Sunday, September 14, 2008
I say "Bah!" to Blog Post Numbering
"Suddenly stopping after regular use can cause withdrawal symptoms, that can include anxiety, depression, loss of appetite, irritation, aggressive behaviour, dizziness, tremors and nausea."
This was taken from a website with helpful info about chroming.
Can also be applied to divorce and giving up chocolate.
Saturday, September 13, 2008
Number 40
There's a sequence in a sit-com i like, in which the satellite reception turns bad. Charlie is about to "call the man", but Alan knows this is a simple fix. So he gets a ladder, climbs up on the roof, gives it a small adjustment (while his brother downstairs watches the TV and yells instructions) and the picture is easily restored. Alan climbs back down the ladder, the ladder slips.....
Cut to Alan returning from the hospital in a half body cast. His brother is unsympathetic. "You should have just called the man." When friends and family see Alan and hear the story their response is "Why didn't you just call the man?"
I sympathise with Alan. To his credit, he DID fix the TV reception.
Cut to my broken cat door. Simple enough. It just needs 4 screws to put it back in place. It will take minutes.
I sit down with my tools and meagre collection of odd left-ofter screws but soon realise i don't have a necessary cordless power tool. The manual screwdriver is not working. None of my screws are long enough, and don't have lock nuts or washers to fit. The original bits of hardware are long gone, and the plastic holes in the cat-door are worn and torn. With a small degree of frustration at not being able to do the simplest task that requires only the most rudimentary understanding of mechanics and handyman-ness, I call the agent and they call the man.
A couple of days later i come home and the cat door is all fixed. It was effortless, apart from the few days wait. And i think maybe Alan should have just called the man after all, too.
EXCEPT - a closer look - the cat door's been put on backwards. This means the flaps don't work properly, the cat's afraid to use it, and i can't seal it closed at night for security, from the inside.
Have i learned my lesson tho?
No. I wait the couple of days for the weekend when i am sure i can fix it myself in a now that the door is in place with all the proper length screws, washers and nuts. All i need is my phillips head screwdriver. Whip it off, turn it around, screw it back on again. Easy peasy.
Wrong again. Turns out the door was in such bad shape (which is why it fell off in the first place) that the job's been completely bodgied-up. The screws are GLUED in place. I can crack off a couple of them. But by the time i'm at the third one, and have spent a good 20 minutes trying all sorts of pliers, clamps and every other tool in my box on the task, i've completely destroyed the head of the screw and it's barely budged. The level of frustration is making me sweat a little, and curse.
I am forced to give up.
On the plus side. All my fiddling around means the cat-flaps works better now. So at least it's more usable. So.... not a complete waste of time.
On Monday I am going to have to call the man.
Cut to Alan returning from the hospital in a half body cast. His brother is unsympathetic. "You should have just called the man." When friends and family see Alan and hear the story their response is "Why didn't you just call the man?"
I sympathise with Alan. To his credit, he DID fix the TV reception.
Cut to my broken cat door. Simple enough. It just needs 4 screws to put it back in place. It will take minutes.
I sit down with my tools and meagre collection of odd left-ofter screws but soon realise i don't have a necessary cordless power tool. The manual screwdriver is not working. None of my screws are long enough, and don't have lock nuts or washers to fit. The original bits of hardware are long gone, and the plastic holes in the cat-door are worn and torn. With a small degree of frustration at not being able to do the simplest task that requires only the most rudimentary understanding of mechanics and handyman-ness, I call the agent and they call the man.
A couple of days later i come home and the cat door is all fixed. It was effortless, apart from the few days wait. And i think maybe Alan should have just called the man after all, too.
EXCEPT - a closer look - the cat door's been put on backwards. This means the flaps don't work properly, the cat's afraid to use it, and i can't seal it closed at night for security, from the inside.
Have i learned my lesson tho?
No. I wait the couple of days for the weekend when i am sure i can fix it myself in a now that the door is in place with all the proper length screws, washers and nuts. All i need is my phillips head screwdriver. Whip it off, turn it around, screw it back on again. Easy peasy.
Wrong again. Turns out the door was in such bad shape (which is why it fell off in the first place) that the job's been completely bodgied-up. The screws are GLUED in place. I can crack off a couple of them. But by the time i'm at the third one, and have spent a good 20 minutes trying all sorts of pliers, clamps and every other tool in my box on the task, i've completely destroyed the head of the screw and it's barely budged. The level of frustration is making me sweat a little, and curse.
I am forced to give up.
On the plus side. All my fiddling around means the cat-flaps works better now. So at least it's more usable. So.... not a complete waste of time.
On Monday I am going to have to call the man.
Sunday, September 7, 2008
Number 39
I've turned into one of those people who:
Then one day you're talking to someone and listening to the words coming out of your mouth with the horrible knowledge that you sound just like your mother.
- leaves the washing up in the sink until the next morning, or (worse) lets it build up for days
- has piles of paperwork on their desk, undealt with, unfiled
- has uncontrollable email; hundreds of un-filed messages; an inbox i can no longer manage.
- sort of hates email now
- has a dozen partially read books spread around the house
- watches YouTube instead of TV
- has started doing those annoying things their parents did.
Then one day you're talking to someone and listening to the words coming out of your mouth with the horrible knowledge that you sound just like your mother.
Saturday, September 6, 2008
Ex number 38
Everyone Forgets The Lawnmower Man
The morning, light and sunny, feels full of optimistic suburban summery-ness. It makes its usual sounds, and i know i'm in Australia because i hear the trademark laughing of the Kookaburras, and a lawnmower's hum that takes me right back to my childhood and suburban weekend summers.
Except it's not Summer. Not even Spring yet. (This is the new climate i'm getting used to.) And it's not yet the weekend. Instead it's Friday, and i'm just out of the shower, getting ready for work, and thinking, "Kookaburras? On a day like this?"
My dad once told me that if the Kookaburras pass thru the area laughing, they're signalling rain to everyone. Like nature's town criers. It's a quaint legend, i think, looking again at that too-blue-to-be-true sky. Then the mower reaches a sort of crescendo as it passes under my window so i look out and see....
Damn. The washing. The washing that i'd left on the line so the morning sun could dry out those last dampnesses of morning dew. Now the air is filled with a shrapnel of dust and grass-ends and dead leaves. (Why is Brisbane so dusty?) And there he goes, flicking my towel up out of the way so he can mow past. I urgently need to rescue it.
All i'm wearing is a towel so first i have to find something quick to throw on. Amazing how hard it is to find anything that's fit-to-be-seen-wearing-in public when you're rushed. The dirty clothes basket suddenly seems a handy source. (!) (Reminds me of the interesting things i saw people wearing that morning we were evacuated from the London hotel due to fire.)
I don't have time to question what IS he doing exactly? That the lawn is so thin and flat there's really nothing to mow. I run down stairs and do a plausible impersonation of "speed unhanging" where i have to really quickly pull off the pegs and take down the clothes at the same time and throw them in the basket and mostly miss and i just don't have enough hands and.....
The rhythm of the lawnmower sound has sort of stopped. So i stop the unpegging. And i turn my head and see the lawnmower man just standing, smiling, leaning on the handle of his idling mower. Smiling at me. Waiting. Patiently.
Smiling and waiting for me to finish unpegging because i'm standing in his way.
And for some reason i think i need to explain myself.
"I don't want dust in my clothes."
He's un-worried. "I get that a lot. Everyone forgets about the lawnmower man."
I process this as i keep unpegging, and figure that you can' t forget about this sort of thing if it's expected or timetabled. Therefore it must be a regular event.
"You're here every Friday?"
"No."
A pause. I keep unpegging. He's now standing next to me, watching. I'm glad my undies or lingerie weren't in this load.
"It's usually Wednesday"
I want not be one of those people who always forgets the lawnmower man. I don't want dust in my future sun-dried, morning-dew-refreshed washing.
"So i should keep that in mind on Wednesdays."
"No........"
(GOD! Of course not! )
".....It's not always Wednesday."
And, after another pause to think about it, he continued in his deliberate, unhurried way of speaking, to explain the conditions and exceptions that meant it couldn't be guaranteed to be a Wednesday and that even then it might not even be him it might be ..... but my mind and ears shut down there. It was too silly. And a bit creepy. I just wanted to gather my dear little washing and bustle it all safely inside.
No wonder everyone forgets the lawnmower man. He doesn't come on Friday, but he's here today (Friday). And he's sometimes here on Wednesday, but not always, and sometimes it's someone else anyway. And i'm sure it's not always in the morning because i've lived here for months and this is the first time i've seen or heard him.
So .... what's to remember?
Remember to never leave your clothes out on the line overnight - that's what. The lawnmower man could strike at any time. And only when you're not expecting him.
Oh, and dad was right about the kookaburras. It pelted down in the afternoon. So thanks to the lawnmower man, my clothes weren't rained on.
The morning, light and sunny, feels full of optimistic suburban summery-ness. It makes its usual sounds, and i know i'm in Australia because i hear the trademark laughing of the Kookaburras, and a lawnmower's hum that takes me right back to my childhood and suburban weekend summers.
Except it's not Summer. Not even Spring yet. (This is the new climate i'm getting used to.) And it's not yet the weekend. Instead it's Friday, and i'm just out of the shower, getting ready for work, and thinking, "Kookaburras? On a day like this?"
My dad once told me that if the Kookaburras pass thru the area laughing, they're signalling rain to everyone. Like nature's town criers. It's a quaint legend, i think, looking again at that too-blue-to-be-true sky. Then the mower reaches a sort of crescendo as it passes under my window so i look out and see....
Damn. The washing. The washing that i'd left on the line so the morning sun could dry out those last dampnesses of morning dew. Now the air is filled with a shrapnel of dust and grass-ends and dead leaves. (Why is Brisbane so dusty?) And there he goes, flicking my towel up out of the way so he can mow past. I urgently need to rescue it.
All i'm wearing is a towel so first i have to find something quick to throw on. Amazing how hard it is to find anything that's fit-to-be-seen-wearing-in public when you're rushed. The dirty clothes basket suddenly seems a handy source. (!) (Reminds me of the interesting things i saw people wearing that morning we were evacuated from the London hotel due to fire.)
I don't have time to question what IS he doing exactly? That the lawn is so thin and flat there's really nothing to mow. I run down stairs and do a plausible impersonation of "speed unhanging" where i have to really quickly pull off the pegs and take down the clothes at the same time and throw them in the basket and mostly miss and i just don't have enough hands and.....
The rhythm of the lawnmower sound has sort of stopped. So i stop the unpegging. And i turn my head and see the lawnmower man just standing, smiling, leaning on the handle of his idling mower. Smiling at me. Waiting. Patiently.
Smiling and waiting for me to finish unpegging because i'm standing in his way.
And for some reason i think i need to explain myself.
"I don't want dust in my clothes."
He's un-worried. "I get that a lot. Everyone forgets about the lawnmower man."
I process this as i keep unpegging, and figure that you can' t forget about this sort of thing if it's expected or timetabled. Therefore it must be a regular event.
"You're here every Friday?"
"No."
A pause. I keep unpegging. He's now standing next to me, watching. I'm glad my undies or lingerie weren't in this load.
"It's usually Wednesday"
I want not be one of those people who always forgets the lawnmower man. I don't want dust in my future sun-dried, morning-dew-refreshed washing.
"So i should keep that in mind on Wednesdays."
"No........"
(GOD! Of course not! )
".....It's not always Wednesday."
And, after another pause to think about it, he continued in his deliberate, unhurried way of speaking, to explain the conditions and exceptions that meant it couldn't be guaranteed to be a Wednesday and that even then it might not even be him it might be ..... but my mind and ears shut down there. It was too silly. And a bit creepy. I just wanted to gather my dear little washing and bustle it all safely inside.
No wonder everyone forgets the lawnmower man. He doesn't come on Friday, but he's here today (Friday). And he's sometimes here on Wednesday, but not always, and sometimes it's someone else anyway. And i'm sure it's not always in the morning because i've lived here for months and this is the first time i've seen or heard him.
So .... what's to remember?
Remember to never leave your clothes out on the line overnight - that's what. The lawnmower man could strike at any time. And only when you're not expecting him.
Oh, and dad was right about the kookaburras. It pelted down in the afternoon. So thanks to the lawnmower man, my clothes weren't rained on.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
