Don't Clean up my Crap

I walked into my office manager’s office the other day and told him I’d come to collect my crap, to which he replied that "crap" was such a harsh word, how about saying “stuff?”

I’d specifically chosen that word to denigrate the items he had graciously carried in from the parking lot for me because they were unpleasant, personal items, like well-used hiking boots and workout clothing. I was trying to make his act seem even more heroic than the mere toting of stuff.

“Who the BLEEP are you to tell me when I can say crap?” Is what I wanted to say in return. Instead, I thanked him for carrying my stuff in for me and left it at that.

Some people just can’t unearth a compliment from rough language, poor bastards.

Sick bird

One of the things I've been saying over and over again is that this job is killing me this job is killing me. Well, the doctor confirms that I have been right all along. I enjoy being right just as much as the next bird, but I could have handled being wrong about this one. Too bad for me.

In a 14 year career in IT my health has progressed thusly:

First year on job: weight 138, excellent health

Third year on job: weight 145, internal, hurt you like a son-of-a-gun hemorrhoids directly related to being seated all day programming. Doctor's recommendation: stand up every 15 minutes. A funny man, that doctor.

Fifth year on job: weight 148, high cholesterol. Doctor's recommendation: watch fat intake.

Seventh year on job: weight 148, high LDL and no HDL, none. Doctor's recommendation: Lipotor, stat.

Tenth year on job: weight 155, depression, exhaustion, low HDL. Doctor's recommendation: do things that make you happy, get fit, lose some weight.

Thirteenth year on job: weight 165, blood pressure borderline high, confirmed pre diabetes. Doctor's recommendation: lose as much weight as possible, as quickly as possible.

Anyone who insists that my job is a good job is out of their peahen mind.

Snoring in the sun

When I told him that I keep falling asleep at work, in meetings, and just about anywhere associated with my job, my doctor suggested I might have sleep apnea. He talked about softening of the tissues and icky things like that and I responded by saying I'd go on a diet. That usually makes him happy. But then he started talking about neck circumference and how a diet wouldn't work for me because I wasn't that fat and how I should do a sleep study. He finally got the hint when I put my fingers in my ears and went "lalalala." I'm not going to pay anyone to watch me sleep. I don't snore!

Like most offices, ours is kept at USDA approved temperatures for storing raw meat. I'd forgotten my down vest at home, so at about three p.m. I gave up shivering to keep warm and went outside. There is a nice low wall that's great for sitting and talking on the phone, and it was wonderfully warm after being under the sun all day. I stretched out on that sweet slab o' cement and closed my eyes, letting all the heat seep up through my frozen fat.

Half an hour later I was rudely awakened by an unexpected sound: snoring. Mine! I wonder if my boss walked by while I lay there, not working, soft tissues flapping their dulcet song . . . .

I'm still not going to pay anyone to watch me sleep.

Tempus Idiot

“Hi there.”

“Hi.”

“You know Jerry Smith? Art Department?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Well, he’s coming over for training on how to build an intranet in our CMS system and I was going to work with him, but since today is your day to man the lab, I thought you might want to do it.”

“When is he coming?”

“2:00”

“It’s 1:53 right now.”

“Yeah, I set it up about a week ago. It just occurred to me. I didn’t want to do it if you wanted to do it.”

“I like to prepare a bit before my classes, so I don’t frustrate the user by having to remember stuff on the fly.”

“Yeah, well, just in case you want it . . . .”

“No thanks. You’d better do it. Next time give me a little more notice.”

“Gosh.”

Then he winged it, having to leave the room to get help from the lead programmer FIVE TIMES.

Never Can Say Good-bye

Good-bye can be such an agreeable word to say. You get so many options of how to say it that you really can’t complain of boredom: Good-bye. G’bye. Bye. B-bye. So many ways, so little time! And yet, in a room of only eight programmers, not one can manage to say it as he (or she) walks out the door for the day. It’s as if saying good-bye is admitting a lack of commitment to programming, to the job, to the culture. Leaving as disgrace. I don’t get it.

Having seen the only other woman in our organization scurry out the door holding her bag away from her side as if it contained plutonium, I wondered if she hadn’t spilled an unsweetened cup of green tea into it, or found one of the office cockroaches hiding in her laptop compartment. Her manner did not suggest departure, it suggested pee-in-your-pants urgency. I waited for her to return. She did not.

After a time, I began to hear little rustlings behind me. Someone must be fingering their packet of ‘nabs trying to decide if THE MOMENT OF NAB had come. Perhaps he was planning a long night? I looked around. There was no one in the room. I even stood up to be sure no one was hiding under his desk. No one. I stepped out into the hall; the programmer and system admin end was dead quiet. The only sign of life came from the tech room at the far end of the hall.

Seeing as the time was 5:10, it only made sense that everyone should have gone. But without saying anything? Even a “f--- you!” casually thrown over a departing shoulder would make more sense.

My boss still doesn’t think our group needs social skills training . . . .

Smart and Mean

One of the reasons I can't stand working in the IT world anymore is that geeks tend to be intelligence snobs.

Not all, mind you, and the very best of the best are the tech support folks who work hard everyday to increase users' understanding of the tools they need to use to do their jobs. These men and women are the unsung heroes of the IT world and I salute them. Having done support work I know just how hard it is to not strangle a user who calls you over to help them figure out their password. Gnarled hands shuffling through mangled index cards with faded pencil scratchings, "Do you think this one might be it?" As if somehow my brain is magically linked to the password server that holds the secret. But when I left my user still breathing and able to log in, I knew I was one step closer to my salvation; I'd done something nice for someone else and not been an ass about it.

No, I'm talking about programmers, mostly. They tend to enjoy sneering at the world and I find this extremely runty. Haha, someone with an eighth grade education thinks lead is part of our recommended daily allowance! Haha, someone passes out from inhaling a chemical they didn't realize was THAT toxic! Haha, they know how to write recursive code! These people are kind of missing the point of being on top of the pile educationally and financially. If you eat better than most and live easier than most, it seems only reasonable to be more tolerant and helpful than most. I'm not saying I don't enjoy a good Darwin Awards story as much as the next geek, but when someone in my sphere of influence needs a hand understanding something, I feel it is my job to help them out. Who knows, maybe I'll learn something.

No wonder people think geeks are rude.

It's decided, I shall be an artist!

Some days things go just as they should. The weather doesn't do what the weatherman says it will but school still gets cancelled. The Dow falls, then pops up as if to say "peek-a-boo!" and you run across a piece of advice that will save your life, or at least make you happy.

Father Guido Sarducci, bless you, wherever you are.