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Posts Tagged ‘coworkers’

Protected: The Surreal World of Alex Shum(s)

October 6, 2005 Enter your password to view comments.

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Words spoken with irony at work

September 22, 2005 Leave a comment

“That music makes me want to do Pilates!”

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September 12, 2005 6 comments

Eric told me that I shouldn’t have children, as the world is overpopulated and doesn’t need me to be procreating.

I vaguely thought this was bit presumptuous coming from a father of two, but of course he’s probably right.

I cried a lot on the bus ride home, for no good reason. It was dark and no one saw.

This is what I always do. I should really move somewhere closer to the train. I hear Queens is nice, and popular with my fellow “ethnic” types.

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Seen

February 24, 2005 Leave a comment

On the “To Do” whiteboard at work:
Alex – Motion Menus
Richard – Cut Trailer
Eric – Inventory Audit
Billy – Fight Crime

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My coworker Taylor sez

January 31, 2005 2 comments

“Why do women get all the delicious calcium supplements?”

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Ah, autumn

October 18, 2004 Leave a comment

Today, Dave waxed pensive as he stood at the window by my desk. “It’s so sad,” he said, “That fall is here, and the women cover up their bodies with big-ass coats. They look just like little barrels-” (insert Dave’s barrel/woman impression here) “- I remember the good old days, when it was hot and they were all-” (insert Dave’s skimpily clad woman impression here).

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July 4th

July 5, 2004 Leave a comment

You know you’re at an Asian American’s barbecue when 1) Grilled FISH BALLS are on the menu, and 2) Through a freak defrosting accident, the burgers are made of ground pork, not beef. There’s ten of us on a suburban patio, eating Kam’s assorted meat simulacra, and none of us can ever legally be president. So far, I am the only one to have brought beer; the others, perversely, come bearing two coolersful of Mountain Dew. Loads of sugar, loads of caffeine, and it glows radioactively like something out of a sci-fi movie.

(Asian Americans love sci-fi. We are math geeks; we are over-enthusiastic. We just don’t know how to be laid back.)

(Lies.)

There is also a salad, which I blithely ignore.

Taylor is there. He procured my cell phone number two days before through the advanced interrogation technique of saying “Gimme your number, damnit!” I guess it was a long time coming.

We hung out in Central Park the day before, lying on towels on the Great Lawn. I read a book; he dozed. Upon waking, he said, “Good God, I’m a lazy fuck!” It was funny. I think I laughed. He is two months older than I am, but I feel like he’s younger.

I make a joke to Kam about eating his (fish) balls to prove I’m not a skirt, and he burps loudly in reply. Kam sits next to me at work, drinks a lot of Diet Pepsi, and is developing a Morse code that consists entirely of burping. He’s so soft-spoken that I’d never hear a word he said otherwise.

Sunday night, July 4th, on the 1 train back home. A bunch of kids (the lack of facial hair makes them look about 16) are whacking each other’s heads with rolled up newspapers. WHACK! SLAM! They’re really hitting hard. It’s all in good fun, and they are enjoying themselves, but I am afraid they will inflict papercuts on the tender flesh of their eyeballs, lacerate a cornea. I am old now, ancient, venerable. 27 and a half.

Their comic timing is quite good. Stooge-esque.

Feint. Parry. Fake. Double hit.

“Oh, shit-”

WHACK! -WHACK! -WHACK!

There are not enough seats for them to all sit next to each other, so one of them, the one with two rolled up newspapers in his hands like nunchaku, sits next to me and is momentarily safe.

“How long are you staying to?” he asks me.

“86th,” I answer. This is the truth. It’s just two stops away.

“Oooh, shit!” say his cohorts, laughing in anticipation.

He mutters a curse, good-naturedly.

“Can’t you stay till at least 116?”

I smile, I think, wearily. Across the aisle, one of the boys has opened his paper and is eyeing the ads for call girls and strip clubs.

“The amazing Kiki,” he reads aloud, “Shit, man, look at her tits.”

His seat mate looks over his shoulder, gets smacked upside the head.

“That’s one of them Asian girls,” he says.

I’m an Asian girl. Should I be offended? Do they mean for me to be? They are so young.

I want to say “When I was your age,” and have it sound like a joke. An elderly woman sits across from me (straggly white hair, a housecoated thing), huddling in on herself. She looks horrified, but for all I know she’s smiling ruefully inside her head; she’s wishing the same damn thing.