Just Another Manic Monday

I knew it was going to be a bad day yesterday. As Mr. Y puts it, "something in my waters" just told me it was going to be bad. I had the eerie "shadow over my face and rotten eggs in my heart" feeling about it, a foreboding premonition worthy of a Magic 8 Ball.

I was not disappointed.

The meeting was held all the way over in fuck-me rigid Essex, which from where I live is about a 3 hour journey by train, even longer by car. So in order to get to the meeting roughly on time, which Von PettyPumpkin has thoughtfully booked on a Monday morning at 9 am, I had to catch the train that left our station at 6:23. Mr. Y and I are sharing a car, so he takes me to the station and where we arrive at 6:23.

My train has already come and gone.

Feeling enormously stressed now, I have to wait until the 6:48 train and re-work my routing. I wouldn't normally stress about missing a train or being late, I simply don't want to give this dick Von PettyPumpkin any reason to single me out, ridicule me, or-it must be said-even speak to me. Mr. Y, heading towards the office (the other direction from where I need to be, so a lift wouldn't have helped) calls me and tries to talk me from the ledge as I wait for my next train. In my nice skirt, black top, and pink strappy shoes (not high heels) I freeze my ass off waiting there in the rain, and realize that Autumn has indeed come to England, and that my strappy shoes are going to be packed away very soon indeed.

My train arrives and strangely it is so packed that I need a shoehorn to get myself into it. Usually, the trains are empty at our stop, it's later stops as we get closer to London that they fill up. I find a seat and start reading (I'm reading a book right now that is so fantastic I am considering just never writing again, I simply couldn't possibly compare) and wouldn't you know it-I get sat next to a guy who takes up half of my seat as he slumbers away. And we do that "don't touch thighs" game as I try to avoid any contact with him, however I swing into him during the curves of the track and he uses the opportunity to take the thigh space I've left behind when I swing away, like the greedy train bastard that he is.

When we get to Waterloo, I take the tube to Liverpool Street. And there, it's a sprint. I'm talking hauling ass, here. My shoes are removed and I stop myself from thinking about the horrible grimy nastiness I am running on, I comfort myself with thoughts of using copious amounts of my anti-biotic handgel on them if I can just catch the train I need. Limbs flailing, people moving out of my way, I pound my barefoot way to the train I need.

Which is cancelled.

So I run back to the boards and see another one is just about to pull out of the station, so I run hell-bent-for-leather for that one and just make it.

I already hate my day.

I hate my blackened feet even more, and spend a bit of time in the bathroom tidying those up.

When I get to Colchester, I take a taxi to this place that I need to get to. I am tired, stressed, and 30 minutes late. My humor is not good, although my taxi driver is very nice. We talk during the 20 minute ride-taxi drivers somehow always tell me their life stories-and I learn he is the son of a former German POW brought to England during the war, who decided (upon learning at the end of the war that his entire family had been killed) to stay in England and start over.

The taxi driver also has a habit of saying, at the end of every sentence, "Yes yes yes." Or "No no no." Without fail. So that by the end of the taxi ride, I am saying "Yes yes yes." Or "No no no." at the end of every sentence. It's like crack for linguists. And I continue it throughout the day.

Him: "Looking forward to this meeting then, yes yes yes?"
Me: "Not really, no no no."

Him: "We're nearly there, Miss, don't fret, no no no."
Me: "Thanks very much, yes yes yes."

Him: "Would you like me to savagely beat you about the head and shoulders, yes yes yes?"
Me: "I'm all good on that thanks, no no no."

When we arrive, I hustle into the meeting room, and find that only half of the participants are there. The others are stuck in traffic, so we have a delayed start to the meeting, which Von PettyPumpkin didn't feel the need to mention to those of us who tried to make it near to time. I get some coffee and glower. A tall white-haired man that I've never met before comes up to me.

Him: (American drawl in place.) You need to get yourself a name badge, Missy.
Me: (sipping my crap coffee.) Why?
Him: So that you know who you are.
Me: Oh, I know who I am, dearie.

But I comply and fill out a nametag anyway. In bold writing I put: "Helen Adelaide, Dream Job Goddess". Being serious, after all, is for the Sanka-drinkers of the world.

In no time more people show up and I sit down with some of the others I can have a laugh with, and try to relax. I am here. I have crappy coffee. I have already raided the candy dish. Surely this can only get better.

Hindsight.

White-haired man stands up and introduces himself as Dick. I decide to call him the Cowboy.

Him: I'm Dick, and I am here today as the meeting strategist and moderator. I was brought in by Von PettyPumpkin to try to make this as productive a meeting as possible. I'm from California, and I have to tell you, the last time I was in England was on September 11, 2001. That's right. I was here in England for 911. I pray God have mercy and not have anything like that happen again to me while I am here. (He looks heavenward).

Oh no. Now:

1) We don't really talk to God during meetings here.
2) Not exactly a good opener for a two-day meeting.
3) People here are terribly sympathetic to the nightmare events of that day, however in England, they have been living for decades with terrorism on their homeland-thanks to the I.R.A., there still aren't any trashcans to be found in stations or in the City.
4) He prays it doesn't happen to him? What, because he was so inconvenienced or something? That event was all about him?

The Cowboy goes into a massive list of the projects he has worked on, which most of us tune out on by about the 20 minute mark. He talks about sub-contracting as well.

Him: And boy! When I worked on that rocket, it was real stressful as we had contracted some parts out to France, and wouldn't you know it but those guys had subcontracted to the USSR and we got a part with a hammer and sickle stamped on it!

He turns to us with a look of incredulity. We are expected to show our shock and dismay. Instead, you can hear crickets, since no one cares or was even in the U.S. for the Cold War.

Him: I have worked on projects in all 52 states and-

What? 52 states?

Him:-I can tell you that of those 52 states I-

Enough for me. I interrupt him.

Me: Um, sorry dear, but there are only 50 states.

He stops. Looks up. Seems to do some calculating in his head.

Him: You're right. I just think the big ones should count twice. Alaska and Texas should be split and then we'd have 52.

Whatever, fucknut.

During a break the Cowboy runs up to me.

Him: That was terribly embarrassing, I know there are 52 states. I have this idea in my head of breaking up the two larger states into two states. But I know there's only 50 states. I'm a professor, after all.
Me: (artificial smile in place) I would've hoped that would be one you knew.

It didn't get any better. We were given ridiculous tasks to complete that had nothing to do with the project. We were given endless examples of projects that the Cowboy had done, where things went right or wrong. Think you've done a project, that you've built a car, designed a rocket, constructed a house or had a baby ? The Cowboy has most assuredly done it too, and done it better in his mind.

I thought lunch would be a welcoming break. I sat with my team and some others I really like, and across from me is a thoroughly pregnant woman I had never met before. She is pregnant. Really pregnant. Like, bursting. And she had just flown in from Chicago for this meeting, making me wonder if there was a restriction with airlines as to the dates you could fly when pregnant, or if I dreamt I had read about that.

She introduces herself as Teresa, from one of our suppliers to our contract. I heard the English accent right away, and asked her about it.

Her: Oh yes, I'm English. But I've lived in the US for over 15 years now.
I smile and sip my soup.
Her: But you Americans. You simply have no culture.
My spoon stops halfway to my mouth.
Me: I'm sorry?
Her: Yes, no culture whatsoever. It's sad really.

She's serious.
She's sitting in front of me, an American, and rubbishing my people?
What a bitch.

I hear that from time to time, that "Americans have no culture." To such people I want to tell them to trust me when I say that if you have a few generations of people under your belt as a society, then you have culture (there's that anthropology degree coming in handy finally!). Culture is the ability to pass knowledge, beliefs, traditions, rituals, and values through generations. Thanksgiving? An example of culture. High school prom? Yup, culture. Looking both ways before you cross the street? Bingo.

So when people say that, they mean another form of it-that Americans are lacking aesthetics, basically. That because we don't around watching Masterpiece Theatre or practice kabuki theatre on a bi-weekly basis, we are numbnuts on the culture scale. Because we don't have Renaissance painters hanging next to the Vermeers or American author's works written on onion skin paper in the vaults of Vatican City then we are lacking.

To which I say: wake up, and look at some of the other sparkly shiny things that America can produce. So were weren't painting in the 1600's? I offer Georgia O'Keefe or Rothko. And as far as authors go, we've given the world some great ones-Hemingway, Hurston, and Twain to name a few. So we're not without aesthetic culture either-you just have to appreciate that it's different t European culture.

I smile tightly at Teresa, unwilling to get in another fight.

Her: And you people don't say "good morning" every morning, or "good night" every night before bed.
Me: Sometimes we do. But in my household, in general, then no a "good morning" is not required. I can settle for a cheerful something after the "Dear God where's the coffee?" has been satisfied.
Her: Well it's just rude I think. I think these things should be said.
Me: We're not Stepfords. Just because we don't say good morning doesn't mean we think your day should suck. It just maybe doesn't occur to us.

By afternoon, I have had enough. The Cowboy has ridden his horse all over my nerves as I hear regaled stories of how fabulous George Bush is, how we should hire the Cowboy and his brother, and more stories of Project Build-a-New-Moon or some such crap. I sit down wearily on the floor and try to recover, only to sit on a bit of melted chocolate that came with the afternoon tea so that it looks like I have crapped all over the back of my skirt.

I ask my manager if I can leave.
He agrees the meeting has been a fruitless disaster, and tells his team we can all go home if we want.

And the reverse race starts all over again. I make my train at Colchester and the tubes at Liverpool, however once at Waterloo I have approximately 90 seconds to catch my train, or else I have a 30 minute wait. And of course, all of the sightseeing groups that have been making their umbrella'd way in London are in the station, holding hands and standing in my way. Shoes off again, I pound through Waterloo in my barefeet, a bundle of white chick screaming energy exemplified in bare skin slapping the concrete, and make my train just as the doors shut.

I am so tired I am in tears. I feel like I have been battered and on the defense all day. I feel bruised and soft, a plum that's been on the kitchen counter too long. My banshee is nowhere to be seen and today is a day I could've used her.

And when my lovely Mr. Y meets me at the train station at 8pm, he says something clumsily that breaks my heart, makes my eyes sink into my head and pretty much finishes off the bad day I've had. So while I shower he lights candles, makes me a wonderful dinner, serves me alcohol, and then soothes my legs while we lay on the couch. By ten I am in bed asleep, having had enough of Monday.

Please God, please let today go better.

-H.

Posted by Everydaystranger at August 24, 2004 09:28 AM | TrackBack .