Queen Mediocretia of Suburbia

The Benefit of Brainless Work

Most of the time I have very interesting work projects. I have a database that routinely runs into its own limitations, and I have to test my limits wrestling it to my will. I enjoy that.

SadLy, I’m also I’m routinely asked to do things that require “Vision” and “Strategic Thinking” and other qualities I do not have. No longer will I win kudos for my skills at “Dealing with Reality” and “Wringing Success Out Of Limited Resources.”

However, I’ve fallen into a break. In the last week, while others are busy strategizing and visionizing, I have been doing a mindless, brain-raisining task: formatting about thirty Word documents. The only challenge is getting bullets, outlines, and numbering to play together in one document. 

It’s so dull that, get this: I’m not tired at the end of the day. Instead, I am dizzy with creativity. I feel compelled to write, paint, strum, and cook all at the same time. I usually end up with some combination of those every night. I don’t claim to do any of those things well, but it’s amazing how much more creative I am at night after I have trudged down row after row of monkey-drudgery during the day.

 

Makeup

The other day I had to meet with my great-great-grand boss (my boss’s boss’s boss’s boss), and out of sheer nervousness I put off any preparations until the last minute. 

As per usual, I didn’t put on makeup, and I found myself in the same position as before: side-by-side on a Zoom meeting with a young, lovely, perfectly made-up person. It was again like a twisted Before and After, if the Before is a red-faced wispy-haired man-woman, and the After is a gorgeous peach-faced healthy blonde.

This time I did not excuse myself mid-meeting to draw in my eyebrows, I just accused my new great-great-grand boss of not playing fair, and left it at that. The minute the meeting was over, I hopped up and put on FULL makeup, because I was just that demoralized. Then I took a photo of myself and sent it to her.

I was struck by two things as I put on full makeup for the first time in six months.

1. I have totally forgotten all makeup information. Not just how and where to apply it: I had to turn each object around to read what it was for. “This says eye-liner pencil. How does that differ from ‘brow-pencil’ — oh, that’s right, I draw a line beneath my eye lashes for some reason.”
2. Second, I look so much better with makeup. It’s a miracle product. Not so much the eyeshadow, which I just troweled on willy-nilly, or the eye-liner, which had dried up, but the foundation really is effective. It makes me have skin-colored skin again.

This is not to say I’m going to go around wearing makeup all the time again, but if I find that I am scheduled to have another one-on-one Zoom call with a young woman I might consider it.

 

Harding

Our department has taken pains to keep our team United during the pandemic. They’ve invested some time in allowing us an hour of purely social time every week, usually revolving around a theme.

One week the theme was family heirlooms. I brought out my family mandolin and family photo, and mentioned my great-great-uncle being the ne’er-do-well first husband of Mrs. Warren G. Harding. 

People made ooohh sounds, which they shouldn’t have, because Warren G. was corrupt, and my great-great-uncle was a drunk, so  really that just means Fanny Harding liked the bad boys.

I said, “Don’t be too impressed, Harding was the worst president ...”

(pause)

“... Harding was one of the worst presidents we’ve ever had,” I finished. 

One more day.

Zoom Posters

So, we’re using Zoom at work now, and everyone else is is being all creative with their backgrounds. 

I decided to choose the most boring, safe-for-work background I could, then I jazzed it up with a Hang In There Baby poster from my youth.

I need other poster ideas, preferably ones like the above that will describe my current mood. The Demotivation posters would be great, but I fear the writing on the snarky subtext would be too small.

My work moods are desperation, overwhelmed, on top of it, bored, put upon, and competent. Any ideas?

Covid Communications

The young people at work continue to communicate with me in their youthful way.

There was one five-minute period recently during which they Skyped me, emailed me, and texted me, and while I was reading their texts the landline phone rang. (The landline phone was the hospital telling me that my brother was out of surgery and had just needed a little extra Valium to get past the emergence delirium. Now it’s just a two-week wait for the lymph biopsy.)

I was settling back down after all that when I found that one of them had texted me literally WHILE we were Skyping. I had to set her straight. I said it was like Dave and Buster’s here at my house with all the alerts and bells and notifications. Grandma can’t handle the mental overload. One communication method at a time, please.

During the 1917 pandemic there was no doubt some elderly bank official working at home, complaining that there were messengers leaving cards with the butler at the same time that the footman was asking him what he wanted for tea. 

Dress Code

The company dress code says that woman shall wear tailored suits or separates or dresses. The company dress code is largely ignored in my area. I’ve watched it morph from a) blazer, blouse, and pants to b) sweater, blouse, and pants to c) scarf, blouse, and pants to d) blouse and pants and I have a sweater in my locker. The men in our area stand pat with a) pants, shirt, and tie. 

Friday at 4:00 the email went out announcing the dress code shall no longer be ignored. It doesn’t affect me because I have four suits and a blazer and they all fit. In fact, there are days I make a special trip in to the office so I can get some suit use during this golden age of relative slimness. 

This policy leaves me with nine sweaters and casual tops that can no longer visit the office, with only the weekend to wear them. You say, “Certainly you can wear those in the evening,” and I respond, “What, when I’m dressing for dinner? It’s pajamas at five p.m. here.”

Thank god they didn’t do this one year and thirty pounds ago: I’d be spending the savings on new clothes.

Special Super Secret Event

I was plugging away at TeddyJ, rolling the rock up the hill, when a company email came in offering a Special Company Event Opportunity.

I registered for it the instant I read the first sentence, not because I wanted it so much, but because it's the type of thing other people want, and you have to grab those opportunities immediately.

What was it? A chance to have my photo taken with the Stanley Cup. Not me drinking out of the cup or anything, mind you, just me and nine TeddyJ strangers photographed in the same frame as the Cup. I'm a fair weather playoffs kind of hockey fan,  not like my Dad, who bought season tickets for a decade plus before he realized they would not be winning the cup until after he died.

While I say "The" Cup, Wikipedia says:

There are actually three Stanley Cups: the original bowl of the "Dominion Hockey Challenge Cup", the authenticated "Presentation Cup", and the spelling-corrected "Permanent Cup" on display at the Hockey Hall of Fame.

The Presentation Stanley Cup has been whoring around touring the city since the St. Louis Blues Hockey team won earlier this year. It already visited Friends #2 and #4 at their new place of employment. For the first month after the big win it dropped in at random bars and drew huge crowds via Twitter and Facebook.

TeddyJ had two stipulations:

1. “You are not allowed to touch the Cup.” Fans touching the cup at certain times in the season is supposed to be good luck. As for players touching the cup, the rules are so convoluted they get their own Wikipedia page.)
2. You shouldn't ”share with people outside TeddyJ that the Cup is coming until after the event," because they didn't want to draw crowds of rowdy true hockey fans ready to beat down the doors of the TeddyJ headquarters.

But, now the event is passed, the photo has been downloaded, and the secret can be revealed. Be jealous!

And yes, that's a photo of Dad I'm holding up.

New Term

I was at work and invited someone to pedeconference. This person was too young to have watched The West Wing and wasn’t familiar with the term. They were familiar with “walk and talk,” though.

Later that day, I had a lot of urgent work to get done and I had a meeting at the same time. I elected to stay at my desk and keep working on the urgent project, but use Skype to teleconference in to the meeting. That happens often enough that I think we need a term for that too.

At first I thought, ”Skype and Type”, but it turns out that’s already taken. We are warned not to “Skype and Type” because hackers can work out what you are typing because each key on the keyboard has a distinctive click.

German, language for expressing all the thoughts in one word, fails us because “type”, “telephone” and “meeting” are spelled ‘typ”, “Telefon”, and “meeting” (or else Google Translate is feeling to lazy to translate, or ”zumfaulumetwaszuschreiben”.)

I settled on the simpler and less obvious “TeleCON”. Because I am conning the people in the meeting.

I feel that a better term is still out there. 

 

TeddyJ Visitor

Last week I was sitting in my pajamas, developing some on-line training for my job at TeddyJ, when the doorbell rang.

I was wearing my pajamas, but a bra had come in the mail earlier and I had tried it on, and Gary was in the house snoring away at 2 pm, so I went ahead and opened the door.

"Hello," the nice young man said, "I didn't mean to wake you."

"I wasn't asleep. Just working at home."

"My name's Nick, I'm with TeddyJ -- " and I burst into laughter. Certain TeddyJ employees sometimes go door-to-door soliciting business, and here was one on my porch.

I said, "You're the reason why I'm working at home. I work at TeddyJ. I am writing computer training for you right now. You come in here. Do you want something to drink?"

So, we had a nice talk, about how he has to ring doorbells, and I have to program courses that are widely ignored, and then after fifteen minutes of this Gary woke up and came into the kitchen to see what was going on.

The young man asked Gary what he does.

Gary said, "Oh I'm retired. I live off her money, and she gets her money from you ringing doorbells, so thank you."

"Nice," the young man said. I wonder if he went back to his office and complained that he's out slaving away to support this old couple who sleep all day in their pajamas.

I Find Myself in a Book

I worked almost twenty years for my previous company, code-named Elliott. The very impressive founder of that company wrote a book a few years ago, and instead of writing a biography of her life, she wrote a biography of her company. She even dedicated it to the employees.

I immediately went to the index to find myself, and there I was. I am quoted as saying something so banal that I don't even remember saying it. 9In the early 90s, she announced some cutbacks (mainly to her salary, if I recall), and I evidently said something about how I had been struck that our company had escaped the recession up to then.) I think she wanted to include me and she didn't want to mention my bra-flashing, or countless screw-ups, or the long email I sent the entire company about my grandmother's turtle (referenced here) that she said she re-read on occasion.

At any rate, I felt quite smug and had a lovely time reading about the years I spent there.

 

Work Story

Our entire team took part in a phone meeting the other day. The bosses called the meeting to let us know that our leader of ten years was moving on, and our leader's leader — our Grand Leader — aka Rex Dangervest — wanted to weigh in and say reassuring things.

Suddenly the phone meeting went into echo mode, probably because someone started listening to the meeting on speaker, so that speaker phone picked up the audio and echoed it. Picture someone calling in to a radio show while still listening to the radio.

So there were two minutes of the Boss of the Boss, bless him, saying, "I want to reassure you all (reassure you all) that we will do everything we (do everything we) can (can) - wow, this echo is really distracting (this echo is really distracting) ... " and so on.

At the end he said, "Any questions? (Any questions?)"

One young co-worker answered, "Yes, I couldn't hear, could you repeat everything you just said?"

I can’t tell you if he laughed, because everyone else’s laughter was too uproarious, but I really do fear we might be pushing the boundaries of Big Boss Dangervest’s good humor.

Lego

Remember when I bought the Lego that looked like my new boss? I did a little editing on the mug, and here he is:

Since he protested earlier that he doesn’t have as much hair as Rex Dangervest, I removed the Lego snap-on hair and used a Sharpie to draw his actual haircut underneath.

I presented it to him at our first official staff meeting. I was not fired on the spot, so I hold out hope for the new boss.

Lending Library of Love

When Gary walked off his job, he brought home ten boxes of computer books. He had assembled that library over his entire career: whenever he heard of a new language or software, he’d buy a book on it in case he might need to use it later. After he quit and/or retired (quitired?), he moved all the books into our basement, because you can’t just toss out a collection it took years to amass.

A few months later, I was working at home and on a conference call with my team, who needed someone to learn a programming language called PL/SQL. “Not me,” I said. “That is way over my head.” Others insisted. I continued to protest. 

I heard Gary get out of bed, scuttle around in the basement, and then a few minutes later he was in the doorway with three PL/SQL books.

“Oh all right,” I told my team, “My husband seems to think I can learn PL/SQL.” Which I did, eventually, using his books and the Internet. That was five years ago.

I used the PL/SQL on a project that was supplanted by SharePoint. People at work seemed to think it would be good for me to bone up on SharePoint. I came home and complained about that to Gary. This time I didn’t even notice when he went into the basement, but he materialized again with SharePoint for Dummies and the SharePoint Administrator’s Manual. 

I kept the Dummies book, then said, “Get that Administrator’s manual away from me. I’m not doing that. They don’t even want me to do that. One of them wants me to learn C++ so I can program it.” 

I didn’t learn to program in C++. That was a mistake, because this past week I’ve been researching Augmented Reality software, and I really should have learned C++. 

I complained about that to Gary, who said, “I have a C++ book in the basement.”

His confidence in me knows no bounds.

Mr. Dangervest

There's this co-worker. Let's call him Rex. Let's call him Rex, because he looks more than a bit like Rex Dangervest from the Lego movie.

I was watching the trailer for the new Lego movie when I noticed the similarity.

Same stubble and snarky grin. Work "Rex" has shorter hair. He protested that point when I shared the resemblance with the department. They all saw the likeness. Great amusement at his expense. That was right before Christmas.

Yesterday it was revealed that he is leaping up the corporate ladder and is now the boss of my boss.

So, guess I won't be buying the Rex Dangervest figurine for ... wait .. oh God, there's one with a coffee mug in his little Lego hand.

I had no choice. Purchase made. This is why I've only gotten one promotion in 25 years.

 

Gum

Sometimes I chew gum when I am hungry at work. My work area has recently been rehabbed, and part of the rehab is the recycling station.

Paper / Recycle / Landfill / Compost. I am stymied on where to throw my used gum. I no longer have my own trash can, and I chew too much to swallow anymore - smaller throat or bigger gum, I can't tell.

So where does gum go? Obviously not Paper. I would say Compost, but I've seen it come out of the trash at home and it is moving further from nature, not closer to it. It's like dried caulk. Also, I'm pretty sure one of these ingredients doesn't biodegrade: Xylitol, Mannitol, Blue 1 Lake, Acesulfame, BHT (TO MAINTAIN FRESHNESS) (Geez, CALM DOWN Gum Labelers), Neotame.

I'm drawn to Recycle because I get the idea that there is a large plastic component to this gum. Not from the ingredients, but the gum itself. You start off with nice soft gum and it gets harder and harder as you chew it. That's not natural.

That's why I just throw it into Landfill, since it's Pascal's Wager: if I'm wrong and it's compost, it can still degrade at the landfill, but if it's artificial I don't want it clogging up the works at the recycling place, or choking some dolphin somewhere.

Jeans Day

Where I work you can only wear jeans if you have paid a charity for the privilege, and then it’s just for the day that particular charity is gathering funds in the lobby. You wear the charity’s sticker to attest  that you paid for the jeans privilege. I wear my sticker on my bottom, because I hate stickers. (I admit I could not do that to the US flag sticker on Veteran’s Day. I did put it on my lapel, upside down, since I am sailing in distress.)

Every jeans day it’s a long walk through the lobby, because I always suspect that I got the day wrong, and it isn’t actually jeans day. It’s always a great relief when I see the first person in jeans.

Tuesday, that relief did not come. I got the day wrong. I found myself upstairs explaining my screw-up to the department chairman. He encouraged me to stay in my chair as much as possible.

That was Tuesday. The actual jeans day was on Thursday. I promised everyone I would dress up Thursday, while everyone else is in jeans, to restore balance to the universe.

I wore pearls and a suit. And one of Gary's shirts. And one of his ties.

(If you are wondering why my eyes are brown pools of sadness, it’s because I had just rejected a photo Friend 3 took earlier that day. Friends, don't take photos of friends while you are sitting down and they are standing up in front of you. Stand your butt up so you don't take a photo of all their wattle. On the other hand, my head looks freakishly huge in this photo above. My arms are too short to take selfies.)

So I thought I looked ridiculous. I had a speech in my head for people who might look at me oddly in the elevator.

I tell, you, friends, all that people said was "You look nice today." What. The Hell. Is it the norm now for grown women to wear ties? I actually asked someone that today, and he said "Not often. But skanky girls wear them when they go clubbing."

My joke fell so flat that I had to point out my appearance to one of the people who were expecting me to "dress up," and he said, "Oh, I was expecting you to show up in a ballgown."

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.

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: