Back in Black

I spent eight hours today at an HR compliance seminar -- sounds like a doozy, right? But this was the most bizzarre, completely awesome HR seminar I've ever been to (and, sadly, I've been to many). It began innocuously enough: a hotel meeting room with a name like "Sierra" or "Diamond" or "Martinique" or some other stripper-esque nomenclature, roughly 90 middle-aged women in their finest Chico's and Talbot's ensembles and a tired buffet of rock-hard croissants and lukewarm coffee. I grabbed a spot in the back corner of the room, hoping to do some covert reading and avoid any thrilling conversations (Oh, wow! We use Mercer as our TPA, too! Aren't their out-of-scope fees outrageous? I know, I know -- but their call center is local -- no damn Indians -- and that's all you can ask for these days, right? Hahahahaha!).

The murmurs from the various HR ladies died down as a man entered the room -- which is unusual in and of itself, since HR as a business unit is so heavily pink-collar -- and shuffled to the front, taking a seat on a barstool and facing the audience. He looked somewhat haggard, with tired eyes and a slightly humped back. His shirt was unbuttoned one button too far, revealing the pasty, hairless chest beneath. His hair was ruffled carelessly. He eyed us all wearily.

The man introduced himself as the seminar leader, mentioning in his opening that he had just come from Phoenix and would be going to Philadelphia tonight, where there were "six lousy bastards who signed up for this thing; at least I've got a good turnout from you people." I stared at him, my attention piqued suddenly by the utterance of the words "lousy bastard" at an otherwise normal seminar, and I wasn't alone. There was some nervous chirping and tittering throughout the crowd as people looked around at each other as if seeking confirmation of what they just heard. I put my book down, curious as to what our leader would say next. I was not disappointed.

He rambled on: "I -- personally -- hate employees; they're idiots. I don't even know why I'm in this business. Don't act like you don't hate them, too. Hell, I wake up every morning wondering how I even got here in the first place. Who hired me? I'm not even wearing underwear today. Don't look -- just take my word for it -- and I've got a terrible case of diarrhea from the steroids I'm taking for this allergic reaction I had to a bee sting. I just violated my own HIPAA -- I'll be doing that all day, so just prepare yourselves. Oh, and you can fill out one of those evaluation forms if you want to, but at the end of the day, I don't really care about what you have to say."

After this insightful introduction, he went on to perform a one-man five-minute skit on what he called "the general ignorance of the average employee." He was amazing and darkly brilliant -- the Lewis Black of HR seminars -- but was also clearly disturbed and/or deeply burned out. It was a trainwreck and I was enraptured. More delicious tidbits followed, as I scribbled furiously on my legal pad to capture all of the verbal insanity:

"There's no such thing as a violation unless you get caught. Right? Right."

"What did I say? USE IT OR LOSE IT, FUCKER! Why is that so goddamned hard for you to understand?"

"I hate California; no, I don't want a goddamn granola bar and get that fucking yogurt away from me."

"Why are you staring at me? Did I say too much? Show too many body parts?"

"I popped one of my wife's Valium's earlier, but it doesn't seem to be doing much of anything."

"Let's use my son Dave as an example. Dave is a loser. He lives in sin with his loser girlfriend, Jamie. I've told them both that they're going to hell, but they won't listen to me."

"I mean, someone had to be drunk when they wrote this manual. I swear to God, look at this crap!"

I could not make this stuff up if I tried; I'm not that smart or funny. The guy was clearly off his rocker. But the even crazier part was that I actually learned something at what I thought was going to be a worthless seminar. No, it was not that mentally unbalanced people need to take their lithium... I actually learned a couple of new things about compliance, since his insanity kept me focused on the topic at hand, no matter how many times he strayed into delirium. Am I thrilled that I learned even more filler about a topic I could really care less about? No, not really. But the day was far more interesting that sitting in the office I'm currently sharing with a temp while he listens to GWAR on his computer, answering inane questions from employees that I too -- personally -- hate.

Now...the fact that I lost my parking ticket and had to fake-cry at the front desk of the hotel to be let out of the parking garage or the fact that I paid $16.95 for a wedge salad at the hotel's resaturant for lunch -- not so interesting and definitely stories for another day.

Really?

In the second of a...well...two-part series on Google searches, I present the latest random search that led someone to this page: a Dutch gentleman (or perhaps a lady) in Utrecht searches for "barbie grits winkle" at 5:03 a.m. and lands here instead.

Can someone out there can clue me in to the hidden meaning of the phrase "barbie grits winkle"? Is it simply a random collection of unrelated words or is it some universal mystery that no one is destined to uncover?

Google Image Search appears to lean towards the former.

Lederhosen Copulation

I've noticed a recent rise in web traffic from people doing Google searches and ending up here. Mostly, the Google searches are for the lyrics to "Golden State" by John Doe. I appear to be the only person on earth who's actually sat down and transcribed those lyrics on the internet. WTF? You can find out the actual location of Atlantis or the answer to "what is the meaning of life?" (42), but apparently lyrics to popular songs are in short supply these days.

Anyway, I noticed this morning that I had a truly unique visitor to the blog last night around 3am. This person (from Germany, no less) had Googled "dirndl fuck." Imagine their disappointment when they landed here...

Sorry, my German friend. I hope that subsequent Google searches led you to that elusive goal.

The Church

While cooped up in the hospital this weekend with my grandfather (stories abound, but my patience to write them does not), he had more than his share of visitors. Being an elder in his church and a more-than-dutiful tither, one of those visitors was the preacher at said church. This preacher, we'll call him Dave, and his wife visited briefly with my grandfather and grandmother before turning their extremely unwanted attention to me and my mother. I mean, the point of a hospital visit is to express your care and concern for the hospitalized individual, right? Not to overstay your welcome by at least thirty minutes while interrogating his family members. Right? Apparently, not so much.

I should mention that I was raised in a very strict and very...nostalgic denomination of Christianty. They truly do believe that they are God's chosen people, even above all other Protestant denominations. Baptists? Presbyterians? Methodists? All going to hell. And don't even get them started on the Catholics or the Jews. And when I say strict and nostalgic, I mean "God, I wish that we lived back in Victorian times so that our women couldn't work or speak unless spoken to and so that the only book people were allowed to read was the Bible. That would be great. Oh, and I wish that we had more leeway to openly persecute people that disagree with us. God, that'd be great, too." That said, however, it's incredibly important that we keep up the guise of being good Church members in the presence of my grandparents. To do or imply otherwise would crush their little souls immensely. Also, they'd probably leave us out of the will.

Anyway, Preacher Dave is introduced to my mother, about whom he's apparently heard very bad things. He looks at her as if she's got goat entrails hanging out of her mouth from this morning's Satanic ritual. My mother glares back at him, already on the defensive.

Preacher Dave: So, Jo. Your mother tells me that you attend a church in Houston. Which one?
Mother (who hasn't set foot inside a church in seven years): Um...West Houston.
Preacher Dave: West Houston Church of Christ?
Mother: Yes.
Preacher Dave: Oh, what road are they on? I just can't seem to remember...
Mother: Um...West Road.
Preacher Dave: West Road?
Mother: Yes.
Preacher Dave: Funny, I thought they had moved from that location.
Mother: Nope, not that I'm aware of.
Preacher Dave: I'm pretty sure they moved.
Mother: No. You're mistaken. You must be thinking of another church.
Preacher Dave: Oh, well, anyway...I thought that you'd be attending Memorial Drive Church of Christ since it's right down the street from your house (side note: how do preachers remember this type of crap about their parishoners? who remembers things like, "Ah, yes..their daughter lives right off Memorial Drive...")
Mother: Well, that church just wasn't right for us.
Preacher Dave: That's a shame to hear. One my best friends preaches there.
Mother: Oh, well, I mean...it just didn't cater to our demographic, I guess you could say.
Preacher Dave: And West Houston does?
Mother: Yes, quite well.
Preacher Dave: I'm trying to remember who preaches there...can you help me with his name?
Mother: It's Brother Atwell.
Preacher Dave: Are you sure about that?
Mother: Yes.
Preacher Dave: I'm pretty sure that Brother Atwell is preaching in Fort Worth now.
Mother: Nope, he's still there at West Houston.
Preacher Dave: No, the last time I heard, he was preaching in Fort Worth.
Mother: Well, you must have heard wrong.

Preacher Dave is now openly suspicious of my mother's attendance at any church at all, much less West Houston. And my mother has had enough of her interrogation and turns her back on him, leaving me exposed. He turns to me and begins anew.

Preacher Dave: So, Katie. I hear that you're getting married in November.
Me: That's correct, sir.
Preacher Dave: Is your husband-to-be a member of the Church?
Me: No, sir.
Preacher Dave: Why not?
Me: He's from England and wasn't raised in our faith.
Preacher Dave: Well, that's no excuse. Have you been taking him to church?
Me: No, sir.
Preacher Dave: Why not?
Me: Because I feel that's his decision to make on his own.
Preacher Dave: So, you're marrying outside of the faith, then?
Me: It looks that way, sir.

Preacher Dave looks at my grandmother with an expression of indignity and grief. My grandmother just shakes her head.

Preacher Dave: So, will your husband-to-be be supporting you?
Me: I'm sorry?
Preacher Dave: Supporting you, financially.
Me: Um, no. I have a job.
Preacher Dave (as if I've just shown him a dead rat): Oh, really? You have a "career"?
Me: Yes, sir. For almost six years now.
Preacher Dave (sneering, now): Well, that's very interesting.
Me: Okay...

By this point, I believe that Preacher Dave has had enough of my heathen ways (and my mother's). He proposes a quick prayer and we all join hands. His quick prayer turns into a miniature sermon, complete with Bible verses and damnations of people who do not adhere to the One True Faith. My mother and I stop bowing our heads halfway through and instead start to make silly faces at each other. My grandmother is softly crying. And my grandfather is asleep.

E-Mail Hell

Since one of my favorite pastimes is gently (okay, maybe viciously at times) mocking the people I work with and transcribing some of their better moments, I present you with this head-pounding-against-the-wall chain of e-mails (with all random spacing, spelling and punctuation left intact):

Katharine-

***

-Sev

Sev-

Sorry, nothing came through...

-Katharine

Katharine-

His information cannot be retrieved?

-Sev

Sev-

I'm sorry, I meant that your prior e-mail was blank -- there was nothing in the body. What do you need?

-Katharine

Katharine-

I apologies for the misunderstanding. We need a copy of Mr.Smith's elections, when he elected benefits; and / or a screen print of when (lots of blank spaces here that Blogger won't let me format) Mr. Smith benefits.

-Sev