Something happened and I wanted to check to see if I'm the only one who thinks this is funny.
Last week, the company I work for hosted a number of events this week as part of Don't DIS my ABILITY, a celebration of people with disabilities, part of International Day of People with a Disability. It was pretty cool, especially the morning when the lobby was full of puppies that were being trained to become seeing-eye dogs and helper dogs. Very impressive what these dogs can do. But I digress ...
On Friday, they were handing out goody bags at lunch time with printed information about people with disabilities (some of it I already knew about and some was surprisingly interesting) and some little pressies. For example, my boss's Disability Week goody bag had a 'safe' candle in it, a plastic candle with a battery inside it. The candle lights up when the base is turned one way and goes out when you turn the base the other way.
My Disability Week goody bag had a pedometer in it. That didn't work. So I got the battery replaced and it still doesn't work. So, to summarise, for International Day of People with a Disability, I got a pedometer that has a permanent disability.
OK, maybe I'm the only person who thinks that is funny ...
Monday, 8 December 2008
Wednesday, 3 December 2008
Jewish Haiku
My thanks to Shirley for these. --MG Her lips near my ear,
Aunt Sadie whispers the name
Of her friend's disease. *****
So much to ask from a child
After all I've done?
*****
Today, mild shvitzing.
Tomorrow, so hot you'll plotz.
Five-day forecast: feh
*****
Yenta. Shmeer. Gevalt.
Shlemiel. Shlimazl. Meshug anah
Oy! To be fluent!
*****
Quietly murmured
At Saturday Synagogue services,
Yanks 5, Red Sox 3.
*****
A lovely nose ring,
Excuse me while I put my
Head in the oven.
****
Hard to tell under the lights.
White Yarmulke or
Male-pattern baldness
*****
Lacking fins or tail
The gefilte fish swims with
Great difficulty.
*****
Beyond Valium,
Peace is knowing one's child
Is an internist.
*****
On Passover we
Opened the door for Elijah
Now our cat is gone.
*****
After the warm rain
The sweet smell of camellias
Did you wipe your feet?
*****
Aunt Sadie whispers the name
Of her friend's disease.
*****
Today I am a man.
Tomorrow I will return
To the seventh grade.
Testing the warm milk
On her wrist, she sighs softly.
But her son is forty.
*****
The sparkling blue sea
Reminds me to wait an hour
After my sandwich.
*****
Like a bonsai tree,
Is your terrible posture
At my dinner table.
*****
Jews on safari --
Map, compass, elephant gun,
Hard sucking candies.
*****
The same kimono
The top geishas are wearing:
I got it at Loehmann's.
*****
Mom, please! There is no
Need to put that dinner roll
In your pocketbook.
*****
Seven-foot Jews in
The NBA slam-dunking!
My alarm clock rings.
*****
Sorry I'm not home
To take your call. At the tone
Please state your bad news.
*****
So much to ask from a child
After all I've done?
*****
Today, mild shvitzing.
Tomorrow, so hot you'll plotz.
Five-day forecast: feh
*****
Yenta. Shmeer. Gevalt.
Shlemiel. Shlimazl. Meshug anah
Oy! To be fluent!
*****
Quietly murmured
At Saturday Synagogue services,
Yanks 5, Red Sox 3.
*****
A lovely nose ring,
Excuse me while I put my
Head in the oven.
****
Hard to tell under the lights.
White Yarmulke or
Male-pattern baldness
Tuesday, 4 November 2008
Saturday, 9 August 2008
The Dreaded ManFlu
Women sometimes feel that we are the disadvantaged ones ... we tend to earn less than men ... we carry a disproportionate amount of carer responsibilities ... we are more likely to be the victims of domestic violence. But all that pales to insignificance in the face of The Dreaded ManFlu.
I have never understood the suffering that men have to endure once they fall victim to ManFlu. My husband suffered from it from time to time, as even the strongest men will do, and I showed a remarkable lack of sympathy.
During one particularly trying bout of ManFlu, I suggested that my husband would be better off in hospital. He told me that Royal North Shore Hospital simply wasn't equipped to deal with such a debilitating and virulent strain of ManFlu. It would be safer for the staff, patients and, indeed, the general public if he stayed at home in bed. In hindsight, given recent headlines featuring RNSH in a very uncomplimentary light, I have to admit that he probably wasn't too far wrong.
Another time, after a rather prolonged bout of whinging and wimpering requests for succor, I simply lost the plot and handed him his AMEX card and the phone, saying "QANTAS flights land and take off every day. Call your mother and get her out here!"
"But, Mag," he barely had the strength to whisper, "I need your love and tender care to get me through this."
To which, I replied, as kindly as I could manage while looking him straight in the eye, "Honey, you are gonna die."
You won't be too surprised when I tell you that that marriage ended in divorce.
But the intense suffering of the victims of ManFlu was again brought to my attention recently when some of the guys at work came down with it. One by one, they fell victim to more pain and suffering than any individual outside of Guantanamo Bay or a Super Tuesday state should be forced to endure.
The fact that I've been sick with flu for two weeks and missed a couple of days of work seems to count for very little. I was informed by a particularly acute sufferer of ManFlu that ManFlu germs (or virus ... the victims barely have the strength to debate that one) are so highly evolved that they won't even try to infect a Mere Woman. It would surely kill her instantly and, if women started dying at the obviously high rates that would result from ManFlu infection, that could put the entire species at risk, including future generations of men. And where would that leave the ManFlu?
Clever bastards, these ManFlu germs.
I confess that I have been enjoying their suffering more than I should. Particularly the special kind of Male Measuring Ritual that accompanies ManFlu: the comparison of symptoms to see who is sicker or suffering more or closer to imminent and painful death. The first liar doesn't stand a chance. There is barely a dry eye in the house ... from anyone listening to them carry on.
But, from what I gather, the ManFlu germs mutate almost constantly, pushing their victims to new heights of misery and suffering. And the only way to ensure that they can survive is for we Mere Women to show them the sympathy and the compassion that they so richly deserve.
Gentlemen, you are gonna die.
Update 14 August 2008: It has been pointed out that I have been remiss in giving credit where credit is due. I would like to thank Rob Creek for inspiring this post. Without his pain and suffering, the world would have been a much duller place.
You will be relieved to know that he has not only made a miraculous recovery from The Dreaded Man Flu, but completed the City to Surf with a very respectable time and will be running in the top group in next year's race.
I have never understood the suffering that men have to endure once they fall victim to ManFlu. My husband suffered from it from time to time, as even the strongest men will do, and I showed a remarkable lack of sympathy.
During one particularly trying bout of ManFlu, I suggested that my husband would be better off in hospital. He told me that Royal North Shore Hospital simply wasn't equipped to deal with such a debilitating and virulent strain of ManFlu. It would be safer for the staff, patients and, indeed, the general public if he stayed at home in bed. In hindsight, given recent headlines featuring RNSH in a very uncomplimentary light, I have to admit that he probably wasn't too far wrong.
Another time, after a rather prolonged bout of whinging and wimpering requests for succor, I simply lost the plot and handed him his AMEX card and the phone, saying "QANTAS flights land and take off every day. Call your mother and get her out here!"
"But, Mag," he barely had the strength to whisper, "I need your love and tender care to get me through this."
To which, I replied, as kindly as I could manage while looking him straight in the eye, "Honey, you are gonna die."
You won't be too surprised when I tell you that that marriage ended in divorce.
But the intense suffering of the victims of ManFlu was again brought to my attention recently when some of the guys at work came down with it. One by one, they fell victim to more pain and suffering than any individual outside of Guantanamo Bay or a Super Tuesday state should be forced to endure.
The fact that I've been sick with flu for two weeks and missed a couple of days of work seems to count for very little. I was informed by a particularly acute sufferer of ManFlu that ManFlu germs (or virus ... the victims barely have the strength to debate that one) are so highly evolved that they won't even try to infect a Mere Woman. It would surely kill her instantly and, if women started dying at the obviously high rates that would result from ManFlu infection, that could put the entire species at risk, including future generations of men. And where would that leave the ManFlu?
Clever bastards, these ManFlu germs.
I confess that I have been enjoying their suffering more than I should. Particularly the special kind of Male Measuring Ritual that accompanies ManFlu: the comparison of symptoms to see who is sicker or suffering more or closer to imminent and painful death. The first liar doesn't stand a chance. There is barely a dry eye in the house ... from anyone listening to them carry on.
But, from what I gather, the ManFlu germs mutate almost constantly, pushing their victims to new heights of misery and suffering. And the only way to ensure that they can survive is for we Mere Women to show them the sympathy and the compassion that they so richly deserve.
Gentlemen, you are gonna die.
Update 14 August 2008: It has been pointed out that I have been remiss in giving credit where credit is due. I would like to thank Rob Creek for inspiring this post. Without his pain and suffering, the world would have been a much duller place.
You will be relieved to know that he has not only made a miraculous recovery from The Dreaded Man Flu, but completed the City to Surf with a very respectable time and will be running in the top group in next year's race.
Sunday, 6 July 2008
Irritating Catholics
World Youth Day kicks off here in Sydney soon and the preparations are now in full swing. It is expected to be bigger than the Olympics or APEC. To keep the peace, our state parlaimentarians have passed a law that imposes a $5000 fine ($5500 including GST) for irritating Catholics. I'm not making this up ... read it for yourself.
You have to admire politicians for passing a law making it illegal to be irritating. I personally didn't think that they had it in them, especially our state premier, Morris Iemma or any one of his front benchers. Of course, the irony is probably lost on them completely. But the voters know.
And who else would citizens of a democracy so meekly give up our civil rights for? Muslims? Hindus? No, only Catholics. And, yes, we could invest that $90million in the future of everyone in New South Wales and spend it on schools, hospitals, roads, the poor, the mentally ill. But no, we'll spend it on venues and security and road closures for 5 days in July. So many young people ... so few condoms. The mind boggles.
One of my favourite stores, REMO, has set up their web site to allows anyone to design their own Tshirt to commemorate this big event and the rest of us to vote on our favourites. You can even buy one of your very own.
In keeping with that long standing Australian tradition of thumbing your nose at those in positions of authority ... what can I say, it's a convict colony thing ... some of my fellow REMO fans have taken advantage of this to create Tshirts ranging from very positive to wickedly clever. Check it out.
My personal favourites? The Pope Mobile, Annoying Catholics, Closed and Sydney Popera House. They are also some of the most popular ones, voted on here.
And, on the TV show, The Gruen Transfer, they asked some advertising executives for some slogans for the Pope's visit. And here's what they came up with.
Where are the Chasers when you need them?
You have to admire politicians for passing a law making it illegal to be irritating. I personally didn't think that they had it in them, especially our state premier, Morris Iemma or any one of his front benchers. Of course, the irony is probably lost on them completely. But the voters know.
And who else would citizens of a democracy so meekly give up our civil rights for? Muslims? Hindus? No, only Catholics. And, yes, we could invest that $90million in the future of everyone in New South Wales and spend it on schools, hospitals, roads, the poor, the mentally ill. But no, we'll spend it on venues and security and road closures for 5 days in July. So many young people ... so few condoms. The mind boggles.
One of my favourite stores, REMO, has set up their web site to allows anyone to design their own Tshirt to commemorate this big event and the rest of us to vote on our favourites. You can even buy one of your very own.
In keeping with that long standing Australian tradition of thumbing your nose at those in positions of authority ... what can I say, it's a convict colony thing ... some of my fellow REMO fans have taken advantage of this to create Tshirts ranging from very positive to wickedly clever. Check it out.
My personal favourites? The Pope Mobile, Annoying Catholics, Closed and Sydney Popera House. They are also some of the most popular ones, voted on here.
And, on the TV show, The Gruen Transfer, they asked some advertising executives for some slogans for the Pope's visit. And here's what they came up with.
Where are the Chasers when you need them?
Monday, 24 March 2008
7 Deadly Sins Just Aren't Enough
Ah, the good old days, when there were only 7 deadly sins according to our friends at The Vatican — lust, gluttony, greed, sloth, wrath, envy and pride — regularly practices by governments, corporations and individuals alike. Life was so simple then.
Now, for the first time in 1,500 years, The Vatican has provided an updated list. After all, sin is a slow moving target and needs proper reflection and consideration. I'm not an expert, but here is my take on The New Deadly Sins.
- Genetic Modification. You don't have to look too far past animal husbandry and agronomy to find that, as a species, we are all guilty of this one. And the edict that Catholics can only marry Catholics hasn't helped here. Of course, this probably refers to the kind that they object to, not the other kinds.
- Carrying Out Experiments on Humans. Well, this one is a bit of a No Brainer. You'd be hard pressed to find anyone of good reputation who would actually advocate that. Unless, of course, they mean social experimentation which is a common theme for Church and State alike. Or polluting the local environment about an oil field or nuclear power plant or large industrial complex for years and years and then coming back in a couple of generations to see what's happened to the locals. But that, again, probably isn't the kind they object to.
- Polluting the Environment. Let's not take the easy way out and refer back to New Sin #2. You gotta admire their claiming the high moral ground on this one. I probably missed the announcement that the Church has completed a review of its rather diverse and extensive financial portfolio of investments around the world and moved away from financially lucrative but ecologically destructive investments into a rather impressive green portfolio. I really should pay better attention.
- Causing Social Injustice. I am reminded of the line from Fawlty Towers: "Don't mention the war. I did, but I think I got away with it." While there have been areas where The Church has been a strong, and sometimes lone, advocate of social justice. But their efforts are not always consistent and their record is by now means unstained. Aside from their rather questionable activites during World War II, they have supported a number of repressive governments over the years and missed opportunities to promote and reward social justice. Pretty much like the rest of us, actually.
- Causing Poverty. I found this one interesting because there isn't really agreement on the underlying causes of poverty, even among Catholic charities who work with the poorest of the poor. And I doubt that there will ever be agreement because that would mean that someone (government, corporation or institution) would have to take responsibility for their contribution to the problem. I do like this New Sin, because it provides a nice symmetry with the next New Sin.
- Becoming Obscenely Wealthy. I'm guessing that the trick here is to already be obscenely wealthy and that the sin is in the 'becoming' part. It appears that even The Church doesn't have the cajones to claim that obscene wealth is a sin. Their spin doctors get full marks for this one. You do realise that, by committing the sin of becoming obscenely wealthy, you could buy a really big indulgence from The Church and your soul would once again be as clean as the day you were born. A win-win really.
- Taking Drugs. I'm am, once again, reading between the lines here, but guess that they mean illegal drugs and not medicines or legal drugs like tobacco, coffee and alcohol. Again, I gotta wonder who, in their right mind would advocate taking drugs unless they were going to reap the financial rewards from drug taking. Which would bring about New Sins #2, 4, 5 and 6. And result in some of those Old Sins coming back to the fore. Maybe we needed this one to make up the numbers.
You could argue that these New Sins are really just the present day expression of our old favourites — lust, gluttony, greed, sloth, wrath, envy and pride — with a slightly self-serving spin. I guess in 1,500 hundred years, we haven't really changed all that much. And our institutions (governments, corporations and religious bodies) will never be any better than we are.
Monday, 17 December 2007
The Next Survivor Series
Thanks to Kathryn for this one. Add to this list work full-time and run a small business and you've pretty much got it covered. -MG
A test will be given at the end of the six weeks, and each father will be required to know all of the following information: each child's birthday, height, weight, shoe size, clothes size and doctor's name. Also the child's weight at birth, length, time of birth, and length of labor, each child's drink, favorite toy, biggest fear and what they want to be when they grow up, favorite color, middle name, favorite snack, favorite song, best friend.
They must clean up after their sick children at 2:00 a.m. and then spend the remainder of the day tending to that child and waiting on them hand and foot until they are better.
They must have a loving, age appropriate reply to 'You're not the boss of me'.
The kids vote them off the island based on performance. The last man wins only if he still has enough energy to be intimate with his spouse at a moment's notice.
THE NEXT "SURVIVOR" SERIES
Six married men will be dropped on an island with one car and 3 kids each for six weeks.
Each kid will play two sports and either take music or dance classes.
There is no fast food.
Each man must take care of his 3 kids; keep his assigned house clean, correct all homework, complete science projects, cook, do laundry, and pay a list of 'pretend' bills with not enough money. In addition, each man will have to budget in money for groceries each week.
Each man must remember the birthdays of all their friends and relatives and send cards out on time.
Each man must also take each child to a doctor's appointment, a dentist appointment and a haircut appointment. He must make one unscheduled and inconvenient visit per child to the Urgent Care (weekend, evening, on a holiday or right when they're about to leave for vacation).
He must also make cookies or cupcakes for a social function.
Each man will be responsible for decorating his own assigned house, planting flowers outside and keeping it presentable at all times.
The men will only have access to television when the kids are asleep and all chores are done.
Each father will be required to know all of the words to every stupid song that comes on TV and the name of each and every character on cartoons.
Each man will have to make an Indian hut model with six toothpicks, a tortilla and one marker; and get a 4 year old to eat a serving of peas.
Each man must adorn himself with jewelry, wear uncomfortable yet stylish shoes, keep their nails polished and eyebrows groomed. The men must try to get through each day without snot, spit-up or barf on their clothing.
During one of the six weeks, the men will have to endure severe abdominal cramps, back aches, and have extreme, unexplained mood swings but never once complain or slow down from other duties. They must try to explain what a tampon is for when the 6-yr old boy finds it in the purse.
They must attend weekly school meetings, church, and find time at least once to spend the afternoon at the park or a similar setting.
He will need to read a book to the children each night without falling asleep, and then feed them, dress them, brush their teeth each morning by 7:00 . They must leave the home with no food on their face or clothes.
Six married men will be dropped on an island with one car and 3 kids each for six weeks.
Each kid will play two sports and either take music or dance classes.
There is no fast food.
Each man must take care of his 3 kids; keep his assigned house clean, correct all homework, complete science projects, cook, do laundry, and pay a list of 'pretend' bills with not enough money. In addition, each man will have to budget in money for groceries each week.
Each man must remember the birthdays of all their friends and relatives and send cards out on time.
Each man must also take each child to a doctor's appointment, a dentist appointment and a haircut appointment. He must make one unscheduled and inconvenient visit per child to the Urgent Care (weekend, evening, on a holiday or right when they're about to leave for vacation).
He must also make cookies or cupcakes for a social function.
Each man will be responsible for decorating his own assigned house, planting flowers outside and keeping it presentable at all times.
The men will only have access to television when the kids are asleep and all chores are done.
Each father will be required to know all of the words to every stupid song that comes on TV and the name of each and every character on cartoons.
Each man will have to make an Indian hut model with six toothpicks, a tortilla and one marker; and get a 4 year old to eat a serving of peas.
Each man must adorn himself with jewelry, wear uncomfortable yet stylish shoes, keep their nails polished and eyebrows groomed. The men must try to get through each day without snot, spit-up or barf on their clothing.
During one of the six weeks, the men will have to endure severe abdominal cramps, back aches, and have extreme, unexplained mood swings but never once complain or slow down from other duties. They must try to explain what a tampon is for when the 6-yr old boy finds it in the purse.
They must attend weekly school meetings, church, and find time at least once to spend the afternoon at the park or a similar setting.
He will need to read a book to the children each night without falling asleep, and then feed them, dress them, brush their teeth each morning by 7:00 . They must leave the home with no food on their face or clothes.
A test will be given at the end of the six weeks, and each father will be required to know all of the following information: each child's birthday, height, weight, shoe size, clothes size and doctor's name. Also the child's weight at birth, length, time of birth, and length of labor, each child's drink, favorite toy, biggest fear and what they want to be when they grow up, favorite color, middle name, favorite snack, favorite song, best friend.
They must clean up after their sick children at 2:00 a.m. and then spend the remainder of the day tending to that child and waiting on them hand and foot until they are better.
They must have a loving, age appropriate reply to 'You're not the boss of me'.
The kids vote them off the island based on performance. The last man wins only if he still has enough energy to be intimate with his spouse at a moment's notice.
Sunday, 16 December 2007
The Perfect Dress
This one was sent to me by my DSIL Jan. --MG
THE PERFECT DRESS
Jennifer's wedding day was fast approaching. Nothing could dampen her excitement -- not even her parents' nasty divorce. Her mother had found the PERFECT dress to wear and would be the best dressed mother-of-the-bride ever!
A week later, Jennifer was horrified to learn that her father's new young wife had bought the exact same dress as her mother! Jennifer asked her step mom to exchange it, but she refused.
"Absolutely not, I look like a million bucks in this dress, and I'm wearing it," she replied.
Jennifer told her mother who graciously said, "Never mind sweetheart. I'll get another dress. After all, it's your special day."
A few days later, they went shopping and did find another gorgeous dress. When they stopped for lunch, Jennifer asked her mother, "Aren't you going to return the other dress? You really don't have another occasion where you could wear it."
Her mother just smiled and replied, "Of course I do, dear. I'm wearing it to the rehearsal dinner the night before the wedding."
THE PERFECT DRESS
Jennifer's wedding day was fast approaching. Nothing could dampen her excitement -- not even her parents' nasty divorce. Her mother had found the PERFECT dress to wear and would be the best dressed mother-of-the-bride ever!
A week later, Jennifer was horrified to learn that her father's new young wife had bought the exact same dress as her mother! Jennifer asked her step mom to exchange it, but she refused.
"Absolutely not, I look like a million bucks in this dress, and I'm wearing it," she replied.
Jennifer told her mother who graciously said, "Never mind sweetheart. I'll get another dress. After all, it's your special day."
A few days later, they went shopping and did find another gorgeous dress. When they stopped for lunch, Jennifer asked her mother, "Aren't you going to return the other dress? You really don't have another occasion where you could wear it."
Her mother just smiled and replied, "Of course I do, dear. I'm wearing it to the rehearsal dinner the night before the wedding."
Sunday, 11 November 2007
A Dog Story
This was posted to my other blog on the 30th of December, 2006.
In the mornings, I go for a long walk along the local reserve on Sydney Harbour's foreshores. Because I've taken some time off work between Christmas and New Years Day, I've been going later in the morning and see lots more people out walking than I usually do. And I've seen lots more dogs as well.
This morning there were lots of dogs and their owners out and I saw something I don't usually see during my early morning walks: the dog-smelling-dog ritual greeting. And this, in turn, reminded me of a story that my dad always told my brothers and I while we were growing up . He always swore that it was true.
Now, there aren't many stories that my dad told us while we were growing up that I can share with anyone outside my immediate family. But I think I can get away with this one if I tell it carefully.
Once upon a time, my dad would say, there was a big dance hall where all the dogs would go on Saturday night for dancing. Dogs from all around would gather at the big dance hall every week, some coming from miles and miles away.
Before they would go into the dance hall, each dog would hang their dog bottom up outside the door, like people hang up their coats on a winter night, on rows and rows of coat hooks. After dancing the night away, they would collect their dog bottom on their way out of the dance hall and head on home.
One Saturday night, tragedy struck and a fire broke out at the big dance hall. In their panic to escape the flames, the dogs just grabbed any old dog bottom on their way out of the dance hall. Of course, they didn't grab their own dog bottom but got someone else's. Which means that some other dog has their dog bottom.
And that is why dogs smell each other's bottom when they meet, just in case they found their dog bottom lost the night of the fire at the big dance hall.
Even after all these years, his dog story still makes me laugh.
In the mornings, I go for a long walk along the local reserve on Sydney Harbour's foreshores. Because I've taken some time off work between Christmas and New Years Day, I've been going later in the morning and see lots more people out walking than I usually do. And I've seen lots more dogs as well.
This morning there were lots of dogs and their owners out and I saw something I don't usually see during my early morning walks: the dog-smelling-dog ritual greeting. And this, in turn, reminded me of a story that my dad always told my brothers and I while we were growing up . He always swore that it was true.
Now, there aren't many stories that my dad told us while we were growing up that I can share with anyone outside my immediate family. But I think I can get away with this one if I tell it carefully.
Once upon a time, my dad would say, there was a big dance hall where all the dogs would go on Saturday night for dancing. Dogs from all around would gather at the big dance hall every week, some coming from miles and miles away.
Before they would go into the dance hall, each dog would hang their dog bottom up outside the door, like people hang up their coats on a winter night, on rows and rows of coat hooks. After dancing the night away, they would collect their dog bottom on their way out of the dance hall and head on home.
One Saturday night, tragedy struck and a fire broke out at the big dance hall. In their panic to escape the flames, the dogs just grabbed any old dog bottom on their way out of the dance hall. Of course, they didn't grab their own dog bottom but got someone else's. Which means that some other dog has their dog bottom.
And that is why dogs smell each other's bottom when they meet, just in case they found their dog bottom lost the night of the fire at the big dance hall.
Even after all these years, his dog story still makes me laugh.
Wednesday, 7 November 2007
The Race That Stops A Nation
For the Australians who read this blog, this post isn't really for you. It's for everyone else who has probably never heard of the Melbourne Cup.
Today was the running of the annual Melbourne Cup thoroughbred horse race, also known as The Race That Stops a Nation. It is a key event in the Spring Racing Carnival at Flemington Race Track. With the quarantine on transportation of horses in NSW and Queensland because of the equine flu outbreak, there were questions around whether or not the race would be held. As if.
Melbourne Cup is so important that it is a public holiday in metropolitan Melbourne so that nothing gets in the way of the race. But I prefer the way it is celebrated in Sydney. Everyone fronts up to work as normal but lots knock off about noon for a Cup Day lunch, with friends or co-workers, that lasts until the race at 3pm. There are the obligatory bets and the ubiquitous sweeps and the odd glass of champagne and more hats than you could shake a stick at. As 3pm approaches, everyone watches the Cup on the nearest big screen TV. Then it is back to work as if nothing was out of the ordinary. Productivity for the day may suffer, but it is the Melbourne Cup.
While Australia is a nation of punters (translation: gamblers), for lots of us, Melbourne Cup is the only day that we set foot into the TAB (translation: where you go to place bets in NSW). To take some of the pressure off the city TABs, they open a huge TAB in Martin Place, the large pedestrian mall in the heart of the Sydney CBD. It is usually packed and has extra staff on hand to handle all the questions of once-a-year punters.
This year, I not only bet on the tips from a friend's dad, but I also bet on jockey Michael Rodd, the nephew of my good friend Pennie Darling. And I had quite a few winners, including the Cup itself. That's right, sports fans, Michael Rodd was riding Efficiency, this year's winner of the Melbourne Cup. I've never picked the winner of the Melbourne Cup before so I was pretty chuffed. Thank you Pennie!
Horse racing has a long history in Australia, dating back to the very beginning of the Sydney colony. I can't find my copy of The Fatal Shore by Robert Hughes to confirm the details, but I remember a story that strikes me as being quintessentially Australian.
It seems that the powers that be in the colony decided that the convicts would benefit from the civilising influences of a day of horse racing. So it was decided to give the convicts a day off from their labours with two provisos: (1) no gambling and (2) no drinking.
The big race day came and was a huge success. Except for two things: (1) the next day, most convicts were still too drunk to work and (2) the ones who weren't still drunk couldn't work because they were naked. Seems that the convicts didn't have any money to bet on the races so they bet their clothes or they traded their clothes for rum.
Somehow, Melbourne Cup seems a bit tame in comparison.
P.S. I wrote this on Tuesday night but forgot to hit the Publish Post button. Ooops.
Today was the running of the annual Melbourne Cup thoroughbred horse race, also known as The Race That Stops a Nation. It is a key event in the Spring Racing Carnival at Flemington Race Track. With the quarantine on transportation of horses in NSW and Queensland because of the equine flu outbreak, there were questions around whether or not the race would be held. As if.
Melbourne Cup is so important that it is a public holiday in metropolitan Melbourne so that nothing gets in the way of the race. But I prefer the way it is celebrated in Sydney. Everyone fronts up to work as normal but lots knock off about noon for a Cup Day lunch, with friends or co-workers, that lasts until the race at 3pm. There are the obligatory bets and the ubiquitous sweeps and the odd glass of champagne and more hats than you could shake a stick at. As 3pm approaches, everyone watches the Cup on the nearest big screen TV. Then it is back to work as if nothing was out of the ordinary. Productivity for the day may suffer, but it is the Melbourne Cup.
While Australia is a nation of punters (translation: gamblers), for lots of us, Melbourne Cup is the only day that we set foot into the TAB (translation: where you go to place bets in NSW). To take some of the pressure off the city TABs, they open a huge TAB in Martin Place, the large pedestrian mall in the heart of the Sydney CBD. It is usually packed and has extra staff on hand to handle all the questions of once-a-year punters.
This year, I not only bet on the tips from a friend's dad, but I also bet on jockey Michael Rodd, the nephew of my good friend Pennie Darling. And I had quite a few winners, including the Cup itself. That's right, sports fans, Michael Rodd was riding Efficiency, this year's winner of the Melbourne Cup. I've never picked the winner of the Melbourne Cup before so I was pretty chuffed. Thank you Pennie!
Horse racing has a long history in Australia, dating back to the very beginning of the Sydney colony. I can't find my copy of The Fatal Shore by Robert Hughes to confirm the details, but I remember a story that strikes me as being quintessentially Australian.
It seems that the powers that be in the colony decided that the convicts would benefit from the civilising influences of a day of horse racing. So it was decided to give the convicts a day off from their labours with two provisos: (1) no gambling and (2) no drinking.
The big race day came and was a huge success. Except for two things: (1) the next day, most convicts were still too drunk to work and (2) the ones who weren't still drunk couldn't work because they were naked. Seems that the convicts didn't have any money to bet on the races so they bet their clothes or they traded their clothes for rum.
Somehow, Melbourne Cup seems a bit tame in comparison.
P.S. I wrote this on Tuesday night but forgot to hit the Publish Post button. Ooops.
Sunday, 26 August 2007
My Favourite Australian Joke
This won't make much sense to the non-Aussies who read this, but here goes, my all-time favourite Australian joke:
The last sheep was shorn and two shearers started to talk as they gathered up their belongings. The first shearer says to the second one, 'Now that the shearing season is over, what are you going to do?"
The second shearer thinks for a minute and says, "I think I'm going to go down to Sydney."
The first shearer asks, "Which route are you going to take?"
The second shearer thinks for a minute and then answers, "I think I'll take the wife. She stayed with me through the drought."
The last sheep was shorn and two shearers started to talk as they gathered up their belongings. The first shearer says to the second one, 'Now that the shearing season is over, what are you going to do?"
The second shearer thinks for a minute and says, "I think I'm going to go down to Sydney."
The first shearer asks, "Which route are you going to take?"
The second shearer thinks for a minute and then answers, "I think I'll take the wife. She stayed with me through the drought."
Saturday, 25 August 2007
Clever New Proverbs
Thanks to Shirley for sending me these. --MG
- Home is where you hang your @.
- The e-mail of the species is more deadly than the mail.
- A journey of a thousand sites begins with a single click.
- You can't teach a new mouse old clicks.
- Great groups from little icons grow.
- Speak softly and carry a mobile phone.
- C:\ is the root of all directories.
- Oh, what a tangled web-site we weave when first we practice.
- Pentium wise, pen and paper foolish.
- The modem is the message.
- Too many clicks spoil the browse.
- The geek shall inherit the earth.
- There's no place like home page.
- Don't byte off more than you can view.
- Fax is stranger than fiction.
- What boots up, must come down.
- Windows will never cease.
- Virtual reality is its own reward.
- Modulation in all things.
- Give a man a fish and you feed him for a day. Teach him to use the Net and he won't bother you for weeks.
Sunday, 8 July 2007
A Fred Story
This one was published on my other blog on the 28th of March, 2007.
My dad's birthday was on Tuesday and he would have been 74. I still miss him and thought about him a bit more than usual this week. And, as often happens with my dad, I was reminded of a Fred story ...
From the time I was born and through the first couple of years of school, my dad was going to graduate school and getting first his Masters degree and then his PhD in Mechanical Engineering while also teaching at uni and working full time. Part of the unfinished basement was fitted out as a combo den and office so he could study. The old TV and lounge were put down there as was an old Franklin stove (cast iron wood burning stove) to keep the cold Connecticut winters at bay. He had an old china tea pot, white with royal blue swirls and gold accents, that sat on top of the Franklin stove to keep the tea warm. I've never been able to find a teapot that looks anything like that one I remember from the basement.
My dad worked hard at everything he did and our family life in those years was organised around his very busy schedule. As a family, we still celebrated birthdays, but always in the middle of the night. Dad would get home from uni well after we'd gone to bed. So we'd be rousted out of bed in the dead of night and sit around the kitchen table in our jammies singing 'Happy Birthday' and waiting for the lucky parent or kid to blow out the candles before tucking into cake and ice cream. When we were finished, we had to brush our teeth AGAIN and go back to bed. The family dog must have thought we were nuts.
It was years before I found out that normal families celebrated family birthdays during the day. I felt a bit sorry for them.
We always used the backs of my dad's draft thesis and dissertation papers for drawings and writing stories and colouring. I remember when his final draft dissertation was stolen out of his car at uni. This was well and truly in the days before computers so the entire document had to be recreated from the previous drafts and notes and stuff. I'm not sure who I felt sorrier for, my dad or his typist!
Finally, the big day came and my dad was going to get his PhD. I was in the 5th grade, so I was about 10 or 11. My brothers and I were kept home from school, a very rare event because at my house, the only way you got to stay home from school when I was a kid was if you were projectile vomiting, going for both accuracy and distance, or had blood squirting on the walls or had a temperature of over 107F. Otherwise, off to school you go. But today was special and we going to the commencement ceremony at the University of Connecticut (UConn) in Storrs.
Let me digress for a moment ...
When I was in primary school, the classes were overflowing with kids. Each class was full to the gills. The only exception was the class for the mentally retarded kids. They did lots of things together with the other kids in the school, called 'main streaming' at the time, but they still had special classes every day that were just for them and there were about a third of the kids in their entire special class compared to my 5th grade class.
So, back to my Fred story.
We sat upstairs in a huge hall; I can still remember looking down at all the little people in their caps and gowns. We sat there as groups of UConn graduates get their diplomas. First they do the Associate degrees ... gowns and mortar boards (those flat graduation hats) ... calling out the names, handing over the diploma case and shaking hands. Then, group after group of Bachelor degrees ... gowns and mortar boards. They went on forever. Then a couple of small groups of Master degrees ...gowns and mortar boards. Then, finally, the PhD gradates ... just a couple of people (including my dad) with gowns but, instead of mortar boards, they wore funny baggy beanie hats.
I was devastated. My dad was retarded! That was why it took him so long to graduate. All the other kids on my street had a black&white photo at home of their very young-looking dad in a gown and mortar board. My dad was old in comparison, really old. So, my dad was retarded. Small class, funny hat ... the proof was overwhelming. No denying it. My dad was retarded.
When I went back to school the next day, all my friends asked where I'd been. I was too embarrassed to tell them the truth so I lied and told them I was sick.
I figured out the truth later and don't know if I ever told my dad this story. But it makes me laugh now.
My dad's birthday was on Tuesday and he would have been 74. I still miss him and thought about him a bit more than usual this week. And, as often happens with my dad, I was reminded of a Fred story ...
From the time I was born and through the first couple of years of school, my dad was going to graduate school and getting first his Masters degree and then his PhD in Mechanical Engineering while also teaching at uni and working full time. Part of the unfinished basement was fitted out as a combo den and office so he could study. The old TV and lounge were put down there as was an old Franklin stove (cast iron wood burning stove) to keep the cold Connecticut winters at bay. He had an old china tea pot, white with royal blue swirls and gold accents, that sat on top of the Franklin stove to keep the tea warm. I've never been able to find a teapot that looks anything like that one I remember from the basement.
My dad worked hard at everything he did and our family life in those years was organised around his very busy schedule. As a family, we still celebrated birthdays, but always in the middle of the night. Dad would get home from uni well after we'd gone to bed. So we'd be rousted out of bed in the dead of night and sit around the kitchen table in our jammies singing 'Happy Birthday' and waiting for the lucky parent or kid to blow out the candles before tucking into cake and ice cream. When we were finished, we had to brush our teeth AGAIN and go back to bed. The family dog must have thought we were nuts.
It was years before I found out that normal families celebrated family birthdays during the day. I felt a bit sorry for them.
We always used the backs of my dad's draft thesis and dissertation papers for drawings and writing stories and colouring. I remember when his final draft dissertation was stolen out of his car at uni. This was well and truly in the days before computers so the entire document had to be recreated from the previous drafts and notes and stuff. I'm not sure who I felt sorrier for, my dad or his typist!
Finally, the big day came and my dad was going to get his PhD. I was in the 5th grade, so I was about 10 or 11. My brothers and I were kept home from school, a very rare event because at my house, the only way you got to stay home from school when I was a kid was if you were projectile vomiting, going for both accuracy and distance, or had blood squirting on the walls or had a temperature of over 107F. Otherwise, off to school you go. But today was special and we going to the commencement ceremony at the University of Connecticut (UConn) in Storrs.
Let me digress for a moment ...
When I was in primary school, the classes were overflowing with kids. Each class was full to the gills. The only exception was the class for the mentally retarded kids. They did lots of things together with the other kids in the school, called 'main streaming' at the time, but they still had special classes every day that were just for them and there were about a third of the kids in their entire special class compared to my 5th grade class.
So, back to my Fred story.
We sat upstairs in a huge hall; I can still remember looking down at all the little people in their caps and gowns. We sat there as groups of UConn graduates get their diplomas. First they do the Associate degrees ... gowns and mortar boards (those flat graduation hats) ... calling out the names, handing over the diploma case and shaking hands. Then, group after group of Bachelor degrees ... gowns and mortar boards. They went on forever. Then a couple of small groups of Master degrees ...gowns and mortar boards. Then, finally, the PhD gradates ... just a couple of people (including my dad) with gowns but, instead of mortar boards, they wore funny baggy beanie hats.
I was devastated. My dad was retarded! That was why it took him so long to graduate. All the other kids on my street had a black&white photo at home of their very young-looking dad in a gown and mortar board. My dad was old in comparison, really old. So, my dad was retarded. Small class, funny hat ... the proof was overwhelming. No denying it. My dad was retarded.
When I went back to school the next day, all my friends asked where I'd been. I was too embarrassed to tell them the truth so I lied and told them I was sick.
I figured out the truth later and don't know if I ever told my dad this story. But it makes me laugh now.
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