|
|
|
|
Thursday, September 29, 2005
free at last
At long last, my days of training are over. Apparently, management has
either decided that I now know what I’m doing or that they’re simply
going to let me single handedly sink the entire
company. Either way, my Donna days are done.
Donna, the lady who has been ‘training’ me, made her final appearance
the other day. It had come to my attention that one of my duties in the
billing department was to prepare the quarterly reports for company
board meetings. Having seen nothing about this responsibility previously
in the training manual, I was told that it fell under the ‘other tasks
as assigned’ category.
So Donna, in her swan song appearance, was going to help train me in the
ways of board member report preparation. Donna, having last worked in
the billing department 15 years ago, has proved to be unhelpful with the
whole helping thing…and this time was no different. She pulled up old
Microsoft Works files that hadn’t been opened in over a decade and began
typing, merging, and printing various documents that would be included
in the portfolios which would be distributed at the next board meeting.
“Now go grab those papers I printed and start filling in the projected
profits for the upcoming quarter in the blank spaces on the sheet,” she
told me.
I had learned that handwritten information was the preferred way of
doing things in the Training by Donna handbook. A few weeks prior, I had
made the stupid assumption that typing, rather than writing, would be
faster and look more professional on company documents. Donna’s response
was to severely reprimand me by yelling, “THAT’S NOT THE WAY WE DO
THINGS AROUND HERE!”
After pulling the papers from the printer, I sat down to begin filling
in the projected profits for the upcoming forth quarter and realized
that ‘forth’ was not the correct way of spelling ‘fourth’. Yet Donna
didn’t seem to realize this, having just printed out many sheets of
paper with projected figures for the forth quarter. Trying hard to hide
my glee, I pointed this mistake out to Donna.
“Of course it’s correct!” she informed me. “How else would you spell
‘forth’?”
To which I replied, “F-O-U-R-T-H. The way you spelled it means to go
forth…like going forth into the future.”
“WELL THE LAST QUARTER HASN’T HAPPENED YET, HAS IT?! SO THEY ARE GOING
FORTH! Besides, no one reads these reports anyway, SO JUST KEEP STUFFING
THEM INTO THE FOLDERS LIKE I TOLD YOU TO!”
Knowing that her error would be credited to me, I waited until Donna
left and stayed long after quitting time fixing her mistake, consoling
myself with the knowledge that I would no longer have Donna in my life.
Which is good, because all the extra work I end up doing by undoing
Donna’s training was adding several hours to my work week.
Tuesday, September 27, 2005
modern etiquette
Some people clearly aren’t aware of certain social etiquettes.
Etiquettes which allow us to live in a civilized society. And when
civilized etiquettes aren’t followed, society just isn’t as civilized as
it should be.
For instance, when you ask someone ‘how are you’ they’re expected to
answer ‘fine’. Because the truth is that you could really care less how
they’re doing. And when that person starts to actually tell you
how they are the whole fabric that holds society together begins to
unravel.
I bumped into an old high school friend last week, and after a short
‘catching up’ which entailed where we work, where we live, and recalling
the old high school memory of how Brett got his head stuck in a gym
locker one day, I felt that we were adequately caught up…at least for
another decade.
As he was leaving, he asked for my email address…because email is the
new phone, and nobody who’s anybody ever asks for a phone number
anymore. It’s just too ‘low-tech’.
So I gave out my email address with the unspoken rule that, in giving
him this email address, he was never to use it. But this weekend he
emailed me, thus breaking the unwritten ‘giving of email addresses to
acquaintances’ rule. And, as if this wasn’t bad enough, the email he
sent consisted of exactly 21 words, words which were strung together in
this way:
dude, good seeing you. wild times! i still keep
up with some of the gang we should all party sometime. peace!
And this is why I will forever safeguard my email address from now on,
because high tech communication doesn’t make communication better…it
just makes it easier to communicate without actually communicating
anything at all.
If we were still in the ‘write a letter and stick it in the mail’ days,
this type of thing would never have happened. Besides the fact that the
actual act of writing requires a lot of work, you’d realize that you
really need to have a lot to say to make it worth the 37 cents that it
will take to say it. At 21 words, you’re paying almost two cents a word,
and when you’re paying two cents for the word ‘dude’ you’re getting
screwed.
But with email, economics is taken out of the equation. And now, people
all over the world are communicating haphazardly at lightning fast
speeds, and saying very little in the process. With so many emails being delivered
so very fast, I can barely keep up with all of my not responding.
Monday, September 19, 2005
issues from a
relationship
I was out with Trish, the girl I’ve been dating, this weekend when I got
the dreaded ‘we need to talk’ line…a line which never brings good
tidings.
“I don’t feel like I get any support from you,” she said, “and I need
someone that’s going to be supportive of me.”
“What are you talking about?” I asked, “I’m very supportive…a pillar of
support, in fact.”
“Well, like a couple of weeks ago…I mentioned my toe nail thing and you
weren’t supportive at all!”
“My support does have its limits,” I tried to explain, “and these limits
don’t include the foot region.”
“See, this is what I mean! You just don’t stand behind me on issues!
This is more than simply a toe nail issue, this is an us issue!”
“See, I thought that this whole thing was really just a toe nail issue.”
I told her.
“We’re completely opposite,” she continued, “you like coffee, I like
tea. You’re more of a morning person and I like the nightlife. I love
movies and you prefer television.”
And I realized that she was right. I do like television more than
movies. I’ve never liked sitting through one of these two or three hour
movies that are the norm nowadays. That’s simply too big of a commitment
to make for something that I may not even enjoy. At least with
television, you’re only looking at a half hour or an hour…and that
includes commercial breaks to grab something to eat or run to the
bathroom. So if the program stinks, at least you didn’t waste too much
time.
And if I can't commit to sitting through a three hour movie, how in the
world am I supposed to commit to a potential lifetime with Trish? It’s
too much time to invest for an ending that I may not like.
Thus, I think that my relationship with Trish has just been yanked from
the theaters.
Wednesday, September 14, 2005
life threatening
coffee related injuries
The early morning is not an ideal time for me, especially when there’s
unpleasant activities to deal with…activities such as a job which I have
to show up for. So to help guide me through these rough first hours
(those that tend to occur before noon) I turn to my good friend coffee.
My typical morning activities consist of grinding and brewing coffee,
showering, and then emerging to a fresh pot which, because I was half
asleep while grinding and rarely remember doing so, seems to have
magically appeared in the pot. This morning, however, my peaceful
sleepwalk into the kitchen to commence the grinding activities was
terribly interrupted by a potentially life threatening bag of Starbucks
French Roast.
This delightfully rich, bold coffee which has a hint of chocolate and
Earthy undertones, comes equipped with a little twist tie thingy
attached to the bag. The twist tie on the bag gives the illusion of an
air-impenetrable seal, thus keeping your coffee beans safe from the
horrible effects that air would bestow on it…effects that, while I’m not
certain what they are, would surely be devastating to the coffee within.
And though this twist tie really doesn’t keep much air out, by affixing
it to the bag our corporate friends at Starbucks can justify charging an
extra buck for their coffee.
As I groggily stumbled into the kitchen, towel wrapped tightly around my
waist, I opened the coffee bean bag and raised it up for the first scoop
of the morning. And it was in mid-raise that this twist tie on the
coffee bag nearly tore my right nipple off.
The sheer pain caused instant awaken-ness, and I frantically started
searching the kitchen floor for my nipple…the same nipple which, I
reasoned in my sudden jolt from slumber, surely could not have survived
the slicing which just took place.
I realize that my nipples are of little use and, quite honestly, I
rarely think of them at all. Sometimes I go whole weeks without giving a single
thought to either one of my nipples…except when one has been violently
ripped from my chest. Then nipples become of the utmost importance to
me. Because I shudder to think of how lopsided my chest would look with
one lone nipple, not to mention the taunting I would endure, shouts of
‘Uni-nip’ echoing up and down the street as I walked by.
Clearly, there was no possible way I could live a happy, one nippled
life…so I searched all the harder. And just as I was prepared to file a
massive lawsuit against Starbucks to demand reparation for my lost
nipple in the largest nipple losing lawsuit the world has ever seen, I
saw it resting on my chest. Somehow, it emerged from this ordeal
unscathed…with barely a scratch. Obviously, I have nipples of superhuman
strength. Which is lucky, because I really can’t survive without my
morning cup of Starbucks coffee (because, seriously, how many other
brands of coffee can claim to have ‘Earthy’ undertones?) and an ugly
lawsuit would have ruined what would have been an otherwise wonderful
beverage. And who wants to start a morning like that?
Sunday, September 11, 2005
sometimes
parasites are preferable
Besides the joy of having one less day of work to drag myself awake for
due to the long Labor Day weekend, I was hoping that I would escape my
weekly meeting with Donna, my 'trainer'. Unfortunately, this was wishful
thinking, as she appeared on Friday.
As a trainer, Donna is less than ideal. Having worked in the billing
department 15 years ago, I'm sure that, at one time, she knew what she
was doing...those days are long over, however. Most of the information
that Donna has been telling me is incorrect. And when you combine this
with the fact that nothing was done on the computer in Donna's day, not
only is most everything she's telling me incorrect, but it's also
antiquated...resulting in many hand written invoices and notices which
then must be manually calculated...the same invoices and notices that
I've already made computer programs for that get the work done in a
fraction of the time.
Several times over the past few weeks, I've had to call my supervisor
for clarification of what Donna has been telling me to do. And each time
I've been met with the response, "who told you that? That's not the way
it's supposed to be done!"
Apparently, Donna has become aware of the wealth of misinformation that
she’s been imparting on me.
"I've discussed this with your supervisor," she announced on Friday,
"and we've decided that to prevent any misunderstanding on your part as
to what you're being told to do, you will now be required to write up a
report on each task that I instruct you on, detailing the specific steps
you are to take in order to complete this project. I then want you to
drop off a daily task list in my mailbox at the end of each day."
So, due to Donna's incompetence, I now have more meaningless work to do.
After graduating high school, thus ending all attendance in high school
English classes, I thought my days of doing pointless essays and reports
were over...but then came Donna.
I've been leaving work very tired, drained, and demoralized...with a
pinch of really wanting to kick someone's dog added in for good measure.
My mom detected this in my voice yesterday.
"You sound tired, what's wrong?" she asked.
"Nothing mom, I've just been feeling run down lately."
She paused in thought and, being the practical and non-alarmist mother
that she is, told me, "I bet you have a tapeworm! I just saw a report
about them on the news...have you been eating any undercooked food
lately?"
"No mom, I'm sure that I don't have a tapeworm."
Though I would gladly welcome a tapeworm over my co-workers. I'm quite
certain that tapeworms would have a better disposition.
Tuesday, September 6, 2005
a
labor day toenail test
I’ve been dating Trish for a couple of weeks now and, in the spirit of
Labor Day, we decided to attend a picnic that some of my friends were
having.
As is the case with my friends, the most unappetizing discussions tend
to pop up at the exact moment when everyone is about to eat. Yesterday
was no different, and as we were all preparing to delve into abundant
helpings of hot dogs, hamburgers, and potato salad, Randy said, “you
know, probably the most disturbing commercial I’ve seen was the one for
that anti-depressant drug…you remember, it had those side effects which
included ‘nausea’ and a ‘greasy discharge’.”
“Well a lot of those erectile commercials are no better,” Jill added.
“And those poor people with liver or heart problems can’t even take the
drug to give themselves an extra hard stiffy. And don’t forget that if
you experience an erection for more than four hours you need immediate
medical attention.”
“Personally,” I added, “I enjoy those commercials that try to use cute
little cartoon characters to lessen the disgusting factor. Like that
foot fungus one, where those cute little brown puffy things crawl under
that guys toenail, turning it yellow and brittle.”
“Actually,” my date Trish said, “I ended up getting that exact thing
about a month ago. It’s horrible! I can barely stand to look at my feet.
I’m just hoping that I can get rid of it soon.”
And while I try to be an understanding partner, this toenail information
was not the type of thing that I needed to know. Suddenly, all the
potato chips I had scooped up looked very much like discarded brittle
toenails littering my plate.
“Well,” I jokingly told Trish, “don’t expect any toe sucking to take
place tonight. I can just imagine a toe nail popping off in my mouth
during mid-suck.”
“So would you spit or swallow?” Jill asked.
And as we laughed, I couldn’t help but notice that Trish seemed less
than amused. In fact, she was giving me quite a cold and icy glare from
across the table. Because, unbeknownst to me at the time, I had just
been given one of the many dating tests that women administer to the men
that they’re seeing. Needless to say, I failed miserably.
I’m confident that, had this test been announced prior to the start of
the day, I would have aced it. Had Trish informed me that, “I’m going to
be mentioning my toe nail fungus during lunch and I expect an
appropriate and supportive response from you,” I could have passed with
flying colors. But I’ve always done poorly on pop quizzes…and Trish’s
was no exception.
As it turned out, I was quite right in the fact that no toe sucking took
place that night. Nothing else took place either, however.
| |
|
