Food stories from the resthome (2 of 2): A spicy chicken wrap.

One of the sandwich wraps I had that day had chicken in it that was surprisingly spicy.

"What is the spice on that chicken?", I was like.

"I think it's kuh-joon," one of my Tibetan coworkers was like.

"What?", I was like.

"Kuh-joon," she was like.

Then, the one RN called out from her back office, "It's pronounced 'Cajun'!".

. . .

The tortilla on that wrap was red, too, I think to indicate that it was the spicy one.

Food stories from the resthome (1 of 2): Odd smell.

The other week at the resthome, I came into the office to start my shift, and there was a lot of food out that was left over from some lunch that people were putting away, and underneath that major food smell was a slightly odd stomach-turning smell, kind of a bit like vomit.

I mentioned it, but no-one else could smell it.

Later, I realized that it was under-ripe honey dew melon on the fruit tray.

If you ever smell under-ripe honey dew melon, it kind of smells like vomit.

The events of a night at my apartment.

At 4am I wake up, since there's footsteps going up the stairs that go above my bedroom, though the upstairs apartment is currently vacant because the landlord is redoing it.

Later, I dream that I had just gotten to work at the resthome and am looking through my backpack for my work shoes that I had thought I had put in there, but I can only find informal shoes and sandals, including one pair where the soles of both feet are rubbed away so it's almost like the front half of the sandal isn't really there any more.

I put on the sandals to wear them for work, and I hope for the best.

. . .

A subway passenger sitting next to me the other day:

This (youngish) (thin) (black) woman in a tracksuit and with these long thin sleek braids has her phone out to Facetime with "WIFEY," but they only talk every once in a while, since the woman on the other end is putting on makeup and going around the house getting ready for work or something, every once in a while repositioning her phone so the woman I'm sitting next to can keep on watching her, even though the angles are bad and oftentimes the phone's in way too close.

Occasionally, there's crackles out of the phone from the other end, like someone's crumpling up paper close to the mike.

A t-shirt I saw the other day...

...on a (pot-bellied) (bearded) (white) guy who was standing on the subway platform waiting for a train going in the other direction, as my train pulled up:

REAL MEN EAT ASS

. . .

When I told the one retired psychiatrist at the resthome about it, he just found it distasteful.

"You know," he was like, "Some things just aren't funny."

He's endlessly amused by how I went to go see Stormy Daniels, though, and always asks me for any new Stormy Daniels news that I've come across since I last saw him.

A resthome happening:

A resident with dementia has one shoe off and one shoe on, and keeps trying to put the one shoe on the foot that already has a shoe on it.

When I try to guide him to go put it on the other foot, he keeps insisting on doing what he's doing.

I have to call someone else to come in, to reset the situation and try to get him to put his shoes on right so he won't walk around without one shoe on and trip and fall and hurt himself.

Remnants of the shattered bowls.

The other day,  I was cleaning my one lefthand kitchen sink basin around the drain, and there was a long white sliver, from the one shattered bowl.

A few days later, I saw something white out of the corner of my eye on a window sill in the kitchen, and it turned out to be a chunk of shattered bowl, it had flown that far and ended up just sitting there.

When I picked it up, a small piece of clear glass must have been on it, since it stuck in my one fingertip and made me bleed a lot, and I had to pull it out.

The white bowl shards whacked the one glass bowl with such force that not only did it break that one bowl, but it must have carried away some chunks of glass with it, too.