Christy Wong – at my job, Christy joined the company some years back now. A friend of a friend, she arrived about the same time as PorkChop (see earlier posts), they had a, um, friendly rivalry going. Both were hired the same week, both got promotions the same day (Christy got hers 2 minutes before PC, a fact she lorded over him for as long as she worked there). She was a hard worker (in the beginning), had amazingly red hair, porcelain skin, she was a large girl with a marriage arranged by the Internet.
While at work, she used to speak with a lisp around people in authority, I’m guessing to make herself seem cute & wide eyed.
Anyway, one lunch break she & PC were down in the employee lunch room, discussing things, as you do. Christy could never admit to being wrong about anything. In fact, she was so incredible about coming up with excuses a new term was born – “WongTonging” – this came to mean any fantastic reason as to why something, anything at all, wasn’t your fault.
Sometimes PC would set her up to fail, just so he could go over & hear her WongTong.
That days lunch conversation had turned to the differences between men & women. Christy earnestly explained that men & women’s elbows were different, and that if a man & woman stood with their backs against a wall, a woman could lift up a chair while a man, try though he might, could not.
Well, never one to let a challenge go by, or one to let a chance to prove Christy wrong in front of others, PC immediately said he was sure he could lift a chair while standing against a wall. He promptly got up & did just that.
This of course, meant war.
Christy couldn’t let this go, so she immediately began a series of WongTongs – “No! that’s right, if you’re facing the wall, bent over, with the top of your head touching the wall, a woman can lift a chair but a man can’t.”
PC of course debunked this right away, by turning to the wall, putting his large round head to it & lifting the chair.
“No, no, no – um, wait, yes, that’s right, if you’re facing away from the wall, standing on one foot bending so the top of your head is on the wall a man can’t lift that, that’s right, now I remember.” Christy exclaimed, lisp starting to slip.
Quite the crowd had gathered, and all expectantly turned & watched, as PC, a malevolent gleam in his eyes, as he turned, assumed the position & hoisted the chair into the air.
Christy, a little bead of sweat on her pale brow ran up, grabbed the chair placed one foot on the wall, bent over the chair & said
“No, now I remember, one foot on the ground, one on the wall & if you lift really quickly” well this is the point where she frantically lifted the chair with such force she whacked herself in the forehead.
Hurriedly dropping the chair, grabbing her throbbing skull which now had a red brand standing out from her porcelain skin from where the top of the chair had made contact, sobbed “That’s not it, no, that’s not it.”
Later that afternoon she explained she was going to talk with her mother, who would remember what the difference was.
We never heard about this fabled difference again…
Monday, June 21, 2004
Tuesday, June 15, 2004
I'll give you something to cry about
I used to love to roller skate as a child, I had requested said skates one year & Father Christmas heard my plea and I unwrapped them that year in the summer of '79 - green plastic with sparkily yellow oversized wheels. Fan-bloody-tastic! Not too good for going around our street in New Zealand - it was unpaved gravel - this isn't to say I didn't try, but after being brought back to the house by the neighbor with small stones firmly lodged in my hands and shins, blood oozing around the puncture wounds where I'd fallen after the gravel locked my wheels, I was forbidden from trying to roller skate on unpaved ground.
My parents were divorced, so my brother and I used to travel by train to visit our Mum every other weekend. During the summer, we'd be with her for 3 of the 6 week holiday. After a pleasant train ride, we were in sunny Paraparaumu, on the Kapiti coast of New Zealand.
Across the road from our Mum's house was the neighbors, they happened to have a daughter, Fiona who was around our age.
Well, as happens during the summer you become fast friends, Fiona was actually closer to my brother in age so she was sometimes a little short on patience with me. As I had my nice new roller skates for the summer vacation (it is NZ remember!) we decided to go to the local roller rink to try out our moves.
Now the local roller rink in Paraparaumu was an outside affair, concrete, with one end crimped in lovely waves so skaters could catch a little air doing jumps and leaps.
I was no where near a leaper, and for the first 20 minutes or so was quite content to circle the flat end of the rink staying far away from the rippled concrete at the rinks other end.
Fiona and my brother decided a game of tag was in order, and as two isn't much to play tag with, I was duly invited into the "big league". I was a better roller skater than my brother, but being older he could get up more steam, plus when he was mad he'd knock me to the floor anyway. I wasn't "it", Fiona had tagged my brother and he had me in his sights. I began heading towards the "bad lands" (the lovely waves of concrete) in the hopes of losing my brother in one of the folds. I executed a turn, unexpectedly changed direction and began to build up speed as I neared the first crest of a wave - a.i.r. - bump, down into the low part of the wave. I hear my brother shouting that he's coming after me and is going to kick my ass once he gets hold of me, MORE SPEED JIM, MORE SPEED! Flush with the success of the first jump I'm sure I can execute a second. I make it to the top, zoom into the air not realizing this wave has a steeper landing incline than the first, I tumble in the air and land on my left wrist.
Pain, unbelievable f*&k*ng pain. I'm crying, my brother and Fiona arrive looking disgusted that their game of tag has been interrupted by my, obviously to them, minor injury. Now, neither of them was a doctor, but being 18 months older they felt it was their duty to tell me to shut up as I was fine.
I wanted to leave, to call Mum and have her pick us up early to take us back. I was informed we'd only been there 30 minutes, so I was to shut up, stop crying and go sit by the side of the rink until they were ready to go.
What was a boy to do?
I duly sat and waited - then, what was to appear? Mana from heaven is what! By some unknown 6th mother sense, my Mum pulled up to the rink. I went over, tear stained face, wrist cradled in the other hand and got into the back seat of the blessed vehicle. A disgusted brother and Fiona climbed in as well and off we went for ice cream.
That night, still complaining about my wrist, I was told to go to bed and that I'd feel better in the morning.
I tossed and turned, trying to cry into my pillow so as not to disturb my family around me with the pain in my arm. Finally, after a fitful night dawn arrived and I got up. My mother was looking paticularly cross, along with my brother. When asked if she was ok, my Mum replied "No, your moaning kept me up all night." I thought this particularly unfair, as I'd been trying to moan into my pillow all night, apparently I needn't have bothered with the hot face in the fluffy pillow, I could have wailed all night into the cool open air.
During breakfast I was again told I was ok, and that to prove that I was just milking this I was to be taken to the doctor that afternoon. This was apparently supposed to shut me up and stop me crying wolf, or some such other perverse logic.
We arrived at the doctors office, and after an x-ray the doctor informed my family that I had a green stick fracture that needed to be set right away.
How sweet guilt can be, when your own mother has told you to shut up because nothing is wrong and then to have her, and your mean ass brother corrected by someone with a degree is SO satisfying.
My parents were divorced, so my brother and I used to travel by train to visit our Mum every other weekend. During the summer, we'd be with her for 3 of the 6 week holiday. After a pleasant train ride, we were in sunny Paraparaumu, on the Kapiti coast of New Zealand.
Across the road from our Mum's house was the neighbors, they happened to have a daughter, Fiona who was around our age.
Well, as happens during the summer you become fast friends, Fiona was actually closer to my brother in age so she was sometimes a little short on patience with me. As I had my nice new roller skates for the summer vacation (it is NZ remember!) we decided to go to the local roller rink to try out our moves.
Now the local roller rink in Paraparaumu was an outside affair, concrete, with one end crimped in lovely waves so skaters could catch a little air doing jumps and leaps.
I was no where near a leaper, and for the first 20 minutes or so was quite content to circle the flat end of the rink staying far away from the rippled concrete at the rinks other end.
Fiona and my brother decided a game of tag was in order, and as two isn't much to play tag with, I was duly invited into the "big league". I was a better roller skater than my brother, but being older he could get up more steam, plus when he was mad he'd knock me to the floor anyway. I wasn't "it", Fiona had tagged my brother and he had me in his sights. I began heading towards the "bad lands" (the lovely waves of concrete) in the hopes of losing my brother in one of the folds. I executed a turn, unexpectedly changed direction and began to build up speed as I neared the first crest of a wave - a.i.r. - bump, down into the low part of the wave. I hear my brother shouting that he's coming after me and is going to kick my ass once he gets hold of me, MORE SPEED JIM, MORE SPEED! Flush with the success of the first jump I'm sure I can execute a second. I make it to the top, zoom into the air not realizing this wave has a steeper landing incline than the first, I tumble in the air and land on my left wrist.
Pain, unbelievable f*&k*ng pain. I'm crying, my brother and Fiona arrive looking disgusted that their game of tag has been interrupted by my, obviously to them, minor injury. Now, neither of them was a doctor, but being 18 months older they felt it was their duty to tell me to shut up as I was fine.
I wanted to leave, to call Mum and have her pick us up early to take us back. I was informed we'd only been there 30 minutes, so I was to shut up, stop crying and go sit by the side of the rink until they were ready to go.
What was a boy to do?
I duly sat and waited - then, what was to appear? Mana from heaven is what! By some unknown 6th mother sense, my Mum pulled up to the rink. I went over, tear stained face, wrist cradled in the other hand and got into the back seat of the blessed vehicle. A disgusted brother and Fiona climbed in as well and off we went for ice cream.
That night, still complaining about my wrist, I was told to go to bed and that I'd feel better in the morning.
I tossed and turned, trying to cry into my pillow so as not to disturb my family around me with the pain in my arm. Finally, after a fitful night dawn arrived and I got up. My mother was looking paticularly cross, along with my brother. When asked if she was ok, my Mum replied "No, your moaning kept me up all night." I thought this particularly unfair, as I'd been trying to moan into my pillow all night, apparently I needn't have bothered with the hot face in the fluffy pillow, I could have wailed all night into the cool open air.
During breakfast I was again told I was ok, and that to prove that I was just milking this I was to be taken to the doctor that afternoon. This was apparently supposed to shut me up and stop me crying wolf, or some such other perverse logic.
We arrived at the doctors office, and after an x-ray the doctor informed my family that I had a green stick fracture that needed to be set right away.
How sweet guilt can be, when your own mother has told you to shut up because nothing is wrong and then to have her, and your mean ass brother corrected by someone with a degree is SO satisfying.
Wednesday, June 09, 2004
Monday, June 07, 2004
Mmm Mmmm Good
I remember as a kid reading about Mrs. Pepperpot. One of my favorite memories from that book was the description of "pepper" soup. I've always been a fan of hot food, Indian curry is a favorite of mine. So hearing about a soup made from pepper sounded wonderful! I remember when I was living in Brunei spotting Pepperpot Soup for sale - well, I had to have it! My Dad dutifully purchased it for me, I'd add extra pepper & wolf it down, sweat beading on my forehead from the extra spice I'd added. I was in child heaven, in a way, reinacting a scene from a childhood book.
Well, in the years that followed we left Brunei & moved about, finally ending up in San Diego, California. I'd checked stores now again for Pepperpot soup on the West Coast & never found it. Still, in the back of my mind that delightful hot tasting soup resided, wanting to be found again.
About a year ago I was on vacation in New York, and I was out shopping with a friend. We went to the corner market by his house in Brooklyn, & would you believe it, PEPPERPOT soup was on the shelf. Well, I decided right away that I'd love that for dinner, I bought two cans then & there! I couldn't wait to get it back to the house to heat it up; maybe I'd make some toast with butter to dip in the peppery contents of my bowl, maybe I'd just guzzle the contents down & come back for more right away - I didn't know, I didn't care, I just wanted my bowl right away!
On the stove I watched as the carrots and potatoes swam in the orange broth, almost drooling at the prospect of my peppery dinner. I added some additional pepper, anticipating the beads of perspiration that I would be sweating in a few more minutes. HEAT darn it, HEAT!
As I was settling in to enjoy, my friend asked what was in the damn thing. I smartly answered "pepper!", to which he laughed. So, getting up & walking to the counter, grabbing the can I began to read the ingredients with the purpose of firmly putting him in his place.
Rather than the first ingredient being pepper, carrots, water or even potatoes the first thing I read almost had me hurling right then & there, partly from the ingredient, mostly I think from a childhood memory shattering right then & there in front of me - to the gales of laughter of my uncaring friend I'd read "Beef Tripe".
Sometimes it's just better not knowing...
Well, in the years that followed we left Brunei & moved about, finally ending up in San Diego, California. I'd checked stores now again for Pepperpot soup on the West Coast & never found it. Still, in the back of my mind that delightful hot tasting soup resided, wanting to be found again.
About a year ago I was on vacation in New York, and I was out shopping with a friend. We went to the corner market by his house in Brooklyn, & would you believe it, PEPPERPOT soup was on the shelf. Well, I decided right away that I'd love that for dinner, I bought two cans then & there! I couldn't wait to get it back to the house to heat it up; maybe I'd make some toast with butter to dip in the peppery contents of my bowl, maybe I'd just guzzle the contents down & come back for more right away - I didn't know, I didn't care, I just wanted my bowl right away!
On the stove I watched as the carrots and potatoes swam in the orange broth, almost drooling at the prospect of my peppery dinner. I added some additional pepper, anticipating the beads of perspiration that I would be sweating in a few more minutes. HEAT darn it, HEAT!
As I was settling in to enjoy, my friend asked what was in the damn thing. I smartly answered "pepper!", to which he laughed. So, getting up & walking to the counter, grabbing the can I began to read the ingredients with the purpose of firmly putting him in his place.
Rather than the first ingredient being pepper, carrots, water or even potatoes the first thing I read almost had me hurling right then & there, partly from the ingredient, mostly I think from a childhood memory shattering right then & there in front of me - to the gales of laughter of my uncaring friend I'd read "Beef Tripe".
Sometimes it's just better not knowing...
Trailer Post
Nothing to important to relate,but if you'd like to see a trailer from the movie I was in go ahead & click here!
Thursday, June 03, 2004
Walk, don't run
I used to love water parks. A new one had opened in Singapore, “The Big Splash”. In my 6-year-old memory, the water slides tower to the heavens, a rainbow of graceful plastic slides majestically curving down to a myriad of pools. Tide pools, wave pools, hot pools, the people squealing with delight as the air rushed by their faces as they zoomed to the waters embrace at the bottom of the ride.
Well, I had never seen anything so amazing in all my life. To top this off, there were official “slushies” being sold throughout the park. Back in New Zealand there wasn’t (at the time) anything so wonderful as crushed frozen ice blended with syrup by the fine people from coca cola - this was quite possibly the worlds perfect beverage – to a 6 year old. If memory serves, I’d been told not to run, but the sun, the water, the prospect of slushies had all gone to my head that day.
My father had promised both my brother and me a slushy, Jason, my brother was off doing something cool that 8 year olds do that 6 year olds can’t possibly fathom. Apparently at 8 you had an image that your younger brother would ruin. I was sure I’d seen him in the wave pool, and my father said that once we found Jason we could have that slushy.
Well, off I went, sprinting as fast as my 6-year-old legs would take me. When you see those signs by the side of the pool saying don’t run, believe them. As I was steaming along the immaculately kept grass inset with round paving stones I lost my footing, fell and cracked my right knee open.
I was carried to 1st aid where my father joined me with my very annoyed brother. (This was always my brothers reaction whenever I was sick or injured - severe annoyance, as though I'd done it on purpose just to irritate him. I broke my arm once when I was roller skating with him and a neighbor, he made me sit at the side of the rink until they were done skating rather than call my mother to come pick us up early.) I remember sobbing “I don’t want a slushy anymore.” Even in the midst of pain, with a crimson tide streaming from my knee that slushy was still on my mind.
The medic informed my father that I needed to go to hospital for stitches. My father never handles the sight of blood well, and being naturally pale he turns almost translucent, as his blood, firmly enclosed in his body, rushes from all his extremities giving him a pale glow.
He’d made friends with a taxi driver, Rasu, in Singapore, and as it was rush hour he called Rasu to pick us up. This was apparently going to be a lot quicker than going by ambulance, what with it being the Singapore rush hour and all.
Anyway, we arrived at the hospital, and after the nurses had made sure it wasn’t my Dad that needed treatment but rather me, I was whisked away into the operating room. I was given a local anesthetic around my knee as the doctors put things to right and sewed me up.
Now, the thing that remains clearest in my mind is the nurse holding my hand turning to me and saying “Be a brave boy, you like superheroes don’t you? If it hurts just yell out the name of your favorite superhero!” Then she yelled “Superman!” really loudly to demonstrate that it was quite ok to yell in the OR, and maybe to show that the yell wouldn’t affect the surgeon at all.
Even at 6 I had some sense of propriety, and I began to laugh really hard as all I could think was that I was NOT going to yell “Wonder Woman” in the middle of the OR.
Well, I had never seen anything so amazing in all my life. To top this off, there were official “slushies” being sold throughout the park. Back in New Zealand there wasn’t (at the time) anything so wonderful as crushed frozen ice blended with syrup by the fine people from coca cola - this was quite possibly the worlds perfect beverage – to a 6 year old. If memory serves, I’d been told not to run, but the sun, the water, the prospect of slushies had all gone to my head that day.
My father had promised both my brother and me a slushy, Jason, my brother was off doing something cool that 8 year olds do that 6 year olds can’t possibly fathom. Apparently at 8 you had an image that your younger brother would ruin. I was sure I’d seen him in the wave pool, and my father said that once we found Jason we could have that slushy.
Well, off I went, sprinting as fast as my 6-year-old legs would take me. When you see those signs by the side of the pool saying don’t run, believe them. As I was steaming along the immaculately kept grass inset with round paving stones I lost my footing, fell and cracked my right knee open.
I was carried to 1st aid where my father joined me with my very annoyed brother. (This was always my brothers reaction whenever I was sick or injured - severe annoyance, as though I'd done it on purpose just to irritate him. I broke my arm once when I was roller skating with him and a neighbor, he made me sit at the side of the rink until they were done skating rather than call my mother to come pick us up early.) I remember sobbing “I don’t want a slushy anymore.” Even in the midst of pain, with a crimson tide streaming from my knee that slushy was still on my mind.
The medic informed my father that I needed to go to hospital for stitches. My father never handles the sight of blood well, and being naturally pale he turns almost translucent, as his blood, firmly enclosed in his body, rushes from all his extremities giving him a pale glow.
He’d made friends with a taxi driver, Rasu, in Singapore, and as it was rush hour he called Rasu to pick us up. This was apparently going to be a lot quicker than going by ambulance, what with it being the Singapore rush hour and all.
Anyway, we arrived at the hospital, and after the nurses had made sure it wasn’t my Dad that needed treatment but rather me, I was whisked away into the operating room. I was given a local anesthetic around my knee as the doctors put things to right and sewed me up.
Now, the thing that remains clearest in my mind is the nurse holding my hand turning to me and saying “Be a brave boy, you like superheroes don’t you? If it hurts just yell out the name of your favorite superhero!” Then she yelled “Superman!” really loudly to demonstrate that it was quite ok to yell in the OR, and maybe to show that the yell wouldn’t affect the surgeon at all.
Even at 6 I had some sense of propriety, and I began to laugh really hard as all I could think was that I was NOT going to yell “Wonder Woman” in the middle of the OR.
Wednesday, June 02, 2004
Cry for help.
At my current work place, there is a certain cache attached to where you sit. In my old department, we were in a lovely corner of the building on the second story, clear glass looking out onto brilliantly green trees, the blue California sky poking through the tree tops. My manager, Ann Marie even had a sky light over her desk, providing a dazzling sun beam during the summer months, and a rhythmic rat a tat tat during the brief rainy season. We even had roof drains that created mock Hawaiian water falls among the trees during this rainy period, slate grey skies replacing the blue and the wind gently bent the leafy green tops towards the windows as the water running down the panes blurred everything into a Monet relief.
Our lovely sojourn in the greenhouse corner of the office was cut short when the Sales department decided they wanted more space. Ann Marie, a true medical marvel as she was a woman with no spine, didn’t have the wherewithal to stand up to the formidable PC in his request to oust our fine department from its cozy corner.
In fact, she came to us and explained that as a Catholic, she felt it was her place to take the lesser portion in office seating arrangements as we’d had such a lovely space for so long.
Now, this is all very well and good, but I don’t think she should have been relegating her entire department to the far flung reaches of the office as she was afraid to rock the boat. PC has no qualms about rocking the boat so a few people fall over board, he does it just so he can have more room to put up his feet.
Ann Marie was trying to spin how great the new move was going to be. We were to move into the former cubby occupied by the Sales department. A small section of the company, right by the door, a veritable fish bowl.
Ann Marie’s big plan to market this move to the department was to decorate everything in white; white table clothes on the central meeting table, white pots for pot plants, white picture frames on desks – a nice sterile work environment that would do a dentists office proud.
Now, not being one to stay quiet at the best of times, and realizing there was nothing I could do to change this (short of dressing as Ann Marie for the day and trying to confuse the executive team with a new found spine) I resorted to sarcastic suggestions cunningly hidden as helpful ideas.
Quickly warming to the subject I proposed white gauze hung from the ceiling, white hurricane shutters on our three small windows and perhaps even a white stand alone door frame with white doorbell to play “A Whiter Shade Of Pale” when someone wanted to enter the department. Perhaps even a white ceiling fan to complete what I was now contemplating, a Somerset Maugham /tropical island feeling department.
Needless to say I didn’t get my doorframe, fan or hurricane shutters, I didn’t even get my gauze – however, I did get my actual target – an absolute lack of white around my desk.
When I informed my New Zealand mother of Ann Marie’s plans, she began asking for her number, as she was certain that the white environment was a subtle cry for help.
Our lovely sojourn in the greenhouse corner of the office was cut short when the Sales department decided they wanted more space. Ann Marie, a true medical marvel as she was a woman with no spine, didn’t have the wherewithal to stand up to the formidable PC in his request to oust our fine department from its cozy corner.
In fact, she came to us and explained that as a Catholic, she felt it was her place to take the lesser portion in office seating arrangements as we’d had such a lovely space for so long.
Now, this is all very well and good, but I don’t think she should have been relegating her entire department to the far flung reaches of the office as she was afraid to rock the boat. PC has no qualms about rocking the boat so a few people fall over board, he does it just so he can have more room to put up his feet.
Ann Marie was trying to spin how great the new move was going to be. We were to move into the former cubby occupied by the Sales department. A small section of the company, right by the door, a veritable fish bowl.
Ann Marie’s big plan to market this move to the department was to decorate everything in white; white table clothes on the central meeting table, white pots for pot plants, white picture frames on desks – a nice sterile work environment that would do a dentists office proud.
Now, not being one to stay quiet at the best of times, and realizing there was nothing I could do to change this (short of dressing as Ann Marie for the day and trying to confuse the executive team with a new found spine) I resorted to sarcastic suggestions cunningly hidden as helpful ideas.
Quickly warming to the subject I proposed white gauze hung from the ceiling, white hurricane shutters on our three small windows and perhaps even a white stand alone door frame with white doorbell to play “A Whiter Shade Of Pale” when someone wanted to enter the department. Perhaps even a white ceiling fan to complete what I was now contemplating, a Somerset Maugham /tropical island feeling department.
Needless to say I didn’t get my doorframe, fan or hurricane shutters, I didn’t even get my gauze – however, I did get my actual target – an absolute lack of white around my desk.
When I informed my New Zealand mother of Ann Marie’s plans, she began asking for her number, as she was certain that the white environment was a subtle cry for help.
Tuesday, June 01, 2004
Say What?!?
My step-mother was taking my 4 year old nephew to the San Diego Wild Animal Park last week. His 2 year old sister was going in to have some fillings & caps put in, so this was a special treat to make sure he was nice and distracted from his sisters impending pain.
He was popped into his car seat in the back of the car and is a really delightful child to travel with as he often amuses himself with toys or his own imaginings.
As they were getting off the 78 East and onto the 15 South heading towards the park, there was a car ahead of my step mothers. The poor woman in the car ahead seemed to be having trouble deciding if she wanted to go at the speed limit or several miles below it, and she couldn’t seem to pick which lane she wanted to be in, veering from one to the other, never leaving enough space to safely go around. Well, my step mother was getting more and more frustrated with each passing mile, and finally let out an exasperated “HEY IDIOT! Make up your mind where you want to go!!” at the car ahead.
About 3 seconds later a pitiful voice from the back seat said “Well Grandma, I kinda wanted to go to the wild animal park…”
He was popped into his car seat in the back of the car and is a really delightful child to travel with as he often amuses himself with toys or his own imaginings.
As they were getting off the 78 East and onto the 15 South heading towards the park, there was a car ahead of my step mothers. The poor woman in the car ahead seemed to be having trouble deciding if she wanted to go at the speed limit or several miles below it, and she couldn’t seem to pick which lane she wanted to be in, veering from one to the other, never leaving enough space to safely go around. Well, my step mother was getting more and more frustrated with each passing mile, and finally let out an exasperated “HEY IDIOT! Make up your mind where you want to go!!” at the car ahead.
About 3 seconds later a pitiful voice from the back seat said “Well Grandma, I kinda wanted to go to the wild animal park…”
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)