Tag: Goof

The Last (Bloody, Dangerous) Straw

“Who can hope to be safe?  Who sufficiently cautious?
Guard himself as he may, every moment is an ambush.”
-Horace

Small Dog struggles.

For the past almost-two years that I’ve worked here, there has been a large plastic mat residing beneath my chair and the corners of various desks and cabinets.  This mat is clear, studded on the bottom, a quarter of and inch thick, sharp edged, and slippery.  As you may imagine, this mat has been a sore trial for many office staff, but myself in particular as I am A) a sad klutz, and B) the person who practically lives on top of this thing.

We, meaning mostly I, have slipped, tripped, slid, glided, skidded, twisted ankles, and face planted because of this contraption without complaint or word until today.

Hennessy and I were walking back from the Administration Building when a perfect storm of un-coordination happened.  First her heel caught the edge of the mat.  Then she started to fall forward which both lifted the mat and tore her shoe off.  Then behind her I stuttered my step trying not to collide with my flailing friend.  And THEN the sharp corner of the plastic peril bit into my foot.  When we managed to right ourselves and glance down to survey damages, I was bleeding.

That was it!  We grabbed Susie, one of the officers to move heavy furniture, and dragged the whole thing back to the custodians closet (it weighed about as much as Brazil, was filthy underneath, and smelled horrid to boot).  Good riddance.

My foot hurts.

Top. Men.

“We have top men working on it right now.”
“Who?”
“Top men.”
– Indiana Jones and the Raiders of the Lost Ark

Pictured: a villain immediately preceeding his revalation of exactly how badly he has been behaving for the last hour and a half.

In almost every movie there is that incredibly silly moment when the villain is confronted with the fruits of his or her destruction and, looking over the rivers of lava/ looming black hole/ annihilation of an entire civilization/ etc., murmurs in despair, “My god, what have I done?!”

I had one of those moments today.  After getting all the archives into chronological order (which you’d think they’d already be in, right?  Hah!), tagging them by date, pulling original photos and making notes on when/where they originally occurred in print, and hauling it one massive armload at a time to the library, I asked for the archivist.  Student employees helped me carry the stacks of papers and binders and asked what I was doing.  I couldn’t very well shout, “Saving history!” in the library, so I quietly whispered the tale of the iniquitous order to dispose of fifty years of information.
“He told you to shred it!” one girl squeaked in horror.
“I know,” I squeaked back.

We were all awash with the enthusiasm of the young until the archivist appeared.  He looked like Eeyore the donkey in human form: droopy, awkward, exhausted, and less than thrilled to see me with my arms full of documents.
“Hi, I’m C. from the police department.  We talked on the phone and–”
“Oh, right,” he sighed, “Follow me.”

The whole cavalcade meandered down some halls and through secured doors…to a lonely room, lined with shelves and piled with papers.
“Here’s a project for you,” he mumbled to what appeared to be a heinously overworked student employee, and ordered us to drop the whole pile on her (already covered) desk.

My project is somewhere alongside the Ark, I'm sure.

Which is when I had my cinema-villain-is-confronted-by-what-she’s-done moment.  I’d committed the most rookie of cardinal sins: I’d just turned over fifty years of history to a bureaucracy!

I’ve gained all sorts of skills and experiences at this job, but law enforcement is not my calling, to say the least.  But history!  Oh, yes.  And this project is the first thing in over a year and a half that’s come close to the things I’ve studied and feel passionate about.   Certainly it’s the only thing that’s got me excited enough to annoy my co-workers with my near constant cries of, “Read this!”  And now, I’ve an awful premonition that my precious bundles are only going to slowly decompose in the bowels of the library.  There is no justice in the world.

Lys-Dexia

“Check and see the oven inside.”
“Something in the oven there is.”
“…wait, what?  What did I say?”
“Something along the lines of, ‘Do or do not, there is no try.’  Don’t worry, I speak C. fluently.”
“Go die.”
– C. and J.

I swear I have a speech problem, and not just Foot-In-Mouth disease (a tragic, incurable illness wherein the sufferer is constantly choking on their own stupidity and awkwardness).  I frequently speak in Spoonerisms.

Pictured: a Dad Face.

I blame Dad.  He has a bit of a goofy sense of humor, and one of the things he finds most funny is to switch up words.  Depending on how much sleep the siblings have had, our response to this can vary from a pity-chuckle to uproarious laughter.  So when Mika misbehaves and Dad sighs, “Dupid sog,” accompanied by a Dad Face, we will probably all find it pretty funny.

The irony is that I can’t make a Spoonerism off the top of my head the way Dad can.  But, without even trying, I CAN completely rearrange a sentence into one that utterly defies logic and grammar.  In fact, I do it quite regularly.

More’s the pity for me, J. is just as quick as my Dad in the comebacks.  Curses.

How to Look Creepy in Front of Strangers

“When all of a sudden, people say, ‘Wow, you look nice,’ and carry on, it’s shocking.  Really awkward.”
– Nikki Cox
 

Hey kids! Let's learn about history from your bizarre Aunt C.!

If ever you are participating in a group game night with a bunch of people you have only met once before and with whom you share absolutely no history, conversation, or shared interest (because they are part of your brother-in-law’s set and that one time you met them before was over a year ago), and you a playing a game in which you have to describe a person from history…who might not have been a palatable choice for a conservative crowd… 

…do not, under any circumstances, try to get your teammates to guess the name on the card you chose.  Skip it and go to the next card.  Trust me on this. 

Dear, dear. Now we're all uncomfortable, aren't we?

Example:
“Ok!  He’s an 18th century French writer who was extremely controversial.  Got locked up for years because of what he wrote, both in the Bastille and an insane asylum.  To be fair he was basically a filthy, vile pornographer who wrote about horrible things.  Word “sadism” comes from his name.” 

Example Response:
“Um, wow, C., you know a lot about this weirdo…”  

Blast.  I look a pervert.

Creative. Writing (Pt. II)

“All writers are copycats, unless they’re bad writers.  Then they’re plagiarists.”
– My writing professor
 
 
 A sample of my writing classes offerings from last night. 
You called?

1) The Unintended Romance:  one person turned in a piece that had a paragraph including the words “the sun delicately kissing her skin,” “white teeth flashed in his olive-skinned face,” and “thick muscles and strong torso flexed as he picked her up.” 

The teacher asked us all to review it and determine what was wrong with the paragraph.  Some people said that some alliteration threw them off, other said it was an imagery technique.  I said it sounded more like ripped-bodices-and-heaving-bosoms writing than what she was going for (a murder mystery).  It’s good she and I get along because half of the class gasped/blushed and murmured things like, “Oh dear!” while she burst out laughing.

This seems...oddly familiar...?

2)  Teen Angst:  Another girl (a rather rude one who has to have the last word in every group review we do, and likes to toss her editing experience in people’s teeth) turned in a piece that took place in a high school science class between a completely uninteresting girl and a boy acting strangely and awkwardly, seeming tormented by a secret pain.  My pal (the bodice ripper) piped up immediately and said one word: Twilight?”

The whole room dissolved into hysterics and debate.  Some people tittered quietly to themselves while one or two started roaring about how amazing the Twilight series was and everyone else wouldn’t know great literature if it smacked them in the face!  Others countered that it was adolescent fiction and no more, while some snapped that young adult writers have produced some first-rate literature, though not Twilight they hurried to say.  The writer was mortified, while our teacher seemed secretly delighted.

I’ll Never Bake Again!

“Angst!  Angst!”
– C.

Yesterday after heading home an hour early from work (sick + tired + nausea + cramps + no lunch break + 2-3 hour long meeting = blech) I recovered enough to, or rather the drugs kicked in and I was able to, cook.  I put in one of my new movies and got to work marinating steak (to be used tonight) and then whipping up a spinach quiche…

…sort of.

See, I got all the cream cheese, egg, and spinach into the crust (which I bought at the store, not trusting myself – rightly it turns out – to make pastry) and popped it in the oven.  But then two minutes later, glancing through the recipe to see how long it should cook, I realized I’d forgotten the parmesan cheese!   Quick as you’d like, I dragged it out and mixed in the parmesan and tossed it back into the furnace. 

Then I realized that if I had forgotten the parmesan, I might have forgotten the cheddar as well…and I had.  Back to the oven, quick quick!  The crust was turning a lovely golden color by this time, and I couldn’t have been more ticked at it for looking yummy when I’d apparently left out half the ingredients. 

"Did you remember the onions, my dear?" "GAHHHHHHHHHHHH!" "Now, now, there's no need to fret."

And THEN, after I put it back in the oven, I banged my head (metaphorically) against the counter when I saw the green onions sitting in smug little rows on the other cutting board, taunting me with their not-in-the-quiche-ness. 

Finally I got everything mixed in (at various stages of baking) but THEN I forgot about it after I collapsed on the sofa in defeat.  All in all, the crust has come out a fearsome black…but the inside still tastes pretty good.