Alien 4
Curiously enough, articles by marital counsellors studying the stats of endless breakups confirm the one-third who believe in permanent deprivation create a super-charged sexy atmosphere, experience more stability. In fact from conversation overheard, lotta men prefer that. The rationale being what is a few spanks in relation to that?
Definitely, I have a lot to read up on, Earthling mores are very different.
I push the idea aside, job comes first.
I start at 7:00, earliest you can. In a cramped open area of 30 workstations, only one other is there. My first act is to change password, just in case. Next I play with the computer, discover the range of my authority. Joke! Back home, had many times this. Still, nothing personal, everyone else in this job would be in the same boat.
At 7:30 my lessons in Earthling women start bigtime. No one is working. Everyone yaps, loud, minimum of an hour. The grandmother set in one corner, complete with photos. The busy young mother set. The gamblers, drinkers and libertines are loudest of all.
It is impossible to actually start work itself, noise. I simply lack the confidence to attempt transcripts in that much bedlam. Still, I shrug, timesheets measure weekly production, not daily, and no one else seems worried.
Wishing to get some value for my time, I read on the internal website.
But this time, being excluded starts to bother me. See it's not just me anymore, the previous occupant's feelings are starting to bite.
As I read, I follow the conversations. May as well learn. It's soon obvious my exclusion is not racial. An obvious Jew, a Chinese, a Black and an East Indian seem well-integrated.
So why am I odd woman out? Ah ha, just don't live like any of the cliques.
I soon see my production fears were groundless. In an hour, I've notched off enough for today.
Time slows to an absolute crawl. This bites bigtime, I think back to the busy and responsible job I had back home, prior to my arrest for social shortcomings.
Tuesday morning I approach it differently. Gotta make the day last. Learn what I can. Though my computer is turned on, I'm really only listening in.
Now the grandmothers and busy young mothers are little different from back home, soon tune them out. It's the assorted crazies who provide my real education.
I listen to boyfriend woes. Soon decide, just ain't worth the effort.
But the Afghan isn't about to let that lie in peace, she's screaming, "I'm lonely, get off your lazy ass and do something about it."
I shrug, concentrate on work, block it out.
When I arrive home, discover it ain't so easy. It's a long evening. As I sit and ponder, I know what I must do. One day at a time, just keep learning about Earthlings.
I chip away daily with the dogged determination of a shipwrecked sailor. Then comes the weekend. I opt to try the university library. And there I hit paydirt, come away with a long list of interesting looking books and their call numbers. Good, we're on our way.
Just a minute, you protest, you misused the pronoun "we". Not actually, there's now 2 of us duking it out in here.
Sunday I opt to stay home and relax. Gradually, I realize just how free I am, no bureaucrat coming to arrest me for simply being alone. I'll do great here.
"No you won't," the Afghan says, "you heard Salima on the bus, wants to see that laid look."
My side replies, "I'm boss here."
"Wimp, you heard how it's done. Go to a coffee house, pick up some dude, blow him."
"No way, that'd make me a faggy fruitcake."
"You are really mixed up. Really gotta smarten up."
"Oh lighten up, I'm new at being an Earthling."
"So why didn't you go back to that silly pilot?"
"Because I'm having so much fun arguing with you."
"Now there is one tough shipwrecked sailor, I'm even starting to admire you."
"Thank you."
"Now what comes next isn't cruel, just educational. So, would you be able to describe a sunset to a lifelong blind person? To describe the flavor of chocolate marshmallow ice cream to a tribesman in New Guinea who has never tasted chocolate or marshmallow or ice cream? Would you show infantrymen pictures of the jungle, say they'd been jungle-trained?"
"No to all of the above."
"Good we agree. I've tried talking with you, it just does not register. You're too young, too immature, too lacking in Earthling experience. Some things you learn only by living through them. So as of right now, you are in a major depressive episode."
It washes over me with the force of a cyclone. I feel wiped, like a deep-sea diver in heavy suit, trying to push against the force of a wall of water. I lie down.
And then I start to see the true pointlessness of my Earthling experience. See back home, everything had a purpose and usually a noble one.
Take sex-ed class. By Earthling standards, that is disgusting, unequal. Yet the intent was the exact opposite. They were trying to socialize girls to be less than berserk, to be unequal, but not spectacularly so. Failure to achieve this was not the fault of sex-ed teachers, it was the fault of teen peer pressure, girls endlessly bragging and one-upping each other.
My experience with my junior high girlfriend, while tedious, had the purpose of preparing both of us for adult life.
Or my job with the Revenue Department back home. We were not hated. Less than 10% of Gross Domestic Product went into taxes. We were viewed as no different than traffic cops, enforcing rules to prevent chaos. Further, we did this with clear language, not the obscure bafflegab used here.
Here I'm part on an overall structure (federal, provincial, municipal) which swallows up half the economy. We are hated with a passion.
Further, my job is the height of pointless, Error Correction. If there weren't so much negligence going on, we wouldn't even have jobs. Literally everything I do is cleaning up someone's screwup. Any society, janitorial people usually have self-esteem problems.
Even prison was not a punishment, but an attempt to make me conform to society for my own good. Even the death sentence, pure theatrics, almost never carried out. Passage of time and counselling would usually change the person sufficiently to sort of get by.
The irony hits me. I was an outcast back home, but a worse one here. Outcast within a Department full of outcasts.
I think of simply going to the kitchen, getting a knife.
The Afghan says kindly, "forget it, ain't seen nothing yet. Goes on for weeks."
I feel hot shame, obviously she had more courage than me.
When the alarm rings Monday, I feel like phoning in sick.
In a kind tone, she says, "don't, do it once, just never stops."
"So what do I do?"
"Go in, make the work last as long as you can. Do this everyday 3 weeks or 4 or 2 months even, you'll start to understand what it means to be me."
I will not bore you with the details of the siege which lasted 4 1/2 months. Suffice it to say, I survived one day at a time.
I'm no longer smart-ass. I decide I'll take her advice, at least some of the time.
"Proud of you," she says, "longest it ever lasted with me was 2 months. You are one tough cowboy. But don't forget, I can bring that back, any time I choose. Tomorrow, you dress real nice for work, and don't chicken out when the chips are down pal."
It's a tiny but messy account. Held by one of the local military reserve units, sole purpose payment of occasional mess honorariums.
A newly-minted young (parttime) Lieutenant, largely paper-inept, wishes to come see me about it.
We close the door to the downstairs meeting booth, I turn the screen so he can see, walk him through. He sighs with relief, seeing he doesn't owe any more money.
We're sitting side-by-side, he's mega-nervous.
I grin, "horny dude, huh? Bet you'd love a BJ."
"Uh, never work, uh age difference. Plus gotta fiancee, she'd kill me."
"Never said I wanted to be your steady, just today."
"We-ell ok."
In no time, it's over. For me, a watershed, I've faced the demon head on.
I feel cheerful riding the elevator back up.
The Afghan chuckles, "well, broke through the logjam. Still, remember, just ain't enough guys to go around."
"I'd rather be a woman on my planet."
Laugh, "so would I. So you see, when Salima told you how she hooked her BF, was a lot easier than you thought."
"I'd rather die than have that thing pushed in me."
"Touchy touchy. Tonight you buy a vibrator."
I gasp, "but"
"Just do it. Or else, you do recall what I can do."
I will not chronicle the hot shame I felt at the store. But when I get home, I just don't stop.
The Afghan chuckles, "by my math, you've just done say twenty times the average endurance of a man. Still afraid of them?"
At this point our silent mental conversation is interrupted by a trademark whirr.
"Whassat?" she asks uneasily.
"Beamer."
"One of yours?"
"Yep."
The pilot materializes.
The Afghan, in a tone of awe, "she's awesome, hot. Go for a girl-girl fling."
"On our planet, punishable by death, not a good plan."
The pilot grins sheepishly, "I ah suppose you wonder why I dropped in?"
"Yep."
"Long story."
I sigh, "I am made of time. Tell it all."
Definitely, I have a lot to read up on, Earthling mores are very different.
I push the idea aside, job comes first.
I start at 7:00, earliest you can. In a cramped open area of 30 workstations, only one other is there. My first act is to change password, just in case. Next I play with the computer, discover the range of my authority. Joke! Back home, had many times this. Still, nothing personal, everyone else in this job would be in the same boat.
At 7:30 my lessons in Earthling women start bigtime. No one is working. Everyone yaps, loud, minimum of an hour. The grandmother set in one corner, complete with photos. The busy young mother set. The gamblers, drinkers and libertines are loudest of all.
It is impossible to actually start work itself, noise. I simply lack the confidence to attempt transcripts in that much bedlam. Still, I shrug, timesheets measure weekly production, not daily, and no one else seems worried.
Wishing to get some value for my time, I read on the internal website.
But this time, being excluded starts to bother me. See it's not just me anymore, the previous occupant's feelings are starting to bite.
As I read, I follow the conversations. May as well learn. It's soon obvious my exclusion is not racial. An obvious Jew, a Chinese, a Black and an East Indian seem well-integrated.
So why am I odd woman out? Ah ha, just don't live like any of the cliques.
I soon see my production fears were groundless. In an hour, I've notched off enough for today.
Time slows to an absolute crawl. This bites bigtime, I think back to the busy and responsible job I had back home, prior to my arrest for social shortcomings.
Tuesday morning I approach it differently. Gotta make the day last. Learn what I can. Though my computer is turned on, I'm really only listening in.
Now the grandmothers and busy young mothers are little different from back home, soon tune them out. It's the assorted crazies who provide my real education.
I listen to boyfriend woes. Soon decide, just ain't worth the effort.
But the Afghan isn't about to let that lie in peace, she's screaming, "I'm lonely, get off your lazy ass and do something about it."
I shrug, concentrate on work, block it out.
When I arrive home, discover it ain't so easy. It's a long evening. As I sit and ponder, I know what I must do. One day at a time, just keep learning about Earthlings.
I chip away daily with the dogged determination of a shipwrecked sailor. Then comes the weekend. I opt to try the university library. And there I hit paydirt, come away with a long list of interesting looking books and their call numbers. Good, we're on our way.
Just a minute, you protest, you misused the pronoun "we". Not actually, there's now 2 of us duking it out in here.
Sunday I opt to stay home and relax. Gradually, I realize just how free I am, no bureaucrat coming to arrest me for simply being alone. I'll do great here.
"No you won't," the Afghan says, "you heard Salima on the bus, wants to see that laid look."
My side replies, "I'm boss here."
"Wimp, you heard how it's done. Go to a coffee house, pick up some dude, blow him."
"No way, that'd make me a faggy fruitcake."
"You are really mixed up. Really gotta smarten up."
"Oh lighten up, I'm new at being an Earthling."
"So why didn't you go back to that silly pilot?"
"Because I'm having so much fun arguing with you."
"Now there is one tough shipwrecked sailor, I'm even starting to admire you."
"Thank you."
"Now what comes next isn't cruel, just educational. So, would you be able to describe a sunset to a lifelong blind person? To describe the flavor of chocolate marshmallow ice cream to a tribesman in New Guinea who has never tasted chocolate or marshmallow or ice cream? Would you show infantrymen pictures of the jungle, say they'd been jungle-trained?"
"No to all of the above."
"Good we agree. I've tried talking with you, it just does not register. You're too young, too immature, too lacking in Earthling experience. Some things you learn only by living through them. So as of right now, you are in a major depressive episode."
It washes over me with the force of a cyclone. I feel wiped, like a deep-sea diver in heavy suit, trying to push against the force of a wall of water. I lie down.
And then I start to see the true pointlessness of my Earthling experience. See back home, everything had a purpose and usually a noble one.
Take sex-ed class. By Earthling standards, that is disgusting, unequal. Yet the intent was the exact opposite. They were trying to socialize girls to be less than berserk, to be unequal, but not spectacularly so. Failure to achieve this was not the fault of sex-ed teachers, it was the fault of teen peer pressure, girls endlessly bragging and one-upping each other.
My experience with my junior high girlfriend, while tedious, had the purpose of preparing both of us for adult life.
Or my job with the Revenue Department back home. We were not hated. Less than 10% of Gross Domestic Product went into taxes. We were viewed as no different than traffic cops, enforcing rules to prevent chaos. Further, we did this with clear language, not the obscure bafflegab used here.
Here I'm part on an overall structure (federal, provincial, municipal) which swallows up half the economy. We are hated with a passion.
Further, my job is the height of pointless, Error Correction. If there weren't so much negligence going on, we wouldn't even have jobs. Literally everything I do is cleaning up someone's screwup. Any society, janitorial people usually have self-esteem problems.
Even prison was not a punishment, but an attempt to make me conform to society for my own good. Even the death sentence, pure theatrics, almost never carried out. Passage of time and counselling would usually change the person sufficiently to sort of get by.
The irony hits me. I was an outcast back home, but a worse one here. Outcast within a Department full of outcasts.
I think of simply going to the kitchen, getting a knife.
The Afghan says kindly, "forget it, ain't seen nothing yet. Goes on for weeks."
I feel hot shame, obviously she had more courage than me.
When the alarm rings Monday, I feel like phoning in sick.
In a kind tone, she says, "don't, do it once, just never stops."
"So what do I do?"
"Go in, make the work last as long as you can. Do this everyday 3 weeks or 4 or 2 months even, you'll start to understand what it means to be me."
I will not bore you with the details of the siege which lasted 4 1/2 months. Suffice it to say, I survived one day at a time.
I'm no longer smart-ass. I decide I'll take her advice, at least some of the time.
"Proud of you," she says, "longest it ever lasted with me was 2 months. You are one tough cowboy. But don't forget, I can bring that back, any time I choose. Tomorrow, you dress real nice for work, and don't chicken out when the chips are down pal."
It's a tiny but messy account. Held by one of the local military reserve units, sole purpose payment of occasional mess honorariums.
A newly-minted young (parttime) Lieutenant, largely paper-inept, wishes to come see me about it.
We close the door to the downstairs meeting booth, I turn the screen so he can see, walk him through. He sighs with relief, seeing he doesn't owe any more money.
We're sitting side-by-side, he's mega-nervous.
I grin, "horny dude, huh? Bet you'd love a BJ."
"Uh, never work, uh age difference. Plus gotta fiancee, she'd kill me."
"Never said I wanted to be your steady, just today."
"We-ell ok."
In no time, it's over. For me, a watershed, I've faced the demon head on.
I feel cheerful riding the elevator back up.
The Afghan chuckles, "well, broke through the logjam. Still, remember, just ain't enough guys to go around."
"I'd rather be a woman on my planet."
Laugh, "so would I. So you see, when Salima told you how she hooked her BF, was a lot easier than you thought."
"I'd rather die than have that thing pushed in me."
"Touchy touchy. Tonight you buy a vibrator."
I gasp, "but"
"Just do it. Or else, you do recall what I can do."
I will not chronicle the hot shame I felt at the store. But when I get home, I just don't stop.
The Afghan chuckles, "by my math, you've just done say twenty times the average endurance of a man. Still afraid of them?"
At this point our silent mental conversation is interrupted by a trademark whirr.
"Whassat?" she asks uneasily.
"Beamer."
"One of yours?"
"Yep."
The pilot materializes.
The Afghan, in a tone of awe, "she's awesome, hot. Go for a girl-girl fling."
"On our planet, punishable by death, not a good plan."
The pilot grins sheepishly, "I ah suppose you wonder why I dropped in?"
"Yep."
"Long story."
I sigh, "I am made of time. Tell it all."
posted by afghangirlscifi @ 1:00 PM
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