Momo-san, Day 2

Momo-san has made the nest box her home. I expect eggs as early as Sunday, since she already laid one egg. I can’t help but start wondering what to name them.

Momo-san, Day 1

Upon arriving home from various errands I was informed, much to my delight and horror, that m only remaining female parakeet, Momo-san, laid an egg. I was delighted to see the pearly pink oval, and was horrified that she had chewed off half the nestbox floor. I quickly went out to a fairl new shop on Gladstone in Sylmar and bought a, may I say very very reasonably priced!, new nest box. Now I’m waiting to watch Momo-san hop in and make it her nest.

“Mister” Obama?

Why do some reporters call the current US President “Mr. Obama” as opposed to “President Obama”?

Is it just me, or does this seem rude?

Am I being silly, or does it seem to detract from Barack Obama’s current position as the President of the United States of America? Isn’t it a bit like separating the yolk from the egg, and therefore having an egg white and egg yolk? Is it the intention of these reporters to do such a thing?

What a mystery.

Frosted Circus Animal Cookies

First post (since August 2010) woo \o/

While dealing with a rather stressfull situation, after an equally stressfull day at work, I had some Frosted Circus Animal Cookies. These cookies, in my opinion, are the best cookies a person such as myself could possibly have after such a difficult day.

Many magazines (of both reputable and non-reputable reputations) have mentioned that crunchy things help us handle/relieve stress. In addition, many people rely on sweet foods to help raise dopamine levels. I, however, find something else comforting.

Have you ever noticed that no two cookies are frosted the same way? Nor are any two cookies sprinkled with sprinkles in the same way. Some, through chance, I suppose, are a bit slanted. Or the frosting has left a little layer behind (presumably because these cookies are frosted while on a dish or pan of some sort… maybe a cookie sheet?). My point is, no two cookies are exactly the same.

You know what would be really nice? If no two people’s names were exactly the same. For example:

A latina mother has just had her baby. She wants to name him Jesus. Her last name is Lopez. She tries to write in “Jesus Lopez” into the baby’s name tag. BAM! MESSAGE!
“We’re sorry. The name ‘Jesus Lopez’ is already taken. Would you like any of these alternatives?
1. Jesus Lopez2011
2. Jesus Lopez0511
3. Jesus Lopez051711
4. [ OTHER ]“

Think about it. Each person would have their own unique name. Obviously the mother wouldn’t have to put numbers in her son’s name. That’s just something to make the new mother laugh, in case she’s going through a hard time. Rather, it would encourage mothers to think of more unique names, and would discourage mothers from copying other people’s names.

That way, when we want to stalk someone online, or maybe find out information about a suspicious person one bought a horribly defective steam cooker from because one tends to be the type of person who is QUITE A BIT SILLY and is able to trust the most random people…. one can find out information about that person without confusing that person for a deceased 53 year old gentleman who died in New Jersey of a “prolongued illness”.

Think about it.

When the dog bites, when the bee stings

It’s been a while now that I’ve been hoping for a normal, regular, uneventful weekend in which I can relax and play Half Life 2 all day, after doing the laundry and tending to the front garden. Unfortunately, each weekend has brought a bit of an adventure, lately.

Yesterday evening, having nothing better to do and finally taking pity on our slowly wilting front lawn, I decided to go out and give it a good watering. Two weeks ago we went camping to Cachuma Lake, and no one was available to do the watering for us. Last week I was busy and, I’ll admit, too lazy to do anything. It felt nice, to stand in the evening sun and finally figure out how to set up the watering hose to automatic.

I noticed, quite contentedly, that our neighbourhood isn’t very ugly. It’s nicely lined with trees, people take care of their lawns, the cars are neither flashy nor dirty. It’s, in essence, a working class neighbourhood 30 miles from Los Angeles. It’s a suburb, really, on the edge of an industrial area. People work anywhere from 20 to 30 miles from their homes, and have both large cars (for their families) or cars they use for work.

The houses are usually nicely or at least somewhat painted. It’s a green neighbourhood, with people who are conscientious about how much they spend on water and gardening supplies, while at the same time keeping a nice face to their neighbours. There are no lawn competitions, but every once in a while the lady from across the street will stick her head out between her window shades when she sees us watering our lawn, and will come out to do the same.

People usually wash their cars on a Sunday evening. Monday’s coming up, of course, and we’ve got the hose out already; why not? Out come the scrubbers and the towels, and the slightly-more-expensive car wash detergent. Those with large cars (trucks and SUVs) wash the car out in the street in case they get yelled at by the city for spilling too much water. Others with smaller cars (sports cars for example) don’t mind washing it in the driveway.

I sometimes like watching the Cessnas that take off from our local airport. They seem to go around San Fernando around noon and come back later in the evening. It’s quite a sight to see 3 or 4 in a row, gleaming in the sunlight as if from some convenience store postcard. I noticed that the front neighbour’s dog likes watching them too.

On such an evening, listening to the Yukikaze soundtrack, a man started walking down our street. Not having my glasses on, I didn’t notice him until he was a couple of houses down from ours. I saw he was limping, and figured he was bow-legged or something, as some older people are. He seemed to try to get the attention of a person who was washing his car in the driveway. The person shooed him away enthusiastically, and the man kept walking. About 4 or 5 minutes later, he was close enough to where I saw he was not only limping, but also tipping from side to side.

“Oh man, I wonder if he’s drunk” I thought to myself, and eyed him wearily. He stopped a few feet away from me, and very kindly wished me a good afternoon. I replied likewise and noticed a long deep cut in his right arm. It was dripping blood slowly onto our sidewalk. He insisted on asking if I was alright, and told me that nothing would happen. Vehemently, he assured me I would be alright.

“I’m ok, but do you need help?” I asked him, now concerned. The thing is, he didn’t smell of alcohol, at all. Usually for a person exhibiting his disorientation and lack of equilibrium, they’d *reek* of alcohol. This gentleman didn’t at all, and I was downwind. If anything, I could smell a slight tinge of soap. He was well dressed: sleek and shiny salt-peppered hair combed back, two necklaces (a dog-tag and a catholic cross), clean white shirt, clean light blue jeans with a black belt, and polished black leather shoes whose laces were neatly tied. His arms, though dark and tattooed, were clean, if bruised and bloody.

I immediately thought of my dad’s condition, and what I had read. Sometimes when a Diabetic person’s blood sugar goes very low they exhibit disorientation and lack of equilibrium leading to loss of consciousness. If he had maybe passed out and fallen, it would explain the large cut on his arm.

“Please stay right here, don’t move, I’m going to get help,” I told him, and he nodded sleepily. I ran into my house, and told my mum and dad what happened. My dad went outside while my mum got her cell-phone and handed it to me. “Don’t call just yet,” said my dad, “Maybe he lives in the area and he just needs help getting home to a relative.” Dad went outside to chase after the man, who had taken off surprisingly quickly and kept walking down the street. He found the man almost at the end of our block.

Some very confusing things then happened. The man tried to salute my dad, in a military fashion, while my dad tried to ask his name and address. Then the man wobbled more, and tipped over, falling against a truck and sliding under it. Dad was able to pull him up and over to some grass. The man at first resisted to be sat down, then gave up and laid back on the grass. He passed out of consciousness for some time. While that happened, I dialed 911 and was able to get someone to take the details of what had happened. By the time he began to regain consciousness, two fire trucks and an ambulance were coming down our street. I flagged them down, and they lined up.

By that time, there was a small crowd of spectators. This is where my fury overwhelms me. This is the part where I need to just get up, go outside, take a deep breath, and do my best to not kick down and destroy everything in front of me, so unbearably strong is my disappointment and rage towards humanity. This might not seem to be such a big deal to many people. In fact, if I numb myself and try to see it from the point of view of the general person, I am not so surprised. But that feeling of comprehension doesn’t last very long. It’s difficult to organise my thoughts when I feel this way, so please bear with me.

How long had this man been traveling in such a condition? There was the first person I saw him talk to, who had shooed him away. It’s difficult to not have noticed his bleeding arm. When he was walking down the street before my dad caught up with him, there were a couple of people outside watering their lawns, tending to their cars. The streets were not deserted. No one offered to help. When my dad had finally caught up with the man, an ice cream truck had stopped to sell his wares. There were children all around the ice cream truck, who would go around us to try to get to it. A couple of them even gave us the “You’re in the way” look, before looking down at the unconscious man on the floor.

After a few minutes of that, adults started coming over. There was a single solitary man who had been watching us before (never offered his help to my father, or support to my sister or myself), who once the man was unconscious on the ground came over to see what was happening. When the fire department arrived, everyone scattered like roaches.

While my dad was trying to get the man up from the gutter where he fell under the truck, and when my dad was struggling to get the man to lay down, no one even got close. If the man had gotten violent, it would have been up to my father, my sister and me to calm him down or even to pin him down.

How I wish I could have yelled to all those life-engorged, self-satisfied, lazy, egotistical excuses for human beings to go away if they would not help my half-blind father.

My anger is one that doesn’t leave room for words. This is the type of anger that leaves me, an otherwise opinionated (I admit even annoyingly so) person completely wordless. Disgust might be a good word for what I felt, maybe revolt. Seeing those people standing there with a sick curiosity in their eyes, with a sense of self-satisfaction, an “I would never be caught in that situation”, judging this man instead of helping him, made me feel as if I was staring into a ditch full of the discarded remnants of a dead animal, covered in maggots and debris. It was like looking at a dead tree, full of plague, or like trying to stare into a dirty fish tank full of dead fish.

Then I remember that maybe there are more people like my dad out there, who are willing to put themselves in some danger to help another person. Maybe there are families as kind as ours, who don’t let even a stranger walk by if he needs help. I remember that there is some sort of good in this world, like some organizations and religions that kindheartedly and honestly give their lives and resources to bring hope and help to people and animals who really need it. Even if the problems isn’t fixed, the fact that one person’s life is made easier, or at least that person is not left alone… At least one more person has hope and some level of comfort.

I remember all the nurses at the clinics my dad used to go to for his eyes, and other health-problems. I remember how social workers really put their own emotions aside to help as many people as possible, and how tired they must be when they get home after a long day. I remember the doctors who spend millions of their own money to help people overseas, and even here in the US. Even the firefighters and the ambulance workers who gently picked him up and talked to him to get him to relax (he was scared by the sirens and lights), were very kind.

I honestly forget where I was going with this, but, I want to urge anyone out there, anyone who reads this: Don’t let people just pass you by. Don’t just assume that tipsy guy is drunk. Don’t just assume the shady guy passed out on the street is there because he wants to be. Don’t just assume someone else will help the old lady struggling with her grocery bags. It’s so easy to shield our eyes from someone who needs help. We set up excuses like “He might get violent” or “He looked like a gangster”, or “The old lady might yell at me” or “Someone else will help”.

If he looks violent, of course seek shelter. What stops you from calling the police or an ambulance? Some elderly people might be offended by a person offering help, but what do you lose for offering it? Do you lose your dignity? Do you lose your pride? Do you lose any money? Do you lose, in fact, even your breath?

It’s… unfair and impractical for every person in the world to actively seek out people to help. That’s nowhere near what I’m asking for. I’m simply asking people to remember that people are people! That transient on the street could very well be your father, or your mother. That old man or woman at the corner might one day be you!

There’s so much distrust in this world, it overwhelms the very essence of our humanity… it’s infuriating and makes me want to cry….

How to Collect from Co-Workers and Friends

So, about a month and a half ago I let a co-worker borrow $200. But… now that I think about it. I can’t remember how much he’s paid back! ARGH!

Ah, whatever… I *think* he paid me back half of it about a month ago. Now I’m not sure, though, if he gave me $100 or just $50. Now I can only hope he’ll be honest and pay me back whatever he borrowed

Anyway, here’s what I learned.

I went with the last option on the bottom, by the way.

The Breakfast Club

So, so, hi. Today, I came across another one of those very particular characters. A couple of weeks ago, Boss got a new driver. He kinda looks like this:

His name's not really Mario, but I think he got kind of used to me calling him Mario

He’s a kind of odd person, but he’s nice.

I think he’s somewhat religious, ’cause he’s constantly humming, singing, or otherwise creating noise that sounds like Christian music.

He likes to keep busy by cleaning the warehouse when he’s not out driving, and seems to enjoy long walks on a beach.

He’s also divorced with one child… Wait… anyway.

When he first started working with us, he was supposed to start work at 7.30AM or so. I’d always see him right when I would clock in, though (6.30AM), and I noticed after a while that he takes the bus to work.

Maybe he lives far from work?  But he’s a driver, and they usually have their own cars. Maybe times were really tough for him, and he had to sell his car? Or, maybe he lives *close* to work, and it’s cheaper for him to take the bus.

At first I felt kind of bad for him. He seemed really groggy, and I would sometimes see him in the kitchen with his head on the table, fast asleep.

After a couple of weeks, though, the kitchen sort of seemed transformed, and I couldn’t help but be happy that he came in so early. It’s really quite unfair on him, though.

Before Mario Started Working with us. That's a bit of mouldy popcorn, by the way.

He uses Olive Oil to make a vinaigrette for the salads he has with his roast chicken.

We have a little fridge over by the sink in the kitchen (not shown above). The little fridge usually holds everyone’s meal for the day, like in any office. But Mario brings milk for his cereal, orange juice, and, other such grocery foods. The other day, even this happened.

Eh... wow, no thanks.

And then he invites us all to help ourselves to his cereal, and milk.

Like, honestly, where did this guy come from?

Maybe the cereal is poisoned… or maybe I’m just so accustomed to living in a world where people are selfish.

Maybe he’s secretly planning our demise, or secretly wanting to make us all fat, and ruin our diets.

Or, maybe, he’s just a super nice guy who likes sharing with people. Either way, it struck me as very odd.

And, one last thing that sort of confused me…. If he takes the bus from home, to work: How did he manage to carry such a huge roast chicken, and then also the milk, and his cereal and fruit?

Now, usually I’d strike up a conversation with a person like this. But he’s so incredibly nice, it’s almost painful to talk to him.

Don’t get me wrong, it’s not like he exudes honesty and good-will or anything. At first glance, he’s just a regular guy in his 40-50s. But after seeing what he’s taken upon himself to do, with the cleaning and the sharing, and the wanting to make friends with everyone… I don’t know.

It’s all very odd.

It’s got me all in a flutter, once again questioning whether my cynicism towards humanity, and humanity’s self-interest is truly warranted. I ask myself, yet again, if there are people like our friend Mario here, then, surely it would not be so difficult to make this world a better place. Surely there must be a limit to humanity’s disgusting self-centered idiocy.

But then I hear the radio, and remember that there’s a very strong movement going around to get rid of/ “crack down” on illegal immigrants. The US is starting to look like that one fat kid on the corner with the new super awesome bouncy ball. All the other kids on the street really want to play with the super awesome bouncy ball, and, well, heck, why not with the fat kid too?

But then, all of the kids, excited over this new shiny item, start milling around the fat kid, and he suddenly goes “Screw you guys, I’m going home and taking my ball with me, too.”

I really don’t know how to feel about all this! I suppose that’s why this blog entry is so dry.

I, in short, am utterly confused about everything.

Speaker Phone

IF EVERYONE’S LOUD. TURN OFF THE FUCKING SPEAKER PHONE!

Speaker phone is for when you’re, for example, in a car, and (in California at least) it’s not legal to hold one’s mobile to one’s ear. So speaker phone is turned on so you don’t get a ticket/die in a fiery car crash. But even an ear-piece-device-technology-thing is more practical.

Speaker phone is for when you’re, for example, in a conference, and all the people around you need to listen to what’s being said. The speaker phone quality is usually good when going from land-line to land-line.

Speaker phone is NOT for when  you’re at work, and everyone around you is loud.

Speaker phone is NOT for when you’re in a busy, noisy supermarket, and your child is crying at you for more candy to shove in his fat face.

The basic rules, I believe, are:

If you can’t understand or hear what is being said to you, don’t use the speakerphone.

If you don’t want anyone else to understand or hear what is being said to you, don’t use the speakerphone.

An example:

What happens at work when we put someone on Speaker Phone. I'm the brunette.

See? Do you want this to happen to you? Hmm???

It’s not all that difficult :D

It’s not really all that difficult!

Here I was going “Ohhhh man, it must be so tough to draw those blog thingajiggers.”

Then I thought about it for a couple days, and figured I’d give it a try.

Here are my first attempts… Not great, but I realized it’s tons of fun. It’ll only make sense to the #tycoonexiles, though

#tycoonexiles members:

First attempt:

Second attempt:

*Palm-tree borrowed from Microsoft Clip-Art. Bukkit is not my invention! But I did draw this particular Bukkit.

It’s time consuming, but it’s tons of fun! I’m considering making more!

Anchor

Just a little thought for the day~

I have a job, myes. It’s a good job. It’s fun, overall. I learn things every day, I get to meet interesting people with amusing experiences and entertaining opinions.

I guess, what I’m saying is that I’m beginning to feel guilty about complaining about my employer so much. Sure, I disagree with him. Yeah, he’s a bit on the slow side. And,  yes, he can be pretty callous and mean at times. But he must be doing something right for his business to make a profit. Besides, I have to be at least a little grateful for him giving me a job without my having experience in the field, though I have plenty of knowledge.

I’ve heard quite a few of my friends and acquaintances having trouble finding work because of lack of experience, or an overall lack of job opportunities. Of course, this is nothing new, especially in our area.

The thing is, the “recession” hit our shop later than most. While everyone was panicking about having less work, we were still hustling. Then things slowed down for about… I dunno, two or three months. At that time, my boss asked me to work less days, and I had Mondays off. Our sales are are still lower than they have been in the last five years on average, but we’re working hard to get them back up, and it seems to be working!

Lately I have to come into work because of the high volume of projects. It’s not even just quotes anymore. As in, there are fewer bids than usual to complete, but I’m being awarded quite a few of those I do bid!

Another benefit to the slow-down in sales is that I’ve had the opportunity to reorganize the way I bid. I’m a lot more organized, a lot more concise, and I’ve figured out new ways to be more competitive.

I’m seeing, though, that while the “recession” lasted about three (maybe four) months for us (and we’ve made the most of that time), a lot of people are still suffering from the effects of a slowed economy in ways that they can’t control.

It really makes me thankful, that I have such a flexible job where I can earn good money *and* have fun at the same time.

*glee*