My cousin opened my fridge door and listed the contents:
"12 cans of beer, 2 bottles of wine, half a pint of milk of indeterminate age, something that might once have been cheese and... what *is* that thing?"
"A tomato?" I volunteered
He shuddered. "I'm impressed. That really is a true bachelor refridgerator. Well done."
He'd presented me with my birthday present. Some nice drift music to play of an evening when I light all the candles various people have given me. Its really rather splendid.
So now we're into day 2 of my birthday (yes, I'm padding this one out a bit. Having far too much fun not to) and I'm reminded of last year; The Ex had been fucking her boss for over a year and was about three weeks away from dumping me. I was still in blissful ignorance of this fact. On reflection, I hadn't realised how miserable I was - but thats a long angsty post for another day.
The Ex always liked the fact that my birthday fell on the 29th. That, and the fact that I am left-handed apparently made me 'special'. The word 'special' can be interpreted in a variety of ways, but I took it as a compliment. I fished some more: "how do you mean 'special' ?" She just looked at me and said "Well, there can't many left-handers born on Feb 29th, can there?"
Okaaaay...
She has actually improved at the dispensing of compliments of late. I still chortle at the memory of her showing up one evening and suggesting sex "for old time's sake" since The Boyfriend is apparently, ah, not a bedroom superstar (personally, I think he's lost interest - I mean, they were at it for other a year so she must have had some idea as to his, ehm, abilities.)
Naturally I told her to go away. Sure, I'm shallow, but thank god I'm not that shallow. Not yet at any rate.
Monday, February 28, 2005
Sunday, February 27, 2005
Happy Birthday To Me
At some point in the next few days I will be 33. Being a leap year baby means that the whole birthday thing is a little vague for me. It suited my grandparents very well - I'd go to one set on February 28th and another set on March 1st. Latterly I've used it as an excuse to start partying on the 28th and go on through to the 1st.
This year we opted to do the big family thing on the 27th, since its a Sunday. This meant I got to enjoy the childish delight of tearing into wrapping paper a day earlier. The gifts were, as ever, thoughtfully chosen; I'm very lucky to be part of the family I am.
And First-Born? She'd saved her pocket money and picked out something special. A self assembly model of the solar system that one can hang from the ceiling. This is especially thoughtful because she's aware of my obsession with space exploration.
"It even glows in the dark!" she enthused, "You can hang it on the ceiling of your bedroom and look at the planets at night!"
I attempted to match her enthusiasm, but my treacherous inner-voice had other ideas. I generally conceal this obsession, unless a date is starting to go disasterously wrong, in which case droning on about the lifting capability of the Saturn V versus the Shuttle stack represents a painless way of chasing someone away.
But a glow-in-the-dark solar system hanging from my ceiling? Might be tricky to explain when I'm, er, entertaining. And could lead to some dreadfully childish moments:
"Hey, I can see rings around Uranus"
"Whaaaaat?????"
Heck, I am only 8 after all. Right?
This year we opted to do the big family thing on the 27th, since its a Sunday. This meant I got to enjoy the childish delight of tearing into wrapping paper a day earlier. The gifts were, as ever, thoughtfully chosen; I'm very lucky to be part of the family I am.
And First-Born? She'd saved her pocket money and picked out something special. A self assembly model of the solar system that one can hang from the ceiling. This is especially thoughtful because she's aware of my obsession with space exploration.
"It even glows in the dark!" she enthused, "You can hang it on the ceiling of your bedroom and look at the planets at night!"
I attempted to match her enthusiasm, but my treacherous inner-voice had other ideas. I generally conceal this obsession, unless a date is starting to go disasterously wrong, in which case droning on about the lifting capability of the Saturn V versus the Shuttle stack represents a painless way of chasing someone away.
But a glow-in-the-dark solar system hanging from my ceiling? Might be tricky to explain when I'm, er, entertaining. And could lead to some dreadfully childish moments:
"Hey, I can see rings around Uranus"
"Whaaaaat?????"
Heck, I am only 8 after all. Right?
Saturday, February 26, 2005
The 10 Step Newly Single Guide To Avoiding Jetlag
1. Have a boss kind enough to sneak you into the executive club at the airport.
2. Regard the 'all-you-can-drink' bar as a challenge, not a generous gesture by an airline desperate to placate executive travellers.
3. Take 2 or 3 industrial strength painkillers. And some diazepam.
4. Board the plane before steps 2 and 3 have taken effect.
5. Sit in your cramped economy seat.
6. Fasten your safety belt.
7. Start feeling woozy as the stewardess embarks on the "Kiss Your Arse Goodbye If We Crash" speech.
8. Pass out.
9. Get shaken awake by the same stewardess checking to see if your safety belt is fastened. Ask "When do we take off?"
10. Be told that the plane took off 7 hours ago, and you're actually about to land in London.
Which is why I have no jet lag. Possible liver and kidney failure, maybe. But no jetlag.
2. Regard the 'all-you-can-drink' bar as a challenge, not a generous gesture by an airline desperate to placate executive travellers.
3. Take 2 or 3 industrial strength painkillers. And some diazepam.
4. Board the plane before steps 2 and 3 have taken effect.
5. Sit in your cramped economy seat.
6. Fasten your safety belt.
7. Start feeling woozy as the stewardess embarks on the "Kiss Your Arse Goodbye If We Crash" speech.
8. Pass out.
9. Get shaken awake by the same stewardess checking to see if your safety belt is fastened. Ask "When do we take off?"
10. Be told that the plane took off 7 hours ago, and you're actually about to land in London.
Which is why I have no jet lag. Possible liver and kidney failure, maybe. But no jetlag.
Friday, February 25, 2005
Lets Celebrate!
"Thank you, sir. Celebrate America!" sparkled the receptionist.
Eh? I've heard "Have A Nice Day" and am getting to grips with "Missing You Already" but "Celebrate America" ? Thats a new one.
In fact, the slogan is emblazoned across the Holiday Inn where I spent last night. As I stood in the elevator I looked at my feet and saw I was standing on a carpet with a badly drawn eagle motif surrounded by those two words. Tearing my eyes away I looked at the events sheet on the wall:
"Come and Celebrate America with us every morning. Join us at 9am every day when we will raise the flag, sing the national anthem and swear allegiance to the flag. Attendees will receive a free patriotic souvenir."
I shuddered in horror as to the form the souvenir might take. I also felt suddenly terribly homesick. I missed the sullen incompetence of my fellow countrymen. I missed their misplaced cynicism.
At 9am I peered out of the window and saw the flag flapping folornly alone in the snow and was cheered. Apathy had won the day. Maybe we aren't so different after all.
Eh? I've heard "Have A Nice Day" and am getting to grips with "Missing You Already" but "Celebrate America" ? Thats a new one.
In fact, the slogan is emblazoned across the Holiday Inn where I spent last night. As I stood in the elevator I looked at my feet and saw I was standing on a carpet with a badly drawn eagle motif surrounded by those two words. Tearing my eyes away I looked at the events sheet on the wall:
"Come and Celebrate America with us every morning. Join us at 9am every day when we will raise the flag, sing the national anthem and swear allegiance to the flag. Attendees will receive a free patriotic souvenir."
I shuddered in horror as to the form the souvenir might take. I also felt suddenly terribly homesick. I missed the sullen incompetence of my fellow countrymen. I missed their misplaced cynicism.
At 9am I peered out of the window and saw the flag flapping folornly alone in the snow and was cheered. Apathy had won the day. Maybe we aren't so different after all.
My Life Has Meaning
I am a champion.
The boss and I camped out at the increasingly inaccurately named World Famous Damon's Bar And Grill (thus far I've yet to find anyone in the world outside of the US who has heard of it. I know they're there though.)
We picked up some quiz keyboards. In the UK we have pub quizzes, where the pub landlord will read out questions, and those participating write answers on a piece of paper to be scored by another team. The US have gone beyond that and provide comfortably rounded lumps of plastic with colourful keyboards. Something to do with avoidance of sharp objects (like pencils) I suspect.
Determined to strike a blow for Europe after struggling to make the barman understand what we were saying (come on guys, we understand the American accent. Is the British accent really that hard?) we prepared ourselves...
...and...
...I won! Tragically sad and pathetic though it may seem, my life now has new meaning. Go to Damon's Bar And Grill in Allentown, and you may yet still see "Rich" on the high score table.
Time, I think, for bed.
The boss and I camped out at the increasingly inaccurately named World Famous Damon's Bar And Grill (thus far I've yet to find anyone in the world outside of the US who has heard of it. I know they're there though.)
We picked up some quiz keyboards. In the UK we have pub quizzes, where the pub landlord will read out questions, and those participating write answers on a piece of paper to be scored by another team. The US have gone beyond that and provide comfortably rounded lumps of plastic with colourful keyboards. Something to do with avoidance of sharp objects (like pencils) I suspect.
Determined to strike a blow for Europe after struggling to make the barman understand what we were saying (come on guys, we understand the American accent. Is the British accent really that hard?) we prepared ourselves...
...and...
...I won! Tragically sad and pathetic though it may seem, my life now has new meaning. Go to Damon's Bar And Grill in Allentown, and you may yet still see "Rich" on the high score table.
Time, I think, for bed.
Thursday, February 24, 2005
Bored, Bored, Bored
I looked out of the window with a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. Going home tomorrow was looking unlikely.
Through the swirling snow I could make out the highway and a line of stationary traffic. And the weather was only going to get worse. I knew this because a woman on the television had told me so in between buttock clenchingly awful local adverts and info-mercials paid for by ambulance-chasing lawyers.
I had initially doubted the word of an individual who believed that daubing oneself in orange paint gave an accurate impression of a sun tan, but it appeared my misgivings were unfounded. The weather had, indeed, turned to crap.
I sighed. My only sport for the day (aside from meetings) had been tormenting a person called Mike. He'd evidentally given a firm of compensation lawyers the number of my Blackberry (probably not intentionally) and after a few calls where I'd assured them that I was not Mike and they had the wrong number, I gave up and decided to let my newly discovered evil nature take the reigns for a while.
Mike, I'm really sorry. Particularly the whole thing about the monkeys. But at least the lady on the other end of the line laughed when she said "I've never heard anyone sustain an injury *that* way..."
You could be in there, mate.
EDIT: They just phoned again!!!
"Hi, this is Darren of Ambulance Chasers Direct. Am I speaking to Mike?"
"This is he"
"Ha ha, good. We've had a bit of a problem with wrong numbers."
"Yes?"
"Well, it all seems ok now. We've got some rather good news for you..."
"Really? I don't know. I think I want to withdraw my claim"
"What?"
"Yes, I've realised that I need to take responsibility for my actions. If I'd been looking where I was walking I wouldn't have tripped on that kerb. I don't see why the taxpayer should pay for my clumsiness, do you?"
"Er..."
"So please cancel my claim. I'll put it in writing tomorrow."
"But..."
"Oh. And you do realise you're talking to the Monkey Man, don't you?"
"Fuck" (click)
I wonder if Scott and Amundsen got up to such japes when they were snowed-in and getting bored.
Through the swirling snow I could make out the highway and a line of stationary traffic. And the weather was only going to get worse. I knew this because a woman on the television had told me so in between buttock clenchingly awful local adverts and info-mercials paid for by ambulance-chasing lawyers.
I had initially doubted the word of an individual who believed that daubing oneself in orange paint gave an accurate impression of a sun tan, but it appeared my misgivings were unfounded. The weather had, indeed, turned to crap.
I sighed. My only sport for the day (aside from meetings) had been tormenting a person called Mike. He'd evidentally given a firm of compensation lawyers the number of my Blackberry (probably not intentionally) and after a few calls where I'd assured them that I was not Mike and they had the wrong number, I gave up and decided to let my newly discovered evil nature take the reigns for a while.
Mike, I'm really sorry. Particularly the whole thing about the monkeys. But at least the lady on the other end of the line laughed when she said "I've never heard anyone sustain an injury *that* way..."
You could be in there, mate.
EDIT: They just phoned again!!!
"Hi, this is Darren of Ambulance Chasers Direct. Am I speaking to Mike?"
"This is he"
"Ha ha, good. We've had a bit of a problem with wrong numbers."
"Yes?"
"Well, it all seems ok now. We've got some rather good news for you..."
"Really? I don't know. I think I want to withdraw my claim"
"What?"
"Yes, I've realised that I need to take responsibility for my actions. If I'd been looking where I was walking I wouldn't have tripped on that kerb. I don't see why the taxpayer should pay for my clumsiness, do you?"
"Er..."
"So please cancel my claim. I'll put it in writing tomorrow."
"But..."
"Oh. And you do realise you're talking to the Monkey Man, don't you?"
"Fuck" (click)
I wonder if Scott and Amundsen got up to such japes when they were snowed-in and getting bored.
Wednesday, February 23, 2005
Eyes Like Christopher Lee
"Old red eyes is back..." I sang tunelessly to myself as I stared at myself in the mirror.
It had gone well yesterday; with prodigous use of smoke and mirrors I'd managed to justify my existance. My hand had been shaken and backs slapped. My boss and I celebrated in the traditional manner - going to one of America's many 'world famous' bars (hint to the owners: if nobody outside of Allentown has heard of it, it probably isn't world famous. But I guess 'Number 1 in the Holiday Inn parking lot' hasn't got quite the same ring to it) and drinking beer so cold that one's taste buds are numbed to the flavour until we fell over.
I straightened and put my hand in the back pocket of my jeans, hoping to find my room key. Instead I found a neatly folded piece of red paper. I opened it and saw First-Born's spikey handwriting:
"Dear Dad,
I don't want to go home. I want to stay at your house.
xxooxx"
I wondered when she'd put it in my pocket. Probably on Sunday; she'd been up and about much earlier than me (the Sponge Bob Square Pants The Movie video game tie-in waits for no man.) At least it explained why she'd been so quiet on the drive back to The Ex. Probably waiting for me to say she could stay another night, we could sit on the sofa, watch Toy Story 2 and eat cake. Instead I'd dropped her off and gone to work until 2am.
I glanced back at the mirror, but couldn't look the reflection in the eyes.
It had gone well yesterday; with prodigous use of smoke and mirrors I'd managed to justify my existance. My hand had been shaken and backs slapped. My boss and I celebrated in the traditional manner - going to one of America's many 'world famous' bars (hint to the owners: if nobody outside of Allentown has heard of it, it probably isn't world famous. But I guess 'Number 1 in the Holiday Inn parking lot' hasn't got quite the same ring to it) and drinking beer so cold that one's taste buds are numbed to the flavour until we fell over.
I straightened and put my hand in the back pocket of my jeans, hoping to find my room key. Instead I found a neatly folded piece of red paper. I opened it and saw First-Born's spikey handwriting:
"Dear Dad,
I don't want to go home. I want to stay at your house.
xxooxx"
I wondered when she'd put it in my pocket. Probably on Sunday; she'd been up and about much earlier than me (the Sponge Bob Square Pants The Movie video game tie-in waits for no man.) At least it explained why she'd been so quiet on the drive back to The Ex. Probably waiting for me to say she could stay another night, we could sit on the sofa, watch Toy Story 2 and eat cake. Instead I'd dropped her off and gone to work until 2am.
I glanced back at the mirror, but couldn't look the reflection in the eyes.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)