Squid Supremacy

It was inevitable that my uncle would visit us again from interstate. He arrived yesterday and this morning he joined us (dad & me) as we did the usual grocery run. Several different markets were visited and prices were researched, examined and cross checked, for the best value for money. All in all a good 3 ½ hours were spent shopping for a list of 4 items - if that isn’t a hint that we’re ethnic then I don’t know what is. As he had promised during his last visit, my uncle was going to make us dinner. He is a chef by trade and consistently accosts any meal partaker or provider. Needless to say, it doesn’t go down too well when he stays with us long enough to sit and break the proverbial bread.

In the blue corner, weighing 75 kg, bursting in at 170 centimetres in height… my Uncle. And in the red corner, weighing approximately 72 kg, a towering 160 centimetres… my Mother! That’s right. It’s a battle royale. Each fighter is stout, surly and mad as a cut snake. Neither my father nor I choose to stay. Dad conveniently has what he likes to call “stuff” to do. This stuff involves him sitting in front of the TV and engaging the most basic of male activities – watching sports. Me on the other hand, having only just moved back home after living away for the past 3 years used the excuse of “I’m still unpacking”.

My uncle had set aside the squid we had purchased earlier on for some dish, unpronounceable and equally difficult to eat. Little did he realise that mum had set her sights on using that squid for what she describe as ‘good and not evil’. This is roughly what it translated to. I had to edit out some of the profanities.

So, the argument began. There was yelling, of course the standard accosting. The odd bit of ‘you probably bribed your way through your apprenticeship’ and ‘my brother was an idiot to marry a woman who knows nothing of squid’ was thrown about. And I believe from the climatic end, my mum may have attempted to swing the squid at him. However, to save the day, dad came in and asked mum to put the squid down and to let my uncle cook. Why? Because, for god’s sake, he’ll be leaving soon and he wants to get a meal out of him [my Uncle] before he [dad] dies.

Happy New Year!

Office Political

I requested to be a part of our skeleton staffing during the holiday season so I could save up my annual leave. There were a few duties here and there that were on my list. One of which happened to be creating a few posters for some clients. To make these poster durable, and oh-so-nice and shiny, they required laminating. The smell of melting plastic is indeed the highlight of my poster making career. Until I realised that I had to go through our receptionist, Sheena (aka The Laminatrix!).

Laminatrix (lam-i-na-trix) - noun - a woman who plays the dominant role in a sado-masochistic laminating relationship or encounter. Experiences arousal from the sandwiching of objects including, but not exclusive to, paper and cardboard, between two sheets of clear plastic.

So, I approached Sheena, asking if we had anymore plastic sleeves for laminating and she spat back at me with... "Yes, but you're not supposed to do any laminating!" I asked why, to which she responded with, "Any laminating has to go through me. I handle the laminating." Not knowing (and not wanting to know) what Sheena meant by handling the laminating, I asked her for her authorisation to finish these posters. A mere raise of her left eyebrow gave me my answer.

Why was I being denied access to the laminating facilities by a wannabe door-bitch, I couldn't quite work out, but it meant for that day at least there would be no shiny posters. When I told my manager that I couldn't have them laminated, he asked me if I asked Sheena for her permission?!

It wasn't until later I discovered that Sheena had been demoted from Office Manager at another office down to our reception about 2 years ago. Clearly still harbouring issues over said demotion, Sheena is now our office stationary/equipment Nazi. No pens for you. Ban 1 year?