Corporate accounts payable, Nina speaking. Just a moment.
Corporate accounts payable, Nina speaking. Just a moment.
Corporate accounts payable, Nina speaking. Just a moment.
Corporate accounts payable, Nina speaking. Just a moment.
Yeah, I just stare at my desk; but it looks like I'm working. I do that for probably another hour after lunch, too. I'd say in a given week I probably only do about fifteen minutes of real, actual, work.
When I make a mistake, I have eight different people coming by to tell me about it. That's my only real motivation is not to be hassled; that, and the fear of losing my job. But you know, Bob, that will only make someone work just hard enough not to get fired.
In case you couldn’t tell by now, I am trapped in an episode of Office Space today. You know, if Office Space were a TV show that even had episodes….anyway, you get my point. Today I am Peter Gibbons and my co-workers are all Ninas from corporate accounts payable. And I want to hurt them.
Today’s Office Space plots:
-- We have a team distribution email list. We all get the emails. We all know how to read. Otherwise, we wouldn’t be working here, right? Right. So, if someone gets here at 8 AM (*ahem: ME), and you get here at 9 AM, wouldn’t you assume I’ve already read those emails? Because I did. Why then would you insist on reading those GD emails OUT LOUD? Why? Just why? I don’t get it.
-- Since when did my desk suddenly become some sort of happening hot spot around which all conversations must take place? I mean, I know I’m absolutely fabulous, but must you stand in my area while you participate in your lame excuse for water cooler talk? If you’re not served in a frosty glass, please stay at least four feet away from me at all times. Thank you.
-- Furthering the above point, just because I happen to be sitting nearby does not mean I automatically want or need to be included in your conversations. If I don’t turn to you and acknowledge your presence, you should assume I am not listening to you. Additionally, just because our desks are all open to one another does not mandate that we must speak to each other at all times of the day. Silence is golden.
-- Further furthering the above point, if someone sits right next to you, why are you speaking so loudly? Because I’m pretty sure you can be heard from outer space. Dial it down, why don’t you?
-- Lastly, but certainly not least, it’s Halloween today. Which means of course that the Social Committee is flitting about, wondering where they left last year’s lame-ass plastic pumpkin decorations. Well it’s not going to be in the desk right behind me, because up until about 2 months ago, that was occupied by a person. Why then do you insist on banging around in that desk’s drawers looking for something you know full well is not there?
-- And while I’m ranting against the social committee, I’m not on the goddamn social committee. Why are you asking me about things that the social committee traditionally handles? Oh, because you ‘volunteered’ me for it, against my will? Don’t think so. Voluntarily means I elect not to participate in your insipid activities. In the words of Jerry Seinfeld, I choose not to run.
I suppose this is what I get for working for a large corporation. Next thing you know, I’ll be asked to be wear 37 pieces of flair while I’m in my cubicle. ARGH!!!
I’m off to find some free Halloween chocolate. Maybe that will cheer me up. But, the ratio of people to candy is too big, and the last time we had cake in the office, I was told to pass, and I did not receive a piece of my own....excuse me I believe you have my stapler....and I could set the building on fire....
SAY HELLO TO LUMBERGH FOR ME!
Wednesday, October 31, 2007
Tuesday, October 30, 2007
Is This A.....What Day is This?
I'll tell you what day it is.....it is a Monday in disguise. I knew yesterday's 'good Monday' was a fluke. I should know better. No good Monday goes unpunished. There's no such thing as a good Monday! Monday will just manifest its suckitude on another day. Today is that day. Monday was just waiting an extra day to arrive. It was just lulling us into a false sense of hope that maybe this week wouldn't be so bad after all.
Tuesday is the new Monday. At least for this week.
Maybe I wouldn't feel this way if I hadn't been awakened at 5:33 AM, a full thirty-eight minutes ahead of my alarm by a noise in my ceiling. And not just your ordinary, run-of-the-mill apartment-ceiling noise. That I could handle. No, this was a deliberate and repetitive sound that went on for nearly 15 minutes before finally stopping. A noise something akin to people practicing a figure skating routine with two-by-fours strapped to their feet. The strange thing is that my apartment building has concrete between the floors specifically to guard against such errant noises. I typically can't tell when the clod-hoppers upstairs are plodding towards their refrigerator for a snack while the Jerry Springer show is on a commercial break. So this must have been something in between the ceiling and the concrete. And lucky me, it had to be right above my $%#*ing bedroom.
Good times. (I hope you're picking up on my sarcasm).
I still had hope this day could be salvaged though. Even with the fact that my fantasy football team wound up losing AGAIN this week, I still had hope that Tuesday would not retroactively become Monday. But remember how I take public transportation to work every day?
Yeah.
So there I am, in one of the "three-seater" seats, sitting happily all by myself until about halfway through the ride. It's incredibly rare to have a seat to yourself the entire morning commute, and I've come to accept this. But just because you have to share a seat with someone does not mean you have to sit right on top of them, right? Well apparently, there is a girl on my train who doesn't agree with this. Or she's not aware of the love all normal Americans have for their personal space. Either way, I hate her. She's sat with me on a total of four occasions including today, and each time she has, she will slide into the middle portion of the seat, thereby sitting rightontopofme despite the fact that there's plenty of room for her to STAY ON THE OTHER SIDE!!!
Am I wrong? Am I just letting my childhood backseat behavior and experience with my brother manifest itself into my adulthood? You know what I'm talking about. The whole routine siblings had for surviving the backseat on long car trips to Grandma's house. The proverbial, but very much real, line down the middle of the car that marked your respective territories.. Across this line, you DO NOT. This is my dance space, that is your dance space. The threat of punishment rendered if any sibling violated this most-sacred piece of backseat etiquette was so severe, no one dared to even get close to the middle of the seats. We'd wedge ourselves as close to the walls of the car as possible.
What happened to this custom? I propose an immediate re-institution of this policy on all modes of public transportation.
That's the exact reason I choose the "three-seater" seats in the first place. And I put that in quotes because, let's face it, the "two-seater" seats aren't big enough for 2 people and the same holds true for the "three-seater" ones. The reality is, they're for 2 people. It's uncomfortable when three people have to sit there. Therefore, when you sit down in a "three-seater" where one person already is, why oh WHY would you move closer to that person? It just doesn't make sense to me. Have we learned nothing from Seinfeld and the close-talker? People don't want to sit right next to strangers on the train! This is the exact reason why Hitchcock's "Strangers on a Train" would never work today -- nobody talks to each other on the train, and that's the way we like it.
So needless to say, the close train-sitter further soured my morning. I have to say though, venting on this blog has made me feel slightly better though. That's a plus.
Tuesday is the new Monday. At least for this week.
Maybe I wouldn't feel this way if I hadn't been awakened at 5:33 AM, a full thirty-eight minutes ahead of my alarm by a noise in my ceiling. And not just your ordinary, run-of-the-mill apartment-ceiling noise. That I could handle. No, this was a deliberate and repetitive sound that went on for nearly 15 minutes before finally stopping. A noise something akin to people practicing a figure skating routine with two-by-fours strapped to their feet. The strange thing is that my apartment building has concrete between the floors specifically to guard against such errant noises. I typically can't tell when the clod-hoppers upstairs are plodding towards their refrigerator for a snack while the Jerry Springer show is on a commercial break. So this must have been something in between the ceiling and the concrete. And lucky me, it had to be right above my $%#*ing bedroom.
Good times. (I hope you're picking up on my sarcasm).
I still had hope this day could be salvaged though. Even with the fact that my fantasy football team wound up losing AGAIN this week, I still had hope that Tuesday would not retroactively become Monday. But remember how I take public transportation to work every day?
Yeah.
So there I am, in one of the "three-seater" seats, sitting happily all by myself until about halfway through the ride. It's incredibly rare to have a seat to yourself the entire morning commute, and I've come to accept this. But just because you have to share a seat with someone does not mean you have to sit right on top of them, right? Well apparently, there is a girl on my train who doesn't agree with this. Or she's not aware of the love all normal Americans have for their personal space. Either way, I hate her. She's sat with me on a total of four occasions including today, and each time she has, she will slide into the middle portion of the seat, thereby sitting rightontopofme despite the fact that there's plenty of room for her to STAY ON THE OTHER SIDE!!!
Am I wrong? Am I just letting my childhood backseat behavior and experience with my brother manifest itself into my adulthood? You know what I'm talking about. The whole routine siblings had for surviving the backseat on long car trips to Grandma's house. The proverbial, but very much real, line down the middle of the car that marked your respective territories.. Across this line, you DO NOT. This is my dance space, that is your dance space. The threat of punishment rendered if any sibling violated this most-sacred piece of backseat etiquette was so severe, no one dared to even get close to the middle of the seats. We'd wedge ourselves as close to the walls of the car as possible.
What happened to this custom? I propose an immediate re-institution of this policy on all modes of public transportation.
That's the exact reason I choose the "three-seater" seats in the first place. And I put that in quotes because, let's face it, the "two-seater" seats aren't big enough for 2 people and the same holds true for the "three-seater" ones. The reality is, they're for 2 people. It's uncomfortable when three people have to sit there. Therefore, when you sit down in a "three-seater" where one person already is, why oh WHY would you move closer to that person? It just doesn't make sense to me. Have we learned nothing from Seinfeld and the close-talker? People don't want to sit right next to strangers on the train! This is the exact reason why Hitchcock's "Strangers on a Train" would never work today -- nobody talks to each other on the train, and that's the way we like it.
So needless to say, the close train-sitter further soured my morning. I have to say though, venting on this blog has made me feel slightly better though. That's a plus.
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