Filed under: Work Bitching
In my first post I referred to the fact that as the receptionist at my workplace, I am uniquely situated in a physical sense. Let me elaborate. I work at the headquarters of our company, in a 5 story building, of which we occupy 4 of the floors. The second floor is empty and there is also a small café (very small in size, selection and quality) which is run by a completely separate company, on the first floor. When you enter the building, immediately to your left is a large Welcome sign with instructions to check in with the receptionist (that would be me, and boy is it ever my pleasure to assist you) and two double doors, propped open, which lead into our lobby and to my desk.
What this means for me is that I am the person who has to deal with the ignorant wanderers. Obviously visitors come into the building and they’re clueless, but they are expected to be clueless so I try to be cordial to them and forgive their stupidity. The stupidity I can’t forgive is that on the part of our own employees, who work in this facility day in and day out, five days a week, some two hundred and seventy odd days a year. We have been in this building now for a year and a half, and every day some employee who has been here since we moved into the place stops by looking for a room he can’t find, usually a conference room that he has a meeting in once a week. This was forgivable when we first moved in, of course, and I would say it was even semi-forgivable for the first say, six months, of our occupation here. It is no longer forgivable.
I honestly wonder sometimes how these people find their own homes every night, but when it comes down to it, they don’t remember things like the layout of the first floor because they choose not to remember, because they know there is a pathetic, underpaid wombat (that would be me again) whose job it is to come cheerfully to their aid whenever they encounter something basic that they choose not to handle by themselves.And while I’m on the subject of basic things that employees choose not to do for themselves, let me share a little incident that occurred last week. I was sitting at my desk playing with one of my co-worker voodoo dolls, when an employee we’ll call Bill Lumbergh approached my desk, held out his hand, and said, “This is for you.” The item in his hand was so small that it was completely covered by his fist so I couldn’t see what it was until after he passed it into my palm.
Now, trust me, I have been at this job long enough to know that he wasn’t giving me some kind of thoughtful gift or off-the-books cash bonus. I figured it was an earring, because let me tell you, women at my office seem to find their jewelry going astray quite frequently, and when people find such cheap crap they give it to me to hold at the desk in case someone comes to claim it, which rarely happens. But when I opened my palm, I did not find an earring. I found a piece of trash. You read that right: a piece of trash. So I said to Bill, “What is this?” And he said, “Trash I found on the ground,” and then he proceeded to walk away. I replied, “I guess you were unable to locate a trash can yourself,” but he was already gone.
Do I live in a fucking dumpster? Do I look like Oscar the Grouch? I don’t know when I became the company’s official human garbage receptacle but I really wish someone had sent me the memo. I truly cannot even fathom the level of arrogance and sloth that results in a person handing trash to someone else instead of putting it in one of the roughly four hundred trash cans around the building on his own, but the picture above pretty much sums up the scene of revenge I’m planning for him. If I can’t find a dog to assist, I’ll be happy to do it myself.
Filed under: Uncategorized
As if it was intended to be a cosmic response to my toilet seat etiquette post, I stumbled upon this gem of an invention today. I was driving in a cold-suppressant- drug-induced haze through snow and rush hour traffic on my way to work this morning when some talking heads on the radio brought up a new product called GoGirl, an FUD. The website uses the acronym FUD as though it were something we are all familiar with, but in case you are unenlightened, as was I, it stands for Female Urination Device. The only FUD I was aware of is the vagina, but I guess I’m old fashioned. According to the guys discussing it on the radio, the product and it’s website just came out this week, and I thought the timing and the concept of GoGirl (which as far as I can tell is really just a pink plastic funnel with its own carrying case) were too perfect not to share. The website is highly amusing and full of fun slogans like the one in the post title, as well as this pearl: You won’t be like a man; you’ll just pee like one. I want to meet the marketing genuis behind this, and I also direct any of the aforementioned hoverers and coverers with aim issues to check out this product ASAP. Apparently it’s all the rage in Europe.
Filed under: Societal Botheration
You know who I don’t like? Hypocritical germophobes. I have a feeling this specific issue is more likely to affect women than men, but I really haven’t spent any time in mens’ restrooms so I can’t be sure on that. Regardless of your gender, walk through a familiar scene with me. I open the stall of a public restroom and find that the woman who used it before me has left one of those paper toilet seat covers on the toilet.
Now, we all forget to clean up after ourselves occasionally, and I certainly understand that. We lead busy, rushed lives. What I don’t understand is how a person can be so fearful of contracting some kind of flesh-eating parasite/venereal disease via public toilet seat that she would take the time to set up one of those flimsy seat covers, but not, at any point during the laborious process, have the thought that perhaps the person using the restroom after her doesn’t want to have to touch her used toilet seat cover. Maybe this woman thought that I would just put another cover on top of the one she used, but that doesn’t sound like a very sturdy solution. How high would those end up piling by the end of the day? That would just be silly. And really, how much effort does it take to remove the used cover, crumple it, and flush it down the toilet?
The only conclusion I can come to is that this woman feels that she while she is too good to be exposed to public bathroom germs, I am not. This woman is terrified by the notion of her ass making contact with that seat, but she has no problem putting me in the position of having to dispose of the piece of paper that her ass made contact with in avoidance of the seat.
I’m not sure who is worse, this woman or the hoverers with bad aim, the ones who try to crouch and pee so they don’t actually have to sit on the seat, but then leave pee all over it. I’m sure those women just assume that everyone else hovers as they do, so it doesn’t matter if they piss on the seat because no one ever sits on it anyways. But you and I know that sometimes sitting on the seat is unavoidable, and sometimes even the most experienced hoverers lose balance and have to make an impromptu landing.
No one likes using public restrooms but we all have to, some of us more frequently than others, and I can’t think of a situation in which the age old Golden Rule of doing unto others as you would have them to do unto you applies more aptly. Hoverers and coverers, please, keep reciprocity in mind, because if you don’t, you’re disgusting, and if I ever walk into a stall immediately after you and catch you leaving the scene of the crime, I’m going to announce really loudly what you’ve done and all your girlfriends that accompanied you to the restroom are going to hear and make fun of you later behind your back.
Filed under: Work Bitching
You know what I don’t love? When I am sitting at my desk, daydreaming about a week-long power outrage that requires shutting down the office but doesn’t affect the county I live in, and I am suddenly jarred out of my reverie by three excruciatingly loud, consecutive beeps. I have just received a high-priority email, and in case the obnoxious sound accompanying it wasn’t clear enough, the email itself comes equipped with a bright red exclamation point.
There are instances in which this emergency tagging of an email would be entirely appropriate, like if the email was serving as notification that the building was burning down. The problem with high priority emails is that anyone can send them and that person alone makes the judgment call that said email does indeed qualify as high priority to anyone other than himself. In my experience, this email tool is highly abused. We all deal with managers who do this to remind subordinates that they are in charge; it’s a pointless display of power, but at least it’s coming from someone who holds some modicum of authority and it’s regarding business matters. However, I recently experienced a particularly egregious example of high importance emailing gone wrong which I feel compelled to share:
The body of the email was empty, but the subject heading said it all:
No, really, I shit you not. Run-on sentence aside, the best part was that the lady who sent it to me wasn’t even an actual employee; she was a temp brought in as an extra pair of hands for a project with a specific end date. In the company hierarchy, she was basically the most unimportant person in the building. Now I would have been annoyed had this particular email been sent even without the high priority tag, because if you are sending me an email you are obviously in front of your computer and your internet connection is obviously working. A wealth of knowledge is at your fingertips. Figure it out yourself. But to send it high priority is to imply that I should stop what I’m doing and put your craving for Mickey Dee’s and your astonishing laziness at the top of my to-do list, and that is unacceptable.
I contemplated a response to this email and decided that I was incapable of forming a reply that wouldn’t get me fired (something along the lines of, “Are you fucking kidding me?” was running through my head) so I ignored it. About an hour later this imbecile showed up at my desk and asked me if I had received her email. I said, “Yes I did.” She looked at me funny and I’m quite sure I looked at her funny back. Apparently she had decided she would rather wait for an hour in hopes that I would supply her with directions than just look them up herself. A few seconds of silence followed before she proceeded to explain to me that she wanted McDonald’s but didn’t know where the nearest one was and needed me to give her directions. I told her I don’t eat fast food, but I’m guessing she eventually found her way to a Big Mac.
Filed under: Uncategorized
I am currently employed as a receptionist. As such, I am uniquely situated, both physically and in an abstract sense, at the hub of an office environment, held hostage by the interaction of its drones, where stupidity, arrogance, gossip and laziness meet and congregate on a daily basis. I say this in the interest of full disclosure, because without this knowledge it may seem unlikely, even impossible, that one girl could be confronted with such a variety and abundance of annoyances. This is not a blog solely about my job, nor do I mean to suggest that irritations at work are the only instances of aggravation I experience. However, I have come to the conclusion that eight hours a day positioned as the metaphorical garbage disposal for the inane crap spit out by two hundred employees does increase the likelihood of such encounters and has perhaps, over time, made me just a little bit irritable in general.