Tag Archives: Italy

A tale of two documents … yeah ‘documents’, it’s not all beer and boobs here

Look I’ve been TRYING to do a play on the ‘a tale of two cities’ with the headline of this blog since the year of our lord 1935.   No clue why I picked 1935 but’ A tale of two cities’ is an awesome book and I’ve always wanted to play on that title.

Screw you start your own blog and make up your own headlines!

See it’s not so easy it is stupid face?

I’m sorry I got so gruff there and I’m sorry we fought.  Let’s move on past this dark chapter in ‘Had a few beers’, forgive me.

I became aware of the need to send a notarized document the wife and I had to send back to the U.S. sometime in June.   It was an email that said, boiled down, sometime during this process we’re going to have to, no shit, don’t delay, post haste, quickly now, send back a document that was notarized.

This image is here cause I felt like I needed three images for this update, no other reason.   Well one other reason, it has a cute cat.

This image is here cause I felt like I needed three images for this update, no other reason. Well one other reason, it has a cute cat.

Also a hardy ‘screw you legal system!’, it’s not 1786 and no one is wearing corsets anymore in case you haven’t noticed.  I can send the gigabytes of data across the world with a click of a button but your retarded raised seal somehow is too important for all that.  My wife demanded during this process, which I’ll get back to in a moment, that we make ‘copies’ of the documents the notary had ‘notered’ (which isn’t a word according to … well MS word, I should said the notarized documents but this update is also complicated, SCREW YOU START YOUR OWN DAMNED BLOG STUPID FACE, sorry, sorry I’m calm again) but I fully realize that copies of notarized documents were as valuable as photos of copied coins, yeah sure it’s proof I copied coins but the coin is the point.

So my I hate the legal system rant aside and getting BACK to the fucking story at hand — I knew in mid, maybe late June that a requirement to send back quickly a notarized piece of paper was on the horizon.

And I prepared.  I knew where the legal office was, I even found out which floor held the notary.   This would be easy, this would be simple.  It would be with done with militaristic efficiency because as any pro knows amateurs study the tactics and pros study the logistics.

Okay I studied it through the bottom of a beer glass but I knew I could have this thing done and sent back pretty damned fast.  It wouldn’t be a challenge at all!  It was going to be easy.

One potential hiccup, if it came when we were planning to visit Italy, over the 4th of July weekend (subject of this update), it would add, ‘difficulty.’

If you’re a military scholar you are laughing.

Stop laughing I hate you.

I’m sorry I don’t hate you at all, why do we fight like this?

Okay back to the story, we were leaving for Italy on the 4th of July and of course the request, because of the time difference, came while we were sleeping on the night/morning before we left.

Still ha, I got you cold weird coincidence, in your face fates!   I had the document already printed out.  I’d talked to my friend Alex in Italy already about how I would execute the plan if needed and felt we had this shit down.  And we DID have a solid plan but it never included my epic hangover, Dagmar’s desire to spend 3.2 hours getting ready and the legal office breaking for lunch (stupid legal office).

Still though we got it done, we’re troopers.  Maggie drove us around, we got the document notarized, we made a pointless copy of the notarized document at my wife’s insistence and we went to (via mailboxes ect) the UPS office.

Me: Ma’am I need this mailed out with all haste, I need it in America as soon as is possible, spare no expense, whip the pilots if you must, these documents must arrive at the soonest opportunity.

Her:  we offer express service sir.

Had this been a pre-flight year, maybe like the year 1900, I would have charted a ship for the express purpose of delivering these documents.

Don’t believe me?  Read on.

Quickly, I need this document shipped to my beloved United States of American (Oh say can you see ...) and destroyed quickly, cost matters not!

I like how first it’s missing then it’s just fucking destroyed. When I called the WTF help line they were like, Oh it was in THE you’re fucked trucked, lemme connect you.

This was the 5th of July.  In my head I did the math, of course the documents would leave Italy that night, putting them at whatever hub they use in Europe that very night then off to the U.S. for an overnight flight and they would land on the 6th, a Friday. Then with a bit of luck, considering the weekend they would burn up in a fire-filled crash of epic fail.

Wait what?

Yeah somewhere around Philly they were involved in a traffic accident that either partially or totally destroyed (yeah, yeah totally destroyed, suck-it English majors) the shipment.   UPS was kind enough to inform me that they lost the document and then further explained that , “oh shit it was totally burned up dude and we had to mercy destroy it.”

I got this notification on the 11th of July.

Fuckers.

Big, deep breaths, the date the ‘powers that be’ needed the documents had been moved back.  They now needed them by the 25, which is still, as I write this in the future.  By then we’ll have teleporters and I’ll be masturbating like a monkey in a zoo cause the virtual reality will be so good by then that you can basically tell the holodeck, “I want a scene with five Blonde midget chicks, three normal sized brunettes and a blender  …”

Okay that got a bit out of hand, sorry.

Anyway the 25th is still like a few days away.

Aware of the importance of the documents, in awe of the fucking weirdness of “your valuable (to you) parcel was burned to shit message” I executed plan b, which consisted of me asking my wife for advice.

Me: What the fuck, what the fucking fuck?

Her: Calm down.  Let’s just do it again.

Me: The fuck?

I just, I’m sorry I’m crying here, just need this to get to America. WHY IS THAT SO HARD?!?!?!?!?!

Her: We are going to send it again via the U.S. post office, priority mail.  And stop saying fuck.

Me: great fuc …okay.

And off we went to the Notary for part two.   Interstate road fire be damned, FUC … I mean to hell with you UPS, we’re retired SOLDIERS, we’ll use the trust worthy and time tested United States Postal Service ‘thank you very much’.   They rode horses across AMERICA to deliver mail, they rock and you don’t and I was a fool to ever trust your fire-ridden trucks to start with.

Her:  look just send it espress mail, It’ll be there in like a 4 days tops. We can also track it, this is easy.

Me: I’m off to be your hero and mail this IMPORTANT DOCUMENT vial the U.S. Postal service, long may they live, do you think they’ll use an actual horse to deliver it like the pony express did?

Her: Express mail, Todd.   Do I need to do this?

Thus I was off, the first plan had met with a failure that burned but this plan was fool fire-proof.

I marched smartly into the post office and quickly noticed, or was noticed by, one of my wife’s fellow co-workers, she summoned me into her line.

How can I help you she asked, I need this to get back to the U.S. as soon as possible, it’s really important, I replied.

What is it she asked?

A power of attorney, I told her.

HOLY SHIT, she said, this has to go first class and for the love of god we need to add a return receipt.

I agreed, because what the fuck do I know about mail and yes, first class sounds important.  If you fly first class that’s good, if you stay somewhere and are ‘first class’ it’s great.

This first class sounds better than even espress … my wife’s such a cheapskate, damn her.

Me:  Yes, yes, (orgasm voice) yes!  Put me on this first class thing, where the hell have you been all my life?  Return receipt, can I have two? Insurance, hell the first one burned up, 1 million dollars please.  Track it while its standing still ma’am I care not!  Add them all please, damn the price, levy the fines.  Whip the men that are charged with moving, we don’t have a whipping fee? What is wrong with American these days?

Her: So that’s like ($20 bucks) and its ‘first-class, return receipt’.

Me: I have done my family a fine service, honor has been done this day and the gods have …

Her: Here’s your receipt dude is there anything else?

Me:  Well I had more to say about the honor thing …

Her:   I need to help the next customer.

Me: but honor demands I …

Her: NEXT!

Which led to me proudly explaining to my wife how I had sent the document extra insured, if I die honey you get like a billion bucks and it’s first fucking class love, how cool is that?

“I told you EXPRESS mail,” she said

“But your friend said first class, what the fuck am I a postal expert now?”  I replied.

“No but I am, you idiot.”

Had I a dunce hat, I would have worn it.

Adding insult to injury I sent a bottle of wine Italian oil to a friend in Chicago two days earlier and it got there first, it got there in like three days and I sent it “I don’t care when it arrives” mail .  I guess I just gave up the ending.   Yeah the super important document got there.  But not before I considered, honestly priced in fact, flying my wife back to the states on a 2-day see our daughter but mainly deliver the goddamn document (notarized for the 3rd time mind you) to the powers that be.

Need help annoying your partner during long drives, this updates for you!

Summer’s here and like many of you Dagmar and I just spent a wonderful, relaxing and nightmarish 20 odd hours in the car together.

Oh what a joy, the things you learn when you’re cooped up in a car with someone are remarkable.

Yes, yes I DO think history pod casts are interesting even after 8 hours!

Yes, yes I DO think history pod casts are interesting even after 8 hours!

For instance did you know that while the someone is exiting an autobahn rest stop, madly working the gears, checking mirrors and judging whether or not that Porsche in the left lane, driving a reasonable and insane 200 mph, is going to suddenly change lanes, that’s the perfect time to ask them to hand you things.

“Honey I know you’re pumping the breaks like a madman because of another of Germany’s infamous stau’s has appeared out of thin air but hand me that water bottle.”

Perfectly reasonable request.

In her defense she was probably close to insanity at this point because I’d subjected her to a collective 15 hours of Mike Duncan’s “The History of Rome” podcast.

Now I Love (yes, with a capital L) me some, “The History of Rome”, I love it so much I’ve listed to all the podcasts three times!   Yeah I’m dork so what, Cato the Elder would have said … oh never mind, sorry.  I should have been clued in though during hour 13 of the podcast when she literally started yelling at the radio, “Shut up, Shut up, Shut up!”

So maybe I missed a sign or something.

Also honey I give you a ‘C’ when it comes to bringing up uncomfortable subjects.    Sure you get an ‘A’ on subject matter, why WAS I flirting with that girl, but a ‘F’ on timing … I mean come on we were pulling into the driveway at that point.

Another point is that yes, maybe I am a male-chauvinistic pig but when I grew up dad did all the driving.  If they were both in the car, pops had the wheel.  I see it as the man’s duty, like mowing the lawn, re-shingling  the roof and looking at porn.   “No honey I can’t go to bed yet, this porn’s not going to watch itself is it?”

You, yeah you reading this, do you keep change in the car?  You know in the divider thing between the passenger and driver’s seat?  Maybe you keep it in the ashtray?  Do you?  If so never, I repeat Never, let Dagmar in your car.    This type of change storage is an affront to the very laws of our existence and it must be policed up, sorted and stored in a proper change receptacle (this little bag in her purse).    Loose change (both the kind in my car and the retarded September 11 2001 conspiracy movie) drive her nuts.  Makes no never mind that the next time I need 35 euro cents I’m screwed, everything has to be organized.

Which leads to another fun game I call, ’round up the trash!’  Now I’m all in favor of having a car that’s reasonably clean and who am I kidding, without anyone else in my car the interior quickly begins to resemble a public landfill.   But I’m not so stupid that I don’t pick up before she, or anyone else, gets in the car but it’s always amusing that during long trips she become litter patrol super captain of the world!    For instance, I’m a filthy smoker and yeah, yeah don’t smoke it’s disgusting and filthy (really don’t), but I’ll often put empty cigarette packs in a little cubby hole on the bottom of the driver’s side door panel.   Heck tons of stuff can go there, empty coffee cups, empty drink bottles, tissues whatever.

These are great opportunities for her to ask me to hand her things during my before mentioned attempts at passing a 1950s Winnebago while someone tries to park their Lamborghini in my ass.

“Todd can you hand me that empty cigarette pack?”

“Sure thing my love, just as soon as I’m done merging into a construction zone surrounded by Italian drivers.  I mean if we live that is.”

This is more of a suggestion in italy, I mean if you want to go right who am I to stop you?

This is more of a suggestion in italy, I mean if you want to go right who am I to stop you?

Which, unrelated to my lovely bride and her adorable passenger habits brings me to crossing international European borders.   Entering Austria from Germany is a yawn, like visiting a sibling, they’re the same as you but different.  Entering Italy from Austria is akin to visiting Charles Manson wearing a shirt that says, stab me please while handing him a knife.

Want to drive 70 KPH in the fast lane, go right ahead in Italy.   Lane changes need not be indicated by signal lights, just change lanes damn it, extra points if you cut someone off and then slow down.   Letting someone merge into your lane means you have a small penis and yes, yes you can slow down to check out the hot chick.

Crossing back into Germany it’s like everyone flips a switch and the rules count again.

“Holy shit, did you see that?   That dude just used his ‘blinker’ to indicate he was making a lane change.  Someone should tell the Italian’s about this!”

I think I’m going to get a lot of support from the men reading this next point.   If the start time, for getting on the road, is agreed upon, say 9 a.m., then 8:45 is not the time to start elaborate philosophical discussions.   See we were visiting our best friends (hey Maggie and Alex) and I guess, the fifteen minute mark is the time to start a discussion about ‘what it all means’ or ‘why are we here’ or ‘are Oreo’s better than Chips ahoy?”.   But Alex I do want to add that I’m in.  In  retrospect, I’m down with the Somalia plan but you’ll have to navigate because …

Listen officer, the GPS TOLD me to drive over this guy's lawn.

Listen officer, the GPS TOLD me to drive over this guy’s lawn.

I confession I suck at directions.  Thank god for GPS.  I failed land navigation as a young soldier at the (then called PLDC) Warrior Leader’s Course.  I failed it AND because of a crap-ton of snow we were doing it in garrison.  Those of you that know what I’m talking about are laughing at me right now, go ahead … dicks.   For those that don’t know what I’m talking about the instructor basically told me, “go four blocks that way, turn left two blocks and tell me what the sign there says.”  Yeah, I fucked that up, repeatedly.So YES honey you DO have a better sense of direction than I do but that’s like me saying I’m better at golfing to a retarded, physically handicapped 5 year old.  It’s not much of a victory.

Sex, booze and vacuum cleaners … life in the middle lane

It seems I broke the vacuum cleaner and, in so much as I was the one using it when it broke, it’s true. Broken vacuum cleaners aren’t, in and of themselves, very interesting or funny outside of vacuum cleaner repair crowds (hint: This update is going to ROCK to vacuum cleaner repair fans!). What is funny to me at least is that according to my lovely wife, I did this on purpose.

When I asked her why she thought I broke it on purpose and because any answer she gave had a 100% chance of being blogged about here, I discovered the following:

  1. I broke it so I wouldn’t have to vacuum anymore
  2. I broke it so I could go buy a new one and get out of grocery shopping
  3. It could be fixed if only I knew more about how to replace small, lost plastic pieces that snapped off of a larger plastic piece
  4. Also I’m a dick for taking notes while she answers me.

Actually she’s right. I love buying new household appliances and enjoy in ways you cannot imagine, tormenting them. That’s right refrigerator, I’m looking at you and you’re next!

My confession follows. I viciously and with great malice in my heart snapped its thin metal telescoping handle of a neck with glee. “Take that you time sucking beast, never again will you keep me from video games, beer drinking or sitting on my ass watching TV!”

You can picture me doing a victory dance around the broken machine in my boxers if you’d like. I know I am.

In reality the vacuum cleaner is about 10 years old and that’s about three more than I expected of it. It was held together during its last few months with duct tape, hope and prayers. It had the intake power of a lung cancer victim and finding replacement bags was becoming so difficult that I was starting to wonder if you could just empty the old bag. Also yeah, it had bags unlike the new modern kind.

It was time for a new vacuum.

When it did break Dagmar was off shopping and I was allowed to stay home during one of those, “okay you can stay here if you do x, y and z chores arrangements.

The dearly departed is on the right.

(Hint: to any male reading this that is newly married. Always take these deals. You’ll win with more free time in the end, basically because men usually do a half-assed job at house cleaning)

When it broke I did think, “aww crap she’s totally going to think I did this on purpose.” As if tossing a few hundred dollars on a vacuum cleaner was something I found “fun”. Meaning, I can predict her reaction, but I cannot explain it.

So basically there are three ways the Oliver household is getting a new vacuum cleaner, assuming the German equivalent of a Kirby salesman doesn’t show up in the next hour.

I go to the store and buy it (most preferred method)

She goes to the store and buys it (second most preferred method)

We go together to buy it (unmitigated disaster ensues)

The first two options are about as close to a tie as they can get in my opinion.

The “I go to the store and buy it” will be the most cost effective of the three options, note I didn’t say cheapest, I said most cost effective. If I go alone I’m going to straight up throw money at this problem. Do they have optional beer holders on this model? Great, add that to the bill please. What’s that, the vacuum will synch with my iTunes’s library for an extra $50, sure add that too. It can answer the phone via your blender, shit we need that! How have we lived without that? Point is I don’t want to ever have to do this again so if I spend big on it, in my mind, the damn thing can be used to clean up after my wake, and you fucker’s better make a mess at my wake. I totally wanna see, cause I’ll be watching, vomit and crap!

The second option has its own appeal in that I don’t have to have to get off my ass and continue in my duties as Judge “boobieprofessor69” at ratemyrack.com … I kid but I cannot describe to you how little interest I have in buying a vacuum. Does it plug and suck up dirt? Great I’ll take it. The downside of Dagmar buying it is easy. First she’s cheap sometimes and vacuum buying would be one of those times. She’d return home with 8 million other purchases besides the vacuum cause all of you girls do that.

The biggest lie of any marriage or partnership is when you ladies tell us men, I’m only going into the store for one thing … you are all filthy, filthy liars and you know it. Confess, I demand it.

So if she goes to buy it, the vacuum itself won’t cost much – I mean it will actively shock you while you use it but it only costs like $20 – but she’ll come home with four U-haul trailers full of crap I didn’t know we wanted let alone needed.

The third and final (as in it feels like death final) option is that we go buy it together. Oddly the purchase of the actual item was pretty straightforward. A decent, yet sans beer can holder, model that I’m relatively sure our dearly departed vacuum would approve of was had without much debate. But then it starts. The endless gathering, the wandering the aisles of the store, examining this Rachel Ray egg yolk separator or fingering that Martha Stewart ‘stick-up-your-butt floral display guide’.

Look honey we don’t need new towels. I know because you shoved them all in those decorative baskets that, while look good I admit, ensure we only use the same towels over and over again. The towels at the bottom of the baskets have never touched human skin for Christ’s sake. Screw it if we get new towels can we leave? No? If we get the towels can we at least leave this aisle?

All department stores should have waiter service that serve drinks. That would solve these crisis moments.

So in addition to a new vacuum holder we have a new trash can even though I thought our old one was just fine in that it well … held trash! I also have to now remember a new trashcan bag size when shopping.

Oh the humanity.

There are things you can, after a certain number of years as a couple, predict about your significant other yet still not explain. I could, and did predict her reaction to the broken vacuum cleaner but I could not explain it, not for a million dollars could I do that. Her bizarre attachment to the device defies any logical explanation I can come up with. I mean sexual vacuum cleaner relationships are, if Google is to be believed, mainly a male phenomenon. And that sucks.

Certain things are just given preferential treatment here.

For instance when we lived in Italy we bought a very nice, very high-quality Italian leather sofa – mainly cause I was a huge fan of the band Cake back then but also because they’re known to last a lifetime. What did Mrs. Dagmar “I loved that vacuum more than you” Oliver do with great condition couch only seven years into its existence? Did you say she replaced it with some run-of-the-mill mass produced crap from Lazy-boy that will be lucky if it survives seven years let along a lifetime?

You’d of course be right.

So why is the death of the vacuum treated as if a dear family member has passed on and the couch is carelessly tossed into a room we never use? Hell if I know. Though oddly the vacuum did break in that room so maybe there’s a connection I’m not getting. Couch hates vacuum conspiracy theories aren’t as plentiful on the net as you’d hope.

Another example is it’s only in the last year or so that Dagmar’s relented and actually used the, brace yourself, dishwasher. That’s right for years Dagmar chose to wash every single glass, pot, pan, knife, fork and plate by hand.

I’d like to say I stood my ground and maintained that with a fully-functional dishwasher literally inches away I never washed dishes but we all know that truth … I washed me some fucking dishes. But the argument drove me nearly insane.

Gina and Dagmar maintain I take shitty photos of them.   I maintain they are cute no matter what, provided they are doing chick chores.

Gina and Dagmar maintain I take shitty photos of them. I maintain they had hot sexy bubble fights after this photo ...

They went like this.

Me: Just use the fucking dishwasher, its right there, fully-functioning and meant to free you of your domestic shackles.

Dagmar: No I don’t want to!

Me: They even have crap that makes sure the glasses don’t have spots on them. You just load it and press some buttons, magic happens, and presto-chango clean dishes …

Dagmar: Washing dishes relaxes me.

Me: If that’s true why are we arguing? Look maybe you should start doing the laundry by hand? Hell we can eliminate the electric bill if we just follow this to its natural conclusion.

Dagmar: I like to wash the dishes by hand!

I took to taking photos of her washing dishes in all kinds of situations. I have photos of her and GG washing dishes in Italy together because it became funny as hell to me to see her washing dishes when poor Josephine Cochran went through all that fucking trouble of inventing the first dishwasher.

did I mention I like boobs?

This photo would have been a 9.9 and not a 9.8 at ratemyrack.com but I couldn't draw a set of boobs using her moles ... that kind of stuff counts.

GG … btw I want to be clear I voted you a solid 9.8 (because we all know a straight 10 is a kids vote) on ratemyrack.com despite what rival judge tits4life may have told you.

He’s such a hater.

Then magically in this house the dishwasher joined such modern devices as the television, the iron the FUCKING CLOTHES WASHER which is basically the same kind of thing.

I can’t explain it other than I just said fuck it, buy some dishwashing detergent and just do it yourself Todd.

No matter how well you know someone, no matter the level of your understanding, you can predict but you cannot always explain.

So explain that to me …

Three hundred dollars of oops (pure awesome!)

Drunk me makes sober me really, really tired. Drunk me is full of ideas, just “ideas coming out of every hole in my body” full of ideas.

It’s up to sober me to filter them.

Here’s a hint drunk me, most of the ideas suck. Can you do a little better job at filtering them yourself maybe? Reducing the amount of ideas that you push through to morning would really help. Perhaps you, drunk me, could apply some commonsense sort of rules before you push the thought forward to the morning?

For instance you could ask yourself the following questions before forwarding the idea on to tomorrow.

1: Will the idea get me fired from work?

I’m not kidding. We really do have one of these at work. And I can verify, the temptation is overwhelming.

See this one is easy. At work we have a large, old fashioned, metal triangle fire alarm. Even when sober I want to hit it with the available medal bar while yelling nonsensical emergency things. “Salmon Attack” dong, dong, dong. “My balls itch”, dong, dong, dong. “Bring out your dead,” dong, dong, dong. “Antiquated fire systems test!” dong, dong, dong.

See it IS funny and I’ve often been TEMPTED at work to do just that. Thoughts about rigging cameras around the whole place to capture the reaction don’t help, so stop suggesting it. It would be funny, but only for about 10 minutes.

2. Does it involve being naked?

You’ve violated the wait-’til-morning rule here a few times with mixed results. I admit the close-up photo of testicles texted to, well more people than was sane or necessary, worked as a funny joke. But sober I never would have approved this idea. It was funny, yes, because the photo didn’t look like anything (other than a really close up picture of testicles) so the joke worked. I maintain you got lucky, most who received the text laughed and the ones who didn’t still talk to me so …

Don’t do that again, no more naked jokes unless I’ve (while sober) sanctioned it!

3. What does it cost?

I’m pretty sure I don’t need to remind drunk me of the strip club after the long business trip or the bill that followed.

like this only I don’t remember and it was on a credit card.

After a grueling two-week trip to Italy, the night before I left for home, I decided, at the prompting of others and while blasted out of my mind, to visit a strip club. Sober, I, in all honesty would never, ever, not in a million years, be up for this. Drunk, boobies AND beer equaled me fully in. But here’s the thing, just because I had a tough two weeks (you’re thinking tough, two weeks and Italy don’t go together in a thought, screw you it was tough) that was NO reason to go back into the private VIP area of the club and run up a Visa bill that was both obscene and awesome at the same time. The memories from that night SHOULD HAVE BEEN epic, yet all I can remember is at one point there were two girls with me, one said something to the effect of, “you can touch them” followed by me batting at large swinging breasts like a kitten plays with a ball of yarn. My wingman, sensing economic disaster, finally pulled me out of the back room and in the morning, when I asked him why he let me stay back there so long just said, “You looked like you were having fun.” He should have bought me a ball of yarn.

This reminds me, I should buy Dagmar something expensive. When I got home this was how the confession about the strip club went …

Me: Hey I should tell you something. I spent like 2k in a strip club.

Dagmar: Did you get laid?

Me: No.

Dagmar: You’re an idiot.

I’m thinking a necklace or ear rings, but I’m taking suggestions.

Which leads us to …

About five days ago the $300 remote-control helicopter (Ar Drone for those who are curious) that I ordered while Maggie and Alex were visiting arrived. Even the next morning, sober, I considered canceling the order, but besides that quote from Hemingway, it passed the filter.

If nothing else, I thought the damned thing would be good for a laugh and it LOOKED easy to fly. It syncs with your smart phone or iPad and you tilt the pad to the right and it goes … how hard could this be?

The answer is hard. As Adrian pointed out in this video, the damned thing just sort of crashes a lot. The only bonus I can think of is that it scares the hell out of the cat and annoys the wife. Win some, lose some.

I say go left and it flies, with reckless abandon, right into the wall getting one of its propellers locked in between two pieces of paneling.

Forward, forward, forward … HOLY too much forward … BACKWARD full … backward into the clothes and into a full crash. The propellers are caught now in my shirts, the ones I have to wear to work. No wonder pilots are cocky … this shit is hard.

The battery lasts as long as your high-school boyfriend did, provided you’re a chick. If you’re a man the battery did an awesome job, high-five!

Here it is … about to fly right into my face …

You can kinda get it, hovering and adjusting the altitude easy enough. Spinning in a circle left or right — also easy. Movement from a stationary position is the trick. When attempting to command the helicopter to perform movements more complex than hovering a foot off the floor it all comes down to knowing what direction the helicopter is facing in relation to the iPhone… Work it out in your brain, calculate the direction its facing and the direction you wish it to go, add 2, subtract 67, multiply by 9 (consider how old your grandmother was when she was happiest) and it’ll fly into your wall with simplistic finality. Then subtract two.