Posts Categorized: hump day post

Categories: hump day post

Categories: hump day post

The other week I took Julie to task over her werewolf tendencies when it comes to meat. In a gesture of fairness, I suppose I should share something about me and meat issues. I don’t do gristle. I’m sorry–I just can’t eat it. I pick through my food and if I find any on my plate, I cut out.

And when I say gristle, I mean anything that can’t be called meat. Now, I know there’s nothing wrong with consuming it and some people believe it’s good for you, but it doesn’t mean I have to. Supposedly, I’m a member of the highest form of intelligence on this planet and that means I can pick and choose what I eat. I don’t have to eat the skanky bits.

Obviously, Julie thinks I’m crazy. But I have standards. Being the scientist type she is, she does try to sell me a dummy sometimes.

“That’s not fat, it’s connective tissue.”

Oh, connective tissue. That sounds a whole lot more appetizing. I don’t think so.

Categories: hump day post

Product testing of the Nicotine Kiss

Categories: hump day post

Mrs. Stockdale was my first ever school teacher. I’d joined the school year quite late (after the Easter break), so I received a personal tour of the classroom. She introduced me to all the children, told me about nap time and showed me the rabbit hutch.

A Rabbit!!! I thought. I’d never seen a rabbit in the fur and asked to see it. She told me I couldn’t as she didn’t want to spook the bunny.

I understood, but I was disappointed. The problem was that front of the wooden hutch was solid, so I couldn’t see into it. The hutch was divided into two parts. A narrow pocket on the right hand side had a mesh cover and the dividing wall between the two halves of the hutch had an opening in it which allowed the rabbit to come move between both sides. I can’t tell you how long I spent staring at the narrow opening encouraging that rabbit to pop his head through the gap so I could see him and all to no avail.

Because the rabbit was the class pet, Mrs. Stockdale encouraged everyone in class to bring lettuce and things for the rabbit to eat each day. I, along with everyone else in class, brought a little something in every day and each morning, Mrs. Stockdale would open up the hutch and put the food in the small viewable area. But do you think that rabbit showed itself? Did it buggery. Not in the three or so months that I was in Mrs. Stockdale’s class did I ever see the damn rabbit at any time.

Needless to say, I left Mrs. Stockdale’s charge a broken child. I wanted to see the rabbit and I didn’t, but being a worldly child at the of age 5 and three months, I got over my disappointment and moved on.

However, it was only recently I got to thinking about that Garbo-esque rabbit and I came to a conclusion—there was no damn rabbit. That was an empty hutch. Son of a bitch!

To make matters worse, I think the rabbit thing was a ruse. I now believe we were bringing in salad fixings for Mrs. Stockdale. I do remember her saying, “Remember children, rabbits like more than just lettuce. They love celery, tomatoes, and they never say no to a hardboiled egg.”

Oh, how I wish I’d been on to you sooner, Mrs. Stockdale. Grr.

Categories: hump day post

As I’ve mentioned before, people read my books and assume that I’ve done the many, if not all, of the things in them. People have accused me of theft and adultery to name just two, although no one thinks I’ve killed—so it’s not all bad news.

However, in the last year or so, I’ve read some very odd things about me, some of which I have no idea why people thought they were true. So, I thought it was time I cleared the air. Here are ten things about me that I hope will set the record straight.

1. I’ve never seen a Rocky film.
2. I’ve never spent a night in jail.
3. I’m not in witness protection (not that I could admit it anyway).
4. I’m not the voice of the Geico gecko.
5. I can’t whistle.
6. I don’t wait in lines. It drives me crazy.
7. I’ve never been to a strip club.
8. I don’t like having my photo taken.
9. I don’t like compliments.
10. And, oh yeah, I’ve never punched a Panda.

I hope that clears up any misconceptions.

Categories: hump day post

I’m a little over average height–for a teenage girl. So I’ve spent most of my life being smaller than everybody else. By the time my little sister was seven, she was a good couple of inches taller than me, even though I was ten.

So I’ve gotten used to being the small guy in the room. I’m totally comfortable being in the room with people the same height or even a tad smaller than me (a tad smaller is technically an inch) but if someone comes up to me who’s three or four inches smaller than me, I’m totally spooked. I don’t know what to do with myself.

I don’t know why I get like this and I feel bad about it, because I worry that that’s how people feel when they see me. Don’t hate me because I’m small. So why do smaller people spook me?

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not one of those self loathing short people who wears thick socks and platform heels. I like being short. I think it makes me distinctive, like having a beard, sort of.

I think it may have a lot to do with status. I’m the short guy and I like being the short guy and everyone knows me as the short guy, so I get jealous when a shorter guy steals my thunder. Sounds silly, but it’s true. Think about it, when this short guy upstart (or should that be downstart?) shows up, where does that leave me? I’ll tell you. In short guy limbo. No one wants to be referred to as the tall-short guy. That’s a half-breed race that no one wants to hang out with.

If I had the choice, I’d like to be shorter. I don’t want to be so small that I can’t get a ride on a rollercoaster, just a tad shorter, somewhere in the 5’2″ region. This would cut out a lot of those short guy usurpers I have to put up with.

I can’t say this makes a lot of sense, but there it is. Anyway, I’ve got to go, breakfast is ready and Julie has to lift me into my high chair.

Categories: hump day post

I became a citizen a few years ago and I was reminded of the final hurdle I had to jump through to get there–the civics test. Like all trips to Immigration, it was an adventure.

Since the ICE (formerly the INS) is a government department, they make everything tough. You get prescreened before entering. The sign, amongst other things, said I couldn’t bring explosives or firearms into the building. Bloody hell. San Francisco has virtually no armored personnel vehicle parking and bazooka daycare fees are off the scale. Where’s the second amendment when you need it?

Actually, this was a pretty painless trip to the San Francisco branch of the ICE. One big change since Homeland Security took over the INS in SF is that the place got an extreme makeover. Can you say, “Move that bus”? The place is very snazzy in an airport lounge sort of way, having dropped its Department of Motor Vehicles look.

But one thing that hasn’t changed is the staff. They’re just as brusque and borderline rude as usual. Part of the immigration process is a form of hazing. When I was last fingerprinted, the technician insisted speaking only in Spanish. I knew enough to understand her. When she finished she told me to have a nice day in English. So a trip to Immigration means someone is going to get angry with you for something you’ve yet to do. This time, I got barked at when I walked up to the counter. The lady asked if I was in the right line. I told her I was. That foxed her, but she got back at me. She told me my ticket number was C-12 and wrote it down for me so I wouldn’t forget it, then kept the paper. When I asked for it, she told me to sit down and wait. Touché, my wily ice-maiden…

While I waited, some poor sap wandered around trying to find someone to talk to him. He got the runaround. Finally he tagged an immigration officer. He looked at the guy’s paperwork and shook his head. “I’m sorry, but it’s over for you today. You’re late. We’ve moved on. Check in at the counter and tell them you can’t be seen. You’ll get a recall.” I just hoped this guy’s bad karma wasn’t catching.

My name got called and I stood by the appropriate door waiting for my interviewer to arrive. A very affable elderly man welcomed me inside. I have to say that every one of the Immigration officers who have interviewed me have been the nicest people. It’s the reception, counter and security staff that have been total gits. Well, me and Mr. Nice walked to his office.

“You’re getting seen early,” he told me. “The previous guy turned up late, so you got his spot.”

Yeah, I thought, we just met.

We got to his office and he made me raise my right hand and swear to tell the whole truth. We went through the red tape of showing him my green card, passport and driver’s license. We agreed that I take a bloody bad picture. He checked on all my information. Am I still married? Do I still have a job? Am I communist? Am I a member of a terrorist organization? Am I up to date with my taxes? Would I die fighting for the US of A? That’s a bit extreme, I thought, but okay, in the case of alien invasion I would.

Without preamble, Mr. Nice launched into the civics questions. He blitzed through all ten in about sixty seconds (including my answers). I didn’t have time to think, just answer. It was instinct. I felt like I was on a game show. At the end, I expected him to say, “You’ve done it. You won the car and the boat.” Instead, he said, “You scored ten out of ten.”

To get the big prize, the chance never to return to the ICE, I had to write a sentence in English. Nailed it! And I was in. U-S-A., U-S-A and so forth.

Obviously, the big question came up as part of the ten questions–who was George Washington? “The first American president–or an enemy of the British Crown. Depends on your point of view,” I answered. Actually, I kept my second answer to myself until he approved my paperwork. Mr. Nice laughed. See, I told you he was nice.

We finished up and he approved my paperwork, welcomed me to America and walked me out. He sat me down in a different part of the lounge and told me to wait for someone who would be through shortly with my swearing in ceremony paperwork.

I waited for a few minutes and Ms. Snarky from earlier walked past me, over to the opposite side of the lounge and started barking names. I knew where this was going. I heard my name being called with several others. I got up and went over to
her.

“You are sitting in the wrong place,” she snapped. “You’re all sitting in the wrong place.”

I wasn’t taking this anymore. I had a piece of paper in my hand saying I was approved and a new American. I’d made it through nine years of Immigration carping. I’d been accused of lying, blamed for their errors (including them losing my file) and watched one immigration guy make Julie cry. I wouldn’t be visiting this department anymore. I didn’t have to be subservient to them. I was street legal.

“Hey,” I said loud enough for others to hear. Very un-British of me. “The officer told us to sit over there and wait. Okay?”

“Oh,” she said, the snarkiness now gone.

Oh, is right, lady, I thought. I don’t have to take that. I’m an American and I have the paperwork to prove it. 🙂

So I’m English-American—so what does that mean? Am I going to shed my English identity? Like Thomas will I deny my nationality three times before the cock crows? Will I be loud in public? Will I buy a larger car–even a pickup? Will I put cheese on all my meals? Will I start liking Country music? Probably not. I’ll always be English first. There’s some wiring that can’t be reconfigured. I’ll continue being me. Consider me an English person the Americans can’t get rid of now no matter how hard they try. I’m unflushable…

Categories: hump day post

As I mentioned on Monday, I am celebrating fifteen years in the US. Wow, hasn’t time just flown by? Fifteen years and immigration asked me to leave after two. I can be slippery. It always pays to move around. 🙂

Anyhoo, I’ve learned a lot about American culture during that time. It is very different from living in England. More than water and language separates our fair nations. I sort of feel like Captain Kirk seeking out new life forms and new civilizations, so here are a few things I’ve learned in my time in the US:

1. American TV doesn’t have reruns, it has “encore presentations.”

Categories: hump day post

Having grown up on comic books and comic book inspired TV shows, I’ve always hankered after being a superhero doing superhero stuff and being revered for it. I always fancied being something along the lines of Si-Man, a crime fighter who takes down the colorful characters of organized crime with the power of biting sarcasm. It’s worth a shot.

But lately, I’ve changed my mind. With rising medical insurance costs, poorly performing retirement funds and a crappy economy, I’m not so sure about the whole superhero gig.  The reason why–money!

They say crime doesn’t pay, but neither does being a superhero. How much money did Batman ever make from keeping the streets safe in Gotham? Nothing, as far as I know. No wonder Commissioner Gordon loved him. He made the Commish’s budget look good. Crime went down and it didn’t cost the city a penny. Not only did Batman not get paid for his efforts, he actually had to underwrite his activities. It was lucky he had the Wayne billions to fall back on. I can’t see Bruce Wayne getting too far with submitting his expense forms to the city if he was Bruce Wayne of Bruce Wayne Plumbing, Inc.

But not everyone is as financially lucky as Batman. Look at Superman and Spiderman. They both needed day jobs to make ends meet. Clark Kent was a reporter and Peter Parker was a photographer. I’m pretty sure that Bruce Banner lost his temper to become the Incredible Hulk when he wasn’t getting a paycheck. This probably is why very few lawyers became superheroes. There’s a limit to the pro bono work they’re willing to do.

So while it would be pretty neat to be a superhero, I’m gonna have to turn the job down. I’ve had enough of working two jobs. It’s nice to get an honest day’s pay for an honest day’s work. That’s never more applicable then when applied to the superhero career structure.

Categories: hump day post