Where there's smoke....

Today, there was a fire in my boss’s office. In case you don’t already know, I work at a company where we are defined by our bosses (my email address is JMANasst, JMAN being my boss’s initials and “asst” signaling that I’m his assistant). The bosses are (rightfully) treated with deference, respect and care. Thus, an inferno in the boss’s office is something that is, to understate, not to be desired.

So here’s the story: I’m sitting at my desk when I hear two of my fellow assts say, “What smells like burning?”

I concur that there is a singed smell in the air, and grow more concerned. No one else really seems to be. As my boss’s office is the place where I’d be most upset/appalled if there were a fire, I dash in there to make sure all is well. All is not well. A book (“Ben Hogan” by our client Jim Dodson) has apparently grown bored of its role as sentry on top of the bookshelf. It decided to take a little hop, and plop into the bowl of the halogen lamp just below it, where it decided to take a nap, open, on top of the red hot bulb.

Smoke ensued. Embers ensued. Scorching ensued.

I rush in, once disaster has been located, and grab Ben Hogan from the lamp. Then, the situation is: book is burning. Book is now in my hand.

I begin to panic, as I look around the office at the plethora of combustibles, and the lack of water.

There is by now a gaggle of rubbernecks standing around, and I shout, “Someone get some water!” (Reminiscent of my CPR training: call 911! Get an AED! Bring it back to me!) Luckily, a coworker has a bottle of water on her desk, which she fetches. We put the smoldering book into a recycle bin, and doused it with water.

Then, the head of Office Services sends out an email saying that it’s building policy to have coverings on halogen lamps. Then, the head of the NY office sends out an email that says that not only is it company policy, it is IMPERATIVE that we do this because everyone in the building ALMOST DIED TODAY.

Then every single person that walks by makes comments like, “Nice Fire!” or, “Hey, did you see that memo about the halogen lamps?”

Funny things my friends have said!!! (to which items shall be often added)

"This is the worst bagel I've ever had. It's not even a bagel, really, more like a glorified roll." - LIBBY

"This, this is something I've never experienced before. Twins singing a song to me in my bedroom. This, this is totally new." - SARAH C.

"Charlotte, you're not going to get arrested for possession of seaweed." - Brianna, in response to me voicing concern about bringing a potentially suspicious looking tupperware container of seaweed salad into the Death Cab for Cutie concert.

Time?!?

My wonderfully erudite, free-thinking and philosophical friends recently begun an email chain discussing the philosophy of time. As a philosophy major, you might think that I would be at the heart of such a discussion. Sadly, no. I have never understood any of the confusion surrounding time, and I say this NOT in a “look how smart, I answered a question that’s been plaguing thinkers” way, more in a, “What the hell is wrong with me that I can’t even grasp the question?” way.

Some excerpts from this discussion:

“Either way, I wish time was not venerated as it is... it is relative, and I don't want to adhere to something so restrictive, when it is, in essence, "made up" (at least the way we humans use it).”

“ I agree with you in the absurdity of schedules and time in that sense, though I do understand that they exist to coordinate people and facilitate relationships in circumstances like jobs, meetings, and what have you. *My* point would be that the vast majority of said jobs and meetings are completely absurd in and of themselves, and so the concept of conforming your life to an arbitrary schedule that doesn't necessarily suit your own happiness just to accomplish whatever job-related task is required seems ridiculous and annoying to me.”

“We may have ‘invented’ it, I guess...but things do get older and change during these movements of the sun, moon, and earth. And what else is time really? My only issue is how many things we have to fit into these few hours a day we have...not the hours themselves.”

I agree with much of the above, and more importantly, I adore my friends for having this cyberconversation. But to me, time is time. It goes by. It can be measured, as one can watch an object travel a distance (are we agreed that distance and objects exist?), and then realize that there’s this other element involved, not just distance or size etc. It’s time. And it goes on, no matter where you are. You could be in a black hole. You could be in a cubicle. You could be on Mars. And there’s no going back in time, because while you’re back in the time, time is passing, which messing everyone up.

My inability to see the problem here led me to do badly on a Metaphysics class paper, to fail to really appreciate THE TIME TRAVELER’S WIFE (an amazing book nonetheless), and to be perplexed and bewildered by the movie BACK TO THE FUTURE.

Alas!

DC restaurants

As a New Yorker, I'm ashamed to say I'm a bit snobby about other cities' restaurants. So when I came to D.C. to visit Sarah C., I have to say that I envisioned some evenings out at TGI Fridays and some lunches at Hooters (which is, in fact, what did happen). But lo and behold, for dinner, we decide to go to a swanky Italian restaurant called Matchbox, where one can hear the following conversation take place at 9:00 on a Saturday night:

customer: How long is the wait for 4 people?
host: 2 and 1/2 hours
customer: OK. Put us down.

What?! I have very rarely waited that long for a table, even in NYC. In fact, I think I've only done it a few times: at Supper, uber-hip East Village restaurant, and Pastis, uber-hip West Village restaurant. Anywhere else, forget it. But not in D.C. apparently.

So we are told it will be 45 min for a table. Of course, we go straight to the bar. We have one drink. After another hour, it becomes the kind of situation where one goes to the bar and makes orders such as, "I'll have one Mango Madness, one Now and Later, and one Pink Margherita." The dinner, once we sat down, was uneventful tho delicious.

Lunch at Hooters was much less lascivious than I'd hoped. I thought I would witness some misogyny, sexism or at least sleaziness. Instead, our waitress told us that she was in DC on an "academic internship," and was quite eloquent. Though there was much hooting about the numerous football games on the multitude of TVs scattered about, there was really very little attention paid to the bar's namesakes. In fact, there was nothing for me to deride, mock or protest. :+(

Some musings on Ethan Embry/Randall (thanks Molly for the correction)

He was likable in Empire Records. He was likeable in Can't Hardly Wait. He was likable in White Squall. If I remember correctly, he was not likable in Harold and Kumar Go to White Castle. Nevertheless, I think things average out so that he is intensely likable, and I desperately want him to be my friend.

Hooray!

Jared Leto.

Especially Elegant Elevator Etiquette

Compared to the vast majority of the other people who work in my office’s building, I am small potatoes. I don’t get to do the things they get to do, such as expense account swanky lunches, take car services everywhere, or get paid properly. However, there is one situation where I am a member of the privileged class: the elevator. If I’m at the back of a crowded downward-bound elevator full of male bigwigs, when we reach the bottom, NO ONE will get out before me. Why? Because I am a lady.

We all have to shuffle about awkwardly so that I can squeeze out. Sometimes I’m wearing my adidas sandals, carrying my gym bag or general looking scruffy, which makes it particularly embarrassing.

I have to say though, I do enjoy this ritual. Why? (Sarah C., take that appalled expression off your face!) Because it is just that: a ritual. It’s like saying bless you: kind of annoying and unnecessary, but somehow cute. AND it makes me feel special, even if it’s just because I happen to have 2 X chromosomes. Or wait… because I have a Y chromosome? No, no, women have 2 X’s. Right? Right.

Lucky I wasn’t a geneticist, as I contemplated very briefly while in high school! AP Bio stifled that desire!

Roaches?! Roaches.

So a long time ago, I saw the teenytiniest of miniscule bugs crawling around my bathroom. I squashed it. The next week I saw a total of about 15 of these tiny bugs, and I squashed them all. Counterintuitively, they were too small for Mr. Rupert to kill (slipped out from under his claws). Then they got slightly bigger in size, but not in multitude. Mr. Rupert joined me in the slaughter. Then they got slightly bigger in number AND size, at which point I went into state of emergency mode, and sprayed RAID over the entire bathroom, mopped and cleaned everything, and called the super (who did nothing).

They went away.

Then a few weeks ago I saw about 5 of them, all at once. They were about the same size as the last time I’d seen them, which puzzled me, as it had been a while. Maybe this was the adult size of this roach subspecies? If so, eh, they can live in my bathroom. The only reason they survive at all is because in the bathroom, there are too many odds and ends for Mister Rupert to attack them properly. I forgot about them, squashing carelessly if I happened to be wearing shoes during a sighting.

THEN, yesterday, I saw a roach. Not a baby or a mini roach, a ROACH. It had antennae, and for some reason the word “feelers” came to mind when I looked at said antennae. They waved about in the air in front of the vermin, and the vermin scurried back and forth. It was about the size of my thumb nail, maybe plus my pinky nail (and bear in mind I have freakishly small hands). Mister Rupert came in and looked at it too, and he made no move to attack. He wasn’t scared of it, but he certainly wasn’t going to attack it.

Seeing as the super was nonchalant about the murky water dripping through the bathroom ceiling (possibly quenching the thirst of the bugs?!), I’m dubious of his enthusiasm for dealing with pint-sized (Britishism used by my dad, means mini) roaches…

But I’ll try.

Accompanying picture is of a potato bug, as roaches are too gross to be in my blog. Potato bugs are gross too, but also are funny, so they get the in.

Ode to Banquet

So, once a CD starts being sold at Urban Outfitters, and once their shows start selling out the larger venues, any respectable original fan is supposed to say something like this:
1) Oh, yeah, I liked them like 3 years ago, before they were really even a band.
2) Oh, yeah, but that album sucks. I like their new EP, which isn’t being released for 4 years but I got on vinyl from my friend in Japan.
3) Oh, yeah, I used to like them, but then I hung out with the lead singer and he was uncool.

And I know that’s what I’m supposed to be saying about Bloc Party, maybe even talking about the remix album and proclaiming its superiority. However, for the record, I would like to state that no matter how huge they get, I adore the entire album, notably Banquet. . .

Banquet is the kind of song you can listen to if you’re sad, because it will cheer you up. You can listen to it if you’re happy, as it has that edgy, exciting feel to it. You can run to it. You can listen to it right when you wake up, to get you going. You can even listen to it falling asleep, weirdly. You can listen to it on the subway, or while walking the city streets. All in all, I give it an A for versatility, and an overall A for Amazingness.

And if they start selling the album at Starbucks, I'll stand by them.

Correction

In my post about celebrities, I mentioned that Daniel Craig was ALMOST picked to be the new James Bond.

I was wrong. He is, in fact, the new James Bond.

Included here is a pic of Daniel Craig, for whom Sienna Miller threw over Jude Law (pictured also). Okay, okay, so I'm clearly biased in my picture picks. But still.

Here is a typical domestic scene from my life. I love my kitten; I can say that unconditionally. However, sometimes I want to throttle his little neck. In the morning, he meows and howls outside the door until I let him in. When I let him in, he jumps onto the bed, nuzzles my nose once in a cruelly tantalizing hint of how things should be. Then, he takes one look at my hand and goes on a wild biting binge, culminating in him biting his way up my arm until he reaches my elbow. At the elbow biting I draw the line, as that really really really hurts.

Why does he do it? Why don’t I have a normal kitten? Will he grow out of it?

The Butterfly Effect...

... is clearly the worst movie ever made. I think I only wanted to see it because of Ashton, and also because when I lived in Paris they were promoting it as "L'effet papillon" which sounds like a lovely and profound film. Not the case. Not only does it feature unpleasantnesses such as child pornography, the burning of a dog, the smacking of various people's skulls with various blunt objects, mental institutions, Ashton Kutcher with a beard (what a waste!), crack whores and exploding babies, it also features some of the worst acting ever of ever. One of my favorite parts was when Ashton's weirdly friendly obese goth roomate says, "Dude, I think you should leave all this in the past. Why remember? You might end up more fucked up than you are now." And Ashton looks at him and goes, "You think you know me?! I don't even know me!" Give me a break.

I might have to rescind my approval of his marriage to Demi, as I don't think he deserves her. Then again, she is forty (+) . . .

firemen

Well, this is my first blog posting of my first blog ever of ever!

i figure i'll just start right on in with an anecdote. a little while ago, i was getting ready for work (it was about 8:20am) when i hear a BANGBANGBANG on the door. at this point i am in my pj's (read: gross old clothes) and have unbrushed hair. i say, "who is it?" and they say, "NEW YORK FIRE DEPARTMENT OPEN UP!" now, as we all know, firemen are hot as ... fire. but, we also all know that no one wants to see a hot person at 8:20. so, i assemble myself slightly, open the door, and find myself face to face with 2 real live firemen, all decked out in their gear. there's a lag, and i say eloquently, "uh, what's up guys?" at which point they shove past me with urgency, smashing about my apartment what with their big suits and air tanks and truncheons 'n' stuff. i finally get their attention and ask why they are there. one turns to me and says, "for the leak! where is it!" i look at him blankly (it's 8:20) and he says, "didn't you call 911?" i say no. they look vaguely disappointed, and say, "guess it's downstairs, or somethin'." they then go away. later, i come home from work to find that in their well-meaning blustering about, they spilled a large glass of water all over my oak table, thereby ruining it. THANKS, NYFD!!!! but no, really, it's ok. firefighters can barge in whenever they like. ;)