Dead Cats & Dinosaurs

Old things. That's what you expect when you go to a museum of natural history. Or actually, any museum for that matter. And that's just what we found when we trotted down to the Carnegie Museum of Natural History today.

D and C and myself had a great time. Lots of dinosaur fossils and reconstructed T-Rexes, old dead fish in rocks, and lots of "Cast of ...." old things from Greece. I thought they were real and started snapping away with my bulky digital camera until D wisely pointed out that they were "Casts of ..." meaning quite simply, they were fake. I felt like an idiot and we promptly left that section!

They even have an art museum attached to this old things place of natural history, and in this art museum we saw something very odd. A dead stuffed cat standing on its hind legs holding a placard. But alas, this poor feline was not protesting the war in Iraq or rising oil prices, no. This poor feline - who had obviously just used up its ninth life - was holding a placard that simply read, "I'M DEAD!". Just in case you couldn't tell.

Bizarre. But interesting.

'tis the season

Today was Christmas, all around the world. Kids were singing, snow was falling, and there was general merriment. Okay, so there were no kids singing, and there was no snow falling, but it was Christmas.

This year, Santa was good enough to give me the gifts of time, warmth, and scent. I love Christmas, and before the cynics out there jump down my throat about what Christmas really is, yes, I know, and yes, I remembered.

And very soon, the decorations will come down, and we'll all move on. Our credit cards will need repairing, and we'll need some rest. And just in time for Christmas 2009.

How was your Christmas?

"That" guy

We all know him. We've seen him. Maybe you went out to a nightclub and he was dancing like he was having a seizure. Or maybe you went to a Christmas party and he was the one who was the party drunk.

Last Friday night, we had our office Christmas party. After four too many very heavy-handed gin and tonics, I became "that" guy. Loud. Obnoxious. Saying things I shouldn't have said.

Fortunately, no major, irreparable damage was done to my professional career.

Note to self: next year, drink Sprite!

New Year's Resolution: To Get My Driver's License

I live in Pennsylvania, so the exam shouldn't be too difficult. But just imagined you lived somewhere else - a place with a cultural connection perhaps. How about California? Imagine trying to get your California Driver's License.

For those of you who are not "fortunate" enough to live in California, here is a copy of the California Driver's Exam, and for those of you who do, study really hard. This is a new exam. Since driving conditions (and culture) are unique in Los Angeles, you may not have realized that the California Department of Motor Vehicles has now issued a special application and driver's test solely for the Los Angeles Metropolitan Area.

GREATER LOS ANGELES AREA DRIVER'S LICENSE APPLICATION

Name:___________________
Stage name: __________________
Agent:___________________
Attorney:____________________
Therapist:________________________
Sex: ___male ___female* ___ formerly male ___formerly female ____both
*If female, indicate breast implant size: _______
Will the size of your implants hinder your ability to safely operate a motor vehicle in any way? Yes___ No ___

Please list brand of cell phone: ________.
If you don't own a cell phone, please explain: ________________________

Please check hair color:
Females:
[ ] Blonde
[ ] Platinum Blonde
Teenagers (check all that apply):
[ ] Red
[ ] Orange
[ ] Green
[ ] Purple
[ ] Blue
[ ] Skinhead

Please check activities you perform while driving: (Check all that apply)
[ ] Eating
[ ] Drinking Starbucks coffee
[ ] Applying make-up
[ ] Shaving (male or female)
[ ] Talking on the phone
[ ] Slapping kids in the back-seat
[ ] Applying cellulite treatment to thighs
[ ] Tanning
[X] Snorting cocaine (already checked for your convenience)
[ ] Watching TV
[ ] Reading Variety
[ ] Surfing the net via laptop
[ ] Discharging firearms / Reloading

Please indicate how many times
a) you expect to shoot at other drivers_____
b) you expect to be shot at while driving _____

If you are the victim of a carjacking, you should immediately:
a) Call the police to report the crime.
b) Call Channel 9 News to report the crime, then watch your car on the news in a high-speed chase.
c) Call your attorney and discuss lawsuit against cellular phone company for 911 call not going through.
d) Call your therapist.

In the event of an earthquake, you should :
a) stop your car
b) keep driving and hope for the best.
c) immediately use your cell phone to call all loved ones.
d) pull out your video camera and obtain footage for Channel 9.

In the instance of rain, you should:
a) never drive over 5 MPH.
b) drive twice as fast as usual.
c) you're not sure what "rain" is.

Please indicate number of therapy sessions you go to each week: ______.

Are you presently taking any of the following medications?
a) Prozac
b) Vicodin
c) Lithium
d) Zanax
e) Valium
f) Zoloft
g) All of the above
h) None of the above
*If none, please explain: __________________.

Length of daily commute:
a) Less than 1 hour
b) 1 hour
c) 2 hours
d) 3 hours
e) 4 hours or more
* If less than 1 hour, please explain:____________________.

DRIVER'S LICENSE EXAMINATION

When stopped by police, you should:
a) pull over and have your driver's license and insurance form ready.
b) try to outrun them by driving the wrong way on the 405 Freeway.
c) have your video camera ready and provoke them to attack, thus ensuring yourself of a hefty lawsuit.

When turning, you should always signal your intentions by:
a) using your directional signals.
b) what is a "directional signal"?

Which part of your car will wear out most often?
a) the wiper blades
b) the belts
c) the horn

The "bright" setting on your headlights is for:
a) dark, poorly lit roads
b) flashing to get the car ahead to move out of the way
c) revenge!

Your rear view mirror is for:
a) watching for approaching cars
b) watching for approaching police cars
c) checking your hair

All I Want For Christmas

As the worldwide economy falls sideways into the toilet, I have finally decided upon my 2008 Christmas wish list. And because I am a simple person (although not of the 'simple folk' persuasion), my wishes are easy. This is my list, in no particular order:

- a 2000 square foot yacht with anchoring rights off the coast of Spain

- a flayling commercial airline

- $10,000 worth of GM stock

- a blow-up Santa (don't ask)

- toy Smurfette (don't ask)

- wall-sized poster of Kylie Minogue

- chicken poop lip balm

- a red turtle-neck sweater with the neck bit cut off

- world peace

- the Boney M Christmas CD

- a lime-green sofa

- a leopard print Speedo

- a book deal

- the motivation to write a book about my interesting life

- a fully-paid 2-week vacation in Iran


And there you have it. In no particular order. Happy shopping!

In the Village of Niceties

On Saturday, we trotted off to Valant, also known as the Village of Niceties and All Things Simple.

In the Village of Niceties and All Things Simple, the various craft shops are spelled, "shoppe", and people smile and greet at one another when walking past on the sidewalk. On the odd occasion - because many things in the Village of Niceties and All Things Simple appeared odd on Saturday - a horse-drawn buggy would come past with a woman of the 'simple folk' persuasion behind the stirrups.

The shoppes in the Village of Niceties and All Things Simple sold nice little simple things. Like organic soap. And cinnamon-flavored syrup in a plastic stick. No tall buildings. And lots of hand-crafted wooden furniture. And wine made the olde worlde way.

In the Village of Niceties and All Things Simple, the shoppe keepers greet you with a "Merry Christmas" and not one of these politically-correct "Happy Holidays", and take their sweet time wrapping up your purchases in soft paper. They will also take their sweet time giving you a very in-depth historical breakdown of the region.

One of the stores in the Village of Niceties and All Things Simple was an olde mill. Inside this olde mill it was very colde. The cashier told us they were busy repairing their wood-burning heater. Of course she said this while buddled in a fleece and a hoodie, for verily she was not of the simple persuasion.

The only odd thing about the Village of Niceties and All Things Simple was that I didn't see any children!

Eid Mubarak

I like to think of myself as culturally aware. Not overly PC (because that just annoys the hell out of me, seriously, you have no idea), just culturally aware.

So, in the spirit of culture and celebrations, I'd like to wish all my Muslim friends (and readers) a happy and prosperous Eid. May the blessings of Allah be with you and your family at this wonderful time.

Word is out - we're closed between Christmas and the 5th of Jan

Paid time off is something to be savored. Like good wine. You don't get it often, so when you do you make sure you sip slowly, and enjoy it.

Yesterday our Big Boss told us all that the office is closing between Christmas the 5th of January. Now most of you will be scratching your heads and saying to yourselves (under your breath), "But we ALL get that off," but honestly, you are wrong. Not ALL of us get that time off usually. We were going to be open, pandering to the needs and desires and scruples of our pay check payers. And I had not put in for leave. So, like a dedicated saltminer, I was going to trot into work each day (except for Christmas, the 26th, the 1st, and the 2nd). Instead, I shall be lapping up the lasciviousness of sleeping in late.

Then came the cherry on top. Two weeks pay as a Christmas bonus. What? Seriously? Yes! Well, okay, not for me for I am but a mere peasant who has only been slogging at the walls of the saltmine for just six months, so I get a week's extra pay. But for this, I rejoice. Extra spending dosh. What shall I do with it?

Perhaps buy a flaying airline?

Or maybe an automobile from GM. Oh, wait, no. Not such a good idea.

How about spending it all on a lobster dinner?

Decisions. Too many.

But I definitely know what I shall be doing with my paid time off. Catching up on lots and lots of much-needed sleep.

Jesus for a day

If you read the Good Book, you will come across many, many references of Jesus (or Hey-Soos Christo, if you’re Spanish) performing loads of wonderfully kind deeds. Stilling the storm. Withering the fig tree (I never understood that one). Turning water to wine (I wish I could do that, would be a hit at parties). Walking on water. And my personal favorite, feeding the masses.

Well, on Monday, I was Jesus for a day. A small group of us woke up at sparrow fart, even way before the sun rose, and headed to a local food bank to give out small gift packs to the homeless folk. We collected toothpaste and shampoo and combs, and nail brushes and all sorts of odd things for them. We wrapped them all up into small bags. And gave them away.

Then the once-a-month delivery truck came. We helped offload the truck and pack the food items onto various shelves. Brace yourselves, for here comes another miracle. With the food they receive – which wasn’t very much – they have to feed two people a month.

But if the good Lord can feed 5000 hungry people with five loaves and two fishes, surely we can feed two hundred with about 100 cans of pie filling and apple slices and peanut butter.

Either way, good deed done for the festive season.

Side not to the Big Guy: I hope you’re keeping tabs on this, I’ll need to make a claim someday.

He was wearing a rug

As I trotted off at lunch time today, an unusual-looking man came in my general direction. I subconsciously did a double take. He was wearing a rug. On his head!

Not to sound heartless and callous and generally insensitive to the plight of those who are challenged in the hair department, but come on! This rug was screaming, LOOK AT ME, I'M AS FAKE AS PAMELA ANDERSON'S CHEST!

If you're going to adorn the top of your shining dome with a toupee, invest in a good one at least. This one was crooked. And there was a solid line near his forehead. And it looked like it had been made from a scalped brunette Barbie. Very unnatural. Very unsettling.

And to top it off, I think he had some 'work' done as well. Maybe from the same place where he bought his $2 rug. The reason I did a double take was because this elderly gentleman had a look on his face as though he'd just seen a ghost. Or perhaps his reflection in a nearby reflective mirror. Not sure which. But his skin was pulled tightly back. Very peculiar.

Now before you send me hate mail, allow me to elaborate: I have absolutely nothing against a little nip here, a little tuck there, and maybe a few Botox injections. If we have the know-how, then go for it. If it makes you feel better about yourself, more confident, then a gold star for you. But this was just excessive. And very scary looking. Trust me.

Faster. Work faster.

Twelve job jackets. Two-day deadlines. And one very tired copywriter.

For weeks now I have been worried that the recession axe is going to take a swing and lop off my head, sending me on my not-so-merry way to the unemployment line at the Social Security office. So far that hasn't happened.

What HAS happened is an increase in my workload - which is a very good thing, for it means my landlord shall receive his rent this month and I shall be able to shovel fodder down my pie hole to feed my skinny carcass. But I digress!

I've been working 12-hour days for a couple weeks now. Work, work, work, get the job done. Next. Work, work, work, get that job done. Next. And through it all, I keep a smile for I know I still have a job. But inside, my smile is a frown. I am tired. I am getting irritable. And I need a vacation.

It was recently Thanksgiving weekend here in the gloriously unliberal United States. Did I get to stay at home and eat five fat birds worth of turkey? No. I trotted my tiny butt into work and plugged away at my keyboard to write a 5-minute video script. Then I had to whittle that down to 3 minutes. And in that I had to weave in a conversation, not just a Christmas wish list. This is the only place for me to vent because I would not dare show my upside smile here at work.

No. This is a well-oiled machine and when the work is flowing, I get paid. And when I get paid, things are good. Other people get paid and I do my bit to keep this beaten-to-a-pulp economy working.

Let's see how long I can keep it up. Anti-anxiety meds are helping.

Thou shalst not ...

I came across some rather archaic American laws. Made for some amusing reading so thought I'd share them with you:

Alabama
It is illegal for a driver to be blindfolded while operating a vehicle. (I should bloody well hope so)

Dominoes may not be played on Sunday. (Oh damn, what else is there to do now?)

It is illegal to wear a fake mustache that causes laughter in church. (No dominoes, no laughing in church, Sundays will never be the same)

Alaska
While it is legal to shoot bears, waking a sleeping bear for the purpose of taking a photograph is prohibited. (I hope you can run really fast after waking a bear and taking its photo!)

It is considered an offense to push a live moose out of a moving airplane. (Um, why was there a live moose in a moving airplane in the first place??)

California
Sunshine is guaranteed to the masses. (Gotta love crazy California)

Animals are banned from mating publicly within 1,500 feet of a tavern, school, or place of worship. (And should they start, pray tell, how are we to stop them??)

It is a misdemeanor to shoot at any kind of game from a moving vehicle, unless the target is a whale. (Oh well that just makes the world of difference. Ready, aim, oh shit, how are we going to get that home?)

Women may not drive in a housecoat. (What if the heat is broken and it’s really, really cold?)

Florida
Women may be fined for falling asleep under a hair dryer, as can the salon owner. (Because God forbid you should enjoy a relaxing visit to the hair person. WRM in Cape Town would repeal this law in an instant!)

A special law prohibits unmarried women from parachuting on Sunday or she shall risk arrest, fine, and/or jailing. (What about pushing your wife out of a moving plane on a Sunday? Is that allowed?)

If an elephant is left tied to a parking meter, the parking fee has to be paid just as it would for a vehicle. (Elephants in Florida? Seriously?)

It is illegal to sing in a public place while attired in a swimsuit. (What about whistling? Can I whistle in my swimsuit?)

Men may not be seen publicly in any kind of strapless gown. (Okay, that’s just creepy)

Having sexual relations with a porcupine is illegal. (Illegal AND painful!)

When having sex, only the missionary position is legal. (Legal AND boring)

Georgia
All sex toys are banned. (Best they don’t go through my luggage then!)

It is illegal to use profanity in front of a dead body that lies in a funeral home or in a coroner’s office. (Why? It’s not like they can hear you!)

Donkeys may not be kept in bathtubs. (What if you’ve lost your rubber ducky and want something in the tub with you?)

Kansas
Prohibits shooting rabbits from a motorboat. (What would you be doing so close to the shore anyway?)

Louisiana
It is illegal to rob a bank and then shoot at the bank teller with a water pistol. (Well, that’s just rude)

Indiana
It is illegal for a liquor store to sell cold soft drinks. (Why would anyone go into a liquor store to buy anything other than liquor anyway?)

Liquor stores may not sell milk. (Milk? In a liquor store? Seriously? That's like going to Toys R Us to buy a real gun)

Michigan
You may not swear in front of women and children in the state of Michigan. (But normally they are the ones who make me swear!)

Nebraska
It is illegal for bar owners to sell beer unless they are simultaneously brewing a kettle of soup. (Best they keep that kettle boiling then)

New Mexico
Idiots may not vote. (How about a law prohibiting idiots from running for President?)

New York
A fine of $25 can be levied for flirting. This old law specifically prohibits men from turning around on any city street and looking "at a woman in that way." A second conviction for a crime of this magnitude calls for the violating male to be forced to wear a "pair of horse-blinders" wherever and whenever he goes outside for a stroll. (Don’t look so good and I won’t look again. Problem solved!)

It is against the law to throw a ball at someone's head for fun. (What? But that’s why I do it)
A license must be purchased before hanging clothes on a clothesline. (Fine! I’ll just dry my clothes in my dryer then.)

The penalty for jumping off a building is death. (No shit!)

North Dakota
Beer and pretzels can't be served at the same time in any bar or restaurant. (Then what do you eat with your beer?)

It is illegal to lie down and fall asleep with your shoes on. (What if you pass out from drinking too much beer and not being able to eat anything, like pretzels?)

Ohio
It is illegal to fish for whales on Sunday. (This would be a bit difficult considering there are NO whales in Ohio)

It is illegal to get a fish drunk. (Fish? Drunk? Now that would be funny)

Pennsylvania
A person is not eligible to become Governor if he/she has participated in a duel. (A duel? Like “I challenge ye to a duel” kind of duel?)

It is illegal to have over 16 women live in a house together because that constitutes a brothel. (Isn’t that what sorority houses are?)

It is illegal to sleep on top of a refrigerator outdoors. (Um, and someone would want to sleep on top of their refrigerator because ….?)

Any motorist driving along a country road at night must stop every mile and send up a rocket signal, wait 10 minutes for the road to be cleared of livestock, and continue. (Oh yes, I can see myself being very law-abiding on this one.)

Any motorist who sights a team of horses coming toward him must pull well off the road, cover his car with a blanket or canvas that blends with the countryside, and let the horses pass. (Yeah, this one too. Camo up my car so as not to blind the horses with the shine off the car’s paint.)

Ministers are forbidden from performing marriages when either the bride or groom is drunk. (This should be a law in Nevada)

You may not catch a fish with your hands. (How about with your mouth then?)

You may not catch a fish by any body part except the mouth. (Ah, that’s better)

Dynamite is not to be used to catch fish. (Aw boo, that’s half the fun!)

Texas
It is illegal to take more than three sips of beer at a time while standing. (While standing? Fine, I’ll lie down)

It is illegal to drive without windshield wipers. You don't need a windshield, but you must have the wipers. (You don’t need a windshield? Then what would the wipers be wiping?)

It is illegal for one to shoot a buffalo from the second story of a hotel. (Fine, then I’ll move up to the third floor where I’d probably have a better aim anyway)

It is illegal to milk another person's cow. (Is this a metaphor for my neighbor’s wife?)

A recently passed anticrime law requires criminals to give their victims 24 hours notice, either orally or in writing, and to explain the nature of the crime to be committed. (Oh what a good idea. And would-be criminals will abide by this because they are so law-abiding?)

The entire Encyclopedia Britannica is banned in Texas because it contains a formula for making beer at home. (And that explains why Texans remain as dumb as pig shit.)

Vermont
It is illegal to deny the existence of God. (Guess you’re screwed if you’re a vocal atheist then)

Virginia
Not only is it illegal to have sex with the lights on, one may not have sex in any position other than missionary. (This again?)

If one is not married, it is illegal for him to have sexual relations. (Ah, the whole “sex before marriage” thing, I get it)

You may not have oral or anal sex. (Okay, so only missionary, no lights, no oral, no anal. Maybe I’ll just go celibate!)

Driving while not wearing shoes is prohibited. (How about flip flops?)

It is illegal to tickle women. (Oh God forbid)

West Virginia
Whistling underwater is prohibited. (Would that be akin to farting with your mouth?)

Wisconsin
You must manually flush all urinals in a building. (I should certainly hope so. Can you just imagine the rancid odor if they didn’t flush?)

Butter substitutes are not allowed to be served in state prisons. (So prisoners get to eat real butter while I have to use margarine? Something is not right here)

The simple life

This weekend, I shall be experiencing the simple life. Yes, I shall be going with D&C out to Amish country. No cell phones. No TV. No internet. It will be like stepping 1000 years into the past.

Some interesting things to know about the Amish:

1/. Only outsiders call them "Amish". They refer to themselves as "plain folk"
2/.Two key concepts for understanding Amish practices are their rejection of Hochmut (pride, arrogance, haughtiness) and the high value they place on Demut (humility)
3/. Weddings are typically held on Tuesdays and Thursdays in November to early December, after the harvest is in
4/. In the case of a death, instead of referring to the deceased with stories of his life, and eulogizing him, services tend to focus on the creation story and biblical accounts of resurrection
5/.The Amish stress strict obedience to their children, and this is taught and enforced by parents and preachers (personal note: we could take a lesson from this)

6/. The age for courting begins at sixteen (in some communities, the girl could be as young as fourteen) (personal note: is this because they get bored??)
7/. They can use thermal solar panels
8/. Disabled people are allowed to use motorized wheelchairs; electricity is allowed in the home for medical equipment
9/. Women wear calf-length plain-cut dresses in a solid color, such as dark blue or black
10/. Men typically wear dark-colored trousers and a dark vest or coat, suspenders, broad-rimmed straw hats in the warmer months, and black felt hats in the colder months

Should definitely make for an interesting weekend. I love learning about new things and new customs. WRM, would you like anything from Amish country? A nice frock, perhaps?

Yes, it's been snowing, BUT ...

(Pic taken from D&C's porch this past weekend)


I love the snow. Maybe it's because I'm originally from a beachside city that gets more humid in February than the sweaty crevice between a camel's split cloven hoof. So if I ever wanted to see what resembled snow, I had to trek out to the frikkin' Drakensburg mountains about two hours inland from my little beachside sleepy hollow of a city. And once I would get there, it would look like someone had just sprinkled the tops with sugar. Or that fun white powder that seems to be so popular in L.A. night clubs.

What I guess I'm trying to say is that while people around me bitch and moan about the snow and how it makes stuff difficult to do, we need to remember that snow allows us to do really cool, crazy fun stuff too. Like skiing.

As the winter falls upon us here in North America, much like a dog drops a turd in the park, the various ski resorts start gearing for all the little city slickers who want to escape the maddening crowds and head to the other maddening crowds on the slopes. And soon I too shall be doing this. For the first time. On skis. Going downhill. On snow. Not knowing how to stop.

But we do not have that much snow yet. Which is sad for I would like to:

- build a snowman
- have a snowball fight - and win
- go skiing
- watch people slip and fall (it's funny, I'm not sadistic)
- take photos and listen to my family back in the sleepy beachside city "ooh" and "aah"

Yes, I like winter. Winter gives me every excuse to be pale. And to stay in bed and take naps. And read. And drink eggnog. And more coffee than is humanly possible.

Bring it on. Let it snow, let it snow!

Just a little off the end, please

The story goes that Pinocchio began life as a simple pine log, and was given to a man called Maestro Ciliegia who planned to carve him into a leg for his table. When he began, however, a little voice cried out, "No, don’t hurt me!" Disturbed by the talking log, Maestro Ciliegia continued to carve the piece of wood, when again the little voice wailed its pain. Becoming frustrated and confused, Maestro Ciliegia eventually gave up trying to carve the wood, and gave it to his friend, the carpenter Geppetto, who carved wooden dolls.

As Geppetto carved the puppet, the nose began to grow. As soon as Pinocchio's nose had been carved, it grew with his congenital impudence.

Today, a friend of mine shall be Pinocchio, and a plastic surgeon shall be Gepetto.

Yes, my friend is having her nose tipped, carved, and sculpted. But because the procedure involves a hammer and a chisel to remove cartilage, it is more like carving a wooden nose than I first thought.

And like Pinocchio, my friend is a little worried about feeling pain. Luckily for her, this is not 1883 and the procedure will not be sculpted by a carpenter. These days, they use sharper things and afterwards, they give you happy pills that take away any semblance of pain and instead induce a state of euphoria. The constant tapping around the eyes, however, will induce a bruised look – much like a panda.

But in a few months, I’m guessing her nose will be just the way she wants it. Short. And not wooden. Like Pinocchio’s.

Friday night was Light Up night

For those of you not familiar with this concept - as I was until this past Friday night - Light Up night is the night where the city comes alive. It happens every year at this time.

It's been cold, it's been snowing, and it's been a little dreary. Slowly but surely, Christmas decorations have been going up around the city.

A large Christmas tree here, strings of tinsel along the street poles, and bright lights strung around buildings. And on Friday night, they all came alive.

People braved the cold and came out to watch the tress light up, to be the first to scratch the ice in the newly-opened outdoor skating rink, to bring their kids to see real reindeer.

Coming from South Africa, this is all still such a novelty to me. And this is why Christmas, in my opinion at least, is the most amazing, most alive part of the year.

Why do old things smell funny?

It’s amazing what you can find in antique shops. All you need is time, and patience because you can find yourself wondering around and looking at other people’s old stuff for hours, and STILL not find what you’re looking for. That's if you know what you're looking for in the first place.

That’s why you should not have any pre-set ideas of what you want.

This past weekend, I headed out to Canonsburg with D&C. They are avid antique shoppers and since I have never done the whole, “let me buy some old person’s things” thing before, off we went.

Canonsburg itself is a quaint little place, so it’s easy to see how they would have a row of antique shops there.

We meandered through the little aisles and the cubes of things they had in cabinets and on shelves.

D found an old glass thing that looked like a shot glass – until he explained to me that it’s what people used to use to swish water around in their eyes. How odd. Didn’t they just have eye drops back then? Apparently not.

The only thing I don’t like about antique shops is they smell old. Much like death. I’m in my early 30s so death must keep his distance. But standing in that antique shop, I could see him standing by the door. Scythe in one hand. Cig in the other. He throws back his head in a nod and coolly says, “Howzit, bru.”

*shiver*

I flipped him the middle finger and kept rummaging through dead people’s things.

It was then that I found a smelly 1916 edition of a Rudyard Kipling book. I know it was old because the title sounded like a Shakespearean poem. And it smelled funny. Age and odor for just $8. What a bargain!

Hanging from the ceiling they had beautiful old stained-glass window frames, at beautiful prices. $400 for a small colored window? Seriously? I can stop at the local stationery shop, pick up a few acrylic paints and make my own colored window. Thank you very much. $400 indeed!

How can you say "No" to this face?

Well, I didn't, and neither did two of my new friends.

This past weekend, we opened our hearts - and our wallets - and filled a shopping cart (a 'trolley' for those of you in far off lands) with dry cat food, wet cat food, dog treats, and cat litter. Big bags. Massive. Like if you had to empty them out, you could sleep in them if you so desired. But you wouldn't smell so nice if you did that.

Either way, we then trotted off to the local Humane Society where we did the Christian thing and dropped off all this food for the poor homeless animals at the shelter. The folks behind the counter were most grateful for the donation. And the heavens opened and the skies filled with the angelic sounds of harps!

We couldn't leave without taking a look inside the aptly-named "Cat Room". Inside the "Cat Room" were, well, cats. But surprisingly, not many of them. And mostly kittens. After about five minutes I demanded that we leave for fear that I would take away as many of these cute beasts as I could fit under my sweater (jersey for those of you in far off lands).

Should I have followed through and taken home a furry feline, I wonder what his/her welcome party would consist of, for I already have two of these fine beasts at home. The one would welcome the new addition, perhaps play. The other, well, the other is the demonic spawn of underground evil cleverly disguised in a silver spotted Bengal coat. Would she have welcomed the new addition? Hmmm, not so much. Not unless you consider hissing/spitting/clawing/scratching/biting/back-arching (or a wild combination of these) as much of a welcome. In fact, I think the new addition might not last beyond the night.

And this is why I did not bring home another feline beast. But my heart feels good for at least helping those others. Thanks D & C for jumping in and feeding hungry cats & dogs.

Take 18 of these and if you're still conscious in a month, call me

So I went to the doctor today. Never a fun experience, going to one's doctor.

She started scribbling vigorously in her little prescription pad. She upped my dosage and threw in some Trazodone for good measure because I've been having trouble sleeping. And then a referral for an ENT doctor, and a referral to a dietitian because my BMI is borderline underweight. Visits to my doctor are like Christmas. Giving, giving, and more giving. Fortunately, she is the one doing most of the giving. Who am I to say no to a prescription?

As I'm scooping my long face up off the floor, she asks me if I'd like a flu shot, as if she's handing handing out candy to eager kids. Now not to sound like a 3-year old, but I am terrified of needles. Then I figured winters here are bitterly cold and I don't want to spend weeks in bed feeling death warmed over, I say okay. Sensing her victory, she decides to push her luck:

"While we're at it, would you also like a Pneumonia shot?"

Oh I know, while you're at it, why not just send me to a freakin' acupuncturist, why don't you?! What do I look like, lady? A pin cushion? Easy of the needle happiness there! My arms themselves look like to needles, so watch where you jab that thing.

Four pieces of paper. Two jabs. $10. I love it.

"See me in a month," she says. "Or if they don't work, call me and I'll call you back."

Ya ya, let's see. Just keep those injection things in the drawer. And try not to make your needle glee so obvious.

How about this one?

The next time someone tells you house hunting is fun, beat them for telling lies. For this is not a small white lie. This would fall under the category of large, gargantuan-sized lies.

I have been searching for a new home. And let me tell you, it is NOT fun!

Sure, my current residence is spacious. And modern. It is also a drain on the pocket when it comes to paying my gas bill in the winter. Also, I would not consider fending off the lasciviousness of 'ladies of the night' to be one of my favorite past-times. Neither is smiling and saying "Thanks, but I'm trying to cut back," when propositioned by drug dealers. The final straw that didn't just break the camel's back but rather ripped the poor beast in half were the gun shots I heard. It's like living in the wild, wild west while living on the east coast.

No thanks.

So I have cast my search net wide. I saw an incredible apartment with hard wood floors, a real, genuine fireplace, and a small deck. Unfortunately, the monthly rent and pet deposit was anything but small. Next.

Then I saw two apartments that while it was stipulated had been recently refurbished looked as if they lacked something. Namely security. Since when does a fireplace come with a bedroom? Next.

Then I found it. Perfect. And as I try not to get my hopes too high, I remember its tall ceilings. It's light hard wood floors. Its bay window. Its "all included" headline in the 'For Rent' ad. And it's in a nice tree-lined neighborhood, with a park, and old Victorian houses. And no gun shots. And no prostitutes. And no drug dealers. Too good to pass up. I want it. I must have it. And hopefully I shall.

Stay tuned.

You haven't done your time sheets? Lashings for you.

I've decided that whoever first invented the notion of time sheets was an evil, evil person. An evil, sad, lonely person.

This is, without doubt, the most tedious task of my day. Or as the days pass by, the task becomes the most tedious of my week. And were it not for the constant reminders from my peers and 'higher ups', I probably wouldn't complete my time sheets. It's not that I'm insubordinate, but rather my attention remains focused on the job at hand.

Yes, okay, I realize that clients need to get billed if I expect to get that little deposit slip every two weeks that says my bank account has been brushed with the magic wand of gold-plated tin. For verily, I use those coins to pay my landlord, and the super-friendly folks at the gas and electric companies who also send me little friendly reminders that they too would like some coins dropped into their collection plates. And yet even more coins dropped into the tin plates of the food markets, and the clothing markets, until alas, the coins are all gone. Until my bank account is brushed once again by the magic wand of gold-plated tin. Then it's just like a never-ending cycle.

But I digress: time sheets remain the vein of my existence. Horrible, nasty, time-consuming things.

I want to live my next life backwards

I don't really like Woody Allen. I think he's a wimp. A snivelling, complaining wimp of a man. But I think he might, for once, actually be onto something here:

"In my next life I want to live my life backwards. You start out dead and get that out of the way. Then you wake up in an old people's home feeling better everyday.

You get kicked out for being too healthy, go collect your pension, andthen when you start work, you get a gold watch and a party on your first day.

You work for 40 years until you're young enough to enjoy your retirement. You party, drink alcohol, and are generally promiscuous, then you are ready for high school.

You then go to primary school, you become a kid, you play. You have no responsibilities; you become a baby until you are born.

And then you spend your last 9 months floating in luxurious spa-like conditions with central heating and room service on tap, larger quarters every day and then Voila!

You finish off as an orgasm! I rest my case."

The 'finance monster' is back

He sleeps under your bed (or as in the case of this pic, in your closet - perhaps he is a gay monster) and comes out when you least expect him to.

He recently resurfaced in the form of a letter from my electricity provider. And he had a not-so-nice message about how I wasn't keeping my account up to date.

(insert obligatory monster noise here)

This finance monster has stated that he will be adding $150 to my electric bill next month to top up my initial deposit. Odd, considering that I paid a $400 deposit back in January this year and I only owe about $170 on my electricity bill.

Do you think that will shut the little finance monster up? Hell no! And no matter how hard you try to hide from him, swat him with a rolled up newspaper, or even try coax him into having a chat, he remains fierce and ugly and mean.

I don't like monsters under my bed. Or in my closet. Or behind the door. In fact, other than my two cats, I don't really like anything else with a heart beat in my apartment. Especially when I'm not there. That's just creepy.

Someone lives (lived) here?

So I've been on the apartment hunt because I want to move. And when you look online, you find some very strange things.

One of these strange things was a posting on a site by a landlord in Houston, Texas who took these pics of an apartment where the tenant had not paid rent in over a month. So they went upstairs to leave a reminder note and this is what they found:

Evil thoughts

I think I need to see a professional.

Recently, I've been having bad thoughts. Not evil, dangerous, go-on-a-rampage kind of thoughts, just negative thoughts. I've been angry and and short-tempered. And it's not because of work. I love my work. I love the people. I love this city. So what is it that is making me be so angry?

Honestly, I don't care, but it must go away now. So I started taking my little white happy tablets.

Along with a sense of anxiety, they also have the following wonderful side effects: Drowsiness, diarrhea, loss of libido. I have two of these. Aren't I lucky? But soon, my days shall improve and hopefully the angry thoughts will be vanquished and I shall be a nice person that people want to sit next to at the bar again.

The Secret to a Long Life

A guy taking a walk noticed an old lady sitting on her front step, so he walked up to her and said, "I couldn't help noticing how happy you look! What is your secret?"

She looked up at him and said, 'I smoke ten cigars a day. Before I go to bed, I smoke a nice big joint. Apart from that, I drink a whole bottle of Jack Daniels every week, and eat only junk food. On weekends, I pop pills, get laid, and do absolutely no exercise at all.'

'That is absolutely amazing," replied the young man. "How old are you?'

"Twenty-four," she replied.

Remember, things aren't always what they seem. Be happy with what you have and what you do. And there endeth the lesson for the day.

I finally got one!

I've always wanted a bean bag, if for no other reason than just to say I had one. And now I can. And do.

Work was clearing out the 4th floor and had a whole lot of things to give away. Yes, just give away. As in for free. Take it. Go! Be gone. There were 8 bean bags available. I raised my hand and said I'd take one. Some other greedy farker decided he wanted ALL 8, and was pretty pissed off when he found out I had replied first asking for just one.

Anyway, now I have a bean bag. A nice big red one.

And it takes center stage in my furniture-less lounge. I love it.

I hear voices

But not in that crazy 'need to see a therapist' kind of way. I mean in the way that my job requires me to listen to voice talent for a radio commercial.

The weird thing is that after a while, they all sound the same.

So here's how it works:

You write a radio script, send it off to voice talent managers, they rifle through all the voice talent they have on file and forward voice samples to you that they believe best fits what you're looking for. Then you sit down and start listening to voices.

Maybe you've written a funny radio commercial and the voice type you had in mind was Jim Carey. You'd then tell the voice talent manager that you're looking for a Jim Carey-ish type voice. Young, humorous, fresh. It's all about the adjectives. And the more you give the voice talent managers, the more they can pinpoint the exact voice you're looking for.

But some of them are just so boring. I mean put-me-to-sleep boring! Some of them sound as though they are about to read the morning news. You know the type, the tone goes up and down like gas prices. Almost sing song. And that's not good.

So, let me get back to my voices.

They finally picked a name

While this may very well be MY blog, it is in fact read on occasion by my sister who bore a son last Friday. So I shall reserve negative comments about their choice of name for my one and only nephew to myself so as not to offend anyone.

Oh screw that, I'm entitled to my opinion! Dammit people, of all the names in the world, why, why did you have choose one that's as soft as a feather pillow?

"Hello, my name is Bradley, and yes I have a floppy wrist because I am a poof."

"Hello potential friends on the elementary school playing field. My name is Bradley, but please don't beat me up. Again."

"Hello, my name is Bradley. I like to write rhyming poetry, I drive a hybrid, and I read the Bible frequently. Amen."

Hey, it's their son. They can name him whatever they want. But the cool thing about being the uncle that lives overseas is that I might get to see him once every 3 or 4 years. So I can call him whatever the hell I like."

"My name is Bradley, but my cool uncle calls me Gator!"

"My Mom & Dad call me Bradley, but my uncle in America calls me Ripper!"

"Every 3 years I get a little confused. My parents call me Bradley but my cool uncle who comes to visit sometimes calls me Slasher!"

The name Bradley should be reserved for Missionaries, Life Insurance Salesmen, Librarians, and Botanists. What has my sister done?!

He may not have a name, but ...

he sure does have a cute face! Here's my nephew, just 10 hours after saying, "Peekaboo!".

"He's adorable, what's his name?"

So on Friday, my sister pushed and screamed and cursed as she welcomed a baby boy into the world. Okay, so she didn't push and scream - she had a C-section - but still, I imagine it's quite a thing to have a 7.5 pound 'thing' removed from one's body.

But the joyous part of this birth is not that my young nephew was welcomed into this world on the 8th day of the 8th month in the year 2008, but that when people peer down to look at the pink wrinkle monster and ask, "He is just adorable. What's his name?", my sister looks at them with a blank stare because she doesn't have an answer.

A few weeks ago, she emailed me asking for name suggestions. They knew it was going to be a boy so they wanted to be prepared. I sent her a short list. She liked two of the names I sent. They pondered them for a while.

Then when I asked what his name was going to be, I was told, "Oh, they're letting their 4-year old daughter choose his name."

Oh, okay, well, in that case, world please meet Bubble/Hungry/Kaka/Booboo.

Busy like a bee at the salt mine today

Yes, my friend down in the fairest Cape hit that nail quite squarely on its rounded head when she coined the phrase “salt mine” for one’s work place. For today, I returned from the dead only to find my daily schedule to be rather full.

Deadlines. This is what I work with. Daily. Hourly. And today, I shall be the Deadline Demon as I race against the clock to scribble out basic radio scripts and strategic platforms and other fun things like that.

Everything else has been pushed to the side. Not too far to the side though mind you. They need to stay far enough away that they don’t distract you as you speedily scribble away on your writing pad, yet close enough that you don’t forget that they have this little niggly line with a date that was etched by the hand of God herself.

So before my sharpened HB pencil sets fire to the page upon which I am scribbling, best I take a moment to ponder my existence.

Okay, moment taken. Now back to the grindstone. Time to scribble away. Ferociously.

What does Bronchitis feel like?

If I was forced at gunpoint to make a wild guess, I would have to say it feels a little something like this pic.

Today I went to see my doctor. For verily, one goes to see a doctor when one is not well. I am not well. The friendly doctor asked many questions. Some personal, some not so much. Then I was carted off to have an x-ray.

"I fear you may have pneumonia," she said.

"I assure you I do not," I replied with much fervor.

The x-ray came back. I did not have pneumonia. And I asked if I could pick up MY medical degree on the way out.

"Not so fast, slick," proclaimed doctor of false diagnosis as she scribbled impatiently on her little prescription pad. My eyes lit up - much like the eyes of a kid at Christmas time. For in her hand she held the magic book. Would she tell the friendly pharmacist to give poor, sick me some Prozac? Hardly! Her scribble read "Lexapro", but that's good enough I guess. And she also scribbled some more. On this one, she scribbled the illegible name of an antibiotic.

"You have acute Bronchitis," she claimed triumphantly.

"It burns like hell when I cough," I replied. "So trust me, there's nothing cute about it."

Sick calls

When I fall ill, which is not too often, I return to an infant-like state, requiring constant attention. Either that, or just fill me up with strong antibiotics and let me sleep for 48 hours solid. THAT, my avid readers, in my idea of heaven. But alas, for some, they prefer a more primitive route:

When someone is bed-ridden, homebound, or in the hospital, the priest will make a "sick call" to ensure the person receives the Eucharist -- an especially important duty around Easter time (the priest will hear Confession if necessary). In cases of possible death, he will offer Extreme Unction (in such a situation, call the priest as soon as possible, day or night!). Unction is a separate Sacrament that includes what follows below and also an annointing with Oleum Infirmorum (the Oil of the Sick).

For a regular sick call (i.e., one that doesn't include Unction), call your priest and, when he comes, remember that he will be bringing the Blessed Sacrament, the very Body of Christ. Men should remove any headcoverings, while women should cover their heads (I have no idea why - must be a patriarchal thing), and the house should be prepared accordingly. Now prepare the sick room itself:

Set up a table near the bed in a place where the sick person can see it, and cover it with a white cloth.

Place on the table the crucifix with a lit blessed candle on each side, a dish of holy water, a piece of palm (if you have some) that the priest can use to spinkle the holy water, and a dish of regular water. Some families include a small bell that the priest or sick person rings after Confession is complete (if Confession is received) to summon the family back into the room.

Lay a linen cloth across the breast of the sick person.

When the Priest arrives, meet him in silence at the door while carrying a lit blessed candle, genuflect, and lead him to the sickroom. Kneel, and stay with him and the sick one, offering your prayers, but do leave the room if Confession is to be heard, closing the door behind you. When the priest opens the door again, or rings the bell that some families include with their sick call sets, you may re-enter.

It is good to have a sick call set all ready in your family altar so in case of need you can just grab it. Crucifixes that hang on the wall, but then open up to reveal two small candles and a vial of holy water, and which can be set up on a table can be purchased from Catholic gift shops under the name "sick call sets," but you can make your own.

The Ritual
The priest enters the sick room itself.

V. Pax huic dómui.
R. Et ómnibus habitántibus in ea.

Of course this is said in Latin because Latin cures all ailments.

The priest lays the corporal on the prepared table, places the Blessed Sacrament on it, and sprinkles the room with Holy Water.

Aspérges me, Dómine, hyssópo, et mundábor; lavábis me, et super nivem dealbábor, Miserére mei, Deus: secúndum magnam misericordiam tuam. Glora Patri, et Filii, et Spiritui Sancti.

Translation for non-Latin speakers: "Cleanse me of sin with hyssop, Lord, that I may be purified; wash me, and I shall be whiter than snow, Have mercy on me, O God, according to Thy great mercy. Glory be to the Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy Ghost."

Exáudi nos, Dómine sancte, Paer omnípotens, aeterne Deus: et mittere dignéris sanctum Angelum tuum de caelis, qui custódiat, fóveat, prótegat, visitet atque deféndat omnes habitántes in hoc habitáculo. Per Christum Dominum nostrum.

Very medieval when you have a religious person playing the part of a doctor and rambling off random things in Latin. How do we know that he was not rattling off his shopping list? Butter, bread, deodorant, People magazine, wood polish for my crucifix.

The priest goes closer to the sick person and, if necessary, hears his confession, in which case all others leave the room (if the sick call set includes a bell, family members can be summoned after confession by using it). Afterward, the Eucharist is given as it usually is outside of Mass, but the sick person, if possible, says the "Confiteor" and the "Domine non sum dignus" with the priest.

Confíteor Deo omnipoténti, beátæ Maríæ semper Vírgini, beáto Michaéli Archángelo, beáto Joanni Baptístæ, sanctis Apóstolis Petro et Paulo, ómnibus Sanctis, et tibi, Pater: quia peccávi nimis cogitatióne, verbo et ópere: mea culpa [strike breast] , mea culpa [strike breast] , mea máxima culpa [strike breast]. Ideo precor beátam Maríam semper Vírginem, beátum Michaélem Archángelum, beátum Joánnem Baptístam, sanctos Apóstolos Petrum et Paulum, omnes Sanctos, et te, Pater, oráre pro me ad Dóminum Deum nostrum. [the priest then says the Misereátur].

Okay, now it's this striking the chest thing that has me bothered. If someone is on their death bed, should you really be repeatedly striking them on the chest? Why not just let the poor sick guy go in peace? Nope, make a fist and pound his chest. Maybe there's a lazy Latin demon lurking around, who knows.

First you go pink, then red

So today I went to a tanning salon, because "translucent" is not a color!

The friendly, well-tanned woman behind the counter explained all their packages to me. Level One is for pale ghosts like me. Level Two works the color and gives you some more. And so it goes on until you can choose a level where you end up looking like the back of a leather belt. I went with Level One.

Pasty over here was told that his first session would only be 8 minutes, to work the "base tan" and ready my skin. So in I went, under fluorescent lights, and finally knew what a turkey feels like in an over. Eight minutes later, the buzzer went off and I was done. I looked in the mirror. Nothing. Same ol' pasty.

The leather strip behind the counter told me to come back on Monday for another 8 minutes.

And tonight, now the color is coming through. A nice pinkish red. Yes, I look like a tomato. Okay, not AS red, but still. Maybe I'm just so used being the color of a sheet of paper that any color would show on me.

As long as I get to have some color for the summer, I'll be happy.

They said YES!

The pay check payers said yes. My leave has received the big red stamp. In just six weeks I shall be jetting off to not-so-sunny South Africa. Regular thrill a minute over here, I tell you!

That doesn't mean I've booked or paid for my ticket yet. Crikey, they're about $2000, and who has that kind of cash just lying around - or sitting in one's checking account? Certainly not me. So I shall wait until next pay day - two weeks from now - and dive into my bank account once it has been replenished with green things and pay for my 26-hour debacle across the Atlantic Ocean.

Does this metal monstrosity with wings fly direct to Grab-Your-Gun-We're-Landing-At-Joburg-International? Hell no. It stops off in Senegal. This is not a prescription drug manufactured by GSK. This is in fact a country in Africa.

From the 15th century onwards, poor Senegal has been raped and pillaged by the Portuguese, by the Dutch, and then the British. Finally, the French came out of their drunken stupor caused by the ingestion of copious amounts of champagne - and on their way from a summer getaway in Franschoek - and decided they too wanted a turn.

In Senegal, they speak French. And they are Muslim. And the country has 11 million people. So why on earth does my flight stop in Dakar, Senegal? Is it to reload with African baskets to take down to Jo'burg? I think not. We have our own African baskets, thank you very much. Maybe some of those lovely colorful blankets? Nope, we have those too.

My only thought is that perhaps the pilots need a bit of shut-eye before trekking on down the Dark Continent. Yes, that must be it.

Either way, it's a long flight. I don't like long flights. I hope they serve copious amounts of booze. Perhaps I can drink myself into an alcohol-induced coma, stumble off the plane in Jo'burg, dodge a bullet or two, board another plane and land just slightly intoxicated. Yes, my family who hasn't seen me in over three years would be thrilled. Not to mention I'd look and smell like shit!

Oh hell, Ambien it is then!