Archive for the ‘The Office’ Category

Just to Make Things Complicated

July 7, 2006

They switched our phone system at work. The new phone system requires us to dial “8” to get an outside line. Eight. Not nine, Eight. Every other phone system in the entire universe requires you to dial 9. Why did this phone company choose eight? Did someone get a patent or a copyright on 9? Or was this company just trying to be different? Are they trying to be hip and cool? Avant-garde? Ooooooh, y’all are soooooooo cooool, because you picked 8 instead of 9 . You guys are soooooooooo, like, un-mainstream. You’re really sticking it to the man, dudes.

Every time I pick up my phone I dial 9. This has been going on for about a week. Every time. I think once maybe I remembered to hit 8 first, but every single other time I have first hit 9. Do I think I will ever learn to use 8? Probably not. And even if I do, the next time I’m using a normal phone where you have to dial nine, I will inevitably first hit 8. Jerks.


Heed My Warning!

June 27, 2006

Pointy shoes cause ugly feet! And how do you walk in those things?


The other day I saw someone in my office literally hobbling across the floor. She could barely lift her feet and was kind of sliding them across the carpet, pumping her arms violently to propel her forward. Observation: When you can’t walk in your shoes, your shoes are not serving their purpose. Something is wrong here! Everywhere you look, a woman is wearing pointy shoes. Don’t y’all know!? You’re giving yourselves bunions! Gross! And if you really, really look at the shoes, they’re ugly — ranging from kind of ugly to really really ugly. How did they ever become trendy?!

Pointy shoes are so weird looking. They look like something evil dragon creatures would wear, and they make your foot look twice as long as it is. What annoys me is that at work, in order to adhere to the dress code you pretty much have to wear uncomfortable shoes — which is why I rarely adhere to it completely. It’s funny because most people in my department pretty much always wear just what we can squeak by with. We’re all way on the casual side of business casual. But over in the sales department, you’d be hard-pressed to find a round-toed shoe. Even last week on “Casual Friday” (that phrase will always make me shudder), I saw someone in sales wearing jeans and pointy black shoes! She can’t even give her feet a rest for one day, when we’re actually allowed to wear sneakers! I shiver to think of all those women’s feet over in that department. I’ll probably start having nightmares of them all removing their shoes and taking off in flight after me with their dragon feet, bony talons ready to scrape off my face.

Don’t get me wrong — I know they, like most people in sales-type and many other type jobs, have gotten pressure from “above” to dress all business like. What sucks is that somehow for women, smart, professional outfits include high heels only, usually pointy. If you see a woman in a great suit and flats, she automatically seems less professional than one in heels. What the f?

I love cute shoes as much as the next girl, and in many cases, more. But I have one policy I try to stick to: If I have to choose between cute shoes and cute feet, I choose cute feet. I actually bought the cutest pair of shoes ever — these:


Aren’t they cute? And although they adhered to my no-pointy rule, they still squished my toes all up. So I took them back. I didn’t even get my money back; I got a store credit, which will be very hard to use because it was a tiny store, and that was the only pair in there that I really liked. But those are the breaks, Man. When I’m 65 years old I won’t miss those cute shoes or that seventy bucks, but I will be glad my feet aren’t all deformed like nasty monkey claws.

I think I have my mom to thank for my foot-care consciousness. When I was little I always wanted to wear slip-on flats instead of mary janes, and my mom would not let me, because she said they would slip up and down on my ankle and cause callouses on the back of my heels like hers. For some reason I thought straps across shoes were sooooo four years old, and I was five now, and if I could only wear shoes without straps I would be cool. But now I’m glad I didn’t, because my heels are callous free!

It all goes to show that we have to think about our futures, Ladies! Finding cute shoes that won’t ruin our feet is hard, but it can be done. And just think: We’ll be able to walk, both now and when we’re old! Yay!

A Typical Workday Conversation

June 20, 2006

marcymint23: fakescreenname1: so there was this client yesterday who when i told her (at 5pm when she called) that her edgar would be filed tomorrow said 'You make me want to stand on my desk and scream'

fakescreenname2: was it Linda? she's ridiculous. i dealt w/ her yesterday, too

fakescreenname2: yesterday was like the day from hell

marcymint23: i'm so glad i have mondays off. i always get the impression mondays are worse than jumping into a lake of angry scorpions.

fakescreenname2: yes, times 10

marcymint23: like, mutant, overgrown angry scorpions?

fakescreenname2: on PMS

marcymint23: LOL

Is It Opposite Day?

May 16, 2006

I saw this sign in the cafe downstairs in my office building.  "Mmmm," I thought. "I would like some hot, fresh soup!" 


Then I looked at the soup.



It’s a Good Thing “Dorky-Chic” Is Coming Back In

May 5, 2006

Just now I kind of jogged / trotted / power-walked to the bathroom, because: a. I had to pee pretty badly,and b. I am all jacked up on a big thing of tea I just drank.  I drink caffeine only often enough so that when I do, in any form, I get super jumpy and jittery, with energy to spare — so anyway, as I was trotting to the bathroom I thought about power walking, and how dorky it looks.

When I was younger, sometimes I would go on walks around the neighborhood with my mom, and she would always do that really ridiculous power-walking thing where you take really long steps, pump your arms like you're a jogger on speed, and swing your butt wildly back and forth.  It's a good workout, because it's a lot of high-powered dorkiness, all concentrated into one fluid motion.  I used to get all embarassed and loudly whisper, "Mom! Stop it!  That is soooo embarrassing!"

Then the summer after 8th grade I decided to do the Junior Olympics for track & field.  This is the part where you're all impressed, like, "Oooh, Jr. Olympics? Marcy, I had no idea you were such an athlete!"  And now here's the part where I come clean and admit that although I'd like you to go on thinking I was a star athlete in middle school, no, junior olympics was nothing to write home about, pretty much anyone could do it.  I did it because some of my friends did, and it was a good way to go socialize with them during the day rather than being made to do chores around the house. 

So anyway, we were at a meet one Saturday afternoon, and my events — the 800m and the high jump — were already done, and no, I hadn't won anything, especially not in high jump, I don't know why they always made me do that event, I was terrible at it.  I've never been very springy, and half the time I didn't jump at all because I was scared of hitting the bar — ouch!  I would just run at it, then scutter to a stop, then go back and try again, over and over until I either closed my eyes and threw my body directly into the bar or just got disqualified for too many false starts. 

But anyway, I had already finished not winning those two events when my coach came over to my friend Cherie and me and told us he had entered us in the race walk, because nobody else was registered in our division, meaning we would automatically win first and second place.  Was winning Race Walk a good thing or a bad thing?  Winning is usually a good thing, but I think the fact that it was race walk more than cancelled out anything "cool" about winning, not to mention that to win we didn't even have to beat anyone.  Well, it didn't matter, because our coach had already registered us, so we had to do it; we race-walked a whole mile, and it HURT!  Not only does that exercise look ridiculous, it uses muscles in the front of your shins that you never ever use for any other activity.  The rule with race walk is that you must have at least one foot on the ground at all times.  I've never wanted to run so badly in my life!  But we finished the race, giggling embarrassedly the whole time, and counted our steps up to the finish line so we would tie for first place: "One, two, three, STEP."  And we both got blue ribbons, which looked impressive until you turned them over and saw that the event was "Who can most quickly complete the ridiculous mom-walk."


May 4, 2006

Why do I keep buying those microwave Lean Cuisine meals?  They taste delicious, but they do not make me any less hungry than I was prior to eating them.  I'm serious — I would expect them not necessarily to fill me up, because it's not a lot of food, volume wise.  But I sat here eating one today and I literally felt NO less hungry after I finished eating.  I was still every single bit as hungry as before.  Now I'm in a tough situation, because Jeff is taking me out to dinner tonight at Lola's, which we used to go to all the time but haven't in a while, and I plan to eat a lot of food, including their amazing mac & cheese, and also to drink my favorite alcoholic beverage of all time, their canteloupe martini.  However, I'm starving to death now!  Do I eat something now and risk not being hungry enough later?  Or do I sit here wasting away until dinnertime, which by the time we're eating will be 8:30 at the earliest?  At least I'll be a cheap date!  I'll probably be drunk after one martini!

Cheers to that!

By the way, I just re-read this post and realized that a huge number of my blentries are about food.  I'm going to have to create a food category!

I Am Smarter Than Myself

May 3, 2006

In the kitchen at work, there's a big whiteboard on one wall.  Sometimes when I'm microwaving something in there, I draw on the whiteboard to pass the time.  For example, I've drawn two cups of coffee over the last few weeks, which no one has erased yet: one in an old-fashioned tea-cup or restaurant-style coffee cup, the other in a mug with the company logo on it.

On Friday I played tic-tac-toe with myself, and do you know, I beat myself??  I was sure it would be the cat's game, but I ended up winning.  And losing.  I up and outsmarted myself!  Well.  Wonders never cease. 

All Must Heed the Traffic Cop

April 25, 2006

You will never believe what they're doing at my office building. When you pull up to the entrance to the parking structure, there's a 3-way stop sign, and speed bumps at each sign. But apparently that wasn't enough, because now they have a traffic cop there, wearing a smart suit and white gloves! As I approached the stop sign today he held up a white glove and gave me an admonishing look, as though saying, "I emplore you to slow down and come to a stop, Madam."

Wow, a real live, white-gloved traffic cop. It reminds me of a song I used to play on the piano when I was little, from John Thompson's First Grade Book, that went like this:

Traffic Go, Traffic Stop!
All must heed the Traffic Cop!
When I'm grown, I shall be
Just as fine a cop as he!

It was a jolly little song which I quite enjoyed playing. That was a great songbook, come to think of it. It also included such favorites as "Runaway River" and "Swans on the Lake."  And OH my goodness, if you thought this entry couldn't get any better, you were wrong!  I have found on an excerpt out of John Thompson's First Grade Book, and Lo!  Click four times on the right arrow and you will come face to face with none other than "The Traffic Cop"!  It is better than I could have imagined!  And don't forget to enjoy the beautiful illustrations on all the pages.  As a super extra bonus, the aforementioned "Runaway River" is also one of the excerpts for you to enjoy.  Clearly, they have chosen a "best of" selection of songs.

This is turning out to be a fine day indeed.

 *Amendment, 4/27/06: I realize now that I didn't make this clear, and this is an important bit of information: The traffic cop does not seem to be an actual policeman.  He is simply a man in a suit with white gloves who makes "stop" and "OK, go" signs with his white gloves. 

Whereby I Point the Smoking Car Gun Toward My Head and Pull the Trigger

April 22, 2006

And bubbles come out!  Haha, Got You!  Really, though, get this: It wasn't a belt that had slipped loose.  It was the water pump. and the timing belt. and the thermostat. and about five other things, ringing up a grand total of… fourteen hundred dollars.  That's $1400.  One thousand, four hundred smackers.  In case you didn't hear me, I'll tell you once more that the repairs for my car cost one four zero zero.  1400.  At least I saved money on gas by getting rides to and from work all week.  I will need those pennies to buy myself food, as my bank account is now sadly much emptier than it was last week at this time. 

I make it sound bad for dramatic effect, but in truth this hasn't been much of a hardship at all, and for that I'm extremely thankful.  I've gotten rides to work, my dad helped me foot the bill (although I still forked over a healthy chunk myself, mind you), and I'm so relieved that I was close to work when it happened.  In any case, it is humbling to realize that although I may think of myself as totally independent, in truth I rely on people a lot.  And yet, realizing that those people are there to help, are happy to help, that I have that support system, is liberating.  It's a pretty amazing paradox, I think.  So maybe it's good to fall a little sometimes, just so we can feel the safety net that is right there, ready to catch us, and we can be grateful.

The Smoking Gun (Car)

April 19, 2006

So, on my way to work this morning, thankfully at a red light right outside my office building, my car suddenly started to squeal and whine, like "eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee," and stinky, burning smoke (as opposed to non-burning smoke) started billowing out of the hood.  At first I thought it was someone else, because my car is reliable, dammit!  My car is never the smoking, screetching car.  But this time it was, and I was like, "Shit.  Shit.  Shit.  Shit.  Shit."  And I turned it off, and I was in the lane going straight, but the left turn lane next to me got a green arrow, so I turned my car back on and leaned out the window and looked as pitiful as possible until a truck let me turn left in front of him, and I went in the side entrance of my building and parked, and grabbed my stuff and got the hell out of there in case the car was planning to catch on fire.  It didn't, though I guess I wouldn't know because I didn't stick around to find out, but anyway, wow, that was scary, and I'm so glad I was already almost here or I would be stuck somewhere in maybe-not-the-worst-but-certainly-not-the-best-either part of town, waiting for AAA and having no idea where to tell AAA to tow me.  But instead I'm at work making money, which will surely come in handy for whatever repairs will need to be done, and waiting for my co-worker Steve to give me the name of his trustworthy mechanic, and it can hopefully all be taken care of while I'm here, although I'm not crossing my fingers.  Steve said it sounded like a belt had slipped loose, and I hope that's all it is, because I don't exactly have a new car budget set aside.  And interestingly, I just got an oil change last weekend.  Hmmmm….. could Jiffy Lube have done this?  In any case, here we are, and there you go.  I feel like such a young adult.  A young woman caught in the rat race, working an office job and dealing with car problems.  It's like an initiation into the American Experience.  Gross.

Where Are My W-2s?

April 14, 2006

I have three of them. One from my last job, then another one from that same job, because I guess they messed up on the first one, and one from my current job. Every time I got one in the mail I was sure to put it in a "safe place" where I would be sure to find it when I needed it. I was also determined to do my taxes early this year, and for the first time in history, not wait until the very last possible minute. Ha. Ha. Ha.

And so begins the annual search for the W-2s and last-minute scramble to file my taxes. And yet instead of commencing searching or cooking myself a healthy dinner, two things I need to do, I am instead typing this blentry and absentmindedly stuffing Reese's pieces into my mouth.

Can we just all take a minute to pat me on the back for being the World's Best Procrastinator?

Thanks. I do what I can (modest smile).

**OK, I actually wrote this post two nights ago (yet procrastinated posting it) and have since found my W-2s.  Have I filed my taxes?  Well… not exactly.  I did start… and technically I have until Monday.  So it appears I have topped even my own ability to procrastinate.  Mwahahahaha!  I showed me!

Ahhhh, Damn you, technology!

April 8, 2006

That photo that gave me headaches in my last post isn't even linking!  I'm trying again. Please, please, work, Photo! Please work!


Phew! Click on the thumbnail and breathe a sigh of relief, because you can now view my very technical, yet not to scale, map of the greater L.A. area and featuring my route from Jeff's house to Bob Hope Land, to LAX, to work.  The sad part is you can't enjoy the traffic by just looking at the map. Oh well.


April 8, 2006

It's Friday, and this blessed day could not have come soon enough.  UGH! This week has dragged by and I've been a tired, bleary mess the whole time.  Today is the first day I've felt even remotely awake.  I started writing a post yesterday but didn't finish at work, and when I got home I was exhausted to the point of near delirium, and just took a bath and went to bed. I slept like a rock and dreamt that some friends and I met Jessica Simpson at a bar, and she pulled me aside and told me she had a crush on my friend Mike (yes, you, Bullard). Hahaha!

I finished the post today, and here it is:

Ouch, y'all. Daylight Savings hurts.  I usually wake up at 6:30 in order to get to work by 8, but now it's more like 5:30.  I know what you're thinking: I'm not the only one who had to Spring Forward, you're tired too, so stop being a baby.  Well, try this on for size:  Yesterday my cousin, who had come from Chicago and was visiting our other cousin in Simi Valley, called to say she had missed her flight out of Bob Hope Airport in Burbank (haha, Bob Hope Airport, Love it) and had gotten a hotel room up there, yet had rebooked her flight for this morning out of LAX.  Are you seeing where this is going?  Yes, I dragged my sorry ass out of bed at 5:30 (formerly 4:30) a.m, drove up to the farthest reaches of Burbank, picked her up along with her 3-month-old baby boy, packed a year's worth of luggage plus stroller plus carseat into the car, drove her to the airport, and drove myself to work, where I've been sitting for the last seven hours trying to focus on a computer screen, and look forward to three more hours of such fun and joy.

I tried to take a nap on my lunch break.  I drove to the top of the parking garage where it was sunny and warm, cracked the windows, and pulled out the pillow and chicken blanket from my trunk (for some reason in high school I purchased myself a blanket with a huge chicken in the middle and then smaller chickens lining the edges.  At this point I like it in an ironic way, the way people are wearing 80's clothes) (Please tell me they're wearing those clothes ironically) (and also it's the perfect size and weight for my car naps).  I climbed into the back seat, lay down, covered up with the chicken blanket, put the sleeve of a sweatshirt over my eyes, and lay there. and could not fall asleep. I was so tired my whole head burned and I felt shaky and nauseous, but I couldn't turn off my damn mind!  I could not stop the thinking!  And I knew I only had a small amount of time to fall asleep in order to get a worthwhile nap, and the pressure was too much.  It was unbearable, so when my phone alarm went off, I got up feeling just as bad as when I lay down.  OH, and I'm a little concerned because the top of the garage is actually about four stories below the windows of our office, and when I woke up I reached into my pants and scratched my butt (JUST THE CHEEK, MIND YOU. JUST THE CHEEK!), and I don't think anyone could see in my back window from up here even if they were looking, but I would be suuuuuuper embarrassed if anyone saw.  Not that I'm not just telling the whole enMaptire internet right now, should they choose to read this, but somehow it would be worse if someone actually witnessed it.

So anyway, back to my hellacious drive from my house (oh, actually Jeff's house, because he lives a teeny tiny bit closer to Burbank so I stayed there last night) to the Ramada Inn BFE, as I am officially calling it, all the way down to LAX, and then to work.  From Burbank, I took the 5 to the 110 to the 105.  I told my cousin her trip to So-Cal wouldn't be complete without an all-inclusive tour of the LA Freeway System, complete with gridlock traffic.  OH, and did I mention that Justin, the baby, was crying for the entire first half of the drive?  It was a cry so sad and pitiful it made my heart feel like it was going to explode out of my body.  I prayed the entire time, Please Lord, do not let me get in a car accident, if I kill this precious baby I will die a thousand deaths.  And that made me realize that although I am 27 and many, many people have at least one baby if not two or more by this age, I am far, far from being in a mental state to own a baby.  I would drive myself crazy with worry.  Why is the baby crying? Why is the baby frowning?  If I stab my ears out with forks in order to not hear the baby crying, would that be bad? Would it entertain the baby and make him happy to see me stab out my ears? If so, hand me the fork.  Or would it traumatize him? Here's the fork back, I refuse to traumatize the baby. OH, I just jostled the baby! Did I break him?  And now he's crying again.  I have broken the baby. The baby is broken and therefore I must go kill myself.

Can you see what I mean?  I'm a wreck, people, a nervous, tired wreck of a human being. 

For the sake of soliciting your sympathy, I am including a picture of a map I have made of my route from Jeff's house, to BFE Burbank/Bob Hope Land, to LAX, and then to work.  Consider that the map represents the entire Greater Los Angeles area, and then some. (not to scale).  And OH, my GOSH, I'm about to hurl my computer out the window, because I finally figured out how to add photos to this stupid blog, and I can't get the thumbnail to move from where it is to where I want it. Whether I set it for "bottom," "absolute bottom" or "baseline," it still shows up right in the middle of the post, not on the bottom of anything!  Augh!  Weekend! Weekend! Where are you!? I can smell you, you're near! Please, please, hurry!


February 23, 2006

This morning at 7:30, while driving to work and figuring out the details of the nap I plan to take in my car on my lunch break*, I passed an expensive-looking but ugly car with about 4 people in it.  The person I happened to focus on as I passed was a girl around high school age.  She was smiling and talking animatedly with the people in the front, probably her parents.  The sun glinted off her lip gloss, and I noticed as I passed that her makeup was perfect.

And I was left to wonder: Where do these people come from?  When I was in high school, I did not wake up until I was sprinting from the car to homeroom, barely setting my foot over the doorstep as the bell rang, and it was a good day if my skirt wasn’t completely hiked up under my backpack so that my entire, entire, absolutely whole entire panties were exposed as I ran down the sidewalk, through the halls, and from the front of the classroom to the back, until a kind, kind soul came up and stood behind me and whispered, "Marcy, we have an emergency."  Yes, that really actually happened.  But anyway, until I started driving myself, I would sit in the backseat, all curled up for warmth, dozing and likely eating and/or spilling a bowl of ceareal, while my mom sped through yellow/orange/red/it’s-all-in-the-interpretation lights and careened around hairpin turns.  Makeup was applied in homeroom.  Otherwise that half hour sitting in a classroom was pointless, right? Why miss 15 minutes of sleep, then just sit there in homeroom doing nothing?  Showers were taken the night before, the snooze button was hit a ridiculous number of times, loud complaints were uttered when forced by a parent to finally sit up, wash face, brush teeth, throw on clothes, and stumble bleary-eyed to the car. 

Even now, I do the bare minimum of getting-ready-before-leaving to maximize sleep.  I shower and lay out my outfit the night before, I always put on all my makeup in the car, eat breakfast at my desk when I get to work, and on the mornings I do shower, have been known to dry my bangs by cranking up the car heater and leaning over towards it at red lights.  Who are these "morning people" who are able to get up and be fed, clothed, and bright-eyed and bushy-tailed before 8 AM?  Don’t they get bored on the commute if they haven’t left a significant portion of their morning routine to keep them occupied?  Don’t they realize that by a little multi-tasking (driving while applying mascara, for example) they can buy 10 more minutes of precious morning sleep?

Maybe it’s because I went out last night, although not even that late and I only had two drinks, but anyway I just can’t seem to wake up today.  Hopefully the lunch hour nap will help.  In any case, I’ve come to terms with the fact that I am not, and never will be, a morning person.

* (I have a salad in the fridge so I can eat it before lunch, then spend the full hour in the car asleep.  The only kink left to work out is where I will park the car for said nap. The parking garage is far too chilly.  I’d like to find a nice spot in the sun so I can crack the window and get a nice breeze without freezing to death.  I could go to the top of the parking structure, but then everyone in the building, including all my coworkers, could look down and see me asleep in my car.  Not that I care that they know, but I don’t think I could sleep if I felt I was being watched).

Please Don’t Judge Me

January 24, 2006

This morning, like many mornings, my boss sent an email announcing the presence of doughnuts in the office.  It is always hard to resist because I love doughnuts, but I also do not want to turn into a fatass, so I usually do. (resist, that is).

Well, this morning I was starving to death and had 3 or 4 doughnut holes (holes, mind you, not full-on doughnuts).  Later, a co-worker tried to pressure me into eating another doughnut, but let it be known: I refused to succumb and did not — did not eat another.

Well, it’s evening time and I started getting hungry again about an hour ago, so I went and heated up a delicious tamale.  I assumed the tamale would appease my hunger, making a day-old doughnut seem unnecessary. 

I assumed wrong.