I AM familiar with the saying “if it’s too good to be true, it probably is”… but I also try to live my life along the lines of believing people are as honest as I am. I should know better.
So… the BMW… soooo excited about it in the beginning and now I just feel dirty. I bought the car from a guy on base for £200 (about $300)… First off, I know what you are all thinking… how much car can a person reasonably expect for £200? Well, in answer, at a base like this (in a foreign country with a very small American community) it is common for cars to be passed along from person to person over the years as they come and go. Some of these cars go for cheap, some for the same price every time (like the one I bought for £200, was bought for £200, was bought for £200 before that, etc, etc), and some are just handed down for free.
When I started the process of purchasing this car, there were a few things I noticed right off the bat… the Tax Disc was expired (kindof like the registration in the states), the tires looked a little worn, and the ‘check engine’ and ‘oil service’ lights were on. None of this bothered me, as the tax and tires I could take care of relatively easily and for little expense… as far as the service lights, the previous owner ASSURED me that those lights were ‘always on, and had been so since he got the car’. I asked about the oil, he said he had just had it serviced… “Okay,” I say, “Sounds good, but I want to get it checked out to make sure”. I don’t mind putting a little money into the car, as I bought it for so cheap in the first place.
Long story short, it took a couple of weeks to get an appointment at a reputable garage… I gave him the £200 as ‘good faith’ money, since I would be driving it until then and we did NOT sign the title over since I told him I wanted it fully checked out before I officially bought the car. I’m sure this will come as no surprise to anyone but me… the car needs about £1100 ($1600) worth of work… the rear brakes, rear tires, cam belt, fuel lines, gaskets, brake fluid, etc… AND, when they went to drain the oil so they could change it… there was none to drain. GREAT.
I read the laundry list of problems to the guy and told him I was no longer interested in the car and I wanted my £200 back. I didn’t use profanity, accuse him of anything… I didn’t even curse his unborn children for the despicable lies the told me to my face:
“It’s in great condition”
“I’ve never had a single problem with it”
“I just got it checked out, but if you want to I’ll pay to have whatever it needs fixed, fixed before you buy it”
Nope, just told him I wanted my money back and he could have the keys…(even though I’d already paid the £50 for the MOT and another £100ish for the oil change and inspection)… to which he replied “Oh, that’s not my responsibility. I’m not giving you back your money, it’s your car and your problem now.”
Now, if I was really going to be a bitch, I would leave the car at the garage… it is still registered in HIS name thus not, financially, my responsibility to pay the bill and pick it up. But I’m not a bitch (though at times like this I wish I was)… and I’m not so back-handed to consider driving the thing around and getting a dozen or so speeding tickets from the speed cameras (that would be sent to his house, as he is the registered owner).
The problem escalated… other people in the ‘office’ got involved… to the point that I’m sitting down with the senior-most Army guy (his boss) and the senior-most Navy guy (my boss) discussing my options. HE won’t even come down to discuss the situation with me… when I had tried to sit down with him and ask him what he proposed as a resolution he said “I don’t have to have a plan, ‘cause it isn’t my problem, and I’m keeping the money.”
Yes… this took all day.
Ultimately I’ve decided to just keep the car and just drive it until the wheels fall off (or the cam belt snaps, or the rear tires deflate, or the…). I’ve already sunk about £200 into it, so even IF he gives me back my original £200 I’m still in the hole. Plus, with his attitude, I’m not sure exactly WHAT could be done to pressure him into giving me back my money.
At this point I’m only in about £400 ($600), so if I get a month or two out of it I’ll consider that breaking even (and lesson learned)… and around here I rarely even go as fast as 40mph, so if it does die on me I’ll just leave it on the side of the road and call someone to junk it… maybe I’ll get £50 from a scrap yard. Besides, if I never spend another second trying to have a reasonable discussion with ‘the seller’ it’ll be too soon… I don’t want to have to deal with him for another minute.
The whole situation still makes me feel used and left on the side of the proverbial road… kindof like my BMW.
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
free-style
I dropped my car off at the garage to get it looked at this morning, before work… I was meeting another guy there, who was going to do all the talking for me (as he is British, car-savvy, and male… thus less likely to get ripped off), and give me a ride into work.
As we leave the garage, he gets about 100 yards down the road and as I ask “Why is your car so squirrely?” as he proclaims “Daam it, sounds like I got a puncha!” He pulls over and sure enough, flat tire (or ‘puncher’ to the British folk). We turn around and head right back to the garage to get his car put in next to mine to get fixed… and call work to have somebody come pick us up.
Now, I’m going to be VERY careful here… I try not to blog about the things that make me angry or upset (at least not at specific people) and I try not to ‘dis’ people in my blog… but this is too funny a story to go untold.
There is this guy I work with… Without saying TOO much that might get me in trouble, I'll just describe him as a caricature of a real human being... hell bent on perpetuating stereotypes.
He pulls up to the garage to pick us up, music BLARING, bass thumping, window down, cigarette smoke pouring out, seat reclined as far as it will go (though he is hunched up over the steering wheel).
Now, just to make this clear, I ENJOY rap music. I like it. Not all of it, of course, but some, if not most. At first, I can’t quite figure out WHO exactly he is listening too… the rhymes seem very basic and lacking the creativity I usually enjoy, the beats are standard, the language is atrocious… 'n**** this and n**** that' and 'mutha f******' every time in between. After about a minute of listening, the voice starts to sound familiar… then VERY familiar. I ask,
“Who is this we’re listening to?…? …is this?…no…. it can’t be…. is this YOU?!?”
“Yeah, this is my rap. Hu hu hu…” (his laugh)
He ‘freestyles’ his own raps that he puts to music… burns them to cds… and listens to them (almost excusively) at TOP volume as he drives around.
His name is Ernest (how very gangster, I know)… but his rap name is MR E (not sure on the spelling there. My favourite quote from the 15 minutes of rap I was blessed with listening to is:
“they call me mr e, cause I’m a mystery, but there ain’t no mystery, ‘cause I’m mr E, and you can’t f*** with mr e, that ain’t no mystery” (swear to God)
I was laughing out loud almost the entire ride… not to be rude, but because I couldn’t really help it… I was desperately trying to remember as much of his ‘raps’ as I could because I wanted to quote them here… but every time I’d hear one that I was sure was as ridiculous as it could get… the next one would trump it.
Most of them I can’t write here because, as I mentioned, almost every other word was ‘n****’ or ‘mutha f*****’… but he did manage to mention sodomizing my mother, sister, and daughter (“I’ll do her in the butt, cause she’s a slut”)… all in the same rap, one right after another… he mentioned the difficulties of living on his ‘streets’ (he lives here in London, like me)… and he was VERY adamant about “we gon get to the top, cause we don’t stop”…
My favourite hook was “ass and titties!! ass and titties!! ass and titties!! a…” over and over and over and over (I kid you not).
After the fourth or fifth ‘track’ like this, I tried to explain why I was laughing so hard (without insulting his rap), I told him that I found it funny that he listens to himself so much… he countered with:
Him: “Do you ever write down poems?”
Me: “I’m not sure what you’re asking.”
Him: “Have you written down a poem?”
Me: “Uh, yes, I suppose so… when I was in high school.”
Him: “No, no. Have you writ one yourself?”
Me: “Yes, a few, for projects back in highschool.”
Him: “No, I mean now… do you write your own poems now?”
Me: “No, I’ve never been much of a poet.”
Him: “Whatever… yes you do. All chicks write poems. And when you write them don’t you read them back to yourself? Cause you enjoy reading what you wrote? … All chicks do that. Don’t lie. … Well, this is my poetry, and I want to listen to it as much as I can.”
Ignoring the sexist portion of that, I asked him if he thought that was a bit narcissistic… and mentioned he might consider expanding his musical selections. He then called me ‘close minded’ and said I was racist for calling him ‘egotistic’. The conversation continued:
Me: “I did NOT call you ‘egotistic’. I said ‘narcissistic’… which means you’re fascinated with yourself and love yourself… it’s not quite the same as ‘egotistic’. AND, what exactly did I say that was racist??”
He laughed and said “Now you’re backpedalling. Hu hu, that means I’m right.”
Why do I even bother?
As we leave the garage, he gets about 100 yards down the road and as I ask “Why is your car so squirrely?” as he proclaims “Daam it, sounds like I got a puncha!” He pulls over and sure enough, flat tire (or ‘puncher’ to the British folk). We turn around and head right back to the garage to get his car put in next to mine to get fixed… and call work to have somebody come pick us up.
Now, I’m going to be VERY careful here… I try not to blog about the things that make me angry or upset (at least not at specific people) and I try not to ‘dis’ people in my blog… but this is too funny a story to go untold.
There is this guy I work with… Without saying TOO much that might get me in trouble, I'll just describe him as a caricature of a real human being... hell bent on perpetuating stereotypes.
He pulls up to the garage to pick us up, music BLARING, bass thumping, window down, cigarette smoke pouring out, seat reclined as far as it will go (though he is hunched up over the steering wheel).
Now, just to make this clear, I ENJOY rap music. I like it. Not all of it, of course, but some, if not most. At first, I can’t quite figure out WHO exactly he is listening too… the rhymes seem very basic and lacking the creativity I usually enjoy, the beats are standard, the language is atrocious… 'n**** this and n**** that' and 'mutha f******' every time in between. After about a minute of listening, the voice starts to sound familiar… then VERY familiar. I ask,
“Who is this we’re listening to?…? …is this?…no…. it can’t be…. is this YOU?!?”
“Yeah, this is my rap. Hu hu hu…” (his laugh)
He ‘freestyles’ his own raps that he puts to music… burns them to cds… and listens to them (almost excusively) at TOP volume as he drives around.
His name is Ernest (how very gangster, I know)… but his rap name is MR E (not sure on the spelling there. My favourite quote from the 15 minutes of rap I was blessed with listening to is:
“they call me mr e, cause I’m a mystery, but there ain’t no mystery, ‘cause I’m mr E, and you can’t f*** with mr e, that ain’t no mystery” (swear to God)
I was laughing out loud almost the entire ride… not to be rude, but because I couldn’t really help it… I was desperately trying to remember as much of his ‘raps’ as I could because I wanted to quote them here… but every time I’d hear one that I was sure was as ridiculous as it could get… the next one would trump it.
Most of them I can’t write here because, as I mentioned, almost every other word was ‘n****’ or ‘mutha f*****’… but he did manage to mention sodomizing my mother, sister, and daughter (“I’ll do her in the butt, cause she’s a slut”)… all in the same rap, one right after another… he mentioned the difficulties of living on his ‘streets’ (he lives here in London, like me)… and he was VERY adamant about “we gon get to the top, cause we don’t stop”…
My favourite hook was “ass and titties!! ass and titties!! ass and titties!! a…” over and over and over and over (I kid you not).
After the fourth or fifth ‘track’ like this, I tried to explain why I was laughing so hard (without insulting his rap), I told him that I found it funny that he listens to himself so much… he countered with:
Him: “Do you ever write down poems?”
Me: “I’m not sure what you’re asking.”
Him: “Have you written down a poem?”
Me: “Uh, yes, I suppose so… when I was in high school.”
Him: “No, no. Have you writ one yourself?”
Me: “Yes, a few, for projects back in highschool.”
Him: “No, I mean now… do you write your own poems now?”
Me: “No, I’ve never been much of a poet.”
Him: “Whatever… yes you do. All chicks write poems. And when you write them don’t you read them back to yourself? Cause you enjoy reading what you wrote? … All chicks do that. Don’t lie. … Well, this is my poetry, and I want to listen to it as much as I can.”
Ignoring the sexist portion of that, I asked him if he thought that was a bit narcissistic… and mentioned he might consider expanding his musical selections. He then called me ‘close minded’ and said I was racist for calling him ‘egotistic’. The conversation continued:
Me: “I did NOT call you ‘egotistic’. I said ‘narcissistic’… which means you’re fascinated with yourself and love yourself… it’s not quite the same as ‘egotistic’. AND, what exactly did I say that was racist??”
He laughed and said “Now you’re backpedalling. Hu hu, that means I’m right.”
Why do I even bother?
Thursday, January 15, 2009
3am
I went out briefly last night… met Kelly and co at Trinity after I left the gym. The Chelsea game was on, which is occasion for a few drinks at the pub…not that it means much to me yet.
I left at, what I thought, was a reasonable (if not late) time for someone who gets up at 6 to run with her dog… 9:20ish. Kelly commented that Dexter is running my life. I guess I couldn’t really argue… I didn’t agree but there wasn’t much of an argument I could present that would get me out of there so I gave it up.
Apparently Dexter has some 6th sense… and knows that I had this conversation and didn’t deny how high a level of control he has.
Dexter woke me up at 3 o'clock this morning... for no real reason. He usually sleeps through the night, so if he was waking me up I assumed it was an emergency. After our previous bedtime debacle I didn’t want to risk it. I begrudgingly took him down to pee and he didn't do much... not enough to quantify an emergency at least.
This is completely inexcusable... next time I think I’m going to lock him in the closet or something. He steps on my face when he wants to wake me up... it's effective, I suppose, but also a VERY unpleasant way to wake up.
Especially at 3 in the morning.
Especially when you have a dog with a record of leakage (the business end that close to my face… not a pretty first-thing-to-see-when-you-wake-up).
Especially when you find out he just wants to play.
I’m contemplating puppy soup for dinner tonight.
I left at, what I thought, was a reasonable (if not late) time for someone who gets up at 6 to run with her dog… 9:20ish. Kelly commented that Dexter is running my life. I guess I couldn’t really argue… I didn’t agree but there wasn’t much of an argument I could present that would get me out of there so I gave it up.
Apparently Dexter has some 6th sense… and knows that I had this conversation and didn’t deny how high a level of control he has.
Dexter woke me up at 3 o'clock this morning... for no real reason. He usually sleeps through the night, so if he was waking me up I assumed it was an emergency. After our previous bedtime debacle I didn’t want to risk it. I begrudgingly took him down to pee and he didn't do much... not enough to quantify an emergency at least.
This is completely inexcusable... next time I think I’m going to lock him in the closet or something. He steps on my face when he wants to wake me up... it's effective, I suppose, but also a VERY unpleasant way to wake up.
Especially at 3 in the morning.
Especially when you have a dog with a record of leakage (the business end that close to my face… not a pretty first-thing-to-see-when-you-wake-up).
Especially when you find out he just wants to play.
I’m contemplating puppy soup for dinner tonight.
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
spell-check
I just realized that Microsoft Word Spell-check Auto-correct has made a fool of me. Apparently there is some “backwards-ass British spelling pack” installed on the computer at work that auto-corrects a bunch of words to the British spelling.
Favour
Tyre
Odour
Why all the extra vowels?? A ‘y’ instead of ‘i’? Seriously?
I could tolerate these ridiculous spellings on signs and such since I’m in their country and all... but now they’ve screwed with what I write. The automatic capitalization I can deal with… but I think it’s a downright nasty trick to switch the words around as I write them…
I’m now convinced… spell check is the devil. Pick up a dictionary kids! If you don’t know how to spell it, look it up…
This is uncool.
I’ve been duped.
Favour
Tyre
Odour
Why all the extra vowels?? A ‘y’ instead of ‘i’? Seriously?
I could tolerate these ridiculous spellings on signs and such since I’m in their country and all... but now they’ve screwed with what I write. The automatic capitalization I can deal with… but I think it’s a downright nasty trick to switch the words around as I write them…
I’m now convinced… spell check is the devil. Pick up a dictionary kids! If you don’t know how to spell it, look it up…
This is uncool.
I’ve been duped.
Monday, January 12, 2009
a case of the Mondays
Going out on a Sunday night is a bad idea… and some great cosmic force (God, Karma, whatever) has punished me for my folly.
After a weekend of nothing but bleach, hot water, cardboard boxes, and packing paper I decided to go out Sunday night. Kelly and Claire (the only new friends I’ve managed to make in this country) insisted I meet them at a pub in Ruislip and have a few well deserved drinks, a nice dinner, and some social time with living people… so at 7pm that’s exactly what I did… Kelly’s boyfriend was there, along with two of his friends. They’d been drinking since early that afternoon, and Kelly and Claire had started at about 3 or 4 when the Chelsea game came on… so everyone was having fun. Naturally the evening began with the classic UK vs USA conversation I’m forced to have every time I’m introduced to someone new. One of the guys I met, Rob, had one of the thicker English accents I’ve encountered so far. This, combined with his already inebriated state, made it almost impossible for the two of us to communicate. He immediately began flirting with me… and I’m not talking the classy, discrete and tasteful peppering of charming comments amid a stimulating conversation… I’m talking about him telling me I have to take off my shirt if I miss my next shot at pool, saying if I miss my next two shots I have to take my pants off too, asking to see my tattoos (which, of course, requires me to lift up my shirt), and inquiring on my feelings towards orgies. Of course, thanks to his drunken English accent, I didn’t understand half of what he was saying to me, which only serves to make everyone else laugh harder and encouraged him to ‘flirt’ more boldly (if such a thing exists).
The other friend took the argue tactic and began debating with me on everything from pool and darts, to music. Apparently I’m stuck up because I can’t name a bunch of British artists but he can name a bunch of American artists. I attribute this to the fact that the American artists are more popular, thus more widely recognized, because (one could deduce) they are better artists. He attributed this to the fact that I am “ignorant” and all American’s are “stuck up”. A delightful conversation… really.
At first it was all fun… I know it may not sound like it from the above description, but I was having a drink, relaxing, playing some pool, laughing (at the jokes and myself) and just enjoying the company. Even the arguments and ‘flirting’ were entertaining in their own way. BUT, as the alcohol consumption continued… and time wore on… it began to get old. Rico Suave lost whatever ability he may have usually had to turn crass comments into funny compliments and The Great Debater began to repeat himself and resorted to insults when he couldn’t remember what his point was. By the end of the night I had Cassanova asking me every 5 minutes for whatever sexual favor he could come up (literally), even to the point that as I’m getting in the cab to go home he’s astounded I'm not giving him a kiss goodnight and trying to lure me out of said cab and back to his house to ‘spend the night’.
Awesome.
I finally get home-sweet-home… stomach a’rumbling since we never did make it out to eat. I’m starving and it’s 11:30. I make myself some food, which involves chopping, defrosting and cooking since that’s all I have, and get to bed around midnight.
Now, as you might recall, I started this post by saying some cosmic force saw fit to punish me for going out on Sunday. From the above story you might assume that tweedle-dee and tweedle-drunk were the aforementioned punishment, but you would be wrong… ho ho, yes indeedie, there was more to come.
I woke up around 5 am to use the restroom… I usually get up at 6 to walk/run with Dexter before work so I was already mildly irritated to have my sleep interrupted so close to when I would be waking anyway, but I trudged to the bathroom and trudged back, trying to keep myself as close to asleep as possible. As I got back in bed Dexter (who had dutifully awoken when I did and followed me to the bathroom to protect me from whatever it is puppies protect their owners from) jumped up on the bed and began to tread quite close to my head. I reached out to keep him from stepping on my face and pushed on his little puppy belly and it was too much for him to handle.
He peed.
On me.
On the bed.
Did I mention on me?
Now I suppose it’s my fault. If I had to go I should have assumed he did too, right? But I didn’t take him out. And, I know he is not fully the master of his own bladder… sometimes he leaks when he’s excited, he leaks when he’s trying really hard to hold it, and he leaks when I yell at him when his bladder is almost topped off. This is not usually a problem as it doesn’t happen often and when it does it’s usually on the tile floor downstairs… quick cleanup. But this… 5 am after a night of drinking, on me and the bed, an hour before I have to get up to go to work. And on top of it I can’t even yell at him for it because I don’t want him to leak any more and make the situation worse.
Ahhhh Monday.
After a weekend of nothing but bleach, hot water, cardboard boxes, and packing paper I decided to go out Sunday night. Kelly and Claire (the only new friends I’ve managed to make in this country) insisted I meet them at a pub in Ruislip and have a few well deserved drinks, a nice dinner, and some social time with living people… so at 7pm that’s exactly what I did… Kelly’s boyfriend was there, along with two of his friends. They’d been drinking since early that afternoon, and Kelly and Claire had started at about 3 or 4 when the Chelsea game came on… so everyone was having fun. Naturally the evening began with the classic UK vs USA conversation I’m forced to have every time I’m introduced to someone new. One of the guys I met, Rob, had one of the thicker English accents I’ve encountered so far. This, combined with his already inebriated state, made it almost impossible for the two of us to communicate. He immediately began flirting with me… and I’m not talking the classy, discrete and tasteful peppering of charming comments amid a stimulating conversation… I’m talking about him telling me I have to take off my shirt if I miss my next shot at pool, saying if I miss my next two shots I have to take my pants off too, asking to see my tattoos (which, of course, requires me to lift up my shirt), and inquiring on my feelings towards orgies. Of course, thanks to his drunken English accent, I didn’t understand half of what he was saying to me, which only serves to make everyone else laugh harder and encouraged him to ‘flirt’ more boldly (if such a thing exists).
The other friend took the argue tactic and began debating with me on everything from pool and darts, to music. Apparently I’m stuck up because I can’t name a bunch of British artists but he can name a bunch of American artists. I attribute this to the fact that the American artists are more popular, thus more widely recognized, because (one could deduce) they are better artists. He attributed this to the fact that I am “ignorant” and all American’s are “stuck up”. A delightful conversation… really.
At first it was all fun… I know it may not sound like it from the above description, but I was having a drink, relaxing, playing some pool, laughing (at the jokes and myself) and just enjoying the company. Even the arguments and ‘flirting’ were entertaining in their own way. BUT, as the alcohol consumption continued… and time wore on… it began to get old. Rico Suave lost whatever ability he may have usually had to turn crass comments into funny compliments and The Great Debater began to repeat himself and resorted to insults when he couldn’t remember what his point was. By the end of the night I had Cassanova asking me every 5 minutes for whatever sexual favor he could come up (literally), even to the point that as I’m getting in the cab to go home he’s astounded I'm not giving him a kiss goodnight and trying to lure me out of said cab and back to his house to ‘spend the night’.
Awesome.
I finally get home-sweet-home… stomach a’rumbling since we never did make it out to eat. I’m starving and it’s 11:30. I make myself some food, which involves chopping, defrosting and cooking since that’s all I have, and get to bed around midnight.
Now, as you might recall, I started this post by saying some cosmic force saw fit to punish me for going out on Sunday. From the above story you might assume that tweedle-dee and tweedle-drunk were the aforementioned punishment, but you would be wrong… ho ho, yes indeedie, there was more to come.
I woke up around 5 am to use the restroom… I usually get up at 6 to walk/run with Dexter before work so I was already mildly irritated to have my sleep interrupted so close to when I would be waking anyway, but I trudged to the bathroom and trudged back, trying to keep myself as close to asleep as possible. As I got back in bed Dexter (who had dutifully awoken when I did and followed me to the bathroom to protect me from whatever it is puppies protect their owners from) jumped up on the bed and began to tread quite close to my head. I reached out to keep him from stepping on my face and pushed on his little puppy belly and it was too much for him to handle.
He peed.
On me.
On the bed.
Did I mention on me?
Now I suppose it’s my fault. If I had to go I should have assumed he did too, right? But I didn’t take him out. And, I know he is not fully the master of his own bladder… sometimes he leaks when he’s excited, he leaks when he’s trying really hard to hold it, and he leaks when I yell at him when his bladder is almost topped off. This is not usually a problem as it doesn’t happen often and when it does it’s usually on the tile floor downstairs… quick cleanup. But this… 5 am after a night of drinking, on me and the bed, an hour before I have to get up to go to work. And on top of it I can’t even yell at him for it because I don’t want him to leak any more and make the situation worse.
Ahhhh Monday.
Sunday, January 11, 2009
Roommate Wanted
A 5 bedroom house is WAY too much for one person to keep clean by themselves… I'm spending my entire weekend cleaning, unpacking, and organizing and have only finished one living room, one bathroom, and the kitchen… the other living room is only partially done and I still have a pile of ‘junk drawer’ stuff with no home… I've done laundry, deodorized the garbage can, washed the dishes (cooked dinner, and washed them again), cleared the back porch of puppy poo, and cleaned the couch that came with the house completely (washed the fabric cushion covers, hand washed the suede cushion covers, and scrubbed the couch seat and leather trim)… I switched the TV stands around (I like them better this way), organized the cables behind the TVs, set up the side tables, cleaned out Dexter’s kennel, hung some coat hooks up, and began the process of stowing my American appliances away. It's a lot... really... and it's taking all weekend… and I still haven’t made a dent in the bedroom or main guest room. It is a massive pain in the ass moving things around and cleaning all by yourself. I suppose I’ve always been spoiled by the presence of roommates… somebody to hand you the hook you dropped while you perch precariously on a surround-sound-speaker-turned-step-ladder with your finger marking the spot you carefully measured as 'just right'... or stand back and tell you how something looks here, no there, no here again. Someone to chat with you and keep your mind occupied while you do some repetitive, brainless, cleaning. Sometimes someone to even lend a hand to make the work go faster. Dexter is more the kind of company that manages to get underfoot while you’re carrying a heavy glass TV stand… or pee on the freshly mopped floor because you forgot to let him out… or nap on the couch and only look up when you drop something you’re cleaning as if you say “Excuse me, can’t you see I’m sleeping here?!” The worst part is, once all the unpacking is done (weeks from now, I'm sure) I’ll still probably have to do a full cleaning like this every weekend. It’s amazing how quickly dust bunnies breed under the couch and how paw prints appear on the floor as if you have a whole litter of puppies instead of just one.
I’ve decided I need roommates… it’s not as if I don’t have the space. I have two rooms in the house I never even go in… and two that I’m only using for box storage while I’m in the process of unpacking. I think household chores are reasonable rent even… because that’s really the only thing driving me crazy right now. So there’s the invitation/ad… Ever been curious about life in the UK? Want to live in London? Know how to mop a floor? Come live with me and my yellow lab!!! Bring a scrub brush! We’ll see if I get any bites.
I’ve decided I need roommates… it’s not as if I don’t have the space. I have two rooms in the house I never even go in… and two that I’m only using for box storage while I’m in the process of unpacking. I think household chores are reasonable rent even… because that’s really the only thing driving me crazy right now. So there’s the invitation/ad… Ever been curious about life in the UK? Want to live in London? Know how to mop a floor? Come live with me and my yellow lab!!! Bring a scrub brush! We’ll see if I get any bites.
Wednesday, January 7, 2009
note to self
I just wanted to document this feeling of success...
Today was awesome and everything went according to plan... even the things that didn't.
The run/walk with Dexter this morning was refreshing... not exhausting... and I didn't get tired at work, though I was afraid I might. When I got home, not only did I make it without a problem, but Dexter had FINALLY held it all day. I let him out and he went number 1 and 2 immediately, but there was no mess in his kennel. HOORAY!
We played fetch, I went to the gym, I came home and had a tiny, late dinner, and made enough for a solid lunch tomorrow. The gym even felt great... I tried my very first spinning class and WOW did it kick my ass. The instructor is a Polish women's kickboxing champion, who just came off her MATERNITY leave, over CHRISTMAS... and she looks like she hasn't missed a day in the gym in the last 5 years... talk about motivation!
I'm getting in bed a little later than I would have liked, but still earlier than I fall asleep most nights (regardless of what time I lay my head down).
It is so refreshing... I have a sense of peace, accomplishment, and joy right now and it charges me up for tomorrow... I know I won't feel like this every night, but next time I've had an especially rough day I can look back at this and hopefully catch a glimmer to remind me to keep my head up.
Today was awesome and everything went according to plan... even the things that didn't.
The run/walk with Dexter this morning was refreshing... not exhausting... and I didn't get tired at work, though I was afraid I might. When I got home, not only did I make it without a problem, but Dexter had FINALLY held it all day. I let him out and he went number 1 and 2 immediately, but there was no mess in his kennel. HOORAY!
We played fetch, I went to the gym, I came home and had a tiny, late dinner, and made enough for a solid lunch tomorrow. The gym even felt great... I tried my very first spinning class and WOW did it kick my ass. The instructor is a Polish women's kickboxing champion, who just came off her MATERNITY leave, over CHRISTMAS... and she looks like she hasn't missed a day in the gym in the last 5 years... talk about motivation!
I'm getting in bed a little later than I would have liked, but still earlier than I fall asleep most nights (regardless of what time I lay my head down).
It is so refreshing... I have a sense of peace, accomplishment, and joy right now and it charges me up for tomorrow... I know I won't feel like this every night, but next time I've had an especially rough day I can look back at this and hopefully catch a glimmer to remind me to keep my head up.
Triumph and Defeat
Yesterday was awesome... And it sucked…
I suppose that means that I ended up neutral, but why is it always the negative that sticks with you the longest?
The good news first (because that’s the way my day went)… I got a car!!
I got a car AND I successfully drove it home… no accidents, no deaths, I did GREAT. I know this may seem like a bit of an overreaction… I’ve been driving for 10 years now so getting back behind the wheel after 2 months shouldn’t be SUCH a big deal, but there are a few things you have to understand in order to fully comprehend the magnitude of my achievement.
1. Brits drive like maniacs. Certifiable, hardcore, suicidal maniacs. There doesn’t seem to be any recognized speed limits on any of the roads except around the speed cameras… where everyone slows down dramatically right before (almost causing a pile up) and speeds off after (like the start of the Indy 500). The roads are VERY narrow and lanes seem to be more of a suggestion than a rule. There are very few lights, mostly roundabouts… and the traffic rules for roundabouts are supposed to be ‘give way to the right’ but are more along the lines of ‘survival of the fittest’. Oh yeah, and if someone feels the need to pull out into traffic or stop to let someone out they do it… right there (wherever there may be)… it doesn’t matter if there is a gap for them to pull into or not… it doesn’t matter if they’re dropping somebody off in the middle of a busy road… they do it right then, right there…. Awesome.
2. My ‘new’ car is a manual. I have never owned a manual. I have driven stick-shifts before… a few times… mostly unsuccessfully. I’ve gotten better over the years but stalling or peeling out are still fairly regular occurrences. Adding to the joy of this experience is the fact that my ‘new’ car isn’t so new and the clutch is, I am told, very soft. The few manuals I have driven did not have soft clutches… at least I don’t think so, but again, my experience is pretty much nil.
3. British roads are the epitome of confusing. They twist left, they twist right, they split and curve and veer and merge without rhyme or reason and without warning. They are all marked differently, some have posted names, some don’t, some change names in the middle of the road without being marked as doing so, and I have a sneaking suspicion some don’t have names to be posted at all. Many of the two-way streets are barely wide enough for two cars to pass each other, and all along the side of these already narrow streets cars have parked making it literally impossible to drive in the proper lane. Sometimes two cars will come head to head… Brits LOVE to play chicken in these circumstances… and you have to hope that there is a gap in the parked cars to pull into so one of you can pass… or you have to back up until you find a gap, hoping somebody doesn’t come up behind you. Forget the grids you find in the states… these roads seem to have been designed by a 3 year old with a Crayola and a map.
4. I drive to and from work in the dark, freezing conditions that are winter in the UK. This means ice… slick roads… foggy windows… general bad conditions. As if there weren’t already enough factors against me: other drivers insanity, my own deficiencies in a manual, learning to drive on the left side of the road for the first time, attempting to navigate the ball-of-yarn roads… now mother nature herself seems to be conspiring against me.
So, revisiting my triumph for the day… I drove my ‘new’ car home… by myself… and made it in one, undamaged piece. This is a big deal. (as I’m sure you now understand)
I arrived home riding on a cloud of endorphins and a little adrenaline (I said I made it, I didn’t say it wasn’t scary) only to face the day’s defeat.
First, Dexter greeted me at the door… odd, since he gets locked into the bathroom when I leave for the day. The bathroom door itself only locks from the inside and, by some installation error, doesn’t stay shut unless it is locked. Since I leave Dexter in there all day I had started blocking off the door with one of the heavy power transformers I got from base to make my US stuff work with UK power. Well, he had gotten out. And peed all over the hallway. And gotten into the only box that wasn’t shut away in a room and pulled out the travel bags I had in the box and chewed them. First, I yelled at him for peeing in the hallway and chewing the bags, then I made my way back to the bathroom to assess the damage in there. He had (as he always does) peed in the shower area, but, much to my surprise and chagrin the floor at the doorway had brownish-red stains as well. At first I thought he had scraped through the paint on the door and this stain was the result of the wood door being shredded, but at closer inspection I realized he had scratched at the tile floor so much he had scraped his claws down to the quick and rubbed the pads of his paws raw. So now I’m mad at him, and alternately feeling like a terrible owner because my puppy has mangled his own paws. Ugh.
I still needed to run out to the store to buy a GPS so I could find my way BACK to work in the morning… it was about 5:30 and everything closes before 6:30, but at this point I’m feeling so terrible I can’t imagine leaving him alone for another second. Ultimately I cleaned him up, ran out to get my new TomTom, and came home to spend the rest of the night giving him some attention and setting up my satnav. (we’ll skip the shopping drama this time) I had wanted to go to the gym again… Monday’s trip left me feeling so accomplished… but the guilt from my pup’s injured paws kept me at home.
So, I was feeling like crap… even more so having just come crashing down from me sense of accomplishment at getting home… and I started wondering if I’m training Dexter right… am I a good owner? is he happy? am I completely selfish for getting a puppy? do I even have any business having a puppy right now? And I started questioning how I’m going to accomplish other goals… when am I EVER going to find time for the gym? how am I EVER going to build a personal social life if all of my time goes to Dexter and the gym? etc etc etc
I talked to Justin on Skype for a while… which made me feel better about the whole day in general… and slept on it…
Somehow the wheels in my head kept spinning in my sleep and I woke up early with some solutions to my problems. After our walk/run, Dexter and I had a discussion about my ideas while I did my makeup.
First, I’m going to take Dexter for a run/walk every morning… he’s still lousy on the leash… not bad, just forgets which side of me to walk on sometimes… and I know I’m not supposed to really run with him on the leash until he’s older… but it’s fun for him to jog along beside me for small bursts at a time, and it gets us both up and moving in the morning. After the run I’ll play fetch with him in the backyard while I eat my cereal.
Second, he’s staying in the kennel… all day. I’m not leaving him in the bathroom anymore. Originally I didn’t want to do this to him because I felt like I’m gone to long to do so, but my work hours aren’t going to change so we might as well both get used to it now. This has two purposes… one, it is really going to let the housetraining sink in. By allowing him to pee in the bathroom everyday I’m basically contradicting my own housetraining… he CAN hold it, he’s old enough now… he just doesn’t have a reason to. Now that he’s stuck in his kennel he will learn to hold it. And two… it’ll keep him from hurting himself and my property. I give him a towel and a toy so he can sleep comfortably and chew on something he’s allowed to and he won’t be hurting himself anymore.
Third, he gets his play time every night before I workout, and I get to workout. I’ll do my long workouts Monday, Wednesday, and Friday and he’ll get longer play time on Tuesday and Thursday and the weekends.
Finally… I’m going to look for a puppy training class. Again, this isn’t something I was going to do originally. I’m already training him myself and he does all the basic (sit, stay, come) with ease. He plays fetch like a pro and brings the ball back, sits in front of me, drops the ball, and waits. Once I pour his food into his bowl he waits until I give him the go-ahead to eat. Lay-down, heel, and shake are still works in progress. I think the training is going along nicely. BUT, I think puppy-training will be beneficial for both of us… he’ll get to socialise with other dogs and get used to them, I’ll get to meet new people, and I’ll be reminded how good he really is doing compared to other puppies. This final part of the plan hinges on me actually finding a class within a reasonable distance and with a reasonable price… but I have high hopes.
So there it is… yesterday was a trial, but I’m through it now. I took Dex out for a walk this morning and we played fetch over cereal, he’s in his kennel for the first full day, I drove into work today with only a couple of hiccups (like getting lost in the parking structure this morning), and I suppose we’ll see how everything else goes once I’m off work. I have high hopes…
I suppose that means that I ended up neutral, but why is it always the negative that sticks with you the longest?
The good news first (because that’s the way my day went)… I got a car!!
I got a car AND I successfully drove it home… no accidents, no deaths, I did GREAT. I know this may seem like a bit of an overreaction… I’ve been driving for 10 years now so getting back behind the wheel after 2 months shouldn’t be SUCH a big deal, but there are a few things you have to understand in order to fully comprehend the magnitude of my achievement.
1. Brits drive like maniacs. Certifiable, hardcore, suicidal maniacs. There doesn’t seem to be any recognized speed limits on any of the roads except around the speed cameras… where everyone slows down dramatically right before (almost causing a pile up) and speeds off after (like the start of the Indy 500). The roads are VERY narrow and lanes seem to be more of a suggestion than a rule. There are very few lights, mostly roundabouts… and the traffic rules for roundabouts are supposed to be ‘give way to the right’ but are more along the lines of ‘survival of the fittest’. Oh yeah, and if someone feels the need to pull out into traffic or stop to let someone out they do it… right there (wherever there may be)… it doesn’t matter if there is a gap for them to pull into or not… it doesn’t matter if they’re dropping somebody off in the middle of a busy road… they do it right then, right there…. Awesome.
2. My ‘new’ car is a manual. I have never owned a manual. I have driven stick-shifts before… a few times… mostly unsuccessfully. I’ve gotten better over the years but stalling or peeling out are still fairly regular occurrences. Adding to the joy of this experience is the fact that my ‘new’ car isn’t so new and the clutch is, I am told, very soft. The few manuals I have driven did not have soft clutches… at least I don’t think so, but again, my experience is pretty much nil.
3. British roads are the epitome of confusing. They twist left, they twist right, they split and curve and veer and merge without rhyme or reason and without warning. They are all marked differently, some have posted names, some don’t, some change names in the middle of the road without being marked as doing so, and I have a sneaking suspicion some don’t have names to be posted at all. Many of the two-way streets are barely wide enough for two cars to pass each other, and all along the side of these already narrow streets cars have parked making it literally impossible to drive in the proper lane. Sometimes two cars will come head to head… Brits LOVE to play chicken in these circumstances… and you have to hope that there is a gap in the parked cars to pull into so one of you can pass… or you have to back up until you find a gap, hoping somebody doesn’t come up behind you. Forget the grids you find in the states… these roads seem to have been designed by a 3 year old with a Crayola and a map.
4. I drive to and from work in the dark, freezing conditions that are winter in the UK. This means ice… slick roads… foggy windows… general bad conditions. As if there weren’t already enough factors against me: other drivers insanity, my own deficiencies in a manual, learning to drive on the left side of the road for the first time, attempting to navigate the ball-of-yarn roads… now mother nature herself seems to be conspiring against me.
So, revisiting my triumph for the day… I drove my ‘new’ car home… by myself… and made it in one, undamaged piece. This is a big deal. (as I’m sure you now understand)
I arrived home riding on a cloud of endorphins and a little adrenaline (I said I made it, I didn’t say it wasn’t scary) only to face the day’s defeat.
First, Dexter greeted me at the door… odd, since he gets locked into the bathroom when I leave for the day. The bathroom door itself only locks from the inside and, by some installation error, doesn’t stay shut unless it is locked. Since I leave Dexter in there all day I had started blocking off the door with one of the heavy power transformers I got from base to make my US stuff work with UK power. Well, he had gotten out. And peed all over the hallway. And gotten into the only box that wasn’t shut away in a room and pulled out the travel bags I had in the box and chewed them. First, I yelled at him for peeing in the hallway and chewing the bags, then I made my way back to the bathroom to assess the damage in there. He had (as he always does) peed in the shower area, but, much to my surprise and chagrin the floor at the doorway had brownish-red stains as well. At first I thought he had scraped through the paint on the door and this stain was the result of the wood door being shredded, but at closer inspection I realized he had scratched at the tile floor so much he had scraped his claws down to the quick and rubbed the pads of his paws raw. So now I’m mad at him, and alternately feeling like a terrible owner because my puppy has mangled his own paws. Ugh.
I still needed to run out to the store to buy a GPS so I could find my way BACK to work in the morning… it was about 5:30 and everything closes before 6:30, but at this point I’m feeling so terrible I can’t imagine leaving him alone for another second. Ultimately I cleaned him up, ran out to get my new TomTom, and came home to spend the rest of the night giving him some attention and setting up my satnav. (we’ll skip the shopping drama this time) I had wanted to go to the gym again… Monday’s trip left me feeling so accomplished… but the guilt from my pup’s injured paws kept me at home.
So, I was feeling like crap… even more so having just come crashing down from me sense of accomplishment at getting home… and I started wondering if I’m training Dexter right… am I a good owner? is he happy? am I completely selfish for getting a puppy? do I even have any business having a puppy right now? And I started questioning how I’m going to accomplish other goals… when am I EVER going to find time for the gym? how am I EVER going to build a personal social life if all of my time goes to Dexter and the gym? etc etc etc
I talked to Justin on Skype for a while… which made me feel better about the whole day in general… and slept on it…
Somehow the wheels in my head kept spinning in my sleep and I woke up early with some solutions to my problems. After our walk/run, Dexter and I had a discussion about my ideas while I did my makeup.
First, I’m going to take Dexter for a run/walk every morning… he’s still lousy on the leash… not bad, just forgets which side of me to walk on sometimes… and I know I’m not supposed to really run with him on the leash until he’s older… but it’s fun for him to jog along beside me for small bursts at a time, and it gets us both up and moving in the morning. After the run I’ll play fetch with him in the backyard while I eat my cereal.
Second, he’s staying in the kennel… all day. I’m not leaving him in the bathroom anymore. Originally I didn’t want to do this to him because I felt like I’m gone to long to do so, but my work hours aren’t going to change so we might as well both get used to it now. This has two purposes… one, it is really going to let the housetraining sink in. By allowing him to pee in the bathroom everyday I’m basically contradicting my own housetraining… he CAN hold it, he’s old enough now… he just doesn’t have a reason to. Now that he’s stuck in his kennel he will learn to hold it. And two… it’ll keep him from hurting himself and my property. I give him a towel and a toy so he can sleep comfortably and chew on something he’s allowed to and he won’t be hurting himself anymore.
Third, he gets his play time every night before I workout, and I get to workout. I’ll do my long workouts Monday, Wednesday, and Friday and he’ll get longer play time on Tuesday and Thursday and the weekends.
Finally… I’m going to look for a puppy training class. Again, this isn’t something I was going to do originally. I’m already training him myself and he does all the basic (sit, stay, come) with ease. He plays fetch like a pro and brings the ball back, sits in front of me, drops the ball, and waits. Once I pour his food into his bowl he waits until I give him the go-ahead to eat. Lay-down, heel, and shake are still works in progress. I think the training is going along nicely. BUT, I think puppy-training will be beneficial for both of us… he’ll get to socialise with other dogs and get used to them, I’ll get to meet new people, and I’ll be reminded how good he really is doing compared to other puppies. This final part of the plan hinges on me actually finding a class within a reasonable distance and with a reasonable price… but I have high hopes.
So there it is… yesterday was a trial, but I’m through it now. I took Dex out for a walk this morning and we played fetch over cereal, he’s in his kennel for the first full day, I drove into work today with only a couple of hiccups (like getting lost in the parking structure this morning), and I suppose we’ll see how everything else goes once I’m off work. I have high hopes…
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
