Hello.

Ok. I’m back.

Lots has been going on… finished my play. It doesn’t suck. Friend of mine gave it to their agent at William Morris. We shall see.

Got fired.

Well not fired. Redundant. I am one of the 5000 people that was let go from Microsoft. Is all good. I’m not freaking out just yet about finding a new gig, but I have scheduled a nervous breakdown for later.

Yesterday was my last day.

Very strange.

Anyhoo, I have nothing but good things to say about the company and that’s not just because I will be signing a compromise agreement.

Three years ago I had a lot less grey hair. . . but I had a lot less people that I considered friends.

For your reading pleasure, here is the goodbye email I sent…

When Microsoft first told me that they were suggesting that I spend more time with my family, my first thought was, no. . . No! They can’t. . . This isn’t. . .This can’t be happening to me. . . Where else am I going to hear funky groovy conference call hold music?!?

In order to assist in my withdrawal, I’ve watched this video a few times:

<br/><a href="http://video.msn.com/video.aspx?vid=723f1933-9397-49e4-b73c-9433dfbef700" target="_new" title="Microsoft Conference Call ">Video: Microsoft Conference Call </a>

I may just randomly call in to the number. You know. for fun.

I am also not sure how I will survive without the occasional global reply all email strings.

“Please remove”
“Don’t reply all when you ask to be removed.”
“Remove me please”
“Come on people. Don’t reply all”
“Why am I on this alias? Remove me.”
“WE WORK FOR A TECHNOLOGY COMPANY!!! DON’T REPLY ALL”
“What’s your problem? I love all these emails. I feel so popular. No one usually speaks to me. I’m so lonely.”
“Everyone. EVERYONE. In the entire WORLD- The World. Literally. Not just Redmond - EVERYONE - Even Liechtenstein is getting these e-mails. Stop. please.”
“I don’t think it is stylistically correct to write ‘e-mail’ any more. Isn’t it just ‘email’? No hyphen? Just wondering.”
“Yeah, I wondered about e-mail v email myself. Let’s have a meeting to discuss it.”
“Please remove me from this string but I would love to be part of the E-MVEM project.”
“Great work everyone for seeing the need for the E-MVEM work stream!”

If you would like to include me on those strings so I don’t feel left out, my home email is:

But seriously folks. . . well. . . let’s not be too serious. . . It’s been fun. (Mostly.) A big thank you to all of you. You are all superlative people to work with. (Well. Except for you. . . Yes, you.)

If you are in London and have braved public transport during the tube strike, please come over to the Phoenix for a drink or five.

Thanks again,
xxxxxxxxxxx

Nicole

Sent from my iPhone

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Yes I have been away for a while.I blame twitter. And I blame that there are a lot of things going on that I want to talk about but isn’t blog appropriate.But the main reason is, I really haven’t wanted to.However, I have been wanting to a bit more lately, so here we go.So what is up with me? Not a whole lot. Sorry. Am boring. I am trying to finish this blasted play and I have organised a reading for when I am in LA in April to force me to finish the blasted play. I may change the title to BLASTED PLAY. I think I have a stress rash on my arm. Either that or I have suddenly become allergic to our laundry detergent. Or it’s ring worm. Or skin cancer. Or an alien has buried under my skin and is feeding on me until it bursts out of my body wrecking havoc and mayhem upon the residents of London. My grey streak that only I knew about for years has become much thicker lately. I have been letting it go. I’m not sure if I like it or not. It’s too small at the moment to be a cool Bonnie Raitt streak but too much that it does not go unnoticed. I’m not sure what to do about it. I have spent a lot of time thinking about this.What do you think? Should I dye or should it go?  

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After eight long years, the Bush nightmare is finally over. I almost can’t believe it. I hope that there is an inquiry into the abuses of power, but I’m not holding my breath.

It is now time for you to crawl under a rock George. Don’t let the door hit you on the way out.

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Perhaps I am the only person that will find this funny… but here is a line I just wrote.

MAX: Save me. Our kitchen is full of very serious people seriously discussing serious subjects like Kierkegaard and what are the deep hidden messages in the lyrics of Whiter Shade of Pail. I’d kill myself but they’d think it was an act of Libertarian philosophy.

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This is the third year that I have participated in Project Mayfly. Essentially reflect on your life in the last year and describe it in 24 words.

Diet, drank, diet, drank.
Play started.
1988: 20 Years?!?
Travelled too much.
Writer’s Block: end?
New (real) President.
Play: found end.
Hope, love,
safe(?)

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Sean, an old work mate of Stuart’s had an long lay over in London today so we thought we would take him for a walk along the South Bank so he could see a bit of London.

Sean has lived in Canada for over 20 years but before that his family was from Iran and he has dual nationality.

We took the tube to Vauxhall and walked toward the bridge. Stuart pointed at a modern, would be innocuous if not for the 50 million security cameras all over it building.

“That’s MI5.”

“Really?” Sean said.

“Yep.” Stuart said.

Sean pointed his SLR camera at MI5. “Can I take a picture of it?”

“Sure.” Stuart said.

“You sure?” Sean said.

“Yep.” Stuart said.

Sean took a picture and we continued on our way toward the Thames path.

A police car with lights on passed us, stopped and backed up several feet. It parked, lights still blinking.

“Wouldn’t it be funny if they were stopping us for taking a picture?” Sean said.

“Yeah, it would be.” I said.

Two policemen exited the car and walked briskly toward us. Cop the First was tall and blonde and had a non-descript English accent. Cop the Second was short and brunette and sounded like an extra on East Enders.

Each had handguns holstered to the top of their thigh.

“Do you know what that building is?” Cop the First asked.

We looked at each other like it was a trick question.

“MI5.” Stuart said.

“Why’ya tayken’ a-picture ov it’thn?” Cop the Second asked.

We looked at each other again like it was a trick question.

“Because it’s MI5.” Stuart said.

Cop the First and the Second reviewed the pictures on Sean’s camera and were satisfied that we were not intending to blow it up in the future even though Sean was carrying a rucksack and had a dark complexion.

“Are we not allowed to take a picture of it?” I asked.

“Oh, you’re allowed,” Cop the First said, “but we don’t encourage it.”

While we were allowed to take a picture of MI5 and we weren’t doing anything wrong, they did fill out a little citation detailing our tête-à-tête (for our records) although they kept saying over and over that this was as far as this would go and that our information would not be entered anywhere and we had nothing to worry about.

Nicole rolls her eyes inside her head, but smiles and nods at the Policeman.

When asked for his address, Sean gave them his Canadian details. He said later he considered giving his Iranian passport to see what they would do.

I must admit, both officers were very polite and friendly. If you are going to get randomly stopped for taking photos of buildings, they were the men for the job.

So if you get out the tube at Vauxhall and walk toward the river, on the right is an unmarked building.

You are allowed to take a photograph of it.

It is however, not encouraged.

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Ralph, a friend in Vegas wrote a lovely post about Barb.

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I logged on to Facebook this morning and there were four e-mails from Vegas friends.

First said, “Have you heard about Barb?”

I replied, “No. Is she okay?”

I read the next e-mail.

Barb isn’t okay.

She hung herself.

She and I weren’t terribly close because of distance but I wish I could have known she was in this place. Wish I could have tried to help.

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Been quiet. Sorry. I am more alive on twitter.

I’m alive. All is well. Will try to think of something amusingish soonish that won’t get me fired. You see most of my amusingish stories are around work rigoddamdicluousnesses. Yes. I know that isn’t a real word. I don’t care you OED nazi. Bite me.

Here’s something mildly ha-ha… was glancing at my flickr stream and one of the photos of me “smoking” in Amsterdam has a comment from someone wanting to add it to a group called ‘Sexy Women Inhaling Smoke’.

Is there a fetish that I am not yet aware?

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I was incredibly grumpy yesterday. The night before hadn’t been a home run and the plan was that I was going to cook a mini Thanksgiving meal for Stuart and I. (Basically just a chicken and some potatoes.) I really wasn’t in the mood and was mentally planning on heating up a pizza.

Luckily Stuart without my asking made a booking at Bodean’s so while I didn’t have a traditional meal, it was close enough that I was happyish.

After, we played a few rounds of hangman on his iPhone at the pub. I left around 9:30 so I could call grand’rents and ‘rents.

Yesterday was my maternal grandparents 66th wedding anniversary, which is really an amazing thing. More amazing when you consider my Grandfather turned 93 a couple of weeks ago.

They live in a small little town in Nevada about an hour and half from Reno. They moved there when they retired in the 70’s.

Whenever I call I talk to Coco’s first, (I call them Coco’s and Papa) and we’ll make small talk then she’ll hand me to Papa. I have a window of 30 to 90 seconds with him, as he really doesn’t like the phone. I think it is partly his age and that he refuses to wear a hearing aid and also he just hates the phone. I think when he was 50 he might have been the same way.

Cocos used to be really chatty, talking with you for about 15 minutes to a half hour but the last few years she’ll get off the phone with me after a couple of minutes.

I wouldn’t know why if I didn’t speak to my mother, but I do know why. I just don’t push it. Yesterday was the first real indication of what she is trying to hide.

“Hi Coco’s! Happy Thanksgiving and Anniversary!”

“Oh hello! What a nice surprise. Guess who is in the room with me?”

“Papa?”

“Yes. Seen him all day.”

“I would hope so.”

We laugh.

She continues, “Yep, saw him at breakfast and at church.”

“Well that was nice of him.”

We laugh some more.

“Let me give you to him, she says.”

I hear the phone being handed to someone, and then a male voice says, “Hello?”

“Hi Papa! It’s Nicole! Happy Thanksgiving and anniversary!”

“What?”

Hi Papa!! It’s Nicole!! Happy Thanksgiving and anniversary!!”

“I’m sorry, I’m—“

I realise immediately I am not speaking to Papa.”

“–their neighbour. Your Grandmother thought you were my daughter. Let me give you to your Grandfather.”

In my 90 seconds with my 93 year old grandfather we wish each other a happy Thanksgiving and make jokes about some jail sentences being less than his 66 years of marriage, tell each other we love each other and he hands the phone back to Coco’s.

I can tell she’s embarrassed by her mistake. “You know I’m old. I can get confused.”

“I know Coco’s. Don’t worry.”

“Well, I love you and we love that husband of yours. It would be nice if you could get over to this country with him and come visit.”

“I wanted to ask you that actually. I’m coming to LA in April. My drivers licence has expired so I’ll have to figure out how to get to you from Reno, but could I come to visit for a couple of days?”

“Sure. Sure.”

“Great! We’ll talk more about it after the New Year and a bit closer to the time.”

“Sure. And we may not be alive.”

I feign annoyance at her saying such a thing. I tell her to knock on some wood and we laugh, but I have no idea if we are laughing at the same thing.

This summer when my Mom went to see them, Papa hugged her and whispered, “You may never see me again.”

I’m more than a little worried that I won’t.

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