If a cow had a chance, it would kill you and everyone you loved.

11/24/08

 

I didn’t have to go into work today. My boss called me on Sunday and told me that Monday was a horrible day to start on account of there was a robbery at the office and someone had up and absconded with the safe. My boss believes that it was an inside job, as the company has received a large cash payment earlier on Friday, and the robbers touched nothing else of value save the safe. Inside job or not, I wonder how two people carrying a largish safe through a relatively populated area of Buenos Aires didn’t attract any bystanders. All the same, no work on Monday, 3 day weekend.

 

11/30/08

This week in recep:

Monday, no work. For reasons previously explained.

Tuesday-Friday, working for the man.

I got to the office Monday to find that besides my boss and I, not a simple other man worked there. Yes, you understand correctly, for the better part of 12 hours I am surrounded by women. That being said, I like my boss, and I appear to be getting along well with my fellow coworkers. However, as I am usually out of the office for the better part of the day, it is really of little concern.

As I was essentially thrown into my role as soon as I touched down in the office, I have a pretty good understanding of my responsibilities to date. However, as my boss seems inclined to unload the entirety of his current job onto me, I feel like my work load will be increasing post haste.

I arrive early to the office, as it allows me the ability to cut out the otherwise obligatory chit chat with my fellow workers about what they did the night before and ohhh did I see the news program where the showed the protesters shutting down the highway again (yes, it happens more frequently than you would imagine). Technically, my responsibilities should lie more on the developmental side of things, but as there is little in the pipeline at the moment, I have branched out to covering a large part of the management side as well. This essentially means that I spend 4 to 5 hours a day, moving between properties in different stages of “user readiness” either checking to make sure that in the previous 48 hours nothing had gone catastrophically wrong or attempting to fix the things that had indeed gone catastrophically wrong. As some of the properties are currently “completed” this sometimes means dealing with unruly and irate tenants, who don’t seem to grasp that in no way did I intend to have their kitchen wall destroyed by the building crew working next door. As it stands, we are currently in discussions with said construction crew, over who is technically responsible for said wall’s destruction; the wall for being there, or their free swinging hammers which apparently had minds of their own. More to come on that front.

All that being said, I love my job.

 

My carousing has taken a bit of a hit, as per the 7 am office call time I generally have to make, however there remains fun and strange things to get embroiled in everywhere.

Last night, for example, I went to a traditional asado or barbecue, hosted by one of my friends here. One could say that it was reminiscent of barbecues we have back home, but like most things here, the similarities are shallow, and once you look a little deeper you remember, “ohh yeah, I’m in bizaro-america.” Gas grills, apparently they exist, but I’ve yet to meet anyone who owns, has seen, or knows someone who has seen one. There something like the “Bigfoot” of Argentina. Envision, if you will, a metal contraption consisting of nothing more than metal legs, a laterally moveable grill bit, and a receptacle area for putting charcoal. Further envision, that the charcoal you are using, appears to have been stored here from prior to WWII. Throw a grease trap on the front, and the fact that the entire mechanism wobbles just a little too much for my taste, and you have a guaranteed house fire within the first 6 months of use. Hmmmmm, tastes delicious.

All these obstacles aside, the Argentineans appear to be phenomenal grillers. The hosts threw what appeared to be the entirety of a calf (though I was assured it was just part of a full grown animal) onto the grill, worked their magic with the charcoal/other and within two hours the 15 of use were inhaling perfectly cooked steaks of varying forms. There were accompanying dishes, apparently someone had prepared a chicken, though from where it came and how it was still warm, I am at a loss.

After dinner, during the early stages of food coma, someone decided that we should play a game, something where one person stands up and tries to act out the title of a movie without saying any words, hoping that their teammates will be able to discover the title through varying forms of divination.  I had the uncommonly good luck of determining correctly that Diego was attempting to portray “attack of the killer tomatoes,” and when all was said and done, we ended up winning by a margin of one. I think we all know who was responsible. Also, for those of you who have not seen “attack of the killer tomatoes” since it came out some 25 years ago, I highly recommend it. I watched it the other day, and I truthfully tell you that it toes the line between brilliant and “lock them up and throw away the key” insane, but you will not be lacking for laughs.

 

I am currently without clean clothes, as the Chinese gentlemen on the corner has yet to open, even though his sign says he opens at 9, and it is currently 12. I believe he may be spiting me, as a result of me not having gone to pick it up yesterday afternoon, after explaining to him how important it was that he get it done as quickly as possible, as I had other engagements. Coincidentally, I slept without sheets last night. If I get the impression that he is indeed spiting me, I will devise some dastardly and devious torture for him the next time around. Perhaps I will show up with a basket of all black clothes and demand that they be spotlessly white when he gives them back. That, or I will only drop off one half of every pair of socks I have, making him account for the missing halfs when I return to pick them up. Better yet, I write “left” on every sock I have, as ask him where the fuck are all my “rights.” I’m open to any suggestions anyone might have.