Britain rescinds America's independence

Since Craver found this funny when I posted it on Facebook, I figured it wouldn't alienate my American readers too much, so it would be ok to post on here.

(And yes, I'm poaching. . .again. But people who don't bother to keep a blog shouldn't throw stones at others making valiant efforts [ok, making efforts) to rescue their own rapidly deterioating ones. . . Caveboy!)

Britain is Repossessing the U.S.A.

A Message from John Cleese

To the citizens of the United States of America:In light of your failure to nominate competent candidates for President of the USA and thus to govern yourselves, we hereby give notice of the revocation of your independence, effective immediately.

Her Sovereign Majesty Queen Elizabeth II will resume monarchical duties over all states, commonwealths, and territories (except Kansas , which she does not fancy).Your new prime minister, Gordon Brown, will appoint a governor for America without the need for further elections.Congress and the Senate will be disbanded.A questionnaire may be circulated next year to determine whether any of you noticed.

To aid in the transition to a British Crown Dependency, the following rules are introduced with immediate effect:You should look up "revocation" in the Oxford English Dictionary.

1. Then look up aluminium, and check the pronunciation guide. You will be amazed at just how wrongly you have been pronouncing it.

2. The letter 'U' will be reinstated in words such as 'favour' and 'neighbour.' Likewise, you will learn to spell 'doughnut' without skipping half the letters, and the suffix-ize will be replaced by the suffix-ise.Generally, you will be expected to raise your vocabulary to acceptable levels. (look up 'vocabulary').

3. Using the same twenty-seven words interspersed with filler noises such as "like" and "you know" is an unacceptable and inefficient form of communication.There is no such thing as US English. We will let Microsoft know on your behalf. The Microsoft spell- checker will be adjusted to take account of the reinstated letter 'u' and the elimination of -ize. You will relearn your original national anthem, God Save The Queen.

4. July 4th will no longer be celebrated as a holiday.

5. You will learn to resolve personal issues without using guns, lawyers, or therapists. The fact that you need so many lawyers and therapists shows that you're not adult enough to be independent.Guns should only be handled by adults. If you're not adult enough to sort things out without suing someone or speaking to a therapist then you're not grown up enough to handle a gun.

6. Therefore, you will no longer be allowed to own or carry anything more dangerous than a vegetable peeler. A permit will be required if you wish to carry a vegetable peeler in public.

7. All American cars are hereby banned. They are crap and this is for your own good. When we show you German cars, you will understand what we mean.

8. All intersections will be replaced with roundabouts, and you will start driving on the left with immediate effect. At the same time, you will go metric with immediate effect and without the benefit of conversion tables.Both roundabouts and metrication will help you understand the British sense of humour.

9. The Former USA will adopt UK prices on petrol (which you have been calling gasoline)-roughly $6/US gallon. Get used to it.

10. You will learn to make real chips. Those things you call French fries are not real chips, and those things you insist on calling potato chips are properly called crisps. Real chips are thick cut, fried in animal fat, and dressed not with catsup but with vinegar.

11. The cold tasteless stuff you insist on calling beer is not actually beer at all. Henceforth, only proper British Bitter will be referred to as beer, and European brews of known and accepted provenance will be referred to as Lager. South African beer is also acceptable as they are pound for pound the greatest sporting Nation on earth and it can only be due to the beer. They are also part of British Commonwealth - see what it did for them.

12. Hollywood will be required occasionally to cast English actors as good guys. Hollywood will also be required to cast English actors to play English characters.Watching Andie McDowell attempt English dialogue in Four Weddings and a Funeral was an experience akin to having one's ears removed with a cheese grater.

13. You will cease playing American football. There is only one kind of proper football; you call it soccer. Those of you brave enough will, in time, be allowed to play rugby (which has some similarities to American football, but does not involve stopping for a rest every twenty seconds or wearing full kevlar body armour like a bunch of nancies). Don't try Rugby - the South Africans and Kiwis will thrash you, like they regularly thrash us.

14. Further, you will stop playing baseball. It is not reasonable to host an event called the World Series for a game which is not played outside of America. Since only 2.1% of you are aware that there is a world beyond your borders, your error is understandable. You will learn cricket, and we will let you face the South Africans first to take the sting out of their deliveries.

15. You must tell us who killed JFK. It's been driving us mad.

16. An internal revenue agent (i.e. tax collector) from Her Majesty's Government will be with you shortly to ensure the acquisition of all monies due (backdated to 1776).

17. Daily Tea Time begins promptly at 4 pm with proper cups, never mugs, with high quality biscuits (cookies) and cakes; strawberries in season.

God save the Queen.

Only He can.

John Cleese

From Inihtar: Incidentally, I must add Craver's response to this letter: "Being the good natured fella that he is, President George W. Bush chuckled and said that he will not ask U.S. troops to respond to the letter. He did however, appoint Chuck Norris as Ambassador to the U.K."

One of these days. . .

Ok, so my work building is set up in a funny way. To get to the third floor, where I work, I have to take the elevator to the sixth floor, and then plonk down the escalators and stairs to the third floor. So my routine is to go to the kitchen on the sixth floor, get cereal and coffee, and walk down to my desk. And at least twice a week, I trip on the stairs. I haven't quite figured out what factors play into this. . .if it's the funky red lighting, or the narrow stairs (which don't accomodate my abnormally large feet too well), or the dizzyingly gigantic black-and-white flower and ferns painted on the landing wall, or just plain old clumsiness (which I possess plenty of).

So far, my reflexes--which I'm quite proud of actually--have done well, and I manage to catch myself just in time before I go flying. But I'm sure that ONE OF THESE DAYS, as I hobble down the stairs half-asleep--holding my boiling hot cup of coffee in one hand, my bowl of milk in the other, my purse with everything including the kitchen sink slung over my shoulder, and another bag with my gym clothes looped over my arm--my reflexes will fail. And I and my coffee and milk and overloaded bags will go tumbling down like Jack and Jill rolled into one.

And wouldn't you know it, that will be the day the tall, dark and handsome guy in video editing, whom I have the tiniest crush on, will just happen to get in at the same time as me. 'Coz the humiliation just wouldn't be complete if it happened any other way, would it?

Diet anyone?

I thought this might be fitting for this time of year. . . (I don't know why it's so small. Click on it to see full size).

Unconditional love

By Sam Gross, The New Yorker, Nov. 30, 1998. From cartoonbank.com

Merry Whatever

Not that I'm on a soapbox or anything. . .


Source: Comics.com

Buzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz!!!

I left the gym in a bad mood today, and fuming and scowling, made my way to the bus stop and back home. As I slipped my key into the keyhole, I heard a strange buzzing noise, coming, fittingly enough, from my apartment. "Ugh, great," I thought. "Just what I needed."

I entered the apartment, and the loud buzzing enveloped me. I promptly burst into tears, and went in search of the source of the annoyance. I found it in a small metal panel, the size of a switch plate, screwed into the wall in the kitchen. I felt the panel. It was warm. "What do I do?" I demanded of myself. I tripped the circuit breaker. Nothing. "Aaargh." And another bout of tears.

Desperate times call for desperate measures. I dialed the management office number, then the emergency pager number. I paged, and waited. A few minutes later, as I began dialing the pager number for the second time, the call came. I explained the situation, then repeated it to someone else. I was ordered to trip the circuit breaker again, and did so. Nothing. Then I was told to go down to the garage and do the same again on my apartment's circuit breaker. I dutifully did so. Still nothing.

They said they were sending someone over to investigate, but he was coming from Jersey City and it would take about half an hour. In the meantime, I should call the electricity company to see if they could figure out what the problem was, and what the mysterious panel was. I did as I was told, spoke to someone clueless, who told me to call an electrician "Erm, I don't think it has anything to do with electricity," I informed her. "Yes, I know. That's why you should call an electrician," came the reply. I gave up, hung up, and decided to wait for the guy from the management office.

About 20 minutes later, after a pointless phone call to Nev--an engineer who informed me that he couldn't diagnose a problem from just a buzzing noise--several confused looks from an annoyed Weds, and a splitting headache in the making, I heard a knock on the door. Wondering why he hadn't buzzed the doorbell, I opened the door. He looked at me, looked at the doorbell, looked back at me, pressed the doorbell, and asked "Is this it?" The buzzing noise stopped instantly. Blessed peace.

He started laughing, while I grinned sheepishly, and apologized profusely. A phone call to the management office and more apologies later, the repair man left. And I kicked myself. Why didn't I think of it? The freakin' doorbell of all things. Figures!

Big foot problems

Note to self: Do not buy shoes smaller than your abnormally gigantic feet--even if they are only half a size. Especially if they are the high-heeled, pointy-toed ones. Because, that would mean not only limping around the office, drawing curious stares, but also sitting in your apartment in your PJs, wearing two pairs of thick workout socks, with your feet stuffed into your too-small shoes, fruitlessly attempting to stretch them.

Just accept that you have big feet. That would solve a lot of problems.

Weds' Thanksgiving

All though Thanksgiving weekend in Atlanta, I kept telling Nev, "I hope the cat is alive when I get back," and "If he's alive, I hope the cat hasn't trashed my apartment."

I had good reason to be worried. I'd poured him enough water to last, I hoped, the four days I'd be away. But he'd splashed half of it out before I even left, and I was having nightmares that I'd return to find him flat on the floor, parched and panting, at best. And if that hadn't happened, he usually tore apart anything he laid his paws on when I was home. I couldn't imagine what he might do left to his own devices for days.

So it was with a fair bit of apprehension that I opened the door to my apartment yesterday. "Wednesday," I called out. No answer, and no excited cat came bounding up. That was unusual. A feeling of dread came over me. "Wednesday," I called again, as I walked in, my suitcase forgotten outside. I made my way through the apartment, peering under the couch, looking on top of the fridge, peeking into his little tent--all his favorite hiding places. But no cat.

Then I heard mewing, pitiful and scared. "Wednesday?"

The mewing grew louder, and I realized it was coming from inside. . . my bedroom.

My heart froze. I rushed to my bedroom and flung the door open. Weds sprinted past me. I stared at him in shock, and at the mess covering the floor. The items from the top of my dresser and nighstands were on the floor, the trash can's contents spilled, and drawers stood open. The curtain covering my window had collapsed, and bits of cat puke were on the bed and floor.

"How did you get in here?" I demanded of Weds. He mewed back, and rubbed himself against my legs. In my utter confusion, one thing was clear--I vividly remembered shutting the bedroom door, and seeing Weds in the living room as I left the apartment. And he had used his litterbox--so he couldn't have been locked inside my bedroom the entire time.

Then I thought, "Someone broke in and locked Weds in the room." This was too much. The confusion, the thought of someone else in my home, and the mess in my bedroom overcame me, and I collapsed in tears. I recovered after a few mintues, and looked through all the drawers, but nothing seemed to be missing.

I sighed, went back out to retrieve my suitcase, and set about cleaning up the mess. I was still confused, but Weds seemed completely untraumatised, and I managed to calm down.

As the day went on, my confusion lifted. I kept shutting the bedroom door only to find it open a few minutes later, and the industrious little feline sitting serenely inside. I examined the doorknob, and the answer dawned on me. I had hung a couple of bags on the doorknob before I left, and realized that when I turned it to open the door, the weight of the bags kept it that way. So, when I shut the door, the doorknob didn't turn back to secure the door, which allowed Weds to push it open. I realized that, once inside, he must have playfully pushed the door shut, and was then unable to get out.

The mystery was solved, and I thought no more of it. Until today, when I told The Rock the short version of the story--the cat somehow locked himself into my bedroom. "Wow," The Rock responded. "That must have stunk like crazy."

"Actually, no," I told him. "I think he may only have been inside for a couple of days."

"A couple of days is enough," he replied, laughing.

"Hmmm," I said. That was true. If he'd been inside for any length of time, the damage would have been much worse. So I guess he let himself in, or at least locked himself in, the previous night. Thank God for small mercies.

My name is Ini and I love Lucky Charms

Is it wierd that I am almost 26 years old, and my favourite cereal is Lucky Charms?

I was standing in the kitchen at work today, pouring some milk into my cereal, when a colleague walked in. "Is that Lucky Charms?" he asked me.

"Yes," I told him. "But shhhh! Don't tell anyone."

"It's ok," he went on. "Although. . . we only let our kids eat Lucky Charms on special occasions."

"Well," I said, defensively. "I only let myself eat them on special occasions." Really, I do. I just happen to have lots of special occasions. And of course, if you open a box, you have to finish it. The fact that I buy the huge, ginormous boxes of Lucky Charms, and the puny little boxes of other cereals--you know, the ones that finish in three days--doesn't count. And anyway, Lucky Charms have way less fat than even "healthy" cereals like granola. Check the nutrition information on the box--just don't read all the way down to the sugar content.

But anyway, back to our conversation. "Oh, it's ok," he said. "I love Frosted Flakes. It's just one of those things that you get used to as a kid and then continue to like as an adult."

Silence.

"Did you have them as a kid?"

"Ummm, no."

"Oh."

Awkward silence, and an abrupt end to our conversation.

I believe I am now the wierd adult in the office who eats kids cereals.

The quintessential shop assistant

Do I look like everybody's idea of a shop assistant?

I know most people, at some point in their life, have been approached while browsing in a shop by someone and asked if they work there. To most it's happened, once, maybe twice, rarely three times. Less than the fingers on one hand for sure. But to me, IT HAPPENS ALL THE TIME!!! I can count them on one hand -- about four times over!

Just in the past two weeks, I've been approached by two people in two different stores, and asked if I work there -- and both times, it was in stores that even have uniforms. Ok, so I was wearing a blue top the second time, the same colour as the uniform. But it was a distinctly different shade of blue, and a different kind of top!

Now I know I'm not the sharpest dresser out there, and I don't always look like the elegant, sophisticated journo that I am. But still. . . that's no excuse! If you see someone wearing a handbag, clutching a box of cat food, and seriously contemplating the choice of cereals in the food section of a drug store, you DO NOT go up to them and ask if they work there!

Now I don't mean any disrespect to sales assistants, though I have my own beef with many of them; at least those in the unfriendly New York City anyway. But, if I'm unsure of whether or not someone works at a store where I'm shopping, I at least surreptitiously observe them for a few minutes before approaching them cautiously. When I get to within speaking distance, I usually stand there, staring at them, to see if they respond. If they don't, or if they look at me suspiciously and hold their shopping and their money closer, I slink away.

Why doesn't everyone do that? Surely it beats barging into someone's serious shopping experience and demanding that they help you instead!

Ho hum. . .

Ini hath not blogged in a long time, and Ini needeth to blog. . . but Ini's brain functioneth not -- after lugging way too much stuff from one apartment to another, Ini's brain and body are tres fatigue. So forgive me, dear reader. . .

Big foot

I went to a shoe store today, in an effort to eradicate all traces of savings from my bank account. Now, before I proceed any further, I must inform you that my feet are slightly larger than average – not abnormally so, but they’re not dainty by any means – and I have been called such names as Big Foot in the past (thanks, Jags, for scarring me for life!)

So I was browsing through the selection of shoes, trying to decide between the slippers with the black beads and the ones with the tan beads, when a voice to my left drew my attention. Holding up a horror in neon green, the woman demanded, “Who with size nine feet would wear neon green shoes?” (yes yes, my name is Inihtar, and I wear size nine shoes.)

Her companion, clearly trying to make up for her lack of diplomacy, responded, “Why? People with size nine feet can’t wear neon green shoes?”

The first woman, obviously unwilling to give up on her argument, answered: “Well, if you have such huge feet, you shouldn’t be drawing attention to them.”

Now, I was following along in this conversation, chuckling to myself, until the realization hit me that I was part of the group she was berating. Startled, I attempted to make up by sending a potent glare in her direction – not that I wear neon green shoes, but I would like the opportunity to do so without being the object of contempt of some loud-mouthed female who is clearly unaware of the tribulations of having large feet – but she was blissfully unaware that she had ruffled any feathers in the number nine section.

As she trotted off to one of the smaller sizes, I sighed to myself. After all, I am a trained journalist and I can’t get worked up over criticism of my shoe size. So instead, I found a better way to drown my foot problems – I went and bought myself a pair of shoes in size 8.5.

A scary hairy tale

Once upon a time, there was a silly girl named Inihtar, who decided she wanted beautiful long black curly locks. But alas, her hair was straight as a broomstick's sweeper. So, she decided she would take herself off to a hair salon and get her hair permed, so she could achieve her heart's desire. All the warnings of well-wishers, who cautioned that her hair would be fried, and become dry as a desert bush, fell on deaf ears. For our friend Ini had made up her mind and there was no changing it. So off she went to the hair salon and, four hours later, walked out with the curls her heart had so desired.

Fast forward a couple of years: Ini's hair is a sight to behold: the top part is straight and fine; the bottom part, however, is a nightmare: dry, coarse, and split ends galore. So Ini decided she was going to chop off the remainder of the permed hair. And off she went to her favourite hair salon, where when the hair dresser held up the amount she wanted cut, Ini shook her head and said "more" and "more" and "more" again. So clip clip when the scissors, and when the cutting was all done, Ini realized in shock that her hair was half of its original length. She hid her shock, admitted that it didn't look too bad, and took herself off home.

A couple of days later, Ini decided she wanted layers. Her hair was shorter, and she figured this was the time to do it. So, unable to wait once her mind was made up, Ini went off to a nearby hair salon, and asked for layers. Clip clip went the scissors again, and Ini smiled, thanked the hair dresser, and went off home. On the way home, she peered at her reflection in shop windows, and in occasional mirrors, and realized that she wanted more layers in the front.

She decided to fix it herself. She arrived home, picked up a pair of scissors and a newspaper and headed for the bathroom. Snip snip went the scissors for a third time in a week. And the results this time were not so pleasing. Ini had overestimated her ability to fix her hair. Snip snip, went the scissors again, as she tried to make up for the disaster. To no avail.

"This is becoming like the tale of the monkey and the cake*," she told herself. She decided to leave it, pronounced her hair the latest fashion statement, put away her apparatus and went about her work. Ini might, of course, change her mind about the fashion statement, once she starts getting horrified stares, but she will just have to deal with it then, won't she?

*For those readers unfamiliar with the tale of the monkey and the cake, it goes something like this: Two birds had found a piece of cake and wanted to split it between them, but not trusting each other's ability to split it evenly, took it to a monkey to do it for them. The monkey broke the piece in two, then decided one was bigger than the other, and took a bite of the larger piece. Then that piece was smaller, so he took a bite of the other, and so on, until he had eated the entire piece.

A dorkess on the loose in New York City. . .

I learned a valuable New York City lesson today -- when you take a yellow cab, you wave vigorously (jumping and with both hands if possible), leap into the back seat as soon as one pulls up and tell the driver in no uncertain terms where he is to take you. You don't stand off to the side and wave timidly, go up to the driver of the fifth cab that's driven past and only stopped out of pity, and quietly ask if he'll take you to 72nd and Park.

How did you come to learn this magnificant lesson, Ini, you might ask.

Good reader, let me enlighten you. . .

I had an appointment this morning at 11:30 with a neurosurgeon, after waiting for a week (it was just for an interview, there's nothing wrong with me -- nothing, anyway, that a neurosurgeon can help with; then again. . . perhaps there is). But anyway, I digress. . .

I got off work at 10:30 and took the subway to 72nd Street with half an hour to get to the east side -- plenty of time. It was such a beautiful day that I decided to walk through Central Park, instead of taking the crosstown bus. Disastrous decision, I should have known -- no one with my sense of direction should attempt to walk through any place that doesn't have roads that form right-angled geometric shapes.

But, blissfully chosing to ignore this knowledge, I proceeded, with a smile on my face and a spring in my step. Twenty minutes later, I was still in Central Park, still walking, minus the smile and spring. Panic began to set in. I was not going to make it by 11:30, and you don't keep a busy neurosurgeon waiting. I pictured myself telling him why I was late ("Ummm, I'm really sorry, doctor, but I got lost in Central Park) and started walking even faster.

Finally, at 11:30, I emerged on the other side of the park, and saw a sign saying "Fifth Avenue." Oh thank God! But I immediately realized that I had thanked the Almighty too soon. I looked at the cross street -- 59th Street.

I decided to take a cab, and it took me another ten minutes to figure out which direction I needed to go in, that the cabs were all going in the opposite direction because I was on a one-way street going the wrong way. I got my bearings, sprinted over to the right street, and finally, after missing five cabs because I was too timid to stand up and WAVE, one pulled over.

As I climbed in and collapsed, the driver turned around and with a stern look, gave me my first lesson in New York City Cab Hailing.

How can you not love him?!?!?!

My Columbia News Service (CNS) prof has officially become my favourite. This is the email he sent out to editors of newspapers who use our stories. . .(the first line is to the students)

Dear CNS Crew--Wouldn't you be moved? bp

Begin forwarded message:


TO: FEATURE EDITORS

FROM: COLUMBIA NEWS SERVICE

SUBJECT: PLEASE REMEMBER TO SEND BACK CLIPS

SOME OF YOU HAVE EARNED PERMANENT PLACES IN THE HEARTS OF COLUMBIA STUDENTS FOR RESPONDING TO OUR PLEAS TO SEND BACK TEAR SHEETS OF CNS STORIES THAT RUN IN YOUR PAPER.

FOR THE OTHERS, WE ARE RESERVING A PLACE FOR YOU IN THEIR HEARTS, BUT WE HAVE YET TO RECEIVE ANY CLIPS!!

DON'T YOU REMEMBER YOUR FIRST BY-LINE? THE THRILL OF SEEING YOUR NAME IN PRINT? HOW LARGE IT LOOMED IN YOUR LIFE?

SO, PLEASE, REMEMBER THOSE WITHOUT CLIPS AT THIS JOB-HUNTING TIME OF THE YEAR. AND TEAR OUT THE CNS STORY AND PICTURE WHEN THEY RUN IN YOUR PAPER, SLAP A STAMP ON THE ENVELOPE AND RETURN IT TO ME.

OUR STUDENTS WILL REMAIN ETERNALLY GRATEFUL.

And some people are as enamoured of the class. . . clearly



>>>>

Thinking in emoticons. . .

You know you’ve been spending too much time online when you make a face in your head in reaction to something, and you find yourself picturing one of those little IM smileys -- like the :-S or :-D or the :-( or even the :-/. Or you hear or think something funny or silly, and the first thing that pops into your head is “LOL”.

Of course I don’t think like this. I’m just saying. . .

Today's woes

Today has been an infuriating day. I woke up late, and after hooing and and haaing away three hours, finally decided to sit down and prepare for my Arabic class tonight. After writing down about three words, it suddenly dawned on me that perhaps I should look into paying my tuition and fees for this semester. So, I looked at the due date, and realised it was January 5. Oh well, I thought, I might as well go pick up my loan check, and try to pay it off as soon as possible. Now, since I was on a roll of productivity, I decided to look into replacing my drivers license as well (which I lost about two years ago, when someone kindly swiped my bag at a work Christmas party in London).

So I tried to call the MN Driver's License people (my driver's license is from Minnesota, since that was where I was living when I got it), and, in true government office fashion, I got an engaged tone. I tried several more times, and got the same result. So gave up on that, and went off to the financial services office at the uni, only to find that my loan check hadn't arrived. So called Ye Olde Access Groupe and was told by the kind machine lady that the check had only been disbursed today.

So, having solved that mystery, I thought I'd try my luck with the Minnesota folks again to see if I could get any response. This time, when I dialed the number, I got through! Yaay! Only problem was, this machine lady told me that to move things along faster, I would need my drivers license number. Hmmm, I thought, I'll walk home while I'm on hold, and find it.

Now I keep my old documents in an antique green folder that has travelled around with me everywhere I've gone. But, while I could picture the folder I had no idea where it was. So I went home, and phone in one hand and ice cream cone in another (I gave in to a craving on the way home while on hold), I began hunting for my green folder. And, as is always the case, I couldn't find it.

I rummaged through my boxes which I'd shipped from London (yes, I still haven't unpacked them, but I figured I'm moving again in a few months, so why bother), and, while in the process of rummaging, dropped my phone, which promptly disconnected itself. Oh well, I thought. I'll just sit down and enjoy my icecream and continue looking and call again when I've found the documents with my drivers license number. So I finished my ice cream, and in the process determined that I had, at one time, put the green folder in my green bag. Now the question: where is the green bag? Finally, after considerable head-scratching, followed by some truly admirable acrobatics, which sent little Weds fleeing to safety under my bed, I managed to locate the green bag INSIDE my brown suitcase on the top shelf of my closet.

And, you guessed it. . . no green folder. So I gave up my search, and resigned myself to the fact that the green folder had probably gone the way of my long-lost portfolio. And decided to call the MN folks again and confess that I could not locate my drivers license number, and could they please please please give me another license without making me taking the test (my aversion to taking the driving test again stems from my fear that I've forgotten how to drive, and don't want to disgrace myself - of course I'm aware that this presents a slight problem when I actually have to drive, but I'll cross that bridge when I get there).

So I sat down, dialed the number, and. . . beep, beep, beep. I've been trying and trying and the same result. . . so I decided to sit down and lay my woes down in my blog, as I continue my fruitless attempts at replacing my license.

Speaking "Mexican"

I was talking to Nev on the phone today, and he told me a story that made me feel a bit better about the silly situations I get myself into. He was waiting in line for something when a girl came up to him and started talking to him. She asked him where he was from. He told her, and asked her where she was from in response. She informed him that she was Spanish.

"Barcelona? Madrid?" he prompted.

"No," came the cheerful reply. "Honduras."

Both Nev and I obviously have a lot of catching up to do in Honduran geography!

There's more though. She informed Nev that she had thought he was Spanish too! In response, he told her, beaming at the interest she was taking in him. "Yes, I know. I've had people come up to me and start speaking Mexican!"

Her interest in him underwent an immediate transformation for the worse! "I guess I've assimilated too well into the US!" he told me wryly.

Blogable events. . .catching up

During my contemplations about creating a blog, several things happened. . . or rather, I got myself into several situations. . . that seemed to me blogable, at least to allow others to recognise that I haven't gotten any more sophisticated or sensible since my arrival in the Big Apple.

Like last week. . . I persuaded myself that it was time I got into shape, and decided to take advantage of the free gym at Columbia. Only, the gym is about eight blocks from where I live, and I didn't want to walk through campus in my running gear. . . don't ask why, that's a question for a shrink! Anyway, armed with my water bottle and campus map, I marched off along Broadway, from where, according to the map, I should have been able to get to the gym. But my map was lying, and the gym was nowhere in sight from Broadway.

So I decided to be innovative and try to get to the gym through what my map told me was the neighbouring building. I walked in confidently, congratulating myself on how much my sense of direction had improved in the past few years, and on how innovative I was being in trying to find new ways to do things. I reached a door in the building with a sign that said, in essence, that there was no access to the street from that exit, and no entrance back into the building, without authority with Columbia ID. Ha, I thought, I've got a Columbia ID, so I've got authority, and promptly marched through the door, letting it bang shut behind me. . . only to realise that I was in some no man's land with no exit. It was a deserted, unkempt back "garden" (in extremely generous terms), with piles of garbage bags, uncared for bushes and. . . eek. . . mice!! The place was surrounded by high metal bars, and a locked gate, through which I could see the street and people walking by.

Ok, I thought, so this is not it. But my trusty Columbia ID will get me back in the building, and I'll just be on my way. I took out my ID with a flourish and swiped it on the little swipy thingie that was next to the door.
Nothing.
Ok, so it sometimes doesn't work on the first try. Let's try again, I thought.
Again, nothing.
Ok, so I guess I don't have authority. Now what?

No problem, I thought. I'll just stop passers-by and ask them if I could use their phones to call campus security. Now, most normal people would (if normal people get themselves into such situations) just stop the first person they see, as long as they look relatively decent, and explain the situation. But no, I had to find a certain type of person. . . preferably female, so that members of the opposite sex wouldn't see what an idiot I am, preferably alone, so that the number of people who see what an idiot I am is kept to a minimum, and preferably a saint, so it wouldn't occur to them to judge my idiocy.

So, after eliminating the people walking by for about five minutes, I found my ideal candidate. Excuse me, I called out. She looked at me, slightly startled. I have a slight problem. . . and explained. Do you have a phone I could use to call security to let me out? Sorry, she said, I don't have a phone.
I think she felt guilty then to leave me in my prison and continue on. She stood there, and looked around helplessly. It's ok, I told her. I'll just ask someone else. Ok, she said, looking relieved, and walked off.
My next saviour I decided, was a woman wearing a crucifix around her neck. And went through the same exercise. She too didn't have a phone.
Now in London, the first person I asked would have had a mobile on her. But in this technological wasteland, it was not to be.
It took another five minutes for my next candidate to come along. Excuse me, do you have a phone? I asked her. She looked at me suspiciously and took a step back. I'm sorry to bother you, I said, and went into my spiel again. She, miraculously, had a phone, which she pulled out of her bag, dialed the number (which, for once, I knew) and I explained my situation to the operator. When I was done, I thanked the woman profusely. Do you want me to wait with you, she asked. Touched to the core, I told her I would be fine, and waited until a very amused security guard set me free, explaining that only certain people with AUTHORITY, and not misguided young women, could get back into the building.

What would happen if there had been a fire, I asked as he was escorting me out of the building.
Oh, there won't be a fire there, he replied confidently. And if there was, you'd just have to jump the (25-foot high) gates.
Oh, hehe, I said, nervously. I guess things could have been worse. . .