Since my moving out has lately been gaining about as much momentum as a snowball going downhill ( which you realize, unfortunately too late, is coming straight at you), I've been busy not only trying to come up with a somewhat livable layout for the flat, but also, not intending to be beat by my sister's (soon to be inferior) mural, with the upcoming mural(-s) for the walls of the flat.
Luckily, legality isn't an issue, since it's more or less OK to do this kind of stuff, but there are of course a few problems:
- First of all, since the primary wall I'm intending to paint is 2,50m x5,00m, I'm pretty sure artistic megalomania will hit pretty quickly once I start making the actual stencil. Small things just won't do.
- Secondly, while I DO have quite a few ideas sketched out already ( and safely stowed away, mind you), most of what I actually draw nowadays is limited to A5-bits of paper next to the computer with a ball-point pen. In itself, tiny drawings aren't the problem, since blowing them up is one of the lesser problems in life, but their actual lifespan is the root of the problem - daddy having a habit of throwing most of them away before I get the chance to scavenge them for further planning. The fact that he crumples them up isn't exactly helping ( nor encouraging) either.
Luckily, the stencil in itself, as well as painting it, is a few days task, at best, so once I'v actually nurtured my roughs and sketches into something more production-friendly, it shouldn't be very long 'til it's up there.
Of course, actually living in the flat will speed things up even more. But for now it's back to the drawing board.
... I'd be there on the first flight.
You sure can find neat things in old folders.
It's Monday, the boiler broke down at home - which means no hot water whatsoever - and a little incident at work left me enraged enough to happily rip out any volunteer's front teeth out with my toes.
... And then shove it right back in. Through their tearducts.
Goddamn does it help to have a wrapped present waiting for you!
Being Sunday ( and a rainy one at that), the parental unit and I decided to drive off to Helsinki yet again to do some renovating on the ( my) flat, clean the cupboards and generally sprucing the place up.
On our way back, however, we decided to stop at this little store by the highway that I'd personally never been to but that I'd heard some vaguely positive feedback about. Y'know, one of those cooky, off-beat industrial warehouses/paraphernalia-stores that'll sell anything and everything. Aptly named 'The Greenhouse-effect'
And true to the assumption, the store had everything you wouldn't expect short of sextoys; massive, semi-antique oriental furniture, weird (and colossal) statues, army surplus, strange and unexpected design-elements, movies you wouldn't find anywhere else ( and if you went to the producers, they'd deny ever having made them); hell, even a fully-fledged bunny-suit!
Surprisingly, I was able to leave the treasure-trove of useless things without a single souvenir ( even if I found it eerily hard to part with the idea of pitch-black champagne-glasses), but with an adamant urge to some day come back, check the whole place out, and perhaps even take some pics.
Seriously, there are far too few of these kinds of shops in Finland.
How and when do you reward yourself?
Submitted by Rainbird.
I have this little "habit", if you will, which I might as well share, since it helps me get through those days when things aren't really going my way [read: up shit-creek].
As it happens, I have a quaint affinity towards wrapped presents, and think that occasions for getting wrapped presents are far too few over the course of a year. So, every now and then, I go out and by myself a little gift ( which might be a little Alessi design-piece, a good book or some high-quality chocolate), and then, instead of enjoying it right away, I wrap it up, wrap some string around it and hide my little present away in some cupboard. If I really wanna feel like spoiling myself, I even write up a little card and have it tag along.
( I realize this is probably one of the weirdest things a grown man can do in life, so if you all wanna feel a bit more manly, go wrap a bottle of vodka in cellophane.)
Sometimes the present stays wrapped for no longer than a day, sometimes it takes me whole months to open it; the most important point is opening it when you really feel like you've earned/need a little gift from someone. Might as well be yourself, right, since you know what you like best?
And believe me, nothing makes an ultra-sucky day at work feel ever-so-less sucky than a gift wrapped.
Yesterday was my long awaited day of AWESOME, since it was The Day by which the old tenant would have to move out and hand over the keys to my apartment. So off we went in the ol' iron horse to Helsinki, only to arrive way too early and have to wait for the old tenant to drop by my apartment and hand over the keys.
But at least we got a good long look my orange front door.
You heard me, orange.
'50's orange.
Once he got there, we went inside and had the ( I guess) usual chat about what the place is like/has anything caught fire/any illegal immigrants in the bathroom etc. Me, of course, all the while standing there, twitching and aching to get my hands on my keys. It's very hard to shut up when you've been waiting for this very moment for almost a year.
... And now I has dem. And all is good...
...'cept for that staircase at work, which is still a deathtrap-in-progress...
Since July's up next week, most of the guys at work are going to be away for the whole month on a (more or less) deserved vacation away from the site, among which my co-worker, leaving me alone for a whole month, and giving my ears an honest chance to stop ringing from all that barking and yelling, perhaps even a more relaxed task to work on, as well... perhaps even some good ol' broom-pushin'?
But this also means that the mold we're making for a pair of huge concrete stairs will have to wait until a skilled carpenter gets back from vacation (that would be my working-"partner")...
... or so I thought.
It seems that, since a whole lot of people are off on their vacations, a whole lot of the segment managers are on vacation as well, leaving nice and lukewarm posts for interns to fill over the summer months, managing the little construction-worker-to-be's so they won't hit themselves in the head with a shovel, pick-axe or bulldozer.
Our own segment-intern ( a lean young fellow probably no more than a few years older than me) decided to come say 'hello' and check up on what we've been working on, and, upon noting our progress and realizing that one of us was going on vacation next week, turned to me, and with an air of confidence and zeal noted:
"But you can finish it yourself, right? I mean, you guys've already done one of these, and you know how to do this!"
Only the fact that my whole being froze completely stopped me from looking him straight in the eye and replying with "You're kidding, right?". I did, however, manage to ask him if he really thought I was "qualified" to be put in charge of the whole deal ( I, naturally, didn't mention that I, even if I've been hanging around the site since January, have the carpenting-skills of a walrus, and shouldn't be left alone with a chainsaw for fear of the earth tearing itself a new one).
"Don't worry, if anything goes awry, I'll take the blame for it."
O-hohhohhoo, kid...
So now, instead of getting to enjoy a semi-vacation myself for the next four weeks, I now have , come Monday, the biggest carpentry/metallurgy-project I've ever done waiting to be "finished" by me, alone, ultimately resulting in a horrendously uncalculated stucture with more unsupported stress-points than a burnout-victim.
... My first death-trap. I'm kinda proud, actually.
I'd Originally planned on deciding my date of resignation based on my schedule, courteously sent to me via mail by Teh University.
Teh University being a stingy dongpile, however, has seen fit to stiff me of my rightful lot of papers, forms and curricular whatnot so that I could instead enjoy the summer while there's still summer to be enjoyed.
Unfortunately, my vacation won't start until I officially resign, and to do that, I need some goddamn paperwork to show about! Alternative excuses for quitting my job had to be cooked up!
So I decided to sift through my bank-account, using what little was left of my math-skills to try and find a date at which I'd be financially self-reliant. When that date went over to around 2013, the oh-so-mundane 'fukit'-syndrome kicked in; once I actually have money to speak of, I'll quit.
Having gotten an agreeable date, I gathered all my courage to walk up to the office of my supreme Boss' office (who happens to be one of the most non-intimidating people I've yet to meet) and laid down my ultimatum.
He pleasantly accepted, noting that "we won't have to wonder where you are onthe following Monday, then".
That was awfully simple.
But now, after finally having climbed out of the Deep Pit of Uncertainty and now knowing when I'll finally give back my uniform (actually not, I'll be keeping them, helmet and all. And be a leading member of the soon-to-be revived Village People), it seems like I can finally breathe easier. A huge load has been lifted off of me, the final paycheck is right around the corner, and the mental jumpsuit is off, revealing the all-too-hairy Legs of Purpose and the somewhat funky Briefs of High Hopes.
Now I just have to live with working for another six weeks...
They call us the Married Couple.
That's right. The Married Couple.
Me, and a 50 year old ex-biker that could probably win a fistfight with a grizzly-bear. To clarify, it's a He, and he's my coworker.
Apparently, we're the most feared twosome at work, or at least the scariest to have around. Mainly because we yell at each other. A lot. Even more so than your usual Finnish construction worker-duo, and that's saying something.
Yeah, we're that kind of 'married couple'.
Neither of us have really been bothered about it really, but apparently people don't think we're taking it so lightly. But then again, if two people cuss and insult each other all throughout the day at work, wouldn't you think so as well?
We even had a few masons come and ask us if it we could tone it down a bit so they could work in peace. Three floors down. Not even the acoustics are that good.
One of the bosses even said it was "hella easy" to find us, even over the noise, since "you'd start fighting again within 5 minutes", after which he'd just follow it to the source.
One of our coworkers, a year younger than me, came by one day and asked me if I "wasn't scared to work with him, since he always keeps on shouting to you". When I asked him if he hadn't heard me shouting back, he had to admit that, yes, he had, after which he wondered if it'd ever gotten close to becoming a fistfight.
"Nope, never."
To clarify, it's not that kind of yelling. The Finnish words "Vittuilu raskaalla kädellä" (heavy-handed insulting) explains it to most Finns, though it essentially means poking fun at each other (though in a considerably more vulgar way than most, more decent peoples would expect). And we honestly enjoy working together... even if you can smell the sulphur.
And you can't really say that there's any tension between us.
Ever since I was really tiny, every time me or the sisters would get sick, break a bone or twist an esophagus, my dad would always have the right medication, the right treatment as well as the classic 'walk it off'-attitude that becomes a true doctor. Having a doc-dad was really useful, since you didn't have to go very far to get the really good painkillers every time you had a headache ( although, on afterthought, you probably wouldn't have gotten those pills for a headache in any case). And every time you needed to get a shot for something or other, you'd have daddy poking you with overly sharp needles, with only the minimum amount of compassion required for such a procedure ( I thank him, therefore, for my phobia of needles).
But I kept thinking " it'd be really useful to become a doctor, or at least marry one, so I'd have all these services close by when I'd move out" - of course, being as tiny and silly as I was, I doubt I phrased it quite as eloquently, but you get the point.
Sadly (or luckily), as I grew up I pretty much lost all interest for doctorizing: hanging around a hospital after school-hours whenever I needed dad for some errand surely left an imprint; you wouldn't believe how non-ER real hospitals are...
So I decided that this apple was definitely going to fall far from the tree - the clinical and dreary setting of a hospital wasn't thrilling enough for a teenager with megalomanial dreams of aspiration, not aspirin.
That is, I thought that was the reason why I decided not to try to get into med-school, until a friend of mine reminded me of "that hilarious time you told me why'd you'd never become a doctor!". Had all gone well, I'd have ended my days in complete ignorance of that fateful sight shoved so deep inside my subconcious not even stripminers could've dislodged it from my brain. Instead, I was overshowered with the memory of one after-school afternoon at the hospital, that one time when I shouldn't have walked in on my dad the very same way I'd always done.
Believe me, you'll never want to walk in on a colonoscopy.
