Another Cruella entry briefly. It's not a funny one but it gives you some perspective about the level of evil we are talking about.
On September 11, 2001 some serious crapola went down here in Manhattan. You might remember it? Big, tall towers, planes crashing, stuff asploding, people jumping?
That morning I was on the subway when it all started. I got to work just a few minutes after the first plane hit the WTC and a few minutes before the second. We (Cruella's four other assistants and myself) were all huddled round the TV in her office watching the news unfold, while Cruella herself, was still home in her luxury Park Avenue apartment uptown - she never graced us with her presence until at least 11 a.m.
Now a lot was going on. Chaos reigning. Everyone in the company was trying to reach family or friends who worked in the financial district and the WTC in particular. I was trying to reach The Boy who worked at the WTC site. No one was getting through to anyone. Our phones would work but we couldn't get a line to anywhere. Cell phones were down because just guess where the transmitters were? People were understandably a wee bit stressed.
In the midst of this chaos, Cruella calls, furious because she'd checked her voice mail and had three new messages and Cruella rule number one is: you never let the phone go to voice mail, it must be answered. This crime is akin to murdering your own mother after first sodomizing her with Erik Estrada.
One of the other assistants took her call (it figures that most of NYC can't get a line in or out yet the Devil manages to connect).
"Have you seen the news this morning?" this assistant asks Cruella. "Have you seen what's going on?"
"Oh that World Trade thing..." Cruella said dismissively, "Yes, I heard about that. But this phone business is not going to be tolerated. I have important clients that have to be attended to!"
We finally got rid of her and all sat down on her designer velvet sofa and watched the news come in about the plane hitting the Pentagon then the Pennsylvania plane. Most people had already left to try to get home. Cruella had called again around 10:30, right as the first tower at the Trade Center was falling.
"There's a man I need you to call..." Cruella says. "He's a jewelry designer. He has an ad in Cosmopolitan. He makes this sapphire ring in a platinum setting. I want one."
At this stage only three of us assistants are left, the others having gone to rescue their kids from daycare. One of the assistants has been IMing her friend who worked on one of the higher floors at the World Trade and the connection just went dead. We're all freaking the hell out. So, we're all a little speechless at her request.
Her personal assistant, who was still there with me and the other girl took the phone and said, "Look. Everyone has gone home. We are about to leave. There is no public transport. There are no cell phones working. All the bridges and tunnels are shut down. Everything below 14th Street is an emergency zone. The ARMY are in the street with guns. People are throwing themselves off a 110 story building rather than burn to death and you want us to buy you jewelry?"
There was that silence you get when everything stops at once.
"But...who will answer my phones?" Cruella whined, clearly unhappy.
"Voice mail." said her PA and hung up.
When work resumed the following Monday after a six day hiatus, Cruella was hyper and irritated because we were "out of the loop". One of my fellow assistants' best friend was a fire fighter who went in to the WTC and never came out. She was at work but understandably freaked. Cruella berated her all day about all the things she was messing up because her mind was elsewhere.
The part that really got me was all day long she had us write thank you notes to "important" clients who'd been calling her on her cell to make sure she was ok.
I guess they had no idea she was four miles away, uptown when this stuff happened and as soon as it got serious she got her family in her SUV and made her driver, who had to eventually find a way back to Brooklyn, take them to her Connecticut farmhouse. Of course she was fucking "ok". If that woman ever went below 42nd Street she'd die from the cooties.
This is who Cruella is. Completely free of reality or scruples of any sort.
Thursday, August 30, 2007
Wednesday, August 29, 2007
A Cruella Fate
Back in medieval times (well...2001), when I was working for Cruella de Ville, she received a summons for jury duty.
As expected, she took this about as well as a person who had been told their baby was sold to a Mexican drug cartel to pay for crack so obviously she tried her utmost to wriggle out of it. She had deferred over and over again and this was her final summons.
Being Cruella, however, she was under the impression that a different set of rules applied for beings of a “higher stature” such as herself, so she dutifully had our CFO and her personal butt-boy, The Cobra, call to try and convince them that really, Cruella was not at all necessary for any of their little trials as she was busy doing important things (like visiting a small Korean lady for a pedicure).
Naturally, the courts had heard it all before. In fact, if I was the person who worked for the jury selection department I would personally make it my life’s work to write a book about the most inventive excuses people give for excusing themselves from performing their civic duty. This court was having none of it. It was really sort of beautiful. You can pay thousands to a lady to carry a baby in her womb for you for nine months, you can buy shares in a private jet and spend summers on a yacht in the Mediterranean with a spoiled billionaire to sun your wrinkled old frame, but lady, when Uncle Sam wants YOU, no amount of cajoling or bullying will prevent you from hauling your spoiled carcass downtown, pronto.
This being Cruella, a woman physically incapable of doing anything for herself, she had to take The Cobra along with her for moral support, to explain the big words and to basically have someone to take the whole miserable ordeal out on. If it had been anyone else, I would have felt such overwhelming pity for the person's having to spend such long periods of time in close proximity to her that my heart would ache with the volume of it. However, since it was the Cobra I just prayed she was assigned to a case the approximate length of the OJ trial.
Anyway, a few days after the jury duty episode, Cruella had to go to the DMV to renew her driver’s license which had already expired. I wasn’t aware she even had a license as she has people drive her everywhere. The mere thought of her in control of a moving vehicle is only slightly less scary than the thought of a buzz-cutted Britney Spears, naked, swinging by her knees from a chandelier with a baby in one hand and an Uzi in the other. (on reflection, I realize this sounds like a plausible scene - set in slo-mo - in a Robert Rodriquez/Quentin Tarantino movie).
So, she did what she always does; she took The Cobra with her to the DMV then sat out in the car with her driver, while Cobra went in, stood in line for 20 minutes and finally is told that in the United States, people have to come and renew their license themselves. So Cobra tells the guy that his boss is “a very important person” and can’t possibly come in to a government facility where there are nasty germs, fluorescent lights and people of dubious national origins. The DMV guy, presumably of dubious national origin himself, completely unfazed, replied “I don’t care if she’s the Queen of England, if she wants a license, she better get her ass in here, now!”
So a glowering Cruella had to haul her stupid, pampered, fur-coat clad ego inside and do all the necessaries herself, including having a photo taken that made her look like someone was ramming a Swiffer up her back passage.
Isn’t that a beautiful story? I love it. In moments I’m feeling a little fragile emotionally, I imagine this scenario and immediately I’m full of the joys of life.
As expected, she took this about as well as a person who had been told their baby was sold to a Mexican drug cartel to pay for crack so obviously she tried her utmost to wriggle out of it. She had deferred over and over again and this was her final summons.
Being Cruella, however, she was under the impression that a different set of rules applied for beings of a “higher stature” such as herself, so she dutifully had our CFO and her personal butt-boy, The Cobra, call to try and convince them that really, Cruella was not at all necessary for any of their little trials as she was busy doing important things (like visiting a small Korean lady for a pedicure).
Naturally, the courts had heard it all before. In fact, if I was the person who worked for the jury selection department I would personally make it my life’s work to write a book about the most inventive excuses people give for excusing themselves from performing their civic duty. This court was having none of it. It was really sort of beautiful. You can pay thousands to a lady to carry a baby in her womb for you for nine months, you can buy shares in a private jet and spend summers on a yacht in the Mediterranean with a spoiled billionaire to sun your wrinkled old frame, but lady, when Uncle Sam wants YOU, no amount of cajoling or bullying will prevent you from hauling your spoiled carcass downtown, pronto.
This being Cruella, a woman physically incapable of doing anything for herself, she had to take The Cobra along with her for moral support, to explain the big words and to basically have someone to take the whole miserable ordeal out on. If it had been anyone else, I would have felt such overwhelming pity for the person's having to spend such long periods of time in close proximity to her that my heart would ache with the volume of it. However, since it was the Cobra I just prayed she was assigned to a case the approximate length of the OJ trial.
Anyway, a few days after the jury duty episode, Cruella had to go to the DMV to renew her driver’s license which had already expired. I wasn’t aware she even had a license as she has people drive her everywhere. The mere thought of her in control of a moving vehicle is only slightly less scary than the thought of a buzz-cutted Britney Spears, naked, swinging by her knees from a chandelier with a baby in one hand and an Uzi in the other. (on reflection, I realize this sounds like a plausible scene - set in slo-mo - in a Robert Rodriquez/Quentin Tarantino movie).
So, she did what she always does; she took The Cobra with her to the DMV then sat out in the car with her driver, while Cobra went in, stood in line for 20 minutes and finally is told that in the United States, people have to come and renew their license themselves. So Cobra tells the guy that his boss is “a very important person” and can’t possibly come in to a government facility where there are nasty germs, fluorescent lights and people of dubious national origins. The DMV guy, presumably of dubious national origin himself, completely unfazed, replied “I don’t care if she’s the Queen of England, if she wants a license, she better get her ass in here, now!”
So a glowering Cruella had to haul her stupid, pampered, fur-coat clad ego inside and do all the necessaries herself, including having a photo taken that made her look like someone was ramming a Swiffer up her back passage.
Isn’t that a beautiful story? I love it. In moments I’m feeling a little fragile emotionally, I imagine this scenario and immediately I’m full of the joys of life.
Tuesday, August 21, 2007
A Heart Warming Memory
Sometimes, in your work life, all the frustrations and hair pulling become worthwhile and a little karma is dealt out.
A few years ago, my ex-boss, that whiny old assbandit, Mr. Panty-Waist, had been driving me steadily bonkers for about a month with some vague project we were supposed to present our client with. A very “important” project that was so important he never seemed to actually get anything done except procrastinating and complaining a lot about the project that we hadn’t even started, due to his inability to pull his finger out of his ass.
Naturally, this period of ridiculousness involved much foot tapping, muttering under my breath and going into the ladies’ room and shrieking with frustration when after one more day of procrastinating and whining and sulking, we’d be no further forward than the day before or the one before that.
Thursday arrived and Mr. Panty Waist told us he was going out to the Hamptons, where he kept a summer home, for a long weekend, to “think about things”. By “things” we were under no impression he meant “the project” since he couldn’t manage that in his office on a weekday, let alone on a beachfront with a highball glass in his hand and half naked 19 year old blondes running around playing volleyball. Actually, scratch that. Mr. PW is definitely asexual. Those blondes might as well be squirrels. Apparently his wife and kids weren’t going with him, he just needed some “private creative time”.
Frankly, we didn’t care if he went to the Moon so long as he was out of our hair.
We didn’t hear from him until the following Tuesday when he called to say he wouldn’t be coming into the office because he’d had "a little accident" and broken his leg.
We all made sympathetic noises, then had a party after he hung up. I believe cake was involved. And maybe a Panty Waist pinata.
We found out later that the reason for Mr. Panty Waist’s broken limb was that he had sipped one too many Scotch on the rocks and fallen into his pool. Which is funny enough in itself, if you know his mannerisms and great, big, clumsy body, but doubles in hilarity when you find out there was no water in the pool at the time. Hee!!!! How it is even possible to fall into an empty pool is beyond me but I didn’t care. It made my whole week.
This amused us even more than the time someone dredged up some old print ad from the seventies which showed an alarmingly hilarious photo of a grinning Mr. Panty Waist, boasting huge lapels you could house a small Hispanic nation on and sporting a startling, partial mullet, as a TV weatherman in North Carolina along with a caption about Mr. PW bringing sunshine and smiles to your morning. Clearly this TV station's marketing was top notch and they'd obviously downed a few vodkas before coming up with the type. The mere idea of that horse’s ass being on TV talking about sunshine and hurricanes was just unfathomable, yet strangely irresistible.
Anyway, he had to lie in that empty pool for about 2 hours until a neighbor found him and called for help. I wished I’d been the one to find him. I would have paced around the top of that pool very slowly, sipping one of his vintage cellar wines, looking down at him clutching his limb, asking things like, “Does it hurt? Do you want me to get help? If I get help can I have a raise? Where do you keep the top shelf tequila?”
Damn, my fantasies are always so much better than my reality.
A few years ago, my ex-boss, that whiny old assbandit, Mr. Panty-Waist, had been driving me steadily bonkers for about a month with some vague project we were supposed to present our client with. A very “important” project that was so important he never seemed to actually get anything done except procrastinating and complaining a lot about the project that we hadn’t even started, due to his inability to pull his finger out of his ass.
Naturally, this period of ridiculousness involved much foot tapping, muttering under my breath and going into the ladies’ room and shrieking with frustration when after one more day of procrastinating and whining and sulking, we’d be no further forward than the day before or the one before that.
Thursday arrived and Mr. Panty Waist told us he was going out to the Hamptons, where he kept a summer home, for a long weekend, to “think about things”. By “things” we were under no impression he meant “the project” since he couldn’t manage that in his office on a weekday, let alone on a beachfront with a highball glass in his hand and half naked 19 year old blondes running around playing volleyball. Actually, scratch that. Mr. PW is definitely asexual. Those blondes might as well be squirrels. Apparently his wife and kids weren’t going with him, he just needed some “private creative time”.
Frankly, we didn’t care if he went to the Moon so long as he was out of our hair.
We didn’t hear from him until the following Tuesday when he called to say he wouldn’t be coming into the office because he’d had "a little accident" and broken his leg.
We all made sympathetic noises, then had a party after he hung up. I believe cake was involved. And maybe a Panty Waist pinata.
We found out later that the reason for Mr. Panty Waist’s broken limb was that he had sipped one too many Scotch on the rocks and fallen into his pool. Which is funny enough in itself, if you know his mannerisms and great, big, clumsy body, but doubles in hilarity when you find out there was no water in the pool at the time. Hee!!!! How it is even possible to fall into an empty pool is beyond me but I didn’t care. It made my whole week.
This amused us even more than the time someone dredged up some old print ad from the seventies which showed an alarmingly hilarious photo of a grinning Mr. Panty Waist, boasting huge lapels you could house a small Hispanic nation on and sporting a startling, partial mullet, as a TV weatherman in North Carolina along with a caption about Mr. PW bringing sunshine and smiles to your morning. Clearly this TV station's marketing was top notch and they'd obviously downed a few vodkas before coming up with the type. The mere idea of that horse’s ass being on TV talking about sunshine and hurricanes was just unfathomable, yet strangely irresistible.
Anyway, he had to lie in that empty pool for about 2 hours until a neighbor found him and called for help. I wished I’d been the one to find him. I would have paced around the top of that pool very slowly, sipping one of his vintage cellar wines, looking down at him clutching his limb, asking things like, “Does it hurt? Do you want me to get help? If I get help can I have a raise? Where do you keep the top shelf tequila?”
Damn, my fantasies are always so much better than my reality.
Monday, August 20, 2007
People Are Also Stupid
The Guv'ner is puzzled by a chain of emails between herself and a coworker, that took place today. It went a little like this:
From: The Guv'ner
To: Retard
Are you free on September 28th for meeting with blah-di-blah?
REPLY:
From: Retard
To: The Guv'ner
Sorry, no, I'm out Friday and all of next week!
From: The Guv'ner
To: Retard
Oh. Well I guess it's lucky we're talking about SEPTEMBER 28th then, huh!
From: Retard
To: The Guv'ner
No, sorry can't do it. As I said I'm out all of next week.
From: The Guv'ner
To: Retard
But...next week is only August. I'm talking about the end of September. It's five weeks away.
From: Retard
To: The Guv'ner
I won't be back in the office until September 3rd.
At this point I decided to just stab myself in the heart with my left-handed scissors.
From: The Guv'ner
To: Retard
Are you free on September 28th for meeting with blah-di-blah?
REPLY:
From: Retard
To: The Guv'ner
Sorry, no, I'm out Friday and all of next week!
From: The Guv'ner
To: Retard
Oh. Well I guess it's lucky we're talking about SEPTEMBER 28th then, huh!
From: Retard
To: The Guv'ner
No, sorry can't do it. As I said I'm out all of next week.
From: The Guv'ner
To: Retard
But...next week is only August. I'm talking about the end of September. It's five weeks away.
From: Retard
To: The Guv'ner
I won't be back in the office until September 3rd.
At this point I decided to just stab myself in the heart with my left-handed scissors.
Thursday, August 16, 2007
People Are Strange
Sometimes the smallest task can be a touch surreal. This morning I had to order a car service for four separate trips to and from the airport for my younger boss. Normally, the routine goes, you dial the number, some dullard who hates people, therefore is ripe for the customer service industry, drones, “*sigh* Hellothisiskeishahowcanihelpyew?” sounding like they would much rather push a fork through their eyeball than give a flying crap about helping your ass. Then when you suggest you might like to reserve more than one car they sigh even louder like, “You’ve got some freaking nerve asking me to do my job when I have my nails to polish!”
So imagine my surprise when this morning, instead of a member of the plankton family, I got an awesome, drawling, laid back, Jamaican chick named Tiffany, who not only was agreeable to my four car demand but was so laid back and pleasant about it, I thought she must be dangling a giant doobie from her lips as we spoke. You can take the girl out of Jamaica but you can never take the Jamaica out of the girl.
Truly, I want some of what she was having. Nothing was too much trouble. She sounded vaguely miffed I only wanted to spend twenty minutes on the phone with her when I could so easily have booked a year’s worth of cars and she wouldn’t have broken a sweat. I swear to God I am not embellishing this conversation. Much.
Me: Hi Tiffany, I’d actually like to make four reservations, if that’s ok.
Tiff: Why sure, Sugar. That is never a problem. That is why I am here! Who is the first one for?
Me: Well, they’re all going to be for [boss’s name]
Tiff: OK…I see his number comes up as [boss’s number] and his address is [boss’s address]. Will he be using that address and number?
*this in itself is impressive because normally I have to spell the guy's name fifteen times and they still get it hopelessly wrong
Me: Yes, he would indeed. That’s great you have that, it saves me so much time!
Tiff: Well I’m happy if you’re happy. That’s fantastic! That’s super.
Me: He needs to be picked up at five a.m. on the 27th.
Tiff: Five huh? That’s pretty early! That’s wonderful! I just love early mornings. It’s so peaceful. Mmmm hmmm. Beautiful!
Me: Not for me. I’m not a morning person. I’m a night owl.
Tiff: I love mornings. I’m up at five every day. It’s just fabulous! The start of a new day!
Me: Um…ok.
Tiff: Now, he’s going to the airport? That’s great.. You know, I love the airport...
Me: Yes, the airport, thanks.
We then went through the other three reservations in much the same manner, where Tiffany pronounced her love of everything from “complete addresses” to “fabulous customers”. Honestly, I really do want what she’s on.
I hung up slightly terrified that I might just have made contact with an actual alien.
And the thing is, none of what she said was said in an even remotely sarcastic or condescending way. She really just loved everything!
This has thrown my whole day off. My brain’s having trouble comprehending.
So imagine my surprise when this morning, instead of a member of the plankton family, I got an awesome, drawling, laid back, Jamaican chick named Tiffany, who not only was agreeable to my four car demand but was so laid back and pleasant about it, I thought she must be dangling a giant doobie from her lips as we spoke. You can take the girl out of Jamaica but you can never take the Jamaica out of the girl.
Truly, I want some of what she was having. Nothing was too much trouble. She sounded vaguely miffed I only wanted to spend twenty minutes on the phone with her when I could so easily have booked a year’s worth of cars and she wouldn’t have broken a sweat. I swear to God I am not embellishing this conversation. Much.
Me: Hi Tiffany, I’d actually like to make four reservations, if that’s ok.
Tiff: Why sure, Sugar. That is never a problem. That is why I am here! Who is the first one for?
Me: Well, they’re all going to be for [boss’s name]
Tiff: OK…I see his number comes up as [boss’s number] and his address is [boss’s address]. Will he be using that address and number?
*this in itself is impressive because normally I have to spell the guy's name fifteen times and they still get it hopelessly wrong
Me: Yes, he would indeed. That’s great you have that, it saves me so much time!
Tiff: Well I’m happy if you’re happy. That’s fantastic! That’s super.
Me: He needs to be picked up at five a.m. on the 27th.
Tiff: Five huh? That’s pretty early! That’s wonderful! I just love early mornings. It’s so peaceful. Mmmm hmmm. Beautiful!
Me: Not for me. I’m not a morning person. I’m a night owl.
Tiff: I love mornings. I’m up at five every day. It’s just fabulous! The start of a new day!
Me: Um…ok.
Tiff: Now, he’s going to the airport? That’s great.. You know, I love the airport...
Me: Yes, the airport, thanks.
We then went through the other three reservations in much the same manner, where Tiffany pronounced her love of everything from “complete addresses” to “fabulous customers”. Honestly, I really do want what she’s on.
I hung up slightly terrified that I might just have made contact with an actual alien.
And the thing is, none of what she said was said in an even remotely sarcastic or condescending way. She really just loved everything!
This has thrown my whole day off. My brain’s having trouble comprehending.
Wednesday, August 15, 2007
How Not To Start A Morning
This morning I had to pick up a document from finance which included information I needed to amend, take the document to The Most Boring Woman Who Ever Lived so that she could, in turn, present it to her boss for signature.
Now even though TMBWWEL’s office is just at the opposite end of the corridor from my own, if the matter hadn’t been extremely time sensitive, I would have sent that sucker via inter office mail, rather than have to go into the monster’s lair in person.
As I’ve pointed out before, she’s not a mean lady, or even an unpleasant one in the true sense of the word, it’s just that she really is the most boring woman who ever lived. There is no human being who is still living, who is more boring. I challenge you to find anyone else with the personality of Ambien.
Firstly, she scrutinized the form I gave her and pointed out the following:
“Where [boss’s] name is printed, that’s a ten point font. We usually use a twelve point font. You see, ten point font is hard to read if your eyes aren’t great. Unless you use ten point Courier which is a larger font. However, most people don’t use Courier as it’s old fashioned. But this is Arial. Ten point Arial is a little narrow and therefore smaller to read. Twelve point Arial however….”
At this point I picked up one of those electronic pencil sharpeners with the weighted bottoms and I smashed her head in.
Anyway, to get her off the subject of fonts and their comparative sizes, I noticed she’d had a big, metallic bulletin board installed on the wall on the back of her usually, personality-less office. It was covered in photos. It was then it happened.
Not having ingested any caffeine yet, or indeed, woken up properly, I made a fatal mistake. An error of judgment, which, at any other time of day I would have been alert enough to prevent. I pointed at one of the pictures on the board – a man with a stupendous and quite alarming mustache that curled up at the ends (obviously a circus performer or child molester) – and I said, “Who is that guy?”
I might as well have said, “Hey, how about picking up that phone directory and reading it to me?”
I then was treated to a run down of EVERY. SINGLE. GODDAMN. PERSON. ON. THAT. BOARD. (the child molesting trapeze artist was her grandfather)
“This is my mom and me. That’s my mom and dad in 1945, I think they were at a party. This is my ex and I in Vegas. That was a fun trip. [aside: for YOU maybe, bub, but the guy must've been like 'kill me now'] This is my ex-husband’s nephew and his twins, they’re five. When they were born they had problems with blah de blah de blah…”
Twenty fucking minutes I endured this and at the end of the tour my brain was dead as Phil Rizzuto. Holy cow!
I wasn’t back in my seat five minutes when her name appeared on my caller ID. I made that noise Marge Simpson makes when Homer’s sold the baby to gypsies again.
“It’s ok!” she said cheerfully. “[Boss] didn’t even mention the ten point font!”
“No shit!” I didn’t say, wondering if I could lure her into the fire escape and push her down the steps. I mean accidents happen all the time on stairs, am I wrong? All the time...
Now even though TMBWWEL’s office is just at the opposite end of the corridor from my own, if the matter hadn’t been extremely time sensitive, I would have sent that sucker via inter office mail, rather than have to go into the monster’s lair in person.
As I’ve pointed out before, she’s not a mean lady, or even an unpleasant one in the true sense of the word, it’s just that she really is the most boring woman who ever lived. There is no human being who is still living, who is more boring. I challenge you to find anyone else with the personality of Ambien.
Firstly, she scrutinized the form I gave her and pointed out the following:
“Where [boss’s] name is printed, that’s a ten point font. We usually use a twelve point font. You see, ten point font is hard to read if your eyes aren’t great. Unless you use ten point Courier which is a larger font. However, most people don’t use Courier as it’s old fashioned. But this is Arial. Ten point Arial is a little narrow and therefore smaller to read. Twelve point Arial however….”
At this point I picked up one of those electronic pencil sharpeners with the weighted bottoms and I smashed her head in.
Anyway, to get her off the subject of fonts and their comparative sizes, I noticed she’d had a big, metallic bulletin board installed on the wall on the back of her usually, personality-less office. It was covered in photos. It was then it happened.
Not having ingested any caffeine yet, or indeed, woken up properly, I made a fatal mistake. An error of judgment, which, at any other time of day I would have been alert enough to prevent. I pointed at one of the pictures on the board – a man with a stupendous and quite alarming mustache that curled up at the ends (obviously a circus performer or child molester) – and I said, “Who is that guy?”
I might as well have said, “Hey, how about picking up that phone directory and reading it to me?”
I then was treated to a run down of EVERY. SINGLE. GODDAMN. PERSON. ON. THAT. BOARD. (the child molesting trapeze artist was her grandfather)
“This is my mom and me. That’s my mom and dad in 1945, I think they were at a party. This is my ex and I in Vegas. That was a fun trip. [aside: for YOU maybe, bub, but the guy must've been like 'kill me now'] This is my ex-husband’s nephew and his twins, they’re five. When they were born they had problems with blah de blah de blah…”
Twenty fucking minutes I endured this and at the end of the tour my brain was dead as Phil Rizzuto. Holy cow!
I wasn’t back in my seat five minutes when her name appeared on my caller ID. I made that noise Marge Simpson makes when Homer’s sold the baby to gypsies again.
“It’s ok!” she said cheerfully. “[Boss] didn’t even mention the ten point font!”
“No shit!” I didn’t say, wondering if I could lure her into the fire escape and push her down the steps. I mean accidents happen all the time on stairs, am I wrong? All the time...
Wednesday, August 8, 2007
When Violence is the Only Answer
Our company owns a fleet of cars. Well - about four cars to be exact – maybe more of a “fleetito”. A mini fleet. Three of those cars are owned by one enormous ad team for their exclusive use and the fourth is generic, to be signed out by any employee who needs to use it for company business.
One of my teams use it a lot. We have a very big client out on Long Island so the car is useful and saves on things like car services that cost the same as a weekend in Cabo. All we have to do to reserve the car is call a guy down in the finance department who is in charge of such matters, pick up the keys and he logs it in a spreadsheet. You then go to the parking garage downstairs, which, given this is Manhattan, we pay as much to park the damn car per month as it costs for my entire rent and bills, and you drive the car away.
Or not as the case may be.
Today, one of my team needed the car to go to a client presentation. It was her first time using the car so she went down to the garage with the keys, checked in with the management down there and was told, “No you can not have the car. Not without a signed permission note from Lisa!”
“I need a signed permission slip from Lisa…” yelled Amy, my team member, into the phone, when she called me in a panic.
“Just who the fuck is Lisa?” I replied, bemused, “And how come we’ve never needed a permission slip the other 500 times we’ve used the car?”
“The guy won’t let me have it!” she yelled back frantically. “He says, no permission, no car.”
I put her on hold and called one of our heads of finance, Carlos, whose department deals with the use of the car.
“Who the fuck is Lisa?” he said, when I explained the situation. “You don’t need permission to take the car, just the fucking keys!”
Carlos swears a lot. It’s why we get along so well. “Tell her to tell them to give her the fucking car or have the fucker call me and I’ll fucking give them permission!” he snarled. I had the distinct feeling the permission Carlos would give might involve a baseball bat and a lot of anger.
I switched back to Amy and conveyed this delicate message. Some mumbling. Lots of arguing. “He still won’t let me have the car” she said feebly. “I’m already so late I’m going to be in real trouble. He still wants a note from Lisa.”
At this point my other line rings and I see Carlos' name on the caller ID. I put Amy on hold and pick up. “I found out who the fuck Lisa is!” he says. “She’s an admin on the other account! (the account who own the other three cars) She doesn’t have anything to do with our car so that fucker doesn’t need any fucking permission whatsofuckingever and certainly not from fucking Lisa.”
I tell Amy this and the douche still refuses to let her take the car. So I call this “Lisa” who is horrified and offers to go straight down there and beat someone’s ass. Or talk to them rationally, I don’t know which. I just know which I’d do.
Eventually, 45 minutes later, after a lot of cajoling and threats, Amy gets her car and Carlos is promising to go down there and “talk to people” probably in the same way the mob like to "talk" to people.
Me, I am ordering some popcorn, sitting back and watching the entertainment.
One of my teams use it a lot. We have a very big client out on Long Island so the car is useful and saves on things like car services that cost the same as a weekend in Cabo. All we have to do to reserve the car is call a guy down in the finance department who is in charge of such matters, pick up the keys and he logs it in a spreadsheet. You then go to the parking garage downstairs, which, given this is Manhattan, we pay as much to park the damn car per month as it costs for my entire rent and bills, and you drive the car away.
Or not as the case may be.
Today, one of my team needed the car to go to a client presentation. It was her first time using the car so she went down to the garage with the keys, checked in with the management down there and was told, “No you can not have the car. Not without a signed permission note from Lisa!”
“I need a signed permission slip from Lisa…” yelled Amy, my team member, into the phone, when she called me in a panic.
“Just who the fuck is Lisa?” I replied, bemused, “And how come we’ve never needed a permission slip the other 500 times we’ve used the car?”
“The guy won’t let me have it!” she yelled back frantically. “He says, no permission, no car.”
I put her on hold and called one of our heads of finance, Carlos, whose department deals with the use of the car.
“Who the fuck is Lisa?” he said, when I explained the situation. “You don’t need permission to take the car, just the fucking keys!”
Carlos swears a lot. It’s why we get along so well. “Tell her to tell them to give her the fucking car or have the fucker call me and I’ll fucking give them permission!” he snarled. I had the distinct feeling the permission Carlos would give might involve a baseball bat and a lot of anger.
I switched back to Amy and conveyed this delicate message. Some mumbling. Lots of arguing. “He still won’t let me have the car” she said feebly. “I’m already so late I’m going to be in real trouble. He still wants a note from Lisa.”
At this point my other line rings and I see Carlos' name on the caller ID. I put Amy on hold and pick up. “I found out who the fuck Lisa is!” he says. “She’s an admin on the other account! (the account who own the other three cars) She doesn’t have anything to do with our car so that fucker doesn’t need any fucking permission whatsofuckingever and certainly not from fucking Lisa.”
I tell Amy this and the douche still refuses to let her take the car. So I call this “Lisa” who is horrified and offers to go straight down there and beat someone’s ass. Or talk to them rationally, I don’t know which. I just know which I’d do.
Eventually, 45 minutes later, after a lot of cajoling and threats, Amy gets her car and Carlos is promising to go down there and “talk to people” probably in the same way the mob like to "talk" to people.
Me, I am ordering some popcorn, sitting back and watching the entertainment.
Tuesday, August 7, 2007
Do Not Feed The Admins
If there’s one thing the Guv’ner hates about a work day (actually there are many, but let’s focus here), it’s when the cafeteria promises one sort of nourishment for lunch and when you go to collect, provides something entirely different.
Like, for example, you’ve had a hard morning, typing, running around, calculating things (like best murder instrument in your desk drawer) and sticking push pins in a voodoo doll of an ex boss you still want dead, you want some comfort food. You know, some sustenance with a calorific value that would make Jenny Craig faint. So when your new spanky phone leaves you a computer generated voice mail with today’s cafeteria specials (this phone should be on the Enterprise, who else has a phone that tells them menu specials and emails them voice messages, huh!) and boasts “Macaroni Cheese” as the special main meal of the day, causing one to bounce up and down with cheerful anticipation, and drool on one’s clean shirt, it is not acceptable to provide this poor, hard-working individual with a green bean casserole instead. People in less civilized nations (like England) have been hung, drawn and quartered for less.
This switch does not make for a happy Guv’ner who had an egg salad sandwich with a dressing of spite just to make a protest.
I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking, when has anything ever made for a happy Guv’ner? Well there was that one time at my last job where the mailroom guys arranged for a pitcher of lemonade in the fridge of the executive kitchen to be uh…how can I put it…enhanced with a much more alcoholically potent substance, providing many happy menial employees, one step closer to telling their boss where they could put their “monthly report”. Good times.
Like, for example, you’ve had a hard morning, typing, running around, calculating things (like best murder instrument in your desk drawer) and sticking push pins in a voodoo doll of an ex boss you still want dead, you want some comfort food. You know, some sustenance with a calorific value that would make Jenny Craig faint. So when your new spanky phone leaves you a computer generated voice mail with today’s cafeteria specials (this phone should be on the Enterprise, who else has a phone that tells them menu specials and emails them voice messages, huh!) and boasts “Macaroni Cheese” as the special main meal of the day, causing one to bounce up and down with cheerful anticipation, and drool on one’s clean shirt, it is not acceptable to provide this poor, hard-working individual with a green bean casserole instead. People in less civilized nations (like England) have been hung, drawn and quartered for less.
This switch does not make for a happy Guv’ner who had an egg salad sandwich with a dressing of spite just to make a protest.
I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking, when has anything ever made for a happy Guv’ner? Well there was that one time at my last job where the mailroom guys arranged for a pitcher of lemonade in the fridge of the executive kitchen to be uh…how can I put it…enhanced with a much more alcoholically potent substance, providing many happy menial employees, one step closer to telling their boss where they could put their “monthly report”. Good times.
Monday, August 6, 2007
Guv'ner Phone Home
I had Friday off work due to our stellar Summer Friday program where we each get six Fridays during June, July and August off work, paid. Like extra vacation. Six extra long weekends. As you can imagine, the Guv'ner is very agreeable to such policies and equally enthusiastic about the week between Christmas and New Year where we also close down and it doesn't count as vacation time. I prefer to call these days off "Necessary Homicide Prevention Days" because it does somewhat allow me time to pop Xanax like candy in order to sleep for twelve hour periods at a time and in between fill my veins with Captain Morgan's Spiced rum and cheese (not at the same time, although really it depends on the amount of rum we're talking about here).
Today I arrived in my office to find that things were not as I left them on Thursday, despite the fact my office is kept locked. Hmmm. The reason I knew this? Well stuff had moved around my desk as though some invisible force were trying to find something. Then I turned around to dump my bag and I saw it. The. New. Phone.
Now you may be thinking, "Geez Guv, so effing what, it's a phone!" but you see, you clearly don't understand. My previous phone had the numbers etched in stone. It had a horn that you held up to your ear while you yelled and a lever you had to crank to get an operator who sounds like one of those ladies from a Pathé News reel. Ok, maybe it wasn't that bad but let's just say it probably was really, really cool in 1976. When you picked up the receiver, instead of a dial tone you got 1970s' "Starsky & Hutch" theme-type, funky porn music. Bow chica bow bow.
The new phone though. It made me recoil in horror, my back against the wall, while I watched it cautiously in case it decided to evaporate me or give me orders. There are buttons and options up the wazoo. I'm still pretty sure there's an option for making coffee on there someplace... It's on a stand which makes it stand upright and it has a glowing, full color, TV-like screen display that can tell you exactly who is calling, their number and probably even what color underpants they're wearing, what they plan on ordering for lunch and maybe those dirty, nasty thoughts they're having about that new girl in planning. It also tracks calls rather blatantly, so no more calling "Boys Butts R Us" or 1-800-GUN-PLEASE during my lunch hour anymore. Shame.
Naturally, I have as much idea how to use this beast as I do the cockpit of an airplane so today should be interesting.
It sure looks purty though.
Today I arrived in my office to find that things were not as I left them on Thursday, despite the fact my office is kept locked. Hmmm. The reason I knew this? Well stuff had moved around my desk as though some invisible force were trying to find something. Then I turned around to dump my bag and I saw it. The. New. Phone.
Now you may be thinking, "Geez Guv, so effing what, it's a phone!" but you see, you clearly don't understand. My previous phone had the numbers etched in stone. It had a horn that you held up to your ear while you yelled and a lever you had to crank to get an operator who sounds like one of those ladies from a Pathé News reel. Ok, maybe it wasn't that bad but let's just say it probably was really, really cool in 1976. When you picked up the receiver, instead of a dial tone you got 1970s' "Starsky & Hutch" theme-type, funky porn music. Bow chica bow bow.
The new phone though. It made me recoil in horror, my back against the wall, while I watched it cautiously in case it decided to evaporate me or give me orders. There are buttons and options up the wazoo. I'm still pretty sure there's an option for making coffee on there someplace... It's on a stand which makes it stand upright and it has a glowing, full color, TV-like screen display that can tell you exactly who is calling, their number and probably even what color underpants they're wearing, what they plan on ordering for lunch and maybe those dirty, nasty thoughts they're having about that new girl in planning. It also tracks calls rather blatantly, so no more calling "Boys Butts R Us" or 1-800-GUN-PLEASE during my lunch hour anymore. Shame.
Naturally, I have as much idea how to use this beast as I do the cockpit of an airplane so today should be interesting.
It sure looks purty though.
Thursday, August 2, 2007
Topical and Tropical
When it’s hectic and there’s paper strewn everywhere; when you can’t see my desk for pens and calculators and magazines and finance reports; when there are three half empty Diet Pepsi bottles littering my desktop and the occasional Kit Kat wrapper; when there are twelve things that need to be done now and all have priority... At moments like these I like to look at the wall by my monitor which is completely covered with a poster of a perfect blue tropical ocean beach with palm trees and I like to think that if I focus really hard, I can pretend that I’m there, on that beach, hearing the waves lap against the white sand and the palm fronds swooshing slightly in the breeze to the faraway lilt of steel drum melodies and the pleasing, wafting aroma of Malibu and pineapple...
And then the sound of frantic gurgling (because in this daydream I am also drowning my boss in the tide while screaming, “What do you mean can I stay late to prepare some binders for an early morning meeting, you sniveling shitmeister????”)
Every day I feel a little more of my sanity slipping away. Possibly to that beach. Possibly to eek out a 2 liter bottle of tequila to hide under my desk. Possibly to the nearest gun store to buy an AK47. It’s hard to tell.
All I know is my mood today is as fragile as a Minnesota bridge in rush hour.
And every bit as dangerous.
And then the sound of frantic gurgling (because in this daydream I am also drowning my boss in the tide while screaming, “What do you mean can I stay late to prepare some binders for an early morning meeting, you sniveling shitmeister????”)
Every day I feel a little more of my sanity slipping away. Possibly to that beach. Possibly to eek out a 2 liter bottle of tequila to hide under my desk. Possibly to the nearest gun store to buy an AK47. It’s hard to tell.
All I know is my mood today is as fragile as a Minnesota bridge in rush hour.
And every bit as dangerous.
Tuesday, July 31, 2007
The Case Against Machines
Remember that scene in “Office Space” where the three geeks steal the fax machine (printer?) and smash it to smithereens with a baseball bat, in the middle of a field? That’s like every day in my office. My fantasies consist of moments where I lasso the photocopier on our floor, forklift it to the nearest window and launch it eleven floors down to the street with a primal scream. Of course there are obvious reasons why I’d never actually do this…I mean come on people, I am human. I mean, how am I ever going to get a forklift in the elevator?
I’m not overly concerned with any passers by down below or anything, I think worse things fall on them in NYC every day and since there are approximately seven billion ways to die in New York City at any given moment, Xerox machines falling from the sky are just one of many unforeseen circumstances we put up with every day. If that were to happen, tourists would shriek and cover their horrified faces in terror at the vision of a giant, mangled copier with limbs splaying out from underneath, whereas New Yorkers would be like, “Can you please f*cking move, you’re getting your blood all over my shoe, asshole!”
Calm down, I’m kidding. New Yorkers would never say “please”.
Today one of my coworkers – one of the ones I like, fortunately, was photocopying a stack of materials, which, if placed out on the Avenue, one on top of the other, would rival the height of the building itself. This was practically a seamless job as far as our evil Copier from Hades is concerned. Or it just likes my lovely coworker so much better than I. I guess she doesn’t kick it and say, “You like that don’t you, you little whore!” like I do.
When she’d done and I was trying to copy my one measly expense report, the machine chewed it up and spat it out. Well half of it anyway. The other half was still wedged somewhere in its innards and well…following those little diagrams inside the door that tell you how to clear a jam? They’re worse than Ikea instructions. Trillions of green knobs and pulleys and stuff you yank out and things you press and little, hot, scaldy things you burn your digits on every time because there’s a law that says in order to have a paper jam inside the machine, rather than on the peripherals, the jammed paper must be next to a metal bar the exact temperature of an erupting volcano and since the copier doesn’t generally come with asbestos gloves you just have to agree to give up the skin on your hand.
It tells me the most useless crap too (a bit like this blog entry). It boasts “tray 1 is low on paper” even though I’m using tray 4 and could not give a shit about tray 1’s deficiencies. Shut up copier. Once you can make me an omelet and a margarita then you might be relevant.
I’m not overly concerned with any passers by down below or anything, I think worse things fall on them in NYC every day and since there are approximately seven billion ways to die in New York City at any given moment, Xerox machines falling from the sky are just one of many unforeseen circumstances we put up with every day. If that were to happen, tourists would shriek and cover their horrified faces in terror at the vision of a giant, mangled copier with limbs splaying out from underneath, whereas New Yorkers would be like, “Can you please f*cking move, you’re getting your blood all over my shoe, asshole!”
Calm down, I’m kidding. New Yorkers would never say “please”.
Today one of my coworkers – one of the ones I like, fortunately, was photocopying a stack of materials, which, if placed out on the Avenue, one on top of the other, would rival the height of the building itself. This was practically a seamless job as far as our evil Copier from Hades is concerned. Or it just likes my lovely coworker so much better than I. I guess she doesn’t kick it and say, “You like that don’t you, you little whore!” like I do.
When she’d done and I was trying to copy my one measly expense report, the machine chewed it up and spat it out. Well half of it anyway. The other half was still wedged somewhere in its innards and well…following those little diagrams inside the door that tell you how to clear a jam? They’re worse than Ikea instructions. Trillions of green knobs and pulleys and stuff you yank out and things you press and little, hot, scaldy things you burn your digits on every time because there’s a law that says in order to have a paper jam inside the machine, rather than on the peripherals, the jammed paper must be next to a metal bar the exact temperature of an erupting volcano and since the copier doesn’t generally come with asbestos gloves you just have to agree to give up the skin on your hand.
It tells me the most useless crap too (a bit like this blog entry). It boasts “tray 1 is low on paper” even though I’m using tray 4 and could not give a shit about tray 1’s deficiencies. Shut up copier. Once you can make me an omelet and a margarita then you might be relevant.
Sunday, July 29, 2007
Opening the Old Oak Door To the Guv'ner's Brain Basement
The truly awesome Miss Katrocket Radio gave me this meme type of thingy to answer so I thought I'd deviate from the office for a moment to enlighten you on the Guv'ner's fascinating persona. I'm cross posting this to my Live Journal too because I'm a whore.
The rules: and here's the guidelines to include in your post:
If you care to participate, leave me a comment saying "Interview me." I will respond by emailing you five questions. I get to pick the questions. You will update your blog with a post containing your answers to the questions. You will include this explanation and an offer to interview someone else in the same post. When others comment asking to be interviewed, you will ask them five questions.
The five:
1. You are given the opportunity to earn five million dollars for one year of work. The catch? You have to be a tour guide for the Precious Moments Museum, and you have to be NICE and say NICE and POSITIVE things about Precious Moments for that entire year. You may not utter a single negative thing (or write, record, blog anything negative), both on the job and after hours. Do you take the job or forfeit? Why or why not?
Well naturally only an imbecile of great standing would turn that job down. The key here is the five million bucks ensuring I never had to work for degenerate fucksticks ever again and quite frankly I'd stick my granny with a branding iron and sell her to an Arab for five million bucks. (It's ok, she'd be fine, she's not Jewish or anything.) However, given the job itself I would have a set of tactical plans in place because obviously the urge to lapse from the agreement would be intense. Plus I would have one of those insulin pens handy that people with The Diabeetus use when their blood sugar gets too high. I would have my friend C., who is an electronics genius, wire me up with a contraption that zapped me every time a swear word so much as formed in my brain or if it detected an oncoming bout of sarcasm. Secondly, I'd wire my jaws shut and not talk at all if things got really dire. I'd record a nice little ditty about the museum on tape, beforehand and hand it out to visitors so I didn't have to say a word. Thirdly, I would go home from work every night, in some sort of frightening zombie trance (as you'd imagine) and I'd drink Cuba Libres until I thought I was Dean Martin. Fourthly, I'd call in sick a lot. Fifthly (fifthly is a word?), at the end of my term I would unleash a sea of profanity so intense, entire continents would shake like Michael J. Fox at a Parkinson's convention. Then I might go pipebomb the museum. You know, after they paid me.
2. Your ‘24’ moment has arrived: There’s a bomb somewhere in your home that cannot be found or dismantled, and you have five minutes to pack up and leave before it explodes. What goes and what stays?
Hmmm...Well. My cats go that goes without saying. People are generally enormous shits but animals are good spirits, loyal and kind - even ones that routinely wake you up at 3am every night to feed them "breakfast" or else they trash the living room. Then I'm thinking my passport might be a decent idea and my green card because that fucker was harder to get than it is to persuade Jessica Simpson to grasp the basic concept of tuna. I would then immediately throw my Dalek cookie jar out on the fire escape ready for the escape (who wouldn't save the Dalek cookie jar, duh!?) and my photo albums. And that big bar of Cadbury's I have in the fridge. Let's get our priorities right immediately. Probably my iPod and laptop would come too, I mean all my friends live on my laptop after all. Oh yeah, then I might take my lovely boy El Codo. Depends on the mood I was in. I'm kidding, El C. I'd also escape butt naked therefore the thing I'd leave behind is my dignity. And my pants.
3. What’s your favourite scripture? Hahahahahahaha I’m totally kidding.
Thank the Lord. That gave me hives.
3. (for real this time) If your life is ever made into a made-for-TV movie, who would play you?
If my life was ever made into a made-for-TV movie I'd be played by Bruce Willis. Sure he's a ton older than me and there's that business of him having a penis (I guess, I haven't looked) and no hair, but he would kick ass and might manage to make my life exciting, adding a few explosions here, a few terrorists there. Although he mightn't be all that convincing in a dress and I'm not sure I'd like to find out. Hahaha, that suggested I ever wear a dress. Ha ha ha.
4. What has given you the most pleasure in this past year (July 2006-July 2007)?
In all honesty, this past year has sucked donkey balls. It's been a never ending stream of poverty, frustration and I've had a friend die. Positives? A wealth of Irn Bru, a nice little sunny vacation at The Evil Queen's house in Florida, the discovery of "On the Border" margarita mix and hanging out in "Vegas" with my Live Journal buddy Tony Spunk. And maybe that time some hobo pinched my ass on the train (I appreciated the attention).
5. You often write about your horrific work experiences a world of corporate incompetence – as a kid, what was your idea of a dream job?
When I was really little, I wanted to be a sky muffin. I mean an air hostess. Stewardess. Flight attendant??? WTF do they call themselves? Anyway. One of those. You see, I loved planes, everything about them, their huge size, their majesty, the roar the engines made, the fact they were going to exotic places...like Luton. And Detroit. I used to spend days at the airport with my dad watching planes take off and land. I guess he liked planes too. Either that or he had a thing for airports, I don't know. So yeah. Then I got over the sky muffin phase and decided, why not start at the top so I wanted to be a pilot. This was going well until I realized that a) I sucked at most things mathematical. b) I sucked at science and c) I hate flying and need to be sedated before stepping onto a plane. Apparently airlines don't like their pilots tranquilized. Well unless you want to work for Aeroflot. After that I think I just wanted to be a rock star and a writer. I still kind of have the aspiration for the latter. The former is a matter for me and the bedroom mirror only.
The rules: and here's the guidelines to include in your post:
If you care to participate, leave me a comment saying "Interview me." I will respond by emailing you five questions. I get to pick the questions. You will update your blog with a post containing your answers to the questions. You will include this explanation and an offer to interview someone else in the same post. When others comment asking to be interviewed, you will ask them five questions.
The five:
1. You are given the opportunity to earn five million dollars for one year of work. The catch? You have to be a tour guide for the Precious Moments Museum, and you have to be NICE and say NICE and POSITIVE things about Precious Moments for that entire year. You may not utter a single negative thing (or write, record, blog anything negative), both on the job and after hours. Do you take the job or forfeit? Why or why not?
Well naturally only an imbecile of great standing would turn that job down. The key here is the five million bucks ensuring I never had to work for degenerate fucksticks ever again and quite frankly I'd stick my granny with a branding iron and sell her to an Arab for five million bucks. (It's ok, she'd be fine, she's not Jewish or anything.) However, given the job itself I would have a set of tactical plans in place because obviously the urge to lapse from the agreement would be intense. Plus I would have one of those insulin pens handy that people with The Diabeetus use when their blood sugar gets too high. I would have my friend C., who is an electronics genius, wire me up with a contraption that zapped me every time a swear word so much as formed in my brain or if it detected an oncoming bout of sarcasm. Secondly, I'd wire my jaws shut and not talk at all if things got really dire. I'd record a nice little ditty about the museum on tape, beforehand and hand it out to visitors so I didn't have to say a word. Thirdly, I would go home from work every night, in some sort of frightening zombie trance (as you'd imagine) and I'd drink Cuba Libres until I thought I was Dean Martin. Fourthly, I'd call in sick a lot. Fifthly (fifthly is a word?), at the end of my term I would unleash a sea of profanity so intense, entire continents would shake like Michael J. Fox at a Parkinson's convention. Then I might go pipebomb the museum. You know, after they paid me.
2. Your ‘24’ moment has arrived: There’s a bomb somewhere in your home that cannot be found or dismantled, and you have five minutes to pack up and leave before it explodes. What goes and what stays?
Hmmm...Well. My cats go that goes without saying. People are generally enormous shits but animals are good spirits, loyal and kind - even ones that routinely wake you up at 3am every night to feed them "breakfast" or else they trash the living room. Then I'm thinking my passport might be a decent idea and my green card because that fucker was harder to get than it is to persuade Jessica Simpson to grasp the basic concept of tuna. I would then immediately throw my Dalek cookie jar out on the fire escape ready for the escape (who wouldn't save the Dalek cookie jar, duh!?) and my photo albums. And that big bar of Cadbury's I have in the fridge. Let's get our priorities right immediately. Probably my iPod and laptop would come too, I mean all my friends live on my laptop after all. Oh yeah, then I might take my lovely boy El Codo. Depends on the mood I was in. I'm kidding, El C. I'd also escape butt naked therefore the thing I'd leave behind is my dignity. And my pants.
3. What’s your favourite scripture? Hahahahahahaha I’m totally kidding.
Thank the Lord. That gave me hives.
3. (for real this time) If your life is ever made into a made-for-TV movie, who would play you?
If my life was ever made into a made-for-TV movie I'd be played by Bruce Willis. Sure he's a ton older than me and there's that business of him having a penis (I guess, I haven't looked) and no hair, but he would kick ass and might manage to make my life exciting, adding a few explosions here, a few terrorists there. Although he mightn't be all that convincing in a dress and I'm not sure I'd like to find out. Hahaha, that suggested I ever wear a dress. Ha ha ha.
4. What has given you the most pleasure in this past year (July 2006-July 2007)?
In all honesty, this past year has sucked donkey balls. It's been a never ending stream of poverty, frustration and I've had a friend die. Positives? A wealth of Irn Bru, a nice little sunny vacation at The Evil Queen's house in Florida, the discovery of "On the Border" margarita mix and hanging out in "Vegas" with my Live Journal buddy Tony Spunk. And maybe that time some hobo pinched my ass on the train (I appreciated the attention).
5. You often write about your horrific work experiences a world of corporate incompetence – as a kid, what was your idea of a dream job?
When I was really little, I wanted to be a sky muffin. I mean an air hostess. Stewardess. Flight attendant??? WTF do they call themselves? Anyway. One of those. You see, I loved planes, everything about them, their huge size, their majesty, the roar the engines made, the fact they were going to exotic places...like Luton. And Detroit. I used to spend days at the airport with my dad watching planes take off and land. I guess he liked planes too. Either that or he had a thing for airports, I don't know. So yeah. Then I got over the sky muffin phase and decided, why not start at the top so I wanted to be a pilot. This was going well until I realized that a) I sucked at most things mathematical. b) I sucked at science and c) I hate flying and need to be sedated before stepping onto a plane. Apparently airlines don't like their pilots tranquilized. Well unless you want to work for Aeroflot. After that I think I just wanted to be a rock star and a writer. I still kind of have the aspiration for the latter. The former is a matter for me and the bedroom mirror only.
Thursday, July 26, 2007
I Like A Challenge
We “assistants” just adore having to do things at the last possible minute. It’s a sickness of ours. We thrive on it. Really. So what if you’ve known about that Defcon Red important creative presentation to the CEO and his team at the client for about ten weeks, the presentation is this afternoon so this morning we will do about three weeks necessary prep. in about two hours.
No, honestly, don’t apologize, there’s nothing we enjoy more than giving up our morning coffee, our entire lunch hour and what remains of our sanity so that you can have 50 color, bound copies of this 300 slide presentation that you need by 2 p.m. and that you’ve known about for all these weeks. Oh what’s that? You haven’t quite finished the presentation yet, you’re still making edits? No sweat. You’ll be done by around noon you say? Well that’s great, thank you so much. That gives me a whole hour to provide those 50 bound copies of 300 pages. Of course I can have it done. It’s not like there are 3,000 people in our company and anyone else is using the two color copiers we have on the premises.
Is there anything else I can do? Oh, there is? What a pleasant surprise! Can I make 20 CDs of the presentation as well? And you need them in a half hour? No problem at all. While I’m juggling the 50 copies of this novel I’m about to bind I’ll just use my special octopus extension arm to throw in a few CDs to burn. You know, I still have my feet free, do you need anything else?
Oh you need a car service to take you to the client? Of course I can do that. I can do that in my sleep, if need be. It has to be here in ten minutes? Lucky I am well rehearsed in pulling sedans out of my ass. Will that be all?
No, honestly, don’t apologize, there’s nothing we enjoy more than giving up our morning coffee, our entire lunch hour and what remains of our sanity so that you can have 50 color, bound copies of this 300 slide presentation that you need by 2 p.m. and that you’ve known about for all these weeks. Oh what’s that? You haven’t quite finished the presentation yet, you’re still making edits? No sweat. You’ll be done by around noon you say? Well that’s great, thank you so much. That gives me a whole hour to provide those 50 bound copies of 300 pages. Of course I can have it done. It’s not like there are 3,000 people in our company and anyone else is using the two color copiers we have on the premises.
Is there anything else I can do? Oh, there is? What a pleasant surprise! Can I make 20 CDs of the presentation as well? And you need them in a half hour? No problem at all. While I’m juggling the 50 copies of this novel I’m about to bind I’ll just use my special octopus extension arm to throw in a few CDs to burn. You know, I still have my feet free, do you need anything else?
Oh you need a car service to take you to the client? Of course I can do that. I can do that in my sleep, if need be. It has to be here in ten minutes? Lucky I am well rehearsed in pulling sedans out of my ass. Will that be all?
Monday, July 23, 2007
Do I Look Like a People Person?
While I’m in the midst of a whole plethora of posts about travel and travel cock-ups, I should point out a little something that happened this very day, in the midst of a busy work schedule that made me contemplate just super-gluing the phone receiver to my ear to save time.
There’s this crazy little chick who, while not part of one of my client teams, does work with this team on various projects, albeit in a different capacity. This little chick occasionally pops up to visit our neck of the woods to meet with our team, full of perky, loud opinions and a deafening chatter that sounds sort of like a million birds on amphetamines, magnified through a guitar pedal.
Today this same little chick calls me, on her cell phone, from San Diego, where she is on client business. The fact is, I have spoken to her maybe once ever, so why she is calling me is a mystery. Although, apparently it’s not going to be a mystery for long.
It seems that this Crazy Little Chick was about as confused as Anne Heche at a sexuality conference, because when she called she said, “I’m in San Diego airport but I don’t know where I’m going. I don’t know where the meeting is!”
Hmmm. Now it’s possible I’m being unfairly presumptuous here Little Chick, but, when partaking on a business trip, be it close to home or 3,000 miles away, one would assume that maybe taking vital information with you like, for example, where you are going once leaving the airport, might be a pretty useful idea.
As it happened I didn’t have that information either, since none of my team are involved in said trip. She was a touch annoyed at this, which bothered me about oh…not at all. She was going to go make some calls to get the information elsewhere.
Fast forward ten minutes. Phone rings and I see her cell number on my caller ID. I pick up with my utmost, polished professional corporate greeting of, “Yeeeeeeeesssssssssssss?”
“I got to the hotel!” Little Chick says, sounding a touch frantic. “But they won’t let me go to my room.”
“Are you wearing a jacket strapped with explosives?” I didn’t ask, although I wanted to.
“My reservation is there.” she said. “But apparently I need to pay for it in advance, with a credit card.”
“Yeeeeeessssssssss…” I said again, not quite sure what her point was. “They generally insist that you to pay for your stay.”
“And…I don’t have a credit card!” she said. “So they won’t let me in.”
“You don’t have a credit card.” I said flatly. “You don’t have a single credit card?”
“Well yes, I have a credit card.” She said, “But it’s in NY. I didn’t bring it with me. I didn’t think I’d need it.”
Who the hell travels anywhere without taking a credit card and stays in hotels without a means to pay for them? I mean we can book the rooms but someone still has to pay for the damn thing. Tinkerbell doesn't just fly in on the breeze and sprinkle her magic invisibility sparkles on the bill.
“Maybe you could do some sexual favors for the Concierge?” I also didn't suggest although again, I wanted to.
Little Chick wants to know if my boss will let her use his credit card, however, he is not only currently in another state but hello… the card is with him. Unless you have one of those little devices that Captain Kirk used to beam stuff all over the place, I fail to see how this plan could ever succeed.
“What you need…” I started to explain helpfully, “Is an ATM. Because all hotels take cash.”
She liked that suggestion even less than she liked anything else I’d said all day.
“But, I don’t have much in my account.” She said. “I can’t afford to pay for a $200 room in cash.”
“Hence why one requires a credit card!” I said. “Seeing any light bulbs go on yet?”
OK I didn’t say that. But you know I was thinking it.
The whole time this was going on I was thinking, “Why the hell is she calling me? She doesn’t even know me. I don’t work for or with her. She has a fucking assistant she can talk to!”
Finally, another company member attending the same conference paid for her room on his credit card. Meanwhile, I spent an hour of my life I’m never getting back, running around trying to figure out her problems. Joy.
There’s this crazy little chick who, while not part of one of my client teams, does work with this team on various projects, albeit in a different capacity. This little chick occasionally pops up to visit our neck of the woods to meet with our team, full of perky, loud opinions and a deafening chatter that sounds sort of like a million birds on amphetamines, magnified through a guitar pedal.
Today this same little chick calls me, on her cell phone, from San Diego, where she is on client business. The fact is, I have spoken to her maybe once ever, so why she is calling me is a mystery. Although, apparently it’s not going to be a mystery for long.
It seems that this Crazy Little Chick was about as confused as Anne Heche at a sexuality conference, because when she called she said, “I’m in San Diego airport but I don’t know where I’m going. I don’t know where the meeting is!”
Hmmm. Now it’s possible I’m being unfairly presumptuous here Little Chick, but, when partaking on a business trip, be it close to home or 3,000 miles away, one would assume that maybe taking vital information with you like, for example, where you are going once leaving the airport, might be a pretty useful idea.
As it happened I didn’t have that information either, since none of my team are involved in said trip. She was a touch annoyed at this, which bothered me about oh…not at all. She was going to go make some calls to get the information elsewhere.
Fast forward ten minutes. Phone rings and I see her cell number on my caller ID. I pick up with my utmost, polished professional corporate greeting of, “Yeeeeeeeesssssssssssss?”
“I got to the hotel!” Little Chick says, sounding a touch frantic. “But they won’t let me go to my room.”
“Are you wearing a jacket strapped with explosives?” I didn’t ask, although I wanted to.
“My reservation is there.” she said. “But apparently I need to pay for it in advance, with a credit card.”
“Yeeeeeessssssssss…” I said again, not quite sure what her point was. “They generally insist that you to pay for your stay.”
“And…I don’t have a credit card!” she said. “So they won’t let me in.”
“You don’t have a credit card.” I said flatly. “You don’t have a single credit card?”
“Well yes, I have a credit card.” She said, “But it’s in NY. I didn’t bring it with me. I didn’t think I’d need it.”
Who the hell travels anywhere without taking a credit card and stays in hotels without a means to pay for them? I mean we can book the rooms but someone still has to pay for the damn thing. Tinkerbell doesn't just fly in on the breeze and sprinkle her magic invisibility sparkles on the bill.
“Maybe you could do some sexual favors for the Concierge?” I also didn't suggest although again, I wanted to.
Little Chick wants to know if my boss will let her use his credit card, however, he is not only currently in another state but hello… the card is with him. Unless you have one of those little devices that Captain Kirk used to beam stuff all over the place, I fail to see how this plan could ever succeed.
“What you need…” I started to explain helpfully, “Is an ATM. Because all hotels take cash.”
She liked that suggestion even less than she liked anything else I’d said all day.
“But, I don’t have much in my account.” She said. “I can’t afford to pay for a $200 room in cash.”
“Hence why one requires a credit card!” I said. “Seeing any light bulbs go on yet?”
OK I didn’t say that. But you know I was thinking it.
The whole time this was going on I was thinking, “Why the hell is she calling me? She doesn’t even know me. I don’t work for or with her. She has a fucking assistant she can talk to!”
Finally, another company member attending the same conference paid for her room on his credit card. Meanwhile, I spent an hour of my life I’m never getting back, running around trying to figure out her problems. Joy.
Friday, July 20, 2007
Weekends Exist To Keep The Homicide Rate Down
My bosses are all traveling this week, which is nice in one way, due to the wealth of downtime and alien things like “lunch hours”, yet they are hell in another, because the second they are all incommunicado, that is when disasters happen and when disasters happen in corporations, there is not enough caffeine on the planet that will make you wired enough to solve the situation without weeping, losing three quarters of your hair and threatening people with a letter opener. Luckily, so far, all is quiet.
Too quiet…
One boss, who has been an enormous pain in the rear lately, is in Florida. She has changed her travel plans so many times that even the airlines are confused as to her intent. I envision her name soon being scrawled on a “no fly” list alongside “Osama Hussein-Mohammad” and that dickwad from Oasis. She now wants to come back today one hour earlier than planned (waiting in the airport bar for an hour, chatting up the bartender while sucking down Manhattans wasn’t an option apparently). She’s flying from Miami to New York but I’m seriously considering routing her through Salt Lake City. And Chicago. Where she will be delayed until Tuesday by tornados and by which time her head will have exploded and my life will be 50% more bearable.
Still on the subject of travel, we have our own travel department here and someday soon I will come to work with an axe and murder one of our reps. This particular lady is a very nice person, friendly, jovial and totally, inconceivably incompetent. Not much frightens the Guv’ner, but she frightens me to my core.
Take, for example, the time I booked boss number one on some flights that would take him to a four day conference in Las Vegas. I call the travel department and get crazy travel rep. to make sure that the hotel we discussed for this conference is confirmed and she assures me that yes, he is all set. He is good to go. Commence launch sequence. Then the automated itinerary arrived via email and I quickly glanced at it to make sure nothing was amiss and, yes, she was absolutely correct, the hotel is booked and confirmed, just like she told me.
It’s also in Houston, Texas.
Much swearing and scurrying and threatening and changing of things ensued, while I contemplated how hard I’d have to connect with the plate glass partition in my office to actually put my head through it.
She will routinely give me flight options that don’t exist or omit ones that do.
She will swear blind we didn’t discuss something when I have notes proving we did.
She will tell me there is no way to do something in a certain time frame that another rep will not bat an eyelid at.
She will give me options for all three NY airports when I ask for flights “only to and from La Guardia” and end up booking irate boss on some flight back to Newark, despite telling me it was to La Guardia and when his car is waiting for him, peacefully, at La Guardia. I will naturally only find this out at the last minute and be scurrying around like a gerbil in Richard Gere’s back yard, trying to rectify this monumental cock-up.
It’s exhausting. And rage inducing.
But it’s Friday.
Too quiet…
One boss, who has been an enormous pain in the rear lately, is in Florida. She has changed her travel plans so many times that even the airlines are confused as to her intent. I envision her name soon being scrawled on a “no fly” list alongside “Osama Hussein-Mohammad” and that dickwad from Oasis. She now wants to come back today one hour earlier than planned (waiting in the airport bar for an hour, chatting up the bartender while sucking down Manhattans wasn’t an option apparently). She’s flying from Miami to New York but I’m seriously considering routing her through Salt Lake City. And Chicago. Where she will be delayed until Tuesday by tornados and by which time her head will have exploded and my life will be 50% more bearable.
Still on the subject of travel, we have our own travel department here and someday soon I will come to work with an axe and murder one of our reps. This particular lady is a very nice person, friendly, jovial and totally, inconceivably incompetent. Not much frightens the Guv’ner, but she frightens me to my core.
Take, for example, the time I booked boss number one on some flights that would take him to a four day conference in Las Vegas. I call the travel department and get crazy travel rep. to make sure that the hotel we discussed for this conference is confirmed and she assures me that yes, he is all set. He is good to go. Commence launch sequence. Then the automated itinerary arrived via email and I quickly glanced at it to make sure nothing was amiss and, yes, she was absolutely correct, the hotel is booked and confirmed, just like she told me.
It’s also in Houston, Texas.
Much swearing and scurrying and threatening and changing of things ensued, while I contemplated how hard I’d have to connect with the plate glass partition in my office to actually put my head through it.
She will routinely give me flight options that don’t exist or omit ones that do.
She will swear blind we didn’t discuss something when I have notes proving we did.
She will tell me there is no way to do something in a certain time frame that another rep will not bat an eyelid at.
She will give me options for all three NY airports when I ask for flights “only to and from La Guardia” and end up booking irate boss on some flight back to Newark, despite telling me it was to La Guardia and when his car is waiting for him, peacefully, at La Guardia. I will naturally only find this out at the last minute and be scurrying around like a gerbil in Richard Gere’s back yard, trying to rectify this monumental cock-up.
It’s exhausting. And rage inducing.
But it’s Friday.
Monday, July 16, 2007
Putting the "Ass" in "Assistant"
One of the few fun perks of being an Executive Assistant (and I do emphasize “few”) is we get to read a lot of illiterate emails and documents from other people meant for our bosses and some of those emails and documents make a person scratch their head in wonder at how the sender manages to dress themselves in the morning.
The most fun though are typos. You see some marvelous typos that make you lose all decorum while indulging in a big, fart-inducing guffaw.
There was one time, while in the midst of languishing away at the hands of Mr. Panty-Waist and his lackeys, when my good friend, The Evil Queen, received an email regarding internal client discussions, within our team, which she promptly forwarded to me with a triumphant snort. The reason for that snort? What the email actually inquired about was the possibility of conducting some, “interanal discussions”, which, seriously, I would have agreed to in a second because that sounds infinitely more interesting than discussing media plans and talking points.
The best part however, was when I emailed my other good friend and coworker, Timo, to share this hilarity. Now Timo is not such a great speller himself so he aptly retorted with an all caps, “Sheiks of delight!” at the typo. Now quite obviously, he meant to say “shrieks”. However, the result was so much more fabulous. Not surprisingly, the “Sheiks of Delight”, quite apart from being in the running for the name of my next band, amused me to the point of breathlessness.
Naturally, this being me, and me having the maturity level of Pauly Shore, I spent the rest of the morning giggling intensely and occasionally snorting to myself. If The Evil Queen asked me who had the latest client invoice I would reply with, “Gee I don’t know, maybe the SHEIKS OF DELIGHT took it?”
At some point in the proceedings the two daily amusements combined into the “Sheiks of Interanal Delight” which, in contrast, sounds quite horrifying and is possibly the name of a special ops gang of terror lords that Al Qaeda would consider using on prisoners.
Quite frankly, when you work in office land you take your infantile humor where you can find it.
The most fun though are typos. You see some marvelous typos that make you lose all decorum while indulging in a big, fart-inducing guffaw.
There was one time, while in the midst of languishing away at the hands of Mr. Panty-Waist and his lackeys, when my good friend, The Evil Queen, received an email regarding internal client discussions, within our team, which she promptly forwarded to me with a triumphant snort. The reason for that snort? What the email actually inquired about was the possibility of conducting some, “interanal discussions”, which, seriously, I would have agreed to in a second because that sounds infinitely more interesting than discussing media plans and talking points.
The best part however, was when I emailed my other good friend and coworker, Timo, to share this hilarity. Now Timo is not such a great speller himself so he aptly retorted with an all caps, “Sheiks of delight!” at the typo. Now quite obviously, he meant to say “shrieks”. However, the result was so much more fabulous. Not surprisingly, the “Sheiks of Delight”, quite apart from being in the running for the name of my next band, amused me to the point of breathlessness.
Naturally, this being me, and me having the maturity level of Pauly Shore, I spent the rest of the morning giggling intensely and occasionally snorting to myself. If The Evil Queen asked me who had the latest client invoice I would reply with, “Gee I don’t know, maybe the SHEIKS OF DELIGHT took it?”
At some point in the proceedings the two daily amusements combined into the “Sheiks of Interanal Delight” which, in contrast, sounds quite horrifying and is possibly the name of a special ops gang of terror lords that Al Qaeda would consider using on prisoners.
Quite frankly, when you work in office land you take your infantile humor where you can find it.
Thursday, July 12, 2007
Small Tasks Mean Huge Brain Cell Suicide
Timeline of this afternoon that would induce a nun to buy a shotgun:
Do you think there’s a restaurant in midtown Manhattan that would deliver tequila, preferably in a keg, with a tube I can hook up to a vein?
- Boss is going to airport for flight to Washington.
- Boss gets roped into last minute morning meeting and asks to change flight from a 1:00 p.m. flight to a 3:25 p.m. flight to accommodate this new, important meeting.
- New flight acquired, I call the small, local, no-name car company we are using to pick him up from the airport and distribute him, hopefully limbs intact, at the facility where he is meeting the client, in Baltimore. I inform them that his flight will now not be arriving until 4:52 p.m. Small no-name car company apologizes profusely as they are fully booked later in the afternoon as they only have two cars and cannot therefore do the pick-up.
- I get the name of another local company, call them, they are also fully-booked, “such short notice, blah blah blah”
- I call Carey Limousine who are a global organization who can get you anywhere, anytime in any city, no matter how obscure or invisible on a map. Since Baltimore is quite obvious on most maps, they agree they can do the pick-up, even though it’s only four hours notice. I make a note to kiss the first Carey rep. who has the misfortune to cross my path.
- Boss calls from airport. Apparently, there is “weather” afoot. Weather sufficient enough to delay most flights leaving the NYC metropolitan area and his flight, surprise surprise, is among the delayed. It now will not be leaving until 6:45 p.m. and landing close to 8:30 p.m. Thinking this a touch ridiculous, my boss tries to do something constructive and manages to get himself on another flight, with the same airline, that is scheduled to leave at 5 p.m. and arrive at BWI at 6:35 p.m. – a whole two hours earlier than his original delayed flight would have him there. Sensible huh?
- I call Carey again to inform them that flights are delayed and would get him in way too late at 8:30 so he is now on an earlier flight arriving at 6:35 p.m. and to give them his new flight number.
- Carey birth an elephant. Apparently this is not allowed. Apparently now, we will have to pay them as though his original flight still stood. In other words, we will have to pay them as though he was still landing at 4:52 p.m. and we would have to pay hourly rates from then until his new flight arrived at 6:35 p.m. plus whatever his trip costs and gratuities. Therefore we will have to pay them for two hours we are not actually using the car. Hmmmm.
- I tell Carey to park their sedan up their own back yard, if you get my drift. Actually, no, I didn’t, but it was tempting. I told them to cancel the car altogether because we weren’t paying their huge rates for 2 hours we weren’t going to use the car. They inform me that they certainly will cancel but they’ll also charge us $164 for the privilege because it’s within 2 hours of his original landing time (what???). Fuck me. If it’s costing me almost $200 to not use the goddamn car, I might as well keep the reservation and pay for the 2 extra hours as it works out the same. “You know…” the Carey rep told me scoldingly, “If he’d stayed on that original flight it would only cost the original trip cost as we don’t charge for airline delays!” “But, he caught an earlier flight so you wouldn’t have to be waiting two extra hours!” I pointed out. “New flight, new reservation, new rules.” She said helpfully.
- “Fuck you very much, bitch!”.
- Bang head off desk for ten minutes and call stapler a motherfucker.
Do you think there’s a restaurant in midtown Manhattan that would deliver tequila, preferably in a keg, with a tube I can hook up to a vein?
Tuesday, July 10, 2007
Pass The Collection Plate
Something myself and I am quite sure, most other administrative workers, tackle on a daily basis, are expense reports. Basically this means dealing with the reimbursing of dollars spent, to a bunch of people who are already richer than a hypothetical Bill Gates/Warren Buffet sandwich (now there’s a particularly repellant thought!).
Not that I am against people being paid the money they are owed – au contraire, mes amis! If you spend your own money in the process of conducting company business, the company should naturally reimburse those costs to you. It’s a great theory and one that seems quite straightforward and sensible but instead, seems to confuse people by its vast scope of possibility.
You see, I have noticed during my years slaving for mentally-scattered, workaholic people who are too important to deal with such things themselves, that the higher the title an executive holds, ultimately the more ridiculous the claims for compensation become.
For example, at my last job we often had a bunch of junior associates traveling on company business to clients’ offices to discuss plans and give new idea presentations and low level things like that. Most of them would return, exhausted and bleary-eyed, thrust a few grubby cab receipts and a hotel bill in my hand then slope off to sleep under their desks till lunchtime.
Now a similar scenario, only with someone of a much higher rank like say…a Vice President or Senior Associate, is quite different. They will present approximately one ton of expense receipts to you in an industrial sized wheelbarrow towed by a team of thirsty, grunting huskies. The receipts will be in no coherent order, either by type or date and they will have nothing to indicate exactly when the expense occurred, who it involved, where they were going or what indeed it was for. They will then get hostile and mutter and groan profusely when asked for this information, sort of like a normal person's reaction to being asked to lie in a pile of steaming horse manure.
In fact, there will be receipts for every penny that left the executive’s wallet, from the standard hotel room and taxi from the airport, right down to some gum they bought at the airport, the viewing of Busty Blondes Backdoor Bonanza they rented in their hotel room to "relax" and the beers they bought in the hotel bar as a nightcap. Maybe there will be a receipt in there for toiletries because Lord knows they couldn’t possibly bring their own toothpaste and deodorant from home, because the overload would crash the plane.
Then sometimes, as my boss did recently, they will consider it entirely reasonable to present a receipt for a sweater they purchased because it was, “chilly on the beach at the video shoot”. Gee, I would think that knowing you are doing a shoot, at night, on a beach, for several hours, in March, you might have considered packing something heavier than a tank-top, but that’s just me. And having forgotten to do this, I would presume, being in a major city you’d maybe…I don’t know…nip into The Gap to pick up a cheap hoodie or something instead of a designer store where you purchased a $200 cashmere. But then, I am obviously very naïve.
One of my ex-bosses, a young, thin, weaselly guy, with a predilection for striped seersucker suits in summer (try saying it three times fast!), used to present me with the stupidest receipts he demanded to be paid for. Instead of having me follow company protocol and rent him an Avis car for the trip (intermediate size, standard everything) he would go there in person and rent a sports convertible. He would routinely upgrade hotel rooms to suites (another thing we were not supposed to do, especially a comparatively junior executive like him). He would expense everything from a pen he bought when he needed to scribble something on a flight ($56), to a candy bar (89c). He once expensed a change of clothing, including a $100 tie, as he was staying more than two days. I was a little stunned that no one told him you could take clothes with you.
I see people routinely go for expensive lunches or dinners with friends then attempt to claim back the cost by claiming it was business oriented in some roundabout, far fetched way. I see people leave work at 5:30pm then present a cab receipt with a time on it of 2am with a note saying “cab home, working late” scribbled on the back. I see people present claims for every single little thing they spend money on during work hours no matter how absurd. I see people expense their $12,000 a year country club membership because they might one day entertain a client there..
Then suddenly it hit me like a ton of bricks. I am the stupid one. This sort of over-the-top anal claiming of every penny is exactly why all these people are richer than a small nation while I'm using the pennies that collect in my office supplies drawer to buy a cup of coffee.
Not that I am against people being paid the money they are owed – au contraire, mes amis! If you spend your own money in the process of conducting company business, the company should naturally reimburse those costs to you. It’s a great theory and one that seems quite straightforward and sensible but instead, seems to confuse people by its vast scope of possibility.
You see, I have noticed during my years slaving for mentally-scattered, workaholic people who are too important to deal with such things themselves, that the higher the title an executive holds, ultimately the more ridiculous the claims for compensation become.
For example, at my last job we often had a bunch of junior associates traveling on company business to clients’ offices to discuss plans and give new idea presentations and low level things like that. Most of them would return, exhausted and bleary-eyed, thrust a few grubby cab receipts and a hotel bill in my hand then slope off to sleep under their desks till lunchtime.
Now a similar scenario, only with someone of a much higher rank like say…a Vice President or Senior Associate, is quite different. They will present approximately one ton of expense receipts to you in an industrial sized wheelbarrow towed by a team of thirsty, grunting huskies. The receipts will be in no coherent order, either by type or date and they will have nothing to indicate exactly when the expense occurred, who it involved, where they were going or what indeed it was for. They will then get hostile and mutter and groan profusely when asked for this information, sort of like a normal person's reaction to being asked to lie in a pile of steaming horse manure.
In fact, there will be receipts for every penny that left the executive’s wallet, from the standard hotel room and taxi from the airport, right down to some gum they bought at the airport, the viewing of Busty Blondes Backdoor Bonanza they rented in their hotel room to "relax" and the beers they bought in the hotel bar as a nightcap. Maybe there will be a receipt in there for toiletries because Lord knows they couldn’t possibly bring their own toothpaste and deodorant from home, because the overload would crash the plane.
Then sometimes, as my boss did recently, they will consider it entirely reasonable to present a receipt for a sweater they purchased because it was, “chilly on the beach at the video shoot”. Gee, I would think that knowing you are doing a shoot, at night, on a beach, for several hours, in March, you might have considered packing something heavier than a tank-top, but that’s just me. And having forgotten to do this, I would presume, being in a major city you’d maybe…I don’t know…nip into The Gap to pick up a cheap hoodie or something instead of a designer store where you purchased a $200 cashmere. But then, I am obviously very naïve.
One of my ex-bosses, a young, thin, weaselly guy, with a predilection for striped seersucker suits in summer (try saying it three times fast!), used to present me with the stupidest receipts he demanded to be paid for. Instead of having me follow company protocol and rent him an Avis car for the trip (intermediate size, standard everything) he would go there in person and rent a sports convertible. He would routinely upgrade hotel rooms to suites (another thing we were not supposed to do, especially a comparatively junior executive like him). He would expense everything from a pen he bought when he needed to scribble something on a flight ($56), to a candy bar (89c). He once expensed a change of clothing, including a $100 tie, as he was staying more than two days. I was a little stunned that no one told him you could take clothes with you.
I see people routinely go for expensive lunches or dinners with friends then attempt to claim back the cost by claiming it was business oriented in some roundabout, far fetched way. I see people leave work at 5:30pm then present a cab receipt with a time on it of 2am with a note saying “cab home, working late” scribbled on the back. I see people present claims for every single little thing they spend money on during work hours no matter how absurd. I see people expense their $12,000 a year country club membership because they might one day entertain a client there..
Then suddenly it hit me like a ton of bricks. I am the stupid one. This sort of over-the-top anal claiming of every penny is exactly why all these people are richer than a small nation while I'm using the pennies that collect in my office supplies drawer to buy a cup of coffee.
Thursday, July 5, 2007
Mr Panty Waist Takes a Trip
Mr. Panty-Waist once had to take a trip to Florida for a client. He didn’t often travel for work outside of the city and I had a strong suspicion that any sort of travel that involved making informed decisions at chaotic locations such as airports, were a little beyond his brain capacity.
Before the Florida trip he had only one request - that he fly on Delta. Now, as it turned out, he didn’t request this for a sensible reason such as he collected Delta air miles or they offered him preferential treatment or something of that nature. No, he requested it for some completely random reason he pulled out of his ass, like “Delta have the most number of planes older than a year and younger than eight years, with rear-mounted engines, one cabin toilet per twenty passengers and which serve meals on a 2:1 meat:chicken ratio.” Mr. Panty-Waist was a tad nervous when it came to his feet being 30,000 feet in the air. It’s kind of ironic really, because that’s where his head was most of the time…
Whatever his strange reason I just muttered “Whatever, dickwad!” in the silent but mean little voice that lives in my head and called our travel department.
Ten minutes later he was all set with a Delta flight, bang on his time frame and I was about to relax with a Cognac and a cigar (or a tepid Diet Pepsi, whatever.) Fast forward five minutes. The itinerary had arrived from the travel department and out stomped Mr. Panty-Waist scrutinizing it, eyes about two inches from the page.
He started to make sounds like a constipated baby, which is a sure sign that something is not going swimmingly.
“This…this flight…” he whined. “This is not…what I wanted.”
“You wanted to leave around 2pm?” I asked.
“Yes but…*sigh*…”
“And you wanted to leave around 2pm on Delta?”
Huge sigh. “Yes. But…This…This isn’t right. This is…This is Delta Song This is not DELTA. What I’m saying is…this is…discount!”
He whined the word "discount" as though he were about to vomit on his own foot. If it were a physical thing it would be a steaming turd, held out in front of him at arm’s length.
You see Delta Song are the low cost branch of Delta. They’re a no frills, one class, cheap fared airline that gets you from A to B in a normal, chaotic, busy fashion without stuffing half cold meals down your throat or plying you with alcohol. In other words, it’s like flying coach on any other airline. However, as Mr. Panty-Waist’s motto is, “No first class, no point” he was less than thrilled with this arrangement.
“It’s either Delta Song or you fly coach on another airline.” I told him firmly. He made a face like he’d just discovered a dead rat in his pants and gave a snort of indignation.
I managed to find a flight on American but he refused it because, “I don’t fly on Airbuses and I need the engines on the wing.”
Yes, he said that.
Have you ever tried asking a travel agency, “So, what airline is it? What time does it get in? Is it an Airbus or a Boeing and I’m just curious, where does it keep its engines?”
As it happened, Delta Song was the only airline that would get the grouchy man to Florida at the right time so we had to book it. And the next paragraph is blissfully, 100% true.
The flight ended up being fully booked. It was delayed one hour. It was held on the runway for two more hours. He not only arrived in Florida three hours late and missed the meeting, he had to catch his return flight almost immediately and never left the airport. For the whole flight home, his six foot four frame was sat in a middle seat while a “Japanese child” sitting behind him, hit him over the head with her doll for the whole flight. Naturally, this was entirely my fault. Obviously, I had seated this child myself. In all honesty, I wish I’d thought of it.
For the remainder of the time I worked for him, every time we booked any sort of travel he always reminded me, like it was a bona fide option on a booking form, “I don’t want a seat with a hyperactive Asian child nearby.” like I could ask the travel agent to confirm that. "Aisle seat, check! Special meal, check! No Asian four year olds, check!"
I always meant to look that kid up and hire her for future flights. There were very few perks to my job after all and that would have been up there with a lotto win.
Before the Florida trip he had only one request - that he fly on Delta. Now, as it turned out, he didn’t request this for a sensible reason such as he collected Delta air miles or they offered him preferential treatment or something of that nature. No, he requested it for some completely random reason he pulled out of his ass, like “Delta have the most number of planes older than a year and younger than eight years, with rear-mounted engines, one cabin toilet per twenty passengers and which serve meals on a 2:1 meat:chicken ratio.” Mr. Panty-Waist was a tad nervous when it came to his feet being 30,000 feet in the air. It’s kind of ironic really, because that’s where his head was most of the time…
Whatever his strange reason I just muttered “Whatever, dickwad!” in the silent but mean little voice that lives in my head and called our travel department.
Ten minutes later he was all set with a Delta flight, bang on his time frame and I was about to relax with a Cognac and a cigar (or a tepid Diet Pepsi, whatever.) Fast forward five minutes. The itinerary had arrived from the travel department and out stomped Mr. Panty-Waist scrutinizing it, eyes about two inches from the page.
He started to make sounds like a constipated baby, which is a sure sign that something is not going swimmingly.
“This…this flight…” he whined. “This is not…what I wanted.”
“You wanted to leave around 2pm?” I asked.
“Yes but…*sigh*…”
“And you wanted to leave around 2pm on Delta?”
Huge sigh. “Yes. But…This…This isn’t right. This is…This is Delta Song This is not DELTA. What I’m saying is…this is…discount!”
He whined the word "discount" as though he were about to vomit on his own foot. If it were a physical thing it would be a steaming turd, held out in front of him at arm’s length.
You see Delta Song are the low cost branch of Delta. They’re a no frills, one class, cheap fared airline that gets you from A to B in a normal, chaotic, busy fashion without stuffing half cold meals down your throat or plying you with alcohol. In other words, it’s like flying coach on any other airline. However, as Mr. Panty-Waist’s motto is, “No first class, no point” he was less than thrilled with this arrangement.
“It’s either Delta Song or you fly coach on another airline.” I told him firmly. He made a face like he’d just discovered a dead rat in his pants and gave a snort of indignation.
I managed to find a flight on American but he refused it because, “I don’t fly on Airbuses and I need the engines on the wing.”
Yes, he said that.
Have you ever tried asking a travel agency, “So, what airline is it? What time does it get in? Is it an Airbus or a Boeing and I’m just curious, where does it keep its engines?”
As it happened, Delta Song was the only airline that would get the grouchy man to Florida at the right time so we had to book it. And the next paragraph is blissfully, 100% true.
The flight ended up being fully booked. It was delayed one hour. It was held on the runway for two more hours. He not only arrived in Florida three hours late and missed the meeting, he had to catch his return flight almost immediately and never left the airport. For the whole flight home, his six foot four frame was sat in a middle seat while a “Japanese child” sitting behind him, hit him over the head with her doll for the whole flight. Naturally, this was entirely my fault. Obviously, I had seated this child myself. In all honesty, I wish I’d thought of it.
For the remainder of the time I worked for him, every time we booked any sort of travel he always reminded me, like it was a bona fide option on a booking form, “I don’t want a seat with a hyperactive Asian child nearby.” like I could ask the travel agent to confirm that. "Aisle seat, check! Special meal, check! No Asian four year olds, check!"
I always meant to look that kid up and hire her for future flights. There were very few perks to my job after all and that would have been up there with a lotto win.
Last Flight to Sanity Now Boarding
There’s an unspoken law among “admins” as my boss likes to call us crazy people who keep real important folks like him afloat by filing their expenses and typing their correspondence, and that rule is, “never be complacent because complacency will bite you on the ass”.
For example, if there is a day, pretty much like today, when all is quiet, things are slow, people are on vacation and everything is winding down, don’t go and say something stupid to a coworker like, “Boy, today is dead, isn’t it? Today is the most boring day that ever lived!”
You see, on that day, the one detailed above, the clock will tick slowly around to 4:30 p.m. as you're counting down that last 45 minutes to the end of the day and you and your sanity will notice every last second of it, until suddenly…a monumental avalanche of last minute chaos will cascade down upon your stupid head at the speed of a parachutist whose chute failed because the lines were cut by an ex lover with a grudge...
Ahem...
Suddenly, everyone will want something. Everyone will have to be somewhere, Monday and you’re out Friday and so it will have to be done tonight and it’s now 4:30 and you’re supposed to be leaving this damn joint, yet you know, as sure as there’s corn in a turd, that you’re going to be seeing 7 p.m. on that same clock you’ve been growling at all day and you’re going to grind your teeth down to gnarly stumps with frustration and annoyance because you are going to spend the next three hours in a hell known as “making travel arrangements for people who don’t know their ass from their elbow.” Not only will you make travel plans, these people will change said plans several times within the span of an hour and they will want to visit various cities in an order which, if you were to plot them on a grid, would look like a six year old epileptic got a pencil stuck in their fist during a seizure. Naturally, none of it will be straightforward and you will spend the good part of a decade trying to track down a hotel in Indianapolis that serves “fresh baby sea turtle steaks” on a golden platter with a side of “holy anguish” and a hearty helping of “kill me now” and the rest of that decade slamming your head between the door and the frame.
And there will be no direct flight to Indianapolis in the three hour window he needs – he will need to go to Chicago then Tampa and really, does that make sense to anybody?
And there will be no room at the Queen of Apathy hotel.
And there will be no aisle seats on the flight to Tampa and he will be offered a middle seat between a pregnant lady with gas and a fat man with a hygiene problem.
And his car won’t show up.
And his flight back to New York will be canceled.
And he will cry like a little child and be tortured by Democrats. And boy, does he hate Democrats.
That last one was wishful thinking, sorry.
Finally, seven o’clock will roll around and you’ll go home and fantasize about French Fries knowing that in a matter of hours, you’ll check your work email, because you’re responsible like that, to find that everything has changed again and you’ll have to spend half your day off redoing everything.
Happy July 4th week!
For example, if there is a day, pretty much like today, when all is quiet, things are slow, people are on vacation and everything is winding down, don’t go and say something stupid to a coworker like, “Boy, today is dead, isn’t it? Today is the most boring day that ever lived!”
You see, on that day, the one detailed above, the clock will tick slowly around to 4:30 p.m. as you're counting down that last 45 minutes to the end of the day and you and your sanity will notice every last second of it, until suddenly…a monumental avalanche of last minute chaos will cascade down upon your stupid head at the speed of a parachutist whose chute failed because the lines were cut by an ex lover with a grudge...
Ahem...
Suddenly, everyone will want something. Everyone will have to be somewhere, Monday and you’re out Friday and so it will have to be done tonight and it’s now 4:30 and you’re supposed to be leaving this damn joint, yet you know, as sure as there’s corn in a turd, that you’re going to be seeing 7 p.m. on that same clock you’ve been growling at all day and you’re going to grind your teeth down to gnarly stumps with frustration and annoyance because you are going to spend the next three hours in a hell known as “making travel arrangements for people who don’t know their ass from their elbow.” Not only will you make travel plans, these people will change said plans several times within the span of an hour and they will want to visit various cities in an order which, if you were to plot them on a grid, would look like a six year old epileptic got a pencil stuck in their fist during a seizure. Naturally, none of it will be straightforward and you will spend the good part of a decade trying to track down a hotel in Indianapolis that serves “fresh baby sea turtle steaks” on a golden platter with a side of “holy anguish” and a hearty helping of “kill me now” and the rest of that decade slamming your head between the door and the frame.
And there will be no direct flight to Indianapolis in the three hour window he needs – he will need to go to Chicago then Tampa and really, does that make sense to anybody?
And there will be no room at the Queen of Apathy hotel.
And there will be no aisle seats on the flight to Tampa and he will be offered a middle seat between a pregnant lady with gas and a fat man with a hygiene problem.
And his car won’t show up.
And his flight back to New York will be canceled.
And he will cry like a little child and be tortured by Democrats. And boy, does he hate Democrats.
That last one was wishful thinking, sorry.
Finally, seven o’clock will roll around and you’ll go home and fantasize about French Fries knowing that in a matter of hours, you’ll check your work email, because you’re responsible like that, to find that everything has changed again and you’ll have to spend half your day off redoing everything.
Happy July 4th week!
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