In one of my various social circles, there is a someone I call NG. They are very, very nice and completely incompetent. This incompetency carries over to their work life and the poor cow-orkers (I play with hyphen miss-placement in my spare time) of NG have permanent, slightly furrowed brows. The complaints that flow!
I have often been using NG as a good example of many a silly thing and it occurred to me fairly recently that NG isn’t incompetent: NG is finishing up their post-doctoral research on just how much dumb folks will put up with if dumb is really, really nice. Whenever I interact with NG now, even though the odds are stratospherically against this, I just repeat to myself, “It’s all part of NG’s research. The thesis that comes from this research will shatter cow-orker expectations for decades to come. I, by being nice, might end up as a blip in the end notes.”
An Erinku:
coffee, displaced from cup
seeks shelter
in my stack of papers
dammit!
Monday, November 30, 2009
Saturday, November 21, 2009
Oasis
When I was in late high school, 17 or 18 or so, I had the worst nightmare I've ever had. It wasn't sinister. It didn't involved being chased. In my dream, I was standing in my kitchen alone when I realized that the past six years of my life had been a complete delusion. And that the world I thought was real was vastly, fundamentally different from the real world. Some of my closest family and friends had died in the "real" world and I wasn't able to cope, so I'd created a fantasy world I'd been living in.
When I woke up from that dream, I was horrified and instantly set about finding these folks who had been dead while I dreamed. Insidious dream-logic can pervade the real world and I was completely freaked out. It turned out everyone was alive and well. It was, after all, a dream.
Now I'm in my 30's and have been getting my ass kicked daily by life. This past week was very rough and, again, I realized that the life I thought I'd been living for the last six or so years was an illusion. Much like walking in the heat and seeing the oasis of an ice cream stand on the horizon, my ice cream stand has melted. It sounded awfully familiar, so, I've tested and I do seem to currently be in real life. Disillusionment sucks but is theoretically good in the long-term.
Today, I was angry. This has been a very welcome change of pace from the dreadful apathy I'd been feeling for days. Unfortunately, anger doesn't fix my cello scales. But ice cream sure sounds like a great antidote.
An Erinku (like a bobsled, but with words):
plastic bag
huddled on floor
containing
no candy
When I woke up from that dream, I was horrified and instantly set about finding these folks who had been dead while I dreamed. Insidious dream-logic can pervade the real world and I was completely freaked out. It turned out everyone was alive and well. It was, after all, a dream.
Now I'm in my 30's and have been getting my ass kicked daily by life. This past week was very rough and, again, I realized that the life I thought I'd been living for the last six or so years was an illusion. Much like walking in the heat and seeing the oasis of an ice cream stand on the horizon, my ice cream stand has melted. It sounded awfully familiar, so, I've tested and I do seem to currently be in real life. Disillusionment sucks but is theoretically good in the long-term.
Today, I was angry. This has been a very welcome change of pace from the dreadful apathy I'd been feeling for days. Unfortunately, anger doesn't fix my cello scales. But ice cream sure sounds like a great antidote.
An Erinku (like a bobsled, but with words):
plastic bag
huddled on floor
containing
no candy
Thursday, November 12, 2009
Adventures in Mental-Land
Due to school and life I’ve been stressy stress-ball of stress that has also been sleep-deprived and blah blah blah. This morning while I was driving myself and my cello into school/work, I was starting to drink coffee during the routine traffic jam. After my first sip, I noticed the license plate on the car in front of me had backwards letters and numbers. I thought, “huh, that’s wierd.”
I looked to the left and that car, too, had backwards letters on the license plate. My next thought, obviously, was “ohmygod, I’ve had a stroke and it’s affecting how I read. It must have been in the language potion of my brain.”
Then my next thought was “well if I can still use logic like this, then instead of a stroke, I must still be asleep, because I’m not very good at reading in my dreams.”
My final thought about this experience was “Oh wait. That’s not a backwards “E” on those two license plates; they are the number “3.” I’m just tired.”
I reached down to switch the radio station from commercials over to 80’s music. That song “Sweet Dreams” was playing and the line came on “Everybody’s looking for something” and my first thought was, “they are probably looking for tic-tacs.”
I have got to finish my coffee NOW!
An Erinku:
dairy order
delivered
I remembered
two days late
I looked to the left and that car, too, had backwards letters on the license plate. My next thought, obviously, was “ohmygod, I’ve had a stroke and it’s affecting how I read. It must have been in the language potion of my brain.”
Then my next thought was “well if I can still use logic like this, then instead of a stroke, I must still be asleep, because I’m not very good at reading in my dreams.”
My final thought about this experience was “Oh wait. That’s not a backwards “E” on those two license plates; they are the number “3.” I’m just tired.”
I reached down to switch the radio station from commercials over to 80’s music. That song “Sweet Dreams” was playing and the line came on “Everybody’s looking for something” and my first thought was, “they are probably looking for tic-tacs.”
I have got to finish my coffee NOW!
An Erinku:
dairy order
delivered
I remembered
two days late
Sunday, November 8, 2009
Adventures of a weekend
A few months ago, my grandma died unexpectedly. Fast-forward to funeral, fast-forward to a memorial service this past weekend. As I stood at her gravesite all weepy and sniffly, I noticed other headstones had the names of children/grandchildren carved in the back. As we were leaving, I decided to see what was engraved in my grandparents' stone. I saw me, my brother, my cousins, the names of my uncles and aunt and then I saw... something that made my head tip to the side and made my mouth utter, "Who the fuck is Susan?"
My companions stopped, walked back, and tipped their heads in confusion. Nothing like a Scooby-Doo mystery to dispel grief! Away we scampered to the library to see if, in fact, there was a typo on the headstone. After many adventures with microfiche (a good band name, by the way), I saw in an obituary from 2007 that Susan was, in fact, not a typo. Or, if she was, she was a very persistent typo. Drama!
Coming home today, I managed to just miss the bus from airport to suburb. I had an hour to kill. Since I am a good west-coast girl, I know what to do when you have an hour after the coffee shops close. Two stouts later, I rode the wild bus to the local bus station. However, I managed to arrive after all the local buses stopped running. I started my two-mile walk with the confidence two stouts inspire. A mile in, my bladder was protesting with the weight of carrying those two stouts.
Being a proper young lady, I never, never, never pee in bushes or dark areas on the side of the road. Unless I have a very good excuse. As I was finishing up being a proper young lady, I heard a rustling from a nearby bush. The rustling got louder. I, powered by two stouts, started mentally running through all the horror story plots I'd ever read. Into the warm glow of street light walked...a skunk. I squeaked. It squeaked. We stared. He started to turn ass-first towards me. I shrieked "askunk, askunk, ohmygod, askunk, askunk, ohmygod" and ran, zipper flapping (like a proper young lady) until I was out of skunk radius...approximately three minutes of running.
I have traveled far and back, picked up a new aunt, and outran a skunk butt: a successful weekend.
An Erinku:
too late
to practice,
hungry fish
instead
My companions stopped, walked back, and tipped their heads in confusion. Nothing like a Scooby-Doo mystery to dispel grief! Away we scampered to the library to see if, in fact, there was a typo on the headstone. After many adventures with microfiche (a good band name, by the way), I saw in an obituary from 2007 that Susan was, in fact, not a typo. Or, if she was, she was a very persistent typo. Drama!
Coming home today, I managed to just miss the bus from airport to suburb. I had an hour to kill. Since I am a good west-coast girl, I know what to do when you have an hour after the coffee shops close. Two stouts later, I rode the wild bus to the local bus station. However, I managed to arrive after all the local buses stopped running. I started my two-mile walk with the confidence two stouts inspire. A mile in, my bladder was protesting with the weight of carrying those two stouts.
Being a proper young lady, I never, never, never pee in bushes or dark areas on the side of the road. Unless I have a very good excuse. As I was finishing up being a proper young lady, I heard a rustling from a nearby bush. The rustling got louder. I, powered by two stouts, started mentally running through all the horror story plots I'd ever read. Into the warm glow of street light walked...a skunk. I squeaked. It squeaked. We stared. He started to turn ass-first towards me. I shrieked "askunk, askunk, ohmygod, askunk, askunk, ohmygod" and ran, zipper flapping (like a proper young lady) until I was out of skunk radius...approximately three minutes of running.
I have traveled far and back, picked up a new aunt, and outran a skunk butt: a successful weekend.
An Erinku:
too late
to practice,
hungry fish
instead
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