They say you respond to chocolate the same way as you do when you're in love. Does that mean if I keep eating it I'll keep myself in a state of curious excitement/giddy hopefulness mixed with despair and confusion? Maybe I'll just see what happens if I take another wee candy bar from the office manager's plastic pumpkin...
Yes, again the day is flat-lining on me and I need to amuse myself at work. Hoping some tea will revive my drooping interest in staying awake.
IDEA!!! I think I'll write some work-related topics (well, loosely related) and put them on the bulletin board. That's an outlet, right? And it might make things a little more interesting around here. It's positively driving me insane right now.
Right. Tea. Writing. How to Cuss in Other Languages has been a topic of interest to me for a while...
Wednesday, October 26, 2005
Tuesday, October 25, 2005
Outlaws
Once upon a time, you could watch a movie, the news or your favorite television show, and someone would inevitably light up a cigarette, hold it elegantly between their first and second finger, and no one would say boo about it. The cigarette was often followed by a scotch or martini, thus completing the image of worldly, cosmopolitan jetsetter. The lights would just illuminate the otherwordly wafts of exhaled smoke which would linger affectionately around Walter Cronkite's head, and one would think "Gosh, he's so sophisticated! When can I light up?"
Not so in our supposedly more health-conscious times. I was walking into my office this morning and as I passed the unofficial smoking area, which was either in front of the restaurant or right outside the entrance, I couldn't help but notice how the smokers were positioned. One, a policeman, was lighting up next to a bush, looking positively shady, and several others were in random spots surrounding the entrance. There were a couple leaning against the wall, one leg bent to lend a more deviant vibe to the scene. These people looked neither cool or sophisticated, but rather more like outlaws pondering their next crime. What would it be? A puff between conference calls? Perhaps one right after lunch? Or maybe one in the car on the way home to ease the day's tensions away?
Alas, the long-ago image of elegant, satin-gloved women and smartly dressed executives snapping open monogrammed metal cigarette boxes is pretty much over. I suppose this isn't a total loss, but I do wish certain elements of those bygone days were still around. Perhaps I'll try and get everyone to wear hats and gloves again. It' s a start, anyway, since we can't drink martinis at work. Damn!
Not so in our supposedly more health-conscious times. I was walking into my office this morning and as I passed the unofficial smoking area, which was either in front of the restaurant or right outside the entrance, I couldn't help but notice how the smokers were positioned. One, a policeman, was lighting up next to a bush, looking positively shady, and several others were in random spots surrounding the entrance. There were a couple leaning against the wall, one leg bent to lend a more deviant vibe to the scene. These people looked neither cool or sophisticated, but rather more like outlaws pondering their next crime. What would it be? A puff between conference calls? Perhaps one right after lunch? Or maybe one in the car on the way home to ease the day's tensions away?
Alas, the long-ago image of elegant, satin-gloved women and smartly dressed executives snapping open monogrammed metal cigarette boxes is pretty much over. I suppose this isn't a total loss, but I do wish certain elements of those bygone days were still around. Perhaps I'll try and get everyone to wear hats and gloves again. It' s a start, anyway, since we can't drink martinis at work. Damn!
Monday, October 17, 2005
Fie on Working!
I have been instructed to find something to distract me from my current state of grumpy and bored. So a-blogging I will go!
My mind at the moment can best be described as an immaculate highway disappearing off into the horizon. The destination not visible to my eye is the end of my work day -I must walk the pristine, uninterrupted pavement to get to this five o'clock place and thus end my torture. During this journey there is nothing but steady walking; nothing to distract me or make the trip more pleasant or exciting. Just putting one foot in front of the other as my glazed eyes follow white lines, lulled into a mental state not unlike that of a plodding mule.
I quietly observe the sun change position in the sky. I keep walking, and torment myself further by periodically looking at my watch.
3:30 pm. Two more miles.
Damn, I hate Mondays!
My mind at the moment can best be described as an immaculate highway disappearing off into the horizon. The destination not visible to my eye is the end of my work day -I must walk the pristine, uninterrupted pavement to get to this five o'clock place and thus end my torture. During this journey there is nothing but steady walking; nothing to distract me or make the trip more pleasant or exciting. Just putting one foot in front of the other as my glazed eyes follow white lines, lulled into a mental state not unlike that of a plodding mule.
I quietly observe the sun change position in the sky. I keep walking, and torment myself further by periodically looking at my watch.
3:30 pm. Two more miles.
Damn, I hate Mondays!
Tuesday, October 04, 2005
Hoy.
So I've decided to learn my native language this year. I think it's going well. The text book is well-written, the instructor is funny and pushes the group to start using what we learn right away. And, some hidden knowledge is resurfacing, which I find reassuring.
I'm having fun, too. But one lesson I didn't expect to learn has been humbling.
In the last class, those of us who were a little familiar with the material discussed how we knew what to say, but were afraid to for fear of saying something incorrectly and enduring our parents' merciless ridicule. This made me think of my mom. Sometimes she would say certain English words with incorrect inflections and we'd laugh and make fun of her, being kids and generally thoughtless and insensitive. But people tend to do that - find amusement as someone speaks in broken English, trying their best to be understood only to be met with bemused looks or outright laughter.
After struggling through two classes I must suggest this to those who laugh: Take a month to learn some simple conversational phrases in say, Swahili. Then walk over to a group of people exceptionally fluent in Swahili and be part of the conversation. Speak Swahili, with no trace of an accent or hesitancy. Pray that you don't call someone's grandmother a boiled root dish by putting the accent of a word in the wrong place. Who's laughing now, eh? See - it's not so easy. It's another case of putting yourself in another's shoes and this was the unexpected lesson.
I do harbor a fear, like David Sedaris when he was learning French, that when I eventually try and speak my native tongue it will sound like a hillbilly version of what is actually a very melodic and joyful language, and the person I'm talking to will assume I suffered some closed head injury as a child. But hopefully they will be sympathetic, ignore my strong Midwest American accent and maybe support my efforts to learn. So I'll just forge ahead. It will most likely be my mom, anyway - and I guess she's entitled to laugh all she wants.
I'm having fun, too. But one lesson I didn't expect to learn has been humbling.
In the last class, those of us who were a little familiar with the material discussed how we knew what to say, but were afraid to for fear of saying something incorrectly and enduring our parents' merciless ridicule. This made me think of my mom. Sometimes she would say certain English words with incorrect inflections and we'd laugh and make fun of her, being kids and generally thoughtless and insensitive. But people tend to do that - find amusement as someone speaks in broken English, trying their best to be understood only to be met with bemused looks or outright laughter.
After struggling through two classes I must suggest this to those who laugh: Take a month to learn some simple conversational phrases in say, Swahili. Then walk over to a group of people exceptionally fluent in Swahili and be part of the conversation. Speak Swahili, with no trace of an accent or hesitancy. Pray that you don't call someone's grandmother a boiled root dish by putting the accent of a word in the wrong place. Who's laughing now, eh? See - it's not so easy. It's another case of putting yourself in another's shoes and this was the unexpected lesson.
I do harbor a fear, like David Sedaris when he was learning French, that when I eventually try and speak my native tongue it will sound like a hillbilly version of what is actually a very melodic and joyful language, and the person I'm talking to will assume I suffered some closed head injury as a child. But hopefully they will be sympathetic, ignore my strong Midwest American accent and maybe support my efforts to learn. So I'll just forge ahead. It will most likely be my mom, anyway - and I guess she's entitled to laugh all she wants.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)