31 aug
I was driving home this afternoon on the Frankston Freeway (well, the tiny section still referred to as a freeway where one can drive briefly at 100km/h until dazed and confused Eastlink commuters forget that one can merge lanes at more than 20km/h five kilometres from the ramp and block all the lanes) but anyway, I saw something extraordinary.
Ahead of me on the wet and slippery road was a giant snail. A blue floral-patterned snail with wheels. It was towing a trailer.
I tried to get Sir David Attenborough on the phone to identify my find, but he was traipsing the Galapagos Islands looking for mutant tortoises and didn’t have satellite reception.
As I got closer I saw pieces of a bed head in the trailer, and the snail shell was its accompanying mattress tied to the roof of the car. The mattress with tied with flexible ‘octopus’ straps so, in the nature of elementary physics of wind speed, thrust, uplift and rampant stupidity, the oncoming gale was blowing the queen-sized mattress into a giant, unstable parachute.
I changed lanes and hit the accelerator to get leeward of the impact zone if a strap broke (something told me that members of Genus Fuckwittus wouldn’t have used industrial-strength occy straps). Afterwards I wondered, if the police were on the road, would they have pulled me over for speeding like a loon or the house movers for being right dickheads?
Crank-o-meter: home safely
29 aug
Another thing to do while you’re still alive
Yesterday, I read about a 78-year-0ld woman going for a joy ride on an airport baggage chute. She misunderstood instructions to check in her bags for a flight from Sweden to Germany and popped herself on the carousel for a hot lap to the baggage handling centre. The nice folk there didn’t plaster an ‘OVERWEIGHT BAGGAGE’ sticker on her but did the right thing and got her in the top half of the plane where it’s not as cold.
She has lived one of my dreams – I don’t know how many times I’ve been at the airport and wanted to go for a hoon on the conveyor belts. The baggage collection carousel would be my preference so I could be the first to grab my bag, but law breakers can’t afford to be choosy.
I think the woman shared my fantasy and *chose* to misinterpret “Get your bag on the conveyor belt” as, “Get on the conveyor belt, you bag.” Hell, if I were 40 years older I’d be faking a grand dose of poor hearing and doing the same thing, weeeeeeeeeee!
In a twist, the next news story I read was about the death of Dave Freeman, who co-authored the book 100 Things To Do Before You Die, which spawned countless imitations and permutations.
I have never opened a book or news story with ‘before you die’ in the title because I thought once I completed all the recommendations I’d be compelled to top myself (Irvine Welsh confirmed the sanity of this outlook in a short story about a man who checked out all the videos from the video shop and killed himself after he crossed the last one off the list).
Sadly, at the age of 47, Dave Freeman didn’t get to tick all the goals he set himself. He fell over in his home and died after hitting his head.
Both he and the adventurous bag lady are reminders that the universe sometimes presents rare opportunities, and takes them away just as swiftly.
Crank-o-meter: the next person who sees me and tells me I look like shit will be smacked across the face with a cold fish
Nicole
Megs, my response disappeared … ooooooh you tempt me. Wait until I return the current batch!
SSS, I don’t know what takes so long - I’d like a portable conveyor belt that attaches to the belly of the plane, like the ones that the passengers walk on and off. Thanks for the book recommendation :-).
SSS
Ooh, missed the Fforde question. I’d say The Big Over Easy. It’s a great read.
SSS
I’ve always wanted to go on one of those luggage thingies, if only to see just WHAT THE FUCK IS TAKING SO LONG.
Megs
ah…Jasper Fforde…another lot sitting on my shelf Ms C…shall I weigh down the postie again?
Nicole
I read that Dave Freeman got through about half of his list, so not a bad effort at all. Jazz, I think your client in her late 80s needs to jump out of a plane and send the DVD to her kids later (I don’t support naked skydiving though — saw a clip once and haven’t recovered!) What Jasper Fforde book/s do you recommend as a start?
Jazz
The ‘before you die’ aspect always has me thinking about Granny Next in the Jasper Fforde books who has to read the 10 most boring books in the world before she can die. it is sad about Dave Freeman. I hope he lived according to his philosophy and wasn’t saving up too many of his list for ‘later’. In a group I was running recently, I had a client organising an interstate trip- when I asked what she planned to do, she said ‘Go on a harley tour’ (which she did); and another client in her late 80s is desperately trying to organise sky diving (but her kids are not impressed). I think if you live for a decent innings you get to add some more things to your 100 list that maybe you wouldn’t have thought of earlier.
HH
lol, in light of my recent travelling a trip down the baggage chute doesn’t seem completely out of the question! That is sad and ironic about Dave Freeman, I hope he got to do most of his list, though the ‘before you die’ aspect, now I think about it, does seem to suggest imminent death upon completion of the list. Perhaps failure to do so will hold off death in a defiant, though lazy, manner?
27 aug
Mutating virus zombies invaded the house during the night and injected my brain cavity with 44-gallon drums of snot. Bastards. And I think they ice skated down my throat while juggling chainsaws because swallowing hurts a little, let alone trying to gargle aspirin. Clever bastards.
I’ve read every book in the house so I downloaded an e-book to read on the computer screen. How much do they suck? Hitting ‘page down’ is a poor substitute for turning a page and slipping in a bookmark when I need to get up and blow my nose again. After 10 pages my bleary little pisshole-in-the-snow eyes got fuzzy and the book I downloaded has too many italicised words that bump into the words to their left and make weird zombie words my gunk-blocked head can’t interpret. Gah.
Damn, I’m nearly out of toilet paper and tissues and there are no minions to do my sick person shopping. I’m nearly out of snot back-up paper towel as well.
Crank-o-meter: in quarantine, not because I’m sick but because I’m a nightmarish sick person
25 aug
I have enough shit on my plate, thanks
Aunty Shittyshoes (literally) has found the best way to source free garden supplies in time for spring: the local DIY car wash.
After dropping in at my local car wash to give the hoonmobile a quick scrub, I wondered why the Festival of People with Lots of Motorbikes, Powerboats and Jetskis hadn’t invaded the end bay like they had the rest of the place.
Perhaps it was because the concrete flooring was coated with the poo of a dozen horses force-fed their bodyweight in laxative-laced oats followed with a few kegs of prune juice chasers and locked in a horse float for a month of Sundays. Then the tightarse owner spent a whole dollar to expel and spread the poo for the next idiots to drive their cars through.
I like to spend money washing my car and spinning my wheels in pools of runny manure on the way out so I have a smelly, shitty, brown spray-painted pattern of your animals’ faeces up the side panels of my car. And I’m sorry my tyres disturbed the giant Toblerone triangle of shit that fell through the ramp gap of your horse float.
Crank-o-meter: poo on you
23 aug
Donkey voters with oestrogen, here’s a history lesson
In some of the quiet and dark hours when normal people sleep, I’ve been reading and editing old newspapers online as part of a community project for the National Library of Australia. The NLA is scanning newspapers from 1803, and while the image scans are a great read, the optical character recognition software does some interesting stuff when converting the images to text. Hence, insomniac nerds with keyboards jump into articles and change the mangled stories to their original intent.
This lifestyle of endless debauchery will do me in, for sure. The coroner will hear of my demise, come around looking for empty vodka bottles, condom wrappers and the remains of the men I’ve destroyed lying under my bed, but instead will find a bottle of water, the library’s archive open on the laptop and nothing more sinister than a layer of cat fur on the surfaces.
Anyway, I found this story in the Canberra Times from 1928 about women being allowed to vote in England after a long period of battling for the right. Australian women first voted in a Federal election 25 years earlier, but it seems their influence was still buried under the weight of patronising editorial.
Thanks great-grandmothers and their mothers for fighting the good fight so all adults can put a cross in the boxes.
Crank-o-meter: bemused and amused
21 aug
I found in a notebook the discarded skeleton of an essay for the last Women’s Weekly short story contest.
I had mapped the structure of a gawky teen’s coming of age. The heroine was based on a girl who catches my train but I became unstuck once the opening sentence flashed up in a dream: She had a face like a dropped dim sim.
I couldn’t look at her again without a nasty visual accompaniment and stopped after word nine of the 5,000 goal. (That was a steamed dim sim, not fried, and with soy sauce.)
Picturing her again made me wonder how some foods define people’s physical features in a complimentary way, and others are not so flattering.
The possession of almond-like eyes is often portrayed as a positive quality, but try describing someone with a set of peepers like Brazil nuts. I’m coming off Prozac so expect some macadamias staring maniacally at you soon.
Thinking about backsides, what male or female wouldn’t purr if their buttocks were compared with peaches? Try the same comparison with custard fruit and find the nearest rolling pin shoved up your nose. Carrot tops can be crowning glories but muffin tops are universally bad when flaunted in public. Most body shapes are described as pears or apples depending which ingredients were mixed in the genetic fruit salad bowl.
My hair isn’t like golden sheathes of wheat but more like cold spaghetti thrown against a wall, and my bum was last seen in the wholegrain loaf section of the bakery. I won’t wear red lip colour because it makes my lips look like a cherry tomato and, for the record in case I invented that simile, it’s not a good thing. Thankfully I seem to have avoided cauliflower ears and Bratwurst fingers, and my skin is like cream rather than yoghurt.
Crank-o-meter: brain like a watermelon
19 aug
Dear blog, I am weaning off the Prozac. I am tiring of the night sweats and the other side effect that reads as trivial on the screen but is making me antsy.
The next few weeks will be like bouncing on a trampoline while playing table tennis with my brain chemicals.
Ping!
Pong.
Bellywhacker!
Good thing trampolines have safety nets these days so the landing should be more like an awkward rebound than broken bones on the back lawn. And no leg hairs caught in the springs.
Crank-o-meter: ok today
19 aug
Another way to be embarrassed about your body
I like feet. While at close range they look like mangled gargoyle hands that have been whacked with the ugly stick, they’re useful things. Tootsies help us get from here to there and back again, provide the reason for shoe shopping addictions and can kick butt in a literal sense. And stubbing a toe on the skirting board while doing a midnight pantry raid is an easy way to know you’re alive.
During the hour on the weekend I watched reality television about the psychologically damaged kids of the future, I was cajoled into feeling guilty about the state of my humble feet. I did not realise heels and toes were such a hotbed of shame and embarrassment but Global Shop Direct has set me straight with its Ped Egg product. The ad went into great detail about how the human foot is the root of all aesthetic evil and — thankfully for everyone with feet — how to right those scaly wrongs and step into society again without wearing rubber boots. And for less than $75!
In case I haven’t convinced you to pick up the phone and order a Ped Egg for every foot in the household, here’s some important messages from the web site:
Stop wasting time and money at nail salons. Stop being embarrassed by your feet. The PedEgg is the ultimate way to have smooth, beautiful feet.
The Ped Egg is an instant solution to dry, callused skin. It’s great for moms, dads, daughters, grandmas – the whole family! It’s ergonomically designed, fits perfectly in your hand, and it’s perfectly safe and painless.
The Ped Egg has over 130 precision stainless steel micro files to gently smooth and remove the roughest, dry, callused skin. It works great on the toe, ball, side, and heel of your foot. And the Ped Egg’s unique design holds all the filings neatly inside until you’re ready to empty it, so you can use it anywhere.
Apart from wondering why sons and grandfathers aren’t targeted in this banish-ugly-feet-on-everyone campaign, I am still worried about the idea of using it anywhere, and the accompanying image.
Source: http://www.globalshopdirect.com.au
The text says you can use it anywhere.
How about when taking a phone call? “Oh hi, honey, I’m just emptying my foot filings in the bin. Can you grab a litre of milk on the way home?”
Enjoying quiet family time? “Kids, you lazy little sods, what have I told you about not emptying the foot file receptacle? Do you think I have nothing better to do than dispose of your excess skin?”
Being beaten at Monopoly? “Here, distract yourself Ped Egging your grotesque feet while I steal money from the bank.”
Baking banana and coconut bread and run out of desiccated coconut? Sorry, that was too disgusting. I’ll go now.
Crank-o-meter: ewwwww, and poor value because you can buy an angle grinder for the same price
17 aug
Brain cell loss today – two pounds
I tried to read the news today but if I see one more lightning-related headline because some chappy named Bolt won the 100-metre sprint I might stick my head down the toilet. Gurgle, gurgle.
So I turned on the television to check out the new series Weighing In. I couldn’t resist the précis of ‘Join a group of kids aged eight to 18 as they enter Europe’s first weightloss camp’.
This could be the most shithouse, ill-conceived and destructive show ever put on the box. I can deal with adults making fools of themselves on TV because they have the life experience to know better. But kids? What parent chooses to put a morbidly obese child with self esteem issues in a camp with television cameras and pompous, condescending ‘coaches’ who seem to like making the kids hurt themselves at rugby and aerobics? Come on, no kid chooses to do aerobics. I’m 25 years older than this crew and still have nightmares about an unnaturally perky glamazon chirping “Feel the burn!” the only time I fronted to an aerobics class back when leggings were in.
One girl lost seven pounds in the first week and “feels really good” while another lost one pound and is busy beating herself up emotionally in an on-camera interview.
No parents are at the camp to, I don’t know, learn about diet, exercise, lifestyle changes, support, love, parenting and not outsourcing their kids to a television network. At the least they should have their love handles and bingo arms put on display, be forced into aerobics, eat dried mung beans with air for dinner with hawk-eyed ‘coaches’ watching their every move, and have to listen to every minute of the talent show where their kids who can’t sing are having their damaged egos warmed by a group of strangers who won’t be around when camp is over.
Crank-o-meter: livid
15 aug
Is breathing too much work, buddy?
It’s amazing how one person’s apathy can destroy a collective good mood.
Someone I know at another site is co-ordinating some people power to support a charity event in a few months. Where she is, on Planet Empathy, her co-worker has a 16-year-old child with the disorder who can’t walk, has limited communication ability and still wears a nappy. This is the everyday life the child will always have and the family will always need to manage. Colleagues, families and friends got involved last year, and this year my workmate e-mailed the other sites to see if anyone else is interesting in helping on the day.
In a nearby e-mail galaxy, on Planet No F#$king Generosity of Spirit, the e-mail’s recipient deleted it without opening. I retract my hatred of e-mail read receipts, because my workmate made a special phone call to him to follow up. He said he didn’t receive an e-mail, and she took a dark joy in saying the read receipt came back to her ‘deleted without opening’. He changed his story without pausing and said it looked like it would be too much hard work.
Oh yeah, forwarding an e-mail with a cover note of ‘Care to help? Contact Ms Carebear via internal e-mail to sign up’ would be pretty f#$king challenging for someone who manages to dress, prepare meals, hold a responsible job and has all his mental and physical faculties intact.
Planet Humanity can be rewarding; come and visit one day, but I’ll still be at the front of the queue to smack your chops.
Crank-o-meter: arghhhhhhhhhh
13 aug
Cyclist Fabian Cancellara recently spent three weeks riding the flats and hills of Europe with his race numbers affixed both the right way and upside down to ward off supposed bad luck of wearing number 13. He didn’t win the race but didn’t break any bones so the universe seems to have balanced (he came in 65th of 145 finishers so his final result was almost in the middle).
Photos: http://www.bettiniphoto.net
I thought I’d try the same thing at work for the day.
A few out-of-the-ordinary things happened:
I set up the photo in the change room, snapped some pics and removed the evidence that incriminated me as the village idiot, then realised both 13s in the photos were right side up. Whoops. Not necessarily bad luck but just impatience in trying to flee the scene of the crime.
Police had barricaded the road to work and I was already running late, the detour road was full of road workers wielding ’stop’ signs and I was stuck behind the slowest driver in living memory. I’m not sure if it was bad luck to encounter so many delays or good luck that I got to the office in one piece.
I nearly hit an already-dead fox on the road. It would have been my bad luck if my car had hit foxy loxy, but he’d already experienced the unluckiest day of his life. I didn’t see any number 13s on his pelt.
Later in the morning I was caught in some office politics that made me want to hunt down the guilty party and stick pens up her nose. Would have been bad luck for both of us if I had been motivated enough to get out of my chair.
All in all, I didn’t win a public servant of the week award and all body parts are intact, so even stevens it is.
Crank-o-meter: just another day, really
11 aug
I’m at that stage when electronic products are evolving quicker than my ability to keep up. I felt like a presenter for the Antiques Roadshow recently while telling someone that my first personal computer at a workplace had a blinding one megabyte of RAM and a 20 megabyte hard drive. The 256-colour monitor was bewwwwwdiful to the eye.
However, as much as I struggle to keep up with the wizardry of new gadgets, my built-in bullshit meter is as good as ever. And Nokia, your new phone is a piece of crap compared with your old one. Let me show you why.
Good new idea: updated software so the phone is more like a portable personal computer or whatever the marketing guff says
Bad new idea: software packed with programs no one needs, hogs more disk space and disables other useful programs
I used to turn my phone on and back it up to the computer, first time, every time. What’s all this crap on the CD?
I had to uninstall the new software, remove it again because pesky remnants wouldn’t go away, kill off and re-install my former media player and pretend I still had my old phone so I could re-download the old phone software. And hey, going retro works. Stick your CD up your bottom.
Good new idea: kick-arse camera
Bad new idea: the old model of this range has a lens cover and this one doesn’t. How much money did that save? Five bucks? Why have Carl Zeiss super-dooper glass technology when dust and fingerprints spoil it on day one?
Good new idea: 8 gigabytes of memory
Bad new idea: bugger-all user control to manage it
Under the old regime I could create folders and save things wherever I wanted. This new system lumps all videos and images in a gigantic space — they can be tagged into albums but they still sit in the same central area. Who’s got time to sort through umpty-million photos and tag each one? And, most importantly, where can I stash my Freddie Mercury in leather mini-skirt image collection so nosy pick-uppers of phones don’t find them?
Source: YouTube
No matter where I stash new folders, the images in them still appear in photo central. This is not good. A girl needs her secret places sometimes.
Good new idea: having a ‘lifeblog’ to upload one’s daily communication ephemera to the web while on the move
Bad new idea: can’t turn the damn thing off if one’s life isn’t that interesting
A few button presses is all it takes to see every message in and out and image and video taken, received and sent. Bad, bad juju.
Good new idea: can’t think of any more
Other bad new ideas: the ‘lip’ to flip up the screen was removed from this model so the screen is always dotted with fingerprint grime, the ‘notes’ menu item for jotting little reminders in a handy space has disappeared. I have had to resort to paper and pen to jot down book recommendations on the fly, damn you. My purse is full of sticky notes.
And why won’t Tetris re-install?
Rating: Lots of glitz but not a lot else, like a sponge cake that’s fallen flat and has five inches of cream in the centre and a slurry of passionfruit icing on top to hide the lack of substance.
Crank-o-meter: overrated
09 aug
That dream was weird, and could come true
I didn’t catch the Olympic opening ceremony on television last night, but my sub-conscious created its own ceremonial dream sequence during the early sleeping hours.
In the dream, teams were entering the stadium for their lap of honour. Elsewhere, Mother Nature was in a room, preparing to take over the world’s satellite television networks. It wasn’t often the developed world came together collectively and there was things she needed to say. (In the dream she was looking ageless but tired, in her early sixties with grey bobbed hair and fitted ivory jacket, skirt just past the knees and heeled pumps with a floral scarf knotted at the side of her neck – like a more auntly version of Anne Bancroft.)
Mother Nature looked uncomfortable addressing the camera, almost apologetic to be interrupting the modern world’s latest celebration of its triumphs.
“I won’t take much of your time,” she said. “I’ve been watching you quietly for so long and this seemed the best time to talk. I promise to return you to the coverage in time for the fireworks.”
The tiring dowager of the earth straightened her spine and took a deep breath.
“Please don’t be shocked by the greys and tans of the Beijing sky from the comfort of your television sets. I thought the verdant forests of the Amazon would suffice as the lungs of our planet, but it seems they do not. Beijing is the new set of lungs of your world. I tried my best.
“Elders, do not be concerned with my next words. You are in the twilight of life before you, too, return to the earth like the dinosaurs and giant mammals before you. Enjoy your last years.
“Baby boomers, may I say, in the sunset of your worldly power, you have held me captivated for decades with your idealism. I thought you could do it; return your species to times of simple living and enjoying the world for what it was, but most of you succumbed. You climbed my mountains, sent people and machines past the protective blankets of atmosphere, yet it was never enough. I did try to provide enough to please you. Use your last allocation of oil with abandon to fuel your caravans as you take early retirements and explore what’s left of my simple gifts before they disappear.
“Generation X, my beloved guilty children now facing the dashed hopes of middle age. You had the benefit of growing up without war and with the benefits of the technologies your forebears created but I know you feel the suffocation of a choking world. I don’t know what to offer except understanding how you hold history but feel too powerless to slow an unavoidable future. May you find peace whichever way you travel through the rest of your lives.
“My youth, your future. You are in the interesting bind of being at the tail end of bountiful energy but dependent on the technological benefits it brings. You may still be alive to witness the hour oil runs out. I don’t know if you’ll work collectively to hold your species together or return to humanity’s territorial basics. That is your challenge. I’m afraid you won’t have much time because you’ll be the first generation to have shorter lifespans – make the most of the time you are given.
“I’m sorry you didn’t like what I created for you. I am tired and need a rest before I deliver some news to my polar bears. I will return to my work after you have finished what you started.
She kept her promise. Her visage faded from the world’s screens just as the fireworks began.
Crank-o-meter: It made no sense yet all the sense in the world
07 aug
Money can’t buy 20/20 hindsight
Cuu Huynh lost his life two years ago after his head became jammed in bottling machinery at his workplace .
In addition to suffering a terrible death, Mr Huynh was 58 years old at the time of the incident and would have reached retirement age this year if he were still alive. Instead, this week his employer Foster’s was fined $1.125 million for failing to maintain a safe workplace and failing to adequately train staff. Another man was injured similarly several years earlier and the brewer did not fix the machinery, instead making changes after Mr Huynh’s death.
Thirty-two Victorians died as a result of workplace incidents in 2006/07 and 66 incurred life-threatening injuries. In effect, two people a week are seriously injured or killed going about their daily business at work when legislation is incredibly clear about employers’ obligations to provide a safe workplace. This is the tip of the iceberg when minor injuries, near-misses and unreported incidents are added.
How hard is the message to get across that no one should die at work? The “she’ll be right” mentality is not all right. Ask Mr Huynh’s widow and three children.
Crank-o-meter: sickened
05 aug
All I want is one golden ticket, you queue-jumping, elbowing-me-out-of-the-way Garner groupies
Last week was an interesting mental health time. I was somewhat well adjusted on Monday, down as all hell for a couple of days, drained from recovering from the slide, and then had a weird phase of wanting to hug people. Thank goodness the cuddle hormones have been flushed from the water supply and this sentimental phase has passed.
Yesterday I surfed the web to check out the Melbourne Writers (no apostrophe, apparently) Festival program. The sound you just heard of a chipmunk being squeezed with a pair of barbecue tongs was me shrieking with delight when I saw Helen Garner’s name. She’s going to talk, in person, for a whole hour – this could be my chance to embarrass the bejesus out of both of us when I scream that I love her and please may I spend just a few hours sitting on her loungeroom floor devouring the scribblings in her notepads?
The ticketing system is rather unusual in that I can’t bloody well work it out, but it doesn’t matter, because the ‘sold out’ page says quite clearly at the top that Helen’s session is fully booked. Screw you to eternal damnation people who got in before me. I hope your armpits are infested with the fleas of a hundred million flea-ravaged camels who also lay spit balls on you while whooping your bums with their dingle-stained tails.
I might buy a ticket to Germaine Greer’s opening address “On Rage” as it seems apt. We can both get angry about not hearing Helen talk.
Crank-o-meter: my procrastination should be no reason for my failure
03 jul
After six or so months of purging things that make me cranky, angry or plain old shake my head until the grey matter rattles, I can’t explain why I come back for more but it’s one of the better habits I’ve kept.
The blog is like a virtual loungeroom where I can sit on a cranberry-coloured velvet chaise and explore the way I see the world, and hurrah if anyone drops by to listen or chat. There’s always a spare seat with plenty of well-fluffed cushions and a champagne cocktail at the ready.
I like my pink, brown and white electronic room. I can lie on the lounge in a huddled ball when I’m down, take pictures of strange things that at the time seem vitally important and inspiring while jumping on the lounge (though not Tom Cruise-style, thanks), sit cross-legged on the floor and worry about humanity while reading the news from the computer perched on my lap, or stretch out with hounds sprawled across my belly and wonder what I feel like expressing today.
I was in my web site doo-dad’s control panel yesterday and looked at the statistics and, more people come here and read than the six I told initially about the site. From some countries where I don’t know anyone. And sometimes return for more. Nutters you are. I haven’t clue why people come here but thank you.
Crank-o-meter: Many years ago at a corporate breakfast, I remember then advertising wunderkind Siimon-with-two-Is-Reynolds quoting that we have 30,000 thoughts a day. Most of mine centre on basic needs like mustering the motivation to crawl out of a warm bed and interact with the other humans. And what to eat because it’s mid-afternoon and cat biscuits, Tabasco sauce, soy milk and slivered almonds just aren’t making themselves into an edible lunch. Gosh, I’m hungry but not that hungry. I wonder if cushion stuffing is edible.