Going Back to High School

I forgot how endearing and gross teenage boys can be. And how beautiful teenage girls can be. I remembered in a hurry last week when I started volunteering at the front desk of my local high school. I wanted to do some community service and take a little break from retirees. I got more than a little break. I got a whole new world--one that moves at breakneck speed. I was so worn out after four hours that I collapsed on my couch with my little dog when I got home.

The Attendance Secretary--who handles students who are tardy, injured, or sick--was on vacation. All those kids came to the front office. At one point, one boy was throwing up in a trash can in a corner, and another one tilted his head back in a chair, trying to stem a nosebleed. Between dramatic bouts of their respective ills, the boys chatted with the girl who was being suspended for fighting. They stole glances at the pretty student aids, who pretended not to notice. Parents came to drop off or pick up their kids. School supply salespeople asked to see the Principal. Students asked to see the Counselor.

I filed packing slips by department without knowing the names of the departments or the items on the slips ("1 regenerator." "4 domes." "1 streak plate.") I filed them in a cardboard box in used file folders because California schools don't have enough money to operate. (If they did, they'd hire someone at the front desk and wouldn't need me. Then I'd miss all this fun.) I removed rubber bands from obsolete rolled-up posters so we could use them again.

My newspaper says the state is going to ask teachers to take a 1% pay cut. Who knows what they'll take from the administrative staff. (Maybe the boxes of carefully hoarded used rubber bands?) The TV news said the Governor wants more money for his office. I said a few choice words when I heard that (we old folk tend to talk to ourselves.) He should volunteer at a school, then he'd know where the money would be best spent.

To be fair, the TV reporters probably took the Governor's request out of context. But there is no other context for what's happening at the schools. There, heroic people perform a mammoth job with inadequate resources--daily.

I'm going back, two days a week. It's a drop in the bucket compared to what they need. But I'm tired of being catered to and entertained (I'm not good retirement material. ) I want to do something. Something useful.

I think it's safe to say I found it.

Thanks, Joseph Heller

My own personal government bailout--unemployment benefits--is pretty great. I can eat, pay a few bills, and not have to deplete my savings so rapidly. It is, however, a government program, and it's administered with a level of absurdity we regular folks couldn't conceive of without copious amounts of alcohol in our bloodstream.

Looking for work is, at best, grueling. The senator who complained that the stimulus package won't create "jobs," only "work," needs a dictionary--and a smack upside the head. We don't care, senator. We just want it. I'm grateful to Joseph Heller for writing Catch-22 in 1961 and hilariously pointing out the madness of trying to satisfy conflicting government regulations . I'm grateful to Heller for teaching me to laugh at the madness.You should be too; the laughter keeps you from having to see a Boomer woman running down the street, tearing out her thinning hair and screaming.

One of my professional friends invited me to a monthly lunch meeting with high-powered women in business. Women who might need a writer for various assignments. (Stop snickering! Yes I can write professional stuff!) I signed up and paid the non-refundable $55.

Then the mail came. The letter from Employment Security said I had to come in for an appointment on the day and at the time of the businesswomen's lunch. I called and explained the situation. No, they said, I couldn't change the date. Or the time. Or the office, which is 10 miles from my house instead of the one that is a mile down the hill from me. Nope, nope, nope. Just do as you're told. "Oh-kaaay," I said, "Instead of actually trying to get work, I have to come in and talk about trying to get work, right?" The young woman on the phone chuckled. I think she may have read Joseph Heller.

I did as I was told. It's part of my bailout plan. I coulda used that 55 bucks, though.

Editors Behaving Badly

Two 28-year-old guys from Massachusetts (who must be a real hoot at parties) spent their vacation touring the U.S. and correcting grammar errors on public signs. No one noticed. They proclaimed their triumphs on a web site. Then someone noticed. Federal prosecutors, in fact. It seems the Feds don't take kindly to having 60-year-old historic landmark signs defaced.


CNN called them "Typo Vigilantes." The Chicago Tribune, called them "a pair of Kerouacs armed with Sharpies and erasers and righteous indignation." I call them editors with too much time on their hands.


I get it; I'm a compulsive proofreader, myself. I can't read an incorrect sign without correcting it in my head. But these guys didn't just do it in their heads: they defaced a 60-year-old, hand-painted sign at the Grand Canyon National Park's Desert View Watchtower. They were tried in court, sentenced to probation and banned from national parks for a year.

They used a marker to cover an erroneous apostrophe, put the apostrophe in its proper place with correction fluid, and added a comma. They did not, however, correct the misspelled word, "emense." They didn't want to deface the sign any more than they had. That makes me crazy. What kind of an editor, having begun to create a symphony of correctness from chaos, stops half way? Oh, yeah. The kind that knows they are not only courting the normal scorn writers heap upon editors, but also time in a jail cell--where I understand there is lots of writing badly in need of good editing. A wisely missed opportunity, I would say.

Young Geezer's Second Income

Young Geezer emailed me from his office today, saying his second source of income has been cut off. He even used an exclamation point. I didn't know he even had a second source of income—should I be worried?

When I inquired, he said, "They took the stamp machine out of the copy room. It was a pretty good source of extra cash -- two 42 cent stamps for 75 cents -- 9 cents profit per purchase. Whoo-hoo!"

We had been getting rich, 9 cents at a time, and I didn't even know it. But he had even bigger plans:

He said, "I was going to make a 'How To Become A Millionaire -- In Your Spare Time' infomercial, detailing how to find and exploit small stamp machines like ours."

Poor guy. Perhaps I'll place a cool cloth on his fevered brow and give him some iced tea when he gets home.

Stoopit Bluetooth!

The days of joblessness are taking their toll. Leaping out of bed and into my workaday clothes gave way about three weeks ago to the struggle to get out of my jammies and off the couch. I have a tendency to have long, soulful conversations with my dogs, and though I adamantly refuse to watch soaps, I'm learning some really weird things on PBS and the History channel. Things that will not insert themselves easily into conversation with humans, should I ever have one of those again. (Did you know each volcano has its own unique voice?)

Those chirrupy little grooming tips in the Living Section of the paper are getting on my nerves ("I freshen up my look by…"). Freshen up my look? Heck, I consider my look fresh enough if I'm upright and most of my hairs are going in the same direction! My interview suit is pressed and ready for an extended tap-dance session, should one be required. If the miracle of a second interview manifests sitself, I'm even ready to overcome my aversion to those temples of vanity known as clothing stores, and come up with a second tap-dancing suit.

Despite my local newspaper's promises of great careers in newspaper delivery, advertising sales, and house cleaning, I'm beginning to think the TV "Chicken Littles" might be right about the sky falling. My recruiter called with an opportunity on the day my cell phone ring tone went silent as a a result of my inept attempts to engage my new Bluetooth headset. Unfortunately, the employer had put the job "on hold" by the time I called back, five hours later. It seems they put out a call for resumes, but the recruiter must submit an electronic Permssion to Represent form dated and time-stamped from the employee for the specific job. Split-second timing is crucial. The employers are getting so many resumes so quickly that they "close" the position the same day. Stoopit Blue Tooth!

My mood is fluctuating between the excitement of the hunt and the urge to stay under my covers in a fetal position. Young Geezer fixed my phone--I now get a ring or a beep when someone calls, so I don't have to pick it up every five minutes and say, "Hello? Is someone there?"

One thing for sure--if I decide to take the fetal position approach, that phone is going under the covers with me!

Heard Over the Wall

Those of us who work in cubeland can't see our co-workers, but oh, do we hear them. The more discreet among us never say anything about what they hear. The less discreet can't wait to get into the restroom to burst out laughing and share with their friends. The truly disgusting, those whom you would never, ever want to have know your secrets, are bloggers.

Here's a sample of bits heard over the wall of my cube. No, I don't know the context. No, I can't even make up stories to go with these snippets. Enjoy them (I did):

1. “Ah, that’s too bad. He has such nice teeth. I’ve never seen a dummy that had teeth before.”

2. [Man talking to stay-at-home wife on phone]:“Why don’t you go take [young son] swimming? You both enjoy that. Then go have a nice massage.” (Some women have all the luck.)

3. “Number one son is working at Taco Time. We’re just grateful he’s not sitting around the house anymore. Number two son is trying to decide what college to go to. He’s got scholarship opportunities… .”

4. “You get too many wheels and they just get lost in the junkyard… .”

5. “Crunch, crunch, crunch” (does anyone realize just how far the sounds of eating crunchy food carries?)

6. "So we’re out with Joe in that boat; we knew it had a little dry rot, but I was surprised when the cable holding the dingy behind us ripped out. Then the bilge pump buzzer went off. 'What’s that?' I asked him. 'I don’t know,' he said, 'it didn’t go off the last time we were out.' I said, 'What did you do to fix it last time?' 'Oh, nuthin', he said, 'It stopped by itself.' Well, we didn’t go out on that boat again."

Please Wait . . .

“Please Wait...” It sounds so polite. Why does it make me crazy? Is it because seems like my day is a series of tests of my tiny patience? (I'm failing those tests on a regular basis, BTW.)

My computer said "Please wait..." instead of pulling up my email. I called the help desk and got a series of multi-part menus, each with equally complex submenus. When I tried hitting "0" to see if I could get a human, the recorded voice said, "Please wait..." I tried to copy something on the copy machine and was told it was coming out of sleep mode (was it trying to make me jealous?) and "please wait..."

The bathroom sink made me wait while the automatic faucet decided if it should bless me with water. The electric towel dispenser meditated for a minute before dispensing my 3" paper towel.

I needed instant gratification. I turned to my old friend--the office vending machine. I made visual contact with a beautiful candy bar and started to salivate. After two attempts to get my dollar bill into the slot, I was practically drooling. Then I saw it. “P-l-e-a-s-e- W-a-i-t,” marched slowly across the tiny LED screen. I nearly whimpered when it said, “Please deposit exact change.” I pushed the Return button to get the machine to return my dollar. It didn’t. “Please wait. . . ,” said the LED display.

The cafeteria lady said she could hear me sobbing from down the hall.

The Futon of the Computer World

When I worked in high-tech, the IT guys were special envoys from the gods who had magical powers. They climbed into the ceilings and snaked cable through cube walls to make amazing things happen on our computers. When they upgraded our systems, there was short inconvenience followed by increased performance and productivity.

Not so the government. They send us emails telling us mandatory "upgrades" will stealthily be put on our computers in the dark of night, and the result is "Your computer will take longer to startup and shutdown", and "CD/DVDs or USB drives inserted in your computer will no longer automatically start." To add insult to injury, our homepages on Internet Explorer wil be locked into the internal homepage, which opens at the speed of a tree sloth.

Why would any IT Department make these kinds of changes? "These updates are required to comply with recent government requirements to meet or exceed security controls for all governmnet agencies. " Oh.

No magical envoys are showing up to make my life better--but we will share a clumsy behemoth with a whole bunch of other government divisions. We're the "futon" of the computer world. (Merge a perfectly good couch and a perfectly good bed into a futon and what do you get? A mutant that is no good for sitting or sleeping.) Same principle here: merge a good computer system in one division and a good one from another division, and what do you get? A sloth of a system that doesn't work well for anyone!

Regulations trump efficiency every time. But who are we going to complain to? We are the government--we are the ones who write the regulations!

Yep, we're from the government, and we're here to help.

Who Was that Masked Woman?

I'm too damn old to have a cold. And I'm too damn cranky to have a cold and work eight hours a day. But since I'm not unconscious or dead, I can't really justify staying home like I did when I was a kid and it was fun. Now it's just boring. So I needed to figure out a way I could be at work without sharing my germ-ridden status with my co-workers. They seem like nice enough folks, but I suspect they could turn into a medieval mob crying for blood if I brought pestilence into their midst. Best not to find out.

The Vent from Hell, which is directly over my desk, began spewing dust a couple of weeks ago as our underpowered heating/air conditioning system struggled mightily to single-handedly combat the the northwest winter. Each time the heat came on, the fibrous cloud caused a chorus of hacking and coughing throughout the cube maze. I needed protection--and I knew just what to do. I brought in the masks I wear on airplanes to counteract perfume and germs. They are pretty effective; I don't often get sick after traveling by air, and being placed next to one of those perfume-drenched people who believe "more is better" no longer results in hours of groveling before flight attendants to get my seat changed. Sure, the masks worked well on airplanes, but were they a match for the demon vent of dusty death?

Success! The Vent from Hell was vanquished--but not in time. I have a damn cold. I can't stand the idea of staying at home thinking my cranky old thoughts, but I hate it when people come to work and cough in their hands and sneeze all over the workspace. My solution? I'm sitting in my cube wearing a mask like a fugitive from a hospital, wiping my hands like an OCD sufferer (think Monk, the TV detective), and causing double-takes in the hallways.

"Why are you wearing the mask?" asked on co-worker, "is it for your protection or ours?" Never one to pass up a chance to look good, I said, "Yours, of course." I smiled behind my mask, but naturally, he couldn't tell. That's one disadvantage of wearing a mask. People have to guess from your eyes what your expression is. Jack Nicholson could probably scare the crap out of you in a mask, and Carrie Underwood would still look gorgeous--me, I just look kind of like an owl.

My mask filters out dust and keeps in humidity; I don't cough and sneeze nearly so much with it on. I found out the hard way, however, to keep gum or mints handy--I about asphyxiated after a garlic-laden lunch.

One co-worker suggested I create "mood masks" with smiling or drooping mouths to match my attitude. I don't think so. My boss already thinks I'm weird, and the "gnashing teeth" mask probably wouldn't be his favorite. Mona Lisa was on to something with that mysterious smile; maybe I can look mysterious behind a mask. (What? It could happen!)

Cupcakes Bad; Muffins Good

A new food rule in my agency’s high-tech, high-stress work rooms attempts to keep employees from losing their concentration and messing up the equipment with their snacks. Interpretation of said food rule, unfortunately, is left up to managers.

Here’s an eyewitness report of one the new food rule being enforced in a work area:

“Somebody brought cupcakes to work. The manager made them remove the cupcakes from the room because they violated our new food order.

“The next day, somebody brought in muffins with icing. These were perfectly acceptable.

“The reason? We're not allowed to eat ‘cake’ in the room and ‘cupcake’ has the word ‘cake’ in it.

“Cupcakes with frosting?—Bad.
Muffins with icing?—Good.”

And show the guard your ID…

My group’s office supplies are in a supply room three floors above us. It’s a long way to go for a paper clip. Groups on that floor are supposed to go to their own group’s supply rooms, which could be on any of five floors--or in the building next door. [What? You don’t think this is a good system?] Today, our group’s Grand Poobah of Office Supplies and All Things Good , [title changed to protect the unwitting perpetrator of a work absurdity] sent us this email:

“During the past few months, we have noticed that the supplies order has increased considerably. We have also noticed employees from other offices taking supplies from the our supply room. [What? People too lazy to go to their own supply room in a galaxy far, far away?] Therefore, we are beginning a new process for our group’s employees to get supplies.

"Effective immediately, the supply room will be locked at all times except from 11 a.m. to 2 p.m We ask that you plan to pick up your supplies during those hours.[What if I miss it by two minutes and I really, really need it? Will begging work?]

"Those who have keys to the room are employee X [whom I’ve never met and couldn’t find if I was on fire and she possessed the only fire extinguisher] and myself. She will be the primary contact. [Ah, Queen of Supplies!] If neither of us are available to assist you, there will be a note on the supply room door directing you who [sic] to contact [I have a bad feeling about this!].

"I realize that this new process might be an inconvenience at times [because having a supply room half a building away wasn’t inconvenient?] Given the circumstances, we cannot just ignore this problem [oh, yes you could. Please, please, just ignore it!] I apologize in advance for any inconvenience this might cause you. [OK, then. As long as you’ve apologized.]"

It’s 10:05 a.m. I need a green folder for a file that is due in 25 minutes. I hope begging works. I hope I can find Queen of Supplies (and I hope she has that fire extinguisher. I think I may be on fire.)

Daily Work Absurdities

Yesterday, I needed a certain photocopied yellow form for a document. The shelf on which the forms reside was devoid of all but one lonely yellow page, onto which was stapled a slip of paper (when was this written--in pre Post-It Note Dark Ages?) with the note ,"Last one. Go to mail room to get more." My document had a certain deadline, but the allure of a trip to the mail room to get out of my dark, hot cube for a few minutes was inescapable, pathetic cube-victim that I am.

After an exhiliarting ride in the world's slowest elevator, I presented the form to the mail room clerk.
"We don't do those any more," she said.
"Who does?" I asked.
"They do their own now."
"Do you know where I can get a blank form?" I asked, bemused.
"I don't know anything about that. My job is to tell you we don't do them any more."
"Um, you said 'they' do their own now. Do other people use this form?" I thought maybe I could ask one of these obviously more experienced people where to find the electronic form--if one existed in this time warp.
"Oh, yes. Lots of people use it."
"Do you know where they get the form to copy?" By now, I thought I was stuck in an Office Space sequel.
"No, I don't know. My job is to tell you we don't do it any more."
"Do you know who these people are?"
"No, I just know we don't do them any more. Oh, and I can give you yellow paper to do it yourself."

I lugged my prize ream of yellow paper back up the world's slowest elevator, intent on finding a blank form to copy for myself and my fellow worker bees. Not yet fully beaten down after only four months of daily absurdities in this job, I was determined not to be the one who took the last of anything--coffee, paper in the printer, etc.--without restocking for my fellow inmates.

A more experienced worker bee gave me the phone number of a senior secretary who might have the form (thank God some secretaries still survive in the age of do-it-yourself technology! Nurses and secretaries are the ones who always know everything and can get things done while their clueless bosses take the credit.) It turns out she had something similar, did I want her to email it to me? I did. I got it and told my experienced worker bee that I would alter it for our use and put in our template folder. "Oh, you can't do that. Only certain people can add new forms." I tried to point out that it wasn't really new, since the department had been using hard copies since the Dark Ages. But no, it just couldn't be done. I suggested emailing it to everyone in the department who might find themselves wandering the halls with a ream of yellow paper. OK, maybe that would work. But we might have to give it a new Quality Control number. One of us would have to look into that. I smiled a smile that to me meant, "better you than me," and probably to her meant, "OK, I'll get right on that."

I fixed. I emailed. I got the copy center to create 500 copies. It took an hour and a half. Oh, an hour and 45 minutes if you count the time I spent walking around outside, trying keep from screaming.

I have another kind of document to turn in next week. I wonder what delightful surprises await me there?