A little dramatic.

No longer under the supervision of the United Nations of Carpool, the Romanian former delegate appears to be losing contact with reality. This missive was sent out today (crazy formatting intact):


From: Romanian Former Delegate
To: local envoy
Date: 09/01/2010 10:57 AM
Subject: Re: Like a hamster...

Local Envoy,

"Liberté, égalité, fraternité" , in French for " Liberty, equality, fraternity (brotherhood)", those whishes, didn't exist in reality!
There are only people just "thinking" outside the box / tube, but never ever getting out, and being able to touch the light / enlightenment...

Every time, there is something to drag you back in the box / tube, forcing you to to do whatever you do every day, again , and again... like in my case, now, I have to go home for an emergency.
Sad story short, I'll see you tomorrow then.


This email is a response to the local envoy inquiring whether the Romanian was going to the gym at lunch.

The PRL delegate and local envoy are concerned that if the Romanian's computer were to be searched, it would be discovered that he has drawn up blueprints for a guillotine.

It is probably a good thing that Bastille Day is more than a month in the past.

The end of an era

I have been holding back a vital piece of information, pretending it doesn’t exist, because of the terrible implications of it. Life in the United Nations of Carpool as we know it is over. The Romanian delegate has ceded his membership in the UNC. He has struck out on his own, for an unfettered life of solo commuting in the Buick, no longer encumbered by the poor time management skills of a significant portion of the rest of the carpool, with their utter inability to arrive anywhere on time.

His break was brief and merciful, probably to spare the rest of the UNC the pain of his departure:

To: UNC Carpool List
From: Romanian Delegate
Date: 07/30/2010 01:15PM
Subject: Re: Current Carpool Schedule

Members of the United Nations of Carpool,

I am sorry for such a short notice, but I am not car-pooling anymore.

Is probably just me going thru a troubled phase of my life. I need more peace around me to realize what it is... I am the captain of my Buick..., at least when my wife is not around...

Thanks.

Romanian Delegate

And with that, he was gone. Carpool democracy mourns his return to the dictatorship of the Buick.

Writing this made me throw up in my mouth a little.

How to lose weight and develop a compulsive handwashing habit:


Step 1: Go to a meeting with your coworkers.
Step 2: Observe.


At first, you will probably observe only a little scratching. Maybe the guy across the table is scratching absently at his arm, or his head, or chin. Once you are aware of scratching, you will notice when it becomes picking. Suddenly, the gentle itch-relief of Jim from Accounting becomes the incessant picking at a bump on his forearm. Or maybe scalp-picking, or scratching at beard-stubble. Keep an eye on that scratching finger, because soon Jim’s efforts are going to pay off, and a little hunk of skin or scalp or scab is going to come off, and he is not going to just idly flick it under the table, where maybe you will be able to forget about it (after 3 or 4 rounds with a surgical antiseptic). No, Jim from Accounting is going to hold on to that little hunk of DNA, and roll it between his fingers. Maybe he will play it off as brushing his fingers off, but since you’re now obsessed (you know you are), you will watch his fingers, and see that he still has it. It’s under his fingernail, and he is glancing surreptitiously around the conference room, to see if anyone has noticed this. As long as you are not heaving up your breakfast with the realization, he will proceed with his next move—the lip brush or the nail bite. Yes, that’s right, that little bit of Jim just can’t go to feed the dust mites, he’s going to keep it. The lip brush is subtler, but Jim thinks no one has noticed, so he’s going to go for the full chomp. Fingernail and scab, all in one bite. Try not to rush out of the room, because there is more fun to be had!

Don’t worry about sticking to your diet, because you will not want to eat again ever.

Next, we meet the beard-picker, whose ingrown follicles are mighty itchy and need some relief. Try not to let him sit between you and a light source, or you will be witness to a cascade of epidermal cells, defying you to ever touch a communal tabletop again. There’s also the straight-up nail biter, who sometimes multitasks fingernail maintenance with dental hygiene, and picks his teeth with that sliver of thumbnail. In the privacy of his bathroom? No! In the middle of the meeting.

The nose scratcher quickly turns into a booger eater, using Jim’s fingernail trick, and you will never look at your boss the same way again! Or shake anyone’s hand! Or eat lunch anywhere besides the ladies’ room, which at this point is looking positively hygienic.

It’s true: everyone you work with has disgusting habits, and you will never look them in the eye again. And now that you have started noticing the scab scratching and the nail biting and the skin picking and the booger eating, you will never, EVER be able to ignore them.
Congratulations! You have (yet another) work-induced neurosis!

You’re welcome.

Romanian delegate Turtle does not like it when you're late:

Tardiness is socialism

This is it for the Romanian delegate.. He did not come to America to be delayed by communist carpool rules that demand that the timeliness of the group be sacrificed in waiting for the slowest of them to arrive. In his individualist America, it is every man for himself in the quest to arrive at work at precisely 8:00 in the morning.

This email went out on Thursday, 7/22:


Carpool members,

To pick Libyan, Caucasian and bTexas delegates up, in the morning, I have to be awake and leave my home with 15 to 20 minutes earlier. In addition to that, I have to stop, wait ( sometimes too long ), and start the engine one to four times, which increases my gas consumption, and sometimes my blood pressure, overall.
Libya, Caucasia, bTexas, no offense, but I realize that I need those 15 to 20 minutes ( willingly donated to you so far, for such a long time ) in the morning just for me.
So, staring tomorrow, I will not by picking you up anymore. I will not be parking my car in front of Libya's, or Caucasia's house when is their turn to drive, without blocking the driveway, mail delivery, or trash collection.
Will be educational and much better for all of us, to know that whoever is scheduled to drive, must leave Chain Restaurant for Truckers and the Elderly place at 7:30AM sharp, with or without scheduled passengers. This way we will avoid explanatory phone calls, and the possibility to be late. Is all about respect for us, and for our job.
It will not be necessary for you, as scheduler, to track all those miles adding more data to an already over-complicated equation. We all have to be grateful for your work, and make it as easier as possible with everyone's contribution.
I am sure everybody can be responsible for it's own time!
That being said, starting tomorrow, I'll meet you all at Chain Restaurant for Truckers and the Elderly prior to 7:30AM. I don't know about you, but I will be gone if the scheduled driver is not there at least two minutes prior to 7:30AM.

Thanks for your understanding.

Romanian Delegate


To be honest, a central meeting place makes more sense, even if half the UNC members are coming from the same neighborhood. It makes the carpool matrix significantly less complicated, and certain members are less than dependable. This was all agreed upon in the UNC when all members were present the next afternoon. Watches were even synchronized, in good humor, to make sure that no one missed the 2 minute window, and all went home for the weekend.


On Monday morning, sure enough, the Romanian and Libyan delegates were early to the Chain Restaurant for Truckers and the Elderly, and were shortly joined by the Vietnamese and PRL delegates. However, at 7:27 am, bTexas, the designated driver, had not shown up. As the fateful minute ticked by, the Romanian delegate readied himself for his exodus. The UNC had not discussed how to coordinate the driving if the original driver failed to appear on schedule, but this did not deter him. As his watch struck 7:28, he started up the Buick and drove off. In a feat of Lifetime made-for-TV-movie timing, he turned onto the highway just as bTexas’ minivan pulled into the parking lot. Obviously, our watches need to be synchronized to the second, not just the minute.

bTexas was not amused at this turn of events, and was committed to catching the Romanian delegate somewhere in the intervening 25 miles. After his third pass on the shoulder of a slow-moving semi truck, the PRL delegate closed her eyes and forced herself to sleep, so that her imminent death would remain a surprise until the last possible moment.

Unfortunately, the Romanian and bTexas delegates reside in another building, so the inevitable cold war went undocumented.

Tardiness will not be tolerated.

The Romanian delegate has had enough. He is not content to sit and wait, becoming increasingly late for work, as the Caucasia-NCA delegate, and then bTexas take their sweet ass time getting to the proscribed meeting points. Today, he mutinied. When his (American-made) watch ticked past the time to leave, he left, passenger seats empty. First, he left the Caucasia-NCA delegate at his house, then bTexas at the Frozen Dairy Treat Franchise that is his designated meeting spot. The Romanian’s cell phone had died, so he couldn’t call to tell them he was leaving them, but no matter. They were late, and they had it coming.
When he arrived at the Restaurant for Truck Drivers and the Elderly that is the meeting place for the PRL and Vietnamese delegates, on time for the first time in months, he requested a phone call be made to the errant delegates. “We are waiting for the Romanian!” they claimed. “He is here!” the PRL delegate explained, “You were late!” If you have ever seen a cartoon where the character holds the phone away from their head, while various symbols that substitute for expletives stream out of the earpiece, then you have an idea of how bTexas reacted to this revelation.
Despite the Romanian’s protestations, the decision to wait for those slowpoke delegates was made, in the spirit of equanimity. Additionally, this allowed the Romanian delegate to harangue bTexas and Caucasia-NCA for several minutes on their rampant tardiness. Watches were synchronized, and the PRL delegate fell asleep in the back of the minivan, safe from the disgruntled glares of offended delegates on both sides of the issue.


As the minivan departed, carrying bTexas and the Romanian delegate to their end of the plant, the other 3 delegates stood in the mist and watched as it receded towards the nitrogen tank. “Oh crap,” muttered the Vietnamese delegate, “I forgot my drink in the cupholder.” Now his drink this afternoon will be 2 ounces of hot, watered down soda.

Obviously he knows something we don't

The Romanian delegate seems, by all rights, a reasonably intelligent person. He is an engineer, with a Master’s degree. It can’t always be said that engineers, particularly those with higher degrees, are completely sane, but it’s pretty much a given that they are smart. Maybe it has something to do with growing up in a communist country, where critical thinking is not highly prized, especially under a dictator like Nicolae Ceauşescu. It’s hard to tell. What is evident, however, is that the Romanian delegate seems to believe just about anything that anyone tells him (for instance, parsley).

He mentioned the other day something called “biorhythms,” which he said he uses to predict his energy level and general health on a daily basis. Thinking that this was something that would interest the local envoy, he sent a link, so she could see for herself the wonders of biorhythms. This link was dutifully forwarded to the PRL Delegate, who has no natural rhythm, and thus will take all the biorhythm she can get.

Using your birth date as the only data input, an obscure and undoubtedly devilishly complicated program produces a lovely set of color-coded sine waves, from which you apparently can determine whether or not it is safe to go to work (“If your waves, they are very high or very low, you should stay at home, in the bed, because you could have heart attack or stroke”). The PRL delegate was surprised to learn that while she felt rather average (if a bit tired) today, her sine waves were all peaking, and as such she should be “manic” and confined to bed, lest she give herself an aneurism if she so much as sneezed.

This was a distressing find, as this delegate had already committed to a strenuous interval of aerobic exercise during the lunch break, and to back out would have caused her to look like a pansy-pants. Frantically, she consulted the site’s other magical calculators, and was given a list of words that might be used to describe her day.

(if your parsley breakfast didn't give you super-vision, clicky for a large version)

Drama! Hell! Sacrifice! Exhaustion! Slaughter! Syzygy! Even the words were against her today!

What about the runes? Maybe the runes could give her some good news!

(Again with the clicking)

Oh no! Was she throwing her life away on a game of chance with her cerebral artery? Did the rune indicate her loss of consciousness from brain trauma if she worked out, or her loss of self-esteem from being a pansy-pants who skipped out on it? Why couldn’t the stars, or whatever it is that controls the mystical website, give her a straight answer? This was a matter of life or death or floral trousers!

Maybe in her panic, she missed something in the list of words! Frantically, she scrutinized the nouns for another insight into her plight, and like a bolt of wisdom from the mysterious website deities, she finally understood. Her world was suffused with calm and enlightenment. The walls buzzed with the harmonic vibration of understanding. Then the industrial equipment just outside her office turned off, and the shaking stopped.

Mercenary Oyster Stallion.

Obviously everything was going to be okay.

McConfused.

In the break room refrigerator:
No, that is not the new, low-calorie McCafe invisiblé . It is four slightly milky ice cubes in a dirty cup. In the refrigerator, so soon it will be a small, slightly milky puddle of water in a dirty cup. What the fucking fuckity fuck fuck?
Even without the process of elimination (there is no one else here today), it would be pretty obvious that this is the work of the Vietnamese delegate. I only wish that I wasn't leaving early, so I could see him take home the empty cup at the end of the day. Presumably after he has licked the precious remnants of caramel-like liquid substance off the lid.

I thought it was just allergies.

The whole way to work this morning, the PRL delegate's left eye felt weird. The contact lens was uncomfortable, and she was constantly poking at it and rubbing her eye. Upon arrival at the workplace, she dripped a few drops of solution into it, to flush out any particulates, and to try and hydrate it. She took it out, rinsed it, and put it back in. But that was to no avail. She closed her right eye, and focused with the left. She closed the left eye and focused with her right. Both eyes focused, but not at the same distance. Everything was blurry from one eye when the other was clear, and clear when the other was focused. And it still felt like there was something stuck in there. She moved it around with her fingers, and winked her way through several conversations with coworkers until she gave up, took it out, and rubbed it with lens cleaning solution.

That's when one lens separated into two. A third lens was in her unaffected right eye. So where did the third contact come from? It is a mystery. A mystery that is currently sitting in a tiny polystyrene beaker (for lack of a contact lens case).

Expect to see breakthroughs on spontaneous mitosis of hydrophillic contact lenses in the near future.

Incident report: 10/07/2007

Driver: Romania

Occupants: Libya, Caucasia-NCA, PRL, Vietnam

Vehicle became stuck in traffic. Romanian delegate decided to listen to his favorite CD: “Greatest hits of 2005”

As “my hump” by the Black-Eyed Peas played, Romanian delegate declared “This is my favorite song!” and repeatedly increased volume via steering wheel-mounted controls over the course of the song. After the song ended, Romanian delegate lowered volume and turned to the rest of the UNC. Romanian delegate inquired: “What is ‘my hump’?”

Other delegates looked awkwardly out the windows and attempted to change the subject.

Spring time is Benadryl time.

The sound of spring in the UNC is the sound of post-nasal drip., Texas is home to one of the country's worst allergy seasons, and the UNC is not immune. It's been said that when one moves to an allergen-heavy location as an adult, their allergic response is much higher than if they had grown up there. And if there is one phrase that describes the United Nations of Carpool, it is "Not from around here."

The PRL delegate, in an attempt to suppress her symptoms, downs a cocktail of Claritin, Zyrtec, and Tylenol Allergy every morning, which renders her nigh on incoherent, but keeps the sneezing to a tolerable one or two violent fits per minute. Some of the other delegates, however, have not found their ideal mix of antihistamines. The noise of it would be enough to give a migraine to the mother of the PRL delegate (who was forever telling a young PRL:"Use a tissue! You're giving me a sinus headache just listening to you!").

The Vietnamese delegate favors a periodic, short, forceful and startlingly loud and porcine "SNORK!" at the back of the throat, often open-mouthed, in order to keep the nose-running at bay. (Dear sweet jaysus, forgive me for thinking this, but: Vietnamese Pot-Bellied Pig. If Pot-Bellied Pigs wore t-shirts left over from a mid-90s Nike ad campaign.)
bTexas, on the other hand, prefers a less frequent, slow and unpredictable "SNNNNNNNRRRRRNNNNNCCCHHH" from the nose, followed by a loud swallow. Caucasia-NCA seems to have his allergies mostly in check, but sometimes needs to utilize a quiet "sn sn sn sn" machine gun inhale.

The Libyan delegate, whose sinuses were likely scoured by sandstorms in his Saharan youth, seems unaffected by the Texas pollen. The Romanian delegate attributes his clear breathing to a daily dose of local beeswax.

On morning when the pollen count is particularly high, these various approaches to breathing combine to form a symphony of snot, the sonorous effect of which is impossible to translate into print. Like nap time at a sleep apnea convention during a rhinovirus epidemic.

In case you wondered what life is like, living with a research scientist: it sometimes sounds like this.

Inexplicable habits of my coworkers, part 14

The Vietnamese delegate, like many other Americans, buys a cup of coffee every morning to get him going. He is partial to McDonald’s McCafe mocha and iced coffees, but when time does not permit, he will show up with a small (12oz) insulated cup from the gas station. He does not actually drink this coffee on the way to work—he simply requires that someone find him a cupholder for it on the ride in. It is probably in the best interests of the upholstery that he does not attempt to drink while the vehicle is moving, given his lack of fine motor skills.

Several days ago, he came out to the car at the end of the work day, carrying his coffee cup from the morning (it should be noted that this is a cup from the gas station, which he replaces every day—he is not quite so unhinged that he has emotional attachment to disposable cups). Setting it on the roof of the PRL delegate’s car (does that not irritate anyone else but me?), he explained its continued presence at five in the evening: “I made another cup of coffee this morning, but I forgot about it. But I can’t drink now, because the caffeine will keep me up all night.” Which leads to the logical assumption that he is taking the coffee home, cold and 8 hours old at this point, with plans to drink it the next morning, as its age approaches a full 24 hours. Nothing gets you going in the morning like reheated backwashed coffee sludge.


It is more likely, however, that he will set the cup on his own roof as he struggles to maneuver his briefcase, man-purse, car keys and iphone so that they are all in the cabin of his car at the same time, with none of the attendant straps (or seatbelts) wrapped around his neck, while at the same time attempting to not close the door on his own legs, and in the process will forget the coffee remnants above him. He will then drive off, leaving a spray of java in his wake, leaving him free to purchase another cup of coffee the next morning.

Greenwashing, Romanian style.

Tuesday morning email to the gym-going contingent of the UNC:

From: Romania@ScienceCompany
To: Local_Envoy, PRL, Caucasia-NCA, bTexas
Date: 04/27/2010 08:30 AM
Subject: Our team can go a little bit "green"?


My wife and I we started a "cure with Parsley" this morning... nasty staff for now... probably needs time to be used with it... and I am wondering if cows are eating Parsley... seems to be OK for humans...
So, I attached bellow some info. See more on: http://www.whfoods.com/genpage.php?tname=foodspice&dbid=100.

Concerned with the possible implications of "cure with Parsley", I asked how much parsley it takes to cure, and what, exactly, is it curing?

He assured me that it was only a cup or so, chopped. With water. And only for breakfast. His wife, she heard somewhere that parsley it is good for you, and cures any ailment you may have. So that is what they are eating for breakfast, but only for two days. I guess you get enough beneficial scientific-sounding compounds in your two cups of parsley so that you never have to eat it again.

Then, of course, you can go back to eating club soda meat sticks with abandon.

Dirty Tricks.

The Vietnamese delegate is on to me.

No one likes to sit in the 3rd row seats, especially in the Caucasian-NCA’s Durango, and the Romanian’s Buick They are uncomfortable to anyone with legs, and difficult to get into and out of (the bucket seats in the minivans are a bit awkward to get into, but rather comfortable once you manage to get seated). I have noticed that if I dally just a little when putting my bag in the trunk, tucking straps and setting it just so, I will be the last into the car, and thus able to sit in the middle section of seats, which are not too uncomfortable. The delegate from Vietnam, he knows of my tricks, and this morning tried to use them against me. As I dawdled at the back of the Durango, he unveiled his method of being the last to reach the door. He gave the carpool vehicle a 20-foot berth as he walked from his car on the driver’s side, to the open door on the passenger side, as if he was convinced that the vehicle was not a bulbous blue SUV in park, but something more dangerous, with much pointier teeth.

He remained a full car-length away, standing uncomfortably in the middle of the parking lot, giggling nervously and giving me the “yeah, I know your tricks” look until he was sure that I was going to go in first. Only after I had maneuvered onto the miniature bench seat at the back did he feel it was safe to approach the vehicle, glowing with victory.
“Vietnam!” said the Caucasia-NCA delegate in a chastising tone, “why did you make her sit in the back? She is wearing a skirt.”
“Yes, that is very rude,” the Romanian delegate decreed from the safety and comfort of the front passenger seat. The victorious glow faded from the Vietnamese delegate’s face.

I do not deliberately wear skirts so that I am ineligible to sit in the back, but that is mostly because I hadn’t ever thought of it. I tend to turn to them when it is laundry time and I have run out of pants, and on days that I ride my bike to the carpool, because skirts weigh less and take up less room in a bag than pants, which are both desirable qualities in clothing when you have to schlep it around on your back. Skirts are a last-choice option in most cases, though, because they inevitably result in at least one instance of “So… do you have a job interview today?” or “Hey! PRL has knees! Look at that!” every single time. It gets a little old.

This morning was no different. As I scrambled into the rear seat, the Libyan delegate, who was already perched there, smiled in the manner of one who is about to tell a joke that only they think is funny, and asked “Do you have an interview?”

And thus I spent the ride to work in a pencil skirt with a slit up the front, knees to chest in a tiny back seat, flashing broad stretches of godless heathen thigh at a Muslim man. Carpool: we bring awkwardness to a higher level.

It is important to not be the last person on the Vietnamese delegate's call list. He has not quite gotten the hang of his iphone, and as such, is prone to accidental dialing of that last person at strange and often inopportune moments.

My phone rang this Friday evening, and the Vietnamese delegate's picture popped up (actually, this, which conveys the general idea, except with significantly more cuteness). I answered, and was treated to the muffled sounds of someone else's conversation, along with unidentified rustlings. The Vietnamese pants pocket dialer had struck again. I sat and listened for a while, and the call ended after about 2 minutes (what can I say, I was bored), and I got on with my evening, which included mowing the lawn of the PRL embassy and watching the neighborhood children ride their electric wheelchair up and down the street.

An hour later, the phone rang again, and again it was the delegate from Vietnam's pants. Not content to be a passive listener any more, I struck up a conversation with the pocket. Mostly this consisted of yelling "HELLO POCKET! PANTS!" over and over again, but there was also some discussion of the merits of frequent lint removal, and whether or not pockets like forming errant receipts into wadded up nuggets of cellulose in the wash (it turns out that that is a highlight of a pocket's week).

Eventually, I grew bored of yelling "PANTS" at the top of my lungs, and the children in the electric wheelchair had started crossing to the other side of the street when passing the PRL embassy, so I gave up and set the phone on the table, to let the call run its course. Twenty two minutes and one second later, the pants finally terminated the call, and haven't called back since. Perhaps the bowl of grapefruit on the table said something offensive in my absence.

For the improvement of your weekend times!

A recipe from the Romanian delegate:

Mici/Mititei (Romanian Meat Sticks)

6 lb. ground beef
2 lb. ground pork
1.5 tbs salt
2 tbs baking soda (dissolved in 1 tbs of vinegar or lemon juice)
1 tbs ground pepper
1 tbs sweet chili powder
2 tbs thyme
8-10 cloves of garlic – minced
42 fl oz club soda


It takes 2 days to get the best flavor.


Day 1:

• Mix the meat with salt and baking soda (dissolved in 1 tbs of vinegar or lemon juice) – use clean hands to mix it
• Add about 8 oz of club soda
• Knead the mixture for about 15 min., cover it and leave it in the fridge for 24 hr. so baking soda will do its wonder (12hr works if in hurry)

Day 2:

• Use the blender to mix 8 oz of club soda with all the herbs and condiments until it foams
• Add the mixture to the meat, mix well using your clean hands
• Add the remaining club soda and knead it for 15 min.
• Form little sausages with wet hands, about 3 inches long and 1 ½ to 2 inches in diameter and place them on a wet cutting board or a pan that was previously sprayed with non-stick cooking spray or oil
• Leave in the fridge overnight and grill next day

• Grill on high with close supervision

Serve with yellow mustard, sourdough bread and cold beer

Enjoy!

Oh baking soda, you are so full of wonder.

In addition to providing a handy recipe for 8 pounds of sausage, this recipe leaves us with several questions. Namely, why all the club soda? And why in a blender? If you were not as inquisitive a youngster as the PRL delegate, you might not know that soda in a blender is a very good way to evenly coat the entire kitchen with sugar syrup. Perhaps this is not only a recipe for meat sticks, but also a Romanian housekeeping shortcut--the club soda cleans all exposed surfaces at once, and the herbs help freshen up the place to allow the scent of cooking meat to permeate.

And the baking soda-lemon juice/vinegar combination? Is this really a 3rd grade science experiment? Do they make meat volcanoes in Romanian elementary schools? Perhaps that's why it requires close supervision--giving very hot meat volcanoes to 8-year-olds with cold beer seems like something I'd want to keep an eye on, myself.

Incident report, 9 April 2010

Driver: bTexas

Occupants: Vietnam, PRL, Caucasia-NHA, Libya, Romania.

The highway underpass stoplights at the beginning of the morning carpool trek are timed rather precisely, so that a vehicle accelerating from a stop at the first light will reach the second one just after it turns green, even at high rates of acceleration (this sort of stoplight configuration--access roads and one light on either side of the highway in both directions-- seems to be peculiar to Texas). For most drivers, especially driving the same route every day, the idea that the second light will turn green before they reach it, the way it does every morning, is a given. Not so the delegate from Vietnam. He views that second light with a wary suspicion, convinced that one day it will stay red, and on that day, a semi truck full of hydrofluoric acid and C4 explosives will come barreling down the access road, simultaneously flattening, dissolving and exploding him, and as such, will not raise his vehicle's speed above 15 mph until he is sure that the light will turn green and stay that way.


When he is not driving, it is best to distract him when approaching this part of the intersection, to spare him the anxiety. There have been minor incidents in the past. Today, however, he was seated behind the driver, and had a full view of the approaching stoplight.

"bTexas," he said, in a normal tone of voice, "the light not green." When the driver showed no signs of slowing, the Vietnamese delegate began to worry. "bTexas! The light still red!" He frantically tapped on the driver's shoulder."bTexas! bTexas! bTexas!" He was practically pounding on the bTexas delegate at this point, which was enough to finally get his attention. "WHAT DO YOU WANT?!" he shouted, turning in his seat, and not watching the road, which had the effect of sending the delegate from Vietnam into further terrified convulsions, clutching his armrests for dear life, unable to speak. The minivan rolled through the intersection a nightmarish 25 mph, the light turning green before its front wheels reached the stop line. "Curses," said the driver of the explosives truck on the access road, "foiled again."

Is it racist if it comes from the Asian?

The delegate from Vietnam got into the minivan this morning carrying a National Geographic from 1970, which had a cover story about Japan. The bTexas delegate expressed interest in the magazine, so the Vietnamese delegate let him browse through it. BTexas turned to Vietnam and said “So where are you from originally? Japan?”

“No,” said the Vietnamese delegate. “I Chinese.” And with that, he pulled the sides of his eyes upward with his fingers, laughing hysterically. After he had calmed himself, he recanted: “No really, I Japanese.” bTexas nodded, and perused the magazine further. “So…” he asked quietly, “do you think… you could write my name in Japanese for me?” This sent the Vietnamese delegate into further paroxysms of laughter, after which he finally admitted to being Vietnamese, “but [Libyan delegate] says I look like Cambodian,” which was also apparently hilarious.

The Romanian delegate, not wanting to be left out, chimed in. “You know how the Chinese and the Japanese, they have eyes like this?” Here, he pulled the corners of his eyes back with his fingers. “The people in those countries, they eat a lot of rice. The rice, you know, it makes you… constipated. So all the time those people, they are NGGGNNNNNNGGGGGGGHHH!” The last sound was illustrated with the strained, eyes squinted shut face of someone attempting to pass a cantaloupe through his nether regions.

After a brief second of shocked “WTF?” rippled through the car, laughter filled the vehicle—some confused and alarmed, some genuine and amused.

Any further conversation was not recorded, as the PRL delegate fell asleep shortly thereafter.

Incident report: 24 March 2010

7:29 am

“Oh!” shouted the delegate from Romania, as we waited for the rest of the carpool to arrive. “That is a good way to discharge the battery!” He is looking intently at a red ballpoint pen. He holds it up to us (PRL and Libya), then puts it down into the console between the two front seats of the Buick, and wiggles it around. Sparks start to fly in the console, and it becomes apparent that he has put the pen in the cigarette lighter.

“The metal on the pen, it makes a short cut!” he declares, the miniature fireworks display continuing. “I did not know that it could do that!” To our great relief, he takes the pen out of the electrical outlet, and starts rummaging around in the console, “I wonder where it is the little plastic cover for this?”

As he searches, the remaining carpool members arrive. “Aha!” he shouts, “Now the car it will not catch on fire!” The delegate from Vietnam, climbing into the back seat, is taken by surprise. “Whahappen?”

Victory against pen-initiated car fires being complete, the Romanian delegate feels no need to dwell on the incident by elaborating, leaving the delegate from Vietnam to spend the car ride in a deeper state of befuddlement than usual.

Apologies.

It's been a little slow at the United Nations of Carpool lately. The PRL delegate has bee missing a lot of carpooling, what with a sick cat who requires twice-weekly injections of a mystery substance that is supposed to make him not die (it seems to be working--said cat spent much of last night scratching at the box of kibble and demanding treats instead of laying listlessly about when not peeing on things).
So this delegate hasn't been able to chronicle the current events of Carpool, which are bound to be exciting, now that the Romanian delegate's worst fears have been realized, and we are now part of a Stalinist state under an authoritarian dictator who eats babies (that would be the passing of the health care reform bill for those of you not fluent in post-Communist freakout).


Instead, here is a little tidbit from an email from the Romanian delegate, wondering who would teach the lunchtime weights class at the gym, since the regular instructor would be out:

I hope whoever will be our trainer today, will play .. "Poker face" ?! ... whatever that means...



Whatever that means.

Toyota owners, listen up:

The delegate from Libya has no sympathy for the people killed by faulty accelerator pedals on Toyotas: "I don't understand why they didn't just put the car in neutral. That would have stopped it. It is so simple."




The lack of the protective hat o'doom has that delegate driving rather erratically. The subject of Toyota was brought up after the Libyan delegate accelerated rapidly towards a slow-moving sedan in front of him, in a school zone, after almost running a red light (that said, the timing of the stoplight in question is well known to most of the UNC, and only the delegate from Vietnam panicked and braced himself against the dashboard as we sped towards the red light with no signs of slowing. The light obligingly turned green just as the Infiniti reached the intersection).

Without the hat, the Libyan delegate seems somewhat lost, and prone to swerves, braking, and rapid accelerations at seemingly random moments. It is disconcerting, and makes sleeping in the back seat rather difficult, not to mention making the enjoyment of a breakfast bottle of V8 downright dangerous.

We can only hope that the delegate from Libya regains his driving skills or makes peace with the hat and wears it during the commute. It would be an international tragedy if the UNC were killed while swerving to avoid imaginary roadkill.

The end of an era.

It was a sad day in the world of hat watch. The cap finally came off, revealing a head of hair, gray and cropped. Where was the vortex? Had it closed, with the closing of the month of February? The world may never know. The final act of the vortex seems to have been a cold, sporadic rain, which inconvenienced everyone, not least of all the delegate from Libya, since he had nothing with which to cover his head.

News of the hat’s non-presence was whispered about in the labs, but no one dared mention it but in hushed tones. No one, that is, except for the Queen of Social Interaction, whose dominion is the awkwardness that follows a failed joke at your expense. The Queen came to the office of the delegate from Libya (which happens to be within hearing range of the PRL delegate), and announced to him "Everyone said you looked different today, and I guess that's because you're not wearing your HAAAAT!" Sometimes, to get her royal highness’ point across, she uses overemphasis of important words. The Queen, she is very subtle. "They said maybe you got a haircut or something, but I think they all got so used to seeing your HAAAT that they forgot it was even there!" It is important to increase paranoia by letting someone know that people are talking about them behind their back.

The reply was muffled, as the delegate from Libya felt no need to emphasize his words, and the PRL delegate was able to hear only snippets—that he had suffered a bad haircut two weeks prior, and that the burden of wearing the hat was so great that he wished he had never put it on. Also, the hat is in the wash, and he hopes it doesn’t shrink in the dryer.

It would be easy to put the whole episode off as an effort to hide a bad haircut, but the presence of the hat predates the alleged haircut. Did the vortex allow him to predict the unsatisfactory coiffure? Or did it alter his perception of time, so that the delegate from Libya does not remember the first half of the month? Either of these scenarios is alarming. Not nearly as alarming, however, as the revelation that the closing of the vortex caused such a mess as to require laundering of the hat.

We should all be thankful that the burden has been lifted from the Libyan delegate’s diminutive shoulders (and noggin), and that he single-handedly (headedly) protected the world from trans-dimensional annihilation.

The delegate from Vietnam was running late this morning, so after waiting several minutes past the typical departure time, the Romanian delegate gave him a call to see where he was. After hanging up, the Romanian delegate turned to the rest of the car and said, "He says he is around the corner. Which corner, I do not know, but it is round."

Moments later, the Vietnamese delegate screeched around a corner on the other end of the parking lot, terrifying a pair of RV-piloting retirees who were coming out of the fast food restaurant. They dropped their coffees and searched wildly for a shrub to throw themselves into for safety as he careened by them and flung his car into a parking spot.

The greatest test yet

There is a big event approaching in the hatwatch world. Not only is the one month hattiversary in a few days, but this afternoon there is an R&D progress meeting. This meeting is for the research staff to present current results to a group of heads of departments and higher-ups in the company. And it’s not an event to which one would wear a hat. The delegates from PRL, Vietnam, Libya and Caucasia-NCA are all sheduled to speak for 20-30 minutes, and everyone is dressed to impress—dress shirts and clean slacks. The delegate from Vietnam is even wearing his pants right-side-out for the occasion (and the PRL delegate is wearing a skirt).

Will the hat stay on? I do have to admit, the gray tweed is fairly distinguished and does not detract from the Libyan delegate’s natty ensemble. Does he have the panache to stick with his haberdashery when department heads and executives start filing in? We shall see.

Signs of trouble

The vortex is showing signs of destabilization, even in the presence of the protective hat. During a staff meeting this morning, when the hat was clearly visible and undisturbed, power went out several times. This power outage was localized to two rooms, one of which being the one where the Libyan delegate and his cap were located, sitting quietly at the end of the conference table, not drawing any attention. However, each time the lights went out, the Libyan delegate would flee the room, ostensibly to assist in resetting the breaker. This would not be suspicious but for the fact that other people left the room at the same time, for the same purpose, and returned without him. Was he off somewhere, offering appeasements to the trans-dimensional cranial vortex in an effort to save us all? And what does one offer to the vortex in one's head, in an effort to stave off destruction? So many unanswered questions.


The delegate from Vietnam, being blissfully unaware that his entire existence was at stake, made the same joke each time the lights went out—“Uh oh. Who not pay power bill?”

The Vietnamese delegate has had his sweater on backwards all day. How can you tell? It's a V-neck.

Incident report 2/19/2010

Driver: Vietnam

Occupants: Romania, PRL, Libya



Yesterday, a rather disgruntled man flew a Cessna into the Austin headquarters of the IRS. The delegate from Romania was displeased. “My tax return is there. They will not give me my money now.” He speculated on the background of the pilot (“Araahhhbian”), and when he was told the truth, he was shocked “He was Texan? No.” (The Romanian delegate has a very specific “no” of disbelief, a prolonged “Nuhhhhohhhhhhw.” This was a particularly long one, indicative of utter incredulity) “He could not be Texan. Texans, they only kill people who are guilty of crimes. They do not kill innocent people, and there was two bodies at IRS. One must be terrorist, but other is innocent person. No, it could not be Texan.” Unfortunately, the radio volume was high, and the delegate from PRL was unable to hear the rest of the conversation between the Vietnamese and Romanian delegates from the back seat. It’s very likely that the Romanian delegate found some way that the blame for the whole thing lays squarely on president Obama.

Week 3: Haturnalia

The third week of the hat's presence is underway, and on its 17th day of silent mystery, no one has yet uncovered the reason for its omnipresence. The hat does not seem to be any worse for the constant wear, which may be due to the rejuvenating properties of the cranial vortex. The delegate from Libya does look surprisingly young for a man of his age (which, incidentally is not precisely known. Vagaries of a developing country in the 1950s and all that), and this youthful visage may be due to the transdimensional vortex in his head. Perhaps it has the ability to slow time. No wonder he doesn't want the rest of the world to see.

Oh, the mystery of his covered scalp!

Snow day!

The United Nations of Carpool experienced that rare event last week--a Texas snowstorm. But not just any snow storm, no, this was the biggest storm in recorded local history. Over a foot of snow in some areas, and no snowplows or salt trucks to be had. But this is not the place to chronicle the exploits of Texans in the snow. The excuse that they have no experience in it is a valid one. So we won't mock them for their unnecessary slowness, or their ability to careen off the road on a clear, straight stretch of highway. There’s no sport in ridiculing people going 15 mph in a 4WD truck on a mostly clear highway, and it’s probably for the better that a few of them somehow managed to throw their vehicles off the road with such force that they came to rest dozens of yards away, perpendicular to a long, clear, straight stretch of roadway. Those people, with their preternatural collision skills, are a menace to everyone else, and their spectacular accidents are evidence of Darwinian driving skill selection at work. After parking the Civic in a shrubbery after sliding across 4 lanes of traffic, that driver will vow never to attempt to go anywhere in the snow, ever again, thus sparing the lives and lawns of many people over the years.
Additionally, the Texans are handicapped by the utter lack of snow-clearing equipment. Since this never happens, there are no plows or salt trucks, which veteran snow drivers take for granted. It’s not only the inability to drive in adverse conditions; it’s the inability to deal with those adverse conditions on a municipal level that makes it so difficult. What would be a manageable and unremarkable 4 inch snowfall is magnified into wholesale debacle by the inability to move any of it off the roadways.
So there will be no mocking of Texans in the snow. They are hilarious enough without my commentary.
The Texans, their skills lay elsewhere.

The delegate from PRL cannot describe the UNC on the day of the storm, as she drove by herself. However, the delegate from Caucasia-NCA and the local envoy joined her in a snowball fight during lunch that day.

The local envoy, being local, and not living during the previous record snowstorm (a paltry 7.8 inches in 1964), had never been sledding before. This travesty was rectified with a cardboard box, industrial plastic sheeting (and very wet pants):

This was capped off by a terribly mature architectural endeavor:

(For the record, a truck this size has zero trouble plowing through several hundred pounds of misshapen snowmen)

The next morning, the UNC arrived at work on time to find that very few others had done the same, and that the roadways and parking lots were under a foot of unplowed snow. The PRL delegate had been scheduled to drive, which was not the greatest choice, given the circumstances, but the carpool matrix must be obeyed, and the little Saturn bravely soldiered on.

For your own reference, if you are driving a small sedan through the snow, and a man whose provenance is a country that consists mostly of the Sahara Desert tries to give you instructions on how to maneuver on ground that is simultaneously muddy and covered in snow, trust your instincts and DO NOT LISTEN TO HIM. He does not know what he is talking about. However, it is satisfying to make such a person get out and push when his advice leads to being mired in the snow mud. Not that this delegate would know.

Day 12.

The hat of mystery is still in place. There is some speculation that the record-smashing snowfall that occurred yesterday was due to a minor shift in the position of the hat, causing a temporal shift that brought unheard-of quantities of snow down on the North Texas region. It serves as a warning to anyone who would dare disturb the mystifying headwear—a larger change in position could bring even stranger weather—no one wants to live through a rain of placentas, or fiberglass tornadoes.

Week 2: Hatagonia

The presence of the hat has begun its second week. In most situations, it remains unmentioned, as if the sudden appearance and persistence of headwear is commonplace and not in the least bit unexpected.
Like the gauchos in Argentina, riding their horses across the plains, the cap remains. Steadfast. Unapologetic. Masculine. Stoic. Fuzzy. This is indeed Hatagonia.

The hatwatch continues: Day 5

The delegate from Libya is taking very seriously the responsibility for protecting the world from his noggin-vortex. His superior intellect will provide shelter for all of the lesser humans who surround him. The tweed is still in place, and there have been no reports of dimensional disturbances in the area (rumors of a two-headed squid-kitten born nearby are unsubstantiated).

Hatwatch, day 4.

What is going on under there?

Even if some overzealous NASCAR fan had shaved an 8 and some sweet stripes in there, all he had to do was shave it all off. It takes like what, 6 days for a men's haircut to grow out again? The delegate from Libya has never struck me as the vain type. This must go beyond a simple bad haircut.

Before:

File photo of his former, lustrous locks.

Perhaps, underneath the cap, his pate is as shiny as Yul Brenner or Mr. Clean?

(artist's rendition. Please note gleam of shininess)

Or maybe he is hiding a nest of snakes?

Or even worse, a trans-dimensional vortex?

That tweed cap maybe the only thing protecting us from certain doom.

Hatwatch, day 3.

It's still there. It must be a truly terrible haircut under there.

#1 tip for winter comfort: never shower.

The recent spate of cold weather has inspired the delegate from Vietnam to start taking cues on staying warm from those experts, the local homeless population.

He has acquired a comically oversized plaid barn jacket, which combined with his decade-old knit cap, baggy trousers and gloves with the fingers cut out of them, gives him a general air of indigence. Add to that look his shuffling, hunched gait, his frequently near-unintelligible accent, his clumsiness and tendency to stare off into space while mumbling to himself, and it’s very possible that if he forgets where he left his car, he could be picked up for vagrancy while wandering the Wal-Mart parking lot.

Incident report 2/1/2010

The delegate from Libya arrived at the meeting point this morning wearing a new driving cap. He has not yet taken it off, despite being indoors for almost 6 hours. As he is not one prone to dramatic displays of fashion, it is suspected that he is the recent recipient of a bad haircut.

He has only been through 20 winters here.

Even though the United Nations of Carpool has its headquarters in Texas, it does sometimes get chilly. The past week, for example, has seen temperatures as low as 25°F, which on the Texas temperature scale rates as “sweet jeesus, we're all going to die.”

So it has been cold lately, and the UNC has been treated to chilly seats when getting in the car on the way home every day.

Immediately upon getting into any car whose cabin temperature is below 65°F, the delegate from Vietnam will invariably tell the driver ”It cold in here. Turn on heat.” while turning the fan to high, blasting the front seat occupants with frigid air. Someone, typically the Caucasia-NCA delegate, will then explain that the heat can’t come on until the engine heats up. To this, the delegate from Vietnam will always reply ”I know. Turn on heat. It cold in here.”

This happens every single day.

Incident report: 8/14/2008

Driver: Romania
Occupants: PRL, local envoy.

On routine mission to the gym, Romanian delegate was comparing the fitness level of his younger self to that of his current self: “When I was younger, my stomach, it had many… packages. But now I am fat, and have only one large package!”

Local envoy and delegate from PRL would prefer not to engage in further information-seeking to confirm or deny this report.

Incident report: 5/14/2008

Driver: Romania
Occupants: Libya, PRL, Caucasia-NCA

After spotting trailer hitch-mounted "Truck Nutz" on a large pickup on the morning commute, Romanian delegate asked UNC, “What is this?”
After some initial consternation, theories from Caucasia-NCA and Libyan delegates included a device for calling cattle, bells, or some sort of electrical component holder. After several minutes of discussion, the delegate from PRL was compelled to inform the other UNC delegates that they were, in fact, testicles.

“Oh!” responded the Romanian delegate, “You can buy these at the Autozone?”

Incident report: 01/27/2010

Driver: Caucasia-NCA

Occupants: Romania, Libya, PRL, Vietnam

4:53 pm CST: Upon exiting the plant facility, low air pressure in a rear tire was reported by the driver of a non-UNC vehicle. Delegate from Romania did not initially understand the gestures of the vehicle occupant, until delegate from Caucasia-NCA realized that the window needed to be rolled down. UNC vehicle was driven to a nearby gas station for inspection.

4:57 pm CST: After pulling up at air supply, Caucasia-NCA delegate disembarked to refill tire. Romanian delegate followed, with air pressure gauge. Vietnamese delegate also disembarked, to supervise tire filling. At this point, Caucasia-NCA delegate discovered a screw in the tire tread. Initial decision was made to change the tire before completing commute. Libyan delegate disembarks before vehicle is moved to flat, secluded section of parking lot, and walks behind vehicle. PRL delegate is stuck in the third row seating, with no one left in the vehicle to flip middle seats up so she can get out.

5:02 pm CST: PRL delegate is finally freed from the back of the vehicle. Discussion begins on relative merits of driving on a compromised tire that seems to be holding air.

Libyan delegate: We can stop halfway to check on it
Caucasia-NCA: It may not be safe
Romania: It will be faster
Vietnam: I don’t want to be killed on the side of the road.

5:08 pm CST: Final decision: change tire.

5:09 pm CST: Tire changing commences. Vietnamese delegate embarks on snack-finding mission to convenience store.

5:11 pm CST: Trunk is unloaded. Following instructions on spare tire compartment, Caucasia-NCA delegate is struggling to turn metal rod that will lower spare tire from underside of vehicle. Romanian delegate moves him out of the way and finishes lowering tire.

5:14 pm CST: Romanian demands to know what Libyan delegate is doing. Libyan delegate is loosening lug nuts before vehicle is raised on jacks. Romanian delegate considers this suspicious.

5:17 pm CST: Spare and jack at the ready, Caucasia-NCA attempts to raise jack. Fails.

5:18 pm CST: Vietnamese delegate returns with beef jerky and energy drink.

5:19 pm CST: Caucasia-NCA, Libyan, Vietnamese and Romanian delegates squat on pavement next to vehicle, puzzling over still-nonfunctioning jack.

5:21 pm CST: Small piece of plastic is removed from jack. Handle now fits, and jack is functional. Discussion on proper jack placement.

5:23 pm CST: Vehicle raised, lug nut removal begins. Removal accomplished by Caucasia-NCA delegate, with close scrutiny by Romanian and Libyan delegates. Vietnamese delegate snaps into a Slim Jim.

5:25 pm CST: Damaged tire removed by Romanian delegate while Caucasia-NCA delegate’s back is turned. Libyan delegate inspects spare tire. Romanian delegate demands that spare tire be brought to him, and refuses assistance in putting it in place. Libyan delegate critiques lug-tightening technique. Vietnamese delegate stands unnecessarily close to Romanian delegate.

5:30 pm CST: Vehicle is lowered to the ground. Caucasia-NCA, Romanian, Vietnamese delegates inspect damaged tire. Libyan delegate tightens lug nuts by jumping on lug wrench. Romanian delegate demands an explanation.

5:33 pm CST: Caucasia-NCA and Vietnamese delegates attempt to place compromised tire in spare tire well. Libyan delegate supervises.
5:37 pm CST: Romanian delegate tests air pressure at determines that 2.5 psi more is required. “We must go back to air hose!”

5:37 pm CST: Caucasia-NCA delegate pulls up to only diesel pump without air hose.

5:38 pm CST: Vehicle moved to pump with air hose.

5:38 pm CST: Caucasia-NCA delegate fills tire. Romanian delegate measures air pressure. Vietnamese and Libyan delegates supervise closely.

5:39 pm CST: Vehicle is deemed safe for travel by consensus of all UNC members. Remainder of commute proceeds normally.

The United Nations of Carpool

Let's meet our delegates:

Romania: Large, burly mechanical engineer with requisite communist mustache, even though, in his own emphatic words "I hate communists!" Emigrated 2001. Frequent mistranslations from the original Romanian. Drives a Buick SUV with inexplicable UK flag sticker on the back, and infrequently, a Buick sedan with furry seat covers.

Libya: Diminutive, graying, scholarly-looking. Tendancy to think himself infallible and to monopolize group meetings. Also the representative of Islam. Senior research scientist. Emigrated circa 1980. Drives a mid-2000s Lexus sedan or a Ford minivan, depending on the number of carpool passengers. Keeper of the carpool matrix.

Vietnam: The absent-minded professor research scientist. A bit wobbly round the middle, with a tendancy to wear his college-age son's sweatshirts to work for days at a time. Key phrase: "Wha happen?" and "Does this have cupholder?" Emigrated circa 1980. Drives a late 2000s Lexus sedan, well below the speed limit. Sometimes claims to be buddhist.

Caucasia (region of North Cracker Awkwardonia): The stereotypical white male delegate, a native of Illinois. Tall and gangly and very awkward. Like many of his tribe, he has no rhythm and poor social skills. Emigrated to Texas circa 1985. Drives his wife's Dodge SUV on days he is the driver, and a pickup on days he isn't. Chronically late. Senior research scientist.

People's Republic of Ladyparts (PRL): Emigrated to Texas from the liberal northern east coast in 2005. Token female left-leaning feminist vegetarian atheist nutbag. Drives a 2003 Saturn Ion. Research scientist. It is very possible that you will spend several hours in the presence of this delegate before hearing her speak a complete sentence. Do not be alarmed, as this is perfectly natural for her, and not a sign that she is secretly plotting against you.

brotha Texas (bTexas): Native of Texas, and sole Black member of the United Nations of Carpool (technically, the Libyan delegate is more African, having been born there and all). Frequently used as translator for delegate for Romania. Mechanical engineer. Drives a Toyota truck named Gabby, or his wife's minivan (no known name). Delegate in temorary retrement due to change in domicile.



Special local envoy: Accompanies gym-going UNC members (PRL, Caucasia-NCA, Romania, bTexas) on routine fat-fighting missions during lunch breaks. Drives Toyota sedan. Possible masochist.