How many accidents are caused by drivers deciphering number plates? One minute you're driving along with a chronologically placed plate in front of you and one behind you. Generated by a bureaucratic database, they're numbers you can trust.
Then...
Out of the blue, a quirky creative strip of metal flashes by. The number plate in a perpetual state of perplexment. In the ensuing moments your mind leaves the road as you try to work out what it means. In most instances your autopilot maintains the car on its flight path. I can only guess that some must leave the road in askance at a stranger's turpitude.
I narrowly avoided a lamppost recently as I was trying to figure out why someone was querying my sexuality. R U QRS was translated by me as 'are you queers'. I realised after a few cranial gymnastics that it meant 'are you curious?' No I'm not curious but I would've been furious if my head had nogged the lamppost. By good fortune I wasn't behind a wheel at the time.
There's no hidden agenda in BCY186 - I know, because that's my number plate. It was on the car when I bought it. A simple number plate for a down to earth car. I love my Toyota Corolla but will never use it to advertise my sexuality or availability. Who wants to know and even if they did, by the time they'd worked out that I was a rampant hussey (I'd like to point out that I'm not, sadly) they'd be several kilometres out of luck.
And I'd still be behind the wheel listening to my radio station of choice, singing with all the gusto of an operatic diva without the gift of tune.
But interestingly, I've started to notice the radio ads. Unfortunately to get a radio station that has songs with a tune, you have to wrestle with your own mortality. And as you tootle along the road missing cats and pedestrians you're brought face to face with it.
I am intrigued how the ads manage to put the fun back into funeral. I'm nearly excited about buying into a retirement village although am a little concerned that there are more women than men. I rationalised being several decades younger might give me a head start in the dating stakes but worried that live-in children might not be a welcome asset.
The erectile-dysfunction-fixer ads offer a glimmer of hope to the limp, although sometimes they're so oblique that I may have drawn the wrong conclusion as to the product. It might be elephant's toothpaste or a hair removal product for all I know. But the voices are always reasuring if not a little obtuse.
And then there's my hearing... eyesight... joint problems (not the naughty ones)... and the list goes on. All things that I hadn't been worried about in my thirties.
As I squint a bit at the screen, feeling the crows feet claw in, I think it's time for my beauty sleep.
Monday, May 25, 2009
Monday, May 18, 2009
Chocologic
What is it about chocolate? How does it manage to ursurp the sensibility chip in the most rational?
It's an antitoxidant which means that it's like eating a tomato only it's brown. For some unknown reason the tomato doesn't invite the tongue teasing and testing that chocolate endures. I've never seen anyone suck a tomato but then I've never jumped off a bridge with a bit of elastic stuck to my foot. A sheltered existence some might say but having two live feet firmly on the ground is something I pride myself on.
Today, when negotiating a piece of Toblerone, carefully peeling away the tinfoil, I reasoned that these two brown morsels could last me through to dinner. Afterall, it only had seven hours to fill in. Suffice to say, it didn't and re-fuelling was required by something a little more substantial and less brown a little later on.
This particular chocolate was being offered in the lunchroom at work. The approach to eating in the lunchroom is vastly different to eating at home or in your car. Had that bar been stationed in the fridge at home, the chocologic would've really kicked in. Some use this logic to ration it, two pieces a night viewing Coro with a cuppa. I do not. I can not.
My rationale for eating said chocolate is exactly that, eat it. Eat it all. Why bother dividing it in your head, especially if you're mathematically challenged. By doing that you use up all the health giving calories before they've even reached your tongue.
As a point, do you often torture yourself on the bathroom (should be 'bath-rue') scales, manoeurvring your tummy so that you can read the malignant figures at your feet? Well, do it get off and balance a packet of chocolate biscuits on your head -get back on and voila - there is no change in the reading. Thus proving eating biscuits and chocolate plays no part in weight gain. Note of caution: remove biscuits from a tin or cookie jar as this could cause you serious injury to both body and spirit.
Chocologic does not confine itself to cocoa derivatives. It's that over thinking crashing through scenario after scenario in your small cranial colesseum. If you'd only kept your right hand on the steering wheel instead of offering another driver a single-digit driving directive you'd not be driving around in the panel-beater's courtesy car. Or if only you'd decided to wear yellow instead of red when you were crossing that field with all those udder-less cows in it.
Well, as this is in chocological order - which is an oxymoron as chocology has no order and is a nonsensical at the best of times except when reordered ad naseum in your head - then it's bedtime and time to offer another note of caution. Do not leave chocolate under your pillow with the electric blanket on. The initial heart shape, romantic in solidity but the ensuing gooey mess is reminescent of something much less so.
Sweet dreams.
It's an antitoxidant which means that it's like eating a tomato only it's brown. For some unknown reason the tomato doesn't invite the tongue teasing and testing that chocolate endures. I've never seen anyone suck a tomato but then I've never jumped off a bridge with a bit of elastic stuck to my foot. A sheltered existence some might say but having two live feet firmly on the ground is something I pride myself on.
Today, when negotiating a piece of Toblerone, carefully peeling away the tinfoil, I reasoned that these two brown morsels could last me through to dinner. Afterall, it only had seven hours to fill in. Suffice to say, it didn't and re-fuelling was required by something a little more substantial and less brown a little later on.
This particular chocolate was being offered in the lunchroom at work. The approach to eating in the lunchroom is vastly different to eating at home or in your car. Had that bar been stationed in the fridge at home, the chocologic would've really kicked in. Some use this logic to ration it, two pieces a night viewing Coro with a cuppa. I do not. I can not.
My rationale for eating said chocolate is exactly that, eat it. Eat it all. Why bother dividing it in your head, especially if you're mathematically challenged. By doing that you use up all the health giving calories before they've even reached your tongue.
As a point, do you often torture yourself on the bathroom (should be 'bath-rue') scales, manoeurvring your tummy so that you can read the malignant figures at your feet? Well, do it get off and balance a packet of chocolate biscuits on your head -get back on and voila - there is no change in the reading. Thus proving eating biscuits and chocolate plays no part in weight gain. Note of caution: remove biscuits from a tin or cookie jar as this could cause you serious injury to both body and spirit.
Chocologic does not confine itself to cocoa derivatives. It's that over thinking crashing through scenario after scenario in your small cranial colesseum. If you'd only kept your right hand on the steering wheel instead of offering another driver a single-digit driving directive you'd not be driving around in the panel-beater's courtesy car. Or if only you'd decided to wear yellow instead of red when you were crossing that field with all those udder-less cows in it.
Well, as this is in chocological order - which is an oxymoron as chocology has no order and is a nonsensical at the best of times except when reordered ad naseum in your head - then it's bedtime and time to offer another note of caution. Do not leave chocolate under your pillow with the electric blanket on. The initial heart shape, romantic in solidity but the ensuing gooey mess is reminescent of something much less so.
Sweet dreams.
Sunday, May 10, 2009
Dis-appointment
Firstly, there was the mailbox disappointment. When opening it only produced a moth or bill, the heart sank just a smidge. With the advent of the answer-machine (because they were whirr-gigging machines whereas robotic blips now bleep out your disappointment) came the crashing ego-whack when you returned home, after two days visiting Nana, to find there was only one message left and that was somebody trying to sell you life insurance. Not only reminding you that you have no friends but it didn't matter anyway as you'd probably be dead soon so there'd be nobody at your funeral. Oh well, less to spend on egg sandwiches and asparagus rolls.
It's bad enough not getting snail mail but technology has gifted us an array of disappointment deliverers.
Now, mobile phones offer disappointment at your fingertips, 24 hours a day. That text you'd been waiting for... and waiting for... and waiting for... was obviously been sent to the wrong person. How many texts can you send before you're deemed a stalker and have a restraining order slapped on you? Should you conclude with a x or a xox or just your name ... or ... should you lose the vowels or ride high in the saddle of the grammar pedant? Questions posed and answered in a thousand different ways... all in your head.
The internet through your computer portal offers you an abundance of disappointment and disillusionment. The empty cyber mailbox. Doh! Or worse, full of inconsequential cyber detritis which serves only to remind you that you live in a world that has all the depth of a gnat's puddle. Who really cares if you only have seven friends on Facebook, and that figure includes an Ethiopian stranger?
And that one email where you compared your boss to a syphilitic despot was the one you hit reply all to. The intended sole recipient informing you of your career-dunking keystroke before offering to help you pack your career into a small brown box. Very kind, but asking you if you'd mind leaving your Elvis mug as a keepsake... blooming cheek!
Of course, it's gets better. Spam is not oft-wished-for missives and more annoyingly, it's hard to pass off Mi Knob or E. Normous as a good friend. They sound like jolly good sorts though, as they assure you that your partner 'won't need a magnifying glass to see your instrument'. Then there's Rod Hard who boasts that 'it will be hard to hide your bulgy pride' after you've knocked back a couple of his con-cock-tions. Indeed.
So now you have no friends... are nearly dead and have the added disappointment that you lack a penis. Even if you were fortunate to posess one, it would be too small to operate in the over-inflated world. And then to enable you to operate it with your head held high, and I supsect your member in a sling if the photos are anything to go by, you'd need to pop little pink pills for your partner to be satisfied during your 'couch adventures'.
It's all quite exhausting.
With all this talk about appendages to be proud of, I look down at our new family member. Sammy, a scruffy tabby, looks up at me adoringly. I can only cross my fingers that he can't read because his little man was lopped off without much ado and I certainly do not want to be responsible for his lamentations at this loss.
I've got enough to worry about already.
It's bad enough not getting snail mail but technology has gifted us an array of disappointment deliverers.
Now, mobile phones offer disappointment at your fingertips, 24 hours a day. That text you'd been waiting for... and waiting for... and waiting for... was obviously been sent to the wrong person. How many texts can you send before you're deemed a stalker and have a restraining order slapped on you? Should you conclude with a x or a xox or just your name ... or ... should you lose the vowels or ride high in the saddle of the grammar pedant? Questions posed and answered in a thousand different ways... all in your head.
The internet through your computer portal offers you an abundance of disappointment and disillusionment. The empty cyber mailbox. Doh! Or worse, full of inconsequential cyber detritis which serves only to remind you that you live in a world that has all the depth of a gnat's puddle. Who really cares if you only have seven friends on Facebook, and that figure includes an Ethiopian stranger?
And that one email where you compared your boss to a syphilitic despot was the one you hit reply all to. The intended sole recipient informing you of your career-dunking keystroke before offering to help you pack your career into a small brown box. Very kind, but asking you if you'd mind leaving your Elvis mug as a keepsake... blooming cheek!
Of course, it's gets better. Spam is not oft-wished-for missives and more annoyingly, it's hard to pass off Mi Knob or E. Normous as a good friend. They sound like jolly good sorts though, as they assure you that your partner 'won't need a magnifying glass to see your instrument'. Then there's Rod Hard who boasts that 'it will be hard to hide your bulgy pride' after you've knocked back a couple of his con-cock-tions. Indeed.
So now you have no friends... are nearly dead and have the added disappointment that you lack a penis. Even if you were fortunate to posess one, it would be too small to operate in the over-inflated world. And then to enable you to operate it with your head held high, and I supsect your member in a sling if the photos are anything to go by, you'd need to pop little pink pills for your partner to be satisfied during your 'couch adventures'.
It's all quite exhausting.
With all this talk about appendages to be proud of, I look down at our new family member. Sammy, a scruffy tabby, looks up at me adoringly. I can only cross my fingers that he can't read because his little man was lopped off without much ado and I certainly do not want to be responsible for his lamentations at this loss.
I've got enough to worry about already.
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