© 2003-2006
all content belongs to me unless noted
As heard in passing: "I've found that if you just say a lot of random stuff and act like you know what you're saying, then everyone will believe you're really smart."
Or in my case, I'll think you're really, really stupid. Though I suppose it's easy to mistake a look of disgust to be a look if admiration.
More Working Stiff
$1.75 of which I was willing to spend.
Damn vending machines. I'll remember this.
More Working Stiff
I needed space for my editing books at work, so I decided it was time to clear out the dust-covered TV and a box of yellowing, homeless printer trays. The decision didn't come easy as I felt the TV lended a certain playful atmosphere that countered the very droll Accountant-filled atmosphere surrounding me. And while I wasn't as fond of the box of printer trays, my feelings about them morphed over this past month and half. Instead of the yellowing computer hardware perception I originally held, they transformed into an art exhibit of sorts. The sharp, angular plastic hiding in the shadows of a table—bending this way and then suddenly that way—was a tribute to the lost world of the UW's inner workings, and by extension, the lost world of any well-established non-profit organization. And I'll be honest: having junk surround me was comforting if only because it reminded me of working at Hillel, which remains my favorite job to date. But in the end, I felt space for work-related materials was more important than dusty, unusable furnishings.
Just three feet away from my cubicle is a closet crammed so full that the door is permanently held open by a monstrous mess. The mess has grown sporadically for so many years that it reaches upwards with spindly appendages—much in the same manner as a plant with too little light. Inside the closet doorway—at the bottom of the mess monster—is another TV. I felt this was a most appropriate place to stick my TV and printer tray art exhibit, so I did just that. After some twenty minutes of puzzle-packing my desk-space refuse, I stood back and enjoyed the fruits of my labor. Balanced at a sixty degree angle atop of the mess monster was the box of printer tray limbs. Wedged at the very bottom of the mess monster was the TV, where it snuggled happily next to the other TV so that they could easily breed like fervent rabbits and make new baby TVs for me to sell.
After successfully match-making the TVs, I forgot about my adventures with the mess monster and attempted to accomplish something during my remaining three hours.
This morning Bill, the manager of the division where I reside though am not technically a part of, peeked over my cubicle wall and said, "I need to ask you a quick question."
Delighted by the human contact, I excitedly looked up from my project and yelped a resounding "Sure!"
"I see the contents of the closet have grown..." he started.
"Oh, yeah. I moved the TV and a box of printing trays in there yesterday," I said.
"Is that it?"
"Yeah. Why?"
"Well, we're going to do something about this closet because it's gotten a bit out of hand. And, I just wanted to know the origins of everything... But it seems the closet has gotten... a bit more full since yesterday," Bill said.
"Oh, sorry. Is there somewhere else I should put all the junk?" I asked.
"No, it's fine. I was just surprised by the appearance of three TVs." he said.
"Three? Three TVs?" I jumped up and looked over into the closet. There, in front of my eyes, amidst a mess monster much bigger in size than anything I contributed to the day prior, were three TVs. My TV, the original mess monster TV, and a third TV about half the height of the other two and wedged right between the happy TV couple.
Holy crap! The things in this office do breed!
More Working Stiff
It’s a mystery I have yet to solve. At first, I thought the solution was simple, like in a movie; “Duh, the murderer is dude with the shiny black shoes and hair-piece!” But as week followed week, I realized a malevolence beyond my comprehension was the cause.
Every morning, they’re waiting as I unsuspectingly weave through the maze towards my cubicle. When I pass through the doorway, they greet me in their open and inviting way, expertly feigning innocence. They’re the masters of deception. They lull me into their siren song, convincing me to pluck one of them from the box and take a bite.
And how can I resist? Each one has the slight silken sheen of quality chocolate. Each one is formed into an irregularly perfect square that promises hand-made mastery. Under the color-stripping florescent lights, they gleam together in dark brown beauty. They sing promises of delectable sweetness.
But as soon as I take a bite, the spell shatters.
They’ve betrayed me. Instead of the wonderful See’s Candy-like succulence promised to me, they taste of plastic and staleness. As the rest of the day passes, I glare at the box accusingly each time I walk by. With every glare, I notice another chocolate has disappeared. By the end of the day, just as the accountants clear out in a mad dash for freedom, the now empty box of lying chocolates disappears into the garbage can.
Good riddance, I happily think to myself.
And yet, just as they inevitably deceive me into eating one of their tainted kind, the chocolates always reappear the next morning. There they are again, lined up in the white box that was thrown out the night before. Each one with the slight silken sheen of quality chocolate. Each one formed into an irregularly perfect square, gleaming in their dark brown beauty.
My only solution to this mysterious and sinister force is that the chocolates contain magical properties that allow their crumbs to breed together and create new, full-sized chocolates every night. Those full-sized chocolates then work together in moving the box from the trash to the conference table so they can continue their reign of terror the next morning.
In the women's bathroom at work:
More Working Stiff
Yesterday was my first day of work, but they weren’t ready for me to start working. “Not ready for me” as in the team I’ll be working with didn’t know I was starting that day. My manager was in two very long meetings that morning, so the other two team members walked me around the cubicle labyrinth, showed me where my desk was, and had me look at the horrid New Employee Online Orientation Website. After slogging through tons of information that doesn’t apply to me because I’m part-time and temporary, the website forced me to register for a mandatory sexual harassment prevention seminar. When my manager finally showed up, he handed me tons of paperwork and then decided the entire team should go to a bar and have “lunch”. After four hours total of working and going to a bar, I went home because there was nothing else for me to do. Then I took a nap, and followed that by bothering a sleeping Tyler periodically throughout the afternoon.
This morning started out with “training”, which consisted of my manager being in more meetings and the other two members of my team telling me tons of boring information about the entire financial system at the UW. Needless to say, I think I know more than Mason does about accounting right now. After learning about every single division within the entire department, my two co-workers finally showed me the website and help pages I will be in charge of. But because all my passwords and logins still aren’t setup, I can’t do anything but sit at my desk and play Urbandead.
And speaking of my desk, did I mention that I was exiled to a dank cubicle at the furthest possible end of the building from the rest of my team? I didn’t? Well, I am. And my cubicle walls are leftover rust-orange artifacts from the 70’s that have a faint and unpleasant odor. I’m not really sure what division of the Financial Management Department I have infiltrated, but it’s something like “Accounts Payable” or “Payroll”, while I’m technically in a division titled “Desktop Support Services” that isn’t even part of the Financial Management Department.
So, things have been really boring and slow, which I absolutely hate when it comes to working. And because of some of the things my co-workers told me about why my position was created, I have a sinking feeling that instead of being part-time, I will end up working full-time (and possibly over-time) sporadically during the next six months. That makes getting a second job really hard. Also, the sheer amount of things I’m expected to do for this position definitely makes it a full-time, permanent position. And I’d be really happy about that, if I was confident that the dark overlords would allow enough funding for my position to be full-time and permanent.
But despite the boring start and the foreboding horizon, the three people I will be working closely with all seem like fun and interesting co-workers.
More Working Stiff
My new favorite thing to say really loud and at random intervals is "Hot donuts!" Originally, I just yelled "hot donuts!" and followed it with immediate cackling. However, I've recently fine-tuned my newfound expression. I now yell out in a hick accent so that it sounds like "hat donuts!" My mother hailed from Kansas and I hail from the former Cow County just outside of Seattle, so I'm really good at hick accents.
I love my new phrase so much that all Tyler has to do is say "hot donuts" once and I immediately begin yelling it out over and over again in my Cow County hick accent, much to the chagrin of whomever else is around. I find it sad that the only one who understands my inside joke is Tyler. It's just not funny after explaining to inquisitive stares where the phrase came from. Most people haven't even seen now defunct Sci-fi channel show, The Invisible Man, much less that episode. No matter how hard you try, private inside jokes just aren't funny. Take, for example, yesterday at work:
Three co-workers were hovering inside the miniscule real-estate around my desk, all asking me at the same time why the project that they gave me just twenty minutes before hadn't been completed. Yet another co-worker was leaning over me and talking really loudly into my phone, bumping my head with her ass, making me pray to the love of <insert god of choice> that she wasn't going to fart in my face a second time (the first time has gone undocumented and will remain so due to the waves of terror it sends through my olfactory senses every time I remember it).
"Mindy, I need this phamplet done right now. I have to take it to be professionally copied." "Mindy, someone said the hours for our <Name of Big Upcoming Event That Shall Remained Unnamed to Protect My Coworkers and My Job> wasn't on our website. We need to update that, along with a whole truckload of other information that I want up before you leave in less than an hour." "Mindy, I have some random project that requires hours of kicking the brand-new copy machine and cussing at it in German for you." "HAHAHAHA. That's so funny. HAHAHAHAHA. So you take debit cards. What? WHAT? I asked if you take DEBIT CARDS."
The chatter was unbearable, especially since I sit at the main reception desk and the building was designed so that everything on the first floor echoes up to the energy efficient skylights and then off into a random void of nothingness. This makes it nearly impossible for me to decipher anything anyone says unless they're standing right in front of me and no one else is speaking. If more than one person even speaks on the main floor at the same time, the noise ratchets in a jumble of gurgles and growls around the reception area and manages to mysteriously increase in volume before echoing upwards towards the skylights. Of course, need I remind you that I am also leaving this job in two months? Everyone I work with is also painfully aware of this. Hence, my treatment has been slightly better than that of a washed up prostitute with a stretch-marked stomach sagging from beneath that tight and faded leather corset she found on the discount rack. But I won't focus on the bad things about my job- especially not the poor treatment I've received lately after my over four years of dedication and hard work.
Needless to say, my frustration was fairly high at that moment, and bubbling up even higher. I felt like I needed to whip out a machete from the folds of space and time and begin brandishing it wildly, smashing my piece of shit Dell computer and threatening to take on the copy machine if they didn't quiet the ruckus down. The machete didn't appear when I wished it would, so I reacted in the only other way I could think of.
"HAT DONUTS!" I yelled loudly above my co-workers' bewailing. The words echoed upwards towards the skylights, twisting into a more volatile hick accent in their hollowness.
Everyone stopped and stared.
They no doubt think I'm a bit insane now, but I still have my job for two more months. Furthermore, this just proves how well I fit in there and how much they're going to miss my indispensable presence. I mean, really, anyone who can fart in their co-worker's face and not even acknowledge their evil deed is just as deranged as someone wants to smash the computer from hell with a machete or who yells "Hat donuts" randomly.
I now leave you with my hack job of a screen capture: the point during the episode "Tiresias" of The Invisible Man when Hobbes says, "Hot donuts, eh!?!"
More Working Stiff
Pilfered From Work:
Bagel Count: 2 and 1/2
Chocolate Count: 0
Bottled Water Count: 2
Plant Count: 1 glazed pot from Bruning Pottery
When people walk into the building for the first time, they usually stare in awe at the ceiling and look in confusion at everything other than the reception desk. After a moment of turning this way and that in a frenzied panic, they eventually notice me watching serenely from the reception desk two feet away. Typically, the confusion vanishes from their faces as they realize that I am the reception desk person who holds all the answers to their greatest needs. They bow down to my humble self in awe and reverence, proffering gifts of chocolate and houseplants to express sincere humility and deepest apologies for having not seen the holy light that is my reception desk when they first entered.
Though sometimes, this is not the case. Sometimes, like today, someone will enter the building and completely ignore my existence. Being a bitter college student who wants a little respect now and then, it pisses me off to no end when that suit clad yuppie whore of a someone can completely ignore me after I repeatedly greet them. How many times do I have to say, "Hello, can I help you?" How loudly do I have to say, "Hello, can I help you?"
Have it your way, suit clad yuppie whore. If you want to ignore me and make me sound like an idiot, then I'll just sit in my comfy chair and stare at my computer screen while you're legs skitter some random direction without actually knowing where they're going. I'll recline back and write about you while I sadistically take glee from the fact that you have no idea where the hell you're going in this massive structure of a Jewish center. I'll snicker as you dash from one room to the next like the Starbucks patronizing cockroach you are as you vainly attempt to find a piece of rotting meat to gnaw on. If you had stopped to ask, then you would have learned that there are no pieces of rotting meat to gnaw on here; only clean and foodless floors.
More Work Week, Working Stiff
Pilfered From Work:
Bagel Count: 1
Salmon Count: 5 ounces
Chocolate Count: 5 Snicker's Minis, 1 Twix Mini
Bottled Water Count: 2
This afternoon, a man entered the new building I work in and proceeded to analyze the entrance door hinges and tap the glass panes that make up the entryway foyer. Perplexed, a co-worker and I stared at him from the reception desk. Call me callous, but it's my belief that you don't walk into a building owned and operated by a Jewish organization, ignore their employees, and start tapping on their glass doorways unless you are calculating what type of explosive device you would need to use to make the most of obliterating a 12.5 million dollar facility. He was apparently oblivious to my suspicious ice stares of death as he continued to tap glass and scrutinize door hinges in a psychotic bliss that caused creases on his forehead to twitch in synch with his eyes.
"Can I help you?" I finally asked him.
"No. No. I'm just looking at your glass," he answered.
"I see that..."
"This is the most amazing glass I've ever seen!" he exclaimed suddenly, "Simply amazing!" He spoke with an exclamation of sound for every word, and with each exclamation of sound, his forehead creases, eyebrows and eyelids raised upwards in praise of his heavenly <insert>god of choice</insert> for producing such wonderful panes of glass.
"You have a fetish for glass?" my co-worker asked him.
"Uh... I'm a contractor. I was just admiring your glass. Do you mind if I have a client come over and look at it?" Again, every word he spoke was an exclamation, even his hesitations or pauses of sound. I began to wonder if I could take him to court for mental trauma; surely it wasn't legal to subject someone to such enthusiasm regarding glass.
"No, not really- as long as your client lets us know who they are before they start tapping on our door hinges," I told him. I was serious, though perhaps he thought I was joking.
With that, the man blissfully leaped out of our main entryway, no doubt to skip and frolic through our landscaping off into the brilliant summer sun.
Two Hours Later...
I can always hear when someone has entered the building before they realize that they have actually entered the building. This is thanks to the foreboding front entry doors that crash shut immediately behind any person while they are navigating through the massive foyer. Once through the soul-sucking neon lighted perils of the foyer, they find themselves hit by a blinding natural light from our humidity controlled skylight. At this very moment they stand stunned in the headlights of overwhelming panic as they realize they have entered an enormous white building of Jewishness. Once their eyes become accustomed to the unusual brilliance of our building, the subjects then enter a state of terror where they turn this way and that way, flapping their hands and lips in frenzied and indecipherable signals. Perhaps it is the wide open space that was designed so one can see every point of activity upon entry, or perhaps it is merely the overwhelming size of the building, but whatever the case, it usually takes an excruciating moment of this intense panic before anyone realizes that there is a reception desk two feet away from them that has been outfitted with a caustic and jaded college student for their convenience.
You can imagine my suspicion when I heard the slam of the foreboding doors and looked up to find a woman had not only managed to navigate through the massive foyer but had also darted by the reception area without being stunned by the brilliance of the humidity controlled skylights in the split second it took to turn my caustic and jaded head away from the computer.
"Excuse me, can I help you?" I called after her. She didn't even glance towards my general direction as she ran off towards the dank recesses of our 5.1 million dollar concrete dinning facility. "Excuse me!" I called after her in growing alarm, my voice echoing upwards to the second story.
I jumped up and chased her echoing footsteps, only to find her standing in the darkness of the dinning room tapping at the glass windows. "Would you like a tour?" I asked her with my cheerfully caustic and jaded voice.
"No. I'm just looking at the glass."
"I see that..." I trailed off, realizing she was the client who was supposed to tell me who she was before she began tapping on our glass and examining our door hinges.
"My last name is Rosen, so you don't have to worry about me bombing the place," she said immediately, which did very little to ease my fears. "My contractor called me and told me to look at your windows. He said you had wonderful windows. Building a house is a hard thing. You have to look at so many windows. Not many places have special windows like this."
"Well, I can give you a tour if you�d like," I suggested again.
She stared blankly. "No. That won't be necessary. I'm here to see the windows. Just the windows." She paused for a moment, and then added, "My last name is Rosen, so I'm Jewish. Can't blame you for being suspicious, but I'm here to see just the windows."
"Sorry about that, but we get a lot of freaks around here," I said as I walked back to the reception area. "If you have any questions about the glass or our contractors, I'd be willing to answer them for you."
She trailed behind me and stopped near the door, staring at me intensely as I sat down at my desk. "Actually, do you know where you got that?" she asked suddenly pointing her finger in the direction of our three old fashioned glass candy jars.
"The candy jars?"
"Yes. That has to be the most beautiful glass I've ever seen."
I squinted at the jars. From my perspective, the glass was distorted and misshapen with thick uneven seams protruding like a spine from the backs. "I'm not sure. I think they're just cheap jars we got at a cooking or restaurant supply store a long time ago."
"Do you mind if I take a picture?" she asked, pulling a disposable camera out of a lump-filled tan purse. I shrugged my consent. "This is wonderful! You find the most amazing things in the strangest places!"
"That you do," I agreed, looking at her suspiciously from the corner of my eye.
More Work Week, Working Stiff
How do you follow an inspiring month in Rome? I've been at a loss for words lately- everything I write seems trivial after my intensive writing courses abroad. I guess it's because I've lived near/in Seattle my entire life. Perhaps I'm so used to the people and the city that inspiration doesn't fly into my face.
I always carry a notebook (or two) with me for writing and jotting down notes while on the bus, but I've found myself simply examining the grains of a blank page for the duration of my bus rides to and from work. When I come home, I throw my bag and notebook down on the couch, stare for a moment at the notebook outlined by the deep green fabric of my futon, and have a sudden desire to rip my hair out in frustration. In an attempt to be melodramatic, I've even gone so far as to actually attempt ripping my hair out in frustration, but I always immediately stop as I've found it hurts too much.
So, in an effort to combat my stagnant writing skills, I am going to regale my few loyal readers with tales from work this week. If that doesn't scare off the five or so readers I have, then I must say that your loyalty is impressive.
More Work Week, Working Stiff
On my third day home, I returned to the daily soul-sucking routines of my life. But unlike two months ago, I didn't get off the bus and climb up sagging steps to a barn-style rental house. I didn't sit at a desk facing a wall and located inside a hot and stuffy room crammed with one copier, a fax machine, two computers and a network system for the eight computers, Instead, I entered the looming state-of-the-art facility I had watched grow from plans tacked to a wall in the original 1950's facility where I worked to the fully realized, multi-million dollar sucking project it now was.
Upon coming back home, my work environs would be different, but I was still unprepared. The massive space I now work in, the poor lighting immediately above my desk, and the way the building manages to suck up any sound made in the "office suite" is hard to adjust to. It's not only the complete opposite of Rome, but it's unfamiliar.
I was hungry and there was some strange kink in my stomach that hurt. All I wanted at that moment was to eat a fresh bagel with a little butter and wash it down with stomach-friendly Sprite. Cranky, I threw my school bag haphazardly under my desk where I maintain residency as Office Wench for some Jews. Mammoth books that compete with Middlemarch in size tumbled out of the stuffed bag, landing askew amongst twisted staples and microscopic paperclips. I ran into the kitchen- the kosher kitchen- and saw a paper Noah's Bagels bag that tantalized me with the promised fulfillment of my desires. At that moment, I wanted a bagel, I craved a bagel, I needed a bagel. I wasn't going to be choosy. Bring on the overpowering "everything" bagels, I cried to the Bagel Gods. Bring on the mutant salt bagels, I roared to the Bagel Gods. Hell, give me your deformed cock-sized bread loaves stuffed with every nut and fruit in existence. I don't give a damn, but give me something to eat, I screamed, shaking a fist.
I dashed eagerly to the bag, peered over the fine-toothed edge and examined the two and a half bagels that had survived a prior onslaught of hungry students. They were... my god... they were good bagels. Good, fresh bagels that weren't dry and hard or loaded with strange toppings. I plucked one up, salivating with eagerness. I then laid it on a paper plate. Pulling open the knife drawer, I gasped in horror at it�s emptiness. All carving knives, all butcher knives, all serrated tomato knives- all the random mismatched knives we used to prepare Friday night dinners were gone. How could this happen? Why would they vanish without a trace when we, the workers of the Jewish Center, still need them to cut our bagels? I looked around in a panic, realizing during my quick survey of the kitchen that there were boxes packed with random kitchen supplies- no doubt ready to be moved from our temporary facility and into our new facility. If I couldn't use a real knife, I reasoned, I could certainly use a fake knife, and we had plenty of those. The next two minutes found me desperately hacking at my fresh, flexible bagel with a plastic knife, crumbs and chunks of bread sprinkling the counter. But it didn't matter, because it was Wednesday.
Wednesday is Bagel Day for the students affiliated with my work. Every Wednesday, there might be bagels leftover that I can eat. Some days, there aren't. Other days, they are donated from Noah's Bagels and stale. But today, there was one fresh bagel waiting for me and my pained stomach. Satisfied with my prize, I crammed the uneven slices of bagel into the kosher Jewish Center toaster and leaned back against a wall to watch coils redden with heat. Now, all I needed to do was scavenge for some Sprite.
More Working Stiff
While I mostly love my job, there is a downside to answering the phones. Sometimes, we get crazy people who try and tell us that pig shit is falling from the sky and want us to do something about it. Two years ago, I hung up on a rude telemarketer who had the nerve to call me back and bitch me out for hanging up on him while he was in mid-sentence (as if telemarketers deserve any respect for selling their souls). When I told him he better watch out or I'll send Bun Bun after him, he said to me, "Fuck off you fucking BITCH. I don't want to sell you anything but my ass. You deserve to eat the shit out of my toilet."
We also had a marathon ordeal with one lunatic who called herself Liba (after her sign, Libra). She needed us to give her a free trip to Israel so she could move there and fulfill the mission her spirit guides assigned to her: setting up an electrolysis business that would offer palmistry and other psychic advice while hairy Israeli women were waiting for their appointments (or maybe it was during their electrolysis sessions- we never did piece together the story from all of her babblings).
But more often than I would like, we get really bitchy people who have no manners. Sometimes they're hoary Orthodox Jews who are pissed at me because they believe it's my fault there aren't enough kosher eateries in Seattle. Other times, it's people who are just generally condescending and rude, such as today:
It started off like any typical hour during work. The phone started to ring and one of our five lines lit up. With the phone answering reflexes one develops over time, I snatched up the receiver and answered with my typical, "Good afternoon, Place of Work"
"Hi, is this Mindy?" a middle-aged woman asked.
"Yes, this is her."
"Hi Mindy, how are you doing?" she said, rather than asked, with a condescending tone to her voice.
"I'm good, and you?"
"It's 'I'm doing well', not 'I'm good'." She followed this immediately with raucous laughter that left me staring at the wall blankly wishing she was talking to me in person so I could deliver one of my perfected Ice Queen stares of doom.
"Excuse me?" I had to settle with an Ice Queen tone of doom.
She then stopped laughing and launched into a lecture on phone grammar. "Proper grammar is important when answering phones," she said. I agreed with her, but I also didn't want a condescending lecture by someone I didn't know. Angered and insulted, I stopped listening at this point as she went on to explain the details of her phone etiquette and some nonsensical reasoning why I was in the wrong.
I decided to cut her off and try the even angrier Ice Queen tone of instant death. "Excuse me?" I repeated, sending waves of ice shards through the receiver."You said that already."I realized this woman was a tough bitch who probably possessed Ice Queen immunity based on her already shocking display of rudeness. I changed tactics, this time following the fight fire with fire philosophy. "Just who are you?" I asked her in my best mimic of the condescending tone possessed by rich people who think their importance to the world is directly related to the digits of their available sum at the bank."Oh, I'm Sharon F. This is Mindy G., right?""No, it's not." I said curtly."But you said you were Mindy."
"I am Mindy. The Mindy you're looking for is a volunteer for Place of Work, but I'm employed here." At this point, she had activated the "Mega Bitch" mode of my self-defense mood system. I couldn't hold back any longer. "If you're just going to ask for 'Mindy' then everyone will to assume you're asking for me. Do you understand that there is more than one person by the name of Mindy in this world?"
"Well, we're working on a program together, may I speak with her?" I was astounded.- it was as if she was immune to everything I attacked her with. How could a foe withstand my Ice Queen attacks and Mega Bitch vibes?
I decided a rapid bombardment of my special combo attack, MEGA BITCHY ICE QUEEN, would weaken her defenses and possibly leave a lingering and undetectable side effect that would ruin the rest of her work day, and hopefully last into the rush hour drive home, resulting in an accident which would hopefully severely damage the exterior of her car and result in substantial insurance hikes. "No, you may not. I can take a message for you."
"Why can't I speak with her?"
"Because she's not here right now." I said, continuing the bombardment of my special combo attack.
"Well, when will she be in?"
"Since she doesn't work here, I have no idea when she'll be around." It was a direct hit!
"May I have her cell phone number?"
"I'm not allowed to give out student information, so no." Another direct hit!
"Well that's a dumb rule. Did you create that just because you don't like me?" She was showing her emotions, indicating that I had penetrated her defense systems and all that was left was taking her out all the way.
"Ma'am, I can take down your name and number and contact her for you." That would surely ruin the rest of her day. Ma'am. The horrible, most insulting term for a middle aged woman, especially if used in conjunction with the MEGA BITCHY ICE QUEEN attack. She gave me her number, clearly defeated by the tone of her voice. But I wasn't satisfied, the defense system not fully deactivated. "Good bye," I said, "and have a nice day."
It's that time of year again- the time of year when Rabbi J storms in unexpectedly, making demands at every step. For Jews, Sukkot is when they build a frail structure with a vegetative roof and eat (or even sleep) inside said structure for eight days to celebrate the harvest and the fact that good ol' G-d is more meaningful than a fancy house. For me, Sukkot is when Rabbi J terrorizes the staff and I have to drop all my tasks to wait on his every need. My tasks may include freezing a Diet Coke so that it's just the right temperature or helping him create "shaky things" (lulav) out of willow, myrtle and palm while listening to his lectures about the importance of that $100 deformed lemon called an etrog.
In honor of my anticipated fourth survival of Sukkot and the infuriating yet loveable Rabbi J, I am going to post as many stories as possible about him during the holiday. I will probably run out of stories before the end of Sukkot. Or perhaps I'll get bored of writing about Rabbi J and decide watching episode after episode of Family Guy is more interesting. But hopefully, by the end of the week you will understand what the hell I'm talking about and why this man manages to spurn a burning hatred full of love inside everyone he encounters.
More Working Stiff
