At this time of year I can't help but think about just how many things have changed in my life in the past couple of years. There are really quite a few - some small, some not so small. If I sat down and thought hard about them all at once, I'd probably need the same kind of professional care as Tigger or Rabbit. But as I don't have a desire of using up good drinking money on therapy, I don't dwell on it. All of these changes are positive in my mind although some have affected others negatively....or they think it has (me behind the wheel of a car being the clear exception).
Perhaps one of the least outwardly obvious change I've experienced would my general feeling about people and the world. Because I was so desperately unhappy in my home life I used to have less of the occasional bout of uber rage and more like an ongoing seething hatred for humankind.
There are things of course things that still annoy the hell out of me such as self important idiots, tail gaters, people who use big words to say little things, homophobia, second-hand smoke, when people talk about 'Vitamin B' (there are like over 10 different Vitamin B's) and when the council shuts down the water supply during the day and when you get home from work and turn on the tap you get splattered with dirty water.....
But the seething hatred for humankind......gone.....that was until I had do some last minute Christmas shopping at a mall. Thanks to that little bout of consumerism, I'll be spending Christmas Eve disposing of bodies.
Friday, December 15, 2006
Tuesday, December 12, 2006
Hundred Milligram Forest
As a kid, I was never a huge fan of Winnie-the-Pooh, but it wasn't until recently I was able to put my finger on why....
To put it bluntly....the characters are all mental health consumers. Now having questionable and changable mental health myself, I am not in any way judging the individuals or anyone who suffers from the same problems, but you have to wonder about Christopher Robin's upbringing and/or A.A.Milne's social circle when they imagined the characters in the Pooh series.
Rabbit is a classic Obessive-Compulsive. Uber nervous Piglet clearly suffers from Generalised Anxiety Disorder and specifically Nyctophobia. Eeyone is clinically depressed and should seriously consider medication. Owl is not only a real animal that speaks to soft toys, but even though the dude can't spell his name correctly, he believes he is the smartest and wisest of everyone in the forest! This is what you call Grandiose Delusional behaviour. Tigger is obviously Manic Depressive and don't get me started on the Oedipal associations between Kanga and Roo. And while Mr Winnie-the-Pooh himself is sweet and somewhat endearing, he is also Borderline Retarded. It's all you eat and you spell it Hunny?!! Good god bear!
And that is why I always preferred Garfield. I could relate to his Compulsive Eating Disorder.
To put it bluntly....the characters are all mental health consumers. Now having questionable and changable mental health myself, I am not in any way judging the individuals or anyone who suffers from the same problems, but you have to wonder about Christopher Robin's upbringing and/or A.A.Milne's social circle when they imagined the characters in the Pooh series.
Rabbit is a classic Obessive-Compulsive. Uber nervous Piglet clearly suffers from Generalised Anxiety Disorder and specifically Nyctophobia. Eeyone is clinically depressed and should seriously consider medication. Owl is not only a real animal that speaks to soft toys, but even though the dude can't spell his name correctly, he believes he is the smartest and wisest of everyone in the forest! This is what you call Grandiose Delusional behaviour. Tigger is obviously Manic Depressive and don't get me started on the Oedipal associations between Kanga and Roo. And while Mr Winnie-the-Pooh himself is sweet and somewhat endearing, he is also Borderline Retarded. It's all you eat and you spell it Hunny?!! Good god bear!
And that is why I always preferred Garfield. I could relate to his Compulsive Eating Disorder.
Tuesday, December 05, 2006
It's A Bird! It's A Plane!
I am suffering from bloggers block caused by a severe case of embarrassment. A few weeks ago I realised the hard way that several posts past, I had breached my personal blog code of not writing specifics about work. As one can expect this subsequently bit me in the arse.
So in order to punish myself (in a way that I won't enjoy) I will share with you a story that few have survived retelling. A tale of embarrassment most grim.
In order to get to school in the morning I used to catch a train into town. The train my group of friends and I used to catch was the 'school train' - one packed full of kids from other Wellington schools. As you could imagine this could be aptly dubbed 'The Hormonal Express'. Coolest possible behaviour was essential.
Which made my ride in one particularly morning even more socially fatal.
My friends and I would always sit in the same place - the double seats at the back of the train carriage. The four friends that got on at earlier stations would all together sit on one side and my friend C and I, who got on together down the line, would sit on the other side.
As we boarded the train that morning we came across a group or 'testosterone' of teenage boys taking up the 8 seats on both sides of the train, in front of the seats my soon to be (temporarily) ex friends were sitting at.
Big smelly school bags strewn across the floor, grubby cricket bats a plenty and nasty hairy legs everywhere.
Knowing it would be too obvious for the chubby kid with the strange and off-putting sense of humour to trip over these bags, I let C go first in the hopes that she in her thin, almighty prettiness would part the sea of bags like Moses.
Sadly but unsurprisingly, I was granted no such luck, so C slowly picked her way through the tangle of bags and size 11's and I followed closely behind.
Walking through the bag gauntlet had the level of intensity of that scene from Flash Gordon when those guys are putting their arm into that nest thing at the risk of getting stung by the deadly alien inside. That part of the movie gives me the wiggins second only to the bit in Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom when that dude gets his still beating heart pulled out of his chest by that long nailed loon. Shudder.
Oh, I digress.
Nope, before you assume, I made it through the boys bags just fine. It wasn't until I cleared the gauntlet and glanced around to marvel at my achievement, that I stepped forward just as the train started, straight into C's bag which she had kindly dropped directly in front of me.
The combination of stepping forward and the acceleration of the train caused me to be thrown a metre and a half across the train, directly into the laps of my four friends.
Did I mention that my school uniform was a dress?
Stunned at my new location and position it took me a while to get my bearings. As I came to, I heard the frantic whispers of "Get off me....Get off!....Get off!!!!" of my concerned friends. Finding my arms had been outstretched at point of arsing over kite, they were now laced down between my friends legs and I was unable to move. Before I could communicate my dilemma, my now who-is-this-girl-on-us aka friends began rapidly kicking their legs in order to get me off them. As I result I ungracefully slide onto the floor into a semi-catatonic lump where I lay with my dress up around my neck.
Having terribly embarrassed the-people-I-happened-to-be-near-and-certainly-not-her-friends aka yes, actually still my friends I was pulled out of my temporary paralysis by their urgent whisperings of "Get up...Get up!!! GET UP!!". As I stood up and turned around to face the train load of people, the entire carriage who had not only seen my performance but appeared to be riveted by it, erupted in laughter.
I sat down on my seat and my friends began to consoling me in the way that teenage girls do - by not acknowledging my existence whatsoever.
Ah yes. That'll learn me.
So in order to punish myself (in a way that I won't enjoy) I will share with you a story that few have survived retelling. A tale of embarrassment most grim.
In order to get to school in the morning I used to catch a train into town. The train my group of friends and I used to catch was the 'school train' - one packed full of kids from other Wellington schools. As you could imagine this could be aptly dubbed 'The Hormonal Express'. Coolest possible behaviour was essential.
Which made my ride in one particularly morning even more socially fatal.
My friends and I would always sit in the same place - the double seats at the back of the train carriage. The four friends that got on at earlier stations would all together sit on one side and my friend C and I, who got on together down the line, would sit on the other side.
As we boarded the train that morning we came across a group or 'testosterone' of teenage boys taking up the 8 seats on both sides of the train, in front of the seats my soon to be (temporarily) ex friends were sitting at.
Big smelly school bags strewn across the floor, grubby cricket bats a plenty and nasty hairy legs everywhere.
Knowing it would be too obvious for the chubby kid with the strange and off-putting sense of humour to trip over these bags, I let C go first in the hopes that she in her thin, almighty prettiness would part the sea of bags like Moses.
Sadly but unsurprisingly, I was granted no such luck, so C slowly picked her way through the tangle of bags and size 11's and I followed closely behind.
Walking through the bag gauntlet had the level of intensity of that scene from Flash Gordon when those guys are putting their arm into that nest thing at the risk of getting stung by the deadly alien inside. That part of the movie gives me the wiggins second only to the bit in Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom when that dude gets his still beating heart pulled out of his chest by that long nailed loon. Shudder.
Oh, I digress.
Nope, before you assume, I made it through the boys bags just fine. It wasn't until I cleared the gauntlet and glanced around to marvel at my achievement, that I stepped forward just as the train started, straight into C's bag which she had kindly dropped directly in front of me.
The combination of stepping forward and the acceleration of the train caused me to be thrown a metre and a half across the train, directly into the laps of my four friends.
Did I mention that my school uniform was a dress?
Stunned at my new location and position it took me a while to get my bearings. As I came to, I heard the frantic whispers of "Get off me....Get off!....Get off!!!!" of my concerned friends. Finding my arms had been outstretched at point of arsing over kite, they were now laced down between my friends legs and I was unable to move. Before I could communicate my dilemma, my now who-is-this-girl-on-us aka friends began rapidly kicking their legs in order to get me off them. As I result I ungracefully slide onto the floor into a semi-catatonic lump where I lay with my dress up around my neck.
Having terribly embarrassed the-people-I-happened-to-be-near-and-certainly-not-her-friends aka yes, actually still my friends I was pulled out of my temporary paralysis by their urgent whisperings of "Get up...Get up!!! GET UP!!". As I stood up and turned around to face the train load of people, the entire carriage who had not only seen my performance but appeared to be riveted by it, erupted in laughter.
I sat down on my seat and my friends began to consoling me in the way that teenage girls do - by not acknowledging my existence whatsoever.
Ah yes. That'll learn me.
Tuesday, November 14, 2006
Beat Egg And Add to Dry Ingredients
I just had a young guy come into my office and try and sell me a bucket 'o Christmas cookies.
He came in, politely introduced himself and offered me a cookie. Normally that would be about all it would take to ensure my life-long friendship, however these were chocolate chip biscuits and with even the tiniest bit of chocolate setting me off with a blinding migraine, I explained that I couldn't actually eat his wares but figured it at only $14 it would make a good present for someone.......... That and I realised my much loved 'Banana Guard' was sitting next to my bag on the floor and rather than try and explain what it was,
I figured that while he was filling out the order form I could surreptitiously slip my banana holder into my bag.
OK. Before you ask, it is to protect your banana from getting bruised or squished in your bag and yes they did have different colours available but I like purple, yes it does fit most bananas and girth is more important than length, and yes I am still talking about bananas.
Once I had removed my amusing yet functional Banana Guard from view I looked back at the cookie dude and realised that my eyes had initially tried to protect my brain from acknowledging the pattern of his shirt. I realised it was in fact a pattern of hundreds of chocolate chip cookies. Imagine if you will, a shirt completely covered with this:
Urgh.
So I said to him:
"You know, your shirt is kinda mocking me.........come to think of it....it is kinda of mocking you too."
He said "Yeah, I know...that and the short sleeves and them all being one size too short sucks"
Amused I asked "Is it the same for the girls selling cookies?"
He responded "Yeah, perhaps even two sizes too small for them which isn't really a bad thing...uh...depending on...ummm...ahem...your...err......."
Perhaps he did see my banana holder.
He came in, politely introduced himself and offered me a cookie. Normally that would be about all it would take to ensure my life-long friendship, however these were chocolate chip biscuits and with even the tiniest bit of chocolate setting me off with a blinding migraine, I explained that I couldn't actually eat his wares but figured it at only $14 it would make a good present for someone.......... That and I realised my much loved 'Banana Guard' was sitting next to my bag on the floor and rather than try and explain what it was,
I figured that while he was filling out the order form I could surreptitiously slip my banana holder into my bag.OK. Before you ask, it is to protect your banana from getting bruised or squished in your bag and yes they did have different colours available but I like purple, yes it does fit most bananas and girth is more important than length, and yes I am still talking about bananas.
Once I had removed my amusing yet functional Banana Guard from view I looked back at the cookie dude and realised that my eyes had initially tried to protect my brain from acknowledging the pattern of his shirt. I realised it was in fact a pattern of hundreds of chocolate chip cookies. Imagine if you will, a shirt completely covered with this:
Urgh.
So I said to him:
"You know, your shirt is kinda mocking me.........come to think of it....it is kinda of mocking you too."
He said "Yeah, I know...that and the short sleeves and them all being one size too short sucks"
Amused I asked "Is it the same for the girls selling cookies?"
He responded "Yeah, perhaps even two sizes too small for them which isn't really a bad thing...uh...depending on...ummm...ahem...your...err......."
Perhaps he did see my banana holder.
Monday, November 13, 2006
Putting the Y in Cynicism
In my final year of college (New Zealand equivalent of high school) our Dean was this very tall, very thin and indescribably intimidating woman of indeterminate age.
Now don't get me wrong - In general I liked the woman. She was funny and for the most part empowering....she was just a complete nutbar.
As an English teacher who refused to acknowledge students from any other year ("You'll become human once you're in seventh form Puppy"), she only taught a few classes a week. I imagine the rest of her time was spent scaring the younger students, bullying other students into attending their end of year ball, bleaching her hair platinum blonde, putting at least five gold rings on everyone of her fingers and talking girls for one of her 'walks'. I guess that is why she called everyone Puppy....that and I suspect she was bad at names.
A 'walk' involved a brisk trip around the block, the length of the route determined by how messed up Ms P thought you were.
While other girls were taken for such 'walks' because of their recent emotional breakdown in class, a messy parental divorce, a rumoured abortion and/or detox from their cocaine addiction....I was pulled out of class to go for a 'walk' regarding my "excessive cynicism"
Pah. Typical.
As I trotted alongside Ms P to keep up with her impressively long stride given her high heels and long skirt, I was forced to explain why I appeared to be so cynical. Rather than tell her the truth about the emotional toll of being a fat, ugly kid with a kooky sense of humour at a white-bread school, I formed an explanation which has since become my theory on life.
Being an Optimist only leads to disappointment.
As a Pessimist you always think the worst is going to happen. If it does, not only were you expecting it, you are actually proven right. If the worst doesn't happen, not only does a good thing happen, but you'll be pleasantly surprised about it. Therefore pessimism and cynicism are really the most positive positions to take in life.....
Therefore I never had to go on another 'walk'.
Now don't get me wrong - In general I liked the woman. She was funny and for the most part empowering....she was just a complete nutbar.
As an English teacher who refused to acknowledge students from any other year ("You'll become human once you're in seventh form Puppy"), she only taught a few classes a week. I imagine the rest of her time was spent scaring the younger students, bullying other students into attending their end of year ball, bleaching her hair platinum blonde, putting at least five gold rings on everyone of her fingers and talking girls for one of her 'walks'. I guess that is why she called everyone Puppy....that and I suspect she was bad at names.
A 'walk' involved a brisk trip around the block, the length of the route determined by how messed up Ms P thought you were.
While other girls were taken for such 'walks' because of their recent emotional breakdown in class, a messy parental divorce, a rumoured abortion and/or detox from their cocaine addiction....I was pulled out of class to go for a 'walk' regarding my "excessive cynicism"
Pah. Typical.
As I trotted alongside Ms P to keep up with her impressively long stride given her high heels and long skirt, I was forced to explain why I appeared to be so cynical. Rather than tell her the truth about the emotional toll of being a fat, ugly kid with a kooky sense of humour at a white-bread school, I formed an explanation which has since become my theory on life.
Being an Optimist only leads to disappointment.
As a Pessimist you always think the worst is going to happen. If it does, not only were you expecting it, you are actually proven right. If the worst doesn't happen, not only does a good thing happen, but you'll be pleasantly surprised about it. Therefore pessimism and cynicism are really the most positive positions to take in life.....
Therefore I never had to go on another 'walk'.
Friday, November 10, 2006
The Violence In My Head Goes Round and Round
The other morning as I held on to the (loose) hand-rail to prevent myself from being thrown around the bus like the last peanut in the jar, I wondered whether bus drivers derive some sort of sick pleasure from driving like a sadistic bast*rd when the bus is packed and there are a bunch of people standing.
I began to wonder whether bus drivers have to sit some sort of test to check that once all seats on the bus are taken, they can maintain constant bunny hopping based acceleration and all braking can be akin to emergency stops.
I then realised how negative and paranoid this line of thinking was and decided to be a little more realistic.....
It's a game for bus drivers.
With video cameras now installed in all buses the drivers are having some sort of carrier-wide competition. I have no idea whether the name of this game is 'Human Skittles', 'Commuter Derooter' , 10 Pins Bowling or the 'Bus Martini' (shaken not stirred) but I can hazard a guess at the scoring system.
1 point
Commuter swears under breath
Commuters share meaningful/exasperated glance
2 points
Squealing, shrieking and/or screaming
Bus rage exhibited as a result of foot trampling and/or someones handbag being poked into someone else's back repeatedly.
3 points
Crying, sobbing, and/or fetal position
Someone accidentally presses the bell when they stumble and they feel obliged to get off several stops early
Woman wearing a skirt falls down (+2 bonus points , if she is hot and not wearing underwear, -4 points is she not hot and not wearing underwear)
5 points
Head, eye or groin injury suffered by hitting handrail
Bag gets knocks over (+3 bonus if tampons, condoms, KY, fluffy handcuffs, and/or suppositories spill out down the isle)
My bus driver got at least 12 points out of me on that trip.
I began to wonder whether bus drivers have to sit some sort of test to check that once all seats on the bus are taken, they can maintain constant bunny hopping based acceleration and all braking can be akin to emergency stops.
I then realised how negative and paranoid this line of thinking was and decided to be a little more realistic.....
It's a game for bus drivers.
With video cameras now installed in all buses the drivers are having some sort of carrier-wide competition. I have no idea whether the name of this game is 'Human Skittles', 'Commuter Derooter' , 10 Pins Bowling or the 'Bus Martini' (shaken not stirred) but I can hazard a guess at the scoring system.
1 point
Commuter swears under breath
Commuters share meaningful/exasperated glance
2 points
Squealing, shrieking and/or screaming
Bus rage exhibited as a result of foot trampling and/or someones handbag being poked into someone else's back repeatedly.
3 points
Crying, sobbing, and/or fetal position
Someone accidentally presses the bell when they stumble and they feel obliged to get off several stops early
Woman wearing a skirt falls down (+2 bonus points , if she is hot and not wearing underwear, -4 points is she not hot and not wearing underwear)
5 points
Head, eye or groin injury suffered by hitting handrail
Bag gets knocks over (+3 bonus if tampons, condoms, KY, fluffy handcuffs, and/or suppositories spill out down the isle)
My bus driver got at least 12 points out of me on that trip.
Wednesday, November 08, 2006
Only Because 666 Was Taken
This morning I got a kindly SMS reminder from my cellphone TelCo that my account balance had just dropped below $5. As I do every time I receive such a message I dutifully dialed 777 and listened to the 2 minutes of promotional material that is always significantly louder than the rest of the following automated top up menu.
Once you've got past the promotional spiel the process normally is:
Step 1: Press 2 to top up
Step 2: Press 2 to top up by prepay or credit card
Step 3: Press 1 to top up by credit card
(Transferred to a new menu)
Step 4: Press 1 to top up by credit card
Step 5: Enter your phone number
Step 6: Enter your 4 digit pin
Step 7: Enter the last 4 digits of your credit card
Step 8: Enter the amount you wish to pay
Step 9: Press 1 to confirm that amount
Wait for confirmation
Hang up
Not what I'd call a streamlined process so you can imagine my joy when, after the unpleasantly loud promotional speech, the robot lady told me that my TelCo had made some 'exciting new changes' to their automated menu to make it easier to use.
At first listen it seemed that this streamlining involved the radical measure of removing Step 4 however as I progressed further through the menu I found the other change they had made - they had changed my pin number and not advised me of the new code. I guess I'd classify this as exciting.
The trusty pin I've been using for the last 2 years had suddenly become invalid. Not trusting my caffeine influenced dialing fingers I hung up and tried again. Adjust volume, sit through promo menu, adjust volume back, move through repetitive menu selections and I find that after two unsuccessful pin entry attempts you are blocked from trying again.
Alrighty, I need Customer Services however there is no escape from this menu. I hang up, dial, adjust volume, sit through obnoxious promo menu, adjust volume, move through insanely repetitive menu selections.
I get through to the credit card menu again waiting for the guy to tell me which button to press to get assistance but he wants my phone number and my pin before I can move forward. Ummm no can do buddy. Ok, perhaps I need to get help via the last menu. No way to go back. Hang up, dial, adjust volume, sit through repugnant promo dribble, adjust volume, move through retarded menu selections.
No help on the previous menu. Will try the main menu. No way to go back. Hang up, dial, adjust volume, sit through maddening promo crap, adjust volume, move through idiotic menu selections.
No help available on main menu. In frustration I go through to the 'let me spend more money with you' menu selection to try and get a human being but I'm told the phone lines are overloaded and that Robo bitch tells me to try again later and disconnects me.
Now seeing everything in a vaguely red tint I go to the TelCo website to try and get some assistance. The only FAQs they have relating to credit card top ups direct me to call 777 for assistance. I realise I am developing a facial tic.
Determined I attempt to submit an email help request but find that I need to enter my pin in order to use this feature. My facial tic has now evolved into a full shoulder movement, accompanied with the occasional kicking of my foot.
With spirit nearly broken, I decide to just use the website payment gateway. I find that you need to Register for this service and the turnaround on confirming a new account is 15 working days. In addition to my violent, full body tics I start to experience severe Terrets.
I post a strongly worded 'feedback' email outlining my dilemma and requesting someone contact me for assistance. Within 10 minutes I receive an email back with an automated message saying that due to excessive demand, there is a 7-10 working day turnaround on all emails and that I should contact 777 for urgent assistance.
Blinding uber rage followed by shortness of breath and a sharp pain in my shoulder.....
Once you've got past the promotional spiel the process normally is:
Step 1: Press 2 to top up
Step 2: Press 2 to top up by prepay or credit card
Step 3: Press 1 to top up by credit card
(Transferred to a new menu)
Step 4: Press 1 to top up by credit card
Step 5: Enter your phone number
Step 6: Enter your 4 digit pin
Step 7: Enter the last 4 digits of your credit card
Step 8: Enter the amount you wish to pay
Step 9: Press 1 to confirm that amount
Wait for confirmation
Hang up
Not what I'd call a streamlined process so you can imagine my joy when, after the unpleasantly loud promotional speech, the robot lady told me that my TelCo had made some 'exciting new changes' to their automated menu to make it easier to use.
At first listen it seemed that this streamlining involved the radical measure of removing Step 4 however as I progressed further through the menu I found the other change they had made - they had changed my pin number and not advised me of the new code. I guess I'd classify this as exciting.
The trusty pin I've been using for the last 2 years had suddenly become invalid. Not trusting my caffeine influenced dialing fingers I hung up and tried again. Adjust volume, sit through promo menu, adjust volume back, move through repetitive menu selections and I find that after two unsuccessful pin entry attempts you are blocked from trying again.
Alrighty, I need Customer Services however there is no escape from this menu. I hang up, dial, adjust volume, sit through obnoxious promo menu, adjust volume, move through insanely repetitive menu selections.
I get through to the credit card menu again waiting for the guy to tell me which button to press to get assistance but he wants my phone number and my pin before I can move forward. Ummm no can do buddy. Ok, perhaps I need to get help via the last menu. No way to go back. Hang up, dial, adjust volume, sit through repugnant promo dribble, adjust volume, move through retarded menu selections.
No help on the previous menu. Will try the main menu. No way to go back. Hang up, dial, adjust volume, sit through maddening promo crap, adjust volume, move through idiotic menu selections.
No help available on main menu. In frustration I go through to the 'let me spend more money with you' menu selection to try and get a human being but I'm told the phone lines are overloaded and that Robo bitch tells me to try again later and disconnects me.
Now seeing everything in a vaguely red tint I go to the TelCo website to try and get some assistance. The only FAQs they have relating to credit card top ups direct me to call 777 for assistance. I realise I am developing a facial tic.
Determined I attempt to submit an email help request but find that I need to enter my pin in order to use this feature. My facial tic has now evolved into a full shoulder movement, accompanied with the occasional kicking of my foot.
With spirit nearly broken, I decide to just use the website payment gateway. I find that you need to Register for this service and the turnaround on confirming a new account is 15 working days. In addition to my violent, full body tics I start to experience severe Terrets.
I post a strongly worded 'feedback' email outlining my dilemma and requesting someone contact me for assistance. Within 10 minutes I receive an email back with an automated message saying that due to excessive demand, there is a 7-10 working day turnaround on all emails and that I should contact 777 for urgent assistance.
Blinding uber rage followed by shortness of breath and a sharp pain in my shoulder.....
Tuesday, October 31, 2006
O Frabjous Day! Callooh! Callay!
Apologies for not posting sooner folks. I'm afraid not a lot of funny/interesting/uber rage inducing things (I can publicly post about) have been happening in my life. Well.....perhaps they have, but they have been overshadowed by work frustrations (see publicly post reference) and my recent fixation on the fragility of life.
This was sparked Friday before last when some punk kids decided it would be a fabulous idea to throw bottles at the train I happened to be on, as it was pulling out of the station. One of the bottles smashed through a large window several rows down from me. Luckily no-one was sitting in those seats and the nearby people only got showered a little in glass. The second bottle hit the window next to me about 20 centimetres above my head but it hit the metal window hinge it bounced off.
20 centimetres between my face and a whole of lot of fast moving broken glass is about as close as I'd like to ever get.
Anywho, it got me thinking about how little inconsequential decisions (like where you sit on the train) can potentially have a big impact on your life. Me being a serious drama queen, this of course made me think about dying and my funeral.
By definition funerals suck. However I want mine to suck a little less than average so I'm going to plan it now while I am of reasonably hot of body and vaguely sound of mind.
No churches. Not only would it be horribly hypocritical and a lightning strike risk, the seats are always so uncomfortable. It should however be somewhere with free and ample parking.
No ties. Shoes are optional if you have pretty enough feet.
No organ music unless it is Baby Elephant Walk. Exit music shouldn't be Ava Maria or anything sad, it should be something like the Sabre Dance . Dancing like a goon is to be encouraged.
No synchronised reading of prayers. Have you ever been in church when a large congregation are reading out a prayer in unison? It sounds creeepy. If everyone insists on saying something together, it should be something like "We are we are, we are the many" or "Urrrghhhh braiiiiiiins"
No reading of poems unless it is 'The Jabberwocky' or written by Spike Milligan.
Instead of the standard proceedings, it should be run like a roasting with people getting up and telling embarrassing or funny stories about me. I don't want said roasting to be run by some random celebrant that I've never met and made blush, reading some "insert deceased's name here" script. I want someone who can run the show like an MC. Someone like Seraph.
No children under 10 are invited. Babies cry and stress their mothers, toddlers embarrass their parents with loud and obnoxiously accurate but inappropriate observations, and older kids will be bored stupid and shouldn't really be exposed to the dirty anecdotes that I really hope will be bouncing around.
And finally...I know y'all are busy people and I'm not nearly important enough to be dwelled over. My funeral and wake should be combined and snacks served.
The proceedings should start not with "We are gathered here today..." or "We are here to remember...." but with "Right, has everyone got a drink?"
This was sparked Friday before last when some punk kids decided it would be a fabulous idea to throw bottles at the train I happened to be on, as it was pulling out of the station. One of the bottles smashed through a large window several rows down from me. Luckily no-one was sitting in those seats and the nearby people only got showered a little in glass. The second bottle hit the window next to me about 20 centimetres above my head but it hit the metal window hinge it bounced off.
20 centimetres between my face and a whole of lot of fast moving broken glass is about as close as I'd like to ever get.
Anywho, it got me thinking about how little inconsequential decisions (like where you sit on the train) can potentially have a big impact on your life. Me being a serious drama queen, this of course made me think about dying and my funeral.
By definition funerals suck. However I want mine to suck a little less than average so I'm going to plan it now while I am of reasonably hot of body and vaguely sound of mind.
No churches. Not only would it be horribly hypocritical and a lightning strike risk, the seats are always so uncomfortable. It should however be somewhere with free and ample parking.
No ties. Shoes are optional if you have pretty enough feet.
No organ music unless it is Baby Elephant Walk. Exit music shouldn't be Ava Maria or anything sad, it should be something like the Sabre Dance . Dancing like a goon is to be encouraged.
No synchronised reading of prayers. Have you ever been in church when a large congregation are reading out a prayer in unison? It sounds creeepy. If everyone insists on saying something together, it should be something like "We are we are, we are the many" or "Urrrghhhh braiiiiiiins"
No reading of poems unless it is 'The Jabberwocky' or written by Spike Milligan.
Instead of the standard proceedings, it should be run like a roasting with people getting up and telling embarrassing or funny stories about me. I don't want said roasting to be run by some random celebrant that I've never met and made blush, reading some "insert deceased's name here" script. I want someone who can run the show like an MC. Someone like Seraph.
No children under 10 are invited. Babies cry and stress their mothers, toddlers embarrass their parents with loud and obnoxiously accurate but inappropriate observations, and older kids will be bored stupid and shouldn't really be exposed to the dirty anecdotes that I really hope will be bouncing around.
And finally...I know y'all are busy people and I'm not nearly important enough to be dwelled over. My funeral and wake should be combined and snacks served.
The proceedings should start not with "We are gathered here today..." or "We are here to remember...." but with "Right, has everyone got a drink?"
Wednesday, October 18, 2006
Putting The Ran In Random
Out of the blue on Monday I was pulled out of my office to be introduced to Peter Snell. I haven't met many famous folk so while waiting to shake his hand I thought about what I should say to him. My first thought was how celebrities complain that when some people met them they are told something horribly insensitive like "You look taller on TV" or "You look skinner in the movies".
Within 3 seconds of listening to him talk to another staff member it became pretty clear that the guy was completely devoid of a sense of humour and saying "You look different in colour" would have probably gone down like a cup of cold sick.
When it was explained to him that I worked in elearning he made a confused face and some vaguely negative comments about the use of technology in education and I realised he really did suit being in black and white.
Within 3 seconds of listening to him talk to another staff member it became pretty clear that the guy was completely devoid of a sense of humour and saying "You look different in colour" would have probably gone down like a cup of cold sick.
When it was explained to him that I worked in elearning he made a confused face and some vaguely negative comments about the use of technology in education and I realised he really did suit being in black and white.
Thursday, October 12, 2006
Southern Comfort
So.......Yeah........sobriety totally sucks.
I'm not feeling any healthier and I look like hell, but I have to admit the Wagon has given me flash of inventive inspiration.
Without that lovely spinning and/or tumbling feeling one gets after climbing into bed after 4(ish) bourbons, I am having trouble getting off to sleep. As I was lying awake again last night I came up an idea for a product which might just make me my millions.
You'll see my first rough drawing to the left. It is made of a soft fabric like polar fleece or flannel and is basically a human sized bag filled with lightweight plastic beans (not polystyrene since I have an intense and irrational phobia of that particular substance... Urgh....just typing about it makes my teeth itch...waaaarrgghhh)
Ahem. Anyways. It is designed for people who don't normallyor currently share a bed with someone else and slips in behind them as a surrogate Big Spoon. You'll see it has concave curves for your upper back, butt and feet and convex curves for the small of your back and the back of your knees. I haven't drawn it in here but it will have an optional arm-like attachment which you can have draped over or tucked underneath you.
The deluxe edition would have built in electronics which would simulate a heart beat that you'd feel around the upper back area and have warming coils through the middle and through the feet area.
I haven't decided yet whether I'll call it "Just Bean'ing There" or "The Serving Spoon"
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