Thursday, November 17, 2016

P as in Peaver

Tales from the Institute. I love my job.

1. While on an hour long phone call trying to get the Institute projector fixed, I had the following exchange with a customer service representative:

Rep: That's "p" as in "peaver"
Me: Excuse me?
Re: P as in Peaver
Me: B as in Beaver?
Rep: No P as in Peaver
Me: P as in Paul?
Rep: No P as in Peaver
Me: B as in Boy
Rep: Yes. P as in Peaver

The projector was still not working by the end of the phone call but we wiggled some cords and it unfroze and when it asked for a password that we did not have we tried 0000 and like magic it started working.

2. I cook lunch every Thursday for the kids. It's usually an easy meal, sandwiches or something in the crockpot. But every Thanksgiving, per tradition, I have to cook enough large pieces of meat to feed 40 people (half of them football players) for our lunch and I gag over turkey giblets or warm gelatinous ham fat because I am a delicate flower and can only handle cooking meat in small portions and I end up weeping in a corner questioning all the decisions I've made in life that led me to this point. This year I decided to not be a dummy and we had a BBQ instead. I put our director at the grill and all I had to do was chop vegetables and mix the Kool-aid. The kids don't care what they eat and there was zero gagging! There was a small casualty, though. I took over at the grill for a little bit and as I went to flip a burger there was a terrific bang and a burst of flames and suddenly most of the hair on my right arm was singed off. I still have my eyebrows, thank heavens. The lighter, which had been sitting on the stand next to the grill, had exploded and shot off over the roof. But I think lost arm hair is a small price to pay for not having to put my hand inside a turkey to pull out its neck and guts.

3. Before lunch today a guy walked in asking if he could borrow a cup and our microwave to warm up his tea, which he had in a gallon jug and looked to be just water with lettuce and orange peels in it. I pointed him in the direction of the kitchen and asked his name and he said, "It's Jeremy, but that one doesn't matter. People call me Emmanuel. That's the important one." I didn't want to break it to him that at least once a semester we have some vagabond wander in calling himself Emmanuel and prophesying. He reached out to shake my hand then got very serious and said, "I believe you are going to marry the greatest man." Then he went off to the kitchen to drink his tea out of a flower vase. I get this often. When you're a single Mormon woman of a certain age people like to be encouraging and to be honest, though well intended I can do without it. But if a drifter comes in and makes such a pronouncement like he's Professor Trelawny I suppose I should take it. 

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