Man, on the ground, below my office. Walking, slowly, towards one of the tables touched by the almost-sun of the early Norwegian autumn. He is carrying lunch, balancing a fork. Passing a couple of attractive, chatty young ladies. One of the girls laugh - not at him - enough to make his fine-tuned balancing act fall apart. The sound of a fork hitting the ground.
I can see his shoulders heave as he sighs.
Then he bends over - carefully considering the angle so that he will not have to reveal his bu... the crevice between his buttocks.. to the young ladies (not realizing that this instead reveals it to an entire building of lazy academics looking out of their office windows).
He picks up the fork and sighs again.
He wipes the fork off on his trousers, but it is evident that he cannot eat with it now that the young ladies have seen it touching the ground. (The three-second rule only applies when there are no potential hook-ups present.)
The man stumbles back the way he came from, wanting to throw a humorous comment in the young ladies' way as he passes, but feeling too self-conscious to do so. Instead he walks 50 meters or so, until he is out of sight for the people occupying the seating area. He is still unknowingly very visible to the academics in their stuffed offices.
He stands under a tree for the appropriate amount of time spent walking back inside to fetch a new fork. Then he returns to the table he first sought out.
When passing the young ladies he smiles at them, and one of them returns the smile with a promise of sorts.
There is hope, even for the lazy and socially awkward ones.
Showing posts with label sophistication. Show all posts
Showing posts with label sophistication. Show all posts
Friday, August 17, 2012
Thursday, December 8, 2011
On decency and safety: how playing it safe occasionally is hazardous
This is a tale of the importance of a safety pin, and how choosing safety in one department, very well might put you at risk in another.
Let me first dwell over the expression "safety pin". It is "a spring wire clasp with a covering catch, made so as to shield the point when closed and to prevent accidental unfastening"[1]. So true. A safety pin is meant to prevent accidental unfastening. What this definition fails to convey, however, is that a safety pin generally also is meant to prevent accidental unfastening of the item(s) it is holding together.
For instance. I have a reflex.
Digression: I know the word "reflex" in English means many things - none of which is the one I need it to mean. (Actually, I have many reflexes. None that are shaped like a giraffe, incidentally. This is not relevant to the digression or the story, though. It's a sub-digression.)
The word I need is tricky to find. I've been stumbling around google for a while, and the best I could come up with is "reflective item". That sounds overly complicated for someone who grew up with government initiated campaigns ("Reflexes save lives!") to make people wear these reflective items to increase traffic security. I feel this says something about the English speaking world. Most of it is located much further south than the Norwegian speaking world (which mainly is located in Norway). Further south means more light during winter. But, it just occurred to me, further south also means less light during summer, so technically, they ought to use their reflective items all year round, and not just in winter, like we do! Also - what about Alaska?!
Yes, what about Alaska?
Alaska is English speaking, and far north. They would suffer from similar reflective issues as we do in Norway. They need to wear reflective items too. But there is no way you'd make an Alaskan put on what a Norwegian would refer to as a "reflex" unless they have a better name for it. I can imagine the government initiated campaigns in Alaska:
"Use a reflective item! If you can pronounce it fast enough; it might save your life!"
Not that the pronounciation matters, technically, to how efficient it is at reflecting light and thus making you visible to cars and thus increasing traffic security...
I think I lost a part of myself in that digression. (I also forgot to pull back in the string about the south-of-Alaska part of the English-speaking world needing reflexes year-round. I just don't know. Do they?)
Anyway. Since I didn't grow up in Alaska, or anywhere else in the English speaking world, I know that you have to wear a reflex all through winter. It might save your life. Or mine. Every autumn, then, I dutifully put on the little not-giraffe-shaped thingie, and so far I've never been killed by a car.
However, that might be subject to change.
On Monday my workplace had its annual Christmas Party.
Digression again: I know I haven't been talking about my job much. At least not this job. The job I now have. The job with the Christmas Party safety issues. I went directly from "Back from Japan, new opportunities will come" via "Ihatelookingforajob!!!" to "Istillhatelookingforajob!!!!!" to "So, on my way to work today..." to near-radio silence. I know. So much for blogging being all about sharing stuff, right..?
I got a job. I got a job that under no circumstances made me feel like sharing anything at all. Partly because it was top-secret (it wasn't. That just sounded more interesting than what I was about to type...) - Partly because it was temporary. One month only. Then one month more. Never enough to actually let my shoulders down. Not even enough to find an apartment in Oslo.
So, I've been living with my parents, still (most of my stuff is there), but in reality, I've spent more time living at either one of my sisters' houses, plus occasionally crashing on various couches. I am grateful for their hospitality, but obviously, the situation isn't ideal. It's exhausting, and the only reason I tolerate it is that the alternative would be a four-hour commute, daily. As it is, I "only" have a two hour commute.
The other reason I haven't felt like sharing much about this job is that it isn't... it isn't what I wanted to do. The job itself is fine. I occasionally like it, I occasionally don't. Like any other job, then. I don't ever feel I work enough, or that my results are sufficient - like any other job, then. It's challenging, tiresome, and fairly interesting. Like any other job. Then.
As happy as I am to have a job, I am slightly - surprised, perhaps - that I'm still at my old university. Many of my classmates fell in love with the process of academia. I didn't. I wanted to use it to get an education, and then get out. All hail those who want to become scientists and researchers, but that was never me.
And yet. Here I am. Back in academia, back in research. I'm writing footnotes like my life depended on it. (Actually, no, that is a stretch. My life depends on wearing a reflex. Not footnotes.)
It's been an interesting shift from being a student to being a colleague. Of sorts. I'm still the lowest ranking here, of course; but all of a sudden I'm two floors up from before, I have xerox and printer access I could only dream of as a student (I did), and the noble professors now greet me when I run into them in the hallways. Plus I got invited to the Christmas Party.
At first I didn't sign up; after all, I was here for a short time only. But then something changed. I got a new job.
This time it's for six months. I know that's still temporary, but to me, it sounds like a world of time. More interestingly, perhaps - it's not about footnotes anymore. It's teaching. Classes. University classes. With actual students. Students who will be graded. By me.
It feels - overwhelming. Great responsibility, massive amounts of work, and a situation that will be completely new to me. I've asked myself whether I am qualified for this - heck, I asked my boss whether I am qualified. We reached the conclusion that I am... Now I only need to prove it. Am I scared? No, I'm terrified. But I am also determined to do my best.
Academia pulled me back in again. I guess this will be my chance to find out whether my decision not to devote my life to academics was right.
In the meantime my concern lies more with reflexes and safety pins. You see, my reflex - of the not-giraffe variety - is fastened in my coat with a safety pin. Usually, then, this safety pin keeps me safe. However, for the Christmas Party I needed safety in a whole different way. Since I signed up late for the Christmas Party (having changed my mind when I realized I'd be working here six more months), I didn't have much time to figure out what to wear. I went with what appeared to be a safe choice: the little black dress.
Every girl should own one. So versatile, so classic. And in my case, so revealing... I hadn't realized just how revealing it was until I wore it a few days earlier, and noticed this dress took the concept of cleavage to a whole new level. There was no way I could sport that at a Christmas Party for a new job.
So, a safety pin was my rescue. My rescue and near demise. Because I only had the one - the one from the reflex.
The safety pin kept the dress in place, thus fulfilling its purpose of preventing accidental unfastening. But since I had to remove the reflex from my coat in order to maintain the desired level of decency, I ran a risk with safety. Without the reflex, I was near invisible to a car passing me on the street later that same night. If I had been killed, we would have had decisive evidence to two hypotheses:
"Reflexes save lives"; and
"Putting decency first, makes safety worst."
I'm not sure the latter would be appropriate or desirable in a government initiated campaign. It depends on what sort of campaign it is, I suppose.
The Christmas Party went well. I still have a job. My decency is safe. And so will I be, if I can only remember to put my reflex back on my coat. Then I can return to my habit of not being killed by cars.
Let me first dwell over the expression "safety pin". It is "a spring wire clasp with a covering catch, made so as to shield the point when closed and to prevent accidental unfastening"[1]. So true. A safety pin is meant to prevent accidental unfastening. What this definition fails to convey, however, is that a safety pin generally also is meant to prevent accidental unfastening of the item(s) it is holding together.
For instance. I have a reflex.
Digression: I know the word "reflex" in English means many things - none of which is the one I need it to mean. (Actually, I have many reflexes. None that are shaped like a giraffe, incidentally. This is not relevant to the digression or the story, though. It's a sub-digression.)
The word I need is tricky to find. I've been stumbling around google for a while, and the best I could come up with is "reflective item". That sounds overly complicated for someone who grew up with government initiated campaigns ("Reflexes save lives!") to make people wear these reflective items to increase traffic security. I feel this says something about the English speaking world. Most of it is located much further south than the Norwegian speaking world (which mainly is located in Norway). Further south means more light during winter. But, it just occurred to me, further south also means less light during summer, so technically, they ought to use their reflective items all year round, and not just in winter, like we do! Also - what about Alaska?!
Yes, what about Alaska?
Alaska is English speaking, and far north. They would suffer from similar reflective issues as we do in Norway. They need to wear reflective items too. But there is no way you'd make an Alaskan put on what a Norwegian would refer to as a "reflex" unless they have a better name for it. I can imagine the government initiated campaigns in Alaska:
"Use a reflective item! If you can pronounce it fast enough; it might save your life!"
Not that the pronounciation matters, technically, to how efficient it is at reflecting light and thus making you visible to cars and thus increasing traffic security...
I think I lost a part of myself in that digression. (I also forgot to pull back in the string about the south-of-Alaska part of the English-speaking world needing reflexes year-round. I just don't know. Do they?)
Anyway. Since I didn't grow up in Alaska, or anywhere else in the English speaking world, I know that you have to wear a reflex all through winter. It might save your life. Or mine. Every autumn, then, I dutifully put on the little not-giraffe-shaped thingie, and so far I've never been killed by a car.
However, that might be subject to change.
On Monday my workplace had its annual Christmas Party.
Digression again: I know I haven't been talking about my job much. At least not this job. The job I now have. The job with the Christmas Party safety issues. I went directly from "Back from Japan, new opportunities will come" via "Ihatelookingforajob!!!" to "Istillhatelookingforajob!!!!!" to "So, on my way to work today..." to near-radio silence. I know. So much for blogging being all about sharing stuff, right..?
I got a job. I got a job that under no circumstances made me feel like sharing anything at all. Partly because it was top-secret (it wasn't. That just sounded more interesting than what I was about to type...) - Partly because it was temporary. One month only. Then one month more. Never enough to actually let my shoulders down. Not even enough to find an apartment in Oslo.
So, I've been living with my parents, still (most of my stuff is there), but in reality, I've spent more time living at either one of my sisters' houses, plus occasionally crashing on various couches. I am grateful for their hospitality, but obviously, the situation isn't ideal. It's exhausting, and the only reason I tolerate it is that the alternative would be a four-hour commute, daily. As it is, I "only" have a two hour commute.
The other reason I haven't felt like sharing much about this job is that it isn't... it isn't what I wanted to do. The job itself is fine. I occasionally like it, I occasionally don't. Like any other job, then. I don't ever feel I work enough, or that my results are sufficient - like any other job, then. It's challenging, tiresome, and fairly interesting. Like any other job. Then.
As happy as I am to have a job, I am slightly - surprised, perhaps - that I'm still at my old university. Many of my classmates fell in love with the process of academia. I didn't. I wanted to use it to get an education, and then get out. All hail those who want to become scientists and researchers, but that was never me.
And yet. Here I am. Back in academia, back in research. I'm writing footnotes like my life depended on it. (Actually, no, that is a stretch. My life depends on wearing a reflex. Not footnotes.)
It's been an interesting shift from being a student to being a colleague. Of sorts. I'm still the lowest ranking here, of course; but all of a sudden I'm two floors up from before, I have xerox and printer access I could only dream of as a student (I did), and the noble professors now greet me when I run into them in the hallways. Plus I got invited to the Christmas Party.
At first I didn't sign up; after all, I was here for a short time only. But then something changed. I got a new job.
This time it's for six months. I know that's still temporary, but to me, it sounds like a world of time. More interestingly, perhaps - it's not about footnotes anymore. It's teaching. Classes. University classes. With actual students. Students who will be graded. By me.
It feels - overwhelming. Great responsibility, massive amounts of work, and a situation that will be completely new to me. I've asked myself whether I am qualified for this - heck, I asked my boss whether I am qualified. We reached the conclusion that I am... Now I only need to prove it. Am I scared? No, I'm terrified. But I am also determined to do my best.
Academia pulled me back in again. I guess this will be my chance to find out whether my decision not to devote my life to academics was right.
In the meantime my concern lies more with reflexes and safety pins. You see, my reflex - of the not-giraffe variety - is fastened in my coat with a safety pin. Usually, then, this safety pin keeps me safe. However, for the Christmas Party I needed safety in a whole different way. Since I signed up late for the Christmas Party (having changed my mind when I realized I'd be working here six more months), I didn't have much time to figure out what to wear. I went with what appeared to be a safe choice: the little black dress.
Every girl should own one. So versatile, so classic. And in my case, so revealing... I hadn't realized just how revealing it was until I wore it a few days earlier, and noticed this dress took the concept of cleavage to a whole new level. There was no way I could sport that at a Christmas Party for a new job.
So, a safety pin was my rescue. My rescue and near demise. Because I only had the one - the one from the reflex.
The safety pin kept the dress in place, thus fulfilling its purpose of preventing accidental unfastening. But since I had to remove the reflex from my coat in order to maintain the desired level of decency, I ran a risk with safety. Without the reflex, I was near invisible to a car passing me on the street later that same night. If I had been killed, we would have had decisive evidence to two hypotheses:
"Reflexes save lives"; and
"Putting decency first, makes safety worst."
I'm not sure the latter would be appropriate or desirable in a government initiated campaign. It depends on what sort of campaign it is, I suppose.
The Christmas Party went well. I still have a job. My decency is safe. And so will I be, if I can only remember to put my reflex back on my coat. Then I can return to my habit of not being killed by cars.
Saturday, April 30, 2011
On ZOMG
ZOMG.
I have
recently decided to employ this word in my vocabulary. The problem is, in the
current economy it is not exactly easy to find a position for a new word. I
have tried to substitute it for other words, but somehow this tends to make the
meaning of my sentences less clear. The other day on the bus I gently asked a lady
to get out of the ZOMG as she was blocking my passage. However, she did not
ZOMG this and just kept ZOMGing at ZOMG.
In
addition, some of the substituted words are getting angry. Yesterday the pronouns accused me of exaggerated silliness, and today the verbs have threatened to boycott me if I keep using nouns as verbs. The last thing I
need is angry words unioning on me.
I have
tried to consult the internet as well. From the urban dictionary (which is a
name that confuses me greatly as this online dictionary can be accessed
anywhere, including rural areas. They do have internet access there now, you
know) I gathered the following:
zOMG is a variant of the all-too-popular acronym "OMG", meaning "Oh My God". The "z" was originally a mistake while attempting to hit the shift key with the left hand, and type "OMG" Also used in all-caps, 'ZOMG' is generally used in a sarcastic manner, more often than not a humiliating fasion[sic]. It is also used as a device for stating the obvious."zOMG! you r teh winz!!one!!eleven!"[sic]
(It also
confuses me that an institution that claims to be a “dictionary” is so terrible
at spelling, but again this might have something to do with its “urban” image.
Itz never cool to zpell poprly in the ceetay.)
Of course
the problem with employing ZOMG as it was intended – as an enforced OMG – is
that I don’t use OMG all that much in the first place. I have been known to say OMD (Oh, My
Digression), but ZOMD just doesn’t have the same ring to it (it sounds oddly
like I was trying to type “zoomed” while drunk [and as fun as frunk posting is,
it isn’t half as fun when you’re not actually frunk]).
Thus, I
turn to you, dear readers. What shall I do with the word ZOMG? Should I give up my arduous attempts at of expanding my vocabulary in this fashion? Or should I keep flagging at the barricades, ignoring the fact that ZOMG and other acronym-turned-common-usage-words such as LOL, WFT and the esoteric FTW are made for other generations than mine? Must I accept that I am linguistically outdated at 25?
Friday, April 22, 2011
On slug tales
Anyway.
My name is Sluggie and I'm a slug. Not just any slug, mind you, I'm one of the few remaining individuals of the rare Bostonian Mollusca Knittilus breed. We're on the WWF endangered species list. So as you can see, you're in fine company today. I thought I'd take this opportunity to tell you a little about myself.
First of all, I am very fond of flowers. And cookies. Anything is better when you add flowers. And cookies.
I'm a voracious reader, and for some reason I mainly enjoy books about the political situation in the Middle East. I'm quite sophisticated, you see.
Still, it isn't beyond me to relax and have some fun. Get out of character for a while. Halloween is my favourite holiday, and I always go trick or treating. Sadly, my speed limitations doesn't allow me to visit as many houses as I'd liked, but I do enjoy a good costume.
 |
| Count Slugula |
"Waiter, there's a slug in my soup!"
"But of course, it's your cousin Wally."
Why didn't you laugh? Perhaps it'd help if I posted a picture of my cousin Wally:
He's my best friend, but he can also be a pain in the slime. He keeps boasting about his fancy shell, and his ladyfriends. I wish Susie would sell Wally's shell by the seashore. That'd show the slag... Sometimes Wally's bragging makes me feel grumpy.
But for the most part Wally and I get along.
I'm getting tired, so I think I'll wrap things up and slide back into my sleeping bag. It was nice meeting you!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaand if you're once again wondering if I've lost my bonkers I do believe we have established that QUITE some time ago... I can explain why I allowed my blog to be slimed away with (knitted!) slugs today, though.
Me and slugs - we go way back. It's a looooooong story, but let me do the short version: I am/was a Harry Potter geek. In this capacity I spent some time at a Harry Potter website (where I met most of my fellow Burrowers, incidentally). On this site I developed a complicated theory that slugs somehow were important to the Harry Potter series, since they were frequently mentioned. It went as far as me counting how many slug references each book held. I may or may not have written a fanfic about slugs. Slugs and me - it was a thing.
As a consequence of this, the WONDERFUL Leanne (also of the Burrow variety) KNITTED me a slug! That is - as you may have guessed - Sluggie (he really is very offended that I cannot remember his full name).
Finally, today's post is the result of a challenge, which in turn is a result of the challenge that initiated this week - my threesome O-post. Since we had so much fun with the threesome, we decided to extend the challenge to a foursome, where we each posted in each our styles (or our knitted pet's styles...), using four keywords or topics if you like. Tami provided soup. Natasha offered sophisticated. Tara came up with slags. And I couldn't not pick slugs. I have absolutely no idea what any of them will write, but I do have a feeling it will be entertaining. Thus I highly recommend paying them a visit, and learn all you ever wanted to know (and more) about these four fascinating topics...
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