Today at work it was "70's Day." Four Feet of Fury loves the 70's. She gets ready for work listening to 70's music and it seems to make her happy. The music from that period mostly annoys me, so that could explain our mood differences. Anyway, I didn't really want to dress up, but knowing how FFF felt about it, I thought I would be supportive. I donned my long hippy dress and tried to curl my hair just like Farah Faucet. I knew I was in trouble when it started to flip completely out to the sides and I started to look a little more like the crazy cat lady. I decided to go with plan B, which was hair pulled back and a full, sassy hair piece. Add a headband and some jewelry and presto, I was back in the 70's.
My outfit was a great success, except the dress is super long and actually trips me if I am not careful. And, if I don't pull it up when I sit at my desk, it will get stuck in the rollers in my chair. A real pisser when you have to go to the bathroom and you are playing office chair rodeo trying to get the hem of your dress out of the rollers before you pee yourself and without ripping the dress. Indeed. And yes, that did happen at least once today. It was making me crabby. I know, the mind reels at the possibility of such an event occurring. It didn't help that people were making me crabby, too. For example, I'm sitting there, minding my own business, working, and I get an instant message from Polly For The People wanting to know how I'm doing. Immediately, I am on high alert. No one messages me for no reason. I ask her what's up. She says nothing is up, she is just checking on me and wanted me to know that it is possible to get messaged without it requiring extra work on my part. Not completely true. I had to respond to her message. Thus, extra work. Nonetheless, I appreciate her sentiment. I guess my railing on FB yesterday about how people only message me when they need something got through to someone.
My day progressed with the usual annoyances, but no major events. I headed out to do a "desk drop" to all the consultants. It was their lucky day. They each get a can kozy and a handout. Naturally, everyone wanted to know where their beer was. Ha ha. It got even less funny after EVERY person said something about it. Whatever, we can't all be comedians. I'm just about 3/4 of the way done passing these out when Bubba Gump, the security guard appears. I can't stand this guy, he annoys me. He's kind of hunched over and staring at me. I'm looking at him like, "what?" He doesn't say anything. I finally said, "Can I help you?" He asks me, "What is your name?" I tell him and he says, "That's what I thought, there is a guy with a bunch of flowers for you at the front desk, I've called you like six times." I looked at him, instantly annoyed, and said, "Well, clearly, I'm not at my desk." He goes on to tell me that there are like six flower deliveries and that I need to bring a cart because the delivery guy is an old man with COPD and if I don't bring a cart, the guy isn't going to make it. I asked, "so, do I need to go out to the parking lot, or what?" He informs me the guy is by the front desk. I said, "Okay, but he obviously needs the cart out there since he can't handle it." The guard says, "He'll never be able to make six trips." We go round and round about where I need to be with the cart. I'm losing my patience. All the while, COPD guy is up there running the show while Bubba Gump is down here hunting me down. Security at it's finest. How do we know this isn't an elaborate rouse and that COPD guy isn't a suicide bomber? We don't. Bubba Gump didn't check his credentials. This is how I know I am going to die there someday. Anyway, I get my cart and head to the front desk to find a man hunched over the desk waiting for me. He smiles and has half of his teeth in a lovely brown color and the other half are rotted off in various formations. He is sickly, to say the least. As I followed...I mean, lead him out to the parking lot with my rattly cart, he kept stopping to hock up parts of his lungs. We finally make it out there and he hands me each arrangement. There is only one left to get and suddenly, he stops, he can't go on. His lungs have given out. Shit. He is going to die right here. I don't have room for him on my cart, not with the flowers. He finally manages to muster up the strength to hand me the last one. I bid him adieu and start my dangerous trek back into the building. I have to push my cart, hold up my dress and keep the flowers from sliding off the cart on the rough surface of the parking lot. This is a real hoot. I hope that guy wasn't looking for a delivery tip. I make a mental note to be more diligent about my retirement. Some day that could be me...pissing off some youngish saucy admin.
I finally get in the building, still upright and with all flowers still intact, and deliver the flowers to the happy recipients. Now, where was I? Oh yeah, desk dropping the can kozy's. By the time I am done, I am sweating in places I shouldn't be. And, while I'm all proud of my Victoria Secret bra, let me tell you what all that padding does, it makes you freaking sweat. I've got all this extra hair, a headband, extra jewelry, a long dress that has repeatedly tried to kill me today and I have tights that think the race to my ankles is the Boston Marathon. Mother Trucker, I didn't need the perspiration, too.
At this point, I'm agitated. Seriously. I sit at my desk and try and take care of some business. First order of business is to let the employees know that lunch will be served to all of them tomorrow. I sent an email out about this on Monday advising them (in all CAPS in the subject line) that lunch would be on Wednesday. I had a few people ask me Monday afternoon where their food was. No one can read the important part of an email. It makes me angry. However, today, I am clever because I put it in the subject line again and now I put it multiple times in bold in the body of the email. All the details they need. Bomb proof. I can't possibly get questions now. I walk away from my desk and someone asks me, "hey, when do I get my personal lunch? Do you bring it to me or what room do I go to?" I'm certain that my head spun around three times and that smoke came out of my nostrils. I stopped and glared at him, "Don't you read your emails AT ALL?" He smiled and said, "Well, kind of, but I like it when you tell me personally." I smiled, in what can only be described as a menacing smile, and said, "Well, why don't you go read it again Einstein. This lunch isn't your personal lunch, it's for the center, do you really think I'd put it in a conference room?" He started back pedaling. I said, "Go read your email," and walked away. I get back to my desk and I have an instant message asking me if the lunch will be buffet style or boxed style. Okay, I'm going to lose it. It's pasta, people. Who puts pasta in a box? I talked about how we would keep the food warm and how people should come at their lunch times so that there would be enough food for everyone, etc., etc....I give up. I had also explained to them that the food was coming in three different deliveries and provided the times. Again stressing to them the importance of coming on their lunch time so that my calculations on deliveries would pan out. Another email, "What if my lunch isn't until after the last delivery?" Um, come at your lunch time? Then, finally an email that did not demand any further explanation, it simply stated, "You are making me hungry." I felt dirty reading it. I don't know why. I felt like one of those cartoons where some guy is out in the desert with his best pal, but as a mirage he sees his best pal as a hot dog and starts chasing him and biting him. I gotta get out of there. I don't need anyone chasing me around the center thinking I'm a corn dog or something. I think this place is getting to me.
I'll just be glad when tomorrow is over. I hate center-wide lunches. People don't follow directions, they think they are funny, they whine when they don't like something and they make a huge frigging mess. Well, in preparation for tomorrow, I'd just like to tell everyone, in advance, you're welcome.
With that, I'd better get my beauty rest, because I am going to need to put a special face on tomorrow. The face of an admin that cares. The hardest face to wear All. Day. Long.
My outfit was a great success, except the dress is super long and actually trips me if I am not careful. And, if I don't pull it up when I sit at my desk, it will get stuck in the rollers in my chair. A real pisser when you have to go to the bathroom and you are playing office chair rodeo trying to get the hem of your dress out of the rollers before you pee yourself and without ripping the dress. Indeed. And yes, that did happen at least once today. It was making me crabby. I know, the mind reels at the possibility of such an event occurring. It didn't help that people were making me crabby, too. For example, I'm sitting there, minding my own business, working, and I get an instant message from Polly For The People wanting to know how I'm doing. Immediately, I am on high alert. No one messages me for no reason. I ask her what's up. She says nothing is up, she is just checking on me and wanted me to know that it is possible to get messaged without it requiring extra work on my part. Not completely true. I had to respond to her message. Thus, extra work. Nonetheless, I appreciate her sentiment. I guess my railing on FB yesterday about how people only message me when they need something got through to someone.
My day progressed with the usual annoyances, but no major events. I headed out to do a "desk drop" to all the consultants. It was their lucky day. They each get a can kozy and a handout. Naturally, everyone wanted to know where their beer was. Ha ha. It got even less funny after EVERY person said something about it. Whatever, we can't all be comedians. I'm just about 3/4 of the way done passing these out when Bubba Gump, the security guard appears. I can't stand this guy, he annoys me. He's kind of hunched over and staring at me. I'm looking at him like, "what?" He doesn't say anything. I finally said, "Can I help you?" He asks me, "What is your name?" I tell him and he says, "That's what I thought, there is a guy with a bunch of flowers for you at the front desk, I've called you like six times." I looked at him, instantly annoyed, and said, "Well, clearly, I'm not at my desk." He goes on to tell me that there are like six flower deliveries and that I need to bring a cart because the delivery guy is an old man with COPD and if I don't bring a cart, the guy isn't going to make it. I asked, "so, do I need to go out to the parking lot, or what?" He informs me the guy is by the front desk. I said, "Okay, but he obviously needs the cart out there since he can't handle it." The guard says, "He'll never be able to make six trips." We go round and round about where I need to be with the cart. I'm losing my patience. All the while, COPD guy is up there running the show while Bubba Gump is down here hunting me down. Security at it's finest. How do we know this isn't an elaborate rouse and that COPD guy isn't a suicide bomber? We don't. Bubba Gump didn't check his credentials. This is how I know I am going to die there someday. Anyway, I get my cart and head to the front desk to find a man hunched over the desk waiting for me. He smiles and has half of his teeth in a lovely brown color and the other half are rotted off in various formations. He is sickly, to say the least. As I followed...I mean, lead him out to the parking lot with my rattly cart, he kept stopping to hock up parts of his lungs. We finally make it out there and he hands me each arrangement. There is only one left to get and suddenly, he stops, he can't go on. His lungs have given out. Shit. He is going to die right here. I don't have room for him on my cart, not with the flowers. He finally manages to muster up the strength to hand me the last one. I bid him adieu and start my dangerous trek back into the building. I have to push my cart, hold up my dress and keep the flowers from sliding off the cart on the rough surface of the parking lot. This is a real hoot. I hope that guy wasn't looking for a delivery tip. I make a mental note to be more diligent about my retirement. Some day that could be me...pissing off some youngish saucy admin.
I finally get in the building, still upright and with all flowers still intact, and deliver the flowers to the happy recipients. Now, where was I? Oh yeah, desk dropping the can kozy's. By the time I am done, I am sweating in places I shouldn't be. And, while I'm all proud of my Victoria Secret bra, let me tell you what all that padding does, it makes you freaking sweat. I've got all this extra hair, a headband, extra jewelry, a long dress that has repeatedly tried to kill me today and I have tights that think the race to my ankles is the Boston Marathon. Mother Trucker, I didn't need the perspiration, too.
At this point, I'm agitated. Seriously. I sit at my desk and try and take care of some business. First order of business is to let the employees know that lunch will be served to all of them tomorrow. I sent an email out about this on Monday advising them (in all CAPS in the subject line) that lunch would be on Wednesday. I had a few people ask me Monday afternoon where their food was. No one can read the important part of an email. It makes me angry. However, today, I am clever because I put it in the subject line again and now I put it multiple times in bold in the body of the email. All the details they need. Bomb proof. I can't possibly get questions now. I walk away from my desk and someone asks me, "hey, when do I get my personal lunch? Do you bring it to me or what room do I go to?" I'm certain that my head spun around three times and that smoke came out of my nostrils. I stopped and glared at him, "Don't you read your emails AT ALL?" He smiled and said, "Well, kind of, but I like it when you tell me personally." I smiled, in what can only be described as a menacing smile, and said, "Well, why don't you go read it again Einstein. This lunch isn't your personal lunch, it's for the center, do you really think I'd put it in a conference room?" He started back pedaling. I said, "Go read your email," and walked away. I get back to my desk and I have an instant message asking me if the lunch will be buffet style or boxed style. Okay, I'm going to lose it. It's pasta, people. Who puts pasta in a box? I talked about how we would keep the food warm and how people should come at their lunch times so that there would be enough food for everyone, etc., etc....I give up. I had also explained to them that the food was coming in three different deliveries and provided the times. Again stressing to them the importance of coming on their lunch time so that my calculations on deliveries would pan out. Another email, "What if my lunch isn't until after the last delivery?" Um, come at your lunch time? Then, finally an email that did not demand any further explanation, it simply stated, "You are making me hungry." I felt dirty reading it. I don't know why. I felt like one of those cartoons where some guy is out in the desert with his best pal, but as a mirage he sees his best pal as a hot dog and starts chasing him and biting him. I gotta get out of there. I don't need anyone chasing me around the center thinking I'm a corn dog or something. I think this place is getting to me.
I'll just be glad when tomorrow is over. I hate center-wide lunches. People don't follow directions, they think they are funny, they whine when they don't like something and they make a huge frigging mess. Well, in preparation for tomorrow, I'd just like to tell everyone, in advance, you're welcome.
With that, I'd better get my beauty rest, because I am going to need to put a special face on tomorrow. The face of an admin that cares. The hardest face to wear All. Day. Long.
No comments:
Post a Comment