By Annie D.
http://rationalmindofacrazywoman.blogspot.com/
This was written a few years ago, just before Thanksgiving. What a lovely memory.
I love food. I love cooking. I love good company. So why is it that I am dreading what should be, and what used to be, my favorite holiday? Because I don't get to enjoy any of these things.
We typically spend Thanksgiving with my husband's family: His mom, step-dad, sister, and multitude of brothers (I have lost count of them, somewhere around 42). The food is...ok. My husband's mom usually makes pretty good food, but for whatever reason Thanksgiving isn't up to par with her other meals. I am the kind of person that prefers the once-yearly meals to be homemade-completely from scratch. I don't like a lot of short cuts in cooking anyway, but especially on Thanksgiving! The gravy comes from a jar, the mashed potatoes might actually come from a box (they taste like it anyway) and the other food is relatively bland. Not to mention that none of the appetizers are ever Annie-friendly. I admit that I am a little picky, but there is never a single thing other than crackers that I can eat before the meal, and I’m certain that’s done on purpose.
I love to cook, and I am pretty darn good at it too. I am great at following recipes and most people thoroughly enjoy my cooking. Last year I made the key-lime pie that my family begs me for at every holiday, but because it came from my kitchen my in-laws pretty much refused to eat it. This year, I asked what I could bring and was told not to worry about it. Everything is already taken care of. Then my husband got a call. Since it was soooo nice of me to offer, I can bring 2 bags of Caesar salad. Bags of salad? Seriously? The other daughter-in-law (well, the only one; I am the other son's wife) has a history of making HORRIBLE dishes, so bad that no one can even eat them, and she continues to be asked to cook again yet I don't ever get the chance. Bags of salad? I can whip up a fantastic arugula or spinach salad with a divine hot dressing. I can throw together a wonderful summer greens salad, shit, I can MAKE a fucking Caesar salad. But no. Buy 2 bags, please, and be sure to not fuck it up.
Perhaps the best part of any holiday is the great company. I am extremely close to my family. I love being around them, all of them, even the extended family. My husband's family? Not so much. It stems from the fact that none of them even try to hide their disdain for me. It is clear as day how much they wish my husband hadn't married me. The before-dinner prayer might as well ask for our divorce (of course, Satan probably doesn't pray before meals). I hate having to be fake and put on my everything-is-perfect smile and pretend that I think they are all just the bee's knees. I pretty much have to be the complete opposite of myself to even be asked inside, but even then my guess is they are all saying "we were really just hoping Annie to send over the salad and stay home". And if that’s what they want, then they should tell me I’m not invited, like they did the year I was pregnant with their very 1st grandchild. There is also always the possibility that my husband’s mother will threaten us all with suicide (as she has done in many years past). But alas, it will just be another empty threat. She should really stop teasing me.
Yes, this Thanksgiving will be less than great, as will all future ones. I am doing a smaller version of the holiday at my house on Friday, but my husband has to work so we won't eat until 6:30, and it will be every one's second turkey day meal so it won't be as exciting. Basically I am having a regular old dinner party and I am serving turkey. At least I will have enjoyed cooking, I will enjoy the food, and I will certainly enjoy the company.
*Personal blog address intentionally removed per the request of the author*
9/28/10
9/26/10
Dial Your Way To Fitness
By Tariq Hyder
http://websnacker.blogspot.com/
(RBU Join Date: 08/22/2010)
Install a New Telephone and Watch those Pounds Melt Away
I wrote this story, one of my favs when I was a columnist for the New Indian Express. During those days, Indian telecommunication services were still rather primitive and fixing a new phone line was helluva fun. Read on...
When we complained, the phone company staff called (in person, since he couldn't get through on the phone). He explained that to obtain satisfactory results from their particular cordless, we had to suspend the receiving base out of a window and take the call directly below it, at a distance of no more than 20 feet. Since the place where we normally received our calls was a good 200 yards from the fixed base, his suggestion was impractical. Taking pity on our predicament, he recommended us a superior model (an unknown Czechoslovakian brand) which he promised would solve our problems and absolutely work anywhere, upto even 500 yards and beyond. So, after 2 days of protracted haggling, he fixed us a much more powerful model with a bulky base station for substantially more money. We crossed our fingers and hoped this would work.
Work, it certainly did. That evening as I sat outside in our garden talking on the new cordless with a classmate, all of a sudden I was unable to hear him any more. Two jet fighters were circling our estate at a hazardous height. I promptly shut my cordless and ran for cover. Next morning, an enraged Army Officer zeroed in onto our house and confiscated our new cordless, since it was apparently capable of ringing up pilots in mid-air and redirecting them to multiple destinations which allegedly included my school, our office and the local electricity board.
After a month, we decided on an entirely new telephone system, one with extensions everywhere. The phone guy said that this system was designed to work for us. And so it might well have done, had it worked at all. The first thing it did was simply cut you off mid-conversation or connect us to a wrong number when we called. Then like a hungry toddler, it would start mysteriously ringing throughout the night. I registered a complaint with the firm which sold it to us (from a nearby PCO) because by now the only person we could call was mom in her kitchen. The phone guys came, heard our sorry tales and fitted an entirely new system, almost free of charge.
Most recklessly, I showed Amma, my grand mother, how to use it. I told her that if the yard extension rang - Tring, Tring, Tring, (3 times) then it would be an internal call and she should answer it because it would be for her but if it should ring - Tring, Tring, Tring Tring (4 times), it would be an external call and she should leave it alone. Unluckily, she couldn't differentiate between the 3 Trings and the 4 Trings. The result was that she answered just about every call. And then couldn't hear who it was!
So I showed her (again stupidly) how to transfer calls. And though, she would transfer every call, quite correctly to one of the extensions; the troubles was she would never ring the right extension, and only ring half a dozen times, so by the time I would reach the kitchen or the living room, it would stop ringing and start up elsewhere. Soon, the annual holidays set in and I was practically running around our house, chasing the rings - from room to room, floor to floor.
http://websnacker.blogspot.com/
(RBU Join Date: 08/22/2010)
Install a New Telephone and Watch those Pounds Melt Away
I wrote this story, one of my favs when I was a columnist for the New Indian Express. During those days, Indian telecommunication services were still rather primitive and fixing a new phone line was helluva fun. Read on...
Before I moved to the suburbs of good old Madras, I was perfectly content with my domestic communication system. But once we left downtown Madras, everything changed.
After School, I’d be busy playing Cricket at the neighboring play ground, when I would catch sight of my sister standing on top of our fence, screaming and hitting a galvanized bucket with a Neem stick. This was her signal that I had a phone call. I would make my way as fast as I could back to the house, only to find that the caller had long lost patience. And as we had a palatial estate, all of us had to face the same problem.
A portable cordless phone seemed the answer. One of those advertised as being capable of receiving or sending calls from anywhere but the copywriter had obviously never tried calling from the outer depths of Madras. Often, I would pull out the antenna, push it on my ears and get an earful of loud static or it would be a wrong number, usually for a pharmacy (one day a caller impudently asked if I could deliver a Condom!). Sometimes, like a slasher movie, very faintly, I would hear the melancholic screaming of a caller frantic to make contact.
When we complained, the phone company staff called (in person, since he couldn't get through on the phone). He explained that to obtain satisfactory results from their particular cordless, we had to suspend the receiving base out of a window and take the call directly below it, at a distance of no more than 20 feet. Since the place where we normally received our calls was a good 200 yards from the fixed base, his suggestion was impractical. Taking pity on our predicament, he recommended us a superior model (an unknown Czechoslovakian brand) which he promised would solve our problems and absolutely work anywhere, upto even 500 yards and beyond. So, after 2 days of protracted haggling, he fixed us a much more powerful model with a bulky base station for substantially more money. We crossed our fingers and hoped this would work.
Work, it certainly did. That evening as I sat outside in our garden talking on the new cordless with a classmate, all of a sudden I was unable to hear him any more. Two jet fighters were circling our estate at a hazardous height. I promptly shut my cordless and ran for cover. Next morning, an enraged Army Officer zeroed in onto our house and confiscated our new cordless, since it was apparently capable of ringing up pilots in mid-air and redirecting them to multiple destinations which allegedly included my school, our office and the local electricity board.
After a month, we decided on an entirely new telephone system, one with extensions everywhere. The phone guy said that this system was designed to work for us. And so it might well have done, had it worked at all. The first thing it did was simply cut you off mid-conversation or connect us to a wrong number when we called. Then like a hungry toddler, it would start mysteriously ringing throughout the night. I registered a complaint with the firm which sold it to us (from a nearby PCO) because by now the only person we could call was mom in her kitchen. The phone guys came, heard our sorry tales and fitted an entirely new system, almost free of charge.
Most recklessly, I showed Amma, my grand mother, how to use it. I told her that if the yard extension rang - Tring, Tring, Tring, (3 times) then it would be an internal call and she should answer it because it would be for her but if it should ring - Tring, Tring, Tring Tring (4 times), it would be an external call and she should leave it alone. Unluckily, she couldn't differentiate between the 3 Trings and the 4 Trings. The result was that she answered just about every call. And then couldn't hear who it was!
So I showed her (again stupidly) how to transfer calls. And though, she would transfer every call, quite correctly to one of the extensions; the troubles was she would never ring the right extension, and only ring half a dozen times, so by the time I would reach the kitchen or the living room, it would stop ringing and start up elsewhere. Soon, the annual holidays set in and I was practically running around our house, chasing the rings - from room to room, floor to floor.
By this time, I had lost my patience and was about to rip out the whole wretched system, when a pal remarked that I was looking a lot trimmer, smart and athletic. Unexpectedly, I realised that I was indeed looking at a fortune. I at once hurried back to my archaic PC and started typing. The finished work was soon in the weekend paper titled 'Dial Your Way to Fitness – Install a New Telephone and Watch those Pounds Melt Away.’
9/24/10
6 reasons to visit Montreal
By Josey
http://nexttopicplease.com/
RBU Join Date 08/10/2010
...or not (to visit Montreal)
Right now my mood is: Wishy-washy
… and the topic is: Travel
Me and the missus, recently spent a week in Montreal, Quebec to celebrate our 1 year wedding anniversary, and here’s my quick list list of reasons why you should visit Montreal… and a few reasons why you might not want to visit.
Disclaimer – The following of course is only opinion formed by a 5 day visit to Montreal, QC. I will be comparing to time spent in big cities like: New York, Boston, Hartford, Philadelphia, Atlanta, Washington DC and Seoul, Korea.
The (+) Positives and (-) Negatives to visiting Montreal, Canada:
(1.) It’s Bilingual: Sure, Montreal is a modern international city and you’ll run into all kinds of ethnicities while you’re there, but chances are that most people you talk to will speak both French and English…
(+): The average conversation you overhear will be in French, and many people will greet you in French as you enter a store or restaurant; however, if you need someone to speak English to you, most can – and they’ll do it without making you feel like a jerk for not bothering to master the French language before arriving. Another way they get over the language barrier is lots of signs… even if some of them seem ridiculous.
(-): Not everyone’s English skills are great, and you may need to put in a little effort to understand some people if you’re French isn’t great either… that might freak some people out…
* verdict: practice your French, but if you can’t keep up, just ask in English and they probably won’t hold it against you.
(2.) Transportation: Getting around Montreal…
(+): Transportation options are great – there are plenty of taxis (traffic isn’t too heavy except during rush hours – but even then it’s not that bad), the sidewalks are in decent shape and the Metro run by STM (subway and buses) is affordable and fast. For the most part the streets and subway of Montreal are pretty clean – compared to the cities above. Then there’s Biking. Most of the major roads in the city have bike lanes designated by either paint or actual cement curbs. They also have the Bixi option – it’s a city-wide bike rental system… kind of like Zipcar but with bikes.
(-): Montreal – I only just realized as we arrived there – translates into Royal Mount… as in, mountain. Yes, that’s right… it’s got some killer hills if you want to walk or bike. Even if you the Metro service you will have to do some walking… and that can be pretty vertical in many parts of the city.
* verdict: There are taxis, but I would go prepared to give your legs a workout unless you want to spend a small fortune on being driven everywhere… bring comfortable shoes – at least 2 pair so you can alternate each day!
(3.) Currency/Money: The exchange rate is a moving target, but…
(+): In general the US dollar is about equal or slightly better than the Canadian Dollar. The cool thing though is that Canadian money isn’t boring like the all green US dollars – the bills come in blues, purples and greens (pinks and browns if you’re a high roller). It’s much more interesting if you happen to like to make origami with your money.
(-): There is no Canadian 1$ bill. Instead they have a 1$ coin (the loonie) and a 2$ coin (the toonie). While I actually think this is a neat idea, I’m not used to carrying coins in my pockets – they’re heavier, noisy and potentially iPhone screen scratching.
* verdict: The different currency can be fun for your collection, but come prepared to carry change – either in your pockets or in some kind of coin purse.
(4.) Food: As an international city food choices are plentiful…
(+): There are tons of options with different cultural cuisines and different price ranges available – Vietnamese, Thai, Japanese / Sushi, Italian and Lebanese were very common in the parts of the city that we frequented. Many restaurants had a bistro option, which was very nice in the lovely Montreal summer weather – 70′s to mid-80′s with low humidity and a nice breeze while we were there.
(-): Breakfast, my favorite meal of the day, was a little disappointing. The places we visited [heavily] pre-buttered the toast. It was delicious, but more butter than I would use myself. The sausages that I tried seemed bland and more “lard-filled” than what I’m used to. The pancakes are actually crepes, and while I was initially excited about this, all of the crepes I tried were basically thin, stale-tasting rubbery pancakes. The missus also couldn’t find oatmeal on the menu – her staple breakfast.
* verdict: Breakfast wasn’t terrible, but it was disappointing because some of my favorites weren’t available or tasted different. Other than that, food options are great. Go and explore.
(5.) Events: As an international city, you’d expect there’s lots to do…
(+): … and there IS. There are tons of museums, fancy shops, night life options, parks and other more. There was a film festival going on while we were visiting, and we had just missed the Jazz festival and an African music / dance festival. There was a great Rock / Pop music festival set to arrive the week after we left.
(-): A couple of the publicly managed sites I wanted to see (Biodome and the Insectarium – yes, I’m a nerd), were closed due to labor disputes. I don’t know how common this sort of thing is (in Europe it seems to happen every Summer), but it was a big let down – in part because these two destinations were the first on our list of things to do.
* verdict: There’s plenty to do, and if you can read French or do a bit of research online, you’ll be sure to find all kinds of stuff to keep you entertained during your trip.
(6.) Atmosphere: While most big cities have lots in common, each usually has it’s own flavor…
(+): Montreal has a forward-thinking modern metropolitan feel to it, and yet there’s lots of history and tradition to discover while you’re there. Recycling and public transportation are the norm, and you can find beautiful skyscrapers and Gothic cathedrals within blocks of each other.
* verdict: Overall Montreal has big city features with touches of small town charm. I’d say Boston is the only US city I’ve visited to come close to this feeling – ironically though, Boston feels much more crowded than Montreal even though Montreal has more people. This might be due to the time of year that we visited (late July), but I suspect that it has something to do with the great public transportation options in Montreal
In Closing: Me and the missus were already talking about coming back to Montreal before we had left. We’re toying with the idea of visiting for Carnival / Mardi Gras… If anyone has some suggestions for that excursion, please leave a comment. If you’d like to visit Canada, I recommend Montreal… unless all those negatives speak to you. In which case, don’t go… unless you feel like an adventure…
http://nexttopicplease.com/
RBU Join Date 08/10/2010
...or not (to visit Montreal)
Right now my mood is: Wishy-washy
… and the topic is: Travel
Me and the missus, recently spent a week in Montreal, Quebec to celebrate our 1 year wedding anniversary, and here’s my quick list list of reasons why you should visit Montreal… and a few reasons why you might not want to visit.
Disclaimer – The following of course is only opinion formed by a 5 day visit to Montreal, QC. I will be comparing to time spent in big cities like: New York, Boston, Hartford, Philadelphia, Atlanta, Washington DC and Seoul, Korea.
The (+) Positives and (-) Negatives to visiting Montreal, Canada:
(+): The average conversation you overhear will be in French, and many people will greet you in French as you enter a store or restaurant; however, if you need someone to speak English to you, most can – and they’ll do it without making you feel like a jerk for not bothering to master the French language before arriving. Another way they get over the language barrier is lots of signs… even if some of them seem ridiculous.
(-): Not everyone’s English skills are great, and you may need to put in a little effort to understand some people if you’re French isn’t great either… that might freak some people out…
* verdict: practice your French, but if you can’t keep up, just ask in English and they probably won’t hold it against you.
(2.) Transportation: Getting around Montreal…
(+): Transportation options are great – there are plenty of taxis (traffic isn’t too heavy except during rush hours – but even then it’s not that bad), the sidewalks are in decent shape and the Metro run by STM (subway and buses) is affordable and fast. For the most part the streets and subway of Montreal are pretty clean – compared to the cities above. Then there’s Biking. Most of the major roads in the city have bike lanes designated by either paint or actual cement curbs. They also have the Bixi option – it’s a city-wide bike rental system… kind of like Zipcar but with bikes.
(-): Montreal – I only just realized as we arrived there – translates into Royal Mount… as in, mountain. Yes, that’s right… it’s got some killer hills if you want to walk or bike. Even if you the Metro service you will have to do some walking… and that can be pretty vertical in many parts of the city.
* verdict: There are taxis, but I would go prepared to give your legs a workout unless you want to spend a small fortune on being driven everywhere… bring comfortable shoes – at least 2 pair so you can alternate each day!
(+): In general the US dollar is about equal or slightly better than the Canadian Dollar. The cool thing though is that Canadian money isn’t boring like the all green US dollars – the bills come in blues, purples and greens (pinks and browns if you’re a high roller). It’s much more interesting if you happen to like to make origami with your money.
(-): There is no Canadian 1$ bill. Instead they have a 1$ coin (the loonie) and a 2$ coin (the toonie). While I actually think this is a neat idea, I’m not used to carrying coins in my pockets – they’re heavier, noisy and potentially iPhone screen scratching.
* verdict: The different currency can be fun for your collection, but come prepared to carry change – either in your pockets or in some kind of coin purse.
(4.) Food: As an international city food choices are plentiful…
(+): There are tons of options with different cultural cuisines and different price ranges available – Vietnamese, Thai, Japanese / Sushi, Italian and Lebanese were very common in the parts of the city that we frequented. Many restaurants had a bistro option, which was very nice in the lovely Montreal summer weather – 70′s to mid-80′s with low humidity and a nice breeze while we were there.
(-): Breakfast, my favorite meal of the day, was a little disappointing. The places we visited [heavily] pre-buttered the toast. It was delicious, but more butter than I would use myself. The sausages that I tried seemed bland and more “lard-filled” than what I’m used to. The pancakes are actually crepes, and while I was initially excited about this, all of the crepes I tried were basically thin, stale-tasting rubbery pancakes. The missus also couldn’t find oatmeal on the menu – her staple breakfast.
* verdict: Breakfast wasn’t terrible, but it was disappointing because some of my favorites weren’t available or tasted different. Other than that, food options are great. Go and explore.
(5.) Events: As an international city, you’d expect there’s lots to do…
(-): A couple of the publicly managed sites I wanted to see (Biodome and the Insectarium – yes, I’m a nerd), were closed due to labor disputes. I don’t know how common this sort of thing is (in Europe it seems to happen every Summer), but it was a big let down – in part because these two destinations were the first on our list of things to do.
* verdict: There’s plenty to do, and if you can read French or do a bit of research online, you’ll be sure to find all kinds of stuff to keep you entertained during your trip.
(6.) Atmosphere: While most big cities have lots in common, each usually has it’s own flavor…
(-): With all the great things going for it, 2 negatives really stuck out for me. The first is graffiti – mostly individual tags, but some murals – is nearly ubiquitous. Now keep in mind, I’m comparing Montreal to cities like New York and Washington DC. The sidewalks and subways are cleaner, but I would say that graffiti in Montreal is much more visible than any other city I’ve visited. The second stand-out is that on two separate occasions while walking in the down town areas I noticed people smoking marijuana. Now I’m not a total stick-in-the-mud, but if you’re going to break the law, do it in your house and away from small kids and others who choose to abstain.
* verdict: Overall Montreal has big city features with touches of small town charm. I’d say Boston is the only US city I’ve visited to come close to this feeling – ironically though, Boston feels much more crowded than Montreal even though Montreal has more people. This might be due to the time of year that we visited (late July), but I suspect that it has something to do with the great public transportation options in Montreal
In Closing: Me and the missus were already talking about coming back to Montreal before we had left. We’re toying with the idea of visiting for Carnival / Mardi Gras… If anyone has some suggestions for that excursion, please leave a comment. If you’d like to visit Canada, I recommend Montreal… unless all those negatives speak to you. In which case, don’t go… unless you feel like an adventure…
9/22/10
A Well Deserved Thank You!
By Dan Winfield
http://anythingatanytime.blogspot.com/
(RBU Join Date: 06/04/2010)
Anything at Anytime would like to thank Teachers.
Please understand this is for those Teachers that take an active interest in their students and their job. There are some out there that just take the job as a job and don't try and don't care for anything but the paycheck. I have seen them on my own and witnessed them walking down school halls. Believe me when I say this - Students and People in general can tell a Teacher from a teacher.
For the Teachers out there that Really care for their students and are proud of their profession, I THANK YOU!
Thank You for:
If you don't see yourself on this list and want to be there, find a Teacher at your school and ask them how you might be better. Personally, my first suggestion would be to realize that you might learn something from your kids. Education is a two way street.
If you are not a Teacher, but can think of a few, send this to them or mention their names here.
Personally I have several:
My wife Jacqueline, Coach and American History Teacher Mike Graham, Coach and Physics Brenda Raley, Coach and World History Tim Knowles, English and GT Jacquita Lewter, Speech and Spanish Janet Hayes,
http://anythingatanytime.blogspot.com/
(RBU Join Date: 06/04/2010)
Please understand this is for those Teachers that take an active interest in their students and their job. There are some out there that just take the job as a job and don't try and don't care for anything but the paycheck. I have seen them on my own and witnessed them walking down school halls. Believe me when I say this - Students and People in general can tell a Teacher from a teacher.
For the Teachers out there that Really care for their students and are proud of their profession, I THANK YOU!
Thank You for:
- Watching our kids day in and day out.
- Making sure our kids have a safe place to go if they feel things aren't right or safe.
- Educating our children with all of the restrictions placed on you by state and federal regulations.
- Showing up to work every single day even though you feel like "crap".
- Dealing with those kids that just don't want to be away from "mommy" or "daddy".
- Having to put up with runny noses and scrapped knees.
- Making sure our children understand that with an education there are better things out there for us all.
- Putting up with those of us that are a challenge at times.
- And along with #8 having the patience of Job
- Those Teachers that take their own money to ensure that those one or two students that don't have, mysteriously have some.
- The Teachers that see a student, not as a kid that they have to suffer with day in and day out, but sees the child as a person that has human issues outside of school.
- Finding whatever way it takes to get the student(s) too understand. (even though I personally have always had issues with "to" and "too" :) )
- Standing up for, and noticing that it is not always ‘one’ child's fault.
- Encouraging our children to try to do their best.
- Helping our children realize they have more potential than they think.
- Finding that thing that makes each kid tick, and helping them understand how what you are teaching applies to that - example: a kid likes rockets but is having difficulty in science, once the kid knows that science got the rocket going he/she pushes harder to learn more.
- Opening the minds of our children.
- Dealing with sore feet because of walking around the classroom all day.
- Doing extra work at home in order to be prepared for the next day
- And most important of all: Being a TEACHER that CARES.
If you don't see yourself on this list and want to be there, find a Teacher at your school and ask them how you might be better. Personally, my first suggestion would be to realize that you might learn something from your kids. Education is a two way street.
If you are not a Teacher, but can think of a few, send this to them or mention their names here.
Personally I have several:
My wife Jacqueline, Coach and American History Teacher Mike Graham, Coach and Physics Brenda Raley, Coach and World History Tim Knowles, English and GT Jacquita Lewter, Speech and Spanish Janet Hayes,
Coach and Phys Ed. Jimmy Arendt, Texas History and then Elementary Principle Charles Brown...
This list could go on and on because I was one of the Lucky ones that landed in a school district full of fabulous Teachers and got one Hell of an education.
Again THANK YOU !!!! TEACHERS
9/20/10
How to improve your communication skills
By Nicone Atthi
http://dynamicfamilyhome.com/
(RBU Join Date: 06/16/2010)
Although I love to read the many great “10 ways to...” articles around the blogosphere, I never really saw it as my thing until one morning, when a perfectly good “how to” post fell from the sky and hit me in the head as I was walking to work; here goes:
Ever felt incapable of making good conversation at a social gathering, getting tired of all the small talk about the weather, the latest sports event, what his or her kid did last night and such, feeling that your own contribution to the conversation really isn’t that interesting either? Well here’s my advice; Find the most intriguing quality of the person next to you and make this the topic of the conversation.
This works wonderfully because everybody loves to talk, specifically about themselves, and they will probably leave the conversation thinking that you are really interesting to talk to. I once heard this saying; “the key to being interesting is being interested” and if it is true then it’s a point to the argument. This way, instead of getting “The kids stomach flu - extended version”, you get to hear about something you find truly interesting, and you might even come across as being interesting yourself, as an added bonus.
I figured the tricky part would be finding something intriguing about whoever is sitting next to you, but when I went through the list of my co-workers, all of whom just might sit beside me at nest lunch-break, I was surprised by how easy it was to think of something I would love to learn more about, such as what they prioritize in life, how they manage to squeeze in regular exercise in their daily schedule, the best book they ever read, and so on.
Even if unable to change the way other people relate to you, you can still change the way you relate to others. It might be a good idea to make some preparations, sort of like a journalist would prepare an interview, by writing a list of acquaintances, colleagues or others you frequently meet and converse with, adding the most interesting qualities of these people and a list of questions and follow-up-questions, - then wait for the right occasion.
If you’ve never met the person sitting next to you before in your life, you might regard the first part of the conversation as research until you discover the right topic. If you know the person next to you extremely well you probably need a completely different set of communication skills…
http://dynamicfamilyhome.com/
(RBU Join Date: 06/16/2010)
Although I love to read the many great “10 ways to...” articles around the blogosphere, I never really saw it as my thing until one morning, when a perfectly good “how to” post fell from the sky and hit me in the head as I was walking to work; here goes:
Ever felt incapable of making good conversation at a social gathering, getting tired of all the small talk about the weather, the latest sports event, what his or her kid did last night and such, feeling that your own contribution to the conversation really isn’t that interesting either? Well here’s my advice; Find the most intriguing quality of the person next to you and make this the topic of the conversation.
This works wonderfully because everybody loves to talk, specifically about themselves, and they will probably leave the conversation thinking that you are really interesting to talk to. I once heard this saying; “the key to being interesting is being interested” and if it is true then it’s a point to the argument. This way, instead of getting “The kids stomach flu - extended version”, you get to hear about something you find truly interesting, and you might even come across as being interesting yourself, as an added bonus.
I figured the tricky part would be finding something intriguing about whoever is sitting next to you, but when I went through the list of my co-workers, all of whom just might sit beside me at nest lunch-break, I was surprised by how easy it was to think of something I would love to learn more about, such as what they prioritize in life, how they manage to squeeze in regular exercise in their daily schedule, the best book they ever read, and so on.
Even if unable to change the way other people relate to you, you can still change the way you relate to others. It might be a good idea to make some preparations, sort of like a journalist would prepare an interview, by writing a list of acquaintances, colleagues or others you frequently meet and converse with, adding the most interesting qualities of these people and a list of questions and follow-up-questions, - then wait for the right occasion.
If you’ve never met the person sitting next to you before in your life, you might regard the first part of the conversation as research until you discover the right topic. If you know the person next to you extremely well you probably need a completely different set of communication skills…
9/18/10
Study your English Lessons
By “Goose” Quill
Summary: Knowing the spelling, meaning and usage of words is very important. The study of English from an early age can save you from humiliation and even physical harm.
Just looking at a word and trying to discover its root meaning isn’t good enough. For instance, you might think the word “colander” means another person that landed with you. Maybe that an “eyedropper” is a clumsy ophthalmologist. Or that a “nitrate” is the charge for something after the sun goes down. You could think that “biology” is the study of the number two, or that a “hamlet” is a small pig, or that an “outpatient” is a person that fainted. Enough of that! A Dictionary is your friend. Read it well.
English caused me a lot of pain as a child. When I was small and would track dirt in the house or leave toys lying around, my mother would ask me, “What the Hell’s wrong with you? Were you born in a hovel?” Then she’d smack me across the head. I had no idea what a hovel was and couldn’t figure out why living in one deserved a smack on the head. Each time I asked her, “What’s a hovel, Mom?” She’d smack me again and tell me, “Don’t be a smartass.” I quit asking.
None of my friends knew what a hovel was either. I looked it up in the dictionary once; H-U-V-U-L. Nothing was there, so I figured Mom just liked smacking me. I got up the nerve to ask her that one time. “Do you like to smack me, Mom?” Her answer was a smack and a monosyllabic “Yes,” which is a good lesson in itself about the deviousness of English. Isn’t it a bit ludicrous to have a five-syllable word to describe one syllable?
Don’t forget to study the words that are spelled differently but sound the same. These are real troublemakers.
For instance, Mom called my bunk bed my berth. Sometimes, when she washed the sheets and remade it, she’d tell me my berth was all dirty and messed up. Well, of course I thought she meant my birth was all messed up. I had visions of all kinds of maladies and diseases just waiting to disable me. I was 35 years old when my twin brother (who always had the bottom berth) explained it to me.
Speaking of my twin brother, Mom was always careful to have separate, unique birthday parties for us, which I thought was nice of her. One year, she told us it was just too much trouble and she was thinking of a dual party. Well, I stayed awake worrying about that for several nights. We had been reading about Alexander Hamilton and Vice President Aaron Burr in school, and of course, I just knew she was going to make my brother and me duel across the back yard so she would only have one of us left to worry about. Thank God for Dads. He straightened me out on that one before I got up the courage to run away from home.
When my brother and I were really small, I was the “biggest loser” to her for awhile. Dad explained to me years later that she meant I started getting taller and losing my baby fat before my brother did. I’m not sure that helped, though. The damage was already done to my psyche
I used to get embarrassed when we got ready for bed. Mom would ask us who was the longest in the shower. I found out later she was just trying to save on the water bill, not check on the length of our winkies. I shouldn’t have worried though, my brother always yelled, “Me! Me!”
Those double entendres will bite you, so you need to study up on them really well. It might save you embarrassment and a slap when you study word meanings enough so as to NOT ask the lady at the grocery store if it’s OK to squeeze her melons. And remember; she might ultimately have you living in a hovel if you squeezed the wrong melons…
(RBU Join Date: 05/26/2010)
Summary: Knowing the spelling, meaning and usage of words is very important. The study of English from an early age can save you from humiliation and even physical harm.
Just looking at a word and trying to discover its root meaning isn’t good enough. For instance, you might think the word “colander” means another person that landed with you. Maybe that an “eyedropper” is a clumsy ophthalmologist. Or that a “nitrate” is the charge for something after the sun goes down. You could think that “biology” is the study of the number two, or that a “hamlet” is a small pig, or that an “outpatient” is a person that fainted. Enough of that! A Dictionary is your friend. Read it well.
English caused me a lot of pain as a child. When I was small and would track dirt in the house or leave toys lying around, my mother would ask me, “What the Hell’s wrong with you? Were you born in a hovel?” Then she’d smack me across the head. I had no idea what a hovel was and couldn’t figure out why living in one deserved a smack on the head. Each time I asked her, “What’s a hovel, Mom?” She’d smack me again and tell me, “Don’t be a smartass.” I quit asking.
None of my friends knew what a hovel was either. I looked it up in the dictionary once; H-U-V-U-L. Nothing was there, so I figured Mom just liked smacking me. I got up the nerve to ask her that one time. “Do you like to smack me, Mom?” Her answer was a smack and a monosyllabic “Yes,” which is a good lesson in itself about the deviousness of English. Isn’t it a bit ludicrous to have a five-syllable word to describe one syllable?
Don’t forget to study the words that are spelled differently but sound the same. These are real troublemakers.
For instance, Mom called my bunk bed my berth. Sometimes, when she washed the sheets and remade it, she’d tell me my berth was all dirty and messed up. Well, of course I thought she meant my birth was all messed up. I had visions of all kinds of maladies and diseases just waiting to disable me. I was 35 years old when my twin brother (who always had the bottom berth) explained it to me.
Speaking of my twin brother, Mom was always careful to have separate, unique birthday parties for us, which I thought was nice of her. One year, she told us it was just too much trouble and she was thinking of a dual party. Well, I stayed awake worrying about that for several nights. We had been reading about Alexander Hamilton and Vice President Aaron Burr in school, and of course, I just knew she was going to make my brother and me duel across the back yard so she would only have one of us left to worry about. Thank God for Dads. He straightened me out on that one before I got up the courage to run away from home.
When my brother and I were really small, I was the “biggest loser” to her for awhile. Dad explained to me years later that she meant I started getting taller and losing my baby fat before my brother did. I’m not sure that helped, though. The damage was already done to my psyche
I used to get embarrassed when we got ready for bed. Mom would ask us who was the longest in the shower. I found out later she was just trying to save on the water bill, not check on the length of our winkies. I shouldn’t have worried though, my brother always yelled, “Me! Me!”
Those double entendres will bite you, so you need to study up on them really well. It might save you embarrassment and a slap when you study word meanings enough so as to NOT ask the lady at the grocery store if it’s OK to squeeze her melons. And remember; she might ultimately have you living in a hovel if you squeezed the wrong melons…
9/16/10
Mental Constipation
by Antonio Maurice Daniels,
University of Wisconsin-Madison
http://revolutionarypaideia.wordpress.com
(RBU Join Date: 05/13/2010)
Far too often, we allow life’s challenges and problems to consume our minds so intensely that we are not able to produce anything. I have often heard people say that they are so frustrated that they do not have the ability to be creativity, work, or think. This is what happens when one allows himself or herself to harbor such great psychic stress without ever releasing it. I know that life presents us with a constellation of sundry challenges and problems that physically and mentally exhaust us, but we have to find ways to expurgate the stress these challenges and problems cause. There comes a time when you have to take a moment for yourself and just exhale. If you do not take moments out for yourself and exhale, you will experience mental constipation.
Mental constipation emerges when the mind has reached its full capacity to store all of the stress and junk you have allowed to reside in it. How do you know when your mind has reached its full capacity to store all of the stress and junk you have allowed to reside in it? While there is not a simple answer available, I can tell you that when it hurts to think about tomorrow, when you cannot even remember how to write a sentence, when it seems like suicide would be better than living, when it seems like God does not exist, you are experiencing mental constipation. What is the solution to mental constipation? You simply need to have a mental fart. What is a mental fart? It is a psychic realization that you cannot hold everything inside of you and still expect to maintain your sanity and productivity.
I encourage you not to become a slave to your problems, challenges, and emotions. Some of us are just too emotional. Although emotions do make us cry sometimes, we cannot let them destroy us. If you would keep your mind focused on positive things, then you would be able to keep a healthy mental balance that your emotions cannot usurp. Now, I am not saying that you should not allow yourself to cry and express your emotions. In fact, I think that it is tremendously important for you to cry and express your emotions in positive ways. When you cry, you help to release some of the built up tension and stress you have stored in your mind, which helps to free your mind of clutter and weights. The mental clutter and weights you store in your mind drain you and prevent you from burgeoning.
Find something and/or someone to invest your time in. By doing this, you will give yourself numerous opportunities to gain assistance with dealing with the rise of mental constipation. If people would stop worrying so much about everything, then they would not have to be concerned with ever having to experience mental constipation. When you really think about it, we worry about so many things that we cannot control. At some point, we are going to have to acknowledge that we cannot control all of the things that we worry about. It’s certainly fine to be concerned about serious matters, but it is unhealthy to be worried about everything.
I continue to believe that people who are mentally constipated as a result of the vexing economic conditions we face need to start their own businesses. I contend that numerous people are sitting on millions of dollars, but will never realize it if they do not start their own businesses. Mental constipation can be prevented when you understand that you have the power to be your own boss and make money from doing things that you love and have the talent to do.
Unfortunately, I am situated around some of the most mentally constipated people in the world: professors and graduate students at the University of Wisconsin-Madison who take themselves too seriously. Many of these people are so uptight that they squeak when they walk—now, that’s uptight! The problem with taking everything so seriously, as they do, is their mental constipation can inevitably become insanity, leading them to being a danger to themselves and the lives of others.
Okay, I have to admit that I compose this piece because all I want for you to do is fart! Stop taking life so seriously and stop stressing out about everything. People have taken themselves to their own graves worrying about so much. Take time out to enjoy life and simply just fart. It’s really okay to give yourself the freedom to fart!
University of Wisconsin-Madison
http://revolutionarypaideia.wordpress.com
(RBU Join Date: 05/13/2010)
Far too often, we allow life’s challenges and problems to consume our minds so intensely that we are not able to produce anything. I have often heard people say that they are so frustrated that they do not have the ability to be creativity, work, or think. This is what happens when one allows himself or herself to harbor such great psychic stress without ever releasing it. I know that life presents us with a constellation of sundry challenges and problems that physically and mentally exhaust us, but we have to find ways to expurgate the stress these challenges and problems cause. There comes a time when you have to take a moment for yourself and just exhale. If you do not take moments out for yourself and exhale, you will experience mental constipation.
Mental constipation emerges when the mind has reached its full capacity to store all of the stress and junk you have allowed to reside in it. How do you know when your mind has reached its full capacity to store all of the stress and junk you have allowed to reside in it? While there is not a simple answer available, I can tell you that when it hurts to think about tomorrow, when you cannot even remember how to write a sentence, when it seems like suicide would be better than living, when it seems like God does not exist, you are experiencing mental constipation. What is the solution to mental constipation? You simply need to have a mental fart. What is a mental fart? It is a psychic realization that you cannot hold everything inside of you and still expect to maintain your sanity and productivity.
I encourage you not to become a slave to your problems, challenges, and emotions. Some of us are just too emotional. Although emotions do make us cry sometimes, we cannot let them destroy us. If you would keep your mind focused on positive things, then you would be able to keep a healthy mental balance that your emotions cannot usurp. Now, I am not saying that you should not allow yourself to cry and express your emotions. In fact, I think that it is tremendously important for you to cry and express your emotions in positive ways. When you cry, you help to release some of the built up tension and stress you have stored in your mind, which helps to free your mind of clutter and weights. The mental clutter and weights you store in your mind drain you and prevent you from burgeoning.
Find something and/or someone to invest your time in. By doing this, you will give yourself numerous opportunities to gain assistance with dealing with the rise of mental constipation. If people would stop worrying so much about everything, then they would not have to be concerned with ever having to experience mental constipation. When you really think about it, we worry about so many things that we cannot control. At some point, we are going to have to acknowledge that we cannot control all of the things that we worry about. It’s certainly fine to be concerned about serious matters, but it is unhealthy to be worried about everything.
I continue to believe that people who are mentally constipated as a result of the vexing economic conditions we face need to start their own businesses. I contend that numerous people are sitting on millions of dollars, but will never realize it if they do not start their own businesses. Mental constipation can be prevented when you understand that you have the power to be your own boss and make money from doing things that you love and have the talent to do.
Unfortunately, I am situated around some of the most mentally constipated people in the world: professors and graduate students at the University of Wisconsin-Madison who take themselves too seriously. Many of these people are so uptight that they squeak when they walk—now, that’s uptight! The problem with taking everything so seriously, as they do, is their mental constipation can inevitably become insanity, leading them to being a danger to themselves and the lives of others.
Okay, I have to admit that I compose this piece because all I want for you to do is fart! Stop taking life so seriously and stop stressing out about everything. People have taken themselves to their own graves worrying about so much. Take time out to enjoy life and simply just fart. It’s really okay to give yourself the freedom to fart!
9/14/10
On Perfume and Being a Girl
By ChickenFreak
http://chickenfreaksobsessions.blogspot.com/
(RBU Join Date: 03/24/2010)
I've never been Girly.
It started with clothes. I'm one of those people on whom shirts untuck, linen spontaneously wrinkles, piles pill, wool willingly provides a buffet for moths, food charges headlong at anything white, matched separates cheerfully turn different colors in the wash, and so on.
Given that and the lack of an Audrey Hepburn figure, I abandoned any interest in clothes sometime around junior high. And, along with them, makeup, jewelry, haircuts beyond a basic trim, and fancy skin treatments. The whole Girly Arsenal.
More recently, I declared a wardrobe strategy that can be expressed as: "Black." This way, everything matches and nothing can stain. My clothes do their best to foil my efforts by changing color in the wash, but there's really a limit to how much black can clash with black.
But then perfume came along. Perfume entered not by the closed girly door, but by the wide-open gluttony door. Food and perfume have a great deal in common. Flavor is scent, pretty much; those paltry four (or five, if you accept umami) tastes are barely the beginning. And of course, perfume has geek appeal - there's a fascination in the way those aromachemicals combine and develop. It makes perfect sense to me that one of the biggest figures in the perfume world is Luca Turin, a biophysicist who used quantum mechanics to explain our sense of smell - and wrote a perfume guide in his spare time.
But with the perfume came the Girly. Perfume is a wearable that doesn't wrinkle, stain, or fade. It has no size. It can go out of fashion, but once you go beyond a few well-known names, how many people even knew what was in fashion? Perfume gives me my Girly Membership Card, after all these years. It gives me something to do at the cosmetics counter. It lets me carry out gilded bags with fancy boxes nestled in colored tissue paper. It means that my response to the phrase "free gift with purchase" is sometimes "Ooh!" instead of, "Great. Something new to Freecycle."
So my accelerating Girly Focus is all perfume's fault.
Because under the influence of all those fragrance fumes, I noticed that scarves also have no size. And while they technically could wrinkle and spot, they don't. Rather than joining the war waged against me by the rest of the garment world, scarves seem to like me. Maybe they enjoy the undiluted impact that they have on all that black.
And there's a dangerous trend in shoes. Just a few pairs, and I mostly just wear (black) flats, but the presence, in my closet, of short (black) suede boots, and a little pair of thirties-style (black) heels, suggests that the Girly Onslaught is progressing. I even have a pair in (gulp) green.
And there's a little bit of velvet and angora in the expanse of black clothes. And the black velvet wrap that somehow persuaded me to take it home has a midnight blue reverse. And I actually got a proper haircut. Once. It's grown out, but I'm considering a repeat.
All of this leads to the most dangerous sign of all. The other day, to go with that black angora, I put on a little bead choker that I kidnapped from my mother's jewelry box I don't know how many years ago. And it looked sort of nice. There is now a book on collecting vintage costume jewelry making its way to me from Amazon.
Be afraid. Be very afraid. I may be turning into a Girl.
*The photo as found on this post is in the public domain because it was published in the United States between 1923 and 1977, inclusive, without a copyright notice.
http://chickenfreaksobsessions.blogspot.com/
(RBU Join Date: 03/24/2010)
It started with clothes. I'm one of those people on whom shirts untuck, linen spontaneously wrinkles, piles pill, wool willingly provides a buffet for moths, food charges headlong at anything white, matched separates cheerfully turn different colors in the wash, and so on.
Given that and the lack of an Audrey Hepburn figure, I abandoned any interest in clothes sometime around junior high. And, along with them, makeup, jewelry, haircuts beyond a basic trim, and fancy skin treatments. The whole Girly Arsenal.
More recently, I declared a wardrobe strategy that can be expressed as: "Black." This way, everything matches and nothing can stain. My clothes do their best to foil my efforts by changing color in the wash, but there's really a limit to how much black can clash with black.
But then perfume came along. Perfume entered not by the closed girly door, but by the wide-open gluttony door. Food and perfume have a great deal in common. Flavor is scent, pretty much; those paltry four (or five, if you accept umami) tastes are barely the beginning. And of course, perfume has geek appeal - there's a fascination in the way those aromachemicals combine and develop. It makes perfect sense to me that one of the biggest figures in the perfume world is Luca Turin, a biophysicist who used quantum mechanics to explain our sense of smell - and wrote a perfume guide in his spare time.
But with the perfume came the Girly. Perfume is a wearable that doesn't wrinkle, stain, or fade. It has no size. It can go out of fashion, but once you go beyond a few well-known names, how many people even knew what was in fashion? Perfume gives me my Girly Membership Card, after all these years. It gives me something to do at the cosmetics counter. It lets me carry out gilded bags with fancy boxes nestled in colored tissue paper. It means that my response to the phrase "free gift with purchase" is sometimes "Ooh!" instead of, "Great. Something new to Freecycle."
So my accelerating Girly Focus is all perfume's fault.
Because under the influence of all those fragrance fumes, I noticed that scarves also have no size. And while they technically could wrinkle and spot, they don't. Rather than joining the war waged against me by the rest of the garment world, scarves seem to like me. Maybe they enjoy the undiluted impact that they have on all that black.
And there's a dangerous trend in shoes. Just a few pairs, and I mostly just wear (black) flats, but the presence, in my closet, of short (black) suede boots, and a little pair of thirties-style (black) heels, suggests that the Girly Onslaught is progressing. I even have a pair in (gulp) green.
And there's a little bit of velvet and angora in the expanse of black clothes. And the black velvet wrap that somehow persuaded me to take it home has a midnight blue reverse. And I actually got a proper haircut. Once. It's grown out, but I'm considering a repeat.
All of this leads to the most dangerous sign of all. The other day, to go with that black angora, I put on a little bead choker that I kidnapped from my mother's jewelry box I don't know how many years ago. And it looked sort of nice. There is now a book on collecting vintage costume jewelry making its way to me from Amazon.
Be afraid. Be very afraid. I may be turning into a Girl.
*The photo as found on this post is in the public domain because it was published in the United States between 1923 and 1977, inclusive, without a copyright notice.
9/12/10
Hands Holding Hands
By Frank Brinkman
http://icare2be.wordpress.com
(RBU Join Date: 03/19/2010)
Smiles on faces.
Young and old are captives
Eagerly ensnared.
It is spring and
New energy abounds.
Young or old,
Even in between.
It is spring again.
A time for new
And old lovers.
A time of renewal.
Originally written: April 15, 1998
Have you ever noticed that in spring time there seems to be more people holding hands with smiles on their faces? Their eyes seem to twinkle when they look at each other.
In myself, I have noticed my thoughts turn to romance in the springtime. I have come to believe it is living annual cycle. In the spring life renews itself. The barren sleeping trees begin to produce buds that eventually grow into leaves. The pale green color of the new leaves are proof that spring has brought new life. Even the evergreen trees have new needles that are a lighter green than the old needles saying, "I'm new!"
Holding hands in the springtime has infected me. I have found I am holding hands in the mall, walking into a business, even in a theatre watching a movie. Gee, that reminds be of being a teenager so many decades ago. Springtime has extended itself into the summer. I hope it lasts into the winter of my life.
http://icare2be.wordpress.com
(RBU Join Date: 03/19/2010)
Hands holding hands.
Smiles on faces. Eyes twinkling.
Hearts being opened,
And poured to full measure.
Eagerly ensnared.
It is spring and
New energy abounds.Hands holding hands.
Smiles on faces.
Eyes twinkling.
Love being shared
Too full measure.
Even in between.
It is spring again.
A time for new
And old lovers.
A time of renewal.
Originally written: April 15, 1998
Have you ever noticed that in spring time there seems to be more people holding hands with smiles on their faces? Their eyes seem to twinkle when they look at each other.
In myself, I have noticed my thoughts turn to romance in the springtime. I have come to believe it is living annual cycle. In the spring life renews itself. The barren sleeping trees begin to produce buds that eventually grow into leaves. The pale green color of the new leaves are proof that spring has brought new life. Even the evergreen trees have new needles that are a lighter green than the old needles saying, "I'm new!"
Holding hands in the springtime has infected me. I have found I am holding hands in the mall, walking into a business, even in a theatre watching a movie. Gee, that reminds be of being a teenager so many decades ago. Springtime has extended itself into the summer. I hope it lasts into the winter of my life.
9/10/10
Personality Whores
By Pierre Le Roux
http://gaywarfare.blogspot.com/
(RBU Join Date 02/02/2010)
Reading about Steven Slater’s (JetBlue Flight Steward) recent dramatic resignation from his illustrious 28 year career I couldn’t help but giggle and secretly admire his bravery. Not many queens would have the courage to throw their tiaras, dildo’s and KY out of their baskets, deploy the airplanes inflatable emergency chute, grab their luggage and two beers before dramatically exiting bidding adieu to almost 3 decades of rude and difficult passengers. Having been in the service industry myself once, I can honestly say I understand why “Mrs.” Slater flipped her lid and this made me reflect back on my days as a personality whore.
Many moons ago I too worked as a waiter. I was serving mediocre food in a main stream steak and grill mostly frequented by straight folk. It didn’t take long before it dawned on me that I wasn’t a very good waiter. One day, after being thrown with a handful of french-fries by a two year old the thought, “Maybe I’m not meant to serve, I am destined to be served” crossed my mind. However, it would be many years before that reality would realize.
During my stint at the straight meat dispensary I had to deal with many difficult, rude and generally bad tipping customers. The one I recall most vividly ordered a rump steak extra rare. As I was placing his almost still alive and bleeding piece of meat in front him he had the audacity to tell me it was over cooked. After I politely tried to explain to him the difference between a restaurant and a butchery he ordered me (yes, ordered me!) to bring him a correctly cooked steak. It having been at the end of a particularly trying and poorly paying shift, I did the only thing I could think off. I took the bastard’s plate, went to the grill asked for a 500g piece of raw rump steak, placed it on his plate and took it back to him and said “Extra rare, just like you asked for sweetie”. Needless to say the man had a hissy fit and got my ass fired!
Having had it confirmed that I was a truly bad waiter I did the only thing I gay guy could do. I looked for a gig at a gay bar or restaurant. You see at gay bars/restaurants you expect to get bad service but that’s OK only if the waiter or bartender is hot, cute or funny. You see at gay bars/restaurants it’s all about the looks and personality and less about the actual service, food and watered down drink. Believing that I could fit the bill I decided to become a personality whore and promptly got a job at relatively up market gay restaurant/bar.
The place was called The Lounge and it was run by two lesbians who ran their business like Nazi concentration camp sergeants. We were a small compliment of staff: Two kitchen staff, a GI Jane lesbian and 5 femme fags. We were an eccentric bunch who always made work fun and there were never a dull moment. On my first day at work I arrived at the venue 20 minutes before opening time. As I got dressed in my “uniform”, a very tight fitting T-shirt branded with their logo and even tighter leather pants (later aptly dubbed the money maker), I was called aside by the sergeants.
In a very serious and rather abrasive voice one said “Before we let you lose in this queer zoo, let us explain the rules.” I knew all places had “rules”, but wasn’t quite prepared for the ones that would be laid on me. “You are to flirt with every customer no matter what they look like, you are to learn every regular’s name, you are allowed to accept shooters from customers and drink it only if they ordered one for themselves too! Sitting on customers laps are allowed, kissing, grabbing and exposing yourself is not!” With the rules thoroughly explained I affirmed I understood. Sergeant 2 then added “If the Lesbos start a fight let them finish it, if there are broken glass or bottles involved call GI Jane , and never, ever look a drunk angry lesbian in the eyes, just back away slowly!”
As my first evening was coming to an end the drunken lesbian rule was tested. A very butch and very inebriated lesbian staggered towards me. “You’re new here aren’t you?” Avoiding all eye contact, as I was told, I stared at her biker boots and responded with a quivering voice, “Yes, I started today.” She responded, “You’re cute” and with that she pushed me against the wall and stuck her rum tasting tongue down my esophagus. At the verge of suffocating GI Jane intervened, grabbed her by the shoulders peeled her off me and screamed, “He’s a fucking femme fag not a femme dyke you dumb drunken clit!” Relieved that I wasn’t going to get raped with a strap-on dildo I escaped to the safety of the kitchen. With sore feet, the taste of lesbian in my mouth and clothes smelling of beer, tequila, vodka, nachos and smoke, my first evening as I personality whore drew to a close, and I kind of liked it!
Working at the gay bar was loads of fun, most of the time; however it also had its drawbacks. Apart from being employed by two cold hearted bitches who worked us like Taipei red-light district whores, I also had many not so pleasant experiences with patrons. You see, having to flirt with every customer has many annoying disadvantages. Firstly, many believe that they have a chance to have sex with you and as they become drunk their advances becomes less subtle and more inappropriate.
Secondly, as the word spread about the cute and friendly boy waiters at the bar, all the weirdoes, creeps and freaks pitched up. I was offered:
Many evenings after we closed the bar we had laughs about the tips, the customers and the bizarre propositions we received. We often times would chat until the early hours of the morning and laugh until our stomachs hurt. The 6 months I worked as a personality whore was both the best and the worst time I ever had in any part-time employment during my student days. I even coined the phrase “Do you want head with that?” for anybody that ordered a beer (referring to the froth, of course). A phrase that would most likely get you fired in most straight bars and is the most suitable epitaph for my career as a waiter.
Working in the service industry can be challenging. Most of the time it’s a thankless job and with your worth being determined by the clients’ tips. I struggle to imagine how people can be in such an industry for decades and remain sane, I suspect there are many people like Steven Slater out there, but only a few that would have the guts to do what he did. I only lasted 6 months and due to my experience I am always nice to waiters, always tip generously as I know what they are going through. I take my hat off to all the waiters, bartenders and flight crew out there. Thanks for serving us and not spitting in our drinks!
Till next time.
http://gaywarfare.blogspot.com/
(RBU Join Date 02/02/2010)
- $2000 if a guy in his 80’s could watch a colleague and me have sex;
- several roles in gay porn;
- money to have a threesome with a couple (bisexual man and woman); and,
- a Rolex for sex.
Till next time.
9/8/10
Mr Agent – Just One More Thing…
By Glen Humble
RBU Join Date 01-24-2010
If I’d received a Pound for every time I’ve had that said to me, I would probably be retired by now…
For the last sixteen years I have been a ship’s agent in the Port of London.
Now I suppose you may all be wondering what a ship’s agent is, or what a ship’s agent does?
UK based readers of a certain vintage will remember a well loved 1970’s BBC TV programme called Jim’ll Fixit.
Well, I am the ship’s Captain’s own personal Jimmy Saville all the time his ship is in port, although without the bling, and considerably better looking!
When a ship calls in London, day or night, rain or shine, my job in a nutshell, is to ensure that she gets safely in and out of port as quickly as possible. “Time is money” is the shipping business’ favourite mantra after all.
That may all sound quite straightforward, and in some cases it is, however, over the years I have had some very interesting, and often amusing situations to deal with.
One of the best things I like about my job is the colourful characters I meet along the way.
I have met ship’s Captains of (literally) every shape and size from a portly Finnish one who wanted to know “why the sheep in England have black faces?” (No. He wasn’t drunk – just rather eccentric), to a Dutch one who had to stand on a box to make himself tall enough to see where he was going!
I have been agent for ships of every shape and description from tug boats to dirty British coasters to multi-million Pound hi-tech survey vessels.
One of my most “memorable” jobs was to attend a Russian fishing ship which had arrived from Murmansk in the Arctic Circle with a cargo of frozen cod.
In this case I use the term ship loosely. A better description would be shipwreck. The only thing holding the ship together was the rust.
As I climbed the gangway, trying not to get covered in grease or slip on any oil, my heart sank. I had a feeling this was going to be an interesting few days.
Eventually I found my way to the Captain’s “office” and started to prepare the paperwork for the UK Customs and Immigration at the port. “Mr Agent, I would like to come with you to the Customs office”, said the Captain in a broad Russian accent, “but first I must change my clothes”.
OK, I thought. I suppose he’s going to put a clean shirt on…. Ten minutes later he reappeared, resplendent in his full naval officer’s uniform to accompany me to the Customs office.
The officials at the Customs office could hardly contain their amusement. No doubt the first ship’s Captain they had seen in uniform for about twenty years.
Unfortunately for the Captain, the “window dressing” did not have the desired effect. Shortly after we returned back to the ship, an official from the Port Health turned up in his office.
The ship had an infestation of cockroaches – am I really glad I turned down that cup of coffee now! It got worse for the poor old Captain.
The next day, two inspectors from the Coastguard came aboard, tipped off by the man from the Port Health. They set to work checking all the ship’s documents, the ship’s charts, the navigation equipment, the safety equipment – you name it, they checked it.
An “interesting” conversation then ensued.
“Captain, please can you show me the charts you used to navigate your vessel from Murmansk to London?” asked the man from the Coastguard. The Captain rummaged around in his chart locker and pulled out a tatty, battered old chart showing his course from Murmansk to the North Sea off the River Humber (several hundred miles from London).
With very distinctly raised eyebrow and somewhat concerned voice. “OK Captain. Where is your chart from the River Humber to London?”
Captain, “I not have any chart. I have this instead.”
He went off and returned with what can only be described as an ancient schoolboy’s atlas. He turned to the page with the map of Great Britain. On to this map he had drawn a line with a ruler from the River Humber to the mouth of the River Thames. “When we got to Thames Estuary, we contacted some other ships by radio and asked which way to go. Was not problem.”
I thought the poor man from the Coastguard, who had gone very pale, was going to have a heart attack.
Guess who had to sort out a whole set of brand new British Admiralty charts and organise a pest control company to deal with the cockroaches?
Yes it was me of course – the ship’s agent – Mr Fixit.
If you would like to read about my latest ship, the Greenpeace yacht “Esperanza”, please visit my blog – http://wavecrestlimited.choseit.com/
9/6/10
Camping is for the Clinically Incompetent
By Glen Staples,
Managing Editor-RBU: The Group Blog
(RBU Join Date: 01/22/2010)
I laughed and shook my head in disbelief, the tent was alive! I could barely believe it could be possible, but there it was in front of me, firmly proving every camping aficionado who had ever speedily changed out of six layers of pyjamas into a freezing cold pair of damp jeans, very wrong.
Three summers ago we had attempted to go camping for a week in Devon. We had successfully camped for a few days the year before (successful if you ignore the first night glitch, where we discovered that our blow up bed had a puncture as we tried to get in it, the heavens had opened up just as we tried to settle and my son had been sick all over his own bed at two in the morning – but apart from that…). With this memory behind us, we tried again. The photos I’ve put with this post are from the tents hey day, on its first ever outing in 2006.
The first two days were fine, and then Hurricane Gitface hit and threw everything out of kilter. We found things to do during the day to keep dry (including going swimming) but when we returned to the tent we discovered it flapping about in the wind, barely held down by its last solitary peg, and everything absolutely soaked through.
My wife, Jo, smiled the smile of the desperate camper, believing that this would be enough to get me out of the car and manfully repairing the damage, saving the day. I took out my phone and booked us into a hotel. With the boys in the car, Jo and I hurled all of our gear into the roof box as we escaped the camp with my soaking wet, mud covered trousers clinging coldly to my sense of humour’s last threads of life.
That was camping finished and forgotten about.
The tent and all associated equipment was thrown into the garage without so much as a thought, and left for dead.
After over two years it should have rotted away to nothing, it should be an ex tent. Anyone will tell you that. Anyone who is anyone in the camping world will tell you that you must air and dry the tent properly before putting it into storage. This is a fact, so I felt quite safe when I suggested that we should get it out and have a look at it.
For something to do with the boys in the middle of the school holidays, Jo decided to take up my suggestion and put it up in the garden. Then she stood and stared at it, then she sat and stared at it and finally she phoned me and gasped in wonder about it.
Not one bit of mold.
Not one.
The tent was up and looked like a tent. It was tent coloured, tent shaped and smelled like a tent. It survived!
Still, I felt confident that it must be weakened and likely to fall apart at any time. I looked at my watch and decided that it was Monday (after remembering that my watch doesn’t tell the day and asking Jo instead), full of confidence and misplaced expertise, I announced that if the tent was still up on Friday I would sleep with the boys in it.
Jo laughed, I laughed, my two children whooped with excitement. I felt a little guilty for raising their hopes up needlessly, how could they know that there was no way in hell we would be sleeping in the death trap?
Through the week the gales came.
The wind rose, the rain poured. More rain in this one week than we had had for the whole summer. The tent sat there smiling at me.
The pegs stayed pegged, the door flaps remained shut. The damned tent was laughing at me; mocking my naïveté.
On Thursday Jo ‘reminded’ me that she was going out on Friday with the girls, I would be well and truly on my own, and the tent was in perfect shape and dry on the inside. I say reminded, this is the special kind of reminding that wives do knowing full well how to exploit the fact that their husbands never listen to them. “Oh yes I told you ages ago, remember – you said that it would be nice for me” straight away daring me to admit that I hadn’t been paying attention at some earlier point.
Friday came and Jo ran out of the door carrying a bottle of wine, as I faced two smiling, wide eyed boys and an entirely tent shaped stretch of canvas in the garden. “Okay, let’s do it!” I said to cheers and screams from the most excited people who ever lived.
We sat and watched Disney’s Cars until as late as I could possibly keep them awake and then went and got settled in our ‘Ready Beds’. Five minutes of giggling and shadow puppets and they were gone. They were absolutely knackered. However, I was still fairly awake and had to lie there in the dark and listen to the power station. The occasional drunks passed by close enough for me to listen in to their foul mouthed banter as did the trains and the cars. It never fails to amaze me how good at keeping noise out double glazing actually is.
Eventually, after about two days – I fell asleep.
ZZZZZRRRRRPPPPPPP!!!!
“HELLO! IT’S ONLY ME; I THOUGHT I’D JOIN YOU!”
My wife woke the whole tent up as she stumbled in carrying a duvet in her arms and half a vineyard in her stomach. Jo had managed to get drunk enough to think joining us would be a good laugh. I looked at my watch and it was two in the morning. Jo giggled helplessly as she climbed over everyone and slowly got herself settled. The boys drifted straight back to sleep as Jo proceeded to whisper at the top of her voice how her night had gone.
Suddenly, Jo started trying to get a bit frisky. Now, it’s worth pointing out that when I go out and come home stinking of lager and feeling a bit sexy, the first thing that happens, as I try and point this out to my freshly awoken wife, is that she reaches down by the side of the bed, picks up the proverbial frying pan and whacks me with it until I go off the idea. I tried to reach for the metaphorical cooking equipment but I was trapped in a double sleeping bag with Pamela Anderson’s drunken, trampy sister. Just as I was thinking to myself that maybe I’d better man up and get on with it, Jo fell asleep.
Jo’s Pinot Grigio induced snoring rocked the tent, shaking the bent and tired pegs to their limit. I laid there, once again wide awake in the back garden and wondered if it would really be neglectful to go inside and leave a drunken hobo in charge of my children. Slowly the alcoholic fumes coming from Jo’s snoring started to work their magic and I drifted off back into the damp sleep of the depressed camper.
Everyone woke up far too early of course, and we all had to tip toe tiredly around my wife, as she spent the day in bed with a nasty and sudden case of Wine Flu.
Camping is fun.
Apparently.
9/4/10
The Contretemps, 1904
By ‘Jackrabbit’
http://www.jackrabbit-blog.blogspot.com/
(RBU Join Date: 01/21/2010)
In an old University of Wyoming yearbook, there was a picture of the graduating class near the front, and on the left-hand side of the picture was a woman who had hiked her skirt up just far enough to show the red bias stripe on the edge of her petticoat. She was looking straight into the lens of the camera, displaying this oh-so-subtle sign of late Victorian personal interest that, at the time, only the cameraman could see. This poem is for her.
Manet would have painted her like this.
Chin up, shoulders square
Feet planted in the prairie dust,
Lips held grave and tight.
Her challenging eyes draw yours aloft
To the force of her gaze
Rather than down to her boots
Where a slender hand
Sneaks up the wool to reveal
The narrow, scarlet line that runs beneath.
She never would have seemed more
Than a smudge on the plate
If it weren’t for her single intention,
Telegraphed through the wire
Of a scalloped silk ribbon.
Eyes locking eyes through the lens,
The magnesium flash alone
Indicates the heat of her glance.
Perhaps he picked her out of the group
Just before he squeezed off the shutter,
His head caught up in the folds
Of a skirt of its own—
More likely she slipped past his notice
Until he stood alone with her shadow in the darkness,
Touching the trace of her eyes to his eyes
And the hem of her dress
In the haze of the ruby light.
It was a passion lasting only
The length of the shutter,
The distance between beholder and beholder
Drawn out to a ribbon’s thickness
Over a layer of gelatin.
http://www.jackrabbit-blog.blogspot.com/
(RBU Join Date: 01/21/2010)
In an old University of Wyoming yearbook, there was a picture of the graduating class near the front, and on the left-hand side of the picture was a woman who had hiked her skirt up just far enough to show the red bias stripe on the edge of her petticoat. She was looking straight into the lens of the camera, displaying this oh-so-subtle sign of late Victorian personal interest that, at the time, only the cameraman could see. This poem is for her.
Manet would have painted her like this.
Chin up, shoulders square
Feet planted in the prairie dust,
Lips held grave and tight.
Her challenging eyes draw yours aloft
To the force of her gaze
Rather than down to her boots
Where a slender hand
Sneaks up the wool to reveal
The narrow, scarlet line that runs beneath.
She never would have seemed more
Than a smudge on the plate
If it weren’t for her single intention,
Telegraphed through the wire
Of a scalloped silk ribbon.
Eyes locking eyes through the lens,
The magnesium flash alone
Indicates the heat of her glance.
Perhaps he picked her out of the group
Just before he squeezed off the shutter,
His head caught up in the folds
Of a skirt of its own—
More likely she slipped past his notice
Until he stood alone with her shadow in the darkness,
Touching the trace of her eyes to his eyes
And the hem of her dress
In the haze of the ruby light.
It was a passion lasting only
The length of the shutter,
The distance between beholder and beholder
Drawn out to a ribbon’s thickness
Over a layer of gelatin.
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