Stories from my real life starring my real friends having real good times.
The minute any food shows up in the kitchen at work, a fascinating anthropological event transpires.
First comes the discovery: Someone walks by and sees the plate, which has appeared as if by magic. The alert is instant, epic, and never detailed. “FOOD IN THE KITCHEN” is broadcast with the aplomb of an archeologist who just discovered a T-rex skull.
But sometimes alliances form. If its you that discovers the food, who do you tell? Is there a group you alert first? Perhaps those working directly above or below you, or maybe an individual. You’ve got the power, and giving a few people a head start can be awfully good office karma.
Once the announcement is made, everyone makes a mad, Pavlovian dash leaving an office full of empty, spinning Aeron chairs. Even if you aren’t sure what’s available you go, just in case it’s something awesome on which you don’t want to miss out. It’s the scarcity that creates the demand.
Because it’s free, and in short supply, it doesn’t matter if all that’s available is cold, soggy onion rings (as was the case most recently in my office.) It might as well be gold dubloons the way people clammer for it.
So you made it, you’re among the lucky first few to get some. Now you have to decide how much to take. What percentage of the whole does each person deserve? You look around, wishing that the announcement wasn’t so loud as however many people are gathered around, that’s by what number the bounty must be split. In a group, you exercise chastity and charity. You take one or two, or just half a slice. But if you’re alone, suddenly you’re entitled to half.
Then it’s over. Like the chaos when a crocodile snags its prey from the river edge, the frenzy ends as fast as it starts, and all is peaceful again with only crumbs left, and maybe a spinning plate.Permalink
I’ve been thinking a lot lately about how much I dislike phone calls. I don’t mind a quick call here or there (though I prefer a text message,) but any long call that involves important decision making or conversation I dread. I wasn’t sure if it was just me, or even why I felt that way. It seems like I’m not alone as D. Keith Robinson recently discussed a similar dislike and got a resounding response in the comments. Here’s what I’ve figured out:
- I love email and even text messaging.
- I love talking face to face.
For a long time, I dismissed my dislike of the phone as an affectation of my shyness. Why then do I like talking to people face to face? It would seem that that would make a shy person even shyer. The more I think about it, the more I realize there are two other factors that make me hate the phone.
Turn Based Communication
I think one of the biggest issues that arise when two humans communicate is the understanding and respect of whose turn it is to talk. It’s easy to talk with someone when it’s clear when they’re done speaking and it’s my turn. Then there aren’t interruptions, and the conversation goes back and forth, like a game of pong, without error.
With email, this concept of turn based conversation is taken to the extreme. Your turn isn’t up until you’ve finished a thought and hit send. When you get an email, you know it’s your turn to respond when you’re done reading. There’s no interrupting each other. Maybe this is why I love long email chains.
In a face to face conversation, you can use body language to signify you would like to add to the conversation. This lets the other person know they should pause, that you would like it to be your turn. It’s also much easier to graciously interrupt if you have something pressing to say or the other person is getting long winded.
On the phone there’s no way to tell if you or the other person wants to take their turn. Anyone who’s been on the phone with a salesman knows this. Salesmen love the phone because they can just ramble on and on and on (see Boiler Room.) As someone who was raised not to interrupt, this adds to the stress level since I don’t want to be rude but would like to put in my two cents.
Many people are verbose. I’m as guilty as the next guy for often going on, and on, and on. If someone sends you a long email, you can skim through it, omitting entire sections, to get to the heart of the matter. When you’re in person it’s much easier to be interested in what someone is saying—you can make eye contact, laugh, and more easily offer witty asides and quips. On the phone, I feel trapped. If the person I’m talking to launches into a long diatribe, I’m stuck, locked into my seat until the ride is over. This feeling leads to stress and anxiety, especially if I see a call coming in for a notorious rambler.
So it seems that my dislike for the phone isn’t based in some deep-seated social phobia, but rather in my need for structure in a conversation and a love of efficiency.Permalink
Game on mother fucker.Permalink
After over two months, $320, and countless failures, stalls, bummed rides, and weekends spent at home, my car is finally fixed. I salute you Buick Century, you glorious bastard, this is the second major breakdown you’ve survived. Let the record show I never gave up on you, even though all logic pointed in that direction.
It all started April 15th. Not being able to find a ride to the airport I decided to leave my car in long term parking. It was going to cost me about $15 bucks. Call a cab? Don’t even talk about cabs. $22 from the airport to my door. Gas doesn’t cost that much, assholes. I get back and it’s pouring rain. No big deal, there’s a shuttle out to the lot. I get in the car, slightly damp and ready to go to work (it was Monday morning). Turn the key. Nothing.
Two days later I get my car back from the garage where it had been towed. Thank god for AAA. The battery van guy actually brought me to an ATM to get cash to cover the fee when he got back with the truck (it was in metered parking). Then he brought me home and was nice enough to tell me his entire life story, show me cell phone pics of his new tool box, and explain how he started his own DJ business: the lusty leopard or screaming seagull or giggling cheetah or something then charge me $80 to tell me he didn’t find anything. In fact, as soon as he had it towed in, it started up fine. Even so, he felt the need to spend five minutes turning it on and off every twenty minutes for an hour. Assholes.
Then it was April 21st and time to go to Toronto for Flash in the Can. Why did I offer to drive? Go ask the owl. It drove up fine, and even drove home well enough. Then the problems started. Randomly not starting, randomly stalling at a light or when idling, transmission problems, the outlook was bleak. I took it to the wonderfully whimsical Dial-A-Tire who surmised they could find nothing wrong and maybe it was the transmission. Wade (the owner) became my instant mechanic-for-life when he didn’t charge me for the labor since they couldn’t find anything.
For those of you who haven’t owned a car more than ten years old, believe you me that the words “it’s the transmission” is pretty much a death sentence. It’s hard to pay for a repair that costs more than the car’s worth (that’s called ‘totaled’ kids). Much like Napoleon at the height of power, my strategy was to wait and see.
Through an evolution Darwin would’ve been proud of, the problems got more varied, idiosyncratic, strange, inconsistent, and mind-boggling. By getting to know my co-workers better through begged rides to and from work (thanks again Emily, Jill, and Pete), I made it through a few weeks. Oh, speaking of Pete, he gave me the only small victory in this battle by changing all my plugs and wires while I was away one weekend. Not like “surprise, new plugs”, I dropped it off at his house before I left. That seemed to solve problem #9 - randomly not starting. ‘Randomly’ isn’t the right word, it was sort of predictable. As the importance of my arriving on time at my destination went up, the chances the car would start went down - a direct inverse proportion.
I adapted to a schedule that allowed me to drive to work, and drive home, with no stops along the way and no going out once I was back for the night. I couldn’t drive anywhere else (in case it didn’t start) or drive anywhere that would require me to sit idling (since it would stall). That included days in which traffic was heavy on the way to work. Those days included Friday, June 15th when my car stalled in the middle of a two lane road and had to be pushed, in reverse, over an incline into a bank parking lot. That’s even less fun than it sounds.
This was getting ridiculous. Summer means road trips and I needed a car that wouldn’t leave me stranded on Rt. 17. For those of you who don’t live upstate, as you drive down Rt. 17, you have to turn up your stereo to drown out the banjo music rolling forth from the porches peppered along this rustic almost-highway. Horseheads NY? Assholes.
One more chance. the Hail Mary pass, I decided to give Dial-A-Tire another shot. The problems had gotten consistent enough to diagnose. I dropped it off yesterday morning. Wade called me that afternoon. It lives!
Turns out the internal computer had gone all wonky. Who knew ‘93 Buicks even had a computer? I always assumed my car ran on wishes and magic. Apparently I wasn’t far off since the computer was controlling the engine as if I was teleporting back and forth between the south pole and the equator. Do you know what happens when the engine suddenly thinks it’s -40 degrees? It floods with gas and everything stalls. Oh, and the idle goes nuts.
What’s the best thing about big, common American cars? Every garage has the necessary parts laying around and a new computer only costs $240. The radiator fan wasn’t working but rather than charge me for anymore parts or labor, good old Wade just whacked it with a wrench and it started up again. Reminds me of my mechanic back home who would stick a jack-knife into battery connections to check for live voltage.
I can’t express how good it feels to have a car again. I don’t have to hold my breath at every stoplight. I can go out at night for dinner, or groceries, or the gym, all without begging my neighbor. I can eat lunch at work, even if no one else is going out. If I forget my sunglasses at the cigar bar I don’t have to wait for two weeks until I’m in the neighborhood on my way to the liquor store with Rex. I honestly didn’t realize how stressed out I was about not having it. I guess you don’t know what you got till
it’s gone it comes back.
This post has been moved to Sacre Bleu, my new food blog that demystifies cooking for the curious home chef.
View this post at Sacre Bleu.Permalink