I am dismayed that it is only Tuesday. Despite the fact that I am not a morning person, I dragged myself out of bed yesterday morning and slogged into the office, where I duly sat in my assigned seat and stared at my computer monitor for hours and hours, without the benefit of any work to do to help me bide my time. A couple of pages came through the fax machine and I responsibly entered them into the database, filed them away, and locked the file cabinet (my boss has developed the unnerving habit of rifling through my desk in my absence). I may have spent an inordinate amount of time on facebook, various blogs, and other websites, but it was almost certainly entirely due to the lack of work I had. I even reorganized some terribly disorganized files I inherited from my predecessor. Such an activity, while it does kill some time and give the appearance of being industrious and work-related, is actually just a waste of time because no one except my predecessor is interested in those files.
Despite all of this responsible adult behavior, I am expected to return today...and tomorrow, and the next day, and the next day, and maintain the charade of industry. Periodically, the boss sneaks up behind me so she can read my monitor over my shoulder. Usually when this happens, it's not displaying work-related material, mostly because I am so absurdly talented and blindingly efficient that all of my work-related activities have been concluded. However, that doesn't stop her from passing judgment and sending me emails about the necessity of keeping my web-surfing out of the workplace. Presumably, she's documenting my insubordination somewhere in a file of employee transgressions. It might cost me my job. Sometimes I give a shit, since I've been working here for six years and I can't exactly gloss over such a long period of time on my resume. More often, I feel justified because it's not like I have anything else to do. Generally speaking, I'm a very conscientious employee, mindful of deadlines and (at least partially) enthusiastic about contributing to projects. I even generate work for myself. I've taught myself to use a variety of software in the hope of spawning a pet project to absorb me in the hours assigned me.
But how many hours is it possible to just sit here with nothing to do? I mean, really. Have you ever tried to just sit in a chair for an entire work day? Staring off into space? Waiting for the phone to ring? (It does so once or twice, but the resulting conversastions usually last less than five minutes and create about the same length of documentation.) I've started attending meetings that neither concern nor interest me simply to remove myself from the room. I like to sit in a corner or with my back to the wall, to recover from the anxiety produced by my boss's tendency to sneak up behind me. It's good to have a respite.
I used to be grateful to have a job, especially in this "economic downturn." Unemployment in this state is at 12.5%, last I heard. Many folks wish they could land a job, any job at all. I wish my position would be discontinued. I'm seriously considering suggesting it to my boss's boss. Worst case scenario, I get laid off? And I can collect unemployment? They'll give me money for not working??? Excellent. This place is destroying my motivation to live. If I stop breathing, they won't make me sit in front of this monitor. That sneaky bitch won't appear from nowhere, breathing disapprovingly down my neck, spying on my reading material. Standing in line at an unemployment office can't possibly be worse than this. Even waiting tables is starting to look good -- and after the last job I had doing that, I swore I'd become a streetwalker before accepting another food service job. I can't be grateful for this job anymore. It makes streetwalking look attractive, daring, exciting.
Since I can't even get an interview elsewhere, though, I have to assume that the market is equally challenging on the street. Also, I despise wearing skirts and high heels for more than an hour or two. This is a hopeless situation.
Tuesday, April 19, 2011
Thursday, April 14, 2011
clearly, your arms are just getting shorter
The French have a brilliant term that I wish had an equivalent in English: l'esprit d'escalier. Literally, it translates as the spirit of the staircase, but it means the witty comebacks you come up with after the fact, like when you've already walked away from the encounter. I'm nearly never witty under duress, probably because my temper short-circuits my higher intellect...which explains a lot of the trouble/arguments I've had.
I was at the grocery store the other day and there was a man scrutinizing something he'd pulled out of the freezer. "They tell you your vision starts to go when you get older," he said to me, holding the box at arm's length and squinting at it. I laughed and offered to help him read it. He declined, and as I passed, he muttered that he was just trying to see the ingredients, that he was going to have to remember to bring his glasses with him. "Yeah," I said, "my dad has that same problem."
As soon as I said it, I realized what an undercutting remark it was. I think I was trying to relate or something, but my comment was more the equivalent of, "Yeah, you're old enough to be my father. No wonder you can't see for shit." Oops. But there's really no recovery from that kind of remark, is there? I could back-pedal all I wanted, but it'd just be acknowledging the undertone, accidental though it may have been. Instead I just kept walking, and spent the rest of my shopping trip being anxious we'd cross paths again in another aisle, because my tendency is to get over-anxious about things I could've said better.
I got invited to a former college roommate's engagement party by the maid of honor, who knew that I happened to be in town for another event. When another friend asked to see the ring and the bride-to-be held out her hand, with her fiance looking on, my exclamation was, "Oh my god it's so CUTE!" Dude bought her a diamond ring while he was laid off from his job and I'm all, oh, look how little and inconsequential it is! *facepalm* Fortunately for me, there has been no lasting ill effects -- I was still invited to the wedding -- but I cringe every time I think of it.
Last weekend, I took Dog to the P-A-R-K by myself. Usually Husband and I go together, but he was busy with school and Dog needed to get out...and so did I, probably. I took the opportunity to call up a friend of mine who's in the midst of a move, because I knew she happened to be driving and had time to talk (for the record, using a cell phone while driving is legal there, and she was in Buttsfuckville, Egypt where there is no traffic). We chatted as Dog and I walked through the park. It was a normal-volume conversation and I was watching my sailor tongue because I think swearing in mixed company is tacky. It's a giant dog park, with upwards of 200 people and their dogs perusing it on the weekends. We passed this late-middle-aged woman and her two dogs, who were meandering slowly down the path, and she said something to me in passing but I didn't catch it.
"I'm sorry?" I asked, covering the phone with one hand.
"A wilderness walk, and you talking," she said.
I put on a big, toothy smile. "You're kind of a bitch, aren't you?" I asked, and kept walking.
Okay, so that was an example of the tackiness of cursing in public, yes. But what the fuck was she thinking? This is a dog park with paved paths, adjacent to an interstate freeway, in the middle of a city of over a hundred thousand people, and being visited simultaneously by hundreds of people, most of whom are talking. The fact that I'm talking to my phone is no different -- in fact, there's only one half of the conversation for her to overhear, which is arguably less disruptive to her alleged nature masturbation -- I mean, meditation. Listen, lady, if you want a wilderness walk, you're in the wrong place. And while my comment was rude, yours was doubly rude: first you interrupted a conversation I was politely having, and then made a snide comment that was totally out of line. So go fuck yourself.
I drive my poor Husband nuts with a passive-aggressive tendency that migrated with me out of the midwest: I talk openly about people's violations of social norms and basic consideration...in front of them. Those people who walk into Target, grab a shopping cart, and stop short in the middle of the entryway to dig their shopping lists out of their cluttered purses? Yeah. When we walk past them, I comment to him about how I certainly try to move out of the way of traffic. It's only directed at the people who are so self-absorbed that they don't care they might be negatively affecting others -- if you dropped your keys, for example, and bent to pick them up, I'd just wait patiently for the retrieval and not say a word. But you can park your ass to one side or the other of the entryway to look for your shopping list. It's not my fault your handbag is a disaster.
Yes, I know this trash-talking is going to get me into trouble. It's happened before. I'm a little surprised that the fistfights I've been in have not been initiated by my smart mouth (but rather by the smart mouths of my friends, whom I feel obligated to back up). And I'm not bragging about being in fistfights, okay? I'm just pointing out that I'm aware there can be consequences to my acid tongue.
"Nah, you're not getting older. Clearly, your arms are just getting shorter."
I was at the grocery store the other day and there was a man scrutinizing something he'd pulled out of the freezer. "They tell you your vision starts to go when you get older," he said to me, holding the box at arm's length and squinting at it. I laughed and offered to help him read it. He declined, and as I passed, he muttered that he was just trying to see the ingredients, that he was going to have to remember to bring his glasses with him. "Yeah," I said, "my dad has that same problem."
As soon as I said it, I realized what an undercutting remark it was. I think I was trying to relate or something, but my comment was more the equivalent of, "Yeah, you're old enough to be my father. No wonder you can't see for shit." Oops. But there's really no recovery from that kind of remark, is there? I could back-pedal all I wanted, but it'd just be acknowledging the undertone, accidental though it may have been. Instead I just kept walking, and spent the rest of my shopping trip being anxious we'd cross paths again in another aisle, because my tendency is to get over-anxious about things I could've said better.
I got invited to a former college roommate's engagement party by the maid of honor, who knew that I happened to be in town for another event. When another friend asked to see the ring and the bride-to-be held out her hand, with her fiance looking on, my exclamation was, "Oh my god it's so CUTE!" Dude bought her a diamond ring while he was laid off from his job and I'm all, oh, look how little and inconsequential it is! *facepalm* Fortunately for me, there has been no lasting ill effects -- I was still invited to the wedding -- but I cringe every time I think of it.
Last weekend, I took Dog to the P-A-R-K by myself. Usually Husband and I go together, but he was busy with school and Dog needed to get out...and so did I, probably. I took the opportunity to call up a friend of mine who's in the midst of a move, because I knew she happened to be driving and had time to talk (for the record, using a cell phone while driving is legal there, and she was in Buttsfuckville, Egypt where there is no traffic). We chatted as Dog and I walked through the park. It was a normal-volume conversation and I was watching my sailor tongue because I think swearing in mixed company is tacky. It's a giant dog park, with upwards of 200 people and their dogs perusing it on the weekends. We passed this late-middle-aged woman and her two dogs, who were meandering slowly down the path, and she said something to me in passing but I didn't catch it.
"I'm sorry?" I asked, covering the phone with one hand.
"A wilderness walk, and you talking," she said.
I put on a big, toothy smile. "You're kind of a bitch, aren't you?" I asked, and kept walking.
Okay, so that was an example of the tackiness of cursing in public, yes. But what the fuck was she thinking? This is a dog park with paved paths, adjacent to an interstate freeway, in the middle of a city of over a hundred thousand people, and being visited simultaneously by hundreds of people, most of whom are talking. The fact that I'm talking to my phone is no different -- in fact, there's only one half of the conversation for her to overhear, which is arguably less disruptive to her alleged nature masturbation -- I mean, meditation. Listen, lady, if you want a wilderness walk, you're in the wrong place. And while my comment was rude, yours was doubly rude: first you interrupted a conversation I was politely having, and then made a snide comment that was totally out of line. So go fuck yourself.
I drive my poor Husband nuts with a passive-aggressive tendency that migrated with me out of the midwest: I talk openly about people's violations of social norms and basic consideration...in front of them. Those people who walk into Target, grab a shopping cart, and stop short in the middle of the entryway to dig their shopping lists out of their cluttered purses? Yeah. When we walk past them, I comment to him about how I certainly try to move out of the way of traffic. It's only directed at the people who are so self-absorbed that they don't care they might be negatively affecting others -- if you dropped your keys, for example, and bent to pick them up, I'd just wait patiently for the retrieval and not say a word. But you can park your ass to one side or the other of the entryway to look for your shopping list. It's not my fault your handbag is a disaster.
Yes, I know this trash-talking is going to get me into trouble. It's happened before. I'm a little surprised that the fistfights I've been in have not been initiated by my smart mouth (but rather by the smart mouths of my friends, whom I feel obligated to back up). And I'm not bragging about being in fistfights, okay? I'm just pointing out that I'm aware there can be consequences to my acid tongue.
"Nah, you're not getting older. Clearly, your arms are just getting shorter."
Tuesday, April 5, 2011
just in case this isn't already the worst day of your life
Dear Ms. Bazelon:
I read with interest your article How Not to Prevent Bullying this morning, especially the following:
“In the next scene, the mean girls are sitting in a classroom when an announcement comes over the loudspeaker: Jenna has committed suicide. What kind of school would tell kids about such an event in this numbskull way?”
I imagine you meant it as a rhetorical question, since it certainly seems ludicrous, but I have an answer for you: Wayzata High School, Plymouth, Minnesota. I lost my brother to suicide on February 9, 1998, when I was a sophomore in high school. The following morning I was pulled aside at the bell by a teacher, who wanted to advise me that the principal, Dr. Craig Paul, planned to announce my brother’s suicide over the PA system during the morning announcements. I was horrified. My family had spent most of the previous evening dealing with the police, the coroner, and notifying extended family; in short, most of my friends and all of my classmates were unaware of the event. I marched to Dr. Paul’s office and begged him not to make the announcement – my brother did not even attend that school. He replied that other students might need to avail themselves of counseling services, and flatly refused to delay the announcement until I could make it privately to a few close friends. He claimed it was school policy.
I posted the quote above on my facebook status today, with a snide response condemning the princi“pal” for his callous behavior, and I was surprised how many of my classmates remembered it, and thought it terribly inappropriate even when we were fifteen/sixteen years old. I remember he did it again a year or so later, when another student lost his brother to suicide, and I think it traumatized me all over again to relive the experience, and to think that my perspective had done nothing to change Dr. Paul’s.
He has now retired from the school district. My brief Google search today did not produce his contact information, or I would likely have written him instead of you…but I thought you might like to know that – in my experience, at least – the PA system is precisely how suicides are announced at school. And that brought me to my current question: what better way might there be? In this technological age, I’m tempted to suggest an email home, but certainly that wouldn’t reach everyone.
I know that your article was more addressed toward bullying and not suicide prevention, but I’d like to know your thoughts nonetheless. I assume this policy of broadcasting tragedy over the PA is still in place at my old high school, and I’m considering engaging the new principal to see if I can’t get it changed. I also wonder how many other schools operate on the same policy.
Sincerely,
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