he was so sorry, that he’d never do it again, and could they please, please, PLEASE stay, he didn’t want to go.
This is the second part of what impressed me. That while the parents may not have instilled in their son a proper sense of decorum of how to comport oneself when appearing in public, they’d done an awfully good job with languages. The crying boys bilingualism was in full force as he understood what his father said and answered in English – it brought to mind one of those immersion language courses where you’re only allowed to speak the language you’re learning. And I thought, once you’ve learnt two languages, it’s only a hop skip & a jump to learning three or even four. This kid could be some sort of translator, or diplomat or who knows what else if he keeps this up. Well, now wasn’t really the proper time to go over to the father and say how impressed I was with the two of them.
As I made my way across the store to head into the mall proper, the sounds of the sobbing tantrum growing fainter and fainter I only half hearted wondered what the incident was that made the father want to eject his son from the store. I regretted not continuing with my language studies when I was younger – as I only know smatterings of French, Spanish, Mandarin, Japanese, Thai & ASL. I’m more fluent in ASL than anything else other than perhaps French. Never having been to France, I may not be as good in French as ASL – as I can really only ask “if there is a bus for the swimming pool” and “how much is that” along with other niceties in French. “Deux cafés s'il vous plait monsieur.”
Anyway, I was heading for Thailand, and I needed those shorts – now, where’s a mall map when you need one?
The toddler looked to be about a year and a half old, and was screaming/wailing/crying up a storm. His mother was attempting some half hearted “calming down” techniques as she searched for what ever it was she needed.
I marveled at her forbearance, and her ability to block out piercing sound. This brought to mind a trip to the mall I made just prior to heading over to Thailand. I was in need of some new shorts, and wanted to stop by the mall to see what Guess had on offer.
As I entered the Galleria via one of their department store main entrances, I happened upon an 8 year old rather chubby child – he was on his knees sobbing, tears running down his round red face, and he was being dragged towards the door by his father.
Now part of what impressed me here was the father’s strength. The father was a short Mexican man, and his son was rather generously proportioned – the father was having very stern words with his son in Spanish as he step, by slow step dragged his crying son across the slick floor towards the doors.
The son replied in English to everything his father was saying in Spanish – saying how he’d be good, how he was so sorry, that he’d never do it again, and could they please, please, PLEASE stay, he didn’t want to go.
This is the second part of what impressed me. That while the parents may not have instilled in their son a proper sense of decorum of how to comport oneself when appearing in public, they’d done an awfully good job with languages. The crying boys bilingualism was in full force as he understood what his father said and answered in English – it brought to mind one of those immersion language courses where you’re only allowed to speak the language you’re learning. And I thought, once you’ve learnt two languages, it’s only a hop skip & a jump to learning three or even four. This kid could be some sort of translator, or diplomat or who knows what else if he keeps this up. Well, now wasn’t really the proper time to go over to the father and say how impressed I was with the two of them.
As I made my way across the store to head into the mall proper, the sounds of the sobbing tantrum growing fainter and fainter I only half hearted wondered what the incident was that made the father want to eject his son from the store. I regretted not continuing with my language studies when I was younger – as I only know smatterings of French, Spanish, Mandarin, Japanese, Thai & ASL. I’m more fluent in ASL than anything else other than perhaps French. Never having been to France, I may not be as good in French as ASL – as I can really only ask “if there is a bus for the swimming pool” and “how much is that” along with other niceties in French. “Deux cafés s'il vous plait monsieur.”
Anyway, I was heading for Thailand, and I needed those shorts – now, where’s a mall map when you need one?
Main Course
Years ago now, in one of my English courses in college I remember reading a short story about a young protagonist whose life changed over one summer. In part of the story, the character developed a “signature scent” (something Celine Dion, Jennifer Lopez & Britney Spears have all done) at the behest of one the other characters in the story.
I liked the idea so much, that I began, back then to mull the thought over. When Garden Botanika stores were around, you could go in and mix and match in your own (semi) private “parfumery” – concocting enticing and mysterious scents to your hearts – well, at least your wallets content.
I knew I wanted something summery, warm, tropical – so I settled on something with hints of coconut and vanilla. I’ve been wearing it now for years, and it’s also a pretty good indicator of whether I’ll get on with someone. Those that don’t like it, are normally people I don’t get on with. The reaction from others has normally been somewhat uniform – with folks telling me that it’s light, not overpowering, that the scent inspires memories of summertime’s past, lazy days on the beach, tanning in the sun, or that it’s reminiscent of the scent of a fine cigar smoked by a favorite grandfather.
At least until I got to Thailand.
I was out for coffee and chit chatting with my friend Chai, and his friends. A tropical monsoonal downpour was happening, so we were safely ensconced in the coffee establishment – lightning overhead, thunder crashing – a young boy was frightened but excited by the storm, his older brother walked over to him and put his arm around him as they both watched the rain coming down in sheets – momentarily catching the city of Bangkok illuminated by the brief burst of lightening.
Anyway, the storm cleared, and we finished our drinks and then all made our way to our respective cars – Chai and I had to almost paddle through a new “river” created by the deluge of rain. His car was up to its undercarriage in water. As he went to get in his car, I said goodbye to the friends and would soon be off to my hotel.
Later Chai and I were talking, and he was laughing saying his friends said I smelled like coconut. He’d assured them I didn’t smell of coconut – but, he thought he’d better ask me just to be sure. I said that, yes, I do have a cologne and part of it has a coconut undertone. Too which he just laughed.
Chai began explaining that he’d NEVER heard of anyone using coconut in a cologne before – especially in Thailand where coconut is a staple of cooking.
So, while overseas my custom scent is “exotic, beachy and summery”, in Bangkok I apparently smell merely of that night’s main course. Or perhaps I’m a sous chef who’s just come from the kitchen without having had time to shower before going out.
I liked the idea so much, that I began, back then to mull the thought over. When Garden Botanika stores were around, you could go in and mix and match in your own (semi) private “parfumery” – concocting enticing and mysterious scents to your hearts – well, at least your wallets content.
I knew I wanted something summery, warm, tropical – so I settled on something with hints of coconut and vanilla. I’ve been wearing it now for years, and it’s also a pretty good indicator of whether I’ll get on with someone. Those that don’t like it, are normally people I don’t get on with. The reaction from others has normally been somewhat uniform – with folks telling me that it’s light, not overpowering, that the scent inspires memories of summertime’s past, lazy days on the beach, tanning in the sun, or that it’s reminiscent of the scent of a fine cigar smoked by a favorite grandfather.
At least until I got to Thailand.
I was out for coffee and chit chatting with my friend Chai, and his friends. A tropical monsoonal downpour was happening, so we were safely ensconced in the coffee establishment – lightning overhead, thunder crashing – a young boy was frightened but excited by the storm, his older brother walked over to him and put his arm around him as they both watched the rain coming down in sheets – momentarily catching the city of Bangkok illuminated by the brief burst of lightening.
Anyway, the storm cleared, and we finished our drinks and then all made our way to our respective cars – Chai and I had to almost paddle through a new “river” created by the deluge of rain. His car was up to its undercarriage in water. As he went to get in his car, I said goodbye to the friends and would soon be off to my hotel.
Later Chai and I were talking, and he was laughing saying his friends said I smelled like coconut. He’d assured them I didn’t smell of coconut – but, he thought he’d better ask me just to be sure. I said that, yes, I do have a cologne and part of it has a coconut undertone. Too which he just laughed.
Chai began explaining that he’d NEVER heard of anyone using coconut in a cologne before – especially in Thailand where coconut is a staple of cooking.
So, while overseas my custom scent is “exotic, beachy and summery”, in Bangkok I apparently smell merely of that night’s main course. Or perhaps I’m a sous chef who’s just come from the kitchen without having had time to shower before going out.
Monday, June 04, 2007
Number One Factory!
I learned some Thai prior to my Thailand trip. I thought it only wise to be able to say “thank you”, “hello”, “how much is this” and a few other choice phrases such as “this is delicious” and “I don’t want that” in Thai on my vacation.
By the end of my trip, I ended up feeling that I just hadn’t learned enough Thai. I say this because of my last “scam” experience in Bangkok.
Now let me just say that I had heard all about the “number one factory/jewelry” scam in Thailand from travel books and the Internet. So when I was approached by a tuktuk driver within hours of hitting the street on my first day in Bangkok I was too intrigued NOT to go.
Which is how I found myself visiting the temple of the standing Buddha and another Buddha temple for the low low price of 30 bhat. The tuktuk driver assured me that as it was a special holiday time in Thailand he would get a gas coupon from the government if I’d just spend 10 minutes in a “number one factory” in Bangkok. I could “Get nice suit, look good!”
He had such a toothsome grin and an appealing earnestness to his salesmanship that I actually began to believe that I might want to get a suit made for me at this “number one factory”. That is until the arrival at said “number one factory”. It wasn’t a factory, or at least, what I’d consider to be a factory. More a shop. A small shop, boasting material. It was run by an Indian gentleman and his "silent type" Thai assistant. As I said, it was small, rather cramped and filled to the brim with really ugly silk prints, tightly wrapped up in bolts. Nothing I’d ever want to buy, even when drunk.
So, I asked about the “free gas coupon”, much to the disappointment of the owner. He mumbled something about “yes, yes, coupon” and I left. This upset my tuktuk driver, as he said I hadn’t spent 10 minutes inside. I was feeling pleased I’d managed to last upwards of 3 minutes. Then my tuktuk man said that he had an “even BETTER number one factory to go to, much larger”. And off we went, bobbing and weaving among the Bangkok traffic. Sweat rolling down my back, as I tightly gripped the metal bars in the tuktuk to prevent me from flying out into the road and being run over by thousands of cars.
I said I didn’t really need to see another factory, and just how much was this “gas coupon” anyway? I’d PAY him for the gas coupon, and he can just take me back to the hotel. Well, he wasn’t having any of that, and we went by a 2nd “factory”/store. One through the doorway I made myself take slow measured steps, slowly counting off the seconds in my head to get up to the required “10 minutes” so my driver would get his coupon and then take me home. I was immediately set upon by another Indian gent, who again began to extol the virtues of the suit they’d make me.
I explained I didn’t want, nor need a suit, but did they have any t-shirts. They did, and I managed to knock them down from 1,500 bhat to 1,000 bhat – which I now know is still WAY to expensive. After 9 minutes in this place, I really wanted out. Plus I had a whole other building to walk through, and I knew I’d more than passed my 10 minute mark.
The 2nd building was pay dirt – it was a rabbit warren over 3 stories – and here was where I was offered my authentic “jewelry”. As I wandered about, having the virtues of cubic zirconium explained to me I was able to see other chagrined tourists being led through the same building. While I was finding the whole thing extremely amusing, these poor folks apparently hadn’t known what they were letting themselves in for – and they were NOT amused.
On the 3rd floor, an old Thai woman was really pushing me towards a suit she’d make for me and “Armani cuts” were her specialty. As I left and was guided through other areas stocked with knick knacks I might like to buy I stopped in the final room to look at (relatively) cheap souvenirs.
I managed to impress my Thai “hostess” by asking for the price of certain objects in Thai. “Ohhh, you speak Thai” she gushed, and actually gave me a “normal” price on one of the knick knacks. Feeling more warmly towards her than the suit lady, I paid the 100 bhat for a souvenir for my nephew and went on my way back to the tuktuk driver, who apparently feeling somewhat bad offered to take me around to some more places prior to the hotel. I declined and asked to JUST be taken back to the hotel – no need to stop at factories, number one or otherwise.
Which brings me back to my last scam. I was at the mall on my 2nd to last day in Bangkok, and was killing a few hours until my glasses would be ready. Glasses I’d ordered the day before – and for only $150 US would be ready at 5pm.
This was at the Silom center. I was just wandering looking at shops, food stalls and people. I’d noticed this Thai guy ahead of me a few times, and he’d positioned himself at the top of the escalator. I got off, smiled a greeting and kept walking. He obviously summed up his courage and then came up to me and said gushed “hello” in English.
I returned the greeting and we walked together for a bit away from the escalator making very small talk. “What’s your name”, “how are you”, things of that nature.
I wasn’t sure if he was wanting to chat, have a date, or something more. That is until I was able to make out, “come with me”, and “number one factory”. Well, by this time in Bangkok, I was hot, tired, and had no desire to tell more Indian gents that I really didn’t need a suit made, even if “Armani cuts” were their specialty.
I wanted to be able to express this to my new friend, but my Thai vocabulary was less than a 2 year olds – so all I could say was “I don’t want that” and “thank you”.
My new friend also had limited English, but he was able to get out a heartbroken “you don’t like me” when I told him “Mai ow” (I don’t want that). He looked SO distraught, and was very upset – I quickly said that “he was adorable”, and “it’s not that I didn’t like him” it was more that I didn’t want to visit any more “factories”, be they “number one” or not.
But he couldn’t understand me, and I couldn’t understand him – and this is why I’d wished I had the time to learn more Thai.
The fact that someone took the time to try and learn enough of my language to pull one over on me, was just so, well, nice. He was so nice about trying to get me to go with him to this factory that I still have a little sadness that this guy thinks I didn’t like him, which is why I wouldn’t go to see his factory, when it wasn’t that at all.
I guess there’s always next time. Who knows, by then I truly may need to have a suit, with a nice Armani cut or I may learn enough Thai to let my erstwhile scammer know that I like him, just not his scheme.
By the end of my trip, I ended up feeling that I just hadn’t learned enough Thai. I say this because of my last “scam” experience in Bangkok.
Now let me just say that I had heard all about the “number one factory/jewelry” scam in Thailand from travel books and the Internet. So when I was approached by a tuktuk driver within hours of hitting the street on my first day in Bangkok I was too intrigued NOT to go.
Which is how I found myself visiting the temple of the standing Buddha and another Buddha temple for the low low price of 30 bhat. The tuktuk driver assured me that as it was a special holiday time in Thailand he would get a gas coupon from the government if I’d just spend 10 minutes in a “number one factory” in Bangkok. I could “Get nice suit, look good!”
He had such a toothsome grin and an appealing earnestness to his salesmanship that I actually began to believe that I might want to get a suit made for me at this “number one factory”. That is until the arrival at said “number one factory”. It wasn’t a factory, or at least, what I’d consider to be a factory. More a shop. A small shop, boasting material. It was run by an Indian gentleman and his "silent type" Thai assistant. As I said, it was small, rather cramped and filled to the brim with really ugly silk prints, tightly wrapped up in bolts. Nothing I’d ever want to buy, even when drunk.
So, I asked about the “free gas coupon”, much to the disappointment of the owner. He mumbled something about “yes, yes, coupon” and I left. This upset my tuktuk driver, as he said I hadn’t spent 10 minutes inside. I was feeling pleased I’d managed to last upwards of 3 minutes. Then my tuktuk man said that he had an “even BETTER number one factory to go to, much larger”. And off we went, bobbing and weaving among the Bangkok traffic. Sweat rolling down my back, as I tightly gripped the metal bars in the tuktuk to prevent me from flying out into the road and being run over by thousands of cars.
I said I didn’t really need to see another factory, and just how much was this “gas coupon” anyway? I’d PAY him for the gas coupon, and he can just take me back to the hotel. Well, he wasn’t having any of that, and we went by a 2nd “factory”/store. One through the doorway I made myself take slow measured steps, slowly counting off the seconds in my head to get up to the required “10 minutes” so my driver would get his coupon and then take me home. I was immediately set upon by another Indian gent, who again began to extol the virtues of the suit they’d make me.
I explained I didn’t want, nor need a suit, but did they have any t-shirts. They did, and I managed to knock them down from 1,500 bhat to 1,000 bhat – which I now know is still WAY to expensive. After 9 minutes in this place, I really wanted out. Plus I had a whole other building to walk through, and I knew I’d more than passed my 10 minute mark.
The 2nd building was pay dirt – it was a rabbit warren over 3 stories – and here was where I was offered my authentic “jewelry”. As I wandered about, having the virtues of cubic zirconium explained to me I was able to see other chagrined tourists being led through the same building. While I was finding the whole thing extremely amusing, these poor folks apparently hadn’t known what they were letting themselves in for – and they were NOT amused.
On the 3rd floor, an old Thai woman was really pushing me towards a suit she’d make for me and “Armani cuts” were her specialty. As I left and was guided through other areas stocked with knick knacks I might like to buy I stopped in the final room to look at (relatively) cheap souvenirs.
I managed to impress my Thai “hostess” by asking for the price of certain objects in Thai. “Ohhh, you speak Thai” she gushed, and actually gave me a “normal” price on one of the knick knacks. Feeling more warmly towards her than the suit lady, I paid the 100 bhat for a souvenir for my nephew and went on my way back to the tuktuk driver, who apparently feeling somewhat bad offered to take me around to some more places prior to the hotel. I declined and asked to JUST be taken back to the hotel – no need to stop at factories, number one or otherwise.
Which brings me back to my last scam. I was at the mall on my 2nd to last day in Bangkok, and was killing a few hours until my glasses would be ready. Glasses I’d ordered the day before – and for only $150 US would be ready at 5pm.
This was at the Silom center. I was just wandering looking at shops, food stalls and people. I’d noticed this Thai guy ahead of me a few times, and he’d positioned himself at the top of the escalator. I got off, smiled a greeting and kept walking. He obviously summed up his courage and then came up to me and said gushed “hello” in English.
I returned the greeting and we walked together for a bit away from the escalator making very small talk. “What’s your name”, “how are you”, things of that nature.
I wasn’t sure if he was wanting to chat, have a date, or something more. That is until I was able to make out, “come with me”, and “number one factory”. Well, by this time in Bangkok, I was hot, tired, and had no desire to tell more Indian gents that I really didn’t need a suit made, even if “Armani cuts” were their specialty.
I wanted to be able to express this to my new friend, but my Thai vocabulary was less than a 2 year olds – so all I could say was “I don’t want that” and “thank you”.
My new friend also had limited English, but he was able to get out a heartbroken “you don’t like me” when I told him “Mai ow” (I don’t want that). He looked SO distraught, and was very upset – I quickly said that “he was adorable”, and “it’s not that I didn’t like him” it was more that I didn’t want to visit any more “factories”, be they “number one” or not.
But he couldn’t understand me, and I couldn’t understand him – and this is why I’d wished I had the time to learn more Thai.
The fact that someone took the time to try and learn enough of my language to pull one over on me, was just so, well, nice. He was so nice about trying to get me to go with him to this factory that I still have a little sadness that this guy thinks I didn’t like him, which is why I wouldn’t go to see his factory, when it wasn’t that at all.
I guess there’s always next time. Who knows, by then I truly may need to have a suit, with a nice Armani cut or I may learn enough Thai to let my erstwhile scammer know that I like him, just not his scheme.
Thursday, May 31, 2007
Mum shot
Whenever my Mum travels, I get what I’ve labeled the obligatory “Mum shot”.
This is a picture, taken by her, of herself, shot at a *very* close angle - normally at her final location or on the way to her final location. When I was younger I’d roll my eyes upon receipt of such a shot in the mail – "Dear oh dear, a picture of Mum, in a hotel room, up real close." Not too much in the background, as her face normally filled the screen. Or, it would be a shot of her with her bags.
Now, years later I kinda treasure these pictures from her. Mum, on her way to a new adventure – Mum against the world. Well, rather Mum AND the world. She’s never been against it, rather she has reveled in her travels; new places, new people, new foods, new cultures – the newness of traveling.
So, when I arrived in Thailand at 1:30am and found my hotel had forgotten to ask their staff to meet me at 2am I found myself wondering “What would Mum do?” - this is ky much like, “what would Jesus do”, but more practical.
Well, as it was very hot – I knew my Mum would want a travel wash, and I was by the river. This would mean she'd strip down, lower something to the waters below and cool off with the newly sodden material. Then, she'd change into something summery and either have a quick explore round or read a book or knock out a few letters. But, as I’m me, and not my Mum I decided not to have a naked wash on a Bangkok river deck - BUT I wanted to at least get out of my close toed shoes and socks – exchanging them for my sandals purchased in New Zealand the previous year. I thought I’ll have a proper wash in the morning, well, later in the morning when the staff arrives. I did however have a quick explore down the street, greeted the local cats, wrote in my travel diary & read a few chapters on my book.
This was followed by the thoughts, this is Bangkok, I’m opposite the Temple of Dawn, Wat Arun – what better way to greet my first day break in Bangkok than by watching the sun rise by the Temple of Dawn.
This is how I also found myself wanting to take a “Mum shot”. Me, at my hotel, by myself, bags in tow. Somehow I wasn't able to get my face to fill the screen, but I'm young, I've got years to learn what my mother has perfected on her travels.
This is a picture, taken by her, of herself, shot at a *very* close angle - normally at her final location or on the way to her final location. When I was younger I’d roll my eyes upon receipt of such a shot in the mail – "Dear oh dear, a picture of Mum, in a hotel room, up real close." Not too much in the background, as her face normally filled the screen. Or, it would be a shot of her with her bags.
Now, years later I kinda treasure these pictures from her. Mum, on her way to a new adventure – Mum against the world. Well, rather Mum AND the world. She’s never been against it, rather she has reveled in her travels; new places, new people, new foods, new cultures – the newness of traveling.
So, when I arrived in Thailand at 1:30am and found my hotel had forgotten to ask their staff to meet me at 2am I found myself wondering “What would Mum do?” - this is ky much like, “what would Jesus do”, but more practical.
Well, as it was very hot – I knew my Mum would want a travel wash, and I was by the river. This would mean she'd strip down, lower something to the waters below and cool off with the newly sodden material. Then, she'd change into something summery and either have a quick explore round or read a book or knock out a few letters. But, as I’m me, and not my Mum I decided not to have a naked wash on a Bangkok river deck - BUT I wanted to at least get out of my close toed shoes and socks – exchanging them for my sandals purchased in New Zealand the previous year. I thought I’ll have a proper wash in the morning, well, later in the morning when the staff arrives. I did however have a quick explore down the street, greeted the local cats, wrote in my travel diary & read a few chapters on my book.
This was followed by the thoughts, this is Bangkok, I’m opposite the Temple of Dawn, Wat Arun – what better way to greet my first day break in Bangkok than by watching the sun rise by the Temple of Dawn.
This is how I also found myself wanting to take a “Mum shot”. Me, at my hotel, by myself, bags in tow. Somehow I wasn't able to get my face to fill the screen, but I'm young, I've got years to learn what my mother has perfected on her travels.
Monday, April 30, 2007
Let's Get Physical
So, I’m working a 2nd job to help pay off debt more quickly. I know plenty of folks that are in the same boat. My 2nd job is part time, pays minimum wage – but there are some really fun people who work at the store. So, while the pay isn’t what I could get somewhere else, the coworkers, and the work itself isn’t bad.
I work for a premium Japanese convenience store in downtown Los Angeles. Movies stars & celebrities drop in, along with locals from the downtown region. I’ve been grifted in the store, and have made friends with some of my “regulars”.
As part of the hiring process, we were told we’d need an employment physical, the standard pee test in a cup sort of thing showing that you weren’t a drug user. For a place that pays minimum wage, they have really strict hiring standards. From physicals, to math tests, to background checks.
Anyway, I’d passed everything, and need to go for my physical prior to my probationary period expiring. Knowing that I’d have to pee in a cup later that afternoon, I’d drunk water at my regular job, and then had a nice large sports bottle of water in the car with me that I sipped as I drove the 30 miles in an hour and a half (Los Angeles traffic). By the time I arrived at the medical center in Redondo Beach I was really in need of the restroom.
I came in, filled out the paper work, and then was ushered into the back. Now this place isn’t a nice doctors office, it’s a transformed building that’s now serving as a sort of urgent care facility, but they also have a Dr. on staff to deal with company medicals.
As I head to the back, the nurse asks if I really want to work for this company. Which is kinda of a strange thing to ask, and I said, ‘we’ll, I have been working for them – it’s not so bad.’
“Oh” she answered as she finished taking down my weight. “Well, ok, come on in, we’ll need to do some back x-rays.”
Back x-rays??!!? My last physical hadn’t included a back x-ray.
I was told that the company wanted them done, so all of the folks went through it. Into the room, where she told me to remove my pants, my t-shirt could stay on and put on the robe, with the opening at the back. It was at this point that:
a. I wished I’d worn boxer briefs rather than just briefs today
b. I began composing my sternly worded phone call to my store manager who’d neglected to tell me I’d be “disrobing” for the physical
c. I was glad that though I wasn’t in boxer briefs, I was in new underwear that was cleanly laundered
After having to assist the nurse to find my belly button, and being turned over and x-rayed from several angles I was allowed to put my pants back on and follow the nurse to a room for the rest of the physical.
We passed boxes of latex gloves and I was sincerely hoping that there wasn’t yet another part to this physical that had not been mentioned to me.
The nurse then said we’d do the urine test and that she’d be right back with someone. The copious amount of water I’d consumed earlier now really needed to come out. It was at this point a young Hispanic male nurse came in and took me to the restroom, where he said he’d have to stay in there with me as this was a drug urine test. Meaning I couldn’t be trusted to pee on my own. Who knows what I might do. So he locked the door, and then like a bad hustler movie leaned against the wall, cocked one knee out while he rested his foot on the wall. I was pointed to the cups, asked me to write my name and then he just watched.
There is something really disconcerting about having to unbutton your fly, pull down your underwear, expose yourself and then pee in a cup. To make it worse, he added instructions, telling me that “filling it up halfway is ok”.
Like I might have wanted to overflow it, or reach back and take several of the cups and see just how many I could fill all the way to the top.
So, with this in mind, and my boy in hand I just couldn’t pee. For 45 seconds I just stood there, in front of the loo, cup in hand, looking down feeling his eyes on me as I’m not filling my cup to the requested halfway point. Not one drip, my bladder while completely full is in no way releasing any stream of pee.
Just as I’m about to say I can’t do this I remember my “yoga breath” from the classes I’ve been taking – “just breathe through a difficult situation”. Well, now’s a good a time as any to try this – as if I keep standing here, his eyes on the cup in one hand, penis in the other - one of us will have to ask each other for a number. And low and behold as I breathe I can pee – just a bit. I’m so thankful to get the thing quarter of the way full before the awareness of being watched kicks back in that I spill some urine down the side of the cup as I cover myself back up. Well, I thought it will have to do.
Yet another charming detail my manager had forgotten to mention. An audience as you urinate – how delightful. My phone rant just grew a little longer.
The rest of the physical was painlessly quick – check of the ears, throat, blood pressure – do you have allergies or family medical problems – then the Dr. showed me the door. I had to decline, asking if I could use the loo instead - as I really need to go now that no one was watching or telling me to fill something half way.
I work for a premium Japanese convenience store in downtown Los Angeles. Movies stars & celebrities drop in, along with locals from the downtown region. I’ve been grifted in the store, and have made friends with some of my “regulars”.
As part of the hiring process, we were told we’d need an employment physical, the standard pee test in a cup sort of thing showing that you weren’t a drug user. For a place that pays minimum wage, they have really strict hiring standards. From physicals, to math tests, to background checks.
Anyway, I’d passed everything, and need to go for my physical prior to my probationary period expiring. Knowing that I’d have to pee in a cup later that afternoon, I’d drunk water at my regular job, and then had a nice large sports bottle of water in the car with me that I sipped as I drove the 30 miles in an hour and a half (Los Angeles traffic). By the time I arrived at the medical center in Redondo Beach I was really in need of the restroom.
I came in, filled out the paper work, and then was ushered into the back. Now this place isn’t a nice doctors office, it’s a transformed building that’s now serving as a sort of urgent care facility, but they also have a Dr. on staff to deal with company medicals.
As I head to the back, the nurse asks if I really want to work for this company. Which is kinda of a strange thing to ask, and I said, ‘we’ll, I have been working for them – it’s not so bad.’
“Oh” she answered as she finished taking down my weight. “Well, ok, come on in, we’ll need to do some back x-rays.”
Back x-rays??!!? My last physical hadn’t included a back x-ray.
I was told that the company wanted them done, so all of the folks went through it. Into the room, where she told me to remove my pants, my t-shirt could stay on and put on the robe, with the opening at the back. It was at this point that:
a. I wished I’d worn boxer briefs rather than just briefs today
b. I began composing my sternly worded phone call to my store manager who’d neglected to tell me I’d be “disrobing” for the physical
c. I was glad that though I wasn’t in boxer briefs, I was in new underwear that was cleanly laundered
After having to assist the nurse to find my belly button, and being turned over and x-rayed from several angles I was allowed to put my pants back on and follow the nurse to a room for the rest of the physical.
We passed boxes of latex gloves and I was sincerely hoping that there wasn’t yet another part to this physical that had not been mentioned to me.
The nurse then said we’d do the urine test and that she’d be right back with someone. The copious amount of water I’d consumed earlier now really needed to come out. It was at this point a young Hispanic male nurse came in and took me to the restroom, where he said he’d have to stay in there with me as this was a drug urine test. Meaning I couldn’t be trusted to pee on my own. Who knows what I might do. So he locked the door, and then like a bad hustler movie leaned against the wall, cocked one knee out while he rested his foot on the wall. I was pointed to the cups, asked me to write my name and then he just watched.
There is something really disconcerting about having to unbutton your fly, pull down your underwear, expose yourself and then pee in a cup. To make it worse, he added instructions, telling me that “filling it up halfway is ok”.
Like I might have wanted to overflow it, or reach back and take several of the cups and see just how many I could fill all the way to the top.
So, with this in mind, and my boy in hand I just couldn’t pee. For 45 seconds I just stood there, in front of the loo, cup in hand, looking down feeling his eyes on me as I’m not filling my cup to the requested halfway point. Not one drip, my bladder while completely full is in no way releasing any stream of pee.
Just as I’m about to say I can’t do this I remember my “yoga breath” from the classes I’ve been taking – “just breathe through a difficult situation”. Well, now’s a good a time as any to try this – as if I keep standing here, his eyes on the cup in one hand, penis in the other - one of us will have to ask each other for a number. And low and behold as I breathe I can pee – just a bit. I’m so thankful to get the thing quarter of the way full before the awareness of being watched kicks back in that I spill some urine down the side of the cup as I cover myself back up. Well, I thought it will have to do.
Yet another charming detail my manager had forgotten to mention. An audience as you urinate – how delightful. My phone rant just grew a little longer.
The rest of the physical was painlessly quick – check of the ears, throat, blood pressure – do you have allergies or family medical problems – then the Dr. showed me the door. I had to decline, asking if I could use the loo instead - as I really need to go now that no one was watching or telling me to fill something half way.
Wednesday, April 11, 2007
Oh I LOVE you. YOU! Sorry, who are you?
I miss id'd a celebrity today.
The ultimate faux pas in name recognition.
Alex Borstein came into the store - most notably for me she of MadTV fame. I was ringing her up & had a recollection that I knew her face - see, that’s my problem - I'm brilliant with faces, it's the names that hang me up. I looked at her, she looked at me, she too recognized the recognition dawning on my face. (Probably at this point with something approaching fear. Something that only celebrities get - that foreknowledge that someone is going to say something, and it's probably not going to be good...)
The conversation went something like this:
“Are you from MadTV?”
“Yes.”
“Are you Mo (Gaffney)?”
“No - I’m the other one, I'm Alex.”
That's probably where I should have left it, but no, wanting to make up for the foot in mouth I continued:
“Oh my gosh, I'm so sorry!”
“It's ok.”
“You're the favorite one. People love your characters.”
“Umm, thanks.”
“Yeah at work we have MadTV on reruns, and people still love Ms. Swan.”
I MEAN WHAT WAS I THINKING? BUT NO, I DIDN'T STOP THERE:
“So, ah, what are you, um, do you teach any classes around here? Do you teach?”
“No, I don't like teaching.”
“Oh.... Well, here’s your change. Have a great evening.”
I still have that sick feeling in the pit of my stomach just thinking back on that conversation.
Still, at least I didn’t identify Vanessa Redgrave as Lynn Redgrave.
The ultimate faux pas in name recognition.
Alex Borstein came into the store - most notably for me she of MadTV fame. I was ringing her up & had a recollection that I knew her face - see, that’s my problem - I'm brilliant with faces, it's the names that hang me up. I looked at her, she looked at me, she too recognized the recognition dawning on my face. (Probably at this point with something approaching fear. Something that only celebrities get - that foreknowledge that someone is going to say something, and it's probably not going to be good...)
The conversation went something like this:
“Are you from MadTV?”
“Yes.”
“Are you Mo (Gaffney)?”
“No - I’m the other one, I'm Alex.”
That's probably where I should have left it, but no, wanting to make up for the foot in mouth I continued:
“Oh my gosh, I'm so sorry!”
“It's ok.”
“You're the favorite one. People love your characters.”
“Umm, thanks.”
“Yeah at work we have MadTV on reruns, and people still love Ms. Swan.”
I MEAN WHAT WAS I THINKING? BUT NO, I DIDN'T STOP THERE:
“So, ah, what are you, um, do you teach any classes around here? Do you teach?”
“No, I don't like teaching.”
“Oh.... Well, here’s your change. Have a great evening.”
I still have that sick feeling in the pit of my stomach just thinking back on that conversation.
Still, at least I didn’t identify Vanessa Redgrave as Lynn Redgrave.
Monday, April 09, 2007
Who’s that girl?
The other week at work, one of the guys brought in pictures of his baby. The kid wasn’t that cute when we last saw pix, but I will admit it is at a very adorable stage right now.
The girls on the team were “ooohing” and “ahhhhing” like there was no tomorrow. The squeals they emitted were treading into whistle tone territory.
Well I figured I’d bring in my old baby pix and see what sort of reaction I got. Both times I got “who’s that cute little girl?” and “who’s the girl in the red dress?” I felt like a Madonna song title.
I guess that the “onesie” corduroy outfit my Dad had made wasn’t that clear in the picture that it was a one piece pant overall – but I really don’t think it looks *that* much like a dress.
The girls on the team were “ooohing” and “ahhhhing” like there was no tomorrow. The squeals they emitted were treading into whistle tone territory.
Well I figured I’d bring in my old baby pix and see what sort of reaction I got. Both times I got “who’s that cute little girl?” and “who’s the girl in the red dress?” I felt like a Madonna song title.
I guess that the “onesie” corduroy outfit my Dad had made wasn’t that clear in the picture that it was a one piece pant overall – but I really don’t think it looks *that* much like a dress.
Sunday, March 18, 2007
Weight Watching
It’s January in NYC 2003. One of the worst snow storm in years has hit and the city is hip deep in snow.
J & M (my brother & sister-in-law respectively) were out from NZ for Chrissy. We’d all traveled to NYC for a visit and were on our way back to Cali. M had free miles on United, while J & I were doing the Jet Blue thing. As such we were leaving from different terminals & M was flying out before hand (being on an earlier flight). So prior to heading over to the Jet Blue terminal at JFK we were seeing M off.
The snow had (finally) finished coming down – the air was so clear and crisp – our breath was billowing around our heads in steamy clouds. We’d gotten out of the taxi, bags in tow. As we neared the terminal doors, a black sedan and a black hummer pulled up to the sidewalk in front of the terminal doors.
M was immediately sure it was a celebrity – and wanted to stay out in the zeroish temperature to see just who was flying out from JFK that day. J not being the type to get particularly celebrity struck was not amused by this idea. Myself being somewhat the type to get celebrity struck elected to stand with M to see just who was in the vehicle.
After about 4 minutes, the sedan ejected a couple of very large men who walked back to the hummer, and one opened the door.
“It’s the Duchess of York!” M squealed. She had a better vantage point that I did to see just who was in the vehicle. J was suitably unimpressed and took himself off into the heated terminal. On the other hand M & I were beside ourselves – so we were quite content to wait in the cold until Her Grace alighted from the vehicle.
And what a production that was – from my vantage point I was able to first see a hand extend from the back seat with a purse held out – one of the large men took it and handed it to a smaller guy who’d exited from the other side of the vehicle. He then disappeared to the boot of the vehicale where additional bags were collecting themselves. Next one leg (ending in a very fashionable black boot) swung out, followed by its mate (also in the same fashionable black boot) – and then Sarah, Duchess of York exited the hummer.
I will say this – she is much prettier in person than you’d expect. Really.
The big burly guys were looking at M & me a bit askance, so when Ms. Ferguson was in front of me I said, “May I have your autograph?”
To which Fergie replied, “Yes you may, and it’s so nice to be asked.” I guess crude Americans use "can" rather than "may" - I'm thanking my NZ education at this point.
Now the only bit of paper I had on me was a free post card from Tower Records advertising Rice Krispies – Snap Crackle & Pop. The post card has bubble wrap on one side, for you to pop (snap & crackle) or send I guess.
Sarah turned it over – a look of perplexity across her face. I explained it was the only “paper” I had and offered my (nice) black ink pen. With a slight shake of her head she extended her hand, and thin point sharpe was placed into her open fingers. She didn’t even have to look – the men just knew.
As The Duchess was signing my postcard, M let her know she’d stayed up all night to watch her wedding – and it had inspired hers – and she just thought she was tremendous and a great role model.
Sarah was quite taken and asked if M was from Australia. M politely corrected her letting her know she was from New Zealand. Fergie was most apologetic and mentioned how much she enjoyed visiting New Zealand and wonderful the people were.
During their conversation my postcard had been signed and handed back to me – I think I mentioned that I thought she was fantastic or something equally banal – the pen had been returned to what everplace the security guys secret those things in and then in a whirl wind of commotion they were headed into the terminal. I guess I hadn’t been allowed to use my pen as it may have been poisoned, or I may have tried to hawk it on eBay.
In any event, I had my royally signed postcard.
M & I were quite taken by her service – she hadn’t had to even think about wanting something, the guys had it for her before she’d even had to ask.
As a lark M & I began to play princess (duchess) and server – it soon grew old.
Anyway, we joined J in the heated terminal and breathlessly related out royal experience. J wasn’t impressed, and this being post 9/11 herded both of us to the screening area where we’d need to separate from M.
We saw M up to the checkpoint, where the security guards pulled her aside. That’s when we heard from the VIP line Sarah, Duchess of York shout “Let her through, she harmless, she’s from New Zealand!”
I always knew I liked her.
J & M (my brother & sister-in-law respectively) were out from NZ for Chrissy. We’d all traveled to NYC for a visit and were on our way back to Cali. M had free miles on United, while J & I were doing the Jet Blue thing. As such we were leaving from different terminals & M was flying out before hand (being on an earlier flight). So prior to heading over to the Jet Blue terminal at JFK we were seeing M off.
The snow had (finally) finished coming down – the air was so clear and crisp – our breath was billowing around our heads in steamy clouds. We’d gotten out of the taxi, bags in tow. As we neared the terminal doors, a black sedan and a black hummer pulled up to the sidewalk in front of the terminal doors.
M was immediately sure it was a celebrity – and wanted to stay out in the zeroish temperature to see just who was flying out from JFK that day. J not being the type to get particularly celebrity struck was not amused by this idea. Myself being somewhat the type to get celebrity struck elected to stand with M to see just who was in the vehicle.
After about 4 minutes, the sedan ejected a couple of very large men who walked back to the hummer, and one opened the door.
“It’s the Duchess of York!” M squealed. She had a better vantage point that I did to see just who was in the vehicle. J was suitably unimpressed and took himself off into the heated terminal. On the other hand M & I were beside ourselves – so we were quite content to wait in the cold until Her Grace alighted from the vehicle.
And what a production that was – from my vantage point I was able to first see a hand extend from the back seat with a purse held out – one of the large men took it and handed it to a smaller guy who’d exited from the other side of the vehicle. He then disappeared to the boot of the vehicale where additional bags were collecting themselves. Next one leg (ending in a very fashionable black boot) swung out, followed by its mate (also in the same fashionable black boot) – and then Sarah, Duchess of York exited the hummer.
I will say this – she is much prettier in person than you’d expect. Really.
The big burly guys were looking at M & me a bit askance, so when Ms. Ferguson was in front of me I said, “May I have your autograph?”
To which Fergie replied, “Yes you may, and it’s so nice to be asked.” I guess crude Americans use "can" rather than "may" - I'm thanking my NZ education at this point.
Now the only bit of paper I had on me was a free post card from Tower Records advertising Rice Krispies – Snap Crackle & Pop. The post card has bubble wrap on one side, for you to pop (snap & crackle) or send I guess.
Sarah turned it over – a look of perplexity across her face. I explained it was the only “paper” I had and offered my (nice) black ink pen. With a slight shake of her head she extended her hand, and thin point sharpe was placed into her open fingers. She didn’t even have to look – the men just knew.
As The Duchess was signing my postcard, M let her know she’d stayed up all night to watch her wedding – and it had inspired hers – and she just thought she was tremendous and a great role model.
Sarah was quite taken and asked if M was from Australia. M politely corrected her letting her know she was from New Zealand. Fergie was most apologetic and mentioned how much she enjoyed visiting New Zealand and wonderful the people were.
During their conversation my postcard had been signed and handed back to me – I think I mentioned that I thought she was fantastic or something equally banal – the pen had been returned to what everplace the security guys secret those things in and then in a whirl wind of commotion they were headed into the terminal. I guess I hadn’t been allowed to use my pen as it may have been poisoned, or I may have tried to hawk it on eBay.
In any event, I had my royally signed postcard.
M & I were quite taken by her service – she hadn’t had to even think about wanting something, the guys had it for her before she’d even had to ask.
As a lark M & I began to play princess (duchess) and server – it soon grew old.
Anyway, we joined J in the heated terminal and breathlessly related out royal experience. J wasn’t impressed, and this being post 9/11 herded both of us to the screening area where we’d need to separate from M.
We saw M up to the checkpoint, where the security guards pulled her aside. That’s when we heard from the VIP line Sarah, Duchess of York shout “Let her through, she harmless, she’s from New Zealand!”
I always knew I liked her.
Biohazard
The world has a more global reach than ever these days, except apparently in New Zealand. My father was a pilot for Air New Zealand, and he would relate with a touch of frustration (and a touch of amusement) the story of foreign pilots landing in NZ saying that the local time and date was (for example) 7:15am, Monday August 3rd – 1962.
Time did catch up with Aotearoa – but I do like the fact that you can walk into a local New World grocery store and buy yourself some SARS.
SARS for only 94c - that's got to be a deal.
Time did catch up with Aotearoa – but I do like the fact that you can walk into a local New World grocery store and buy yourself some SARS.
SARS for only 94c - that's got to be a deal.
Wednesday, March 14, 2007
A novel idea
I’ve been novelized. That is to say, I have inspired a character in a novel. I wonder if this how Little Orphan Annie felt. Did she see herself on the page when reading about herself and Daddy Warbucks? Were there situations she wished the writers had written from a different perspective?
A friend that’s a (published) writer has finished his new book, and one of the main characters is based on me. Yes, me.
I’ve been lucky enough to read the draft manuscript – and it’s quite a surreal experience seeing things you’ve said on the page. The situations you were in, laid out for all the world to read. Well, those who purchase the novel anyway.
Of course, as it is a novel there’s a fair amount of story telling going on. So let me say here and now – that despite what my friend PC may tell you, I have never been a porn star, not appeared in any porn movies. Nor am I planning to become a porn star. The reason I mention this is because my character in the book has a back story, and part of the back story was being a porn star in his early 20’s.
What that says about the writers’ perception of me, I don’t know. I guess what it comes down to is if you have a friend that’s a writer, don’t annoy them. I was thinking about this, and on one hand - OH MY GOD – and on the other hand, very flattering. (From a purely physical perspective of course.) ^_^ Male porn stars are renowned for their perfect physiques – well in gay male porn at least. In the straight world, not so much – but there you go. Thankfully my character was a gay male porn star in his youth, not an overweight nasty-ass porn star.
I wonder who will play me in the movie…..
A friend that’s a (published) writer has finished his new book, and one of the main characters is based on me. Yes, me.
I’ve been lucky enough to read the draft manuscript – and it’s quite a surreal experience seeing things you’ve said on the page. The situations you were in, laid out for all the world to read. Well, those who purchase the novel anyway.
Of course, as it is a novel there’s a fair amount of story telling going on. So let me say here and now – that despite what my friend PC may tell you, I have never been a porn star, not appeared in any porn movies. Nor am I planning to become a porn star. The reason I mention this is because my character in the book has a back story, and part of the back story was being a porn star in his early 20’s.
What that says about the writers’ perception of me, I don’t know. I guess what it comes down to is if you have a friend that’s a writer, don’t annoy them. I was thinking about this, and on one hand - OH MY GOD – and on the other hand, very flattering. (From a purely physical perspective of course.) ^_^ Male porn stars are renowned for their perfect physiques – well in gay male porn at least. In the straight world, not so much – but there you go. Thankfully my character was a gay male porn star in his youth, not an overweight nasty-ass porn star.
I wonder who will play me in the movie…..
Saturday, March 10, 2007
Accent grave `
Being from New Zealand, I’ve never considered myself to have an accent. I mean Americans do, the English, the French – well, most everyone has an accent – but people who have them never think of themselves as having one.
I received an e-mail from a friend of a friend from Canada visiting New Zealand – I loved it SO much I’m posting an except here.
Language
I never thought this would be a problem for us; in fact I thought we had a leg up on most people in this respect. But oh no, we’ve had our share of difficulties. One night early in our trip before we became fluent in Kiwi-speak, we spent about three minutes explaining to a waitress that
we needed more BREAD. Simple enough you would think; well think again. After a great deal of arm waving and raising of voices she finally exclaimed “Oh that’s more BRID you want!”. I should have anticipated the problem because I had noticed the day before an elocution-trained TV announcer saying “This is Winsday, the sivnth of Fibrary”. You get the picture - the letter e is almost
always pronounced as an I. Ixcillent! The trick is figuring out why the third e in this case does not become an I. There are many such ixceptions. But after a whole month we’ve gotten a pretty good handle on the local dialect and we get by most of the time without having to resort to shouting.
Distance/Time
All the trailheads have a sign with a time shown but never a distance. I don’t think kiwis realize how stupid this is. It takes a while to develop the conversion factor from kiwi walking time to walking time for other (regular) people. After considerable experimentation we’ve finally
got it figured out. For example on a recent walk which was marked as 4-6 hours here are the conversions:
Time for a kiwi walker* - 4 hours
Time for a very fit foreign walker - 6 hours
Time for a normal/average walker 2x4 = 8 hours
Approximate time for other walkers including the slightly overweight woman from Minnesota in all new LL Bean gear:
2x6 = 12 hours.
*Kiwi walkers can be easily identified. They are never shorter than 6ft 3in, weigh less than 11 stone (154lb) without their boots, and have about 0.005% BFI.
Incidentally they always say, as they are flying past you on the trail, something like “Keep it up mate, you’ll get there in good time.”
What they are really thinking though is “I feel sorry for you mate. You just don’t have the
genes to climb mountains.” It was no coincidence that Edmund Hilary was a kiwi!
INDEED!
IXILENT!
I received an e-mail from a friend of a friend from Canada visiting New Zealand – I loved it SO much I’m posting an except here.
Language
I never thought this would be a problem for us; in fact I thought we had a leg up on most people in this respect. But oh no, we’ve had our share of difficulties. One night early in our trip before we became fluent in Kiwi-speak, we spent about three minutes explaining to a waitress that
we needed more BREAD. Simple enough you would think; well think again. After a great deal of arm waving and raising of voices she finally exclaimed “Oh that’s more BRID you want!”. I should have anticipated the problem because I had noticed the day before an elocution-trained TV announcer saying “This is Winsday, the sivnth of Fibrary”. You get the picture - the letter e is almost
always pronounced as an I. Ixcillent! The trick is figuring out why the third e in this case does not become an I. There are many such ixceptions. But after a whole month we’ve gotten a pretty good handle on the local dialect and we get by most of the time without having to resort to shouting.
Distance/Time
All the trailheads have a sign with a time shown but never a distance. I don’t think kiwis realize how stupid this is. It takes a while to develop the conversion factor from kiwi walking time to walking time for other (regular) people. After considerable experimentation we’ve finally
got it figured out. For example on a recent walk which was marked as 4-6 hours here are the conversions:
Time for a kiwi walker* - 4 hours
Time for a very fit foreign walker - 6 hours
Time for a normal/average walker 2x4 = 8 hours
Approximate time for other walkers including the slightly overweight woman from Minnesota in all new LL Bean gear:
2x6 = 12 hours.
*Kiwi walkers can be easily identified. They are never shorter than 6ft 3in, weigh less than 11 stone (154lb) without their boots, and have about 0.005% BFI.
Incidentally they always say, as they are flying past you on the trail, something like “Keep it up mate, you’ll get there in good time.”
What they are really thinking though is “I feel sorry for you mate. You just don’t have the
genes to climb mountains.” It was no coincidence that Edmund Hilary was a kiwi!
INDEED!
IXILENT!
Wednesday, March 07, 2007
wht r u doing?
I’m not sure my mother gets what text messaging is all about. My brothers back in New Zealand got her a cell phone for her birthday. It’s finally been activated, and Mum really wanted to try out this "text messaging" she’s heard so much about.
As my number is the only cell number she knows, she began texting me. I responded to her (many) messages. (I hoped that she had added international texting to her plan or these quick text bursts could be really expensive.)
Anyway, a few days later I got a call from my mother asking if I’d received her texts. She was just calling to make sure they’d gotten through ok – I guess my replying to her wasn’t enough verification; she needed to hear as well as see the response.
Technology - making all our lives easier.
Except my mothers.
As my number is the only cell number she knows, she began texting me. I responded to her (many) messages. (I hoped that she had added international texting to her plan or these quick text bursts could be really expensive.)
Anyway, a few days later I got a call from my mother asking if I’d received her texts. She was just calling to make sure they’d gotten through ok – I guess my replying to her wasn’t enough verification; she needed to hear as well as see the response.
Technology - making all our lives easier.
Except my mothers.
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