Tess gave notice at work Monday, do-dah, doo-dah
April 1st she's on her way, out the Big R's door...

Yahoo!

So I just looked down and realized that the top two buttons on my shirt had come undone, leaving a gap that descended past bra level. I have no idea how long I've been going around this way.

Not exactly a wardrobe malfunction on a Janet Jackson or Tara Reid scale, but mortifying none the less.

So it's 5:01 pm, and the only people left in the office are me and the 30-something temp Accounting guy who sits in the cubicle next to me. I can't leave until he leaves, because we like to pretend that this office is a secure facility, which means that only regular employees are authorized to set the alarm at end of the day (the regular employee in question is almost always me, since I'm the last to arrive), so people like temps and auditors have to be gone before I can close up shop.

I'm pretty sure the 30-something temp Accounting guy who sits in the cubicle next to me doesn't like me. Why? Well, during a recent lunch break I was on the phone with Wee, discussing high school reunions and the reasons why someone might possibly want to attend one, and I remarked that some people only go in order to see how the state of their former classmates has declined in the intervening decades, "... you know, like who went BALD!" I said this loudly enough to be clearly heard over the cubicle wall. Evn as as the words flew out of my mouth, it occured to me that the 30-something temp Accounting guy, who was at that very second sitting in the cubicle next to me (as he is wont to do), happens to sport a lovely shiny pleasure-dome of a scalp... which, one would assume, probably was a verdant field of follicles back on that day when he and his schoolmates sat out on the football field in their thin polyester gowns and square cardboard beanies sweltering in the early-summer sun and gritting their teeth through a heartrendingly poor marching band rendition of "Land of Hope and Glory". Surely he heard me, and probably he was offended, and likely he concluded that I'm not a nice person. Hard to dispute his logic, if so.

So this bit of history makes it very difficult for me to approach the temp Accounting guy who sits in the cubicle next to me and ask him if he would please leave so that I can do the same. I haven't even looked the 30-t.t.A.g.w.s.i.t.c.n.t.m. in the eye since making my snide remark (which, after all, could just as easily been, "...to see who gained 40 pounds since they graduated", an alternative that, while equally mean, would have at least been a slam against my own ample ass, with the kicker of being a condition which, unlike male pattern baldness, is correctible if one isn't lazy, which I sort of am), so there's no way I'm going to initiate a conversation with him now, while we're alone. It's awkward enough just sitting here, in silence, clicking keys and pretending we don't hear every single little sound the other one makes.

Therefore, I am stuck working (that is to say, "working") overtime when I would really just like to go home, put on some jammy pants, tuck into a bottle of wine and cast away the pall of having to be back in this stress-chamber of an office after a week and a half off. While having been vacation-like neither in their intent nor implementation (I took a leave of absence in order to spend way too many hours in a Southern Oregon hospital while my dad went through heart bypass surgery), those 9 days were still good times compared to being where I am now, which is here, at my desk, trapped.

Ah-hah! Proof of my theory vis-a-vis the inferred animosity... I just sneezed, like, three times, and there was nary a "bless you", nor even a "gesundheit", issued from across the cubicle wall. Just cold, baleful silence. All I hear from him is the click of a mouse button. Dude isn't even working; he's cruising the Internet. I know it. Can't he do that at home? Dammit.

I suppose I could be catching up on my Price Analysis, sending out some RFQ's, researching some thorny order discrepancies... But I'm too vexed and tired to do anything useful. Dude cruises into work at noon after a morning at the zoo with his kids, and he expects me to hang out here all evening while he pretends to earn his consulting money? I'm guessing he's making about $60 an hour to surf the Web right now. Adding insult to injury, he's a former Qualcommer who exercised sufficient options so that he, to paraphrase his own overheard remark, "doesn't really need to work, just takes the odd consulting job to stay busy".

Just how am I supposed to adhere to a disciplined and healthy lifestyle in my off-hours, when all these small daily torments compel me to seek the sweet compensations of debauchery? It's more than a girl should have to take.

Update, 45 minutes later: OK, so he said, "Thanks for staying late" as he just left. Which was nice. Which probably makes me an even bigger bitch for being mean about his lateness. It's so hard to be a gangsta when you have an over-developed sense of guilt. At any rate... tally-ho, to home and liver abuse!

What BigR's automated Help Desk phone message said:

"You have reached the BigR Help Desk. Did you know that you can reach us more efficiently by email?"

What I heard:

"You have reached the BigR Help Desk. Did you know that you could hit Mars with a rock more efficiently by using a slingshot than by throwing it with your hand?"

A comment I made to my coworkers today:

"There's a difference between 'lean and mean' and 'starving and psychotic'."

A year and a half ago, my department had five full-time buyers and a full-time expeditor (someone who follows up on orders to make sure they're going to be on time, pull them in if needed, etc.) Last year one buyer and the expeditor quit, and were not replaced due to lower workload at the time. In January, one of the four remaining buyers went on leave of absence, presumably due to day care issues with his new baby; his 12 weeks is coming up, but no one from HR has even been able to get hold of him to find out whether he's coming back, so it's not looking good.... And today, the other senior buyer in the department gave notice. This brings our staff down to all all-time low of two. The other survivor besides me is a hard worker, but has been having anxiety attacks on a regular basis, presumably from stress.

And the execs wonder why we're slipping contracts and losing employees on a daily basis. We're understaffed and totally demoralized. The results of the recent "Employee Satisfaction Survey" were almost funny, they were so uniformly nasty. I hope someone starts listening, soon.

/Off to try to ignore the stabbing pain in my neck muscles while I dig through the latest mountain of requisitions...

You ever have one of those days where you feel like screaming, but you realize that might be a little unsettling to those around you, so instead the scream just stays stuck on a private loop in your head like some bad pop song or the droning of a particularly determined mosquito, crescendoing every time someone says or does something to aggravate it further?

No? Um, me neither...

Note to self - even if a word has become part of your everyday vocabulary, if it happens to be a word that originated in ethnic slang, then blithely using that word to someone of the ethnic background from which it came could result in the impression that you're trying to sound "street" and earn you a reply laced with sarcasm. For example, the sentence "I'm assuming it's a warranty thang", when sent to an email recipient who happens to be African American, may cause said recipient to write back very sarcastically "Thanks, girl! Peace out! Word!" *sigh*

Parroter of catch-phrases that I tend to be, "thang" is just one of those words I've adopted, and I would have written the same thing (thang) to anyone in my age group and bureaucratic level here... At the risk of coming off as even more of a git, I actually wrote and told the person (who's a really nice, friendly guy) that I wondered if he was mocking me because I sounded like a poseur, and I apologized if that's how I came off. He sent a sweet reply saying he didn't take it like that and was "just playing", so now I feel dumb for assuming he was offended... but I still kinda think he really was making fun of me but then felt bad that I noticed and apologized.

Either way, I'm sure I made too much of the whole thing - but I'd just hate to think that someone I worked with thought I was the Herbert Kornfeld of the Big R, so I erred on the side of caution. Tess, worrying too much about what someone thinks of her? Inconceivable... heh

Basically, what it all boils down to is that I'm a dork. Peace out.

OK, I admit to a certain level of shoe-related folly, as my recent entry about our trip to L.A. disclosed. However, there is one trend in women's footwear which has consistently eluded my efforts to understand and appreciate its merits. I simply cannot fathom the appeal of pointy toed shoes.

Now mind you, I think some tapering on the end of a woman's dress shoe is entirely reasonable, so that they don't look like they belong on the feet of a Disney character. However, the points I'm talking about are the extreme ones - they look like some bastard child of regular pumps and elf shoes that have had jinglebellectomies and been shellacked into sticking out flat and straight. Is it really just all about fooling the eye into believing that the foot inside is somehow more delicate for this extra inch or more of phallic-looking leather sticking out from the end of it? Or do the shoes simply appeal to the wearer's inner witch? I can definitely see the correlation in most of the women I see wearing them...

Today a sales rep came in wearing a pair of PTS's; I swear it appeared as if she had little black patent leather dildoes sticking off the ends of her feet. I wonder if she ever fantasizes about wielding those dangerous toe-lances of hers against recalcitrant buyers; I had this vision of her insisting on being referred to as "Mistress Win-Win Deal" as she can-canned into someone's can... "Yes, Mistress Win-Win, I definitely want to coordinate meetings for you with our engineers! Ouch! I'll even fetch coffee while you bat your sticky eyelashes at them and point out specifications with your blood-red acrylic talons! I LOVE the idea of giving your client last look in every competitive bidding war so that they're sure to get 100% of our business! Gah! I'll always make myself available to meet with you whenever you cold-call! I'm not worthy of the time you take out of your day to give me the chance to marinate in the miasma of your Obsession, so that by the time you leave, our office smells like it's been under attack by a pack of rabid Macy's salesclerks armed with atomizers the size of jerrycans! Forgive me the folly of not returning your calls! Mercy!"

I can't say these shoes are pointless, because of course they are nothing if not pointed. But they are most definitely, irredeemably, silly. Moreover, they're unhealthy. And just a little scary.

The day unofficially began at 3 am; this was when I woke up stressing about a piece of equipment I was supposed to have on order last week that was not yet on order. Couldn't get back to sleep. Thought about getting up and reading for a bit. Didn't. Layed in the dark and felt useless adrenaline goading my heart into a fierce thumpathon. Total overreaction; but at 3 am every bad thing seems worse than it really is. Finally fell back asleep, and had weird frenetic dreams. Woke up again as soon as the sun came up, which was about 45 minutes before I needed to be up. Slapped my hand around on the dresser until it located my eyemask, which I fumbled onto my face to create the illusion of nighttime again. Had more weird dreams, in the twilight zone between sleeping and awake. Finally fell back asleep about 10 minutes before the alarm went off. Hit snooze. More weirdness, none of it solid enough to survive the trip to wakefulness.

Alarm. Snooze button. Two minutes of yearning denial before accepting that I'd been punked by the clock's inexorable advance. Flung myself forcefully out of bed. Tripped over the dog, who was stretched out lengthways next to the bed, her head shoved under the dust ruffle - her version of an eyemask, I guess. Shower. Glanced at the scale as I dried off; winced, glared at it, did not step on it. Didn't want to confirm what I already knew to be the horrifying truth. Downstairs. Got coffee going. Upstairs. Faced the tyranny of my closet, full of clothes that had ominously shrunk overnight; the only ones I'd feel comfortable hiding myself in today were too wintery � I'd be melting by noon and people would wonder why I was wearing long sleeves. Checked the wash pile for something salvageable. Pulled out my black overall-style dress � not stained or smelly, just wrinkled. Good. Took it down to the dryer for emergency dewrinkling. While waiting to get dressed, drank my coffee and read a few pages of a book, "Why Girls Are Weird" (written by Pamela Ribon, a well-known online journaller - this is her first book. It's well-done and I'm digging it a lot, so I'll digress and gladly give Pamie a plug here since I've gotten a lot of amusement out of her site over the past few years. If you liked "Bridget Jones' Diary", you'll likely enjoy this one too). Back upstairs for grooming. Lamented my straw broom hair, which was resisting like a mutant virus the generous application of various healing treatments. Time for a cut, apparently. Or a shave and a wig. Tempting.

Late again getting into the car and on the road. Driving out of the neighborhood, I actually caught myself wishing for an accident. Not a major one, mind you; minor injuries at most, nothing debilitating or long-lasting � just enough to justify not going to work for a few days, guiltlessly using up some of the 100+ hours of sick time I've accrued. Tricky part would be that the accident would need to be another other person's fault, so they'd have to pay for car repairs and medical bills. Not wishing harm to anyone else, of course � I'd take the pain if they took the insurance hit. Soon realized that this was a pretty sick line of thought, and hoped I hadn't somehow willed it into actually happening (I think my mother-in-law calls that "binding" it). Wished I had some wood to knock on. Mocked myself for being superstitious. Reminded myself that if I did end up getting in an accident any time in the near future, I'd feel really shitty and guilty and would wish I'd never wished for it in the first place, especially just so I could get out of going to work. Lame-o.

Took a couple of minutes to hate California as I sat in a line of cars logjammed into a standstill in spite of the green light, compounding my lateness. Thought back to the conversation Bill and I had last night at Islands about moving to Oregon, and how great it would be, and how we never felt like we really belonged in SoCal anyway, and how we could make a bundle of cash by selling our house right now, and could put about 50% down on a killer place in, say, Corvallis, for half the price of a house here, and live off the rest while we looked for jobs. Remembered how we looked at the housing market and the job market on the Web when we got home and realized that houses cost a little more than we thought � though still a relative bargain � but that jobs definitely looked to be scarce, even in Portland. Sighed.

Home stretch to work (not that I'd ever think of work as "home". That's just not right). Noticed the absence of the little memorial vignette - a metal sign and an agave cactus - that had been at the side of the road ever since I started driving this route. Wondered who removed them � a city road crew, or the people who placed them there, or maybe just some random vandal? Missed seeing them. Regretted never stopping to actually read the sign and find out who I was being asked to remember.

Arrived at work, seven minutes late. Plodded into my office. Fed Pescadito. Cleared my email in-box of offers for enhancement of my nonexistent penis, online pharmacies (Soma! Vi@gra! No prescription needed!), crazy-low interest rate loans, and hot coed pr0n.

Hilarity ensued for the next 9 hours. Luckily I survived, with barely a scratch, my confession to El Jefe about the belated equipment order that woke me up last night � sometimes it's all about throwing yourself on the mercy of the court (and gauging the mood of the judge, and how one's overall record happens to look on that day). Several fires were put out; a couple flared up despite application of retardant, and reinforcements were called in. I know others are biding their time, waiting to combust and flare up behind my back while I'm fighting the current batch. I can smell the smoke already.

Lunch was a deliberately low-cal affair � instant miso soup from a packet, water-packed tuna from another packet, nonfat yogurt and an apple. Around 1:30 my traitorous stomach began to grumble again, and by 4:00 pm was issuing angry manifestos and burning its own lining in protest over the supposed depravation; but still I resisted the urge to give in and snack. (I have myself to blame; after a halcyon youth of consumption without consequence, my treatment of my digestive tract in recent years has become an inconsistent see-saw between harsh discipline and spoiled indulgence � no wonder it acts out like this. Maybe we need therapy. Anyone know a decent organist? Yeah, OK, forget I said that. In fact, feel free to ignore everything in these parentheses).

So now it's after 5 pm, and I can turn my attention to the joy of completing the reams of paperwork my efforts generate each day. If there were a Paperwork Kingdom, I would be a princess in that kingdom. My loyal minions would shower me with paper clips and fan me with collating folders; a sweet miasma of toner fumes would linger in my wake, and all who inhaled it would be infused with the particular sense of euphoria and well-being that only a well-organized report can bestow. The phrase "PC Load Letter" would be verboten in my kingdom, for none of my subjects would ever go to bed with an empty paper tray in their printer. Origami offerings would litter the carpet outside of my luxury cubicle. I would have file cabinets made of platinum, and staple removers encrusted with rare jewels. Administrators the world over would flock to my palace to witness the wonder of me, and my files. Ah, what a sweet life it would be!

As things stand, however, I'll be lucky to get out of here with only a paper cut and a headache. And tomorrow morning the whole cycle repeats. But y'know� it's a living. Any of you unemployed (or underemployed) people out there, feel free to berate me for being ungrateful... although I'm not, really. Disgruntled and burned out, but not ungrateful. I understand that it could be much worse. I just can't help wishing it were better.

Stress, stress, stress.

In the manufacturing world, the buyer is the person who transforms design and planning into actual physical product to feed the production line. In other words, we have the potential to be either a saving grace or a major blockage in the pipeline to the entire manufacturing effort. One slip on delivery can result in a whole crew of assemblers sitting on their asses (the dreaded "line down" that all manufacturers fear), and thousands to millions of dollars of billable shipments falling behind schedule, sometimes with customer performance penalties on top of it all.

Right now, I feel as if I'm much more the clog than the Roto-Rooter. I'm behind, behind, behind on everything � partially due to unrealistically short lead times requested by the planners (often prompted by insanely aggressive delivery promises made to customers), partially due to backlogs on the suppliers' parts� but also, sadly, due to my lack of proper prioritization and initiative to get things moving. I've been slacking, ladies and gentlemen, and there's no excuse for it other than general ennui and lack of psychological motivation. This job is, to say the least, not the sort that gels well with being a chronic procrastinator, and yet on my list of personality flaws, procrastination is pretty much right at the top. (I've been meaning to work on my promptness issues, I just haven't quite gotten� OK, crappy joke, never mind).

I guess there's a part of me that's just tends to chafe under the yoke of constant, unrelenting pressure to get several things done at once (and save money doing them!) - as much of a multitasker as I am by nature, still the pressure of having many irons in the fire simultaneously can be tough to bear. Worse, my reflex response is to drag my heels on the things that seem onerous - which, sadly, tend to be the most important things as well. Obviously, I realize that I'm screwing myself in the long run by behaving this way � in fact, I pretty much exponentially increase my stress levels by leaving things to the last minute and then scrambling frantically to get them done. But it just seems sometimes as if I need that sense of panic kicking me in the ass in order to motivate me. There's a song in the play "You're A Good Man, Charlie Brown" where Charlie's lamenting over a book report:

"I'll get a fresh start tomorrow
And it's not due till Wednesday
So I'll have all of Tuesday
Unless something should happen.
Why does this always happen,
I should be outside playing
Getting fresh air and sunshine,
I work best under pressure,
And there'll be lots of pressure
If I wait till tomorrow�"

This could be my theme song. Procrastination via denial and justification, followed by motivation via fear of consequences, with a lovely glaze of guilt over the whole mess. Sad way to conduct business, really. But there it is!

They say recognizing a problem is halfway toward solving it. That other half certainly can be a bitch, though...

So this morning I was sitting at my desk, going about my business, when all of a sudden I heard a tiny splash and caught a flicker of something falling behind the Post-It dispenser next to the fish tank. I looked over at the tank, and looked again, harder. No fish was resident. I realized I'd left the lid up when I fed him this morning�

Pescadito, you see, had expressed the ultimate cry for help � he jumped out. Upon swift investigation, I found him lying, sodden and perfectly still, down in the space between the Post-Its and my business card caddy, glaring up at me in sullen misery. I shoved everything out of the way and attempted to scoop him up. He fought my rescue attempts, flapping about as if to say, "Begone! Take your food pellets and dessicated worms and shove them up your ass, and leave me be to drift into the sweet murky ponds of the afterworld - where mosquito larvae hatch fat and sweet for my consumption, and females swarm to my magnificent bubble nests, tearing each other's fins off for the honor of mothering my fry! This life of isolation and bad food is simply too cruel for me to go on!"

Luckily, I was soon able to snag him and deny him the oblivion he sought, and now he's swimming calmly in his tank as if nothing happened. I'm wondering if I should try to get him some counseling�

My cubicle shares a wall with that of one of the chicas in my dept ("C"), who likes to listen to a Hispanic pop station all day long. The volume is just loud enough for me to hear the music without actually being able to discipher any of the words (not that I'd understand most of them anyway). The station she listens to seems to have a playlist of, oh, 5 different songs, which they play repeatedly throughout the day. Each of these songs has one section that seems louder than the remainder - usually this part involves either blaring trumpets or the shrill tones of some Chicana Britney Spears. The portion in question will inevitably become stuck on replay in my head for hours to come (or, until the song plays again). Because I can't hear the words, on replay they morph into some melted goo reminiscent of a mentally challenged jazz singer doing scat - "Nay! Nah! Nay! Nay-nonnie-NAY-noo-noo-nah!" Each one, in its own special way, kills me softly each time it plays.

Finally I mentioned the repetition of songs to C, who in her congenitally happy Puerto-Rican way simply laughed and agreed. She said it was the only Hispanic station she could get to tune in, and she needed the noise during the day. This statement is in keeping with the fact that she's - quite self-admittedly - the main source of noise in the dept anyway; I love C to bits, but her chatter is both copious and possessed of all the tonal subtlety of a henhouse being raided by rabid weasels.

Anyway, she said she'd turn her tunes off if they bothered me; but I don't have the heart to ask her to do that. So instead I thought I'd just come here and make myself feel better by bitching about it. I do feel better - but probably that has something to do with the fact that the day's over and the radio's mercifully silent for now. So if you ever hear me humming some Tejanoesque snippet of some sort, please appreciate the pain it causes me, and feel free to smack me gently upside the head in hopes of resetting my internal station to something less torturous... Trust me, you'll be doing me a favor.

Happily for me, today has been as good as yesterday was bad; to wit:

- We got our yearly reviews at work, and mine was a good one (got somebody fooled...); unlike last year when salaries were frozen, we did get raises this year - it wasn't a huge one, only 4%, but when you have zero expectations, then getting anything is a pleasant surprise...

- My beloved Sensa pen that Bill gave me has been lost for a couple of weeks; I put up signs in hopes that someone would see it (or realize that the cool pen they found actually belonged to someone who missed it...), and today when I went to make a copy I glanced over at the whiteboard above the copier and there it was, sitting on the pen tray. So either it's been there the whole time and I was just unobservant (me, missing something right in front of my face? Inconceivable!!), or someone decided they'd better give it up and just put it someplace they figured I'd see it eventually. Either way, I got it back when really I didn't expect to - so, w00t!

- My boss is leaving work at noon - always occasion for joy. Not only that, but he didn't make us go through the weekly interrogation, which I was dreading due to a couple of pending issues over which I expected to be chastised for not having them done. The path to the weekend now appears to me less like a huge emery board and much more like a Slip-n-Slide...

So there it is - the little things that have brought Tess some much-needed joy on a Friday morning. Bring on the weekend!

So I have been victim to my first flat-out scam deal in my career as a buyer...

Three weeks ago I placed an order for a digital camera from a company called "BridgeViewPhoto.com". The site seemed just as authentic and professional as any other e-commerce business I've done business with; they even called El Jefe (whose name's on the card) to confirm the order (although they also tried to give him a big spiel about upgrades/accessories, which he rather bluntly deflected), and that was it.

My end user let me know today that he hadn't gotten the camera yet; when I tried to call their 800 number, I got a busy signal, and when I tried to check order status on their website, I found... well, you can go see for yourself.

Basically, they redirected their site to the site of someone who has no connection with them whatsoever - the guy was nice enough to explain the deal and list the info he was able to glean about these assholes. It seems as if they've been running this same scam under various ecommerce fronts for several years. Why they haven't been nailed by the FBI is beyond me... unless it's because the Feds are so up to their ears in anti-terrorist stuff that they just haven't been able to get around to it?

I feel like an idiot now - I really should have done more research on these asswipes before I placed my order. The weird thing is, though, that they had a pretty good rating from PriceSCAN.com, and some people did appear to get their orders filled OK, at least within the timeframe in which I placed my order... unless the scammers went to a LOT of trouble to create false "happy customer" logs. Considering all the trouble they went to in creating an authentic ecommerce store-front, it wouldn't surprise me.

Anyway, I'm sure that our credit card provider will compensate our account for the order without too much grief, and obviously I'll report them to the Better Business Bureau, FBI, whoever... but I'm still very pissed at having been duped. I want these people to suffer. Anyone know anyone in Brooklyn who has a hard, pipe-hittin' cousin I could hire to see if these folks live at the address that was found for them?

This morning I was writing up supporting documentation on some large-dollar equipment orders that I placed in January, and as I reviewed the orders I had the sudden, sickening impression that I'd accidentally duplicated an order for about $13,000 of equipment that I already had on order with someone else. After about 10 horrifying minutes, I realized that I was just misreading the spreadsheet, and actually did need both orders to fill the total requirement... Whew. That's what I get for doing my paperwork so late that I forget the details. Funny thing was that the other day I was watching something on TV and trying to recollect what a sense of panic over impending doom actually felt like - well, I'm at least somewhat reacquainted with the concept now.

I have lots more to write about - the cruise we took, for one; I guess I never even posted anything about our trip to London either as I meant to... I guess I just hit a slump of sorts. So far this year, work has been very stressful; not only has business picked up, but one of our buyers decided not to come back from her leave of absence after Christmas as planned, and we haven't replaced her yet. So we're all overworked, and not getting a lot of moral support from management; I've been sort of mentally drained as a result and not really in the mood for writing - or maybe just aware that any writing I would do might mostly consistent of the same sort of criping that I've already listed above, and who wants to read that, really? However, I'm starting to get back to feeling like I might actually have some thoughts worth posting again, so we'll see how it goes. So, assuming anyone actually still checks this site, there might soon be more to read when you do.

So today I found out that I have performance goals for 2002 here at the Big R. This fact, in and of itself, is not surprising; we are generally given a set of goals every year at our annual review, which is in April.

This year, however, we never received our list of goals. We were asked to submit our ideas for what our goals should be shortly after our last review, and we did so; El Jefe passed along our suggestions to our VP, and they were supposed to get together and review them, come up with a list, and present them to us formally. Weeks, then months, passed by without us hearing a thing more about it... until our weekly interrogation this morning. Why didn�t I ask when we were going to see them? Well, a couple of reasons. First of all, I was feeling bitter over the lack of raises, and honestly didn�t care a whit what their expectations were at that point. Also, had I asked, I�m fairly certain the response would have been that �they�re still in review� � basically, our VP was sitting on them, and Jefe wasn�t about to press him on the issue. Lastly, I figured that if we got all the way to the next review period without getting goals, then any demerits I got for not meeting a goal could be disputed by the simple fact that I wasn�t aware of its existence. All very passive-aggressive, I guess... but such is life at the Big R.

Anyway, now I am aware that I was supposed to have been designing a Purchasing webpage for our Intranet, and that it�s supposed to be done by the end of the year. This project was among my suggestions for myself � but I had not heard one peep that anyone even thought it was a good idea, let alone that I was expected to actually be developing it all this time. Hi there! However, Jefe generously extended my completion period to the end of February, so at least I�ll have some time to think it through. I�m enthused about the project, don�t get me wrong � it just would have been nice to know that I was authorized to begin work on it.

Also, we found out that our negotiated cost savings goals have gone up by another 12% or so from last year, even though our actual volume of purchasing (hense, opportunities for savings) has decreased significantly compared to last year, due to the general slump in business both for us and the industry in general. Paul and I compared our actual savings charts for the year, and were interested to note that the peaks and dips were very similar, reinforcing the perception each of us had about how the volume of business affected our negotiation opportunities during given months. You gotta spend big to save big, y�know? Luckily, we have some capital and test equipment buys coming up that will give us a chance to recoup our numbers... but it really irritates me that we�re being given arbitrary goals that don�t reflect the reality of our situation. The first few years I was here, our savings goal was of �5% average negotiated savings vs. total dollars spent�; while flawed in itself, this target at least took into account the variable nature of our purchasing requirements and more accurately reflected performance compared to opportunity, instead of simply being a �let�s set the goal higher than last year so it looks like we�re continuously improving!� number.

Anyway, I couldn�t help the look of surprise and mild consternation that I gave the list when it was presented to me along with Jefe�s comments about my progress in meeting my phantom goals. I actually did ask him if we had gone through them in some meeting that I�d forgotten we had; his response was vague and kind of defensive � something along the lines of �Yeah, they�re the goals you suggested for yourself� � he finally did sort of allude to the fact that the list had been sent down by our VP because it�s the time for mid-year progress reports, and that it was the first time he was seeing it too. He was being evasive in the familiar way he adopts when he knows he�s handing you a raw deal but doesn�t want to admit to it � a mixture of false joviality and dismissiveness, with an edge of �if you call me on this I�m going to get irate, so leave it alone�. Over the past 5-1/2 years I�ve learned to read the shifting sands of his moods and ride them accordingly, and I knew better than to push any further � so I signed my copy like a good soldier; at least now I know in which ways I will fall short come Spring. Provided I�m still around for reviews at that point...

As I commented on Wee's last post... first it's wildly fluctuating climate controls, then ants, and now it's a PC that's gone schizo. I think the Big R (aka my place of work) is trying to drive me mad one tiny indignity at a time.

OK, I confess that I may have partial culpability on this one. I made the mistake of installing a Win98 update pack yesterday on my work PC (seemed like a prudent thing to do, right? Get the latest security updates, bug fixes, etc... the Microsoft site audits your PC - scary in itself, but there it is - and tells you which files you should install, so it's not like I chose the wrong ones), and now it seems that there's something corrupted in Explorer. It freezes when I try to open certain types of files - not all files, mind you... just .xls and .dwg so far. I can open those files via other means (using FastLook for .dwg files works, and I can open Excel files that are in my "history" list at the bottom of the File drop-down menu - just not when I try to select them using the "open" command...). I tried running a defrag, too, on the off chance that the hard disk just needed a reorganization... but defrag won't run. My keyboard then randomly decided to turn hot keys on without my consent, so I lost the ability to use e, r, d, f, etc... Those came back when I rebooted, but I fear I will still have to let the IT chimps take a look at the machine. I suspect their verdict will be - as usual with anything complicated enough that I can't figure it out myself, which usually means they won't be able to either - to reinstall Windows, and for once I can't disagree. Nuts.

It would be nice if they'd just give me a new PC, considering that I've had this one for about 4 years, and it runs at a blazing 333 MHz. But I'm not an engineer or a drafter, so whyever would I need a better processor? I'm surprised I don't still have the 486 box I had when I started here... that's something, at least. What's vexing is that I'm the computer buyer for our division, so I get to see what the anointed are getting these days - 1.7 GB P4's with half a gig of RAM. It's like working in a fine restaurant serving filet mignon all day, and going back in the breakroom and eating PB&J for your own dinner...

But hey, at least I have a window cube. Knock on wood that they don't decide to paint them over...

So I was searching for a clever link for the section in the previous post about ants... So I typed in the term "crazy ants"... and discovered that there is, in fact, an official such thing as a crazy ant.

I just thought that was cool, OK? Lordy Mercy, you people are hard to please...

It is SUCH a Monday 'round here at the CubeFarm� The first call I got this morning was from my most prolific printed circuit board supplier, and it was in regard to the hottest order I have with them, which is the hottest order I have pending in general, which is for our most critical military customer program - the one where the customer is threatening to pull out of a multi-million dollar contract because we are not meeting their insane lead time demands. The call was to inform me that the (very expensive) material I had sent to them from which to make these parts was allegedly not the material needed for the order and they have had to scrap the parts and need replacement material from us. Everything on our side tells us that we did in fact provide the correct material� We also provided material from the same lot to a different supplier for a different job - a much more complex and expensive one with a longer lead time - but thank the Gods, they said the stuff they got was fine. So I'm baffled, and suspicious. However, playing the blame game doesn't get our parts to us any faster, so I'm having to send them some more and may have to eat the cost of the prior lot if we can't find a way to prove that they somehow mixed up the material we sent them with other material from their stock. In the mean time, I don't get my parts for another three days, and the program slips further into peril. Joy!

To top off the ecstasy that is my morning, our department has ants. Hundreds of ants, launching a campaign along the front line of our windowsills and making inroads to my bookshelf. Luckily they haven't hit food yet, and I've thrown away anything unpackaged and vulnerable to attack, but you never know... My coworker Paul and I have not discounted the notion that this bold infiltration of a defense subcontractor facility represents a threat to national security. An examination of their tiny heads for turbans or bushy facial hair came up short; however, knowing the wiles of the enemy mind, we intend to alert the proper authorities just to be safe. (What's that terrorist hotline number, again?) One of the housekeepers came in and sprayed a canful of insecticide on the windows, and now our department is suffused with the miasma of arthropodic chemical warfare. One squad of the things is still alive but trapped on a sill that got missed - surrounded and cut off from their supply chain, they're now entrenched like the 101st Airborne at Bastogne. I sympathize with their plight and realize that per the Geneva convention I should be throwing them flies and hooking them up with a or something... But screw 'em. War is hell.

A silver lining to this cloud of ant-poison is that the stuff used is "children and pet safe"... although, as Paul dryly remarked, technically none of us fits either definition (albeit that our Boss may not agree). Anyway, another plus of sorts is that the spray smells mostly like Ben-Gay, which is to say a hell of a lot better than most insecticides. Yet the relative appeal of sitting at a cubicle that stinks of Ben-Gay instead of one that stinks of Raid is marginal at best. I still have a headache, and will probably dream tonight of being pursued by a limping horde of angry arthritic giant ants.

Meanwhile, adding insult to injury, I am picturing Bill probably still napping in our bed at this moment, blissful in the fact that he got today off for Veteran's Day while I had to drag ass in for the war effort. I suppose I'm supporting the concept of veterans in my own way - by helping provide parts for hardware that will be used by military personnel to blow up Iraqis, and thus become veterans themselves� however, I'm not sure if that's a roster whose ranks anyone other than those employed by the VFW and VA (or, well, the Bush Administration) is eager to see swell. *shrug*

In sum, I badly need one vacation, size EXTRA-LARGE, required delivery REAL DAMNED SOON! 12 days to go� 12 days to go�

OK, this subject of this entry is gross; the weak of constitution may want to skip it. You can't say you weren't warned.

One sort of unexpected aspect to working in the same facility as a lot of recent immigrants is the realization that not all of them are familiar with, shall we say, restroom etiquette. While I'm fairly ignorant of what other alternatives to our modern commode system may exist in developing countries, particularly those of the Far East, I get the impression that many involve what boils down to squatting over an open hole. The concept of flushing, and what may or may not be flushed, is tenuous for some of the gals from our assembly labs. Although all but a couple of them seem to get the part about flushing after going, apparently some of them are not aware that toilet paper may be flushed; there are usually large wads of yellow-tinged damp TP jammed halfway into the flap of the little metal trashbins on the floor of the stalls (why they can't shove them all the way down, and thus at least spare the rest of us the sight of their soggy detritus, is beyond me; maybe they're afraid of the metal lid snapping shut on their hands). Others, conversely, apparently believe that any paper-like product can be flushed; this morning, I saw a 3"x 5" cardboard box from the maxi-pad dispenser floating in one of the toilets. Judging from the footprints I've seen on seats, it would appear that some users actually get their feet up on the toilet seat and squat atop it like they would a hole in the ground. This is one reason why the handy tissue-paper ass-gasket is an essential commodity in a public commode. Squatting is also sometimes part of the clean-up process; once in another building, I glanced over at the space below the stall divider after sensing movement, and saw parts of the gal next door that I've never seen on anyone who's diaper I was not changing. What tended to happen when this same woman was on the business part of her monthly cycle is something too disgusting to detail; let's just say I scrupulously avoided the stall she tended to use for fear of transmissable pathogens.

Anyway, I know the topic is kinda nauseating, but in a sense I find it culturally interesting. Reading a couple of articles like this one provide insight that explains some of the behavior I've seen. As an oblivious Westerner, I just never gave much thought to the fact that there are still parts of the world where, even though the inhabitants may have adopted Western dress and entertainments and vices, a flushing toilet is not necessarily familiar nor available to them. Or even desired, maybe? I wonder if there are any homes in the U.S. where the immigrant owners have elected to remove the porcelain thrones and build their own squatters' version over the drain?

Also, I wonder if anyone who administers orientation courses for newly-arrived immigrants has thought to include a lesson on modern facilities' use and etiquette - even just to let them know that, here, it's OK to flush TP? I suppose it's a difficult subject to broach - but I can definitely attest to the need for some education on the issue� If only so that those of us used to certain hygenic norms don't have to be faced with the disgusting detritus of ignorance when nature calls on the job.

Perhaps someone could start a non-profit organization with the goal of teaching excretory etiquette to our newly-arrived brethren. They could do fund-raisers, like sending kids out to sell toilet paper door-to-door, or perhaps cut a deal with sanitation companies to put little donation boxes in porta-potties. I think there's an opportunity to leave one's mark, perform a valued community service, and bring about cleaner and nicer public restrooms for all. Not my cup of tea, mind you - but surely someone could step up to the plate. Or bowl. Whatever.

Press "1" for Satan
I cradle the phone receiver between my cheek and shoulder and stare out the window, suspended in aural purgatory. The lulling church-organ refrain of "A Whiter Shade of Pale" threatens to degrade my usual mid-afternoon energy deficit into a full-blown nod-off. My mouth tastes of old bad coffee, so I take a sip from the plastic Arrowhead bottle I've refilled with allegedly filtered water from the tiny spigot in the break room. The fact that this spigot tends to get crusted with mineral deposits makes me suspicious as to the actual amount of filtering taking place, but it still seems marginally better than tap water; the flat, tepid taste is my penance for forgetting to replenish the private stash I usually keep at my desk.

Outside, the grey haze of morning has finally burned off into a nice late-summer blue sky. There's a slight breeze, which I imagine is fresh and warm, although I wouldn't know since I haven't been outside since 8 a.m. In here, the air conditioning is cranking up for its afternoon rally, so that by quitting time the ambient temperature will be hovering right around meat-locker level. Rays of sunlight glance off the row of cheap import cars in the parking lot and, despite their tint and lack of recent washing, the office windows do little to keep the glare from lancing my protesting retinas. Dark splotches like sugar ants begin to march across my line of sight.

I wonder how many months' worth of time I've spent sitting on hold in my career to date. I figure it out. Average 3 minutes per session, 5 instances a day; 5 days a week, 52 weeks per year, 8 years as a buyer. 124,800 minutes. 2,080 hours. 87 days. About two and a half solid months' worth of cheesy droning hold music or overly chipper promotional spiels. Jumpin' Jesus. My call had better bloody well be important to them.

I hear faint sounds of pounded metal from the construction site behind our building. Suddenly, the construction industry sounds oddly appealing. The last scene of "Office Space" flashes into my mind. Work outside, make decent money, get some fresh air and exercise... and you never, ever have to listen to Musak. In the words of Peter Gibbons, "Fuckin' A."

There's a bird that apparently has a nest in the bushes close to my office window. Every morning at about the same time, he comes up to the ledge next to the intersection of two of my windows, and spends about 5 minutes jumping up at the window and pecking it. I guess the explanation, according to bird experts, is that he believes that his reflection is actually another bird, and he's attacking it to keep it away from his nesting area.

The thing that I find intriguing, though, is that he comes by at the same time each day. What is it about this time that draws him up to the ledge? Is it an after-breakfast thing? (Daily agenda: 6:00am - 8:29am: wake up, preen, fly around, eat bugs, preen, poop, check on nest, preen; 8:30am - 8:34am - butt beaks with turf-skirtin' playa... ugly punk-ass tweety, be frontin' wit' me every damn day like he's all that, stupid cat-bait muthafucka... 8:35am - sit on window-ledge and poop - preen - go eat more bugs�). I could set my watch by this budgie. At any rate, he doesn't seem to be doing much damage to either himself or the window, and it's kind of a nice little routine, so I haven't done anything to dissuade him yet.