Spring Cleaning

I could clean out my desk in five minutes, and nobody would even know I was ever here. And I'd forget, too. —Ryan "the temp" Howard

A resolution was made, by me, recently, that I would grind down and really start getting things done at work. No more piles of things that "need to be done eventually" sitting in the recesses of my desk. Whereas I would spend much of my time sitting around trying to explain to my bosses why so-and-so wanted such-and-such completed, I'd just get it done. Instead of going back and forth with my colleagues asking why they won't file the contract amendment I put in their mailbox, I would stand in their cubicles and say "what do you need for this to get completed and I will get it for you.
In one case, a client had asked to do some work for us in a state where he wasn't authorized to work. In another case, a colleague of mine didn't understand what needed to be done so she didn't do it (that was November). In another case, I never really pursued the needs of a particular client because that client had never brought in any work for us. But this was the time that they got their needs addressed. I helped client 1 get authorized to do business. I restarted the case where my colleague was sitting on it and reasssigned it to someone else. I got client 3 rolling, and put him out on the road so he could do some work for us.
Suddenly, management was all over me. Why was work being done that came in four months ago? Why aren't there any records of client 2 being addressed? Why is a processor making decisions that authorize a case that management has been discussing for a week and hasn't come to any conclusions on? Suddenly, the boss is in my space telling me I'm a "problem employee," that when one of these things come up it's just an isolated event, but they're starting to see a pattern of me making things happen. "Making things happen," the crime of all crimes.
Then, my computer starts to break.
Now, I use a significant amount of technology that my collagues don't understand. IE5 takes five minutes to load, so I download Safari, which loads instantly. Outlook doesn't index emails, so I use Desktop Search, which is instantaneous. Instead of printing everything and keeping it on my desk where it can't be searched, indexed, or trigger reminders, I save everything as PDFs and attach them to tasks (they all have to be scanned back into the computer anyway). So my boss is fuming now, and starts demanding to know why I feel I have to load up my computer with all this extra stuff and make it break.
Here's what happened: Adobe Reader poses a security risk to our computers. This affects 95% of employees, as they use Adobe Reader. I don't; I use Adobe Acrobat. Well, when they put in a patch to block this security risk, it blocked Acrobat entirely. That confused Outlook 2003 since the patch was too new, which would send panic messages to Internet Explorer, but since IE5 was rendered obsolete 3 years ago, it can't pull the patch from Microsoft Help, because Microsoft no longer supports IE5. For everyone else's computer, the computer doesn't check to see if anything's wrong. But all of my new apps suddenly started asking "what the hell are all these old apps doing here?" and the whole thing crashes.
IT can't easily fix the computer, and here's why: it's a tier 5 problem. They have to exhaust all tier 1 possibilities before they troubleshoot tier 2. They have to exhaust all tier 2 possibilities before troubleshooting tier 3. And so on. Three days I sat at my desk, my computer on the fritz, getting all the work done that I can on the new, functional applications while the 6 year-old apps fall like dominoes.
Finally, today, the whole thing crashed. My boss sternly advises me that management is going to start discussing me; if their discussion moves as fast as their talks about all my clients, that won't affect me for months. But I needed some sort of catharsis. So, while IT sits at my computer, gradually escalating my issue, I started cleaning. First, it was organizing all the letters clients have sent me. Then, I started cleaning coffee mugs. Then I started shredding old documents from resolved issues. Then I started putting my paper clips in the supply cabinet. Then I started removing my desk accessories—pen holders, staplers—and at last I take down all the decorations, from posters and calendars to cheat sheets that I've since saved as excel spreadsheets on my computer, until all that's left is a pile of work to be done and my Dell.
At 3:00 PDT, my computer was finally fixed. I sat down and started closing out the existing issues. It's pretty slow these days, so I think I can have everything done on my desk by Monday. Then, the second an issue lands on my desk, I'll use the same panicked "have to get it off my desk" strategy that I used when I was behind. When my work is caught up, I'll finally get around to indexing the department's old excel spreadsheets into one easy-to-use database.
And I'll be happy. Not because my work is done, or because I'm moving forward, or because the boss is off my back. I'll be happy because of that clean desk. It's a psychological reminder that at any time, however hard things get, I could be gone in five minutes, and everyone would forget I was ever there. And I'll forget, too.

Apologies to Management

Management at my company hates me for being likeable. Many of them are my friends. My proudest moment was when someone said to the director “that guy is really, really smart, isn’t he?” to which she replied somewhat ironically, “yeah, we’re trying to rein that in.” She has since quit, but her replacement feels the same way about me. As does my new supervisor, who has often invited me out for drinks.
Earlier this week, management had a closed-door meeting discussing the possibility of requiring employees to work over Christmas vacation. Most employees didn’t pick up on that message, but I know how to read people, and I knew it was a consideration. I sent an email to the entire department, proactively warning of the dangers of making such a request, and at the very least, if the option is on the table, to come out and say it now, instead of dropping it on people the week of Christmas.
As it well should, the email caused an instant panic. Many of the more resigned employees laughed it off— not because they didn’t think it would happen, but that they would expect no better than to have Christmas cancelled. The newer employees started looking for the signs that it was an option, and started seeing them.

My boss called a meeting with me.

He started the meeting with explicit instructions: this meeting was purely for documentation purposes, to record that I had been made aware of the company’s email etiquette policy. He listed the reasons why the email was not appropriate. He asked me, as he is bureaucratically required to do, what my side of the story was. I gave it to him, he wrote down his notes, and then gave the response that the director had already fed him to give. I pushed back, pushing him to tell me outright if cancelling Christmas was being considered, and he replied, “that’s a fair question, I’m just saying that’s a question that you relay to me, not replying to the whole team.”
“Well, I think we’ve resolved the communication issue. I will parlay all grievances to you directly. I’m giving you one now– I’m not speaking for myself; I’m telling you as management, our department can not afford to rely on employees coming in on Christmas.”
“That’s a valid concern,” he reiterates, “I just want you to understand that you need to bring these to my attention, and not to the team.”

I really like the guy. I specifically asked to work with him. But this isn’t personal. This is me, the employee, fully aware that what I tell him is going on record. I say it again, as my concern had not been addressed.
“I am not saying this in my own defense, nor as an individual employee. I’m asking on the behalf of the team, has the planning been put into action that if we do not provide the results you need, that it will be demanded that we work over the holidays?”

He looked down at the table, mumbling almost incomprehensibly, “okay, it’s just how you communicate it.”

He looks up at me, begging me with his eyes not to do this to him. The meeting was a policy-mandated reprimand, not him criticizing me personally. But I'm not attacking him personally either; I'm attacking management. I just wait for a response. Finally, he meekly closes his book and says, “okay, I’ll send you a write-up of our meeting for the records,” and stands up.

Sorry Chris, it wasn’t personal. For what its worth, I’ve stood up against nearly every authority figure in our department and never once reached an accord. I understand why. The fact is, they’re just here because it’s a living. Words matter, and when I criticize management, it hurts.

He made it very clear how much it hurt for the director to read my email, outright asking her, “are you planning on taking away Christmas?” She never wanted to be that person, and still doesn’t. He never wanted to be the guy on his side of the table, reprimanding someone for standing up for what he thought was right. But he is the guy on the other side of the table.

His job as a supervisor is to keep me quiet, and I respect that. My job is to speak out, and I take pride in my job.

New Pet Peeve

I guess this never came up before because it was beyond my imagination that someone would do this, but I'm seeing it often enough at work for me to call it out: people who write an email, but instead of sending it, print it out and fax it.

They must believe that this is a more secure fashion of sending emails. I will concede that ten years ago, there were problems with emails being intercepted, and as recently as two weeks ago, Sarah Palin's emails were broadcast over the web, but that was because she used Yahoo Mail and had a really easy password to guess. Technology has done some good things recently, and although email is still not secure, it's just as safe as mail, or fax, or telephone. But that's not what bothers me.

What really bothers me is how mind-blowingly wasteful this is. The only waste of resources I can accept from people is when the way they're doing it is easier than the more efficient option. I never like going out of my way to be more sustainable. Ever. I do it because I have to. But to type something into a program specifically designed to communicate without paper, then to print it, especially when most email programs have a built-in fax option, is ludicrous. It's actually a huge inconvenience to type something, print it, then submit it electronically. Especially since most peoples' fax machines are their scanners. There's something inherently and fundementally wrong about that.

Also, it's not for nothing that emails are searchable, modifiable, resizeable, and can be manipulated, read and archived by computers. When you print it out and fax it, all of that functionality is lost. And when we get these "printed emails," they are always requests for something to be entered into our computers. Hey jackwad—you already did the computer part for us, why not just pass it along? Selfish fucking prick.

Linguistics and mid-management

ME: “Boy, my boss is dumb.”
ME: “How dumb is she?”
ME: “She heard me sneeze, and sent me an IM that said ‘kazoontite.’”
ME: “Hmmm, that’s not very funny.”
ME: “Oh, it wasn’t a joke. My boss actually thinks it’s spelled ‘kazoontite.’ I replied that I didn’t know what she was saying, and she confusedly explained to me that that is what you say after someone sneezes.”
ME: “Oh. Oh dear.”
ME: “Yeah. I had to cover my tracks for implying she was an idiot by saying ‘Oh, I didn’t realize it was a reply to my sneeze.’”
ME: “Well, thank God you’re witty enough to still convince your boss that you’re dumber than her.”
ME: (sound of blowing brains out)

What a fucking cunt

Palin said today that the reason why she sounded like such an idiot with the Couric interviews is because Couric wasn't asking the questions she was prepared to answer. I guess when you only talk to Fox News, you actually believe that's what journalists do? What a twat. And to rise to the level of this dumb whore actually offending me, she actually tries turning it around on Katie Couric, saying that it just showed she was "outside the media elite," so she doesn't know how to respond to those hoity-toity news people who know... stuff. So if you came away thinking that Katie Couric is more suited to being President than some random Alaskan bimbo beauty queen, you must be one of those "elitists" who think that the leader of our country is supposed to know something. Anything. Like, more than one Supreme Court case (since she'd be choosing the judges). At least one news magazine (since the executive branch's main role is to be the reactionary branch). One instance of ever having done anything of value to... oh, fuck it. Anyone who doesn't believe by now that this bitch should never be allowed to leave Wassila unless she's wearing a bicycle helmet should go live in a fucking igloo and hunt moose, and give us back our country instead of running it in to the fucking ground. The U.S. is becoming the next Phonecia. Where's Phonecia, you ask? Exactly.

I'm sorry, is it sexist to use every derogatory feminine term I could think of in this rant? I'm just defending Katie Couric, a poor, defenseless woman who is being heartlessly attacked by a mysogenist yokel hockey moose-hunting neo-Christian retard. See I can say gender-neutral things about her, too.

Lunches

I tend to reminisce about lunch. If I had the means, I would love to go eat lunch at all of the following places:

• The lunchroom of my junior high
• The 2nd floor hallway of my high school in Idaho
• The lunchroom of my high school in Europe
• The dorm cafeteria of my college
• Old Chicago, my old stomping ground
• The kitchen of my quad apartment from my upperclassmen years
• The kitchen of my best friend's dad's old house
• Hot Cake House in Portland at 1 a.m.

Some of these are easy. Hot Cake House, for one. The "dorm cafeteria" doubles as a functioning restaurant, and I don't think it's changed all that much. If I went back to Europe for any significant amount of time, I'm sure it'd be easy to eat there as well.

I can't really go back to eating on the floor of my high school, and I think they'd frown on me hanging out at the Junior High. Obviously, my apartment and my friend's dad's house have been sold to other people; even if I randomly ended up eating at the new tenants' residence, it would be indistinguishable. Similarly, I actually tried going back to Old Chicago, but it was totally remodeled, and anyway, the whole appeal was being on a first name basis with literally the entire staff, all the way up to the owner (who has since sold the joint).

It seems like a silly thing to reminisce about, but I get all emotional just writing about it, and to this day I have dreams, where I walk down those gray stairs into the basement of my school, take a left into the little dining hall, and put my money down in that little window that goes to the kitchen, and they hand me my macaroni and half tea/half sugar, and I walk to the back table and pull out my math book and work on my homework.

Sounds like a dreadful thing to dream about, doesn't it? Well, it so happens that I got a bout of insomnia the last couple days, and you know how I fixed it? I laid in my bed, and pictured that little dining hall in my mind. Within half an hour, I was asleep and on my way there.

So I guess I can go back.

I spoke with God today

There's a preacher out today. He was going on about how we were all sinners, waving his bible and telling us how we're all going to hell, blah blah blah, so I just sit out there smoking a cigarette and wait for him to get to the part where his church wants our money. Sure enough, suddenly he says, "you can get to heaven, but you can't get there alone. Man can help you. Are you a private believer? Are you someone who says he believes in Jesus at night, but doesn't act upon it in public? You must show your faith before man!"

Sweet macrame, he couldn't have set it up more perfectly. I shout out, "what about Matthew 12?" He stops and looks at me. He says, "I'm not familiar with..."
"Matthew 12. You've got your book on you, look it up." "We'll talk later," he says, and starts up his spiel. "Talk later? Then what are you telling us? Are you speaking for God or for your church? What about Matthew 6?" He just starts talking right over the top of me.

Then, this girl with a shirt from his church on comes up to me and asks, "what were you saying about Matthew 6?" I reply, "well, are you familiar with Matthew 6?" "Sure," she says, "the Lord's Prayer."
"Right, where it says Our Father, who art in heaven, all that. Well, have you read just before it?"
"No, what does it say?"
"It's a part with Jesus talking to his followers, they're asking about church—well, synagogue—and he says... well, God says..." and then I completely blanked on the passage. So I say (verbatim), "Oh, God, what is that passage?... Oh! 'Speak not before man, as the heathens do, but speak privately at night with your father in a manner such as this.' Then he recites the Lord's Prayer, but it's a paraphrase, not to be recited in church. It actually says specifically in the Bible, do not pray before man, but pray privately to God, at night. It's the exact opposite of what this guy is telling us."
She just stares at me for a long time. Finally, she just says, "thank you," stands up, and leaves the square completely, while her church mates are still busy trying to recruit people.

I've had it

While sitting at my desk today and typing addresses into a computer, I pulled out my iPod as usual. I usually listen to "upbeat mix," for obvious reasons– so much so that I'm starting to get sick of the songs on it. Some of the lists are pretty generic: "singles mix," "on-the-go," "running music," "soft mix." So, really, any of them are a safe bet; if it's anything other than upbeat, I know I'll probably hear something I haven't heard in a while.

So, I put on "killer mix." This is one I actually only listen to on special occasions– the mix of songs that provoke a tangible emotion out of me, every one. So it's not usually what I listen to when I'm trying to do some medial work tasks. But you know what, fuck it. I've got a review coming up where my boss is going to tell me I'm a poor performer. I have supervisors from other departments sending barbed emails about me because they're convinced I'm spying on their department. Let me say that last one again. People in my own company are accusing me for spying on them, because I ask them what they do for a living. Some of my coworkers are afraid of me, others hate me. Others still send me emails saying how blessed they are that I work with them. People I used to work with call and ask me for advice on jobs I've never had. My boss told me it's okay for me to tell people that my coworkers are incompetent. Today, the Vice President from another business unit called to ask me for advice on a case at her desk. So what do I care if I look a bit hot under the collar while I'm working?

And it then occurs to me that it's been too long since I listened to my "killer mix." Evidently, I haven't felt emotions for quite some time, and it was a rude awakening to have them return.

Those who know me will know that I'm a bit melodramatic. Having said that, I felt this afternoon as if I had just woken from a coma and found out that I was 28, bald, fat, acne-ridden and working for an insurance company with a business casual outfit and a decaf coffee at my desk. Why the fuck didn't any of you tell me? 

My apartment's a fucking disaster. I haven't folded my clothes for nearly a year. I haven't had all my dishes clean at the same time since 1998 (that's not a lie; when I move, I always take some dirty dishes to the new place). I drew the window shade, which has been closed since December, to find that a swarm of flies have been living behind the shade. I keep my spaghetti sauce on my living room floor. I've completely given up, and I don't have any accomplishment to have faded from.

I had a band once, but we never made it. You know why? We didn't try. We were exactly like every other college band, except our songs were better and we deluded ourselves into thinking we were taking it seriously. One summer, we played a couple shows in Ontario, Oregon. You know what we called it? A tour. It was the only time we played outside of our home town, and the stress of the travel is what led directly to the breakup of the band.

I moved to Portland after college. I went to a city of opportunity, from a town of stagnation. You know what opportunity I grasped onto? Ten months of unemployment, $15,000 of meaningless debt, a string of superficial relationships with desperate, failed people, a three year alliance with a self-absorbed alcoholic, and a 500 square foot apartment.

Did you know I'm a writer? A couple years ago, I talked to a girl who had a published book out. I said I wrote a bit too, though I'd never sold anything. "Let me guess," she said, "screenplays and short stories?"

So, I guess I'm not all that special in that regard. 

I'm engaged. Yep. To a girl I could have married when I was twenty two, but I didn't do it because I didn't want to deal with the responsibility or investment. In four months she's going to move in with me, into this shithole, and she's going to be expecting to go out there and get a job as a doctor. I haven't done any research on how she could accomplish that, and I haven't sent her any study guides or prep work for her to get her licensure. Actually, aside from proposing, I haven't really done anything for her.

I say this all in optimism. Consider the songs that played on my killer mix: "Letterbomb" by Green Day. "Wait and Bleed" from Slipknot. "Eat You Alive" by Limp Bizkit. "The Perfect Drug" by Nine Inch Nails. "S.S. Recognize" by Alien Ant Farm. "Grind" by me, three years ago. All of those except the last one have something in common: the people performing them are in their thirties. I'm 28. There was no requirement that I die at 20, but I did. And now I realize why those emotions awoke something in me: my emotions kept telling me how mediocre I was. I prefer the voice in my head that tells me how incredible I am.

Look back at my past posts in my blog. I talk about how much better I am than my coworkers. Yet here I am, working with them. I talk about how much smarter I am than all my classmates. Yet I haven't taken advantage of my intelligence since the tenth grade. Hell, I only got a 3.8 in a state uni, and that's with only one honors class. In humanities. I talk about how great I am with language and culture. Yet I only speak two languages, and I work for people who have never heard of the European Union. You know that I work in the city where the headquarters of my old exchange program is located? I was offered a job there, once. I turned it down so I could do data entry at the insurance company. That was four years ago.

So here's the question: I'm going to bed in an hour. Who's going to wake up tomorrow morning– the self-absorbed failure, or the man I claim I could be? Is there a chance that this weekend, I'll meet a man who will clean and care for himself without complaining, who will demand better of himself, who will actually work towards something, even if that means working 80 hours a week? Or am I just typing another fucking fictional narrative?

You know what's playing right now on my mix? "Caterpillar," by me, ten years ago. The guitarist of my old band's favorite part is when I would pound down on the strings and let out a ferocious scream. By the time we recorded the song in 2002, I didn't want to scream at the end anymore. It was too much effort, and kinda hurt my vocal chords.

Update: Tonight, I said goodbye to World of Warcraft. I deleted the porn folder from my computer. I took a shower, cleaned up, shaved, and laid out some clothes for tomorrow. I ordered a new iron so I can put all my clothes in my closet this weekend. I've still got a little time before I go to bed early (so I can get up early and make myself a real lunch instead of paying $7 a day at the deli), so I think I'll pick up my guitar and work on that song I promised I'd have written a week ago. Tomorrow, God help me, I'm going to get caught up at work. I'm too good to fail. I'll be the best fucking employee they've ever had, until I know I've got real, tangible work somewhere else. I'll do everything I have to do so I can be a true professional.

Please, Bob, don't fuck this up for me.

My mindstream

or, "Why I never accomplish anything."

Here is a sample of the voice that goes on inside my head.

God, this is a great idea for a new story. I've got scenes, great jokes... it's about time I wrote an all out comedy. I should start writing it now. I'll get my desk cleaned off and start writing. The dirty kitchen is a bit distracting, though. I can't really focus on writing when the kitchen's that dirty. So let me clean the kitchen really quicklike. Of course, I can't really focus on cleaning the kitchen, because I know it won't make a difference with how dirty the living room is. Let me clean up the living room first. It's a little late to be cleaning the living room, though– by the time I get to vacuuming, it'll already be quiet hours. I can just pick up, I suppose. Of course, picking up will only take me half an hour. I'm still not going to be able to clean the kitchen, of course, until I get the living room vacuumed. I'll at least clean off the dishes in the sink. There, now that that's done, let me pick up the living room. My back's sore, though– they don't make kitchen sinks tall enough for people like me. Kind of makes me a pussy to get a sore back just from washing dishes. Seems strange that I would have to stretch just to do housechores. I'll watch an episode of The Office, give my back a little time to recover, then I'll clean the living room. Oh, I don't have time to watch The Office; I need to make lunch for tomorrow. Damn, nothing really in the fridge that I don't have to cook, and that'll just make dirty dishes. I just cleaned the dishes, I want to wake up at least one morning to a clean sink, if nothing else. It's too late to go to the grocery store and grab something. Maybe I'll just eat out tomorrow for lunch. Wait, shoot, I don't have the money. Ok, I'll just cook something up real quick. Clean up the dishes... meh, I'll do it tomorrow. Ok, now it's time to pick up the front room. Seems a bit silly to clean up the front room when the kitchen's dirty again; it's not like the CDs on the table are going to attract ants, but the dishes will. Fuck it; I'll just go to bed. I'll watch that episode of The Office while I'm falling asleep. I deserve a half hour of leisure after all I did today. Funny show. Gives me some good ideas for that new story I want to write.

I'll admit it sounds silly out loud...

“So, does it seem immoral to buy a used iPod off a homeless guy at the Sherwood McDonalds for 45 bucks? I don’t need a whole new iPod, I just need some kind of nano, and he put up a thing on Craigslist at like 2:00 last night saying he was getting rid of his iPod. I bought one from a dude in the Carribean last week, but he sent it to me and it wouldn’t stay on for more than 15 minutes at a time, so I mailed it back to Puerto Rico this morning, and now I need another iPod. I’ve gotten plenty of possible justifications- he needs the money to pay taxes; he got it off some other homeless guy; some jogger dropped it and now he’s just selling it to another jogger… in any of those situations I’m not responsible for any wrongdoing per se. Just so long as it’s not store-packaged, I should be fine.”

Me (Inside Voice), volume 1

COWORKER: So you're going to be gone for two and a half weeks, eh? How'd you pull that off?
ME (OUT LOUD): Well, I already had the trip planned before I started here.
COWORKER: Yeah, I'm surprised that they let you take that much time off. I didn't think you could take that much time off all at once.
ME (OUT LOUD): Yeah, I think management realized that it made sense for me to take it all at once in this case.
(moment of silence)
COWORKER: Yeah, I'm pretty sure it's company policy that you can't take two weeks off all at once.
ME (INSIDE VOICE): Hey, it's really bothering you that I'm doing something that isn't to the letter of the law, isn't it? It's almost as if I realize that they're company guidelines, not laws. Especially when you consider that I just told you that management allowed me to take the time off, one can only presume that you have no idea what the fuck you're talking about. I might go so far as to say that there might be reasons why they're management and you're not.

Now that I think about it, this blind obedience to the company guidelines may be one of the reasons why I'm above you in the pecking order despite being half your age. So as much as your twelve years of thankless has gotten you in this company, the fact that I'm getting what I want and you aren't might be an indication that the company actually prefers people who think for themselves instead of just grumbling at their desk about how everyone else is trying to destroy you. Now go back to complaining about your job (and, evidently, complaining about everyone else's job as well) and I'll get back to actually doing mine. If my apparently insubordination bothers you that much, look at the bright side: I'll be gone within a year, moving further up the chain or promoting out, while you will remain, wasting away at your desk until you die. I apologize in advance for the next future management who replaces me and continues to ruin your life by flaunting the rules, right in your face. Now, if you don't mind, I'm going on vacation. I'll be back in two and a half weeks.