tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-68338965079973585992024-03-21T09:33:22.072-07:00Atticus saysAtticushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00114487689273263743noreply@blogger.comBlogger31125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6833896507997358599.post-23992497168670406262012-09-05T09:38:00.002-07:002012-09-05T09:38:54.928-07:00Noodle arms and flat noses<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
How many kinds of push ups do you think exist?<br /><br />a) Twelve<br />b) Two<br />c) Twenty seven<br />d) Way, way, way too many<br /><br />I
recently discovered, much to the agonizing distress of various muscle
groups, that the answer is, without a shadow of doubt, 'd'. <br />
<br />A group of friends and I decided to try out the P90x exercise
program. I discovered quickly that having the upper body strength of a
wet noodle is incompatible with this exercise regimen. The trainer
orders you to the floor once every four seconds and cheerfully exhorts
you to do a gadzillion push ups. The first time I tried this out I
completed a third of a push up. I raised myself a scant millimeter off
the floor and then unceremoniously thumped back down again. My arms
wrote a strongly worded letter threatening divorce. My friends took pity
on me and introduced me to cheaty-ups. These are the ones in which you
put your knees on the floor and then do push-ups. In cheaty mode there
was no stopping me. Before you could say 'Muscles' I was doing two
push-ups without breaking a sweat. Then the instructor added variety -
pushups with your hands close together, pushups with your hands really
far apart, pushups with your hands placed on the mat such that your
index fingers and thumbs form the shape of a diamond, pushups to the
side, pushups with your feet on a low bench, pushups with your feet wide
apart, phoenix pushups (These ones were the worst. I got into the
starting position and then entirely failed to move. It did not matter
which muscles I strained and pushed and willed - I did not move at all. I
had to remind myself that I was on a rock hurtling through space, so
technically I _was_ moving. At that point I decided to take
advantage of the situation and snuck in a wee nap). Having exhausted
all possible permutations and combinations of hands and feet, they played around with timing. Go
down on four counts, back up on four counts. Do four fast. Do six slow.
Push ups to the rhythm of the waltz. Push ups in the scale of C. Of
course, I was still manfully doing two of each kind. But that isn't the
point. For the other eight thousand reps I had to lie on the floor,
flopping around like a beached fish, shedding every last vestige of self
respect and self worth. Just when I thought that I had scraped the
bottom of the humiliation barrel, they suggested that I incorporate
applause into my push ups. I had to push myself up, sneak in a clap and
then lower myself gracefully to the mat. I learned that if you don't clap fast enough, this
exercise involves landing on your nose. This move is called the
anti-occhio. If you don't exercise enough, your nose shrinks. And
everybody who takes one look at your face can see it. The last straw came when they suggested that I
attempt a one handed push up. I pushed myself all the way up and walked
away.</div>
Atticushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00114487689273263743noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6833896507997358599.post-78737778190207616672012-08-31T15:00:00.000-07:002012-08-31T15:00:05.511-07:00Keeping 'up' with the Joneses<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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HWIL and I dwell in a high rise building whose pants are so fancy that
they have been known on occasion to take tea with the Queen of England.
Our building is all new and shiny. It has free (and compulsory) valet
parking. A doorman. The fanciest earthquake proofing outside of Tokyo.
Bells and half a dozen whistles. And our apartment has views like this:</div>
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<img border="0" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgw9KC945yQqZSLpD2mTHDEus1COX3h0LNwpze87kx_c58JgxYlsZXtdKPTowJlybwhGCymnXULV2UvdDeNCeAGzCgGGiyFgLK4XZo31__A9DORemkPlTnv6IY-Qj12X8TJZvbptmGjPyg/s320/image.jpeg" width="320" /> </div>
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and this: </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLzv6Nd3WBnnFZ7Wl0j4fQx0CCQmo8BiNCPk819SB-NijI2yKlli4Zt9xCrbIsuXn1tYqYOIzY-FCxI6S_1uS6ifSr2Cgym4ETW50lpczg4NYgRg5OI8D7BkyTe_AMdy28mqFmt9PRCL8/s1600/image_1.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLzv6Nd3WBnnFZ7Wl0j4fQx0CCQmo8BiNCPk819SB-NijI2yKlli4Zt9xCrbIsuXn1tYqYOIzY-FCxI6S_1uS6ifSr2Cgym4ETW50lpczg4NYgRg5OI8D7BkyTe_AMdy28mqFmt9PRCL8/s320/image_1.jpeg" width="320" /> </a></div>
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And on days on which I _really_ want to show off to a guest who is visiting our home for the first time ever, views like this: </div>
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None of these things are the best part of living here. That honor is
reserved for Elevator Emperor.<br />
The game controls look like this:<br />
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The way it is played is:<br /><br />Step 1: Enter elevator.<br />Step 2: Hit your floor number.<br />Step 3: Wait for all other gamers to complete steps 1 and 2.<br />Step 4: Allow elevator doors to slide smugly shut and await the coronation.<br />
<br />If your floor is the highest, you are crowned the E. of the the E. and
all minions must bow and scrape before you and bend to your superior will. In
my experience, the tighter you close your eyes, the more effectively
they grovel. On days on which the crown does not adorn your brow, do not be disheartened. You can play Snob instead. If someone lives more than eight
floors below you, they are so low on the social scale that as far as you are concerned they don't exist (Unless they say hello, ruining everything. In which case you smile and exchange pleasantries and when they are done being social you can proceed with your game of Snob). You avoid eye contact and raise your
nose just ever so slightly. Press your lips together just so. (Dogs are exempt. You can, and should, _always_ pet the dog - unless it is a rat pretending to be a dog. We have those too). From eight floors below you to eight floors
above you, these folks are your peers. A slight smile, a nod, even a few
words of conversation are permissible. Folks who live more than eight
floors above you are snooty little pricks who think they are better than
you are for no good reason and you must seethe resentfully (but quietly
and respectfully) in their presence.<br />
<br />It is the little victories that make life worth living. </div>
Atticushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00114487689273263743noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6833896507997358599.post-69475430417575453952012-08-19T20:26:00.001-07:002012-08-19T20:26:43.308-07:00Being a boa constrictor<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Today was the San Francisco Street Food Festival. I ate the equivalent of my own body weight and am now going to have to toodle off and hibernate for a bit. In my defense, I couldn't help myself. The food was yummy, there was so much of it (80 vendors) and I didn't want any any region of the world to feel slighted. <br />
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HWIL and I started out coupons in hand, stars in our eyes and growls in our stomachs. I was immediately rendered helpless by choice paralysis. Every time HWIL asked me if I wanted to eat at a particular stall, I felt compelled to say no - the next stall might be better, or the next, or the next. HWIL got hungrier, and grumpier and that made me grumpy and before we knew it we were both running for the position of mayor of Grumpytown. Luckily, before the votes could be counted, we found ourselves at the Hapa SF stall. Filipino food to the rescue.<br />
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We ordered the Lumpia Shanghai - deep fried spring rolls filled
with ground pork, carrots, onions, water chestnuts and garlic - and a
peach basil soda to go with it. All of these offerings from Hapa were endowed with satisfying amounts of yumminess and I am pleased to report that Grumpy dissolves in Lumpia.<br />
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Our next stop was To Hyang. The proprietor, Hwa Soon, was born in Korea
and now, with the help of her family, whips up Korean food in the city. <br />
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Their offering at the food festival was spicy pork ribs. The ribs were
not really spicy, but they did fare well on the yumminess scale.<br />
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The next dish that we set upon was jambalaya (by Good Foods Catering). This was mediocre and I was resentful of it occupying much needed room in my stomach. I wanted to charge it rent.<br />
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crayfish and corned beef) was weird and yummy. The Bissap (a drink made
from hisbiscus, vanilla and pineapple) was good too. This surprised me
because I normally can't stand the cloying sweetness of pineapple.<br />
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Six! At the tender age of six! When I was sixteen I asked my mother if I should use a potato peeler to peel an onion and she has never let me hear the end of that.<br />
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Dessert at the Three Twins stall was next - bittersweet chocolate (ok) and mint with chocolate (yum). That marked the end of round one.<br />
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We inaugurated round two with cocktails and chased those down with Takoyaki by Nombe Izakaya. Nombe means "someone who likes to drink heartily" and an Izakaya is a "Japanese drinking establishment which also serves food to accompany the drinks". Oh, and Takoyaki is octopus.<br />
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Our last food stop was at Zella's Soulful kitchen for some chicken sliders. Zella is the name of the proprietress's grandmother - her grandmother taught her to cook when she was eight. I am not even sure I could tie my shoelaces at that age.<br />
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We washed this down with Su Gung Ka, a drink made of permisson, ginger and cinnamon and then curled up into little balls and rolled all the way home.<br />
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Atticushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00114487689273263743noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6833896507997358599.post-87695572957507981392010-05-07T06:32:00.000-07:002010-05-07T06:56:50.029-07:00JamA friend's mother died recently. A sudden death, a death of one too young. My friend told me about those last few days, her mother on a ventilator, in an intensive care unit, tracheotomy in place. She said that her mother used the written word to communicate. Two days before she died, her mother frantically signaled for her notebook and wrote the word 'Jam'. Faced with the collective incomprehension of her near and dear, she explained that by her calculations (she had been hospitalized for close to a month by this time) the supply of jam in the house must be running low and needed to be replenished.<br /><br />Jam. What clearer indication of a life well lived? If ever I find myself in critical care, forced to live on what may well be borrowed time, this is what I would wish for myself. May I live my life such that at the end of it my one concern is jam. That I have no regrets but that the level of jam in the jar may slip below whats acceptable and there will be no one to notice. That I have loved so well, there is nothing left unsaid. That if I have children, I have done such a good job with them, that if my only message to them is top up the jam jar, they will want for nothing.<br /><br />To all those out there whom I love, and even those whom I just about like - here's wishing you a jar of strawberry jam on your death bed.Atticushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00114487689273263743noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6833896507997358599.post-63676208516460106362009-09-29T11:51:00.001-07:002010-05-12T16:01:02.276-07:00The celebrated Zem<span style="font-style: italic;">Welcome to the latest installment of my Spot The Difference series of posts. Once more, I call your attention to one of the many charming differences between life in India and the USA.</span><br /><br />In the country of my birth mattresses are discreet creatures. They lurk shyly on beds across the nation. They do not intrude. One could go a lifetime without spending more than an hour thinking of a mattress. Mattresses here are a different breed. They are in your face. I defy you to listen to your radio for more than an hour without having some cheerfully aggressive soul tell you all about the fantastic deals on mattresses that are yours for the asking - and the first 3 years of financing is interest free! Um, what? I need to buy a mattress on a monthly plan? And grow old paying it off? And it is not made of gold leaves? If I die, do my progeny take up the burden? Are there family feuds over mattresses when granny dies?<br />Mattress stores abound. No, the word 'stores' does not begin to cover it. Emporium perhaps? Or gallery. Anyway, they abound. There are eleven of them within a five mile radius of me. Here is an excerpt from an online review of someone's mattress buying experience:<br />"I dreaded the experience of buying a new mattress after the heavy-sell experience I've received in the past - just as bad as trying to buy a car"<br />A car! The mind boggles.<br /><br />They must be throwing a party on Squornshellous Zeta.Atticushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00114487689273263743noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6833896507997358599.post-76740879894614560242009-08-05T23:46:00.000-07:002009-08-06T00:36:54.044-07:00The cursing of the seedsA perfect world would be a world sans papaya seeds. I am fond enough of the fruit. I have nothing against papaya trees, you understand, long may they grow and greenly prosper. I would, however, prefer that Mr. and Mrs P. Tree manage to make their gorgeous babies without the seeds.<br /><br />I find that I cannot adequately describe my feelings for papaya seeds. Words fail me. However, smoke signals fail me more, so I will manfully make do with words. Papaya seeds fill me with deep disgust. My reaction to the black mass of them clinging glutinously together is visceral. Every fibre of my being revolts against the abomination of their existence. I would rather embrace, and lovingly at that, the slimiest, wartiest, most tentacle prone creature from the very worst alien movie of your choice than have to gaze upon papaya seeds. I could run on and on. I'll spare you though. The long and the short of it, neatly summarized for those of us who are slower on the uptake than the rest, is that I dislike papaya seeds a tad more than your average Joe.<br /><br />What provoked this spew of venom, you ask? I was ambushed by the seeds. Being a reasonable person, I came to terms with the fact that though I find said seeds repulsive and nauseating, they probably do not deserve immediate extinction. It takes all kinds. All I asked was that we keep to our own corners, the seeds and I. Half the earth for me, the rest of the planet for them to gad about in, doing whatever distasteful thing it is that papaya seeds do in their spare time. I bought seedless papayas and raised a glass to their happy sterility. This happy state of co-existence came to a grinding halt last week when I slit open the fruit and was greeted by multitudes of the enemy, smugly, stomach-churningly, foully grinning back at me. A dastardly act. If it's a fight they want, we'll give them a fight. A call goes out to all good men to come to the aid of the party. Etc.<br /><br />It turned out though, that having grimaced and delivered the seeds into the dustbin, repeating the mantra of yuck all the while, I was hard pressed to actually draw up war plans. My army was surprisingly tiny. And I make an excellent general but a surprisingly poor grunt. So I settled for this rant instead. May they know no happiness in this world or the next.Atticushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00114487689273263743noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6833896507997358599.post-34987429299984270172009-08-02T21:54:00.000-07:002009-08-02T22:24:01.440-07:00A conversational toolCoffee conversation this morning, over the hissing of the steam machine.<br /><br />"They have a prompt"<br />Somewhat hungrily, a touch of greed, "A plum? Who has a plum?"<br />"Plum? No, prompt, a prompt"<br />Definite grumpiness at the withdrawal of the possibility of a snack, "Who does?"<br />Impatience creeping in, "They do"<br />"Who? Oh they? They have a prompt!"<br /><br />There is a lesson to be learned here. An important lesson about human communication.<br /><br />The power of repetition. Don't knock it till you've tried it. The next time someone does not appear to comprehend some piece of wisdom that comes sailing out of your mouth, don't bother rephrasing, paraphrasing or explaining. Just repeat the same sentence. Again. And again. And yet again. You can try varying the volume if you get bored. Play around with the emphasis. On each repetition give a different syllable its day in the sun. Experiment with tone. Or pitch. The success rate of this tactic will surprise you.<br /><br />I've given it some thought. Here's why this technique is successful:<br /><br />a. Headphones. The noise associated with modern living. Ear wax. People hear less than they used to. Its not that they don't comprehend, they just did not hear. Give them a second chance.<br /><br />b. People are lazy. It takes effort to actually listen. To pay attention. To analyze what someone has said, to rummage in the attic of your head for some forgotten context, to snap out of your pleasant daydream and be dragged kicking and screaming back to the hallway conversation. People try and make you do all the hard work, provide the frame of reference, perhaps throw in a little joke to make it more palatable, work on an analogy. The greedy ones will even expect a metaphor to be included in the package. Repetition is your defense. It forces your audience to do their share of the work.<br /><br />c. People are not always smart. Sad, but undeniably true. It has to be said. If your audience belongs to this category, repetition might be the best tool in your arsenal. It requires little effort on your part (you can plan your grocery shopping list, recite poetry in your head, try to find a word that rhymes with retard - all while you say the same sentence out loud sixteen times). This gives the slower ones time to catch up with the conversation.<br /><br />Try it. And remember to be appropriately grateful when it works.Atticushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00114487689273263743noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6833896507997358599.post-86615763637655408962008-10-14T14:30:00.000-07:002009-09-29T11:50:11.683-07:00Shiny happy peopleBack home, I smiled when I was happy. And if not happy, at least marginally glad about something. This was not an anomaly, you understand. I was safely within the bounds of normal. Here though, I have to smile all the time. Every single person you pass by will grin maniacally at you and inquire after your health and well being. Strangely though, they are not particularly interested in your response. This is a good thing, because minutes tick by as I attempt to force my expression into submission and then threaten my throat with a licking it will never forget if it does not formulate an inane response in the next thirty seconds. By this time the grinner is usually fifty yards away and getting smaller by the second. Its exhausting, pretending to be a beam of sunshine the livelong day, especially if you don't have a naturally sunshiny disposition.<br />If I smile one more time today I swear my smile is going to turn on me and attempt to bite.Atticushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00114487689273263743noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6833896507997358599.post-8404704109503371752008-10-13T15:58:00.000-07:002008-10-13T16:50:46.300-07:00An embarassing start to the weekIt was a lovely day until suddenly it wasn't. I was in the best of moods, an oddity given that it was Monday morning and I had not yet partaken of the morning cup of coffee. I breezed into a gas station (did you notice how localized I've become? I didn't even think petrol pump, I promise), leaped out of my car and started with 'gas dispensing process step one', also known as opening one's fuel tank. I then realized that I had left the engine running, so reverse darted to shut off said engine. Imagine, if you will, my chagrin, my horror, my dismay that knew no bounds when I discovered that I had locked myself out of the car. Lets recap, so that you can fully grasp the situation:<br />a. Car<br />b. Running engine<br />c. At the pump, preventing any other car from filling fuel<br />d. Locked<br />e. All windows up<br />f. Keys firmly in ignition<br />g. Me, bearing an uncanny resemblance to the village idiot<br />Oh, I called for help, and help duly arrived, forty minutes later. But those are forty minutes I would not want to relive in a hurry. First, there was blind panic. I am very good at blind panic. Headless chickens have nothing on me. Once I tired of this, I ran hither and tither from fabled pillar to well known post. Long phone conversations ensued - with automated voice systems, with a helpful person from my car rental company and finally with a representative of Chevrolet. The only happy moment was when the Chevy rep did her best to make me feel smart again. Having taken down all the details of my situation and my location, she asked, "So will you and the vehicle stay in this location until help arrives?". Ummmm....yes? While I waited for my saviour to make an appearance, I attempted to act nonchalant around my car. I leaned against the car and stared into the distance (pose sustainable for 40 seconds), cleaned my car windows (good for upto 4 minutes), walked around the gas station (excellent move - took me away from the waiting line giving me the evil eye, and ate up nearly 5 minutes), fiddled busily with phone (6 seconds) and gulped nervously like a fish (2 minutes). Having run out of ideas, I went back to what I was apparently best at - my retard impersonation.<br />Eons later, a perfectly nice man named Ed rescued me. The nightmares will last a lifetime.Atticushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00114487689273263743noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6833896507997358599.post-35058511369778264272008-10-07T16:43:00.000-07:002009-09-29T11:50:40.113-07:00Living with an uncomfortably full bladderIf I was to ask you, politely of course, to drop your pants in full view of random strangers, my guess is that you would politely decline and proceed to eye me askance for years to come. Strangely enough, this seems to be the norm in restrooms in California and as far as I can tell nobody is being given the good old askance look. In a public toilet in this sunny state, the cubicles are built with as little material as possible. They stop a good foot above the floor. They miss the ceiling by a multitude of feet. And then there are the doors. These doors refuse to have anything to do with the rest of the cubicle. Clearly superior, they stand aloof, making minimal contact with all that surrounds them. The end result is something like this:<br />1. Frame<br />2. Hinge<br />3. 1 to 1.5 inches of air, bridged by aforesaid lonely hinges.<br />4. Door<br />5. Repeat inches of air<br />6. Frame<br />On close observation one would notice that all the other doors in the state are on talking terms with their frames. They fit snugly. All is peace and harmony. In the restrooms however, door and frame are perpetually estranged. the interval of a movie at a theatre, for example, you could choose to empty your bladder. If you are so inclined, you could also observe any number of strangers indulging in this same act. You can bond and not feel lonely. You could slide notes to the person in the next cubicle, or even a cow, if you were willing to squeeze said cow just a tad.<br />Call me a prude, but I am carrying a full bladder around with me much more than I used to.Atticushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00114487689273263743noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6833896507997358599.post-87916941203270287932008-09-24T17:25:00.000-07:002008-09-24T19:12:46.708-07:00I miss OrkutI used to be a happy member of a networking community called Orkut. I logged on once every week or so, bade friends hello, pointedly ignored any slimes who had oozed out of the woodwork and wished to 'make friendship' me, exchanged snippets of gossip and oohed over photos of wrinkly newborn babies. It was a nice, relaxed lifestyle. Then blew the winds of change. Friends and acquaintances alike starting dropping off the edge of Orkut. There even appeared to be an unprecedented dearth of slimes on the horizon. The mails started to make an appearance, first a trickle, then a deluge, rapidly swelling to an ocean - all requesting one to make oneself available on Facebook. The party had moved. Bother, I thought. How annoying. Annoying it may have been, but one tires of talking to oneself in cyberspace, even though one's company is rather scintillating. So off to Facebook-land I went. I may or may not have been tripping merrily along at this point, but that is neither here nor there.<br /> All merriness soon went its merry way down the toilet. Facebook turned out to a bewildering and belligerent. It was the rave party response to Orkuts English high tea. I had been tagged in photos, I was informed. People were considering poking me, some of them who not above a week ago would have politely offered me a muffin. Someone had sent me a 'how kinky are you' request! I was not sure I wanted to explore what that meant. Did I wish to calculate my bmi? Would a grammar test interest me? A vampire had bitten me. I was encouraged to join someones entourage. Werewolves tempted me to join their pack. Someone threw a sheep at me. One sympathizes with the poor, woolly nitwit. At this point, I felt like its dumber cousin. Had I ever considered becoming a pirate? Did I wonder if friends and neighbours nursed secret, stalker style crushes? Now was the time to figure out my 'true name'. And my personality type (I already know the answer to this one - the type that prefers having their toenails pulled out rather than spend time in Facebook). And the kind of drink I am. Also the kind of dog I am. And would I like some flowers? Or a drink? Was I suddenly possessed by an urge to impersonate Santa Claus?<br /> I fled. I sneak in, every couple of months, dodge the sheep and leave hurried and somewhat incoherent scribbles on people's Walls. I never go at night. The vampires scare me.Atticushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00114487689273263743noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6833896507997358599.post-78416925358629573682008-09-22T19:20:00.001-07:002008-09-22T19:58:07.646-07:00Dantes InfernoI'm being very good about blogging now. You know that old saw - strike when the guilt is hot. Good wisdom, that.<br />I have decided that I am going to be very good from now on, angelic even. What brought on this determination to turn over a new leaf, nay an entire tree, you ask. I glimpsed hell. And I don't want to go back. Hell is a twenty two hour economy class flight replete with screeching babies and seats that stubbornly pretend that the concept of angles other than ninety degrees is alien to them. Hell is being infernally sleepy but unable to drop off because you might just miss your next meal and the good Lord knows when more food is to be had. Hell is dying to go to the rest room but feeling so terribly awkward about discussing this pressing, personal need with the sleeping stranger next to you who is playing the role of the boatman when your bladder is filled with the Styx. When you do finally battle your way to said restroom, you will be charmed to discover that it was designed for the Lilliputs and you, in fact, are Gulliver's cousin on steroids.<br />Abolish hard labour, I say. Just sentence those hardened criminals to a lifetime of coach travel. God help me, if I have to do this again anytime soon, I will turn into a hardened criminal with the blood of a smug business class traveler on my hands. And no, I will not feel guilty. There is just so much we can be called upon to bear and my middle name isn't Job.Atticushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00114487689273263743noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6833896507997358599.post-63730397319793482472008-09-21T18:39:00.000-07:002008-09-21T19:14:40.656-07:00All my bags are packedYes, I know. Its been months. I have a brilliant excuse though, this time around. I have been consumed by the logistics of moving from one country to another. You have to admit that thats a good one. Worth being consumed by.<br />Lets start at the very beginning, I've been told that thats a very good place to start. Visa stamped, it was time to get organized about the Big Move. I started by doing my world renowned headless chicken impersonation. The next step was to make a List. This started out well enough. When the list started to run longer than the begats in the Bible, I reverted to said headless chicken impersonation. This time around I went for the grander production - 6 headless chickens lashed together smashed out of their scrawny, spouting necks. <br />Eventually I calmed down enough to start to frantically do things - crack-addict-like I lived for my next hit, a nice, juicy tick mark on the List. Days sped by in a blur of happy ticks. Miraculously though, the list of things stubbornly unticked got no shorter. The only possible theory was that every time I turned my head the lascivious items on my list went at it like bunnies and produced millions of baby unchecked list items.<br />Oh and lets not forget the packing. It seemed simple enough. Pick up an item (or stare at, if said item is large and you are not unduly prejudiced towards hernias) and decide if parting with item will cause you cry a salty lake. If so, add to pile 'a'. If not, reject to unloved pile 'b'. An excellent formula. Right up until the time that I found this little black plastic rectangle encased in a little white plastic case. I had no idea what it was. It looked important. Smug, even. I created the I have no idea what to do with you pile (aka 'c') and moved on, rapidly discovering that his black smugness had brothers, sisters, second cousins and grouchy aunts.<br />So, my bags were packed (with pile 'a', now fondly called mountain 'a' and pile 'c', not so fondly called the what the f*** are you pile) and I was ready to go.<br />And so, following in the shoes of Marvin K Mooney, I went.Atticushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00114487689273263743noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6833896507997358599.post-45042711166272217822008-06-24T08:46:00.000-07:002008-09-23T21:39:47.279-07:00I smell dead thingsIt was a Monday evening and time to head home. I tripped merrily to my car which was parked in the basement of the building that houses my office. Actually, I have never tripped merrily anywhere, the only tripping I have done is the kind that ends with my nose touching terra firma firmly, but I have always wanted to trip merrily, so in this story I shall. My merry tripping came to an abrupt halt some distance from the aforesaid vehicle. The ghastly smell of decay was in the air. I peered around the dim crevices of the basement trying to spot the carcass. My investigation was brief as by now I was holding my breath and was not keen to risk keeling over. Secure in my car, I turned on the air conditioner as high as it could go and high tailed it home.<br /> Cut to early Tuesday morning. I approached my four wheeled friend again, this time with the object of getting to work. Needless to say, I tripped along merrily. And there it was again. The stench of gruesome murders too long undiscovered. Let me tell you that few things put a kibosh on merry tripping as effectively as an assault on your nose by things long dead, but dreadfully unburied. While I reeled in disgust, I also did some quick thinking. The result of the quick thinking was this: it was mightily suspicious that both parking lots - home and office - smelt so disgustingly alike. I therefore proceeded to feel mightily suspicious and set off to work with a cloud of distrust above my head. The wheels kept turning, Sherlock-like. What were the common factors between Monday and Tuesday? The car and me. And I was pretty darn sure that I wasn't a zombie nor was I wont to carefully preserve dead rats in my pockets. That left a single prime accused.<br /> On Tuesday evening when the evil odour persisted and all merry tripping was out of the question, I knew I needed help. I called a friend and said a sentence I never imagined I would be called upon to say, "I think there's something dead in my car". Later that night, armed with torches, we strip searched the car and found a big fat nothing. In the face of the snickering disbelief of my so-called friend I stuck to my guns. We decided to explore the engine. We stuck the light hither and non, in places were no light was meant to be stuck and then, suddenly, my light lit upon a staring eye. I shrieked, outdoing eight women in simultaneous labour.<br />Here is what we discovered, nestled cozily in my engine - the head of a fish, a tiny bone (but not that of a fish), and en empty packet that used to contain bread in days bygone. This is going to be one of the great mysteries of my life.Atticushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00114487689273263743noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6833896507997358599.post-17010332235424120302008-06-24T07:15:00.000-07:002008-12-10T04:58:16.710-08:00Why I smiled today<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxBiOW-hFZh3rM2cX-xUH6dNN090FGcvBbWhCWCgjMzmW6BaelAapAMLwTfi7bb1NQkZ0mnA7eQ5lah8s8IiCxP1E2NhKNb0dOeO9CdflDQdTSTQz90A61UoxaiOIZLHf9ZVo6QOablIs/s1600-h/cow+spencer.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxBiOW-hFZh3rM2cX-xUH6dNN090FGcvBbWhCWCgjMzmW6BaelAapAMLwTfi7bb1NQkZ0mnA7eQ5lah8s8IiCxP1E2NhKNb0dOeO9CdflDQdTSTQz90A61UoxaiOIZLHf9ZVo6QOablIs/s320/cow+spencer.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5215453040382650402" border="0" /></a><br />I drove out of my front gate this morning and this is what I saw. Sometimes the universe conspires so that you have to start your day with a smile.<br /><br />And since the picture is in the running for being the tiniest in the history of mankind, perhaps a small explanation would not be out of place. There's a supermarket opposite the gate of my house and the picture shows a cow halfway up the stairs to the store, peering inside with decided curiosity and more than a glimmer of hope.Atticushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00114487689273263743noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6833896507997358599.post-48616740395208567742008-06-24T04:30:00.000-07:002008-06-24T04:32:26.906-07:00Rules of the lapI recently heard about a friend of a friend who was mugged. It was a traumatic experience for her and one that I wouldn't wish on my worst enemy. Well, thats probably not really true. The detail that stuck in my mind though, was this - the mugger sat on her lap.<br /> It was past ten in the night. Accompanied by a friend, sated post dinner, she sauntered to their car. As they got in, they were beset by a pair of villains who held knives to their respective necks. Villain1 poked the driver in the neck, insisted that the door be opened and valuables of every description be handed over to him. Villian2, not wanting to be outdone, replicated the rude thrust of his compatriot against the neck of our heroine. This is where things get strange. Once Villian2 had convinced our heroine that opening her door post haste was the wise thing to do, all considered, he then proceeded to get into the car and sit on her lap. Having done so, he did not attempt any lewd behaviour - well nothing lewder than the act of sitting on a stranger's lap. He just sat on her lap and robbed her blind. Having relieved her of all things that he considered valuable, Villian2, duly accompanied by his faithful companion Villian1, melted into the night to be heard from nevermore.<br /> But he sat on her lap. I can't get over this teensy detail. Sitting on someone's lap is normally accompanied by a sense of surrender. The sitter is clearly less powerful, less in control, than the sittee. Here are activities not compatible with sitting on someones lap:<br />a. You can't shout at them<br />b. You can't ooze sarcasm and<br />c. You definitely should not steal from them, at knife point no less<br /> Apart from being a tad evil, Villian2 was just plain rude.Atticushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00114487689273263743noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6833896507997358599.post-11458596794241742882008-06-08T22:54:00.000-07:002008-06-08T22:55:16.613-07:00My brief romance with the IPLI don't watch cricket. This is not because I have anything against this particular game, I ignore all sports in equal measure. Recently though, with the unholy hysteria of the IPL gripping the nation, I was suckered into going for an IPL match. Initially, I resisted. In a minute I could think of eight more fun ways to spend my hard earned money. Strong as the famed rock of G. I withstood all peer pressure till some sly soul said, 'Its practically a party'. Party? Hmm. I could party. So off we went on the designated day, with our illegally procured tickets. We were paying a kings ransom for the privilege of squishing ourselves into the cheapest seats the stadium had to offer. Borne by the largely smelly crowd through multiple security checks, innumerable gates and passageways suited to moles, finally, there was the light at the end of the tunnel. When I first burst into the stadium I felt a thrill of excitement. The crowd was simmering with excitement. Floodlights the size of the moon lit the stadium. Raucous music rent the air. It certainly felt like a party. We seated ourselves like sardines on the concrete stairs juggling our supplies of various fizzy drinks and chips. The males of the species all around me were thrilled to bits to discover that a posse of cheerleaders were stationed in front of our stand. They shook and jiggled and the crowd was in a state of drooling hysteria. The game began. In the distance, tiny figures ran back and forth. The ones closest to us were the size of ants. The others, who were practically playing in the neighbouring country, were like dimples on the pimples on the backsides of said ants. I was filled with panic. How would I ever figure out what was going on? At any given time one had to study the ever changing field of microscopic creatures and determine:<br />a. Who the two batsmen were<br />b. Who the bowler was<br />c. Which fielder stood where so that when a brilliant catch was taken one had a chance of knowing who took it or curse and spit when butterfingers let one through<br />I accomplished these tasks by asking a few million questions. Then the over was done, and I had to ask all of my questions all over again. Every now and again, in response to some event that occured in the galaxy neighbouring ours, the crowd would roar onto its feet and some of its more exuberant members would also dance like chickens in their death throes. It was exhausting. The mexican waves were fun though. At least the first seven were. It got a bit old then, having bits of popcorn in my hair and coke sloshed down my back. As the first half drew to a close, the honeymoon was done. My bum hurt. My eyes hurt. And thanks to the uncontrolled gyrations of the man next to me, the upper left quadrant of my head hurt too. Battle weary, I slunk out to the closest pub and back into my comfortably sport less life.Atticushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00114487689273263743noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6833896507997358599.post-50975591911992612982008-05-17T11:26:00.000-07:002008-05-17T11:42:02.523-07:00My laughter is burnt to a crispAre you familiar with the little fruit that are are known by the somewhat lewd moniker of sucking mangoes? You tear a little hole in the top and use that to suck out all the juices? If you are, then you know how tragic one of these mangoes look after you have extracted all the interesting bits. Wrinkled, sucked up, dry and somewhat pathetic. Thats what this scorching summer is doing to me and my sense of humour. I spend my time feeling irritable and nary a comic phrase flits across my sweltering mind. Every time a thought forms, it is swept away in a deluge of sweat. I have a pet grump the size of an obese elephant and the two of us share the room resentfully and think dark thoughts about the sun.Atticushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00114487689273263743noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6833896507997358599.post-4242233885013241162008-04-22T01:51:00.000-07:002008-04-22T02:15:21.925-07:00That time of the yearIts that time of the year again. The time when what went around comes around. The time when my Managers sit in scornful judgment of my pitiful collection of achievements. This is a stressful time of the year for me. It started with Mr. Manager sending out a warning email to the group informing us that the hour of reckoning drew nigh. Like sinners who stand before the pearly gates, we are expected to have a list of our good deeds close at hand. The two weeks meted out to us to put our houses in order flew by. There was so much else to do. Then, just like that, it was the night before. I stared at my screen blankly. What in the world did I do this last year? I felt as if I had had a good time. I distinctly remembered occasions when I looked forward to getting to work. I am rather sure that I enjoyed putting my nose to the grindstone a handful of times. I could not however remember a single concrete good deed to record. Sweat broke out on my forehead. How in the world was I going to persuade my manager that it was of the utmost importance that my salary be increased in leaps and bounds? I had the biggest writers block that this world has ever seen. Hillary and Tenzing would have been straining at the bit to take a shot at it. I could have leased it out to Switzerland for them to open a world class ski resort on its slopes. With trembling hand I reached for the wine bottle. Much later, I had a list. I felt rather proud of myself. I put myself to bed. The next morning, as I staggered around the house nursing a headache that was larger than my writers block ever was, I decided that it would be prudent to review my list of accomplishments before sending them out to He Who Must Give Me More Money. Minutes later, I stared bug-eyed at the screen. Here was the list that caused my eyes to behave all ugly<br />1. Fixed some bugs in the code<br />2. Wrote some code<br />3. Did some interviews<br />4. Gave some presentations<br />What? What kind of retard would make up a list like that? And where did all those 'somes' escape from and why oh why had they chosen my feedback form to settle down and procreate busily? Perhaps my manager would give himself a hernia laughing at the list. That is my only hope.Atticushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00114487689273263743noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6833896507997358599.post-50189746597541105162008-04-01T08:42:00.000-07:002008-04-01T08:44:32.510-07:00My unglamorous diseaseI haven't blogged for a while. I have a good excuse though. A boil in my nose. This is a terrible ailment to suffer from, and having suffered for a week, I am the resident expert. It starts with a pain where you've never had a pain before. Slowly, but surely, the pain escalates. Of course, at no stage of this disease can you actually see whats going on. How big is the boil? Is it reproducing? Is it filling with pus? Is your nose going to turn gangrenous and fall off? You have no choice but to wait and watch, and of course, suffer increasingly. You will be at work, looking at the world through a mist of pain, unable to breathe a word of the agony or your courage to a soul. Let's face it. You can sing the saga of a fracture. Or an appendectomy. You simply cannot discuss something as disgusting as a nose boil. Its like talking about an STD. So, you're forced to suffer in silence - and trust me, that has to be the most difficult way to suffer. And now, your pet boil will betray you. Though it is safely ensconced deep within your nose, it will cause your nose to swell. If that is not ridiculous enough, the area will also turn an alarming shade of red. Since my boil was near the tip of my nose, I spent a few days looking like Rudolph's cousin. And for that duration, I noticed that people talked more to my nose than to me. It is very hard to be taken seriously when you look like an inebriated deer. Anyway, I'm all better now and very busy counting my blessings, namely<br />a. I don't have syphilis<br />b. I can put away my smile of patient suffering<br />c. My nose is no longer large enough to give Pluto competition<br />Cheers!Atticushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00114487689273263743noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6833896507997358599.post-83072405656829859972008-03-17T22:26:00.000-07:002008-03-17T23:03:07.360-07:00Silver shoesOh perfect pair of silver shoes<br />I seek thy holy grail<br />I walk and walk and shop and shop<br />And day by day I fail<br /><br /> I am alarmed to report that there appears to be a drought in the availability of silver shoes in the market. As you can see, this shortage of said item is filling me with despair and corny verse in equal measure.<br /> My quest for shiny footwear has been ongoing for a period of weeks now. Like an intrepid explorer of yore I have set out in all weathers (well mostly sunshine and a spot or two of rain). I have entered shops where I would need to sell all my earthly possessions to own a buckle, I have trudged down narrow alleyways where I had to hold my breath to fit in sideways. All to no avail. I have found pairs that are so over the top in shininess that you need to wear protective eye gear to behold them in all their glory. I have seen shoes with strange buttons where no buttons should be. If the front is perfect, the heel makes you want to kill yourself. If the pair is aesthetic, it makes an attempt to strangle your foot to death. The perfect pair of silver shoes needs to go onto the endangered species list before it is too late.<br /> My material resources diminish because though the object of my search eludes me, I do tend to pick up consolation prizes along the way, just to keep my spirits up. Poverty and starvation raise their ugly twin heads. Suffering is definitely the mother of all creative art. I feel another verse bubbling up inside me....<br /><br />The beauty of thy perfect strap<br />The arch of matchless heel<br />Thou steals my sleep, oh silver shoe<br />I seeketh you with zealAtticushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00114487689273263743noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6833896507997358599.post-52464976513253052042008-03-17T00:38:00.000-07:002008-03-17T01:41:54.390-07:00The watering holeAt my office I have long noticed that there seems to be a dearth of women in the cafeteria. I make the pilgrimage to our cafeteria several times a day, whenever I feel that my caffeine twitch is going out of control and scaring innocent bystanders. As I find myself disinclined to be charged with wasting my time I have endeavored to make these trips educational. I do this by making anthropological observations on the social nature of the cafeteria. As part of my research, I astutely observed that there weren't ever as many women in the cafeteria as there should be. The male of the species could be found drinking, or staring open mouthed at the television, crowding the foosball and TT tables or sitting around in groups shooting the breeze. The women however, were seldom seen.<br /> The mystery was compelling. As a good scientist should, I gathered and sifted through the evidence. What did I have to go on? One perfectly serviceable cafeteria. Many men. Not enough women. The time had come to formulate a hypothesis. So I did. Was it possible that women were more diligent workers and ethically frowned upon whiling their time away at the cafeteria? I decided to reject this explanation forthwith, mostly because it made me look bad. I cast my mind about for a more self serving explanation. If these women were not in the cafeteria, where were they? I started to keep my eyes peeled. For the record, this is extremely painful and makes your eyes water copiously. They were not congregating on the balconies. They were not lurking in corridors. Where were they? I am a naturally curious person, and this abiding enigma was not good my general state of well being.<br /> As luck would have it, in a parallel universe, I was strongly advised by those who hold my happiness dear, to start to drink more water forthwith. All that caffeine and not enough hydration would very quickly result in gigantic kidney boulders, so sayeth the Oracle also known as my mother. Being of a natively obedient disposition, I complied. Where is this story going? Have I completely lost the thread of the plot? Patience, dear reader. With the skill of a master weaver I will soon show you a pattern emerging from these seemingly disconnected threads. Right then, where was I? Ah yes, I was at that junction in my life where I was filled with curiousity and also with water.<br /> Anybody who has lived a little will tell you that when you imbibe quantities of water, there can be only one result. I started to frequent the restroom more often than the cafeteria. And the mystery resolved itself. The women of my workplace congregate in the toilet. There they stand in groups, laughing and talking. While I am one of those who rapidly scurries in and out and worries about unseemly noises reaching beyond my locked door, I am distinctly in the minority. Apparently ridding your body of waste material is just a side effect of going to the loo. You actually go there to congregate. To retell the joke you heard last evening. To hold forth on world issues. I watched mouth agape (no doubt doing an excellent impersonation of a person of less than average intelligence) as a woman walked in with her mobile ringing, answered the call, and promptly walked out again, the call of nature seemingly ignored.<br /> Thus was the mystery solved, my kidney stones averted and I discovered that I am a social retard. Now please excuse me, my phone is ringing and the restroom is a long way off.<br /> <br /> <br /> <span style="font-family: courier new;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-family: times new roman;"></span></span></span>Atticushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00114487689273263743noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6833896507997358599.post-14490668206339368952008-03-13T09:50:00.000-07:002008-03-13T10:35:53.029-07:00That beast called a carFew things in my life have afforded me as much misery as that beast called a car. There are a great many cars. There are cars of every colour in nations of every description. There are also a great many drivers. So many of them, in fact, that they simply crawl out of the woodwork. So either I was just a driving moron or there was a global conspiracy on and everyone else went out naked in the moonlight to the top of a hill to dance around a fire and sign a pact using the blood of a goat, swearing to never let me know how hard a skill this is to muster.<br />As soon as I turned eighteen, my father volunteered to educate me in this rudimentary skill. We piled into our little brown van and veered down the road. Twenty metres and two popped blood vessels later (neither of them in my body) the lesson terminated. I was handed over to my father's friend, known far and wide for his patience and skill at instructing those certified as unteachable. The two of us drove down the mostly deserted roads of our military cantonment and all was peace and beauty. Sure, I still looked at the gear stick when I had to change the gear, yes, I stalled practically every time I entered or left the first gear and I knew the third and forth gears were still strangers to me. I could not reverse or park yet, but hells bells (I've always wanted to use this expression) I was driving. A few classes later it was decided that I should be enrolled into a professional driving school and seek the holy grail of a driving license for an LMV (Light Motor Vehicle). This was motivated in no small measure by the fact that if you were to venture into an RTO office in India unbacked by a driving school, you would be venturing for a very long time. So off I went, and at the end of the first class I was the darling of the instructor. Thanks to my father's friend I shone like Venus on the firmament. At the end of the second class I was still the pet. At the end of a month I was just as good as I was on the second day. I got my license, proving the efficacy of the driving school and not my driving.<br />For years and years I remained as good as I was on day two. I did not enjoy it for a minute, nay not even a second. It made me tense, it made me unhappy. It was not one of life's myriad pleasures. People who were babes in arms the day I first got into a car were driving circles and other complicated geometric figures around me. I sat, a satisfied, smug cat, in passenger seats and got driven around, secretly and sometimes, not so secretly, sniggering at folks who had not discovered the joys of always and forever calling shotgun.<br />Into every life must come some rain, and the day finally dawned when my life was bereft of drivers. Surprising as it may seem they moved on to bigger, better things in life and so one sad, grey day I stood before my father's old car. A baby first learning to walk could not have been more hesitant. The campers in the Blair Witch project could not have been more scared. Slowly and painfully, I mastered the art. I drove around the lake in the night. I learned to reverse. I drove to my office. I could not put the AC on for fear of stalling, so I simply perspired a modest waterfall. I stalled quite enough as it was without the AC. I dreaded traffic signals, speeding cars, slow cycles, all other vehicles in sight, reversing and parking slots. I explored new depths of hate for roads that sloped upwards and for gravity acting on unsuspecting cars and their undeserving drivers when faced with such horrid, uncaring, unfeeling, insurmountable slopes. I could tolerate turning left but I held strong views about turning right.<br />Gradually, over a period of what felt like a few decades, it got better. A few thousand scratches later I was fairly confident. Scratches, I explained patiently to my father, should be viewed from the correct perspective. A thousand scratches were infinitely superior to two dead bodies. He grunted and seemed strangely unconvinced. I now drove twelve kilometers a day. This is not so bad, I said to myself. I am one of them. Finally, I 've arrived.<br />Then it started to happen. I nearly bumped a bike that thought it wise to overtake me from the left and then cut into my path. I cursed a bus that veered unthinking into my lane. I had no patience with cars that were of the opinion that two kilometers per hour was an acceptable speed for the fast lane. My blood boiled at the mention of an autorickshaw. I realized that I knew words that I was ashamed to say I knew. I aged a couple of years every time I drove, soft music and deep breathing non-withstanding.<br />Thats when it came to me. The car is a vehicle of misery. I hated it when it was my master and the sound of the engine revving was the stuff of nightmares. I hate it now, when I can drive and it appears that everyone else around me cannot. I bet the day I said 'Yes, I can!' the rest of you went naked in the moonlight up a hill, danced like the pagans that you are, killed another innocent goat and swore to forget all the driving that you once knew.Atticushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00114487689273263743noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6833896507997358599.post-17777413343252829612008-03-12T09:58:00.000-07:002008-03-12T10:57:11.428-07:00The pearl anniversary comethMy parents thirtieth wedding anniversary is looming. I should be filled with pride and joy. Instead, I find that I am mostly filled with a nameless dread. Heres the thing. My parents both come from large families. Vocal families. Musically talented families. And therein lies the rub. My parents both swear with straight faces that neither my sister nor I are adopted. I even questioned them separately. I've leapt out from behind the fridge and popped the question suddenly. I've woken them up at two in the morning with this most pertinent question. No luck. They've stuck to the story and at two in the morning my very grumpy mother can describe her painful labour and subsequent cesarean in long and gory detail. Yet, miraculously enough, amongst the host of musical cousins my sister and I stand out in all our tone deaf glory. We cannot sing. We are unable to play an instrument. What is the relevance of this to the anniversary? I am glad you asked. As various aunts and uncles have trouped passed various milestones of wedded bliss, appropriate cousins have burst into tuneful song. They amass friends and family and then, at the drop of a hat, burst into touching, tear-jerking melody. 'You are the wind beneath my wings', 'You raise me up', you get the gist. As the last moving notes linger in the air there is not a dry eye in the house.<br />During our wonder years if either my sister or I bemoaned our lack of talent to our mother or aunts, we were reminded that we were the smart ones in the family. At school we got our grades with seeming ease. We were held up as shining examples to the teeming masses of cousins. I now have a job that requires regular use of the old grey matter, and my sister is acquiring her doctorate and is required to cut up mice at an alarming rate towards this noble end. I completely fail to see how this is supposed to help with the anniversary. I can hear the cousins snicker. Perhaps I could read at the audience. Or do a demo of getting a good test score. My sister could try to tear folks up by bopping a rodent on its head and proceeding to extract its tissues.<br />The date draws ever closer, the pressure mounts. The family looms on the horizon. Excuse me, but I have to check my rat traps.Atticushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00114487689273263743noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6833896507997358599.post-57689011726546065992008-03-04T22:55:00.000-08:002008-03-04T23:26:44.678-08:00The saga of Creepy and Scaredy CatIt was around seven thirty in the evening and I was walking down a busy street, going home. I passed a guy sitting on a bike. He leered and mumbled something about me being a baby, and other such endearments. I nobly ignored him and kept going. Unfortunately, Creepy interpreted this act of walking by as encouragement and followed me on his bike. He went past me, mumbling again, and stopped the bike about 20 meters ahead of me. I wanted to cross the road and avoid his charming company, but just then the traffic poured on at an alarming rate and I was forced to walk past him. This was, of course, as good as wearing a silk negligee and pointing at a bed. I decided that I did not want Creepy to know where I lived, so I oozed into a supermarket. I dumped a bunch of veggies into the trolley and imagine my horror when I looked up and saw Creepy standing right there, leer firmly in place. Rather loudly, I told him that if he did not leave me alone I was going to call for help. I threw in an expletive or two for good measure. He appeared flabbergasted that I assumed that he was stalking me, hurt that I had betrayed him after positively stringing him on and left post haste. At this point the electricity supply gave out and the road outside plunged into darkness. I could not see if he was lying in wait so I was forced to lurk in the aisles for over an hour, seething and scared. I am convinced they thought I was trying to shoplift. I eventually summoned a friend to pick me up and drive around for a bit, just to be sure that I had lost Creepy.<br /> I am astounded by how angry I still am. I am ashamed of how scared and unheroic I was. I still catch myself day dreaming about kicking him in the nuts and watching him writhe in unspeakable agony.Atticushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00114487689273263743noreply@blogger.com0