Looking For A Squeegee

Okay, I know they mean well, and appreciate the concern and sentiments and all; most are genuinely solicitous, too.  I’m also all for politeness and civil things the parents nagged about and stomped further into the consciousness through Values Education? 

But every day?  I mean, how do you respond the same way to the same people, every time, when they zing you with, “Are you pregnant?”  Obvious ba.  This one’s a favorite: “Are you still pregnant?” What the hell kind of question is that?  And the necessarily polite small talk openers amended for my benefit like, “How’s the tummy?” automatically accompanied with mostly unauthorized pat-pats from the same people at work, at the same time of the day, every day? 

“Oh, fine, fine.  Still gravid like when you asked me exactly twenty-four hours ago, and of course, it comes with the occasional queasiness and back spasms to enjoy that I believe I also mentioned?  But thanks for asking again.  Looking forward to tomorrow.  Excuse me, I need to pass out more gas.”

I’m highly tempted to bolt especially when the pat-pats come from acquaintances who are practically strangers.  Don’t they know familiarity, when not really familiar, breeds contempt?  My mother is all for good manners and right conduct, but my tolerance level is not all that.  Now, more than ever.  If DSTS were to describe me in a word, he’ll promptly say, “Abnormal.”  I also once worked without much distress under a department that was proudly autistic amidst the sunshiney people who frequent the stupid pantry in the office, which, just our luck, was right beside our cubies.  And contrary to Aunt Bebop’s reverse psychology of yore, I’ve always liked Oscar better than Big Bird… there was an elephant in his can,  how cool was that?  And his catchphrase, “Scram!”  It’s still a great word, and it’s very handy right now. 

Before, at least there was this filter in place that somehow managed to pass off sarcasm and condescension as what I hoped were ambiguously polite replies to general inanities.  The filter also dampened the freaky effects of touchy-feely things suddenly imposed on me — sorry, but I really feel weird about people who dispense them in copiousness even if they don’t really rate that high on the touchy-feely meter?  But on good days, I just kinda suck them up because it’s not worth disrupting world peace in exchange for such little warfreak impact.  The energy fuelling that filter, however, is now occupied with other things like mass production of progesterone, getting creative with migraine combinations, and rechanelling my calcium intake away from my own bones — and so, it couldn’t possibly care less about others’ feelings, which are really nothing more than feelings right now. 

It’s not like I made a habit of copping every woman’s fundus when my own uterus was unoccupied, and the things I deployed were always different, I think, like “Do you take milk formulas or pregnancy supplements?” or “Please, for the love of Keanu, don’t name the baby Alfalfa Ingus,” so I’m pretty sure I’m not being whipped by the laws of karma. 

Should the stupid questions and invasion of personal space stop, I can return the favor, you know.  In the near future, I’ll refrain from bursting into unsolicited, non-stop prose about what genius the spawn of Jill will be — that is, unless the kid’s really a genius; then I’ll be asking you for contacts who can train her how to enslave humankind and rule the Earth for the advancement of the species in thirty years or less — or boring you with how the kid grew an extra micrometer just the other day, and the day before that.  Neither would I want to do a Kris Aquino (please, Lord) and foist delightfully mundane things such as standard mucky procedures concerning a preemie and the details of his baby poop onto the unsuspecting everygirl.

In fact, I’ll probably attempt mind melding to fortify defenses for when the kid will come to find self in contact with saccharinely corrupting but nonetheless inevitable and very necessary outside influences from friends, relatives, and strangers alike — what DSTS insisted was normalcy, and what I know as the perpetual social system that distorts a child’s basic knowledge of good and evil:

“Aren’t you adorable?! Yes you are!”

“Don’t spank na, Jill, the kid’s just being rudely cute!”

“Want me to give you this candy?  Makes your cavities grow bigger!”

“Give me a kiss muna!  Oh, go on… don’t mind sticking your lips to the latent and active mutant acne plus the day-long toxic sebum spouting from my pores…”

“Sing ‘Eensy, Weensy Spider’ with matching wiggles for us, just because our vapid, grown-up amusement demands it!”

“Why don’t you audition for Starstruck like my Bonbon did?”

Now if only I had this tee, I’m all set until then:

Seeing Stars

 

 

I am really not in a good mood these days.  It’s like there’s this cloud of gloom looming over me everywhere I go, brought about by unstable situations and wishy-washy people and… gawd.  I’ve turned into a Lucy Van Pelt/Pig Pen freak hybrid.  Which is not exactly helping me do the more useless things, like finishing that review on Before Sunset and what episode updates I managed to glean of my current camp fix, Encantadia.  Come back, happy thoughts.  Come back!

To complement the way things are going, Big Daddy is in an even worse mood over some loony client.  The problem is it’s one big loony client.  Add that to Big Daddy’s guys not getting the product shipments they asked for.  And Big Daddy’s guys not making the quota.  And then he razzes on Jean-Luc Picard saying he doesn’t like our new corporate colors.  Just a reminder, Big Daddy.  You do know that’s a strong blue, right?  Hold up, let me get that salt shaker.  Hee.  Jean-Luc Picard is pretending he didn’t hear what Big Daddy said and pushes me to “talk to him.”  Go walk a plank, Jean-Luc Picard.  And anybody who’s a man in here, raise your hand.

Jean-Luc Picard is passing out even the most unnecessary-to-delegate work, like compressing picture files in his one-sheet Excel file, ’cause it’s about 13 MB and it needs to be e-mailed to a client.  Wooh, what a big problem.  He plops the file into a confused Muffy’s folder — Muffy’s a local designer.  I know you take the hit for us most of the time and you have to crunch out lots of boring budgets and churn out gazillions of documents, but like, dude.  You don’t need Photoshop for compressing photos in any MicroSoft Office file.  Haven’t you experienced this wonderful process known to everyone… the point, right-click, and then read?  Bill Gates solves your woes for ya, all in five seconds. 

In the department, well.  There’s Check… Curly… everyone is complaining that the work he or she is doing was supposed to be done by the people who delegated the work to them.  Too bad we’re a rung or two below the wishy-washies, and God, people.  Why whine so much more than I do!  Things like that are a given… we’re all busy, and I deal with their crap, too.  You don’t like the work, get another job, right? 

No excuses for everybody, ha ha.  I figure this is my blog, so I get to be properly histrionic when I choose to. 

But of course, it’s human nature to be contrary to what others dictate.  I think I know why some ancients portray divine beings as jealous and quarrelsome as most mortals who walked the face of the earth… we remember the annoying things better, so everyone felt the gods shoved crap their way just to even out or surpass all the happy stuff.  It’s as if by some sheer perversity, the Fates are daring you to walk their way, or else.  Dum-dum-DUMMM!

Let’s take the most oft-consulted divine guideline of the society now deemed secular, the horoscopes.  For some time now, Yahoo! has been feeding Friendster its version of them.  Check out out my mine for the day:

The Bottom Line

Look out for problems in a partnership today, but watch for opportunities, too.

In Detail

It might be fun to be a critic, but it’s not too helpful unless the observations you’re handing out are constructive, not destructive. Just think how you’d feel if you asked someone for their opinion of something you’d slaved over and they proceeded to shred it into tiny pieces. Use your considerable sensitivity and intelligence to figure out a kind way to state what needs to be fixed.

What a theme, huh.  Let’s all be friends.  In the real world, I’d be compelled to resign and join a support group. 

First off, I make a living out of receiving criticisms on my work.  I assume if people can dish it well, they should learn to take it, too.  So if you feel bad when I tell you it’s bad, live with it.  Improve.  I usually mean well.  Of course when surly people who only see things their way blow things in my face, Mr. Horoscope Word Processor will probably be wagging a huge I-told-you-so.  Whatever.  Lessee…

Just think how you’d feel if you asked someone for their opinion of something you’d slaved over and they proceeded to shred it into tiny pieces? 

Is this, like, my life’s revelation?  People do that all the time!  And I return the favor, and guess what.  We’re still employed.  Next:

Use your considerable sensitivity and intelligence to figure out a kind way to state what needs to be fixed?

Ha, ha…  funny.  Next:

It might be fun to be a critic, but it’s not too helpful unless the observations you’re handing out are constructive, not destructive.

That’s a good idea, like getting Paula Abdul — whose Top 40 career spanned about a couple of years max, I might add — to spout it’s yous and it’s really happenings and other huh? praises to the next great contender to pop stardom.  They make as much sense as “You’re the dawg, man.  Got yo’ shit goin’ on.  Keep that up aight?  Yo’ da dawg!” 

Simon rules. 

Constructive criticism just get blown off as insincere fluff.  If you’re gonna be a critic, might as well give ‘em words that are honest and worth remembering.  Otherwise, shut it and go bother someone else with your magnum opus. 

Look out for problems in a partnership today, but watch for opportunities, too.

Partnership.  My personal stuff today is good, so this can only refer to work. Again.  On Monday, we scheduled to meet with Retired Brit Journalist for today, and it was cancelled.  Retired Brit Journalist fell down the stairs yesterday, his kneecaps got smashed. Reportedly there was lots of blood, and now he’s in the hospital.  And that’s serious stuff.  When you get old, I imagine the bones hurt a lot more than when you’re younger, and for the caps to be smashed…

We were gonna visit the poor guy sometime soon — I supposed to extend good will, respect, and all that, but Big Daddy said no, the reason for our call is Retired Brit Journalist will want to work while thus confined for the bleeding kneecaps that has aged for more than sixty years, and… are all white guys like these two?  So professional and hardworking and self-sacraficing and noble and good?  Championed by Warren Buffet and Carebears around the world?  Now.  Whether this is an opportunity or problem, don’t ask me anymore.  I’ve been insensitive all month already.

We’ve Got Paper!

My employer’s marketing department, the one I’m in, deleted e-mail very often.  There’s little solid documentation.  The atmosphere was laid-back, and joining the ranks I was thrust into the antithesis of my then recent work experience.  I found it a refreshing change at first. I don’t get nagged for e-mail follow-up?  No forms to fill up for the smallest detail like ink cartridges consumed?  Wow.  But those tics kind of stuck, so…

Who is into paperwork, anyway?  When you say you like paperwork, you’re either gifted, a suck-up, or probably autistic.  Or you have people doing it for you.

Lack of documentation, however, is not a smart thing. People from other departments would come up and ask for things… just because.  The big problem is many of them don’t know what they want.  Sometimes they even forget to give deadlines.

The other way around is just as bad.  I often get a job order one day before publish date, and… what are we, freaking cup noodles?  There’s also the dilemma of which to prioritize, unless you’ve got five pairs of hands and five sets of hardware.  And maybe a computer named Intelligence.

Let’s get this straight… those guys aren’t evil.  It’s just that they, like everybody, are focused on their goals.  And with sales, the goal is to work the customers. They need to get that monthly quota.  The ad thing to put in some magazine is just that… what, with the budget and all?  Let’s spend.  So it’s no problem, right?  Producing the marketing stuff, that’s our goal.

And now the specs.  “Oh, whatever. You decide.”  You feed the suggestions.  You get a hmm… yes… no… hmm some more… and, based on the generic idea provided (plus lots of ESP), put out something that looks… whatever.  Some guys actually like whatever and whatever works for them.  But guessing the facts can only take you so far.

What I don’t like is, there are wise guys who come back a couple of months later and, very smoothly, say, “The [insert your whatever here] didn’t do its job and it’s an unspoken consensus at our place that it’s YOUR fault.  What you guys gave us is crap.”  Actually, I prefer “whatever”. Whatevers normally beget whatever juniors, but… the hell?  Dudes. If you have a habit to make do for ad placements and not tell us much about the customers you deal with, don’t expect us to do a parting of the Red Sea for ya.

Enter the inevitable.

We started using a couple of forms that make up job requests… basically they outline what the job is, what format, who’s the target, packaging specs, that sort of thing.  In my last gig, we relied on plain e-mail for this. But then again that company was more corporate-feely than this one, and people there were compelled to answer e-mail for every nitty gritty (brainwashing takes effect upon hiring).  The guys we deal with now barely have time to reply because of “… important stuff.  You know.  And travel.  And meetings.  And we’re on the other side of the world, so we sleep when you work.”

It’s not surprising we received some complaints — I imagine they stare at the monitors muttering WTFs when we send the forms.  I do think, however, that we need to simplify some jargon there… asking them to give us their PESTs and SWOTs doesn’t exactly sound like you’re trying to help them.  But yes, the forms are here to stay.

You see, I’d like to give the world a Coke.  They need the materials, we need the info to hit the target dead on.  Info comes from responses they get from the customers, so it wouldn’t hurt they do some paperwork of their own on this, too.  Hey, we all know this company can’t afford survey providers and ad agencies.  I think that’s a big reason we’re employed at the moment?  I’m just saying.

For the record, I really hate paperwork.  I’m terrible with stacks.  I spent four years in a fine arts college with profs who defined workplace neatness as the last thing in the agenda, if at all.  Then they crammed all this neatness training one month before thesis week.  And cramming doesn’t do a thing for me, which explains why I can work so much better in clutter.  But as luck would have it, I’m not artistically inclined, I don’t have my own space, and I’m installed in an office patrolled by 6S lemmings instead.  You give me paperwork and my cubicle will soon resemble a hamster box.

Speaking of… I know about 5S, but where did 6S come from?  Is that like that lame 8th habit?  Not counting the old war… I’d like to say there are lots of cool things the Japanese came up with, like animes, mangas, 50% of Takeshi Kaneshiro’s bone structure, sushis, wasabi, PS2 things and all stuff Casio.  But seiri, seiton, seiso, seiketsu, and shitsuke?  Are bad Japanese.  No, it’s not you, it’s just me.  I guess drawers are good for your everyday A4, Letter, and Legal size documents, but people, what I have are HUGE box dielines.  A3 sheets.  Posters.  Catalogues.  We need more steel cabinets the size of sarcophagi to litter the hallways.  No, I don’t know what the sixth S is.  Here come the 6S lemmings.

Jill:  “What’s the 6th S? Did you intentionally raise the 5S to a 6 as a mnemonic device reminding you its connection to the Six Sigma?”

6S Lemmings:  “Safety. And heck, no.”

Jill:  “You’re joking.”

6S Lemmings:  “We do not joke.”

Jill:  “Geez.  You made that up?  At [company I used to work for], they do it… “

6S Lemmings:  “SILENCE, you insolent fool!  5S upgraded and assimilated SAFETY to the Bright Side!  Our loyalty is to the Empire!  And… h-eyy, silence!  We can throw this in next meeting, get promoted, and instigate a 7S raid next quarter!  That’ll shut them up.”

Jill is speechless for seven seconds.

6S Lemmings: “Ahem.  As we were saying… we do NOT tolerate humor on a life and death situation such as 6S.  There is no 5!  It’s  SIX!!!  And you can’t have your mug and your drafts and package dielines and those job request forms on your desk.”

Jill: “Where do you want me to put them?”

6S Lemmings (after quick peeks at notebooks): “It doesn’t say.  But you’d better!  Or we’ll take fugly pictures for all clones to see.  And you need to put labels on these drawers and folders.  Pink or green font, preferably Comics Sans.”

Now check out what labels I have so far: “Things I Can’t Put On My Own Desk“. “Top Secret Crap You’ll Never See“. “Hot Pin-Ups Of Antonio Sabato, Jr.” “My Food“. You know, these people probably have the cushiest job ever?  They brownnose, bully other people into NOT doing their job description, take VGA pictures, and probably do nothing else so their spaces look clean for weeks.  And they get paid to do those?  Hmm.  Maybe I should review a possible career option.

The thing is no matter how much your friendly neighborhood HRD insists that the ego and Ayn Rand should take backseats for the benefit of all concerned — tossing you schmucky compromises like teamwork, blending in, getting along, and world peace, to boot — we’ll NEVER have that perfect world!  Yes, you can’t do things alone, but people like to do what they’re good at, don’t do what they don’t like, and there’s life and fate and whether they’ll let you.  Naturally, nobody wants to get stuck with the things nobody wants to do.  And so we have paperwork.

My former superior put it best — a bit succintly, but aptly so.  Documentation is hell and may take more time to get done than necessary, but everything boils down to one thing and one thing alone in this bleak chasm called Office Space.  In case they give you bullshit, cover your ass.