Yes - that was an actual recent Google search, and that was
not even close to being the worst of them. What has life come to!
One of the toughest things about living away from close family -
particularly those that have gone through the trials and tribulations of
parenthood - is relying on Google to diagnose most infant conditions not
involving blunt force trauma. There’s a wealth of information out there -
but never anything close to a definitive answer. Web MD’s symptom checker
came up with crone’s disease, multiple kidney failure, or an upset
stomach. Thankfully, browner hues have re-emerged, and we seem to have
escaped lifelong dialysis. But enough talking *poop*.
By far the most time consuming aspect of writing this blog is transforming my original content into something politically correct enough to keep me off the CIA (and my wife’s) hit list. It’s not just bleeping out the four letter words, either. For example, in my last blog, “Non Nato Countries” had originally been “[South Asian Metropolis] Sweatshops”, then “semi-terrorist states”, then “Axis of evil call centres” followed by 6 or 7 progressively tamer variations until I finally settled on “Non Nato Countries”. On hindsight, “Numerous Non Nato Nations” would’ve made for a quadruple-contiguous-alliteration - a 4 point play! Anyhow, after a mind numbing series of political softening exercises, the blog still has to pass the Susi test, to ensure that there are no objectionable references to either her, Riley or any of Germany’s more sensitive historical eras. I can, however, slay myself to my heart’s content.
A few months ago, Susi, Riley and I muddled our way through yet another one of our increasingly-arduous aviation adventures - this time to Germany. For a kid who’s managed three trips to the US and two to Germany in his first 16 months, Riley is not an optimal traveller. In fact, he is getting decidedly more difficult with age. He does not empty his pockets and remove his laptop before getting prompted by an agitated luggage screener. He does not remove his belt or shoes until he’s been shuttled through the scanning machine at least twice, and he always hides some innocuous piece of contraband under his bib - ensuring that he can engage some attractive screening lady in a full body search.
On this particular trip, the gentleman in front of us in the security queue decided to transport an entire server room in his hand luggage - wires, drives, laptop, racks, generators, blade servers and various other devices - all quite plausibly vital components in a homemade nuclear weapon. The security screener actually took a step back when this guy opened his suitcase, exposing his melange of mechanical madness. Then, instead of simply removing the electronics and placing them into the provided trays, our technologically tricked-out traveller proceeded to pick up each device and have a conversation with the security screener (in German, of course - which takes about 50% longer than in English) about whether it needed to be placed into a separate tray. After monopolising 10 minutes of everyone’s time, and about fifteen individual trays, Riley and I were able to go through the human screener. Unfortunately, the conga line of trays our technophile produced took up the entirety of the outbound side of the security belt, forcing the entire operation to stop while he repacked his Radio Shack yard sale - one maddeningly deliberate item at a time.
I cannot speak about the many manners in which I fantasized “dealing” with this person in my head. Suffice to say, Roman Polanski would’ve blushed. If there are 101 ways to skin a cat, I have invented 1001 ways to deal with imbecilic travellers. Making matters worse, Riley was utterly ahowl, but his pram, his toys and his formula were all stuck inside the scanning machine as this man went about his repacking in obnoxious oblivion.
Summoning my greatest creative talents, I chose to stand right behind him, innocently facing the opposite way, while putting Riley over my shoulder and mere inches from the traveller’s ear as Riley wailed away. I employed a mien of the harried but diligent parent trying desperately to quiet his young and preserve the eardrums of the masses - singing well off-key and inching Riley’s head ever so closer to the target of my ire. Yes, I used my 18 month old as a weapon of mass annoyance. I’m not proud of it, but it did inspire the alacrity and efficiency I expect in a single, adult, male traveller with no bloody kids, strollers or any of the other paraphernalia required to transport a toddler across country lines! Susi occasionally complains that I am rather deficient in the areas of tolerance and patience. I strongly disagree. I simply live and breathe process excellence and efficiency.
A few weeks later, I came down incredibly awkwardly on my right foot while defending a shot in 6 a side football. The quite audible crack seemed to indicate that I’d almost certainly fractured or broken my ankle. Tough guy that I am, I decided to use it as a timely opportunity to break the decibel record at the Westway Sports Center. Although I now think British… I still speak (and scream) American.
What my teammates heard:
Eeeyyyyyaaaaaeeegaragaahaaaaaeeooo
[Maternal copulating copulator]! [copulate]! [excrement]! [copulate]! Mother [copulator]! [copulate] my [copulating] [private body part]….
*repeat 5 times*
and we’ll leave it at that.
What I was thinking… really:
Dearest me, I do believe I may expire here today.
This jolly well smarts a bit, I do hope that I’m not inconveniencing anyone.
I surely wish I could make my way to the side of the pitch so as not to interrupt this lovely match.
Oh my, I fear I may vomit. I would feel ever so terrible if I vomited all over the 18 yard box. My, this would be such an unfortunate place to break my ankle and vomit.
I have promised my friend to enjoy a quiet pint after the game… I hope that he will not be disappointed if I have to seek medical care.
Well thank God for endorphins. After a minute or so, the pain started to subside, and I regained a semblance of sanity. My teammates helped me over to the edge of the pitch, wrestled my boot off… and then… “Oh my God!” uttered one in a state of disbelief and awe. Never comforting… but I was rolling with an unprecedentedly robust rush of naturally produced pain and brain numbing chemicals. The grapefruit that had popped out over my ankle was at the very least, medically intriguing, and I breathed a big sigh of relief that my howling and carrying on was at least justified visually.
Then bravado set in… “Yeah - I’ll just walk it off, boys… keep on playing.” Thankfully, they were a bit more sensible, and carted me off the pitch to get some medical attention (and to more readily resume their game). I reckon the rest of the story is as you’d expect it… spent half a day in A&E (emergency room) only to get X-rayed and have a doctor spend 15 minutes explaining (with the help of Google and Wikipedia) the constructs of the lower leg and foot, and ultimately telling me that because I wasn’t a pro footballer, they would not be providing any further tests or treatment.
After a month or two, they appeared to have been right. I was only slightly hobbling, my foot looked reasonably normal, and I was eagerly anticipating my next foray onto the football pitch. As I’ve always maintained, the NHS is the ideal health plan for the hypochondriac. Unless you are visibly haemorrhaging from multiple orifices, everything is just fine. In the UK, you are healthy until proven dying… in the US… you are dying until proven unable to pay.
And with that political zinger, I will sign off. As always - our best wishes from the Rainy Isle!
R, R, S and my lifelong muses F & M
By far the most time consuming aspect of writing this blog is transforming my original content into something politically correct enough to keep me off the CIA (and my wife’s) hit list. It’s not just bleeping out the four letter words, either. For example, in my last blog, “Non Nato Countries” had originally been “[South Asian Metropolis] Sweatshops”, then “semi-terrorist states”, then “Axis of evil call centres” followed by 6 or 7 progressively tamer variations until I finally settled on “Non Nato Countries”. On hindsight, “Numerous Non Nato Nations” would’ve made for a quadruple-contiguous-alliteration - a 4 point play! Anyhow, after a mind numbing series of political softening exercises, the blog still has to pass the Susi test, to ensure that there are no objectionable references to either her, Riley or any of Germany’s more sensitive historical eras. I can, however, slay myself to my heart’s content.
A few months ago, Susi, Riley and I muddled our way through yet another one of our increasingly-arduous aviation adventures - this time to Germany. For a kid who’s managed three trips to the US and two to Germany in his first 16 months, Riley is not an optimal traveller. In fact, he is getting decidedly more difficult with age. He does not empty his pockets and remove his laptop before getting prompted by an agitated luggage screener. He does not remove his belt or shoes until he’s been shuttled through the scanning machine at least twice, and he always hides some innocuous piece of contraband under his bib - ensuring that he can engage some attractive screening lady in a full body search.
On this particular trip, the gentleman in front of us in the security queue decided to transport an entire server room in his hand luggage - wires, drives, laptop, racks, generators, blade servers and various other devices - all quite plausibly vital components in a homemade nuclear weapon. The security screener actually took a step back when this guy opened his suitcase, exposing his melange of mechanical madness. Then, instead of simply removing the electronics and placing them into the provided trays, our technologically tricked-out traveller proceeded to pick up each device and have a conversation with the security screener (in German, of course - which takes about 50% longer than in English) about whether it needed to be placed into a separate tray. After monopolising 10 minutes of everyone’s time, and about fifteen individual trays, Riley and I were able to go through the human screener. Unfortunately, the conga line of trays our technophile produced took up the entirety of the outbound side of the security belt, forcing the entire operation to stop while he repacked his Radio Shack yard sale - one maddeningly deliberate item at a time.
I cannot speak about the many manners in which I fantasized “dealing” with this person in my head. Suffice to say, Roman Polanski would’ve blushed. If there are 101 ways to skin a cat, I have invented 1001 ways to deal with imbecilic travellers. Making matters worse, Riley was utterly ahowl, but his pram, his toys and his formula were all stuck inside the scanning machine as this man went about his repacking in obnoxious oblivion.
Summoning my greatest creative talents, I chose to stand right behind him, innocently facing the opposite way, while putting Riley over my shoulder and mere inches from the traveller’s ear as Riley wailed away. I employed a mien of the harried but diligent parent trying desperately to quiet his young and preserve the eardrums of the masses - singing well off-key and inching Riley’s head ever so closer to the target of my ire. Yes, I used my 18 month old as a weapon of mass annoyance. I’m not proud of it, but it did inspire the alacrity and efficiency I expect in a single, adult, male traveller with no bloody kids, strollers or any of the other paraphernalia required to transport a toddler across country lines! Susi occasionally complains that I am rather deficient in the areas of tolerance and patience. I strongly disagree. I simply live and breathe process excellence and efficiency.
A few weeks later, I came down incredibly awkwardly on my right foot while defending a shot in 6 a side football. The quite audible crack seemed to indicate that I’d almost certainly fractured or broken my ankle. Tough guy that I am, I decided to use it as a timely opportunity to break the decibel record at the Westway Sports Center. Although I now think British… I still speak (and scream) American.
What my teammates heard:
Eeeyyyyyaaaaaeeegaragaahaaaaaeeooo
[Maternal copulating copulator]! [copulate]! [excrement]! [copulate]! Mother [copulator]! [copulate] my [copulating] [private body part]….
*repeat 5 times*
and we’ll leave it at that.
What I was thinking… really:
Dearest me, I do believe I may expire here today.
This jolly well smarts a bit, I do hope that I’m not inconveniencing anyone.
I surely wish I could make my way to the side of the pitch so as not to interrupt this lovely match.
Oh my, I fear I may vomit. I would feel ever so terrible if I vomited all over the 18 yard box. My, this would be such an unfortunate place to break my ankle and vomit.
I have promised my friend to enjoy a quiet pint after the game… I hope that he will not be disappointed if I have to seek medical care.
Well thank God for endorphins. After a minute or so, the pain started to subside, and I regained a semblance of sanity. My teammates helped me over to the edge of the pitch, wrestled my boot off… and then… “Oh my God!” uttered one in a state of disbelief and awe. Never comforting… but I was rolling with an unprecedentedly robust rush of naturally produced pain and brain numbing chemicals. The grapefruit that had popped out over my ankle was at the very least, medically intriguing, and I breathed a big sigh of relief that my howling and carrying on was at least justified visually.
Then bravado set in… “Yeah - I’ll just walk it off, boys… keep on playing.” Thankfully, they were a bit more sensible, and carted me off the pitch to get some medical attention (and to more readily resume their game). I reckon the rest of the story is as you’d expect it… spent half a day in A&E (emergency room) only to get X-rayed and have a doctor spend 15 minutes explaining (with the help of Google and Wikipedia) the constructs of the lower leg and foot, and ultimately telling me that because I wasn’t a pro footballer, they would not be providing any further tests or treatment.
After a month or two, they appeared to have been right. I was only slightly hobbling, my foot looked reasonably normal, and I was eagerly anticipating my next foray onto the football pitch. As I’ve always maintained, the NHS is the ideal health plan for the hypochondriac. Unless you are visibly haemorrhaging from multiple orifices, everything is just fine. In the UK, you are healthy until proven dying… in the US… you are dying until proven unable to pay.
And with that political zinger, I will sign off. As always - our best wishes from the Rainy Isle!
R, R, S and my lifelong muses F & M
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