Saturday, November 27, 2004

office holidays

I hate the whole 'secret Santa' thing that seems to infect every office around this time of year. Yet, I always seem to get suckered into participating. I simply don't see the point of spending $10-20 on someone from work that I really don't like and, under ordinary circumstances, wouldn't be willing to buy a candy bar for let alone an actual gift. Rather than fill out some card listing three things that I'd like from my 'secret Santa', I'll just keep my $20, spend it on myself, and save us all the trouble.

To make matters worse, the person I picked to be 'Santa' for is none other than Byron. Byron, the 'boss's pet. Byron, the journalism major, who can't write worth shit and has been spewing nonsensical sentences in reports to our clients for several months. Byron, just one of our office idiots that I can't stand. So what does a future star journalist ask for as the perfect gift? Coffee, books, and gum. Doesn't the creativity just scream 'author of the next great American novel'?

So now I'm stuck with the prospect of getting this jack-ass a gift. And while part of me would love to purchase a book for him (which was a recommended gift suggestion, mind you) on writing 101: how to construct a sentence, the mere fact that this will probably run me over $10 will keep me from buying this. So this leaves coffee and gum.

I'm a big coffee lover and simply hate to disgrace the good name of coffee by giving any to Byron. If I buy choice coffee beans, you can bet that I'm the one who is going to be drinking them. Of course, this does leave the whole Maxwell House and Folger's line, but the thought of wrapping a round can? Too much work.

Which leaves gum. So, the secret Santa game plan is this...the morning before the present exchange I'm going to stop at a mini-mart and purchase $9 worth of Big Red. Maybe, depending on my generosity level that morning, I might mix in some Wrigley's Spearmint just for variety, then tape the whole thing together in a big brick when I get to the office and wrap in in Post-It notes. And afterwards, I'll be sure to make a mental note to never, ever, sign up for one of these office gift exchanges again.

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Thursday, November 25, 2004

the dropping of the bird

It's Thanksgiving. The entrance into the holiday season. And while I still love the holidays, they've lost some of the luster from when I was a kid. Of course, how can you compete with the excitement of Santa, presents under the tree, and a week of no school?

My whole extended family would head over to my grandmother's house, where we would have a crowded, confusing, and completely fabulous time. Cousins, Aunts, and Uncles would fill every corner of her house. Grandma has since passed away, we all grew up, and the holiday get togethers pretty much stopped. My Aunt Carmie tried picking up the reigns for awhile, but she passed away several years ago and it just wasn't the same.

A story that I would hear around this time every year about my Aunt Carmie was a trip she took to the supermarket a week or two before Thanksgiving in search of the perfect turkey. She was bent down retrieving some cranberry sauce when a lady reached over her to grab a 20 pound bird. The bird slipped, fell on Aunt Carmie's head, and knocked her out cold.

From what I was told, she was out for about a minute, laid out flat upon the supermarket floor. She awoke, reassured the other shoppers that had gathered around that she was fine, and continued shopping. The turkey lady apologized, picked up her purchase, and left. Aunt Carmie was fine, and even though she would never complain, I have to admire the pain she was willing to endure for the family. Here's to hoping that she'll have an extra serving for me, up there in the great beyond.

Happy Thanksgiving to all.

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Tuesday, November 23, 2004

next time i'll know where to look

I was over at my parents house the other night, and upon deciding that it was time to exit I headed out for my car. I reached into my pocket to grab the keys and, to my dismay, they weren't there. My keys pretty much go straight from ignition to pocket. So when they weren't to be found there, the number of other available choices were pretty much exhausted.

Back into the house I went, where I made a careful scrutiny of all the places I had gone for the short time I had been there. Kitchen, bathroom, basement, family room. All checked with no luck.

By this time, my mom had spotted me rooting around throughout the house, asked what I was doing, and joined in the search. Good old mom, always willing to pitch in. Unfortunately, her help turned out to be not too much help. Though she was the one that came up with the suggestion that perhaps my keys got tossed into the trash with the remaining Quizno Sub remains that had adorned the kitchen table earlier. And I thought, 'hmmm, she may have something here', because I had gone straight to the kitchen to eat when I first walked through the door.

I realize this makes me sound like quite the mooch...but hey, isn't part of the whole 'parents' deal providing for their young? I think so. They provided, and the subs were quite tasty.

So following up on her suggestion, I trudged out to the curb in the hopes of finding the correct garbage bag. It happened to be trash night, otherwise the whole task would have been much easier due to the fact that the garbage would have still been in the kitchen can.

I found the bag and proceeded to muck around in search of my keys. Mom, God love her, was right there rooting around with me. Though all of our garbage hunting came up with nothing. So mom came with me, flashlight in hand, to search through my car (again)...seat cushions, floor, ashtray, to hunt around in the hopes of finding a nook that I missed.

Now, by this time I was pretty much resigned to the fact that all my keys, door, deadbolt, car, were gone. Sick with the thought of replacing, at a cost, all these keys, I couldn't help but be a little bit ticked off at dear old dad...who was parked in front of his computer through my whole painful, gut wrenching, agonizing ordeal. He didn't lift a finger to help. Not even an offer. And it's not as if I thought it would do any good, rather it was the thought. All I really wanted was for him to simply go through the motions to at least feign helpfulness. Much like when I'm driving down the street. If someone is going to cross in front of my car, they better damn well act like they're hustling. Nothing is more irritating than people who take their good old time sauntering in front of your 45 mph vehicle, as if they own the road. Honestly, the people acting like they're running may be, in reality, going slower than the saunterers, but at least they're giving the illusion of hurrying. This is really all I ask for.

And this illusion is all I really wanted of dad. At least pretend like you're concerned, then you can get back to the internet.

So, done with his on-line travels, dad moseyed on upstairs to watch television. I was outside with mom still searching in vain. And as I headed back in, resigned to the fact that I would be spending the night, dad strolls over to the door with my keys in his hand.

"I found them in the seat cushion in front of the TV", he told me...very matter-of-factly I might add.

Now this is the same chair that I searched three times. And then physically moved to look under it. And didn't find my keys. Yet dad sits down and 'bingo' there they are. Granted, this chair was specifically designed to empty out your pockets upon resting your rear onto it. It's one of those that tilt back at a steep angle, causing gravity to take it's toll on loose change, pocket knives, and my keys. Knowing this, I searched this chair several times...but apparently not good enough.

And I felt like quite the schmuck, having thought poorly of dad for not bothering to lift a finger to help, yet here he was, the savior of my keys. Feeling ashamed for these thoughts...thoughts that a 'good' child would never have...I thanked him profusely, said my good-byes, and made a hasty exit. And yes, next time I'll try not to judge dad too harshly.

Though, I still think that he could at least pretended.

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Friday, November 19, 2004

seven and counting

Today officially marks my seven month anniversary at this crappy job of mine. And while this may not seem all that impressive to you, it ranks in the top 5 longest jobs that I've ever held. So, in remembrance of these seven months, I'd like to take this opportunity to reflect on all the people that have come and gone in this short period of time.

Teri, Larry, Chrissy, Anita, Cheryl, Eric, Julian, Mike, Allison, Tana, Marsha, Kristina, the other Terri, Dawn, Donna, Peggy, Angela, Amy, Janet, and Val (who walked out for one day and then came back). The latest in this revolving door list is Linda, who started this past Monday.

On Tuesday, Linda went to lunch and never returned. Toni, who has been filling in for the receptionist during lunch, said that she felt we had seen the last of Linda when she left for lunch carrying all the pictures that she brought to put in her cubical.

With the passing of each employee, I've been keeping my own little keepsake of past co-workers, by scavenging their empty desk to snag a remembrance of their time spent at the office. Upon my walls are name tags, business cards, a birthday candle, a forgotten mug, a hair band, a pen, and several other knick-knacks.

At this rate, however, I'll soon need to move into a larger cubicle simply to house my growing museum.

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Tuesday, November 16, 2004

my morning wake-up call

I find it tough enough to get up most mornings and drag myself into the workplace. The warmth of the bed, the fact that the sun isn't up yet, and a real desire to sleep well into the morning all add to my usual displeasure with jobs and employment in general. With this being the case, the very least I ask for is a peaceful entrance into the day. This is why I set the alarm to 'radio' rather than the 'beep' function.

Personally, when I awake to the sound of loud screeching beeps, I tend to think that I've been woken up by an air raid siren, sounding, of course, to alert me to an onslaught of war planes ready to bomb me into oblivion. This hate of beeping alarms was only solidified upon having a roommate that insisted on setting his alarm to beep...and kept it at very high decibels. Often, however, he would wake early and leave...forgetting to turn off the damn alarm. It would go off at an ungodly hour, and after several minutes being left unattended, I would be forced to go into his room and shut the stupid thing off myself. After the first time, the 'shutting off' process consisted of yanking it, by the cord, clean out of the wall.

Yesterday morning, not happy about being awake, I took a nice hot shower. I finished and opened the bathroom door to let the cooler air clear out some of the lingering steam. Shortly after opening the door, I'm greeted with the delightful sound of my smoke detector going off, blaring away on the wall. Naturally, this threw my morning into a tailspin and woke me up much faster than normally would have happened. I quickly scanned my memory as to what might be blazing away within the apartment. The iron hadn't been left on, no candles left burning, the stove was off...nothing came to mind.

I peeked out of the bathroom and saw, to my delight, that nothing was afire. But the damn thing was still making quite the racket. Precariously balancing atop a box, I reached the smoke detector and pressed that little button which is supposed to turn it off. It didn't work. So I pulled it off my wall...which really didn't do anything, except that it was now shrieking in my hands. Being as mechanically inclined as I am, I started shaking the thing. Mysteriously, this caused it to shut off. I placed it back upon the wall and proceeded with my morning...which was now off to a bad start.

Well, this morning the same thing happened. The stupid thing went off again. Another morning ruined, and I'm sure that this early morning fire drill wasn't scoring me any points with my neighbors either. So once again, I yanked the thing off the wall and, my patience being pretty much gone with all warning devices, disconnected the battery in the back before sticking it back up on the wall. And while I'm pretty sure that I'm violating some sort of fire code, at least I'm ensuring that my mornings won't be starting with a jolt, though I realize that I now may sleep through a fire and be burnt to a crisp one day.

But until I can find a smoke detector smart enough to tell the difference between 'smoke' and 'steam', this is a risk that I'm willing to take.

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Tuesday, November 09, 2004

an ever growing number of home offices

Remember how, as kids, you would play office? Scribbling on pads pretending you were writing some very important memos, stuffing papers and pens into lunch boxes or old briefcases as if off to some important meeting, and then hopping into your pretend car to drive home to a dinner of plastic food? Well it seems more and more that the place I work for is merely a ‘pretend’ business.

For starters, as an incentive program, my old twit boss has developed a completely inane ‘point’ system to gauge the amount of work you’ve done each day. Normally, this would be fine, except for the fact that her system doesn’t accurately reflect the amount of work you do…not even remotely. Then, if you achieve a given number of points, you receive a fake dollar bill with her picture on it. This dollar is awarded to you in a mandatory meeting where a sheet is passed around with the number of points everyone totaled the previous day. The goal, as I’ve come to see, is to shame those who got low points…much like the dunce cap of old. The ‘winners’, as she calls them, who achieve their point quota get their dollar and everyone else must sit and clap for them…yes, clap. Originally, these dollars were meant to buy time off. But upon seeing that people were actually using them to leave an hour or two early, she has decided to begin phasing this out. Instead, you can now purchase things like Pop Tarts and an apple juice with this fake money. Of course, she has instituted a new office policy that you are not allowed to eat at your desk…which means that your apple juice and pop tart must be eaten on your break time…unless you want to confiscate it on a trip to the bathroom and gobble it down while hidden away in a stall.

To go along with the whole ‘pretend’ theme, the senile twit has allowed one of her ‘office pets’ to now work from home. This girl has moved with her husband to State College and, while the old twit would never let any other manager work from home, this girl is somehow favored among all else. A new computer, modem, fax machine, telephone, scanner, and even her own 1-800 number were purchased for this girl. And the very next day, upon the company website, it now appeared that instead of two offices across the USA (for we have an office in California…it loses money hand over fist, but this office helps the old twit believe in the illusion that she has a ‘big’ company) we now have three companies spanning the nation. The Pittsburgh office. The California office. And, a new star placed atop State College, marking our new office there…which, interestingly enough, is the home address of Laura…the manager granted permission to work in her pajamas while watching Regis and Kelly on TV.

Let your employees work from home, declare each personal residence a new ‘branch’ office, and watch your business grow! You’ll be amazed at the pretend profits from the pretend offices that start rolling in! And if nothing else, buy a Pop Tart, chase it with an apple juice, and drink your worries away.

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