Joe is lucky when it comes to getting his hair cut, because his haircut has to be approved by only one person: me. I, on the other hand, have to submit plans for approval of my haircut, well in advance of the appointment, to three people: Joe. Myself. The stylist.
Due to one unfortunate mishap in the salon a few years ago, Joe is now petrified every time I say that I am going to get my hair cut.
"So that stylist cut it a little short that one time," I said when I announced recently that I was going to the salon. "I don't go to her anymore anyway."
"A little short? You didn't have any hair left."
"It'll be fine. Don't worry about it."
"Should I send a note to the stylist?" he asked anxiously. "Leave my wife's hair ALONE."
I assured him a note was not necessary.
"Or picket outside the place maybe?"
"I'm sure I saw a sign in the window that says "No Picketing. Especially Husbands."
He tried one last time to persuade me not to go. "Why do you need to get it cut? Your hair looks really good today."
"Of course it looks good today," I said. "It always looks good the day I'm scheduled to get it cut. It knows when it's time. But if I don't go, tomorrow it will be back to its usual limp, uncooperative self."
I finally made it out the door, having been forced to agree that I would administer an oath to the stylist in which she would promise to take off an imperceptible amount of hair, and as each strand of hair was cut I would inspect it and measure it with a ruler.
When I had finished explaining Joe's reservations to my stylist, and she had laughed and outlined her own plans for my hair, and I had nixed those plans and repeated the "not too short" requirement, and she had modified her plans, and I had nixed those plans, she looked at me thoughtfully.
"Will he really notice that it's shorter?" she finally asked.
"Well, he knows I was coming here, and he knows it wasn't to pick up toothpaste."
"You're lucky," she said. "My husband wouldn't notice anything different if I walked around the house naked."
I assured her I thought he would notice that.
She proceeded to take a minuscule amount of hair off, and everyone seemed moderately happy with the result. Joe. Me. The stylist.
But the one entity happiest with my hair that day was my hair itself, because no matter what plans any of us make for it, or how I get it cut, it does whatever it wants anyway.
Monday, October 5, 2009
Thursday, October 1, 2009
War zone
I was fortunate to not grow up in one of those families where mealtime resembled a war zone, with individuals having to be quick-witted and quick-handed if they wanted to get any food. Since getting married, however, this situation has changed dramatically.
Not that we fight over our food. We are too refined for that. No, Joe brilliantly deploys the Stealth Food Attack method, wherein the last portion of some food or snack -- generally containing chocolate ingredients -- that I have been saving, and looking forward to savoring, mysteriously disappears.
This circumstance has forced me to resort to Food Camouflage. Since anything in plain sight will likely be stolen by the other side, I secretly hide whatever it is I want to protect in the back of the refrigerator. Bars of gold could be stashed back there, and they would never be discovered. The only things that exist for Joe are in the very front row of the refrigerator. Many a treasured food item has been saved in this manner.
But it is not always possible to hide things. Some must be stored in plain sight -- the Danger Zone -- with the knowledge that at any moment, Stealth Man may come and whisk them away.
Last night I was anticipating consuming the last of the Black Bean Tamale Pie for dinner while Joe went to class. My food radar immediately went off when I opened the refrigerator to put something else away. There, where my Black Bean Tamale Pie should have been, was a big hole. Stealth Man strikes again!
Stealth Man is very, very lucky he is not here right now, I thought. His class had saved him from great bodily harm.
But I confronted him when he came home. "I thought we had an agreement," I said, "wherein you ask me if I want something before taking the last of it."
"Well, see, I did have that conversation with you," he said. "In my head. I imagined myself asking you if I could have it, and I imagined you saying yes."
I told him next time to imagine me standing guard in front of my food with a heavy metal object. This is, after all, war.
Not that we fight over our food. We are too refined for that. No, Joe brilliantly deploys the Stealth Food Attack method, wherein the last portion of some food or snack -- generally containing chocolate ingredients -- that I have been saving, and looking forward to savoring, mysteriously disappears.
This circumstance has forced me to resort to Food Camouflage. Since anything in plain sight will likely be stolen by the other side, I secretly hide whatever it is I want to protect in the back of the refrigerator. Bars of gold could be stashed back there, and they would never be discovered. The only things that exist for Joe are in the very front row of the refrigerator. Many a treasured food item has been saved in this manner.
But it is not always possible to hide things. Some must be stored in plain sight -- the Danger Zone -- with the knowledge that at any moment, Stealth Man may come and whisk them away.
Last night I was anticipating consuming the last of the Black Bean Tamale Pie for dinner while Joe went to class. My food radar immediately went off when I opened the refrigerator to put something else away. There, where my Black Bean Tamale Pie should have been, was a big hole. Stealth Man strikes again!
Stealth Man is very, very lucky he is not here right now, I thought. His class had saved him from great bodily harm.
But I confronted him when he came home. "I thought we had an agreement," I said, "wherein you ask me if I want something before taking the last of it."
"Well, see, I did have that conversation with you," he said. "In my head. I imagined myself asking you if I could have it, and I imagined you saying yes."
I told him next time to imagine me standing guard in front of my food with a heavy metal object. This is, after all, war.
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
The less fortunate
My mother, full of timely wisdom, used to say by way of comfort during difficult trials growing up that I should count my blessings, because things could be much worse. Although this generally did not elicit a great degree of thankfulness on my part, I have come to take comfort in this philosophy.
Take my co-worker, for example.
There is evidently some sort of technology warp around her home, such that no two pieces of technology ever work at the same time, and sometimes none of them works. If cable is humming along as it should, the phone is dead. If the phone is working, the AC is not. Though normally many of these components function quite independently, in her case some sort of interconnectedness binds them all together, and there is apparently a limit to how many can function all at the same time.
For a time her cable was out, and the poor creature had to resort to dial-up Internet. "I've gone 20 days without cable," she confided.
We suggested that "20 Days Without Cable" might be a nice title for a reality show, on which contestants vie to see who can go the longest as, gradually, piece by piece of modern technology is forceably removed from their daily lives.
Then, in the cruel reality show that is my co-worker's life, even her dial-up stopped working. Truly, I count my blessings.
She fears that some sort of curse has been placed on her, perhaps for transgressions unknown, and has been advised to make penance, preferably in several ways and in keeping with different faiths. She is quite willing to do this, if only she could be assured that such efforts would result in being able to Google again in a timely manner.
She suggests that in the meantime, anyone wishing to get in touch with her at home could resort to a caveman-style communication, wherein a friend would scrawl a large message on the side of her home, and she would reply in like manner:
Friend: HOW ARE YOU GETTING ALONG LIVING IN THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY?
Co-worker: FINE! I AM EVEN LEARNING TO BAKE BREAD IN THE TRADITION OF MY FOREMOTHERS!
She has also theorized that perhaps she was actually meant to be Amish, and that somehow her non-technological roots are dogging her in an effort to return her to the fold. In support of this theory, I pointed out that she does have a common Amish first name.
If the Amish theory is correct, somewhere her modern twin is living in an Amish community, ever under a cloud of suspicion for displaying technological wisdom in a non-technological world. On market day she probably sneaks into some Internet cafe, where she makes exhaustive efforts to connect with a twin she knows is out there somewhere.
But it is unlikely they will ever meet, unless the twin can somehow make it to my co-worker's house and scrawl a message on the side.
Take my co-worker, for example.
There is evidently some sort of technology warp around her home, such that no two pieces of technology ever work at the same time, and sometimes none of them works. If cable is humming along as it should, the phone is dead. If the phone is working, the AC is not. Though normally many of these components function quite independently, in her case some sort of interconnectedness binds them all together, and there is apparently a limit to how many can function all at the same time.
For a time her cable was out, and the poor creature had to resort to dial-up Internet. "I've gone 20 days without cable," she confided.
We suggested that "20 Days Without Cable" might be a nice title for a reality show, on which contestants vie to see who can go the longest as, gradually, piece by piece of modern technology is forceably removed from their daily lives.
Then, in the cruel reality show that is my co-worker's life, even her dial-up stopped working. Truly, I count my blessings.
She fears that some sort of curse has been placed on her, perhaps for transgressions unknown, and has been advised to make penance, preferably in several ways and in keeping with different faiths. She is quite willing to do this, if only she could be assured that such efforts would result in being able to Google again in a timely manner.
She suggests that in the meantime, anyone wishing to get in touch with her at home could resort to a caveman-style communication, wherein a friend would scrawl a large message on the side of her home, and she would reply in like manner:
Friend: HOW ARE YOU GETTING ALONG LIVING IN THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY?
Co-worker: FINE! I AM EVEN LEARNING TO BAKE BREAD IN THE TRADITION OF MY FOREMOTHERS!
She has also theorized that perhaps she was actually meant to be Amish, and that somehow her non-technological roots are dogging her in an effort to return her to the fold. In support of this theory, I pointed out that she does have a common Amish first name.
If the Amish theory is correct, somewhere her modern twin is living in an Amish community, ever under a cloud of suspicion for displaying technological wisdom in a non-technological world. On market day she probably sneaks into some Internet cafe, where she makes exhaustive efforts to connect with a twin she knows is out there somewhere.
But it is unlikely they will ever meet, unless the twin can somehow make it to my co-worker's house and scrawl a message on the side.
Monday, September 28, 2009
How may I not help you?
Employees are constantly dealing with interruptions in the workplace, such as phone calls from fellow employees wanting to know where some tardy project is, e-mails from fellow employees wanting to know where some tardy project is, and bosses who feel that playing Internet paintball is not an appropriate use of worktime.
In our case we also deal with interruptions at the front door, mainly involving individuals who think they are in one place when they are someplace else entirely, and having to convince them of this fact in a timely manner so that we can get back to the important work we were doing before we were interrupted, namely Internet paintball. Since we do not have a receptionist, it is up to us common workers to answer these inquiries and, when possible, make the individuals feel very guilty for interrupting our important work and convince them to never bother us again.
For instance, people are constantly confusing our address -- 10011001010 -- with the address across the street -- 10011001011 -- and stopping to ask us where 10011001011 is, and are we sure we are not 100110010011, because they cannot find it, and where is it? They look suspiciously at us when we say no, we are not 10011001011, we are 10011001010, and they look past us into the office, as if suspecting that somewhere within its depths we are harboring 10011001011, and that we are deliberately keeping this information from them.
On top of it, the address these individuals are looking for houses administrative hearing offices, so it is likely that at least some of them are a little disgruntled at whatever conditions led to them having a hearing, and the last thing we need are lost, disgruntled individuals knocking at our door and having to tell them no, this is not the place you are looking for.
Although we sympathize with these people, our sympathy has become noticeably less sympathetic with each person who comes to the door with this dilemma. The minute we hear "Is this --" we just point across the street.
However, we still have a soft spot for certain individuals, such as sweet old people who come to the door practically in tears because they have been driving around for an hour trying to find this other address, and they don't know where it is, and all the addresses look alike, what with all those 0s and 1s, and they are late for their appointment, and it is almost lunchtime and they are hungry, and they have to take their lunchtime pills, and they have been driving around for so long that they can't remember what they are even looking for anymore, and on top of everything now they have to go to the bathroom.
In these situations all 14 of us crowd around the door, trying to cheer the discouraged party, pointing out the exact driveway where they need to be, and all but carrying them across the street and into the building.
Not everyone who comes to our building is looking for 10011001011. Some are looking for naive persons to buy their wrapping paper, or furniture, or whatever else they say they are selling at a remarkable price just for us. And so we are preparing a sign to place on the door, which we hope will limit the number of interruptions from all of these individuals, in a tactful, business-appropriate way, of course:
In our case we also deal with interruptions at the front door, mainly involving individuals who think they are in one place when they are someplace else entirely, and having to convince them of this fact in a timely manner so that we can get back to the important work we were doing before we were interrupted, namely Internet paintball. Since we do not have a receptionist, it is up to us common workers to answer these inquiries and, when possible, make the individuals feel very guilty for interrupting our important work and convince them to never bother us again.
For instance, people are constantly confusing our address -- 10011001010 -- with the address across the street -- 10011001011 -- and stopping to ask us where 10011001011 is, and are we sure we are not 100110010011, because they cannot find it, and where is it? They look suspiciously at us when we say no, we are not 10011001011, we are 10011001010, and they look past us into the office, as if suspecting that somewhere within its depths we are harboring 10011001011, and that we are deliberately keeping this information from them.
On top of it, the address these individuals are looking for houses administrative hearing offices, so it is likely that at least some of them are a little disgruntled at whatever conditions led to them having a hearing, and the last thing we need are lost, disgruntled individuals knocking at our door and having to tell them no, this is not the place you are looking for.
Although we sympathize with these people, our sympathy has become noticeably less sympathetic with each person who comes to the door with this dilemma. The minute we hear "Is this --" we just point across the street.
However, we still have a soft spot for certain individuals, such as sweet old people who come to the door practically in tears because they have been driving around for an hour trying to find this other address, and they don't know where it is, and all the addresses look alike, what with all those 0s and 1s, and they are late for their appointment, and it is almost lunchtime and they are hungry, and they have to take their lunchtime pills, and they have been driving around for so long that they can't remember what they are even looking for anymore, and on top of everything now they have to go to the bathroom.
In these situations all 14 of us crowd around the door, trying to cheer the discouraged party, pointing out the exact driveway where they need to be, and all but carrying them across the street and into the building.
Not everyone who comes to our building is looking for 10011001011. Some are looking for naive persons to buy their wrapping paper, or furniture, or whatever else they say they are selling at a remarkable price just for us. And so we are preparing a sign to place on the door, which we hope will limit the number of interruptions from all of these individuals, in a tactful, business-appropriate way, of course:
- This address is 10011001010. If you are looking for 10011001011, you are in the wrong place. Try across the street.
- We repeat: This is NOT 10011001011.
- If you are selling something, we do not want to buy it.
- If you are here to service the vending machine, we love you.
- No, we do not want to look at the furniture in the back of your truck.
- This is STILL not 10011001011.
Thursday, September 24, 2009
Maryland by the numbers
According to recent U.S. Census data, our great state of Maryland -- that repository of history, seafood, and high humidity -- is the richest state in the country. Not only that, just across the river from our home, where we frequently engage in meaningful activities, is one of the richest counties in the nation. Surrounded by all this wealth, you might wonder, as we do: How come we don't have more of it?
Unfortunately, although the figures for poverty rates are not out yet, Maryland typically also has one of the highest poverty rates. This may appear somewhat contradictory, but mainly this finding is due to the fact that we like to be Number 1 in everything, even if it's negative.
But a little-known fact, which the report fails to mention, is that the people in the rich category and the people in the poverty category are actually the same people. I know this for a fact, because not too long ago we were -- though maybe not quite in the rich category -- at least doing comfortably, even planning some fun things to do to the house, when boom! the roof, toilet, attic, windows, and all other nailed-down components of our home all conspired against us and went on strike at the same time. If the census had been carried out at this point, it probably would have categorized us as Eligible for Utility Aid.
The census report contains other fascinating information. Maryland, for instance, has the second-longest average commute in the country: 31.5 minutes. If you look at the state on a map you might wonder why this is true, as some cities have zoos that are bigger than the whole state of Maryland. But the longer commute times are actually due to a state law that requires all workers to live on the opposite end of the state from where they work, and a certain percentage of them must work in another state, and those people must live at least 72 miles from the border of the state wherein they work. In fact, most commuters driving through Maryland on a daily basis do not actually live in Maryland.
Personally I would LOVE to have just a 31.5-minute commute. Most people I know around here spend far longer getting to or from work. It is not uncommon to spend 31.5 minutes just getting through one stoplight.
New Yorkers are the only ones with a longer average commute than we Marylanders, but just barely: 31.6 minutes. The report does not say, but that extra .1 minute New Yorkers spend commuting is perhaps due to their fondness for a certain friendly hand gesture while driving, or while engaging in other commute-related activities, such as finding a seat on the subway.
The report says that 36 percent of our state's residents have never been married. Unfortunately for the state's single female population, only .0001 percent of this number are male, and most of those are planning an out-of-state move very soon. I know this because a co-worker, who is single and female, has met nearly every other single person in the state and declares there are no eligible males in Maryland.
So putting all this data together, we get a good picture of the average Marylander: well-off (or poor), married (or a single female), and spends more time commuting than sleeping, although in some cases these activities are combined. Which could explain a lot.
Unfortunately, although the figures for poverty rates are not out yet, Maryland typically also has one of the highest poverty rates. This may appear somewhat contradictory, but mainly this finding is due to the fact that we like to be Number 1 in everything, even if it's negative.
But a little-known fact, which the report fails to mention, is that the people in the rich category and the people in the poverty category are actually the same people. I know this for a fact, because not too long ago we were -- though maybe not quite in the rich category -- at least doing comfortably, even planning some fun things to do to the house, when boom! the roof, toilet, attic, windows, and all other nailed-down components of our home all conspired against us and went on strike at the same time. If the census had been carried out at this point, it probably would have categorized us as Eligible for Utility Aid.
The census report contains other fascinating information. Maryland, for instance, has the second-longest average commute in the country: 31.5 minutes. If you look at the state on a map you might wonder why this is true, as some cities have zoos that are bigger than the whole state of Maryland. But the longer commute times are actually due to a state law that requires all workers to live on the opposite end of the state from where they work, and a certain percentage of them must work in another state, and those people must live at least 72 miles from the border of the state wherein they work. In fact, most commuters driving through Maryland on a daily basis do not actually live in Maryland.
Personally I would LOVE to have just a 31.5-minute commute. Most people I know around here spend far longer getting to or from work. It is not uncommon to spend 31.5 minutes just getting through one stoplight.
New Yorkers are the only ones with a longer average commute than we Marylanders, but just barely: 31.6 minutes. The report does not say, but that extra .1 minute New Yorkers spend commuting is perhaps due to their fondness for a certain friendly hand gesture while driving, or while engaging in other commute-related activities, such as finding a seat on the subway.
The report says that 36 percent of our state's residents have never been married. Unfortunately for the state's single female population, only .0001 percent of this number are male, and most of those are planning an out-of-state move very soon. I know this because a co-worker, who is single and female, has met nearly every other single person in the state and declares there are no eligible males in Maryland.
So putting all this data together, we get a good picture of the average Marylander: well-off (or poor), married (or a single female), and spends more time commuting than sleeping, although in some cases these activities are combined. Which could explain a lot.
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
Mr. Heimlich, at your service
In the publishing business, we must be careful when using certain words or phrases known as trademarks. When spoken aloud, these terms must be accompanied by a hand gesture wherein one hand makes a little circle and the other makes an "R" sign inside the circle. In print, well, we are advised to shun such terms altogether in favor of more generic descriptions, which often mean readers have no idea what we are talking about. To help us confuse our readers, there is a handbook put out by a trademark association that offers helpful suggestions for generic substitutions (Nestle Crunch: candy. Milk Duds: candy. Jelly Belly: candy).
In some cases there can be hefty fines -- including loss of workplace bathroom privileges -- for unauthorized use of a trademarked term. Therefore all employees, no matter their line of work, are advised to avoid using such terms when performing vital work-related tasks, for instance when discussing the vending machine offerings:
Employee 1: "So what looks good to you?"
Employee 2: "I'm kind of in the mood for some multicolored chocolate-coated candies. Or maybe a mulitlayered chocolate and caramel confection. How about you?"
Employee 1: "Oh, I'm thinking some baked snack chips. The deep-fat fried and coated onions gave me gas last time."
Employee 2: "Hey, if that happens again, I've got some medicinal preparation for intestinal dysfunction if you need it."
Employee 3: "Hmmmm...on a hot day like today I'd really like a frozen confection, but I guess I'll have to settle for some multicolored fruit-flavored candies with a hole in the middle. Or a candy sucker with a bubble gum center."
Employee 2: "Well, stay away from that fruit-flavored powder candy in straws. It's nasty."
Employee 4: "Hey, I've got this awful sore throat. Anyone have some medicated candy?"
Excited employee (temporarily forgetting about generic substitutions): "Oooo, M&Ms look good."
All other employees (looking around in frightened manner): "Shhh!"
Although many suggestions for generic descriptions in the handbook are rather straightforward (Head and Shoulders: dandruff shampoo; Hefty: plastic bags), others are less than helpful. In the H section, we see this entry:
Heimlich Maneuver: educational services
This particular generic substitution is bound to reassure someone who is in dire need of some educational services. Say you are at a restaurant, and a nearby patron begins to choke. Once you have determined that the individual is, in fact, choking on food and not at the sight of the bill, you -- because you have studied the necessary information in the trademark handbook -- can offer your assistance in his hour of need by saying something such as the following:
"Stand back, everyone! I will now perform an educational service on this poor, unfortunate victim. Fear not, I hold a doctorate in ancient cannibalistic cultures and am therefore well-qualified to render this service."
To the victim, who is now nearly purple, you might say, "You shouldn't feel a thing, although when you recover you may not remember all of your times tables, even though this is an educational service I am rendering you."
Following your successful deliverance of educational services, you may return to your meal of hot wheat breakfast food and powder used in preparation of soft drinks. And who knows? You may even earn a medal from your grateful victim and the restaurant owner: The Colorful Round Piece of Alloy awarded for Valiant Educational Services.
In some cases there can be hefty fines -- including loss of workplace bathroom privileges -- for unauthorized use of a trademarked term. Therefore all employees, no matter their line of work, are advised to avoid using such terms when performing vital work-related tasks, for instance when discussing the vending machine offerings:
Employee 1: "So what looks good to you?"
Employee 2: "I'm kind of in the mood for some multicolored chocolate-coated candies. Or maybe a mulitlayered chocolate and caramel confection. How about you?"
Employee 1: "Oh, I'm thinking some baked snack chips. The deep-fat fried and coated onions gave me gas last time."
Employee 2: "Hey, if that happens again, I've got some medicinal preparation for intestinal dysfunction if you need it."
Employee 3: "Hmmmm...on a hot day like today I'd really like a frozen confection, but I guess I'll have to settle for some multicolored fruit-flavored candies with a hole in the middle. Or a candy sucker with a bubble gum center."
Employee 2: "Well, stay away from that fruit-flavored powder candy in straws. It's nasty."
Employee 4: "Hey, I've got this awful sore throat. Anyone have some medicated candy?"
Excited employee (temporarily forgetting about generic substitutions): "Oooo, M&Ms look good."
All other employees (looking around in frightened manner): "Shhh!"
Although many suggestions for generic descriptions in the handbook are rather straightforward (Head and Shoulders: dandruff shampoo; Hefty: plastic bags), others are less than helpful. In the H section, we see this entry:
Heimlich Maneuver: educational services
This particular generic substitution is bound to reassure someone who is in dire need of some educational services. Say you are at a restaurant, and a nearby patron begins to choke. Once you have determined that the individual is, in fact, choking on food and not at the sight of the bill, you -- because you have studied the necessary information in the trademark handbook -- can offer your assistance in his hour of need by saying something such as the following:
"Stand back, everyone! I will now perform an educational service on this poor, unfortunate victim. Fear not, I hold a doctorate in ancient cannibalistic cultures and am therefore well-qualified to render this service."
To the victim, who is now nearly purple, you might say, "You shouldn't feel a thing, although when you recover you may not remember all of your times tables, even though this is an educational service I am rendering you."
Following your successful deliverance of educational services, you may return to your meal of hot wheat breakfast food and powder used in preparation of soft drinks. And who knows? You may even earn a medal from your grateful victim and the restaurant owner: The Colorful Round Piece of Alloy awarded for Valiant Educational Services.
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
Of jeans and aliens
At work, the powers that be took pity on their subjects a few months ago and decreed every Friday during the summer to be "jeans" day. This edict was greeted with much cheering and enthusiasm, although as the summer wound down and the last day for wearing jeans approached, our enthusiasm was much subdued. But then -- o, happy day! -- we received an e-mail saying jeans day was "such a success" over the summer that we now get to have jeans day all year on Fridays.
Although this was greeted with great rejoicing, there was also suspicion regarding the motivation behind this benevolent decree. "Ha!" the powers that be probably said amongst themselves. "Instead of giving them raises, we'll just tell them they can wear jeans every Friday!"
Well, we are happy anyway.
There was no explanation of what constituted the "success" of jeans day. Were employees happier on days they could wear jeans? More productive? Did they sing more (although this might not, depending on the particular employee, be considered successful)? Was it the only policy we have had 100% compliance on? We may never know.
Meanwhile in our building -- which we affectionately call the "North Suite" because it is too depressing to call it the "warehouse," which is what it is -- we are in a battle against large alien creatures attempting a hostile takeover. The silence that generally prevails in our workspace is periodically interrupted by thwacking sounds, indicating that an astute employee has thwarted a takeover attempt by a wasp, centipede, whatever. So far the battle remains rather low-key, but should the creatures ever attempt to make off with our coffee, THEN there will be war.
It appears that I am what is known as the "alpha contact." That is, most of the alien sightings have been made by me. But by nature I am a very generous person, so, not wishing to keep these revelations all to myself, I recently sent an e-mail to my co-workers about a particular creature spotted.
To: Editing; Graphics
Subject: Service opportunity
There is an immediate opportunity for a service-minded individual to deal with a large cricket in the ladies' bathroom. Please see Holly.
According to an e-mail from the first person who attempted to fill this service position, the cricket "disappeared into a hole in the wall." I imagine this is how conspiracy theories get started. "It disappeared into a hole in the wall; there's probably a whole city of them in there..."
Later we received an e-mail from another person who announced that she had taken care of the cricket in question, although she personally "wouldn't have called it large." She based this opinion on the crickets in her personal basement, which are reportedly so big you can hear them when they jump.
I personally wonder why this person is not the alpha contact for the aliens at work. Obviously she has much more experience with aliens than I do.
But as long as we can keep wearing our jeans on Fridays, not much else matters. Although there is the little matter of raises...
Although this was greeted with great rejoicing, there was also suspicion regarding the motivation behind this benevolent decree. "Ha!" the powers that be probably said amongst themselves. "Instead of giving them raises, we'll just tell them they can wear jeans every Friday!"
Well, we are happy anyway.
There was no explanation of what constituted the "success" of jeans day. Were employees happier on days they could wear jeans? More productive? Did they sing more (although this might not, depending on the particular employee, be considered successful)? Was it the only policy we have had 100% compliance on? We may never know.
Meanwhile in our building -- which we affectionately call the "North Suite" because it is too depressing to call it the "warehouse," which is what it is -- we are in a battle against large alien creatures attempting a hostile takeover. The silence that generally prevails in our workspace is periodically interrupted by thwacking sounds, indicating that an astute employee has thwarted a takeover attempt by a wasp, centipede, whatever. So far the battle remains rather low-key, but should the creatures ever attempt to make off with our coffee, THEN there will be war.
It appears that I am what is known as the "alpha contact." That is, most of the alien sightings have been made by me. But by nature I am a very generous person, so, not wishing to keep these revelations all to myself, I recently sent an e-mail to my co-workers about a particular creature spotted.
To: Editing; Graphics
Subject: Service opportunity
There is an immediate opportunity for a service-minded individual to deal with a large cricket in the ladies' bathroom. Please see Holly.
According to an e-mail from the first person who attempted to fill this service position, the cricket "disappeared into a hole in the wall." I imagine this is how conspiracy theories get started. "It disappeared into a hole in the wall; there's probably a whole city of them in there..."
Later we received an e-mail from another person who announced that she had taken care of the cricket in question, although she personally "wouldn't have called it large." She based this opinion on the crickets in her personal basement, which are reportedly so big you can hear them when they jump.
I personally wonder why this person is not the alpha contact for the aliens at work. Obviously she has much more experience with aliens than I do.
But as long as we can keep wearing our jeans on Fridays, not much else matters. Although there is the little matter of raises...
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