The Right Way

A new secret friend of mine was telling me this week how she’d hung something up in her wardrobe, but then had to go back and turn it around so it was facing the ‘right’ way.

She couldn’t quite bring herself to just walk away.

I totally related to this, and observed that she would’ve had to actually remove the item from the hanger, turn it around, reattach it, then rehang it.  Otherwise, the hanger would have hooked over the rail the wrong way.

Towels must be folded the right way: in half, then half again, then the other way in thirds, but with the edges on the inside of the folds. 

I’m fortunate enough to have a man who does the laundry, but unfortunate enough to have a man who can’t fold towels. 

MM* starts by folding them long ways.  I know! 

I sit on my hands and say nothing until he’s finished, then when he leaves the room I quickly refold them all the right way. 

And stack them by size.  

In separate piles for each colour group.

The drinks in the fridge door have to be in the right order.  Coke, then juice, then milk.

The end of the toilet paper must always sit away from the wall, not against it.  This is not negotiable, and applies to every toilet I use, even when visiting.  MM is of the opposite opinion, and in the seven years we’ve been together we’ve been waging a silent bathroom war.  We both turn the toilet roll around the ‘right’ way every time. 

Before I eat M&Ms/Pebbles/Smarties, they need to be sorted by colour.  Then I eat all the stragglers so that each colour group has an even number in it.  Then I determine which colour group has the least number, and eat enough from all of the other colour groups so that there’s the same number left in each group.  Then I eat from my least favourite colour to my most favourite.  In twos.

Hmm, did I just go a bit too far there?

*My Man

Size Matters

Today's pet hate is the fun-size chocolate bar. 

If I didn't know any better, I would assume a fun-size chocolate bar was enormous.  Big enough to roll around on.  To lounge on while reading a magazine.  To host a dinner party on. 

The implication is that a "fun-size" chocolate bar is far superior to a normal-size chocolate bar.

But we know that not to be true, don't we.  Fun-size chocolate bars are the exact opposite of what they should be.  What could possibly be fun about a smaller-than-normal-size chocolate bar?

The answer is, nothing.

They're more expensive by weight. 

There is an expectation that you share them.  With other people. 

The chocolate itself is too small to break in half, so you can't empty all the calories out before you eat it.

They're bad for the environment with their dinky little individual wrappers.  Which, by the way, are a bastard to open. 

The bags they come in always tear right down to the bottom and they all fall out.

Fun-size schmun-size.  Boycott them. 

Double-dare

You're walking along and suddenly realise that you have a) forgotten something, b) passed the place you were going to, or c) gone the wrong way.

Why is it that we can't just turn around and walk in the other direction? 

We've got to stop and check our phone, or our watch, or mutter to ourselves like a mad person before we double back.

Why?

We don't know anyone around us.  Chances are we'll never see them again.  In fact, they probably haven't even noticed us.

Yet we feel the need to make such a song and dance about switching directions. 

I'm laying down the challenge:  next time, just turn around and walk the other way.  I double-dare you.

Remember when music was analogue?

Do you remember...

...putting your tape recorder up to the TV when RTR Countdown was on to record "Like A Virgin", only to have it ruined by your mum walking in and talking half way through.

...waiting for the radio announcer to stop talking with your fingers hovering over Play and Record, ready in case he played a song you liked next.

...stopping, rewinding, playing, stopping, rewinding, playing your favourite songs so you could write down the words.

...dubbing a friend’s Talking Heads tape using High Speed Dubbing on your double cassette player, thinking you were on the cutting edge of technology.

...forgetting to set the counter to zero at the start of the tape, so you’d have to guess where to stop fast forwarding to find your favourite song.

...playing a tape so often it got stretched and the music would go all weird like it was being played underwater.

...the sadness when the cassette player ate your tape, especially in the car.

...the joy when you managed to cut away the damaged part and splice the ends together with sellotape and it actually worked.

...wondering if you'll fit one more whole song at the end of your C-90.

...taking the tape apart so you could swap the reels over to play it backwards and hear the subliminal messages.

You have... one new message

Hi you’ve reached the voicemail of <insert name>…

Yeah, I know who I called.

…I can’t answer the phone right now…

No shit Sherlock.

…but if you leave me a message with your name and number…

Ooooh, so that’s how this fandangled message thingumy works.

…I’ll be sure to call you back.

Leaving a message is not exactly rocket surgery is it.  So why do people still feel the need to spell out all the steps required in the process?

Worse still are those people who actually leave a message.

Hi, it’s <insert name>…

Yeah, I know, heard of caller ID?

…it’s 10.30am on Wednesday morning…

Seriously, people actually still do that.  You know who you are.

…I was just calling to…

Ok stop right there.  We are no longer in the 80s.  We all have email now.  And texting.  Not to mention a wide variety of social media at our disposal.

It’s just a pain in the neck.  You have to dial the number to access voicemail.  Then enter your PIN.  Then listen while Robot Voicemail Man tells you that you have   *pause*   one new message.

Then you have to listen to it.  Then replay it cos it’s not quite clear (sssh I’m trying to listen) or you have to write something down (where’s a pen) or just cos your mind wandered (ooh, a bird).

Goodness knows how many voice messages I’ve got on my various phones.  I don’t listen to them.  I don’t delete them.  Eventually they will expire and disappear into the ether never to be played back.

Send me a text people.  Or email me.  Write on my Facebook wall even.  

If you don't have my mobile number, or my email address, and you're not my friend on Facebook then there's a good chance you're after me for money. 

If that's the case, please leave me a message with your name and phone number and I'll get back to just as soon as I can.

 

Dangling

Some things we had as kids stay with us into adulthood.

They don’t necessarily make themselves as known as they did when we were kids.  But they’re still there.

Imagine you’re in bed.  The lights are off.  You’re almost asleep.  It’s a warm night, and you’ve got one foot out of the blankets and dangling off the side of the bed.

You’re drifting off to sleep, blissfully comfortable and relaxed.  

Then, you remember.

The Thing Under The Bed.

You haven’t thought about it for months, years even.  But you know it’s there, under the bed.  

Waiting.

Don’t be ridiculous, you tell yourself.  There is nothing under there except dust and the odd sock.

And maybe a chocolate wrapper.

You turn the pillow over to the cool side, snuggle down, and close your eyes.

But it’s still there.

Waiting.  Ready to grab your dangling foot as soon as it comes within range.

You tell yourself that you will not succumb to some silly childhood fear, and that your foot is staying exactly where it is.  Out in the cool air. 

Dangling. 

Mind you, it might be getting a bit too cool.  Cold even. 

Perhaps it would be better under the blanket.

Yes, much better.

And safer.

L4ME PL8S

I spend a lot of my time driving.  Which is fine, I enjoy it.  But it does mean that I am constantly subjected to other people’s attempts at humour.

Bumper stickers for instance.  What is their purpose?  The owner can’t see it, so I can only assume that s/he feels the need to share their “humour” with other drivers.  Trouble is, they’re just not funny.

“Yes I do own the whole damn road!”  No, actually you don’t. 

“Get in, sit down, shut up and hold on!”  Oh pu-lease, who do you think you are?  Lewis Hamilton?

“My other car is a broom!”  Then it’s not a car is it Einstein?

Worse than bumper stickers are those “Baby on Board” signs.  I mean, really.  People who don’t know you don’t care, and those who do know you probably don’t need a sign to know you’ve procreated. 

Perhaps parents think these signs create a protective bubble around the car.

They don’t.  If I’m about to crash into you, seeing your Baby on Board sign is not going to avert disaster.  “Oh goodness, they have a baby on board, best I think twice about going through with this accident…”

Bumper stickers do peel off though, and babies grow up into less valuable teenagers. 

A more permanent display of a driver’s “humour” is their personalised plate.

To purchase your own unique combination of letters and numbers it will set you back $839.

That’s eight hundred and thirty nine dollars.

I’d like to point out the ludicrousness of spending that amount of money on something that you’ve already got free. 

More money than sense, as my mum would say. 

More money than sense of humour too.

They’re not funny.  Nor are they clever.  How funny/clever can you be with a maximum of six characters?

Personalised plates fall into three categories.  Firstly, those that state the blindingly obvious.

There’s a BMW.  It has a BMW logo, front and back.  It’s shaped like a BMW.  Even the hubcaps have BMW on them.  So what does the owner do?

They spend eight hundred and thirty nine dollars on a personalised plate that says BMUU.  Or BEEMER.  Or BEMA.  Or whatever desperate interpretation of that is left.

Next there is the plate that show the person’s interests.  I don’t care what your hobby is, what your job is, or what kind of dog you have.  FISHN.  RLEST8.  CORG1.

Lastly, and probably most annoying, is the obscure personalised plate.  The one that you have to sound out repeatedly, through every possible option of pronunciation, until you realise with a groan what it is supposed to be.  LO12NV.  3XWVES.  GSGZLR.

Why oh why do personalised plate owners feel the need to impose their alleged sense of humour, supposed sharp wit, and weak attempt at general cleverness on us?

After all, that’s what blogs are for.

It’s in The Drawer

Every house has one.  It’s usually just referred to as The Drawer.  

Sometimes it’s called The Bottom Drawer, or The Kitchen Drawer because it is always the drawer at the bottom and it’s always in the kitchen.  

But eventually it’s just shortened to The Drawer.

It’s where everything else goes.  The things that aren’t cutlery, they don’t fit in with the larger utensils, they’re not linen.  They’re just, well, everything else.

The Drawer always starts off life very neat.  You move into a new kitchen, and it collects just a few odds and ends that haven’t found a home anywhere else yet, so (just for now) they can sit in there.

Then you have a tidy-up before someone visits, you end up with a handful of things that actually all have a place, but you don’t have the time to put them all away.  So (just for now) into The Drawer goes a couple of pegs, a battery, worming tablets for the cat, a notepad, and a real estate magnet that came in the post and might be handy one day.

Cellotape is always found in The Drawer.  But only when you don’t need it.  If you do need it, it’s nowhere to be seen.

There are bound to be a few drawing pins in there, the ones that go right under your nail when you shove your hand under everything else to try to find the measuring tape or the superglue or a spare envelope.

There are headphones with the spongy earpieces missing, tangled up with at least one charger.  Usually you don’t even know what the charger is for.  But you keep it. 

A few sets of keys are kept in The Drawer.  Cousins to the charger, you’re not sure what they’re for either.  But you can’t throw them out. 

There are pens in The Drawer that haven’t worked for years.  Some have leaked ink onto the laminate.

All user manuals, guarantees, warrantees, receipts and instructions for all the house’s small appliances are in The Drawer.  Along with that funny little metal tool that came with the dryer.  Or was it the washing machine?

There might be a deck of cards in there.  A small screwdriver.  Coasters, foreign coins, elastic bands, a chopstick.  

All of this so that whenever you’re asked if you know where the <insert commonly used object> is, you can say…

“It’s in The Drawer.”

Go Go Gadget

I have a number of pet hates. Today's PH is clothing manufacturers.

The average clothing size is roughly a 12. You could safely assume then that pretty much everything about size 12 is 'average'.

Clothing manufacturers (hereafter referred to as The Skinny Bitches) seem to assume that if our girth expands beyond that of a size 12, so does everything else on our bodies.

Our arms become inches longer.

Our legs concertina out like those straws on the back of single-serve juice boxes.

A bit like Inspector Gadget.

I think The Skinny Bitches all got together in a back room somewhere and tried to come up with a way of punishing those of us who have eaten in the last 12 months.