Monthly Archives: October 2011

Hello teeth, you are as bad as I said you were.


So where have I been I hear you pondering. Well you probably haven’t been, but I will assume that you have because that’s the kind of egomaniacal delusions that get me up in the morning.

See the title of this blog. I actually haven’t talked about it much, cause well it’s pretty self-explanatory. My teeth, they are bad. Easy.

But they’ve gotten worse. I’m not saying I have boar-like tusks with which I could gore annoying people with, although that would be kind of cool, but they are kinda crooked. Not to the extent that little children will point at me on the street and laugh, but enough that if you’re looking at them its noticeable.

And I have also been cursed with flimsy enamel, so cavities were part and parcel of growing up for me. Since growing up though, I have tried to keep my dental hygiene maintenance at a pretty high level, but the damage was already done. I currently have 3 fillings, it was actually 4, but how that got reduced to 3 is the whole point of this tale of woe.

A few weeks ago, I was helping a friend move house, and through some idiotic action on my part, involving the use of a lampstand as a double-bladed light saber, I knocked the filling out of the top right molar. Please don’t ask for details, suffice to I have been inundated with the Star Wars Kid references by those who were present.

And so, being the busy-idiot that I am, I didn’t actually rush to the dentists immediately after it happened. No I waited, and waited, and waited, and waited. Until a week ago, when the inevitable happened. The tooth cracked. Straight to the root. I’m not too sure if anyone of you have experienced the kid of tooth pain that feels like hot-cold nails are being pounded into your jaw by a deranged gorilla, but you know it can and does get to the stage when the thought of setting fire to your head is considered as a good thing, rather than having to put up with the pain.

So I finally got around to the dentists, and he berated me like a school boy for not coming in earlier. Although his assistant was flirting with me, well until I opened my mouth and she saw the utter failure of my teeth. And of course the tooth couldn’t be saved, it had to come out. One hour later and a surprising amount of blood splatters later (seriously there was a LOT of blood, I could see splatters on the little light thing they use so they can have a look in your mouth) I come out of the dentists all swollen, giving a rather credible performance of John Merrick – The Elephant Man, and less one tooth.

I am not an animal. I just didn't pay attention to dental hygiene as a child!

I have been in a pain-killer induced coma since Thursday, and actually felt quite chipper when I rocked up to work this morning.

So what have we learned children?

1. Dental hygiene is important when you are young. You pay for it as you get old.

2. If you have a filling knocked out for whatever reason, go see a dentist. Right now.

3. Do not use a lampstand as a double bladed light saber. Even if you have perfected the “vrrmm” noise as heard in the movies.

and finally,

4. Don’t ask the dentists assistant for a date when you have her bosses hand in your mouth. It makes everyone feel awkward.

 

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Hello gym ettiquette or how to not disrupt Cap’n Sweatpants zen workout


I love the gym. While yes, sometimes its a chore to go, once I’m actually in the midst of a workout I enjoy it thoroughly.

This is because I tend to be a thinker. I think, and over think, and over think some more. The gym is the one place I can shut off my overactive brain and just run on autopilot. Maybe it links to some primal hind part of my male brain that thinks “ugh – lift heavy things – good!”. There is something immensely satisfying with working up a sweat by pushing your body to its limits. And the “good” ache you get from regular excercise. 

The past 9 or so months though I have had access to a fairly private gym. The apartment complex I lived in has its own gym, complete with treadmills, x-trainers, exercise bikes, rowing machines, free weights and benches. Oh and a pool. I’ve been using that and in the autumn/winter months I had it all to myself pretty much. There might be a couple of other residents there, but we all politely ignored each other and got on with getting fit.

Now, I have joined a public gym. And I have forgotten all the irritating little things that you have to face when working out at a public gym.

So to all those who share a gym-membership with me at my gym I give you these rules so I don’t take the 20kg dumbell and smack you in the head with it.

Click on pic to see where it came from... Just stumbled onto it. I give it the Sweatpants stamp of funny. 😛

1. Do use anti-persiperant/deodorant – Sure. You go to the gym to work up a good sweat I understand this. And yes, you can get a bit whiffy after a huge workout. I myself can get fairly smelly, but it’s a contained smell. I have tested this, don’t ask me how, but I have. So please understand, if I can smell you from 5 machines away, and every time the fans blow air from your direction I choke on your body odour, you really should get that looked at.

How YOU doin???

2. Don’t hit on the person next to me –  whether you’re a guy or a girl, if you try to chat someone up who’s working out next to me. I will be forced to leave the immediate area because of the gales of laughter that will ensue. If you are successful in your endeavours to finding a suitable mate – thumbs up! But please refrain from doing so in my earshot.

*breathe heavily while I look at you* hnnnggghhh hnnngghhhhh hngggghhhhh

3. Don’t be “the creepy person” – everyone knows what I’m talking about if they’ve ever been to a public gym. The person who will just stare at other people. Whether you be a girl or guy doing this, and no matter how hot you are, staring = creepy. If you really think someone is hot hit on them, but see point above and don’t do it near me.

Get in my belly! NOM NOM NOM.

4. Do not pose and flex in front of the mirror – Okay you’re proud of your body and the effort you’ve put into it. And sometimes you need the mirror to make sure your stance is right when you’re actually lifting weights. I usually always use the mirror to make sure I’m not hunching or swinging the weights, thereby injuring myself. And I’ve been known to check out the fact that I’ve lost my beer belly in the mirror, but, this is the important bit, in the privacy of my own home. Seriously, you just look like a douche.

ONE MORE YOU SCUMBAG! ONE MORE REP! PUSH IT TO THE EXTREEEEME!

5. Do not yell encouragements to yourself or others while you/they are lifting weights – Yelling “One more! One more! Push it you f*cker! Lift!” at the top of your lungs or any variants thereof, makes you just as bad as those who pose and flex in front of the mirror. i.e you are in douche territory.

So follow those five simple rules and it will ensure that I have a great mindless workout, and you don’t become the subject of a strongly worded email I will send to the gym management.

Seriously.

I might even use CAPS, bold text, italics, and underlines when I describe you (Yeah you heard me underlines, yeah. I’m hardcore like that), just to show how unhappy I am.

You have been warned.

Hello cool people, honestly I’m not one of you.


This post came about after discussions with my managers second-in-charge. She was basically giving me the low-down on the role and what I was expected to do, and the culture of the office where I will be seconded a few days out of every week. She told me it’s generally not as laid back as my current office and has a more high-level government feel.

We’re not slobby or sloppy here, but people can get away with taking off their work shoes and walking around in slippers if they want. One person actually does. And we’re not in the city centre and separate from the high muckety-mucks so we’re insulated from most of the politics that goes around.

She shows me the brief that they had drawn up over there as to what sort of skills they wanted in the person. While I had all of the necessary skills, my experience was something left to be desired.

And I just had to ask.

Why me?

She just looked at me funnily. Like I had told her I had performed some gross sexual act with her 19-year-old daughter.

Then she laughed.

That’s the first time I’ve ever seen you actually nervous, she told me. And that explains why you got the job. Ever since you walked into this place, you seemed like you owned the joint. You had no qualms with talking to anyone at any level, directors, clients or your co-workers. Anything we gave you got done. And you seem to have this ability not to piss anyone off, no matter how bad the news is you are telling them. You just seemed unflappable.

Then she pats me on the shoulder, it’s nice to know you’re human though.

This stunned me. As you readers are aware, I’m a bundle of neuroses, duct taped together with a lot baggage, and then smeared generously with crazy. Lots and lots of crazy. Then sprinkled with nuts. Hmmmm “nuts” *drool* (… I didn’t mean for that to sound as gay as it did… not that there’s anything wrong with that.)

The fact that they see me like this:

I am the master of my domain... Oh wait I forgot about last Sunday... (think Seinfeld... *waits for the "ewwww gross!" thoughts* ha-ha!)

 
When in actual fact I’m like this:
 

Oh my god! What am I doing?!?! I don't even know if this is right! Hell I don't even know if it's wrong!!! Argahhaggrhhh!!!

 Is mind-boggling. I didn’t think I was that good of an actor. Okay, I don’t actually scream out my neuroses out in the office, and I still haven’t done anything sweatpants-esque at my new role, but still! While yes I can do the work, I’m not even two months old in this organisation and they’re going to have me advising other people about processes and procedures I wasn’t aware of 8 weeks ago.

Then I got to thinking. Is this just nerves? Is this just me? Or does everyone have an inner duck paddling madly under the surface? Are we all just acting like we know what we’re doing? If for some whatever reason the inhibitions that force everyone to act the way that society perceives they should act, all fell apart and we were free to say and think exactly who we truly are… would I be surrounded by like-minded people who seem to be so in control when in fact they are a shoestring away from plunging into madness? Or would I be a lonesome crazy man, surrounded by the sane and the capable, pointing at the great big faker in their midst.

..

.

I’d like to think that we’re all of us, just a little crazy… despite the fact we rock it in a suit. 😀

Hello promotion (sort of), what the?


As I’ve written about before, I scored a government job here at Australia’s capital, Canberra, a little less than 2 months ago.

I can honestly say it is the one job in the last 10 years that I have been both proud of and enjoy. Before it was either one or the other. In my previous role I was a manager, while I was proud to say that I was in a management role, but the work itself was thankless and mind-numbing. Before that, while I enjoyed the role(s), mainly because I wasn’t the one in charge and making the hard decisions and could therefore cruise, it wasn’t anything to write home about. And while coasting through you job makes for a less stressful lifestyle, there’s always something missing. 

Enter today.

My manager asks me to come into his office, with his serious face. I walk in and he shuts the door. Uh-oh, I think. My manager usually runs with an open door policy and only really shuts the door for “serious” discussions. So I sit down and he leads of with “We’re going to have to let you go…” I just say “Oh. Okay then.” He then bursts out laughing.

My boss actually looks a lot like him too...

The utter bastard.

But in hindsight, I think this may be a good thing. I MUST be doing well enough that the thought of letting me go is not something that warranted serious consideration, but something that is so ridiculous it could be made into a joke. Well that’s how I’m looking at it anyway. 😛

So after he quietens down, he asks me if I would be interested in a high pressure role a little above what they hired me for. A little intrigued, I tell him to continue. He outlines the role to me, and that it will be a high-profile position that would be overviewed by a relatively high muckety-muck in the government.

I had actually thought about this role in a previous staff meeting. The role itself hadn’t been defined and there wasn’t really any clarification whether or not it would even exist. But from the reports that they were showing, I thought that the role itself was warranted and that I could actually do amazingly well at it. I didn’t want to blow my own horn, since that meeting took place while I was still in my first month in my current role, so I kept my trap shut and hoped that the issue would come up again in another meeting down the track and then I would put my hand up. 

So what does this all mean?

Well no, I’m not getting a pay rise and yes I’ll be working longer hours.

The only benefit is that I will be exposed to a multitude of other departments within the Government and will have the opportunity to build up a lot of contacts. And in government, the more contacts you have the quicker you can get things done (although not necessarily better). Also, the more opportunity for your career.

It does also mean, if I screw up, I will screw up MAJORLY. Like front page of the newspaper screw up. Maybe not national front page, but definitely front page of the city’s newspaper.

The above thought is scary enough that as I finished typing it, I got some heart palpitations and my ass started sweating…

What have I gotten myself into!?!?!?!

Hello underwear, no I didn’t go to the pub.


I’ve been wondering this for a while now, so I thought I’d share my insane thoughts with you people. Cause if you can’t share the crazy things that run through your head with strangers on the internet, then who can you share them with???

Alright, underwear. Now for us males who were trousers or jeans with a zip-fly, underwear is kinda essential. You always want another layer of protection for your googlies whenever its near an implement that could conceivably take a chunk out of said googlies. And when you get to a certain age, and work in an office environment, trousers are pretty much all that you wear.

You ALWAYS want an extra layer of protection. ALWAYS.

Then there’s the whole issue of support, essential when you’re going to the gym and even for going on long walks (which I try to do on my lunchtime).

So those two points cover pretty much the 7 days of the week, and reasons why I wear underwear.

But why do females wear underwear?

Okay bra’s I get. The whole support issue comes into question there. I’m pretty sure that girls don’t like the bouncing and swaying that comes with unsupported secondary sexual stats as much as we guys don’t like them on our primary sexual stats, unless of course, sex is involved, then its like a basketball court. (okay that was just a humorous connection. PLEASE PLEASE readers, if you are male do not try to bounce a girls breasts like a basketball, and if you are female never try to dribble a guys parts up the court for a slam dunk as it were).

But underwear? Really, are they actually necessary? Of course there are a few caveats and addendums.

Caveat 1: Periods.

If its your time of the month, sure, underwear is required to contain whatever sort of feminine hygieneproduct you have opted for, I understand. Here have some chocolate. Please don’t kill me.

Caveat 2: Hair

If you prefer the natural look, then I would think that underwear definitely serves a function in your wardrobe, there’s that whole issue of “snagging” to deal with. But with the ubiquitousness of the full brazilian, that’s really not an issue for a large majority of girls (albeit I have a limited sample to draw from when I say “ubiquitous”. I never have, and never will, see every female in the world naked. But those that I have seen naked [this is the best time to think in your head “What? All one of them???” and then chuckle at my expense… go on, got it out of your system? Great. Let us continue.] nearly all supported at least a variant of this, for lack of better term, “hairdo”.)

Addendum 1: Clothes not being rough on skin.

Most clothes these days are fairly soft and non-scratchy, hell even my wool suit doesn’t chafe (but it does have a zipper though… so, caution!) I know if I’m going to be able to wear sweatpants all day (and you know I like doing that) and not going to the gym, I’m definitely going commando. And most girls clothes feel positively silky smooth compared to what guys normally have. So that layer of protection isn’t really required, or is it? *shrugs*

Addendum 2: Short skirts and “airflow”

If you are going to wear a short skirt, I can see underwear being necessary, even if it is just to prevent dirty old men from throwing their backs out trying to gain confirmation that what they actually saw was real. But longer skirts? I’d think the airflow would be kind of refreshing… again I am male, and have never worn a skirt (well, while sober anyway, but that’s another story) so maybe airflow is a bad thing, educate my ignorance!

So what we have left are females, who are not having their period and are hair free or trimmed, and not wearing short skirts. 

To you I postulate the question, what use is your underwear? I’m not saying you shouldn’t wear them, I’m just wondering if they have any sort of functionality other than being pretty.

I mean for all I know, that’s where you keep your loose change or a spare set of house keys or whatever…

Hello temptation, thy name is P.J. O’Reilly.


I have a conundrum.

I have been invited out by the “cool kids” at work to go to the pub (called P.J. O’Reilly’s. Yes, I am talking about a pub, not some flame haired Irish lass, I wish I was talking about some flame haired Irish lass, with that heavy brogue Irish accent don’ya’know a feedle dee dee. As you can see from my gross clichés about how Irish people speak, I’ve never actually met one in real life, and if I don’t meet one soon, I’m going to assume that Irish people are actually like leprechaun’s and have become extinct) Actually it’s the second time they’ve invited me out, the first time I did have a legitimate excuse for not going, this time I’m not so sure.

I do wonder why in the world I got this invitation in the first place. I don’t sit anywhere near the “cool kids” and I’m actually well-behaved at work (90 day probation and all, once I pass that I can breathe a sigh of relief and dance to Kenny Loggins Footloose from the foyer to my desk. Does anyone still remember that music video?? For those of you born in the late 80’s – 90’s I have linked 😛 Where can I get those dual headsets for my iPod??? Yes, I am that much of a loser.)

So like I said, I haven’t really let much personality shine through for fear that well everyone will come to the right conclusion and realise I’m as nutty as a Picnic Bar. Then they will judge me! And burn me as an offering to their god!

I’ve had a lot of sugar today… I’m sorry.

Picnic Bar: Tastes good, but looks like poop. OMG... new blog tag line right there!

And it’s not like I don’t want to go, it’s just that I haven’t budgeted for a weekend out, and I may have cracked a tooth. It doesn’t hurt to the point where I am willing to take a screwdriver to my own mouth, but it’s nigglyingly painful.

And they actually do seem like a decent bunch of people to befriend. An email chain was sent to the group, and it was only 4 emails into the chain before the “Yo Momma” jokes started. Now, I may have the mental capacity of an 8 year old, but seriously a well executed “Yo Momma” joke is just too awesome for words. Sure it can go too far, and gets old realllllly quickly. But at the right time and place, nothing will endear me to you more than bagging out my mom, or your mom, or someone else’s mom, or even yourself, if you’re a mom. (And yes I realise as an Australian I should be spelling it “mum”, but dagnabbit it just doesn’t look right!)

So, do I go out and socialise (and most likely come back with at least one story of the disaster I always seem to create as I sweep through life, and hell maybe if I get home and am still able to work a keyboard, a drunken post!) AND inevitably work up a lot more credit card debt? And I’m talking about a LOT. I’d say at least $500.  Okay it’s not a fortune, but it’s still a big amount for essentially a night that will only be remembered through the photo’s on other people’s phones, and the bewildered reminisces of the people I’ve accosted.

Or do I behave and stay in for the night? Where you will be treated to a comatose inducing post about my views on underwear.  

And if anyone is going to suggest, “just have one or two beers” STOP. If you’ve been reading this blog a while, you will know that I cannot do things by halves. Don’t ask me why, that’s just they way it is. If I go out, I go out flaaaamming!

Wait.

That’s not right…

Hello 19 year old females. Seriously what is up with this?!?!!?


Okay, I’ve been having a lot of weird things happen to me lately.

One of which was when my crotch was heated to super-nova like temperatures.

And then there’s this.

I have had a lot of teenagers hitting on me lately. Well 5, but when you’re 32 even being acknoledged that you’re male by anyone under 25 means a helluva lot, it happening with teenagers is unheard of. And I’m still waiting for the dreaded “Oh you’re like my dad!” comment that’s bound to come by sooner or later. And I’ve specifically said 19 year old, cause admitting that I got hit on by a gaggle of 16 year old’s on the bus was a tad too creepy to put as a title. But now that you’ve read this far its too late for you! HAHAHA! You’ve been sullied! You must read on! Muahahahaha.

I’m a freakin genius.

But I won’t talk about the bus situation, cause hell, even I’m a little traumatised by that one, and I’m not sure if they were hitting on me or mocking me.

Anyways. Where was I? Oh yes, 19 year old women. So there I was, at the gym I’ve recently joined (more on that later) I had just gotten off the treadmill, I was dripping with sweat, and trying to do my stretches without throwing up.

As I am trying to get my foot up on that bar thats about waist high to stretch (and failing, think Mr Bean type of fail, and youre getting a rough picture of how badly I was failing at it), a quite attractive young girl leans on the bar as well giving me a big smile. I smile back and think, “well that’s odd, hookers don’t normally come up to me on Wednesdays” And yes while it is quite offensive of me to think that an attractive young woman, in shorts that were so short that they really should be called “midgets”, and a top that seemed too tight to reasonably expect blood circulation to various extremities possible, is a hooker. Seriously how often does this happen?? Read the title of the blog! To people like me? Never!

So after a few minutes of conversation, I’ve established that she’s not a hooker and just weirdly friendly. Apparently she took “pity” on me because I was doing all my stretches wrong. But lets face it, the girl wanted some Cap’n action *rowr*.

But seriously now, that is a little weird right?

Anyways, as she’s trying to bend my in ways I’m pretty sure I’m not meant to go, she says something which pretty much indicated she was still in high school. I just look at her, and bluntly ask how old are you? 19 she says. Why how old are you? This is where you would think the cool, calm and oh so smooth Cap’n that you all know and love would come to the fore. Let the girl down gently as it were.

I laughed my frickin’ head off.

I laughed in her face. I would point at her and laugh. I laughed on the floor. I was literally rolling on the floor laughing. And when the giggles would subside. I would look at her, and start laughing again.

I’m not sure whether I was laughing at her or myself. Even now looking back on it I couldn’t tell you, all I know was at that time and place, her being 19 was the funniest thing in the world.

By the time I came to my senses, she was fairly pissed off. And I think I managed to stutteringly giggle that it wasn’t her it was me, or something inane like that. She stormed off and I continued to stretch the wrong way.

Kids… what you gonna do, eh?