“Has anyone ever told you that you look like Kevin Spacey?”
That’s what I got told yesterday when I was at work at Famima. A couple walks in, and the guy lays that one on me. He didn’t even have the courtesy to say “a young Kevin Spacey” – just that (to him) I look like “Kevin Spacey.” And apparently people should have told me this.
I ordered them out of the store.
Monday, December 10, 2007
Wednesday, November 28, 2007
What Not To Wear
Cold is as cold feels. Or something like that. It’s “winter” here in Los Angeles. We’ve been in the midst of Santa Ana winds, and the temperatures have been a “chill” 75 degrees Fahrenheit (25 Celsius). Admittedly, over the summer we were in the 90’s (30’s C). Still, it’s not THAT cold.
However, Californian’s love the look of winter; folks are out and about in scarves, woolly hats, thick jackets, and gloves. Basically steadfastly refusing to admit it’s just not that cold. It’s winter according to the calendar, so the winter wardrobe needs to get an airing.
I was treated to the other end of the spectrum last week when I went to Seattle for the week. There temperatures were in the low 40’s (around 4 – 6 Celsius.) Now, while I was there, Seattle was treated to sunshine. So, it was REALLY cold, but sunny – which is when I was exposed to native Seattleans in their thick woolly winter jackets, shorts and running shoes.
My legs were aching in agony for these folks. It’s one thing to put on hats and gloves when you’re in the 70’s, but, to put on shiny above the knee basketball shorts & sporty shoes to celebrate the sun in a blind refusal of just how bloody cold it is, is just plain crazy.
However, Californian’s love the look of winter; folks are out and about in scarves, woolly hats, thick jackets, and gloves. Basically steadfastly refusing to admit it’s just not that cold. It’s winter according to the calendar, so the winter wardrobe needs to get an airing.
I was treated to the other end of the spectrum last week when I went to Seattle for the week. There temperatures were in the low 40’s (around 4 – 6 Celsius.) Now, while I was there, Seattle was treated to sunshine. So, it was REALLY cold, but sunny – which is when I was exposed to native Seattleans in their thick woolly winter jackets, shorts and running shoes.
My legs were aching in agony for these folks. It’s one thing to put on hats and gloves when you’re in the 70’s, but, to put on shiny above the knee basketball shorts & sporty shoes to celebrate the sun in a blind refusal of just how bloody cold it is, is just plain crazy.
Wednesday, November 14, 2007
Gimme a “Y”
I love the fact that my Mum text messages. She’s in her 60’s, and likes to email, surf the net (at her local library) and now she’s gotten into the whole cell phone SMS revolution.
The thing that I don’t love is reading her texts. As my brother puts it, she texts like she is charged by the letter, with an extra surcharge for vowels.
The most recent example:
“early lunch @ choc fish. driving honda jazz 4 test. rtcle free weather ok. xs”
Ok – breaking that down.
Early lunch @ choc fish – this is fine, she had an early lunch at the Chocolate Fish (a restaurant in Wellington)
Driving honda jazz 4 test – got it, a test drive of the Honda Jazz.
xs – kisses, got it
The thing that has me stumped is “rtcle free weather ok”
Is that “article free weather ok”? – well, that makes no sense...
Perhaps “reticule free weather ok” – I guess that could make sense; she has no small fabric purse from the 18th century, so she’s “reticule free”, and “the weather is ok”. Still, that doesn’t seem like something you’d text someone. “I have no 200 year old article on me right now.” It’s not even something I’d say to someone face to face. “No reticules on me today.”
I guess it’s just a mystery that I shall leave unsolved. A cold case to crack at a later date.
The thing that I don’t love is reading her texts. As my brother puts it, she texts like she is charged by the letter, with an extra surcharge for vowels.
The most recent example:
“early lunch @ choc fish. driving honda jazz 4 test. rtcle free weather ok. xs”
Ok – breaking that down.
Early lunch @ choc fish – this is fine, she had an early lunch at the Chocolate Fish (a restaurant in Wellington)
Driving honda jazz 4 test – got it, a test drive of the Honda Jazz.
xs – kisses, got it
The thing that has me stumped is “rtcle free weather ok”
Is that “article free weather ok”? – well, that makes no sense...
Perhaps “reticule free weather ok” – I guess that could make sense; she has no small fabric purse from the 18th century, so she’s “reticule free”, and “the weather is ok”. Still, that doesn’t seem like something you’d text someone. “I have no 200 year old article on me right now.” It’s not even something I’d say to someone face to face. “No reticules on me today.”
I guess it’s just a mystery that I shall leave unsolved. A cold case to crack at a later date.
Tuesday, November 06, 2007
I guess I DO get this all the time
I guess I never look like myself. I have a “face” face; people see someone else’s face rather than my own. This being the case, maybe I should contact the CIA and get a job as an undercover agent – as like McCavity the Mystery Cat – I’m not there.
This time I was out to dinner and the waitress said:
“Excuse me, you must get this ALL the time, but you exactly like my friend Scott Lowell. Ted on Queer As Folk – wow, it’s uncanny. Sorry, I just had to say that.”
I’m never quite sure how to respond to things like this. I hadn’t in fact seen Queer As Folk, I don’t get that “all the time”. I just smiled graciously and thanked her, as she genuinely believed this to be a supreme compliment.
Then I got home.
Thanks to our good friends at IMDB I see that Scott is a good 7 years older than me. And while there is a passing resemblance – if you’re drunk and don’t have your (strong) prescription glasses on/a contact fell out – I’m not sure “exactly” is the best adjective to describe the situation of how much we look alike.
Though a quick highly unscientific poll of work peeps got me a list of responses along these lines:
“Yes, you do look like him.”
“A little bit, yes.”
“Not an exact match, but yeah, you do.”
At least one of them had the grace to say that he looks 10 – 15 years older than me…
I think I shall have to begin a list of people I look like in LA. And thinking about it, I guess I do get this sort of thing all the time. It's just the male that I look like that changes every time.
If we're going to be retooling my life and I'm recast, like another Darrin the Dick York me can easily be replaced with no one really the wiser to the change.
This time I was out to dinner and the waitress said:
“Excuse me, you must get this ALL the time, but you exactly like my friend Scott Lowell. Ted on Queer As Folk – wow, it’s uncanny. Sorry, I just had to say that.”
I’m never quite sure how to respond to things like this. I hadn’t in fact seen Queer As Folk, I don’t get that “all the time”. I just smiled graciously and thanked her, as she genuinely believed this to be a supreme compliment.
Then I got home.
Thanks to our good friends at IMDB I see that Scott is a good 7 years older than me. And while there is a passing resemblance – if you’re drunk and don’t have your (strong) prescription glasses on/a contact fell out – I’m not sure “exactly” is the best adjective to describe the situation of how much we look alike.
Though a quick highly unscientific poll of work peeps got me a list of responses along these lines:
“Yes, you do look like him.”
“A little bit, yes.”
“Not an exact match, but yeah, you do.”
At least one of them had the grace to say that he looks 10 – 15 years older than me…
I think I shall have to begin a list of people I look like in LA. And thinking about it, I guess I do get this sort of thing all the time. It's just the male that I look like that changes every time.
If we're going to be retooling my life and I'm recast, like another Darrin the Dick York me can easily be replaced with no one really the wiser to the change.
Sunday, November 04, 2007
Glaucoma
My grandmother passed away this past week. This got me to thinking about times we shared together, and some I’d like to share.
On my last trip to New Zealand my grandmother, Nan, asked me if I’d ever tried marijuana. Nan suffered from glaucoma. She had a friend Gwyneth, who was in her 80’s. Gwyneth was married; her husband’s name is Colin. Now Colin had done some research on the Internet and discovered that marijuana was good for glaucoma. Being an avid gardener and a good friend, Gwyneth procured some marijuana seeds and she’d been able to grow them on her Bay of Plenty section.
On their last trip to visit Nan, Gwyneth and Colin had taken some, I guess you’d call it “primo stash” to Khandallah; where at a dinner party of the over 80 set they’d all shared it - as Nan put it "like a peace pipe” being passed around.
I can just picture Nan and her WWII generation friends all trying marijuana for the first time.
After relating this, (relatively) shocking story to me, Nan got up and pulled out her left over stash from the party. She’d explained that she asked an uncle to try it with her, but he was “too chicken”. I’ve never done any sort of drug, and wasn’t about to start now. Though I know members of my family that do partake, in fact I call their home “The House of Hashish”. Nan was very pleased to hear this, as she didn’t want to smoke it alone.
Anyway, in Nan’s little plastic baggy were about 8 fat doobies. She explained she was very worried having them in the house, as she didn’t want to be “raided”. The scandal that would cause in Khandallah! She talked about transferring the illicit medicinal drug to said House of Hashish where she could enjoy it in like minded company.
I have to admit, I was very proud of her; having researched and then tried an alternative treatment to help her eyes, all in her late 80’s.
Nan was never one to shy away from adventure. She back packed across Europe in her 40’s, had traveled around the world in her 50’s, 60’s & 70's – she was the living embodiment letting all her knew her know there’s really no reason to not continue living life to the fullest, no matter what your age.
On my last trip to New Zealand my grandmother, Nan, asked me if I’d ever tried marijuana. Nan suffered from glaucoma. She had a friend Gwyneth, who was in her 80’s. Gwyneth was married; her husband’s name is Colin. Now Colin had done some research on the Internet and discovered that marijuana was good for glaucoma. Being an avid gardener and a good friend, Gwyneth procured some marijuana seeds and she’d been able to grow them on her Bay of Plenty section.
On their last trip to visit Nan, Gwyneth and Colin had taken some, I guess you’d call it “primo stash” to Khandallah; where at a dinner party of the over 80 set they’d all shared it - as Nan put it "like a peace pipe” being passed around.
I can just picture Nan and her WWII generation friends all trying marijuana for the first time.
After relating this, (relatively) shocking story to me, Nan got up and pulled out her left over stash from the party. She’d explained that she asked an uncle to try it with her, but he was “too chicken”. I’ve never done any sort of drug, and wasn’t about to start now. Though I know members of my family that do partake, in fact I call their home “The House of Hashish”. Nan was very pleased to hear this, as she didn’t want to smoke it alone.
Anyway, in Nan’s little plastic baggy were about 8 fat doobies. She explained she was very worried having them in the house, as she didn’t want to be “raided”. The scandal that would cause in Khandallah! She talked about transferring the illicit medicinal drug to said House of Hashish where she could enjoy it in like minded company.
I have to admit, I was very proud of her; having researched and then tried an alternative treatment to help her eyes, all in her late 80’s.
Nan was never one to shy away from adventure. She back packed across Europe in her 40’s, had traveled around the world in her 50’s, 60’s & 70's – she was the living embodiment letting all her knew her know there’s really no reason to not continue living life to the fullest, no matter what your age.
Tuesday, October 30, 2007
Like looking in a mirror, a fun house mirror
I’m shopping at my local Trader Joes last week, right after the gym. I’ve just had a relatively long work out, so I’m still in shorts, t-shirt, I’ve got my glasses on and my hair is kinda flat and spiky from sweat (so I’m wanting a shower).
I get to the check out, and the cashier looks at me and then at the guy behind me and loudly exclaims, “Is he your brother?! Are you two related?! Wow, you two look A LOT alike!”
With a feeling of trepidation in my stomach, I slowly turn my head around to get a view of this doppelganger behind me; and it’s so much worse than I feared. The look-alike guy is:
a. yes, wearing glasses
b. yes, is wearing a white t-shirt
but he is also:
a. older than me (a lot older)
b. fatter than me (a lot fatter)
So, perhaps, in a parallel universe where I was born in the 60’s and not the 70’s, and I’d begun shoveling copious amounts of fried food into myself and exercising a hellava lot less than I currently do I’d be FINE with the comment.
But I’m not in that universe, and while I have just come from the gym, I don’t feel that just wearing glasses and a t-shirt makes someone look, and I quote, “a lot alike” end quote.
To make things just that bit worse, the guy chuckles and responds “Well I can’t help it these days when folks keep stealing my style”.
HIS STYLE!? Gym shorts, t-shirt and sweat stains are not, never have been, and never will be “my style”. And I certainly don’t think they should be anyone else’s. Other than perhaps long distance Olympic runners.
I’m not sure I’ll go back to that Trader Joes…
I get to the check out, and the cashier looks at me and then at the guy behind me and loudly exclaims, “Is he your brother?! Are you two related?! Wow, you two look A LOT alike!”
With a feeling of trepidation in my stomach, I slowly turn my head around to get a view of this doppelganger behind me; and it’s so much worse than I feared. The look-alike guy is:
a. yes, wearing glasses
b. yes, is wearing a white t-shirt
but he is also:
a. older than me (a lot older)
b. fatter than me (a lot fatter)
So, perhaps, in a parallel universe where I was born in the 60’s and not the 70’s, and I’d begun shoveling copious amounts of fried food into myself and exercising a hellava lot less than I currently do I’d be FINE with the comment.
But I’m not in that universe, and while I have just come from the gym, I don’t feel that just wearing glasses and a t-shirt makes someone look, and I quote, “a lot alike” end quote.
To make things just that bit worse, the guy chuckles and responds “Well I can’t help it these days when folks keep stealing my style”.
HIS STYLE!? Gym shorts, t-shirt and sweat stains are not, never have been, and never will be “my style”. And I certainly don’t think they should be anyone else’s. Other than perhaps long distance Olympic runners.
I’m not sure I’ll go back to that Trader Joes…
Saturday, October 27, 2007
Dear Diary
When my Dad remarried, I gained quite a few things. One, I gained a stepmother, and from her, a stepsister; from my stepsister I gained a diary. She’d had one given to her and hadn’t used it – so she gave it to me instead.
My initial entry in this book (of dreams) was in 1983 – and my last entry was in 1995.
Basically it covers my teenage years – I was a sporadic writer at best. (kinda like this blog.) Reading this historical document, um, several years later, is quite an experience. One that I’m about to share on stage.
I wish that I could say that in a drunken moment I auditioned for “Mortified” – but I was stone cold sober. This is an outfit that has folks read, present, show material that was created during formative teenage years. There are Mortified chapters across the U.S. and one opening in Sweden.
I’ll be going on stage and reading from my diary – to complete strangers. This doesn’t bother me at all.
What does bother me is that I mentioned this to friends at work, who are now all planning on coming to the show. I don’t mind baring all before folks I don’t know – but I’m not sure that I’m ready for my coworkers and friends to know the 13 year old D.
My initial entry in this book (of dreams) was in 1983 – and my last entry was in 1995.
Basically it covers my teenage years – I was a sporadic writer at best. (kinda like this blog.) Reading this historical document, um, several years later, is quite an experience. One that I’m about to share on stage.
I wish that I could say that in a drunken moment I auditioned for “Mortified” – but I was stone cold sober. This is an outfit that has folks read, present, show material that was created during formative teenage years. There are Mortified chapters across the U.S. and one opening in Sweden.
I’ll be going on stage and reading from my diary – to complete strangers. This doesn’t bother me at all.
What does bother me is that I mentioned this to friends at work, who are now all planning on coming to the show. I don’t mind baring all before folks I don’t know – but I’m not sure that I’m ready for my coworkers and friends to know the 13 year old D.
Friday, September 28, 2007
Pure Evil Bottled - Soju
In the future I will know I've had too much to drink when Soju starts to taste good.
Karaoke evening in Wellington with my brother & sister-in-law this week. We hired a private room at the Korean BBQ on Willis Street. Now Karaoke is more fun when a little tipsy - however, my first taste of Soju was an instant "Oh this is awful". After 3 hours (and I dread to think how many bottles and ill advised songs) Soju was GREAT!
Until we got up to leave and found that walking, and keeping down the evenings meal was no longer possible.
J & I could do one or the other, but not both in conjunction.
Soju = pure liquid evil
Karaoke evening in Wellington with my brother & sister-in-law this week. We hired a private room at the Korean BBQ on Willis Street. Now Karaoke is more fun when a little tipsy - however, my first taste of Soju was an instant "Oh this is awful". After 3 hours (and I dread to think how many bottles and ill advised songs) Soju was GREAT!
Until we got up to leave and found that walking, and keeping down the evenings meal was no longer possible.
J & I could do one or the other, but not both in conjunction.
Soju = pure liquid evil
Tuesday, September 25, 2007
Criminal Intent
I'm driving with my Mum back into Wellington the other day. As we head towards Porirua we pull up behind a BMW.
Mum immediately comments that the car could be stolen. I ask what has drawn her to this conclusion.
"Well, the car is dirty. Normally a nice car is kept clean, but that one is really dirty. So, it's most likely that the vehicle has been stolen."
I really need to make sure my mother never sees my car. She'll be handing me over to America's Most Wanted For Crimes I Didn't Commit with unfailing logic like that.
Mum immediately comments that the car could be stolen. I ask what has drawn her to this conclusion.
"Well, the car is dirty. Normally a nice car is kept clean, but that one is really dirty. So, it's most likely that the vehicle has been stolen."
I really need to make sure my mother never sees my car. She'll be handing me over to America's Most Wanted For Crimes I Didn't Commit with unfailing logic like that.
Wednesday, September 19, 2007
When wrong is right
Mother turns 10 minute drive into 30 minute tikitour of Wellington beaches.
Ms. G. Philips, mother of 4 sons, took a wrong turn on the way to 'The Chocolate Fish' in Scorching Bay, Wellington New Zealand on September 19, 2007.
While making a u-turn at a dead end on a hill in Wellington, Ms. Philips (after asking for directions) remarked "This is the right way to go" prior to making the next 4 lefts to get out of the hills and back down to the coast.
Ms. G. Philips, mother of 4 sons, took a wrong turn on the way to 'The Chocolate Fish' in Scorching Bay, Wellington New Zealand on September 19, 2007.
While making a u-turn at a dead end on a hill in Wellington, Ms. Philips (after asking for directions) remarked "This is the right way to go" prior to making the next 4 lefts to get out of the hills and back down to the coast.
I think your dipthong is hanging
I'm in New Zealand at the moment. I've had a rather good facility for various accents for as long as I can remember. Well, born in Oz, raised in NZ, lived in Brunei & the U.S., traveled to the U.K. - I've had a rather good dose of English in all it's various accents & disguises. Which makes the following all the more disturbing.
I answered the phone the other day at my brothers house, and the conversation went something like this:
"Good afternoon" - me
"Hi, is J there?" - dude on the other line
"No, I'm sorry he's not. Would you like to leave a message?" - me
"Sure - tell him that Noel from La *@##$$#Hc called. His loats are ready to be picked up." - dude that just id'd himself as Noel. (I was unable to catch the company he worked for...)
"Loats?" - me
"Yeah, loats. There's one box of loats, and they're ready to be picked up." Noel
"A box, of 'loats' are ready to be picked up." - (very uncertain) me
"Yeah, his loats, that's right. Cheers mate." - Noel
I'd repeated the mysterious word as I had heard it to him and after I got off the phone, "loats, loats, loats...." and I still had NO idea what loats were. Now, J, my brother is building some houses. This means it's quite possible that this is some new building thing I hadn't heard of before.
J came home & I gave him the message. Unfortunately J didn't know any Noel, and had never heard of loats either. As I hadn't gotten a number or the name of the business he was a little stumped.
Over the next hour or so he figured it out.
It was Noah, from Wellington Light & Electric who'd called, and his lights were ready to be picked up.
I answered the phone the other day at my brothers house, and the conversation went something like this:
"Good afternoon" - me
"Hi, is J there?" - dude on the other line
"No, I'm sorry he's not. Would you like to leave a message?" - me
"Sure - tell him that Noel from La *@##$$#Hc called. His loats are ready to be picked up." - dude that just id'd himself as Noel. (I was unable to catch the company he worked for...)
"Loats?" - me
"Yeah, loats. There's one box of loats, and they're ready to be picked up." Noel
"A box, of 'loats' are ready to be picked up." - (very uncertain) me
"Yeah, his loats, that's right. Cheers mate." - Noel
I'd repeated the mysterious word as I had heard it to him and after I got off the phone, "loats, loats, loats...." and I still had NO idea what loats were. Now, J, my brother is building some houses. This means it's quite possible that this is some new building thing I hadn't heard of before.
J came home & I gave him the message. Unfortunately J didn't know any Noel, and had never heard of loats either. As I hadn't gotten a number or the name of the business he was a little stumped.
Over the next hour or so he figured it out.
It was Noah, from Wellington Light & Electric who'd called, and his lights were ready to be picked up.
Monday, September 03, 2007
Miss Marple, you're needed
I heard a scratching sound this evening, coming from the vicinity of my back door. With the recent opossum trouble around my place I quickly paused my Miss Marple mystery on my mac and went to investigate.
Los Angeles is currently in the grip of a 7 day heat wave. I had been doing chores outside earlier today, and had been taking a bit of sun. About mid afternoon I’d run a cool bath and had submerged myself in the poor mans pool for half an hour. The nights are still muggy and tropical, so I’d left my water in the tub and was planning to throw some ice in there later on and get back in. That way I could go to bed cool for once this week.
One bad thing about living alone is that currently Miss Marple is in my Netflix queue, and watching murder mysteries alone at night causes mysterious scratchings coming from where they shouldn’t to end up sounding like murder or something just as ominous.
Anyway, I make it to the bedroom door, and see a massive puddle and trail leading from the bathroom towards the front door. Luckily there was no body, and no need of a spinster detective to solve what had happened.
My cat Artemis had decided he’d like to lie on the cool porcelain bathtub surface, so he’d jumped in my tub – not realizing that it was quite full of cold water. The scathing had been him frantically clawing at the smooth porcelain surface in order to lift himself out of the water. Finally gaining a purchase he’d flung himself out of the tub, and was trying (unsuccessfully) to walk with a quiet dignity to the front door. His little legs, normally so fluffy were quite bedraggled as was his fine puffy tail. His staggering water-logged gait made him seem a bit like an old drunk man, vainly trying to walk a straight line for an officer when he’s being arrested for disorderly conduct. The puddle trail zig zagged as he’d made his way to the door where he was sitting waiting to be let outside. For all the world trying to make it look as though this had been his master plan all along.
I don’t think he liked me laughing at his misfortune.
I'm betting it's cold comfort to him that I had intended to give him a bath today, anyway I bet he’s cooler than he’s been all week.
The crime scene
Through the kitchen
One pissed off cat
Los Angeles is currently in the grip of a 7 day heat wave. I had been doing chores outside earlier today, and had been taking a bit of sun. About mid afternoon I’d run a cool bath and had submerged myself in the poor mans pool for half an hour. The nights are still muggy and tropical, so I’d left my water in the tub and was planning to throw some ice in there later on and get back in. That way I could go to bed cool for once this week.
One bad thing about living alone is that currently Miss Marple is in my Netflix queue, and watching murder mysteries alone at night causes mysterious scratchings coming from where they shouldn’t to end up sounding like murder or something just as ominous.
Anyway, I make it to the bedroom door, and see a massive puddle and trail leading from the bathroom towards the front door. Luckily there was no body, and no need of a spinster detective to solve what had happened.
My cat Artemis had decided he’d like to lie on the cool porcelain bathtub surface, so he’d jumped in my tub – not realizing that it was quite full of cold water. The scathing had been him frantically clawing at the smooth porcelain surface in order to lift himself out of the water. Finally gaining a purchase he’d flung himself out of the tub, and was trying (unsuccessfully) to walk with a quiet dignity to the front door. His little legs, normally so fluffy were quite bedraggled as was his fine puffy tail. His staggering water-logged gait made him seem a bit like an old drunk man, vainly trying to walk a straight line for an officer when he’s being arrested for disorderly conduct. The puddle trail zig zagged as he’d made his way to the door where he was sitting waiting to be let outside. For all the world trying to make it look as though this had been his master plan all along.
I don’t think he liked me laughing at his misfortune.
I'm betting it's cold comfort to him that I had intended to give him a bath today, anyway I bet he’s cooler than he’s been all week.
The crime scene
Through the kitchen
One pissed off cat
Friday, August 24, 2007
Thursday, August 09, 2007
When will it be saved? WHEN?
Ok - I know what this story from CNN is about, but I really think they should have done a better job with the cropping of this picture. It really makes Greg Letiecq look like he's campaigning for something else...
Sunday, August 05, 2007
The Call Is Coming From Inside The House
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.
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.
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.
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