Category: life

Community. Feh!

I know many people bemoan the lack of community in today’s modern world. The “howdy neighbor”, backyard bar-b-que kind of world we had some forty years ago.

I, for one, say feh!

I have something of a “community” where I work. A lot of folks here have worked together a long time. I wouldn’t necessarily call all my coworkers friends, but heck, we’ve been through the fire together. We have more than a basic passing human concern for each other.

And so today, at lunch, I had some errands to run. Fortunately there is one of those all too popular big box discount stores less than a mile from the office.

Off I went to get what I needed, and to shop for things I didn’t need (*coff*wastetime*coff*).

I was having a nice time. Until I ran into not one, not two, but three of my coworkers. Not just people I work with at the company, people from my same organization, including the Nosy Nellie who sits directly across from me in our cubicle farm.

When you shop at a discount store like that, you want to have the freedom to buy all the embarrassing products you require without half your department knowing about it!

Yeah, I’m not talking about toilet paper or feminine products. I have more embarrassing things than that for breakfast.

I mean more like…salves and unguents.

I say “hell no!” to community when it means that your nosy coworker can peer into your shopping basket and see remedies for conditions best suffered in private.

“Hey, Bob, looks like you are struggling with the festering right buttock pustules! Boy oh boy, I remember when the wife had that. We found the generic brand worked just fine applied twice a day!”

“Oh thanks, Bill! Good to know. I was worried it might not be the same formulation. If I can cure my pustules AND save a buck, well…why not!”

: hearty laugh all around :

Um. No.

And the thing is, Nosy Nellie coworker isn’t just nosy for her OWN knowledge. She’ll run back to the office and tell anyone who will listen how ol’ Karen has the festering right buttock pustules.

Then there will be a line of “concerned” people at my office to give me the sympathetic eyes and their own sad stories. “Yes, I remember going to the health food store and making up a poultice of herbs and spices for *my* pustule. It smelled like Kentucky Fried Chicken, but boy did it clear things RIGHT up!”

This I don’t need.

If I could just suffer my indignities in private, that’d be great.

And for the record, I didn’t comment on the contents of THEIR shopping carts!

Ugh!

Today is the kind of day…

…that leaves me questioning my choice of career.

You know the days like this…where you think “I’ve spent fifteen frappin’ years doin’ this gig…and FOR WHAT!?!?!”

Where you shake your head and huff and puff and maybe stamp your feet a little.

And inevitably you think: I shoulda been a _________.

I leave it blank because everyone’s got their own idea what to fill in.

For me, I always end up thinking up something, then thinking, “nah, that would suck too.”

I used to fill in the blank with “Starbucks Barrista” until my friend Natalie was kind enough to let us in on a peek at that life. Shoes that smell like rottey milk don’t sound like fun.

I mean, my job sucks today, but my shoes aren’t stinky (beyond my usual “like roses” natural aroma).

Sometimes I fill in “massage therapist” but then I *have* to think there are days where you just DON’T want to massage that sweaty hairy dude with the touchy-feely complex. Hmm.

Sometimes I fill in “beer truck driver” because then at least people would always be happy to see you. But then you’d have to sit in stupid traffic, only to arrive at your destination and break your back hauling cases of beer into the establishment. And if you broke a bottle or can, you’re back to your shoes stinking again.

I think I’d like to avoid stinky shoe jobs.

Or jobs where you have to work swing shifts.

Or graveyard.

Or deal too much with the public.

So normally, after pondering for a while, I just end up telling myself to “suck it up, buttercup” and get back to work.

Because I believe that every job has its better days and its “it didn’t pay to get out of bed” days.

By the by, I Googled “best job in the world” and got a few interesting hits.

Bikini Reflector Holder. Ostensibly for photo shoots? Hmm. Maybe.

Police officer? Methinks that’s the marketing department in full swing.

Staff Nurse? I can’t think of a more difficult job.

Public Accountant? Yawn.

And finally…one yabo listed “Parenting” as the best job in the world.

But back to Bikini Reflector Holder…..

The terrorists stole my plot line!

Was sitting at my desk at work, drumming my fingers on the faux wood surface wondering, “What on earth can I post about in my blog today”…and not finding many answers.

That’s when nature (and two cups of hot tea) called and I was forced to rise from my desk and use the facilities. I walked along thinking, “I need a topic, I need a topic, I need a topic”.

I went over to the other half of the building since the loo near me was being serviced by the faboo janitorial team.

When I went into the “other side” I noticed that the door to what I thought was a janitorial closet (and is always tightly closed) was slightly open. It’s NEVER open. Being the nosy Nellie that I am, I peeked in there.

Little did I know that there’s a shower and a small set of lockers in this building! I looked over the lockers and noticed that all you gotta do is slap a lock on the locker of your choice.

Nice.

So *immediately* my fiction writer brain thought “god…what a great place to stash something…”

Remember when airports and bus stations used to have lockers where, for the fee of one quarter, you could stash your suitcase or whatever for a bit while you did something else?

Whatever happened to those? They made for GREAT plot points in MANY a mystery story.

How the bad guy would stash the murder weapon there and thought he got away with it but no, he couldn’t resist going BACK to the locker and by now the police were tailing him and he gets flat *busted* there in the Greyhound station, red handed, red faced, red wristed when the cuffs get slapped on.

It was fun. It was convenient! It was a great hiding place.

Why don’t we have them anymore? 9-freaking-eleven, that’s why.

Ok, so no more in bus station and airports, but now THIS find. I bet they don’t check these lockers here at work all that often. I could put damning evidence like receipts from surreptitious wire transfers and plots to take over the world with my fleet of robot drones!

Ah hahahahahahahahahahaha!!!!

Oh, @#$%…..I guess I can’t do it now. I just published my idea on the interwebs.

*sigh*

Back to work.

Feel the burn

You don’t have to know me very well to know that I’m less of the track shoes and elevated heart rate kind of girl and more of the cake following by a generous portion of cake kind of girl.

Exercise and I are acquaintances, but not really friends.

Oh sure, I exercise occasionally. I walk to the train station to commute to work. I walk to the nearby grocery store sometimes. But as a structured activity, no.

A few years back when I was working hard to lose weight, a fit and fanatical friend of mine got me to participate in a 5k. She ran and liked doing 5k’s as a way to keep on track.

Let me be frank, my friend is one of those spin class in the morning, yoga at lunch and windsurfing for dinner kind of people.

So when she suggested I 5k with her, I resisted…hard.

But all 90 lbs of her is charming and a good negotiator, so she won me over.

I signed up to 5k. Needless to say, she ran, I walked.

That first 5k I did, I came in just under an hour on time, but dammit, I finished!

Since then, I’ve sort of gotten into doing the occasional 5k. Ever since The Good Man started hanging out with me, he’ll come along too.

TGM is 6’2″ with a MUCH longer stride than mine. So 5k’ing with him is all about me almost jogging to keep up. But he paces me, and that’s good…I think.

Yesterday we did a really fun 5k, the highlight was that part of the race route took you onto the field at AT&T Park, around the warning track and across home plate.

“That’s the same home plate Barry crossed,” exclaimed one of the breathless vendors at the race.

That was definitely the fun part. The hard part was that the race started at 9:00 and you HAD to be across home plate by 10:00.

Now, think back. My first 5k was just under an hour. I haven’t done a 5k in some time. So I was pretty worried I’d miss out on this fun chance to be on the field.

So I went all out on the walk. I was pumping my little arms and legs and huffing and puffing.

And I made it. I stomped on homeplate with some glee.

Sadly, I still came in the lower-middle of the pack with a paltry time of 47 mins…but I did get to scoot across home plate right behind the good man and we saw Giants pitcher Jack Taschner walking on the warning track. He’d gotten “caught in the herd” as he said and couldn’t have been nicer when I said hello. He went on to have a crappy middle-reliever outing in the game that followed, but oh well.

It was a fun day and it was PACKED. People really came out for this even and everyone was fired UP to make it across the plate.

A few lessons I’ve learned:

*There are those who believe they’ll make better time by intermittently jogging along the 5k trail. I find they will usually pass me, then they run out of gas and I pass them, then they see me pass and rev it up, then ten minutes later I pass them again and usually we finish about the same time.

So generally speaking, a nice even pace is probably a better bet.

*The body is less forgiving of random acts of exercise as it ages. I find this not amusing in the least.

*Ballpark nachos taste a heckova lot better when you know you already exercised that day. Hell, they taste good even when I don’t workout first. Ok, to be clear: ballpark nachos are nice. Maybe I already knew that lesson.

And finally:

*Man do I sleep good when I’ve worn myself out.

(yes…THAT homeplate)

For the birds

This being a grown up thing is really for the birds.

I mean, sure, being an adult has its benefits. Cookies and ice cream and beer for dinner, for example. Yeah.

I don’t have to ask permission to buy a candy in the checkout line.

Disposable income.

I can tie my own shoes.

No homework.

Yeah.

But being a grown up means getting up every morning to go to work.

Trying hard to “get ahead”. Get that better job. Be a better employee. Get paid more. More respect.

Sleepless nights worrying about getting that project done, or the political implications of a decision.

No summer vacation. Of if you get one, it’s just a week long. Ugh.

The reason for my lament today is that we’ve entered the performance review stage at work. Meaning I have to write up and rate my team for the year.

Now, this isn’t my first rodeo. I’ve done this for many years, but it never gets any easier. To reduce the sum total of another human’s work for the year to a percentage number and a couple paragraphs is an agonizing process for me.

Part of what makes me a good manager is the depth of my compassion. But it’s also one of my biggest limitations.

Our company gives out paltry merit raises, and it’s hard to hand out a tiny raise for a hard year’s work. This year, I have a pretty good boss who is helping me fight the good fight for rate increases. But I still go home a little bit demoralized.

Good thing I can have all those cookies and beer for dinner.

Image via.