-
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.
Thursday, August 7, 2008
Friday, June 20, 2008
Babylon Sisters, Shake It
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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?”
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.
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.
Tuesday, June 17, 2008
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.
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.
Tuesday, March 25, 2008
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.
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.
Tuesday, February 26, 2008
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.
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.
Thursday, January 31, 2008
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.
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.
Monday, January 28, 2008
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.
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.
Monday, January 21, 2008
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.
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.
Friday, January 18, 2008
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.
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.
Tuesday, January 15, 2008
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.
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.
Tuesday, January 8, 2008
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.
Tuesday, December 25, 2007
Feast Postmortem
The following are a few snippets from this year's Christmas Eve dinner experience:
Everybody, at one point or another, mangling the names of new acquaintances, and then, later, due to too much champagne, mangling them again (and in one case, thrice).
Scoring my favorite part of the turkey – the tenderloin, natch.
An impromptu (and remarkably off key) rendition of “My Favorite Things” from The Sound of Music (you know, “Raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens”, etc.) mostly mumbled until the chorus, the lyrics of which everybody knows, if not the notes.
Stilton soup, just like it sounds. If you like Stilton and you like soup, then consider this a little slice of heaven. No lie.
Everybody catching up on everyone else’s news.
The following interchange: My grandfather, who is enjoying remarkably good health in his late eighth decade is engaging in a good-natured comparison of his hearing aids with those of my cousin Belle’s father-in-law, Eugene. The little devices have been dug from their snug homes and are lined up on the table. This is how the brief and priceless conversation goes -
Eugene: Hey, those are good lookin’ earpieces, Jack!
Grampa Jack: Huh? What?
Sampling the champagne (blanc de noir) and the pinot and the riesling and the pale ale.
Two pieces of pumpkin pie, one smothered in real freshly whipped cream, the other with Kool Whip. As far as I'm concerned, the best of both worlds.
Lots and lots of hugs and laughter and comfortable chatter.
Eugene’s titanium arm, almost all the way to the shoulder. He's bionic! Need I say more? The under-5 set was enraptured. Well, if the truth be told, so was I.
Coming back home and hitting the hot tub – a little post feast bloat ‘n’ float.
Truly a warm and wonderful occasion, if I do say so myself.
Everybody, at one point or another, mangling the names of new acquaintances, and then, later, due to too much champagne, mangling them again (and in one case, thrice).
Scoring my favorite part of the turkey – the tenderloin, natch.
An impromptu (and remarkably off key) rendition of “My Favorite Things” from The Sound of Music (you know, “Raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens”, etc.) mostly mumbled until the chorus, the lyrics of which everybody knows, if not the notes.
Stilton soup, just like it sounds. If you like Stilton and you like soup, then consider this a little slice of heaven. No lie.
Everybody catching up on everyone else’s news.
The following interchange: My grandfather, who is enjoying remarkably good health in his late eighth decade is engaging in a good-natured comparison of his hearing aids with those of my cousin Belle’s father-in-law, Eugene. The little devices have been dug from their snug homes and are lined up on the table. This is how the brief and priceless conversation goes -
Eugene: Hey, those are good lookin’ earpieces, Jack!
Grampa Jack: Huh? What?
Sampling the champagne (blanc de noir) and the pinot and the riesling and the pale ale.
Two pieces of pumpkin pie, one smothered in real freshly whipped cream, the other with Kool Whip. As far as I'm concerned, the best of both worlds.
Lots and lots of hugs and laughter and comfortable chatter.
Eugene’s titanium arm, almost all the way to the shoulder. He's bionic! Need I say more? The under-5 set was enraptured. Well, if the truth be told, so was I.
Coming back home and hitting the hot tub – a little post feast bloat ‘n’ float.
Truly a warm and wonderful occasion, if I do say so myself.
Monday, December 10, 2007
The Real Poop
What is it about defecation that makes men think it’s an appropriate office reference?
Yes, we’re all biological beings, and I’m not particularly squeamish, but come on. They trumpet it around, virtually wearing a sandwich board that says “I’m on my way to take a dump.” Bruce, an affiliate whose sweat glands seem to work overtime, consistently walks by with his People magazine crammed into his armpit, winks and says “I’ll be in the library if anyone needs me.”
Nasty. I don’t want to know that.
You’d think, though, that the fairer sex would have a little more restraint. Don’t get me wrong – better out than in, I say. But somehow, at least twice a week, I walk into the bathroom on my floor and the same member of the janitorial staff is pooping in it. I know this because I am a creature of habit and I have a stall preference. Also, she can’t be any taller than 4’9”, and her feet don’t touch the floor when she’s on the throne. Now, this isn’t a class issue where I characterize hardworking people as the lumpen proletariat. However, as a custodial employee she has her pick of any bathroom on any floor, yet she consistently chooses my bathroom, my stall.
Why mine?
Our bathroom is nice, ‘tis true, but I used to work on the 25th floor, and that bathroom is nice, too. Good smelling soap, fluffy tissues, perfumed lotion, not to mention clean stalls, self-flushing toilets and lots of room for makeup application. 25 is nice, for sure. Not nice enough for her, I guess.
Yesterday, upon entering, I immediately hear a flush, then eerie silence after that. Turning the corner, I see My Door closed. Rats. I can tell it’s her because of the cart parked out front with the yellow cartoon sign depicting stick men slipping on freshly mopped floors. In the split second I decide to leave and come back once she's gone, I hear the stall lock slide open. Instead of enduring the indignity of getting caught slinking out of the ladies' room, I turn on the water and fiddle with the soap dispenser in a misguided attempt to appear casual.
What does she do? She comes out of the stall and totally mad dogs me.
She slams two rolls of toilet paper down on the counter and, glaring, unlocks the paper towel dispenser, banging the metal door against the wall to refill it. Sighing heavily as if I'd just stolen her parking space, she clangs the door shut again. I’m just washing my hands. I imagine the whistle of an airborne cardboard wrapped tampon careening toward my head and, rethinking my needs, get out while the getting’s good.
Escaping out from under the oppressive gaze of StinkEye, I see two men across the hallway, newspapers in hand, enter the men’s room. Envious, I suddenly understand the fixation. They get a little break, and can network or chat about sports or Republicans or tasseled cordovan loafers while catching up on a little lite reading and working up an appetite.
Huh. Sure beats working.
Yes, we’re all biological beings, and I’m not particularly squeamish, but come on. They trumpet it around, virtually wearing a sandwich board that says “I’m on my way to take a dump.” Bruce, an affiliate whose sweat glands seem to work overtime, consistently walks by with his People magazine crammed into his armpit, winks and says “I’ll be in the library if anyone needs me.”
Nasty. I don’t want to know that.
You’d think, though, that the fairer sex would have a little more restraint. Don’t get me wrong – better out than in, I say. But somehow, at least twice a week, I walk into the bathroom on my floor and the same member of the janitorial staff is pooping in it. I know this because I am a creature of habit and I have a stall preference. Also, she can’t be any taller than 4’9”, and her feet don’t touch the floor when she’s on the throne. Now, this isn’t a class issue where I characterize hardworking people as the lumpen proletariat. However, as a custodial employee she has her pick of any bathroom on any floor, yet she consistently chooses my bathroom, my stall.
Why mine?
Our bathroom is nice, ‘tis true, but I used to work on the 25th floor, and that bathroom is nice, too. Good smelling soap, fluffy tissues, perfumed lotion, not to mention clean stalls, self-flushing toilets and lots of room for makeup application. 25 is nice, for sure. Not nice enough for her, I guess.
Yesterday, upon entering, I immediately hear a flush, then eerie silence after that. Turning the corner, I see My Door closed. Rats. I can tell it’s her because of the cart parked out front with the yellow cartoon sign depicting stick men slipping on freshly mopped floors. In the split second I decide to leave and come back once she's gone, I hear the stall lock slide open. Instead of enduring the indignity of getting caught slinking out of the ladies' room, I turn on the water and fiddle with the soap dispenser in a misguided attempt to appear casual.
What does she do? She comes out of the stall and totally mad dogs me.
She slams two rolls of toilet paper down on the counter and, glaring, unlocks the paper towel dispenser, banging the metal door against the wall to refill it. Sighing heavily as if I'd just stolen her parking space, she clangs the door shut again. I’m just washing my hands. I imagine the whistle of an airborne cardboard wrapped tampon careening toward my head and, rethinking my needs, get out while the getting’s good.
Escaping out from under the oppressive gaze of StinkEye, I see two men across the hallway, newspapers in hand, enter the men’s room. Envious, I suddenly understand the fixation. They get a little break, and can network or chat about sports or Republicans or tasseled cordovan loafers while catching up on a little lite reading and working up an appetite.
Huh. Sure beats working.
Thursday, November 22, 2007
A Happy Thanksgiving
Today is Thanksgiving, and I’m feeling pretty good.
In my little corner of the world, the sun is shining, creating a lovely warm and cozy apple-pie glow on the walls. It’s chilly outside, the air smells clean, the sky is blue, and all of the best qualities of autumn are manifest. Just enough wind to blow the leaves around without being bitter cold, but brisk enough to justify a good cup of hot coffee and a bracing breakfast. Of course, it doesn’t hurt that I don’t have to be at work. It’s almost as if I fell asleep wearing rose colored glasses and they simply fused to my nose. This holiday for me has been, over the years, comprised overwhelmingly of more incredibly good memories than bad ones (although the few bad ones are real hum-dingers.)
I’m lucky, I know.
Suddenly, and out of nowhere, really, I’m reminded that not everyone shares my enthusiasm for Thanksgiving. For instance, my extended family by marriage is multi-cultural, and there’s no Thanksgiving in Denmark, so for my second cousin currently living in the US, the fourth Thursday in November is simply a few paid days off. There are others, too, who go to great lengths to be anti-holiday, who call it a “commercial non-occasion”.
Fair enough.
I realize that the importance of Thanksgiving doesn’t lie anywhere near the Pilgrim story that we’re given as children. I suppose it’s a handy story, a tidy way to teach tolerance, sharing, learning, giving, and assuredly many other desirable qualities that can sometimes seem quite abstract for the very young. I’m not saying it didn’t happen, because I’m sure that somewhere along the line, the European and Native cultures merged in a harmonious way. On the other hand, no holiday would be complete without a little controversy: there’s the whole “we gave them smallpox blankets and alcoholism” contingency, and that’s okay too. We did, I guess, and whether there was malice aforethought, we’ll never know for sure. At any rate, I’m pretty sure that there is a little too much focus on turkeys and shoe buckles and who brought the cranberries to America’s First Potluck, when the pith of the whole thing is to look inside our wee jaded hearts and find some gratitude there.
I whipped out the microscope, and this is what I found. I am deeply thankful:
1. For the experiences, good and bad, that made me the person I am today.
2. That I have to use both hands and a few of my toes to count the people in my world who truly love me for who I am and whom I can trust with my life. My life. Are you kidding me? That’s a gift, for sure.
3. That I won’t be cooking this holiday. The local E.R. is pleased, too.
Have a safe Thanksgiving, and here’s to your Alka-Seltzer always being within arm’s reach today.
In my little corner of the world, the sun is shining, creating a lovely warm and cozy apple-pie glow on the walls. It’s chilly outside, the air smells clean, the sky is blue, and all of the best qualities of autumn are manifest. Just enough wind to blow the leaves around without being bitter cold, but brisk enough to justify a good cup of hot coffee and a bracing breakfast. Of course, it doesn’t hurt that I don’t have to be at work. It’s almost as if I fell asleep wearing rose colored glasses and they simply fused to my nose. This holiday for me has been, over the years, comprised overwhelmingly of more incredibly good memories than bad ones (although the few bad ones are real hum-dingers.)
I’m lucky, I know.
Suddenly, and out of nowhere, really, I’m reminded that not everyone shares my enthusiasm for Thanksgiving. For instance, my extended family by marriage is multi-cultural, and there’s no Thanksgiving in Denmark, so for my second cousin currently living in the US, the fourth Thursday in November is simply a few paid days off. There are others, too, who go to great lengths to be anti-holiday, who call it a “commercial non-occasion”.
Fair enough.
I realize that the importance of Thanksgiving doesn’t lie anywhere near the Pilgrim story that we’re given as children. I suppose it’s a handy story, a tidy way to teach tolerance, sharing, learning, giving, and assuredly many other desirable qualities that can sometimes seem quite abstract for the very young. I’m not saying it didn’t happen, because I’m sure that somewhere along the line, the European and Native cultures merged in a harmonious way. On the other hand, no holiday would be complete without a little controversy: there’s the whole “we gave them smallpox blankets and alcoholism” contingency, and that’s okay too. We did, I guess, and whether there was malice aforethought, we’ll never know for sure. At any rate, I’m pretty sure that there is a little too much focus on turkeys and shoe buckles and who brought the cranberries to America’s First Potluck, when the pith of the whole thing is to look inside our wee jaded hearts and find some gratitude there.
I whipped out the microscope, and this is what I found. I am deeply thankful:
1. For the experiences, good and bad, that made me the person I am today.
2. That I have to use both hands and a few of my toes to count the people in my world who truly love me for who I am and whom I can trust with my life. My life. Are you kidding me? That’s a gift, for sure.
3. That I won’t be cooking this holiday. The local E.R. is pleased, too.
Have a safe Thanksgiving, and here’s to your Alka-Seltzer always being within arm’s reach today.
Wednesday, November 21, 2007
Badly Needed Break
Working for a behemoth company can have its benefits.
Today, as is usual in anticipation of the holiday weekend, we close early so people can get a head start on the holiday. It’s a ghost town, because most folks got this so-called head start last Saturday, and already are where they will remain until next Sunday. If you’ve actually managed to straggle into the office, you’re either hating it because you’re paid by the project, at least one of which isn’t anywhere near completion, the deadline looms and your assistant is already in Cabo; or you’re loving it because you’re hourly, get paid a whole day’s wages for a half a day’s work and can’t wait to get the hell out of Dodge.
Needless to say, I’m stoked.
There is a boulder of salt here: All of the idiocy that I would normally encounter over the course of an eight-hour workday becomes condensed into half that time period, turning my morning into a korporate keystone kops of sorts. I’ve been doing this long enough to know the drill, and have learned to take the preemptive strike. The absolute first thing I do is send out a reminder to everyone that the office is closing at noon (!) so many of the regular afternoon office services will occur early and that anyone needing my assistance ought to let me know as soon as possible.
You have four hours, people. Use them wisely.
Now, the fact that we lock up at noon has been broadcast for at least a week, and as referenced earlier, is standard operating procedure before a company paid holiday such as this one. However, my email seems to arouse some of the office cube zombies, and the quest for fresh brains begins.
With this in mind, I give you the ten lamest questions I fielded today. Enjoy.
1. Wait, what time do you leave today?
2. This packet needs to go Priority. Can it be there by 10:30 tomorrow?
3. How cold is it out there right now?
4. This is so weird. Isn’t Thanksgiving usually the 24th of November?
5. Is the Tokyo office closing early, too?
6. What’s today? Wednesday?
7. Okay, I just read your email. Doesn't the mail get processed at 4:00?
8. How bad will the traffic be, do you think?
9. Oh, right, we’re closing at 12:00. What time zone?
10. How many days until Christmas?
Think, people.
Today, as is usual in anticipation of the holiday weekend, we close early so people can get a head start on the holiday. It’s a ghost town, because most folks got this so-called head start last Saturday, and already are where they will remain until next Sunday. If you’ve actually managed to straggle into the office, you’re either hating it because you’re paid by the project, at least one of which isn’t anywhere near completion, the deadline looms and your assistant is already in Cabo; or you’re loving it because you’re hourly, get paid a whole day’s wages for a half a day’s work and can’t wait to get the hell out of Dodge.
Needless to say, I’m stoked.
There is a boulder of salt here: All of the idiocy that I would normally encounter over the course of an eight-hour workday becomes condensed into half that time period, turning my morning into a korporate keystone kops of sorts. I’ve been doing this long enough to know the drill, and have learned to take the preemptive strike. The absolute first thing I do is send out a reminder to everyone that the office is closing at noon (!) so many of the regular afternoon office services will occur early and that anyone needing my assistance ought to let me know as soon as possible.
You have four hours, people. Use them wisely.
Now, the fact that we lock up at noon has been broadcast for at least a week, and as referenced earlier, is standard operating procedure before a company paid holiday such as this one. However, my email seems to arouse some of the office cube zombies, and the quest for fresh brains begins.
With this in mind, I give you the ten lamest questions I fielded today. Enjoy.
1. Wait, what time do you leave today?
2. This packet needs to go Priority. Can it be there by 10:30 tomorrow?
3. How cold is it out there right now?
4. This is so weird. Isn’t Thanksgiving usually the 24th of November?
5. Is the Tokyo office closing early, too?
6. What’s today? Wednesday?
7. Okay, I just read your email. Doesn't the mail get processed at 4:00?
8. How bad will the traffic be, do you think?
9. Oh, right, we’re closing at 12:00. What time zone?
10. How many days until Christmas?
Think, people.
Friday, November 16, 2007
One Moment, Please
Two receptionists having a conversation:
Me: “Thank you for calling Multi National Mega Global, how may I direct your call?”
Liz: “Hey girl, it’s me. I’m calling back to try to make some (beep) plans to (beep) get together…(beep) Do you need to get that?”
Me: “Yeah, hang on a sec…”
Me: “Thank you for calling Multi National Mega Global, how may I direct your call?”
Random Caller # 1: “Sam Shenanigan, please.”
Me: “One moment please.” (boop, boop, boop, boop)
Me: “Okay, I’m back. Get together? Lessee, uh, what about (doodle-doodle) December…uh…” (doodle-doodle)
Liz: “Oops, you hang on now… [Warehouse Mania - You can leave your...] They hung up.”
Me: “I can hear you talking to customers. You calling from your cell?”
Liz: “Yeah. Anyway, December? (beep) That sounds (beep) good. I’m thinkin’ (beep) the…”
Me: “One second.”
Me: “Thank you for calling Multi National Mega Global, how may I direct your call?”
Random Caller # 2: “What? Who is this?”
Me: “This is Multi National Mega Global.”
Random Caller # 2: “Oh, I’ve got… I’ve got the wrong number.” Click.
Me: “Okay Liz you there? Wrong number. So, December. What (beep) about Fri… (beep) Hang on…”
Me: “Thank you for calling Multi National Mega Global, how may I direct your call?”
Random Caller # 2, again: Click.
Me: “Tsk. It was a hang up. All right, Friday the 7th? How does (doodle-doodle) that work for (doodle-doodle) you and...I’ll hold.”
Liz: “Just a minute. [Warehouse Mania - You can leave your cares with us. Who? Oh, he’s in a meeting right now. Would you like his voice mail? Thank you.] Okay, Friday the 7th.”
Me: “Do you still have to say that whole spiel every time?”
Liz: “Yeah, it’s sick, don’t you think?”
Me: “Man, I thought mine was bad. Okay, back to the 7th. I’m out of here at five, so maybe we meet up at GingerBeer’s?”
Liz: “How about this: let’s do cheap and have a (beep) potluck or some (beep) thing at…Go.”
Me: “Thank you for calling Multi National Mega Global, how may I direct your call?”
Random Caller # 3: “Hi, this is Jody from Corporate. I’ve got Mr. King on the line for Mr. Shenanigan. May I connect you?”
Me: “Hi Jody. Okay, go ahead.”
Jody: “Go ahead, Mr. King.”
Mr. King: “Put me through to Sam.”
Me: “One moment please.” (boop, boop, boop, boop)
Me: “Jeez, when it rains it pours. So you said potluck. Hello? You still there?”
Liz: “[…and thanks for calling Warehouse Mania. Bye now.] Okay, you there?”
Me: “Hi. Potluck?”
Liz: “Oh, yeah. I’m thinking we could go up to Stuart’s (beep) house and… (beep) Yeah, go on.”
Me: “Hold on.”
Me: “Thank you for calling Multi National Mega Global, how may I direct your call?”
Random Caller # 4: “This is not a joke! Business owner, you are qualified for a…”
Me: Click.
Me: “Liz, I’m back. It was one of those recordings.”
Liz: “Was it ‘Estimado cliente’ or ‘This is not a joke’”?
Me: “’This is not a joke’. Anyway, the 7th, Stuart’s, potluck. You still a (beep) vegan?” (beep)
Liz: “Listen, I (doodle-doodle) gotta go.” (doodle-doodle)
Me: “Well, (beep) why don’t you (beep) send me an email?” (beep)
Liz: “Cool. I’ll (doodle-doodle) do that. So glad (doodle-doodle) we got to (doodle-doodle) chat!”
Me: “Me too, girl! (beep) Let’s talk (beep) soon!”
Me: “Thank you for calling Multi National Mega Global, how may I direct your call?”
Liz: “Hey girl, it’s me. I’m calling back to try to make some (beep) plans to (beep) get together…(beep) Do you need to get that?”
Me: “Yeah, hang on a sec…”
Me: “Thank you for calling Multi National Mega Global, how may I direct your call?”
Random Caller # 1: “Sam Shenanigan, please.”
Me: “One moment please.” (boop, boop, boop, boop)
Me: “Okay, I’m back. Get together? Lessee, uh, what about (doodle-doodle) December…uh…” (doodle-doodle)
Liz: “Oops, you hang on now… [Warehouse Mania - You can leave your...] They hung up.”
Me: “I can hear you talking to customers. You calling from your cell?”
Liz: “Yeah. Anyway, December? (beep) That sounds (beep) good. I’m thinkin’ (beep) the…”
Me: “One second.”
Me: “Thank you for calling Multi National Mega Global, how may I direct your call?”
Random Caller # 2: “What? Who is this?”
Me: “This is Multi National Mega Global.”
Random Caller # 2: “Oh, I’ve got… I’ve got the wrong number.” Click.
Me: “Okay Liz you there? Wrong number. So, December. What (beep) about Fri… (beep) Hang on…”
Me: “Thank you for calling Multi National Mega Global, how may I direct your call?”
Random Caller # 2, again: Click.
Me: “Tsk. It was a hang up. All right, Friday the 7th? How does (doodle-doodle) that work for (doodle-doodle) you and...I’ll hold.”
Liz: “Just a minute. [Warehouse Mania - You can leave your cares with us. Who? Oh, he’s in a meeting right now. Would you like his voice mail? Thank you.] Okay, Friday the 7th.”
Me: “Do you still have to say that whole spiel every time?”
Liz: “Yeah, it’s sick, don’t you think?”
Me: “Man, I thought mine was bad. Okay, back to the 7th. I’m out of here at five, so maybe we meet up at GingerBeer’s?”
Liz: “How about this: let’s do cheap and have a (beep) potluck or some (beep) thing at…Go.”
Me: “Thank you for calling Multi National Mega Global, how may I direct your call?”
Random Caller # 3: “Hi, this is Jody from Corporate. I’ve got Mr. King on the line for Mr. Shenanigan. May I connect you?”
Me: “Hi Jody. Okay, go ahead.”
Jody: “Go ahead, Mr. King.”
Mr. King: “Put me through to Sam.”
Me: “One moment please.” (boop, boop, boop, boop)
Me: “Jeez, when it rains it pours. So you said potluck. Hello? You still there?”
Liz: “[…and thanks for calling Warehouse Mania. Bye now.] Okay, you there?”
Me: “Hi. Potluck?”
Liz: “Oh, yeah. I’m thinking we could go up to Stuart’s (beep) house and… (beep) Yeah, go on.”
Me: “Hold on.”
Me: “Thank you for calling Multi National Mega Global, how may I direct your call?”
Random Caller # 4: “This is not a joke! Business owner, you are qualified for a…”
Me: Click.
Me: “Liz, I’m back. It was one of those recordings.”
Liz: “Was it ‘Estimado cliente’ or ‘This is not a joke’”?
Me: “’This is not a joke’. Anyway, the 7th, Stuart’s, potluck. You still a (beep) vegan?” (beep)
Liz: “Listen, I (doodle-doodle) gotta go.” (doodle-doodle)
Me: “Well, (beep) why don’t you (beep) send me an email?” (beep)
Liz: “Cool. I’ll (doodle-doodle) do that. So glad (doodle-doodle) we got to (doodle-doodle) chat!”
Me: “Me too, girl! (beep) Let’s talk (beep) soon!”
Wednesday, November 7, 2007
Happy Birthday To Me
So, today is my birthday. How do I know? All the freaks come out. It’s exactly one week after Halloween and inevitably someone weird steps out of the periphery.
Observe.
Earlier today, a woman calls the main line of our firm and declares,
“I want to talk to God.”
I don’t work for a church or an organization with any religious affiliation. It couldn’t be any more random.
“I beg your pardon?”
“I want to talk to God.”
Remarkably she isn’t rude about it, or whiny. Often folks on a mission get pushy. Not she. Simply, “I want to talk to God.” If I were to testify under oath, I’d swear she’s lucid.
The first smart-ass response that flies through my head is, “Sam is away from his desk right now, would you like his voice mail?” Given His lofty attitude regarding Himself, the call might actually be for Sam Shenanigan, Captain of Industry.
Instead, I choose the high road.
“Uh, Ma’am, I think you must have the wrong number. We’re a business. You’ve…you’ve reached a business.”
“Oh.” she says, crestfallen. “All right.”
Click.
Two minutes later: “I want to talk to God.”
“Ma’am, this is a business. There’s no God here.”
Really. This is corporate America, people.
“Oh, okay.”
Click.
Third time’s a charm. “I want to talk to God.”
Sigh. You and me both, lady.
“Okay, Ma’am. I’m…I’m not sure where God is right now, may I take a message?”
“Well, my leg hurts.”
“Oh, okay. And your name?”
“He knows.”
“Uh-huh, okay, uh…, well, I’m sure he’ll get the message then.”
“Thank you.”
Click.
No lightning so far.
Observe.
Earlier today, a woman calls the main line of our firm and declares,
“I want to talk to God.”
I don’t work for a church or an organization with any religious affiliation. It couldn’t be any more random.
“I beg your pardon?”
“I want to talk to God.”
Remarkably she isn’t rude about it, or whiny. Often folks on a mission get pushy. Not she. Simply, “I want to talk to God.” If I were to testify under oath, I’d swear she’s lucid.
The first smart-ass response that flies through my head is, “Sam is away from his desk right now, would you like his voice mail?” Given His lofty attitude regarding Himself, the call might actually be for Sam Shenanigan, Captain of Industry.
Instead, I choose the high road.
“Uh, Ma’am, I think you must have the wrong number. We’re a business. You’ve…you’ve reached a business.”
“Oh.” she says, crestfallen. “All right.”
Click.
Two minutes later: “I want to talk to God.”
“Ma’am, this is a business. There’s no God here.”
Really. This is corporate America, people.
“Oh, okay.”
Click.
Third time’s a charm. “I want to talk to God.”
Sigh. You and me both, lady.
“Okay, Ma’am. I’m…I’m not sure where God is right now, may I take a message?”
“Well, my leg hurts.”
“Oh, okay. And your name?”
“He knows.”
“Uh-huh, okay, uh…, well, I’m sure he’ll get the message then.”
“Thank you.”
Click.
No lightning so far.
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