For what it's worth, I would like everyone to know that after three Christmas movies, four batches of cookies, a Tacky Lights tour, and a Cookie Party complete with roaring fire, I am feeling much more Holly Jolly and much less Bah Humbug.
Now, we all know about the Christmas Creep. No not your skeevy uncle after too much eggnog, but the insidious crawl of holiday-centric commercialism ever earlier in the year to the point that I saw red, green, and silver Hershey kisses available around Halloween. It's a familiar, if infuriating phenomenon, and I'm waiting for the good belly laugh when we celebrate Labor Day with 50% off all Santa merchandise.
But this is a new one for me.
I opened my Yahoo email account this morning to see an email from Ann Taylor Loft (love!) advertising a sale. It makes sense, as it's two days before Christmas, and the parking lot around Fair Oaks Mall was crammed yesterday with crawling cars filled with panicked people. I wasn't among their numbers, but I could see it from I-66. God bless online shopping. And I know the economy sucks and retailers have been busting their humps, doing just about anything to get people to at least look at their wares.
Anyhoo. I was all ready to delete yet another sale ad until my eyes caught the subject line.
(Note that it's currently December 23.)
"Ann Taylor Loft After Holiday Sale Starts Today!"
Amazing. I knew they were capable of great work-appropriate clothes. (I'm wearing a sweater of theirs right now.) I did not realize they were capable of bending the laws of space and time.
Good show, Ann Taylor Loft! I humble myself before your scientific prowess. Somebody get NASA on the phone!
Tuesday, December 23, 2008
Tuesday, December 16, 2008
Humbug
Is anyone else feeling distinctly underwhelmed by the holiday season this year?
In spite of the fact that Christmas has not been my favorite holiday for a number of years, I find that I am usually able to gear up for the season. I have Christmas music CDs that I am often itching to play by mid-November. I delight in selecting a wreath and decorating my house. I start shopping sometimes by Halloween. I get all excited about how many different kinds of cookies I can make and the special food items I can bring. I bombard the Post Office with cards. I seek out lighting displays. I love choosing pretty wrapping paper, and I have a library of holiday movies that I start watching on Dec 1.
But this year feels like I sat on a punctured whoopee cushion. Maybe it's that my hormones have been on strike (no, I have nothing to announce) and it's been an awfully rough December for me. Maybe it's my depression and generalized anxiety rearing their ugly
heads (great timing, guys). Maybe it's that Christmas is late in the week and, since I don't take off before the holiday, I feel pressed for time on my must-be-last-minute stuff (cookies can't exactly be done more than a few days in advance, and our family recipe for rolls is a Day-Of thing). Maybe it's been too gray this year. Maybe it's that so many homes in the area are vacant or foreclosed that the lighting displays are weak at best. Maybe it's all the bad news we've been hearing since September that sets such a gloomy air. Or, yes, maybe it's that my heart is two sizes too small. Whatever it is, nothing seems particularly festive and I have a hard time finding any semblance of spirit.
Husband had to convince me to decorate this year because I really wasn't feeling it. I whipped into Cox Farms alone after work two weeks ago and grabbed the first wreath I saw with a top-fixed bow rather than taking time to select the right size, shape, and arrangement. I'm sure it didn't help that I was in pantyhose and heels on a gravel lot. Instead of inciting joy and peacefulness, my CDs are an irritatant and I'm choosing Offspring and Fiona Apple over Tchaikovsky and Diana Krall. At the blowout office holiday party, I felt nervous and awkward and left early; and before you tell me that you wished you could have cut out early from yours, let me say that Company does up one hell of a party and I had planned on shutting the place down. I've so far watched exactly one holiday movie (Elf), and whereas I often bake at least five different kinds of cookies, this year I'm hard pressed to make the two requisite (sugar cookies and chocolate cherry thumbprints) and one maybe (caramel cookies). I didn't even feel the love when I made the fruitcake this year.
In spite of the fact that Christmas has not been my favorite holiday for a number of years, I find that I am usually able to gear up for the season. I have Christmas music CDs that I am often itching to play by mid-November. I delight in selecting a wreath and decorating my house. I start shopping sometimes by Halloween. I get all excited about how many different kinds of cookies I can make and the special food items I can bring. I bombard the Post Office with cards. I seek out lighting displays. I love choosing pretty wrapping paper, and I have a library of holiday movies that I start watching on Dec 1.
But this year feels like I sat on a punctured whoopee cushion. Maybe it's that my hormones have been on strike (no, I have nothing to announce) and it's been an awfully rough December for me. Maybe it's my depression and generalized anxiety rearing their ugly
heads (great timing, guys). Maybe it's that Christmas is late in the week and, since I don't take off before the holiday, I feel pressed for time on my must-be-last-minute stuff (cookies can't exactly be done more than a few days in advance, and our family recipe for rolls is a Day-Of thing). Maybe it's been too gray this year. Maybe it's that so many homes in the area are vacant or foreclosed that the lighting displays are weak at best. Maybe it's all the bad news we've been hearing since September that sets such a gloomy air. Or, yes, maybe it's that my heart is two sizes too small. Whatever it is, nothing seems particularly festive and I have a hard time finding any semblance of spirit.
Husband had to convince me to decorate this year because I really wasn't feeling it. I whipped into Cox Farms alone after work two weeks ago and grabbed the first wreath I saw with a top-fixed bow rather than taking time to select the right size, shape, and arrangement. I'm sure it didn't help that I was in pantyhose and heels on a gravel lot. Instead of inciting joy and peacefulness, my CDs are an irritatant and I'm choosing Offspring and Fiona Apple over Tchaikovsky and Diana Krall. At the blowout office holiday party, I felt nervous and awkward and left early; and before you tell me that you wished you could have cut out early from yours, let me say that Company does up one hell of a party and I had planned on shutting the place down. I've so far watched exactly one holiday movie (Elf), and whereas I often bake at least five different kinds of cookies, this year I'm hard pressed to make the two requisite (sugar cookies and chocolate cherry thumbprints) and one maybe (caramel cookies). I didn't even feel the love when I made the fruitcake this year.
(Yes I make - and eat! - and love! - fruitcake. Now stop laughing or I'll throw it at you and if you value your facial structure, trust me, you don't want that.)
None of this is like me. I had lunch with Friend Kristin today and, while that cheered me up a little, she agreed that this is very un-Rosie. In years past, I've at least been able to fake it. But this year... maybe I'm just done with 2008.
I know I'm just a big barrel of warm fuzzies right now, but this is my blog, dammit, and I get to write about how I feel, be it peppy, funny, sarcastic, or depressing. And you all have to read it because you can't help yourselves. Let it be known: Rosie is broken. Please to fix.
However, I will end on a high note, so that I don't have you all reaching for the revolvers. I promise I will arrive at all functions on time (except to those to which I already made it clear that I would be late) and with a smile, offering cookies and showing gratitude. I will be sunshine and lollipops, or gingerbread and candy canes. I promise to spend the free part of the weekend watching Baryshnikov, Rudolph, Charlie Brown, and Mr. Grinch until my eyes bleed. With luck, that will trip the switch and I will be my sugar plum self.
Besides, I am down 10 lbs since October and am working out more regularly, so more yet may come off. Yay!
Wednesday, December 10, 2008
The Bailout
While I can respect the need to save the jobs of untold thousands of auto industry workers, this somehow rings just a little too true...
Wednesday, December 3, 2008
Roommates
My salad days in my lovely empty office with a window and a door that closes are over. On Monday I was assigned an officemate. When her boss walked her around and introduced us, it took me by such surprise that it was all I could do to mumble out a passingly pleasant, “Hi”. I’ll admit I never manage to say or do the right thing, especially under pressure and on the spot, but I think I was well enough able to conceal my sinking disappointment that I now had to share my space.
Sharing space. I’ve never been especially good at it. Perhaps I can trace it back to my childhood, in which my sister and I were lucky enough to never have to share a room except on vacation. Add to that my generally introverted nature, at least until I become comfortable with another person, and you have someone who is fiercely protective of her metaphorical homestead, whatever that homestead may be.
I was an awful roommate, both in college and after. I’ll be the first to cop to it. Truth is truth. I didn’t let the dishes pile up for weeks or allow strange people to crash with us or use up all the hot water knowing that Roomie needed a shower too. My defects are all about how I deal with conflict. I let things build and fester like a nasty infection until I snap over something miniscule, or just make life unpleasant in general with my silent glaring and snarls. Adult of me, I know, but we all have our faults. Husband is the last roommate I’ve had, but we’ve only experienced minor problems with it because both of us are conflict-averse, and he knows how to recognize and shut me down when I start building up.
In my professional life, however, I have experienced no situation in which I had to share my space. I always had my own cubicle, or at least my own clear work area when I was in the Tech Writers pod at Company 2. Here, however, is a new scenario for me.
Roommate is a very nice woman, bright and lively, polite and quick to smile. I have no cause for complaint about her. Best of all, she is in fact a woman. I was having fits trying to figure out how to handle the Aunt Flo issue with a male officemate. I considered stashing a box of “supplies” in the ladies room, but figured that everyone would take advantage of those and they wouldn’t be there when I needed them. I considered going the makeup bag route, but depending upon how much time Roommate was there and how observant and/or dense he was, I anticipated questions about why it was only one week a month that I seemed to need to touch up my makeup a couple of times a day. Cosmetics are a bitch, Roomie.
So I’m fortunate on that score. But today we’re already running into growing pains. Because I have a conference call at 11 and she has an in-person meeting going on right now, and not only do I know I can’t concentrate on the call with the two of them talking, I also know I won’t be able to concentrate on my work with someone talking – either in a meeting or on the phone in general.
Maybe sound canceling headphones are the answer. Or maybe we’ll have to arrange to work from home on alternating days. Hrm... In the meantime, maybe I need to go to Coworker's actual office instead of being on the call today.
Sharing space. I’ve never been especially good at it. Perhaps I can trace it back to my childhood, in which my sister and I were lucky enough to never have to share a room except on vacation. Add to that my generally introverted nature, at least until I become comfortable with another person, and you have someone who is fiercely protective of her metaphorical homestead, whatever that homestead may be.
I was an awful roommate, both in college and after. I’ll be the first to cop to it. Truth is truth. I didn’t let the dishes pile up for weeks or allow strange people to crash with us or use up all the hot water knowing that Roomie needed a shower too. My defects are all about how I deal with conflict. I let things build and fester like a nasty infection until I snap over something miniscule, or just make life unpleasant in general with my silent glaring and snarls. Adult of me, I know, but we all have our faults. Husband is the last roommate I’ve had, but we’ve only experienced minor problems with it because both of us are conflict-averse, and he knows how to recognize and shut me down when I start building up.
In my professional life, however, I have experienced no situation in which I had to share my space. I always had my own cubicle, or at least my own clear work area when I was in the Tech Writers pod at Company 2. Here, however, is a new scenario for me.
Roommate is a very nice woman, bright and lively, polite and quick to smile. I have no cause for complaint about her. Best of all, she is in fact a woman. I was having fits trying to figure out how to handle the Aunt Flo issue with a male officemate. I considered stashing a box of “supplies” in the ladies room, but figured that everyone would take advantage of those and they wouldn’t be there when I needed them. I considered going the makeup bag route, but depending upon how much time Roommate was there and how observant and/or dense he was, I anticipated questions about why it was only one week a month that I seemed to need to touch up my makeup a couple of times a day. Cosmetics are a bitch, Roomie.
So I’m fortunate on that score. But today we’re already running into growing pains. Because I have a conference call at 11 and she has an in-person meeting going on right now, and not only do I know I can’t concentrate on the call with the two of them talking, I also know I won’t be able to concentrate on my work with someone talking – either in a meeting or on the phone in general.
Maybe sound canceling headphones are the answer. Or maybe we’ll have to arrange to work from home on alternating days. Hrm... In the meantime, maybe I need to go to Coworker's actual office instead of being on the call today.
Monday, December 1, 2008
NaNoWriMo 2008: Results
NaNoWriMo 2008 has drawn to a close and the verdict is:
Qualified Fail.
"Fail" because I missed the goal of 50,000 words in a month. I also missed my own personal goal of 10,000 words. In fact, I concluded the month with a grand total of 3,089 words. To my credit, a number of them were big, multi-syllabic words. But it's still a Fail.
"Qualified" because even 3,089 words tops my previous NaNoWriMo (2006) total of... 0 words. So yay me! Maybe I can crest 5,000 words in NaNoWriMo 2009. And even though I cranked out 3,089 words of uselessness (seriously, the whole thing worked much better in my outline than it did on paper), it is not a total loss. I think it can be retooled and redirected to another genre and turn out... maybe all right. I don't know if I'd ever submit it, but it's good to have something.
Word counts aside, one goal was certainly achieved. I reminded myself of the thrill I can feel when scribbling borderline nonsensical words on paper. It's nice to make the world melt away and to sense nothing outside the blissful confines of your own mind but the smell of cheap ink and the feel of good paper. In remembering that simple joy, I count this year as a Win.
(And now that it's over, I no longer have to feel guilty for reading when I should be writing!)
Qualified Fail.
"Fail" because I missed the goal of 50,000 words in a month. I also missed my own personal goal of 10,000 words. In fact, I concluded the month with a grand total of 3,089 words. To my credit, a number of them were big, multi-syllabic words. But it's still a Fail.
"Qualified" because even 3,089 words tops my previous NaNoWriMo (2006) total of... 0 words. So yay me! Maybe I can crest 5,000 words in NaNoWriMo 2009. And even though I cranked out 3,089 words of uselessness (seriously, the whole thing worked much better in my outline than it did on paper), it is not a total loss. I think it can be retooled and redirected to another genre and turn out... maybe all right. I don't know if I'd ever submit it, but it's good to have something.
Word counts aside, one goal was certainly achieved. I reminded myself of the thrill I can feel when scribbling borderline nonsensical words on paper. It's nice to make the world melt away and to sense nothing outside the blissful confines of your own mind but the smell of cheap ink and the feel of good paper. In remembering that simple joy, I count this year as a Win.
(And now that it's over, I no longer have to feel guilty for reading when I should be writing!)
Friday, November 21, 2008
The Death of Daytime
I found an article today from a former soap opera magazine writer (e.g., Soap Opera Weekly) talking about how we're watching the demise of daytime TV. The source of this hypothesis: the firing from Days of Our Lives (my own former "stories") of Deidre "Exotic Bird Hair" Hall and Drake "Smell the Fart" Hogestyn.Okay, Diedre's moniker is self-explanatory, but, for those of you who don't get the reference for Drake, here is the clarification: Jennifer Aniston's daddy, John Aniston, spent a goodly amount of his career playing Victor Kiriakis on Days, enduring many a ridiculous plotline and span of dialogue. In 1994, a little show called Friends came out on NBC (maybe you've heard of it?), the same channel that supports Days of Our Lives. Joey on Friends, as you may recall, was supposed to be a soap actor. So there are the various tie-ins, and why Days stars (Alison Sweeney, Kyle Lowder, Kristian Alfonso, among others) periodically showed up on Friends. In one season or another Joey took it upon himself to teach, or assistant teach, a community college (I guess) class on acting in soap operas. In response to - I believe - one student's question on what to do if you forget a line, Joey tells them to strike the "smell the fart" expression to buy them time. Then he demonstrates: he stops as if he's been paralyzed, raises one eyebrow skyward, then rotates his head vertically and away from the side with the raised eyebrow so his chin is stuck out in that direction, and inhales deeply. The desired effect is too look like you just, well, smelled a fart, though it's all suspenseful and dramatic to the audience. Those of us who are or were Days devotees, however, knew exactly and on the spot who taught Joey the trick: our main man, Drake Hogysten, who trademarked the look.
Now I haven't watched the show steadily since 2001, with a brief stint during 2005. I've caught an episode here and there, and there are a bunch of new characters, so I'm with the author: why not kill off one or five of them? Why are we digging more DiMeras out of the woodwork (even though we have trouble retaining evil mastermind Stefano!), but losing our anchors?
John and Marlena have been an institution on this show since the 80s. Allow us to hang onto one or two couples that manage to stay together through mistaken identities and demonic possession and adult children they never knew they had who turn out to not actually be theirs but her ex-husband's with another woman and hidden by Stefano DiMera on a secret island and never taught to speak or interact socially until they are dropped at age 18 essentially in his daughter's lap and she takes them under her wing and teaches them how to speak and to relate and to love!...where was I? Ah yes.
Let the younger characters bed-hop and make countless mistakes - that's their thing. Go ahead and create trouble for John and Marlena - conflict is, after all, the essence of drama - ... - and what is a soap opera without drama - ... - and functional couples aren't all that interesting to watch - ... - who was it that said that every happy family is the same but every dysfunctional family is unhappy in their own way? - but don't take them away.
I suppose, as I have abandoned the show to become part of the paid workforce, that I have no place to talk. I can't be angry about changes to a show I don't watch anymore, or speak out against plot twists that I can't follow.
But I can be a little bit sad.
And I am.
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
Congratulations, Leah & Phil!
Congratulations to Leah & Phil, who made it legal on Saturday, November 8!(See, it's funny because they're lawyers and they met in law school. I crack me up!)
Leah chose me as her Maid of Honor, but the honor was absolutely mine to stand beside my beautiful friend as she pledged her life to a man who I know cherishes her to her very core. As he should!
You couldn't have asked for a more perfect day. After threats all week of cold and rain for Saturday, the weather gods saw fit for the sun to shine bright and warm, which was quite the endorsement. The location was elegant, the cake was delicious, and the service was excellent (if a little enthusiastic about the NA cider). Leah was a vision, Phil missed the glass, the groomsmen hoisted both of them up for the Hora, and in true celebratory form, I danced the Dance of Joy until my feet nearly fell off. (It's okay! I can feel my toes again!)
My very best wishes go out to the happy couple! Phil, you are a lucky man to have found such a lady. I know you'll take good care of my friend.
Friday, November 7, 2008
The Trouble with Characters
So I'm off on my NaNoWriMo adventure. Full disclosure: I will be very, very surprised if I reach 50,000 words. Frankly, I'll count myself successful if I reach 10,000. But no matter. I didn't do this to actually write a novel. I did this to get my hands moving again, because talking endlessly about putting words on paper does not actually put the words on paper.
I've chosen a character and I'm working her out, and building side characters who are gaining shape and color (for the most part) slowly but surely. In the first paragraphs, I really liked this main character and was interested at how she was taking form. But in all honesty, by this point (1,489 words in), I'm far less interested in her than I am in a side character I built for her. How did that happen?? When I first concocted this craptacular story, this guy was essentially a ghostly thing, always pale and shapeless, merely holding a place and serving a purpose in the plot. But he will not be suppressed the way I wanted him to be. In mindlessly scrawling words in my notebook, he gave me his name, some nuance, and personality-shaping details even as a child. I can't get such a clear picture of even my main character, and that's a problem, because the story originally centered on her!
This is what Amy Tan talks about in The Opposite of Fate, what Stephen King talks about in On Writing, what Jude Devereaux talks about in interviews and blogs. This is the exciting and energizing thing about writing, to me anyway. It's just a story, but it's a living thing. No matter how concrete your outline or your mental storyboarding, sometimes your story will decide despite your best intentions to yank the reins to the right. And you can kick and you can yell and you can pull all you want, but the horse is going this way and you're stuck in the saddle.
So okay. Let's see where he takes me...
I've chosen a character and I'm working her out, and building side characters who are gaining shape and color (for the most part) slowly but surely. In the first paragraphs, I really liked this main character and was interested at how she was taking form. But in all honesty, by this point (1,489 words in), I'm far less interested in her than I am in a side character I built for her. How did that happen?? When I first concocted this craptacular story, this guy was essentially a ghostly thing, always pale and shapeless, merely holding a place and serving a purpose in the plot. But he will not be suppressed the way I wanted him to be. In mindlessly scrawling words in my notebook, he gave me his name, some nuance, and personality-shaping details even as a child. I can't get such a clear picture of even my main character, and that's a problem, because the story originally centered on her!
This is what Amy Tan talks about in The Opposite of Fate, what Stephen King talks about in On Writing, what Jude Devereaux talks about in interviews and blogs. This is the exciting and energizing thing about writing, to me anyway. It's just a story, but it's a living thing. No matter how concrete your outline or your mental storyboarding, sometimes your story will decide despite your best intentions to yank the reins to the right. And you can kick and you can yell and you can pull all you want, but the horse is going this way and you're stuck in the saddle.
So okay. Let's see where he takes me...
Friday, October 31, 2008
Brave or Crazy?
I just joined NaNoWriMo. I'm not sure what I've just gotten myself into.
For the unfamiliar, NaNoWriMo, or National Novel Writing Month, is an international phenomenon in which aspiring writers take up their pens and put on their Writing hats starting at 12:0o:01 a.m. on November 1, and waste reams of innocent paper in pursuit of a truly ghastly story by 11:59:59 p.m. on November 30. The goal is to have a novel (50,000 words minimum) written in one month.
A friend of mine got me into this two years ago and, much like this year, I leapt blindly into it... and never got more than about three pages written. I hope to top that number this year, but I confess I don't really have a story. I have an outline of one that I was knocking about in my head some while ago (outlines prior to Nov 1 are allowable!), so maybe I'll go with that - it was quickly turning sour in my mind's ear anyway so what's the harm in making it truly gawdawful this month.
The only hangups are about time really: I'm participating in Friend Leah's wedding next weekend, I'm spending the following weekend with my mom and grandma, the weekend after that is Thanksgiving Party weekend, and then there's Thanksgiving itself and...
But really I'm just making excuses. It's a hobby of mine. There is a lot of open time in the rest of the month and even during those weekends that I could be getting high on the smell of BIC ink and the feel of good paper.
Thus shall I persevere! Bring me my Writing hat, a pen, and a case of Diet Coke! NaNoWriMo, I declare myself to thee!
For the unfamiliar, NaNoWriMo, or National Novel Writing Month, is an international phenomenon in which aspiring writers take up their pens and put on their Writing hats starting at 12:0o:01 a.m. on November 1, and waste reams of innocent paper in pursuit of a truly ghastly story by 11:59:59 p.m. on November 30. The goal is to have a novel (50,000 words minimum) written in one month.
A friend of mine got me into this two years ago and, much like this year, I leapt blindly into it... and never got more than about three pages written. I hope to top that number this year, but I confess I don't really have a story. I have an outline of one that I was knocking about in my head some while ago (outlines prior to Nov 1 are allowable!), so maybe I'll go with that - it was quickly turning sour in my mind's ear anyway so what's the harm in making it truly gawdawful this month.
The only hangups are about time really: I'm participating in Friend Leah's wedding next weekend, I'm spending the following weekend with my mom and grandma, the weekend after that is Thanksgiving Party weekend, and then there's Thanksgiving itself and...
But really I'm just making excuses. It's a hobby of mine. There is a lot of open time in the rest of the month and even during those weekends that I could be getting high on the smell of BIC ink and the feel of good paper.
Thus shall I persevere! Bring me my Writing hat, a pen, and a case of Diet Coke! NaNoWriMo, I declare myself to thee!
Wednesday, October 29, 2008
Reply All
Why is it that people hit Reply All to broadcast office emails? It's bad enough when it's in your personal email account, but at least there it tends to be people you know and there's often some witty banter or a nice zinger to enjoy. But why is it that if you receive a clearly broadcast email for some FunCtion (get it? Yeah, I want to give it back too), you feel the need to let the entire office know what you think of it?
Maybe I'm just a curmudgeon before my time. I don't want to socialize with my co-workers at large. I do want office buddies, don't misunderstand, and I'm happy to spend some of my free time with those co-workers whom I consider actual friends. But as for the rest of them, not really. I'm happily married and my commute is long, so I don't want to go to happy hour, to after-hours Wii parties, or to mid-day team-building exercises of any sort. What I do want is to work my eight hours and go home to see my husband, pet my cat, and change into jeans.
So when the office organizes trick-or-treating for the little kids in the day care center, that's cute and maybe I'll even participate, but I don't care whether Enthusiasm McPerky wants everyone to "count her in! :-)". When the Fun Committee (I kid you not) organizes a movie night for remote team members, I don't care that Teamy McJoiner thinks it's a "GREAT idea, Fun Cmte!!" It's fine to like things, it's fine to be a joiner, it's fine to be peppy. But share your support with the people directly organizing it or by participating. The entire office doesn't need to be distracted by your non-work related opinion. Just sayin.
Maybe I'm just a curmudgeon before my time. I don't want to socialize with my co-workers at large. I do want office buddies, don't misunderstand, and I'm happy to spend some of my free time with those co-workers whom I consider actual friends. But as for the rest of them, not really. I'm happily married and my commute is long, so I don't want to go to happy hour, to after-hours Wii parties, or to mid-day team-building exercises of any sort. What I do want is to work my eight hours and go home to see my husband, pet my cat, and change into jeans.
So when the office organizes trick-or-treating for the little kids in the day care center, that's cute and maybe I'll even participate, but I don't care whether Enthusiasm McPerky wants everyone to "count her in! :-)". When the Fun Committee (I kid you not) organizes a movie night for remote team members, I don't care that Teamy McJoiner thinks it's a "GREAT idea, Fun Cmte!!" It's fine to like things, it's fine to be a joiner, it's fine to be peppy. But share your support with the people directly organizing it or by participating. The entire office doesn't need to be distracted by your non-work related opinion. Just sayin.
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
Working from Home
I've had a stomach thing for a couple of days; I came home early yesterday and stayed home today. And before you crack the usual jokes, I want to say that I have had work, and that I have DONE work. Today I was busy straight through 1:30 p.m., so there. Come to think of it, I've had more work at home than I usually do in the office. Hrm... justification for working from home regularly now? Probably not, but a girl can dream.
Some things I have learned today:
1. BLISS! The old Philip is back on Days finally! And Chloe's back! The only sadness to my life in that respect: Brady is not back WITH Chloe, because he is apparently on The Bold and the Beautiful. I learned that in last week's Soup. But I think he just got killed off on that show, so maybe he'll be back. Not that I'll be able to see it. Curse you, gainful employment!!
2. Ellen is a fun show. I normally hate daytime non-trash talk shows, but Ellen is actually cute. It came on at 2 pm on NBC, right after Days, so it's not as though I was seeking it out. But every time I meant to shut it off and go shower (oh shut up, you'd slack on that too if you were home all day and going nowhere), she brought out something new and worth staying for. First it was Chris Rock, whom I haven't seen on camera in ages, then it was my gay boyfriend Neil Patrick Harris subjecting himself to a dunk tank to benefit breast cancer, and now it's Elizabeth Banks whom I love dearly.
3. Killing time is much more pleasant in jeans than in pantyhose, and on your couch than in the office.
I'm feeling vastly improved compared to how I was, so I'll be {pouts, kicks haphazardly at wall} back at work tomorrow... Sigh...
Some things I have learned today:
1. BLISS! The old Philip is back on Days finally! And Chloe's back! The only sadness to my life in that respect: Brady is not back WITH Chloe, because he is apparently on The Bold and the Beautiful. I learned that in last week's Soup. But I think he just got killed off on that show, so maybe he'll be back. Not that I'll be able to see it. Curse you, gainful employment!!
2. Ellen is a fun show. I normally hate daytime non-trash talk shows, but Ellen is actually cute. It came on at 2 pm on NBC, right after Days, so it's not as though I was seeking it out. But every time I meant to shut it off and go shower (oh shut up, you'd slack on that too if you were home all day and going nowhere), she brought out something new and worth staying for. First it was Chris Rock, whom I haven't seen on camera in ages, then it was my gay boyfriend Neil Patrick Harris subjecting himself to a dunk tank to benefit breast cancer, and now it's Elizabeth Banks whom I love dearly.
3. Killing time is much more pleasant in jeans than in pantyhose, and on your couch than in the office.
I'm feeling vastly improved compared to how I was, so I'll be {pouts, kicks haphazardly at wall} back at work tomorrow... Sigh...
Friday, October 24, 2008
Spammity Spam
Recall, if you will, that until a few months ago, I was voraciously hunting for jobs. Since finding one, I have removed my profiles on careerbuilder.com, dice.com, washingtonjobs.com, and such. I still receive cattle-call job opening emails from recruiters, but they're usually bland and easy to ignore. The one I received today, however, was extra special, and I felt the need to share. I promise, no doctoring of the verbiage has been undertaken in any way, shape, or form; this is strictly a copy-and-paste operation.
Today's email comes to us courtesy of sender "Support".
Subject Line: "The serious German company requires your help!"
Body: "Hello! How are you today? Our company, Gyterhompsens GmbH, is very interested in finding business partners in the Europe, USA and all over the world. We have been selling expensive Medical equipment for 7 years. Our headquarters is located in Frankfurt, Germany. We are looking for business partner, who will help us with wire transfer. Gyterhompsens GmbH is very serious organization, and we are ready to consider all possible variants with bank accounts."
Have the Germans taken on the mantle previously worn exclusively by exiled Nigerian princes?? Are they as serious as they say they are?? The world may never know, because I'm about to hit delete...
Thursday, October 23, 2008
There's Only One October
Thank you, Captain Obvious.
I hate baseball. There. I said it. And it's true, I do. It is the most boring popular sport out there - worse than basketball, worse than soccer, worse than curling. You heard me. Worse than Curling, that hilarious-yet-hypnotic winter Olympic event in which players try to use brooms to sweep a clean path on the ice so that a 20 lb stone can glide just-so onto a bullseye, or into another team's stone so as to knock it out of contention. Curling at least offers some measure of suspense. There might be a decent injury in soccer, and basketball players are dramatic showboats that can be fun to watch even if the game isn't.
But, Baseball. Is. Boring. The players are dull, unless they're sticking their easily-led noses into celebrity marriages (*cough*A-Rod*cough*). The action is slow unless (pleasepleaseplease) the pitcher manages to bean the hitter. The expression on the faces of the participants is even bored, as they chaw on their tabaccky and scratch their crotches. Going to the actual game, while slightly more enjoyable than the straightjacket that is the televised version, is merely an excuse to get soused on warm overpriced beer, eat greasy overpriced food, and yell obscenities at the top of one's lungs.
"America's pastime," my butt. It may have been America's pastime when there was no television (I've already conceded that it's slightly better in person, and I'll agree that it doesn't completely suck over the radio), and when football and hockey were just regional timekillers. But that day has passed, and baseball has not kept up with the times. There are still entirely too many games for entirely too many teams with entirely too low scores and entirely too little happens.
I can ignore it most of the year, relegated as it is to weekends and/or the sports channels. But then comes October, and suddenly it's on network TV in the middle of the week. No, I don't care that it's the World Series, especially because with the exception of maybe one Japanese exhibition game and the Toronto Blue Jays, it's still only American. Would you believe this snoozer is actually in the Olympics? But I digress.
October, and the stupid World Series. As we've established, baseball is boring. You know what's not boring? Bones. Simpsons. Family Guy. American Dad. Terminator. And all these lovely shows will be pre-empted by baseball, baseball, baseball, baseball.
Last night, Husband and I sat down for our regular Wednesday night viewing: Bones at 9, followed by South Park at 10. But, what's this? Why is Tivo not recording Bones?! We restarted the modem this afternoon, it's been recording everything else, is something not connected? Is there... oh wait... and we clicked over to the regular input and sure enough, there are people in ugly gray and red uniforms standing around and staring at people in ugly white and blue uniforms. This also happened last Sunday, and will happen again this Sunday, come hell or high water. And, god help us, if the Rays manage to beat the Phillies in one game, it will happen again this coming Monday, and possibly next Wednesday. Fox has already scheduled repeats of Terminator and Bones in preparation for the unfortunate event that the Rays won't completely bite the dust and that the viewing public will be held hostage for - I mean, treated to - more baseball.
Yes of course I can watch Chuck at 8pm on NBC on Monday instead of pouting through baseball, and I will. But as for the rest of it... well, at least I can catch up on my Netflix.
I hate baseball. There. I said it. And it's true, I do. It is the most boring popular sport out there - worse than basketball, worse than soccer, worse than curling. You heard me. Worse than Curling, that hilarious-yet-hypnotic winter Olympic event in which players try to use brooms to sweep a clean path on the ice so that a 20 lb stone can glide just-so onto a bullseye, or into another team's stone so as to knock it out of contention. Curling at least offers some measure of suspense. There might be a decent injury in soccer, and basketball players are dramatic showboats that can be fun to watch even if the game isn't.
But, Baseball. Is. Boring. The players are dull, unless they're sticking their easily-led noses into celebrity marriages (*cough*A-Rod*cough*). The action is slow unless (pleasepleaseplease) the pitcher manages to bean the hitter. The expression on the faces of the participants is even bored, as they chaw on their tabaccky and scratch their crotches. Going to the actual game, while slightly more enjoyable than the straightjacket that is the televised version, is merely an excuse to get soused on warm overpriced beer, eat greasy overpriced food, and yell obscenities at the top of one's lungs.
"America's pastime," my butt. It may have been America's pastime when there was no television (I've already conceded that it's slightly better in person, and I'll agree that it doesn't completely suck over the radio), and when football and hockey were just regional timekillers. But that day has passed, and baseball has not kept up with the times. There are still entirely too many games for entirely too many teams with entirely too low scores and entirely too little happens.
I can ignore it most of the year, relegated as it is to weekends and/or the sports channels. But then comes October, and suddenly it's on network TV in the middle of the week. No, I don't care that it's the World Series, especially because with the exception of maybe one Japanese exhibition game and the Toronto Blue Jays, it's still only American. Would you believe this snoozer is actually in the Olympics? But I digress.
October, and the stupid World Series. As we've established, baseball is boring. You know what's not boring? Bones. Simpsons. Family Guy. American Dad. Terminator. And all these lovely shows will be pre-empted by baseball, baseball, baseball, baseball.
Last night, Husband and I sat down for our regular Wednesday night viewing: Bones at 9, followed by South Park at 10. But, what's this? Why is Tivo not recording Bones?! We restarted the modem this afternoon, it's been recording everything else, is something not connected? Is there... oh wait... and we clicked over to the regular input and sure enough, there are people in ugly gray and red uniforms standing around and staring at people in ugly white and blue uniforms. This also happened last Sunday, and will happen again this Sunday, come hell or high water. And, god help us, if the Rays manage to beat the Phillies in one game, it will happen again this coming Monday, and possibly next Wednesday. Fox has already scheduled repeats of Terminator and Bones in preparation for the unfortunate event that the Rays won't completely bite the dust and that the viewing public will be held hostage for - I mean, treated to - more baseball.
Yes of course I can watch Chuck at 8pm on NBC on Monday instead of pouting through baseball, and I will. But as for the rest of it... well, at least I can catch up on my Netflix.
Thursday, October 16, 2008
Happy Dance!
I had to tighten my belt a notch yesterday! Joy of joys!
We'll have to see how long it stays that way, of course, but in the meantime, happy dances for all!
We'll have to see how long it stays that way, of course, but in the meantime, happy dances for all!
Friday, October 10, 2008
Scary Morning
I literally paid off my car two weeks ago. I received the title in the mail earlier this week. I should be jumping for joy that my lovely car is now 100% mine-all-mine. I should be revelling in the fact that I have one less bill to pay every month.
But, pessimist that I am, I'm instead gingerly turning the key in the ignition every morning, waiting for the engine to fall out.
And this morning proved that I'm not too far off base.
I turn on the car this morning and my eyes go straight to the gas gauge because I noticed last night that I was getting low and probably need to fill up and isn't it convenient that I'm seeing $3.29 gas offered at the same time. This morning, the gas gauge is pointing to full-on "E", yet the "you have no gas" light is not on and/or blinking. The gauge wavers sometimes depending on the incline of the car, so I don't pay it too much mind; maybe it just needs to warm up. The temperature gauge is all the way at "C" after all.
I'm leaving the neighborhood, but I notice the gauges haven't changed. Again, I don't pay it any mind, because I know that even though my tank was low, I had enough to get me to and from work today, and then some.
About a half mile from my house, the panicked realization sets in. The gas gauge isn't moving. The temperature gauge isn't moving. THE SPEEDOMETER AND TACHOMETER AREN'T MOVING.
Crap. Oh crap.
I consider my options. The brakes are working, so the entire thing's not shutting down (I had a car do that once while I was in motion.) The radio and lights are on, so I don't think it's electrical. What else could it be?? I could go to the nearby automotive shop, but I have no idea how long they'll need to keep my car or how many other jobs they have lined up that day, I have no other ride to work, and I know that there will probably be a sizeable train-wreck of a document awaiting my speed-demon review. I could chance it and just go to work, but the prospect of driving 66 in morning rush hour with no certainty as to how fast I'm going, or whether the engine is going to suddenly cut out, is not appealing at all.
I decide to take it to the shop. It's just too risky to myself and others to do otherwise. The document will be in crappy shape no matter what I do, there are others on the QC Team to handle it, I can work some extra hours next week to make up for whatever I miss today, and I can probably beg Husband or Friend Michelle to pick me up and take me to work. Not a great plan, but it's the best option on the table.
The nice boy at the counter (he couldn't have been more than 22, and they're much more pleasant at 7:45 am than they are at 5:30 pm) takes down my information, and then does something uncharacteristic of many auto-repair people. Most auto-repair people would simply confiscate my car and return it at the end of the day with a sizeable bill regardless of how much work was or was not done. Instead, Nice Boy politely asks if I tried re-starting the car. Well no, I haven't. He suggests we go try that out and see if anything changes.
Lo and behold! Nice Boy is magical! The engine turns over and the dials all move. I breathe an enormous sigh of relief, thank him profusely, and am on my way. Apparently a car is much like a computer: if you're seeing abnormal things, try a restart.
I'm thrilled that my car is functioning and that the repair didn't cost a cent. I am also, however, a little embarrassed to reinforce the stereotype of "those woman drivers."
But, pessimist that I am, I'm instead gingerly turning the key in the ignition every morning, waiting for the engine to fall out.
And this morning proved that I'm not too far off base.
I turn on the car this morning and my eyes go straight to the gas gauge because I noticed last night that I was getting low and probably need to fill up and isn't it convenient that I'm seeing $3.29 gas offered at the same time. This morning, the gas gauge is pointing to full-on "E", yet the "you have no gas" light is not on and/or blinking. The gauge wavers sometimes depending on the incline of the car, so I don't pay it too much mind; maybe it just needs to warm up. The temperature gauge is all the way at "C" after all.
I'm leaving the neighborhood, but I notice the gauges haven't changed. Again, I don't pay it any mind, because I know that even though my tank was low, I had enough to get me to and from work today, and then some.
About a half mile from my house, the panicked realization sets in. The gas gauge isn't moving. The temperature gauge isn't moving. THE SPEEDOMETER AND TACHOMETER AREN'T MOVING.
Crap. Oh crap.
I consider my options. The brakes are working, so the entire thing's not shutting down (I had a car do that once while I was in motion.) The radio and lights are on, so I don't think it's electrical. What else could it be?? I could go to the nearby automotive shop, but I have no idea how long they'll need to keep my car or how many other jobs they have lined up that day, I have no other ride to work, and I know that there will probably be a sizeable train-wreck of a document awaiting my speed-demon review. I could chance it and just go to work, but the prospect of driving 66 in morning rush hour with no certainty as to how fast I'm going, or whether the engine is going to suddenly cut out, is not appealing at all.
I decide to take it to the shop. It's just too risky to myself and others to do otherwise. The document will be in crappy shape no matter what I do, there are others on the QC Team to handle it, I can work some extra hours next week to make up for whatever I miss today, and I can probably beg Husband or Friend Michelle to pick me up and take me to work. Not a great plan, but it's the best option on the table.
The nice boy at the counter (he couldn't have been more than 22, and they're much more pleasant at 7:45 am than they are at 5:30 pm) takes down my information, and then does something uncharacteristic of many auto-repair people. Most auto-repair people would simply confiscate my car and return it at the end of the day with a sizeable bill regardless of how much work was or was not done. Instead, Nice Boy politely asks if I tried re-starting the car. Well no, I haven't. He suggests we go try that out and see if anything changes.
Lo and behold! Nice Boy is magical! The engine turns over and the dials all move. I breathe an enormous sigh of relief, thank him profusely, and am on my way. Apparently a car is much like a computer: if you're seeing abnormal things, try a restart.
I'm thrilled that my car is functioning and that the repair didn't cost a cent. I am also, however, a little embarrassed to reinforce the stereotype of "those woman drivers."
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
Money Money Money Money
Welcome to Depression 2.0. If you disagree, that's fantastic for you, but I'm a pessimist by nature and that's just how I see it.
Yesterday the House voted to kill the $700 billion-with-a-B bailout plan, and while I'll admit up front to neither knowing nor frankly understanding the particulars, I have to say I'm glad. This is something that I would have been paying for until my retirement, my children would be paying for until their retirement, and likely my grandchildren and great-grandchildren would be paying for until THEIR retirement, and probably a generation or two after that. While I am aware and I agree that something needs to be done, I don't necessarily support the government whisking in with flags waving, fanfares blaring, and my forthcoming taxes at the ready to save the crooks who put all their eggs in one basket called Shady Mortgages. Furthermore, I don't support patchwork plans that cost more money than most of us can fathom and offer no assurance whatsoever of success.
Something that bothers me in the aftermath is all the finger pointing going on in the wake of the bill's demise. The facts are that the bill was voted down in the House 228 to 205; of the 205 Ayes (to approve the bill), 140 were Democrats and 65 were Republicans; of the 228 Noes (to decline the bill), 95 were Democrats and 133 were Republicans; one Republican abstained.
The Republicans are laying the blame squarely on House Speaker Nancy Pelosi's (D-CA) speech just prior to the vote. It was rumored that the Ayes had it on both sides of the aisle prior to the vote, so what happened? Some said she scared and upset the Republicans into voting against the bill, thereby giving the majority to the Noes; that because Pelosi's speech took so many digs at Republicans, the Republicans took their proverbial ball and went home. House Minority Leader John Boehner (R-OH) said that the speech "poisoned" the Republicans against the bill and, "I do believe that we could have gotten there today, had it not been for the partisan speech that the Speaker gave on the floor of the House." I'll agree that she was unnecessarily ideological and bitter in her speech (transcript here, for your reading pleasure.), but to that reasoning, I say, pbbbbbbbbbbt! Two weeks ago, two days ago, two minutes ago, you could have heard, up and down the halls of the House, Republicans taking any opportunity for another potshot at Pelosi et al. (To be fair, you could have heard the Democrats doing the same thing regarding the Republicans, but that's beside the point.) So since when are Republicans so moved and/or scared by anything Pelosi says or does that they would instantaneously change their vote? If the bill was such a shining example of bipartisan legislation, since when do personal feelings come into play? Congresspeople are figureheads, meant to represent the beliefs and opinions of their constituents. I know, my naivete is showing. But if the bill is bad, cop to it and say so. Don't whine and say, "She was mean to me!" You're big boys and girls now. Use your words. Furthermore, when people are this scared and the future is this foggy and/or bleak, how dare you even suggest that Republicans would vote against an ostensible economic - oh let's use McCain's semantics for it - "rescue" solely because of hurt feelings and insult?
Democrats by and large seem to be throwing up their hands, blaming the Republicans for killing the bill. Pelosi's reaction included statements such as, "Today, when the legislation came to the floor, the Democratic side more than lived up to its side of the bargain." There were various iterations to similar effect. Representative James Clyburn (D-SC) said, "...we came to the floor today with a piece of legislation that the members of our caucus decided was in the best interest of the country. And 60 percent of [the Democrats] put aside all of their individual feelings, emotions, experiences, and voted for this bill. Sixty-seven percent of the Republican Conference decided to put political ideology ahead of the best interests of our great nation." But let's not get too comfortable on that there high horse, Clyburn. If the bill was such a good plan, why didn't every Democrat in the room join hands in support of it? Democrats could have carried the bill without participation of a single Republican, but 95 Democrats voted against the bill. As Representative Pete Viscloskey (D-IN) said, "We are now in the golden age of thieves. And where I come from we put thieves in jail, we don't bail them out."
I've heard the media - several different outlets - painting the Republicans who voted against the bill in response to a flood of calls and emails from their constituents as weak and easily swayed because they by and large happened to also be up for re-election. The up-for-re-election business aside (because it would [okay, does] dismay me that voting one's constituency is an activity that is only seen during one's election year), I have this to say: um, that's their job, to vote the way their constituents tell them to. As I said earlier, they are Representatives, as in, representing the opinions and beliefs of the people who voted them into office. Under no circumstances should they vote their own beliefs when those beliefs go against the grain of their represented public, and don't you dare give me a line like, "Well the people voted the Rep in because s/he embodied the people's beliefs, so any way the Rep votes will thus be the way the people would have voted." That's crap logic. When your constituents tell you overwhelmingly to vote one way, you vote that way. Don't paint Representatives as villains because they voted their constituency. The people said no, so the answer is no. In fact, the real villains are the ones that pretend their constituency doesn't exist, that vote only their own opinions, as if they alone were in charge of how the vote should go.
Oh, but John Q. American Public, don't think you get to slide by unscathed. Today, Steven Pearlstein points the finger at you. It's YOUR fault that no solution is in hand. "The basic problem here is that too many people don't understand the seriousness of the situation. Americans fail to understand that they are facing the real prospect of a decade of little or no economic growth because of the bursting of a credit bubble that they helped create and that now threatens to bring down the global financial system." Really, Stevie? For two solid weeks, we're told that the sky is falling, that history is repeating itself 78 years and 11 months later, that we're all completely screwed, and we'd better go get in line early for the soup kitchen. We get that the problem is serious, that something BIG is going down. But I'll agree with you that we don't fully grasp the matter at hand. Why is that, do you think, Mr. Pearlstein? I posit to you that the people who get all this, who were at the root of the problem, who govern the subject, and who study it in depth, are collectively a very, very rare bird. Those of us who know finance only so far as to pay what the bill tells us to every month are collectively a much more common animal. So where do you get off taking me to task because I do not thrill at the sight of an Economics text? I pay people to be on top of that for me, just like people pay me to make sure they don't sound like blithering idiots to the client. However, those people, like yourself, who smugly sneer at silly little ignorant me, have yet to provide any comprehensive explanation of the problem in real-person words. How am I expected to "come to understand how deep the hole really is and how we're all in it together" without someone explaining to me that there is a hole, that it is this wide and this deep, and its walls are coated with this many slimy things and full of this many loose rocks? Jim Jubak, bless his heart, at least makes an attempt. And finally, thanks Steven, for closing with your holier-than-thou lament for what might have been: "In better times, the public might have put aside its reluctance in response to the strong and unified recommendation of political and business leaders. But it is a measure of how little trust remains in both Washington and Wall Street that voters are willing to risk a serious hit to their wealth and income rather than follow their lead." You're right that Washington and Wall Street have been stripping away every reason we have to trust that they know what they're doing. But just because someone takes the lead doesn't make them a good or knowledgeable leader.
I've said before that I honestly don't know how this all happened, what it all means, what's going to happen next, how it affects me and mine, or how we're going to get out of it. I don't know the details of the bill, I don't know how finance and markets and notes and bonds and all that crap works. That's for Sister, the finance major, to understand. Ha!
But here's what I think and here's what I know.
You don't put a band-aid on a gushing artery. The catastrophic failure and shaky prop-ups came to a head only last week. How in the hell did anyone think that a bill originated and concluded between then and Monday would be solid enough to win confidence from anyone? It was simply put together too fast and we all know that hasty, reactionary moves lead to nothing but more disaster down the line. Time was not taken to explore the alternatives, to consider other paths. It was as though the drafters got this idea into their heads and touted it as the only way to go, and since they're supposed to be the big experts, no one asked for anything else before putting it to the House floor. No one asked whether it was a good plan, or just A plan. This was a shell of a bill, a wad of gum in the hole in the dam, a strip of duct tape over the crack in the foundation. Rather than simply reacting, I think they need to take a step back and consider what's really happening, what's at the root, and how to prevent it from happening again. Deferral of the problem to coming generations, and faith that the future will turn it all around and make it all better, is foolish.
Yesterday the House voted to kill the $700 billion-with-a-B bailout plan, and while I'll admit up front to neither knowing nor frankly understanding the particulars, I have to say I'm glad. This is something that I would have been paying for until my retirement, my children would be paying for until their retirement, and likely my grandchildren and great-grandchildren would be paying for until THEIR retirement, and probably a generation or two after that. While I am aware and I agree that something needs to be done, I don't necessarily support the government whisking in with flags waving, fanfares blaring, and my forthcoming taxes at the ready to save the crooks who put all their eggs in one basket called Shady Mortgages. Furthermore, I don't support patchwork plans that cost more money than most of us can fathom and offer no assurance whatsoever of success.
Something that bothers me in the aftermath is all the finger pointing going on in the wake of the bill's demise. The facts are that the bill was voted down in the House 228 to 205; of the 205 Ayes (to approve the bill), 140 were Democrats and 65 were Republicans; of the 228 Noes (to decline the bill), 95 were Democrats and 133 were Republicans; one Republican abstained.
The Republicans are laying the blame squarely on House Speaker Nancy Pelosi's (D-CA) speech just prior to the vote. It was rumored that the Ayes had it on both sides of the aisle prior to the vote, so what happened? Some said she scared and upset the Republicans into voting against the bill, thereby giving the majority to the Noes; that because Pelosi's speech took so many digs at Republicans, the Republicans took their proverbial ball and went home. House Minority Leader John Boehner (R-OH) said that the speech "poisoned" the Republicans against the bill and, "I do believe that we could have gotten there today, had it not been for the partisan speech that the Speaker gave on the floor of the House." I'll agree that she was unnecessarily ideological and bitter in her speech (transcript here, for your reading pleasure.), but to that reasoning, I say, pbbbbbbbbbbt! Two weeks ago, two days ago, two minutes ago, you could have heard, up and down the halls of the House, Republicans taking any opportunity for another potshot at Pelosi et al. (To be fair, you could have heard the Democrats doing the same thing regarding the Republicans, but that's beside the point.) So since when are Republicans so moved and/or scared by anything Pelosi says or does that they would instantaneously change their vote? If the bill was such a shining example of bipartisan legislation, since when do personal feelings come into play? Congresspeople are figureheads, meant to represent the beliefs and opinions of their constituents. I know, my naivete is showing. But if the bill is bad, cop to it and say so. Don't whine and say, "She was mean to me!" You're big boys and girls now. Use your words. Furthermore, when people are this scared and the future is this foggy and/or bleak, how dare you even suggest that Republicans would vote against an ostensible economic - oh let's use McCain's semantics for it - "rescue" solely because of hurt feelings and insult?
Democrats by and large seem to be throwing up their hands, blaming the Republicans for killing the bill. Pelosi's reaction included statements such as, "Today, when the legislation came to the floor, the Democratic side more than lived up to its side of the bargain." There were various iterations to similar effect. Representative James Clyburn (D-SC) said, "...we came to the floor today with a piece of legislation that the members of our caucus decided was in the best interest of the country. And 60 percent of [the Democrats] put aside all of their individual feelings, emotions, experiences, and voted for this bill. Sixty-seven percent of the Republican Conference decided to put political ideology ahead of the best interests of our great nation." But let's not get too comfortable on that there high horse, Clyburn. If the bill was such a good plan, why didn't every Democrat in the room join hands in support of it? Democrats could have carried the bill without participation of a single Republican, but 95 Democrats voted against the bill. As Representative Pete Viscloskey (D-IN) said, "We are now in the golden age of thieves. And where I come from we put thieves in jail, we don't bail them out."
I've heard the media - several different outlets - painting the Republicans who voted against the bill in response to a flood of calls and emails from their constituents as weak and easily swayed because they by and large happened to also be up for re-election. The up-for-re-election business aside (because it would [okay, does] dismay me that voting one's constituency is an activity that is only seen during one's election year), I have this to say: um, that's their job, to vote the way their constituents tell them to. As I said earlier, they are Representatives, as in, representing the opinions and beliefs of the people who voted them into office. Under no circumstances should they vote their own beliefs when those beliefs go against the grain of their represented public, and don't you dare give me a line like, "Well the people voted the Rep in because s/he embodied the people's beliefs, so any way the Rep votes will thus be the way the people would have voted." That's crap logic. When your constituents tell you overwhelmingly to vote one way, you vote that way. Don't paint Representatives as villains because they voted their constituency. The people said no, so the answer is no. In fact, the real villains are the ones that pretend their constituency doesn't exist, that vote only their own opinions, as if they alone were in charge of how the vote should go.
Oh, but John Q. American Public, don't think you get to slide by unscathed. Today, Steven Pearlstein points the finger at you. It's YOUR fault that no solution is in hand. "The basic problem here is that too many people don't understand the seriousness of the situation. Americans fail to understand that they are facing the real prospect of a decade of little or no economic growth because of the bursting of a credit bubble that they helped create and that now threatens to bring down the global financial system." Really, Stevie? For two solid weeks, we're told that the sky is falling, that history is repeating itself 78 years and 11 months later, that we're all completely screwed, and we'd better go get in line early for the soup kitchen. We get that the problem is serious, that something BIG is going down. But I'll agree with you that we don't fully grasp the matter at hand. Why is that, do you think, Mr. Pearlstein? I posit to you that the people who get all this, who were at the root of the problem, who govern the subject, and who study it in depth, are collectively a very, very rare bird. Those of us who know finance only so far as to pay what the bill tells us to every month are collectively a much more common animal. So where do you get off taking me to task because I do not thrill at the sight of an Economics text? I pay people to be on top of that for me, just like people pay me to make sure they don't sound like blithering idiots to the client. However, those people, like yourself, who smugly sneer at silly little ignorant me, have yet to provide any comprehensive explanation of the problem in real-person words. How am I expected to "come to understand how deep the hole really is and how we're all in it together" without someone explaining to me that there is a hole, that it is this wide and this deep, and its walls are coated with this many slimy things and full of this many loose rocks? Jim Jubak, bless his heart, at least makes an attempt. And finally, thanks Steven, for closing with your holier-than-thou lament for what might have been: "In better times, the public might have put aside its reluctance in response to the strong and unified recommendation of political and business leaders. But it is a measure of how little trust remains in both Washington and Wall Street that voters are willing to risk a serious hit to their wealth and income rather than follow their lead." You're right that Washington and Wall Street have been stripping away every reason we have to trust that they know what they're doing. But just because someone takes the lead doesn't make them a good or knowledgeable leader.
I've said before that I honestly don't know how this all happened, what it all means, what's going to happen next, how it affects me and mine, or how we're going to get out of it. I don't know the details of the bill, I don't know how finance and markets and notes and bonds and all that crap works. That's for Sister, the finance major, to understand. Ha!
But here's what I think and here's what I know.
You don't put a band-aid on a gushing artery. The catastrophic failure and shaky prop-ups came to a head only last week. How in the hell did anyone think that a bill originated and concluded between then and Monday would be solid enough to win confidence from anyone? It was simply put together too fast and we all know that hasty, reactionary moves lead to nothing but more disaster down the line. Time was not taken to explore the alternatives, to consider other paths. It was as though the drafters got this idea into their heads and touted it as the only way to go, and since they're supposed to be the big experts, no one asked for anything else before putting it to the House floor. No one asked whether it was a good plan, or just A plan. This was a shell of a bill, a wad of gum in the hole in the dam, a strip of duct tape over the crack in the foundation. Rather than simply reacting, I think they need to take a step back and consider what's really happening, what's at the root, and how to prevent it from happening again. Deferral of the problem to coming generations, and faith that the future will turn it all around and make it all better, is foolish.
Thursday, September 18, 2008
OMG U R SO S2PID!
PUT IT DOWN! Yes I'm talking to you. You with the phone surgically grafted to your head, or with permanently crooked thumbs because you can't go five seconds without texting.The world has gone completely mad. I should have seen it coming. I thought it was odd and amusing when I carried on a conversation for a couple of minutes with someone at Target, only to realize that they didn't know I existed - they were talking into their earpiece. I began to worry when I learned that 10-year-olds were taking remedial English summer camps because texting had taken such a toll on their linguistic abilities. But it all came crashing down on me today when a Friend Who Shall Remain Nameless admitted to texting me while s/he was driving. But only at stoplights, so it's okay, right?
No, Friend! Not okay! That is super-dangerous, even at a stoplight. Would you read a book while driving?? It's dangerous enough using printed directions in the car, and those aren't interactive. You text only at stops right now. But how long until you text just this once while moving? And from then how long until it becomes commonplace driving activity? You already said your Significant Other does it all the time. How long until s/he's so busy texting you that s/he misses the traffic jam coming up, and plows into the line of cars at 50 mph? An engineer in L.A. was texting while operating a moving train just last week, missed a signal, and killed 25 people in the ensuing wreck; and operating a train doesn't even require the same level of visual attention and concentration that operating a car does.
In fact, be forewarned, if I find out you're again texting me while in any gear other than Park, I will immediately cease communication. This goes for everyone. I will not be part of this. If you want to communicate with me, CALL ME! I know, I know, that limits you to only talking to one person at a time, but sacrifices must be made, and your eyes will at least remain on the road.I've grown to see texting as just one more way that technology has allowed us to not interact. And while the misanthrope in me sometimes welcomes the opportunity not to have to talk directly to someone, the rest of me knows that it's not a good direction for society and civilization as a whole.
Here's a nasty little factoid: according to an article I've seen in several places (but I'm going to quote from the one posted on slashdot.org), in a survey of 6500 travelling executives, 35% of them said they would choose their PDA over their spouse, and 87% bring their PDA into the bedroom. And back in April, Madonna thought the world should know that she and her husband, Guy Ritchie, sleep with their Blackberries under their pillows. Madonna claimed that she wanted to be able to write something down in case she woke up in the middle of the night and wanted to remember it; Guy apparently takes his to bed to play games on it. First, Madonna, it's called a pen and paper - look into it. And Guy, seriously? How old are you again?
I will admit I am not 100% innocent in all this. No, Mom, I never text while driving. But I do spend the entire workday on Gmail and Gmail Chat. In my defense, I am stationary and not in command of a vehicle, and it does not interfere with my work because, frankly, I have no work to do. Eight hours is a long time to do nothing. It often feels like three weeks have passed in my 8-hour computer-bound seclusion. In my excessively bored state, having gone through the copious websites I use to entertain myself and it being blatantly unprofessional to crack open a book or bring my cross-stitch or paint my toenails, I harass my friends to talk with me.
However, there are times and places for these things. At the office, I'm on the computer anyway, in case some work happens to flow my way (it sometimes happens). Your phone, however, you have to actively choose to utilize, whatever you may be utilizing it for.
I have encountered people texting me from doctors' waiting rooms, even in doctors' exam rooms. I've noticed as people blatantly disregard the "Please turn your cell phone off!" sign in medical
offices, airplanes, movie theaters; not only do they ignore those signs, but they actively use the offending instrument. Folks, I know it's boring and gray there and that the wait may drag on, but you can find something more reasonable to occupy your time, can't you?I have watched people, on multiple occasions, initiate personal calls while we're having a meal in a restaurant. Is my razor-sharp wit and sparkling personality not enough for you? If so, invite more people, or don't have dinner with me.
I have seen people take personal calls right in the middle of small parties. To me, that's as crass as lighting up a cigarette in a roomful of non-smokers. At least take it outside!
Cellphones have become an indispensable part of modern culture. And I know that. And that's fine. I carry mine (mostly) everywhere, though I have yet to utilize 90% of the features included on even my bargain-basement model. All I'm advocating for is a little bit of realism - the point at which we step back from an action and say, "Wow, this is not smart," or "I can't believe I even thought of doing that." It's bad enough that there's no recourse against those who cross the lines of social mores and bring we fellow Kmart Shoppers and moviegoers in on the details of their best friend's sister's coworker's breakup, or enlighten us as to where and what the cat barfed. It's important to know our realistic limits, especially those that severely compromise the safety of ourselves and those around us. Reallocating eyes and at least one hand while driving should be clearly on the other side.
Thursday, September 4, 2008
Register This
I have had it. I've read one too many letters to advice columnists about the evils of wedding registries, and I just want to tell everyone to can it already.
Having nearly exited my 20s, I cannot tell you how many weddings I have attended or been a part of. I could sit here and count, but I'd rather get right up on my high horse and make everyone listen to me instead.
I love registries. I love them for weddings, birthdays, anniversaries, showers. I love getting a gift for my friend to celebrate their momentous occasion, whatever it may be, and knowing that my friend actually wants this thing. I love not having to stress over whether I'm giving my friend her 20th spice rack (sorry Stephanie!) because I was taking a shot in the dark. Don't you hate it when you ask someone what they'd like for their ______ (insert occasion here), and they say, "I don't know"? I certainly do, because now the onus is on me to find something fabulous.
Look, people, no event is gift-mandatory. If you don't want to give a gift, then don't give one. If you *want* to give a gift and you know exactly what the recipient would like, bully for you. But if you *want* to give a gift, and if you *can't think of anything* on your own, a gift registry is a blessing. That is the whole point of registering.
I know some people have ruined it for the rest of us and either enclose registry information in the invitation, or demand gift receipts, or get all bent out of shape if you get them something *not* on the registry. But that's a mark on your friend's character, and it's up to you after that whether you want to remain friends with those people. I have no defense for them.
But don't take it out on the well-meaning register-er (registree?). The registry is not your enemy. It is a dumb and passive tool if you want to use it. The register-er is not saying, "We've picked out exactly what we want you to buy." They're saying, "If you want to get us something but don't know what to get us, here are some ideas that we can volunteer."
So everyone, chill. Use it if you want. Don't use it if you don't. And if your friend has crossed lines of politeness, re-evaluate the friendship.
That is all.
Having nearly exited my 20s, I cannot tell you how many weddings I have attended or been a part of. I could sit here and count, but I'd rather get right up on my high horse and make everyone listen to me instead.
I love registries. I love them for weddings, birthdays, anniversaries, showers. I love getting a gift for my friend to celebrate their momentous occasion, whatever it may be, and knowing that my friend actually wants this thing. I love not having to stress over whether I'm giving my friend her 20th spice rack (sorry Stephanie!) because I was taking a shot in the dark. Don't you hate it when you ask someone what they'd like for their ______ (insert occasion here), and they say, "I don't know"? I certainly do, because now the onus is on me to find something fabulous.
Look, people, no event is gift-mandatory. If you don't want to give a gift, then don't give one. If you *want* to give a gift and you know exactly what the recipient would like, bully for you. But if you *want* to give a gift, and if you *can't think of anything* on your own, a gift registry is a blessing. That is the whole point of registering.
I know some people have ruined it for the rest of us and either enclose registry information in the invitation, or demand gift receipts, or get all bent out of shape if you get them something *not* on the registry. But that's a mark on your friend's character, and it's up to you after that whether you want to remain friends with those people. I have no defense for them.
But don't take it out on the well-meaning register-er (registree?). The registry is not your enemy. It is a dumb and passive tool if you want to use it. The register-er is not saying, "We've picked out exactly what we want you to buy." They're saying, "If you want to get us something but don't know what to get us, here are some ideas that we can volunteer."
So everyone, chill. Use it if you want. Don't use it if you don't. And if your friend has crossed lines of politeness, re-evaluate the friendship.
That is all.
Friday, August 29, 2008
What Is Wrong With You People?!
I read an article in the Washington Post yesterday that made me blind with fury about what it supposedly means to be a parent in this day and age.
For your consideration, I offer you Angst 101: Packing Lunch.
Go ahead and give it a read. I'll wait.
******************************
What did you think? Is your head reeling too? Do you want to punch someone, you're so fed up with parenting one-upmanship nowadays?
When I went to school, I ate cafeteria food every day. And much like camp food, despite how much I complained about it, it tasted good enough. Furthermore the nitrates and artifical coloring and high fructose corn syrup and partially hydrogenated vegetable oils that terrify the child-worshipping parents today managed to neither kill me, turn me into a diabetic, sap my attention span, nor drive me to homicidal mania. And when I went to day camp during the summer, my parents sent me with a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, a piece of fruit, a small baggie of chips, and a juice box pretty much every day until I decided that cold cut turkey and ham were acceptable. I know. They're bad parents and CPS should have stepped in and saved me.
Now apparently cold cuts and Capri Sun aren't good enough for today's children. Today's children must be sent with horizon-expanding (and tastebud constricting) things like (did you read the article?) grilled skate wing with chili sambal sauce, and quail eggs, and muffins fortified with flaxseed and brewer's yeast.
Are you out of your goddamned minds?
Ms. Becker. I could have told you from the beginning that your toddler would reject your flaxseed and brewer's yeast muffins. It doesn't matter that she's never had a muffin before. Bad tastes Bad. Simple as that. Toddler's and children-in-general's tastebuds are attuned to sweet and salty; sour appeals as they grow older, and bitter becomes acceptable when they are 18. Bland is never okay unless they are sick. But you don't realize that because you're willing to merely react to every potential threat out there instead of actually mulling it over for a second or two (these are the people who buy books called Super Baby Foods. Newsflash: making your own baby foods will not make your child better, faster, smarter, stronger. If you want to do it just 'cuz, that fine; but don't kid yourself.)
Of course, the marketers are only too happy to feed the fears that You, yes YOU!, are the source of all the world's ills. Exhibit A is a quote from Thermos Canada, as found in the aforelinked article: "Today, how you pack your children's lunch is just as important as what you put in it. Did you know that Canada is the second highest per capita producer of municipal solid waste in the world? And school lunches are a major source of waste."
Disgusting. In this day and age, when we acknowledge that the pressure to be The Perfect Everything is too high, we're only raising the bar for ourselves. Now you're a bad parent if you send your kid to public school, if you don't pack their lunch for them, if you don't take care to make sure that everything in there is organic and low carb and no fat and high fiber, and god help you if you decide that working is more important to the well-being of your family than being ready with a plate of uberhealthy flaxseed fortified muffins when they come home from school. (Note: That was not a dig at stay-at-home parents, especially those who have made that choice consciously and deliberately. But even you know the kind of people I'm talking about there.)
Let's address some of the points and questions from the article:
For your consideration, I offer you Angst 101: Packing Lunch.
Go ahead and give it a read. I'll wait.
******************************
What did you think? Is your head reeling too? Do you want to punch someone, you're so fed up with parenting one-upmanship nowadays?
When I went to school, I ate cafeteria food every day. And much like camp food, despite how much I complained about it, it tasted good enough. Furthermore the nitrates and artifical coloring and high fructose corn syrup and partially hydrogenated vegetable oils that terrify the child-worshipping parents today managed to neither kill me, turn me into a diabetic, sap my attention span, nor drive me to homicidal mania. And when I went to day camp during the summer, my parents sent me with a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, a piece of fruit, a small baggie of chips, and a juice box pretty much every day until I decided that cold cut turkey and ham were acceptable. I know. They're bad parents and CPS should have stepped in and saved me.
Now apparently cold cuts and Capri Sun aren't good enough for today's children. Today's children must be sent with horizon-expanding (and tastebud constricting) things like (did you read the article?) grilled skate wing with chili sambal sauce, and quail eggs, and muffins fortified with flaxseed and brewer's yeast.
Are you out of your goddamned minds?
Ms. Becker. I could have told you from the beginning that your toddler would reject your flaxseed and brewer's yeast muffins. It doesn't matter that she's never had a muffin before. Bad tastes Bad. Simple as that. Toddler's and children-in-general's tastebuds are attuned to sweet and salty; sour appeals as they grow older, and bitter becomes acceptable when they are 18. Bland is never okay unless they are sick. But you don't realize that because you're willing to merely react to every potential threat out there instead of actually mulling it over for a second or two (these are the people who buy books called Super Baby Foods. Newsflash: making your own baby foods will not make your child better, faster, smarter, stronger. If you want to do it just 'cuz, that fine; but don't kid yourself.)
Of course, the marketers are only too happy to feed the fears that You, yes YOU!, are the source of all the world's ills. Exhibit A is a quote from Thermos Canada, as found in the aforelinked article: "Today, how you pack your children's lunch is just as important as what you put in it. Did you know that Canada is the second highest per capita producer of municipal solid waste in the world? And school lunches are a major source of waste."
Disgusting. In this day and age, when we acknowledge that the pressure to be The Perfect Everything is too high, we're only raising the bar for ourselves. Now you're a bad parent if you send your kid to public school, if you don't pack their lunch for them, if you don't take care to make sure that everything in there is organic and low carb and no fat and high fiber, and god help you if you decide that working is more important to the well-being of your family than being ready with a plate of uberhealthy flaxseed fortified muffins when they come home from school. (Note: That was not a dig at stay-at-home parents, especially those who have made that choice consciously and deliberately. But even you know the kind of people I'm talking about there.)
Let's address some of the points and questions from the article:
- How to package the lunch: PVC-free or PEVA vinyl? Or Neoprene? or Taste-Neutral Aluminum? Who cares? Everything gives you cancer now, so the lunch box will too. At least brown paper bags break down in the dirt.
- ""I remember growing up having the same peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich every day, and that's not okay with me," said Lindsey Paige Savoie of the District, who makes sure to pack a variety of foods each day for her son Caleb." What on earth was not all right about that? Now you're killing yourself to "make things better" for your son, when really it's all about your hangups? Grab the Jif and call a therapist.
- "The crumbs in the Tupperware container say it all. You know instantly whether meatloaf dumplings were a success or a bust." Easy answer. BUST.
The real kicker was when Ms. Debbie Hamilton of San Francisco, a promoter of using the Japanese bento box style of lunch packaging, enlightened us with the things she has foisted upon her kid: quail eggs, Tuscan squid, and (as I mentioned above) grilled skate wing with chili sambal sauce. Also discussed are her "leftover makeovers" such as turning curried vegetables from last night's dinner (I kid you not) into dumplings for the kid's lunch.
How much did that crap cost?! I guarantee you, Ms. Hamilton, your son does not know what skate is aside from the thing that goes on your foot (and in case you don't either, I direct you here). And I, in my nearly 30 years on this planet, have never heard of chili sambal sauce, cannot place its ethnicity, and cannot imagine why you would put anything with a sauce in a kid's lunch. Where does one even buy skate wing?? And those dumplings were dumped as soon as he got to school.
"But the beauty of bento, as she sees it, is its ability to accommodate all sorts of foods and palates and present it in a way that entices kids." What, you're an advertising rep for your kid's lunch now? And how many palates are you expecting your kid to have? You're not expanding his horizons, you're creating a picky eater. And now that we've discussed how her son eats fancier food for lunch than I have even seen on a restaurant menu, allow me to drive the nail into the coffin:
"But she draws the line at trying to turn her son's lunch into food art. "I am wary of setting the bar too high," she said. "I don't want my kid to expect a fabulous creation every day."" Yes, Debbie, we can see that.
I have to say, though I've never met her, I hate this person. Or at least the person she represents.
She's the one at every PTA meeting with the sweater tied around her shoulders, the one measuring the grass in my lawn to make sure it's no more than the allotted 2.5", and the one sending nastygrams when a shingle is dislodged from my roof during a thunderstorm. The one who sneers when she learns I send my kid to public school. Who's appalled that I order a pizza when I'm too tired to cook. That I don't take joy in packing every single minute of my child's day with activities so that I can nurture their creativity... by smothering their creativity.
To all you parents out there: If you pack quail guts garnished with pigs' feet decorated in a red bow in your kid's $100 lunch box, chances are, he is going to open it, look at it, gag, throw it away, bum $5 off his BFF and go purchase a salted pretzel with a side of cheese fries for lunch.*
(*Thanks to Friend Michelle for the quote!)
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
Two Hours for a TV
I mentioned that the August Birthday Bash of 2008 had come and gone in the last post, and I'll admit that a recap was notably absent. That's because there was nothing to note at this year's minigala except that AuntZ managed to convince Grandad to wear a SpongeBob party hat, which was out of character in a good way.
The Bash was held this year at my father's house, about a 50-minute one-way drive from our place. We got there on time, which is to say, about a hour before AuntZ, CousinZ, and Grandad arrived. In between fretting over where they could be (he's old, he's stubborn, he moves slowly, and he's not allowed to make that drive himself anymore - they're going to be late, it's okay), Dad took us on a tour of the house and regaled us with all of his planned renovations. Apparently he's having painters come this week, so he asked Husband if Husband would help him move the ginormous TV in the basement so that the entertainment center could be pulled away from the wall in preparation for the painters.
Sure, no problem, Husband is helpful like that. But before they got to it, Dad had another martini and got chatting, and it escaped his mind entirely. Then Aunt/Cousin/Grand showed up and we were doing the family thing, and the evening progressed as normal.
Last week I received an email from Dad. Had a great time, thanks for coming, oh and could you and Husband come back out here this weekend to help move the TV?
...Sure.
So last Saturday morning, instead of revelling in our original absence of plans, Husband and I embarked on another 50-minute drive to Dad's house to move a TV. In my family, a TV is rarely just a TV, so we anticipated a few other heavy-lifting activities on the schedule.
We arrived a little after 11, the appointed time. Dad's outside chatting with the pest control guy on his quarterly visit. And chatting. Husband and I wait on the steps. He's still chatting. We take a pass around the house, and when we've made the full circuit, He's Still Chatting. They must have been talking for the better part of 15 minutes while Husband and I stood around. Whatever. So Pest Man leaves and we go inside. I put down my purse and head to the bathroom, saying I'll join them downstairs in just a minute.
By the time I get downstairs, ready to help, the TV has been moved. And that's all we're doing. Husband and I kind of stare at each other. Seriously? We're not moving the rest of the bookshelf? No, he hasn't boxed up his movies yet. We're not moving the credenza? No, he hasn't moved the stuff out of it yet, and he can take care of that. So really, with today's gas prices, you asked us to make a 50-minute drive... to literally just move a TV? To move a TV five feet from its original location? Something you could have slipped the painters $10 to do themselves? It's not an unreasonably heavy piece - I've helped him move it before.
He asked if we wanted to stay for lunch but, um, no. In hindsight, we should have had him take us out to Fireworks - at least we would have been compensated with a free meal.
The Bash was held this year at my father's house, about a 50-minute one-way drive from our place. We got there on time, which is to say, about a hour before AuntZ, CousinZ, and Grandad arrived. In between fretting over where they could be (he's old, he's stubborn, he moves slowly, and he's not allowed to make that drive himself anymore - they're going to be late, it's okay), Dad took us on a tour of the house and regaled us with all of his planned renovations. Apparently he's having painters come this week, so he asked Husband if Husband would help him move the ginormous TV in the basement so that the entertainment center could be pulled away from the wall in preparation for the painters.
Sure, no problem, Husband is helpful like that. But before they got to it, Dad had another martini and got chatting, and it escaped his mind entirely. Then Aunt/Cousin/Grand showed up and we were doing the family thing, and the evening progressed as normal.
Last week I received an email from Dad. Had a great time, thanks for coming, oh and could you and Husband come back out here this weekend to help move the TV?
...Sure.
So last Saturday morning, instead of revelling in our original absence of plans, Husband and I embarked on another 50-minute drive to Dad's house to move a TV. In my family, a TV is rarely just a TV, so we anticipated a few other heavy-lifting activities on the schedule.
We arrived a little after 11, the appointed time. Dad's outside chatting with the pest control guy on his quarterly visit. And chatting. Husband and I wait on the steps. He's still chatting. We take a pass around the house, and when we've made the full circuit, He's Still Chatting. They must have been talking for the better part of 15 minutes while Husband and I stood around. Whatever. So Pest Man leaves and we go inside. I put down my purse and head to the bathroom, saying I'll join them downstairs in just a minute.
By the time I get downstairs, ready to help, the TV has been moved. And that's all we're doing. Husband and I kind of stare at each other. Seriously? We're not moving the rest of the bookshelf? No, he hasn't boxed up his movies yet. We're not moving the credenza? No, he hasn't moved the stuff out of it yet, and he can take care of that. So really, with today's gas prices, you asked us to make a 50-minute drive... to literally just move a TV? To move a TV five feet from its original location? Something you could have slipped the painters $10 to do themselves? It's not an unreasonably heavy piece - I've helped him move it before.
He asked if we wanted to stay for lunch but, um, no. In hindsight, we should have had him take us out to Fireworks - at least we would have been compensated with a free meal.
Monday, August 25, 2008
Wet Floor
It is a little-known, but well-evidenced, fact that I live next to the crappiest Giant in the county. The produce is always mostly rotted or not even remotely ripe, the shelves are rarely stocked, the deli workers are surly, and the fish section is completely gone. However, the geniuses reached a new low last weekend.
I was making a mad dash last Saturday to get the makings of the cake I had to bake for this year's Annual August Birthday Bash (you'll remember last year's, I'm sure). I hadn't showered, but had merely thrown on enough clothing so as to not terrify small children and/or lose time by being thrown in the clink for indecent exposure. In short, a ratty tee, handy jeans, and my cheapo flip-flops. I'm not looking my best, but I'm going to dash in and out and attract no attention.
I'm burning through the produce section when I see a Wet Floor sign in my path. Well I'm not going to go halfway across the store to avoid a patch that may or may not actually be wet (those signs tend to stay out long after the floor is dry, or maybe that was just a convenient place to stash the sign so they didn't have to walk all the way back to the storage room), but I do take care to tread a little more carefully.
All for naught, as it seems. The next thing I know, I'm skating across linoleum, sliding down the sign, and landing heavily on my hip. (My self-defense teacher would have been proud of the landing at least.) Fear not, Rosie Fans, I received only scratches and a couple of ugly bruises, nothing serious. Shaken but not stirred, I get up, dust myself off, collect the scattered shards of my dignity, and continue on, brushing off the entourage of stockers who are now asking me in every breath, "Are you OK? Are you sure?," though until this point, they were passively stocking squashed tomatoes or rock-hard peaches or whatever.
First, my little stocker people, get the manager and have them have me sign a waiver so I won't sue your asses.
Next, this could all have been avoided. I recall clearly from my food service days that the Wet Floor sign is not an idle warning. It does not absolve the sign placer of liability when a person breaks into impromptu Ice Capades. Rather than a mere CYA or Caveat Emptor notification, its purpose is to alert passersby to the presence of a slippery substance in their path WHILE YOU ARE IN THE BACK, GETTING THE MOP OR PAPER TOWELS TO REMOVE THE LIQUID ON SAID FLOOR. Instead of getting such a drying material, you just put out the sign and proceeded to go about your business. Responsible of you.
I will say, however, that it was with amusement as I walked away that I noted the stockers now scurrying to find some rags to put down.
Saturday, August 9, 2008
Heartbreak
BERNIE MAC DIED! OF PNEUMONIA! AT AGE 50! WHO DIES OF PNEUMONIA THESE DAYS!?
Actually a fair number of people, it seems, because just over a month ago, my great uncle Marty (Mom's father's brother) passed away from pneumonia. Marty was like a second (third?) grandfather to me. I didn't write a tribute to him in here, like I did for my grandmother in February, largely because so much was going on in my life at the time. Also, whereas I saw Grandma's deterioration for a long time and was more prepared for it, Marty's death was out of the blue - he fell, and while the fall didn't hurt him physically, surprise!, he was given maybe a week to live because the undiagnosed pneumonia had progressed so far.
Marty was in his 80s, and a lifelong smoker, which is a normal demographic for pneumonia to be a real concern. It was sudden, and painful, but at least it was... I don't know... not unusual. But seriously, how does a 50-year old man die of pneumonia in this day and age? I had pneumonia when I was 3, and while all I remember of it was a whirl of people and lights in the emergency room, I understand that it's not comfortable. So how did it go undiagnosed in an otherwise healthy 50-year old?!
(Rosie's Update 08/11: Apparently Bernie Mac had been suffering from a tissue inflammation disease called sarcoidosis since 1983, and that it manifested primarily in his lungs. His publicist said the pneumonia was unrelated to the sarcoidosis, but when you've had problems with your lungs for 25 years, you probably tend to assume that whatever doesn't feel right with them is related to that, and that you know how to deal with it. Until it's too late. Sigh.)
I adored Bernie Mac. He was half the reason I kept watching the Ocean's # series, despite the waste of pixels that was the second one. The world seems a little less funny without him in it.
Actually a fair number of people, it seems, because just over a month ago, my great uncle Marty (Mom's father's brother) passed away from pneumonia. Marty was like a second (third?) grandfather to me. I didn't write a tribute to him in here, like I did for my grandmother in February, largely because so much was going on in my life at the time. Also, whereas I saw Grandma's deterioration for a long time and was more prepared for it, Marty's death was out of the blue - he fell, and while the fall didn't hurt him physically, surprise!, he was given maybe a week to live because the undiagnosed pneumonia had progressed so far.
Marty was in his 80s, and a lifelong smoker, which is a normal demographic for pneumonia to be a real concern. It was sudden, and painful, but at least it was... I don't know... not unusual. But seriously, how does a 50-year old man die of pneumonia in this day and age? I had pneumonia when I was 3, and while all I remember of it was a whirl of people and lights in the emergency room, I understand that it's not comfortable. So how did it go undiagnosed in an otherwise healthy 50-year old?!
(Rosie's Update 08/11: Apparently Bernie Mac had been suffering from a tissue inflammation disease called sarcoidosis since 1983, and that it manifested primarily in his lungs. His publicist said the pneumonia was unrelated to the sarcoidosis, but when you've had problems with your lungs for 25 years, you probably tend to assume that whatever doesn't feel right with them is related to that, and that you know how to deal with it. Until it's too late. Sigh.)
I adored Bernie Mac. He was half the reason I kept watching the Ocean's # series, despite the waste of pixels that was the second one. The world seems a little less funny without him in it.
Wednesday, July 30, 2008
Friday, July 25, 2008
I Don't Miss You
In my previous post, I listed The Good, the people at Old Company whom I miss and who actually made working there at least remotely tolerable. Here, I introduce you to The Bad (those who meant well, but usually bungled, making my time more difficult), and The Ugly (those who made my life plain miserable.)
BOSSMAN
BossMan was a genuinely nice guy, but his managerial skills left a fair bit to be desired. He seemed distinctly detached from his employees, and never seemed to really grasp the depth of the mistakes or the transgressions they were making. He didn’t stay there late with us when the cards were down (he’d be accessible via his Crackberry until all hours, but it’s a different feeling when you’re chained to your desk until 3 in the morning.) He was a man of contradictions: he said he couldn’t stand “Yes-men,” but missed it when his engineers would do just that; he said he didn’t care about people’s feelings and that he’d fire people in an instant, yet he kept entirely too many of them long after their expiration date (and ironically, people who should have been kept on frequently went to the chopping block); he sort of floated along in a haze no matter how many problems Production brought to his attention, but rather than nip those problems in the bud at the onset and steer the Failboat back on course, he would wait until the problem became a project-threatening crisis and then he would yell at people for a while.
Ah, the yelling, the hallmark of our daily 9 a.m. stand-up meetings (no, seriously, sitting down was verboten because the meeting was going to be quick… or, more accurately, an hour long…) Every single day, it seemed, BossMan would bring fire and brimstone to the table. The trouble with yelling at the general population every day is that after a while, it just becomes an annoying buzz. He never yelled at Production – we never gave him reason – but the engineers were fair game. If you’re doing your job as a manager, there should be no need to yell at your employees.
When he wasn’t yelling, he was offering spotty direction. The big winner, the one that killed even the last shreds of my faith in his judgment, actually came to light in my last week. I’ll spare you the details, but suffice it to say that we had recalled the last submittal (the one that I killed myself to get out on time, and that I had set as the point when I could leave in good conscience), and one of the designers was adding client-required text to his section of the design report. Unfortunately, the new text increased the page count for his section (the first in the document), which would have caused us to repaginate and reprint the entire 200+ page report because the page numbering format was Page X of Y, and if this section increased in size, “Y” would also increase, meaning that every page would have to be altered. BossMan refused to reprint the whole thing based on cost, but we had to keep the page numbering static, and the new text was critical. BossMan’s solution: number the first few pages in the section 13A, 13B, 14A, and 14B, etc., until we were back on track to end at the original page 26. My professionalism forbade that (though I think I would have paid money to see Commander’s reaction to that suggestion), and I instead altered the font size just enough to retain the original pagination. But seriously. Page 13A?? You would be willing to submit that to the client?
At his core, BossMan was a truly nice person. Not nice enough to make up for the weak management, which is why he’s found in The Bad, but certainly too good to fall into The Ugly.
FLANDERS
Everyone knows Ned Flanders, the ever-chipper, uber-religious nemesis of Homer Simpson. That image you have in your mind is the perfect equivalent of one of our architects.
Flanders would take the time to make the rounds of the office every morning to say Hi to everyone. Flanders brought back gifts from visits to the client site. Flanders never cursed, never yelled, never had a bad thing to say about anybody. But Flanders was a straight-up buffoon.
The man could never meet a deadline, could never prioritize the work to be done, rarely finished one task before being distracted by another, was always rushing but producing little, could not get work out of his underlings, and was too soft-hearted to recommend firing those on his team who needed it. I grew to hate those morning rounds because I knew how much time that took up in a day and it was that much time he wasn’t spending on his work, which would be unconscionably late and often unfinished. He became an office joke because of it. He was quick to give me status updates on things he hadn’t provided me yet, and quicker still to say “I’m sorry” for his missed deadlines – to the point that the words "I'm sorry" are empty to me now, and they only inflamed me further. Don’t update me, don’t apologize – you’re wasting time that you could be spending on your work! He also regularly offered to buy the Production staff meals as a way to make up to us that we were there after hours, on weekends, at 2 a.m., working on things he’d given us only an hour before, and already very late. Because that will make up for it. You turned this in extremely late, but you bought us pizza, so it all washes. I don’t think anyone in the entire organization made me as regularly furious and frustrated as Flanders did.
But in the end, he always meant well, which is why he only rates The Bad instead of The Ugly.
LURCH
Why do we call him Lurch? He was tall, gangly, never seemed to have an expression or a reaction to anything, and never seemed to be rooted in the present.
Lurch used to be the lead architect. But he was quickly found out as incompetent, and was demoted. That should say something right there. Lurch should have been fired long ago, but as fate would have it, he became very sick and ended up on disability for a long while. He recovered from his illness substantially enough to return to work in May, much to the chagrin of most of the office. Don’t misunderstand – we were glad he was recovered and felt well enough to return to work. We were just sorry he returned to work. Lurch was the subject the only time I ever heard Flanders speak less than saintly about anyone: we were closing in on a submittal and client comment response, and Flanders was bordering on nervous breakdown (again). I was there late as well, and was making chitchat in the kitchenette with Flanders, when I heard him complain that Lurch wasn’t doing anything; that every time he gave Lurch a client comment to respond to, Lurch would sit at the design table and flip through the drawings again and again, until Flanders came back to realize that Lurch had neither done the response, nor even made a single note toward that end, so Flanders had to do that too. Basically, Lurch was sitting dumbly at the design table, taking up space and costing money. This all may sound callous of me. Rosie, how can you say such a thing about the recovering ill? But here’s how I see it: if the recovering ill are well enough to return to work, they need to be well enough to do work. There’s a certain amount of slack to be cut for them while they get back up to speed, but I have no respect for sitting still and making absolutely no progress while everyone else races around to meet deadlines.
He narrowly misses The Ugly because a) I worked with him very little, and b) he was out of the office for over 6 months, so he didn’t have enough chances to piss me off.
BossMan was a genuinely nice guy, but his managerial skills left a fair bit to be desired. He seemed distinctly detached from his employees, and never seemed to really grasp the depth of the mistakes or the transgressions they were making. He didn’t stay there late with us when the cards were down (he’d be accessible via his Crackberry until all hours, but it’s a different feeling when you’re chained to your desk until 3 in the morning.) He was a man of contradictions: he said he couldn’t stand “Yes-men,” but missed it when his engineers would do just that; he said he didn’t care about people’s feelings and that he’d fire people in an instant, yet he kept entirely too many of them long after their expiration date (and ironically, people who should have been kept on frequently went to the chopping block); he sort of floated along in a haze no matter how many problems Production brought to his attention, but rather than nip those problems in the bud at the onset and steer the Failboat back on course, he would wait until the problem became a project-threatening crisis and then he would yell at people for a while.
Ah, the yelling, the hallmark of our daily 9 a.m. stand-up meetings (no, seriously, sitting down was verboten because the meeting was going to be quick… or, more accurately, an hour long…) Every single day, it seemed, BossMan would bring fire and brimstone to the table. The trouble with yelling at the general population every day is that after a while, it just becomes an annoying buzz. He never yelled at Production – we never gave him reason – but the engineers were fair game. If you’re doing your job as a manager, there should be no need to yell at your employees.
When he wasn’t yelling, he was offering spotty direction. The big winner, the one that killed even the last shreds of my faith in his judgment, actually came to light in my last week. I’ll spare you the details, but suffice it to say that we had recalled the last submittal (the one that I killed myself to get out on time, and that I had set as the point when I could leave in good conscience), and one of the designers was adding client-required text to his section of the design report. Unfortunately, the new text increased the page count for his section (the first in the document), which would have caused us to repaginate and reprint the entire 200+ page report because the page numbering format was Page X of Y, and if this section increased in size, “Y” would also increase, meaning that every page would have to be altered. BossMan refused to reprint the whole thing based on cost, but we had to keep the page numbering static, and the new text was critical. BossMan’s solution: number the first few pages in the section 13A, 13B, 14A, and 14B, etc., until we were back on track to end at the original page 26. My professionalism forbade that (though I think I would have paid money to see Commander’s reaction to that suggestion), and I instead altered the font size just enough to retain the original pagination. But seriously. Page 13A?? You would be willing to submit that to the client?
At his core, BossMan was a truly nice person. Not nice enough to make up for the weak management, which is why he’s found in The Bad, but certainly too good to fall into The Ugly.
FLANDERS
Everyone knows Ned Flanders, the ever-chipper, uber-religious nemesis of Homer Simpson. That image you have in your mind is the perfect equivalent of one of our architects.
Flanders would take the time to make the rounds of the office every morning to say Hi to everyone. Flanders brought back gifts from visits to the client site. Flanders never cursed, never yelled, never had a bad thing to say about anybody. But Flanders was a straight-up buffoon.
The man could never meet a deadline, could never prioritize the work to be done, rarely finished one task before being distracted by another, was always rushing but producing little, could not get work out of his underlings, and was too soft-hearted to recommend firing those on his team who needed it. I grew to hate those morning rounds because I knew how much time that took up in a day and it was that much time he wasn’t spending on his work, which would be unconscionably late and often unfinished. He became an office joke because of it. He was quick to give me status updates on things he hadn’t provided me yet, and quicker still to say “I’m sorry” for his missed deadlines – to the point that the words "I'm sorry" are empty to me now, and they only inflamed me further. Don’t update me, don’t apologize – you’re wasting time that you could be spending on your work! He also regularly offered to buy the Production staff meals as a way to make up to us that we were there after hours, on weekends, at 2 a.m., working on things he’d given us only an hour before, and already very late. Because that will make up for it. You turned this in extremely late, but you bought us pizza, so it all washes. I don’t think anyone in the entire organization made me as regularly furious and frustrated as Flanders did.
But in the end, he always meant well, which is why he only rates The Bad instead of The Ugly.
LURCH
Why do we call him Lurch? He was tall, gangly, never seemed to have an expression or a reaction to anything, and never seemed to be rooted in the present.
Lurch used to be the lead architect. But he was quickly found out as incompetent, and was demoted. That should say something right there. Lurch should have been fired long ago, but as fate would have it, he became very sick and ended up on disability for a long while. He recovered from his illness substantially enough to return to work in May, much to the chagrin of most of the office. Don’t misunderstand – we were glad he was recovered and felt well enough to return to work. We were just sorry he returned to work. Lurch was the subject the only time I ever heard Flanders speak less than saintly about anyone: we were closing in on a submittal and client comment response, and Flanders was bordering on nervous breakdown (again). I was there late as well, and was making chitchat in the kitchenette with Flanders, when I heard him complain that Lurch wasn’t doing anything; that every time he gave Lurch a client comment to respond to, Lurch would sit at the design table and flip through the drawings again and again, until Flanders came back to realize that Lurch had neither done the response, nor even made a single note toward that end, so Flanders had to do that too. Basically, Lurch was sitting dumbly at the design table, taking up space and costing money. This all may sound callous of me. Rosie, how can you say such a thing about the recovering ill? But here’s how I see it: if the recovering ill are well enough to return to work, they need to be well enough to do work. There’s a certain amount of slack to be cut for them while they get back up to speed, but I have no respect for sitting still and making absolutely no progress while everyone else races around to meet deadlines.
He narrowly misses The Ugly because a) I worked with him very little, and b) he was out of the office for over 6 months, so he didn’t have enough chances to piss me off.
CRUNCHY
Crunchy, an electrical engineer, seemed innocuous at first, but he quickly became one of the absolute worst people with whom I’ve ever worked. I named him Crunchy because he was very Granola: shopped exclusively at Whole Foods, biked to work, ingested nothing impure, and made sure everyone knew it and knew what was wrong with what THEY were doing. I heard him harass Awesome Admin 1 regularly as to the use of high-fructose corn syrup in this food item or that. Once when I was making a mid-day Target run, I good-naturedly asked him if he needed me to pick him up anything (I usually asked the people in my proximity). He gladly accepted, asking me to pick him up sugar-free, caffeine-free herbal cough drops. Do what now? (Turned out he wanted Ricola.)
The problem with Crunchy was that he hadn’t matured emotionally past the age of 8. Whiny, elitist, chauvinistic, self-righteous, and quick to anger, are all terms I would use to describe him. He would interrupt you in a heartbeat, but god help you if you returned the favor. His work was most important, far more important than yours, and if CADD was too busy with other work to do Crunchy’s drawings in the timeframe that Crunchy deemed acceptable, BossMan would often hear about it. He was never wrong. Never. And he would have screaming fights with you over the (open area!) design table if you thought otherwise. I distinctly remember one such fight with one of his underlings (who was as stubborn and as much of a bully as Crunchy was) back in August, in which Underling stormed off while Crunchy was talking and Crunchy demanded Underling’s badge on the spot, and in which the yelling got to be so overwhelming for Crunchy that he actually smacked the design table and screamed like a little boy having a temper tantrum.
I recall back in the spring when Awesome Admin 1 was still with us, and he asked her to fax something for him. Awesome Admin 1 was very busy, working furiously on the Specs for the approaching deadline. Crunchy got increasingly angry at her repeated refusals, and ended up spitting, “Fine, I’ll do it myself!” He spent probably more than five minutes trying to induce her to do it for him; it would have taken him less than two to walk over and do it himself in the first place.
I recall in May, when Crunchy was about to go on a two-week absence, he asked me to water his plants for him. It seemed a simple favor, so I said sure, no problem; how often should they be watered? He shrugged off the question as silly: “Oh just water them when you water everyone else’s plants.” In hindsight, I deeply truly wish I had simply said, “Okay, I’ll do that,” and let the damned things die. Instead, I ‘fessed up that I don’t water anyone’s plants, and he seemed annoyed at the inconvenience of having to offer a schedule.
I recall another time in late June. Note that, in preparation for this final submittal, I had printed out copies of everyone’s design reports for them to review, verify, and revise as necessary. Because Crunchy was only sporadically in the office anymore, I gave the reports for the electrical group to Crunchy’s second-in-command and let Crunchy know via email. Well, now it’s late June, the date BossMan declared as Pencils Down is tomorrow, and Crunchy has decided to start looking over his design reports. He asks me to print him copies of them. I dislike repeating work, especially if that work involves the wasting of paper, so I told him, “I printed all of your design reports and gave them to Second about a month ago, remember?” He huffs up, turns on his heel, and storms away, tossing poutily over his shoulder, “A month ago is like an ETERNITY now, Rosie!” Feel free to laugh. I did.
WEASEL
*Update 07/30/2008: I stand corrected. Lest anyone draw parallels between this individual and a certain fictional heroic mongoose, I have changed this person’s pseudonym from Rikki Tiki Tavi to Weasel. However, I hold that I cannot be held responsible for not knowing my Kipling, when I never actually read Kipling.*
Named for the creature like which he looked and behaved, this civil engineer was originally listed under merely The Bad, but the more I wrote, the more I remembered, and decided to reassign him.
Weasel was a junior civil engineer. But he wasn’t some 20-something out of college, paying his proverbial dues. He was mid-30s, and a three-time failure of the Professional Engineer (PE) exam. Apparently, fourth time was the charm (I don’t even know if they let you take the driving test four times!), because he FINALLY got his license in June. However, license in hand, he quit the same week I did. As I understand it, it was because BossMan refused to then give him the lead civil engineer spot.
Nor was this unfounded refusal. Weasel’s work was never complete. He’d say he was done, but the next day there he was, back at the design table, correcting something he’d forgotten about, after which he would say that he was *now* done. This sequence would repeat until the submittal went to print, and inevitably there would still be holes in his work big enough to drive a truck through. In those stand-up meetings, if BossMan was offering tips for or criticism of the group as a whole, Weasel was the only one to jump in and insist that whatever it was hadn’t been his fault because Thisperson hadn’t done such, and Thatperson never gave him such… Always very defensive and ready to redirect blame. A leader owns up to his misdoings, accepts that something could use adjustment, and looks for ways to ensure that such a problem doesn’t happen again. No, Weasel, you are no one’s leader.
As if the lack of professionalism wasn't bad enough, Weasel earned a reputation as a Taker. Anytime anything was provided free, he would take it. And take. And take, and take, and take. The concept of sharing or fairness seemed to elude him. CADDMan kept a pretzel barrel full of snacks for the CADDCrew - granola bars, single serve baggies of chips; Weasel would steal them every day, and never offered anything back. Awesome Admin 3 and I kept candy bowls at our desks to foster goodwill (and okay, to satisfy chocolate cravings); Weasel always had his hands in them. If a picnic or potluck were thrown, you could expect Weasel to whip out Tupperware and pack some (read: three days' worth) to take home with him. If there was leftover food from a meeting, Weasel would be on his second plateful by the time you got to the kitchen. Our office tried to institute something called Friday Treats, administered by Awesome Admin 2, in which two people on a rotating list would provide treats (bagels, doughnuts, cookies, etc) every Friday; Weasel wasn't on the list, but he was always at the Treats table. And the crowning glory: Awesome Admin 3 was gathering table items for a holiday potluck and had set out a cheap dollar-store white lacey tablecloth. When she looked for it the next day to prepare the table, the tablecloth was gone. She looked everywhere, asked everyone, sent out an email... and finally found it. Weasel had assumed that, since it was left out in the open, it was free for the taking. We never could figure out what he planned to do with it.
REDNECK
You remember Redneck. I wrote him an open letter last June. This is the same guy who could not control his bodily functions behind the invisible soundproof barrier that was the threshold to his open office. But I’ll give a light shading to him here, just for fun.
Redneck was Weasel's supervisor; the main point that was in Weasel’s favor for The Bad label rather than The Ugly was that Redneck made Weasel so much better by comparison.
Redneck was from Texas, and wanted everyone to know. It was hard to miss, between the accent, the expressions, the manners, and the attitude.
I distinctly remember an argument he tried to have with Awesome Admin 1 over something that was in fact his responsibility to do, but he was simply too lazy and too poor a time-manager to do it himself. Awesome Admin 1 steadfastly refused to do it – she had enough of her own work to do, and it was his responsibility. Redneck actually pulled out this chestnut (paraphrasing): Let’s compare what it would cost per hour for him to do it, to what it would cost per hour for her to do it, and see which of these scenarios cost the company less money. Say it with me: Asshole. Classless, elitist son of a bitch.
This is also the same guy that dragged the August design report so late that I ended up putting in 139 hours in two weeks, and caused the print shop to stay operational 24-hours a day for four straight days in order to meet the deadlines we imposed. The same guy that, when I demanded he stop working on a document because it was already past due and he was just going to have to deal with unfinished work, abjectly refused and got so ugly about it that Awesome Admin 3 had to get me out of the office before I did something I might regret.
KOMRAD
Old Company tended to have a revolving door when it came to staffing. After every submittal, BossMan would be given an edict to cut the fat, and about a quarter to a third of the staff would be sloughed off. Which would be followed shortly by a hiring frenzy when it was made plain that the remaining employees couldn’t handle all the work on their own. I know, I know.
Anyway, not wanting to be part of the blood-letting, our lead structural engineer jumped ship back in January, leaving a junior engineer all alone to handle, well, a metric ton of work that he was neither prepared nor trained for. He did beautifully, considering: his work was always in on time, succinct, and complete. But it came to light in May that he was afraid they were going to make him stamp the drawings, and since he was only a junior engineer, he didn’t want that much pressure. Nevermind that, as a junior engineer, he didn’t have a stamp with which to stamp the drawings, nor could he be listed as the engineer of record because he lacked a PE certification. So maybe that was just an excuse and he didn’t want to tell BossMan that it was simply an awful working environment. Whatever.
In June, we got a new structural engineer, a real live PE. I call him Komrad because he was Russian and it’s as good a nickname as any other (Boris wouldn’t work – there was a Boris already in the company). BossMan set him to answering client comments based on the existing drawings and calcs, and asked Komrad to alert him (BossMan) to any inconsistencies or problems. Everything’s going smoothly, and Komrad has his new calcs for the client comments in on time, and we – a first! – get a submittal out at the 4 p.m. pick-up time! (Normally Commander, Colonel, CADD, and I were there at 8 p.m., frantically trying to package these things up and get them to the shipper’s airport location.) We all breathe a sigh of relief. Until the next morning, when BossMan hands me a list of tracking numbers and tells me to fax the shipper and request the halt and return of all the packages we sent out the day before. It seems Komrad had not touched or even reviewed any material that he himself had not originated, and the comments could not be answered appropriately. Commander had realized this last night as he was trying to finish up the client comment spreadsheet and package it up for shipment. Gossip in the office held that Komrad was so obstinate and such a jerk about it all that Commander and Colonel had both been induced to yelling – yes, Commander CAN yell – and demanded BossMan find a new structural engineer because this guy was simply intolerable.
So it is because of Komrad, and certainly a few others but originally because of Komrad, that I was still in the office at 5:30 p.m. on my last day with Old Company, trying frantically to reprint the new material Komrad had been convinced to provide. I nearly had a nervous breakdown because there was no way I could get it all done, and I gave a very shoddy crash-course to Colonel on everything that was left as he and I were both trying to flee the office.
So I would like to thank you, Komrad, for making my last few days at Old Company pure and utter misery.
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