Dog Poo Roomba – Apologies for disgust!

I was up at 04:30am, turned my laptop on and started to browse the net for news of me winning millions on that ticket I bought in January.

Who knows, luck strikes unexpected. Just like sleeplessness.

I found below and got a thorough morning laugh.

Good start to a rainy/snowy/sloshy/windy/grey bad hair day.

Enjoy! I am nice that way 🙂

So, last week, something pretty tragic happened in our household. It’s taken me until now to wrap my head around it and find the words to describe the horror. It started off simple enough – something that’s probably happened to most of you.

Sometime between midnight and 1:30am, our puppy Evie pooped on our rug in the living room. This is the only time she’s done this, so it’s probably just because we forgot to let her out before we went to bed that night. Now, if you have a detective’s mind, you may be wondering how we know the poop occurred between midnight and 1:30am. We were asleep, so how do I know that time frame?

Why, friends, that’s because our Roomba runs at 1:30am every night, while we sleep. And it found the poop. And so begins the Pooptastrophe. The poohpocalypse. The pooppening.

If you have a Roomba, please rid yourself of all distractions and absorb everything I’m about to tell you.

Do not, under any circumstances, let your Roomba run over dog poop. If the unthinkable does happen, and your Roomba runs over dog poop, stop it immediately and do not let it continue the cleaning cycle. Because if that happens, it will spread the dog poop over every conceivable surface within its reach, resulting in a home that closely resembles a Jackson Pollock poop painting.

It will be on your floorboards. It will be on your furniture legs. It will be on your carpets. It will be on your rugs. It will be on your kids’ toy boxes. If it’s near the floor, it will have poop on it. Those awesome wheels, which have a checkered surface for better traction, left 25-foot poop trails all over the house. Our lovable Roomba, who gets a careful cleaning every night, looked like it had been mudding. Yes, mudding – like what you do with a Jeep on a pipeline road. But in poop.

Then, when your four-year-old gets up at 3am to crawl into your bed, you’ll wonder why he smells like dog poop. And you’ll walk into the living room. And you’ll wonder why the floor feels slightly gritty. And you’ll see a brown-encrusted, vaguely Roomba-shaped thing sitting in the middle of the floor with a glowing green light, like everything’s okay. Like it’s proud of itself. You were still half-asleep until this point, but now you wake up pretty damn quickly.

And then the horror. Oh the horror.

So, first you clean the child. You scrub the poop off his feet and put him back in bed. But you don’t bother cleaning your own feet, because you know what’s coming. It’s inevitable, and it’s coming at you like a freight train. Some folks would shrug their shoulders and get back in bed to deal with it in the morning. But you’re not one of those people – you can’t go to sleep with that war zone of poop in the living room.

So you clean the Roomba. You toss it in the bathtub to let it soak. You pull it apart, piece-by-piece, wondering at what point you became an adult and assumed responsibility for 3:30am-Roomba-disassembly-poop-cleanups. By this point, the poop isn’t just on your hands – it’s smeared up to your elbows. You already heard the Roomba make that “whirlllllllllllllllll-boop-hisssssssss” noise that sounds like electronics dying, and you realize you forgot to pull the battery before getting it wet.

Oh, and you’re not just using profanity – you’re inventing new types of profanity. You’re saying things that would make Satan shudder in revulsion. You hope your kid stayed in bed, because if he hears you talking like this, there’s no way he’s not ending up in prison.

Then you get out the carpet shampooer. When you push it up to the rug – the rug that started it all – the shampooer just laughs at you. Because that rug is going in the trash, folks. But you shampoo it anyway, because your wife loved that damn rug, and you know she’ll ask if you tried to clean it first.

Then you get out the paper towel rolls, idly wondering if you should invest in paper towel stock, and you blow through three or four rolls wiping up poop. Then you get the spray bottle with bleach water and hose down the floor boards to let them soak, because the poop has already dried. Then out comes the steam mop, and you take care of those 25-ft poop trails.

And then, because it’s 6am, you go to bed. Let’s finish this tomorrow, right?

The next day, you finish taking the Roomba apart, scraping out all the tiny flecks of poop, and after watching a few Youtube instructional videos, you remove the motherboard to wash it with a toothbrush. Then you bake it in the oven to dry. You put it all back together, and of course it doesn’t work. Because you heard the “whirlllllllllllllll-boop-hissssssss” noise when it died its poopy death in the bathtub. But you hoped that maybe the Roomba gods would have mercy on you.

But there’s a light at the end of the tunnel. After spending a week researching how to fix this damn £350 Roomba without spending £350 again – including refurb units, new motherboards, and new batteries – you finally decide to call the place where you bought it. That place called Hammacher Schlemmer. They have a funny name, but they have an awesome warranty. They claim it’s for life, and it’s for any reason.

So I called them and told the truth. My Roomba found dog poop and almost precipitated World War III.

And you know what they did? They offered to replace it. Yes, folks. They are replacing the Roomba that ran over dog poop and then died a poopy, watery death in the bathtub – by no fault of their own, of course.

So, mad props to Hammacher Schlemmer. If you’re buying anything expensive, and they sell it, I recommend buying it from them. And remember – don’t let your Roomba run over dog poop…

Credit to: Jesse Newton

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World News: World’s most eligible bachelor is off the market!

Skin Thickener lotion

This morning, I showered, dressed and put on some make up.

Make up for me is a click of foundation and a little lipstick.

My skin doesn’t like make up that much. And I don’t give that much of a crap to make Makeup look good.

Before I left for work (today, work is a summit for Data BI Nerds), I browsed through the news. One day too late as usual, I find out about the attack at Westminster that took place yesterday.

I click on to read about this terrible news. Where is the world headed? How can we save ourselves? Where do we hide our fear? Where do we hide our courage? Who do we the civilized world have to attack to make this stop???

…huh?…mmm…huh? To the right of this important news item, there is even worse news!

The WORLD‘s most eligible bachelor has been taken!

I feel crushed: nooooo. not him! no. no. no. after all this trouble with lipstick that ends up on the cheek?

Then I wonder despairingly: who??!

And then I realize: oh. him! I don’t know him!

Why is he the world‘s most eligible? Why don’t my relatives know of him?

My very beautiful cousin is single and the aunts have been going nuts pictures & work titles about all the bachelors she could capture if she paid any attention.

Is he nice? is there any news of him doing nice things?

Is he kind? is there any news of him doing kind things?

Is he respectful? is there any news of him doing respectful things?

Is he sober not abusing anything?? is there any news of him doing sober things?

None of that crap.

Lots of information about how much money he is worth and where his properties are to be found.

Due to promegneture, pregonut, primegenite, primegerosorous, primogeniture?

I read that the one who has captured him is his high school sweetheart.

So was he ever The World’s most eligible in the first place? You know, being in love with someone can takes care of that.

Being the world’s most eligible; that means the whole world including China, Thailand, Guinea, Vietnam, US, Mexico and all the regular suspects?

gemmacorrell-nope-square-greeting-card

That any girl woman, including my cousin in the world had a chance until he was snatched right under our sweaty pimply noses?

The spin in my head: So..

if she just pulled herself up by the bootstraps cheap broken zipper,

wore her best dress Polyester from Ellos,

took some time on her makeup from H&M,

Used her teeth whitener cheapest Colgate from ÖoB more often, and then went out to Debaser Medis as we did when we were younger;

She would have a chance to meet the world’s most eligible, take him home and make him hers?

Why doesn’t someone mail out a newsletter with this kind of data shit to unmarried women under 30 every month?

Given data in time, anyone, & I mean anyone, could have captured this bachelor!

 

Cats & Dogs as neighbours

I live in a building with mostly older people. By older people I mean over 65. They are not old. They are just older than me and most of the people I spend most of my time with.

In Sweden, we live long. So 65 is just the beginning of 20 years of fun. I mean with a good pension and good health.

In our building,  there are 75 year olds, 78 years olds, 80 years olds, 50 year olds. Definitely 45 year olds.

There is me.

There is the cat on the 1st floor.

There is the dog on the ground floor.

The cat stinks. That is how I know he or she is there. I live on the 3rd floor. I take the stairs; both going up and going down. That way, I can pretend that I am keeping myself fit. Taking care of my body.

The cat stinks really bad. I am discouraged from taking the stairs. Some days, I need an excuse to not take the stairs.

Sometimes, I can hear the cat meow. Rarely. I think she is a lazy cat. Mostly I can just smell her. The ammonia. When you smell cat stink, you know it is cat stink. Somehow.

The dog barks at me. Only at me I think. I never hear him/her otherwise. As soon as I open the entry port to the building, I can hear the dog yapping. The dog even runs to the door, probably to say hello. Or to tell me something about his/her life. Or his/her master’s life.

Closed up in that apartment for hours on end. The cat too. Probably the owners too.

Maybe the dog can smell the cat. Which would annoy him into barking & yapping. Trying to warn me that there is stink upstairs. Bad stink that a dog shouldn’t be expected to live with.

Maybe, the cat can smell the dog. And yet, keep silent? Maybe, the cat can hear the dog. And yet, keep silent?

The walls we build, they have two sides. Usually, the walls we build hide us on the other side. Are we then protected from freedom or from captivity? from sunshine or from rain? From lack, or from plenty? from sand dunes or from flowers? from music or from silence? from a potential friend or from a potential enemy?

The lives we choose, they have two sides. Usually, choosing one life means rejecting another life. Have we then chosen a life of searching? a life of finding? a life of learning? a life of giving? a life of taking? a life of hiding? a life of fear? a life of courage?

Or have we chosen a life full of life? If we are brave, we may be able to help our neighbours. If we are brave, we may even be able to help ourselves free ourselves of our fears.

 

My Design Proposal for US-Mexico Wall

Mexican Wall

Well. I am feeling a little creative today.

You can guess which sides of the wall each design fits. You could even mix and match them a little to make things spicy.

Usually, my creativity ends in a PowerPoint presentation, visio process, architectural or infrastructural model.

This, as you understand took ALL of my creative juices. I will be resting after this.

I am also starting to doubt whether I will ever be allowed to enter US soil. ever. Being:

  1. Swedish
  2. writing this

Teaching Old Dogs New Tricks

I am the old dog in this story.

I never took a Swedish driving license you see. During the late teens & early 20s, I was too broke to shoulder the cost and did not fancy getting into debt. A license costs a shirt, a leg & an arm in Sweden.

Striding strongly into my 30s, I have decided to have a driving instructor do this with me.

parking-stopping-forbidden

I can’t remember when I felt as daft as I have felt while learning to drive. It is like being thrown into a maze for the first time. Drunk.

I have felt daft before, of course. Many a times. Sometimes on a daily basis. Working in an IT department can do that to you. With colleagues who have been at it since before the days Nokia 3310 was the best phone around.

Thinking & talking about some new way of executing some old activity can turn into the most intimidating &/or condescending situations you can imagined.

Looks that say without a word:

oh, dear; little, pretty one. We tried that in 1993 & it did not work. It will not work now either. Didn’t you know that? What do you know then?! Why are you even here? Are you one of the quota group? women in tech or black women in tech? can you get us some coffee & take some notes while we talk?”

A condescending smile follows. You can’t report this crap to HR so don’t even waste energy thinking it.

You see the look. No one else sees the look.

You see the smile. No one else sees the smile.

You hear the tone of voice. No one else hears a pip!

You feel the being ignored. No one else sees your being ignored.

Someone else repeats your words as if they were news coming from Computer Power user or BBC.

Everyone is nodding their experienced smart heads in agreement.

You say in your I am gathering my wits around me voice. In your strong woman voice. In your I know my crap voice.

“Thank you kindly Joe. That is exactly what I was saying.”

Everyone shakes their extended experienced smart heads in consensus.

angrycateyesYou see the pity they feel for your pretty little head. You feel sick.

You get your knickers in a knot against all sense. One way or the other, you play your few angry cards.

All your nice kind helpful knowledgeable experienced colleagues can see the hard knots in your knickers & the angry cards that YOU threw on the table on the floor if you really went for it.

Once again, you are the negative one. The uncooperative one. The angry one.

It is impossible to prove the shit that is happening to you. If none of your fantastic not-angry colleagues acknowledge that they also saw the discreet actions; the discreet actions did not happen.

You are bonkers. You’re on the way to hitting the wall. Being sent off on sick leave.

circulationtrafikStill, me learning to drive made me feel dafter than I have ever felt.

Like running in circles surrounded by rules no one understands, but everyone, seems to live by the same said rules.

And the rules were written by experienced smart heads in total consensus.

You don’t feel me? Try learning the Right of Way rules.

 

The Subtle Art of Not Forgiving

She sat at the bus stop and spoke to strangers.

She is not a better person. She says. Far from it. She is a work in progress. A difficult, opinionated, happy, work in progress. Daily reminding herself that she needs to be kinder. She needs to think kinder thoughts. To be more mindful. To be more generous. To smile more. To think of others twice before she thinks of herself. To use her ears as much or more than she uses her mouth. To accept love when love is offered and to be graceful when she loses an argument or a game.

She will not forgive him though. A nameless him. A faceless him.

“Shall we call someone?”…”someone who can come get you?”

She would never do anything to harm him, she says, she just won’t forgive him.

A pause. Silence. We start to leave. She is crazy.

Not after what he has done. she says

“what has he done?”…”Are you injured?”

Not yet. Not today. Not tomorrow. And possibly not the day after that.

She will live in her unforgiving state for a while. She will enjoy the not forgiving.

She laughs a little brittle laugh.

She says she will call friends to let them know that she hasn’t forgiven him.

She will even call her family and let them know. His family too if she has to.

If he was alive, she would not speak to him. Silence & No Contact would make him understand that she hasn’t forgiven him.

She smiles. Her eyes glitter with tears. She shakes her head to keep the tears away? Or to shake a memory?

Because, she asks, why would she forgive him for making sure that she felt, felt deep inside her, that

  1. she is prioritizing the wrong things, but, only when she prioritizes herself? her needs?
  2. she is not good enough to be loved?
  3. she is not good enough at loving?
  4. her work is not as important as his? if she works overtime once a week, it too much, and when he works overtime twice a week it is too little?
  5. she did not deserve to achieve what she has achieved?
  6. she does not deserve to have the dreams that she has?
  7. her expectations are wrong, other people have better expectations?
  8. her boundaries are not as good as his boundaries? or other people’s boundaries?
  9. her lies are worse than his lies? even when he constantly lies about their future and she lies about her past?
  10. her people are less than his people? based on his expectations of how people should be?
  11. the places that she knows well & love traveling to are not good enough for him?
  12. her ways of escape are not as good as his?
  13. she is not worth some expense, or some trouble, or some concern, or some compliment?
  14. her anger, or any of her negative emotions are not valid? other people that he knows don’t have negative emotions. That makes them normal, while making her abnormal.
  15. she may not be a good parent when that time comes, because she does occasionally get angry, or sad, or drunk, or restless, or dissatisfied?

That after all that, after all the trying & fighting, and talking & making up. He would go and kill himself.

She will not forgive him now.

She will try later, but not now. Even nature is, sometimes, unforgiving.

 

 

 

If you forget me – Pablo Neruda

I am a sucker for love poems. In the beginning, it was a total surprise for me that I could get so carried away. I do get carried away, and can read & re-read my favorites. This is one of my favorites on love, and one of my favorite poets too.

Pablo Neruda’s, If you forget me has been a way for me to define love for as long as I can remember. Below, I share it with you:

I want you to know one thing.

You know how this is:
if I look at the crystal moon, at the red branch of the slow autumn at my window,
if I touch near the fire the impalpable ash or the wrinkled body of the log,
everything carries me to you, as if everything that exists, aromas, light, metals,
were little boats that sail toward those isles of yours that wait for me.

Well, now,
if little by little you stop loving me
I shall stop loving you little by little.

If suddenly
you forget me
do not look for me,
for I shall already have forgotten you.

If you think it long and mad, the wind of banners that passes through my life,
and you decide to leave me at the shore of the heart where I have roots, remember that on that day, at that hour,
I shall lift my arms and my roots will set off to seek another land.

But if each day, each hour, you feel that you are destined for me
with implacable sweetness, if each day a flower climbs up to your lips to seek me,

ah my love, ah my own,

in me all that fire is repeated, in me nothing is extinguished or forgotten, my love feeds on your love, beloved, and as long as you live it will be in your arms without leaving mine.