Monthly Archives: September 2010

It’s Not My Fault You Hate Your Job (and Your Life)

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On Friday afternoon, I got an e-mail from my manager, who works in our Chicago office, saying that “someone” in my office complained to HR that I’m late to work “all of the time”.

This shouldn’t have affected me. The peon-y nature of my job shields me from a lot of the corporate bullcrap that other people have to deal with. On the other hand, because my job is so peon-y, if someone makes a complaint about me, you know he or she had to dig reeeeeeally deep to find something to complain about. This is obviously the sort of person who sues McDonald’s for not printing “Caution: contents hot” on their coffee cups. Or takes his next-door neighbors to court because their dog bit him in the butt after he shot it repeatedly with a pellet gun.

I don’t want to be the waitress who accuses her table of being cheapskates when their poor tip is based entirely on her terrible service, so I’ll admit that I’m often not in the office right at 9 a.m. Because I take public transportation, I can arrive anywhere between 9 and 9:15. But everyone in my office takes the same public transportation, so everyone‘s arriving between 9 and 9:15, and in fact, many people are arriving between 9:15 and 9:30.

What really bothers me is that I have a personal relationship with every single person in my office. We’re a huge software company with thousands of employees worldwide, but my office only has 20 employees, and every single one of them knows the details of my life outside of work, and I know theirs, too. So the idea of someone not only complaining about me but going behind my back to complain to HR seems pretty unbelievable.

And really, I don’t so much mind being complained about. If the worst thing someone can think to say about me is that I’m not always at work at 9 a.m., then I figure I’m doing pretty well. The problem for me is that because I don’t know who did it, I’m going to be deprived of the joy I’d get out of ruining this person’s life in small ways. “Accidentally” forgetting to order his lunch on Fridays when the company buys for all of us, making sure we always happen to be out of whatever coffee he enjoys drinking, not ordering cakes when I know it’s his birthday. Fun, right?

I had two people pegged as possible suspects on Friday, but every time I asked one of my co-workers if they thought it could be one of those guys, they all said no way. And unfortunately, they all offered up the alternative of this group of visiting employees from another of our offices. In particular, they were blaming this guy who had come to my desk shortly after I arrived, and I had tried to make nice with him by asking him polite questions I didn’t at all care about the answers to, but he couldn’t have acted less interested in talking to me. Likely because he felt guilty about having just reported me to HR in our Canadian office.

Since those guys only come to our office once every couple of months, I’m going to have a really hard time properly punishing him for his transgression. About the most I can do is “forget” to add his name to the security list so he has to wait in the lobby until I decide to call down to tell the guards to let him up. I know you have to discipline a dog within moments of its wrongdoing for it to properly learn its lesson, but at least I’ll feel better about myself.

The Subway Makes Me Want My Mommy, Too

Filed under fun times on the subway, living in new york sucks so hard
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Just before I manhandled some poor old lady on the R train on Tuesday, I was relaxing with the first book of the Sookie Stackhouse series on my Kindle on my way home from work. Bill kept saying Sookie’s name, and I kept thinking about the way he draws it out all low and slow like some emo 15-year-old in “True Blood”, the TV adaptation of the books, and I was enjoying the thought.

There were exactly 4 people in my train car, because it was still before rush hour. I was sitting at the end of a three-seater, and there was a girl on the other end of it, one seat away from me. Two guys were sitting together farther down the car, and every single other seat was empty.

At City Hall, the doors opened, and in my peripheral vision, I saw what I can only describe as an ogre barreling onto the train. I didn’t look up, because I try not to stare at obviously-crazy people, but from over my Kindle, all I could see were these giant–I mean GIANT–feet leading the way. It wasn’t just that they were longer than I’ve ever seen; they were super-thick, too, as if he was wearing black platform moonboots. He took these enormously wide steps, too, like he had been straddling a horse for months and had lost the ability to unbend his knees.

Read the rest here.

Also, it’s been a super-busy week on UNBREADED, donuts4dinner, and even Lost and Lonely Leftovers. I must have been bored.

Wait Your Turn, Grandma

Filed under fun times on the subway, living in new york sucks so hard, my uber-confrontational personality
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I met a friend for dinner Tuesday night and told her I was so glad to be seeing her just so I could get this story off of my chest and never have to publicly admit to it, but of course I have to publicly admit to it. It’s not that I think I was in the wrong, because I know I was in the right, but I still can’t help feeling guilty about physically intimidating an old lady in the train. Yes. You read that right.

I was on the R coming uptown from work. As the train neared Union Square, I turned off my Kindle and casually headed for the door. I don’t like to rush right over and potentially block someone who might be in a bigger hurry than I am, but I also need to make it clear that I’m getting off so I don’t get trapped inside the car by all the crazy people coming in. Because they are always crazy.

So by the time the train came to a stop, I was firmly in front of the doors and ready to plow through the group outside on the platform who were inching closer and closer like classic horror-movie zombies in a feeding frenzy. I could see that there was this wiry white-shirted person right in front of one of the windows, but I didn’t make eye contact, because it’s easier to make people think I might cut them if I don’t show them my innocent, doe-like eyes.

Read the rest here.

How Will I Know Who I Am If It’s Not Written on My Underwear?

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I was reading an article about a lampshade made out of human skin last week, and while describing the man who sold it to him, the author writes:

Tattooed onto the guy’s stomach, visible between the edge of the too-small T-shirt and the empty belt loops of his saggy jeans, it said NOLA.

This seemed redundant, Skip thought. The way he looked, like some demented brigand with a hacked-off Mohawk haircut, and the way he talked, in that incongruous river-rat amalgam of off-angled Brooklynese with the occasional flowery southernism thrown in, where else could the guy be from but New Orleans?

And immediately, I was overcome with the need to have the word Ohio tattooed onto me.

I’ve always toyed with the idea of a tattoo but didn’t want to get one just to have it (I’m looking at YOU, younger sister), and at a certain point, I figured I’d just outgrown them. But this seems so perfect and obvious.

As with the guy in the article, my Ohio tattoo would be redundant. I live in New York City, but I’m in Ohio. It’s what I’m made of, and half of me is still there. But that’s the point.

Kamran hates the idea, so one of my co-workers suggested hiding it somewhere like my hip, but I want to look at it every day, and I want it to be seen every day.

You can picture me with this on the inside of my forearm, right?

Except, like, way, way more ornate, because that’s what Ohio deserves.

1,460 Days of Loving You

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Sure, he’s wrecked my reputation by force-feeding me seafood and making me admit that I don’t hate it as much as I’ve always thought

but he makes up for it by otherwise being a pretty nice guy.

Happy 4th anniversary, Kameroon! I could love you for at least another 1,460 days.