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.
Thursday, April 29, 2010
Wednesday, April 28, 2010
Greenwashing, Romanian style.
Tuesday morning email to the gym-going contingent of the UNC:
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.
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.
Friday, April 16, 2010
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.
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.
Friday, April 9, 2010
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.
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:
Day 2:
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.
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."
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."
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