The case of the missing teaspoons

I don’t know what’s up with our office kitchen but if the fridge is not a gestation chamber for toxic waste, then the teaspoons are eloping.

We are constantly having to stock up on teaspoons.  Like doughnuts at a police convention.  A lady in the office even started marking them with nail polish because that is what some women do when they want to secure their possessions from theft.  I’m not sure how it prevents the theft from actually taking place but who am I to judge what goes on in the mind of the female gender. It’s not like the nail polish is radioactive and can induce a coma on contact, it’s just red nail polish. Or maybe it’s rose pink.  Or it may even be dark coral.  No, I think it’s magenta.  Or you know what, it fuchsia, it’s definitely fuchsia.  Or… Just. Let. It. Go. Continue reading

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My love, your car hates me.

I’m 6’4″.  That’s tall.  In any country.  I’m proud of my height, I’ve worked damn hard to get this tall.  It took countless awkward moments throughout puberty and then some. My length allows me to be heavier than most people simply because the weight has a wider distance of distribution.   Or at least that’s what I like to believe.  It enables me to do things that normal people can’t.  Like getting the sales items that’s normally hidden on the top shelf of a grocery store.  You didn’t know?  I’m able to spot my friends from a mile in a crowd.  And then avoid them.  It allows me to have a perfect, unhindered view at any concert, whilst people behind me normally start swearing as soon as I stand up.

My length does make certain things a little more problematic.  Like taking a bath or buying a standard pair of jeans or walking around construction sites or being stuck in an economy seat for eleven hours with the rest of the cattle.  My biggest frustration for being tall is having to drive a normal sized car.  Which is why I don’t.  And which is why Wife does. Continue reading

Moments like these…

Sucks in a get-over-yourself-such-is-life kind of way.  They are notoriously difficult to write about because when I do, I end up looking like a slobbering idiot with tears streaming down my face, splashing all over the keyboard, ruining the electronics and causing a short circuit that leaves the whole office building without power for three days.  It seems electricity and water does not make a great pair.

Not that I write any posts at work.

Luckily these unfortunate occurrences I’m referring to only happens annually.  Like today. Continue reading

Something died in our office refrigerator

If you’re stuck working with people in the same office building and the company who you work for does not provide you with a cafeteria, where a person can escape the daily grind and have a freshly prepared lunch, then this post is for you.  To the rest of you spoiled brats, go ahead and mock us, the disadvantaged individuals.

We are condemned to a reality of having to pack our lunch.  To pre-prepare whatever we want to feed our face with, and bring it along to our place of torture. To satisfy the need to eat with hurried scraps because of the time restriction in the morning, due to you having to dress, shave and dump the used food you ate yesterday.  Not to mention the stuff you have to do to the kids to get them to school on time.  Wife has given up on packing my lunch because I am, in her words, “full of shit.”

This post is teetering in the wrong direction. Continue reading

Saying “YES” is easier

Parents have a crappy job.  It starts with wiping of said substance from the soft posterior of the little angels we bring home from the hospital and then it goes downhill from there.  Fast.  I’m not referring to the countless moments of joy and regret kids provide parents with on a daily basis.  I’m specifically referencing the task of forming, sculpting and trying to raise responsible adults who will do more than simply wipe their own butts one day.

I’m talking about discipline.  That’s the tough job.  The part of parenting I hate.  The having to say “No” part.  The part where you create boundaries and then struggle for the rest of eternity to make them stay within those boundaries.  And for every parent it’s different.  Some of us have narrow boundaries, whilst others have boundaries as wide as the universe itself.  There’s no right or wrong.  To make matters even more complicated, it’s also our job to decide when we need to make the circle bigger, to expand the boundaries, even if it’s just a little at a time.  And we need to make them bigger because the aim is to reach the point where you can demolish all the boundaries and simply let them fly.  Or at least fall out of the nest without breaking their neck in the process. Continue reading

Dude doesn’t have to be a pimp

One of the most difficult choices any person will make during their time on earth would be whether they will have another donut, especially if they already had three.  Another difficult decision is the choice of a career.  Choosing something that will ensure we earn enough money to pay for socks and wine, but also prevent us from suffering from homicidal tendencies three years later because we hate our boss job.  What makes this decision even worse is the fact that society expects kids, at the tender age of 18, to make this life changing choice, simply because that’s when they finish school and has to move onto something bigger.  And more expensive.

Back in the day when I was 18 and music were great and men still hid from dinosaurs (as per my kids), I had limited options. Not because I’m stupid but because I simply didn’t know better.  My exposure to jobs were confined to those which existed in my neighborhood. So I became an engineer.  And hated every minute of it. Continue reading

Happy Father’s Day

Being a father is tough.  Just like being a mother but without the whole giving birth and having kids suck on your tits thing.  It’s the most difficult job in the world, they say.  It’s the most rewarding job in the world, they say.

What “they” don’t say, is that you’ll make mistakes.  Mistakes that will probably result in your kids having to book a therapy session or two.  (Besides, it’s not my fault they walked in when I was posing with the Borat bathing suit. Moving on…)   What “they” also don’t tell you is how much you’ll end up loving the fruits of your loins.  How much you are prepared to sacrifice for the little angels who can suck your wallet dry in one trip to the mall.  How much pride and joy they can make you feel, and how nothing else on this blue ball makes any sense without them in your life. Continue reading