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.

Mad Max: Beyond Odessa

Sometimes, you just have one of those days...or weeks...or months that seems interminable. Mired in monotony and vicious cycles of paperwork, you can easily begin to lose sight of why you even go to work every morning in the first place. You start having illogical thoughts like, "I don't need a paycheck -- I don't need all these material possessions -- I should just blow this shack and start a scooter rental place in the Maldives." You make pointless trips to the coffee bar -- even just to get a cup of water -- so that you feel somewhat free of of umbilical cord that ties you to your desk. You increasingly turn to lurid, trashy websites that you know are probably against company policy, in a futile effort to remain somewhat lucid in the face of crushing boredom. And you look forward -- desperately, salivatingly -- to any small moment that will shatter the tedium of the day.

I had one such small moment today. One of my contacts in the field asked me to overnight him some documents. I asked for his address and he sent me back a P.O. Box. I can't believe I still have to tell people this after all this time, but you can't FedEx or UPS or DHL or send anything else overnight to a P.O. Box -- you must have a physical address. I guess I thought this was common knowledge, but apparently not. So, I wrote him back to request his physical address.

This is what he sent back:

30 miles west of Odessa
Highway 20
Exit 14
Past the metal gate

What is this, Mad Max? Do you guys live in a world out there in West Texas that is devoid of physical addresses? Or are you just unclear on the concept/definition of "physical address"?

Strangely enough, the answer is (b) -- certain parts of West Texas are strangely devoid of addresses, since it's so sparsely populated. I thought it was (c) and acted like a complete asshole towards the guy, basically wording my e-mail to him exactly as it is stated above. I've really got to cut down on that assholeishness. And probably the trashy websites, too.

At least I made it through the afternoon doldrums today, though.

My Inner Foodie

Where I work, we have a Breakfast Club, like so many other offices across the nation. And every Friday morning we are subjected to the unrepentant and unfailing cycle of bagels, donuts, bagels, donuts, bagels, breakfast tacos and more donuts. I don't know why I used the word "subjected," since we've all undertaken this breakfast mission voluntarily, but I definitely get the feeling that most people participate due to either peer pressure or the knowledge that by spending $10 on a box of Shipley's, they can get free breakfasts on Fridays for the next twelve weeks (I mean, it's a pretty good trade if you think about it).

This morning it was my turn to bring breakfast. Little-known fact time: my mother is a chef and has instilled in (or rather, beaten into) me a deep respect for food. While I have clearly not inherited her culinary talents, I do at least have a strong appreciation for good, nutritious, quality food and the ability to make home-cooked Southern meals (who needs that fancy French shit anyway?). And, with a very few exceptions, bagels and donuts do not fall under that appreciation. With that in mind, I was definitely excited to bring a real breakfast for my co-workers this morning.

I went to the grocery store last night -- being a vocal proponent of the idea that one should shop in the short-term, for what you need in order to fix your meal, not the monthly shopping binges to Costco that result in unnecessary junk food and waste -- and bought some cream, high-quality butter, grits, hot sausage, strawberries, blueberries, peaches and low-fat vanilla yogurt. The grits -- God bless them -- cost $0.55 for an entire box and were the centerpiece of the meal. This is just one of the many, many reasons I love grits.

This morning, I got up around 6am and started on the breakfast. The sausage took about five minutes in a hot skillet before it was done and then onto some paper towels to be drained. In the meantime, I set some water (and a cup of cream) to boil in a large, stainless steel Dutch oven (this is important -- you can't cook grits with just water, or else they'll be runny and tasteless; you need heavy whipping cream or at the very least, some whole milk). While the water was coming to a boil, I cut up the strawberries and peaches and tossed them together in a bowl with the blueberries. By the time that was done, the water in the Dutch oven was rolling quite fiercely.

I added the entire box of grits along with a few teaspoons of Kosher salt and half a stick of butter. With grits, I know it says that you can simmer them "covered, stirring occasionally." That's a lie, and I don't recommend it unless you want to eat wallpaper paste for breakfast. You need to stir them constantly, continually adding small licks of cream and butter here and there for taste. When the grits finally started to thicken (which only takes about five minutes, by the by), I added the sausage and stirred it in. And that's pretty much it for the grits -- plain and simple and delicious, if a little calorie-laden by the addition of the butter and cream.

Turning my attention back to my side dish, I poured the vanilla yogurt on top of the small, glistening pieces of fruit and smoothed it with a spoon. Garnish the top with a few stray blueberries and you're ready to go.

Getting the food to the car was easy enough with Richard helping, but actually getting it up into the building was another story. I'm sure I looked like a crazy woman in the lobby -- wet hair from a hurried shower, purse on one shoulder, bag full of fruit & yogurt one the other, briefcase shoved under one arm and a giant Dutch oven held out in front of me, with bright red potholders covering my hands. And, as I've already addressed, I don't exactly look the part where I work on a normal basis anyway.

I finally made it up to my floor, after almost dropping the Dutch oven twice, cursing loudly at the weight of everything on my tiny frame and the deepening crevasses on my shoulder from the fruit-laden bag (fruit & yogurt are deceptively heavy). As I laid everything out in the common area for my co-workers, I could hear plaintive whispers of "What is that?" and "Please say we're not having donuts again." When everything was finally assembled -- butter on plate, salt in bowl, spoons and forks laid out, napkins at the ready -- I stood back and admired my work. It wasn't the most beautiful thing to behold (grits aren't exactly visually appealing food), but it was real and unprocessed and warm and breakfast.

And they loved it.

That was the best part of all. Only two people on my entire floor had ever had grits before, and only one of them actually liked the damn things. With odds like that, I wasn't expecting a very good reception to my Southern cooking. But the mighty hominy kernel triumphed over all expectations. I got request after request for the recipe (what recipe?) and probably -- hopefully -- changed the course of the breakfast mission at least for a while.

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

The Staircase

I am intimidated by the 14th floor of our building. We call it the Mausoleum due to the deathly silence -- quiet as the grave -- that greets you upon entering its inner sanctum through the twelve-foot-high mahogany doors. The air is incredibly cool and still up there; amazing considering the way that the heat rises throughout the rest of the building. The color palate -- medium grey upon darker and lighter shades of grey -- even suggestes a funereal quality. The furniture is stark and muted, and even the potted plants are those sad little breeds that have learned to live in the absence of natural light. The ceilings are soaringly high and your footsteps have a way of echoing in their vastness, even though the floors are carpeted.

Our highest-level executives work up there, in the Mausoleum. The atmosphere of the place certainly lends itself to the no-nonsense attitude displayed by the executives, who seem to have all the humor and liveliness of exquisitely-dressed undertakers. The smattering of times that I've been up to the 14th floor, I haven't heard a single conversation taking place nor have I seen a single soul roaming the hallways. I make my way, quietly and discreetly, towards my destination. There, I have only once seen the actual person I've come for. Every other time, I've left my papers at her desk and made a quick exit, afraid that my naturally clumsy or over-talkative tendencies will take over at any minute if I were to see an actual person up there.

The only time I've ever seen any of the actual executives in the flesh is during their infrequent sojourns down to the 13th floor, where I work, to ensconce themselves in the state-of-the-art Executive Boardroom. I'm not entirely sure why it's located on our floor -- I'm guessing you'd run out of room pretty quickly on a floor when the offices are the size of my townhome, though, so maybe that's why. It's a positively posh little setup they've got, all floor-to-ceiling windows with a breathtaking view of the entire Houston skyline -- from Reliant Stadium to the Medical Center to Downtown and all the way over to the Galleria -- flat-screen plasmas, wet bars, set of kitchens and serving areas. It takes up a good quarter of our entire floor and, I imagine, is quite impressive to the right people.

On the opposite side of the elevator lobby from the Executive Boardroom is a grand staircase. It looks like something out of the Queen Elizabeth 2. It leads from the 13th floor up to the 14th. Above it, midway between the two floors, hangs a hideous piece of mixed-media artwork that probably cost entirely too much money (as is usually the case with corporate office art). And at the top and bottom of the staircase are two ornate, gilt-trimmed, bird's-eye-maple grandfather clocks that -- once again -- probably cost more apiece than I'll make in three years. Immediately after my first of many interviews for the job, as I was being escorted back to the elevator lobby, I made an incredibly lame joke about the company's apparent predilection for grandfather clocks. It was not only lame because it was completely unfunny, but was made even lamer by the fact that I actually used the word "predilection" in conversation. (Side note: this is a problem of which I'm fully aware, thank you very much, Richard and I don't do it on purpose; inside my little cranium, I tend to think in [probably archaic] prose instead of in normal, human conversation, which may be why I'm obsessed with quotes out of everyday conversations. Did that just make any sense?)

The great thing about this staircase is that -- much like the hallways of the Mausoleum -- I've never seen a human being on it. I've used it once, but it felt awkward and wrong, like taking your shoes off at the front door of the Biltmore and just wandering about in your stocking feet, picking your nose and scratching your ass. I guess that what I'm really trying to get down to here is that everything so far seems very much for show -- and I don't mean that in a bad or negative sense. I just feel sometimes like I've been dropped into the middle of court at Versailles and am trying to slowly learn my way around. There seems to be a carefully orchestrated method to every conversation or look or throat-clearing, a million hidden intricacies and subtleties that I fear I'll never learn. There is an unwritten dress code guided by the beautiful, swan-like foreign women, to whom fashion is an effortless afterthought. And everything is cold and beautiful.

Those of you who know me (and haven't just stumbled onto my blog through some odd twist of Googling) know that I'm not exactly the pomp and circumstance type. I'm the nervous, giggly, clumsy, overapologetic type. And although I love my job, I live in constant fear of the day when my "professional" side gives way to my inner Woody Allen in a hideously embarassing and public way (yes, more embarassing than falling flat on my face in front of my coworkers or calling my mother an asshole in front of my boss's boss). I'm not cold or beautiful. I feel like an impostor most of the time.

But at least -- for the first time in a long time -- I'm enjoying my job. Who cares if I have to be an impostor for a while? A little glitz never hurt anyone, just as long as I can come home at the end of the day, throw on an old T-shirt, drink some cheap Mexican beer and get it all right back off my chest.

Learn Some Bloody Spanish!

As I've probably mentioned before, the company for which I work is foreign-owned. Although the North American headquarters are here in Houston, it's difficult to walk down any of the hallways and overhear a conversation that's actually taking place in English. This doesn't bother me -- far from it, actually -- I'm well-accustomed to a multi-lingual situation, having been born and raised in one of the world's biggest melting pots and it's something in which I've always taken pride.

Myself, I speak a couple of languages. While it isn't the first foreign language I learned, German is the one in which I'm most fluent. I attribute that to the simple fact that it's so similar to English -- no great feat there. I took two years of French in high school and made straight 100s (I didn't even do that well in English, for God's sake!) but to this day, I can only speak a few phrases. I understand it quite well, though. I have a smattering of Polish under my belt (thanks, Jess) and I can count to ten in Scots Gaelic (ach, but who canna?). The language that is the most useful to me, however, is Spanish.

Part of the reason I was hired here is that I speak Spanish. Again, it's about third on my list of languages in terms of fluency. That doesn't mean I'm terrible at it. It just means that I'm a little slower to respond to questions and I have to stop and collect my thoughts at times while speaking. My written Spanish is fine. In fact, I developed an entire line of Spanish communications (posters, brochures, booklets and a DVD) at my last job that were very well-received and caused a 200% increase in Spanish-speaking enrollment after its implementation. Yes, 200%. I have very few things to brag about these days, so just let me get that out of the way. Thanks.

At work recently, I was told that my Spanish is "too informal" (this was after asking someone I barely knew ¿Tienes una pluma?) I suppose that's a fair judgment, considering that the bulk of my Spanish was learned from my stepfather's family, contractors, cleaning crews and people I've worked with at community centers. I took four years of Spanish in high school, but that clearly sunk in about as well as my French classes. It's not like I sit down and watch telenovelas or Sábado Gigante to try and brush up on it, either. And I haven't taken a single formal course in ten years. So that's to be expected. Informal was fine for my last job, since my Spanish-speaking audience was entirely composed of electricians. Here, it's a bit different.

So last night I downloaded an entire podcast series on conversational Spanish. It was highly-rated and promised to teach both formal and informal Spanish, both of which I really need to brush up on. I was excited to start relearning Spanish (hey, I get excited about learning new keyboard shortcuts; I'm not exactly the epitome of cool) and was looking forward to going to the gym this morning even more than usual, since I now had my iPod chock-full of of Spanish lessons -- this was going to be the best multi-tasking I'd done in a long time.

After my first five minutes on the treadmill this morning, I switched from my standard workout playlist once I'd woken up a bit and over to the highly-anticipated Spanish lessons. What I heard coming through my earphones sounded like this:






From what I could discern, I believe what was being said was this: "Welcome to Coffee Break Spanish! I'm your host, Craig MacDonald, and today we'll be learning Spanish for the Spanish mainland!"

First of all, there is no way that I'm going to be able to learn Spanish from a guy whose Scottish accent is so thick that I can't even understand him in my native language. His Spanish accent -- God bless him -- was worse than the fake French accents that the staff at La Madeleine uses.

Second of all, "Spanish mainland?" No, thank you, I prefer not to speak with a lisp. I would be laughed out of the building -- and out of Texas -- if I started speaking Castilian Spanish all of a sudden. No dice.

I guess I need to pay more attention the next time I download random podcasts. For now, I'm just going to suck it up and purchase that stupid Rosetta Stone software. I think I can do picture = word well enough. We'll see how that goes.

What Your Friendly HR Department Really Thinks Of You

During the course of a five-and-a-half-hour budget review meeting today:

Actuary: You've got a really large ongoing claim out in California.
HR Director: Oh, really? How much?
Actuary: At least $200,000 over stop loss.
HR Director: What's the diagnosis?
Actuary: I'm not sure.
HR Analyst: Let's see...right here it says "lymphoma."
HR Director: That's bad, right?
HR Analyst: Yeah...that's pretty bad.
HR Director: Well, hopefully they'll die soon.
Actuary: Tell me about it.

Later on:

Actuary: ...and you've still got 352 retirees on the capped plan.
HR Director: How many fewer is that from last year?
Actuary: Looks like about 30 less.
HR Director: These people really need to start dying off.

Trust me, people. It's all true.

Breakfast of Champions

I got to have a super-fun conversation today at work (but, really, what else is new?). I was on the phone, perhaps talking a bit too loudly, when my boss's boss walked past my office. All she heard was this:

Me: Are you going to the doctor or not, asshole?

She peeked her head in the door slightly and, fumbling around to hang up the phone with some semblance of dignity, I quickly ended my phone call.

Big Boss: Katharine, did I just hear you call an employee an "asshole"?
Me: No! Oh, God, no. Of course not!
Big Boss: Then who were you calling an "asshole"?
Me: ...my mother.

*awkward silence*

Big Boss: That's really nice, Katharine.

So, you see, there's a reason I created an entire tag called "ways I embarass myself." The frequency with which I need to use it is just shameful, though.

kär-tŏg'ra-fē

Today at work, one of my co-workers asked me to make a quick map for her. Geekily excited to use my map-making skills (my ninja skills aren't in demand much these days), I whipped one up by hand and presented it to her. Impressed, she exclaimed to our other co-workers, "Look how professional this is! This looks fantastic!"

Inordinately proud of my mad mapping skills, I responded, "Well, I wasn't always in HR. My degree is in cartography."

Blank stares all around. Some coughing. And then eventual disbursement of all parties.

You know what, people? It doesn't matter that you don't know what cartography* is, they're called context clues. Employ them. They are your friend.

*It totally matters that you don't know what cartography is. Are we that far removed from a time before Mapquest that you can't fathom what a real map looks like or that there is an entire discipline devoted to creating them? Or are you just stupid? Really, I want to know.

The Kind of Leave Where You Never Come Back

This amused me.

Good Day, Katharine!

Can you provide the last day of work for Mr. _____ _____ (xxx-xx-xxxx)?

Also, Prudential needs to confirm the type of Leave for Mr. _____ (i.e. personal or medical). Let me know if you have any questions.

Thanks

Charles

Charles-

Mr. _____'s last day at work was 09/26/06. Also, he is dead, not on leave. Please inform Prudential of this fact.

Thank you!

-Katharine

I can't decide if I should have been more professional in my response or not. Yes, I could have used the word "deceased" or the term "has passed away." But I really think they should just be grateful that I didn't say "he bought the farm, dumbass - you should know, since you're looking at the exact same data in the same system as I am."

Colorful

I'm not quite sure what this means: "Wow, you look really colorful today..."

I don't know if that's a compliment or not. I mean, would you take that as a compliment? Maybe if I was aiming for "colorful," then I wouldn't even be thinking about this. But somehow "colorful" is resonating in my mind as an adjective that someone came up with because they couldn't think of anything else to say.

Or maybe I should just stop wearing this outfit to work:

I forgot to shave that day, okay?

Engrish

As a person who is somewhat (okay, very) anal-retentive about the proper usage of the English language, its grammar, its punctuation and its spelling, working for a foreign-owned company whose global corporate office sends out hilariously-translated memos and other errata amuses me to no end. Today, I received this gem:

This message is to confirm you that your service request Folder Access Form was registered the: 6/13/2007 9:21:03 AM with the ticket number 2590777

Our commitment is to solve it no longer then the: 6/14/2007 12:48:00 PM

And yesterday it was this:

Policies

Additionally, here are the effective policies pertaining to your request:
I. It is required to completely fill out the form (throughout Lotus Notes or the Intranet), all the fields are mandatory, if there is any omission, the request will not proceed.
II. The full path must be indicated since only access to the final folder will be given.
III. The Business Process of each area, is the responsible for validating that the information owner has authorized the requestor to access the folders or network directories mentioned.
IV. A copy of the request must be sent to the Business Process of your area. Nevertheless, the request does not guarantee the service execution.
V. Once the Business Process has given the approval, the Global Service Center proceeds to execute the service and notifies the user that requested it.
VI. If the request has been declined by the Business Process, the user will be notified and the service will not proceed.
VII. The person to whom the access is provided, is subject to the Information Security policies effective in _______.
VIII. Supervisor or Area Manager approval required.

We appreciate the time you took to read this message and we invite you to extend it to whom you may consider necessary.

Granted, the language isn't quite insane enough for this site, but it's just stilted enough to make me giggle at random points during the day. I seem to be the only person doing this, which leads me to believe that either (a), everyone else here has gotten used to it or (b) no one really cares. I'm leaning strongly towards (b) right now.

Define:Irony

On Friday, I tripped and fell. Actually, it was more like I went ass-over-teakettle and bit it, hard, in front of the entire department, all of whom were gathered to celebrate a fellow co-worker's birthday. I mean, drink-in-my-hand-flying-everywhere, bruised-and-rugburned-knees, sprained-ankle, down-for-the-count bit it. And since it was only my second week on the job, I'm sure I'll be known for at least the next few months as "that girl who busted her ass in front of everyone."

But here's my favorite part: I tripped and fell over a stack of safety posters that had been waiting to be hung on the walls for about six weeks.

If that's not a euphimism for Human Resources in general, I don't know what is.

AH-HAH-HAH-HAH-HAH-HAH-HAH-HAH-HAH-HAH!

Man, I couldn't make this shit up if I tried. From a Worker's Comp report I was reviewing today:

Per patient report, injury occurred prior to care in our facility. Mr. ________ was lifting a vibrator weighing 100 lbs. when he felt sudden pain in his back.

Really, now?

Currently being sought for questioning.

The Horror, The Horror

After many years of being a faithful and devoted Outlook user, I find myself forced to become intimately acquainted with that coelacanth of the IBM era: Lotus Notes.

I loved Outlook. No, you don't understand. I loved Outlook. I had a special bond with Outlook, a symbiotic relationship, a knowledge that no matter where I went or what new software or processes I'd have to learn, Outlook would always be there. In return for its steadfastness, I learned all of its ins and outs, the little quirks, the keyboard shortcuts that meant I never even needed to use a mouse while in Outlook (I hate mice/mouses/whatever, a holdover from my college days spent in front of the comforting green glow of CLIs on our Sun computers).

But now I've been thrust into an entire new e-mail world and I'm completely and totally disoriented. It's an awkward feeling. I've always felt comfortable learning new systems and software pacakges. I'm the person (nerd) who can fool around with a piece of software for a few minutes and feel totally at home with it. I'm the person (even bigger nerd) who goes home at night and researches shortcuts and idiosyncrasies and experiments with new and different ways to achieve my ends with those new software packages.

But Lotus Notes has me in a stranglehold. It is a dinosaur. It is a mammoth wallowing in a tar pit. My 51-year-old mother even laughed at me when I told her that we use Lotus at work. Her reaction: "I haven't seen Lotus since 1989! Loser!" I haven't seen or heard from Lotus myself since my "microcomputing" class during my sophomore year of high school. I didn't know that it still existed in any practical form, much less at a global corporation known for its affinity for technology. But I'm stuck with it for now.

It has by far one of the most unappealing and unintuitive GUIs I've ever seen. Granted, it apparently developed the idea of tabbed browsing long before Mozilla or the fancy new Explorer did, but the tabs themselves are tiny, hard to read and open and close at random (Replication? I didn't click on Replication!).

It's advanced enough to know that you've received new mail (yes, but so is the new Hotmail server, so BFD) but it's not advanced enough to actually display that new mail unless you go to a tiny menu in the far bottom corner and click on "Receive," which is maddeningly close to "Send Outgoing Mail" and which I unfailingly click on every time instead of "Receive" because I am so freaking clumsy with a mouse.

If you fail to interact with Lotus for more than five minutes, it will lock you out. It doesn't notify you that you've been locked out, however, so in the meantime you're pecking away at your keyboard and toiling at your other work actitivies, blissfully unaware that there are about fifteen e-mails waiting for you that need to be answered. And when you finally do cotton to the fact that you've been locked out and log yourself back in, the goddamn thing takes about five minutes to "Replicate" all of your e-mails and actually display them for you.

Furthermore, there is no real capability for storing e-mails in folders (the system which I've always used to sort through the masses of crap I get every day). It exists, and Lotus will let you do it, but it's very stilted and difficult and I get the feeling that every time I move an e-mail to a folder, Lotus creakily opens its eyes like an ancient tortoise and stares at me quizzically as if to say, "Whaaat are you doingk, yaaawngk one? Ve do not store files in this vaaay."

And in one of my least favorite moves so far, it has the most ridiculous address book system I've ever encountered. To send an e-mail to someone within the company, you have to know their middle name. That's right. We have over 22,000 employees in North America alone which equals roughly 25 Rogers, 68 Alans, 112 Johns, etc. An intelligent program would rely upon their last name to whittle things down from there. But not Lotus; here we use middle names. So not only am I learning everyone's names and positions and locations, I'm also becoming acquainted with their sometimes bizarre nomenclature (ex: Ernest Quest Daniel III). And it gets worse with people external to the company -- all of my outside contacts like brokers and consultants have to be painstakingly and meticulously added to the little address book subprogram before I can send e-mail to them. Otherwise, I have to pull up an old e-mail of theirs, copy their e-mail address and paste it into a new "memo" (not e-mail, memo...grr) or else I have to type the entire thing in from scratch/memory.

Luckily, I'm not alone in my sentiments. While doing some of the aforementioned nerd-research, I found these sites:

• Lotus Notes Sucks
• Gripes About Lotus Notes
• 70 Reasons Lotus Notes Sucks
• and my favorite: Lotus Notes - The Horror, The Horror

What I have yet to find, of course, are any sites with names like "I Love Lotus Notes!" or "Lotus Notes Is The Greatest Thing Since Vacuum-Sealed Lunchmeat!" I won't be holding my breath for those.

Lumbergh

Okay, I only have a little bit of juice left on this thing today, but here we go:

So, I quit my job at Neighborhood Centers last Friday. I think we all know that by now. Everyone, apparently, except my old boss. On a whim while at my new job this past Thursday, I logged onto the old NCI mail server to see if the retards over there had disabled my e-mail access yet. Of course they hadn't. But it gets better...

My boss was still sending me e-mails. E-mails with subject lines like "10-Month Employees" and bodies like "Katharine, will you please take a look at the attached spreadsheet of 10-month employee payroll errors and get back to me? We need to get these fixed." This is the same guy, mind you, that I handed my letter of resignation to less than two weeks ago. NEWS FLASH, MORON: I DON'T WORK THERE ANYMORE.

*sigh*

So glad to be away from that place...

Wednesday

I know that we have all -- every one of us -- worked in an environment that, at one time or another, we have deemed to be a little slice of hell or at least a slightly more sanitized version of an insane asylum. As a teenager, my father worked grueling, hot summers in a meatpacking plant in Fort Worth, treading carefully as he lugged pound upon pound of freshly-butchered beef across floors slicked with blood and viscera in the days long before OSHA or plant management executives ever attempted to make the packing floor safer for employees. Fresh out of the Navy after World War II, my maternal grandfather worked in a three-story shoe store in San Francisco for a store manager so nasty that, even as his mind is failing him at the age of 90, is still remembered with a clarity only invoked by certain levels and means of cruelty, leaving their marks upon his mind after nearly seven decades. In the summer of 1978, my stepfather was indoctrinated in the methods of "crowd control" used by the Houston Police Department as he clashed with Black Panthers and other demonstrators during the race riots that plagued the city, battering sweat-beaded temples with his nightstick and Macing unprotected eyes as he fought through a tide of rioters. My paternal grandfather was an orphan, raised at the Itasca Home for Boys until he was 18 years old. The boys earned their stay by making, mending and washing their own clothes, milking the cows and collecting eggs from the hens, and growing their own food -- all while getting an education.

I…work in an office. It has air conditioning and inspirational framed artwork (not mine). I have a comfy chair that I stole from the office next door when the former occupant was asked to resign. My iPod is docked in a Bose stereo system that pipes out Chet Baker and Air while I work. I get fresh office supplies every two weeks and a paycheck every other Friday. I do not pack meat. I do not fit shoes onto smelly feet while being harassed by a paranoid asshole. I do not get shot at, wear riot gear, or get urinated on by arrested suspects. I did not work in an orphanage for my entire childhood and adolescence. I also do not work in a Chinese sweatshop, a Thai whorehouse, a Ukranian smelting plant or a Columbian coca plantation. So why do I feel like I'm losing my mind when I'm at work? Why do I feel like this, of all jobs, is the worst job on earth?

Sometimes I feel like I'm in an elaborate reenactment of "Gaslight," or maybe that's just my narcissism rearing its ugly head. But I do believe it's the little things, the small insanities and pretensions, that will wear you down over time. Tiny things, really; very tiny things. Things that, in a normal world, would go unnoticed. Things that, if you bring them to an outsider's attention, would make you seem insane for being bothered about. Only your fellow inmates can commiserate and understand -- Did you see the way that guard let Nacho get an extra chocolate pudding at lunch today? And he let him stay out in the yard five minutes extra to finish his cigarette! Nacho must be slipping him something through the outside… -- and you feel foolish for venting about your frustrations during the fleeting moments that you're in the outside world.

Today -- maybe if I explain "today" then I can make more sense -- was nothing special. It was a Tuesday, still is a Tuesday. The recently-appointed director of our department has recently gone what Moira and I have termed "power-retarded" and we are all dealing with the repercussions of the massive promotion and accompanying breakdown of all of his social and intellectual skills in our own silent ways. He has responded to his promotion by finding new and subtle ways to demean us and insinuate to other directors and their departments that we are all terribly worthless and shouldn't be bothered with matters of real importance – all issues are to go through him now. This also includes my area of "expertise" (cue huge peals laughter from me here -- okay, but seriously, I really do have an area, breathtakingly lame as it may be, that he knows jack shit about), so in between fuming and fielding calls from idiot employees, I entertain myself while I listen to him next door, attempting to explain what a pre-existing limitation exclusion clause is and how it affects Jeff Butterman's medical plan deductible (hint: it doesn't and…I hate you). So, again, regular Tuesday.

It's only 9:00 a.m. and I'm already heavily feuding with the payroll department in our ongoing, epic, Hatfield–and–McCoy battle of "who can put the most monkeys onto each others' backs." It would be fun if there were real monkeys involved, but sadly…no. By 11:30, it's time for lunch. Since we're always pressed for time, Moira and I decide to take our lunch break and use it to run out to Party City to gather supplies for the job fair that we're hosting this weekend. Since it's only a few miles up the road, we don't plan on claiming mileage and -- again -- we're using our lunch break to do this. Moira grabs $50 from the petty cash reserves, we buy our supplies and come back to the office. She takes the receipt, the change and her itemized purchase order -- filled out in triplicate, because that's how much we like paperwork -- to accounting. They scan the receipt and P.O.s, count the change carefully. Then they notice it: the sales tax. Being a non-profit, we are a non-taxpaying entity with regard to certain areas and items. Accounting asks Moira, "You paid sales tax?" Yes. "Why didn't you give them the card showing our tax exempt status?" Because I don't have one; I didn't know we had anything like that. "Well, you're responsible for the extra sales tax paid, then." Excuse me? "You're responsible for the extra sales tax! We'll just take it out of your next paycheck." Seriously…excuse me? "NCI shouldn't have to pay sales tax since we're tax exempt. So, since you didn't follow agency procedure when purchasing these items, you're responsible for the sales tax. It comes to $3.52." You're going to dock my check for $3.52? You're really going to do all the paperwork required to dock my check for a measly three dollars? After I used my personal time to take care of agency business for a job fair that I'm being forced to work at all day on Saturday? "I'm sorry, Moira, but you should have followed agency procedure."

I feel like there should be a paragraph here, but I'm still too aggravated by our $3.52 mistake of apparently monumental proportions to even follow up.

Later that afternoon, our power went out. Our director was in a meeting at the time. My coworkers and I expected that after the first ten minutes of the power outage, the meeting might be dismissed and the assorted directors would scurry back to their departments to "assess the situation," since everything is a situation around here. A pane of glass broke a few weeks ago when the central atrium was being painted; company-wide e-mails were sent warning of the imminent danger presented by the rogue glass shards that landed in the flower beds below -- Don't go into the flower beds! Dangerous glass!!!11!1! -- as if trekking through the flower beds in the atrium was our favored lunchtime activity. So we were surprised when our director showed up nearly an hour after the power had gone out. He was equally surprised that we were sitting in a group in Angela's office, not working.

Our building was built in the 1960s and in addition to not providing enough parking for all of the tenants (most of us have to park at another parking lot six blocks away and take a shuttle to work), the insulation is shot to shit. I normally love the giant plate glass windows in my office – a view to a sane and sunny world – but during the power outage I started to feel like an ant under a malicious child's magnifying glass. So the four of us spread out in the one dark office without windows, cherishing the remaining A/C, as Angela suddenly found herself and her windowless office vindicated. We discussed actual HR-related issues for a while before falling into American Idol debates and the pros and cons of DVR. By the time that our director made his way back to the department, we had long left the domain of polite conversation and were viciously mocking various employees and telling crude stories of various incidents (yes, of course the woman who stunk of sex came up…do you even need to ask?).

His first words: "What's going on here? Why are you all just sitting around?" Moira, jokingly: "Well, in case you hadn't noticed during your meeting, the power has been out for an hour." Director: "Yes, but why aren't you working?" Us: blank stares, hate. Me, finally: "The power…is out. The computers…are dead. The phones…are dead. The copier…is dead. There's not a whole lot that we can do in the dark, without phones or computers." Director: "Well, I can think of a lot of different things that we can get accomplished without power. For example, you can collate. You can stuff envelopes. You can organize your office. You can shred things in your 'To Shred' bins. You can file." Me: "File. In the dark." Moira: "What envelopes? Why would we stuff envelopes? We don't have any envelopes that need stuffing." Angela: "Collate?" Me: "Collate what? I don't have a big pile in my office marked 'To Collate On A Rainy Day.' And we can't file in the dark." Moira: "How are we supposed to shred things without a shredder? Can we just go home now, please? It's sweltering in here. And we don't have any work to do." Director: "I don't know…" Moira: "All the other departments have left. We're the only ones still here. And it's freaking hot, seriously." Director: "Well, if you all feel like you just can't come up with any work to do, then I guess so. Just make sure that you get your work done from home." Us: blank stares, but this time with much more hate, then lots of shuffling around and getting the hell out of that dark, sweaty pit while we still could.

As we were leaving, I heard the director calling after us, "Well, I guess I'll just stick around here and do my work, since I've got tons of work that I can get done with or without power! And I'll make sure that payroll knows not to dock your checks since you're leaving an hour early." We left him behind in the unusually silent, darkening building, seemingly the only person still there; left him to his scurrying and paper-shuffling and insane bureaucracies, feeling lighter with every step that we took towards our cars, six blocks away. On Tuesday, we got an extra hour of sanity – an extra hour on the outside. Let's see what Wednesday holds.