a veritable cornucopia of data

My job consists of collecting a bunch of data from a bunch of offices, checking to make sure it's complete and accurate, and then sending it up the line to the federal government. Since the data are confidential, it all has to be encrypted. We're in the beta phase of a new electronic databasing system, and lately most of my job has consisted of entering data, and of checking to see that it's been properly encoded. Well, it's not. So, the data developers then return to the data and re-encode it, and then someone needs to check it again to see if the errors have been fixed, and if any more errors have been created. Apparently, I'm really good at doing this, because whereas I used to have company in the monotony, it's all me now. I translate English into numbers and back into English again, so that later we can translate it back into numbers and send it on to be translated back into English. (Of course, in the interim it all gets translated into ones and zeros, but since I neither understand nor participate in that process, I will leave it out of this rant.) I've been directed to make it my top priority: whenever anyone send me test data, I translate back and forth and back and forth and summarize all the fuck-ups. It's a horrible, eye-glazing, mind-numbing job. I try to be conscientious and particular about my work, to ensure that it represents the best of my abilities, but I'm so discouraged by the dead-endedness that it's really difficult to give a shit.

So, I'm thankful that this is a long weekend, and that all the boring spreadsheets will have to keep themselves company until Monday. I'm thankful that I can be with family over Thanksgiving now, since I married into one that doesn't live too far away to visit.

And to whomever left their front bumper in our yard: fuck you. Come pick it up, because the garbage collectors won't take it and I don't want to have to deal with your trash.

in the spirit of the season

I just watched a video of a little boy -- seven or so? -- being strip-searched by TSA, down to the skin.  They made him take his shirt off in full view of all the passengers in line, and he was so shy about it that his dad had to step in a help/encourage him.  He had already passed through the metal detector and did not set it off.  It just seems really traumatizing to make folks strip half-naked because they dare to travel.  And I won't even go into the poor guy whose urostomy bag was compromised compliments of the TSA agents, except to say that I cannot imagine suffering that degree of public humiliation.

When I was little, my dad did tons of international travel, and my mom would often take me and my brother to the airport to pick him up upon his return.  We all walked right up to the arrival gate and watched enrapt as the various planes arrived.  I don't think that's appropriate anymore, but a balance must be struck between asking passengers at check-in whether or not they packed their own baggage, and the creation of images and procedures that cannot be broadcast on television.  (Of course, the FCC is a monster in its own right, but serves well for a comparison point here.)

I'm not flying for the Thanksgiving holiday, and I'm grateful not to have to contend with the screening procedures or the delays produced by those opting out, but I'm thankful the protest is occurring.  It's gotten out of hand and this seems like the best method for objecting.

Definitely watch the SNL skit.

something old (or at least reminiscent) and something new

Well, so much for NaBloPoMo.  I've been reprimanded for using the internet at work for non-work-related purposes, and sitting in front of my monitor is not a priority at home.  Oh, well.

I started playing volleyball again, after a hiatus of several years.  My old team captain welcomed me back, and the first game was two weeks ago.  Unbeknownst to me, during my absence, the team has been replaced with all new members, and they're playing on the A court now.  (Translation: a greater degree of natural athleticism and talent are now prerequisites.  Being several years out of practice is not helpful in staging a comeback.)  By the second game I was embarrassing myself far less often, which is encouraging.  However, I've noticed a disturbing phenomenon: my quads do not forgive me as quickly as they did ten years ago, after suffering overuse.  Hellweek used to represent a challenge in terms of retrieving objects dropped to the floor, or standing up from the toilet, but my 18 year-old self was much quicker to recover.  Note to self: do not allow this de-conditioning to occur again, because it presumably will worsen after 30.

In other news, I've been trying for several years distribute my lexicon, and the internet represents a viral spread of wittiness for many lucky ducks...so...you know how drinks often arrive with a remnant of the straw's wrapper still encasing its top?  Food preparers are apparently trained to leave it there so as to avoid contaminating the drinking-end of the straw.  So I termed it (the wrapper remnant) a strawphilactic.  Please feel free to distribute it widely.

5. from the (unpublished) archives

Today was a shitty day, so I'm pulling this out of the started-but-never-finished-entries and publishing it anyway.

I used to work in a research laboratory where we used pentobarbital as a pre-surgery anaesthetic.  It's a barbiturate that is used illegally for recreational purposes (as well as to mitigate the symptoms of heroin withdrawal, among other things), so we had to keep it locked up in the controlled substances safe.  Every dose was recorded in a log, which was also locked inside the safe, and the entire amount of the drug had to be accounted for in our records.  However, due to measurement error and imperfections in the syringes used to administer the drug, there was always a discrepancy at the end of the bottle.  The first time I finished a bottle, I approached one of the graduate students and asked how to account for the deficit in the log.  Basically, she brushed me off and told me to make the math work: everyone knew it worked out that way, but it was our responsibility to document usage for the entire contents.  Ehhhhh?  My naive sensibilities hadn't yet been completely tarnished, and I didn't want to overtly lie.  Lying is immoral, unethical, and weren't we supposed to be conducting research in a moral and ethical manner?  Well, yes, she said, but if we don't account for the drug used, we won't be able to acquire any more, and our research practices will be called into question, and our grant money could be in jeopardy.

I can't remember what I documented in the log.  I assume I followed her instructions, but it has rankled me ever since.  We were forced to falsify our records!  About a controlled substance!  And it was an unspoken part of the protocol.

My current employment is categorized as "non-exempt," which basically means I'm paid for the hours I report having worked, rather than being paid a salary for the work I've done.  There are limits to the hours I am allowed to work in a given day, as well as in a given week, and I am not allowed to work overtime.  However, one of my job duties involves travel, which (as we all know) can be a time-consuming endeavor.  I am supposed to be paid for hours spent traveling for work, but, generally speaking, a work day plus travel time exceeds the number of hours I am allowed to work.  So do I report the hours I actually worked, even if that results in overtime?  Or do I "fudge" the hours I report, thereby falsifying my timesheet and working for free, but giving the appearance that the rules have been followed?  (Aside: I feel fortunate in this troubled economy to be gainfully employed...but to be frank, the only reason I go to work is because I'm paid to do so.)  I'm fairly certain my "at will" employment will be terminated if I report my actual hours.  Granted that would solve this dilemma, but would also create a series of other problems.

It's taking me back to that philosophy class I took in the acquisition of my good-for-very-little liberal arts degree.  Now I have to go review the categorical imperative.  I think I might have it completely fucked up.

4. Book-It

Yesterday, my friend and coworker suggested a trip to Target over lunch, because she had some items to return. I'm not a shopper-kind-of-girl, but Target is the lamp to my moth. (I've felt a bit guilty about it lately, given the brouhaha over its support of an allegedly homophobic candidate in Minnesota, but I had an enlightening conversation with my LGBT colleague and have since resolved my misgivings.) Plus, I have some gift cards still to expend from my wedding...and Target has a Pizza Hut.

In the 1980s, "book it" meant one of two things:

1.  To quickly vacate the premises
2.  A Pizza Hut program supporting kids' reading 

I was an exceptionally nerdy kid, whose (few) friends had to cajole her out of her book to play outside.  My mother laments that on family road trips through devastatingly beautiful scenic vistas, neither of her children's attention could be torn from their books for longer than a murmured appreciation of the view.  But I was AWESOME at the Book-It program.  Each quota read entitled the student to a certificate for a free personal pan pizza at any participating Pizza Hut restaurant.  Also distributed at the restaurant were these fabulous star stickers, one for each of five spots on a button.  Plus, the star stickers got fancier every year!  (My internet research reveals the program is still active, but it doesn't appear to involve buttons anymore.  On the positive side, I apparently could make bank off them on e-bay.)

Book-It started a family tradition for us of lunch at Pizza Hut.  As more spawn were added to the clan, the Book-It lunches eventually grew to include, in addition to me, my brother, and my mom: my grandma, my aunt, and all four of her kids.  We're all grown now, but we still relish our Pizza Hut lunches, and will send cameraphone pictures of posed attendees to those who miss any particular event.  Traditionally, we'd each order our own personal pan pizza -- with toppings of our choice!  -- and share a couple of orders of breadsticks and a pitcher of Pepsi or root beer.

My coworker friend emailed me this morning to let me know she enjoyed her Target Pizza Hut personal pan pepperoni pie, despite misgivings about it.  (She's European, and thus has more sense about sensible eating than most of us Americans do, imho.)  I generally eschew fast food, but Pizza Hut is a soft spot for me.  We had milk with ours yesterday (again, Europeans are so sensible!), but it still made me miss my family.

3. star-fearing, not god-fearing

Last night after I cleaned the living room I was outside with Dog having a smoke and I saw a shooting star. Automatically, I smiled and wished for a good day tomorrow (today). Then I regretted it and nearly panicked because obviously it was foolhardy to waste a shooting star wish on something as trivial as having a good day. But I figured you don't get take-backs on star wishes, so I'd try to make the best of it.

So far, it's not going well. I hit the snooze until I was late, and since arriving at work have been embroiled in a holiday leave disagreement. The holiday in question is still two months away, people. Thus far I have tried to keep work out of this blog, but shit is getting crazy up in here, and I hate this job and I want to quit RIGHT NOW. I fantasize every day about dramatically giving notice...or giving no notice at all and departing on the spot. I can't do that, unfortunately; I've been here too long and I have to be a responsible grown-up and consider my future. I keep reminding myself that it's allegedly easier to get hired when one is employed, but so far I've had one. solitary. interview. I'm running out of patience. At the risk of alienating all the unemployed folks (who don't read my blog anyway), I wish I could get laid off and use my time on unemployment to job search full-time.

Maybe I dissed the shooting star by second-guessing my wish, and now it's making me pay. I must really try harder to avoid the wrath of celestial objects.

2. i'll be your distraction

First of all, rock your vote! I am not a morning person and therefore have plans to cast mine over the noon hour.

Secondly, my coworker likes to rock out at his desk. In theory, it's quite charming: he becomes increasingly enthusiastic, snaps his fingers, dances a little, and sings along, making up raunchy lyrics to jazz and motown classics. De facto, it rapidly becomes tedious. I don't begrudge him his enjoyment of the music, but I believe it's common courtesy to limit one's listening to headphones while in a shared office space. Oftentimes, I can't drown it out even by playing something through my headphones. And isn't everyone aggravated by competing songs?

To be fair, he has inquired on multiple occasions as to whether he's bothering us, but I'm too midwestern (read: passive-aggressive) to be honest about it. Instead, I post snarky comments on facebook about how inferior smooth jazz is. Since I have "friended" some of my coworkers, they often post sympathetic comments...and instead of feeling justified and taking arms against a sea of troubles and, by opposing, end them, I feel guilty about broadcasting my complaints and subsequently delete them from my feed. This is not productive.

We recently hired a new employee, and our supervisor advised the Music Man in a private email that headphones are to be used during her training period. I was surprised at how bitterly he reacted, and observed to him that the office rules state that headphones should always be used for personal listening -- similar to the headsets that are recommended for telephone calls in lieu of the speakerphone. He was unaware of the rule and has made no further protest, although I suspect this is an issue that will arise again in a few weeks. In the meantime, the office is blissfully quiet. I should take the opportunity to compose a request that it remain that way.

1. level crossing

I can hear train whistles from my house.  I enjoy them during the night, lonely and muted by the distance between my bedroom and the crossing, velvety-sounding in the darkness.  During the daytime I notice them less, presumably distracted by all of the ambient noise or whatever time-wasting strategy with which I am then occupied.

My office building is bordered on one side by tracks.  When our building first opened, it was a signalled crossing, i.e., passing trains blew their whistles to signal their approach, in addition to the gates, bells, and blinking lights.  The neighborhood on the other side of the tracks voted to silence the trains at that crossing, which seemed logical to me, given the other precautions.

A funny thing happened when the quiet zone was enacted, though: the whistles got obnoxious.  Instead of the reasonable toot-tooooot previously employed, the engineers leaned on the cords, sometimes sounding or thirty seconds to a minute nonstop.  It's like they were practicing trapeze tricks in there or something, swinging around and (I imagine) cackling wildly at the hullabaloo, their stripey engineer hats cocked at jaunty angles.  Take that, haughty residents and workers at adjacent office parks!  You don't like our whistles?  You find them disruptive?  Ha haaaa!  It got to the point that it was impossible to give them the benefit of the doubt, and on numerous occasions I had to ask callers to repeat themselves many times, because just when I thought it was safe to listen again, they'd psych me out. "Yes, doctor, I apologize, that was just a tra"--WHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!

I like to conclude it was a protest against abolishing a safety protocol -- and maybe it was -- but it was honestly unbearable.  Some of my coworkers requested permission to work from home.  One lady in particular had conniptions...but then, she had conniptions frequently, like when the guy in the neighboring cubicle was "typing with unnecessary volume."  Eventually the whistles decreased, and now I don't hear them very often outside our building, but they make known their approach from the nearest non-quiet-zone crossing.  This morning the whistle sounded every two seconds for one minute and change.  That crossing is in a more industrial zone, apparently one with less politically-involved neighbors.  Damn, that reminds me: I have to go home and study the ballots tonight so I can be a responsible citizen tomorrow.  For the record, I'd really appreciate it if the election and the World Series could both conclude tomorrow, so the barrage of endorsements can just stop already.