Queen Mediocretia of Suburbia

Presidential Funeral

Ten years ago, as a new hire, I was skimming through the company rules, and was surprised to see that if any U.S. President dies we get a day off.

I told my boss. She said that the stock market closes out of respect to the President (even ones who have left office), but because we only support those who use the market, and because we don't need the stock market to do our jobs, we don't take a day off.

Her supervisor  was nearby. "Of course we get the day off. We leave early every holiday when the stock market leaves early, and we have off every holiday the market is off." 

When the market closed two days because of Hurricane Sandy, I tried to make a case, but I was shot down. 

I have been on pins and needles for ten years, waiting for a president to die. I was sure it would be Jimmy Carter (more than once).

And I acknowledge it is awful that George Herbert Walker Bush has died.  I didn't always agree with his foreign or domestic policies, and while I'm always suspicious of any politician whose main virtue is loyalty, I have to say that without him the average I.Q. of our remaining Presidents has dropped.

So. the stock market is closed for the funeral. Are we off? No. The office is allowing people to watch the funeral, though. Still quite a disappointment as viewed through my very self-centered perspective.

 

 

Elevator

The other day at work, five women got into the elevator, followed by one man. He had said “ladies first,” as is encouraged by the company. Seriously, gender-based elevator access was discussed in my orientation. They do it because the company wants to be polite, and genteel, and because ovaries are magic.

He then said it was a delight to be in an elevator with five ladies.

I said, dryly, “Perhaps we should have let you get on the elevator first, since you’re the one who’s different.”

As it was coming out of my mouth, I thought, “Don’t say it. Some women really like getting on the elevators first.”

Thankfully, all the women on the elevator burst into appreciative laughter, because evidently I am not the only one tired of the “point out the freak woman” game at the elevator. (The man chuckled like a good sport who doesn’t know why everyone else is laughing.)

And I know, it’s convenient to get on the elevator first, but then you’re stuck at the back of the elevator and have to wiggle past all the men in front when you want to get off, and that’s not convenient.

And when I make a deliberate effort to pay attention, I have noticed times when a man lets me in first, and then gets in the elevator without waiting for the black woman. Awkward. Just recently I was at an elevator, behind a black woman, a man told me “after you,” and since he didn’t say it to her, the black woman stayed put, and then I said to the black woman “after you,” and it was just all awkward.

Well, in January a woman takes over the company. I wonder if company policy will change. That would be awesome, if there was an edict: “Starting January 1, people will get on the elevator based on proximity to the elevator, not gender.” 

Funeral

Last week a co-worker's mom died, and I went to the funeral with another co-worker. Let's call him Mr. J____.

There was a reception before and the service after. I had previously polled the office to see if it was appropriate to attend the actual funeral of someone you had never met, if you knew the bereaved, and they said yes, yes it was. It wasn't the burial, just the funeral. Lutheran funeral.

We debated a little bit about staying for the service. I was pro-service: Mr. J____ was cautiously "Whatever you want." So we sat down, and I was ready to sit through the funeral with all my defenses up. You know, the anti-emotion shields you have to use when they play hymns and talk about death. I was safe in my bubble when the priest began.

Priest said something and Mr. J____ crossed himself, and I thought, "Oh, this was a bad idea."

I'm not proud of that thought. I suppose I was thinking other people had bubbles, and we'd just sit there in our religion-proof bubbles and ignore the funeral, and not participate. And then when Mr. J____ crossed himself I realized that other people do not use their bubbles and here I was sitting next to someone who was going there, going into Religion Zone, and I was not prepared. Especially since I'd never noticed the religion side of Mr. J_____ at work.

We have not yet had a Bring Your God to Work Day. He's Catholic. Who knew?

So I thought, "Okay, I see your crossing move, and I raise you a hymn." I must have been the only one singing. I think the first note I sang full on, then geared down into sotto voce, because I could see the lips moving but I could not hear ANYONE singing.

Afterward I told him how odd it all seemed, and he said "Of course, it went against the Separation of Church and Work." And that was right on the nose.

Work Shuffle

My department is doing a mighty desk shuffle, and I'm one of the few people not moving. All that's happening to me is I'm losing a bookcase and a cabinet, and someone else is moving in to share my cube.

Logic says: I do not need to pack. I just have to stay put.
Movers say: I have to pack up all my personal items since movers will be in my cube, and they don't want to break anything.

Logic says: If I pack up my personal items, the movers will move them someplace safe.
Movers say: The movers only move items from cube A to cube B. If an item is moving from cube A to cube A, they will not "move" it.

Logic says: I do not need to label my furniture, because I'm keeping all but two pieces.
Movers say: I need to label my furniture.

Logic says: I need to label the two pieces of furniture that are moving out.
Movers say: No, I need to label everything BUT the two pieces that are moving out.

Login says: Libby's cube is 876333. Joy's cube is 876332. Scott's cube is 876331. Logic says my cube is 876330.
Movers say: Your cube is 231773. It has something to do with where your cube lands on an imaginary grid.

They admitted that one made no sense.

Rage

I stepped off the elevator at work and I could hear Marcia hollering about something. Stomping. Cussing.

Marcia's been counting down to January 1st, when we both hit our fifth year and earn three weeks of vacation.

This morning the boss of all bosses sent an email announcing that starting in the new year, people with only three years service would earn three weeks of vacation.

Marcia did not take it well.

Two Points in Search of a Bullet

Downton Abbey

Do the kids of today know they are watching Upstairs Downstairs? I never followed that show too closely back in the day, but I saw the episode when Prince Edward visited and the one with the servant showing up at the back door pregnant. Today I got far enough in Downton Abbey to see a servant show up at the back door pregnant.

Ravens

Speaking of the nobility, I have ravens in my backyard the size of the Other Queen's Ravens at the Tower of London. Ravens the size of cats. The size of ponies. The size of Mini-Coopers. They are particularly terrifying when they come in for a landing. For a moment before they land they hover with a few extra flaps. It's just hang time. No reason. They just do it to intimidate the other animals.

 

This is What I Live For

At work, I've switched from programming in a language I know well to another, more difficult language. Today I scaled a wall. In Ninja Warrior terms, I hit the buzzer with seconds to go.

Metaphorically, I spent today trying to scale the Warped Wall.

See the guy hanging on to the top of the wall under the 449? That was me at 6 pm. I'd spent the day taking a run, leaping, slipping. I'd get a little closer each try, but I never ever made it, all day, until about 6 in the evening.

One more try. I said, "This won't work." And then it did! "Shashido!" (I believe this is Japanese for "Made it!" I've picked up a little Japanese since Ninja Warrior is on 24/7 during the Birthday month.)

And I DANCED. I cackled! I emailed Friend #3 and told her I am a god. I danced some more. I called Gary, drunk with power.

Awesome. The rest of the course will be so much easier now that I'm past this obstacle.

Suggestion Box

Kind of a horrifying thing happened at work this week.

We are blending two departments together, and one thing that's been instituted is a suggestion box. I saw the Change Committee team get on the elevator carrying the suggestion box. They were heading for a meeting.

Here is where I have to rely on my two eyewitnesses: Linda M_____ my team leader and Sarah D_____, a project manager.

Sarah, a delicate sweet flower, was reading through the suggestions and found one that said:

"TELL ELLEN S______ TO STOP WALKING AROUND BAREFOOT!"

She was appalled. She thought, "This uses an employee's name! This is not what the suggestion box is supposed to be used for!" Shaken, she flipped it on the table writing side down and slid it over to Linda M_____, my Team Leader.

I was just sitting at my desk when Linda walked past my desk on the way back from the meeting. "Oh," she laughed nervously, "I have to talk with you about something that came up at the meeting. Let me put my stuff at my desk."

She came back and said, "It's a suggestion box comment."

"The suggestion box?" I asked, alarmed. "What?"

"Well, this was in the suggestion box." She slid "TELL ELLEN S______ TO STOP WALKING AROUND BAREFOOT!" across my desk.

My jaw dropped. Thank God I never stuck my feet in a company toilet. 

She giggled, "You seem to be wearing shoes now."

"Oh my God!" I said, "Who would say something like that?"

"I don't know," she jabbered, "Someone who hates feet? Do you have enemies? Did you write it?"

I paused. "Of course I did." I can lie, but I can't hold up under a direct question. "I had to see if you were taking the suggestion box seriously."

Thankfully, she laughed in relief, but it was nothing compared to the relief Sarah expressed when Linda told her it was a plant. She came by and gave me the details. I was a little sad, because they didn't discuss my feet extensively at the meeting. I have been known to dash off to the printer barefoot if I can't find my shoes. I feel self-conscious every time I do it.

Well, not now. Who's going to complain? HAHahahaaHAha.

Convertibles That Pass in the Night

A few weeks back, I was handed a United Way pledge card, scribbled $20.00 on the paycheck line and tossed it back on the coordinator's desk.

Later, emails thanking me for my generous contribution to the Arts and Entertainment Council arrived. Oops. They thanked me with two theater tickets and a viewing of our Partner's car collection. By Partner I assume they mean Partner of God, because there is no one else on his level or above.

He has very nice cars.

 
  
I was on my best behavior, and not only did I ask if photos were allowed, I spoke unto the Partner and asked if I could put the photos on my blog. And thus it is so.

Sweet little tangerine car, I do not know your engine size, I only know I love you. However, you are not my favorite car.

Anne at work is a Deliberate Supporter of the Arts, and this was her favorite:

 

There were mostly American cars, I think. Like this 'Vette:

However in the midst of sportscars, signage, and toys:

...there were two 1930's cars. One, a lovely yellow model with an a-oooga horn and a rumble seat:

... and another, a car that so hypnotized me I did not GET A PHOTO OF IT.

There's a blurry peek at it in the upper right corner of this photo:

But I searched for a photo of a red 1937 Cord Supercharged 812 Phaeton Convertible with whitewall tires, front wheel drive and of course, retractable headlamps.

This is close.

Well, only "mine" is red.

I said unto the Partner that the Cord had been my car in a past life.
"Oh, you think you drove a Cord?"
"Driven. I was driven in that car."

This is how I start my day

Each morning I walk past this sign and wait for the day they shovel snow directly off the top of the parking garage and onto the snow dumping area. And then I think, "Do not taunt happy fun ball."

Putty (NOT safe for work)

Sigh. So let's say you pick at your nails and you have taken up Silly Putty as an alternative.

And then let's say you bring in some red and yellow neon Silly Putty and foolishly store it in the same tin as your old school light green Think Geek putty.

So lets say then you idly pick up your putty and roll it and stretch it and then you notice, you NOTICE you have green putty with stripes of neon red and yellow.

The deed is done, so you keep puttying while you program. After half an hour of pounding the putty, you look at the mass in your hand and see:

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(I know you feed readers can see after the jump, I'm scrolling down so you don't get busted at work)

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Ringing in 5769

Even though I forgot her birthday entirely, I did remember to wish Friend #3 a happy Rosh Hashanah today. It's the first day of the Hebrew year 5769 (or so sayeth Google). I've been trying to keep up with the Jewish holidays. Still, Wikipedia doesn't discern, so I don't know that Tishah B'Av isn't worth an "I'm sorry" card.  Just so other Gentiles know, we are now counting down to Yom Kippur and Sukkot. (I don't want to focus just on the religious diversity, but it's a long stretch until Auckland Anniversary Day.)

Last Rosh Hashanah I was in the break room with #3 at our ex-job, Elliot. I said to #3, "Happy New Year!" just as our HR director walked in the room.

"Merry Christmas!" the HR director snorted. No clue about the Jewish holidays. Prime HR director material.

#3 and I both found this wildly funny and we laughed all day behind the HR director's back. It's probably my favorite Rosh Hashanah memory.

Unreal

My last Huge Project, before the Super-Secret Project, was the Death by Chemistry Project. We filled the test at the end with imaginative "real-life disaster" scenarios.

It was ghoulish. We had a tornado hit an airport where containers of surface-cleaning acid spilled out on an parking lot that led to a propane tank yard next to a runway where a Piper Cub was flipped over on top of a widening puddle of jet fuel. Oh, and the rain was falling on the possibly water-reactive acid. You have ten minutes! What do you do? Tick tick tick ....

So, watching the Breaking News from Minneapolis tonight it struck me: You have a bridge collapse into a major river. There are flames leaping from a crushed semi. Below the burning semi there is a railway container car that has been crushed by a falling span, and next to it there is a tanker car filled with an unknown fluid. (They aren't showing in on any channel but Fox, but it's there and it is creeping me out.) Oh, and there is a school bus full of kids on the bridge, a thunderstorm heading in, and a major league stadium full of fans watching a game. Downwind. Okay, I'm not sure about that last part, they may not be downwind, but if we were making up this scenario it would be.

I'm reminded that when we made up these disasters, we knew to step it back a notch when Caroline would shriek,  "AND THERE ARE PUPPIES! THERE IS A BASKET OF PUPPIES AND THE FLAMES ARE HEADING STRAIGHT FOR THEM!"

Well, at least there's no basket of puppies (because if there were Fox would have them on a loop), but I keep wanting the camera man to go back to the tanker so I can look closely at that hazardous material placard on it.

Thank you Saints Cosmos and Damian

(Cosmos and Damian are the twin brother patron saints of chemistry.)

I've been doing Instructional Designer duty on this Chemistry project; that is, I write the instructional text instead of programming the on-line instruction. Last Friday I typed these words:

"When the gas reacts with moisture in the tissues, particularly in the lungs, it produces carbon dioxide and hydrochloric acid:

COCL2    +  H2O           produces            CO2            +            2HCl

The hydrochloric acid then dissolves the membranes of the victim’s lungs."

 

Huh, I thought, perhaps I should soften that last sentence. Then I walked around the office gripping my hair and praying for release from this project. The project itself is going great; the soldiers will be on top of any chemical agent they encounter; and as a bonus I learned Chemistry. But the subject is dark. Too dark for total immersion. (And this from the woman with gallstones, MRIs, and colonoscopy photos decorating her guest bathroom. I never thought I could max out on dark science but I have.)

Saint Damien and Cosmos heard my plea and it seems the bosses need me to program lessons more than they need me to write them, so as of the end of the month, I am back to being a soulless programmer. I don't even have to read the words.

Damien, Cosmos, I offer unto you tributes of potato eyes, bleach, and ammonia.

Fewer Living Through Chemistry

Geh.  I've been immersed in Chemistry for three days now. And this lesson I've been writing hasn't been pleasant - it's been on all the varied and sundry ways you can die by Chemistry. Specifically salts. If the salt lesson is doing this to me, what will happen in the Household poisons lesson, when I have to relay the information in the Terrorist Poison cookbook?

Still, this made me smile: