Run of the Mill

Ninad Jog

I was a lowly and humble computer programmer when I first started working years ago. Things have changed since then. I'm no longer humble; I've lost my humility. But I'm still a lowly programmer.

***

'Unexpected surprise' seems like a tautology, keeping company with needlessly redundant phrases such as 'repeat again.' What's an expected surprise anyway?

Well, a surprise birthday party that someone throws on your birthday is an expected surprise. But if they throw the party for you two months before your birthday, that's an unexpected surprise.

I wonder if the explanation was needfully redundant.

***

I can't imagine why visitors to my home complain that I don't offer them any drinks. In fact I offer them a choice of three drinks: tap water, carrot juice and fat-free milk.

***

I wish I wasn't as vulnerable to the cold as I am. A dip in the temperature freezes my fingers and my toes, and my nose starts running like there's no tomorrow. It's a flow that's as copious as the Ganges, but isn't quite as holy.

***

I recently bought a weighing scale with an electronic display. It helps me learn how much I eat. I weigh myself before dinner and after. The difference is the answer, and the answer makes all the difference.

I learned this technique from my friend Dip; he used it to weigh his Bengal cat.

***

When my roommate Luther moved out, he didn't take all of his belongings with him in one go. He returned several times during the following months, and took a couple of items with him every time. It worked well for both of us; it gave us an opportunity to meet and catch up.

I didn't mind that he hadn't taken all of his belongings in one go. But one item bothered me. Sitting in the kitchen cabinet was a large glass jar with powdered sugar."Luther, take this sugar with you," I told him the next time he visited.
"It's not sugar," he said. "It's flour."
I don't know why, but my ire melted away. Just when I thought I was a sugar daddy, he turned out to be a flour child.

***

"I'm the only one at this table who rents an apartment and doesn't own a house," I said to Tom, as he and I had lunch at Olive Garden with half a dozen of our colleagues.
"What does that tell you?" asked Tom.
"That tells me I'm an exception," I said.
Tom shot me a quizzical look. It didn't seem like the correct reply. I wonder what answer he was expecting.