Tag Archives: Work
No more facebook, twitter or cool blog theme changes from my work ‘puter. Sads. We had a good run, Internet. I can still access this blog during the work day but I imagine it’s only a matter of time before they take that away too.
I feel like Chunk trying to get that last bite of ice cream before the Fratelli’s snatch it all away.
But I am resourceful, Keanu shall wait for my use at home and I will figure out how to do mobile situations and the like.
Yes. I finally added this dreaded to scenario to my list of “awkward conversations that exist only on film and in my life” .
I ran into one of my bosses while waiting in the elevator bank and he was dressed nicely in a dark suit. The dress code at the job is casual.
Me: [Smiling] Morning! You’re all poshed up!
As he is a lawyer I am expecting one of two possible answers: SEC meeting or Board meeting
Boss: [deep breath] Funeral.
Today at work I got an award. I didn’t realize it was a big deal. The news of this was circulated companywide and I’ve been receiving nice congrats emails from people I don’t know all day. I’ve never worked in a place that gives out awards. I suppose corporations do this to boost morale and provide incentives to be more efficient and whatever. This is not the kind of attention I enjoy, so in response to said emails I replied back to the team that gave it to me (including the CFO and General Counsel) with the following “thank you” speech:
“The definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results.” -Albert Einstein
[Be prepared to read the most exciting story ever told.]
Most days I bring into work some low-cal budget friendly frozen entree to have for my lunch. And every day I do the same thing. I treat the microwave like a monkey would a computer. For some reason my brain is not comfortable with or trusting of appliances outside of my own home. I feel like they’re (mostly microwaves but also fridges) trying to TRICK me or ruin my lunch.
Besides, this work microwave is weird. It’s all modern but it has a dial and no buttons which IMMEDIATELY makes it suspect. And other people use it and…. I don’t know what their food is doing to the inside of it… changing the electrons inside of the microwave so that it will no longer cook my food properly maybe? I don’t know, ok?
So I pop my sodium bomb into the crazy silver time machine, set it for 5 minutes and walk back to my desk. As soon as I reach my desk 50 feet away I am CONVINCED that 4.5 minutes has past and 1) I don’t want my food to blow up and 2) I don’t want to be the asshole that leaves their lunch in the microwave when it’s done. This motivation does not originate with professional courtesy but rather a simple fear of dirty co-workers manhandling my food. Dirty dirty co-workers with their weird food and their weird hands that prepare their weird food.
So naturally I break into a trot down the hall while passing Marketing. I know what they must be thinking ( “There’s goes that crazy bitch ‘fraid her food gonna BLOW UP!”). Screw you, Marketing.
Anyhow, I reach the microwave and sure enough 45 seconds have passed. Perhaps today is THE DAY it’s fully cooked and ready. I open the microwave and give the meal a full examination. Is the slit wide enough? Does it need to be positioned differently? Should I stir things with my fork? It doesn’t matter because I do all of those things. I then pop it back in, set the timer for 5 minutes…and the mobius begins again.
Grand. Today’s work day was yet another one for the ole blog. I had another embarassing run in with my boss. I think it’s equal parts his fault as well as mine. I debated about sharing this because it’s pretty embarassing. Actually, there is nothing pretty about it, just the opposite in fact.
I don’t know what the junk is up with my face this week but I have two new little friends hanging out on my chin and my neck. Wait, did I say little? Actually, that’s a lie. Let me put it this way, if most zits could be compared to lithe waiffish Eastern Europeans then these two abominations are their husky cornfed middle American cousins. I am UG to the LY today.
Anyway, there is really nothing I can do about Captain Acne on my chin. Trying to cover it up would be like covering up a murder scene with a doily. It’s just pointless. I have to be patient and ride this one out. The other guy found a lovely home dead center on my neck. I thought a turtleneck might do the trick but of course it’s just above the the fabric line. So I decided to wear a scarf all day in a pathetic attempt to lessen the humiliation of having blemishes well beyond my teen years.
I should have known better. In hindsight, I realize that wearing a scarf indoors only draws more attention to me, my face, my neck, and of course what lies beneath. I now think disguising them with little baby moustaches might have been less conspicuous.
Here is what transpired:
Boss: The scarf? Are you really cold or are you trying to cover up hickeys from the weekend?
Me: (so thrown by the comment I wasn’t quick enough to lie, instead full verbal diarrhea) I don’t know what’s going on with my face this week but see?[points to chin] Well, I got another doozie right here. See? [pulls away scarf and points at neck] I think maybe it’s from all the rich food my mother cooked, or stress or this new make-up I tried. I am just not used to this and I am really not ok with it.
Boss: [laughing at me] I realize how inappropriate the question was. You didn’t have to answer. You know I was just kidding, right?
Me: Yes. But I couldn’t think fast enough to lie and then I thought that if I didn’t show you my shame that you would think it’s hickeys… especially since I plan to wear it again tomorrow.
Boss: It’s probably stress.
We then dial into our conference call.
I try to keep a low profile at work. I don’t talk about religion, politics, or even the shows I watch with my co-workers. There really is no need. Aside from pleasantries in the pantry and elevator, I’m all business. I am like one of those annoying reality show contestants that says, “I’m not here to make friends.” Friends: I got plenty. Jobs: I only got one.
This rule applies to everyone but my boss. He is the only person I have to interact with on a daily basis. The rest of our team is split between California and New York. I have a good rapport with him and we b.s. about comedy and being from New York on our down time. He’s even come to one of my shows. I usually can make him laugh out loud with a comment or a sneer during our meetings. I think it’s safe to say we both appreciate each other at the office. No, it’s not like that. He’s only a few years older than me but he’s been married for a long time and I don’t have the hots for him.
Last week on a conference call all five of the men on the phone were talking politics. I just put my speaker on mute and listened. One of them point blank said, “You’re being very quiet, Tara. Who are you voting for?” I just said, “I don’t think I’ll vote. I have a hair appointment.” My boss laughed and chimed in that I don’t give up a lot of personal information and that I always seem to give a sideways answer or comment when pressed. When the call was done he came over to my desk and said, “You’re voting for who I think you’re voting for, right?” I said, “Yes. Jesus.” He and his wife are Obama supporters and he had been telling me about their canvasing efforts the previous day.
I knew he would be elated today and I was excited to chat with him about the results when I got in today. I am a little shocked by my reaction to Obama’s win myself. I guess I really cared after all. I honestly didn’t expect to feel like I do, as I am not a politics junkie like so many people here in DC. Since moving down here I’ve become much more knowledgable on certain issues but I am not nearly as well versed as I’d like to be. So I try to stick with the jokey jokes.
My boss comes over to my desk when everyone in my area was gone and he has this huge grin on his face. He had just sent an email scolding some of our associates (his favorite thing to do) for dropping the ball and to not dump their job on me. I mistake his personal happiness and satisfaction for post election joy. He opens his arms out wide as if to say, “Am I a great boss or what?” and I again mistake it for “Can you believe Obama won?!” Not even thinking, I jumped up and HUGGED HIM. And I have NO IDEA what possessed me!
I think that this moment officially tops the list as all time awkward-bad-wanna-kill-myself-where’s-the-time-machine-I-want-a-do-over moments of my life. It hit me like a ton of bricks what an idiot I looked like, how inappropriate it was and that, of course, I had just put my boobs on him. I honestly forget I have them sometimes which, if you know me, seems impossible.
He handled it well and made a joke. He said, “Was the email that good?” I just replied while hugging, “Yes. Thank you.”