Tuesday, May 29, 2007
A few minutes into my beautiful early evening spent rollerblading home from work, the old Kitsilano train tracks viciously reached out and pulled my wheels out from under me.
I went flying, and a split second later I was lying broken on the pavement in the middle of the street. My first thought: "Oh no, not my $300 headphones!" Fortunately, they were fine.
I wish I could say the same for my knees, which were pretty smashed up. The left one looked like it had been neatly skinned with the sharp side of a paring knife (think of peeling one of those pretty pink lady apples that are everywhere this time of year), and the right one was, well, messed up.
I called my parents, who took me to a walk-in clinic, where a worried-looking doctor with the unfortunate name of J. Doe told me to go get x-rays tomorrow, and to stay off my knee for two weeks, which made me laugh hysterically, just so that I wouldn't burst into tears in her office.
The good news is that this incident really restored whatever damaged faith I had in the kindness of strangers. No fewer than six people stopped to help me on the street. Two kindly gentlemen actually scraped me off the pavement, as I tried to look brave and not hopelessly girly. A muscular red-haired fellow with an Eastern European accent offered me his first aid kit and stayed until I was cleaned up. He was the sort of guy I might dodge if I saw him in a bar, but on the street he was much more merciful than mafia. Several people offered to let me use their cell phones, and one woman asked if she could call me an ambulance. A cute lad with a previously broken nose and soccer shorts came out of the gym next door and offered to test my ligaments for me. I obliged him. He was a cutie.
I'm not going to work tomorrow. I'm probably going to quit my job anyway, since they fired our manager and I won't work there without him. He was the only thing that held the place together and stood up for the teachers, and now that he's gone my faith in the place and its management is at an abysmal low. My plan is to get all four ESL teachers to quit in protest. So far, I have two out of four signed on, and two maybes.
I accidently got outed at work today. It was pretty funny, in fact.
So last week my students asked me if I would go with them to the restaurant that Cocky Bastard (for you, dearest Purple Owl, I refrain from the initials CB) works at on Friday nights to help them navigate the menu, and so they wouldn't have to go alone. I agreed, of course, and went to talk to Cocky Bastard about it. Our conversation went something like this:
"Uh, hey Cocky Bastard, I was wondering if you're working next Friday."
"Listen, Nome, I know what you're thinking, but I have a girlfriend."
"OH PLEASE. Spare me. How tedious."
"Ah, okay, okay. I'm sure you're getting plenty of dick already."
"Oh PLEASE! If you only knew...."
Then somehow we segued into our actual conversation, while I squirmed at his chauvinism and general cluelessness.
Today our conversation (if you can call it that) drifted to a discussion of Naomi Watts, and how hot she was, but how she also appeared to have a brain. Then Cocky Bastard tried to slip a question in under my radar.
"So...." he began.
"Do you prefer George Clooney, or Naomi Watts?" the brazen lad queried with a little smirk. His meaningful tone made it abundantly clear what he was asking.
Not to be caught looking like a coward when posed a direct question, I replied, matching his tone:
"Definitely Naomi Watts."
And thus "Naomi Watts" became my code word with the only coworker I don't particularly like or trust for something I never discuss at work. How strange.
I guess it doesn't much matter if I'm leaving anyway.
But actually, it feels good to have told someone.
Even if it was just him.
My tensor bandage and I are off to bed. Wish me luck with my radiation tomorrow.