My co-worker, K, has recently had a circumcision. I am not really supposed to know this, but T outed him. It went something like this:
T: K, tell Emily what surgery you're getting.
K: (All eyes on him, noticeable silence, looks uncomfortable)
T: Go on, tell her.
K: (more silence, you can feel waves of embarrassment radiating from him, he has practically broken a sweat and refuses to look me in the eye)
T: (brays) PRI-I-vate parts!
I know, now, why K had surgery, and hasn't been able to ride his bike recently. Apparently one of the regulars, Ch, heard about this and told K about his troubles down there, meaning, for some reason he had to have his testicles removed. He showed K part of the scar, down there. Of all the things I could know about Ch, that's probably the thing that I least wanted to hear.
I made french fries for the first-ish time today (I made them once before, when I worked briefly for the Cambridge Uni physics lab cafeteria, but that was easier because there was a timer) because T thought that I knew how to do it. So J (another co-worker) showed me how to do it and I did it! I was kinda proud of myself. Not that it's hard or even requires skill, I was just so sure that I was going to monumentally fuck something up. you know, scald myself with hot oil or accidentally fry something gross (or inedible, like a napkin or celery or something equally ridiculous) and serve it to the Water Polo Club (the recipients of the fruits of my labor) who would eat it and either be too polite to say anything or would tease the crap out of me or never come again and they are one of the mainstays of the P.
But then, I am only working there for 2 more weeks! Hurrah!
Tuesday 29 July 2008
Wednesday 23 July 2008
T-isms
Another T-ism:
"We're here to make money, not give it away" (re: a drink that was over-filled).
"We're here to make money, not give it away" (re: a drink that was over-filled).
Wednesday 16 July 2008
Little Story-ette
I was lying in bed reading and contemplating getting up when I heard a bizarre sound, kind of like the pages in a large book being riffled through. I sat up, certain that it was a book that I had kicked off the bed, or a poltergeist (I am a very logical person) and looked out. It was a bird that had flown into the 2 inch opening of the window and was beating it's wings against the glass. I did what any mature, wise, calm person would do and screamed my head off and shut the curtains on the bird. I ran outside with some vague plan of opening the window more from the outside (there's a latch that catches the window once it's open a few inches but you can release it with a little difficulty) so that there would be a wall of glass between me and the bird. I turned the corner of the building just in time to see it fly out of the window. All that was left on my sill was a tiny, fresh, bird turd.
I don't know how the bird saw the opening,much less was able to fly in. The window is a big rectangle of glass that swings open at the bottom. There are no trees or bushes right next to it, so the bird didn't just happen to hop in.
Crazy bird.
I don't know how the bird saw the opening,much less was able to fly in. The window is a big rectangle of glass that swings open at the bottom. There are no trees or bushes right next to it, so the bird didn't just happen to hop in.
Crazy bird.
Tuesday 15 July 2008
London Trip
My roommates have left for the week and have gone to Michigan, taking my day-job with them. SO I am left with lots of time on my hands and no one to spend it with. With my newfound time I went to London to stay with D (who I met through Nick) and bum around the city for 2 days. D took me to a nice party thrown by one of her professors (she is getting her MA in dance anthropology). I met the other people in her program and some
of her professors and talked to some other who gave me good ideas of places to visit and things to see/do (for example, in Paris you can rent bicycles cheaply and cycle around the city which means you can see more of the city and pay less to see it). We also went shopping at the charity shops in Richmond and had lunch sitting next to the Thames. This morning I went to Camden Town and paid a little too much for a beat up brown leather satchel (but it fits ALLL of my requirements for a travel satchel: it can hold a sweater, an umbrella, my wallet, my sunglasses, my glasses, a book, my phone, and some papers quite comfortably and has a lot of compartments and it's a little beat up and unobtrusive). I like Camden Town for the most part, but they didn;t have any interesting septum jewelery and they were all trying to sell different versions of the same things (spiral-y hippy jewelery, vintage clothes which I love but can't justify buying at this moment (side note: when will I ever have enough money to justify buying the superfluous things that I want?), leather goth stuff, handmade leather bags, and cheaply made trendy things) and so they all kind of stepped all over each other. I also got depressed because I have been hoping that I could find somewhere one of those blazers that school children wear. Some just too small and awkwardly fitting enough but a little worn and maybe with a school patch on the breast pocket. Unfortunately, I think that there are recycling programs from these jackets, or they're used until they fall off the wearer or technically the school owns them and therefore reclaims them at the end of the school year. Humph.
While walking to the train station I saw a chicken and kebab shop called "Tennesseeland" which I thought was a funny mis-translation.
The Westminster underground station is exactly my idea of the interior of either a space ship or a post-apocalyptic bunker. It's huge, but underground and therefore made of steel and concrete and has staircases jutting out from one wall of this enormous space and shooting into the opposite side. The florescent lighting is bizarrely hidden in niches and nooks and therefore gloams from nowhere. I felt like I should be stomping the steel tiles in leather boots with unnecessary buckles and wearing gray linen pants and an army green sweater in tatters, you know, Matrix-style. Also at the Westminster Underground they have enclosed the tracks in a clear plastic case, so that when a train comes the trains doors line up with doors in the casing and they open (somewhat) simultaneously to let people on/off. This shell and the dim lighting serve to make me feel like I am boarding futuristic space trains that will drop out into the ether and take me to another planet. But it still feels like public transportation because people still grumble and politely ignore each other and are in a rush to get wherever they are going. So it's, you know, nonchalant space travel.
of her professors and talked to some other who gave me good ideas of places to visit and things to see/do (for example, in Paris you can rent bicycles cheaply and cycle around the city which means you can see more of the city and pay less to see it). We also went shopping at the charity shops in Richmond and had lunch sitting next to the Thames. This morning I went to Camden Town and paid a little too much for a beat up brown leather satchel (but it fits ALLL of my requirements for a travel satchel: it can hold a sweater, an umbrella, my wallet, my sunglasses, my glasses, a book, my phone, and some papers quite comfortably and has a lot of compartments and it's a little beat up and unobtrusive). I like Camden Town for the most part, but they didn;t have any interesting septum jewelery and they were all trying to sell different versions of the same things (spiral-y hippy jewelery, vintage clothes which I love but can't justify buying at this moment (side note: when will I ever have enough money to justify buying the superfluous things that I want?), leather goth stuff, handmade leather bags, and cheaply made trendy things) and so they all kind of stepped all over each other. I also got depressed because I have been hoping that I could find somewhere one of those blazers that school children wear. Some just too small and awkwardly fitting enough but a little worn and maybe with a school patch on the breast pocket. Unfortunately, I think that there are recycling programs from these jackets, or they're used until they fall off the wearer or technically the school owns them and therefore reclaims them at the end of the school year. Humph.
While walking to the train station I saw a chicken and kebab shop called "Tennesseeland" which I thought was a funny mis-translation.
The Westminster underground station is exactly my idea of the interior of either a space ship or a post-apocalyptic bunker. It's huge, but underground and therefore made of steel and concrete and has staircases jutting out from one wall of this enormous space and shooting into the opposite side. The florescent lighting is bizarrely hidden in niches and nooks and therefore gloams from nowhere. I felt like I should be stomping the steel tiles in leather boots with unnecessary buckles and wearing gray linen pants and an army green sweater in tatters, you know, Matrix-style. Also at the Westminster Underground they have enclosed the tracks in a clear plastic case, so that when a train comes the trains doors line up with doors in the casing and they open (somewhat) simultaneously to let people on/off. This shell and the dim lighting serve to make me feel like I am boarding futuristic space trains that will drop out into the ether and take me to another planet. But it still feels like public transportation because people still grumble and politely ignore each other and are in a rush to get wherever they are going. So it's, you know, nonchalant space travel.
Thursday 10 July 2008
General Update
Nothing new to report.
My bosses still suck, I am thinking of writing a pamphlet on how to NOT be a sucky boss. It would go something like this:
1. Refrain from the rhetorical question when chastising an employee. For example: "Did you not see that the chairs were untidy?" because only assholes need to degrade their employees that way, and it's 90% likely that your employee will resent and look down on you for being so childish.
2. If you employee doesn't make a vocal answer to your rhetorical bitch-slap, please please please do not repeat your question, forcing said employee to look at their feet and say "no, sorry" like a three year-old caught with her hand in the cookie jar.
3. Do not curse and act irritated for things that in no way inconvenience you or impact the business. i.e.: The employee puts an empty bottle into an unused sink below the bar because she doesn't have time to put it in the recycling bin at that exact moment because there are 10 more drinks to pour and ring up, and the sink is unused and out of the way. The incorrect response would be to say loudly "what the fuck is this doing here?"And stump away muttering.
you know, things like that.
I have started making faces when T. does such things. I grit my jaw towards the beer I am pouring, or I wait until he has left and I grimace and sneer at the door he exited through. Because, I am a mature person.
I am always impressed by how teenage-ish people can be. Wait, a better way to put it, how impressed with themselves they can be because they live by bumper sticker and novelty t-shirt sayings. T. has had some good one-liners that deserve to be written down and looked at askance-like (never end a sentence with a preposition). Such as:
"I don't pay you to think."
and
"There's only one way to do it, and that's my way" (this with a little self-satisfied smile.)
S and I are regularly disgusted by the regulars who are in their forties and fifties and still go out every night to drink A LOT. Or there's D. another regular in his forties who was there when I started my shift one afternoon and confided in me that he had been drinking since 8 that morning. I swallowed my pity (aren't there better things to do with your time?) and acted dutifully impressed at his clear bad-assery. He was very impressed with himself and his "24 hour party" (ok, that wasn't very clever but there are so many shirts and posters and bumper stickers about partying all the time that I don't really feel the need to knock your socks off with my smart-ass wordplay). I am pretty sure that he was drinking alone in his house, and then by himself for a few hours in the pub before the other regulars trickled in and kept him company (then paid his tab, called a cab, and sent him home).
Despite the rather depressing nature of this post, life is going pretty well.
Caitlin, Will, and I are teaching the baby "tricks." Before you accuse me of treating the baby like a puppy, let me point out that she loves the feeling of communicating with us, and her "tricks" are rather like communication. For example, there is "hooray!" When you say "hooray!" and hold up your arms, Hannah holds up her arms and smiles. Sometimes she'll lift her arms on her own and we all put ours up and yell "hooray!" and Hannah smiles. Then there's "whoosh!" which happened by accident. She jerks her hands down her head and we push our hair forward with our hands and say "whoosh!" Or there's clap hands which works the same way, someone claps (either Hannah or Will or Caitlin or I) and then Will, Caitlin or I say "clap hands!" and clap our hands. I just taught her "bump heads." When you say "bump heads" and put your head near hers, she will gently bump her forehead against yours. Or, oddly, the side of her head against your forehead. She doesn't quite get a kick out of "bump heads" but she'll oblige.
My bosses still suck, I am thinking of writing a pamphlet on how to NOT be a sucky boss. It would go something like this:
1. Refrain from the rhetorical question when chastising an employee. For example: "Did you not see that the chairs were untidy?" because only assholes need to degrade their employees that way, and it's 90% likely that your employee will resent and look down on you for being so childish.
2. If you employee doesn't make a vocal answer to your rhetorical bitch-slap, please please please do not repeat your question, forcing said employee to look at their feet and say "no, sorry" like a three year-old caught with her hand in the cookie jar.
3. Do not curse and act irritated for things that in no way inconvenience you or impact the business. i.e.: The employee puts an empty bottle into an unused sink below the bar because she doesn't have time to put it in the recycling bin at that exact moment because there are 10 more drinks to pour and ring up, and the sink is unused and out of the way. The incorrect response would be to say loudly "what the fuck is this doing here?"And stump away muttering.
you know, things like that.
I have started making faces when T. does such things. I grit my jaw towards the beer I am pouring, or I wait until he has left and I grimace and sneer at the door he exited through. Because, I am a mature person.
I am always impressed by how teenage-ish people can be. Wait, a better way to put it, how impressed with themselves they can be because they live by bumper sticker and novelty t-shirt sayings. T. has had some good one-liners that deserve to be written down and looked at askance-like (never end a sentence with a preposition). Such as:
"I don't pay you to think."
and
"There's only one way to do it, and that's my way" (this with a little self-satisfied smile.)
S and I are regularly disgusted by the regulars who are in their forties and fifties and still go out every night to drink A LOT. Or there's D. another regular in his forties who was there when I started my shift one afternoon and confided in me that he had been drinking since 8 that morning. I swallowed my pity (aren't there better things to do with your time?) and acted dutifully impressed at his clear bad-assery. He was very impressed with himself and his "24 hour party" (ok, that wasn't very clever but there are so many shirts and posters and bumper stickers about partying all the time that I don't really feel the need to knock your socks off with my smart-ass wordplay). I am pretty sure that he was drinking alone in his house, and then by himself for a few hours in the pub before the other regulars trickled in and kept him company (then paid his tab, called a cab, and sent him home).
Despite the rather depressing nature of this post, life is going pretty well.
Caitlin, Will, and I are teaching the baby "tricks." Before you accuse me of treating the baby like a puppy, let me point out that she loves the feeling of communicating with us, and her "tricks" are rather like communication. For example, there is "hooray!" When you say "hooray!" and hold up your arms, Hannah holds up her arms and smiles. Sometimes she'll lift her arms on her own and we all put ours up and yell "hooray!" and Hannah smiles. Then there's "whoosh!" which happened by accident. She jerks her hands down her head and we push our hair forward with our hands and say "whoosh!" Or there's clap hands which works the same way, someone claps (either Hannah or Will or Caitlin or I) and then Will, Caitlin or I say "clap hands!" and clap our hands. I just taught her "bump heads." When you say "bump heads" and put your head near hers, she will gently bump her forehead against yours. Or, oddly, the side of her head against your forehead. She doesn't quite get a kick out of "bump heads" but she'll oblige.
Friday 4 July 2008
Novelty Cont'd
Soo, I have already pointed out that there is a dearth of novelty in my neck of the woods. Well there is. Except for word differences. For example, did you know that a toothpick is called a "stick" or a "cocktail stick" here in The Bog They Call England?
I learned this in a faintly humiliating slightly humorous manner today.
During a busy Friday lunchtime C. shrieked me into the kitchen and shoved a small bowl of olives into my hand, flew to the other side of the kitchen and said something to her cutting board about "having sticks out there." I asked what she meant by sticks and instead of describing them she stood in the middle of the kitchen and bawled "STICKS, dear, STICKS!"in my face. My uncomprehending expression made her "tchah!" in frustration and she sent me out of the kitchen with a different order. I figured out what she meant by "sticks" (eventually) and went back to pick up the order. She said something directed at me (but to the cutting board again) and I tried to point out that I hadn't known what sticks were (I am now wondering why I even bothered, she already thinks that I have mashed potatoes for brains) and she whirled around started to say something, flew to the other end of the kitchen, turned and triumphantly wailed "well, you should have recognized that they were missing and figured it out from that, so HA!"
So ha?
Touche, C., we have fought a hard battle and I concede some sort of win to you. Um, yeah.
I learned this in a faintly humiliating slightly humorous manner today.
During a busy Friday lunchtime C. shrieked me into the kitchen and shoved a small bowl of olives into my hand, flew to the other side of the kitchen and said something to her cutting board about "having sticks out there." I asked what she meant by sticks and instead of describing them she stood in the middle of the kitchen and bawled "STICKS, dear, STICKS!"in my face. My uncomprehending expression made her "tchah!" in frustration and she sent me out of the kitchen with a different order. I figured out what she meant by "sticks" (eventually) and went back to pick up the order. She said something directed at me (but to the cutting board again) and I tried to point out that I hadn't known what sticks were (I am now wondering why I even bothered, she already thinks that I have mashed potatoes for brains) and she whirled around started to say something, flew to the other end of the kitchen, turned and triumphantly wailed "well, you should have recognized that they were missing and figured it out from that, so HA!"
So ha?
Touche, C., we have fought a hard battle and I concede some sort of win to you. Um, yeah.
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