Tag Archives: office humor

The Nude Hour

23 Mar

I’m alone in the office this week.

Part of the beauty of being an executive assistant is that executives tend to go on quite a few trips.   And after you’re done pulling your hair out trying to pad their itinerary with so much detail that someone could conk them out and easily steal their life for 3 days, you get to sit back and relish the silence of their absence.

And so there I was yesterday – relishing – when it occurred to me that I really am all alone.  With everyone attached to the conference in my boss’s office out of the picture, there’s just me and a few folks downstairs in the whole department.   And as soon as they decide to go to a meeting or run to lunch, I’m officially the only representing member of our department’s stake in the corporate jungle.

So what, exactly, is stopping me from being nude?

Seriously.

There was only one person outside our department who visited me yesterday and it was to drop off the mail. Since nothing posts to our mail stop until 1:30pm, it’s safe to say that I can expect to be alone until at least that time.   Which means that from 9:00am-1:30pm, I have 4 distinct opportunities to begin what I will dub “the nude hour”.

I thought about just dropping the drawers.  I sit behind a desk all day anyway – a pretty  massive one.  And quite frankly if I pull my office chair in close enough, there’s little chance that anyone would even know I’m sitting there airing out my private lady bits.

I got quite a few phone calls yesterday, but there’s nothing to fear there.  As long as I don’t sound too excitable, there will be no reason for the caller to wonder what’s going on.    And since I already make the majority of my phone calls while I’m on the toilet, I think I’ll ace that test.

So that’s that.  I’ve no reason to go one more day on this earth without being able to say that I’ve been nude in the office. It’s there for the taking.

My path has been made clear before me. ♣

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Your Lipstick Is Hurting My Brain.

18 Mar

I have blogged before about how awkward I find elevators.  I don’t like unspoken elevator etiquette, I don’t like confined spaces, and I don’t like people.

Every day outside my apartment is a challenge.

Yesterday I was on the elevator at work, sandwiched between two older women.  The one on my left was wearing an incredibly colorful scarf, and the one on my right was admiring it.  It was a nice, elevator-appropriate exchange.  Something or other about it looking lovely, and then something or other about it being from Italy.

Why is it that every time someone’s clothes are complimented they say it’s from somewhere ridiculous?

So woman #1 exits the  elevator feeling all lovely about herself and her choice to express herself through her wardrobe and I’m left with woman #2.   I’m not really a morning person and I usually spend my time on the elevator psyching myself up to face the corporate jungle for 8 hours without running out the door screaming bloody murder.  So I’m not really one for elevator chat.

Unfortunately for me, woman #2 was.  And she was still fixated on the Italian scarf.

“I just love that scarf.  It was so colorful!  I can’t wear anything like that.  I sometimes buy things that are colorful but I can’t actually wear them.  I don’t know why.  I just never do.  I can’t ever wear them Blah Blah  Blah HAHAHAHA”

I could only stare at the floor numbers for so long before the silence became a murder weapon, so I attempted to muster up something in reply.  But just when I was about to speak, I turned to her and saw that half a stick’s worth of berry lipstick had gathered on her front teeth.  I instantly suffered from a severe brain shutdown and could only manage something like

“Well….I…like your blazer.  It’s…. a color.”

I followed it up with a good, long,  inappropriately intense stare.

She was clearly uncomfortable, but I’d lost all communication with my central nervous system and nothing could be done to save me.  She even graciously allowed time for me to recover with a witty remark or with an explanation of my awkward statement.

But I just stared.

And stared.

Unable to take the wrath of the berry lipstick, I averted my eyes and looked down toward her pleated pants, which offered no solace.

By the grace of God the elevator finally stopped on her floor and realizing she could escape the situation, she bolted. I was left there in my shame and misery, unprepared for my day and fully-fixated on the image of a chunk of berry lipstick.

How does one person get that much lipstick in their mouth instead of on their lips?  How does someone who claims to buy colorful accessories but not to have the courage to wear them able to wear such a bold makeup color?  Why was she wearing pleated pants?

I had a lot of questions, but alas Woman #2 was gone and the elevator reached my floor.  I was instantly greeted by a slew of morning people, all rammed up to tackle their exciting day at the office.  Unfortunately, I had not been able to use my elevator time well and was not prepared for my day.

I can’t even count how many times I was asked if I was okay yesterday.

I hate being asked if I’m okay when I’m at work.  I don’t really even know what it means.  Am I okay?  No.  I’m not okay.  I’m stuck inside working for money so that I can go back outside and use the money to do things I actually want to do.  And I know that you feel the same way.  And I think it’s incredibly strange how we all just pretend that sitting in cubicles and sending emails to each other all day is normal human behavior.

I’m not sure what I’m supposed to look like in that scenario, but apparently I don’t fake it properly unless I’ve had the elevator time to work on my office face.

Lesson learned: next time, opt for the wrath of the elevator silence.  ♣


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A Series of Unfortunate Events: An Interview Tale

17 Feb

Job interview

I almost walked out on an interview yesterday.

Believe me that when I say “almost,”  I’m referring to the necessity for me to calm my nerves and firey rage and remind myself that I am a child of God and that He loves me and doesn’t want me to morph into a tornado of fury.

Allow me to gently caress your brain up to speed.

A few days ago, I received a phone call from a friend/colleague of mine from the other universe in which I dwell : theater and film.   Let’s call him Fink.  He works for a production company and mentioned to me that they were hiring producers and were specifically looking for females or homosexuals.

I happen to be the former, but after a bit more prodding, he revealed that it was most likely temporary and during the day, so I told him I wasn’t interested, had a day job, and was thankful for the call.    5 minutes later, he sent me an email telling me that he was going to put in my name anyway.

This is how it began.

By the time I got home from work, I got a phone call asking me if I was interested in coming in to interview with Fink’s company.   I can’t help but take a moment to note that this receptionist did not give me an address, the position they were hiring for, parking or arrival instructions, or any other pertinent details.   I blame my failure to notice this on a) the fact that I already knew where Fink worked and didn’t think to ask, b) It was something like 5:17 and my brain had already turned off and c) because I take for granted that people are competent in the roles assigned to them.

Isn’t this just one big mistake parade?  This is fun.  We should do this more often.

Over the next few days, I was a big blob of confusion and panic.  I was out of my element and had no experience whatsoever in the field.  I wanted to cancel the interview, but didn’t want to make Fink look bad, and didn’t want to burn a bridge with the company.  In addition, every single person I talked to told me to go and just use it as an opportunity to just meet them.  Tell the truth they said.  Interview THEM! they said. At least it’ll be good blog fodder they said.

Actually, that last one was me, and it’s becoming quite a hindrance to my decision-making skills.

So I went.  The front of the building had a key pad and a locked door, which was not discussed in my call with the receptionist.  Luckily, I was let in by an employee who was also stuck outside.

After being led to a conference room with 3 interviewers, I am given absolutely no new information.  I am simply asked what I’m looking for there today.

I explained that neither Fink nor the receptionist gave much detail so I just know I’m here on a referral and that they’re looking to hire for a position.

After I opened the floor for explanation, there was silence.  Absolute, stone-cold silence.

So I decided to hand them the resumes I prepared for such an occasion – the first my work resume and the second my “production” resume, which was really just a resume with 1 film, and a ton of theater credits.   (Read: absolutely unrelated).

I told them my story, and explained in what I would like to think was a genuine, friendly, and lighthearted manner the situation in which I found myself at their office, noting again that I still wasn’t sure what they were looking for but that I thought it would be silly to not come in just to meet them and see why they called.

My implied question was again unanswered.  Instead, I was asked where I saw myself in 3-5 years.

After realizing that I had absolutely nothing to do with anything, all three got up and left, two of which left my resume on the table.

Which is no small gesture.

On their way out, they mentioned something about someone else potentially stopping in.   I wasn’t sure what that meant, so I sat and stared at the resumes returned to me, and decided to gather my things.

And then Smee came in.   I made a comment that I was abandoned.  Smee said it was 5pm and what did I expect.   I wanted to tell Smee to go put something somewhere uncomfortable or get a receptionist that’s competent enough to not schedule me if I can’t be seen, but I didn’t.  That’s when Smee asked me to tell him why I was there.  I told him he missed that speech already.

He was not amused.

That’s when I thought hey.. whatever.  Let’s do this.  A few short days ago i was trying to sexily hang by my ankles from a pole – I can handle this. So I did the shpeal again, gave him one of the returned resumes, and ended it with jazz hands.    That’s when he asked what I thought they did there.  I said that Fink mentioned commercials.

Smee went out of his way to assure me that commercials were only 10% of what they did.  And that they actually did marketing and recruitment videos and that I could have gotten online and checked out their stuff.  Smee made sure to let me know that I didn’t do my research (using those exact words, actually) and that maybe after I did, I could come back and let them know I did and maybe if they’re hiring interns sometime, I could work my way up to something after slinging coffee for a few years.

This is when the tornado of fury started gathering momentum.

I’m not sure why these people were all not under the understanding that they called me. I’m not sure why every single one of them failed to mention what the position they were hiring was.

Smee said some off-handed comment about how he didn’t really know what they were looking for, but probably something more like production and squeezed in that note about doing my research on the company again.  And then said he guessed he was the last to see me and have a good evening.

So I went to the elevator, absolutely enraged.    Every little BOOP!! that it spit at me on the way down tapped on the too-thin layer separating my body from completely being consumed by angry hellfire.

I skipped lunch to make it to this interview.  I decided to be fearless and turn it  into a meeting opportunity.   I thought that maybe I should just stop being a cynic and just show up and see what happens.   That for once in my life, I should just relax and not prep for 5 hours, especially when I did not seek this opportunity on my own.    I went out against my own cynical nature and thought that maybe there was a hidden prize in all this nonsense.

I’ll tell you what: there is a prize.  It’s a big fat whack in themetaphorical testicles and a good healthy dose of degradation.

Turns out cynicism has its perks. ♣

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Stop Sucking: A Brief Guide to Hiding Your Incompetency in the Workplace

16 Feb

Dilbert.com

If one more person at work asks me if the email address I am giving them is in “uppercase or lowercase” I will put down the phone, walk to their place of business, smack them across the face, and then report their blatant incompetence to whomever is their immediate manager.

In fact, this repeated incident along with a myriad of other office snafus worthy of a good handspanking has inspired me to compile a list.  It’s called

“Stop Sucking: A Brief Guide to Hiding Your Incompetency in the Workplace”

1.) Your signature line is not a carnival. There are few things that can damage your credibility as a professional more quickly than a long, annoying signature line.  There is no need to include a favorite quotation, a customized background, a large, brightly colored font, buttons with links, a disclaimer or confidentiality notice, and pictures of things that make you smile.   Every time that email is forwarded or replied to, all of those things come with it.  It’s long, and it’s annoying.  So just stick to your contact information and titles and anything required by your company.  The more concise, the better.

2.) Before you forward an email to someone, review its contents. This also counts for hitting “reply” and changing the recipient.  I once received an email from the assistant to a very distinguished woman in the community inquiring as to the instructions for her arrival at an event that evening.  After scrolling down to see which event he was referring to, I saw the email from his boss that prompted him to email me, asking him to inquire because she “didn’t want no crap at the door.”  Protect your colleagues and protect yourself – read, edit, then forward.

3.) Bcc and Cc: Know the power, know the difference. It seems simple, but it is a common mistake.  Cc stands for Carbon Copy and is intended for those whom you want to be aware of information, but who are not required to take any action on it.  These persons will be visible to anyone who receives the message.  Bcc means Blind Carbon Copy, and will result in those persons receiving the message without anyone being able to see that you shared it with them.  Carbon Copy is a great way to keep assistants informed on things that you are sending to the person whom they support; Blind Carbon Copy is a great way to get people in trouble.

4.) Seriously.  Understand the power of Bcc. If you have an enormous distribution list for an email, do everyone a favor and stick the recipients in the Bcc line.  Doing so will eliminate that 50-line-long chunk of text that prefaces your message.  In addition, it will protect others from copying and pasting those emails into their own contacts.   If you are still confused about how this works and want to start to reestablish your credibility as a non-moron, do yourself and everyone you email a favor and check out this explanation.

5.) If you’re going to be out of office, put up a freaking message saying so. We all understand that there is a world outside the corporate jungle with children and trees and puppies and sprinkles and that sometimes you’re going to want to bust out and explore that magical land.  When you finally do, do others the courtesy of listed an Out of Office reply, so that they are made aware of your absence, your return date, and any contacts you can provide for questions requiring an immediate response.

6.) Learn how to leave a voicemail. Absolutely nothing should come out of your mouth before list your name, your position and company, and a number at which you can be reached.  I repeat – Absolutely nothing should come out of your mouth before you list your name, your position and company, and a number at which you can be reached. Doing so will save the other person from listening to 3 minutes of your flustered gobbledygook over and over until they are sure the number they wrote is correct.

7.) Master phone number rhythm. 1-2-3/ 4-5-6 / 7-8-9-10.  If you have any confusion about this whatsoever, please refer to this 3-minute tutorial provided by Kevin James.  He also covers my peeve in number 6.

8.) Do not answer the phone for your place of business with “Hello?” When you order pizza, you expect to hear a confirmation of the business name when you order.  Or a thank you for calling them.  Or perhaps even the name of the person to whom you are speaking.  I suggest working all three into one.  An efficient, concise greeting like “Thank you for calling ______, this is ________; how may I help you?”  In addition, allow me to add that unless you are prepared to answer your cell phone in a similar fashion, you should not have it associated with your place of business either.

9.) Dont be a grumplepuss. People can hear whether or not you are smiling on the phone and they can read tone in an email.  They may not always be accurate, but that will never matter.  What will matter is that you have made them grumpy and defensive and that in the close quartered corporate jungle, that grumpiness is likely to reverberate with anyone they meet throughout the day.  So be nice.  Fake it if you have to.  Because I don’t want your grumplepuss ‘tude.

and finally…

10.) Don’t ask if an email someone is giving you is in uppercase or lowercase. It doesn’t matter.  And if you don’t believe me, please send yourself an email with “I’m an idiot” in the subject line – once to your “correct” email and once to your correct email with a letter capitalized.  Enjoy your double affirmation.   ♣


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My New Pet Mouse

3 Feb
Meet Moe.

Yesterday, I shamefully broke my boycott of Starbucks and was rewarded with a mouse.

An adorable mouse.  An I’ll-pick-you-up-and-take-you-home-and-love-you-forever mouse.

I did not, however, pick it up, take it home, and love it forever.  

After a rather challenging day, I decided that I was going to take a lunch, thank you very much.  …And have phones forwarded to my cell… And on the way out the door of Starbucks, I was greeted by the mouse of topic.   Let’s call him Moe.

It’s hard to explain in words how I could have seen a mouse on my way out that was  not outside and yet not inside Starbucks.  There’s sort of a door-within-a-door situation and so I’ve decided to draw an amateur map for your amusement and ridicule.

I appear to be almost as large as the fireplace.  This is not to scale.

So you can see now that I exited the first door and was on my way to open the second door when Moe came into my life.  I attempted to persuade him to come with me.  I was convinced that he would be a great addition to my life in the corporate jungle.  I could keep him in my drawer with my cereal bars.

I’ll bet Moe likes cereal bars.

I tried to shoo him out, as opposed to in (for when in, surely he would die) but he was afronted by the cold, windy air of the city and refused to move.   And I really couldn’t blame him.

So with broken heart in hand (and not mouse), I exited the door and embarked on the woeful journey back to work.  I accidentally took the long way back because all I could do was I was think of the Moe Man.

Here’s to you, Moe Man.  I could have had a wonderful life with you at the office.  But this is for the best, as our relationship could have never gone beyond an office affair.    I could have never taken you home to Dave because he constantly worries about me just bringing things home I find on the street.   It’s a frequent problem.

And besides: suffering from obesity or not, my cats would put a whoopin’ on you.

Make yourself a home in the awkward space between two doors.   I’d advise you to avoid the pastries; they look better than they taste.  But most importantly of all,

Live Long and Prosper. ♣

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I Think I Might Be a Drug Mule

2 Feb

I think there’s something in the tissue boxes at work.

Yes, I know – tissues.  But I mean something else.  Something…better.

The custodian on my floor – let’s call her Marge – always tiptoes into my office, looks behind her to make sure she isn’t being trailed, and slips me a new box of tissues, telling me to “put them in my drawer”, all wide-eyed and crazy haired, as if hot off a chase.  I keep trying to get out the words “no thank you I have plenty”, but  there is a secrecy to our exchange — a sort of hushed urgency that makes me feel as if I’m missing something.

Am I missing something?

Sitting at my desk in the carpeted cages of the corporate jungle, I simply think.  I think so hard and so long about tissues that I worry I might say something ridiculous and tissue-related if someone calls and I have to answer the phone.  And yet try as I might, I could come up with no logical reason for why Marge conducts routine restocking in such a manner.

Let’s consider some possible explanations:

1) Tissues are harder to come by in the corporate jungle than I had anticipated and I take for granted Marge’s love and consideration for me.

2) Marge doesn’t actually work for the company but prefers her self-constructed reality to that of her real life and risks discovery each and every day if not careful.

3)  There is a valuable item, such as drugs or diamonds, hidden in the tissue boxes and I am a pawn in Marge’s illegal activity.

4) Marge doesn’t care for me and is stealing one box of tissues every two days from the supply closet in order to build up my holdings with the intention of outing me in front of Corporate HR.

5) Marge suffers from short-term memory loss and doesn’t remember a tissue exchange happening.  Ever.

I would dig to the bottom of the box to find the source of secrecy, but I had a bad experience with a tissue box conjecture once.  I was unaware that Kleenex had developed a signal to consumers wherein the last few tissues were peach as a warning that the tissue box needed to be replaced.  As a result, I ran around work pulling out funny-colored tissues and exclaiming that I was going to write the company for the mixup and demand a refund.

So you can see how I’m wary of any hasty tissue-related assumptions.   If one public tirade about a tissue box didn’t tip off the coworkers that I’m slightly unstable, I’m certain that a second will.  But I’ve got a full drawer of tissue boxes and I’m going to have to start piling them up in the cabinet if she doesn’t knock it off soon.

Unless, of course, the boxes are full of little baby diamonds and Marge is using me as her mule.

Which would be awesome. ♣

 

Thanks for voting yesterday, guys! The poll is open until Tuesday, when I will reveal the winning design and announce how to get in the drawing for a free t-shirt to be sent directly to your hands.  I promise it’s painless.  

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The Underground Bathroom Society

14 Jan

I haven’t ever seen anyone at work on my floor go into the restroom.

I have scoured the entire top floor in an attempt to find the secret restroom and I can’t.  I can’t find it anywhere.

Where do these people put their pee?

The restroom I utilize at least twice every day is right outside my office door.  I could probably chuck my stapler from my desk hard enough and make the door to the bathroom push in ever so slightly.  In theory, I have every ability to make an accurate calculation of how many office citizens use that particular restroom on any given day. 

But no one ever comes. 

I can only deduce the following options:

1) There is a secret tunnel entrance to the bathroom of which I am not yet aware and it is only coincidence to blame for the fact that I never see anyone whilst inside. 

2) Everyone else on my floor is a robot.

3) Corporate issued an “Executive Cup” that everyone keeps in their drawers under lock and key and uses it to relieve themselves in an attempt to increase efficiency in the workplace.

4) People are using Potions of Invisibility to play an unbelievably intricate and petty prank on me.

5) There is a curse or evil spirit haunting the bathroom that I am using and everyone goes to another floor to use the restroom out of sheer terror.

6) The floor I work on is only a figment of my imagination in which my brain can comprehend my need to pee but cannot deduce the same need for others, thus accounting for its oversight in my constructed reality. 

I don’t think it’s any of those.

I sometimes wonder if this is part of a very intense, very specific test aimed at discerning my willingness to thoroughly wash my hands on a consistent basis.   The only clues I really have to go on are the fact that the bathroom soap only seems to deplete on (and not between) my visits and the fact that there are a ridiculous number of posters of all shapes and sizes surrounding the inside of the bathroom that emphasize proper handwashing procedures.

Let’s be honest here – do you sing Row Row Row Your Boat all the way through before you stop rubbing?   Do you?  

Because I can tell you that I don’t and I think they’re on to me. ♣

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