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| "Jesus g'on walk right off this bus" |
Tuesday, May 29, 2012
WhileUWait
Just to tide you over until my next hilarious and well-written installment; here is a picture of 'Public Transport Kanye' that I took this morning.
Friday, May 25, 2012
Apparently, our drugs are good for you?
Hi-de-hi campers!
So, I am learning from the two short weeks that I have been here in the US, that yanks luuuurve meetings. I mean they LUUURVE them. I have never been invited to so many in my entire (albeit diminutive) working life. Meetings to brainstorm, meetings to discuss the brainstorm, meetings about meetings, meetings where they set up more meetings. It's insane. But I am also learning that Americans are ridiculously articulate. Well, the ones I work with anyway.
I've always thought that (when not in one of my many rioja-induced hazes) I was a relatively eloquent speaker; no Stephen Fry, but at the same time no Wayne Rooney. Turns out that, in this office: I'm actually a blathering nitwit. Perhaps it's because I'm still finding my feet here, not just in the US but also in the field of pharmaceutical marketing. I tell you what - there is a reason the UK does not advertise prescription drugs, and now I know why. It's a veritable smorgasbord of rules and limitations: how not to structure your website, what you should NEVER do, what you can SOMETIMES do, the endless ways in which the FDA says you could detract from ISIs and PIs (Important Safety Information and Prescribing Information) by using the wrong colour or a graphic that's too animated. It's so overwhelming and complicated I have begun to feel like the best way to deal with a particularly difficult client brief would be to lodge a bullet in my cranium. The only thing to reassure me that life is worth living is the chocolate and sweetie basket on the reception desk, although most of the time it's full of Hershey's, which I maintain is basically the reformed and reshaped contents of a dog's bowel (rather comically, Blink 182's 'I Wanna Fuck a Dog in the Ass' just started on iTunes).
Anyway, my tangential ramblings are rather appropriate given that I can't seem to be able to articulate my thoughts in a manner any more sophisticated than would a 2 year old. I think my problems are two-fold: 1) The lingo is ridiculously hard to pick up - especially after only two weeks (the endless acronyms on their own would warrant hours of memorisation) and 2) I have absolutely no idea about pharma marketing, as it's (literally) a foreign concept to me. The same can be said of the exploding hot can of crazy they call their healthcare system. It's so fucked it's unbelievable. Essentially if you don't have a job in the US - you have no healthcare insurance whatsoever. Another win (aside from better chocolate) for the Brits on that front; as the NHS may not be glamorous but at least it gets the job done and we don't have to worry about astronomical medical bills after we've been treated. Let's hope B'Obama sorts that out if he's re-elected.
But ANYWAY. Rant over. In other news YET MORE crazies have been flying about like bees round the proverbial honey pot (i.e. me). I thought I had dropped my Smartrip card at the bus stop yesterday and the (yes, black) man at the stop said "Don't worry ma'am (WHEN DID I BECOME A MA'AM?!) you haven't dropped nothin'." I pretended to ignore the double negative and continued to scrabble around in my ill-advised cavernous handbag for the bastard thing while this man continued to attempt to engage me in conversation. Clearly he did not pick up on my signals, instead clocking my accent and asking me if I was from London, coming to sit next to me on the bus and launching into a story about how he has never visited London and would love to show me around DC. He then continued on to the merits of cricket versus American football and the crazy weather we've been having. I was less than enthused and spent most of the conversation frantically working out a way to get out of it politely, especially since his breath smelt like he had recently ingested a rabid cat. Turns out; there is no polite way, so I was shackled into this conversation for the long-haul.
So basically what I learnt from this not-so-brief encounter was that his name was Henri ("with an i!"), he claimed to be a theatre teacher, invited me to come and watch a production of Macbeth he was 'directing' and tried to take my phone number. I managed to tell the truth and say I didn't have a US number yet but he still insisted I take his. Sigh. There's a number I won't be calling. Why is it never an attractive doctor or sexy musician that strikes up a conversation? Why the creepy middle-aged drama teachers? Perhaps that is my lot in life and I must accept it.
Anywho, long Memorial Day weekend to look forward to now. And a certain Frisky Chick is winging her way into town! Happy days! I'm off to celebrate like a cool kid with a hot chocolate.
C xx
So, I am learning from the two short weeks that I have been here in the US, that yanks luuuurve meetings. I mean they LUUURVE them. I have never been invited to so many in my entire (albeit diminutive) working life. Meetings to brainstorm, meetings to discuss the brainstorm, meetings about meetings, meetings where they set up more meetings. It's insane. But I am also learning that Americans are ridiculously articulate. Well, the ones I work with anyway.
I've always thought that (when not in one of my many rioja-induced hazes) I was a relatively eloquent speaker; no Stephen Fry, but at the same time no Wayne Rooney. Turns out that, in this office: I'm actually a blathering nitwit. Perhaps it's because I'm still finding my feet here, not just in the US but also in the field of pharmaceutical marketing. I tell you what - there is a reason the UK does not advertise prescription drugs, and now I know why. It's a veritable smorgasbord of rules and limitations: how not to structure your website, what you should NEVER do, what you can SOMETIMES do, the endless ways in which the FDA says you could detract from ISIs and PIs (Important Safety Information and Prescribing Information) by using the wrong colour or a graphic that's too animated. It's so overwhelming and complicated I have begun to feel like the best way to deal with a particularly difficult client brief would be to lodge a bullet in my cranium. The only thing to reassure me that life is worth living is the chocolate and sweetie basket on the reception desk, although most of the time it's full of Hershey's, which I maintain is basically the reformed and reshaped contents of a dog's bowel (rather comically, Blink 182's 'I Wanna Fuck a Dog in the Ass' just started on iTunes).
Anyway, my tangential ramblings are rather appropriate given that I can't seem to be able to articulate my thoughts in a manner any more sophisticated than would a 2 year old. I think my problems are two-fold: 1) The lingo is ridiculously hard to pick up - especially after only two weeks (the endless acronyms on their own would warrant hours of memorisation) and 2) I have absolutely no idea about pharma marketing, as it's (literally) a foreign concept to me. The same can be said of the exploding hot can of crazy they call their healthcare system. It's so fucked it's unbelievable. Essentially if you don't have a job in the US - you have no healthcare insurance whatsoever. Another win (aside from better chocolate) for the Brits on that front; as the NHS may not be glamorous but at least it gets the job done and we don't have to worry about astronomical medical bills after we've been treated. Let's hope B'Obama sorts that out if he's re-elected.
But ANYWAY. Rant over. In other news YET MORE crazies have been flying about like bees round the proverbial honey pot (i.e. me). I thought I had dropped my Smartrip card at the bus stop yesterday and the (yes, black) man at the stop said "Don't worry ma'am (WHEN DID I BECOME A MA'AM?!) you haven't dropped nothin'." I pretended to ignore the double negative and continued to scrabble around in my ill-advised cavernous handbag for the bastard thing while this man continued to attempt to engage me in conversation. Clearly he did not pick up on my signals, instead clocking my accent and asking me if I was from London, coming to sit next to me on the bus and launching into a story about how he has never visited London and would love to show me around DC. He then continued on to the merits of cricket versus American football and the crazy weather we've been having. I was less than enthused and spent most of the conversation frantically working out a way to get out of it politely, especially since his breath smelt like he had recently ingested a rabid cat. Turns out; there is no polite way, so I was shackled into this conversation for the long-haul.
So basically what I learnt from this not-so-brief encounter was that his name was Henri ("with an i!"), he claimed to be a theatre teacher, invited me to come and watch a production of Macbeth he was 'directing' and tried to take my phone number. I managed to tell the truth and say I didn't have a US number yet but he still insisted I take his. Sigh. There's a number I won't be calling. Why is it never an attractive doctor or sexy musician that strikes up a conversation? Why the creepy middle-aged drama teachers? Perhaps that is my lot in life and I must accept it.
Anywho, long Memorial Day weekend to look forward to now. And a certain Frisky Chick is winging her way into town! Happy days! I'm off to celebrate like a cool kid with a hot chocolate.
C xx
Friday, May 18, 2012
Attack of the Crazies
So, update:
The rule of attraction regarding the crazies seems to be holding firm.
On my way home from work on the bus yesterday, a VERY drunk man staggered on in an alarmingly horizontal manner. I actually thought he had fallen down; being stationary and horizontal and all, but it turns out he was just attempting to pick up his shoebox (?!) and bag in his bungalow-ed stupor. Once he had finally arranged all his belongings at the feet of another female bus passenger on the opposite side of the bus (who managed to pull off looking confused and annoyed all at the same time), he sat down, joy of joys, in front of yours truly.
Once he had arranged his alcohol-scented self into an acceptable seated position; he began to mutter things under his breath. I couldn't make it out at first, even though I had stealthily put my iPod on pause but retained the earphones (I should have been a spy). However, it seems that, in a serendipitous twist of fate and a harmonious aligning of the universe; he read my mind, and the decibel level of his mutterings increased to that of a full blown rant. A rant misguidedly aimed mainly at the innocent woman he was sat next to, who I believe he thought was his ex-wife. He continued along the lines of "*garble garble*...throw me out on the street...tell me never to come back *garble* never see my kid again...*swig from hip flask* I woke up and she was gone...*garble*" At this point I began to feel quite sympathetic towards him. He'd obviously been through a lot and it was just unfortunately spewing out of him in an intoxicated soliloquy on public transport. When the unsuspecting female passenger finally reached her limit and stood up to complain to the driver, the man immediately started on the offensive, "Oh so you g'on call the poh-lice on me? Well let me off yo' goddamn bus. You call the poh-lice I'ma smack you in the mouth." Interesting journey home to say the least. Thank God he got off before he realised how fascinated I was by the whole scenario.
Oh and in other news, my brand new kettle is on its way (woop) and the hand soap in my office loos smells like marzipan. It's offensive.
I'm off to try and write an RTC blog about Google Knowledge Graphs that doesn't sound like the ramblings of a retard.
Laterz xx
The rule of attraction regarding the crazies seems to be holding firm.
On my way home from work on the bus yesterday, a VERY drunk man staggered on in an alarmingly horizontal manner. I actually thought he had fallen down; being stationary and horizontal and all, but it turns out he was just attempting to pick up his shoebox (?!) and bag in his bungalow-ed stupor. Once he had finally arranged all his belongings at the feet of another female bus passenger on the opposite side of the bus (who managed to pull off looking confused and annoyed all at the same time), he sat down, joy of joys, in front of yours truly.
Once he had arranged his alcohol-scented self into an acceptable seated position; he began to mutter things under his breath. I couldn't make it out at first, even though I had stealthily put my iPod on pause but retained the earphones (I should have been a spy). However, it seems that, in a serendipitous twist of fate and a harmonious aligning of the universe; he read my mind, and the decibel level of his mutterings increased to that of a full blown rant. A rant misguidedly aimed mainly at the innocent woman he was sat next to, who I believe he thought was his ex-wife. He continued along the lines of "*garble garble*...throw me out on the street...tell me never to come back *garble* never see my kid again...*swig from hip flask* I woke up and she was gone...*garble*" At this point I began to feel quite sympathetic towards him. He'd obviously been through a lot and it was just unfortunately spewing out of him in an intoxicated soliloquy on public transport. When the unsuspecting female passenger finally reached her limit and stood up to complain to the driver, the man immediately started on the offensive, "Oh so you g'on call the poh-lice on me? Well let me off yo' goddamn bus. You call the poh-lice I'ma smack you in the mouth." Interesting journey home to say the least. Thank God he got off before he realised how fascinated I was by the whole scenario.
Oh and in other news, my brand new kettle is on its way (woop) and the hand soap in my office loos smells like marzipan. It's offensive.
I'm off to try and write an RTC blog about Google Knowledge Graphs that doesn't sound like the ramblings of a retard.
Laterz xx
Wednesday, May 16, 2012
In the (almost) words of Sting; I'm an Englishman in D.C.
So, my first week in DC is drawing to a close. Ironically, it feels like a thousand years since I left Heathrow, stumbling away from my parents and through security in a misty fog of tears like a scene from a depressing country song. I think it's because I've seen so much, done so many new things and met so many new people in such a short amount of time that a week here equates to about 6 months of my normal life in London. So hopefully once I grow more accustomed to life here time will start to go by at a normal speed, and not continue at a pace akin to that of an arthritic grandmother.
But on first impressions, DC is a pretty special city. Very different from London, a lot more chilled out and laid-back (apart from car drivers - who seem to take pleasure in honking at anything and anyone. Even the fire engines toot their way down the road, as apparently the blaring siren in its own right just isn't enough; thus a deafening cacophony of both is seemingly more appropriate). I was appalled to find that the Metro (DC's tube equivalent) only comes every 10 minutes on weekends! The rage is palpable if I have to wait more than 3 in London. How do these people survive on such paltry transport regularity?! And also THERE IS NO KETTLE IN THE KITCHEN AT MY HOUSE. WTF?! Don't they know they are putting up an English person who basically survives on tea? I cannot continue boiling water in the microwave. It is just wrong. And when I put the tea bag in (Yorkshire, brought over with me specially) it goes all frothy. Gross.
But anyway, on I go to Foggy Bottom (teehee) metro stop every morning and, as promised by everyone I know who has been to DC; Georgetown is beautiful. Like the Notting Hill of London, except with a canal and a river. And an abundance of Americans. All the streets are tree-lined, there are cobbled streets, cute jewellery shops and sweet little bars and restaurants. There's even an Irish pub I might try out one of these days. If Georgetown was filled with English people instead of crazy yanks, it would be the perfect town!
That being said I am steadily growing rather fond of my new countrymen, they're so straight-talking and confident it's hard not to be simultaneously intimidated and impressed by them. The other day on my first bus journey downtown, a friendly, loud-talking black guy got on after me, started having a loud conversation with the driver about Mother's Day, then turned to me, asking "And how 'bout you miss? D'you have a mother? Did you have a wonderful mother's day?" To which I replied, "My mother is back home in London, so unfortunately I didn't get to see her." He then proceeded to yell "Well I'll be damned! Are you a mother?" I politely explained that I am 23 and thus hoping not to become a mother for quite some time, then returned to my map of DC and pretended to study it furiously.
Obviously this incident in itself is a culture shock; as being a born and bred Londoner if anyone speaks to me on the street they may as well be holding a gun to my face. It could be something that I have to get used to, either that or I must accept the fact that I just generally attract the crazies.
I'm two days into my job now, but as it's the settling in period and my colleagues are just finishing off projects there's not a lot for me to do yet. So I'm here, writing my blog, all chilled out in my little cubicle. But something tells me that in a few more days, shit is about to get REAL. My boss wants me to start project managing things. I have never really project managed anything in my life (apart from my boyfriend's wardrobe choices), so it should be an interesting/stressful experience. At least I get to write, which I think will be the best thing about this job.
Stay tuned for more tales from the East Coast. :) I'm off to sit outside at Starbucks by the harbour. Laterz.
C xx
But on first impressions, DC is a pretty special city. Very different from London, a lot more chilled out and laid-back (apart from car drivers - who seem to take pleasure in honking at anything and anyone. Even the fire engines toot their way down the road, as apparently the blaring siren in its own right just isn't enough; thus a deafening cacophony of both is seemingly more appropriate). I was appalled to find that the Metro (DC's tube equivalent) only comes every 10 minutes on weekends! The rage is palpable if I have to wait more than 3 in London. How do these people survive on such paltry transport regularity?! And also THERE IS NO KETTLE IN THE KITCHEN AT MY HOUSE. WTF?! Don't they know they are putting up an English person who basically survives on tea? I cannot continue boiling water in the microwave. It is just wrong. And when I put the tea bag in (Yorkshire, brought over with me specially) it goes all frothy. Gross.
But anyway, on I go to Foggy Bottom (teehee) metro stop every morning and, as promised by everyone I know who has been to DC; Georgetown is beautiful. Like the Notting Hill of London, except with a canal and a river. And an abundance of Americans. All the streets are tree-lined, there are cobbled streets, cute jewellery shops and sweet little bars and restaurants. There's even an Irish pub I might try out one of these days. If Georgetown was filled with English people instead of crazy yanks, it would be the perfect town!
That being said I am steadily growing rather fond of my new countrymen, they're so straight-talking and confident it's hard not to be simultaneously intimidated and impressed by them. The other day on my first bus journey downtown, a friendly, loud-talking black guy got on after me, started having a loud conversation with the driver about Mother's Day, then turned to me, asking "And how 'bout you miss? D'you have a mother? Did you have a wonderful mother's day?" To which I replied, "My mother is back home in London, so unfortunately I didn't get to see her." He then proceeded to yell "Well I'll be damned! Are you a mother?" I politely explained that I am 23 and thus hoping not to become a mother for quite some time, then returned to my map of DC and pretended to study it furiously.
Obviously this incident in itself is a culture shock; as being a born and bred Londoner if anyone speaks to me on the street they may as well be holding a gun to my face. It could be something that I have to get used to, either that or I must accept the fact that I just generally attract the crazies.
I'm two days into my job now, but as it's the settling in period and my colleagues are just finishing off projects there's not a lot for me to do yet. So I'm here, writing my blog, all chilled out in my little cubicle. But something tells me that in a few more days, shit is about to get REAL. My boss wants me to start project managing things. I have never really project managed anything in my life (apart from my boyfriend's wardrobe choices), so it should be an interesting/stressful experience. At least I get to write, which I think will be the best thing about this job.
Stay tuned for more tales from the East Coast. :) I'm off to sit outside at Starbucks by the harbour. Laterz.
C xx
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