Waterboarding: The Musical

-
Our formerly gracious lobby is no more.
The kitchen has joined the choir invisible.

Construction has begun in earnest.

Three days ago, an entire unit, including four worker bees and one supervisor (herself equivalent to three high-maintenance people), was moved down two floors into a temporary space carved out of our future third floor. Books have been packed away, files schlepped, tchotchkes swept from desktops, and cubes dismantled without so much as a fare thee well. In their place, adjacent to the most inconvenient entrance imaginable, my desk has been plunked down with all the apparent planning of Dorothy's house landing in Munchkinland. The only thing missing is a pair of red and white striped legs sticking out from underneath, which is not to say they're not there; all I'm saying is I haven't looked hard enough.

Upside: I'm closer to the candy bowl. Downside: I'm directly under a speaker.

In my lobby, there were no speakers: technically, my only job is to hear and be heard on the phone, and the lobby was an absolute echo chamber. But now, lost in the middle of the industrial-berber-carpet black hole, when I page someone, I hear my own dulcet tones as clearly as if I'm murmuring in my very own ear, which is disconcerting to say the least.

What's worse, though, is the Musak©. While it may not be very loud, it's treacherous. You don't even know it's there until you get some horrid “adult contemporary” song stuck in your head. This evil loop is updated from time to time, but always remains disturbingly reminiscent of what one might hear if one were to stand in the cereal/crackers/snacks aisle long enough.

In sum, it's Barry Manilow.

Let me be clear - I am not bashing Barry Manilow per se. Secretly, I have fond memories of Barry Manilow. We've all heard "Mandy". In my much younger years, I used to know all the words to "Weekend in New England" (When will our eyes meet/When can I touch you/When will this strong yearning end?). Hell, like every other red-blooded American 10-year-old girl in my town, I used to belt "Copacabana" into my hairbrush microphone and shake my pre-pubescent tail feather. Thinking about the largely languishing vigor and optimism of my youth makes me smile. Unfortunately, the present-day followup - synthesized instrumental Barry Manilow on nonstop mental repeat - sends that marvelous nostalgia to the ground in a miserable and grumpy heap.

Yesterday the tune du jour was "Can't Smile Without You", a catchy, saccharine little ditty, done here Kenny G. style. When Sam Shenanigan, COO stops by my relocated desk for a spontaneous chat about nothing in particular, it appears that he's caught up by the melody, probably unconciously. I can't help but notice that his head bobs ever so slightly from side to side and he shifts his weight not quite in tempo. A self-important, rhythmless metronome. I'm transfixed. His words take on a soporific, dreamlike quality, until the unthinkable rips me from my torpor.

Suddenly snapping his fingers, he does the Cabbage Patch right in front of my desk.

Just for the record, there is never any legitimate reason to perform the Cabbage Patch at all, let alone to Barry Manilow.

Naturally presuming he's stroking out, I leap out of my seat, almost knocking over my ergonomically correct chair while simultaneously realizing my CPR skills will be woefully inadequate. The spectacle lasts only a few seconds, at which point he ambles away, smiling and saying, rather too loudly, "Wow, I haven't done that since college!"

There’s a good reason for that, Sam - a little thing I like to call penal code 370.

Babylon Sisters, Shake It

Our CEO, Gavin McGuinness, is a man of wealth and taste.

Coincidentally, his artistic sensibilities run pretty close to my own. As an Art History major in the days of yore, I can extemporize intelligently about all manner and media of art; as the third largest income producer in the whole of Multi National Mega Global, he can afford all manner and media of art. So from time to time, in passing, we amiably share items of mutual aesthetic interest.

Currently, our local Museum of Modern Art is exhibiting works by Morisot, Cassatt, Gonzales and Bracquemond, who are considered the Big Four of estrogen driven Impressionism. Our MoMA has a large annex space that it uses for installations that aren't strictly modern, but will draw the crowds. Them curators ain't dumb.

A week ago Tuesday, when Gavin passes my desk, I mention this show to him, thinking he might be interested. My suggestion's not completely out of left field because he has a framed Mary Cassatt print, The Boating Party, in his office. (Which, iconographically is an odd choice, I think, but color-wise, a fine one. The vivid hues provide an excellent counterpoint to the rampant office taupe.)

"Women Impressionists? “ says Gavin, still walking toward his office. "Sounds like a good show!" At this exact moment, Jared, Enthusiastic Corporate Ladder Climber and Brown-Noser Extraordinaire, appears in my lobby just too late to join the conversation, but certainly in time to hear it.

"Oh, hey! This guy likes a good show!" he says, pointing at himself with both thumbs. Surprised, I respond, "Really? Well it's at MoMA for another couple of months. You should go check it out."

I hadn't thought about that exchange until yesterday.

Always eager to engage in conversation with Gavin, Jared catches him in my lobby, "So, I went to Mama's on Friday, but there was no show. Are they still performing?" Now, whereas we’re all adults and generally accepting of other folks, this is not a subject I would have ever expected Jared to bring up with the CEO at the workplace.

Mama’s is a gay bar.

Gavin looks perplexedly at me and I look at him, and as expected, Jared blunders on. "The female impersonators show! You were talking about it last week!" He's so caught up in this newfound overlapping interest, that he doesn't notice Gavin's eyebrows raise ever so slightly. It's everything I can do to not burst out laughing, and, in retrospect, I'm not sure I was entirely successful. After a small awkward pause, I say "Um, it was an art exhibition, Jared. At MoMA, M-O-M-A, the Museum of Modern Art."

He thinks for a second. "They do that there?"

"No, Jared, women Impressionists, not impersonators. Painters. You know, artwork? On walls?”

-
Breaking the excruciating silence, my console rings. I answer it gratefully, praying Jared will take this moment to find a dark corner suitable for the fetal position.

Gavin, clearly in possession of far more grace and tact than I, says to a rapidly reddening Jared, "Listen, I've got a meeting right now, but come by my office later, and I'll show you what we're talking about." As he walks out, Gavin gives me a little smile, proving that he's just dying on the inside, like me.

I guess that's why he's in charge.

You're Welcome

She is the niece of one of our top salespeople.

Two years ago, Brytnie the Intern sat here at my desk while I explored a few other departments to determine my interest level in potentially pursuing a different position within the company. (Upshot: interest level = zero.) The feedback we received on her seven-week reception coverage mainly centered on her apparent age: "She just sounded really young" said one. "She seems confused at the front desk. Is this her first job?" asked another. A third customer had the gall to say she was rotten and actually complained to Sam, but then again, this particular customer is an unequivocal asshole.

Truthfully, though, she does sound terribly inexperienced.

The trouble is that I'm very good at what I do, which comes mainly from being in the same line of work far longer than anyone not on Xanax ought to be. She, in comparison, was in her fourth year on the six-year plan at the time, at a college out of state with lots of sun and sand and football players, a sorority girl getting her first taste of the workaday world. But now as of last week, Brytnie from Kappa Kappa Gamma is back, ink not yet dry on her shiny new diploma, and she's ready to work!!!1!

Which means her unfortunate communication style is back, too.

It's as though she perpetually speaks around a large wad of bubble gum and never really closes her mouth. The words bounce around only a small forward portion of her hard palate, which doesn't allow her voice to find any gravitas. She's squeaky. Also, as is stereotypical for the sophomoric, each sentence, regardless of intent, ends as if it's a question. To top it off, she employs lazy pronunciation.

Most noticeably, the phrase "Thank you."

"Thank you" is an extremely common thing to say here at Multi National. I say it at least once per call, sometimes twice, and at an average of 20 calls an hour that's a hell of a lot of thanking. Brytnie, though, manages to swallow the vowels in such a way that it comes out sounding like "Think yow", rhyming “yow” with "cow". It's sing-songy and, combined with her head bob, lends to an unfortunate air of vapidity. So when she offers something even remotely intelligent, it's quite the surprise.

After lunch yesterday, she is passing through the lobby on the way to her shiny new desk, when out of nowhere, we find ourselves talking about the price of gasoline. It's going up everywhere, and it's a hot topic with commuters in my neck of the woods. In response to a kvetch on my part, she busts out with, "Yeah, so, like, Ahmejadadin's theory that oil prices are artificially high is probably right on target. I mean, he's finally saying something worth listening to, you know, like, on a global scale."

The butchering of the current Iranian president’s name notwithstanding, I could hardly believe my ears.

It was like experiencing a thirty-second adaptation of Flowers for Algernon. Multi-syllabic words! Sentence structure! Independent critical thinking! And then just as quickly, the eyes glaze over, the hair twirling begins afresh and she starts down the hallway. Silently vowing to read more of the front page and less of the comics, I lamely offer "Oh, um, I guess I missed that article. Good point."

"Think yow." she sing-songs, as she walks.

No, Brytnie. Think yow.

Sharpie: 5, Receptionist: 0

The office is too small.

That's a lie, of course, but that's what the great thinkers at the top of my particular food chain have decided. Multi National Mega Global uses exactly 2.05 floors in a very tall and noteworthy building in an instantly recognizable financial district. If the windows were less tinted I'd be seen on postcards the world over, waving, or depending on what day of the week it was, flipping the bird. The 1/20th of a floor we occupy two levels down is a very small storage closet that has been virtually empty for at least three years. You'd think that since we didn't make budget this year, we'd get rid of that unused space in an effort to spend wisely. You'd think. What the brain trust here at MNMG has decided instead is to go ahead and take over the whole floor.

Nice work, people. Way to save a penny.

Normally I don't distract myself with the idiocy that is the Supervisory Panel because, for the most part, the members are ineffectual enough that little ever really changes. Currently, however, the hirelings in the office (Receptionista included) are disgruntled because, due to this fiscal year's revenue shortfall, our bonuses have vanished. To add insult to injury, the architect in charge of our floor-to-be periodically comes rolling through and we know there's fat cash on the table when he's designing in Tuscan stone floors, Australian Myrtle burl cabinetry and the installation of an inside water feature. (With fish. Is that legal?)

I'm guessing that's the bonus money allocation. Thanks.

So on Friday, when a herd of thirty contractors waltzes into my lobby, I'm peeved to say the least. Most carry some kind of rolled up blueprint, snug in an armpit, each bumping into the other in a formerly spacious foyer. Amid the preponderance of stocky men in golf shirts and Dockers, and the occasional short-sleeved button down with a tie, there is only one single woman, wearing a winter white wool suit. She is accompanied by the biggest man I've ever seen. Football lineman, maybe. Huge. His sleeves don't fit over his veiny arms. The architect in charge conducts the group as if on a tour - holding up a clipboard, pointing out corner moldings and wall treatments and elevator shaft boxes - and everyone is taking notes. Most have gadgets for this purpose, digital recorders and Palm Pilots, but one man is using a Sharpie felt pen, far too close to the woman's gorgeous suit.

Bad idea.

As if choreographed, the permanent marker slips out of Notetaker's hand, flipping up and over to slide down the front of a pristine white silk blouse and the very expensive white wool suit.

In response, White Suit gasps and steps back, digging her high heel into the instep behind her.

Steroid Overdose releases a surprisingly high pitched squeal as the Franco Sarto assaults his foot, and leaps aside, right smack into a tall corporate potted tree.

Like a domino line, the tree lands on Tour Guide, busy taking pictures with his iPhone, which is knocked from his hand and makes a beeline for my head.

Too late, I bellow, throw my hands up and knock over a three-quarters full Dr. Pepper, submerging my keyboard, console, various important papers on my desk and, of course, Tour Guide's precious iPhone.

All in the space of three, maybe four, seconds.

If we had planned it, it never could have worked.


In the momentary stunned silence, heard over the fizzing of my now extinct soda, Notetaker says "Oops."

Three days later, I'm still awaiting a new keyboard, and a replacement battery, handset and extension template for the telephone console. Worse yet, I'm nursing what looks like a rather large hickey on my forehead that doesn't even have the decency to bruise.

Well, at least now I know exactly where my bonus is going.

I Spy With My Little Eye

I’m not sure if there is any better place to people watch than on a train.

My city has a metro system, for better or worse, and people use it to get around downtown as well as come in from the surrounding localities. What this means, of course, is that while on the train, the microcosm of humanity is pretty diverse, again for better or worse. This amalgamation is definitely a double-edged sword.

In the evenings I ride home with loads of other people who, after a day of unfulfilling paper-pushing, brown-nosing and the ceaseless application of assorted back-stabbing prevention techniques, are tired and cranky and just want to get home. Sometimes the ride becomes unbearable due to circumstances beyond my control, such as a car with broken air conditioning or some kid playing his twenty-dollar CD on a four-dollar boom box or the intense crazy guy trying to convince the entire crowd that the apocalypse is nigh. A modest half an hour stretches into a Dante-like eternity next to someone who really does smell like brimstone (or patchouli or stale cigarettes or armpits or Drakar Noir.)

Those train rides I despise.

However, tonight, despite all the usual suspects, I had a lovely train ride. Sitting directly in front of me in this tightly packed subway car is a child who cannot be more than, say, four years old. He is on a train. A train! To him it’s the coolest thing since, well, birth. My guess is that there is some serious Thomas the Tank Engine in his most recent past, so it’s just a great big fun ride, like the Matterhorn without the serpentine, hour-long lines. He is totally digging it.

Chatting happily with his father/uncle/guardian, and looking around, he asks pretty intelligent questions like, “Why are all those people standing up?” and “Why is that little red light blinking?” and “Why is there a smudge on the glass?” one after the other, rapid fire, and his father/uncle/guardian answers them so good-humoredly, just as quickly, “Because all the seats are taken.” and “That shows that the video surveillance camera is on.” and “That’s where somebody fell asleep against the window.” This pair is cool: an adventurous, curious kid and a patient, enthusiastic adult.

Makes my day.

So, just when I think he's having the time of his life, we emerge onto the elevated track from the underground tunnel into the twilight. Those of us next to windows look out of them, enjoying the remains of the sunset, the swath of brake lights below, the silhouetted cityscape, and various lights that flicker on in the gathering dusk.

I swear this kid's about to explode.

“Oh, look!” and he gets up on his knees for a better view. “Look!” and the questions begin afresh.

“Is that the moon?” and “The cars look so small.” and "What building is that?” and “Look at the lights!” And then “Yeah, that’s the moon.” and "We’re up pretty high. Neat, huh?” and “I don’t know.” and “Oooh, sparkly!” Suddenly, out of nowhere the kid turns in his seat, looks squarely at me and, with the biggest Christmas-present grin I have ever seen, the kind that takes over his whole face, squeals, “We’re on a train!"

I grin back, in spite of myself.

My commute will never, ever be the same.

Entschuldigen Sie, Bitte?

Multi National Mega Global has, as its name would denote, offices and employees (or “associates“, as they are smugly called) all around the world. It is not unusual for an associate from Brazil to pop in from one of his meetings and use a computer before heading to the airport, or from France to chat with one of the unit heads about Matters of Monumental Importance. Most recently, one of our esteemed German associates visited our fair city for a fun-filled day of client meetings, then dinner with our local mucky-mucks.

After the meetings, the German and Sam Shenanigan, Big Cheese and all-around pain in the ass, congenially walk the client to the door, and the second it closes, they begin to chat informally in the lobby.

"Well”, says Sam, “the train's not out of the station on this one yet. We need to get some architecture together that makes it begin to look like a house, or we’ll lose our window of opportunity. Now, there are a couple of flies in the ointment, and, of course, everyone is going to want their bite of the apple, but I’ve seen this movie before, and once we pull all the threads into one quilt, we’ll have the world by the tail.”

What the…?

Okay, everyone who’s ever met anyone from Western Europe knows that they just about all speak English. Good English. In some cases, more fluid and grammatically correct English than your average American. Evidently very few Freakish Corp-O-Speak classes are taught in Germany.

Looking utterly bewildered, Wolfgang musters a meek “Sorry?”

Sam takes a breath and clarifies for him. “Listen, we have a better mousetrap, I know it and you know it. Our first concern will be getting the right people on the bus, and then taking a couple swings at it, kicking it around, throwing ideas at the wall to see what sticks. This baby is going to be in the incubator for a while, but ultimately there is a need to feed the beast, so if we drill through the details and stay ahead of the curve, it puts them on our battlefield. See, it’s a line in the sand, and we can redraw the boundaries later on.”

Mistaking Wolfgang’s complete confusion for reluctance, Sam intensifies.

“All right, I know this seems like the project that ate Manhattan, and granted, I’d like to get a better look under the tent too, but for now, we just have to put together a straw man to get us down the road. Of course, we’ll eventually have to put flesh on the bone, you know, move the needle. But that’s a whole other kettle of fish. As it stands, we don’t have to boil the ocean or cure cancer. We’re not baking that cake right now. As long as we…”

Sam’s mixed-metaphor logorrhea is mercifully corked by his “Where’s the Party At?” ring tone.

Sam takes the call and wanders down the hall toward his office, motioning for Wolfgang to follow. The German looks at me, a hopeless, silent cry for help, and I can only shrug my shoulders and commiserate, saying “I'm truly sorry I can’t help you. English is my mother tongue, and he’s still unintelligible.” Wolfgang smiles at the joke, and then adds, “He’s been drinking some company Kool-Aid, yes?”

When I almost shoot Dr. Pepper through my nose, the international sign of astonished amusement, Wolfgang looks pleased.

As well he should.

That's What It's Called

“Have you ever seen one of these?”

Alan, a company honcho on the verge of retirement, is walking toward my desk from his office. His question isn’t phrased in a Hey,-check-it-out,-I’m-showing-you-something-cool! sort of way, but in a What-the-heck-IS-this-thing? sort of way. He holds in his hand one of those old-school, 5.25-inch square black computer disks. My eyes almost bug out of my head.

It’s a floppy.

I first came into contact with those disks when my parents bought their first computer, a Tandy from Radio Shack. It had amber characters instead of green, which was super-duper cool at the time and I reveled in my 7-year-old hipness every time I laid eyes on that nifty blinking cursor. We had a typing tutor program installed on it, and my mother tried in vain to teach me some very fundamental DOS. Alas, I wasn’t interested. (You can see where that’s gotten me.) I knew only enough to get around in a very basic way, and it wasn’t more than a few years until that clunky platform was replaced with user-friendly windows, that new fangled revolution in computers that we take for granted today.

I digress.

When Alan proffers that disk, I really think he’s joking. “Oh, a floppy.” I say, waiting for some kind of joke or retro reference. Nothing. He waves it back and forth, testing out my assertion, and says, “Yes, it’s floppy, but what is it?” I smile, and realize that Alan is of a completely different era. Technologically, he completely skipped the petulant and awkard teen stages, and zipped right into the-world-is-my-oyster young adulthood, computer-wise. When I was learning about floppy disks and how to operate a “word processing machine”, Alan was still dictating to a stenographer who knew shorthand. His secretary took care of every word of correspondence that passed into and out of his office. They probably had a typing pool. Weird.

He hands it to me, and I read the sticker on the bottom of it.
“Alan, it’s a marketing campaign. See the web address on the sticker? They want you to go to their website. Probably a P.R. firm or something.” I hand it back to him.
“Okay, but what is it?” he asks, brow furrowed. Now he’s serious.
“Oh, uh…, it’s a floppy disk, a really old one.”

No recognition. I try again.

“You know those 3.5 disks? For the computer? This disk is a precursor to that.”

Crickets.

“Okay, the floppy did for very old computers what a CD or flash drive does now.” Probably not a technically correct metaphor, but that’s of little consequence. I’m at the point where I’d really like for him to go back to delegating from behind his desk instead of querying in front of mine.

Frowning, he manages a dubious “Oh.” I suddenly wonder if he knows what a flash drive is, but he seems to be at least a little satisfied with my answer and starts to walk away.

He suddenly turns back and says, again, “But what is it called?”

Oy. Retire already, Alan.

The Squeeze

He’s a total metrosexual, or whatever it’s called: bleached teeth, carefully coifed hair, abnormally tan. Sartorially gifted, his stylish glasses exude sensitivity, yet he’s man enough to pull off pairing a lavender gingham shirt with navy pinstripe. Underneath it all, though, there’s a pep in his step that just screams out for Valium. Trent’s not perky, he’s tense.

As of Friday, I completely understand why.

For over two weeks, she’d been calling easily once an hour. How do I know? I’ve got caller ID and unless they're blocked, repeated numbers tend to stick in my head. It’s simply a defense mechanism: when you’ve got over 300 published numbers all ringing at your console, the autodialers offering “free” trips to Jamaica or hawking timeshares and newspaper subscriptions drive you beyond nutty unless you hang up on them immediately. I consider frequent callers a nuisance because it means I have to work, at least a little bit. But I had no idea just what an interesting nuisance she would become.

Appearing suddenly in my lobby, she doesn’t offer her name, but she asks for Trent, and she’s pissed. It’s her. I recognize the voice. The ears never lie. Well, that and the trendy necklace with her name in crystal pave; sparkly, pink cursive. Marta. Marta from Fishbein & Stokemeyer.

She doesn’t have an appointment, but right now, that’s a minor consideration. Since my personal tawdry interests trump all others, Trent is immediately advised of his guest. He responds with an uncharacteristicly tight-lipped “Uh..., I’ll be right up”. Looking at her, 'high-maintenance' doesn’t even begin to scratch the surface. No wonder he’s twitchy. He’s married with three kids, and his side dish is grumpy enough to strut her junk down to his workplace and pout conspicuously in the foyer. I consider this a potentially explosive situation.

I can’t wait.

Clearly apprehensive as he rounds the corner, in the split second before Marta sees him he glances at me, a brittle, Ken-doll smile affixed below hunted eyes. For a second I almost feel sorry for him.

She stands, arms crossed, sees me watching them and whines “Trent…”
“Hey, Marta, how are you?” and puts out his hand to shake hers. Puts out his hand. Clearly the unwished-for gesture, Marta looks at it as if he's offering her a large cockroach. Trent's hand lowers slowly, and for some reason ends up tucked lightly in his pocket, with all the artless and spontaneous realism of a Sears catalog model. He steers her toward the door, and unfortunately it opens loudly enough to cover up what he murmurs quietly to her. But to whatever he says, I hear her response. Boy, do I.

At a volume I am astounded her silicone obscured lungs produce, and coupled with the sharp crack of a tiny stamping stiletto, “No, Trent! NO!” echoes past me, tattling down the tiled hallway into a suddenly dead silent office. Mere moments too late, the pneumatic cylinder slowly presses the door closed. Two people prairie dog, and an internal line rings at my console, an eager gossipmonger on the job.

A few minutes later, a sheepish Trent carefully reenters the office, cheeks just flushed enough to subtly offset his celadon flecked tie. Avoiding my gaze, he makes no mention of it, for once wanting not to be noticed, instead preferring simply to skulk back to office and lick his wounds in peace.

I haven’t seen Marta since, and now she only calls once a day, from her cell phone.

As if I don’t know.

Unbreak My Ears

In this modern technological age, we think we’ve got it pretty good. And we do, don’t get me wrong. However, it’s important to realize that without a little vigilance on the part of the individual, things can go horribly awry.

An example:

Because selling is the lubricant that keeps the Multi National Mega Global pump primed, our sales force is often on the road. They'll generally call in for messages or to request some kind of menial assistance, as did Noah, yesterday. This time, though, it turns out that it’s not really Noah calling, but rather Noah’s mobile. Upon picking up the line, I realize that I have been bamboozled into the cell phone’s plot to mercilessly invade Noah‘s privacy. It’s calling from his pocket because the keypad isn’t locked.

His work number must be pretty high up on his speed dial, because this is not the first time it has happened. It is, however, the first time it has happened while the phone is in his shirt pocket, not his jacket pocket. How do I know? Dude is blasting an easy listening station while he drives, and it's not muffled one bit. Generally, for my own sake I hang up and call back immediately to advise that the cellular unit is making rogue calls. Unfortunately, just as I am about to do this, the song “Unbreak My Heart” comes on and he starts to sing along.

Oh, the horror.

Now, I’m not really the easy-listening sort, but I have to admit that Toni Braxton has got pipes. That girl can sing, and sing well. If her musical style were more to my taste, I could reasonably be expected to own some Toni Braxton. On the other hand, listening to Noah ruthlessly butcher Toni Braxton is excruciating, especially from the lamentable vantage point of his very own breast pocket, which leaves no unhit note unheard.

And, oh God, are they unhit.

It’s a train wreck, a paralyzing human imitation of cats being tortured with a dentist's drill. The falsettos, the made up lyrics, the changing of octaves mid-note; all of it bad enough were he a decent singer, but the man obviously couldn’t identify a tune if it came up, shook his hand and introduced itself. I’m still impressed his car windows didn’t blow out right then and there, a clear testament to Mercedes Benz engineering if there ever was one, I think.

Stirring me out of my stupor is a pause in the action as he speaks with the garage attendant downstairs. Downstairs. The realization that I will be face to face with the singing sensation himself in two minutes or less isn’t sobering enough to wipe the puerile grin from my face, so I do the only reasonable thing I can think of – hide in the ladies' room. He walks though the lobby to his office as I giggle my ass off in private.

Problem solved.

So, to Noah: right off the top there are three main obstacles to your singing Toni Braxton with any modicum of dignity-
1) You’re tone deaf.
2-3) Your testicles.

To everyone else: Lock your cell phone keypads.

Please.

On A Claire Day...

She needs the Executive Meeting Room, she needs the overhead, she needs remote access, the easel, and a carafe of Kona coffee (not Columbian) and she needs it all at 9:00. This morning.

God, lack of planning chaps my hide.

I tell Claire she can either have it after 9:30 or she can have a different room, as that particular room is booked until then by our COO, Sam. At first, she sniffs at the insinuation that anyone is more important than Herself, but finally gives in, mainly because I’m not motivated enough to care either way. If she wants the big room at 9:00, she can wheedle Sam himself for it.

Claire: “Okay, 9:30’s fine. Have Shane set everything up”
Me: “Shane is out of the office today, Claire.”
Claire: “What? What do you mean?”
Me: “He sent out that email yesterday, reminding everyone he’d be out today so that he could handle requests ahead of time.”
Claire: “Oh, well then I need you to take care of it for me.”

Ah, yes, sloppy seconds.

Sloppy seconds for something I haven’t the slightest interest in doing, or, truthfully, the skill. The overhead is a tricky little poozer, and I inevitably set it up wrong. See, Claire, I have this thing called a “job”. My “job” is to answer a crazy machine called a “telephone”, which allows you to receive those all-important calls from your manicurist, your divorce lawyer and other personal service personnel. If I’m away from my desk, you might not receive notice that your hair appointment has been rescheduled.

Yeah, I know. Piss, moan, whine. Whatever.

However, because Shane is out of the office, I do have to do it. True, it’s not my job per se, that is, it wouldn’t appear in an official job description. However, an unofficial job description would read “Relentlessly Wiping Corporate Ass” and, alas, “Accommodating Last Minute Bullshit Requests” is a subcategory thereof. Damn. Suddenly I’m a coffee jerk.

It turns out only one other individual will be in attendance (in a room designed to hold 40. Of course.) Coffee? Brewed and delivered. Easel? Arranged. Overhead? Set up (after much cursing). Remote access? Ready to go. The client arrives, is ushered graciously into our swanky meeting room, doors glide shut and I go back to quietly surfing the web.

Until I hear a grunt, a slam, and then my name, muffled.

Entering the meeting room, I look to where the client is staring, bug-eyed, only to see Claire bent into a closet, her hand grasping a bottle of water. She is trying to pull it from the case at the bottom of the stack, and, as the laws of physics would demand, the stack has fallen over onto her, pinning her to the closet door. Well, duh.

Claire. Ass-up. In a client meeting. It's Christmas come early.

Walking over, I right the stack and place a bottle from the top of the stack down below to steady it. Finally uprighted, a red-faced Claire states, preemptively, “I wanted THIS one.”

Well, then. You got it.

Rude Telemarketers

-
This is a call I get all the time: Immediately someone calling from a blocked number says “Hi, this is customer service from your copier company. Can I get the number from the front of your machine?”

I fall for it the first time, and rush around getting all the numbers, only to feel like a monumental jackass after he verifies the address, and then announces he’s going to send toner whether I like it or not. Apparently “the copier numbers are the order confirmation”. Click. The unwanted toner does indeed arrive and is somehow successfully sent back, but only after great personal inconvenience, and I end up looking like a dolt.

I hate that.

Not more than a month later, I receive another of these calls, same script. Still smarting from my first experience, and thinking I’m awfully clever, I ask him politely,
“Oh, okay. Did you want the number for the Canon or the Xerox?”
“Well,” he says, creaming his jeans, “why don’t I get both of those.”
“Hmm. See, we don’t actually have either of those brands, so I’d appreciate it if you don’t call here again.”

If you think good triumphs over evil and the world is set aright, think again.

Spittle audibly hits mouthpiece as I’m informed that I’m a “miserable little bitch-cunt with no fucking life who needs a good fuck because [I’m] a fat, ugly, diseased, lesbo whore and just a stupid fucking loser receptionist.” Click.

Wait, I'm a receptionist? Idiot.

So in response I have devised my own little game. Once I’ve established they’re conducting no legitimate business whatsoever, I sweetly ask them to hold while I “run and get those numbers” for them. And they wait. And wait. (Yawn.) And wait.

The console system I use has a timed hold, about 45 seconds, and upon ringing back I gush with helpful enthusiasm, “I’m getting those numbers for you, just a moment, please.” and them pop them back on hold. This goes on for as long as the telemarketer allows. Sometimes they disconnect and call back, thinking I’ve forgotten about them. I never forget.

I could do this all day long. With glee.

So, to all you telemarketers out there trying to bullshit me into buying overpriced toner from you, I do not apologize for putting you on hold, stringing you along and wasting your time in the hopes of saving even only one other receptionist from your torrent of asinine abuse. Instead, blame the guy two cubicles over jerking off into the Gap Kids catalog: that clammy, impotent, bitter mid-life crisis driving around in his mom’s janky, primer-colored Yugo, screaming obscenities at strangers who don't fall for his flimflam.

He’s the asshole, not me.