I recently watched the Marriage Ref because, let's face it, I was curious. It was one of the earlier episodes, and highlighted in it was a fight over whether the wife should be allowed to keep her deceased first husband's urn and prosthetic leg in the house. Immediately, I was transported back in time to age 6...
As you may know by now, I grew up in CT as a part of a large, close-knit family. Our agreed-upon family policy on birthdays was to celebrate (with parties) the birthdays of my generation through age 16. Whenever we had birthday parties at my house (for me, obviously), all of my cousins would come over and we'd all play together. Usually, we were told to "go down in the basement" because there were so many of us that I'm sure the calm to chaos ratio was far from manageable. Down in the basement, the chaos was allowed to build on itself as we all ran around in the unfinished land of sporting equipment, canned goods, a furnace, antique farming tools, old furniture, and various home and yard products.
One of the games we would play (you know, when running around ceased to satisfy and our innate need for rules in play became apparent) was haunted house. There would be two teams. After the long and drawn out process of choosing sides and then finding the most perfect names for these teams, we were ready to play. Playing entailed one team (let's call them the Avengers, as that was a popular choice) waiting at the top of the stairs as the other (let's call them Wayne Power- inspired by Dwayne Wayne or Wayne Gretsky, I'm not sure, but both are equally likely) set up their haunted house. When team Wayne Power was ready, the Avengers would have to walk through the haunted house. After every member of the Avengers had been through it, the teams would switch. At the end, we'd loosely discuss whose haunted house was scarier.
Team Wayne Power usually won, as their scare tactics included not only the use of antique farm equipment and the old rocking chair with the hole in the seat, but also the use of my grandfather's first prosthetic leg. Avenger after Avenger would walk by the bag where we kept Poppy's leg and scream as it appeared to creep closer and closer. At the time, my grandfather, Poppy, was still alive and partying upstairs with the rest of the adults. Looking back on this event after his passing, however, makes it seem all the more ridiculous. Especially since we kept all of his prosthetics after he updated to newer, better models. I can't imagine the fear we would have felt for three legs creeping our way.
Flashing back to the episode of the Marriage Ref, I can understand why that woman would want to keep her deceased husband's legs; we did, after all, keep Poppy's for quite a while. That being said, it's still inherently creepy. What if her kids are playing haunted house with it?
Showing posts with label memory monday. Show all posts
Showing posts with label memory monday. Show all posts
Saturday, April 17, 2010
Monday, July 27, 2009
Memory Monday: Junk Mail
My very first job was my summer job at age 15. I count this as my first job because a) taxes were taken out of my paycheck, and b) the tasks for which I was held responsible included more than say, weeding, watering plants, doing dishes, dusting, arranging the curtains in the living room (it was a bigger task than you would think), and washing the cars. The tasks for which my 15 year old self was held responsible included inserting several different types of paper into the folding machine, then stuffing them into envelopes. And what was the result? Was I doing this to help some worthy company work toward some lofty goal? Was this mail serving a good purpose, assuming it had a purpose at all? The answer, sadly, is no. The result was heaping stacks of junk mail. Mail so worthless that its inevitable destiny is to be ripped in half on sight and immediately thrown away.
It was hard to get into this job. My other 15 and 16 year old friends (the latter having their licenses) worked at places like the Gap or Johnny's (ice cream and burgers and such) or at a summer camp. They didn't understand how I got stuck stuffing junk mail, and I didn't either. Their jobs provided friends with discounts, free food, or at least some outdoor fun. My job provided nothing to my friends. For me, it provided an intense dislike for "Light 100.5 WRCH New Britain - Hartford!" and required that I wear pants and a sweater to the office, where it was kept at approximately 58 degrees at all times.
My one silver lining? I got to look at several people's last names, and, making my own fun, I would always pick out the weirdest of the bunch. I wish I could remember some! All I can tell you is that the ultimate winner's last name was a complete mouthful and likely did not fit on standardized government forms. I think they made it up.
On a totally different note, this just proves the whole thing about archaeology being a cool job. Discovery even copied my "cool jobs" idea.
It was hard to get into this job. My other 15 and 16 year old friends (the latter having their licenses) worked at places like the Gap or Johnny's (ice cream and burgers and such) or at a summer camp. They didn't understand how I got stuck stuffing junk mail, and I didn't either. Their jobs provided friends with discounts, free food, or at least some outdoor fun. My job provided nothing to my friends. For me, it provided an intense dislike for "Light 100.5 WRCH New Britain - Hartford!" and required that I wear pants and a sweater to the office, where it was kept at approximately 58 degrees at all times.
My one silver lining? I got to look at several people's last names, and, making my own fun, I would always pick out the weirdest of the bunch. I wish I could remember some! All I can tell you is that the ultimate winner's last name was a complete mouthful and likely did not fit on standardized government forms. I think they made it up.
On a totally different note, this just proves the whole thing about archaeology being a cool job. Discovery even copied my "cool jobs" idea.
Monday, July 20, 2009
Memory Monday: Waiting for the mail
Jess and I have started getting response cards for the wedding, and I can't remember the last time I was so excited about the mail. Around noon, I start to get itchy with an itch that only a full mailbox can scratch, but I know that it's still too early. Our mail usually gets here around 2 or so...so I wait. And I wait. And the feeling that there are ants in my pants grows to an unmanageable level. Sometimes, to cope, I listen really hard to see if I can hear the mailman come up our steps. The apartment must be totally silent to allow for accurate listening, and between 1 and 3, most talking ceases. Loud breathers are kicked out (Sparki, I'm talking about your snoring, buddy). Finally, at 2, I take the doggies out and get the mail. Unable to wait until I take them back inside, I start opening response cards as the dogs do their business. Some have come very close to being dropped in poo, and I'm ok with that. Once we return inside, I enter everything into a sick Excel spreadsheet (complete with the percentage of response cards received, total count probabilities, actual counts, and intense formulas) and the process begins all over again.
The last time I was so excited about the mail was probably a few years ago, when I applied to a job that refused to call me or email me to let me know if I got the position. Instead, they snail mailed my forms and congratulations letter and such. The time before that, it was probably getting into grad schools, and the time before that was when I was waiting to hear from colleges. If you want to go way back, the first time I was excited about getting the mail was...well, when I started getting mail! My parents always had magazines and letters and junk mail and bills and newspapers...when I got the mail (one of my chores), I would sift through and hope that something - even one piece of junk mail - was for me. When my best friend started writing me from a summer camp that she attended one year, I was extremely excited. There was driveway dancing involved.
Snail mail is still the most exciting for me out of email, snail mail, and phone calls. I suppose because it's tangible, and also because it's not as common as a phone call or email. It's even exciting when you order something online for yourself and then it comes in 10-14 days later. It's WAY more exciting than buying it at the store. Maybe that part of it is the delayed gratification - during the time you're waiting for your purchase to come in, you're getting more and more psyched about it.
Wow, maybe I should be a postal worker.
OH I can't wait anymore...I'm going to check the mail...again.
The last time I was so excited about the mail was probably a few years ago, when I applied to a job that refused to call me or email me to let me know if I got the position. Instead, they snail mailed my forms and congratulations letter and such. The time before that, it was probably getting into grad schools, and the time before that was when I was waiting to hear from colleges. If you want to go way back, the first time I was excited about getting the mail was...well, when I started getting mail! My parents always had magazines and letters and junk mail and bills and newspapers...when I got the mail (one of my chores), I would sift through and hope that something - even one piece of junk mail - was for me. When my best friend started writing me from a summer camp that she attended one year, I was extremely excited. There was driveway dancing involved.
Snail mail is still the most exciting for me out of email, snail mail, and phone calls. I suppose because it's tangible, and also because it's not as common as a phone call or email. It's even exciting when you order something online for yourself and then it comes in 10-14 days later. It's WAY more exciting than buying it at the store. Maybe that part of it is the delayed gratification - during the time you're waiting for your purchase to come in, you're getting more and more psyched about it.
Wow, maybe I should be a postal worker.
OH I can't wait anymore...I'm going to check the mail...again.
Monday, July 13, 2009
Memory Monday: I don't have a killer instinct
I remember the time in high school when I was trying out for the girls' basketball team, and my future coach, after observing me, pulled me aside and said, "You have the tools, fix it." What he meant was that I had the skills, smarts, and the composition of a good basketball player, but I wasn't aggressive enough. I needed to fix my attitude, because I didn't have that killer instinct that Geno talks about his team having (his team being the UCONN women's basketball team: I grew up in CT and am a big UCONN fan). They don't stop at a lead of 6, 15, 20, or 50. They'll keep playing at that high level regardless of the score. I, however, just wanted to play because playing, and not necessarily playing to win, was fun. I felt bad if my team was up by more than 20 because I knew what it felt like to be down by 20 (we were down by 20 more often than up by 20 because frankly, we weren't that good). I guess that's why I spent a lot of time warming the bench.
Earlier today, I met with a new recruiter. (By new, I mean this is now the 4th recruiting agency I've met with since I became unemployed. Hey, it's always good to have people looking out for you!) Towards the end of the interview, when it became clear that they did not usually place people in marketing research jobs, I asked to speak with their temping department thinking that it would at least be a good idea to find some temp work in marketing for the time being. I met with the temping department and they seemed positive and friendly; everything went well. Then I left the office and remembered one time I had temped for a day at a humongous company downtown. I was charged with organizing and updating the never ending list of the CEO's contacts in Outlook. Looking around at his office, I realized that I lacked the killer instinct to become a CEO. It just didn't seem important to me. Now, I'm not saying being a CEO is a bad thing or putting down the people who are (or want to be) CEOs - those people are fantastic in their own right. But it just wasn't something that was on my list of things to accomplish. And it's not that I'm lazy, afraid of competition on my way to the top, or anything else you might think it is. On the contrary, I'm actually quite hard-working and I like competition. But I don't want to be a giant success, at least not in the sense that a CEO is a giant success. I want to be able to have a job where I can work to live, not live to work.
I'll let you know how that works out.
Earlier today, I met with a new recruiter. (By new, I mean this is now the 4th recruiting agency I've met with since I became unemployed. Hey, it's always good to have people looking out for you!) Towards the end of the interview, when it became clear that they did not usually place people in marketing research jobs, I asked to speak with their temping department thinking that it would at least be a good idea to find some temp work in marketing for the time being. I met with the temping department and they seemed positive and friendly; everything went well. Then I left the office and remembered one time I had temped for a day at a humongous company downtown. I was charged with organizing and updating the never ending list of the CEO's contacts in Outlook. Looking around at his office, I realized that I lacked the killer instinct to become a CEO. It just didn't seem important to me. Now, I'm not saying being a CEO is a bad thing or putting down the people who are (or want to be) CEOs - those people are fantastic in their own right. But it just wasn't something that was on my list of things to accomplish. And it's not that I'm lazy, afraid of competition on my way to the top, or anything else you might think it is. On the contrary, I'm actually quite hard-working and I like competition. But I don't want to be a giant success, at least not in the sense that a CEO is a giant success. I want to be able to have a job where I can work to live, not live to work.
I'll let you know how that works out.
Monday, July 6, 2009
Memory Monday: A launch into my vocal career?
It's funny how, even after you leave a job, little things remain as placeholders or proof that you once worked there. Not only things like certain files or ways of doing things or stress balls or life-size cardboards of Sean Connery -- those are obvious. What I'm talking about are things that face the outside world, to which you are still some sort of face for the company you have left.
For example, in my last position, when you called in to the company and got the outgoing message, you heard a highly Bostonian-accented voice of a woman who hadn't worked at the company for approximately six years. Similarly, I left something of the sort behind at my first major job.
During my interview for that job, it came up that I like to play trumpet and sing. After I got the job and had worked there for a few months, this very fact came up again. We had a telecommunications client who would call into our conferencing system and hear the brand of our system, which just so happened to be their direct competitor. What to do, what to do? My interviewer, who had turned out to be my higher-ranking boss (of which I had at least 3), told IT that I sang and had a great voice, and before I knew it, I was recording “Welcome to the [COMPANY] conference center. Enter your access code, then press pound.”
It was the most fun I had during my entire time at that company. I did on my company laptop in takes, by myself in the office that I usually shared with my direct boss (who was late that day, otherwise he would have been there to distract me with his breathing). I took the time to make sure my vocal inflections and emphases were just right. I put too much "e" in my "a" in one take, was too nasal in another...but when I finally had it just right, I had become the voice of the company. I think I took more pride in this fact than I did in the entire qualitative method and database I single-handedly developed for a major client. Looking back, I realize now that that probably should have told me something.
My voice, welcoming you to the company conference center, is probably still there, even though I haven't worked there for 3 or 4 years now. Even though I disliked working there for the most part, I hope my voice is still there as it will forever be my voice over claim to fame. Maybe I should be the voice mail lady (you know, on cell phones -- "enter your password, then press pound") or one of the readers for audiobooks? This very well may have launched my interest, if not my career, in that direction.
For example, in my last position, when you called in to the company and got the outgoing message, you heard a highly Bostonian-accented voice of a woman who hadn't worked at the company for approximately six years. Similarly, I left something of the sort behind at my first major job.
During my interview for that job, it came up that I like to play trumpet and sing. After I got the job and had worked there for a few months, this very fact came up again. We had a telecommunications client who would call into our conferencing system and hear the brand of our system, which just so happened to be their direct competitor. What to do, what to do? My interviewer, who had turned out to be my higher-ranking boss (of which I had at least 3), told IT that I sang and had a great voice, and before I knew it, I was recording “Welcome to the [COMPANY] conference center. Enter your access code, then press pound.”
It was the most fun I had during my entire time at that company. I did on my company laptop in takes, by myself in the office that I usually shared with my direct boss (who was late that day, otherwise he would have been there to distract me with his breathing). I took the time to make sure my vocal inflections and emphases were just right. I put too much "e" in my "a" in one take, was too nasal in another...but when I finally had it just right, I had become the voice of the company. I think I took more pride in this fact than I did in the entire qualitative method and database I single-handedly developed for a major client. Looking back, I realize now that that probably should have told me something.
My voice, welcoming you to the company conference center, is probably still there, even though I haven't worked there for 3 or 4 years now. Even though I disliked working there for the most part, I hope my voice is still there as it will forever be my voice over claim to fame. Maybe I should be the voice mail lady (you know, on cell phones -- "enter your password, then press pound") or one of the readers for audiobooks? This very well may have launched my interest, if not my career, in that direction.
Monday, June 29, 2009
Memory Monday: Michael Jackson
Needless to say, I, like many others, was sad to hear of Michael Jackson's death this past Thursday. I will remember him for all of the amazing things he did and created. Anything that he was going through and whoever he was helped to create amazing things; not that this excuses him from any wrongdoing in an 'ends justifies the means' kind of way, but for me, the fact that many extremely talented and creative people are somewhat off-balance at least puts things into perspective.
I don't think I've ever met anyone who told me they didn't like Michael Jackson's music. It's impossible to listen to "Thriller" or "Beat It" or "Billie Jean" or "Shake Your Body Down to the Ground" or "The Way You Make Me Feel" or so many others without at least shakin a leg or two. He was an immensely talented person who created music that spoke to millions of people and helped to break countless barriers. I grew up dancing and singing to much of his versatile music that spanned over 40 years; my youth would have been so different if Michael Jackson hadn't been performing during it. He was a part of so many car rides, school dances, weekend afternoons with my cousins when we tried to learn the Thriller choreography, dance recitals, personal hairbrush microphone concerts where I myself was Bad, Halloweens (it's not Halloween until someone plays "Thriller"), cultural references...and still will be for quite a while. The first time I was let go from a job, I played a Michael Jackson mix on my iPod on my way home. Despite my situation, I found myself dancing in my seat on the T. It made me feel better about things and put me in a good mood, something I remembered for the next 2 times I found myself being laid off from a job.
I can't possibly do Michael's choreography justice, otherwise I would leave you with a homemade video dance tribute. Instead, in his honor, I've officially deemed "Don't Stop Til You Get Enough" my jam (as in "That's my JAM!"). Long live the music and dance moves of the King Of Pop.
I don't think I've ever met anyone who told me they didn't like Michael Jackson's music. It's impossible to listen to "Thriller" or "Beat It" or "Billie Jean" or "Shake Your Body Down to the Ground" or "The Way You Make Me Feel" or so many others without at least shakin a leg or two. He was an immensely talented person who created music that spoke to millions of people and helped to break countless barriers. I grew up dancing and singing to much of his versatile music that spanned over 40 years; my youth would have been so different if Michael Jackson hadn't been performing during it. He was a part of so many car rides, school dances, weekend afternoons with my cousins when we tried to learn the Thriller choreography, dance recitals, personal hairbrush microphone concerts where I myself was Bad, Halloweens (it's not Halloween until someone plays "Thriller"), cultural references...and still will be for quite a while. The first time I was let go from a job, I played a Michael Jackson mix on my iPod on my way home. Despite my situation, I found myself dancing in my seat on the T. It made me feel better about things and put me in a good mood, something I remembered for the next 2 times I found myself being laid off from a job.
I can't possibly do Michael's choreography justice, otherwise I would leave you with a homemade video dance tribute. Instead, in his honor, I've officially deemed "Don't Stop Til You Get Enough" my jam (as in "That's my JAM!"). Long live the music and dance moves of the King Of Pop.
Monday, June 22, 2009
Memory Monday: Crazy Technology
Ah yes, Memory Monday: The day when I remember things about old jobs.
During my contracted position, I experienced many fine things (like a first class flight experience with pretty OK Mexican food, working from home, etc.). One such "wow"-inducing thing was their conferencing center technology. Before you yawn and click away from this page, hear me out. This wasn't a teleconferencing sort of thing, where you sit around the phone and struggle to hear people on the other end; where several people always talk at the same time and it takes hours longer to get things done than it would have if you were in person; where you're playing games like duck duck goose with the people on your end to pass the time because the people on the other end can't see you. No, this was not like that. It was a video conferencing system. No, not something you hook up with a webcam on your computer and use with your long distance girl/boyfriend - this was SERIOUS. Video conferencing on steroids, if you will. Not to get all brand-y, but this was Cisco Telepresence - that coolness from the commercials:
In one such meeting where I experienced this delicious technology, there was a half circle table set up with 3 telepresence screens completing the circle across from us. It was so realistic that when one of the people on the other side asked for a pen, my boss reached out to hand her one. Trippy!
What's weird is that was my work from home job. My in-person jobs had the worst technology you could possibly think up. My most recent job was incredibly far behind (I cannot even begin to describe the slowness of the laptop and the nonexistence of its' battery life). Another job I had had teleconferencing systems from one brand, when another was their major client. So, when their major client called in, they heard "welcome to YOUR COMPETITOR'S conferencing system." Nice.
So, I guess what I'm trying to say is that I hope I get another work from home position so I can play with Cisco Telepresence again! At this point, I would take anything with some pay and health insurance, but a girl can dream.
During my contracted position, I experienced many fine things (like a first class flight experience with pretty OK Mexican food, working from home, etc.). One such "wow"-inducing thing was their conferencing center technology. Before you yawn and click away from this page, hear me out. This wasn't a teleconferencing sort of thing, where you sit around the phone and struggle to hear people on the other end; where several people always talk at the same time and it takes hours longer to get things done than it would have if you were in person; where you're playing games like duck duck goose with the people on your end to pass the time because the people on the other end can't see you. No, this was not like that. It was a video conferencing system. No, not something you hook up with a webcam on your computer and use with your long distance girl/boyfriend - this was SERIOUS. Video conferencing on steroids, if you will. Not to get all brand-y, but this was Cisco Telepresence - that coolness from the commercials:
In one such meeting where I experienced this delicious technology, there was a half circle table set up with 3 telepresence screens completing the circle across from us. It was so realistic that when one of the people on the other side asked for a pen, my boss reached out to hand her one. Trippy!
What's weird is that was my work from home job. My in-person jobs had the worst technology you could possibly think up. My most recent job was incredibly far behind (I cannot even begin to describe the slowness of the laptop and the nonexistence of its' battery life). Another job I had had teleconferencing systems from one brand, when another was their major client. So, when their major client called in, they heard "welcome to YOUR COMPETITOR'S conferencing system." Nice.
So, I guess what I'm trying to say is that I hope I get another work from home position so I can play with Cisco Telepresence again! At this point, I would take anything with some pay and health insurance, but a girl can dream.
Monday, June 15, 2009
Memory Monday: Corporate Shwag
At my previous position, on my first day, I was presented with a lovely, tan baseball cap with the name of the company on it. The first thing I noticed was that it was ugly. I mean, UGLY: It was the nasty brownish tan that only looks good on a car's leather interior or on someone's couch they got at a tag sale. The lettering was black, and the company's logo was black and yellow. I was working for the ugly bumble bee company. Great. The second thing I noticed was how excited my boss was to give it to me. Apparently, his daughter designed them and they had just come in the week before I started. He was glowing. I took the hat and thanked him, and when I arrived home, I put the hat into the pile of useless shwag that I planned on trying to sell in a tag sale one day. The next day, my boss asked me if I had received a company hat and started to tell me the story about how his daughter designed them and how proud of her he was and how he started this company with his own two hands...it was my first day, so I said no. And that left me with two ridiculous ugly bumble bee hats.
The best corporate shwag I ever got, though, was at a part time job I had during grad school. There was a company picnic to be held that summer, and being a part of the marketing department, I helped order some of the shwag: Beach balls, portable frisbees that fold up, sunscreen packets, t-shirts, beer cozies, stress balls...my God it was ridiculous! And...and...fantastic! I still have that frisbee.
What's the best corporate shwag you've ever received? The worst?
The best corporate shwag I ever got, though, was at a part time job I had during grad school. There was a company picnic to be held that summer, and being a part of the marketing department, I helped order some of the shwag: Beach balls, portable frisbees that fold up, sunscreen packets, t-shirts, beer cozies, stress balls...my God it was ridiculous! And...and...fantastic! I still have that frisbee.
What's the best corporate shwag you've ever received? The worst?
Monday, June 8, 2009
Memory Monday: Savannah
Today is my first day back from a weekend in Savannah. Yesterday on the plane, I literally had the thought that the trip was so good, Savannah and Jess's cousin's wedding so beautiful, that it would be hard to get up for work tomorrow. And then I remembered, I don't have a job! My feelings were a mix of "phew" and "damnit."
Anyway, thanks to my recent research on photography, I have some cool pictures to share with you from Savannah! I took zillions, so here are just a few:
What do you think -
would you hire me to photograph (or be the second photographer at) your event? (I know, I know, the tower is the most phallic thing ever...but the lighting was kinda cool so I couldn't pass it up!)
Anyway, thanks to my recent research on photography, I have some cool pictures to share with you from Savannah! I took zillions, so here are just a few:
What do you think -
would you hire me to photograph (or be the second photographer at) your event? (I know, I know, the tower is the most phallic thing ever...but the lighting was kinda cool so I couldn't pass it up!)
Monday, May 25, 2009
Memorialy Monday: Have a Tic Tac
Ah, Memory Monday: The day of the week when I reminisce about an old job.
It's Memorial Day, so I've already had a few gin & tonics, but I still wanted to post a MM today. And this MM, it comes in the form of a confession:
It was me. Yes; I was the one who threw the tic tacs into the office across the hall that used to be occupied by the office manager (who quit and left your financials in shambles). Why? Because I was bored. Because the office manager got to leave and I was still stuck there, listening to the Place Games, debating Michelle Obama's hotness, and working on translations with bad technology. Because every time you found one in there, you blamed the former office manager. Because they made a nice little clicking noise when they hit the wall.
Because you all had bad breath.
All of that, plus those fruity tic tacs are the worst. I didn't know what else to do with them.
It's Memorial Day, so I've already had a few gin & tonics, but I still wanted to post a MM today. And this MM, it comes in the form of a confession:
It was me. Yes; I was the one who threw the tic tacs into the office across the hall that used to be occupied by the office manager (who quit and left your financials in shambles). Why? Because I was bored. Because the office manager got to leave and I was still stuck there, listening to the Place Games, debating Michelle Obama's hotness, and working on translations with bad technology. Because every time you found one in there, you blamed the former office manager. Because they made a nice little clicking noise when they hit the wall.
Because you all had bad breath.
All of that, plus those fruity tic tacs are the worst. I didn't know what else to do with them.
Monday, May 18, 2009
Memory Monday: Sean Connery
Ah, Memory Monday: The day of the week when I reminisce about an old job.
When I started my last job, I expected a password-resetting party to occur before I started using my predecessor's computer and such. Instead of going through "all that jazz," as they put it, the company decided to give me my predecessor's passwords for everything. The phone, the computer, everything. Also, they did not take the time to clear out my predecessor's computer, and the desktop, screensaver, and documents were just as she had left them.
"Ok," I thought, "This is probably going to be weird." You're probably thinking that right now, actually. And we were both right.
I turned on the computer and entered her password, written out in bubbly handwriting on a hot pink post-it: Connery**** I thought to myself, "Connery might have been her last name." It wasn't. It started to make sense when the desktop loaded and a photo of Sean Connery circa the James Bond years appeared. It made even more sense when I came back from the bathroom and found that Mr. Connery constituted 100% of the screen saver pictures. My predecessor was obsessed with Sean Connery, ok, I got it.
It got worse. At lunch, I had to look at a cardboard cut out of Sean Connery (and another of Darth Vader, but that's another story all together) as I ate my PB&Js in the break room. (As a side note, why they kept that cut out, I was never certain. Why didn't the obsessed take it with her?) And when I had to check my voice messages, what was my password? Connery****. Awesome.
Weeks into my job, I wasn't used to the Connery Craziness. I found myself wanting to answer the phone, "Your mother's a whore, Trebek." Never has a job inspired me to say such things. I was troubled, and I'm glad those days are over.
When I started my last job, I expected a password-resetting party to occur before I started using my predecessor's computer and such. Instead of going through "all that jazz," as they put it, the company decided to give me my predecessor's passwords for everything. The phone, the computer, everything. Also, they did not take the time to clear out my predecessor's computer, and the desktop, screensaver, and documents were just as she had left them.
"Ok," I thought, "This is probably going to be weird." You're probably thinking that right now, actually. And we were both right.
I turned on the computer and entered her password, written out in bubbly handwriting on a hot pink post-it: Connery**** I thought to myself, "Connery might have been her last name." It wasn't. It started to make sense when the desktop loaded and a photo of Sean Connery circa the James Bond years appeared. It made even more sense when I came back from the bathroom and found that Mr. Connery constituted 100% of the screen saver pictures. My predecessor was obsessed with Sean Connery, ok, I got it.
It got worse. At lunch, I had to look at a cardboard cut out of Sean Connery (and another of Darth Vader, but that's another story all together) as I ate my PB&Js in the break room. (As a side note, why they kept that cut out, I was never certain. Why didn't the obsessed take it with her?) And when I had to check my voice messages, what was my password? Connery****. Awesome.
Weeks into my job, I wasn't used to the Connery Craziness. I found myself wanting to answer the phone, "Your mother's a whore, Trebek." Never has a job inspired me to say such things. I was troubled, and I'm glad those days are over.
Monday, May 11, 2009
Memory Monday: Printer Error
Ah, Memory Monday: The day of the week when I reminisce about an old job.
There were plenty of non-green things about my most recent position. For instance, I was never emailed a file to review. "Oh no, reports must always be printed out," they'd say. It got to the point where when I heard the printer charge up (the thing was from 1990 and everyone in the office had a personal relationship with the printer repair guy), I knew that a report was coming my way, and that I'd have to check the data and run significance testing for it. I'm not sure where the disconnect with my coworkers occurred, because I remember telling them on many occasions that I don't mind reviewing things or reading a lot on a computer screen. But it was, apparently, a very hard habit for them to break, and large reports (we're talking 180+ PowerPoint slides, here) were still printed, all so I could review a small 15- page section.
On one occasion, my coworker emailed me. The subject line was "[CLIENT] report." I was so excited: Had she finally remembered and just sent it to me via email?
I opened the email.
No: She sent me an email requesting that I print out the report and then check the data and run significance testing for it.
But this time, at least there was a reason: She would be in the document and we couldn't have any version perversion, now could we?
So I set up the 80-pager for print, hit print, and went on to something else.
A few minutes later, while my document was about a quarter of the way done with printing, I noticed my boss make an awkward bee-line for the printer. It was so awkward that it looked like 90's power walking meets "I'm going to poop in my pants." When he arrived, he started to rifle through my stuff, picking up pages and putting them down out of order.
"Who is printing now?" he said, almost exasperated and certainly beyond a reasonable level of confusion. Maybe he was going to poop his pants?
"I am," I said, jumping out from behind my desk before he could do any more damage to the order of things. "It's a large document, so it's probably going to take a while."
"Oh..." He ran his hand over his balding head, and I thought I saw him sweat a little. What in the world was wrong with Captain Awkward Pants now?
He continued. "...because I'm printing something..."
"Oh, ok. Well, I can bring it to you when it prints out, if you want..." In my head, I added "weirdo..."
"No!" He erupted as if someone had just snuck up behind him and surprised him with a big ol' squeeze 'round the middle. He recovered quickly. "No, that's ok, thanks. I'll be back in a minute." He went to the kitchen about 2 feet away for some water. I stood by the printer unwilling to move: I wanted to see what he was printing! For some reason, I found myself thinking it was going to be some wild recipe. Like how to cook a guinea pig in goat's milk, or something.
As I waited, he kept poking his head out of the kitchen to see if I had left and/or if my document had completed printing yet. What a creeper! I thought to myself. I stood my ground.
Finally, what seemed like years later, my report was done printing and his document was getting fired up to print. I picked up the first page...
Christian Science Church Group
Bible verses.
Bible verses and activities and --
"Thanks," he said, snatching page one out of my hand, completely red in the face and ears.
I went back to my desk.
I wasn't sure if it beat the guinea pig in goat's milk recipe, but it was pretty darn close.
There were plenty of non-green things about my most recent position. For instance, I was never emailed a file to review. "Oh no, reports must always be printed out," they'd say. It got to the point where when I heard the printer charge up (the thing was from 1990 and everyone in the office had a personal relationship with the printer repair guy), I knew that a report was coming my way, and that I'd have to check the data and run significance testing for it. I'm not sure where the disconnect with my coworkers occurred, because I remember telling them on many occasions that I don't mind reviewing things or reading a lot on a computer screen. But it was, apparently, a very hard habit for them to break, and large reports (we're talking 180+ PowerPoint slides, here) were still printed, all so I could review a small 15- page section.
On one occasion, my coworker emailed me. The subject line was "[CLIENT] report." I was so excited: Had she finally remembered and just sent it to me via email?
I opened the email.
No: She sent me an email requesting that I print out the report and then check the data and run significance testing for it.
But this time, at least there was a reason: She would be in the document and we couldn't have any version perversion, now could we?
So I set up the 80-pager for print, hit print, and went on to something else.
A few minutes later, while my document was about a quarter of the way done with printing, I noticed my boss make an awkward bee-line for the printer. It was so awkward that it looked like 90's power walking meets "I'm going to poop in my pants." When he arrived, he started to rifle through my stuff, picking up pages and putting them down out of order.
"Who is printing now?" he said, almost exasperated and certainly beyond a reasonable level of confusion. Maybe he was going to poop his pants?
"I am," I said, jumping out from behind my desk before he could do any more damage to the order of things. "It's a large document, so it's probably going to take a while."
"Oh..." He ran his hand over his balding head, and I thought I saw him sweat a little. What in the world was wrong with Captain Awkward Pants now?
He continued. "...because I'm printing something..."
"Oh, ok. Well, I can bring it to you when it prints out, if you want..." In my head, I added "weirdo..."
"No!" He erupted as if someone had just snuck up behind him and surprised him with a big ol' squeeze 'round the middle. He recovered quickly. "No, that's ok, thanks. I'll be back in a minute." He went to the kitchen about 2 feet away for some water. I stood by the printer unwilling to move: I wanted to see what he was printing! For some reason, I found myself thinking it was going to be some wild recipe. Like how to cook a guinea pig in goat's milk, or something.
As I waited, he kept poking his head out of the kitchen to see if I had left and/or if my document had completed printing yet. What a creeper! I thought to myself. I stood my ground.
Finally, what seemed like years later, my report was done printing and his document was getting fired up to print. I picked up the first page...
Christian Science Church Group
Bible verses.
Bible verses and activities and --
"Thanks," he said, snatching page one out of my hand, completely red in the face and ears.
I went back to my desk.
I wasn't sure if it beat the guinea pig in goat's milk recipe, but it was pretty darn close.
Monday, May 4, 2009
Memory Monday: In-flight meal
Ah, Memory Monday: The day of the week when I reminisce about an old job.
This week, perhaps inspired by my last post (related to flying), the thought bubble above my head reveals a memory from my contracted position. Man, did I love that job! I got to work from home and the work was exactly what I wanted to do (most of the time)! But then, my contract was up. Pants. Anyway, I digress. My MM today is about the first time I had to fly to Chicago to meet my boss and the other folks I was working with for my contracted position.
It was my first time flying to Chicago, and my first time traveling for work in general. It was all so new and sexy to me that I was actually excited to create my expense report when I was back to Boston. I booked my room at the Renaissance, the company's preferred hotel, signed up for some frequent flier miles, and looked for a flight. The only available seat on flights that day (on the company's preferred airline) was in first class. I called my boss to make sure this was alright. She said it was fine. I was pumped, and bought the ticket.
I grabbed a bite to eat and left Boston around dinner time. Little did I know that a meal would be served in first class! I was excited, but then remembered my last experience with food on a plane... it was 1989 and I was 7. The "food" was rubbery, vomit-inducing, and tasted like a hospital smells. I don't even remember what it purported to be (and apparently it purported to be three things because there were three compartments for three differently-colored "foods"), but all of it sure tasted like it was more closely related to play-doh than real food. (Thought: Maybe that was why airlines ended up removing meal service from flights? ...Pondering... Oh, no: It was 'cause they're cheap.)
SO, needless to say, my stomach and digestive system began to worry. I patted them to reassure them, and an airline attendant asked me what I would like from the menu. I had no idea there was a menu! For some reason, a menu indicated to me that the food's quality must have improved since the play-doh days. He handed me the menu and I eagerly looked it over. From the 3 or 4 delicious-sounding choices, I chose the enchilada. Perhaps not the wisest decision, considering my gastrointestinal worries from a few minutes prior, but a decision I made with gusto.
The meal arrived a few minutes later. I picked up my plastic fork and took a deep breath. It actually smelled good- not like play-doh at all! Convinced, my stomach gave me the go-ahead and I took a bite. Really quite passable was my first reaction. I chewed, and it blossomed into this is pretty good! I mean, it certainly wasn't the best enchilada I'd ever had, but it was pretty good and I didn't feel like I could make little play-doh animals out of it. That's saying a lot for airline food!
Pleasantly surprised and impressed, I looked around to see if anyone else was enjoying their meal as much as I was. One guy was chewing ravenously, but perfunctorily. Another hadn't touched his meal and was passed out cold on the window. The woman next to me had had one bite and dabbed her mouth with her napkin in defeat. What was wrong with these people - this was a total win for the airline (not to mention our stomachs)! Then I realized that they were probably frequent first class travelers and this was not news to them. I turned back to my meal and quitely savored a bite of rice.
By the time the meal was over, I realized I never wanted to get to that point where I took my first class priveledges for granted. I made sure my next flight to Chicago was back in the cabin with the screaming babies and people with unidentifiable illnesses, just so that next passable Mexican meal from the menu would maintain its specialness.
This week, perhaps inspired by my last post (related to flying), the thought bubble above my head reveals a memory from my contracted position. Man, did I love that job! I got to work from home and the work was exactly what I wanted to do (most of the time)! But then, my contract was up. Pants. Anyway, I digress. My MM today is about the first time I had to fly to Chicago to meet my boss and the other folks I was working with for my contracted position.
It was my first time flying to Chicago, and my first time traveling for work in general. It was all so new and sexy to me that I was actually excited to create my expense report when I was back to Boston. I booked my room at the Renaissance, the company's preferred hotel, signed up for some frequent flier miles, and looked for a flight. The only available seat on flights that day (on the company's preferred airline) was in first class. I called my boss to make sure this was alright. She said it was fine. I was pumped, and bought the ticket.
I grabbed a bite to eat and left Boston around dinner time. Little did I know that a meal would be served in first class! I was excited, but then remembered my last experience with food on a plane... it was 1989 and I was 7. The "food" was rubbery, vomit-inducing, and tasted like a hospital smells. I don't even remember what it purported to be (and apparently it purported to be three things because there were three compartments for three differently-colored "foods"), but all of it sure tasted like it was more closely related to play-doh than real food. (Thought: Maybe that was why airlines ended up removing meal service from flights? ...Pondering... Oh, no: It was 'cause they're cheap.)
SO, needless to say, my stomach and digestive system began to worry. I patted them to reassure them, and an airline attendant asked me what I would like from the menu. I had no idea there was a menu! For some reason, a menu indicated to me that the food's quality must have improved since the play-doh days. He handed me the menu and I eagerly looked it over. From the 3 or 4 delicious-sounding choices, I chose the enchilada. Perhaps not the wisest decision, considering my gastrointestinal worries from a few minutes prior, but a decision I made with gusto.
The meal arrived a few minutes later. I picked up my plastic fork and took a deep breath. It actually smelled good- not like play-doh at all! Convinced, my stomach gave me the go-ahead and I took a bite. Really quite passable was my first reaction. I chewed, and it blossomed into this is pretty good! I mean, it certainly wasn't the best enchilada I'd ever had, but it was pretty good and I didn't feel like I could make little play-doh animals out of it. That's saying a lot for airline food!
Pleasantly surprised and impressed, I looked around to see if anyone else was enjoying their meal as much as I was. One guy was chewing ravenously, but perfunctorily. Another hadn't touched his meal and was passed out cold on the window. The woman next to me had had one bite and dabbed her mouth with her napkin in defeat. What was wrong with these people - this was a total win for the airline (not to mention our stomachs)! Then I realized that they were probably frequent first class travelers and this was not news to them. I turned back to my meal and quitely savored a bite of rice.
By the time the meal was over, I realized I never wanted to get to that point where I took my first class priveledges for granted. I made sure my next flight to Chicago was back in the cabin with the screaming babies and people with unidentifiable illnesses, just so that next passable Mexican meal from the menu would maintain its specialness.
Monday, April 27, 2009
Memory Monday: Operation "Ho Ho Hose the New Guy"
Ah, Memory Monday: The day of the week when I reminisce about an old job. This week, I'm going back to my old favorite for MMs: My most recent job in Wherethehellisthat, MA.
When I started that job, it was the beginning of December and the holiday season. The company I worked for was a family business, with the type of family-owned business practices that make your head spin (the HR department was the boss's wife). Everyone was very close, something that I could tell right away. One of my coworkers had even invited the boss & One-Woman HR to her wedding and frequently went out with the accountant, the office manager, and their husbands. This was more than the "hey, let's grab a drink after work" environment. This was a "why don't you come over for Thanksgiving dinner?" kind of environment.
At first, I thought I liked the idea of a close-knit office. I sort of had no choice but to like these 4 people because they were the only 4 people I saw every day. It wasn't like I could make other friends within the company or avoid them at lunch. This was why I was an easy target for Operation "Ho Ho Hose the New Guy."
It was my third day of working at this place. I was asking my co-worker if there was anything else I should be working on, when she said, "Actually, I've been meaning to ask you something." What would it be: Is there something in my teeth? Do you celebrate Christmas? Can you recommend a restaurant in Boston? Do you like mushrooms? Is that your natural hair color? What?
She continued, "Would you want to contribute to the gift we got for our boss and his family?" Huh. Well there was a sticky situation. If I said yes, I had to contribute $28 bucks for hand-made Christmas ornaments they got for each member of the 7-person family. I didn't even know these people yet, and I certainly wasn't ready to invite them to my wedding. BUT, if I said no, I would never be invited to Thanksgiving Dinner at their house. Not that I wanted to be: They lived on a farm and raised their own turkeys that they killed day-of, something I wasn't ready to experience. I did want to make a good impression, however, as I was still new and didn't have any other options for office friends.
So I said yes and paid up. Looking back on this, I feel a little like I got hosed.
When I started that job, it was the beginning of December and the holiday season. The company I worked for was a family business, with the type of family-owned business practices that make your head spin (the HR department was the boss's wife). Everyone was very close, something that I could tell right away. One of my coworkers had even invited the boss & One-Woman HR to her wedding and frequently went out with the accountant, the office manager, and their husbands. This was more than the "hey, let's grab a drink after work" environment. This was a "why don't you come over for Thanksgiving dinner?" kind of environment.
At first, I thought I liked the idea of a close-knit office. I sort of had no choice but to like these 4 people because they were the only 4 people I saw every day. It wasn't like I could make other friends within the company or avoid them at lunch. This was why I was an easy target for Operation "Ho Ho Hose the New Guy."
It was my third day of working at this place. I was asking my co-worker if there was anything else I should be working on, when she said, "Actually, I've been meaning to ask you something." What would it be: Is there something in my teeth? Do you celebrate Christmas? Can you recommend a restaurant in Boston? Do you like mushrooms? Is that your natural hair color? What?
She continued, "Would you want to contribute to the gift we got for our boss and his family?" Huh. Well there was a sticky situation. If I said yes, I had to contribute $28 bucks for hand-made Christmas ornaments they got for each member of the 7-person family. I didn't even know these people yet, and I certainly wasn't ready to invite them to my wedding. BUT, if I said no, I would never be invited to Thanksgiving Dinner at their house. Not that I wanted to be: They lived on a farm and raised their own turkeys that they killed day-of, something I wasn't ready to experience. I did want to make a good impression, however, as I was still new and didn't have any other options for office friends.
So I said yes and paid up. Looking back on this, I feel a little like I got hosed.
Monday, April 20, 2009
Memory Monday: Monkeys and Responsibilities
Ah, Memory Monday: The day of the week when I reminisce about an old job. This MM is likely to feel like a montage. Feel free to add your own musical score.
For one of my summer jobs, my responsibilities included answering the phone. The phone rang about once a day, so I spent most of my time sitting at my desk, reading "The Lord of the Rings." A monkey could have done it (well, maybe not the reading "The Lord of the Rings" part). I was fifteen or so, so I was that monkey.
On my first day, I remember my boss asking me, "When you answer the phone, you say 'Hello, (company name), this is Pam. How may I transfer your call?' and then you transfer it by hitting this button and then one of three extensions. Do you think you can do that?" I was insulted: Of course I could handle that! I thought, 'I'm getting an A in honors Chemistry; I can so answer the phone!' I didn't understand yet that at fifteen, you really are a monkey, and answering phones and doing data entry's about all any boss can trust you to do.
So I went on with my monkey work, vowing one day to have a real job with real responsibilities.
And then I got that real job and no longer wanted them. Those responsibilities, like getting quotes from vendors and doing statistical analysis on qualitative and quantitative data, were enough to scare the pants off of me. What if I made a mistake? My monkey days were over and mistakes were no longer acceptable. My boss would not say "oh, you're just a monkey; don't worry about it! Here, have a banana." Worse, there would be no endless fountain of second chances.
It was at my second job, when I worked from home, that I finally shed my monkey skin. I ate responsibility like it was cake and begged for additional helpings like one of the corduroy children. They gave me more responsibility until I became fat and sassy with confidence.
Then, at my next job (my most recent job), I went through responsibility withdrawal. My boss asked me questions like, "Are you sure you're ready to take this on?" about things I had done on a daily basis at my previous job. Now, I had every right be insulted because it felt like I had taken a step down from where I was. I felt like I was a monkey again.
And now, being unemployed, I'm not sure what my next job will be like. Will I be a monkey, or will I have responsibilities again? It really could go either way, and I'm finding that it no longer matters which.
For one of my summer jobs, my responsibilities included answering the phone. The phone rang about once a day, so I spent most of my time sitting at my desk, reading "The Lord of the Rings." A monkey could have done it (well, maybe not the reading "The Lord of the Rings" part). I was fifteen or so, so I was that monkey.
On my first day, I remember my boss asking me, "When you answer the phone, you say 'Hello, (company name), this is Pam. How may I transfer your call?' and then you transfer it by hitting this button and then one of three extensions. Do you think you can do that?" I was insulted: Of course I could handle that! I thought, 'I'm getting an A in honors Chemistry; I can so answer the phone!' I didn't understand yet that at fifteen, you really are a monkey, and answering phones and doing data entry's about all any boss can trust you to do.
So I went on with my monkey work, vowing one day to have a real job with real responsibilities.
And then I got that real job and no longer wanted them. Those responsibilities, like getting quotes from vendors and doing statistical analysis on qualitative and quantitative data, were enough to scare the pants off of me. What if I made a mistake? My monkey days were over and mistakes were no longer acceptable. My boss would not say "oh, you're just a monkey; don't worry about it! Here, have a banana." Worse, there would be no endless fountain of second chances.
It was at my second job, when I worked from home, that I finally shed my monkey skin. I ate responsibility like it was cake and begged for additional helpings like one of the corduroy children. They gave me more responsibility until I became fat and sassy with confidence.
Then, at my next job (my most recent job), I went through responsibility withdrawal. My boss asked me questions like, "Are you sure you're ready to take this on?" about things I had done on a daily basis at my previous job. Now, I had every right be insulted because it felt like I had taken a step down from where I was. I felt like I was a monkey again.
And now, being unemployed, I'm not sure what my next job will be like. Will I be a monkey, or will I have responsibilities again? It really could go either way, and I'm finding that it no longer matters which.
Monday, April 13, 2009
Memory Monday: Would you like to buy a vacuum?
Ah, Memory Monday: The day of the week when I reminisce about an old job.
I sold Rainbows one summer. No, it's not a metaphor; I worked for Rexair as one of their Rainbow vacuum salespeople.
Yes, this was a clear precursor to my gayness.
No, I didn't go door to door.
I did, however, do demonstrations for everyone I knew. This is probably because I was very excited about this vacuum cleaner. In fact, I was sold on these amazing machines from day one, and still want to buy one.
Why?
Oh I'm so glad you asked!
First, they don't even use bags! Tell me you're not intrigued!
Well, what in the dickens do they use, you ask? Water. I know, right?!
During my presentation, I would lead by telling my captive audience about the Rainbow's use of water. Every time, they became curious (read: skeptical).
Step two in the presentation was explaining all of the features of the Rainbow.
Step three, my favorite, was the "reasons why your vacuum sucks" step (or more appropriately titled, "reasons why your vacuum doesn't suck"). I'd get into the physics of it. It was sick. The part of my presentation that almost sold people every time was the "Rainbow vs. [INSERT POTENTIAL CLIENT'S VACUUM HERE]" test that occurred during this step. I'd put a piece of cloth in the nozzle of each vacuum, then use their vacuum to go over the same spot of rug 100 times. All the while, and it was a while, I'd be explaining the physics and what was going on with their vacuum. "It's just spitting things out the back and not sucking up what it should," I'd say. Then, I'd take out the cloth and show them the dirt. THEN, with the excitement building, I would go over the same spot of rug with the Rainbow only once and show them the cloth...and it would be even dirtier than the other cloth! "Wow!" they'd exclaim. "My house is so dirty! I'm so embarrased! Get out!" And I'd go, "I know, isn't the Rainbow great?!"
Then step four, my least favorite part of the presentation, was to basically say, "hey wanna buy one?" If they said no, they still got a free gift (usually a Ginsu knife) for giving me 5 leads, and I still got my $20 per presentation. But the bottom line is that in a whole summer, I didn't sell one Rainbow. Not one! My guess is it was probably because it cost $1180. But they last 25 years - 4x longer than any other vacuum! My friends' parents and my relatives, however, could not be swayed.
But I believe in Rainbows, and one day, I will buy one.
PS- Hey Rexair: You're welcome.
I sold Rainbows one summer. No, it's not a metaphor; I worked for Rexair as one of their Rainbow vacuum salespeople.
Yes, this was a clear precursor to my gayness.
No, I didn't go door to door.
I did, however, do demonstrations for everyone I knew. This is probably because I was very excited about this vacuum cleaner. In fact, I was sold on these amazing machines from day one, and still want to buy one.
Why?
Oh I'm so glad you asked!
First, they don't even use bags! Tell me you're not intrigued!
Well, what in the dickens do they use, you ask? Water. I know, right?!
During my presentation, I would lead by telling my captive audience about the Rainbow's use of water. Every time, they became curious (read: skeptical).
Step two in the presentation was explaining all of the features of the Rainbow.
Step three, my favorite, was the "reasons why your vacuum sucks" step (or more appropriately titled, "reasons why your vacuum doesn't suck"). I'd get into the physics of it. It was sick. The part of my presentation that almost sold people every time was the "Rainbow vs. [INSERT POTENTIAL CLIENT'S VACUUM HERE]" test that occurred during this step. I'd put a piece of cloth in the nozzle of each vacuum, then use their vacuum to go over the same spot of rug 100 times. All the while, and it was a while, I'd be explaining the physics and what was going on with their vacuum. "It's just spitting things out the back and not sucking up what it should," I'd say. Then, I'd take out the cloth and show them the dirt. THEN, with the excitement building, I would go over the same spot of rug with the Rainbow only once and show them the cloth...and it would be even dirtier than the other cloth! "Wow!" they'd exclaim. "My house is so dirty! I'm so embarrased! Get out!" And I'd go, "I know, isn't the Rainbow great?!"
Then step four, my least favorite part of the presentation, was to basically say, "hey wanna buy one?" If they said no, they still got a free gift (usually a Ginsu knife) for giving me 5 leads, and I still got my $20 per presentation. But the bottom line is that in a whole summer, I didn't sell one Rainbow. Not one! My guess is it was probably because it cost $1180. But they last 25 years - 4x longer than any other vacuum! My friends' parents and my relatives, however, could not be swayed.
But I believe in Rainbows, and one day, I will buy one.
PS- Hey Rexair: You're welcome.
Monday, April 6, 2009
Memory Monday: Lost in Translation
Ah, Memory Monday: The day of the week when I reminisce about an old job.
For me, one of the finer points of being in marketing research was analyzing the international open-ended answers from surveys. For example, one common survey question asks respondents to state the one thing that XYZ company could do to improve their service. Many surveys with these sorts of open-ended questions that let respondents type in their answers freely were administered not only here in the US, but abroad as well in countries ranging from India to Russia to France.
There are 2 memories we need to discuss.
Number one: My latest employer sometimes didn't have time to get these international responses translated. Really, they were just incredibly cheap. Luckily, though, the questions required short answers. As a result, my former employer decided that free online translation services, such as Babel Fish, would suffice.
For the first 4 days of my work there, I translated Russian, German, and Japanese responses into English using this amazingly inaccurate service. ALL of the translations were terrible and didn't really make any sense. I remember one example was something like, "With the net it needs [PRODUCT] just, the home delivery it does to the home." I'm sorry, what? I'm sure you didn't mean that, Hiromi from Toyko. What it is you did mean, well, we will probably never know.
Number two: My favorite encounter, however, with international translations was at my first job. They were a larger company, and spent the big bucks to have responses in other languages translated back into English by a professional translation company.
There was one project where the open-ended question required a long response, and it was my responsibility to go through about 100 of these and record some trends. Around translation 79, I was starting to get loopy, and so I thought I imagined reading "I knew in my technical heart" on the transcript. What? You knew in your technical heart? I was confused. Maybe this gentleman just meant he knew something in his heart? I read on, but that didn't seem to make much sense either. Something was literally lost in translation.
To this day I still say "I knew in my technical heart" as a saying...
...no one understands why or what it means, but for some reason, it warms me.
Over the years, there have been plenty of translation mishaps. It was a plus of working in the industry; a little something to look forward to amidst the cornucopia of crap. And now, if you ask me, "Do you miss it, Pam?" I would smile, almost wistfully, and say, "It's taken some time, but I've learned to live without the translations. No, it's the money I miss..." And so, the lesson here is "miss the money, never for the working," or at least that was what it said when I translated it in Babel Fish.
For me, one of the finer points of being in marketing research was analyzing the international open-ended answers from surveys. For example, one common survey question asks respondents to state the one thing that XYZ company could do to improve their service. Many surveys with these sorts of open-ended questions that let respondents type in their answers freely were administered not only here in the US, but abroad as well in countries ranging from India to Russia to France.
There are 2 memories we need to discuss.
Number one: My latest employer sometimes didn't have time to get these international responses translated. Really, they were just incredibly cheap. Luckily, though, the questions required short answers. As a result, my former employer decided that free online translation services, such as Babel Fish, would suffice.
For the first 4 days of my work there, I translated Russian, German, and Japanese responses into English using this amazingly inaccurate service. ALL of the translations were terrible and didn't really make any sense. I remember one example was something like, "With the net it needs [PRODUCT] just, the home delivery it does to the home." I'm sorry, what? I'm sure you didn't mean that, Hiromi from Toyko. What it is you did mean, well, we will probably never know.
Number two: My favorite encounter, however, with international translations was at my first job. They were a larger company, and spent the big bucks to have responses in other languages translated back into English by a professional translation company.
There was one project where the open-ended question required a long response, and it was my responsibility to go through about 100 of these and record some trends. Around translation 79, I was starting to get loopy, and so I thought I imagined reading "I knew in my technical heart" on the transcript. What? You knew in your technical heart? I was confused. Maybe this gentleman just meant he knew something in his heart? I read on, but that didn't seem to make much sense either. Something was literally lost in translation.
To this day I still say "I knew in my technical heart" as a saying...
...no one understands why or what it means, but for some reason, it warms me.
Over the years, there have been plenty of translation mishaps. It was a plus of working in the industry; a little something to look forward to amidst the cornucopia of crap. And now, if you ask me, "Do you miss it, Pam?" I would smile, almost wistfully, and say, "It's taken some time, but I've learned to live without the translations. No, it's the money I miss..." And so, the lesson here is "miss the money, never for the working," or at least that was what it said when I translated it in Babel Fish.
Monday, March 30, 2009
Memory Monday: Michelle Obama and her hotness
Ah, Memory Monday: The day of the week when I reminisce about an old job.
This MM, I reflect on an uncomfortable encounter with my boss at my most recent position.
It was some time around the inauguration of President Obama, and I was eating my lunch alone in the break room. It was only my boss and I in the office that day, and he was on the phone when I announced my intent to eat "lunch now" both in the common area and via email. I didn't want to eat lunch with him; he wasn't really my favorite person, and to boot, my fake smile was in the shop. So, I sat down with my toasted turkey and swiss cheese sandwich on sufficiently hot-sauced Fiber One bread (no, it's really good!) and breathed a sigh of relief.
The break room was so pleasant when it was just my turkey sandwich and me. The mini fridge circa 1992 gave off a pleasant hum, the sink a disfunctional trickle. The K-cup machine, for once, was silent. With a warm bite of sandwich in my mouth, I closed my eyes, thankful that this moment of solitude was not lost somewhere in the ubsurdity of the Place Games. A small sigh escaped my lips.
Ruining everything, my boss entered. The melody and harmony of the fridge and sink, like small forrest animals, sensed his presence and scampered away, out of earshot. He turned on the K-cup machine and started to brew his ninth cup of terrible coffee. My sandwich and I flinched at the incessant "BWOONNNNNNN" of the K-cup hulk as it heated the water. Solitude over. I donned the fakest of fake smiles as he sat down with a cold piece of pizza.
As a side note, maybe this makes me a communist or something, but I can't do cold pizza. I will gladly wait the minute and a half for the toaster oven to return it to its former glory, because cold, pizza tastes mushy and stupid. There, I said it.
My boss added to the chorus of ugly sounds by chewing his cold piece of nasty rather loudly. I felt like I would throw up. But then it got even worse: He decided to start a conversation.
Boss, holding up the newspaper, a droopy looking onion dripping off his chin: Oh look the Obamas are on the front page. That was a great innauguration. (or something to that effect -- I don't remember; I was distracted by the onion as it tried to escape his face)
Me: Oh yeah, it really was.
I don't remember what I said; I think I might have blacked out.
He didn't say anything about the good stuff she's done already, what she stands for, nothing. I hadn't expected him to, and I don't know if that conversation would have been appropriate in the workplace either. But the road he went down was definitely not a road I wanted to travel with my boss!
I probably said something like "You have onion on your chin" to change the subject, followed by "oh, gotta go; I have a call in a few minutes." I'll let you in on a secret: I never had a call.
Lessons I learned that day:
This MM, I reflect on an uncomfortable encounter with my boss at my most recent position.
It was some time around the inauguration of President Obama, and I was eating my lunch alone in the break room. It was only my boss and I in the office that day, and he was on the phone when I announced my intent to eat "lunch now" both in the common area and via email. I didn't want to eat lunch with him; he wasn't really my favorite person, and to boot, my fake smile was in the shop. So, I sat down with my toasted turkey and swiss cheese sandwich on sufficiently hot-sauced Fiber One bread (no, it's really good!) and breathed a sigh of relief.
The break room was so pleasant when it was just my turkey sandwich and me. The mini fridge circa 1992 gave off a pleasant hum, the sink a disfunctional trickle. The K-cup machine, for once, was silent. With a warm bite of sandwich in my mouth, I closed my eyes, thankful that this moment of solitude was not lost somewhere in the ubsurdity of the Place Games. A small sigh escaped my lips.
Ruining everything, my boss entered. The melody and harmony of the fridge and sink, like small forrest animals, sensed his presence and scampered away, out of earshot. He turned on the K-cup machine and started to brew his ninth cup of terrible coffee. My sandwich and I flinched at the incessant "BWOONNNNNNN" of the K-cup hulk as it heated the water. Solitude over. I donned the fakest of fake smiles as he sat down with a cold piece of pizza.
As a side note, maybe this makes me a communist or something, but I can't do cold pizza. I will gladly wait the minute and a half for the toaster oven to return it to its former glory, because cold, pizza tastes mushy and stupid. There, I said it.
My boss added to the chorus of ugly sounds by chewing his cold piece of nasty rather loudly. I felt like I would throw up. But then it got even worse: He decided to start a conversation.
Boss, holding up the newspaper, a droopy looking onion dripping off his chin: Oh look the Obamas are on the front page. That was a great innauguration. (or something to that effect -- I don't remember; I was distracted by the onion as it tried to escape his face)
Me: Oh yeah, it really was.
And then it hit me in the face like...like...like a cold, droopy onion...Boss: Isn't Michelle Obama HOT?
I don't remember what I said; I think I might have blacked out.
He didn't say anything about the good stuff she's done already, what she stands for, nothing. I hadn't expected him to, and I don't know if that conversation would have been appropriate in the workplace either. But the road he went down was definitely not a road I wanted to travel with my boss!
I probably said something like "You have onion on your chin" to change the subject, followed by "oh, gotta go; I have a call in a few minutes." I'll let you in on a secret: I never had a call.
Lessons I learned that day:
- When it was only Mr. Droopy Onion Chin and myself, I would henceforth eat my lunch in my own office.
- The topic of Michelle Obama's hotness is a good one to bring up at parties. I find there are equal numbers in the hot and not-hot camps. If there is a dull moment at a party or someone has just asked you "What do you do?" and you're unemployed, try bringing this up.
Monday, March 23, 2009
Memory Monday: Brought to you by Coffee
Ah, Memory Monday: The day of the week when I reminisce about an old job.
Today, we're going back to a time when I was fresh out of college. A time when I decided to try living without coffee. A time when, no longer living with my formerly ER-obsessed college roommate, I hadn't seen ER in a while. That time was day ten of my first real job, 9:30am.
The back story:
Over instant messaging, a coworker of mine (who was also my superior on certain projects) asked me to help him with a small task. He and I got along very well and were fast friends from day one. He was a native of Venezuela, though it is important to note that his English was better than my Spanish (or any other language) will ever be.
The conversation that followed on IM:
Awesome coworker: Hey Pam, I need you to {insert small task here} within the next half hour. I know it's short notice, but do you think you can do it?
Me: Oh yeah, I'll have it to you stat!
AC: Great!
AC: Oh. Ok!
AC: I mean, stat!
AC: Oh, alright! Thanks!
What's the lesson? Contrary to what you might think, it's not "watch more ER." The lesson I learned from this experience is to never swear off coffee again.
Today, we're going back to a time when I was fresh out of college. A time when I decided to try living without coffee. A time when, no longer living with my formerly ER-obsessed college roommate, I hadn't seen ER in a while. That time was day ten of my first real job, 9:30am.
The back story:
Over instant messaging, a coworker of mine (who was also my superior on certain projects) asked me to help him with a small task. He and I got along very well and were fast friends from day one. He was a native of Venezuela, though it is important to note that his English was better than my Spanish (or any other language) will ever be.
The conversation that followed on IM:
Awesome coworker: Hey Pam, I need you to
Me: Oh yeah, I'll have it to you stat!
AC: Great!
I start on the project and am half way through, when AC asks...AC: So, what does "stat" mean?
Feeling the awesome social responsibility to tell him the correct meaning of a somewhat commonly used English language colloquialism, I began to panic. "Why oh why did I use that word," I thought, "and more importantly, why oh why can't I remember what it means?!" So I made it up to buy myself some time...Me: Stat means "ok," I think...
AC: Oh. Ok!
AC: I mean, stat!
Ohhhh that doesn't sound right! I could feel him latching on to the incorrect definition and trying it out. "Wait!" I wanted to scream. "Give me a minute!" That was when I heard my college roommate in my head, saying, "You idiot! Stat means 'immediately,' like Sooner Than Already Here - not 'ok'!" I typed hastily...Me: No, wait! It means "immediately!" Sorry about that!
AC: Oh, alright! Thanks!
Phew! I had saved him! Our IM conversation ended and I felt helpful.But I hadn't saved him. The "ok" definition stuck with him and every time he meant to say "ok" henceforth, he said stat. I corrected him the first couple times, and we laughed about it. But when I heard him doing it in conversations down the hall, I knew I had lost the battle...the battle with my own stupidity. Now every time I hear "stat" I think "I'm an idiot!" and turn bright red.
What's the lesson? Contrary to what you might think, it's not "watch more ER." The lesson I learned from this experience is to never swear off coffee again.
Monday, March 16, 2009
Memory Monday: The Place Games
Ah, Memory Monday: The day of the week when I reminisce about an old job.
This MM, the thought bubble above my head features a formerly frequent occurrence at my most recent job: The lunchtime "Place Games." These were typified by the game of "Now, what was that place called again?" and the popular variation, "What's the best way to get to that place?"
Around 12 or 1, someone would either send an office-wide email asking "lunch now?" OR enter the common area and say, loudly, "Eating lunch now." This was everyone's cue to drop everything to have lunch in the kitchen/break area.
After the inevitable "ooo what are you having today?" round of questioning and a few bites in, The Place Games would begin.
It reminds me very much of the time I drove by a certain restaurant sign in the 'burbs and shuddered with discomfort. The restaurant I'm referring to is a chain located in a few outside-the-city areas surrounding Boston. It was started in the early 1900's by real Italians, so I'm sure it's authentic and delicious. That's not the issue. The issue and source of my discomfort is that it is called "The Chateau Italian Family Dining." There are three things that just don't sit well with me in that name:
Ultimately, what did I learn from The Place Games? You shouldn't have to work in a place so far from that with which you understand and are comfortable. Especially if it's so far from said place that you have no idea what your coworkers are discussing at lunch.
Thinking about it more, the Place Games were only an example of my lack of assimilation into office culture. There were also bigger issues, like:
Well, no more! I'm back in Boston! I'm unemployed and I feel like I'm back in my element. Is that a bad sign?
This MM, the thought bubble above my head features a formerly frequent occurrence at my most recent job: The lunchtime "Place Games." These were typified by the game of "Now, what was that place called again?" and the popular variation, "What's the best way to get to that place?"
Around 12 or 1, someone would either send an office-wide email asking "lunch now?" OR enter the common area and say, loudly, "Eating lunch now." This was everyone's cue to drop everything to have lunch in the kitchen/break area.
After the inevitable "ooo what are you having today?" round of questioning and a few bites in, The Place Games would begin.
Coworker 1: My husband and I just went to a great little diner the other day.At that point in the Place Games, I had become invisible to my coworkers and boss. I had no idea what diner, old mall, roads, or town they were talking about. It was all a distant suburban mishmash. I also had nothing to add to the conversation, because of which I was the only one done with my lunch.
Coworker 2: Oh, is it that new place down on Route 2? I love that place!
C1: No, but I love that place too!
<insert tangent about the new place down on Route 2 here>
C1 continues: Anyway, no it's a place called <insert wacky suburban name here>. We were going to just go to Applebee's...
C2: I love Applebee's...
C1: ...but this place looked really good.
C2: How did you get there?
Boss, totally interrupting: I know which place you're talking about and they have great grilled cheese sandwiches. The best way to go is to take <some road> all the way to the end down near <some town>. Then you take a left and then that exit at the next light that goes all the way around and after about a quarter mile, it's there on your right.
C1: Ohhh you're right! We went the way you go to <that town> but then we didn't take that first exit, we took the next one that takes you by the old mall...
It reminds me very much of the time I drove by a certain restaurant sign in the 'burbs and shuddered with discomfort. The restaurant I'm referring to is a chain located in a few outside-the-city areas surrounding Boston. It was started in the early 1900's by real Italians, so I'm sure it's authentic and delicious. That's not the issue. The issue and source of my discomfort is that it is called "The Chateau Italian Family Dining." There are three things that just don't sit well with me in that name:
- "The," a word from the English language, is followed by
- "Chateau," which is French for "castle." French, so shouldn't it be preceded by "le" or something equally French?
- Not to mention these two words are followed by "Italian Family Dining." Italian? How do you figure? It feels like a slap in the face.
Ultimately, what did I learn from The Place Games? You shouldn't have to work in a place so far from that with which you understand and are comfortable. Especially if it's so far from said place that you have no idea what your coworkers are discussing at lunch.
Thinking about it more, the Place Games were only an example of my lack of assimilation into office culture. There were also bigger issues, like:
- I didn't eat frozen or pre-made aisle lunches, at least not every day. They often looked upon my leftovers with envy and disdain, making me both boastful and uncomfortable.
- I wasn't married. Even if I was, which I soon will be, I don't know that I could match the stories that spawned from their marriages.
- I didn't have a yard or own a house, so I didn't have problems like this.
- I didn't have a weakness for bad local access television or a need to discuss it at length
- I didn't drink two mountain dews a day.
- I didn't have a 5 minute commute to work.
Well, no more! I'm back in Boston! I'm unemployed and I feel like I'm back in my element. Is that a bad sign?
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