The ICE Queen Cometh

I sometimes get text messages from TLOML at work. No, not the Liz Hurley-Shane Warne type. Just mundane family stuff like, would I pick something up from the supermarket on the way home? Did I remember to call our accountant? That sort of thing. Alright, usually there'll be one of those cheesy little emoticons attached, but nothing salacious. Certainly nothing in the kick-arse department, that's for sure. No, if I need a bollocking, that can wait till I get home.

Except for the text I received one morning this week. It was from a newly-created contact, Your Wife, which I hadn't entered myself, and went something like this:

The name is TLOML, you smartarse bastard! And don't you forget it.

I don't mind admitting I went immediately into kangaroo-caught-in-the-headlights mode. What was going on? Had some psychopath tapped into my phone? Wait. Wait a minute, that would represent an obvious but highly plausible and dramatic segue from a couple of previous posts. And would mean that the author of this blog actually has something really interesting and continuity-friendly happen to him from time to time. No, that couldn't be it.I thought I'd better give TLOML a ring to see if she knew anything. I'm pretty sure I gulped audibly just before calling her.

"Hi. Um, did you send me a text message a little earlier?"

"Yes, I did."

"Alright. So, what was it all about?"

"Well, see if you can work it out."

"Don't be stupid. I have no idea what it's about."

"Alright then."

She hung up. I had some serious thinking to do. What could I have done to have made her so angry, for chrissakes? And no, I can't write "and then it dawned on me" because bugger me it just didn't. I went on with work for about another couple of hours. Alright, and THEN it dawned on me. I'd heard on the radio just before Christmas that emergency services authorities were recommending people save the phone number of their next of kin in their mobile phone address books so that if anyone was ever injured and unconscious, direct contact with their next of kin could be easily effected. The suggested universal acronym was ICE, for In Case of Emergency.

Was it possible that TLOML had been looking for a contact in my phone's address book, seen her number under ICE, and taken offence? Yes, it was. So I called her back.

"TLOML, listen don't hang up - I think I know what's happened."

"Really? Go on."

"Well, do you remember when I told you how I was listening to the radio and someone from one of the Emergency Services was talking about how difficult it was to to contact the next-of-kin of people who had undergone significant trauma like in an accident and might be unconscious or in shock? And how everyone was being urged to save their next-of-kin's phone number under ICE for In Case of Emergency? Do you remember that?

"Oooohhhhhh, yes I do."

"So you saw that your mobile number was saved as ICE and jumped to what conclusion exactly?

"Um, that you had me saved under ICE in your phone so that when I called you to get you home from the cricket club you could show everyone that The Ice Queen was after you and everyone could have a good old blokey laugh at my expense."

"What?! How's that going to be funny? If I was going for that sort of cheap laugh you'd be saved as Party Pooper Central, Leader of the Opposition or The Handbrake. At least give me some credit."

"Alright, I'm sorry then."

And then we got the giggles. We're still laughing about it.

Repartee

TLOML's maiden name is Italian. In the Sicilian dialect from the area her dad comes from, it translates as box, or casket. But over most of the Italian peninsula it means protective head covering. This includes hoods, welding masks and helmets, particularly bicycle helmets.

She gets annoyed when I mention this. And if the three stooges want to have a little fun at her expense, they'll use her maiden name when talking about helmets or any kind of safety headgear.

Now, my family name is Scottish and Irish, and translates as someone engaged to establish or maintain a garden.

So when Curly informed us this morning that he needed a new bicycle helmet, TLOML thought for a moment and decided they'd better go get one tonight after school.

So I told Curly, "You couldn't be in better hands, y'know. If anyone's going to know how to get you a great bike helmet, it's the former TLOML Bike Helmet herself."

This got three big laughs. And a fourth, if you also count me laughing at my own wit.

"Yes, and it's lucky I actually live up to my name, as opposed to dad, who is useless in the garden despite having the near-perfect name for it."

This got even louder laughs. I didn't feel disposed towards helping the cackfest along any.

"You nailed me", was the best I could come up with as I slunk out the front door.

You Can Run But You Can't Hide III

Interested readers might need to refer to the two previous posts on this matter just to refresh the memory.

The union rep at work is one of those people you just instantly warm to. For me, it was because she reminded me in looks and manner of a former colleague I liked a lot. But beyond that, she's a voluble, witty and clearly caring person who is passionate about what she believes in without beating anyone over the head with it or taking herself too seriously. I needed advice about what to do after the incident with Michelle so we went into one of the interview rooms and I went through it all with her.

She was sympathetic, but rational at the same time. She warned me against catastrophizing. I could see her point, but I felt like I'd stumbled onto something considerably ugly about my workplace to which there didn't appear to be an easy remedy. We consulted the staff handbook and it didn't have much to offer so she advised me to take it to my manager and see what could be done via the organization's structure.

When I told my boss about the incident she was typically forthright: "Why didn't you just tell her to get fucked? I would have." I had to laugh at that but pointed out that it might then have degenerated into an ugly scene for which I would have had to shoulder some of the blame. She told me we'd need to consult the CEO, who I have every confidence in. He's a bloke who knows all of the legislation and regulations back to front and is pretty good at explaining it all.

He gave me two options: one, to approach Michelle and try to sort it out myself; or two, to make a formal complaint, which would mean an investigation. I chose the latter because I didn't want to run the risk of making a mess of any approach to Michelle.

Unforunately the investigation was unable to verify my claim. Colin had taken the safe option of not remembering and Michelle denied that there'd been anything untoward, adding that she was prepared to apologise if she'd said anything offensive. Qualified apologies aren't worth a pinch of shit but the manager in charge of the investigation had organized mediation if I was interested. I wasn't.

Both the CEO and the manager confided that Michelle had come under notice for similar incidents but no-one had put in a formal complaint. They both indicated that they believed my version and were sorry that it had happened and also apologised that the investigation had been inconclusive.

I rejected mediation because I wasn't prepared to give Michelle any opportunities to save face or manipulate the situation any further. What if she was to say something that pissed me off during the session and I reacted, or worse, overreacted? Then I'd come out of it looking like a ratbag. So I politely declined, but added that if Michelle could be quietly advised to give me as wide a berth as possible from here on, I'd consider that a good outcome.

So that's where it stands. Her husband Jeremy and I get along just fine, Colin too. I don't have any ill-feelings towards them. They were both stuck in the middle.

Michelle's still on Family Leave but will be returning. When she does, I intend to avoid her like the plague. I hope she's got the good sense to do likewise. That might just make the situation manageable.

You Can Run, But You Can't Hide I

Merry Christmas and best wishes for the new year to everyone.


This is a letter I had to write to the CEO of the organization I work for:

Dear Anthony,

I’m bringing an incident involving myself and Michelle McClennan to your attention I informed my Manager, Rae Newcombe, of this incident on Wednesday 10th December after some careful consideration. I ask for your assistance to resolve this issue locally.

The incident took place at our end of year staff function on Fri 5th December:

At around 11pm I returned inside the venue to say a few goodbyes to people and approached Colin Ginty, who was in conversation with Michelle McClennan. I shook hands with Colin and thanked him for his efforts on the Social Committee. Colin returned the thanks for my agreeing to MC the awards segment of the evening.

It was around this point that Michelle began speaking to me and went into some detail as to her assessment of my character. Her conclusion was that I was an attention-seeker of little substance with a poor work ethic who tries to get by on personality in order to mask these shortcomings. I was quite shocked by this and tried to deflect her by thanking her for the career advice and turned away towards Colin.

She then commenced a monologue that seemed to be outlining my psychological profile, positing deeper problems she felt I may have which cause what she had described earlier. Again, I attempted to deflect rather than confront her by complimenting her on her grasp of psychoanalytic theory and turned away towards Colin once more.

I am unable to give precise details of what she actually said because I was a bit shocked by what I took to be an unprovoked attack on me. I was also somewhat transfixed during the conversation by the tone of voice she used, which I can only describe as very nasty, cat-like and reminiscent of that used by upper-primary school girls when they’re being particularly cruel to each other.

With a little help from Colin, I was able to cut her off by turning the conversation to another function I would be on my way to afterwards and said a final goodbye to both Colin and Michelle and left. I noticed what I interpreted as a fairly smug, self-satisfied look on her face as I turned away.

I hardly know Michelle at all, beyond the type of greetings and small talk I might engage in with any staff member with whom I don’t work directly, and she also took family leave not long after I commenced in mid-July, so there’s been very little interaction between us. I have neither said nor done anything that could possibly have generated any personal animosity between us, nor had she, up until this incident occurred.

I believe we have a very healthy workplace culture here with, from my observations, almost exclusively positive interactions between staff, so I’m still somewhat shocked by the nastiness involved in this. I’d like to be confident that this incident is a result of a series of poor choices made by a single individual and is not representative of tendencies to be found in other staff members.

I assert that this incident constitutes action taken within a work location that directly affects an employee that the employee considers is otherwise unfair or unreasonable and ask that it be investigated and, if proven, action be taken to ensure that it does not occur again, either to me or anyone else.

Yours Sincerely,
Lad Litter


More to come on this one. That's for sure.

Gone...

You might remember I was having virus-generated PC problems at home. And that I was trying to get a solution via the http://www.techguy.org/ forums. This is a great way to solve problems and I highly recommend the website.

Alas, I had to have a problem that resisted even the good folk who trawl those forums dispensing sound advice. Okay, fora for those of you who insist on correct Latin plurals.

For some reason, the WinXP disk's recovery mode just wouldn't fix things so after a couple of luckless weeks, I rashly went for the reinstall option. After all, it only warned that I MIGHT lose the contents of the My Documents folder. Any chance is better than no chance at all. So I did it.

And lost everything. Family photos and video, family history research, personal stuff, everything. And 28 nearly-completed posts for this pathetic blog. When I say that they were all brilliant, witty, cutting-edge pieces of fine writing that could change your whole outlook on life, please take my word for it.

It's my own stupid fault. Mea culpa. Again with the Latin. I should have had virus protection in the first place. And even failing that, I should have waited until I came across someone who could help me recover Win XP without causing loss of data.

And then last week, TLOML's laptop surrendered its internet capability. And I got knocked back for one of those Virtual Community personal PC loans. Something about me only being in the new job for less than six months. So we're technologically-challenged at home.

Luckily, I'm now semi-comfortable at the new workplace and have girded my loins and posted this from work.

I'm not back in town as such, but I'm entering Kalkallo.

Kalkallo - small town on the northern outskirts of Melbourne

Guano Inundates Bird Cage

Great article by Simon Castles about corporate hospitality at the Spring Racing Carnival in this morning's Age. You can read it here.

All I'll say is, I don't mind that the rich, famous and privileged have it better than the rest of us. I just don't see why we have to have our fucking noses rubbed in it.

Most Accidents Occur In The Home

It’s true, you know. Find out more here; and here. And this afternoon, I became just another statistic.

My sadly-neglected using-the-drought-as-a-cop-out garden needed some attention, so I hacked away at some foliage and had done a pretty good job with the secateurs until I added the middle finger of my left hand to the off cuts. Only the tip, mind you, but there was a fair bit of Type-O flowing out of the incision.

Larry & Curly were nearby and they ran in to alert TLOML that I’d done something stupid. She came out with the First Aid kit and calmly dressed the wound while I calmly submitted to her tender care.

Dismissing her protests, I drove myself to the local GP, reasoning that as he seems to enjoy the odd bit of slice and sew, he’d see me straight away. But the hard-working medico was enjoying a well-deserved break on this Easter Monday. As was the local 7-11 clinic.

I’d heard that you can get prompt attention at John Fawkner Private Hospital Emergency Dept in Coburg on your Private Health Insurance so I headed up there. I was just explaining what had happened to the nurse at reception when she asked me to read the sign on the window.

Minimum charge is $250 and this is NOT covered by any Private Health Insurance.

The NOT was in big red letters. “Okay, I’ll head down to Royal Melbourne”, I told them, also in big red letters.

At RMH, I waited for what must have been a record short time. About 45 minutes. Then the nice doctor, who was a Scot, told me all I’d need would be a dressing and a tetanus shot.

“Are you sure it will be okay?”

“Oh aye, that top flap will joost dai orf and then new skin will grow oop ter tairk its plairce. Yerr’ll be fain.”

I looked a little skeptical.

“Unless yer one o’ these Munchausen bastards, o’ course, ‘cos then we’ll have ter bring in the psychies.” he said reaching for the phone.

“No, no don’t be silly, I know how to take fair and impartial medical advice.”

Finger dressed, shot in arm administered, I was oan muh wair.

“Eh, yerr’ll noat bi Jimmy Pairgin’ oop any fretboards fer a wee whail, but if ye nid to be givin’ anywoon the finger, the dressin' should provaide ardded emphasis fer ye,” Doc Trainspotting said as I was leaving.

When I arrived home, hale and hearty, TLOML greeted me like I was returning from a lengthy hospitalization. So why was I disappointed that she didn’t tell me I was her brave little soldier? Freud could probably tell you.

There's Someone For Everyone...

This has probably been done to death all over the blogosphere and I apologise if it sounds a little too much like those lame did-you-ever-notice standups that used to top and tail Seinfeld. But how come really good-looking women often end up with blokes who are not particularly attractive? Why do women at the top of the food chain so often end up with blokes who look like bottom feeders?

I speak from experience here as my own situation is exactly that. And I’m not particularly rich or funny either, so don’t try that cop out. I’m talking about a match up of breath-taking disequilibrium. Where there is no reason apparent, even to the more than casual observer.

I’ve been meaning to ask TLOML about this. Just one of those things you never seem to get around to. Maybe I’m afraid of the answer. Maybe she’ll say, “Yeah, why the fuck DID I end up with you?”

Put it this way, when the odd tactless prick has half-jokingly asked “How did she end up with you?!?!?!” I have a prepared response. “Oh, I don’t know, looks, brains, wit…” Or when someone catches sight of a photo of her and says spontaneously, “She’s very beautiful” I respond with “Oh yeah, she’s alright I s’pose…”

But let’s put you in the picture, without showing you actual pictures.

Here are two famous people that TLOML resembles closely:


And here are two famous people that I resemble closely.

Does that give you an idea?

So why is it so?

The Letter Part II

By the time we woke up on the Friday morning it was a little later than usual. We whisked Moe, Larry & Curly through their morning routines: eat all of your breakfast; brush your teeth; get dressed; no, you’re not wearing that to school; go back and really brush your teeth this time; have you got a hat? where’s the lunchbox you took to school yesterday? why haven’t you shown me the note about today’s excursion before now? and so on….

As comforting as all of this family togetherness was it left little time for TLOML and I to discuss what we were going to do about the news contained in the letter, but in a hastily snatched coffee on the back veranda we worked out that she would go to Tatts HQ straight after work and text me the simple message that would let me know what the prize was: 1.5 for $1500; 20 for $20000; 2 for $2m.

Trying to set my mind to work mode wasn’t easy but I managed to drop Larry and Curly off at school, bipping and waving to Moe as he sat at his bus stop on the way and even arrive at work at a reasonable time.

Now, I have not been enjoying my job at all this year and was thinking about chucking it in about three weeks ago. That would have been a BIG MOVE what with many years already invested in what could only grudgingly be called a career. And no prospect of a salary even remotely approaching what I currently earn should I decide to move on. So I’d forgotten all about other jobs and got on with it.

I didn’t want to spend that Friday considering that I might have a sudden good reason to retire early. I tried to calculate odds as I got closer to work: A 1 in 3 chance of any of those dividends. No, don’t be silly, the odds are formed by how many winners there were in each division, and there’d been hundreds in Third, around fifty in Second, and only two in First. Those were the real odds.

But work had actually been picking up. The last two weeks had been bearable to the point where I could see things turning around for me. I knew that matters sometimes slip back a little even when they are on an upward trajectory but Friday was more than just a small slide. Without going in to too much detail, it was a shitful day where it was all I could do not to tell quite a few people to just get fucked. But that would have taken career matters out of my own hands and into those of others. I got through to the 2:30 finish and waited for news.

While having a drink with colleagues after work, I drifted off occasionally and had to be brought back to the conversation. It should have taken TLOML around an hour to get in to St Kilda Rd, find a park, possibly wait in line and then get the news. That meant I should be getting a text from her at around 3:30. That time came and went. Unbeknownst to me, TLOML’s boss had decided that even though 2:30 was the finishing time, staff were still on duty officially till 3:30. So she couldn’t get away earlier. I resisted the temptation to ring her.

At around 4:30, my phone went off. With what could well have been a life-changing SMS. Here’s what it said:

The Letter Part I

I got home from work on Thursday 29th April at about 5:30, the usual time, give or take. Saying a quick hello to Moe, Larry and Curly who were submerged in a PlayStation cricket game, I could tell TLOML was pretty excited about something and failing miserably to appear nonchalant. Ushering me out onto the back veranda, she told me we’d received some bad news today but her face and body language begged to differ. That incandescent smile was threatening to light up the whole backyard and her big, Natalie Wood brown eyes were as wide as I’ve ever seen them.

I didn’t rush her as she loves surprises and it looked like I was in for the full treatment, complete with that special kind of bad acting kids of around kindergarten age specialize in. I love the way she does this. So I played along.
“What do you think it is?” she asked.
“Oh I don’t know, another speeding fine for me?” We’d had three on a return trip down the Princes Highway to Barwon Heads last year.
“No, it’s not a speeding fine.” Still with the big smile.

She handed me an envelope with the Tattersalls logo on it and I reached inside for the enclosed letter. It told me that their records showed her registered number had come up as being a winner in a recent Tattslotto draw. Okay, so it’s not bad news after all.
“You’re such a good actress,” I told her. She believed me, so my acting at least was pretty convincing. The letter went on to say that she had won a prize in excess of $1000 and would need to either go in to the St Kilda Rd offices of Tattersalls to collect or she could post the winning ticket and receive a cheque in the mail.

“So how much have we won?”
“What’s this WE business?”
We both laughed and then she pulled out a piece of paper with some numbers on it.
“I checked that draw on the web and there were three divisions that delivered prizes above $1000: Third Division paid $1500 odd dollars; Second Division paid around $20000 and First Division $2m.”

“Alright, which of those categories do we fall into?”
“Again with the WE. Well, I’ve lost that ticket thanks to a fairly serious handbag cleanout but because I’m registered the ticket isn’t essential, just a declaration and proof of ID. But I can’t remember what numbers I had so there’s no way of knowing how much until I actually collect.”

Alright, so we have a prize, which is great. And at worst that prize will be around $1500. At best, the prize will be around $2m.

We were both due to finish work and be on holidays at 2:30 on the Friday, so TLOML would howl in to the Tatts offices asap after work, gears crunching and road rage threatening to spring forth in full bloom and then text me when she found out the results.

How do you think I spent the next 24 hours? Trying to make my mind completely, totally, flotation-tank blank so I wouldn’t get any hopes up. We both agreed that it was probably only going to be $1500 and we should set that result in our minds to avoid any disappointment.

I was determined that Friday was going to be a day just like any other. I was going to concentrate on work to the exclusion of all else. Really. Intended to stay up late doing work-related stuff but polished that off and went to bed early. There were indeed two restless souls in our bed that night and with little chance of sleeping naturally, well we just had to ....

(tasteful lap dissolve to morning).