Personal Subtitling

No voice? No Worries!

Wouldn’t it be great if people had subtitles? It would save people having to learn new languages. It would also be handy for those times when you’re having trouble understanding what someone is saying. Like Closed Captioning for real life. And if you lost your voice? No worries! Your personal subtitling would spell out everything you were trying to say!
I think it’s a wonderful idea. In fact, I propose that someone invent a device to do just this. I’ve already played my part by coming up with the idea. Surely there’s some brainiac out there with the necessary means to make personal subtitling happen.

On the down side, personal subtitling could land you in a lot of hot water. Like if you accidentally left your subtitling on while whispering to a colleague about what a tool your boss is. Or if you were playing Chinese whispers. And it’s probably not very helpful for people who can’t read. Or are dyslexic. Or for when you’re on the phone to someone you can’t understand.

Still, it would be useful a lot of the time. So I’m offering this invention idea for free. Tossing it out into the world wide web so that some techno boffin (I love that word!) can stumble across it and invent a truly useful piece of technology. I'd be particularly pleased if Apple were to come up with this little knick knack - not because I particularly like Apple products, but because they're the only company who could get away with calling it the 'iUnderstand'.

International Talk Like A Pirate Day 2011

Every year 't comes along, an' every year I miss it on account o' I be too busy not bein' a pirate. But today I’ve done it. Today I’ve made history! I’ve remembered that it’s International Talk Like a Pirate Day, while it still be International Talk Like a Pirate Day!

I thought I’d use this year’s TLAPD t' provide a helpful public service fer them o' ye who find ye’selves spendin' yer TLAPD all on yer lonesome.

Courtesy o’ the official Talk Like a Pirate Day website, I’d like t' share wi' ye the top ten pick up lines ye can use t' try t' score yersef a lass on September the 19th. So now ye can not only talk like a buccanneer, ye can hit on random strangers like one too!

10 . Avast, me proud beauty! Wanna know why my Roger is so Jolly?

9. Have ya ever met a man with a real yardarm?

8. Come on up and see me urchins.

7. Yes, that be a hornpipe in my pocket and I am happy to see you.

6. I'd love to drop anchor in your lagoon.

5. Pardon me, but would ye mind if I fired me cannon through your porthole?

4. How'd you like to scrape the barnacles off of me rudder?

3. Ya know, darlin’, I’m 97 percent chum free.

2. Well blow me down?

And the number one pickup line for use on International Talk Like a Pirate Day is...

1. Prepare to be boarded.


If that wasn't enough Pirate silliness for ye, why not try bloggin' like a Pirate? Or get yerself a Pirate name.
Happy Talk Like a Pirate Day everyone!

Remembering September 11, 2001

It was getting late; just before 11pm, but I couldn’t sleep. Beside me, my boyfriend was already dozing. Restless and bored, I flicked on the TV, turning the volume right down so as not to wake him.

At first I thought I’d flicked onto a movie – the towering inferno or something. Then the text began to roll across the bottom of the screen: ‘Explosion reported at WTC in New York.’ Then moments later ‘Reports confirm a plane has hit the WTC’.

Gobsmacked, I watched as the tower smoked and smouldered. A hundred thoughts flickered through my mind all at once. ‘How could this happen?’ ‘Why was a plane that close to the city?’ ‘What’s going on?'.

Watching the smoke rise from the middle of the tower, worry began to creep over me, and new questions began to form.

‘Why isn’t anyone doing anything? Where are the lights and the sirens? Where are the firemen with their water hoses and their ladders? Why isn’t anyone doing anything?’

I kept asking myself these questions over and over. The tower smouldered and smoked and the world went on as though nothing was happening.

But of course they were there. Of course people were helping. But what could they do? Their hoses and their ladders couldn’t reach the 100th floor of a skyscraper. In my distant view of the towers, I couldn’t see the flurry of activity going on below. I couldn’t hear the noise of sirens and people. Here, thousands of miles away with the sound muted, all I could see was the lonely view of a skyscraper smoking steadily.

I suddenly felt myself flooded with a sense of complete and utter futility. I felt helpless, knowing that I was on the other side of the world, that I could see what was happening clearly - perhaps better than the people caged inside that concrete tower. That here, on the other side of the world, completely removed from the situation, there wasn’t a thing I could do. All I could do was watch.

And that’s what I did.

I watched. And as I watched, a second plane entered the screen. A tiny speck of a plane from the camera's distant point of view.

I watched as it crossed the sky, its destination obvious from the second it appeared. Even so, the surprise that racked me as it smashed into the second tower was jarring.

It was in that instant that my heart sank. In that brief and violent moment that stole the lives of so many people, my world changed. I could feel my heart sink; feel my innate feeling of safety slip away. Not only because I had just witnessed what I knew would be a huge loss of life, but for what I knew this meant. For how our lives were all going to change. Because as soon as that second plane hit, it was obvious that this was no accident. It was obvious that this was intentional. And that could only mean one thing as a result.

War.

There was no way that a country as invested in self-defence as the USA would let this go by without some kind of retaliation; and who would expect them to? If that attack had happened on my own home soil, I know I would have wanted the same thing.

But here on the other side of the world, watching the horror unfold before me, I knew that this meant more than just war for America. It meant war for us. For me. It meant the ANZUS treaty being invoked. It meant more death, more fighting. It meant the end of feeling safe in my own home, in my own country.


Those close to the events may sometimes forget in their grief over the attack on their nation, but on September 11 2001, Al-Qaeda didn’t just launch an attack on the American people. They launched an attack on the free world. They knew what the result of attacking the USA would be. They knew that retaliation would come, and not just from those to whom they had struck a direct blow. They knew they were bringing retaliation from multiple countries upon themselves.

They knew, the same way that I did in the split second when that second plane hit, that this would mean war. And it meant more deaths, not just for other countries, but for their own.

And therein lies the secret to how truly evil these people are. They struck, knowing that it could only heighten the violence around them. Knowing that they weren’t just signing their own death warrants, but those of everyone around them.


All this knowledge hit me in the fleeting moment of the second impact, and it left me feeling breathless. I suddenly felt sick.


As I continued to watch the events unfold on TV, a deep and permanent worry set in – a niggling worry that is still with me to this day.

Disregarding my sleeping boyfriend, I turned the volume up, desperate to hear what was unfolding. The sound woke him and he joined me, unusually silent as we watched.

As reports of a plane hitting The Pentagon flashed across the screen, followed by the collapse of the first tower, it became too much. Distraught, I got out my phone and began to call my family. I needed to know they were ok, to hear in their voices that same concern that was growing in me.

---

Ten years is a long time to worry about your safety and the safety of the people you love. Ten years is a long time after an event to still be able to remember it as if it were yesterday. Ten years is a long time to still feel the terror of an attack like what happened on September 11, 2001. Terrorism that can span an entire decade is why that niggling worry deep within me will never ease. Despite the death of Osama Bin Laden, despite increased security around the world. The knowledge that there are people out there capable of things which I could never even conceive of has changed my life forever.

Today, ten years on, I can still feel what I felt that night. Today I remember the terror, the aching sadness. Today that worry that niggles at me has heightened. I worry that this ten year anniversary will mean more attacks. I worry about my friends who are scattered all over the world; my friends and family here at home. I will remember these feelings and I will carry them with me all day and all night, until the sun sets on September 11th all over the world.

---

This post is included over at The Neon Lounge on September 11th, 2001: Where Were You?. Head over there and check out a collection of posts from bloggers all around the US about where they were 10 years ago when it all started.

A Phone Call from Last Night

Me: Hello?

Caller: Um……..er…….ah……hi there!

Me: Hi.

Caller: This is John calling from *Insert random company name which I ignored*.

Me: Hi.

Caller: Um….Can you put mummy or daddy on the phone please dear?

Me: Excuse me!?!

Caller: Er…..um…ahhh….oh! Are you the lady of the house?

Me: Ok, bye now.


Now I’m not sure whether to be flattered or offended at having someone think that I was a child.

I also think I missed a golden opportunity for a smart come-back to the ‘Can I talk to your mummy or daddy’ comment. Maybe I could have said “Sure! Have you got a pen? I’ll give you their number.”

Or, “Tell me John, Who’s your daddy?”.

Or I could have just said ‘Sure! Hang on a minute!’ and put the phone down and gone to watch TV.

Sadly, comebacks like this only come to mind after the fact.

Food Memories

Everyone has memories of the foods that they ate during their childhood – the standout dishes prepared by family members that have disappeared from their diet as they’ve grown up. Well, actually, I’m just assuming that everyone has these memories, because I certainly do. And those memories are shared by various members of my family.

For me, the standout dishes from my childhood were all cooked by my grandmother. My mum’s mum was always the standout cook in our family. She was Greek, although she emigrated to Australia from Egypt; and although she didn’t speak English that well, she spoke volumes through her cooking. Baklava, Rum Baba, Avgolemono Soup, Spanakopita, Dolmades and Galaktoboureko amongst other distinctly Mediterranean fare are the strongest food memories of my childhood. I was never one of those children who refused to eat anything without having tried it – I had an adventurous palate for a kid, and I adored these beautiful Greek foods that were rich in flavour.

Sadly, my Grandmother passed away some years ago, and since then the foods of my childhood have slipped from our diet. Like all the best cooks, most of her recipes were stored only in her mind, and while she was here to cook for us, we never thought to learn these secrets from her.

We tried, sometimes, to help with the cooking. But my grandmother was particular in preparation of her food, and you could easily fail basic food preparation while working with her. I can distinctly remember a time when I was around ten years old, helping her to make baklava. She reluctantly let me take charge of the pastry brush, and watched like a hawk while I brushed the sheets of filo pastry with what I thought were copious amounts of butter.

It wasn’t long before the brush had been removed from my hands so that she could slap on copious amounts more butter as though she’d never heard of cholesterol or calories (which she probably hadn’t); filling the places that in her mind she could see needed more. From then on I stepped aside, letting her work her magic. Once the Baklava was finished, my mother then failed dismally at arranging the baklava on the plate in a satisfactory manner. My mum and I laugh about this now, but I see that same level of particular-ness in myself all the time.

It might seem overly anal, but the results of her cooking spoke for themselves.


It’s been quite a few years since my grandmother passed away, and most of these foods have been just a distant memory for me. Then recently, my mum bought me a Greek cookbook which turned out to be the best cookbook that I have ever owned. I made a few of the recipes, and the flavours therein reminded me so much of my grandmothers cooking that I became inspired. My mum booked us into a Greek cooking class which actually turned out to be run by the same woman who had written the cookbook, and after making some fantastic foods there, I became inspired to try to recreate some of my grandmother’s recipes.


Which brings me to where I’m at now. The first place I had to look was in her battered old cookbook. My mum held on to it after her death, knowing that a lot of her recipes were based around the basic ones in this cookbook.
The problem is that the cookbook is in Greek. And it was written in the 1950’s, so it’s slightly out-dated Greek. Well, at least I think it is. I can’t be sure because I don’t actually speak or read Greek. Which makes the whole idea of using my Grandmother’s cookbook to relive my childhood food memories ever so slightly more difficult.

My first attempt at recreating 'Galaktoboureko'

Luckily for me, it’s the 21st century, so I have many and varied tools at my disposal – most crucially, the ability to switch quickly between a Greek and English keyboard on my iPad, and Google translate.

With these two things, I’ve begun the long and arduous process of reading a book that to me, appears to be nothing but a bunch of squiggly lines.

Despite how slow the going is, it’s not been dull because it’s amazing to see the foreign characters appear on the screen and then miraculously appear on the other side of the screen in English. And it’s also been quite amusing to read the garbled translations.

You can’t help but laugh when you find a chapter in the meat section titled “minds” or a recipe tells you to do things like “Dive your fingers into some water” or “Anoint with butter”.

Or when you mistype some characters and end up with translations like “Boiled Husband Soup”.


Translating the recipes is proving to be a painstaking, but incredibly enjoyable experience. And more than allowing me to rediscover some well-loved foods, I feel as though it’s bringing me a little closer to a grandmother who during her life was always ever so slightly distant to me through the language barrier.

Me vs. The Universe

As my lack of posts lately can attest, I have been incredibly busy at work. I have been so busy, in fact, that this weekend I found myself working on Saturday.

I had the building all to myself for most of the day and I had gotten huge amounts of work completed by the time one of my co-workers showed up around 4pm to pick up some stuff he had forgotten on Friday.

He seemed shocked to see me there on a weekend, and when I confessed that I was indeed working, he just shook his head.
You’re crazy! He told me, incredulously .

I’m not crazy, I told him. ‘I’m just a machine. A well-oiled playground designing machine.’

He just shook his head again and walked away. But I was on a roll; even his absence couldn’t still my rant.

‘Nothing can stop me!’ I trumpeted. ‘I’m slowed only by sickness, stopped only by death!’ I declared into the Universe.

The Universe didn’t like this.

‘Right’ it said, ‘I’ll show you.’

And it began to plot.


The universe hatched its dastardly plan early on Sunday afternoon as I headed outside to wash my car. My nose began to tickle a little. I put this down to the vast amounts of pollen in the air and got on with things.
I finished up and headed inside. I sat myself down on the couch and was immediately punched smack bang in the face by a cold. Bam! One moment I was fine, the next I was a wheezy, watery mess. There was no lead up. No feeling of an oncoming illness. One moment I was fine, the next I was like a character out of a cold and flu medication advert.

So now, courtesy of the Universe, I finally find myself with the time to post something. And while having a cold is incredibly annoying, I can only thank God that the universe chose the ‘slowed by sickness’ part of my statement to refute and not the other half. Because I imagine that blogging from the hereafter is probably a hell of a lot harder than blogging while sick.

Dear Internet,

Hey there Internet,

It’s me, Torrygirl.
You and I, we’ve known each other for a while now. You know me pretty well I think. I’ve always been able to turn to you when I’ve had a problem at work or socially, or if I had a question that needed answering. I guess I’d say that you and I are pretty close. You’re someone I can confide in.

Lately, I’ve been pretty busy at work, so I’ve been neglecting you a little, and I’m sorry about that. It’s been tough though, working the long hours and still trying to make time to keep in touch. And I know that’s no excuse, but this written word medium that we use to keep in contact takes a bit of time and effort, and I’ve been a bit short on both lately.

This week, KJ has been pretty sick and I’m sure it’s from the stress of work. I’ve been feeling it myself too, and I guess that’s why I’m writing this.
I’ve done something, Internet. I’ve done something crazy. Something so incredibly outrageous, that I know you won’t believe it when I tell you. And I’m hoping that given our history, you won’t judge me. Even though what I’m about to tell you goes against everything you know about me.

So here it is, Internet. I’m just going to say it.

Last Monday, I did exercise. On purpose! And I know it sounds crazy, and it goes against everything I’ve ever told you about myself, but I did it; and then yesterday, I did it AGAIN.

I feel so ashamed. I’m a fraud! Here I am telling you how much I hate to exercise, and I find myself suddenly giving in and doing it! And Internet, it wasn’t just sneaky, on-my-own exercise. I went to a class. There were other people there and I even knew some of them! I wore runners!

Oh the shame!

Forgive me Internet. Forgive me for changing. Forgive me for going against my beliefs. Forgive me because I’m not going to stop - even though today my body feels like I pulled out all my muscles, stretched them out by hand and popped them back in again. Even though my knees ache like I’m a weather-beaten old man claiming that I can feel a storm a’comin’. Even though I swore I didn’t believe in running unless I was being chased.

Forgive me Internet. I hope we can still be friends.

Yours regretfully,

Torrygirl

Never trust a man pointing scissor at your head

Last night, I got home from work a little after six. No sooner had I walked in the door and made myself a cup of tea than my I got a phone call from my hairdresser saying I had an appointment at six and asking was I still coming? I hate, hate HATE being late (I have issues with time), but he assured me that he could still fit me in if I could get there as quickly as possible, so I hot-footed it out the door leaving my cup of tea to go cold on the bench.

I made it there in record time (while driving responsibly, of course) and arrived breathless; plonked myself into the nearest chair and began the long process of hair beautification. I apologised what felt like a million times for forgetting the appointment, and they waved my apologies off,reassuring me with phrases like ‘these things happen’ and ‘don’t stress about it, it’s no big deal’. And so my hairdressing experience went on as per the norm.


Now, while I was in the chair, and even after I got home, my hair looked fine. In fact, I’ve never had a bad haircut from this place; it’s the reason I keep going back.

But this morning, when I woke up and wandered past the mirror, I did a little bit of a double-take. ‘Bill Ray Cyrus?’ I asked in wonder.

Nope, definitely just me. Me, with a haircut that had a mullet-ish kind of quality about it. But I was in a hurry, so I quickly tied it back as best I could, and headed to work.


Now I’m not sure if it was just crazy morning hair and if it will be better when I get home tonight. And there are no mirrors in the building here so I can’t really check it out until then.

But there is this slight lingering worry niggling at me, telling me that maybe I wasn’t imagining things. And maybe my mullet is no accident. Maybe this haircut is the hairdresser’s way of saying ‘I’ll teach you to keep me waiting!’ Is that possible? Do people do that sort of thing? And if they do, is it on purpose, or by accident? Did he subconsciously mullet-ise me without realising?

And most importantly, what the hell am I going to do if it turns out I really do have a mullet?! I’m not sure I have the voice to be a country singer.

Post Office Lady

Post Office Lady has a stern, disapproving
look brought on by years of thinking people
don't talk clearly enough.

Post offices are notorious for their long lines. If you’ve ever had to post a parcel or buy some stamps during the day, you’re guaranteed to have waited in a line that weaves out of the door of the shop, down the street, through the park around the corner and past the post office in the next suburb.


The wait is long and tedious enough as it is, but at the local post office here at work, you spend your entire half hour wait hoping that you don’t end up being served by one particular woman. Why, you ask? Because she is as deaf as a door nail. As a post. As a stone. She is as deaf as a magician locked in a box, nailed into a crate then wrapped in a bag and buried six feet underground.

What I’m getting at here is – she can’t hear very well.


Something as simple as purchasing a sheet of stamps from her is a major ordeal, because that little interaction usually goes something like this:

Her: YES?

Me: Can I have a sheet of 20 five cent stamps please.

Her: WHAT?

Me: Errr, a sheet of 20 five cents stamps please?

Her: WHAT ARE YOU AFTER?!

Me: (beginning to draw strange looks from the waiting customers) Some five cent stamps please?

Her: STAMPS?!?

Me: YES! SOME FIVE CENT STAMPS!

Her: Yes, fine, five cents stamps; you should have said so to start with.


As a result, people (me included) can often be seen leaving the post office looking abashed, head hung low, clutching their stamps or whatever random item they’ve been sold in lieu of the item that the deaf post office lady was too hard of hearing to understand.

Super Secret Recipe

This photo dates from almost the
same era as my kitchen.

Last night, my Brother-in-law came over so that I could help him prepare his ‘secret recipe lasagne’. I’m not sure how it came to be a secret recipe, because I can’t imagine anyone ever asks another person for a lasagne recipe; but at some point it became a closely kept secret, and since then it’s been known to all as ‘secret recipe lasagne’.

The reason that I became privy to this super-secret special recipe last night is that I offered to make the lasagne sheets for him. That’s right, you read it correctly – I offered to make the pasta sheets from scratch. To some that might seem crazy, but I find that kind of repetitive cooking task almost soothing, the same way that I find painting walls soothing. It quiets a noisy brain. And I have an incredibly noisy brain.


I guess this kind of quality addition to the secret recipe lasagne obviously ranked me high enough to learn the secret formula. I like to imagine it as like being promoted in the coca cola company and finally learning the secret formula for coke. I now know what few others in the world know.


Luckily, because I have some modicum of anonymity on here, I can share that secret recipe with you without fear of retribution. Are you ready for it? Are you ready to hear what his super-secret ingredient that he refuses to share with anyone is?


Leggo’s Bolognese sauce.


His sauce is made from a jar.

Suddenly the ‘super-secret’ aspect of it all makes a lot more sense.

I think I might have to start claiming the ‘secret recipe’ clause for some of the meals I prepare. Like ‘2 Minute Microwave Super-Secret noodles’ or ‘Subway Secret-Recipe Cookies’.