Perhaps you've read about it in the news, the story of the father/grandfather who locked his 18-year-old daughter in the cellar for 24 years and fathered 7 children by her in a city outside Vienna. It is by all means revolting and disgusting on a level far exceeding "Chinatown." Eh, forget it, Jake. All allusions/lightheartedness aside, this story makes me miss Eastern Europe. Odd, I know.
I was only there for a summer---well, half a summer really--- between my undergraduate and graduate incarcerations, but I had such a profound experience in that brief time that that region of the world has ingrained itself within me. I think this is especially true of its children. I was there teaching English to preteens and teens and have gained at least one very dear friend whom I think of as a little sister. I taught as a camp counselor. Each week I was assigned students who belonged to me and that is precisely how I looked at them. For that week, they were mine. I was responsible for them in every manner. And who knows what role that may have meant that I played in their lives in the long run? They've very much had an affect on mine.
I miss them and do not doubt, that when the day comes, I will be looking into adoption in the Eastern European region. The countries have such interesting, tumultuous histories, and I just wish I could make everything better. I can't. But maybe I can do something.
Monday, April 28, 2008
Sunday, April 27, 2008
Buy me a drink....
If you are as strange as I am and have seen those adorable 1950's wifes on flasks and ID cases and notepads and magnets and so on and so forth, featuring women who say/think coy and sometimes raffish things, and you wondered if those images were actual 1950's images or manufactured for this particular merchandise line, you'd be interested to know they are legit. Those women were actual women who looked like that at some point about 50 years ago. They modeled for Sears and sewing machines, etc. etc..
The women are called Taintorettes, named after the originator of the line, Anne Taintor. Some of the Taintorettes have been identified. Those who have can now be seen and read about in mini-bios on the Anne Taintor website. Take a look and find out exactly whose face you've been laughing at all this time.
Tuesday, April 1, 2008
Work Place Accidents
The clock. Some of you may remember that I have recently blogged on the woes of changing from Standard Time to Daylight Savings Time and therefore having to "change the clocks." Well, the clocks apparently took offense and decided to gather and construct a silent coup to take me down.
It all happened last Friday, after spending every day of the week in an office where I (and others) work as a temp flipping through pages of marketing reports looking for what amounts to computer and printing errors (and, in my case, discovering what's available in the wonderful world of podcasts to occupy my ears while my hands work). After a tedious week, and this the final Friday of the month, we were rewarded with cake which they tried to tell us was actually in honor of the month's birthdays for those people who actually work at the company and are kept separate from us, the temps. I am not a fan of cake but, like I said, this being Friday and boredom having set in on Monday, I was willing to try any insulin-injection I could. And I did. The result of which was not pretty.
With 15 minutes left in the day and therefore the week, 15 minutes left until a weekend of relaxation and freedom, 15 minutes!!!, the clocks saw their opportunity for revenge. And they took it. Working alongside the clocks, my coworkers begged me to do something to make the time go faster. Now you, being of sound mind and less cake than I was at the moment I had to react, may consider some form of entertainment as a way to make the time pass by quickly-- a little song or, say, a jig. I, instead, decided to go up to the 16"-diametered clock that reigns over our little, separate, temp office space, and pretend to hang on the minute hand.....a concept I'm not sure was transferred clearly to my audience. So I did and as I pulled away, my pinky on my right hand began to throb slightly. I thought nothing of it other than that I had accidentally made contact with the clock. But nooooooo. The clock had made contact with me! Somehow, somewhere, the clock held a tiny, but very sharp, dagger!! And it took its chance while I was near to it and sliced my finger (though, my theory is that it was going for my entire hand to disable me from writing any future anti-clock-changing blogs).
After playing it that nothing had happened, I finally glanced down at my finger and saw a strong streak of liquid red. I'm bleeeeeeding! It got me. <<>> It got me.
You're probably thinking it did not get me that well but the wound this the Tuesday after still bleeds often enough to necessitate bandage.
I'm going to call my surgeon. And I'm going to purchase a hammer. Many hammers. And share them with you. So that together we can pound on all the clocks, for they are out to get us. DEFEND YOURSELVES!!!
***This is not an April Fools Day joke.***
It all happened last Friday, after spending every day of the week in an office where I (and others) work as a temp flipping through pages of marketing reports looking for what amounts to computer and printing errors (and, in my case, discovering what's available in the wonderful world of podcasts to occupy my ears while my hands work). After a tedious week, and this the final Friday of the month, we were rewarded with cake which they tried to tell us was actually in honor of the month's birthdays for those people who actually work at the company and are kept separate from us, the temps. I am not a fan of cake but, like I said, this being Friday and boredom having set in on Monday, I was willing to try any insulin-injection I could. And I did. The result of which was not pretty.
With 15 minutes left in the day and therefore the week, 15 minutes left until a weekend of relaxation and freedom, 15 minutes!!!, the clocks saw their opportunity for revenge. And they took it. Working alongside the clocks, my coworkers begged me to do something to make the time go faster. Now you, being of sound mind and less cake than I was at the moment I had to react, may consider some form of entertainment as a way to make the time pass by quickly-- a little song or, say, a jig. I, instead, decided to go up to the 16"-diametered clock that reigns over our little, separate, temp office space, and pretend to hang on the minute hand.....a concept I'm not sure was transferred clearly to my audience. So I did and as I pulled away, my pinky on my right hand began to throb slightly. I thought nothing of it other than that I had accidentally made contact with the clock. But nooooooo. The clock had made contact with me! Somehow, somewhere, the clock held a tiny, but very sharp, dagger!! And it took its chance while I was near to it and sliced my finger (though, my theory is that it was going for my entire hand to disable me from writing any future anti-clock-changing blogs).
After playing it that nothing had happened, I finally glanced down at my finger and saw a strong streak of liquid red. I'm bleeeeeeding! It got me. <<>> It got me.
You're probably thinking it did not get me that well but the wound this the Tuesday after still bleeds often enough to necessitate bandage.
I'm going to call my surgeon. And I'm going to purchase a hammer. Many hammers. And share them with you. So that together we can pound on all the clocks, for they are out to get us. DEFEND YOURSELVES!!!
***This is not an April Fools Day joke.***
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