Broken Windows

I was cleaning up my Outlook-inbox at work, when I came across this little blog I wrote about 1.5 years ago. Because I giggled when I reread it, I guess it's still postable. I couldn't publish it back then, because it is a bit critical regarding my job; but that's all changed now. I decided being critical could be a job as well. So here's a little insight in what the study of criminology means in practice. And hopefully I'll be able to do more under the name of 'the Right Trace'.

My favourite colour is purple.
My favourite Indian curry is the chicken Korma.
My favourite criminological theory is the 'broken window theory'.
Now, I don't want to start a whole discussion on 'what is a criminological theory', I've heard enough of that in the last couple of days on the Common Sessions in Rotterdam (presentations by criminology students). You know what I mean: If a window (or door, or picnic-bench) is broken (either destroyed, vandalised, graffiti'd or just kaput), you need to repare it. Otherwise it will 'provoke' people to destroy other things in that neighbourhood. If you leave it unrepaired, it it will lead to more trash, upset neighbours who stop caring about their street and eventually you will end up with one of Rita's Prachtwijken.
I love the theory's practicalness, because I am a practical girl. It offers handles to the ones who are in the field doing something about crime, more than merely discussing it in an academic atmosphere (which was lovely by the way).
What it boils down to, is this: fix it. Now you do not get more practical than that, you would think...

As a practical girl I was reading the daily 'juvenile nuisance' reports last week and I came across the logging of an incident. The police officer received a phonecall from an attentive neighbour who had noticed a car in his street with the window smashed (those of you who paid any attention know what you should do by now). The police officer did a lot of things, but fixing it, was not one of them.
He wrote down why it would be important to tow the car away (in accordance with 'broken windows'). He ran the plate and found out that the car belonged to a junkie. He concluded that this fellow would not (be able to) pay for the towing of the car in order to have it repaired. The police officer decided to leave it as it was.
I was confused, this was wrong on so many levels, I started typing an email to the officer in question straight away. Knowing the impact of the emails that I send when I am, let's say, inspired, I decided to take a look at it again, crossing some words out, rearrange the message and eventually deleting the whole thing. I didn't want to hurt the police officer and get any more complaints in the form of X's behind my name.
I would have been happy to leave it at that, would I not have gone to the previously mentioned Common Sessions, where I realised that I should have just send that email, it's okay to be critical, even if it means upsetting my colleagues.
So thank you for that. My workload just got increased by a tenfold.

de NUT

Vandaag heb ik mezelf ingehuurd als onderzoeker. Het plan was om uitzendbureaus te bezoeken, ik ben ten slotte op zoek naar ander werk en ze te recenseren, als een soort ode aan recensiekoning.nl.
Wat: de Normale Uitzendbureau Test.
Waar: Rotterdam.
Wanneer: maandag 14 februari. Wat zou ik anders moeten doen op Valentijnsdag?

Ik wou het eigenlijk de Kleine Uitzendbureau Test noemen, maar toen kwam ik in de knoei met de afkorting. De Grote Uitzendbureau Test vond ik niet helemaal toepasselijk, in verband met de kleine N van 6 bedrijven. Het liefst zou ik er een infographic van maken, maar daar heb ik de gereedschappen niet voor; het worden dus primitieve tekeningetjes. Sorry.

Creyfs.
Ik ben enigszins optimistisch als ik het 'Uitzendbureau van het jaar' binnenstap. Maar de treurige kantoor-omgeving maakt dat ik nog liever de WW in ga dan hier te blijven zitten. Het is saai en degelijk; voor sommige mensen de norm, maar ik hou van vlaggetjes en foto's. Helaas voor mij heeft hij alleen administratieve functies; iets wat ik nog meer te horen zal krijgen deze dag.
Verder ging de telefoon voor de klant aan het bureau: er werd tweemaal gebeld voor zijn aantrekkelijke, vrouwelijke collega die op dat moment een andere klant doorstuurde naar een conculega-uitzendbureau. Ook iets waar ik nog vaker getuige van zou zijn.

Manpower.
Het kantoor is ruim en sfeervol. De gekleurde muren passen goed bij de comfortabele stoelen. Wederom word ik niet ingeschreven, maar blijft er een kopietje van mijn CV achter (volgens mij is dat de nieuwe norm). Ter verdediging; dit kantoor is gespecialiseerd in banken en techniek en mijn interesse liggen in geen van beiden velden. Na het grappigste introductiegesprekje dat ik ooit gevoerd heb, blijkt de intercedente enorm kundig en behulpzaam.
- Jij zoekt een leuke baan?
- Ja.
- je werkt nu bij de politie?
- Ja.
- En daar wil je weg?
- Ja. Zo jij bent echt goed.
Ze heeft geen baan voor me, maar ik vertrek toch optimistisch met de opdracht in elk geval mijn bruto-loon even uit te zoeken. Staat ook wel zo professioneel voor iemand die ook als schuldhulpverlener aan de slag zou willen gaan.

Direkt.
Daar was ik heel snel klaar. De verhuisdozen en vuilniszakken die binnen staan, bieden een troosteloos uitzicht, en maken dat ik me afvraag of het bedrijf uberhaupt nog bestaat. Jammer, tijdens mijn studie heb ik voor Direkt gewerkt als deerne in de Heksenkethel, maar dat is een heel ander verhaal. Bij de buren (A&E) was de meest interessante vacature die voor sprinklerinstallateur; ook daar ben ik maar niet naar binnen gegaan.

Randstad.
De kantoorruimte van Randstad is efficient ingericht. Zo efficient dat ik niet eens langs de receptioniste kom. Ondanks dat ik aan een koffietafel zit waar theezakjes op liggen, krijg ik weer niks te drinken. Terwijl ik mijn notities aanvul, pleegt de receptioniste ongeïnteresseerd het verplichte telefoontje, dat ze afsluit met 'jaa dat dacht ik ook al', waarna ze mij 'teleurgesteld' meedeelt dat ze niks voor me kan doen. Een andere intercedente die op mijn verzoek (lees: aandringen) nog even komt praten, kan me niks anders aanbieden dan de steekwoorden 'kinderdag-verblijf' en 'gehandicaptenzorg'.
Dit gaat 'm niet worden.

Tempo Team.
Als ik het rommelige kantoor binnenstap, heb ik aanvankelijk het gevoel dat ik op de stip bij X-factor sta; ik ben gelijk in de picture. Maar jurylid nr 1 blijkt de meest fantastische, behulpzame, mensen-mens intercedente te zijn die ik ben tegengekomen. Mijn CV vind ze 'moeilijk', maar ze vraagt 2 naaste collega's om input, ze belt 2 contactpersonen om mij oprecht te promoten. Ik ga er bijna van blozen: "er zit hier een charmante, leuke jongedame voor me, die ander werk zoekt". Ze vind me een 'type voor het Ro-theater'. Een groter compliment had ze me niet kunnen geven.
Geen baan, wel een leuk contact.

Unique.
Het kantoor is netjes en de sfeer is standaard. Hetzelfde geldt voor de goedverzorgde intercedente die mij te woord staat. Ze maakt me snel duidelijk dat ze gespecialiseerd zijn in 'office', oftewel administratieve werkzaamheden en dat ik voor 'overheid' ergens anders moet zijn. Binnen drie minuten sta ik met visitekaartje weer buiten.

Al met al heb ik mezelf weer wat onderzoeks-ervaring gegunt en mijn missie voortgezet in de strijd tegen de werkeloosheid. Conclusie: je krijgt nergens meer koffie aangeboden en het is handig om te weten wat je bruto loon is. Verder is het gevoel dat je krijgt van de sfeer binnen een uitzendbureau, kenmerkend voor hoe je geholpen wordt. En kan je maar beter MBO administratie gedaan hebben dan HBO mwd en WO Criminologie, want dat geeft alleen maar een 'lastig' CV.

ps. Weet iemand wat een Niet-Destructief Onderzoeker doet? Ik vond het wel fascinerend klinken.

First IFFR short

An important IFFR lesson is: never give away your one's and five's too soon with the voting opportunity the UPC audience appreciation leaflets give you. Because you never know whats going to happen at the next screening. You can sit in, let's say, a black and white Asian film, that is extremely slow, makes you fall asleep and pray for a sudden death of the main characters in a hope that it will end the movie. Which by the way, it didn't.
But! I'm very glad I gave this one a two (2=bad), so I could donate my one to the drama (not the genre) I witnessed today. One aka 1 aka very, very very bad; the kind of bad that makes you wish the sponsors pulled the plug a long time ago and possibly even change your political view in order to prevent such catastrophes from ever happening again. All I thought was: "I still have an episode of the Mentalist on video" and "I could be at home knitting right now". When I felt a pang of jealousy when someone did leave, and that person wasn't me, I decided it was time to ... give it another ten minutes. You know me, I'm an optimist and want to give things a chance. But even the subtitles were lacking. No realy; from every whole sentence that was spoken only 3 words came back at the bottom of the screen. So I saw crappy pictures of a cruiseship, with people speaking obscure languages and words like: 'aids money Bulgar', which left me clueless and wanting to go to H&M. Or at least go home and blog 'n bitch about it. The best bit about the film was a cute youtube-film about two kittens meowing a boring passenger watched on her laptop (I could tell even she was bored with the whole ordeal) and, eventually, tearing up the paper at the double thumbs down section. It was deliberating and should be a privilige extended to the rest of society. Nice checkout-lady at supermarket, kgggg, a 4. Dumb bastard cutting of with his car, kgggg, 1!
I'm still waiting for my 5, better luck next time.

Film festival widow

It's been a year since I wrote my Iffr tribute blog (I ffr, U ffr, we all ffr). Mainly because it's been a year since the last International Film Festival Rotterdam and let's face it, the rest is merely details.
So it's that time of year again. Even my regular colleagues are excited for me: "wow, two whole weeks of doing nothing but watching films". They think work ends as soon as a film is sold out, and how many films can you play? Sigh. The average of 70 screenings per day across 29 venues is just to abstract for them. So I had to correct this image; it also involves a lot of parties, dancing, fun people, drinks in the theatre (Schouwburg) and cruising from one cinema to the next depending if you're looking for the best film or the most comfortable chair (naptime advise: Pathe 7, back-corners). Oh, and work, lot's of hard work, obviously. You don't just take two weeks off of work just to watch films. That would be silly.
I started well this year, the crew-pre party was fun and I sat through the whole film without falling asleep! Fortunately it was a good one; a Chinese romantic comedy (Love in a Puff). So that's one down, 14 to go, if I don't want to look like a complete wimp in the eyes of my Iffr-friends.
I also attended a Q&A already. So what if it was by accident and had nothing to do with directors and actors but with Spanish Flamenco dancers who happened to perform in the Schouwburg for the Flamenco Biennale, when I was there for a birthday-party. Questions were asked. Answers were given. So I can cross Q&A of my list.
This year I also had to prepare my boyfriend Hook for his role of Film Festival widow, for he will suffer from movie-related neglect. I'll supply him with a stack of dvd's and a spare Therese-doll... My other preparation for the whole ordeal don't go much further than making the mother of all lasagna's so that I can eat something other than Daily Wok during these weeks, practising my poker-face; you never know when some-one wants his money back for a crappy film. For yes, this actually happens and I can't wait to blog about it.

Scent of a boyfriend

Today (tuesday) it's my boyfriend's birthday. Yeah, yeah, yeah, I have a boyfriend, now all the lack of blogging makes sense, right? I was too busy doing other stuff. Now why does this man make me so happy that I temporarily had nothing to left to write about? He has a great ass and a lovely personality. And this last sentense will make him smile, for he thinks I am funny. Unlike my ex-boyfriend who did not think I was funny. He thought Vinterbergs 'Festen' was funny... Bare in mind, this is the same ex who told me to 'put your clothes back on then', when I sat halfnaked on his coach, looked him meaningfull in the eyes when I asked for a blanket because I was a bit chilly.
But back to my birthdayboy. He wasn't shy about his wishes, in fact the list that circulated the house was carefully put together and from me he wanted a new fragrance. Now I hardly made it through any of my exes birthdays, I even think the first and last time, I got away with buying a bucket of Sesamestreet crayons. And he turned 18. So calling this a 'challenge' would be an understatement, let alone buying men's perfume, which is really personal. I don't know the first thing about male scents. I've worn CK Obsession for 10 years now, before that, 5 years of Angel. So I'm very loyal, only occasionly flirting with CK One, and not without feeling guilty about it. Even free samples remain unused. My dad doesn't even wear deodorant. He covers his armpits with some sort of eco-friendly Tea Trea-stick. The office has been empty since before Christmas, so my colleagues can't help. I even started sniffing strangers in the street and on the bus, but apparantly blasting your music out loud through the speakers of your phone is deemed more appropriate. So after some warning glances from girlfriends and slightly annoyed busdrivers (come on! the sign says 'do not talk to the busdriver', it doesn't say 'do not not smell your busdriver'), I gave up that tactic. And randomly asking for 'Boss Men' at your local perfumestore doesn't help either; because, just so you know, there's more than one.
Eventually I did what any sane woman would do. I asked my Facebook friends. That triggered quite some usefull response (Boss In Motion, Chanel Allure, Kiton) and some not so usefull (onions? N. you are such a douche. And my FB wall is not the place to instigate a bitchfight, people!).
Eventually I got him Chanel Allure Sport, a home-sewn blanket (he seemed to like it, so he past that test) and I wrote him this blog. For he (I'll call him Hook) now belongs to the list of relevant topics in my life I want to talk about. You know, finding another job, new shoes, festivals and baking cookies.
Happy Birthday Hook!

Light and airy

Recently I stumbled upon an article on what to do and what not to do on a first date or when first meeting someone you would like to achieve a first date with. Yahoo likes making lists, I like reading lists, so there you go. It mentioned that you should keep conversation light and airy.
I panicked. I find 'light and airy' extremely difficult.
Light and airy is also the theme of lunchconversation at work. That's why I prefer eating alone behind my computer rather than listening to more talk about post-pensionplans that come into action 14 years from now, the pro's and cons of wintertyres and gossip about absent colleagues.
So I thought of topics that I could talk about, just in case I would meet someone new or old or anyone in general really. Light and airy. Light and airy, shallow is the way to go...
Aero-chocolatebars (Bros) are light and airy, but I wouldn't know what to say about those. Breathing usually is light and airy. Clothes? Music? Blankets? Ikea? Light and airy equals harmless, I suppose. Although I am capable of ruining something as innocent as 'babynames', with my response that "if you swop the A for a T, her name spells 'Cunt', and kids can be so cruel". I'm not proud of that one, but in my defense, he did ask what I thought of his newborn's name...
In practise it's even more difficult, because when someone asks you how you are, it is extremely difficult to steer the conversation towards chocolate or hairstyles. And even then, I don't think my current coupe falls in the category of light and airy. Dark and down, more likely. 'How are you?', is usually followed by a comment regarding work or lovelife; well, I think I can put a more positive spin on the Netherlands' current government, than those two aspects of my life.
My psychologist says that communication and social interaction is the hardest thing we have to do in this life. I couln't agree more. Conversation is a lot trickier than throwing around Twitter or Facebook-status oneliners.
The best opening-line I ever heard was 'what was your best moment this week?' at a speeddating event. Yes, I once went to a speeddating event, and No, I don't want to talk about it. I remember my answer; I cooked a lasagne at home and ate it lukewarm from a plastic container in the cinema. That's my guilty pleasure. I know, I'm such a bad-ass. His best moment that week was his his sister-in-law announcing she was pregnant and him rushing over with a cake and bottle of champagne to celebrate.
Should anyone ask me what my best moment was this week (light and airy, Therese, light and airy), I would say; the youth-theatre Hofplein reunion. Sitting in those coloured chairs again, watching former-children-now-grown-ups perform on stage, tearing up at the first tunes of 'Heksenklus' and actually climbing on that stage myself to dance the 'ghost-part' of the tap.
Ghosts! Well, that's light and airy for ya!
(and the blanket I made inspired by Vlieland has a light and airy feel to it, too)

New shoes...

Meet my purple boots. I love them so much, I spent a large part of my life avoiding throwing them out. In fact, I love them so much I am willing and able to devote a complete blog to them, in fact, I am doing that right now.
But, lately, it appears they've had their best days. The stickytape that's holding the leather togheter is coming off, the already once repaired heels have worn to the floor (again) and discolouring has set in; the right one is definitely lighter than the left. Even my best friend, who keeps her shoes untill they fall of her feet, told me quietly that maybe it was time, because they look chewed up and spit out. Although I'm pretty sure that's the reason why they feel so nice.
As the saying goes, you shouldn't throw shoes out before you've got a new pair, so I looked everywhere for an identical pair in multiple cities, even online and on marketplace. Eventually I gave up and replaced them with a pair of new booties. Charming little ones, grey, (fake) suede and very comfortable. Still unable to chuck the purple ones, I walked into a shoe repairshop (slash key-copyer and umbrella-sellers, now why is that?) just to ease my mind. To find out that, no, they cannot be repaired, that yes, sometimes it's time to let go.
"Sure miss, give us an hour and I can put a whole new sole under them and fix the heel".
Now I did not see that one coming.
And so my favourite purple boots ended up on the operation-table for some emergency surgery.
Off course in the hour that followed I bumped into my purple boots. In black. All shiney, new and size 39. When I least expected it. Just like everyone said would happen with men. Well, sodd men. I prefer my boots. They go with everything and they'll last me a lot longer. Even though they won't give me babies, they also won't leave me for another woman. Not untill I throw them in the Salvation Army clothesbox anyway. After shelling out for a third pair of shoes that day, I sat myself down with an expensive coffee, in order to save the rest of my money, because at that rate, I would be bankrupt by the end of september.
Now, did I need any more shoes? No, off course not. I haven't needed extra pairs since 2002. Throwing out has never been my best skill. Besides, who else is going to fill that charity clothesbox with some hardly worn, neglected boots that got left behind in favour of the purple pair?