Leave it to Google, and no I'm not on their payroll.
As I've written before they have one of the best free image editors (I think anyway) in Picasa and they also have this silly little game that is extremely addicting.
You get 5 random pictures that you have to try to guess the location by placing a marker on a world globe. Once you guess the software tells you exactly where the picture was taken. The closer your guess is to the right answer the more points you get.
Simple and easy to play but tough to be good at.
Sure there are some "gimmes" (like you see the writing on a highway sign written in Chinese); but there are more than a number of ones that you look at and say "WTF?".
My best score was 2212 (and yes it was mostly luck and a couple of pictures of a pineapple plant).
Click here to check it out.
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
Why we hate her....
So "Lizzy's" been cheering for the JV basketball squad all year. Cute uniform, cute routines, happy smiles, confidence building. Everything you want your 10 year old to feel.
So the end of the season is near and the squad is offering mementos of the season by having an "official" cheering picture taken and then you are free to indulge your young progeny's ego by getting their picture on every possible conveyance known to man.
Picture on a mug. Picture on a sport bottle. Picture on a blanket. Picture on a porcelain bidet (ok, maybe not). Picture package with a bunch of different sizes. Picture. Picture. Picture.
You get the picture (I love a good pun, don't you?).
So of course we find out a day late and a dollar short that she has to have all the orders in by Wednesday (which gives us all of 2 days to order the stuff). This is standard operating procedure for them. Lizzy does her best to remember, but she's 10. You'd think that she'd get a little boost from her -ahem- Mother in making sure this stuff get's communicated.
It just doesn't happen.
So, we get the notice late and never fear because her -ahem- Mother will pay for whatever I order with the understanding that I'll pay her back the next day when I get the kids. 24 hours later.
Liz is happy. She gets some mementos from her cheering squad and I'm sure she's happy with the thought that, yes in fact her -ahem- Mother will in fact see her in her cheering uniform doing cheers. Maybe not live in the flesh, because God forbid she'd have to get off her dead ass and make an effort, but at least in picture form so she could see that yes her daughter did well.
This of course changed when I got this text message at 3:00pm on Tuesday (a day before the order is due):
"Hi, I just wanted to let you know that I will not be able to pay for Liz's cheering pictures. If you still want them you can buy by credit card. Liz has the information."
Of course this causes Liz to freak out because now she's thinking no-one is going to get to see her and she's not going to have a sport bottle with her picture on it. When you're 10 this stuff really matters, and come to think of it when you're 42 it really matters too.
This from the woman that has a -ahem- "job" that pays her $300 per week to do ABSOLUTELY nothing but make sure those two kids don't light themselves on fire, play with caustic chemicals, or eat anything near nutritious (why cook when Papa Gino's makes such great garlic bread? Garlic's a vegetable right...).
There's a special hot pointy rock in Hell waiting for her and it gives me such satisfaction knowing that.
So the end of the season is near and the squad is offering mementos of the season by having an "official" cheering picture taken and then you are free to indulge your young progeny's ego by getting their picture on every possible conveyance known to man.
Picture on a mug. Picture on a sport bottle. Picture on a blanket. Picture on a porcelain bidet (ok, maybe not). Picture package with a bunch of different sizes. Picture. Picture. Picture.
You get the picture (I love a good pun, don't you?).
So of course we find out a day late and a dollar short that she has to have all the orders in by Wednesday (which gives us all of 2 days to order the stuff). This is standard operating procedure for them. Lizzy does her best to remember, but she's 10. You'd think that she'd get a little boost from her -ahem- Mother in making sure this stuff get's communicated.
It just doesn't happen.
So, we get the notice late and never fear because her -ahem- Mother will pay for whatever I order with the understanding that I'll pay her back the next day when I get the kids. 24 hours later.
Liz is happy. She gets some mementos from her cheering squad and I'm sure she's happy with the thought that, yes in fact her -ahem- Mother will in fact see her in her cheering uniform doing cheers. Maybe not live in the flesh, because God forbid she'd have to get off her dead ass and make an effort, but at least in picture form so she could see that yes her daughter did well.
This of course changed when I got this text message at 3:00pm on Tuesday (a day before the order is due):
"Hi, I just wanted to let you know that I will not be able to pay for Liz's cheering pictures. If you still want them you can buy by credit card. Liz has the information."
Of course this causes Liz to freak out because now she's thinking no-one is going to get to see her and she's not going to have a sport bottle with her picture on it. When you're 10 this stuff really matters, and come to think of it when you're 42 it really matters too.
This from the woman that has a -ahem- "job" that pays her $300 per week to do ABSOLUTELY nothing but make sure those two kids don't light themselves on fire, play with caustic chemicals, or eat anything near nutritious (why cook when Papa Gino's makes such great garlic bread? Garlic's a vegetable right...).
There's a special hot pointy rock in Hell waiting for her and it gives me such satisfaction knowing that.
Thursday, February 19, 2009
The Routine
So I'm becoming my parents. I see this and I admit this. This is not some 20 or 30-something rant about life transition and the loss of my youth. I'm old enough to be past that. All this is is a little reminder that yes, I've become my parents in many ways. And that's not a bad thing.
So I remember as a kid that every morning had it's routine. Time schedule. Order of operations. The works.
You never ate before you showered. You never showered before you made your bed. That kind of thing. There was harmony and flow.
So I have that now in my current incarnation of 42 years.
Alarm @ 6:10.
Smack that damn "snoozy bar" for 3 times.
Done right this gets my ass out of bed for 6:30.
I'm up 1st. Always. My lovely is a night owl, she happily prattles on well into the 11 o'clock news.
I'm semi-comatose by 10pm.
So I'm always up 1st. Always.
I go to the bathroom and do my "Three S's" and for those of you who don't know what they are well go ask someone. Guys know what they are.
I primp and fuss for 3 minutes and then I'm out. Fresh as a daisy.
I always kiss my lovely good morning, usually on the cheek or high on her arm.
She always jumps and jerks like I've just poked her with an electric cattle prod.
I'm romantic. She's vigilant. Always on the lookout for potential bodily harm is she.
I get my small bowl of cereal, jump on the PC, check headlines, weather, sports (yes, that order).
I make lunch and do the dishes.
She drags out of bed and gets in the shower while I usually dress.
Boring isn't it.
I agree.
But lately, my lovely seems to feel the need to shower while I shave and thus injecting herself into my morning routine. She's up wandering around, on the computer, digging around the kitchen.
It's goddamn pandemonium if you ask me.
That's OK, she's pretty sweet. I'll keep her.
So I remember as a kid that every morning had it's routine. Time schedule. Order of operations. The works.
You never ate before you showered. You never showered before you made your bed. That kind of thing. There was harmony and flow.
So I have that now in my current incarnation of 42 years.
Alarm @ 6:10.
Smack that damn "snoozy bar" for 3 times.
Done right this gets my ass out of bed for 6:30.
I'm up 1st. Always. My lovely is a night owl, she happily prattles on well into the 11 o'clock news.
I'm semi-comatose by 10pm.
So I'm always up 1st. Always.
I go to the bathroom and do my "Three S's" and for those of you who don't know what they are well go ask someone. Guys know what they are.
I primp and fuss for 3 minutes and then I'm out. Fresh as a daisy.
I always kiss my lovely good morning, usually on the cheek or high on her arm.
She always jumps and jerks like I've just poked her with an electric cattle prod.
I'm romantic. She's vigilant. Always on the lookout for potential bodily harm is she.
I get my small bowl of cereal, jump on the PC, check headlines, weather, sports (yes, that order).
I make lunch and do the dishes.
She drags out of bed and gets in the shower while I usually dress.
Boring isn't it.
I agree.
But lately, my lovely seems to feel the need to shower while I shave and thus injecting herself into my morning routine. She's up wandering around, on the computer, digging around the kitchen.
It's goddamn pandemonium if you ask me.
That's OK, she's pretty sweet. I'll keep her.
Tuesday, February 3, 2009
The Window & The Loogie Man
I work in a large manufacturing/office facility that is in relatively good shape. I have the benefit of having a large window that runs the length of the building right outside my office.
Being able to look outside, even if it's for a minute, is a simple treat that we sometimes take for granted. This window is somewhat unique in that it's about 4 feet off the ground and about 3 feet high with a large windowsill that runs the entire length of it.
The windowsill is prime real estate here. It's deep (maybe 18 inches) and it allows you to stand up and put a cup of coffee or paper plate with a snack on it so you can sit and watch the world go by while you're having your break. It's almost like a high top in a bar. You know, the ones that are the perfect height for leaning and drinking and slobbering.
So every day @ 9:30am the folks that aren't as lucky as me come over to have their snack and drink their coffee. I'm all for it. Except there's this on guy who comes over and I swear he thinks he's in the men's room.
I call him "Loogie Man".
He burps.
He farts.
He coughs.
He hocks up loogies (I don't think he spits them but he works 'em up really well).
He makes this sound that sounds like he's trying to blow his nose by plugging up one nostril and blowing for all he's worth. "Snyah, snyah, snyah".
All the while he's drinking his coffee and eating his muffin.
And you know, I'm no prude, but please, just once go to the bathroom before you get your snack. Please. We're begging you.
Being able to look outside, even if it's for a minute, is a simple treat that we sometimes take for granted. This window is somewhat unique in that it's about 4 feet off the ground and about 3 feet high with a large windowsill that runs the entire length of it.
The windowsill is prime real estate here. It's deep (maybe 18 inches) and it allows you to stand up and put a cup of coffee or paper plate with a snack on it so you can sit and watch the world go by while you're having your break. It's almost like a high top in a bar. You know, the ones that are the perfect height for leaning and drinking and slobbering.
So every day @ 9:30am the folks that aren't as lucky as me come over to have their snack and drink their coffee. I'm all for it. Except there's this on guy who comes over and I swear he thinks he's in the men's room.
I call him "Loogie Man".
He burps.
He farts.
He coughs.
He hocks up loogies (I don't think he spits them but he works 'em up really well).
He makes this sound that sounds like he's trying to blow his nose by plugging up one nostril and blowing for all he's worth. "Snyah, snyah, snyah".
All the while he's drinking his coffee and eating his muffin.
And you know, I'm no prude, but please, just once go to the bathroom before you get your snack. Please. We're begging you.
Monday, February 2, 2009
How to lose $12 and destroy your kids self esteem.
You remember the old TV series "Dragnet" where they always made that official sounding disclaimer: "The names have been changed to protect the innocent."?
Well welcome to my blog. Those of you who know me, know who I am and who I'm talking about. Those of you who don't, well I'm going "Dragnet" on you because I don't want to listen to my ex-wife and her lousy lawyer try to whip up an endless torrent of "Cease and Desist" orders every time I put finger to keyboard.
So here's a classic example of what I dealt with for 13+ years of marriage:
So as is usual on Sunday nights I always get a good night call after I drop the kids off. The irony is that they've spent 2+ days with us and still like to call that same night just to talk. Compare that with their behavior when they're with us (school breaks, weekends, summer, etc.) and they never (and I mean N-E-V-E-R) want to pick-up the phone to call their -ahem- Mother I find it just dripping in irony.
So I get the call last night and ask my daughter (let's call her "Liz") how her night was. "Not good.", she informs me.
"Why? What happened?"
"Well we were driving home after you dropped us off and Mom had to stop for gas because she was on empty. So we stopped into Cumberland Farms and she gave Steve (my son) her last $12 so he could bring it in to the cashier and get the pump turned on."
"So he goes in and asks the man "Can I have $12 on pump number 3", gives him the money and then goes to the bathroom. As he's walking back out to the car, Mom's standing there waiting for the pump to come on and asking Steve if he gave the attendant the money. He says yes, $12 on pump #3."
"Well there was only one problem. Our car was parked on pump #4 and their was a different car on #3. Whoever that guy on #3 was, well he just got $12 worth of free gas."
Now I'm on the other end of the phone trying not to laugh because this is a classic case of her being her. I had all I could do to keep a straight face.
"So then what happened?"
"Well, Mom flipped out because she only had $12 and no other cash or credit cards. So she starts yelling at Steve to go get the man to change the pump number and restart the pump. By the time he got back in to the store the guy on #3 had already pumped his gas and driven off and the station attendant wouldn't restart the pump. Mom was out her last $12, had no gas and was freaking out that she was going to run out."
"So what did she do?"
"Well she started yelling at Steve for his mistake and he began to get upset so I told her that she should have brought the money in herself, and then she started yelling at me to mind my own business. Then she picked up her cell phone and started calling everyone to tell them she was afraid she was going to run out of gas and didn't know what to do.
She called Stu (her new husband) to tell him that she was going to run out of gas, but there was nothing he could do because he was at work. So she called Grammy to tell her, and Grammy told her to just drive as far as she could and if she ran out she ran out, and then she'd have to call the auto club."
"Did you make it home OK?"
"Yah, after all her drama she managed to make it home OK and she made us run in the house to get the emergency $10 so she could go to the station down the road.".
So there you go, a microcosm of life with my ex. Too lazy to do anything for herself. Too broke to even have an extra $10 for gas (oh, and don't feel too bad she get's well over $1,200 a month in support not to mention a full-time job). Too helpless to put her big girl pants on and deal with it and too self-pitying to see it as everyone elses responsibility to take care of her problems.
When you're own Mother tells you to keep driving and call the auto club when you finally run out of gas, I think you get a good idea that this isn't the first time this type of thing has happened.
Well welcome to my blog. Those of you who know me, know who I am and who I'm talking about. Those of you who don't, well I'm going "Dragnet" on you because I don't want to listen to my ex-wife and her lousy lawyer try to whip up an endless torrent of "Cease and Desist" orders every time I put finger to keyboard.
So here's a classic example of what I dealt with for 13+ years of marriage:
So as is usual on Sunday nights I always get a good night call after I drop the kids off. The irony is that they've spent 2+ days with us and still like to call that same night just to talk. Compare that with their behavior when they're with us (school breaks, weekends, summer, etc.) and they never (and I mean N-E-V-E-R) want to pick-up the phone to call their -ahem- Mother I find it just dripping in irony.
So I get the call last night and ask my daughter (let's call her "Liz") how her night was. "Not good.", she informs me.
"Why? What happened?"
"Well we were driving home after you dropped us off and Mom had to stop for gas because she was on empty. So we stopped into Cumberland Farms and she gave Steve (my son) her last $12 so he could bring it in to the cashier and get the pump turned on."
"So he goes in and asks the man "Can I have $12 on pump number 3", gives him the money and then goes to the bathroom. As he's walking back out to the car, Mom's standing there waiting for the pump to come on and asking Steve if he gave the attendant the money. He says yes, $12 on pump #3."
"Well there was only one problem. Our car was parked on pump #4 and their was a different car on #3. Whoever that guy on #3 was, well he just got $12 worth of free gas."
Now I'm on the other end of the phone trying not to laugh because this is a classic case of her being her. I had all I could do to keep a straight face.
"So then what happened?"
"Well, Mom flipped out because she only had $12 and no other cash or credit cards. So she starts yelling at Steve to go get the man to change the pump number and restart the pump. By the time he got back in to the store the guy on #3 had already pumped his gas and driven off and the station attendant wouldn't restart the pump. Mom was out her last $12, had no gas and was freaking out that she was going to run out."
"So what did she do?"
"Well she started yelling at Steve for his mistake and he began to get upset so I told her that she should have brought the money in herself, and then she started yelling at me to mind my own business. Then she picked up her cell phone and started calling everyone to tell them she was afraid she was going to run out of gas and didn't know what to do.
She called Stu (her new husband) to tell him that she was going to run out of gas, but there was nothing he could do because he was at work. So she called Grammy to tell her, and Grammy told her to just drive as far as she could and if she ran out she ran out, and then she'd have to call the auto club."
"Did you make it home OK?"
"Yah, after all her drama she managed to make it home OK and she made us run in the house to get the emergency $10 so she could go to the station down the road.".
So there you go, a microcosm of life with my ex. Too lazy to do anything for herself. Too broke to even have an extra $10 for gas (oh, and don't feel too bad she get's well over $1,200 a month in support not to mention a full-time job). Too helpless to put her big girl pants on and deal with it and too self-pitying to see it as everyone elses responsibility to take care of her problems.
When you're own Mother tells you to keep driving and call the auto club when you finally run out of gas, I think you get a good idea that this isn't the first time this type of thing has happened.
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