LANGUAGE: I KNOW, RIGHT?

English is a difficult language.  I work with people who know multiple languages—Russian, German, and many others.  One lady even knows Swahili!  (Or so she says… it really only works if there is another person around who can vouch for it.   

One Swahili-speaking person = not impressive.   
TWO Swahili-speaking people = awesome!

These multi-lingual people are running around having multiple conversations and meanwhile I can barely read and write English.  However, me like words.  Me like words long time. 

Speaking of language: one annoying phrase is the old “I know, right?” This in and of itself is no big deal, but when used in a conversation it makes me want to jump off of a tall building.  Quick example:

Me: Hi there.  You look busy!

Person: I know, right?

Me: Yes.  Yes I do.  You look busy.

Person: I know, right?  I’m so busy.

Me: Are you almost finished the Johnson project?

Person: I know, right?

Me: No… no I don’t.  I need to know, hence why I’m asking.

Person: I know, right?

Me: Please find a toaster and a bathtub so I can end this.   

Okay, so a slight exaggeration for hilarious comedic purposes, but you get the idea.  The other one I don’t like is when someone says “you’re not kidding!” Again, this does nothing to add to my life in any meaningful way.  I make a witty observation and people will exclaim, “man! You’re not kidding.” Well, in fact sometimes I am kidding, but I’m not about to point it out now.  Now I feel all stressed out.  I’m busted.  What if they find out at a later time that I was in fact, kidding?  WHAT THEN?  Best just to hide in the bushes until they leave.  Problem solved. 

There are all sorts of parts of language that we use that are annoying, but only if you are aware of it.  I will now destroy your life for the next 40 years by bringing up the word “Um”.  Not really a word, um.  Before, you might not have even noticed “um”.  Now, you will hear it every time you listen to the radio, you’re your mouth, or hear any other humans speak, ever. 

Is “um” really a word?  Sure, you can play it in Scrabble, and you might even place the “Um” on a triple word score, but that doesn’t make it a real word in my opinion.  (The same goes for “Muzjiks”—not cool—I know that Russian peasants are people, they are real, and they deserve human rights, but it is annoying when people beat me at Scrabble using weird words.)  So, ummmmm, where were we? 

I ask again: is “um” even a real word?  Well, um, “um” is considered a “filler” word by the wordanistas, also known as people who are English professors.  They went to school.  Braggers!  According to the interwebs, it is typically used to denote a pause when talking.  In other words, “um” translates into “I’m not finished!”  I will also throw “uh” into this category.  Um and Uh are pretty much the same thing as far as I’m concerned—they both mean, “I am thinking, so please shut your pie hole until I can get my words out.”  On the other hand, “ugh” is totally different—“ugh” is what most people think when they hear the words “pie hole”.  See?  Words are fun!

I’m not a big fan of being super-picky on words.  Words, phrases, and what has been commonly used by the average “layperson” has changed over the past millennium.  Imagine sitting in the Globe Theatre back in the Middle Ages and listening to a Shakespeare play.  First of all, I wouldn’t understand any of it—English was way different back then.  Too many thees, and if you throw in a “wherefor art thou” I am pretty much finished.  Secondly, I would question why I was able to travel back in time only to sit in a theatre watching a play.  Aren’t there any Hitlers around to murder?  No apple to drop on Newton’s head?  Give me something constructive to do please.

My point is that words and phrases have changed over the years, so I am not inherently opposed to weird new phrases like “LOL” (Laugh Out Loud) or “ROTFL” (Rolling On The Floor Laughing)—come to think of it, there is a lot of laughing going on these days.  Enough with the Ls, everyone. 

Now before I start sounding all zen and centered, I do want to point out that there is one thing that I cannot stand under any circumstances—and it’s more of a numbers thing than a word thing:

The 0.99 cent sale.

This really irritates me.  The seller means to put 0.99 DOLLARS on a sign, not 0.99 cents.  0.99 cents is almost one whole penny.  One big fantasy in my life involves me buying 100 “0.99 cent” items, dropping a dollar at the checkout till and telling the cashier to keep the change.  Dammit that would be so awesome!  They would call the police, and when the officer showed up, I would calmly explain that the 0.99 means it is almost one penny.  Then I would get tazed.  Then I would soil myself, because electricity will eventually lead to paralysis.  But THEN, and only then, would I be able to go to court, plead my case to the judge and jury, and “0.99 cents” would be struck down for all time. 

Then who would have the last LOL?

CAT SITTING - THE GOOD, THE BAD & THE SCARY (Part 2)

I got home from my first stint as a cat sitter, humiliated in my attempt to be the cat whisperer.  My two cats at home greeted me with indifference—one thought it smelled food on me but it turns out that I just hadn't showered.  False alarm.  I slunk onto the couch and replayed the morning over in my mind. 

Quick recap: I showed up at the friend's house, the friends' cat freaked out and then the cat ran away.  And then I wandered around the friend's house for a half hour, shaking a bag of cat treats.  I mean I was wandering around the house.  Like outside.  I was circling the house like either the world's worst burglar, or maybe one of those super-old people who look for Mr. Pickles, but Mr. Pickles died like 17 years ago and they still think that they punched Hitler in the nose last week.  But more importantly than all that... was the cat going to be okay?  And more important than even that... would I have to give back any money if the cat never showed up?  This is why all cat sitting should have an eight-page contract that is reviewed by a team of notaries.  

This had all happened on Sunday.  So later that day I texted the friend (who I was thinking was "the client"—as in, "don't get sued by the client"—and I explained that I sort of, um, lost the cat.  Apparently this was no great news.  This was expected.  The cat apparently just needed to "get away" once in a while, and as such would saunter off into the neighbourhood and do whatever wild, feral cats do.  I am guessing activities included chasing mice, sitting on a fence and singing with other cats, and possibly playing the accordion—or maybe I am thinking of a Disney movie.  

I had trouble sleeping Sunday night, because I kept wondering if the cat was going to come back home.  I know what you are thinking—I got up in the middle of the night, got dressed, got in the car, drove the half hour across town and stood outside the house with the ghetto blaster like John Cusack in Say Anything. 

 "In Your Eyes... Kitty Lies... Kitty come home..."

- Peter Gabriel

Well, big surprise—that didn't happen.  I did, however, get up in the middle of the night.  Yes, I am that caring.  Actually, I just had to take a pee.  I drank too much iced tea.  It has nothing to do with the story, but I get the feeling that you wanted to know.  So, really, shame on you for being so nosy. 

Monday: me at work.  I was sitting at my desk trying not to think about the crazy cat.  I was planning on stopping by after work to put in my contractually-obligated visit, but I also wanted to.  Even if it was just to scrape a carcass off the road with a snow shovel, I felt that I owed it that much, after all we had been through together—her hissing, me getting angry and scared... okay so maybe there were memories that just hadn't been made yet. 

I left at lunch and swung by the house.  No sign of the cat.  I opened the door and slowly, carefully tiptoed into the house.  I know what you are thinking—why tip toe when the cat was not actually in the house.  Well, I can say this: if any cat was mean enough to learn how to jimmy open a patio door with a screwdriver, it was this cat.  

I peeked out through the patio door and didn't see anything.  Well, it was done then.  The cat was gone forever.  Could I still bill for two visits?  I swung open the patio door to water the plants, thus insuring that the client would have to pay me.  After all, I drove all the way over here and checked the mail...

Suddenly, from the shadows, a figure lept up onto the fence.  Okay, it was noon so there weren't really "shadows", but there was definitely a scary furry animal on the fence.  I stood there, paralyzed with either joy, fear or boredom.  Get in the house already.  The kitty sauntered back into the house, stopped at my feet to take a swipe and a hiss and then jogged inside to poop in the litter box.  

Welcome home, creep!  I locked the patio door and got the hell out of there.  The rest of the week was uneventful—there was some general hissing in my direction and I let her out once during the week, but I knew that the cat would come back.  Well, at least I hoped she would.  Well, at least I kind of hoped that she would.  

So if you need a cat sitter: I have experience dealing with difficult animals, as long as you are okay with me just letting them out into the neighbourhood and hoping that someday they come back. 

CAT SITTING—THE GOOD, THE BAD & THE SCARY (Part 1)

I decided to do a little community service this summer.  Now before anyone  pictures me picking up garbage on the side of the road wearing an orange jumpsuite, stop!  (Too late—you pictured it.)  A friend of mine needed a cat sitter and I figured it was some easy money.  I like cats.  I like cats because they require about as much maintenance as a potted plant.  Basically make sure it gets some water, drag it out into the sunlight once in a while, and try not to get too dirty shoveling around in the dirt. 

The friend in question had gone away on vacation in the past and another, a DIFFERENT person had cat sat.  She had sat the cat.  After my friend came back from vacation, we heard horror stories about the cat—basically the cat was a terror or possibly the devil had possessed said cat.  I thought this was hilarious; after all, I knew all about cats (I had lived with cats my entire life AND watched LOL cats on the internet).  I figured that this so-called "cat sitter" had no idea what they were doing.  Why were they hiding in the bedroom, or holding out a broom in a defensive manner?  I heard the details and derisively shook my head.  Why were they cowering in the bathroom, praying that the "beast" would eventually leave through the open patio doors?  Was crying and threatening to phone the police really necessary?  

I scoffed and figured that I would be able to earn some easy money as well as help out a desperate family in need.  Yes, I am a charitable person, providing my services for money.  I am a giver.  (And a taker.)

The mission was simple: Sunday through Friday—six days of looking after the cat.  Easy.  I showed up Sunday to an empty house, ready to spend my hour playing with the cat.  The family had left the day before.  I opened up the door to the house and called for the cat.  I reached into my back pack and whipped out my cat toy on a string.  I was ready to play with the lonely cat.

Only there was no lonely cat.  There was a little furry beast with evil eyes hissing.  I was a little surprised—did the beast not know I was on her side?  I stooped down to clean out the litter box and heard a low, gutteral growl.  Umm... I scooped faster and tied up the bag.  Now the hard part—I had to somehow get past the cat in order to get to the patio door, which led to the patio, which led to the garbage can.  

I stared down the cat for about thirty seconds, but she wasn't moving.  Let me be clear here—this cat is like 18 inches long.  I stuck out my bag of cat poop and litter like Captain America's shield and pushed forward.  The cat didn't move—well, didn't move backwards, that is.  She jumped up in the air like Michael Jordan heading for a slam dunk.  This was Nike cat—and it was NOT all about the shoes!  (1990s reference for those who are younger than thirty.)  This cat arched her back and swiped at the bag of litter.  And connected.  

The explosion of stinky, urine-soaked cat litter into the living room of the family I was trying to cat sit for was definitely one of the low points of that day.  It wasn't the ultimate low point—that would be me yelling and running for the patio door, a trail of sand zig-zagging across the living room and dining room floor.  I opened the patio door and threw the bag outside, hoping I would not hit a random neighbour in the face.  It was a chance I was willing to take.  I prayed that if the authorities found my half-eaten carcass next weekend, they would be able to identify me by my dental work—or come to think of it in hindsight, my car sitting in their driveway (with my license plate).  Okay, so I didn't really think that one through.  

The devil cat screamed past me and bolted outside.  I took a deep breath and peered out across the yard.  She was sitting on the fence—literally, not figuratively—she definitely did NOT want to come back inside, so she was sitting on an actual fence.  I shut the patio door and she turned and ran away. 

I put my cat toy back in the back pack—I wasn't going to be needing that anymore.  I wondered about offering a partial refund if the cat never showed up again.

TO BE CONTINUED...   

MIKE TYSON: Undisputed Truth (Book Review)

What does it mean to be a fan of Mike Tyson?  Growing up in the 1980s, I thought Mike Tyson was the greatest fighter ever—being able to knock out another professional fighter in 8 seconds sounded like a great skill to have in junior high school.  The book is called "Mike Tyson: Undisputed Truth).

After having won the heavyweight championship of the world at age 20, Tyson was synonymous with power and terrifying behavior in the ring.  Unfortunately, the wheels of his life fell off the rails, and he was convicted of rape and served some prison time.  Unfortunate for him—but great reading for the rest of us. 

If you like "the dirt" books—you know, where someone achieves fame and fortune and then bites off a piece of someone's ear and spends 300 million dollars and has nothing to show for it—then this book is for you.  It is a highly-entertaining romp through Tyson's childhood (filled with criminal behavior), his fanatical dedication to training and then the fall off the wagon including some pretty heavy drug use and indiscriminate sex.  A highly entertaining read!  

He also discusses the "ear biting" incident (where Tyson bit off a piece of Evander Holyfield's ear during a boxing match).  I always found it funny that Holyfield could take punches to the face no problem, but someone biting his ear off was suddenly "a big deal".  Don't teenage girls get their ears pierced?  Isn't that the same thing?  This book does not answer those questions, but they do explore Tyson's view of "what was he thinking" during these and many other ridiculous incidents in his life.  (He once misplaced a duffel bag with a million dollars cash in it—hilarious!)

Normally I don't like autobiographies, primarily because the protagonist is always telling the story from their point of view.  Yes, I was arrested.  Yes, I got that girl pregnant.  But hear my side of the story!  Tyson does not try to sugar-coat the stories—when he screws up, he says so and I found that refreshing.  

Overall, if you are a fan of Mike Tyson, boxing, tell-all books, or even the old 1980s Punch Out!  video game, then you will enjoy this book.