A useless guide to annoying ballerinas

I met Sylvia during a corporate event. Well, by corporate event I mean a drinking event where almost all attendants were colleagues from the office. And by Sylvia, I mean... well, privacy is important. That, and I think do not think her identity would bring any value to anyone. Her real name is Silvia, but nobody should make a connection now that I have changed it to something more difficult to type (especially on a keyboard with German layout). To further obfuscate her identity throughout the story, I will add subtle variations, depending on whether I remember to. Also, if you see her name in other story somewhere else, it might not be the same person; my attention to such details slightly hovers above zero when it comes to names, being predominantly allocated to crucial aspects of life, like being partial to clothes with pockets that have zippers or making sure that I use the minimum number of dishes when I am cooking. So, if you read about the active aggressive ogre Sylvia in my useless guide to the Lord of the Rings*, it is not the same person. Well, it is, wrong example. But if you read about the bitter larch called Sylvia in my useless guide to coniferous forests in the polar areas of Vietnam... damn it! Look, usually it is not the same person, ok?
Svetlana was the kind of woman that men would notice quickly at such an event. Let me explain. It was a party of IT people. For people not familiar with the world of IT, at such parties the ratio of women to men (some may not be called men, but let's anyway, for the sake of brevity and superficiality) is significantly insignificant. Most often she is a waitress or an exceptionally rare happy accident. As I would find out later at that event, Stephanie turned out to be a bit of both. Happy, tough, she was not.

(Later at that event...)

As I was the other woman at that party besides Suzanne, I started talking to her to keep the other, um, attendees away; they seem to be attracted by women who drink by themselves as if they see them on a computer monitor. An expensive computer. With a big monitor. And fast internet. Synthia (I am running out of names, sorry) told me she was some sort of project manager, but the more details she provided suggested she was an assistant manager. More exactly, an assistant to a manager. It is common in the corporate world to use made-up titles to paint rosy colors on less appealing hierarchy levels and duties. Sue (whew) was a glorified secretary and I would imagine most time she would be invited in the boardroom because the very white collars feel their time is too precious to take notes themselves. And for coffee or pastries. On several occasions she shared details about some communication she was about to send to her colleagues, and it turned out to be mostly summaries of notes she'd taken from meetings and asking them to confirm what they had said. Being observant, I understood she was discreetly asking for feedback and I suggested her ideas were tedious and void of content, which made them great for corporate communication and encouraged her to send them. Overall, my impression was that Suzy did not feel appreciated because her colleagues did not take her seriously. She did not ask for any advice regarding the coffee and pastries, but I was keen to divert from PowerPoints and emails and frustration caused by the discriminating corporatist nomenclature; I tackled the topic anyway and suggested mini-kebabs, onion rings and unfiltered German beer as an exciting distraction from the monotony of croissants, Danishes and decaf. Thus, hoping to cover all the aspects and bring the conversation to an end.
Silly me...
For people like Sharon, talking turgidly about tepid topics such as what they think they do at work is important and she kept on and on and on and on and on (and on), but her monologue was gradually stalled to a standstill by men trying to chat us up encouraged by 1) my silence breaks and 2) their alcohol intake. This led Susie to tackle a more stirring topic: men being pigs. Not only in the office, but in general. I am confident this last detail was a reasonable link between the derailed wagons in her train of thought.

(Painfully soon at the same event)

Sara used the scant sample of slightly inebriated men she'd just met at the event as a relevant example for the entire herd of men that have plagued her entire life. If you are precious like a ballerina (this would be end-quote if I remembered to start one) and are smiling and friendly men interpret it as you are being easy and inviting to lewd behaviour. As an ugly woman, I can certainly debunk such myths. But Gertrude (I panicked, sorry) was unstoppable: because of absolutely every man in the history of men she cannot be herself, she cannot wear the clothes she feels like wearing and cannot be as friendly and happy as nature has blessed her to be. And she cannot be as gracious as she can be, she continued briefly after downing half a pint of Guinness. She continued about how men misunderstand her easy-going attitude and how they do not take her seriously and are only looking for frivolity. Normally, I would have been happy to keep on answering with silent nods given that S-meralda did not really need input or other people's opinions in her debate. Unintentionally ironically, she was getting quite loud about how she keeps a low profile because of that. People would start to notice. And the last thing I needed was protracting the discussion. At that moment I decided to intervene gently and calm her down before any escalation. I began by suggesting there were other options of being discreet than a layer of make-up thicker than some low reliefs (which at least have the ornaments on the outside) and glowing red lipstick with a black contour. And I did agree with wearing slacks so tight, mostly when that is possibly the largest size available. To put things to an end I mentioned that ballerinas wear tutus instead of slacks, but warned it would be difficult to find her size in white; tutus that big are only available in camouflage colors for the army or in pink and yellow for circus tents.
I don't know how effective my advice was eventually, but it was great short-term. She did not say another word while I finished my drink, paid, and went home to work my fingers at Patapon. I would say it was pretty good, overall.

If this narrative feels long to you, it means I conveyed it right. Although it was probably five to ten minutes, it is exactly how I felt it, too. It was a dear price for learning how to spot and handle a Sophia ballerina (subtle hat tip here to Francis M.P. Boyle) but there you have it, for free. You are welcome.


*Note: After giving it some thought, I guess it makes more sense to call it "Lords of the Ring". There was only one ring relevant to the story and it involved several lords, which means this handles the plurals correctly. The wrong thing is that there is no drug lord in the film, which would cause his loyal gang of baddies with big motorcycles and heavy weaponry to quickly shift the balance of power between the over-sized leathery eagles and the struggling Sir Ian McKellen in favor of the latter; it is a known fact that gringos can beat griffons any time of the day. Mainly because griffons are nocturnal predators. Of course, this would not work so well if the fight is taking place at dusk, because there is a two-to-three hours tie-break until it gets dark and then the griffons have the advantage of superior sight against sleeping enemies. Or at dawn, when the griffons have the edge due to the gringos being hungover. Without getting more granular about time slots and the location of the battle relative to Earth's movement schedule around the Sun during the battle, such an imbalance during daytime would have led to a shorter film and speedier happy-end. And the rare footage of a Mexican stand-off between a wizard, a motor-gang and the cyclopic Sauron. 
I am afraid in this case Narcos would be deprived of some originality, but I am not 100% sure. I have not watched it yet, but I would like to think it has griffons in it. Griffons are famous for their ability to carry vast amounts of narcotics across short-to-medium distance without wasting between two to three seasons digging a tunnel under the southern US border. Griffons are also known to take a derisive stance when it comes to annoying ballerinas such as Sylvia -this is why the namesake ogre was spared her life in the film, on grounds of being entertaining. Which makes them relevant to this story.

On the other hand, Mexicans are partial to big asses.

Dr. Housekeeping's adventures with leather

As the light starts to bend around the trashcan, I realize it's about time to stop trying to cram and actually take out the trash. The normal-sized garbage bag weighs about 635 kilograms before disposal, and now it's maybe 630 and a bit. I could probably squeeze a few more days, but the smell is getting tricky. Mango pits get a funky aroma after a couple of weeks in the bin. You really cannot trust anyone these days...
Here how it all started. If you have some fruit, lemon juice, an oven and a lot of time you can make fruit leather. I tried it with mango, and while the result was tasty, the work involved was not. Cutting fruit, washing the dishes and watching the oven closely for 11 hours is not a very adventurous story. Before you start to get bored, please accept my apologies. I'll move on.

It was a late, cold autumn. A truffle hog was going to the market in the big city to take care of some business. As he passed through the forest (there's always a forest), Hernandez -the wolf with learning difficulties- gave chase and ate him. Failing to see the financial potential of owning a truffle hog in the long run, the hungry wolf opted for the quick reward instead. Wild mammals are not as evolved as humans and hence not very good at exploiting other innocent creatures for their direct benefit. Trouble is, the hog was expected at the market. His cousin, Fred, was supposed to meet him. More importantly, Fred was supposed to pick up a package of expensive truffles from him. Even more importantly, Fred had strong connections in underground circles. If you think of it, truffles are a bit of an underground thing, too, like moles and buried treasures. However, Fred's connections are much more dangerous than that. And these dangerous connections set in motion to investigate what happened to the package and to Fred's cousin. They sent Foxy, the sniper fox. All this ballyhoo spelled trouble for Hernandez, but he was as bad at spelling as he was at exploiting and was blissfully unaware; happiness is a common trait among the ignorant. He was enjoying an extended siesta after a lovely grill sprinkled with grated truffles.
The smell of grill quickly led Foxy straight to the wolf's lair. Problem is, he was big and strong while she was not. And based on statistics, in confrontations between wolves and foxes the fox rarely wins. A plan was required. As she was struggling for one, Hernandez fell asleep.
He was suddenly woken up by Foxy's incredibly sensual voice, which -in addition to finding himself tied to the bed- made him think an already great day was getting even better. But Foxy had other plans. Ugly plans. And a bag of tools that spelled even more trouble. And no matter how bad he was at spelling, Hernandez realized this wasn't good. And before Foxy reached for the bag, he admitted to everything. At this point it was quite difficult to bring back Fred's cousin but on the plus side most of the truffles were still intact. And this was the most important part of Foxy's mission. Pigs are very human when it comes to prioritizing their own benefit against somebody else's life.
Still, you cannot steal from the baddies and get away untouched. Fred would look weak. And Fred doesn't want to look weak. And Foxy didn't want Fred to think she was weak. Hernandez had to be a dire example for anyone that would consider stealing from Fred in the future. And Foxy had to do the dirty work. She didn't like this. As a sniper, she was more partial remote killing than close encounter. But she had to do it. She reached for the ominously-looking bag and pulled out a... But maybe I'm boring you with this again. Sorry about that, I'll stop.

Wait for it...

There is an amazing ritual going on in few remote villages in the central part of the African continent. When a tiger cub is born the entire village sits around the fire all night and celebrate with singing and dancing the new god's coming into this world. Lions and tigers are considered to be divine spirits of the ancient warriors. It is said for the next seven days after no tiger will attack villagers that have taken part in the ritual, even if they happened to get lost -the villagers, not the tigers- in the woods.
Or at least that's what I'd say if I were a local and tourists bugged me with stupid questions. I would also let them know there's an upcoming ritual in a couple of days, which is very lucky and rare for this time of the year -there's actually one every week in full season, usually on Thursdays but it can be adjusted to follow the schedule of larger groups of tourists- and they are most welcome to it for free, as divinity loves everybody no matter where they're from. It's one of the most important events in the village, and not many are lucky to take part in it. This should keep them in the village for a few more days, giving them more opportunity to buy more magic fridge magnets, exotic spices and traditional products crafted items crafted by the villagers. Well, there is a possibility that the factory in China where the magic magnets and traditional products are being made is magic, so there could be some truth this. And although an untrained nose may not sniff differences between the exotic spices and the mixed-grill condiments at M&S, a keen eye will spot the 'exotic' ones are 4 to 7 times more expensive. Which has to stand for something, right? Right.

During the days before the ritual, many interesting activities may be arranged, such as trips around the village, or even in the village, observing the locals in their day-to-day activities, and giving a hand with day-to-day tasks like cooking or helping around. It's refreshing and almost emotional to see several fat blokes scorching outside in the sun, watching a pot of soup boiling over the fire made of wood they gathered and cut themselves not an hour ago. All this for a small amount of money they paid the host for their trouble, but in return they get to eat natural, unspoiled food. Which is awesome, right? Right. The money will help the villagers buy more food and it will also save them from the trouble of using the electric stove which can be problematic in hot days as the electric grid is already overloaded by the fans they keep on in houses where there are no tourists around.
Trips around the village may be also arranged to watch the wild animals roam free and admire the beautiful nature and landscapes. Well, not so many animals as it's still dry season, and the animals are hiding to protect themselves from the sun; the ginger hyena is particularly vulnerable, as is the emo cobra and the gray dermato-chimp; no, it's not made-up, who would do something like that? There's a different reasonable excuse for the wet season, too, but in reality the locals are not stupid to live very close to wild and dangerous animals. Not even near made-up wild animals, but that's their little secret.
Still, there's plenty of spectacular plants to see. The beanstalk that sparkles in the full moon during the rainy season is fascinating. Simply breath-taking, you should come again and see it then. Also, the grape pineapple has some leaves that at the beginning of dry season -not now, unfortunately, you just missed them- curl up and take a shape of a grape, hence the name. Giraffes eat only those, and the fruit will not be harmed. And after ten years since they have bloomed for the first time, the trunks of dwarf banana-trees no longer float in water. This is how the locals know which bananas are better. Young bananas are more flavorful, of course. Also fascinating is the effect on the price of pineapple, beans and young bananas tomorrow at the market. What? No, it was the same price the other day, honestly.

During the evening before the ritual they'd find out the presence of strangers might upset the divinity after all, but the elderly of village could probably sort this out for around 75$/ person. African tigers are very reasonable when it comes to foreign currency. And so are the drunkards that will sing gibberish and 'dance' wearing 'ceremonial clothing' for a couple of hours during the night in front of a fire for 10$.
All in all, a small price to pay for not knowing there are no tigers in Africa.