Wednesday, February 29, 2012

Et tu Brutal

Ha, ha, pun title.

On with the show. You need not read past here. There's nothing salacious. You won't miss out on anything. But in addition to writing down stories I think are amusing (slash) worthy of writing (the ego!) I use this place here to journal stuff. I know, kind of like a diary but where I redact facts and then remember hurts from long ago. Hey, depression does that to you. I also use it to vent about crap wot happened. Like today, for today was a brutal one.

First up was work here at home. The scanners at work are only set to render things in Acrobat and I needed to scan graphics. Our home computer was recently refurbished and today was the first moment I'd attempted to re-connect the printer scanner. Yeah ... it doesn't work with the new operating system. Cue me swearing my head off and theBoy in the kitchen yonder gleefully parroting me.

Then it was off to work wearing uncomfortable formal clothes. Why? The dreaded event. Yes, it was a visit by head cheeses to declare things open. I was part of the rent-a-crowd. Alas theBoss helped organise it and since she needed people to move forward she asked me and S---, a delightful new colleague (incredibly bright, great sense of humour, interesting life), to form up the front so as to encourage people to better close in on the podium. 

Alas people were late and we were standing a good 30 minutes before speeches kicked off. The senior people then crusted the rim of the rent-a-crowd like the salt on a margarita glass and stood just in front of S--- and I. A photographer from the org's local rag was there, his giant lens probing into the room like an anal probe meets CCTV. Since senior people were of interest photos were taken of them ... and incidentally me since I was in the immediate background. 

With my hands clasped before me I gingerly stroked down the front of my fly with the tip of my little finger to ensure my fly was done up, my having nicked off for a 'I don't know how long I will be trapped here' wee just before kick off. It was at half-mast. Fuck! Ever so subtly I gripped the zipper between my little finger and thumb, in a sort of closed-on-metal a-ok gesture, and slowly, oh so slowly, pulled my zipper up. I am sure there's going to be shots of them with me just behind and between them with a gaping hole where my peepee be hid. Yayzers. 

As the last of the last speech ebbed away, and with fire running up from my cramped calf through my aching back I stumbled back to my workstation, fumbled around for the very last pill of my current pain med—it's just been yanked from the market 'cos it killed New Zealanders—and gutsed it along with two panadol. No one was around and I guess the pain of it all, and the crud of the last few days washed over me, and I blubbed at my desk quietly for a few minutes. I know, crying at work is never a good sign. Though as a near-woman—and no offence ladies, I just mean that in a concept of Australian masculinity sense—I'm probably allowed to do stuff like that. 

So there was that. Then there was the monthly staff thing I help out with. New boss+ is a stickler for deadlines and it was due this afternoon. So after manning up in the no-longer-crying-at-my-desk-sense I started work on it. I worked solidly, with just a couple of toilet breaks, right through to well after four pm, prepping and checking 40 odd pages of content for review. By solidly I mean that I was a blaze of motion. Ripping out graphics, shrinking and screen-res'ing them (saving them as screen resolution to lower the memory size of the eventual product), paring back content, juggling slabs of text, inputting hyperlinks, creating side-bars to accentuate sections—I rocked the shit out if. 

Oh I did actually end up having one unfortunate break. Punch One, the building guy who bollocked me through my boss, decided to take a chair next to my work station to have a break from all the post-event activity. He started talking to me like we were mates then reading over my shoulder as I worked. I'm so fucking broken I didn't even have it in me to ask him to go away. I just waited for him to leave. Eventually he did. I have a sneaking suspicion however he thinks we're all good. We clearly are not. I can hold a grudge for fucking years. I would, for example, seriously considering hot-knifing my school boss bully tormentor should the opportunity to arise. I kid, I wouldn't, but when I found out he drifted into the life of a junkie I confess I nearly overdosed on the schadenfreude rush. 

Finally, though, it was all done. I staggered down to the lunch room to get one of my Costco smaller Diet Cokes, when I then walked into it, the post-event celebration.

I'd forgotten about it you see. The thing the bigwigs had come for was the culmination of a lot of work for a lot of people. So in the afternoon, the boss++ held an extra celebration, putting on some drinks, cake and cheeses to thank those who'd done that work. Being fuck-off busy I'd forgotten about it. I hadn't even noticed people drifting away from my work area to go to the event. 

Unfortunately I'd been seen. So I had to sit for a socially acceptable time, I think it was 10 minutes or so, and be with people that had been pretty prick-nasty to me in the last seven days. It wasn't all bad. theBoss had brought her three-year-old in—he's a delightful curly-rust-haired boy who's the height of a five-year-old and who can already ride a bike without training wheels (1)—and they'd brought out an old red plastic curve-sled rocker found in one of the junk rooms for him to play on. He giggled as he played with D--, D--- (2) being a nice middle-aged man from my floor who took the time and effort to play with a kid he didn't know, using his large polished shoes to rock the rocker from one end so theBoss's boy could giggle as he was rocked up and down. 

Then with that acceptable time done I could once-more crawl back to my desk and lumber back into life to perform a multitude of other admin crap that built up in my time away and I've yet to come close to finishing.

(1) It may be a cliché but I can remember the first time I rode a bike without training wheels. I rode round and around the back garden of our house on the hill, right near the awesome log fort my strong silent dad built for us. The very fort I later saw a peer piss into an old pot in. Ah memories.
(2) I'd actually had a jokey back-and-forth email thing with D--- this day, with my sending him an email apologising for not holding the door open for him, not realising it was him behind me this morning as I came into the building and my having been trained to close security doors behind me just in case you had a tail (2a). He wrote back a smiley face and I naturally then declared had he been dressed as a Ninja I would have waited to do battle with him in the lobby, armed as I was with my trusty pimp cane. He declared if he'd been a hot girl in a mini I wouldn't have tried to fight him, but I countered by saying if a blond sex kitten who had crashed through the frosted glass in a small iconic car and crushed me against the counter I'd have clearly already lost anyway. Ha, ha. Get it? Mini. He meant the dress and I knew he meant the dress. He then sent me a picture of a mini-skirt by way of explanation. He honestly didn't think I'd gotten it. That's gold.
(2a) I have OCD and I've read a lot of espionage books. Go Mikey!

Lines that make kids laugh

There's this classic show, Bill Cosby was host of it I think, called Kids say the darnedest things. You know, children have a odd idea of how something is as it is—'the sky is blue because it's sad water upside down'—and then they lay some of that goodness down to Bill Cosby; queue laughter. 

As a kid, in church once when I was in year  two (so around eight  years of age), I remember having to sit through a sermon. I have no idea what it was I said out loud to the rest of the congregation but I remember saying it as a serious comment or question; bear in mind, I'm in year two. It was probably like 'Why did the snake offer them an apple? Snakes eat mice!'; cue queue laughter. I was so angry embarrassed that I shrank down into my seat, my scowling head retracting into my shirt like an angry turtle and had my eyes barely peeking over my collar like I was a be-haired pink-skinned Sontaran (1). I remember fuming on the way out, a sick little ball of hurt clenched like a monkey-fist in my then-tiny-tummy (2). 

I guess location depends on if it's funny or not; cue laughter. 

So, kids say the darnedest things. They do, of course they do; they're little still-learning us'es. But the thing is sometimes they also they find something said to be darnedest. Hilarious. They will laugh and laugh and laugh. 

Sometimes the thing is intentionally meant to be funny even if to an adult it's just a groan-inducer. Why do Irish dogs have flat faces? From chasing parked cars! Seriously, I remember my older brother and I laughing hysterically at that from a book of Irish jokes. The sort of glossy covered joke book that would sit on the wooden window sill of the toilet along with dead flies and Charlie Brown licensed books about love being a warm puppy. Hey, it was the 80s. Not only did the Irish not mind, they celebrated it. 'Tis all in good fun. 

Sometimes they laugh at something you've said just mucking around. 

I'd come back from a brutal, brutal day (see almost-certainly-to-be-blogged-soon-post), a day so brutal I needed to sink somewhere soft and just not hurt more. It made me miss my twice-a-month nerd fest with the good lady Casso and her crew of gaming pirates (she is also the pirate queen mistress of my thigh-ache-inducing nemesis, The Purgatory Cart). But I'd just had two late nights already this week and both nights had missed doing story-time with theBoy. I'd gotten home just in time for final stories, and a short lap of honour of Storyverse first, so onto the story-reading deck I went.

theBoy gets proper stories, as in books, just before final wee, nappy then bed. The number of books depends both on the lateness of the time and the goodness of his behaviour. By and large, if good, he gets three. So three it was. The first was Julia Donaldson's (3) What the ladybird heard. It's a cute little book about a ladybird organising a committee of public safety for the farmyard and ensuring the oppression of poor would-be rebels attempting to strike back against 'the man' by nicking a prize cow. Presumably to feed it to their starving children. One of the lines from the book is 'And the ladybird says not a word.'

I rarely read books to theBoy without free-balling it, making up shit as I go along. For the most part it's because he loves catching me out fucking with the text and crying out 'that's not right.' So the 'ladybird says not a word' line comes up and instead of reading it as is I said 'Ich bin ein Ladybird', as per the Kennedy Berlin speech where an urban myth has it he actually declared himself to be a type of local pasty. 

theBoy cackled. He laughed and laughed and laughed. We moved onto Tiddler, another Donaldson book, about a fish called Tiddler. Only this time Tiddler became Ichbineinladybird. Again, laughing and laughing (4).

At one point he even broke free from story-time to run and interrupt mummy's call to her sister to chant 'Ich Bin Ein Ladybird! Ich Bin Ein Ladybird!' before she shushed him away. Later, long after he was in bed, we could hear him saying it over and over and giggling to himself.

How fucking awesome to be that age where shit like that is funny? It's probably the reason people smoke weed. Do ... do kids still call it weed?

Kids ... and their music.

(1) You just gotta give me love for that? Why—insert Judy Garland voice (1a)—ya just gotta!
(1a) What a seriously fuck-off talented comedic actress Kristen Wiig is. It does not matter what she does—SNL, Bridesmaids, anything, really—she makes me laugh. Her Judy Garland is sublime; 'My hands are full of sand!' 
(2) True dat. I didn't get fat until like year five when pain at at my knees from water-on-the-knees and I could no longer do sport. And the c___, there's no other hate-word that describe it (2a) at the all-boys school I was sentenced to—a most apt descriptive I think—made my life an utter misery with their school-sanctioned bullying. I would love it if I ever got famous and they thought 'yay' and invited me to open or close the school year or some shit like that and I would say 'I want a teleprompter, that's my only need' and they did that for me and it was time for the speech and I would stand before the microphone, cough, stick my hand down my arse, rub my hand betwixt my cheeks, withdraw, then slap it on the transparent teleprompter glass and with a screech-squeal rub it downward.
(2a) And sorry ladies, as you are c___ possessors, for the appropriating of your lady-part. Because that really is an awesome part on a lady. Not, however, on a ladyboy.Which in theory shouldn't be there.
(3) Plus credit to the illustrator, Lydia Monks.
(4) The last book was The Snail and the Whale only the snail became a sausage and the whale became an ostrich. I then misidentified various animals—'That's an elephant!' whilst pointing at the bear by the sea—so he'd correct me some more.

Tuesday, February 28, 2012

Too angry to sleep

I can't stop fixating in this work crap. It's driving me bananas. Stupid fantasy conversations boil in my brain. Sometimes it's just fucked. But, well, again that's life. Sometimes it's just fucked. I wonder if cave people dealt with this bullshit?! 'Your fur poncho heap um not appropriate for um cave. Also we heap um don't like you mentioning that stalagtite that um hang precariously.'

The sheer pettiness of this all craps me big time. The night before my operation I stayed up until 1.30 am trying to square away work so as to reduce the burden on my co-workers. And in return on my return to work I experience multiple bouts of being fucked around or fucked over. All this is leading me to the conclusion of 'why bother to try and work hard or do the right thing?' when it's not only not appreciated but actively reviled.

Motivation fail...

Oh well ... I guess it's back to brooding in the dark until I fall asleep. Yay...

But as one of my favourite Storyverse characters, 1930s Announcer Man (1), would say; 'This just in; it's just a job!

(1) In Storyverse theBoy calls him 'Nouncer man, with 'Nouncer man's loud annoying voice patterned after newsreel narrators. theBoy finds 'Nouncer man to be extremely irritating. To be rid of him theBoy has pushed 'Nouncer man, via the medium of Slide-world, into a bottle (having shrunk 'Nouncer man with Santa's shriking spray) then stoppered the bottle with a cork. Or, again via Slide-world, sent 'Nouncer man to next Christmas. It's such a trippy idea to send someone into the future like that. What a Shoogi!

Monday, February 27, 2012

Go the ranga!

I forgot to say—yay!

Yes, I for one am glad Gillard got re-elected and that her win was so emphatic. Let's all hope things can now be stitched up and that caucus presents a united front against the true enemy of progress; Tony Abbott and his fetid-ilk of ideologically-driven, free market worshipping, climate-change denying, rights-in-the-workplace-retarding nob-ends. 

Let's hope too that Rudd does the right thing and becomes a team player, even as he sits on the back bench. I hope that he is reminded that he's part of a party of purpose not one subject to a personality-cult like the opposition.

Well done, PMG!

Well that sucked...

I finally had one of my long-overdue performance agreement discussions. On the fact it, from the actually doing what I do front, no issues. My personality, however... Yes I got effectively told off for saying things that skirt the line of acceptance. Okay, that's a fair call—though it's more subject matter than being insulting of people or groups (1). Basically ixnay on the ottombay talk around the new peeps.

Oh, then dress standards came up. theBoss said she'd been asked to point out the dress code—I'd been in this part of the org three years without knowing they had one—to all her subordinates. She then added people had mentioned my wearing of neat tracksuit pants instead of the apparently mandatory 'tailored dress pants'. So it was totally targeted at me. At that point, still angry and fucked-off about the bullshit that went down last week, I said the reason I wore it was for comfort purposes because to to wear belted pants with a spasming abdomen made the pain worse. In order to resolve that piece of fucked-up crap I then had to email my case manager and ask him to provide a letter where it says something to the effect of 'Mikey has a fucked-up body; sometimes he has to wear tracksuit pants.'

The hilarious thing is of course all this is off the back of what happened last week where Punch One, the new building person, chucked a snitty tanty via my boss at my apparently tasking him over two separate OH&S issues; my mentioning trip hazards in the new area as well as following up a now nine-month-old query on the fucked-up stairs in the lobby that contain an obvious trip hazard. I told theBoss, who was admittedly sympathetic to my reasoning but still nonetheless is my boss and has to say things like this and back management line (she at least said I could still point out safety crap, just through her), that I found it patently ridiculous that they took the time to now monster me over clothing choices when there's a fucking dangerous stairwell yet unrectified. 

Ah, what can you do? Like theWife says, sometimes in the public service, or indeed the broader workforce, you have shit bosses whose only care is that you do what they say. It's happened to me before, it will happen again. Unless, of course, I actually actively look for a new job.

And I can do. I am not committed to the org I work for, nor the public service. But I am also someone with a (dis)abled body and a brutalised self-esteem that suffers unremitting pain and discomfort. It makes it hard to try and find a new job when you feel shit in mind and in body. But if I stay then I will likely feel bad about myself and my work area for sometime, and maybe even worse—especially if petty administrative shit like this keeps happening. 

So perhaps it's time to try and find something else? No harm in looking I suppose. Even if I find the process of trying to get a new job—the interviews, the CV updating, the application process—to be a totally fucked-up exercise in frustration. 

Anyway, so right now I have work-dreads again. I haven't had work-dreads—where you wake up in the morning with that sick feeling in your stomach and that the last thing you want to do is go to work—in a while. I suppose I was due for it.

The pants thing though did remind me of the fucked-in-the-head-bully-factory my parents sent me to lo those years ago; an all-boys private school. I was a little hyperactive—I'm sure I'd have been diagnosed ADHD had I been going through school now—and allegedly my state school recommended I make the switch for discipline purposes.

Being an all-boys private school it was about moulding fine young men into being men ... as they saw what men should be; sporty, disciplined, obedient. I was never any of those things. Oh, and thanks to my fucked-up knees, I soon had to wear sneakers. 

Back in the 80s black sneakers that look like dress shoes—like what I wear now—didn't exist. So my sneakers were an obvious different to the norm. I copped an unbelievable about of abuse and ridicule for them and was even excluded by teachers on spurious grounds; sentenced to clean the gunk off the splatter wall in the Industrial Design area instead of actually using tools and making stuff on the grounds my shoes weren't as safe as thin leather. 

So here it is. Nearly 30 years later and the same fucked-up bullshit of people monstering me for being me is happening again. Monstering me for giving a shit enough to try and make the workplace safer. Monstering me for sending pithy emails around to colleagues for pointing out there was a nice cafe near by. Monstering me for choosing now-and-then to wear neat tracksuit pants instead of dress pants because the fire in my guts from constant abdominal spasms can be so bad some days I want to fucking die. 

All my fucking life I've had to deal with fucked-up people making me feel shit about myself, my body, my mind, my sense of humour; hell, the fact I merely exist (2).

Sometimes ... sometimes it can be a bit much to deal with. You know what with all the additional other crap that has happened.

But, again, it comes back down to it, doesn't it? We're an aberration, us humans. We live in a world of agreed artifice where, as Douglas Adams puts it, we become miserable chasing bits of paper around (3) because we, as "intelligent" animals, developed a complex system where in order to get food, shelter and other we need to do exactly that. 

I just need these bits of paper to live and I have to put up with crap in the process. It could be worse; I could be grubbing in a field all day and living hand-to-mouth.

At the end of the day I am good at my job and if people don't like me for me, or factor in my medical crap, or see my personality as a negative than as a positive, then, well, such is life and they're entitled to their opinion. I can't change that opinion except by changing me. And fuck that shit. 

So say it with me; it's just a job, it's just a job, it's just a job.

(1) theBoss and I did, however, get overheard by one of the people I don't get on with talking candidly about our relationship with a previous co-worker with said 'one of the people I don't get on with' being one of her still besties. That was unprofessional and we shouldn't have done it ... even if what were were saying was the truth as far as we saw it. The public service is a lot like wartime England. You never know who might be listening...
(2) It's funny now but in high school when I changed to the state school from the private school and I was hanging out with new friends ... one of the hot girls actually came over to me and told me to fuck off because I was lowering the tone of the area. True story. I bet she ended up as a caravan-park dwelling super mol that spat out a dozen kids. If so, sucked shit.
(3) 'This planet has — or rather had — a problem, which was this: most of the people living on it were unhappy for pretty much of the time. Many solutions were suggested for this problem, but most of these were largely concerned with the movement of small green pieces of paper, which was odd because on the whole it wasn't the small green pieces of paper that were unhappy.'; Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy

Sunday, February 26, 2012


I've been sneakily cuddling theBoy when he's asleep and getting theWife to take a photo of me in action. Then, in the morning, when theBoy scans through the photos he finds the evidence of the night time cuddles; 'Daddy!' he cries in amused frustration. 

I was awake this morning when I heard him at the end room door. He couldn't sneak in without assistance because there was a childproof handle cover on the handle which prevents little hands from opening it. theWife put it there when I was in the early phase of recovery so he wouldn't disturb me. 

'Quick, mummy,' he cried. 'Bring your iPhone. I need to take a photo of daddy when he's asleep!'

I'd been using my tablet, the beloved, so I quickly closed my eyes and left the tablet resting on my large, hairy stomach. Then ... then they came in and theBoy stood there proudly, prodding me in the stomach like a game hunter with a foot up on a slain trophy animal.

Then he yelled for me to wake up and did a dance of joy at his victory.

What a Shoogi!

Saturday, February 25, 2012

Hollywood comes to the ACT

There are standard movie tropes we all know and love. Indeed you could argue that without use of tropes a movie becomes somewhat harder to follow; hello Eraserhead.

One trope is the person who is fleeing knocking stuff over as they run so as to trip up any pursuers. You know, bins, a water cooler, other people, grabbing a person in a wheelchair and sending them as an unwilling missile to back from whence the runner came and so forth.

I'm broadly in charge of bath time. Broadly in that I fill it, usually get theWife to put theBoy in, and then I sit down on the old blue backless chair and monitor theBoy as he bathes. It's rare that I get to read a magazine because theBoy usually demands 'Humpty and Stumpty' if I am on deck.

As noted before challenging a child to a race to do something or get somewhere is an oft-used parental trick; 'Oh, you beat me, how sad.' For theBoy I often "... race ..." him to the bath, either going for the normal door or the sliding door entrance.

I was headed the sliding door way and for some reason I was in front of him. So as I passed my laundry hamper, a tall mesh-grid cylindrical affair, I knocked from its top the normal-shaped white clothes basket so it fell behind me. theBoy stumbled over it, allowing me to beat him to the sliding door and reef it open. Of course I still had to let him win, and be ready to grab him if he slipped, and indeed he did recover from his stumble and was the first person to touch the bath water (the agreed-upon condition of the person being declared the winner). Next time I might try filling the basket with some of his large rubber balls to enhance the knock-off experience.

Another movie trope is the delivering of a kewl line as you tag-out your opponent. 'Hasta la vista, baby', 'It's just been revoked!', and 'I want my father back, you son of a bitch!' all being classic moments of cinema lore.  

theBoy had been freed from the bath and was still both wet and nude. As he headed for the sliding door I asked him if he wanted a  towel.

He hustled back to me.

'I'll use this towel,' he said gleefully. He grabbed me around my PJ pants covered legs and wiped himself dry upon them, even spinning around at one point like the buffer on an automatic shoe polisher (1) to ensure his back was dry as well. Laughing with merriment he fled once more.

Yes, I have to hand it to him. That was a kewl line he dropped before defeating me...

(1) There are some older places in Canberra that still have them! I used one once ... although I used it on my black sneakers so it didn't go that great.

Ed-u-ma-cated Righties are more likely to espouse ideological groupthink

I woke before 7 am. Normally I get to sleep in on Saturdays but when I woke, even after a shower a bed return, I couldn't get back back to sleep. So I pulled out the Beloved and started surfing. 

Here's a snippet;

If you were already part of a cultural group predisposed to distrust climate science—e.g., a political conservative or “hierarchical-individualist”—then more science knowledge and more skill in mathematical reasoning tended to make you even more dismissive. Precisely the opposite happened with the other group—“egalitarian-communitarians” or liberals—who tended to worry more as they knew more science and math. The result was that, overall, more scientific literacy and mathematical ability led to greater political polarization over climate change—which, of course, is precisely what we see in the polls.

So much for education serving as an antidote to politically biased reasoning.

What accounts for the “smart idiot” effect?

For one thing, well-informed or well-educated conservatives probably consume more conservative news and opinion, such as by watching Fox News. Thus, they are more likely to know what they’re supposed to think about the issues—what people like them think—and to be familiar with the arguments or reasons for holding these views.

Here in Oz the same poisonous right-wing anti-intellectual dribble frothed out by Fox occurs across Murdoch's Oz print media empire with News Limited, and how suitable that name is, owning something like 70 per cent of the print media in major metropolitan centres. A media that is proudly activist, witness the latest crap from the editors of The Daily Telegraph and, as always, The Australian, which blithely claims it is the heart of the nation. Perhaps ... if three of the four ventricles of said heart were clogged with gooey crap that left said nation sicker. A case example being The Australian's campaign, and there's no other word for it, against the incredibly successful Building Education Revolution that pumped money into school facilities whilst keeping the construction industry afloat since, in an economic downturn, the first things that get stopped by money-concerned people is the building of new buildings. From memory there were something like only 3 per cent of projects deemed to have serious issues or requiring rectification, and of those I believe they were mostly administrative in issue (i.e. schools forced to choose between limited options on buildings or inappropriate projects committed to).

So the educated right-winger stays 'in touch' with the world through their poisonous media organs of choice and instead of being educated about issues of the day, or informed of them, they receive information cooked up with a festy lump of ideological crap that confirms it seems to the world-view of an unpleasant octogenarian billionaire whose media empire helped Bush II into office, advocated the invasion of Iraq (happily bypassing its job of critiquing the government of the day because the government of the day was one in accordance with the owner's mindset), as well as driving issue after issue of conservative mantra. To the point now where in the Republican primaries the four people left standing, with the exception of Ron Paul whose ideology remains the same as it's always been, are now saying just absolute mad stuff. Mad stuff like restricting the ability of women to access adequate, safe birth control (1). This ideologically-driven bull-wang has also now fostered a political climate where conservative politicians attempted to force those women wishing for a termination to have a wand inserted in them under mandate of the state to shame those women into taking their unwanted pregnancy to term. So much for the government keeping out of your business. Unless, of course, your business doesn't confirm to the moral viewpoint of conservatives.

The ability of the Murdoch press to infect the world with Murdoch's moronic ancient rich man world-view, and reflect then magnify the broken viewpoints of its readership, empowers  "conservatives" to monster everyone else, to the point of government mandated wand raping is on the cards and use of government money to invest in much-needed infrastructure refreshing is not.

Oh, and for News Limited people to claim that just because bloggers and other alternate media views exist means that ownership of mass media is no longer a concern is utterly, utterly laughable (the idea being that because the internet exists then people can access other media information outside the mass-media dominated by News Limited). The daily print press in this country drives the editorial and news collecting and presentation of the TV commercial news stations as well. Hence the current media narrative we have in this country of a government in crisis when it was actually ticking along performing tremendously and with a minority government actually resulting in compromise and getting things done. Not to mention all the other poisonous right-wing bull-crap that they ladle out day-after-fucking-day.

Murdoch, and all who work for him, have done tremendous damage to the world politic. And continue to do so. And if you work for News Limited, or News International, or any other Murdoch-related news or media organ then the stain of the damage of that negative influence, an influence so pervasive it actually threatens billions of people through conservative media's denial of the impact of climate change and preventing effective early measures of rectification to be taken, is on you as well. You need to ask yourself if you honestly feel that what you do is a greater good. And if you do honestly believe that ... well ... you're one of those people Salon is talking about. An ideological strait-laced conservative warrior that honestly believes in what they're doing and puts their blind-faith before evidence and reason.

Right-wingers are balls.

(1) Rick Perry, Mr Coyote in the headlights himself (1a), recently for example bragged about closing a number of planned parenthood centres and thus denying poorer women of Texas safe and reliable access to contraception.
(1a) Referring to his disastrous debate performances which included some 10 seconds of him excruciatingly trying to recall which government behemoth he was going to delete when in the presidential office and failing, despite Ron Paul chiming in that it should be the Department of Environment.

Friday, February 24, 2012

Oh good lord... and where Mikey reflects on the ALP leadership spill

I spent most of the day on my feet. 

We had tradesmen in as part of the building refit. In the public service you're not allowed to let people wander around willy-nilly. You have to have them under escort. Alas it seems I was the only one who gave a shit enough to do it and do it properly. A couple of times I tagged out with D---, my new colleague, but he's new so the tag-outs were just long enough for me to cram some emergency-must-do work into the short periods of sitting at my computer doing my actual proper job.

The tradies were kewl. They laughed at my dodgy attempts at being witty and I even spotted them some cans of coke from the social club fridge. Yes, I am that easy, proto-comedy audience. I will pay you to hear me it seems. Anyway they were happy to share secrets of their trade—signage placement—including that letters had to be melted into the wall with a heat gun and that a dentist's hook probe was the ideal device to carefully nudge the placement of ultra-thin plastic lettering into the correct area.

But the standing. Oh, God, the standing. My lower back was killing me by early afternoon and in the end I was watching them from a seated position. However it wasn't all bad. Normally escort duty is balls; you're just sitting or standing and not doing anything. And I feel rude if I go into my head and listen to podcasts on the Mp3 player. Solution? My loaner iPhone. I cranked up Safari and, thanks to a pretty stable 3G connection, was able to surf most of the day, reading my way through the latest Rudd V Gillard news, as well as my daily must-reads of Salon and Slate.

Finally, well after the standard knock-off of 5 pm, they left. I'll see them again on Monday. 

When I got home, despite the fact that standing all day left me enfeebled and sore, I still manfully took on the TPC (1). My current minimum distance is 5.8 kays but I usually try and ride for the entire length of whatever episode of TV I am watching through the laptop. Typically The Colbert Report or The Daily Show. Today ... I just couldn't do it. Wobble-legged, the sweat cascading through my Connery-esq thatches of 70s pOrnstar style man-fur, I staggered back into the garden, into the house, and into the shower where the hot water soothed my aching aged and pretty sad collection of muscles. 

Standing around all day on escort duty is wang-suckful.

Oh, the Rudd V Gillard thing. I am (I think still) a paid-up member of the party. I left the Democrats back in the mid-Noughties because I realised deep-down I'd always, always, preferred Labor to be in power. I even went to a few branch meetings, though they were depressing affairs; held in the basement of a pokie palace and with the speakers constantly interrupted by draws for the fucking meat-trays that came over the PA system. But anyway, I prefer Labor—and, as my blog header notes, I am a union member too. 

So how how do I feel about all of this? Annoyed. It shouldn't be happening. It's destabilising. Do I have a preference? I do—Gillard. She's led a very effective minority government, accomplished a lot, and is an inclusive leader. Alas the media narrative has been against her from the beginning, though it wasn't helped by the nature of her ascendency, however required it was. 

But if Rudd gets the slot ... he's still a far, far better option for the Australian people than Abbott or any of his ideologically strait-laced ilk. And I have to hand it to him, though his tendency for autocracy is great—forging perhaps this persona when he was Doctor Death back in Queensland State politics when he was Chief of Staff to Wayne Goss—he is a smart man and an effective campaigner, as evidenced by his delivering the ALP government back in '07, even though the 'It's Time' factor was a hefty element to the success.

And, like I said, who ever gets the chair, Gillard or Rudd, they're a far better option than Tony Abbott. A man whose policy ideas are either non-existent or broken (have you seen their climate change policy?!). A man who, when a Minister, did some tremendously fucked-up stuff. Like when he was health minister yet refused to grant women access to pill-based abortifacients because of his own theological considerations. He's a bully and a thug; a preening pretty-boy fixated not on what he could do to better the lot of Australians, to lift those whose lot in life is lesser than most, but rather on wearing the mantle of being Prime Minister.

We deserve better than what's happening. But politics is a messy game with a lot of egos in it. And sometimes shit like this goes down.

Besides, Abbott's a fine one to talk considering what he did to Turnbull's leadership.

Once again, I have to say it, whoever it was who put the invalid vote in the Liberal party room that effectively then delivered leadership to Abbott, needs his nads (2) stomped. Good one, fuckwit. Good one.

Anyway, bring on the Monday spill and I hope it goes as smooth as possible after that. The ALP has a lot of ground to catch up with, especially considering the fucked-up mob-esq idiocy that is the current media narrative of a government in crisis ... a narrative gleefully fuelled and fostered by the moral-lacking creeps that festoon the belfry over at News Limited.

(1) an exercise bike on semi-permanent loan by the foot-betroubled Casso, a delightfully winsome friend in the mist-shrouded heights of our mutually resided in suburb
(2) If a lady then some applicable body part, in a metaphoric sense of course.

Thursday, February 23, 2012

Oh, that's right...

Today I had lunch with W---. He escaped the public service a while back. The circumstances of his leaving are pretty funny. He went on leave to go to uni for a bit, and do other things, then returned to work ... for a day. He realised the PS was not for him and he cheerfully told his boss he was out of there and could the boss, who'd just welcomed him back, please prepare the necessary paperwork to facilitate his release. The jammy, jammy bastard (W---, obviously, not his former boss. The former boss' jam-like consistency is an unknown).

Anyway as ever it was a delight. W--- is awesome and someone I could happily chat away to for hours. While we chatted we ate and we drank.

I didn't want to risk getting food stuck so I opted for soft food. Lemon tart plus cream and a little bit of ice-cream. But alas while that was not great it really was the giant fucking vanilla milkshake that I gutsed wot did it. I could feel it slosh around inside me and I was riven almost instantly with dairy bloat. Later, back at work, I felt uber foul and nearly packed it in to head off crook. Then it seemed to settle down. Seemed being the operative word as some hours later when I was out on the town the gas-pain finally landed. I had to leave the group I was with to fast trot to the toot and power out a tremendously galumph of a fart to clear my system, and thus avoid doing so involuntary before my new chums.

At one point I forgot I had what I had for lunch and then asked myself why my IBS (slash) dairy sensitivity had flared. Then I remembered; oh, that's right.

Stupid cows ... and their dairy.

IBS and my (suspected) milk protein intolerance is balls.

Wednesday, February 22, 2012

Kitchen taunting and where a much beloved character gets replaced

I was in charge of putting Dermeze rub on theBoy and then dressing him in his PJs. As I lathered on the Dermeze rub I impulsively asked theBoy what he thought the best kind of grease was. He didn't know.

'Lady grease!' I said, hilariously referring to the moistening of the lady pleasure palace when an engaged-in-coitus vaginally empowered person is considering whether or not to grant entry to their sex-foyer. 

He laughed, though he didn't know why. theWife, in the kitchen, overheard.

'Woah, inappropriate!' she sang. 

theBoy's ears pricked up. Mummy didn't like that!

He ran into the kitchen and danced around. 

'Lady grease! Lady grease! Lady grease!' he chanted over and over.


... Daddy word-play fail ...

Later, in Storyverse, theBoy decided a new character was in and an old character was out. The new character is a friendly camel that has the same name as theBoy's name, save for an alternate spelling. I haven't got his voice down but it seems to basically be a cross between Silly Simon, the innumerate dragon that's always frustrating Humpty with his inability to count past two ("One, two, pineapple!"), and Geoffrey Rush doing David Helfgott.

The irony of the Helfgott thing is that the character that theBoy bounced also has a similar speech pattern in that the character repeats the last few words of each sentence. 

That character is, or rather was, Rat. 

theBoy decided Rat died through gastronomic misadventure—Rat apparently eating too much cake and exploding. I kept trying to bring Rat back in but theBoy wasn't having a bar of it and each time I mentioned Rat he patiently explained—as if to an idiot—that Rat was no more because of the whole cake eating (slash) stomach then exploding thing.

Then I hit upon a solution—Ghost Rat!

'Wooo, I'm a ghost, I'm a ghost' said Ghost Rat as he 're-appeared' in his new form. 

theBoy thought about this for all of two seconds. 

'Then Ghost Rat eats some ghost cake and he explodes!' he said. 

There's no faulting that logic. Later theBoy said that Rat's mum and Rat's dad also turned into ghosts, then ate ghost cake, then also exploded. Just to be sure.

Rat got Poochied!

Where Mikey has two stories about food that involve theBoy

We try not to have ice-cream in the house. For one it’s empty carbs. For two it can (and does) give me violent stomach pain. Can being the operative word, for even though the incidences of ice-cream related pain are frequent, I’d say more than one in time in two, the odds are enough in my favour (not really) that it won’t happen!

The other day theWife and theBoy, who is four and a bit, were travelling through the supermarket. I had asked for ice-cream but theWife wisely went for a small-sized tub, just two-litres, so as to prevent probable binging by me. She let theBoy choose the tub since he’s now aware of ice-cream and wants to take part in its consumption.

There’s three of us in the Indomitable Trio so he selected a three-flavoured affair; vanilla, chocolate, and triple chocolate (with fudge pieces).

He had a little bit of the vanilla, which he declared was ‘his part of it’. By the next day the ice-cream was gone, fully consumed between myself and theWife.

Last night, after dinner, theBoy requested ice-cream. theWife told him that we had eaten all of it. ‘But the vanilla was my part! You ate my part!’

How funny that five years ago he didn’t even exist as a person. I mean he was sort of there, in the form of an egg in theWife, but here he is, just five years on, complaining about us honking his share of the ice-cream.

And you know what … it’s fair enough that he was pissed off.

Next he’ll be going all group-house and labelling all the contents in the fridge; ‘That’s my apple-juice, my custards, my cheese-sticks...’

Once upon a time the Boston Market chain intruded into the restaurant landscape that is NSW. It is a slightly higher cut of the jib to standard fare. Indeed the wiki for Boston Market claims it is fast casual service; a type of restaurant that does not offer full table service, but promises a higher quality of food and atmosphere than a fast food restaurant.

The Boston Market basically sold delish roast-type meals, along with cornbread, heavenly mashed potato, and gravy. Indeed with the potato and gravy they would serve the mash in a sculpted pile with a depression in the middle of the pile. In the depression, looking like a brown lagoon, would rest the gravy.

The Boston Market lads moved into the fast-food (slash) petrol station complex between Sydney and Newcastle, which is about 100 kays north of Sydney. Once we’d had the Boston goodness we could not go back to normal on-the-road-fare. We would save our hunger for that particular complex, typically being ravenous by the time we made it to the facility. Then chow into the roast goodness with their artfully presented potato mound with accompanying gravy loch.

Alas the Boston Market presence did not last long and eventually their owners, now McDonald’s, closed up their operations in Australia.

The other day theBoy was up before theWife. He demanded Humpty and Stumpty. theWife was trying to sleep off the bed invasion that had occurred at 3 am when theBoy came in having wet the bed. She stripped away the bed clothes and piled them in the corridor next to the laundry door.

He ran down the corridor to the end room where I was abed to demand stories, yelled, then fell over. ‘I slipped, daddy. On water!’

I came out to look and turned on the corridor light.

It wasn’t water. It was piss. Cat piss in fact. Only they hadn’t pissed on the floor. They’d pissed in the bed clothes. So much piss that it was pooled, in a depression within the bed clothes, just like the gravy loch in a Boston Market potato mound, a slight trickle running out of the loch, down the bed clothes, and onto the floor.

Gagging at the sight of the piss loch, and in fact there were two of them, I wadded up some toilet paper and threw them in the piss lochs to soak up the pools of cat piss. When theWife eventually arose I told her what I’d done lest she just it all in the wash without withdrawing the piss-soaked toilet tissue.

Later she asked what I’d done for theBoy. Had I cleaned him after his slipped-in-piss incident? I had not. It hadn’t even had crossed my mind to do it.

… Daddy cleanliness fail … 

Tuesday, February 21, 2012

Google goodness

As them thar this blog is Google powered, blogspot owned by the good people at Google, the stats section that comes with it is pretty kewl. It gives you stats to within two hours of collection and lets you have a gander at search terms that led people to your piece of the e-soapbox.

Despite having fewer regular readers than fingers I still have a healthy enough ego that I check the stats regularly. Now and then someone links to something and I get a small spike. Most recently there was a spike to a Murdoch-themed spray from seven or so years ago.

So I checked the stats and scoped out the key words section where it lists search terms used.

And there it was. Someone came to this blog through the search term 'amputee jokes'. Not once, but twice.

How delightful.


theBoy is a tad cuddle resistant. Mainly because it's a contest. At night, on the way to bed, he cuddles my leg and kisses my knee goodnight. Otherwise I get too clingy you see. As he did his manuever I told him that when he was asleep I would give him as many cuddles and kisses as I wanted.

At that point he climbed into my lap, cuddled me, and gave me a kiss ... and told me not to cuddle and kiss him when he was asleep.

Later theWife will use her iPhone to take a photo of me cuddling and kissing him while he's asleep. Then in the morning when he steals mummy's phone to look at photos ... Mikey for the win!

One two (thump)

Ouch, well that hurt. Two massive in-work punches in the one day. The (thump) is me falling.

The first punch came when I was told by theBoss I could no longer bother our new building person with safety issues. Future emails from me now had to go through her. Said building person blew up to her about me for tasking him to do stuff, and that anyway all the stuff I pointed out was fine (it wasn't; obvious trip hazards to even a child; "Who put dat dere? They has poo heads"). He then had the gall to point at the large pile of stuffed boxes of my crap next to my work station (stacked neatly against the wall and not in a traffic-area) and apparently accused me of hypocrisy for not having squared it away. Me having been moved there just the day before. Oh, and I can't lift anything heavier than two kilos or bend past 90 degrees ("Why he think you can move boxes when you has bad leg? Him damaged in face or somethin'? Dere a hole dere?"). 

The irony is of course we all do annual safety training, well an online thing with a quiz at the end, where we put our hands on our hearts and promise to be safe and point out safety issues. But of course only a fraction of people give a shit enough to actually do so. I am one of those people. Perhaps it may have something to do with being wracked with fucking pain and mobility impaired? Call me crazy but I like a trip-hazard free workplace... ("You not crazy! Dat other man be a poo head! And it dribble out dat face hole too.").

I know I told the world to laugh in the face of what ails ya. But it's hard sometimes. The worst is that horrid sick feeling of fear you get when you hear someone is fucked off at you. Then there's the feelings of hurt—I had actually liked him until that point—and feeling wounded and hard done by.

A quick aside. Today some seeming able-bodied c___ up the corridor used my disabled toilet. The one with the plastic moulded harry high booster so I am not too bendy when trying to go. I had an IBS attack, went to my toilet, and it was locked. He was using it. Some people get changed in there. He didn't, he simply used for non-changing purposes. But I did say he was seeming able-bodied. I suppose he could actually have a disability? Maybe he needs the grab bar to lower himself? Perhaps I should give him the benefit of the doubt? Okay, I might. Though if I ever see him come out of it I will ask him what the matter is with him. Since, you know, he's using it and all.

Aside over. Punch two. So fresh from being told to send OH&S issues through my boss in future so they may be ignored and not acted upon by the sad man, I get told off my my boss+, with boss++ CC'ed in.

Okay, so confession. Sometimes I send out non-work related emails to colleagues. Why? A morale thing, I suppose. Then there's my considering such things to be practice for my lotto-dream career of being an actual person writing for a living. Plus, I also think I am hilarious.

I recently became aware of a cafe near our work that's buried deep within a rival office complex. So I sent out a lunch-time email, actually written during my allotted lunch-period, where I waxed lyrical about how awesome the cafe was with its delicious-looking reasonably priced bain-marie food and a nice sit-down outside area. I threw in some wiki links, some laughing about the time I got sucked into going to not one but two Amway pitches (the cafe name sounds a little like a pyramid scheme), and said that as the cafe sold drinks and mags that you wouldn't need to stalk Black Thunder any more (1).

Then I get the email from the boss+ telling me that I have apparently violated policy for promoting a commercial entity to others and please cease and desist any such urges to do so in the future. It's a somewhat amusing telling-off considering one person sends around four meg-sized cupcake promotion emails on a regular basis. Also when we'd moved to the building last year the first thing we all did was share info on places in the area. 

Ah, but what could I do? All I could say was 'Okay, noted' and leave it at that, a great well of hurt blossoming within once more. Part of me suspects it may have just been a manager stamp of authority—managers do these things sometimes to remind you they're a manager. Part of me suspects the building person complained to her and she saw this as a means to whack me on the nose. 

At any rate I have to now still work with people right now I am angry with and my feelings are hurt. Later I went and had a haircut, so as to prevent future sweat-in-the-ears-trickling, and it was all I could do not to blub. I guess the other part is I feel pretty self-righteous about it all. I didn't do anything morally or ethically wrong. In fact, in the first punch, what I did was moral and ethical (the pointing out of hazards). In the second I was just being me, trying to write more and be entertaining whilst informative, and the response was being e-told to shut the fuck up and my boss++ included in the traffic. 

Oh well, that's just how it rolls in the public service, or broader workforce. Sometimes you end up working with or for people that don't understand you, don't support you, or don't value your contribution. Sometimes you work with really supportive people that look out for you and have your best interests at heart. I suppose in the end it's just a matter of luck. 

However it was nice that a number of people wrote back to me laughing about something I wrote, or gently ribbing me ('you're that old?!'), or even talking about the time they got suckered into going to an Amway pitch and that one of their Amway-afflicted friends had aspirational art work up on his walls; aspirational in the sense they were pics of shit he planned to buy, like a race-car, when his Amway money started rolling in. 

See, Mikey. Some people do appreciate you (big hugs).

When I got home the rest of the trio were in the bathroom engaged in post-gardening cleansing. theBoy had set up a small activity centre in the shower of non-slip mats on the floor, a little red plastic chair he could sit on, various plastic cups (some with sprinkle holes), and the two-litre empty honey bottle container that, when he fills with water, causes him to sing "filling up the honey bottle, filling up the honey bottle". He was gleefully still showering when I rolled in.

Then theWife went and got me comfort foods. What a good egg. 

Tomorrow will suck. It's the weekly meeting. Both punch-throwers will be there. I plan to sit and stew and barely contribute. Ha! Take that!

Now to fight the urge to have those imaginary conversations where you scream bile in their faces and eviscerate them utterly through force of argument and clever wordplay. 'Cos if I do I tend to get all worked up and next thing I know I am yelling for real at imaginary people.

Fuck I hate this horrid work shit.

UPDATE: I just ruined Storyverse time by drifting off and having several angry imaginary conversations. I have to actively suppress the desire to rant like a mofo. Poor theWife already copped a half-hour same-info-provided-several-times rant from myself. Hate it! It just fucking colours everything ... if I let it. theBoy just ran in to let me know that Synybatbat, who routinely puts up billboards across from theBoy's house saying theBoy is a monster, had been informed that theWife is now a monster for some imagined slight. See, that's the shit you go to work for. Not all that other bullshit. That's just to get by. I have to remember, as always, this is just a job. It is not me. Even if their critiquing of OCD me (the person that sends OH&S themed missives) and writing me is actually critiquing me as me, they're just two people in a big building with lots more people. People who seem to actually like me. So, nyar.

(1) The 104.7 promotions vehicle that parks in various places around town for a half-hour or so to give away promotional material, Who Weekly mags and icy cold cans of coke.

Monday, February 20, 2012

Got moved again

I came into work to the new workstation where I work now to find that I no longer worked there. Yes, in a single day they'd had another re-org and I was moved. Moved to the desk of T---, who is actually off on a 12 month tour of Oz, the very T--- in whose good luck card I injected a large dose of evil clown.

I am the master of the workplace card comment (bows deeply).

Anyway, the dude who'd moved to my workstation of 24 hours, a simply lovely guy whose name I never bothered to learn before today because we were only at the head nod relationship stage (1), had taken time and effort with his move and it looked like he'd been in that workstation for fucking years. Years!

So when I walked in and saw him in my workstation and that he'd been there for years (it seemed) I thought I'd had a major mental episode there and then. I stood there wondering what the fuck was happening for seeming ages.

Then he saw me and explained that for some inexplicable reason they shunted us one pod along into the corner and made him move where he was now. Interestingly it was the pod in the corner and the corner desk has an awesome vista of beautiful tree. The work station was on the left. In the other pod, the one we'd just been moved from, I was on the left. Now, in the new pod, I was on the right. theBoss had simply elected to give herself the uber seat. You know what? I was cool with that. Though I did find it amusing nothing was said about it. 

That's how it is in the public service. You can literally work from the same desk or office for seven years then all of a sudden you get moved twice in the space of two work days. 

I also cruised down to the office below. I'd done them a favour with the weekend work and provided them some awesome data. So I went and basked in the glow of their love for me. It is nice to be loved. Even if it's a 'Mikey can do X!' glow. Hey, it's nice to be wanted and so forth.

I also realised that the new area I'd moved into was a little snaky on the no stuff in the corridor front. You're not supposed to drift furniture and boxes into the corridors between pods or pods and offices. Because, you see, in an emergency you could trip up, cause a tumble and then there's the panic and the climbing over each other ... you get the drift. The new (new) area seems to have a lot of fat furniture, furniture whose footprint seems to be well into the thoroughfare. 

I am not the OH&S person any more. Fuck, I'm not even the first aid person (well ... I was back-up).  But I guess I do give a shit about stuff like this because I don't want something bad to happen when I could have made it not happen. Call it a conscience, call it OCD. Fuck, call it an evolutionary advantage because my being over-precaution man with shit like this pays off if something bad happens and my seed continues to be sprayed forth by my future kin. 

I gave a shit enough to go to the workplace manual, send a link to the OH&S person and the person in charge of getting shit for the building, note the section where it talks about shit in the corridor, pointed out an example where a fucking shredder had left a bare three-quarters of a metre of walking-thru space, and noted that while no distance was mandated as a minimum that our over-all group had a safety coordinator and perhaps we should get their ruling on it. Fuck, I even went to the territory fire regulations to see if there was a mandated minimum width for passageways (2). That's just how I roll. 

I expect, like many other things, nothing will get done. Like what happened when I reported the stairs as a major trip hazard and nothing has been done about that.  

Anyway, it's par for the course in the public service and all this crap about offices, safety, and the lunch room (freezer went off everyone; if you have food, go get it!), is just part-and-parcel of working for the man. 

You know who you are.

(1) I'd see him, he'd see me, we'd nod as we past. That was it. Pleasant, cordial, mobile; no names. The way I likes it. 
(2) There's not by the way; the matter of furniture and boxes intrusion is like p0rnography, they'll know a object-induced passage-way intrusion if they see one.

Sunday, February 19, 2012

Way overdid it

This morning I woke to discover that during the night some c___ had dragged me out of bed and rolled one of those old timey rollers for the tennis court—the sort of roller you'd find in the overgrown shed at a hundred-year-old homestead deep in grazing country—over the top of me. Then presumably backed over to be sure of damage inflicted and I suspect with nary a reverse beepbeepbeep to be heard. It was a mission of silent assault; normal OH&S systems could be bypassed for mission integrity.

This I presume was revenge for inflicting upon my withered bod moderate physical activity for well over an hour the previous day. For work, no less.

We went for one of our epic legally-mandated drives because we have a leased vehicle and if we don't do a min. distance in 12 months we have to pay over two grand in FBT. Because of the recent TFCWM, performed lo these two and a bit months past, our kays driven dropped off. And apparently medical issues need not apply; keep on drivin' in other words.

So with suffering the tennis rollered body and being cramped into a car for much of the day by the time we got home I could barely move. Even now I feel completely wretched. Aching thigh muscles, aching arms. An oddly high-reporting beard signal as my whiskers have gotten long and I am more aware of their ends. Though that is nothing to do with the work thing.

But I am an idiot. I should have palmed it off or simply begged off. Though in all honesty I did not expect it would be so hard on my body.

I can't wait to reach the point where I am felling better than before the operation. Apparently that will be in May sometime.

Kirk out.

Mikey's Musical Dental Hygiene Challenge

Whilst cleaning your teeth attempt to sing the chorus from 'Ring of Fire'

I Fell Into A Burning Ring Of Fire
I Went Down, Down, Down
And The Flames Went Higher

And It Burns, Burns, Burns
The Ring Of Fire
The Ring Of Fire

I think it enhanced the experience of cleaning!

Next I will try the chorus to Minogue's 'Can't get you out of my head'.

Mikey X, setting easy-to-achieve challenges since as long as he can remember. 


Okay, had a bit of ice-cream. Yes, it's landed but it's not super awful ... yet.

I had to work today. It was surprisingly physical. And I had to bend, get down on my knees and so forth. I was even walking around on mushy rain-sodden ground. I was constantly moving around for a good hour. By the end I was wobble-legged. Now, hours later, I am one great horrid ache. I clearly overdid it. I feel like a normal after a ten kay run. Fucking normals ... and their running.

I made theBoy cry tonight. I didn't mean to. A standard parental technique is the race. You tell the child you'r racing them to location X or to grab object B and off they run. e.g. race you to the car or first one sitting in their car seat. It was Storyverse time and we were racing for the big bed where we tend have Storyverse at night. I can lie in comfort as he run-paces back and forth at the bed end. In racing for the bed the winner is the first person fully on it. He was well ahead when I yelled out 'Hang on a sec, Chooky. He stopped just inside the door at the foot of the bed to look at me to see what it was I wanted. I then shuffled past him and as he realised he'd been deceived he tried to climb onto the bed even as I flopped down onto it for the win.

As I looked over in triumph I saw his little face crumple and he burst into tears. He then went looking for his mobile comfort wagon, theWife. We still did Storyverse, only theWife had to cuddle him at first until his story joy took over and he was dancing around again.

Naughty cheating daddy using trickery on a fear-year-old...

Saturday, February 18, 2012

He's wary now...

In many ways Cato from the Pink Panther movies and I share many similarities. We're both Chinese, both man-servants to clueless inspectors, and are skilled in the ways of an oriental kitchen. No, that's not right. Ah, that's it, we both lurk in readiness to attack our master. In my case the master being theBoy (we live to serve; swish!, swish!). 

I'm always trying to grab him for cuddles, squeezes, tummy rubs, belly button pinches (he is an outie, big-time) and tushie grabs. Since he's a smart little Chooky he's learned to adapt. He keeps a wary distance when he goes past me, his hand hovering behind him ready to block any tushie grab attempts. Or, if I call him, he makes sure not to enter my grab zone because otherwise I will lash out, snake-like, to grab his arm then pull him towards me for cuddles.

He came to me while I was still lying abed in the end room, my glasses on the shelf behind me. He wanted to show me his kewl underpants. They did indeed look kewl. But I couldn't see them properly, what with not having my glasses. 

'Come closer, Noodles,' I said. 'So I can see you. I don't have my glasses.'

He didn't move.

'Where are your glasses, daddy?' he asked.

'I don't know, Chooky,' I lied. 'Now come closer so I can see you.'

He didn't move.

'I can't see you properly,' I complained. 

'Your glasses!' he said again. A statement I suppose. 

'Don't know where they are,' I moaned, lying again.

Then he left. Curses!

Friday, February 17, 2012

Nudie garden walk!

I did one. It was all breezy. 

UPDATE: Later I saw a bull ant seemingly trying to eat a bird poo. Do they eat bird poo? If so, why is it so? To the inter-tubes! Not really answered, this one says 'anything-really' (1) so I guess that means yes,  this one answers a completely different question but the question itself is hilarious, and this one's actual question lacks any form of punctuation and sounds it came from a mid-range autistic person. I still haven't found an answer! 

Damn it, this one is a comedy-angry-I-hate-bugs-slash-useful-tips site where it says ants will literally eat the shit out of an aphid because that shit be tasty shit a tasty shit-eating ant, but not whether an ant will eat actual shit, shit. You know, like the bird poo in the example we're examining together here at the moment.

This fabulous site about poo made me laugh just from its Google result text string of ' - Facts About Poop' (2). Only it doesn't say if ants eat shit but deceptively encouraged me to go to that site because Google had struck a lyric from a song mentioning an ant-covered poo.

For shame, Google and For shame. 

Ah, wiki has a page on poo eating. Damn, it ants aren't specifically mentioned as opting in!

I guess the answer to that old age question of do ants eat bird poo is ... perhaps... 

UPDATE2: When I looked later the black bit was gone but the white bit remained. I suppose then, if ants do eat bird poo, they regard it a bit like an egg. The black bit is the yolk and therefore the yummiest part. If you're going to leave any part of an egg it's going to be the white bit, especially if it was under or over cooked.

(1) It also says this; What do ants eat? They love sweets, but they'll also eat whatever they can find, even if it means 'milking' other insects or growing their own fungus. If you'd like to find out what ants eat on your own, grow your own ant farm and watch the little creatures grow and live right inside a glass box, instead of at your picnic. Right inside a glass box, indeed. 
(2) theWife and I like to filk popular music with our own words stylings. One is 'Pooper-scoop, scooping the poop, it's alright (alright) all-all-right'. But I don't know what the actual song the music is called to link to so you'd get the benefit of this. 

Mikey's hirsuite silver v-neck jumpsuit

The hair shirt is a common trope from older times. A difficult-to-endure-wearing-of garment that reminds the wearer they are but humble and penitent. I remember Lord River wore one. That's all I can recall from a three month uni course costing $2000 in HECs debt from my undergrad Medieval History unit. That's it. All I can remember. Lord River, the father in law of one of the kings, had a hair shirt because he was pious and shit. Let me check ... well there you go, it was Earl Rivers and his wiki doesn't even mention the fucking shirt.

Anyway this is not about that, despite the name of the post. I like to have clever seeming names for my post titles. And sometimes it's just a bile-flecked 'fuck the world (slash) theMan' burst of rage. This is not one of those times.

So the hirsuite silver v neck jumpsuit. It's Mikey's fusion of the Seinfeld bit about in the future it seems we all decided to have a vote on what would be the one outfit we'd all wear and the fact I only get the one type of haircut. 

Since I had my ponytail shorn off lo some 14 odd years ago I have typically just had my hair buzzed to the stump. Typically a number two or three. Sometimes even a one. But whatever happens it's the opening sequence from Full Metal Jacket each and every time. I try not to let it get that long because I have lost most of the hair from my crown. I look like a monk that fell out of the habit and a bit of uneven regrow is on the sprout. 

That's it. That's the cut I will have for the rest of my life. I had long hair that I did nothing with. Now I have short hair that I do nothing with save for trying to keep it short. I grow a beard not because of any inclination to be face-furred but because I can't be fucked wasting time, effort and energy on fighting something nature gave me. I simply clipper it all back every three or four weeks (1).

It's practical to have short hair on comfort grounds alone. The other night when I was death-defying—and how hilarious that I said doing a weekly thing with strangers was a "big leap", akin to perhaps to a normal person spontaneously deciding to go backpacking for a year—I noticed that my hair length was such that it was channelling head sweat to trickle over the tips of my ears then down along my ear's slide like ridges to pool in my outer chamber (2). I kept having to shake my hair like an out-of-the-water-dog to clear them. Naturally, after the event I told my newly-met chums over a drink all about it before then faking a sudden realisation of the time so I could fuck the hell off.

So I guess then before next week I'd been get another hirsuite silver v-neck jumpsuit.

Fuck, I hate haircuts.

UPDATE: Footnoting fixed. Thanks Super Ed!

(1) My favourite part of that process is being under the shower afterwards and scraping my fingernails along the closely-cropped water-softened cheeks,and peeling away the loose outer skin muck that still lies nested against where the roots of the hair emerge from the flesh. I can then squeeze my finger tips against the heel of my hand and watch the muck sprout out in arch-like units.
(2) Oh, ha, ha. You instantly thought anal, didn't you? You totally did!