New blog...got into trouble for bloggin' about work!!!
- Mila
Sunday, May 24, 2009
Sunday, March 8, 2009
Here is the way I explain a flint lock to a less than interested group of students: A flint lock is an ollld type of gun. Think revolutionary war. The flint is on the cock (this is where the students laugh...)
Basically, when you pull the trigger, the cock flies forward and hits down really hard. The flint is a rock that makes a spark when this happens. Think boy scouts striking stones together to make a spark. Same principle. The spark is what ignites the gunpowder to go BOOM! So no flint, no spark, no boom.
Very old type of gun though.
Alrighty then -
I asked my boss about the facebook thing...because it's been a week and she hasn't said anything, but I didn't add her. Luckily, this was because she felt just as awkward, and she was hoping that I just wouldn't say anything. I laughed to myself. People are all sort of alike. I was nervous to ask her because she was my boss, and she was nervous to ask me because I'm an employee.
So I got forms from my job today...like thirty of them. To re-apply for the job that I already have. I would explain how that makes sense, but I don't want to lie.
Basically, when you pull the trigger, the cock flies forward and hits down really hard. The flint is a rock that makes a spark when this happens. Think boy scouts striking stones together to make a spark. Same principle. The spark is what ignites the gunpowder to go BOOM! So no flint, no spark, no boom.
Very old type of gun though.
Alrighty then -
I asked my boss about the facebook thing...because it's been a week and she hasn't said anything, but I didn't add her. Luckily, this was because she felt just as awkward, and she was hoping that I just wouldn't say anything. I laughed to myself. People are all sort of alike. I was nervous to ask her because she was my boss, and she was nervous to ask me because I'm an employee.
So I got forms from my job today...like thirty of them. To re-apply for the job that I already have. I would explain how that makes sense, but I don't want to lie.
Thursday, March 5, 2009
Too long...
Being a tour guide during the winter sucks. I know I haven't been writing, but that's because there is no adoring public. The adoring public makes my life an interesting form of hell.
So several things have happened:
1. I had to give a photographer a tour on a windy day. I had to wear my uniform. As a result, my required hat flew away everywhere, to the point where I needed a golf cart to catch it.
2. My boss added me on facebook. It was awkward.
3. I've learned to take apart flintlocks, and I've also inhaled more rust remover and touched more lead than I'm comfortable with.
That's pretty much it. Most of my day consists of typing books into the computer so we can reference the computer instead of shuffling through a book. Apparently none of my bosses have heard of SCANNERS.
But it's ok - they're paying me to do it. And scanning the books page by page is probably just as much fun as typing them out.
So several things have happened:
1. I had to give a photographer a tour on a windy day. I had to wear my uniform. As a result, my required hat flew away everywhere, to the point where I needed a golf cart to catch it.
2. My boss added me on facebook. It was awkward.
3. I've learned to take apart flintlocks, and I've also inhaled more rust remover and touched more lead than I'm comfortable with.
That's pretty much it. Most of my day consists of typing books into the computer so we can reference the computer instead of shuffling through a book. Apparently none of my bosses have heard of SCANNERS.
But it's ok - they're paying me to do it. And scanning the books page by page is probably just as much fun as typing them out.
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
WOW
It's been practically a month.
Being a tour guide is going well. New semester starting. I learned how to take apart and put together a rifle from the Revolutionary War.
Which may not make me a great housewife, but my hotness-o-meter went up slightly. If it were a more modern gun, it'd be up a lot. But no. Just an ollddddd Rev War gun.
But there are about thirty of them that have to be taken apart and cleaned. So I got my work cut out for me...
Being a tour guide is going well. New semester starting. I learned how to take apart and put together a rifle from the Revolutionary War.
Which may not make me a great housewife, but my hotness-o-meter went up slightly. If it were a more modern gun, it'd be up a lot. But no. Just an ollddddd Rev War gun.
But there are about thirty of them that have to be taken apart and cleaned. So I got my work cut out for me...
Sunday, December 21, 2008
So...
I was so happy to be done with school, and going to Costa Rica with my boyfriend, and Christmas, and then I get another rejection letter.
Rejection = sad.
Thursday, December 11, 2008
Things about to get interesting?
So my job is amassing enough Civil War arms to man an army of 30.
Is work about to get a lot...more hectic? More military-esque? More...noisy?
Doubtful. Although parts of an upcoming film, CHOOSE, was filmed at my job. They pretended the fort was actually an abandoned hospital. Some kinda famous guy is in it, he also played Satan in END OF DAYS (1999). I forget his name. Something Byrne, right?
I'll spoil the ending right now: THE BROTHER DID IT
School is being sucky...lots. Almost over. And going to Costa Rica over my break!
Woohoo!
Friday, December 5, 2008
AHHHH
I haven't posted in FOREVER.
Because I'm a slacker.
BUT
I got extra financial aid moneys, which is always, always, always good.
Now I just have to get good grades to keep the money that I claimed to have earned.
Today I shot a gun at work. There was nothing to do, and we all wanted to dress up in Confederate and Union uniforms and shoot Civil War muskets. And we did.
Afterward, I had to go to the guys' bathroom to clean the guns. Because that's where all the cleaning stuff is. And I was in there, and my boss came in, and I thought it'd be really awkward. But then he just started helping me take apart the weapon and "wollyrag" it, which means to make it all shiny with a pre-oiled rag.
Wollyragging. I'm not kidding.
And yes, this is the same boss that ignored my skimpy outfit at Halloween.
I will post writing up from the book soon. I'm just nervous enough to die. In the meantime:
I call this "Place Holder." I submitted it to a student publication. Wish me luck!
This was not a normal hotel room.
Instead of the Book of Mormon or a Gideon Bible, I found an advance copy of Miley Cyrus’s autobiography in the top drawer of the nightstand. Advance copy…so the cover was cardboard-like, and I found three spelling errors on the back jacket alone. Menacing black letters told me I could not sell this.
I flipped my purse upside-down and dumped the contents to search for traces of currency. Some yen, but they were carefully placed as bookmarks. I was not using this to buy anything – they were probably novelties I’d collected and started using to hold my page. I also found a Cuban coin, but there was a vague memory of me digging the thing out of a ditch with a long stick as a freshwater crab jumped and snapped at me. I’d been screaming, “I’m not trying to hurt you, crab, I’m trying to get the shiny thing.” And the bluish-purple monster didn’t listen to me.
No other cash. I had a bank card, just one. Viewpoint Bank. No dollars, no euros, no pesos. My wallet was just a folded piece of leather with an etching of a woman with a basket on her head. I had two passports - one with no stamps inside. It was completely blank, completely new. The picture inside looked like a slightly older version of myself. The other had expired five years ago.
Angry, I snapped on the television. There had to be a dialect, a language, something. One station hummed in Punjabi. Another was a language-less weather channel…but it gave the temperature in degrees centigrade, not Fahrenheit. But all that really told me was that I wasn’t in the United States, since that’s the only country that’s stubborn enough to use Fahrenheit. The last available channel sang in Italian. The rest showed static and more static. There was a cable box, and it confused me, so I promptly threw it out the window along with the advance copy of Miley Cyrus’s autobiography.
Radio? Did I have one of those alarm-clock/radio combinations common in hotel rooms? If I could listen to the radio, I could listen for a language, and then successfully discover the nation in which I was a confused visitor.
No. Instead of an alarm clock, there was an outlet and, on the table, a charger for every cell phone ever invented. Ever. I assumed hotel management wanted me to take the hint and use my phone as an alarm clock. And was there a white, inoffensive phone with a springy cord nearby? No. Of course not. And I love springy cords. I like to bite them, like the twisting thing on my keychain. But I couldn’t even leave bite marks in the hotel phones.
What the fuck.
I looked down out my window at the destroyed cable box and the intact piece of shit book. I found it funny that the technologically primitive book survived. It was alright until a pre-teen came by an actually picked the thing up.
“No! No! That is not for public consumption!” My voice screamed at blonde highlights. “It has errors! Terrible, terrible errors in grammar, spelling, and possibly flow! It is meant to be edited! NO!!!”
She didn’t react to me. She either didn’t understand what I was saying because she didn’t know English, or she didn’t understand what I was saying because her ears decided to ignore me.
I popped my ears by moving my jaw. Once, twice, three times. I tried to make music with it, but I couldn't pop my ears as fast as I wanted the beat to be.
Then I went to sleep. The hotel did still have a bed.
Because I'm a slacker.
BUT
I got extra financial aid moneys, which is always, always, always good.
Now I just have to get good grades to keep the money that I claimed to have earned.
Today I shot a gun at work. There was nothing to do, and we all wanted to dress up in Confederate and Union uniforms and shoot Civil War muskets. And we did.
Afterward, I had to go to the guys' bathroom to clean the guns. Because that's where all the cleaning stuff is. And I was in there, and my boss came in, and I thought it'd be really awkward. But then he just started helping me take apart the weapon and "wollyrag" it, which means to make it all shiny with a pre-oiled rag.
Wollyragging. I'm not kidding.
And yes, this is the same boss that ignored my skimpy outfit at Halloween.
I will post writing up from the book soon. I'm just nervous enough to die. In the meantime:
I call this "Place Holder." I submitted it to a student publication. Wish me luck!
This was not a normal hotel room.
Instead of the Book of Mormon or a Gideon Bible, I found an advance copy of Miley Cyrus’s autobiography in the top drawer of the nightstand. Advance copy…so the cover was cardboard-like, and I found three spelling errors on the back jacket alone. Menacing black letters told me I could not sell this.
I flipped my purse upside-down and dumped the contents to search for traces of currency. Some yen, but they were carefully placed as bookmarks. I was not using this to buy anything – they were probably novelties I’d collected and started using to hold my page. I also found a Cuban coin, but there was a vague memory of me digging the thing out of a ditch with a long stick as a freshwater crab jumped and snapped at me. I’d been screaming, “I’m not trying to hurt you, crab, I’m trying to get the shiny thing.” And the bluish-purple monster didn’t listen to me.
No other cash. I had a bank card, just one. Viewpoint Bank. No dollars, no euros, no pesos. My wallet was just a folded piece of leather with an etching of a woman with a basket on her head. I had two passports - one with no stamps inside. It was completely blank, completely new. The picture inside looked like a slightly older version of myself. The other had expired five years ago.
Angry, I snapped on the television. There had to be a dialect, a language, something. One station hummed in Punjabi. Another was a language-less weather channel…but it gave the temperature in degrees centigrade, not Fahrenheit. But all that really told me was that I wasn’t in the United States, since that’s the only country that’s stubborn enough to use Fahrenheit. The last available channel sang in Italian. The rest showed static and more static. There was a cable box, and it confused me, so I promptly threw it out the window along with the advance copy of Miley Cyrus’s autobiography.
Radio? Did I have one of those alarm-clock/radio combinations common in hotel rooms? If I could listen to the radio, I could listen for a language, and then successfully discover the nation in which I was a confused visitor.
No. Instead of an alarm clock, there was an outlet and, on the table, a charger for every cell phone ever invented. Ever. I assumed hotel management wanted me to take the hint and use my phone as an alarm clock. And was there a white, inoffensive phone with a springy cord nearby? No. Of course not. And I love springy cords. I like to bite them, like the twisting thing on my keychain. But I couldn’t even leave bite marks in the hotel phones.
What the fuck.
I looked down out my window at the destroyed cable box and the intact piece of shit book. I found it funny that the technologically primitive book survived. It was alright until a pre-teen came by an actually picked the thing up.
“No! No! That is not for public consumption!” My voice screamed at blonde highlights. “It has errors! Terrible, terrible errors in grammar, spelling, and possibly flow! It is meant to be edited! NO!!!”
She didn’t react to me. She either didn’t understand what I was saying because she didn’t know English, or she didn’t understand what I was saying because her ears decided to ignore me.
I popped my ears by moving my jaw. Once, twice, three times. I tried to make music with it, but I couldn't pop my ears as fast as I wanted the beat to be.
Then I went to sleep. The hotel did still have a bed.
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