Clean Freak
This morning I made a rather startling discovery. Perhaps not all THAT startling for anyone with 20/20 vision who has ever visited my house -- but startling to me nonetheless.
You see, I happened to inadvertently leave my reading glasses on while cleaning up the kitchen this morning … and what a discovery! I learned - much to my horror - that I am not nearly as good at housekeeping as I thought I was. I discovered grots where there oughtn’t be grots, smears where there oughtn’t be smears and slops where there oughtn’t be slops.
My toaster, for instance, far from being the pristine white appliance that I once thought she was, is actually a toast and god-knows-what bespeckled abomination. My stainless steel fridge bears milky smears and smudgy finger prints (that I can no longer blame on kids) and my stove top looks it’s been stocking up on crumbs and other food scraps for the winter.
The problem, of course, is that up until now I have been oblivious to this microscopic world of kitchen chaos. It’s like opening up a whole other universal portal; one where small, gooey things take on a life of their own – multiplying and cavorting in cracks and crevices, sticking to shiny surfaces and glooping down walls. It’s primordial!
Well anyway, there was me thinking I’d been doing a sterling job of cleaning. These beliefs, however, were clearly unfounded and I was forced to consider exactly what mess my previous guests may have been exposed to on those occasions when I have thought I have thoroughly cleaned up before their arrival. The mind boggles. So with glasses firmly attached to face, I proceeded to wander around the house to check out the REAL situation.
I found a centimetre of dust on the venetian blinds, a thick snake of fluff on the picture rails and some unidentified fungus growing out from the bathroom tiles. This last one, I must admit, is not entirely new to me. At our last house I regularly hosted a small toadstool that would force its way up through the shower tiles.
I have to admit I held a certain admiration for that tenacious little guy and would allow him to reach a reasonable size before wiping him out with the scrubbing brush. After all, I figured, if he could go to all that trouble just to live his life in my shower, who was I to thwart his efforts so callously? He deserved to live a little.
What I didn’t comprehend for some time was that, by the time I had eventually decided to remove him on each occasion, he had most likely already spread his spores and was planning his next incarnation. We played this game for a couple of years before he finally gave up in disgust. Maybe he, like my 20/20 vision–enhanced guests, saw a few things he didn’t like in that bathroom. I guess I will never know.
But anyway, back to my current grot-discovery. Could this be why the kids left home? Could I have out-grottied even THEM? (Is that possible?) Am I the laughing stock of the Domestic Goddesses of the world? Certainly this would not be any surprise nor, for that matter, of great concern to me. You see, I figure if one’s housekeeping abilities are questionable then there’s a good chance that people will not expect much of you in this regard and thus you can get away with being a bit of a slob. Cool.
I must admit, though, that there is a small part of me that would like to think that she is just as clean and tidy as every other Domestic Goddess (call it Ajax Envy) and so I am not quite prepared to capitulate to my handicap just yet.
No, from now on I will don the reading glasses every time I decide to clean up the house. That way my delusions of cleanliness will be exposed and I will be forced to be more fastidious.
Well, that’s the plan anyway. Just don’t tell little Fungus Face in the bathroom. We wouldn’t want to scare the little fella off, would we?
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
The Case of the Invisible Mother
In her ‘feeling-unappreciated’ moments, my Mum often lamented that she was (and I quote); “…the dirt on the ground around here!” And I agree that we mothers certainly do sometimes feel like the unpaid ‘help’. But at least Mum’s claims implied that she was somewhat visible to her children. Unlike poor little me.
You see, I have just uncovered a startling revelation about my youngest son’s impression of me. Which is: he doesn’t really have one!
Evidently to Master Teen I am a faceless fairy that cooks, cleans and loans her car. Any endearing personal qualities are buried under an all-encompassing layer of nondescript ‘Mumness”.
And how have I arrived at this notion of invisibility?
Well, recently Master Teen was trying out his new digital camera; clicking enthusiastically at all manner of domestic activity — a scowling Mum putting away the groceries and finding the BBQ Snacks were already half eaten; a perplexed Mum attempting (in futility) to match up twenty-seven odd socks — you know, the regular scenes of domestic bliss.
But Little Mr Snaparazzi was in for a surprise when later, looking through the snapshots, he discovered a strange thing.
“Why do you look so much like Auntie Rosie in these photos?” he demanded, a confused furrow denting his young brow. “Look! It’s the same in every one of them!”
He then raised his eyes to gaze fully upon my face and the brow-furrow suddenly switched to astonishment.
“Jeez, you really do look like Auntie Rosie!” he marveled.
“Haven’t you ever noticed that?” I asked.
“Nah,” he breathed, scanning me like I was some kind of rare artifact in an Egyptian museum. “As a matter of fact, I’ve never actually looked at you before!”
“Well, that’s just lovely!” I snorted, not sure whether it was hilarious or tragic.
Imagine. You’ve seen this kid every day of his life and yet, somehow, there’s still doubt as to whether he would actually recognize you if you ran into each other in a foreign city! I decided it was best to be amused. After all, the alternative is disturbing; the scenario going something like this:
“Well…” mutters the young international traveler, eyeing you suspiciously as you approach him with motherly enthusiasm at the Louvre or the Coliseum, “I must admit you do look vaguely familiar….. Oh yes, now I remember…you remind me of that woman who used to clean up my room …now, what was her name again?”
Ah well, at least there is potentially an ‘up’ side to this story.
If I ever turn to a life of crime, I could steal Master Teen’s most prized possessions and he would never pick me from the Police Line-up.
Hmm; now there’s an idea! I’ve always wanted an iPod….
In her ‘feeling-unappreciated’ moments, my Mum often lamented that she was (and I quote); “…the dirt on the ground around here!” And I agree that we mothers certainly do sometimes feel like the unpaid ‘help’. But at least Mum’s claims implied that she was somewhat visible to her children. Unlike poor little me.
You see, I have just uncovered a startling revelation about my youngest son’s impression of me. Which is: he doesn’t really have one!
Evidently to Master Teen I am a faceless fairy that cooks, cleans and loans her car. Any endearing personal qualities are buried under an all-encompassing layer of nondescript ‘Mumness”.
And how have I arrived at this notion of invisibility?
Well, recently Master Teen was trying out his new digital camera; clicking enthusiastically at all manner of domestic activity — a scowling Mum putting away the groceries and finding the BBQ Snacks were already half eaten; a perplexed Mum attempting (in futility) to match up twenty-seven odd socks — you know, the regular scenes of domestic bliss.
But Little Mr Snaparazzi was in for a surprise when later, looking through the snapshots, he discovered a strange thing.
“Why do you look so much like Auntie Rosie in these photos?” he demanded, a confused furrow denting his young brow. “Look! It’s the same in every one of them!”
He then raised his eyes to gaze fully upon my face and the brow-furrow suddenly switched to astonishment.
“Jeez, you really do look like Auntie Rosie!” he marveled.
“Haven’t you ever noticed that?” I asked.
“Nah,” he breathed, scanning me like I was some kind of rare artifact in an Egyptian museum. “As a matter of fact, I’ve never actually looked at you before!”
“Well, that’s just lovely!” I snorted, not sure whether it was hilarious or tragic.
Imagine. You’ve seen this kid every day of his life and yet, somehow, there’s still doubt as to whether he would actually recognize you if you ran into each other in a foreign city! I decided it was best to be amused. After all, the alternative is disturbing; the scenario going something like this:
“Well…” mutters the young international traveler, eyeing you suspiciously as you approach him with motherly enthusiasm at the Louvre or the Coliseum, “I must admit you do look vaguely familiar….. Oh yes, now I remember…you remind me of that woman who used to clean up my room …now, what was her name again?”
Ah well, at least there is potentially an ‘up’ side to this story.
If I ever turn to a life of crime, I could steal Master Teen’s most prized possessions and he would never pick me from the Police Line-up.
Hmm; now there’s an idea! I’ve always wanted an iPod….
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Monday, April 26, 2010
Testimonials for Hot Tips for Cool Parents by Catherine Warnock
Loaded up with wisdom, humor and generous doses of motherly love, Catherine Warnock's smart and charming Hot Tips for Cool Parents is required reading for anyone signed on to the bumpy and beautiful journey of raising children. From tears and fears to siblings and friendships, Warnock tackles each subject with confidence, grace and common sense -- which, as every parent knows, are fundamental to surviving, and enjoying, the parenting experience. A joyful must-read for Moms, Dads and caregivers everywhere."
Bruce Kluger, contributor to USA Today, National Public Radio and Parenting magazine
“Hot Tips for Cool Parents is fun, practical and full of common sense.
It’s also engaging and easy to read, which is perfect for busy parents.
I highly recommend it.”
Julie Gale
Director
Kids Free 2B kids
“Hot Tips for Cool Parents provides an insightful view in to parenting in the 21st century, whilst remaining firmly focussed on what’s really important for kids. Cath’s book provides a light hearted, easy to read and very practical approach to the life altering role of parenting. The strong focus of Hot Tips for Cool Parents on the importance of positive role modelling for young people sits well with the current research trends and fully supports those of us who work closely with young people and their parents. In a world where the traditional family unit is no longer easily defined, it can be difficult for adults to know what makes an effective difference with their children, Hot Tips for Cool Parents goes a long way to assisting and supporting adults on their all important parenting journey.”
Ann Sexton
Former Victorian State President and National Board Member, Australian Breastfeeding Association
Parent of 5
Wellbeing consultant
“A realistic and fantastic read for any parent/carer or grandparent. “Hot Tips for Cool Parents” focuses on the child's and parents well-being, giving specific, directive advice for everyone to use. …it gets back to the basics and the importance of parents spending the time to have a positive relationship with their child.”
Emily Stone, Wangaratta
"Life is like a forest because it's enormous". This was written by my 12 year old son at school. It's now on our fridge at home. Parenting, like life, is a bit like this. Enormous. In my role in health education and counselling young people and families, a consistent message comes through. Parents and children want better relationships with each other. Parents want to understand their kids, and kids want to feel loved by their parents. In these pages, Cath invites the reader into the forest of parenting, walks beside them and sometimes holds their hand along the way. She writes with humour and wisdom. As a parent of four marvellous teenage sons, I wish I had had a book like this to help me navigate the forest! I recommend “Hot Tips for Cool Parents” to all those either on the parenting or care-giving journey, or about to embark. You don't have to do it alone!"
Annabel Ayers, Shepparton
“I LOVED IT! It’s an easy and interesting read. Especially effective were the tips at the end of each chapter, the personal anecdotes and the easy to read style. It’s a winner! I will unreservedly recommend it. Watch the copies sell off the book-shelves!!!!”
Mr Shane Lockhart
Principal, Osbornes Flat Primary School
“I'm loving the book ……. it's so good! Nice and easy to read and very funny. People look at me on the train when I start chuckling to myself!”
Deahann Taylor, Secondary Teacher, Vic
Thursday, April 22, 2010
Living a Life of Crime
Did you know that a crime is committed every 2.8 seconds? And did you know that most domestic violence (including ‘spouse-icide’ and ‘teenage-son-icide’) is committed by people who are renovating their homes?
No, neither did I. In fact, I made that up.
But it does serve to illustrate the way my thought patterns are running at the moment.
As you may already know, the renovations on the “Bung Cal” (our house) are underway and things are getting a little ugly around here. In fact, by comparison, doing time in a maximum security prison seems rather inviting right now.
At least in prison they have doors. (Well, okay, I am not too thrilled by the whole ‘deadlock on the outside’ thing, but it’s a small price to pay for hot and cold running water and regular, cooked meals). Besides I am sure I would look rather fetching in one of those clean, prison-issue tunics. It would make a change from my current ‘hand-washed and drip-dried on the fence’ wardrobe.
It’s not that I really mind living in one room. It’s just that I don’t like having to share that room with the rest of the family, a television, lounge suite, fridge, sawbench, bags of cement and 18 million flies. Call me fussy, but I prefer modern conveniences (i.e. sinks, stoves….. walls).
So, that being said, it’s not difficult to see how tempers might be getting a little frayed around here and why a discussion about domestic violence could be timely — in the preventative sense.
After all, everywhere I look there are tempting options for the reno-wearied dweller (who has finally snapped after, say, arguing for two hours about the preferred location of a light switch).
For example, there is the sharp knife currently acting as a door-knob. Or the claw hammer, propped at the ready, in the dish drainer. Or the lump of 4 x 2 hardwood dangling tantalisingly from a door jamb.
Tools of the trade or weapons? I guess it’s all a matter of interpretation (and level of grumpiness).
For the moment, however, I think we are safe. No one seems too concerned about sharing the shower with the dishes, and “Knife Knob” has given the boys hours of amusement — thinking up a potential television ad for their fantastic invention.
It goes something like this:
“Tired of answering the door to annoying guests? Sick of troublesome relatives? Why not get new DOUBLE ACTION KNIFE KNOB?
In one easy wrist action you can open your door AND rid yourself of pesky visitors! New KNIFE KNOB comes complete with water-tight alibi and rubber gloves!”
Okay, I concede it might never catch on, but at least it’s keeping our spirits up.
As for the neighbours, I have no idea how they are coping with all the banging and crashing (no, not the builders — me trying to find things in the spare room).
I just hope they are not the suspicious types, particularly as I drag a pile of dirty laundry wrapped in a sheet into the boot of my car. I note that it is roughly the size and shape of a dead body and I smile as I picture Mrs Nextdoor rushing to phone the police.
But, so far so good. No arrests to date. Reno taking shape.
And the only sign of criminal behaviour is me feeding the family on a diet of barbequed EVERYTHING!
Did you know that a crime is committed every 2.8 seconds? And did you know that most domestic violence (including ‘spouse-icide’ and ‘teenage-son-icide’) is committed by people who are renovating their homes?
No, neither did I. In fact, I made that up.
But it does serve to illustrate the way my thought patterns are running at the moment.
As you may already know, the renovations on the “Bung Cal” (our house) are underway and things are getting a little ugly around here. In fact, by comparison, doing time in a maximum security prison seems rather inviting right now.
At least in prison they have doors. (Well, okay, I am not too thrilled by the whole ‘deadlock on the outside’ thing, but it’s a small price to pay for hot and cold running water and regular, cooked meals). Besides I am sure I would look rather fetching in one of those clean, prison-issue tunics. It would make a change from my current ‘hand-washed and drip-dried on the fence’ wardrobe.
It’s not that I really mind living in one room. It’s just that I don’t like having to share that room with the rest of the family, a television, lounge suite, fridge, sawbench, bags of cement and 18 million flies. Call me fussy, but I prefer modern conveniences (i.e. sinks, stoves….. walls).
So, that being said, it’s not difficult to see how tempers might be getting a little frayed around here and why a discussion about domestic violence could be timely — in the preventative sense.
After all, everywhere I look there are tempting options for the reno-wearied dweller (who has finally snapped after, say, arguing for two hours about the preferred location of a light switch).
For example, there is the sharp knife currently acting as a door-knob. Or the claw hammer, propped at the ready, in the dish drainer. Or the lump of 4 x 2 hardwood dangling tantalisingly from a door jamb.
Tools of the trade or weapons? I guess it’s all a matter of interpretation (and level of grumpiness).
For the moment, however, I think we are safe. No one seems too concerned about sharing the shower with the dishes, and “Knife Knob” has given the boys hours of amusement — thinking up a potential television ad for their fantastic invention.
It goes something like this:
“Tired of answering the door to annoying guests? Sick of troublesome relatives? Why not get new DOUBLE ACTION KNIFE KNOB?
In one easy wrist action you can open your door AND rid yourself of pesky visitors! New KNIFE KNOB comes complete with water-tight alibi and rubber gloves!”
Okay, I concede it might never catch on, but at least it’s keeping our spirits up.
As for the neighbours, I have no idea how they are coping with all the banging and crashing (no, not the builders — me trying to find things in the spare room).
I just hope they are not the suspicious types, particularly as I drag a pile of dirty laundry wrapped in a sheet into the boot of my car. I note that it is roughly the size and shape of a dead body and I smile as I picture Mrs Nextdoor rushing to phone the police.
But, so far so good. No arrests to date. Reno taking shape.
And the only sign of criminal behaviour is me feeding the family on a diet of barbequed EVERYTHING!
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Monday, April 12, 2010
Sins of the Book Borrowers
If there’s one thing more offensive than telling someone who has loaned you a book that you either a) hated it, or b) didn’t actually bother reading it, it would have to be c) taking the liberty of folding the page corners to mark your spot.
I myself have tutted with disgust when books have been returned to me in such a state, vowing loudly to never again loan my books to such philistines.
And so you would think that I, detester of dog-earedness and the perpetrators of such, would never, EVER stoop to their low acts. But nooo. Stoop I did, just the other night. By mistake, of course, but you try explaining that to the owner of the book who entrusted me with her literary treasure. In my defence, this all must have happened on an evening when I was particularly tired for, in my alert state I would never do such a thing.
I am a ‘book trawler’; one who keeps a diverse stack of books on the bedside table so that each night I can run through my collection and select one that matches my reading inclination.
For example, if I am feeling strong of stomach, I might pick one of the gruesome detective tales of Scotsman, Stuart MacBride. This author’s portrayal of an infinitely sodden and freezing Aberdeen city helps me understand why my Dad immigrated to Australia all those years ago. It’s so depressing! And that’s not even counting the ghoulish murders!
If I am in need of a little spiritual nurturing, I might reach for Deepak or Dr Dyer and if it’s ‘slimming’ inspiration I’m after, I might select (with short-lived good intent) some sage words from the latest flab-busting guru.
Recently I bought a book guaranteed to stop any stunned dieter mid-mouthful. Its title “I can make you thin” had me hoping that just by picking the book up I would shed a kilo or two, but no, it seems you had to actually read it. Its message was simple. Step 1: Only eat when you are hungry. (Not sure what THAT’s all about!) Step 2: Only eat what you REALLY want to eat. (Okay, now you have my attention). Step 3: Eat slowly and savour the food. (Yes, but if you eat quicker you can cram more in…..) Step 4: Stop eating before you feel full. (Huh? It’s all getting too weird for me now). Anyhow, suffice to say when I’m in need of a dieting inspiration I go for books like this.
Sometimes I just want romance or trash, and there are times when I like a good autobiography. Often I will read informative books like those written by the Dog Whisperer. I am a great fan of his methods but, unfortunately Scruffy Dawg seems to require more of the ‘Dog Shouterer’ approach as he ignores my commands and helps himself to yet another shred-worthy toilet roll.
But this week I have been reading David Sedaris, an American whose whacky and sometimes disturbing tales leave me either laughing or cringing. As I snuggled into my doona on propped-up pillows the other night with my borrowed copy of David’s work firmly in hand, I flipped through the book looking for my spot. And there it was alright; complete with dog-eared folded page. Omigod, I thought; my book-loaning friend is going to kill me!
And she doesn’t know the half of it yet. In terms of book-molesting crimes, there’s only thing worse than dog-eared pages. It’s smeared chocolate; and I’m just praying my friend doesn’t turn to Page 233 or my book-borrowing days are REALLY over!
If there’s one thing more offensive than telling someone who has loaned you a book that you either a) hated it, or b) didn’t actually bother reading it, it would have to be c) taking the liberty of folding the page corners to mark your spot.
I myself have tutted with disgust when books have been returned to me in such a state, vowing loudly to never again loan my books to such philistines.
And so you would think that I, detester of dog-earedness and the perpetrators of such, would never, EVER stoop to their low acts. But nooo. Stoop I did, just the other night. By mistake, of course, but you try explaining that to the owner of the book who entrusted me with her literary treasure. In my defence, this all must have happened on an evening when I was particularly tired for, in my alert state I would never do such a thing.
I am a ‘book trawler’; one who keeps a diverse stack of books on the bedside table so that each night I can run through my collection and select one that matches my reading inclination.
For example, if I am feeling strong of stomach, I might pick one of the gruesome detective tales of Scotsman, Stuart MacBride. This author’s portrayal of an infinitely sodden and freezing Aberdeen city helps me understand why my Dad immigrated to Australia all those years ago. It’s so depressing! And that’s not even counting the ghoulish murders!
If I am in need of a little spiritual nurturing, I might reach for Deepak or Dr Dyer and if it’s ‘slimming’ inspiration I’m after, I might select (with short-lived good intent) some sage words from the latest flab-busting guru.
Recently I bought a book guaranteed to stop any stunned dieter mid-mouthful. Its title “I can make you thin” had me hoping that just by picking the book up I would shed a kilo or two, but no, it seems you had to actually read it. Its message was simple. Step 1: Only eat when you are hungry. (Not sure what THAT’s all about!) Step 2: Only eat what you REALLY want to eat. (Okay, now you have my attention). Step 3: Eat slowly and savour the food. (Yes, but if you eat quicker you can cram more in…..) Step 4: Stop eating before you feel full. (Huh? It’s all getting too weird for me now). Anyhow, suffice to say when I’m in need of a dieting inspiration I go for books like this.
Sometimes I just want romance or trash, and there are times when I like a good autobiography. Often I will read informative books like those written by the Dog Whisperer. I am a great fan of his methods but, unfortunately Scruffy Dawg seems to require more of the ‘Dog Shouterer’ approach as he ignores my commands and helps himself to yet another shred-worthy toilet roll.
But this week I have been reading David Sedaris, an American whose whacky and sometimes disturbing tales leave me either laughing or cringing. As I snuggled into my doona on propped-up pillows the other night with my borrowed copy of David’s work firmly in hand, I flipped through the book looking for my spot. And there it was alright; complete with dog-eared folded page. Omigod, I thought; my book-loaning friend is going to kill me!
And she doesn’t know the half of it yet. In terms of book-molesting crimes, there’s only thing worse than dog-eared pages. It’s smeared chocolate; and I’m just praying my friend doesn’t turn to Page 233 or my book-borrowing days are REALLY over!
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Nav Nuts
After writing a recent article about car navigation systems and the amazing technology that enables them to function, I got to thinking about the little voices these devices employ to give verbal directions. For example, on ours there is a very British-sounding lady. She has such a regal affectation, I almost feel like it’s the Queen giving the orders.
“One should command one’s vehicle to turn left at the next intersection,” she instructs. “Oh, and DO be sure to indicate ….. or we shall NOT be amused!”
This got me thinking about some possible alternatives to this voice … as well as some creative new product ideas.
For example, we could have ‘Nav Bloke’. He has the voice of an Ocker and gives instructions like: “Hey Chooka, why doncha hit the skids at the red loight, mate? Then hang a lefty at the pub on the corner. Bewdy.”
I can see Nav Bloke being very popular amongst the local lads.
Then there could be Nav Kid. This one would be a hit with the small fry because, rather than containing boring stuff about roads and adult destinations, it would only contain global positioning information for fast food outlets and toy shops.
The voice will shriek; “Stop the car, Mum! So and so (insert annoying sibling’s name) is hitting me! I need to go to the toilet! I’m hungry! I wanna buy a new X Box!” If nothing else, this device would minimise the length of time that parents are willing to spend driving, thus reducing global warming. See, how eco-responsible are we at our new Naf Nav factory?
But wait; there’s more! Just to save us girls a bit of work, we could have Nav Nag, which would sound something like this: “I TOLD you to turn left at the last corner, Geoffrey! Now you’ll have to turn right, make a detour to pick up my mother, run the kids to basketball and bring home something for dinner! (Gee, I’ll bet Geoffrey can’t wait for THAT one to hit the market!)
Of course, we shouldn’t overlook the older members of society when marketing our new line of car navigators. Nav Gran will not only ask our senior citizens where they need to go (and if they’re absolutely sure about that), but it will also send them back inside to get their glasses, turn off the iron and put the cat out … before it even allows the car to leave the driveway!
Or for those who prefer a little Zen, what about New Age Nav. As you approach a chaotic intersection, a serene voice accompanied by pan pipes and the sound of rolling waves will waft peacefully across the airways. The voice will eventually murmur; “Just let go. MMMMMMM. Take a deep breath and eeeeeeze right. Just drift along and let your inner chakra guide you.”
Then, lastly, for nostalgic Baby Boomers, there will be Hippy Nav. It will come in a jaunty little plastic case covered in flowers and peace signs and the drawling voice will say; “Hey, man. What’s your hurry? We’re all on a road to nowhere, man! Slow down; smell the roses; feel the love. Peace man.”
I don’t know about you, but I feel better already.
Not safer. But better.
After writing a recent article about car navigation systems and the amazing technology that enables them to function, I got to thinking about the little voices these devices employ to give verbal directions. For example, on ours there is a very British-sounding lady. She has such a regal affectation, I almost feel like it’s the Queen giving the orders.
“One should command one’s vehicle to turn left at the next intersection,” she instructs. “Oh, and DO be sure to indicate ….. or we shall NOT be amused!”
This got me thinking about some possible alternatives to this voice … as well as some creative new product ideas.
For example, we could have ‘Nav Bloke’. He has the voice of an Ocker and gives instructions like: “Hey Chooka, why doncha hit the skids at the red loight, mate? Then hang a lefty at the pub on the corner. Bewdy.”
I can see Nav Bloke being very popular amongst the local lads.
Then there could be Nav Kid. This one would be a hit with the small fry because, rather than containing boring stuff about roads and adult destinations, it would only contain global positioning information for fast food outlets and toy shops.
The voice will shriek; “Stop the car, Mum! So and so (insert annoying sibling’s name) is hitting me! I need to go to the toilet! I’m hungry! I wanna buy a new X Box!” If nothing else, this device would minimise the length of time that parents are willing to spend driving, thus reducing global warming. See, how eco-responsible are we at our new Naf Nav factory?
But wait; there’s more! Just to save us girls a bit of work, we could have Nav Nag, which would sound something like this: “I TOLD you to turn left at the last corner, Geoffrey! Now you’ll have to turn right, make a detour to pick up my mother, run the kids to basketball and bring home something for dinner! (Gee, I’ll bet Geoffrey can’t wait for THAT one to hit the market!)
Of course, we shouldn’t overlook the older members of society when marketing our new line of car navigators. Nav Gran will not only ask our senior citizens where they need to go (and if they’re absolutely sure about that), but it will also send them back inside to get their glasses, turn off the iron and put the cat out … before it even allows the car to leave the driveway!
Or for those who prefer a little Zen, what about New Age Nav. As you approach a chaotic intersection, a serene voice accompanied by pan pipes and the sound of rolling waves will waft peacefully across the airways. The voice will eventually murmur; “Just let go. MMMMMMM. Take a deep breath and eeeeeeze right. Just drift along and let your inner chakra guide you.”
Then, lastly, for nostalgic Baby Boomers, there will be Hippy Nav. It will come in a jaunty little plastic case covered in flowers and peace signs and the drawling voice will say; “Hey, man. What’s your hurry? We’re all on a road to nowhere, man! Slow down; smell the roses; feel the love. Peace man.”
I don’t know about you, but I feel better already.
Not safer. But better.
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Satellites R Us
You have to admire the logic of some people. Or laugh at their audacity! Take, for example, a conversation I had with a friend a couple of days ago.
We had been discussing car navigation systems and I was marvelling at this technology. Isn’t it incredible that data can be collected for mapping, assembled into a meaningful format, beamed up by a satellite and finally sent back to our little electronic devices? And all in a matter of nano-seconds!
My non-techno mind boggles at this type of thing!
Not so, apparently, that of my learned friend. He evidently has more insight into such matters for, when I expressed my incredulousness at the above, he simply shrugged and said; “Well it’s really not all that complex. I mean, once you’ve got your satellite up there, it’s just a matter of…….”
My eyebrows flew skyward.
“Stop! Rewind!” I cried in disbelief (and not a small amount of amusement). For correct me if I am wrong here folks, but isn’t there something inherently wrong with a sentence that includes the words; “Once you’ve got your satellite up there…”?
I mean, who does this guy think he is? Neil Armstrong? Captain Kirk? Obi-Wan Kenobi? George Jetson? In his alternate universe (or mind?) does launching a satellite into outer space sit happily alongside feeding the cat, cutting your toenails or putting out the garbage — in terms of ‘everyday’ activities?
If so, I can just imagine the conversations at his place.
She: “Darling, what time will you be home for dinner?”
He: “Well, I’ll just check the encoder to see how long the space probe should take to push its way through the Equitorial orbit.” (Consults the small device imbedded in his wrist). “Hmmm. I should be back about six. Do you want me to pick up some frozen dinners from Pluto on my way through?”
Yes, okay, this example may be a little extreme. He wouldn’t actually pick up frozen dinners. If he’s really as clever as he makes out, he would get hot ones from Mars.
But all silliness aside, surely you can understand why it amuses (and somewhat disturbs me) to hear everyday, non-NASA people making glib statements about ‘getting your satellite up there’. As if my friend, or most people for that matter, could ever get a satellite ANYWHERE, let alone know how to make use of it!
Interestingly, my friend couldn’t understand my mirth.
“What?” he huffed defensively ... but I was too busy laughing to answer him.
Fortunately his pronouncement did have one worthwhile element. It provided me and my fellow diners with much amusement as I recounted the story over dinner later that day.
“I just don’t get why you think it’s so funny!” Captain Kirk cried in exasperation as I cried tears of laughter.
“All I meant,” he went on, “was that, once you get your satellite up there, the rest is a piece of cake! The technology already exists. We just tap into it”.
And he almost had me feeling contrite … until he added one last sentence.
“I mean, it’s not rocket science, is it?”
We all cracked up again.
You have to admire the logic of some people. Or laugh at their audacity! Take, for example, a conversation I had with a friend a couple of days ago.
We had been discussing car navigation systems and I was marvelling at this technology. Isn’t it incredible that data can be collected for mapping, assembled into a meaningful format, beamed up by a satellite and finally sent back to our little electronic devices? And all in a matter of nano-seconds!
My non-techno mind boggles at this type of thing!
Not so, apparently, that of my learned friend. He evidently has more insight into such matters for, when I expressed my incredulousness at the above, he simply shrugged and said; “Well it’s really not all that complex. I mean, once you’ve got your satellite up there, it’s just a matter of…….”
My eyebrows flew skyward.
“Stop! Rewind!” I cried in disbelief (and not a small amount of amusement). For correct me if I am wrong here folks, but isn’t there something inherently wrong with a sentence that includes the words; “Once you’ve got your satellite up there…”?
I mean, who does this guy think he is? Neil Armstrong? Captain Kirk? Obi-Wan Kenobi? George Jetson? In his alternate universe (or mind?) does launching a satellite into outer space sit happily alongside feeding the cat, cutting your toenails or putting out the garbage — in terms of ‘everyday’ activities?
If so, I can just imagine the conversations at his place.
She: “Darling, what time will you be home for dinner?”
He: “Well, I’ll just check the encoder to see how long the space probe should take to push its way through the Equitorial orbit.” (Consults the small device imbedded in his wrist). “Hmmm. I should be back about six. Do you want me to pick up some frozen dinners from Pluto on my way through?”
Yes, okay, this example may be a little extreme. He wouldn’t actually pick up frozen dinners. If he’s really as clever as he makes out, he would get hot ones from Mars.
But all silliness aside, surely you can understand why it amuses (and somewhat disturbs me) to hear everyday, non-NASA people making glib statements about ‘getting your satellite up there’. As if my friend, or most people for that matter, could ever get a satellite ANYWHERE, let alone know how to make use of it!
Interestingly, my friend couldn’t understand my mirth.
“What?” he huffed defensively ... but I was too busy laughing to answer him.
Fortunately his pronouncement did have one worthwhile element. It provided me and my fellow diners with much amusement as I recounted the story over dinner later that day.
“I just don’t get why you think it’s so funny!” Captain Kirk cried in exasperation as I cried tears of laughter.
“All I meant,” he went on, “was that, once you get your satellite up there, the rest is a piece of cake! The technology already exists. We just tap into it”.
And he almost had me feeling contrite … until he added one last sentence.
“I mean, it’s not rocket science, is it?”
We all cracked up again.
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Sunday, April 4, 2010
Californian Dreaming
Strange things are happening at my place. Habits are being formed and, for a change, they are not all bad ones.
For example, objects are finding their ways into strange places. Like the cupboards where they belong.
Bizarre, I know.
And dirty washing is being placed in the dirty wash basket! Shock, horror! Bathrooms are being left clean and dry, (unlike their usual ‘just been visited by a family of muddy water buffalos’ state), and overflowing school bags and smelly runners (thus far never have been known to make it beyond the back door after school) have suddenly disappeared.
What is going on? I hear you ask.
Well, the house is on the market. And given that it was all due to some pretty consistent nagging from Master Teen about being ‘sick of living out of town’, apparently he concedes a certain amount of responsibility towards keeping the place in ‘imminent inspection’ mode and is happy to do his share.
I must say I am impressed too. It’s not often that you see a teenage boy making his bed. In fact, I was so fascinated by this whole cleanliness in teens thing that I wondered how often you would see the words ‘teenager and ‘tidies’ in the same sentence, so I Googled it on the Web.
Not surprisingly, I found only two references. The first was a headline from a 1973 copy of the medical magazine, Lancet:
“Teenager Tidies Room — Doctors Baffled”
(Sub Heading: “Mother Goes Into Anaphylactic Shock”).
The second reference was from MAD magazine where, clearly, they were joking.
And the new house? I hear you ask.
Well, don’t get excited. It’s not so much a house as an advertisement for Dirty Dan’s Demolition Services (the ‘Before’ picture obviously). Peeling paint, sagging floor, seventeen varieties of gaudy carpet, a kitchen with no stove, a rusty tin roof and an outside dunny with no flush. And all currently buried under twenty tonnes of fallen autumn leaves.
“Delightful Californian Bungalow,” reads the Real Estate guide. “Bring the old girl back to life.”
Naturally they neglected to mention that you would need a defribulator the size of the MCG to get this old girl’s fireplaces burning again. Californian Bungalow indeed!
But whilst she is seriously more ‘Bung’ than ‘Cal’, she is in a great location and we figure that with a bit of ‘T.L.C’ and a fair bit more ‘C.A.S.H’ she will come up a treat.
So, soon it will be on with our very own Renovation Rescue!
But first we have to sell this place. It’s a bit of a mess at the moment but that’s no problem. I will just get my own little ‘Mr Sheen the Teen’ on the job!
Am I’m enjoying this? You bet!
Strange things are happening at my place. Habits are being formed and, for a change, they are not all bad ones.
For example, objects are finding their ways into strange places. Like the cupboards where they belong.
Bizarre, I know.
And dirty washing is being placed in the dirty wash basket! Shock, horror! Bathrooms are being left clean and dry, (unlike their usual ‘just been visited by a family of muddy water buffalos’ state), and overflowing school bags and smelly runners (thus far never have been known to make it beyond the back door after school) have suddenly disappeared.
What is going on? I hear you ask.
Well, the house is on the market. And given that it was all due to some pretty consistent nagging from Master Teen about being ‘sick of living out of town’, apparently he concedes a certain amount of responsibility towards keeping the place in ‘imminent inspection’ mode and is happy to do his share.
I must say I am impressed too. It’s not often that you see a teenage boy making his bed. In fact, I was so fascinated by this whole cleanliness in teens thing that I wondered how often you would see the words ‘teenager and ‘tidies’ in the same sentence, so I Googled it on the Web.
Not surprisingly, I found only two references. The first was a headline from a 1973 copy of the medical magazine, Lancet:
“Teenager Tidies Room — Doctors Baffled”
(Sub Heading: “Mother Goes Into Anaphylactic Shock”).
The second reference was from MAD magazine where, clearly, they were joking.
And the new house? I hear you ask.
Well, don’t get excited. It’s not so much a house as an advertisement for Dirty Dan’s Demolition Services (the ‘Before’ picture obviously). Peeling paint, sagging floor, seventeen varieties of gaudy carpet, a kitchen with no stove, a rusty tin roof and an outside dunny with no flush. And all currently buried under twenty tonnes of fallen autumn leaves.
“Delightful Californian Bungalow,” reads the Real Estate guide. “Bring the old girl back to life.”
Naturally they neglected to mention that you would need a defribulator the size of the MCG to get this old girl’s fireplaces burning again. Californian Bungalow indeed!
But whilst she is seriously more ‘Bung’ than ‘Cal’, she is in a great location and we figure that with a bit of ‘T.L.C’ and a fair bit more ‘C.A.S.H’ she will come up a treat.
So, soon it will be on with our very own Renovation Rescue!
But first we have to sell this place. It’s a bit of a mess at the moment but that’s no problem. I will just get my own little ‘Mr Sheen the Teen’ on the job!
Am I’m enjoying this? You bet!
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For Whom Pavlov's (Dinner) Bell Tolls
Over the years much research into human behaviour has (oddly, I feel) been conducted using dogs. I seriously question the worth of canine responses in the formulation of hypotheses about the human psyche, for surely there is a vast chasm between human intellect and that of the average Labrador Cross. Agree?
For a start, there is clearly a big language barrier.
Most dogs show little interest in the sound of the human voice (especially one which is yelling) and seem to have no grasp at all of the actual meanings of most words.
In Pavlov's famous research, the dog was not asked to salivate, but did so in response to a ringing bell (which normally preceded food).
And as my own 'Pippa the Wonderdog' leaps excitedly into 'walkies' mode at the mere sight of my runners, I concede her behaviour is more readily attributed to Dr Pavlov's conditioning theory, than to any super 'Labradoric' ability to decipher human syntax.
She's just not that smart and, in any case, she seems to have her own definition of the human language, as follows:
My command: "Sit!"
Pippa's interpretation: Stand with rear legs in rigid upright position. If human attempts to push your rump down, flop sideways onto ground.
My command: "Fetch!"
Pippa's Response #1 : Follow thrown object almost to point of retrieval, then veer off suddenly to find something more interesting to do.
Response #2 : Retrieve thrown object and carry it as far away as possible from the human who threw it.
My command: "Get out of that!"
Pippa's interpretation: You are doing a sterling job of shredding that sheet on the clothesline. Keep up the good work!
My command:"NO"
Pippa's interpretation: Do not stop what you are doing right now. It's all good.
My command: "Get off the Road"
Pippa's interpretation: free to wander unfettered and unhindered by passing traffic. You are, after all, the most important user of the roadway. The traffic will wait while you sniff the dead magpie in the middle of the road. Take your time.
But judging by the number of disobedient mutts around, it would seem that my Pippa is not alone in her gross misinterpretation of the English language.
So, my advice is this.
Forget voice cues and complex body language. If you really want your dog to obey, just go out and buy a whacking great bell and a really big tin of dog food!
Ding! Ding!
Over the years much research into human behaviour has (oddly, I feel) been conducted using dogs. I seriously question the worth of canine responses in the formulation of hypotheses about the human psyche, for surely there is a vast chasm between human intellect and that of the average Labrador Cross. Agree?
For a start, there is clearly a big language barrier.
Most dogs show little interest in the sound of the human voice (especially one which is yelling) and seem to have no grasp at all of the actual meanings of most words.
In Pavlov's famous research, the dog was not asked to salivate, but did so in response to a ringing bell (which normally preceded food).
And as my own 'Pippa the Wonderdog' leaps excitedly into 'walkies' mode at the mere sight of my runners, I concede her behaviour is more readily attributed to Dr Pavlov's conditioning theory, than to any super 'Labradoric' ability to decipher human syntax.
She's just not that smart and, in any case, she seems to have her own definition of the human language, as follows:
My command: "Sit!"
Pippa's interpretation: Stand with rear legs in rigid upright position. If human attempts to push your rump down, flop sideways onto ground.
My command: "Fetch!"
Pippa's Response #1 : Follow thrown object almost to point of retrieval, then veer off suddenly to find something more interesting to do.
Response #2 : Retrieve thrown object and carry it as far away as possible from the human who threw it.
My command: "Get out of that!"
Pippa's interpretation: You are doing a sterling job of shredding that sheet on the clothesline. Keep up the good work!
My command:"NO"
Pippa's interpretation: Do not stop what you are doing right now. It's all good.
My command: "Get off the Road"
Pippa's interpretation: free to wander unfettered and unhindered by passing traffic. You are, after all, the most important user of the roadway. The traffic will wait while you sniff the dead magpie in the middle of the road. Take your time.
But judging by the number of disobedient mutts around, it would seem that my Pippa is not alone in her gross misinterpretation of the English language.
So, my advice is this.
Forget voice cues and complex body language. If you really want your dog to obey, just go out and buy a whacking great bell and a really big tin of dog food!
Ding! Ding!
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Vanishing Women
Just a few weeks ago, I was lamenting in this column that my teenage son was having trouble recognizing me in photographs. Apparently, he confessed, he had never ‘actually looked’ at me before. Hurtful as this was, I have forgiven him and moved on. (Well, almost, although I have banned him from using my car for a couple of weeks. After all, if he isn’t exactly sure who I am, he shouldn’t be borrowing my car, should he? Stranger Danger and all that…)
Well anyway, I am beginning to discover that this apparent invisibility is not only confined to me. In fact, forty-something women across the country are probably nodding their heads furiously as they read these words. They know what it’s like to become suddenly inconsequential.
Where once we pulled admiring glances, we now find people peering around us to check out the young beauty behind us. Where once a smile could facilitate queue-jumping, today we just head for the back of the line resignedly. Where once we might have smiled and waved when a car horn tooted at us, today we quickly check that our skirt isn’t tucked into the back of our knickers. And where once people would marvel and say “Gosh, you don’t look (insert approaching middle-age number)!” now they just nod and mutter, ‘Mmm. Yes. Those wrinkle creams really are such a waste of money, aren’t they?”
A heightened appreciation of this phenomenon came the other night when dining out with a group of girls (the more mature variety) and being totally ignored by the waiter for the first half hour. I swear we could have tap-danced naked on the table and he wouldn’t have given us more than a cursory glance. (Although doubtless there would have been some complaints from the other tables — something about putting them off their food — which might have brought the good man sooner).
Well, anyway, we discussed this matter of being unobserved, my invisible friends and me, and agreed it is becoming more and more noticeable. It seems they too have been suffering the curse of being overlooked, dismissed and ignored. And not just by their spouses, kids, bosses and pets either! They noted a distinct lack of interest from everywhere.
We Baby-Boomers, it seems, are, well … plain boring, to the younger set. Apparently we don’t deserve to dress groovily, be well fed or even have our views heard. In fact, if we had any dignity at all, we probably should just cover up, pay up and shut up!
But like every other hurdle our generation has ever encountered, there is little chance of us capitulating to the scourge of mature-age-invisibility. We wanted sexual freedom — we got it. We wanted no-fault-divorce — we got it. We wanted to be rock stars forever — we got it. (Well, okay, it was actually Mick Jagger who got it, but there’s no way we are going to tell him he’s too old because that means we’re old too!)
Yes, we BBs like a challenge and we will rise to it. We have been changing things from the sixties and we aren’t about to stop now.
So, what can we do to change this trend towards obscurity?
Act up. Misbehave. Break the law. Don’t pay your bills and definitely don’t lend your car, money or cooking skills to anyone under thirty.
Would we still be invisible then?
I don’t think so, Tim.
Just a few weeks ago, I was lamenting in this column that my teenage son was having trouble recognizing me in photographs. Apparently, he confessed, he had never ‘actually looked’ at me before. Hurtful as this was, I have forgiven him and moved on. (Well, almost, although I have banned him from using my car for a couple of weeks. After all, if he isn’t exactly sure who I am, he shouldn’t be borrowing my car, should he? Stranger Danger and all that…)
Well anyway, I am beginning to discover that this apparent invisibility is not only confined to me. In fact, forty-something women across the country are probably nodding their heads furiously as they read these words. They know what it’s like to become suddenly inconsequential.
Where once we pulled admiring glances, we now find people peering around us to check out the young beauty behind us. Where once a smile could facilitate queue-jumping, today we just head for the back of the line resignedly. Where once we might have smiled and waved when a car horn tooted at us, today we quickly check that our skirt isn’t tucked into the back of our knickers. And where once people would marvel and say “Gosh, you don’t look (insert approaching middle-age number)!” now they just nod and mutter, ‘Mmm. Yes. Those wrinkle creams really are such a waste of money, aren’t they?”
A heightened appreciation of this phenomenon came the other night when dining out with a group of girls (the more mature variety) and being totally ignored by the waiter for the first half hour. I swear we could have tap-danced naked on the table and he wouldn’t have given us more than a cursory glance. (Although doubtless there would have been some complaints from the other tables — something about putting them off their food — which might have brought the good man sooner).
Well, anyway, we discussed this matter of being unobserved, my invisible friends and me, and agreed it is becoming more and more noticeable. It seems they too have been suffering the curse of being overlooked, dismissed and ignored. And not just by their spouses, kids, bosses and pets either! They noted a distinct lack of interest from everywhere.
We Baby-Boomers, it seems, are, well … plain boring, to the younger set. Apparently we don’t deserve to dress groovily, be well fed or even have our views heard. In fact, if we had any dignity at all, we probably should just cover up, pay up and shut up!
But like every other hurdle our generation has ever encountered, there is little chance of us capitulating to the scourge of mature-age-invisibility. We wanted sexual freedom — we got it. We wanted no-fault-divorce — we got it. We wanted to be rock stars forever — we got it. (Well, okay, it was actually Mick Jagger who got it, but there’s no way we are going to tell him he’s too old because that means we’re old too!)
Yes, we BBs like a challenge and we will rise to it. We have been changing things from the sixties and we aren’t about to stop now.
So, what can we do to change this trend towards obscurity?
Act up. Misbehave. Break the law. Don’t pay your bills and definitely don’t lend your car, money or cooking skills to anyone under thirty.
Would we still be invisible then?
I don’t think so, Tim.
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A Mooooving Tale
You often hear about strange things that happen to people. Weird and wonderful things. Worrying or frightening things. Funny or sad things.
Usually we just smile (or frown) and think “poor bugger” or something similarly compassionate and heartfelt ….. and then we just forget about it. Other times these stories become like folklore and give the person who endured the happening (or the families and friends thereof) many happy years of entertainment as the story gets retold, rehashed and sometimes even reinvented!
One such folklorish story that (happily!) needs no embellishment is the one about a close relative of mine ….. and a cow…in the middle of the city.
He is an accountant. Very respectable person. Responsible job. Nice office in town. Normally this chap (whom, for the purposes of this story, I shall call Pierre) likes to live a quiet life, mind his own business and not draw unwarranted attention to himself.
And that’s exactly what he was doing one summer’s morning as he drove his car to work; wending his way through congested city traffic; half listening to the ABC news and presumably thinking about calculations and fiscal responsibility, as you do if you are, unlike me, a lover of numbers. (Personally I would rather think about decaying compost than anything remotely numerical. Luckily it’s not up to people like me to keep the world’s economy in order. Phew!).
Anyway, it was a warm morning and Pierre had his car window wound down in order to capture the slight breeze that flitted between the tall city buildings. He was clearly in the ‘zone’ – a zombie-like state reserved for regular commuters to stop them from going insane. Not really thinking about anything in particular (creepy numbers notwithstanding) and certainly not thinking about the possible ramifications of being stuck at the lights with a cattle truck in the next lane. And that was his mistake.
For just as he was about to take off on the green light, something rather unexpected happened. He felt upon his window-side arm a warm, slushy wetness and witnessed in horror a rush of browny-green pooey slime jettisoning down the side of the truck and all over his hitherto dignified, white-shirted personage! Arggh!!
I suspect a few words not befitting a respectable, number-loving citizen may have similarly jettisoned out of poor Pierre’s mouth as he struggled to come to grips with what had just happened. Pooed on? In the middle of the city? By a cow? What the….?
So Pierre did what any good accountant with cow poo all over his body driving in the middle of the city would do. He kept driving to work. Well, I guess it’s true that we often revert to routine in times of stress, so Pierre’s natural instinct was to head for his comfort zone. But how could the office be his comfort zone when he was decorated in smelly cow dung? It’s not like no-one would notice!
Upon arrival he sat in the basement car park to consider his position. Could he risk being late for a very important meeting by going home for a shower and shirt change? Or was his shirt salvageable with a towel-down? Would anyone really care?
He decided to phone his office to explain his predicament. Predictably there were plenty of hearty guffaws coming through the phone as his tale of woe quickly circulated around the office. (And I suspect there were many hysterical retellings in pubs and at workmates’ homes later that day).
Pierre’s boss finally suggested he go home and attend to his ablutions. After all, who would want to do business deals with a human dung beetle?
Well anyway, it all ended well. Pierre got cleaned up. The business deal got closed; and so did Pierre’s driver’s-side window whenever driving alongside trucks in the future.
A very wise move, Pierre. A very wise moooooove, indeed!
You often hear about strange things that happen to people. Weird and wonderful things. Worrying or frightening things. Funny or sad things.
Usually we just smile (or frown) and think “poor bugger” or something similarly compassionate and heartfelt ….. and then we just forget about it. Other times these stories become like folklore and give the person who endured the happening (or the families and friends thereof) many happy years of entertainment as the story gets retold, rehashed and sometimes even reinvented!
One such folklorish story that (happily!) needs no embellishment is the one about a close relative of mine ….. and a cow…in the middle of the city.
He is an accountant. Very respectable person. Responsible job. Nice office in town. Normally this chap (whom, for the purposes of this story, I shall call Pierre) likes to live a quiet life, mind his own business and not draw unwarranted attention to himself.
And that’s exactly what he was doing one summer’s morning as he drove his car to work; wending his way through congested city traffic; half listening to the ABC news and presumably thinking about calculations and fiscal responsibility, as you do if you are, unlike me, a lover of numbers. (Personally I would rather think about decaying compost than anything remotely numerical. Luckily it’s not up to people like me to keep the world’s economy in order. Phew!).
Anyway, it was a warm morning and Pierre had his car window wound down in order to capture the slight breeze that flitted between the tall city buildings. He was clearly in the ‘zone’ – a zombie-like state reserved for regular commuters to stop them from going insane. Not really thinking about anything in particular (creepy numbers notwithstanding) and certainly not thinking about the possible ramifications of being stuck at the lights with a cattle truck in the next lane. And that was his mistake.
For just as he was about to take off on the green light, something rather unexpected happened. He felt upon his window-side arm a warm, slushy wetness and witnessed in horror a rush of browny-green pooey slime jettisoning down the side of the truck and all over his hitherto dignified, white-shirted personage! Arggh!!
I suspect a few words not befitting a respectable, number-loving citizen may have similarly jettisoned out of poor Pierre’s mouth as he struggled to come to grips with what had just happened. Pooed on? In the middle of the city? By a cow? What the….?
So Pierre did what any good accountant with cow poo all over his body driving in the middle of the city would do. He kept driving to work. Well, I guess it’s true that we often revert to routine in times of stress, so Pierre’s natural instinct was to head for his comfort zone. But how could the office be his comfort zone when he was decorated in smelly cow dung? It’s not like no-one would notice!
Upon arrival he sat in the basement car park to consider his position. Could he risk being late for a very important meeting by going home for a shower and shirt change? Or was his shirt salvageable with a towel-down? Would anyone really care?
He decided to phone his office to explain his predicament. Predictably there were plenty of hearty guffaws coming through the phone as his tale of woe quickly circulated around the office. (And I suspect there were many hysterical retellings in pubs and at workmates’ homes later that day).
Pierre’s boss finally suggested he go home and attend to his ablutions. After all, who would want to do business deals with a human dung beetle?
Well anyway, it all ended well. Pierre got cleaned up. The business deal got closed; and so did Pierre’s driver’s-side window whenever driving alongside trucks in the future.
A very wise move, Pierre. A very wise moooooove, indeed!
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Saturday, April 3, 2010
The Elephant in the Room
Elephants, perhaps surprisingly, have featured rather noticeably in my life of late. Which I hope is not actually some kind of subliminal message from Jenny Craig about my hijacked weight loss plan (well, it is winter you know, Saint Jenny — who can resist stodgy food and chocolate in this weather?)
Well, anyhow, back to the elephants. The first encounter of the Elephant Kind was during an in-depth, philosophical conversation with a friend in which the ‘elephant in the room’ saying was mentioned once or twice.
Ordinarily I wouldn’t have noticed this, as weird conversations are not necessarily noteworthy in my usual sphere. But I did make a mental note about the mention of elephants on this occasion because there had been two of them living just up the road from me for the past couple of weeks.
No, I am not kidding! The circus was in town and, while the two big fellows no longer perform as part of the circus, they still manage to attract plenty of attention. After all, an elephant is not something you often see in suburbia.
In fact, imagine the surprise of my friend’s golden labrador as she dashed across the local reserve towards what looked like an innocent mound of dirt, only to have the mound of dirt suddenly stand up! The poor dog was so astonished she did a backwards doggy Moon Walk that would have made the late Michael Jackson proud!
My own Scruffy Dawg (my mini schnauzer) also did a double-take when he saw the giants.
“Omigod!” he shrieked in amazement. “Can you imagine the bones THOSE mothers could bury!” (Or something like that. My ‘schnauzer’ is not yet very fluent).
Luckily he was on the leash because I am sure he would’ve become a schnauzer pattie in about ten seconds flat had he ventured any closer.
All this talk of elephants reminded me of the local elephant legend where a young boy was quietly fishing in a creek when he suddenly found an elephant crashing through the undergrowth towards him. In North East Victoria, Australia. Just imagine the poor kid’s shock!
Especially when the most exotic thing he probably expected to see that day was a European carp — if he was lucky!
But I digress. We’ve become so accustomed to seeing the elephants around my neighbourhood during the past few weeks that they have almost become a bit pass
“What, you don’t have an elephant in your street?” I say to my out of town buddies, “how odd!”
Scruff, too, now finds nothing strange about passing a four ton gargantuan on his daily walk. In fact, I suspect he has come to think of the local ‘elephant’ park as his own personal Serengeti.
Furthermore, I think he rather fancies himself to be a mud-dunking wildebeest, judging by his fondness for slopping in every available puddle!
But anyway, today we discovered, sadly, that our beautiful, betrunked buddies are gone. The time had come for the circus to move on.
“See ya next time, you camels,” said Scruff, who’s clearly not very up with his circus animals.
And then he rolled in the biggest poo he had ever seen!
Well, anyhow, back to the elephants. The first encounter of the Elephant Kind was during an in-depth, philosophical conversation with a friend in which the ‘elephant in the room’ saying was mentioned once or twice.
Ordinarily I wouldn’t have noticed this, as weird conversations are not necessarily noteworthy in my usual sphere. But I did make a mental note about the mention of elephants on this occasion because there had been two of them living just up the road from me for the past couple of weeks.
No, I am not kidding! The circus was in town and, while the two big fellows no longer perform as part of the circus, they still manage to attract plenty of attention. After all, an elephant is not something you often see in suburbia.
In fact, imagine the surprise of my friend’s golden labrador as she dashed across the local reserve towards what looked like an innocent mound of dirt, only to have the mound of dirt suddenly stand up! The poor dog was so astonished she did a backwards doggy Moon Walk that would have made the late Michael Jackson proud!
My own Scruffy Dawg (my mini schnauzer) also did a double-take when he saw the giants.
“Omigod!” he shrieked in amazement. “Can you imagine the bones THOSE mothers could bury!” (Or something like that. My ‘schnauzer’ is not yet very fluent).
Luckily he was on the leash because I am sure he would’ve become a schnauzer pattie in about ten seconds flat had he ventured any closer.
All this talk of elephants reminded me of the local elephant legend where a young boy was quietly fishing in a creek when he suddenly found an elephant crashing through the undergrowth towards him. In North East Victoria, Australia. Just imagine the poor kid’s shock!
Especially when the most exotic thing he probably expected to see that day was a European carp — if he was lucky!
But I digress. We’ve become so accustomed to seeing the elephants around my neighbourhood during the past few weeks that they have almost become a bit pass
“What, you don’t have an elephant in your street?” I say to my out of town buddies, “how odd!”
Scruff, too, now finds nothing strange about passing a four ton gargantuan on his daily walk. In fact, I suspect he has come to think of the local ‘elephant’ park as his own personal Serengeti.
Furthermore, I think he rather fancies himself to be a mud-dunking wildebeest, judging by his fondness for slopping in every available puddle!
But anyway, today we discovered, sadly, that our beautiful, betrunked buddies are gone. The time had come for the circus to move on.
“See ya next time, you camels,” said Scruff, who’s clearly not very up with his circus animals.
And then he rolled in the biggest poo he had ever seen!
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