Stormig

I don't think that dress codes in school get to the source of the problem. Girls still wear whatever they want out on the street - and what about harassment then? The right thing to do is teach respect to people for the choices they make. Otherwise there is no point in teaching algebra and physics to those brains... You might not be able to do anything about the dude on the street, but someone who receives an education ought to sport a better attitude, no? I think this is no less important than sex education. Oh wait, the Amerikanskis have it bad - Bush and his loony goones threw that out.

No more than you do...

Because the goody-me-two-bits in the world community have to pontificate and feel superior for not wearing thongs and low waists. Likely if it weren't an inconvenience they would also wear ball-room outfits or Amish dresses, aprons, and bonnets and furthermore pontificate about that, too, and gratify themselves about what a great example they were setting the next generation by scrunching their noses at anyone different. It's the saviour in them. They will also only pass gas in the WC and suffer the consequences when they get older.

Go ahead and tell that to his family if you have an ounce of integrity.

Dull as a pontificating piano key...

Again Hrant would have been proud of you.

Hrant would have been proud of you.

Why, it went the way of the bath-vomiting Romans, the ghastly Mayans, and the incesting Egyptians, because all walked around nude and didn't know what to pass on to the next generations other than a few founding principles of the sciences. If they had covered up and held some ideals maybe they might have been pontificating today. Oh right, you are against "animalistic needs" such as dressing down when one should be involved in more virtuous pursuits, such as ideals.

I think an advanced society knows when to harness instinct and when to control it - mind over matter. In this respect I think the Saudis and Taliban are losers, and whatever "progress" is achieved in the direction we're headed in is probably going to be called "doing better"... A Saudi may as well say, "People should know where to stop and what is too much, and obviously a miniskirt is too much!" when for us "too much" is walking with a bikini and stilettos. (That reminds me of Kate Nauta in Transporter II.) It is all relative. Change is threatening only when it takes place too quickly for the medium to assimilate it. I don't think we're there yet. And unfortunately indeed there are classes of people who get jump-starts with their looks and what-not. It has always been this way and always will be, unless one works in the sciences, where mind over matter matters the most. Otherwise board meetings may well be held with capes and masks to justify the Wahabbites or teddy bear outfits as in "The Avengers"... Such is life.

That is a TOTALLY puritanical, Judeo-Christian point of view, aiming to segregate human "animalistic" nature from brain power and progress and culture. BS. The ancient Greeks played their sports totally nude - "Eeeeeeeeeew, how distasteful!!!!!!!!" - which is why sports arenas were called GYMNasia, as in GYMNOsperm. That did not stop them from inspiring civilisation for millenia to come, did it, unlike the heritage of the Middle East? Next time we'll go not to the gym but to the burqa. For the life of me, do you people also cover up statues or paintings of naked beauties and teach the next generation to do so as well?

That is exactly my point. Half a century ago people probably said the same about miniskirts - that it was mating behaviour or what have you, something women engaged in involuntarily. Today it is viewed as totally acceptable and "cute" instead of overtly sexy, something that should be curbed to "maintain social order" - that sounds like something you'd read off the Taliban's website, and we already know what they say about our lifestyle and how they think women should dress and comport, and they, too, argue about the virtues of distancing, isolating, women from their sexuality, so that men don't stray... The concern with desensitising probably doesn't mean that Saudis have the best sex lives, either. Granted, a lot depends on the context and setting - but if we come back to the point about dress codes/restricting views of cracks, these are different times, and they may as well become totally acceptable instead of looked down on, regardless of BMI. Same with walking around naked - although I pray I won't have to see scrota hanging from under waist bands or something within my lifetime. I just don't see the point in resisting change or getting worked up about it.

So what about "tops" and "mid-rifs"? They're not worn on the beach, but they show as much skin. Most resort towns tolerate bikini tops over shorts or skirts. And what about mini-skirts and shorts themselves? Women wearing pants and short hair? They were frowned upon, too. But they are common-place today. The world is headed in a certain direction, whether we like it or not. I personally don't - including all the sporting of butt cracks or anything of the sort. But there is no choice other than to catch up with the world or remain... I don't know... Square, maybe? Besides, the mention of rape does not bode well for this argument. It is the rapist that has problems with restraint and respect for infringing on another's rights, not the mini-skirt wearing or nudist who wishes to make a statement - or whatever. To make excuses for men's hormones may very well turn into blaming the victim, or it may excuse women's asking for rescheduling of exams or for make-up tests because of their PMS or the like. By the same token heaven forbid a Saudi driving along the French coast. "Legs!!!" and crash. Then he can whine to the police officer about all that skin. Decades from now people will likely be laughing at our arguments.

http://www.agos.com.tr/eng/index.php?modul...34&cat_id=3 “How happy those days were!” Middle Pages Issue:596 31 August 2007 When my elders told me of the Vartavar celebration in Marattu, I confess I had a hard time believing it. Did Christians and Muslims really celebrate the name day of a holy shrine together, taking it in turn sacrificing animals and welcoming each other in their respective feasts? Although we moved to Istanbul 34 years ago, each and every Sasun tradition and celebration continued in our household. The Marattu celebrations were one of these. http://www.agos.com.tr/eng/pics/734.jpg My mama put the yarma wheat on the stove early in the morning of Vartavar day according to the Rumi calendar. She stirred and crushed the cooked wheat with a wooden spoon and served the khus (keşkek) she made to guests with melted chili butter, saying, "I made it because it is the name day of the Marattu Church." (She should have made bulgur pilaff and meat but for whatever reason, she preferred making khus which was served on the day of our village church.) After the khus was eaten, the bundle of remembrances of Marattu celebrations would be opened up, these days would sometimes be recalled with laughter, sometimes with tears, and the memories would be bundled up again each time with the same sentence: "Kesser Murad ernank en orerun!" ("How happy those days were!" in Sasun Armenian) These remembrances increased my wish to attend the celebrations still held jointly, though not as magnificently as before. Finally my wishes came true. I finished all preparations days earlier. I worked hard to convince my mama to come along to Sasun although I was going to go with relatives. This proved harder than expected. She kept on saying she wanted to remember the places her family once lived with the good memories she retained and refused to come. I finally managed to convince her the day before my departure and called the airport close to midnight to reserve her ticket. At the ´Ayn-khral´ fountain We had been told that the road now extended to the village and transportation was easy. But when we turned to the road that led to the village, we found it to be difficult to even walk on, let alone travel by car. It should have been called a path rather than a road. The village leader (muhtar) immediately gave us the explanation: "Although they resurface the road 7-8 times a year by machine, the unpaved road is damaged after the rain." In the narrow turns we took, the muhtar made masterly manoeuvres between the road and the cliff several times as we went up the mountain. We went at a speed of 20 kilometres for an hour. The muhtar stopped the car for a water break. It had grown dark. Under the car´s headlights, I noticed the fountain below. When I learned the name of the fountain was ´Ayn-khral´, I remembered that my aunt had asked me to drink from the Ayn-khral for her. I drank deeply from the Ayn-khral fountain for my aunt and for all Sasunians longing for its waters. In the lands where ancestors sleep At the end of our difficult journey on the worn path, skipping from pothole to pothole, we arrived at the Purşenk (Kayadibi) village, located at the top instead of mountain skirts like the other villages. We were now in the lands my mama left when she married young, the lands in whose lap she entrusted her entire family to sleep. When we went past a house with its door closed, mama told me that it was my aunt´s home, left behind when they moved to Istanbul 16 years ago. I remembered uncle Ekkan, who said on his hospital bed, "The road now extends to the village. If you go next year, I´ll go with you and see my village, my fields", and died a few months later. I was sure he was there with us. There were just four of us from Istanbul, but I felt that we were far more in number. The minute we entered mama´s uncle´s home, tears welled up. It was impossible to sleep on the mattresses on the floor at night. For a moment I wondered whether it was a good idea to insist to mama, who cries even during the evening news. In tears at the Armenian cemetery The next day we went to the Armenian cemetery where all mama´s relatives were buried except for her mother who died in the Diyarbakır State Hospital and was buried there. They said that since no priests remained in the region after 1915, those dying after that date were buried without a religious ceremony. In the graves marked by large stones, my grandfather, his father and brothers were laid side by side. Mama had visited all her family´s graves as soon as she arrived in Sasun and her eyes were already red from crying; this time she was more sanguine. "Your grandfathers were buried without a religious ceremony. If you sing hymns and pray at their graves, I will feel a bit better." I knew the hymns since I sang in the church choir. As I sang ´I verin Yerusaghem´, I could not help my tears. I don´t know how acceptable it will be to God since, I was able to sing only those portions sung by the tıbir (singers) from the funeral mass as we prayed for those buried there. But my mama was comforted a little after the hymns I sung and the ´Hayr Mer´. I, too, wiped away my tears and comforted myself by saying, "at least my grandfather´s grave is known." At least, he was sleeping with other family members in an Armenian cemetery, in the village he was born. I also visited Sarkis´ grave who died in a traffic accident seven years ago on the way from Istanbul to his village and was buried here next to his mother and father according to his wishes. Since he, too, had been buried without religious ceremony, his daughter had specially requested it. I prayed and sang hymns at his grave. In the cemetery located on the road to Pızgank, I noticed large tombstones arrayed in orderly fashion. All were without inscription but one, which had a portion of its Armenian inscription worn away, so that it was impossible to make out the name. After praying at the graves of my mother´s aunt and uncle, we went back, comforted. Towards Marattu We woke up the next morning, around five. By the time our group of 7, two of whom were children, set out from Purşenk village to go to the pastures of Marattu Mountain, it was already past seven. We found the road to be difficult although we took the Karmısur path. During our frequent stops, mama pointed out to settlements in the villages and explained "Look, this is Ismo´s village, this is the Pışut village." After pointing out the villages, the tale of Ceyrokar (Ceyrotaş) and the ancient tale of Ispidak Aghpur (White Fountain) - although now dry, it was reputed once to be on this spot - were told once more. I listened eagerly to every tale, having been born in these lands where tales of supernatural events and petrified people are still told. As we went up beyond Ispidak Aghpur, we came across the rotting corpses of around two hundred sheep, died ten days ago in flooding rain and freezing cold towards midnight. It took us five hours to reach Murattu Pasture since we stopped often. They told us the name of the mountain seen from the pasture, which welcomed us with green plants, butterflies and ladybugs, was ´Şehbazit´. We saw a few women walking towards Şehbazit. Of the women´s visit, it was said, "It´s Şehbazit´s day. Since they are off to visit, one of them must have given birth recently." Life on the edge of the cliff I wondered why the place we were in was called ´Golir´ (Lakes) although there were no lakes around. When I asked, they told me that as the snow melted, small lakes formed in the pasture and temporarily the pasture was filled with lakes. As I looked around in amazement, mama´s face was filled with sorrow. Tears flew down her cheeks as she showed the places she went as a shepherd. "I did not like to take the animals to pasture. We used to fight with my mama because of it," she said, drawing in her breath: "He lao kesser murad en orerun." As we went inside our pasture home – built of meter-long stone slabs, roofed over with plastic, branches and greenery – I noticed mama was wrecked from sobbing. Since her mother used the house before her uncles, she turned to her uncle and said, “I won´t be your guest tonight, but my mother´s”. When we went outside, all the older women hugged mama, crying and telling her, “Welcome back.” The pasture on the mountain skirt led to a cliff. But the people living here had got used to living on this plain despite the cliffs. They were able to go up and down the cliff while carrying heavy loads on their back. Otnag (Seven Springs in Sasun Armenian) was visible when one looked down into the cliff. One should not be lulled by the peaceful appearance of this place where seven springs are located as the name implies. Carrying water from this spring whose waters fall down many meters below when the snow melts is easy for our people. Noah´s Ark Bışkar was another location known to everyone around. A single rock of many meters´ height, one needs to lie down in order to look down from Bışkar. Showing us the region under snow below, they said, “This is Dabanag. Snow does not disappear for 12 months here. When Noah´s Ark passed through here during the Great Flood, it touched Marattu Mountain and sprang a leak. Marattu told Noah to continue since Mount Ararat was higher. The snake in the Ark plugged the leak and enabled the Ark to reach Ararat.” As we talked of this miracle written in holy books, we were witness to another miracle in Bışkar. Rain falling on Purşenk created a fog and the sky where grey rain clouds had gathered was completely hidden in the fog. I understood why monasteries were built on mountaintops when facing this miracle of nature. “I drank from every spring” I went to watch the singing and row dancing in the pastures of the Goşag village. 10-15 people were dancing. They invited me, but I was satisfied just to watch. I had drunk from every spring I came across since I arrived in Sasun. Perhaps for this reason, or perhaps because of the sheep milk I drank at lunch, I felt ill and left the Goşag pasture early. Towards the morning, when I arose from the mattress laid on the floor, I noticed that besides my stomach, my entire body ached. I had to be on my way in order to catch the sunrise, but I didn´t have the strength. I thought I didn´t turn out to be very hardy. My brother in law was waiting by the bedside and he said, "you need to get up if you´re going to go to Marattu." I felt so weak that giving up on the church, I said "I won´t be able to come." He insisted. I got up after pulling myself together a bit. I dressed in the white clothes I had prepared days earlier like my ancestors. It was too late to watch the sun rise. It was already five thirty. Breakfast was ready but I had no appetite. When I went to my mama, I saw that she was feeling worse. She said, "The sadness and the ache in my legs... And as if these were not enough, the sound grasshoppers make as they eat the grass on the plastic... I couldn´t sleep until the morning. I can´t go up to the church in this state." I insisted, but to no avail this time. A different sacrifice Men who left the village before sunrise had already reached the pastures. Besides the sacrifices to be slaughtered by the village folk, there were about 20 sacrifices in the name of Armenians living in Istanbul. Even if they no longer lived there, they would fulfill (in absentia) their duty as host in these celebrations just like in the old days and the meat of sacrifices done in their name would be sent to other pastures and neighbours in their villages. Those noticing that I was not slaughtering a sacrifice told me, “Since you came for the first time, you need to slaughter a sacrifice.” I was happy to have arrived under the same conditions as my ancestors, using the paths they took to Marattu, to have drunk from the same springs they used, to have slept in the same places. But I wanted to do something different from them for the first time. Instead of slaughtering a goat or a sheep, I decided to donate its cost to an educational foundation for children. After the slaughter of the sacrifices, we set off on the road to church. My strength came back after a while and I started feeling better. We continued on our path, making stops along the way and reached the hilltop where the church was located after an hour and a half. I was in front of the church located at the very top of the 2973 metre high Marattu Mountain. The church was much smaller than I expected. It was built of stone held together with grout and it had stood against nature for centuries. But it was much damaged from human destruction. Since even its iron door was removed and taken apart in the hopes of finding gold, we were told it had been without a door for a long time. Mystical surroundings Entering the doorway on the verge of ruin, we found ourselves in a mystical environment – created by the light of the wax candles lit by previous visitors. In front of a window that looked ready to collapse and on top of a small outcrop on the left wall, I lit the candles I brought from the Samatya Surp Kevork Church and prayed for all the warm hearted people that once lived here. The crowd of 10-15 people left the church to go back. There were just three of us left in the church. With my voice trembling, I sung hymns in the candlelight. Walking among the ruined sections, I came across two large stones with crosses. It seemed as if inscribed stones had been taken away. There were just two stones left. I could easily see Bitlis, Siirt, Muş and Sasun from where I was. At some point I noticed that ladybugs were like red spots on my white shirt. It was time to depart. I wondered whether fate would allow me come back. I entered the church for the last time and prayed. A bouquet of miron flowers We came across miron flowers on our way back. Since I had seen them as small dried bouquets in every Sasunian who moved to Istanbul, I was not a stranger to these small yellow flowers. I gathered a small bouquet of these beautiful flowers of Marattu Mountain for myself. We went across the snowy side of the mountain although it lengthened our journey back to the pasture. Not only did we taste the snow, we slid down like children. We were the last back to the pasture. Everybody had already eaten the delicious food consisting of bulgur pilaff, tandır, braised liver and tandır bread. As they drank their tea, I could not help but taste the offered braised liver although I had no appetite. The youth of the Taşlıca (Goşag) village started dancing to songs. The Purşenk villagers showed no inclination to stand up. All of a sudden I felt the need to interfere. I went to a group of young women and said, “Have the Purşenk villagers forgotten to dance? I thought they could not sit down on this kind of day,” and a few people got up immediately to dance. Next I went to some older women and asked them to join in as well. They told me in their broken Turkish that they had not danced for years, but they could not resist my insistence and joined in the dancing. When the Goşag village youth joined in, the group got larger. As we danced hand-in-hand, shoulder-to-shoulder, young and old, male and female, I thought I was lucky to be there, witness to this incomparable celebration. Good-bye to Purşenk When the time came to depart, we said good-bye to everyone including the children and set out on the road. The road back was shorter but steeper. This meant that it would take us three hours. I noticed my knees were shaking after some time. On our descent, two sons of Polos of Purşenk, who were still living here, accompanied us. When we stopped to rest, I requested that they sing a song their father liked. Two beautiful voices echoed across the skirts of Marattu Mountain: Hoy Nubar Nubar Nubar, Nubar hoy Nubar* Hoy Nubar, Nubar, Nubar can hayran Sasna sarir karubar Nubar ellav sarerun Nısdav hoviv hılerun Ervav timan khuğerun Tamaşer ver yarerun Im yar kim yar vır sirun İmun kıs kımun sirun Hazar ernank ku tirun Bakma du ındzi ku khirun Ku bak hazar ğıruşer… Sasun´s mountains are amber Nubar has gone up the mountain To shepherd the lambs It looked as if she was watching Her lover on the pasture across Whose lover is more handsome, yours or mine? Mine is more handsome How happy are his owners (mother and father) Give a kiss for good will Your kiss is worth a thousand kurush... * Nubar is a female name in our region Mama started crying when she heard this song she used to sing at weddings. When our eyes met, these words tumbled out: “I am glad you brought me here. I said good-bye to my village for the last time.” Remembrances of Marattu Celebrations The celebrations of the Marattu church (*1) were done mostly on the mountain pastures of the Purşenk (Kayadibi), Gağmank (Ekinlik), Goşag (Taşlıca), Tsorakhpi (Yuvalar), Tınget (Karayün) and Haregunk (Yolaç) villages. Muslims living on the pastures of villages further below such as İrtsank (Örenağıl), Aritem (Meşeli), Tızzi (Altıdere), Harrud (Yürekli) and Komek (Çalışlar), first went up the Şehbazit Mountain (*2) and lit candles on the shrine before coming to our pastures. Armenians slaughtered their sacrifices on Sunday. Our Muslim neighbors slaughtered theirs earlier and started cooking in big cauldrons before guests arrived. On the day of the Marattu, the traditional bulgur pilaff was served with braised liver, boiled or roasted meats. We sat on the floor among the guests for the meal after all the preparations were completed. The plates would be filled again and again as they emptied. (Although we youngsters knew that we were supposed to refrain from eating meat for a week before Marattu, we often did not keep the fast.) After the meal, everybody, old and young, would start folk dancing, which continued for a week until Sunday. Those who skillfully played the wood-flute, those who sang well were known. For example, Polos from our Purşenk village, İzetto and Cenbel from İrtsank village were famous for their singing. Towards the evening, Kurds, Arabs and Armenians from villages in Bitlis, Kozluk and the environs would arrive and join the dances. When the singers tired, Arif from the Goşag village would accompany the dancers with his wood-flute. The flute, continually played, would grow warm, soften and break. Since Arif knew what would happen to his flute, he used to bring along a spare. Everybody would dress in their white clothes (3*) prepared specially for weddings and these kinds of celebrations. We danced the govant, papure, gırani, gorani dances accompanied by songs and the flute in our white clothes; we moved in unison, our feet stepping at the same instant. Kurds, Armenians and Arabs, male and female, we were side by side, without any problems... Only the harkuşta was a dance just for men. In this dance, groups would move close to one another, stamping their feet and would slap each other´s hands with all their might when finally the groups met, the sound of hand clapping from eighty to a hundred people echoing among the mountains. At the end, in the early morning hours on Sunday, all of us, Muslim and Christian alike, would set on the road to the top of Marattu. We would reach the small church on the top of Marattu Mountain after an half-hour´s ascent, racing to be the first to the top. Everybody would take turns entering the church, and would light the wax candles they had brought along; the small church lit up with the light of these candles. In this mystic environment, we would say whatever prayers we knew and give thanks to God. The sun would not have arisen when we went out of the church. We used to watch the sun rise without caring for the blowing wind. It had become a tradition to watch the sun throw off its dark clothes and start shining in red as it rose over the horizon. After giving thanks to God again for this beauty, we would go back to our pasture to serve our guests. Back in the pasture we would prepare our sacrifices and call in our Muslim neighbors for the slaughter - it was thought to be a sin to eat from a sacrifice not slaughtered by a Muslim. The slaughtered sacrifices would be cut up, washed and cooked. In the early hours of the morning, boiled wheat (yarma) would be mixed in with water and yoghurt to make the girar soup. It was true that all the women in the pasture worked harder than the men during the celebrations. Though the men were the hosts, it was the women who served all the guests. When they found a moment from all this work, they gathered around the fountain to clean the tripe from the sacrifices and trimmed the skulls and feet to prepare for the next day. Serving at the table was our task as the men; not only did the women not eat at the same table as the men, they also did not serve the male visitors. They would give us the filled plates for us to serve. In the evening, the celebrations were over and everybody went back to their daily life - until the name day of the Asdvadzadzin Church in the Guskit village, where we would be the guests this time. FOOTNOTES *1- The name of the church on top of Marattu Mountain at 2973 meter height is given as ´Surp Asdvadzadzin´ in the mythological tale by Sasuntsi Tavit. But the madagh day of the church is held on the day of Vartavar on the old Rumi calendar! *2- In the old days, Marattu Mountain was called ´two headed Marattu´ (Kurdish ´Bıvi cote Marattune´, Arabic ´Cote Maratun´, Armenian ´Cugtakh kluh Marattun´) in the regional languages. There is an old tale about the Şehbazit and Marattu mountains being siblings. Two siblings set on the road to ascend the mountain; the small girl tells her elder brother after some time that she cannot continue since she´s afraid. Her brother tells her "You stay here, I will go up in your place and protect you from above" and continues until the top. For this reason, Marattu is higher than Şehbazit. *3- The men would wear white cotton shirts and white woolen trousers. The women would dress in a long tunba (trousers) and on top, would wear bınkıraz (a knee-length inner dress), şabig (a dress with small buttons on the front, tight until the waist and open from the waist down with many pleats) and kokmitzar (a long apron tied in front of the dress). All of these clothes were made of ´çift has´, a type of cotton cloth. Translated by Deniz Akkuş

Bang! on the spot. Come on, folks - people were indignified by the bikini, whereas today it is the norm. Face it - everyone might be wearing that sort of stuff ten years from now. Unfortunately for you, you're going to have to get used to it. And I strongly object to drawing parallels with a rightful ban on smoking in public. That darn smoke is intrusive, and taking a zheet in public is a threat to public health. Obviously cracks are neither.

A dogsbody by definition does a bit of everything not within the scope of others’ assignment. It’s a sailors’ term, not a slur. It is usually those who have a chip on their shoulder, for whatever reason I do not gather, that automatically assume that the position carries negative connotations and contempt. Usually the train of thought is that since the job is “menial,” it is reserved for people who are located lower on the economic ladder and who are uneducated. While more often than not true, it is also usually confused with an obligation to pity the worker in question and overlook/tolerate their shortcomings and whims as if they are subject to abuse and thus somehow deserve some sort of “compensation” by cutting them some slack and babying them around (boo hoo - will a billionaire with two Ph.D.’s cut me some slack anytime soon so I may fulfill my responsibilities only partially instead of busting my arse like everyone else – everyone except the person in question?), as if they are beyond criticism and can do no wrong, consequently neglecting to take into consideration that they are people like everyone else, individuals with different personalities who can be very nice (like the lady in the previous workplace) or downright rude and in fact even asinine or anything in between, expecting you to be sorry since possibly typically in your private and snooty conversations you say, “Honey, if she were smart, YOU would be serving HER tea” – though I must admit that I’d have difficulties calling the previous one a dogsbody – tastes too much like Blackadder. She was just so nice and proper, a noblewoman in comparison. At least she treated everyone equally, listened to your grievances, and didn’t ogle you... Frack the comparing per position, she was just a normal person as any other. We still keep in touch. So yes, ultimately it does have something to do my opinion of either. Big whoop. Any other creative ideas? The frappe is a good one, and it’s bound to produce more noise and draw more attention than any other option. I’m not asking anyone anything, so no suggestions to that effect, please.

As in tell someone/insinuate that they're not doing their job properly or are being discriminatory/disrespectful? I may correct mistakes related to work, but it is not the province of one worker to evaluate another worker. If anything, it reflects worse on the messenger, IMO. The most I have done so far has been to ask why I wasn't made a cup the first time. "You were not in your seat," is the answer I got. Yes, teacher. I was in the loo and am almost always in the office, for goodness' sake... Update - I'm not alone in my cell today, so I got served coffee instead of being overlooked. How 'bout that... So - until I get worked up again... N.B. - this post was more about ventilating than anything else...

That's overly dramatising it. Nobody gives orders or abuses the person in question, and it is a service agreed to within the scope of employment. It is not a degrading job. It is a positive benefit for the workers. Nobody has to ask for it - it is expected just as someone is expected to dust your desk. In some places it may be the case that you dust your own desk or take turns carrying out the garbage or doing the dishes. Still others provide you catering in the office. Whatever the custom is, it is - nothing to negotiate about or object to. Now just imagine that you don't get your desk dusted when everybody else does - or how about not getting served your meal because they don't like you? Sure I know how to make myself a sandwich at home and carry it to work in a "Hello Kitty" box... That's beside the point.

I have no problem getting my own stuff. I found it quite strange since in my previous job there was no such routine/custom. (I imagine our then-counterpart would have rather flung a pan on our heads than go near anything of the sort.) In fact I detest the way everyone piles up their dirty plates/mugs at the sink for the lady to wash - I wash mine and put them away. I however do not like being treated differently when something goes for everybody else, especially since the coffee in question is brewed once in the day (mud in a cup style), the equipment put away, and then that's it. It's not fair to smell the coffee and not have any when everyone else has that pleased look on their face. Otherwise I very well know how to fill myself a cup of hot water from the fountain/samovar and make myself instant coffee or dab a tea-bag. Puh-leez. I think my course of action will be to grab the equipment after it has been put away and make my own as a sign of protest. Anyone will be welcome to ask why I spend 5-10 minutes over a cup of coffee in all this crazy mess.

Alavinians?

Indeed. Yum yum...

Here's my "problem" - I admit it's no big deal and I am no hopeless case who needs a daily "fix" of caffeine - BUT... Here's the situation... Daily we all in the office are served coffee at a certain time by our dogsbody. I don't like her one bit because she is as coarse as a city-dweller can possibly be, usually say "Good morning" every other day so that she gets a chance to say "Good morning" every once in a while, though none has been forthcoming, and the unspoken feelings are mutual. Still I thank her for the coffee and for anything else. Lately, however, I have gone three days in a row without being served coffee, and I usually realise this by the time everyone has had their cups collected. Worse, still, the last day I had any she didn't come to collect my cup until the next day when she was collecting everyone else's as well, knowing well that I hadn't got any that day - either that or she is really retarded. It is not about whether I can make my own coffee or not. It is unfair, unprofessional, you name it. And I intend to deal with it. However, given that my initial/priority fantasy goes something along the lines of catching her in a blind alley, I need advice from someone who is not worked-up about it. Mind you, this is not the first time this has happened, but three days in a row is a tad bit too much to overlook.

I'm strictly anti-aging from now on, I MUST live to see that!

I don't think it's that far-fetched with Holdzheet. Most American Jews have not even stepped foot in Israel, yet they can be pro-Israel like for dear life. What better reactionarism to resort to if he had been picked on for being Turkish as a kid? Some take the high road, others slump.

"Turkish Science Company"? I am at a loss for words. After Pan-Armenian, Azg needs to do some serious quality control with its translations.

Indeed. And Gumen beatches that he is now receiving threats. "I am now receiving threats" and not "Why me???" Of course, Akcam is against that, too. What a saintly man. I would have relished in the fact. And the profile makes perfect sense - "illustrator" Murad Gumen and snot-job-of-a-momma's-boy Holdzheet.