![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Aug. 18th, 2005
Once upon a time in high school, I had this best friend. We'd spend hours on the phone, because that's the sort of friends we were. And he'd get himself in alarming trouble, because that's the sort of guy he was.
One day, while we were on the phone, he found himself standing behind the couch (he may have been lounging on the back of the couch? Or something?) with a need to get out.
So he tried sidling out. This did not work, as the couch was pushed up tightly against the wall; the reason he could be where he was standing was because there was a window behind the couch, and that created enough space for him to stand. So he tried pushing the couch.
This was even less successful. As he probably should have already known, but discovered loudly right in my ear, the windowsill behind him housed his mother and stepfather's reasonably impressive collection of potted cacti. Pushing the couch forward meant pushing his bottom backward, and behind him was not open air, but a tasteful selection of succulents with thorns.
Of course, neither of his parents were home to push the couch to let him out. He was stuck.
After I stopped giggling at his expense, I suggested that he fall forward, letting his torso down onto the couch, and his feet would follow, and all would be good. He argued with me a little, and continued in his fruitless attempts to push the couch forward for a bit (spearing himself on the cacti behind every time) but after he got tired of playing pincushion with his butt, he followed my advice and escaped.
One day, while we were on the phone, he found himself standing behind the couch (he may have been lounging on the back of the couch? Or something?) with a need to get out.
So he tried sidling out. This did not work, as the couch was pushed up tightly against the wall; the reason he could be where he was standing was because there was a window behind the couch, and that created enough space for him to stand. So he tried pushing the couch.
This was even less successful. As he probably should have already known, but discovered loudly right in my ear, the windowsill behind him housed his mother and stepfather's reasonably impressive collection of potted cacti. Pushing the couch forward meant pushing his bottom backward, and behind him was not open air, but a tasteful selection of succulents with thorns.
Of course, neither of his parents were home to push the couch to let him out. He was stuck.
After I stopped giggling at his expense, I suggested that he fall forward, letting his torso down onto the couch, and his feet would follow, and all would be good. He argued with me a little, and continued in his fruitless attempts to push the couch forward for a bit (spearing himself on the cacti behind every time) but after he got tired of playing pincushion with his butt, he followed my advice and escaped.
Once upon a time in high school, I had this best friend.
( Brazen stupidity of the genius IQ type involving electrical weaponry, do-it-yourself-ish-ness, and the public school system. )
( Brazen stupidity of the genius IQ type involving electrical weaponry, do-it-yourself-ish-ness, and the public school system. )
[siren noise]
Aug. 18th, 2005 09:49 pmThe system went down. Right after I came in, I got
pulled off the phones to monitor; I am Trendy Chick
Supervisor today.
The system went down. I wound up chatting with a nest
full of old hens; some of them got to talking about
Emily, that excellently cool trans woman we had
working here a while ago. I got the opportunity to
give the old hens a bit of a crash course on
transgender ettiquite: namely, that someone
transitioning should be addressed as their target
gender.
Also, the giggles of the supervisor when you tell them
about what you want to do are inversely proportionate
to how good an idea it actually is to do.
pulled off the phones to monitor; I am Trendy Chick
Supervisor today.
The system went down. I wound up chatting with a nest
full of old hens; some of them got to talking about
Emily, that excellently cool trans woman we had
working here a while ago. I got the opportunity to
give the old hens a bit of a crash course on
transgender ettiquite: namely, that someone
transitioning should be addressed as their target
gender.
Also, the giggles of the supervisor when you tell them
about what you want to do are inversely proportionate
to how good an idea it actually is to do.