More Clueless than a 13 year old

JHM makes over 30 million dollars a year. At that rate, you'd believe that this company must employ some decently intelligent/skilled people. However, in a case of total and complete irony, the amount of intelligence is inversely related to the amount of profit they accrue annually. A picturesque example: my boss has worked here for over 10 years. He's ultimately seen some of the most profitable years under the current Maloys. However, the DB (intitals and d-bag) is thoroughly convinced that President Obama is actually singlehandly causing the economy to sink further into recession. All by himself. In the past 30 plus days, Obama has just dedicated his elistist black ass to digging that hole ever deeper.

Oh, it was there you say? Bush's eight years in office set the grand stage for the worse recession in almost a century? Oh noooooooooooooo. Obama is doing that all by himself. Didn't ya notice noone's buying stocks anymore? That's not cuz they don't have money, its cuz the markets so bad because of Obama!

Now I may be as left as you can get short of donning red and joining a commune, but I don't attack others for their believes. I don't agree with most mainstream Republican ideals, but I don't go around telling Republicans they're are wrong. DB and his trusty sidekick did just that to me - and more.

Apparently, I need to be educated, converted to the "right" side, since I am too young to know enough or know any better what is going on in the world around me. Those four years I just spent at a quality private school - which happens to be quite conservative, white, and republican, ironically - were actually just for show. I was actually drunk the whole time.

The shining star, the icing on the proverbial cake, however really was the overheard comment.

"Miss Segala doesn't know what she's talking about, she's more clueless than my 13 year old."

Since I don't believe in personal attacks, I won't elaborate on the character/qualities of this individual. All things aside though, she has no right to insult me, whether to my face or behind my back.


So, I had surgery a week ago and this is the atmosphere in which I am supposed to heal.

Light at the End of the Tunnel

I got accepted to BC's Lynch School of Education for the upcoming fall!

All of a sudden, despite the shitty housing, the freezing temps, and this godforsaken beaurocratic mess that is New York State, life is feeling pretty good.

...of course I have my Valentine to thank for a lot of that. <3

Yes, We Can...Maybe.

I hate my job. Let's not dick around about it, if you've talked to me for more than 3 minutes about the subject, you've been blessed with my opinion on the matter. However, I believe I actually have solid, valid reasons for despising 40+ hours a week.



Overheard in the office wouldn't even accept the shit I could submit from here.



Point in Case:


The bossman (talking about Obama, who he often refers to as 'osama'): "He's up there, giving a speech, he's got no tie on, his shirt is unbuttoned...he should be wearing a tie and a suitcoat."

The BM's assistant: "'Well you can take him out of the city, but you cant take the nigger out of him."

I'm astounded. Saddened. Angry.


And still looking for another job.

Drunk driving probably doesn't count as an acceptable office topic.

~Dear Co-workers,

I'd rather not know that you drive after drinking too much (4 bombays counts as too much, I'm quite convinced). I really rather not hear about it when it happened last weekend. I mistakenly thought people outgrew such poor decision making tendencies.

Love,
M~

~Telemarketers:

Your rudeness and sometimes blatant hostility makes me want to hunt your pitiful self down in your dingy little cubical and help you understand the importance of common human respect and decent manners. Through methods that will guarantee you never, ever forget it.

M~

Tuesday always seem so much more painful than Mondays. I can't figure out this phenom, because they are essentially the same day, except I have to do the mail twice on Monday (that is, Saturdays). I actually spend my day thinking "half way to lunch. Half way through the day. Half way through the afternoon. 14 minutes and 27 seconds left until I can stop working and pretend until I'm free."

However, that lacks intrigue for the common reader, so let's focus on...babies? Facebook? Those were my first two thoughts. I'm not sure what that really says about my current status of mind.

I think I should join Michael Phelps in his extracurricular activities and maybe I'd feel better.

i'm convinced...

...this place is a hellhole.

Why doesn't NY clean the roads? I know there's a lot of people and traffic, but isn't that all the more reason to plow properly? Of course I can't upload pictures with this computer, so this post is just sadness personified.

Especially since I'll probably be stuck at work right through til 5pm.

best worst trip to Canada

"This has got to be the best worst trip to Canada ever." We're staring in disbelief at a fountain that is lacking its most important feature - water. It was at least 10 degrees below zero, nevermind the wind chill outside, and we had been wandering aimlessly in a maze of underground malls for at least an hour. A fountain that shoots five stories in the air?! Who doesn't want to see that?

There was nothing else to do but take a picture of April with the dormant fountain.

The amount of things that had gone wrong - and would continue to go astray - was laughable. We had already managed to go to the wrong museum (Which wasn’t even open yet), were given incorrect information, and thus paid to see a movie about the origins of Montreal when we were expecting sea animals. The birth of a nation is fascinating, but cannot compete with smiling dolphins and frolicking waterfowl. It just can't. But that's fine really, it was only one little thing. That, and the cold. And by cold, I mean the radio warned not to go out with any exposed flesh. Mmm, tasty. But we were determined - until the barren fountain mocked us so cruelly. Only to be followed by the ATM refusing April's card three times.

Undeterred, we headed towards Rue St. Catherine (which happens to be an incredibly long street) to locate a sex shop for some giggles. I think sex shops are hysterical, personally. Any dull night in Amsterdam (ok, those don't really exist, but for the sake of argument), we head over to the Red Light District and consider the pros and cons of penis shaped pasta and pineapple flavored lube. I wanted to share this important cultural experience with the month, and so we were off.

...right into the ghetto. Graffiti sprawled across alleyways and convenience stores. There were bars on the windows, debris littering the front stoops. The bus stop signs were nearly destroyed - it was time to haul ass. I love being a foreigner, but being a foreigner in the wrong neighborhood is another level. To our relief, we made it to Rue St. Catherine. Dusk was quickly approaching as we power walked against the icy wind. Several blocks passed with no sign of S&M gear or gaudy window displays. Last time I was in Montreal, I could see a sex show from my hotel window. There was no hope. So, we got on a bus. The kid across from us was wearing two different sneakers. We couldn't figure out from the bus driver how much we owed together, or separate, or at all. At the metro station, he waved us off the bus and told us to pay inside. Riiiiiiiiiiight. Now that’s cheap travel at its best.

By the time we made it back to our hotel, we were thoroughly frozen and pretty exhausted. I have failed to mention thus far that our hotel turned out to be in the middle of Chinatown, complete with a koi pond in the lobby, two pagodas on the roof, and a completely “feng shui”ed layout. They spent a million dollars to move the entrance, to provide optimal energy flow. We picnicked on French champagne and cheese curds (that’s a meeting of our two cultures, I obviously being the champagne), had a rousing singalong to “I would do anything for love” and then promptly passed out before 10pm.

Sunday morning bore promise. The temperature had risen 20 degrees. We snagged free tea from the housekeeping cart. The muffins were delicious. Hope was in the air. We were determined that today would be successful.

We found the ocean. Well, we found the imax film “Wild Ocean” that we had originally set out for 24 hours prior. We were the only nonkids/parents in the place, and I insisted on wearing my 3D glasses as long as possible. The film was breathtaking, following the sardine migration along the southeastern coast of Africa. I smiled at a dolphin before recalling that he was, in fact not actually in front of me and thus could not appreciate my sign of friendliness. Success number one. Things were looking up. Next stop: the gay village.

“I can see rainbows!” I ran up the metro stairs toward the bright array of colors. There was no need to worry, there was rainbows everywhere, including on top of the metro station. It was a little too early for most the stores to be open, so we just frolicked and took ridiculous pictures while on-lookers peered suspiciously in our general direction. We then dined on incredibly good – and cheap – Chinese food, during which we drank about 4 pots of tea, which is a great idea right before driving long distances.

Filled with culinary goodness, we declared Sunday a total success. And I’ll leave it at that, because the trip home was not so much of a winning situation.

Adoption of homeland

Its quite comphrendable that I would miss life in the Netherlands. Most Americans ever-so-slightly left of the middle think its a fabulous place to visit; its repuation precedes it around the world, for better or worse. Drugs and hooker jokes aside, the Dutch lifestyle proved very compatible with my own ways; being highly independent and proactive, I careened through Amsterdam with joy. Everyday I had to learn and adapt, making up rules and languages as I went along. Sometimes the cultural difference would wear me out and I'd head back to the flat to listen to the canned sound of pure American English. I was alone and, I was alone. I met a lot of intriguing people abroad, from scores of different countries, all with something to offer, but my family (both blood and chosen) were in America. I can't deny the beauty of Boston that clear Friday afternoon. The bemused customs empolyee was kind enough not to laugh at my overt giddyness. I was home. The return to Siena eariler this month just completed me. I was back in my realm.

It is curious to long for something that was never really yours. Studying abroad is the chance to be a glorified guest; more tolerated than a tourist, but still not truly a part of that society. At first glance, your host is the best thing you've ever seen, much better than back home or anywhere else for that matter. As time carries on, you come to see it realness. Like everywhere else, there are pros and cons. Beautiful art and despairing poverty stand side by side. Young white supremists stalk past the Anne Frank House, leering in ignorant hatred. It rains, and in the Netherlands, that means it rains alot, at the most inconvienent times possible. America, despite it all, is not that bad - we actually have it so well and we never seem able to acknowledge it without leaving for years or enduring some national tragedy. I can not say I am proud to be an American, but I am grateful for the opportunities its citizenship have afforded.

And still, I just completed a half heartd search of jobs in the Amsterdam area. I surprised myself yesterday during French Toast preparation as I mulled over graduate school in the Netherlands. I recalled the horrible housing statistics I learned in Dutch social policy, blatantly ignored my lack of funding, and ultimately just resigned myself to looking over the many photos of my trip abroad. While my outsider status was often apparent, I felt a part of the city, which is a testament to the Dutch way of life. I was just one of a legion of foreigners living there, having my own life just as my neighbors were. Outsider or not, I miss it . I miss riding my bike along the canals, dodging soulless taxis and errant tourists. I miss the shimmer of the canals in the deep quiet of the night, as I walked out live's tribulations along the narrow streets of the Jordaan. The random joys and terrors of the Dam, the bawdy and obnoxious spirit of the Red Light District, the blatant honesty of the Dutch way. Self sufficiency within and without.

I dream of Dutch life at least once a week. I impart useless and unnecessary Dutch vocabulary on innocent bystanders. To gain entrance to my house, one has to undergo the vast collection of photographic evidence of my time in Europe. I'm happy to be back amongst my friends and family, but I miss Amsterdam. Proudly independent, both the city and I always maintained our separateness, but that's the way I work with best with others.