I realized today that there were going to be many more stories with the guy who sits behind me. In the spirit of privacy (mine, not his), I was going to have to come up with a name for him. I pondered this for a while before he came in today, but it was when he appeared with a rustle of....I don't know what...he's one of those people who appears out of nowhere, looking like he's run a marathon, and makes a great deal of rustling sounds when he does it. He is also one of those people who seems to be made completely out of curves. His shoulders slump, his back hunches in the style of someone who spends too much time at a desk, peering at a computer. He is just one of those people who is a mess, and it wouldn't matter how you dressed him. He'd still be a mess.
So..today...he rustles in, and it comes to me. Scoot. Your name is Scoot, o problematic one. Well, my friends of the interwebs, it was not Scootie's day. His day was was fraught with injustices of the technological kind. My boss decides he should move on to a new and more dangerous project. I don't know what it was, I really was trying to bury myself today. As if that isn't always the case...but this is not my story, this story belongs to the Scootmeister.
So my boss joins him at his desk and says, "I think this will be fairly easy. I think you can handle this." Poor Scoot. They begin a flurry of computer activity, clicking hither and yon across the screen. Then all of a sudden, they sit back, puzzled. My boss looks concerned and says, "Well. This does seem to take a while sometimes." They wait longer. Nothing is happening, it seems. She says, "Well, let's see if one of the IT guys is here." Scoot, of course, replies with, "I'm sorry."
The IT guy joins them in this activity. There is a full hour of 'Hm' and 'Huh!' and 'Well...' and then the IT guy says, "I don't know." and goes off. At this point, Scoot narrows his eyes. You can see the narrative building in his head. He will not let this defeat him! He will overcome! I try not to visibly cringe when he says, "Well...maybe I can do this!" and begins muttering to himself in a diabolical manner. After an hour of the muttering, he falls back dejectedly. My boss wanders over.
"Still nothing?"
"No. Clearly this is a virus. A bad bad virus. I have all my fingers crossed that it hasn't eaten the memory and that this computer will be saved. In fact, I'm even going to cross my legs for this too."
Poor Scoot.
Thursday, November 18, 2010
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
How I learned to stop apologizing. Vol 1
My morning at work is filled with activities. It's a lot like pre-school. First, I have to print off a bunch of sheets, then I have to go through them to pick out the things I actually need to use for my reports. That, my friends, is a happy moment. I open the second desk drawer on the right and pull out my blue and pink highlighters and I have a nice time coloring. Honestly, I'm continuously shocked at how happy my highlighting makes me. First, I just make one line over the top of the first word in the block I need, and then when I'm finished with the report for that record, I get to color in the whole block! I always try to make neat, perfectly sized lines. I've found that if I highlight from the bottom up, I get a much more consistent bottom line. I do reports through the morning, and there's lots of new-aged copying and pasting. On a normal day, I'm done with all that by noon or so.
After that, I launch into the tedious side work of updating comparable records. It's definitely not hard, and sometimes it can be really interesting. I love houses, so I mentally 'Ooo' and 'Ahhh' over the big Victorians in Madison County, Ill. or I daydream about how nice it would be to have a good sized studio apartment with a tile floor and a western picture window...until something happens that's like nails on a chalkboard to me.
The guy that sits behind me in the afternoon is a nice guy. He really is. He's in the Master's program in psychology at the university down the street, and I've got friends who are his friends. I've socialized with him a bit outside of work. There's something about walking into that building that alters him on a molecular level, though. First, his volume knob gets broken off on level ten, so every thing he says is SUPER LOUD.
He also loses his inner monologue, and feels the need to share every detail of everything he does. For example, today, he was assigned the simple task of calling landlords in Chicago and asking them if they were going to accept the asking rent on properties. It's really easy to do. The problem is that occasionally, you run into a landlord that wants to battle on every detail about the rent. Most of the time, there's nothing they can do, and they know it. They want to argue anyway. My boss informed him that some of these lovely people might pop up during his inner-office, telephonic travels to the Windy City. He managed to stammer through his first call, and the landlord accepted the rent and went about her merry way. He hung up the phone, typed in the info, and stopped dead.
"Hey! She accepted it. She didn't ask questions. She just went with it!" My boss responded, "Oh good." He continued, "I was expecting this to be a problem. She didn't argue at all. I'm very shocked. I'm quite pleased. This is excellent."
I twitch around in my seat and turn up the volume on Radiolab, I've reached an interesting part and I'm afraid if I miss something, I'll miss the point of the whole thing. I push on my earbuds a little, but it's impossible. His voice is penetrating my skull and reverberating within my brain.
"Wow! I'm excited now! I should do another one! I'm sure this is going to go well!"
By now, I'm pondering going to look to see if anybody has a gun in the building when I hear, "(Guy's name), can I see you a minute? No...never mind. I misread the report." With a possibly not-so-internal groan, I brace for the inevitable.
"Oh..you need me? Did I do something? I'm so sorry!"
"No...I misread. It's fine."
"I'm sorry!"
"It's ok, you didn't do anything."
"Ok. I'm sorry!"
I'm sure this went on for a bit more, but I'd really trained myself on the report on the chemical effects of love on the brain that I was listening to, because really, it's entertaining and interesting. I sort of drifted into a haze dopamine and other chemicals, but as I lose mental acuity, I hear, "Wow...my second call wasn't bad at all! I don't think she understood me though...."
After that, I launch into the tedious side work of updating comparable records. It's definitely not hard, and sometimes it can be really interesting. I love houses, so I mentally 'Ooo' and 'Ahhh' over the big Victorians in Madison County, Ill. or I daydream about how nice it would be to have a good sized studio apartment with a tile floor and a western picture window...until something happens that's like nails on a chalkboard to me.
The guy that sits behind me in the afternoon is a nice guy. He really is. He's in the Master's program in psychology at the university down the street, and I've got friends who are his friends. I've socialized with him a bit outside of work. There's something about walking into that building that alters him on a molecular level, though. First, his volume knob gets broken off on level ten, so every thing he says is SUPER LOUD.
He also loses his inner monologue, and feels the need to share every detail of everything he does. For example, today, he was assigned the simple task of calling landlords in Chicago and asking them if they were going to accept the asking rent on properties. It's really easy to do. The problem is that occasionally, you run into a landlord that wants to battle on every detail about the rent. Most of the time, there's nothing they can do, and they know it. They want to argue anyway. My boss informed him that some of these lovely people might pop up during his inner-office, telephonic travels to the Windy City. He managed to stammer through his first call, and the landlord accepted the rent and went about her merry way. He hung up the phone, typed in the info, and stopped dead.
"Hey! She accepted it. She didn't ask questions. She just went with it!" My boss responded, "Oh good." He continued, "I was expecting this to be a problem. She didn't argue at all. I'm very shocked. I'm quite pleased. This is excellent."
I twitch around in my seat and turn up the volume on Radiolab, I've reached an interesting part and I'm afraid if I miss something, I'll miss the point of the whole thing. I push on my earbuds a little, but it's impossible. His voice is penetrating my skull and reverberating within my brain.
"Wow! I'm excited now! I should do another one! I'm sure this is going to go well!"
By now, I'm pondering going to look to see if anybody has a gun in the building when I hear, "(Guy's name), can I see you a minute? No...never mind. I misread the report." With a possibly not-so-internal groan, I brace for the inevitable.
"Oh..you need me? Did I do something? I'm so sorry!"
"No...I misread. It's fine."
"I'm sorry!"
"It's ok, you didn't do anything."
"Ok. I'm sorry!"
I'm sure this went on for a bit more, but I'd really trained myself on the report on the chemical effects of love on the brain that I was listening to, because really, it's entertaining and interesting. I sort of drifted into a haze dopamine and other chemicals, but as I lose mental acuity, I hear, "Wow...my second call wasn't bad at all! I don't think she understood me though...."
Thursday, November 11, 2010
Small apartment, big house...same difference.
So, three years ago last month, I left my ex-husband and moved into a nine hundred square foot apartment on the bad end of the town I grew up in...which..in all fairness, is about five hundred feet from the good end. I lived downstairs from a drunk guy who used to lock his girlfriend out and sing Marvin Gaye songs while she beat on the door. Long story short, I lost my job, my fiancée, and my ability to support myself and had to move back home.
With my new life goals, I've begun to look at apartments on the internet. I was pondering a two hundred square footer, and my mom asked the question, "How would you feel about living in an apartment again?" I've had some time to formulate an answer, and here's what I've come up with. It will be better than living here for much longer!
I have a twelve by twelve bedroom, which I've had to cram all my stuff into. I have no closet, so I have an antique wardrobe full of clothes, clothes hanging on one side of the room, and shelves with baskets full of my folding clothes. My mother talks all freaking night long. Dad must get bored, so I swear to biscuits, he rearranges all the books on the shelf all night. I get phone calls at weird hours, and then have to hear, "I wouldn't talk to people that late if I were you..." every time I get a call. To the point that I'm planning on getting up and going out to my car to avoid it....and it's cold out.
I cannot have a moment's peace either. Somebody is always yelling for me. Or my dad comes into my room after yelling, "Entering!" and says, "Your mother wants to see you." Well...she just saw me not five minutes ago, the last time she called me in there.
You know, that two hundred square foot apartment is only $395 a month. Hm. I wonder if I can move in next week...
With my new life goals, I've begun to look at apartments on the internet. I was pondering a two hundred square footer, and my mom asked the question, "How would you feel about living in an apartment again?" I've had some time to formulate an answer, and here's what I've come up with. It will be better than living here for much longer!
I have a twelve by twelve bedroom, which I've had to cram all my stuff into. I have no closet, so I have an antique wardrobe full of clothes, clothes hanging on one side of the room, and shelves with baskets full of my folding clothes. My mother talks all freaking night long. Dad must get bored, so I swear to biscuits, he rearranges all the books on the shelf all night. I get phone calls at weird hours, and then have to hear, "I wouldn't talk to people that late if I were you..." every time I get a call. To the point that I'm planning on getting up and going out to my car to avoid it....and it's cold out.
I cannot have a moment's peace either. Somebody is always yelling for me. Or my dad comes into my room after yelling, "Entering!" and says, "Your mother wants to see you." Well...she just saw me not five minutes ago, the last time she called me in there.
You know, that two hundred square foot apartment is only $395 a month. Hm. I wonder if I can move in next week...
Tuesday, November 9, 2010
A life? Check...
You may have started to realize that a good part of my day...you know...from the moment I enter the office to the moment I leave...is spent listening to NPR. Not because I expect to gain some sort of world knowledge and hemp tote bag, but because I can't think of anything else to listen to on the computer and I find myself crying if I stick to my mp3 player. So, today was no different. I did find myself listening to an interview with the 69 year old Nora Ephron with tears in my eyes.
She was saying how she used to sit around with her friends and play a game where they made up what their last meal would be if they had to choose. Then she followed it up by saying that one of the friends had died of throat cancer and disappointedly mentioned that she was unable to even eat her last meal. She went on to say that the rest of them had become determined to eat whatever they wanted as many times as they wanted it because the very same thing could happen to them.
Now...this is going to sound remarkably trite...but I have come to realize that this is the very thing that I am trying to move my life into. Clearly, not the eating whatever thing, I'd be the size of Montana...and I hear six meals of Creme Brulee would not make the healthiest of days. I spend most of my days searching for jobs in the area I want to move to, and I apply for them non-stop. I never really wanted a big house, money, and all the fanciness that American society is known for idealizing. Being raised by hippies, my priorities have been molded differently. I want to share my talents with people who can get the most out of them, I want to have a tiny place that's just big enough for what I need, I want a place to grow flowers and herbs, and I want friendship and love.
I have heard the benefits of having a good retirement plan, and while I can see the merit in it, I can also see that there's a good chance I will be single for the rest of my days. At this point, I'd move to a remote, rural area of Ireland and be an elderly barmaid with lots of stories. My goals aren't lofty, really. I don't want to get to be an old, crumpled up lady with no life left in me and say, "Oh, but look at the nice retirement fund I have to curl up with!" I want to have somebody I've been dragging around with me for ages to look at and say, "Hey...remember that time we got thrown out of Kenya? What was up with that?" At this point, we'd both collapse into fits of laughter, throwing out random bits of the story.
I don't think I've obtained that sort of life yet, but I've got some good stories to tell, and some good people who throw out random story bits. A few lines I've had tossed out have been: "Remember that night you climbed the elephant fountain in a wrap around skirt? Was that the same night you won the hot sauce drinking contest?" "Remember when you jumped the railroad tracks in the Monte Carlo?" "Hey...do you remember when what's-his-name got drunk on champagne and crawled around with a broom handle, trying to shoot at us, because he thought he was back in Korea?"
Yeah....that'll do for now.
She was saying how she used to sit around with her friends and play a game where they made up what their last meal would be if they had to choose. Then she followed it up by saying that one of the friends had died of throat cancer and disappointedly mentioned that she was unable to even eat her last meal. She went on to say that the rest of them had become determined to eat whatever they wanted as many times as they wanted it because the very same thing could happen to them.
Now...this is going to sound remarkably trite...but I have come to realize that this is the very thing that I am trying to move my life into. Clearly, not the eating whatever thing, I'd be the size of Montana...and I hear six meals of Creme Brulee would not make the healthiest of days. I spend most of my days searching for jobs in the area I want to move to, and I apply for them non-stop. I never really wanted a big house, money, and all the fanciness that American society is known for idealizing. Being raised by hippies, my priorities have been molded differently. I want to share my talents with people who can get the most out of them, I want to have a tiny place that's just big enough for what I need, I want a place to grow flowers and herbs, and I want friendship and love.
I have heard the benefits of having a good retirement plan, and while I can see the merit in it, I can also see that there's a good chance I will be single for the rest of my days. At this point, I'd move to a remote, rural area of Ireland and be an elderly barmaid with lots of stories. My goals aren't lofty, really. I don't want to get to be an old, crumpled up lady with no life left in me and say, "Oh, but look at the nice retirement fund I have to curl up with!" I want to have somebody I've been dragging around with me for ages to look at and say, "Hey...remember that time we got thrown out of Kenya? What was up with that?" At this point, we'd both collapse into fits of laughter, throwing out random bits of the story.
I don't think I've obtained that sort of life yet, but I've got some good stories to tell, and some good people who throw out random story bits. A few lines I've had tossed out have been: "Remember that night you climbed the elephant fountain in a wrap around skirt? Was that the same night you won the hot sauce drinking contest?" "Remember when you jumped the railroad tracks in the Monte Carlo?" "Hey...do you remember when what's-his-name got drunk on champagne and crawled around with a broom handle, trying to shoot at us, because he thought he was back in Korea?"
Yeah....that'll do for now.
Monday, November 8, 2010
What's making me happy today...
...is Pop Culture Happy Hour!
I guess it was sometime last year that I discovered Linda Holmes and her awesomely written blog, Monkey See. (http://www.npr.org/blogs/monkeysee/) I didn't realize that she, and a few of her selectively knowledgeable friends had started a podcast! It's a weekly show, starring Linda, Glen Weldon, Trey Graham, and Stephen Thompson and they discuss everything pop culture and then some. Since I have a complete aversion to popular television and I'm a BBC America snob, I sometimes don't see what America is putting out on television...on purpose. They break it down and make it far more amusing than actually *watching* the shows. One of their oft-discussed shows is The Bachelor Pad...which I have actually seen, but only because the gym locked the channels on the tvs, and then it was only on mute. Unfortunately, even on mute I could hear the ear-splitting screams of a bunch of over-made up, too much product in their hair bimbos. I could even imagine what the girls sounded like too. They make it hilarious to the point that I enjoy the show vicariously through them, and it makes work go so much faster. I do get strange looks when I collapse in gales of laughter on my desk (earbuds, remember?), but I think they're all just finding that to be part of my personality. Nobody questions, don't make eye contact and keep walking. I think it helped that I brought a tray of gummy dismembered body parts in for Halloween...just guessing.
What's not making me happy is the great variant in jean sizes throughout this great land of ours. I find myself today wearing a pair of 15 juniors that barely hang on to my hips, but I have a pair of 13 juniors that make it look like you could bounce a quarter off my thighs. I bought six pairs of jeans on my usual Goodwill weekend trip, all size ten. Three of them fit. I wish someone could explain to me how we can all agree what is supposed to be in chocolate, but nobody can come up with a standard for sizing. I loathe fitting rooms and all that they entail, so I'd rather end up with a pair of $4 jeans that will fit in a few weeks of starvation rather than actually trying this mess on.
At any rate, I know my two whole loyal readers are now chomping at the bit to know where you can find this delightful podcast...so http://www.npr.org/templates/archives/archive.php?thingId=129472378
Start at the beginning...which is the bottom...or you'll miss out on some of the best inside jokes in radio.
I guess it was sometime last year that I discovered Linda Holmes and her awesomely written blog, Monkey See. (http://www.npr.org/blogs/monkeysee/) I didn't realize that she, and a few of her selectively knowledgeable friends had started a podcast! It's a weekly show, starring Linda, Glen Weldon, Trey Graham, and Stephen Thompson and they discuss everything pop culture and then some. Since I have a complete aversion to popular television and I'm a BBC America snob, I sometimes don't see what America is putting out on television...on purpose. They break it down and make it far more amusing than actually *watching* the shows. One of their oft-discussed shows is The Bachelor Pad...which I have actually seen, but only because the gym locked the channels on the tvs, and then it was only on mute. Unfortunately, even on mute I could hear the ear-splitting screams of a bunch of over-made up, too much product in their hair bimbos. I could even imagine what the girls sounded like too. They make it hilarious to the point that I enjoy the show vicariously through them, and it makes work go so much faster. I do get strange looks when I collapse in gales of laughter on my desk (earbuds, remember?), but I think they're all just finding that to be part of my personality. Nobody questions, don't make eye contact and keep walking. I think it helped that I brought a tray of gummy dismembered body parts in for Halloween...just guessing.
What's not making me happy is the great variant in jean sizes throughout this great land of ours. I find myself today wearing a pair of 15 juniors that barely hang on to my hips, but I have a pair of 13 juniors that make it look like you could bounce a quarter off my thighs. I bought six pairs of jeans on my usual Goodwill weekend trip, all size ten. Three of them fit. I wish someone could explain to me how we can all agree what is supposed to be in chocolate, but nobody can come up with a standard for sizing. I loathe fitting rooms and all that they entail, so I'd rather end up with a pair of $4 jeans that will fit in a few weeks of starvation rather than actually trying this mess on.
At any rate, I know my two whole loyal readers are now chomping at the bit to know where you can find this delightful podcast...so http://www.npr.org/templates/archives/archive.php?thingId=129472378
Start at the beginning...which is the bottom...or you'll miss out on some of the best inside jokes in radio.
Friday, November 5, 2010
Greetings!
I thought of a few ways to start this blog, and it's sort of funny that I have chosen to start a blog at all. I am, in fact, the girl who stated earlier in the week that suddenly everybody with the internet thinks they're interesting. So, if you don't find me interesting, which you likely won't, please move along. I won't be hurt...outwardly... I'm pretty tender, so I really might be.
My intention really is to vent, really. I sort of bottle things up, and then have to find a way to get them out. I'm also working on my writing skills. I find that I have a large amount of ideas that might actually work as fictional, but I lack the talent to convey them in a manner that makes them palatable...so please bear with me.
I work in an office as many people do, it's quite an unremarkable office in some ways. It's an old doctor's office, and it has no real layout that can be considered sane. It's quite the rat maze, which in many ways is very fitting, as we're running quite the race in there with no end in sight.
I communicate with agencies throughout the country, and supply them with reports that they apparently cannot keep track of in any form. I run reports daily, which they then request intermittently throughout the rest of the month by sending tantrum-like emails requesting that I 'please supply them with the report that should have been done on such and such date'. I use my massive skills of button pushing and locate the report in a matter of seconds, which I attach to an email, much like the first time I sent it to them, and send it. I do this knowing that in a few weeks, my boss will receive a ranting email from an agency director about how they haven't received any reports for the last four billion years.
I do this unrewarding job while working with people who do not have inside voices. As I have little to actually communicate to anyone else in the building, I plug my earbuds into my computer or mp3 player and duck my head, hoping that no one has any reason to speak directly to me. I'd like to keep my hearing. The supervisors of each department like to gather in the kitchen, just over a six foot cubicle wall from me, and scream at each other how each person who has called into the office is being overly demanding/stupid/repetitive/whatever that day, which wouldn't be bad, except that the kitchen is an echo chamber and they have ear-splitting voices.
Over all, it's not a bad job, and it hasn't rained in the building yet. It occasionally catches on fire, but nobody panics...just continue working until you see flames. When you see flames, put them out, then continue working (true story).
I promise not to always be this angsty and complainy, but I had to establish a framework of my forty-hour environment for reference sake.
My intention really is to vent, really. I sort of bottle things up, and then have to find a way to get them out. I'm also working on my writing skills. I find that I have a large amount of ideas that might actually work as fictional, but I lack the talent to convey them in a manner that makes them palatable...so please bear with me.
I work in an office as many people do, it's quite an unremarkable office in some ways. It's an old doctor's office, and it has no real layout that can be considered sane. It's quite the rat maze, which in many ways is very fitting, as we're running quite the race in there with no end in sight.
I communicate with agencies throughout the country, and supply them with reports that they apparently cannot keep track of in any form. I run reports daily, which they then request intermittently throughout the rest of the month by sending tantrum-like emails requesting that I 'please supply them with the report that should have been done on such and such date'. I use my massive skills of button pushing and locate the report in a matter of seconds, which I attach to an email, much like the first time I sent it to them, and send it. I do this knowing that in a few weeks, my boss will receive a ranting email from an agency director about how they haven't received any reports for the last four billion years.
I do this unrewarding job while working with people who do not have inside voices. As I have little to actually communicate to anyone else in the building, I plug my earbuds into my computer or mp3 player and duck my head, hoping that no one has any reason to speak directly to me. I'd like to keep my hearing. The supervisors of each department like to gather in the kitchen, just over a six foot cubicle wall from me, and scream at each other how each person who has called into the office is being overly demanding/stupid/repetitive/whatever that day, which wouldn't be bad, except that the kitchen is an echo chamber and they have ear-splitting voices.
Over all, it's not a bad job, and it hasn't rained in the building yet. It occasionally catches on fire, but nobody panics...just continue working until you see flames. When you see flames, put them out, then continue working (true story).
I promise not to always be this angsty and complainy, but I had to establish a framework of my forty-hour environment for reference sake.
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