Recurring

I softly knocked on the half open door. The blinds were closed on his office window, so I couldn’t tell if he was concentrating on something and whether I would be interrupting him.

“Yeah,” he called out. He said it with a flat tone of voice, and I couldn’t tell what kind of day he was having. You never could tell with Greg, and no matter how hard I tried I could never seem to get him to smile. I practiced jokes in the bathroom mirror every morning, trying to perfect my delivery. My jokes were met with an awkward silence, and after a few months I gave up and resigned myself to serious workdays in a confining, gray workplace.

“Um,” I cleared my throat. I threw pleasantries out the window after a few months of working there too. Greg wasn’t much for pleasantries. “I have my ideas for the ads for the online campaign. Want to hear them?” I shifted my weight as I stood in the door, conscious of his gaze. He swiveled in his chair, after pressing the “save” command on his keyboard. His face always held an expression I could never decipher. It contained irritation, mixed with curiosity and a twist of sarcasm. It wasn’t exactly a sneer, but it wasn’t entirely indifferent either. This time he raised his eyebrows as if to say “Oh, this ought to be good.” Only he didn’t think it would be good at all. In fact, his expectations of me had become quite low.

He had two chairs facing the front his desk. I discovered on the day of my job interview that one of them squeaked loudly. Occasionally I forgot and sat in the squeaky one. On those days the squeak completely threw off my game. It distracted me every time I fidgeted uncomfortably while being scorched by Greg’s stare. With every squeak his stare grew harder. I couldn’t remember which one squeaked, and after debating for a few seconds I sat in the left one.  It squeaked as I sat in it, and it would look weird if I got up and moved into the other one.  So I stayed with Ol Squeaky.

He pulled a special wet wipe from his second drawer, and proceeded to wipe the lenses of his glasses with it. The smell of the cleaning solution wafted and stung my nostrils. It smelled like cheap citrus vodka. I gagged a bit, and tried to cover it up by clearing my throat again. Not for the first time I wondered how he could wear his glasses after he’d used those noxious cleaning wipes. The smell alone would make anyone’s eyebrows fall out; Greg’s were intact, however.  They were probably strengthened by all the sneering.

Greg replaced his glasses, and then wordlessly folded his hands on his desk. I’d learned in the few months I’d worked for him that this was my cue to begin. I set my notes on the edge of his desk, careful not to let my things mix with anything on his desk. Greg’s desk was sacred ground where my papers were strictly forbidden from fraternizing with his. I imaged one of his pure-bred printouts having to sheepishly inform him that she’d gotten knocked up by flea-bitten mongrel notepad. Greg would passive-aggressively inform the printout that she was a tramp and no longer welcome in his office. The print out would then fold itself inward, slink out of the office and swan dive into the shredder next to the photocopier.

Speaking rapidly and wildly tapping my pen against my thigh, I presented my ideas. I held up my rudimentary sketches, explained the concepts and the sites where the ads would run.   He raised his eyebrows at the stick figures I'd drawn.  I wish I'd hired some sort of artist to help me prepare for this presentation.  Maybe next time I'd hire a sculptor.

When I was done, he leaned back in his chair. He folded his hands, as if in prayer, and rested his mouth on his finger tips. He stared, blankly, at his desk. I couldn’t tell what he was looking at. Was it the brass clock in the shape of a ship’s steering wheel? Was it the decorative pen set that he’d glared at me for using once?  Was it the picture that I'd mistakenly thought was of his mother, but learned it was really of his wife? Then he fixed his gaze back on me. I knew this expression, because I’ve seen it on his face before. It was the “You are by far the stupidest person I’d ever met” expression. The stomach acid rose through my esophagus and I could taste its metallic flavor on the back of my tongue. It was the same flavor I’d experienced that very morning when I had grasped the guardrail and vomited on the side of the highway on the way to work in preparation for this very meeting. My palms began to sweat; I braced my hands against my thighs to stop the spasm in my quadriceps.

I felt myself fold inward and slink toward the door, like so many sullied pure-bred printouts. I cautiously avoided the shredder as I made my way back to my office. I paused at the water cooler to wash the taste of puke out of my mouth.

I flopped in my chair and scanned my emails, thankful that my office mate was not at her desk. I didn’t want to talk about it. She and I had spent weeks brainstorming ideas for the campaign. She, the employee that he interacted favorably with, was convinced he’d love our ideas. She appeared at the door not two seconds after I sat down.

“How’d it go?” she asked when she took her seat.

“I have to start all over again.”

“What did he say?”

“Nothing. And that’s the problem. I wish he’d just fire me and get it over with already.”

I thought these nightmares would have stopped by now.

Let's Do the Time Warp Again

I am currently attending a 2 day training session for work.  I've been looking forward to it since I enrolled a month ago, as I am an academia junkie.   The other reason why I've been looking forward to this particular training session is because of the location.  It's in Burlington, Massachusetts in the same building where I worked in my first post-college job.

It was August 1996 when I first walked into the building and rode the elevator to the 5th floor.  It was just as the dot.com wave was cresting.  I wore a suit and heels on my first day, because at age 22 I thought that's what I was supposed to do.  I quickly learned that the mid-90's dot.com office attire did not include suits.  I had a window cube, and my cube mate, Tamara, became a fast friend.  On my first day she wore jeans and a Miller Lite T-shirt.  The suit went to the back of my closet, and never surfaced again until it went to it's final resting place at the local Salvation Army.

I worked for a software company that offered training sessions to the customers on how to use the software.  It was my job to set up the training sessions--make sure the training room on the first floor was set up, order catering, make sure the students knew where to go, etc.  On the days that we ran classes I started work at 8, and had my pick of leftover pastries and sandwiches.  Even better than the free lunches was the paid over time.  I got time and a half for the extra hour that I came in early, and for the hours I stayed late.  I skipped lunch breaks to bulk up the OT.  I logged about $4,000 in over time my first year, which was awesome because as a 22 year old I was paid nearly nothing. 

I ended up leaving the company in February 1998.  I was almost 24 and ambitious.  I wanted to move out of the administrative role I was in at the software company.  (Not only did I coordinate all the training, I also did crap like process expense reports, and whatever else needed doing.  One of my big tasks was faxing things because the engineers didn't understand how to use the fax machine, despite the gigantic sign I posted with step by step instructions.)  The company didn't have anywhere for me to move up to, so I decided that "Quit your way to the top" would be my motto, and I left. It was the kind of company that hired a 32 year old man to be the VP of sales, and made a very big deal about how young he was.  But couldn't seem to find a way to promote me, despite my wanting to move up and grow.

I haven't set foot in this building since I left in 1998.  But the sense of "I haven't left" took over as I drove into the parking lot this morning.  I saw a green Jeep Grand Cherokee parked where a former co-worker parked back then and even thought to myself "Oh, Bill's already here."  Then I blinked and thought "No, Bill's not here.  It's been 12 years.  Bill's long gone.  He probably doesn't even have that car anymore, either."

When I walked in, I saw that the atrium inside hadn't changed a bit.  The office fronts had changed only slightly.  I entered on the second floor, and looked down to where the training room was on the first floor.  I was hoping that my class today would have been held in "my" training room, but it's wasn't.  I fought the urge to go up to the fifth floor and demand to see if my cube was still there.  The company is no longer there.  It was acquired and moved out of the building in 2002.

I walked into the office on the second floor where the training was being held.  There was a cafe area where the company put out a spread of cereal, pastries, bagels, and coffees.  There were two bottles of syrup for flavoring the coffee.  There was a fridge filled with sodas, juices and water.  It was the kind of spread that dot.coms used to put out for their employees.  Sandwiches were served for lunch, and at 2 they served us ice cream as well.  I looked around me one more time and thought "Is it 1996? Where am I? When am I?"

After the training got out, I went to the mall near the office.  I shopped a bit, then hit the food court--where Tamara and I went on my first day.  The food court had an Indian restaurant, and it was on that day that I had tried Indian food for the first time.  Tonight I walked into the food court and quite literally jumped up and down at the sight of the Indian restaurant still in it's spot in the food court.  I ordered channa masala for dinner, the same thing I'd had that day with Tamara. 

All these fond memories of my time there came flooding back to me today.  I was working at this job when Todd and I started going out in 1997.  We had eaten a picnic lunch under a tree beyond the parking lot one day.  It was leftovers from the fantastic Italian meal we'd gotten in Boston's North End the night before.  He used to visit and bring goodies for my co-workers--bagels, or cookies.  It was impossibly sweet of him, especially since he was broke and couldn't afford to do that.  He did it anyway.

But it's not just the fond memories of being in that building.  It's the fond memories of that time in my life.  I had my first apartment, in which I lived alone.  I moved to a new city and made new friends.  I played my guitar all the time and played shows.  I was 10 pounds lighter.  I was 14 years younger.  I was more ambitious about my career.  It was my first job out of the 14 jobs I've worked since. 

Everything looks the same around here, just a little more developed since 1998.  And somehow it looks smaller.

Hangover

The busy season at work is almost over. Gone are the days of starting work at ridiculous o’clock, then going home at a million o’clock. But I still have another week or two until the quantity of work dwindles to an entirely reasonable level, yet my brain has already declared the busy season over.

Just last week I was racing around the office. To the printer, back to my desk, to the staffing department, and then to the shipping room. Track that package. Call that subcontractor. Listen to the voicemails piling up. Answer the emails. Look at the watch; it’s only 8:30 in the morning. Throw another party with Earl Grey in the cup. Uncarbonate the diet mountain dew, so I can drink it without having to burp a hundred times afterward. Inhale lunch without tasting it, and then retrieve some more print outs.

This week I’ve slowed down considerably, even though I still have a crapload of work to do. It’s taking me three times as long to complete my work than it did last week. I am tired. I drew a hand puppet on my hand and ran around the office talking to my co-workers with it just to wake myself up. But more than tired, I am over it. This part of my job has me on auto-pilot. Lather, rinse, repeat. My brain is atrophying. I am ready to think about something else. I am ready to clear my desk and to do something else.

But there are still a few weeks to go.

My Eyes Hurt

When I walked out of work tonight, I could see my car. For the last week or so my car has been invisible. For starters, the jeep is black. There are no security lights in the parking lot of my workplace, and I've been leaving work well after sunset every night.

I've also been getting to work before the sun has fully risen as well. When I left work this afternoon I squinted, eventhough it wasn't a particularly sunny day. The daylight burned my vampirish retinas as I groped my way in the blinding light to the car.

I sat in the drivers seat for a few minutes, waiting for my eyes to adjust to the light before daring to drive. I hadn't been outside in the daylight since Sunday. Today is Friday. Almost a full week without daylight. And it's not even the end of daylight savings time yet.

This is what I've succumbed to as a result of the busy season at work. 12 hour days. 13 hour days. Five o'clock passes and I think "Oh good, I'll be able to get some real work done now." What the hell is wrong with me??

Then it occured to me that the only times I'd been outdoors at all in the past week were the walk from the car into work, and then the walk from work and into the car. In the mornings I get into the car, in the garage, without stepping outdoors. Then I drive to work and get out of the car. Once home, I pull the car into the garage, and walk from the garage, through the basement, and into the house.

Over the weekend I plan to do the reverse and be indoors for a few minutes, and spend the rest of the time outside.

The Difference One Little "R" Makes

I followed the sound of hysterical laughter at work the other day. I walked into a co-worker's office, where several of my colleagues were doubled over laughting and wiping tears off their cheeks from laughing so hard.

When they managed to catch their breath, I learned one of them had been emailed by a prospective customer. The email contained an inquiry about a bone density screening.

But the prospect didn't proof read the email.

And the letter "r" changed the entire meaning of that email.

Hello Darkness My Old Friend

I haven’t been writing much lately because I’ve been in such a pissy mood. Since I got back from vacation, reality’s been hitting me a bit harder than I’d like. I haven’t been handling it all that well. My fight or flight instinct is pointing to flight.

Work has sucked a bit lately. They’ve changed my job around, and I am not 100% convinced that I like the new gig they’ve laid out for me. The parts I really liked about my job have been reassigned to someone else, and they left me to do the parts of my job that I really did not like. I did those parts of my job that I didn’t like because it, like it or not, it was my responsibility to accomplish those tasks. And now I am stuck with doing those tasks all the time. The part of my job that I looked forward to is now gone.

I am sad, annoyed and disillusioned. No talking about it with the powers that be has made a bit of difference. I groan as I roll out of bed in the mornings. I hide at my desk all day and avoid everyone I work with. My choices are to leave the job, in the state that has the second worst unemployment rate in the country. My odds of landing another gig, never mind one that I would hate less, are slim to none. Or I can stay and suck it up, knowing that I am not psyched. I don’t want to leave, however. I liked the job I did. I liked the company. I liked the people. My job felt purposeful. But I dread what they’ll ask me to do next.

I am trying to look at the bright side, but can’t seem to find it yet. My excellent husband brought home a bright side for me just the other day. We’ve been talking about getting a small, trailer-able power boat that we can dive off of. Shore diving in Rhode Island is kind of been-there-done-that for us, and we’re getting the itch to check out some new spots in the middle of the Bay. We found a boat for a great price. Todd sea-trialed it on Wednesday, and we bought it the following day. It's nothing special, just something to cruise around in with tanks and gear in the back.

On Friday afternoon he picked me up in it after work, and we took a quick spin on Greenwich Bay and took along one of my co-workers. It ran well, and we were very happy with the motor’s performance as we tooled around. (Then it started raining cats and dogs. The three of us were completely drenched. But that’s another story.) We trailered the boat and headed for home, thrilled at the prospect of getting in a few new dives this summer.

Today we towed the new boat to the ramp, thinking we’d spend the afternoon bombing around the bay playing with the new boat. I’ve never really driven a power boat, and I need to learn how to get around on this one. We dropped her into the water, and I parked the truck and trailer in the boat launch’s parking lot. (I am shockingly bad at backing trailers into spots, and have to make 23544974 attempts before getting it right. Learning curves.) Todd waited for me at the dock, with the motor running. We untied it from the dock and put it in gear and it stalled. We started it, put it in gear again, and then it stalled again. The tide carried us as we started and stalled, started and stalled, started and stalled. I noticed a slick of gasoline trailing behind us and we determined that there is likely a hole in a fuel line.

We beached the dive boat on the shore. I held onto it while Todd went to get our dinghy from the marina just down the road. The plan was to tow the boat using the dinghy pack to the public boat ramp. Eventually I saw him approach on the dinghy and asked him “Did you walk down there? I didn’t see our truck go down the road.”

“No, I got a lift from some guys hanging out at the ramp,” he replied. “That’s a story I’ll tell you about in a minute.”

We tied the dinghy to the dive boat and towed it back to the ramp while Todd told me about the man that gave him a lift. This man had lost his job and was evicted from his apartment in February. Since then he’d been living in his car and was kind enough to help Todd out even though he only needed to walk about a quarter to a half mile down the road. It's damn cold in Rhode Island in February. I imagined this man lying in the back seat of his car on the first night he slept in it. The despair that he must have felt while the windows fogged up from inside and he hunkered down under, hopefully, a warm blanket. Then in the morning he'd open the door, crawl out and stretch his cramped legs in the cold morning air while he blew on his hands and rubbed them together to warm them.

We pulled the boat onto the trailer, and I drove the dinghy back to its dock down the road. We tried to give the man a few bucks for his trouble, and he refused to take our money. As we rode home Todd lamented the dive boat’s engine failure.

“Well, how can we possibly be annoyed at an outboard motor’s failure. A homeless guy was nice enough to help us out because we were inconvenienced by a motor boat engine,” I shrugged.

I know that sentiment applies to other parts of my life other than the engine’s failure to give us a good time. I should be thankful for what I have. I want to be thankful for what I have. Because I do have a lot to be thankful for. And I feel like an asshole for not being more grateful.

Yeah, work sucks.

But it could be a lot worse.

Selfish? Really?

On Friday afternoon at work some co-workers and I were stuffing envelopes for a mailing that we had to get out the door that afternoon. We put some music on, set up an assembly line and ended up laughing and joking to beat the monotony of the stuffing, sealing, labeling and stamping. We talked about our plans for the weekend. Eventually the discussion turned to kids. One of my co-workers had a baby girl 6 months ago, and I was asked if I would have kids.

I think Todd and I are back on the “No” side of the fence. We had been teetering on the fence for a long time, and right now we’re firmly living in “No” land.

“Really?” D asked me. “You guys are in such a good position for kids now, I am surprised.”

“Actually, I like the way our life is right now, and so does he. I am pretty set in my ways and really don’t want to add a baby to that right now.”

“You know,” another co-worker at the end of the table chimed in, “It’s perfectly OK to be selfish like that.”

Selfish? Really? Because I have not procreated and do not currently plan on doing so you’re going to use the word “Selfish”? I bit my tongue and concentrated on sealing the envelopes in front of me. I am sure he meant nothing malicious by saying that. But the more I think about it, the more annoyed I am at his using the word “selfish” to describe my way of life. I am also a bit annoyed that he felt the need to tell me it was perfectly OK. Of course it’s perfectly OK. Why wouldn’t it be? It’s my life, and my choice. While my path is different than his, isn’t mine still just as good because it suits me?

Why do people feel the need to use the word “selfish” when referring to a childless couple? Why can’t they say “active” as in “They’re active in other parts of their lives that they never got around to having kids.” Why can’t they say “hard-working” about a childless couple, as in “They are both focused on their careers right now that they haven’t gotten around to having kids.” Why can’t they say “adventurous” about a childless couple, as in “They are busy having adventures. They’re avid divers, sailors, hikers, and paddlers that they haven’t gotten around to having kids.”

No, the impression is that childless people are selfish. I take such an issue with that word because I am not a selfish person. This co-worker of mine has watched me change the water bottle on the water cooler even when I wasn’t the one to empty it. I am one of the few people at work who can lift and carry the full bottle, so I help out my peeps by keeping them hydrated. This co-worker has also observed me wiping up a spill on the hardwood floor that someone else had left behind because I was afraid that someone would slip on it and get hurt. Yet, I was called selfish for not having a child.

I wish I had said, “Well, I don’t know about being too selfish to have a child. I don’t think I am a selfish person. I am devoted to my husband, my friends and my family. I have 12 nieces and nephews as well. All of these people know that I would do anything for them. I don’t need to have a kid to prove that I am not selfish.”

But I kept my mouth shut. While that was probably the better move on a professional level, on a personal level my blood boiled. And continues to.

The Best Gift Ever

We had an essay contest at work. The prize was Boston Red Sox tickets. While I personally don’t care about the Sox, my nephew is a huge fan. I entered the contest to try to win the tickets for him. The essay had to be about the best gift I received before finishing high school and wanted elaboration about who the gift was from, and what I would do with it if I received this gift today. The winning entrant talked about how she’d been in an accident and lost a great deal of blood. The best gift she had gotten was blood donated her by the community. And now, one of the entries that didn't win.

The best gift I’d ever gotten in that time of my life was music. I am not talking about CDs or concert tickets. I am talking about the ability to release a melody that only exists inside my head into something that other people can hear.

When ever I, or one of my siblings, expressed an interest in learning to play a musical instrument my parents did whatever they could to make it happen. Mom scoured the want ads for used saxophones, then went and haggled the price until it was something we could afford. Then she and Dad tolerated my incessant honks and squeaks as I learned how to play it.

Over the years my brother, Kaz and I amassed a veritable arsenal of musical instruments. From age 5 to 18 I collected a menagerie of guitars, saxophones and keyboards from under Christmas trees. However, I claim no ownership of the accordion--a standard fixture in the average Polish-American household. Our house was filled with constant musical creation, with never a “Would you stop that racket?” from my parents. We were loud. Kaz’s electric guitar blared in the room above where we watched TV. Somehow neither of us expressed interest in learning to play the drums. I wish I had asked for a set back then, just to see what my parents would say.

While I dabbled in every music-making device I could get my hands on, Kaz became an amazing guitarist. His flying fingers nearly melted the neck on my Gibson SG electric guitar. We didn’t get along so well when we were kids, but it was our love of Pink Floyd, Ozzy Ozbourne, and Queensryche that kept us in the same room together playing for hours on end. Kaz could hear a scorching guitar solo once and replicate it perfectly note for note. I played chords to accompany him, however to this day I could never convince him that I am the better singer. It was all those hours spent playing that made him my friend now that we’re grown ups.

Eventually life got in the way. I haven’t performed for at least 10 years. I still can pick up my guitar and strum a few clumsy chords, and I can still play saxophone parts I learned in high school from sheer muscle memory. I have fragments of lyrics scrawled on random slips of paper. Now I just need to give myself the gift of time to play more, and to get those random lyrics to fit into a full song. Overall, I am an angry songwriter, and haven’t had much to be angry about in the last decade or so. I fumbled my way through writing our wedding song as a surprise for Todd, and I wrote some gut wrenching songs after Mom died. But other than that, the songwriting well has run dry and I have changed to blog writing and fiction writing to get my creative outlet.

My parents’ gift of music is not about receiving anymore. My niece Rachael played my alto sax at school for a little while. Kaz’s daughter, Maggie, plays my tenor sax in the school band. Kaz’s son, Krystian, will get my Gibson SG for his13th birthday this summer. At Christmas every year I buy Kaz a CD he’s never heard of and say, “You really need to hear this, it’ll blow your mind.”

Access Denied

In my career so far I’ve had relatively unrestricted access to the Internet while at work. Sure the porn sites were blocked, but I’ve enjoyed freedom online while at work. Using the Internet has always been a release for me. When I have some down time I’ll browse my favorite blogs, I’ll buy presents for my nieces and nephews, and I’ll check in on my bank account every so often—usually before heading for the store at lunch.

Recently the Internet access at work has become restricted and monitored. I cannot access most of the sites that used to serve as a pleasant distraction. I understand why it’s been blocked. It’s their network; they can do whatever the hell they want to do with it. But it still kinda sucks nonetheless. I am annoyed, even though really I have no right to be annoyed. But I also feel, just a little bit, like I am being watched and that they don’t trust me. I am sure that’s not the case, after all they trust me to work with their clients—which is a much bigger deal than access to the Internet. Still, I am being very careful about where I go on the Internet, and how long I spend on it, knowing that every click is logged somewhere. Every page view categorized. Every scroll recorded. How much would it suck to go home and say, “Yeah, I got fired for spending too much time on the Internet today. Sorry, darling.” The endless love and spousal support would definitely wear a little thin after a stunt like that, I imagine.

So, my bloggy friends, I haven’t been commenting that much on your blogs anymore. I am now reading you all at night. But I don’t really want to spend too much time on the Internet at home. I’d rather be doing things like going to get tacos like we did last night, and cuddling with my man and my doggies.

I will update you when I can, once I get a few slabs of marble, a hammer and a chisel.

Call Center Bomb Squad

I’ve never worked in a call center. I’ve temped as a receptionist here and there, but have never had the occasion to answer the phone at work for extended periods of time. Until now. At work we’re experiencing a very high call volume for a client who has mandated that all its employees attend the event that we are putting on for them. Each employee must call to make an appointment so that they may attend this event. As a result we are getting flooded with calls from this client, whose events are being held over dozens of locations. As you can imagine this is an administrative pain in the butt.

The word “mandatory” has quite rightly gone sideways up the ass of just about every employee of this client. Every morning my shift answering the phone is 8-12:30. For four and a half hours every day I am fielding calls from irritated employees who demand to know why attendance to this event is mandatory, and they are largely unsatisfied with my answer of “I cannot speak to the policies of your employer. I recommend you ask your supervisor or your human resources representative. Now, what time would you like your appointment?” I’ve had callers threatening legal action “I have contacted my attorney, you have no right to tell me that I have to go to this thing.” I wish my answer could be “Well, you go right ahead and sue my employer. What will you gain from it? An inflated invoice from your lawyer? We’re not forcing you to go your boss is, dumbass!”

My daily shifts on the phone will end on March 4th. It’s only Feb 12th now. I am getting a bit frayed around the edges. But my smiley, sing-songy voice rings through every single morning trying to perk up the callers. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn't.

I’ve learned a thing or two about defusing these people on the phone over the last few days. “I can certainly understand your frustration. How may I help you with this right now?” is something that I’ve said over and over for the last week. Surprisingly, that’s taken the callers down a notch, and they are more agreeable after that. I had a “gentleman” chew my ear off yesterday in his disgruntlement, and I stopped the timer on his bomb with an “OK, my name is Beej. Call me later on today at this extension. I will sit here with you and find a time for you to attend that will suit your schedule, and you can take as much time as you need. Don’t worry, we’ll figure it out…” He grumpily hung up on me. I logged off the phones to go to the ladies room. On my way back I passed a co-worker’s desk. She said that the “gentleman” called back, and asked her to apologize to me for him. He said “She was very nice to me and all I did was give her a hard time. I feel bad about that. I know it wasn’t her fault.” I hope he’ll take me up on my offer now, as I feel better about helping him out. The urge to call him a jackass has subsided. Somewhat.

I am thinking back on all the times I’ve called someone working in a call center and have been inexcusably bitchy to them. I’ve bawled out the woman answering the phone at the credit card company. I’ve chewed the ear off the person answering the phone at the car insurance place or the cable company for one of their inexcusable injustices that they have committed against me.

Really, my behavior was inexcusable. The way I acted was the injustice. I am on the receiving end of inexcusable behavior right now, for 4.5 hours per day, and it is exhausting. And all I want to say is “OK, your employer sucks. I get it. But you don’t need to yell at me about it. I don’t have anything to do with your employer. I am not part of some diabolical plot to screw up your day. So shut your fricken trap and let’s get you scheduled so I can talk to one of your asshole co-workers next.” But instead I say “I am sorry you’re frustrated. But really, I am just setting up the appointments. You need to ask your boss those questions. I do not have that information.”

I’ve heard that same line when I called that toll-free number about my credit card bill, or my cable service. And I think I’ll be cooler about it next time I hear it.

A Trip Down Amnesia Lane

There is a woman I work with, a part-time temp who is in college and has an internship in Providence. She’s in her early 20s and can only be described as vivacious and spectacular. She came into work wearing a suit and learned that she had a job interview that day. I asked her where she interviewed, and I was brought back to a job interview I had gone on when I was in my early 20s.

I was fresh out of college and trying to start up my career. I was trying like hell to move to the Boston area, and several times per week I drove to Boston from my home state of Connecticut for interviews. Talking to this woman at work about her interview yesterday brought me back to the summer of 1996 when I went on an interview that sounded exactly like what she had described.

I was 22. I drove to Woburn, MA, just north of Boston, to meet with a prospective employer about a marketing position. I must have struck a chord with the hiring manager, because I was invited back that Friday for an “Observation Day.” On Friday morning I donned my periwinkle blue silk suit, purchased on the cheap from the Chadwick’s catalog. I put on an off-white shirt underneath it, and threw on a pair of off-white heels that matched the shirt perfectly. I examined my reflection, ran my hands through my hair, removed the small silver hoop I still wear near the top of my left ear that my mother warned me about. “They’re going to think you’re weird if you show up there with that thing. They’ll never hire you with that on. Take it out, please.” I pulled the car out of the driveway and headed east until I arrived in Woburn.

I looked around the reception area at all the eager faces attached to bodies in suits. I assessed the competition as I sat down. I was called into an office and introduced to Manny. Manny had been with the company for several months, and was promoted to a training supervisor position. Also in the room was a shy looking girl named Jen who wore a long, floral print skirt and sensible shoes. Jen was already hired to work for the company and would spend the day getting trained by Manny while I would observe.

We piled into Manny’s car and rode to Lowell, Massachusetts, about 20 miles northwest of Woburn. On the way to Lowell, Manny briefly explained how the company conducts its “grassroots marketing” campaigns. He was careful not to divulge any details as we drove to Lowell.

He parked the car on a street, and pulled a stack of brochures out of his trunk. Jen and I walked behind him; at that point I don’t think I’d yet heard her utter a syllable. We followed as Manny walked to the front door of a house and knocked. A woman answered the door wearing a loose fitting tube top, a faded tattoo on her arm that may have been a picture of an anchor, fried hair that had been bleached several months before, and a silver tooth in her mouth. It was then that I learned precisely what “grassroots marketing” was. Apparently grassroots marketing is a fancy way of saying “door-to-door” sales. Manny finished his pitch for the pager service he was selling. The customer at the door raised her eyebrows, and then reached down the front of her tube top to retrieve her own pager. They compared pager plans, and she signed up for the one that Manny was selling.

We went on to the next house. Then the next. The sun began to climb in the sky, and the August heat began to settle in. I felt the sweat drip down my back, and down my legs. My feet began to swell in my high heels that I’d begun to regret wearing. After half an eternity we ended up at Subway for lunch. Jen still barely spoke, and I began to seethe at the idea that I had been duped into following Manny around as he sold beepers door to door. I decided that I would just keep my mouth shut and blow off the company at the end of the day as Manny was my only escape at that point.

We walked up and down the streets of Lowell. Lowell has some scary looking streets with a variety of riff raff lounging on the porches, staring uninterested at Manny as he recited his pitch over and over. Finally we made it back to the car, Manny had managed to sell a half dozen pagers. Jen tried her hand at a sale or two, but her pitch was barely audible as she uncomfortably mumbled it to her prospective customers. We piled into Manny’s car, and headed back toward Woburn.

“So, what do you think of what you saw today? Are you ready to hop aboard?” Manny asked, eagerly.

“Um, no,” I said politely.

“Are you sure? Once you pay your dues you’ll get promoted to management and you’ll make six figures in about a year,” he pressed.

“No, I don’t think so.”

“Beej, with every job you have to pay your dues. You might as well pay your dues at one where you’ll get something out of it. You will get promoted to management after a year,” his eyes glazed as I wondered how much Koolaid he’d been drinking.

“And what will you do when you’re a manager? Send other people to Lowell to sell pagers? And while you are waiting to be made a manager, what are you doing for money? How much could you possibly be making doing this?” I asked.

“Hey, do you mind if we pull over. I know that Jen wanted to run an errand on the way back,” he pulled the car off the street. Jen got out of the car and stood at the side of the road as we pulled away. “I’ll come back and get her. No sense in keeping you when you know that you don’t want the job.” I looked back at Jen, who stood on the side of the road and watched Manny’s car pull away.

We didn’t speak as we drove back to Woburn. He left me in the parking lot, smugly wished me luck in my job search, and then pulled out of the parking lot on his way back to where he’d left Jen.

Today the woman at work had her “shadowing day” for the company she interviewed. I am 99% sure that it’s the same sort of scenario that I had encountered back when I was 22. Since then I’ve honed my crap filter and learned what questions to ask when seeking a job. Yes, I did once end up in the back row at a hotel ball room listening to some clown convince me and a room full of people to sell water filters—but I stood up and walked out after listening for five minutes.

I imagine that the girl at work is honing her crap filter tonight as I write. And I imagine that Manny is probably living off the grid with a group of “brothers and sisters” that have re-named him “Moon Shadow.”

Who Was that Woman?

Just today at work I was walking out to go to the ladies room in the hallway. We keep the doors at work locked at all times, and we all have the swipe card things that we use to get in. I was walking out at the same time as a co-worker, and a woman walked in as we were walking out. I looked at the woman as she passed me, and watched her wander over to a cube. I assumed she belonged there, but it kind of bothered me that she didn’t look at me and say hello, and my spidey senses began to tingle.

“Hey, who was that woman?” I asked my co-worker in the hallway.

“I don’t know. But she looked familiar,” co-worker replied.

Instantly I was reminded of the time when I worked for a dot.com in Cambridge, Massachusetts. The building where I worked was an 18 story building, but nine of them were for parking. I worked on the tenth floor, which was the first floor that contained offices. We had the same set up, where the bathrooms were outside of the locked doors of the offices, and we all had swipe cards that we used to get in. We were strongly discouraged from propping the doors open for any reason, just as we are at my current office.

One afternoon an email circulated from HR which said that a number of my co-workers had their wallets stolen from their bags at their desks that day. Their credit cards were used on Newbury Street in Boston, which is kind of like the Rodeo Drive of Boston and houses expensive boutiques like Versace. I opened my backpack and saw that not only my wallet was still there, but my debit card was still in there as well. I breathed a sigh of relief and continued to read the email.

The Boston Police department had apprehended a woman who had stolen the wallets of my co-workers on the same day. The email, again, warned us about letting strangers into the building. I listened to my co-workers rumble about not having recalled letting anyone in. But I had to laugh when the Boston PD described the woman, and the description was relayed in the email.

Ahem.

She was a black woman who stood six feet tall.

She wore yellow, turquoise and orange clothes.

Yet nobody in my office recalled letting her in. That’s what happens when geeks don’t look up from their computers, or look beyond their pocket protectors.

Forget What Punxsutawney Phil Said About This "6 More Weeks of Winter" Nonsense

Spring has sprung, in my cubicle, at work. My cube, which normally sports pink plastic flamingoes, fuzzy dice, fruit shaped lights, a poinsettia, and a sea monkey tank, now sports a beautiful arrangement of flowers.

Why? Well, let's set the scene. Picture it, my cube, in a sea of cubes at the large corporation that pays me to do stuff to their web site. There is a large arrangement of flowers on the desk in the cube, in a pretty blue glass vase. I love blue glass things, by the way.

A passerby asks: "Oh! Pretty flowers, what's the occasion?"

Beej: (Absolutely beaming) "Well, it's Groundhog's Day!" (In a tone that suggests that Groundhog's Day is right up there with Valentine's Day, anniversaries and birthdays for giving and receiving floral arrangements.)

Passerby: "No, really! What's the occasion? Is it your birthday? Maybe we should get some cake?"

Beej: (Pondering the dilemma. Am I really about to pass up an offer of cake? Would it be in poor form to except a birthday cake a month before my birthday? Gosh, I'd really love some cake. Say something, dummy!) "No, it's not my birthday. See? The card says 'Spring is on the way. Love, Todd' My husband sent me flowers for Groundhog's Day."

Passerby: "Come on, really?"

Beej: "Yes!"

Passerby: "How long have you two been married?"

Beej: "1 year, 6 months, and 1 week."

Passerby: "Oh, so you two are still newlyweds." (Suggesting the rate at which floral visitors will arrive will decline after we've been married for a decade. But this person does not know that we've actually been together for almost 8 years now, and I still am the recipient of random floral arrangements, and pie. Yes, he gets me random pies sometimes.)

Beej: "Yep!" (Still beaming.)

Passerby: "I'll have to tell my husband about this."

I think a lot of the husbands of women who work here now hate Todd. I can just see it:

Husband: "Hi Honey! How was your day?"
Wife: "Why can't you send me flowers on Groundhog's Day like Beej's husband does??!!"
Husband: "Um...?" (Scrambling, Groundhog's Day? Is that her birthday too? Wait, the wedding wasn't in February, was it?)

What is it about random floral arrangements that bring about stories about when other people have gotten flowers, or downright rude comments about flowers.

At a past place of employment Todd once brought in flowers. The boss' wife asked me what the occasion was and I said that it was Tuesday, and that Tuesdays have always been special for us. She said, and I quote "So, he got you flowers for no reason? *snort* That'll change." and skulked out of my cube.

That'll change? Wow. (Yes, she actually said that. I've taken no poetic license here, to make me look like some stellar protagonist.) I fought the urge to say "Well, maybe for you it changed."

I, for one, hope it will never change. Thank you for the flowers, Todd.