Costumer Disservice

No matter what kind of customer field you work in, either it be retail, over the phone, or shoveling manure on a ranch, which, I’m sure has less manure then my current job, you’re always going to have customers.  To ask the question, “Have you ever been in customer service?” is like asking if you’ve never worked with people before.  Even on a ranch, you still deal with people.

I find costumer service, a crass, and contradictory kind of field.  When a job advices there is a lot of costumer service involvement, it’s their kind way of saying “Oh, your going to get PLENTY of rude people, I hope you can handle it.”

What I find most entertaining is making fun of the difficult clients.  During the moment, it’s hard to be funny.  Like one of those bad sex sessions, you just fake it all the way through, and just hope the end comes quickly.  The end is never as near as you hoped, and the other person is getting a better ride out of this then you are.  Their outcome always looks much better then your outcome.

I can’t tell you how many times I’ve been on a bad phone call, where, I wanted to tell them “This isn’t Walmart, the costumer isn’t always right.”  One has to like the classic lines of “I want to speak to your supervisor.”  Gladly! After the supervisor kindly tells them, the SAME thing you just said, and that phone conversation was much quicker.  It’s funny how the word “Supervisor” gets the most action done in the quickest amount of time.

Stereotypes are the, oh so fun, of the job.  That particular group of people in Canada, that speak too fast, and want things done, yesterday, and have a listening problem.  They can hear just fine, they just have a listening problem.  Another fun one is when you get a woman named Dolores on the phone who sounds like she’s smoked since the age of three, and has a hangover on Monday.  I adore my Texan men, never had a problem with a one of them, but, head up to Chicago, and oy vey, you swear Al Capone was riding up his daisy dukes.  Go to the mid-west, and you would never think chatty, flirty, Mel was a married man with three kids.  Let alone, a racist bastard to boot.  And you have that infamous, Craig, who, claims he knows your supervisors, and can do your job with his eyes closed.

There are those stories we can all relate to, and then there are stories, that are so off the wall, you can not make up.

I loved the story a friend of mine told me recently, about a ninety year old man taking a limo to the peir.  The limo driver pulled to the side of the road, took the man’s bags out, and kindly told the man, he couldn’t deal with anymore, he was too annoying.  The ironic part of this whole thing was, this was New York, and about twenty blocks away from his destination.  The older man calls up, and talks to my friend and asks her to pick him up and bring hin to his destination.  He said he was a very prestigious person in New York, and has never been treated so rudely.  I’m thinking, HOW can he possibly be THAT annoying?  For one, he’s ninety years old, and two, in a LIMO?  You have to be sitting in the front seat poking the driver with a cane or something.  Or talking politics.  That usually about does it in the states.  The even funnier part is, calling someone, very far out of state, and asking them if they could pick them up and drive them to their destination.

Either New York city has gotten less tolerable, or he was really, just, that annoying.

I can’t imagine that.

Hearing that he looked better in speedos then Neil Armstrong sounds much more believable.

Then again, NO ONE looks good in speedos.

Forward This!

I hate forwards.

I love opening a message, this, cute, fuzzy warm feeling you get inside because someone thought of you, and you scroll down, continue to read, and then, there it is, “Forward this to ten people, and you’ll have luck.  Don’t forward this, and this cute puppy dog gets it.”

I have learned to notice the signs, of a forward.  Scanning the subject bar, and seeing the letters ”Fwd” and reading some curiously triggered title.  “How Johny got his groove back” or something like that.  Immediately, I scroll down as soon as I open it, thinking, time, speed, and agility, will not cause me any bad luck, if it is indeed, a dreaded forward.  I find that all too familiar open wide space, and then, I see it.  I think, if I delete this quick enough, it won’t effect me, but too late, even in the little forward note, it’s telling me, do not delete, and forward to twenty people, and I shall have good luck. If I don’t forward and delete, my dog will run away, my significant other will cheat on me, and my best friend will turn on me.  I wonder if I’ve came across the red headed step child of country music, or a fortune cookie that’s turned on crack and decided to procreate.  Either way, I want to neuter the person who sent it to me.

Forwards are just another hallmark evil grandchild of chain-letters.  Yeah, remember those?  You get a letter that you painstakingly copy on a typewriter, with all the names and addresses before you.  Then send it out to seven more friends.  I think this is what gave birth to, seven degrees to separation.

I get the most joy by taunting a forward.  “The person who sent this to you, was thinking of you and would want this back too.”  Hmmm, if they don’t get it back, does that mean I’m not thinking of them?  If I have real good luck by sending it to five people, what happens if I send it to twenty people? If I happen to delete it, I’ll have seven years bad luck?  Well, my luck can’t get any worse then this, bring it on!

I love the forward where they were just thinking of you, and send beautiful pictures of scenery, with morals behind them.  You think, wow, they really put some effort to this.  Then you scroll down further and it has some guilt trip attached it to it.  “Mary needs a new set of eyes so she can see this beautiful forward her godmother made for her.  Every time you pass this forward along, St Judes Hospital will donate a dime to the cost of giving Mary, her beloved sight back.”  You end up forwarding the darn thing, and the next day, twenty pieces of junk mail has flooded your inbox.  Nice.

I have seen one forward, that was forwarded so much, the addresses of the previous forwards were so far indented it was past the center of the page. I had to use the horizontal scroll button to read the message.  I thought, ever thought of making it authentic and erasing the previous fifty names of people you don’t know?

I’ve actually edited a forward.  Sent it back to the person, and edited out the “forward this” part. Part of it, was out of spite, and another part of it, I really wanted them to get it back, but not have to do the same damn thing they put me through. ”Like, I need to think of ten people I can send this to, again?  I don’t know that many more people.”  Maybe you should stop sending forwards.

I have actually, made my own Forward, and passed it to all the forward loving people out there.  I’ve gone so far, as to make it a forward about forwards, warning, if you don’t forward this to ten people and asking them to not forward  anymore forwards, good luck will happen to you.  No animals would be harmed, and you can keep your first born.

It’s pretty sad to say, I got that forward back.  Twice.

Is it Over Yet?

No matter where you are in the United States, and no matter what you do in costumer service, you can always relate to stereotypes.  Most, not all people, fall into the stereotypes.  I talk to people all over the United States and Canada, so I’ve learned a thing or two.

Mornings are the worst time to talk to someone over the phone from the East Coast.  You have the pleasure of meeting Dolores, who sounded like she had one too many martini’s the night before and smoked since she was the ripe old age of six.  To make matters worse, she wants to know why something wasn’t done yesterday, when she just placed in the request today.  She’s on her fourth cup of coffee, and it’s only 9 in the morning.  Not only do you have a woman who’s smoked since she was six, but she’s recovering from last night’s hangover, with the lethal injection of strong office coffee, which, she’s positive no one has changed the filter and this cup is more gritty then the last.

This is your first call of the day.

The next call, is a guy named Bill, who’s done this job for the last thirty years, and knows your supervisor’s first name.  Like, this is a scare tactic that is going to make you think twice for negating his proposition.  Nice try, Bill.  Bill, also states he’s the best client your company has, and inflates his status quo by saying he was in the Wall Street Journal for doing what he does best.  As if that impresses you.  Great, they have a dot matrix picture of themselves.  After denying his first proposal, he requests to speak to a supervisor.  In this time, he forgets the name of your supervisor, and interjects he wants to speak to “a” supervisor.  After another ten minutes of you playing messenger, he gives up, only to call again and get your neighbor.

We’re just getting warmed up.

The next call, is from someone in Canada.   Anna Lee is French, Canadian, and Asian, and speaks 50 miles a minute, and asks for five consecutive things at once.  To her, this is multi-tasking.  As you are fulfilling her request, she asks a money question.  This question has to do something with money, and the first answer you give her, is not good enough.  So, she asks it again.  You tell her, the same answer.  She asks again, with the interjection of how the first project she gave you, is going.  Trying to fulfil her request, plus trying to answer her question, yet, again, is still not good enough.  So, one must take the moment to stop what they are doing, and grab the nearest stress ball that hasn’t broken under any extreme pressure yet.  Its difficult to break the foam rubber balls, but not impossible.  And never get the sand filled stress balls.  It’s true with what they say about sand reaching the most undesirable places.  After the third time, of repeating your answer, you decide to do a different tactic.  Lets tell Anne the right answer, but in a different way.  Halfway in getting your three worded answer out, she interrupts you and asks how the first task she gave you is going.  You try again, this time, your voice is an octave higher, and trying to sound, more convincing.  Then she asks those magic words, “Are you sure?” This is where the mute button better be large enough for you to find and push, and you better pray no one is within ear shot to hear the explicative that funnel out of your mouth.

When the call is finally over, it’s your first break.

And that’s just the morning!

After you come back from break, you find a few messages in your inbox, of policies that have changed, new interdisciplinary actions to keep everyone in check.  Hazing is the polite version of this.  That costumer you had over a month ago, is coming back to haunt you and asking you to recall their conversation.  On top of that, you’re having to explain, and PROVE, that the policy has not changed, and you’ve had the same policy for the past year.

In five more minutes, it’s your lunch time.

Then, you get that call.

The call that is meant to happen, when your blood sugar is at it’s lowest, the connection is not bad enough for them to hang up and try again, but just bad enough it gets on your nerves, and the costumer that is deciding to take her good old sweet time.  Tanya, from Georgia.  She reaches you, butters you up by saying she is so happy to talk to you again, and asks to place you on hold.  Three minutes goes by, and she pops up on the phone again.  Such a buttery sweet personality, she asks you one question, and after you find the answer for it, she asks to put you on hold again.  Another four minutes goes by to listening to music most jazz stations have rejected, she comes back on the line.  Another question, and you diligently find the answer to this one.  After nothing short of a high-school research paper of an answer, she puts you on hold again, this time, not asking for permission.  Two more minutes go by, and the hardened gum underneath your neighbors desk is starting to look appetizing.  Before you know it, the neighbor beside you, who came in an hour after you did, is going to lunch.  Listening to Jazz station reject music, admiring the possible calories the hardened gum may hold, Tanya, pops in again.  This time, you’ve about had it.  You want to ask if she could call back, but your luck, you’re being monitored.  You want to “accidentally” kick out the phone cord, and blame the “oo, my bad, my foot was clumsy, move,” but you know this person has your extension, and she WILL get you back. She’s either found a loop hole in the system to waste the company’s time and money, or she’s just a natural born airhead.  Five more minutes goes by, and you’ve been on the call so long, you’re hearing the hold music replay itself.  Tanya, FINALLY returns, and you find out, you’re not able to help her after all.  After a breif, pleasant, and relieved good-bye, you log out before she has an after thought of calling you back.

Time to clock out for lunch!

You find a spot, park it, and divulge in what your morning has been so far.  You find out, you aren’t alone in this whole maddening scheme of things.  Either people have had the same costumers, or its some sort of strange astrological reasoning for everything to be so difficult, and the people for being so extreme.

After lunch, you have three new messages.  Two of them, are from other agents who were just talking to Tanya and was asking if she could be transferred to you.  One message is from a nauseating co-worker who wants to exchange off days with you, this week.  This is the week you are getting your tires rotated and you’re going to the movies to see something  you’ve waited 17 years to come out.  There is no way, you are exchanging days with them.  But, you know if you don’t exchange days with them, they are going to send you another email, asking you to do the same thing, ingnoring your first response, like they never recieved it in the first place.  Then they are going to give you uncomfortable looks and stares for the rest of the week, because, you refused to switch your off days with them, on such short notice.

Halfway through the day, your tired, irratiable, and thinking you should have retreated to your car for a nap.  Caffienne has been taken beyond the killing the horse stage, and you no longer having that “Happy hyper” feeling you’ve had since this morning.  The worst thing about it is, you spilled part of your lunch on your new shirt, and you stepped on something smooshy in the bathroom.

Is it time to go home yet?

Welcome to the endless Monday.

The Highly Flammable Neighbors

Somewhere, somehow, we get in our heads, that a cubicle is like a private room.  No one sees you pick your nose, adjust your bra, adjust your underwear, or worse yet, pass gas. Since there is a wall there, no one can see you.  However, the walls are not sound proof.

I sit across from a person, whom I’m going to name D.  D either does not believe in Beano, or is unaware that not only can flatulence be heard, but it can be smelled as well.  No remorse, he just lets them out.  Mostly, they come from the attic and not the basement, which, in some ways, is good, but should still be excused for the bats coming out of the attic, so to speak.

I worry about him lighting up outside, downwind.

I also, dealt with another perpetrator, whom, now is being one of the most respectful people around, was declared “Flavor of the Month” several times around.  A blind man could smell him four blocks away, and know who this guy is.  DW, I will call him.  I came up to him one day and said “Isn’t it kind of wrong I can taste you in the air.”  I stuck out my tongue.  My food, IN solid containers, tasted funny.  My Mountain Dew, tasted funny.  “DW, you make my Mountain Dew taste funny,” brought a couple interesting looks from passer bys.  One, what did he do to my Mountain Dew when I wasn’t looking.  Two, since I’m nearing thirty, is this some sort of menopausal thing I should worry about?

After several attempts to come across to DW, he finally, subsided overworking the olfactory system.

Once again, he smokes, and I wonder if given the right wind direction, he wouldn’t go up in flames.

Then we have the person who has to do that funky, cheap, dept store body spray, EVERY time they use the bathroom.  Its evident you went to the bathroom, because, I hear “PSht, psssht” sound, and then a wave of it coming in my direction.  Never found out who this culprit was, I just knew more about their bathroom habits then their personality.

I hoped they don’t smoke.

Then you have my neighbor, CC, who is constantly grabbing the hand sanitizer, because, he read an article that the dirtiest place in the office, is the desk.  Well, once again, he neglected to read further on two important things. One, if his desk is SHARED, it has more germs on it, and two, the hand sanitizer, it’s flammable.

The worst thing about it is, you guessed it, he smokes.

The other day, his hands were just a tad wrinkly from the over usage.  One little spark and WOOSH, the poor explicative would go up in flames.

Aside from the hazards of smoking, I’m worried about the HAZARDS that ARE smoking.  If D, DW, unknown frequent bathroom user, and CC all stood around outside, at the same time, and lit up, and it was down wind…well….that would be one big fireball.

It would be a forensic invistigator’s circus.

I’m just gratefull that all these people really don’t have anything to do with one another.

I keep my distance.  Unfortunately, Mr Flatulence and Mr Hand Sanitizer, sit near me. One is across the wall, and the other, sits directly down wind from me.

Good thing they banned indoor smoking.

The Luck of the Potluck

I don’t do potlucks.

I have learned, over the years, that all potlucks may not be created the same, but they all have the same components.  My top ten, for not participating, in, Potlucks.

 

10. The overall concern of personal hygiene

I don’t know who made, how it was made, and who’s had their grubby paws in it.  Nine times out of ten, people will bring some sort of mass produced finger food.  Chips, dip, etc.  The cheapest, easiest thing to grab.  If I don’t know everyone’s personal hygiene, I’m not touching anything that involves using my fingers.  You have that mystery of how it was prepared and who handled it before you, and what is that person like, and if you like that person, and if you think their house is clean.  Then you retrace back in your mind if the person who created the meal has a habit of washing their hands.  Which brings me to number 9.

9. Not knowing what it is, or what’s in it

People are under this notion, that if it’s authentic, you might like it.  Authentic is anything that you or the majority of the people did not grow up around.  For all you know, it could be made like the pig in Hawaii is cooked, underground with worms, and ants, etc.  Knowing who made the item, is half the battle.  After find out the owner of who made it, you feel obligated to try it, so you don’t hurt their feelings.  So, it’s just best to whisper “Who made this and what is it?” then announce it.  And, normally, someone will try to sneak in something distasteful or weird in the potluck, like a mass of chicken gizzards, or oddly enough, it smells and looks like cat food, it might be cat food.  Then again, it might be a salad. Which brings me to number 8.

8. Everyone loves a salad

The easiest thing to make, yet, somehow, it takes an overnight process to prepare it.  You hear the “oh, I whipped that up last night” which, either, it was easy to whip it up, or with long preparation process of it settling and being held carefully in a well air conditioned car, you better eat the darn thing.  Its a presumptive guilt trip that they made this, especially for you to try it.

What I love is when there is so many salads.  Fruit salad, macaroni salad, potato salad.  No two are alike.  Especially potato salad.  You know how many potato salads I’ve actually tried from work? I’ve tasted one too many German potato salad.  “This one is a German potato salad” and you come to find out, that thing can be a little bitter.  Then you have this “Its ‘THE’ German potato salad”  stating it’s the ONLY German potato salad, or ‘THE best’ German potato salad.  In all the places I’ve worked, this is the most aggressive salad to stand out.  At one time, I’ve seen three German potato salads competing for the table.  Which brings me to number 7.

7. Collaboration or lack there of

One too many German potato salad suggests that, this should have been better organized.  The love of bringing one item, and having to taste so many different ones, is just too excitable.  You don’t have to go out and search for lunch.  Just bring what you know and share the bounty.  Finding out that one German potato salad is more loved then the other, there’s a quick decision on what we can do to improve for next times potluck.

Someone is designated list manager and passes it around.  Or a mass email gets sent out, after realizing that list does not pass around easily, and Mary Sue is not making up another one, and writing on it a third time.  I hate these darn things. “So, what are YOU going to bring to the potluck?”  Usually, I just politely say, “I haven’t figured it out yet.”  I have learned if I say “Oh, I’m not bringing anything,” I get into a five minute discussion of why, and a few dirty looks that I’m not a team player.  In the past year, I’ve been too embarrassed to tell anyone that I have literally been, too broke, to bring anything.  I made the mistake of mentioning that one time, and I was assigned utensil duty.  I brought the utensils and the plates, but I still did not eat anything.  A small amount, and I claimed I wasn’t feeling good.  Sometimes, there isn’t anything there I really have the desire to touch.  Such as the ever looming German PotatoeSalads.  Which brings me to another conclusion of number six.

6. Too much collaboration

I remember one potluck in particular, where, people were asked to bring in something Italian. Personally, I’m not much of an Italian person.  When I was a kid, I ate enough spaghetti that I probably thought I was authentic Italian. Now, I can’t touch the stuff. 

It seemed like, no one else had any Italian ideas to bring in.  One person went to great lengths to make meatballs and the other made the pasta.  No one really touched it.  It was a sad little attempt to collaborate something everyone was afraid to speak up and ask to do another type of Potluck.  This adds so much restriction, and once again, sometimes you get too much of one thing.

Worst part about it was, that some people left a few things at home.  This brings me to number 5.

5. Left it at home

Its sitting on the counter and my cat or dog is possibly eating it as we speak.  This reason, I find, really helpful, because one, if a person states this, I know how the hygiene of the product is.  I know what’s possibly in it, dog or cat hair.

Or, they are really good liars.

Once, I had planned to bring something in for a someone’s birthday.  I know he liked salads and I made up one on the whim.  However, I was going to make it there, instead of bringing it over, unrefrigerated.  Once I made the salad, I knew it would need refrigeration.  I forgot the darn thing.  The Ingredients and everything sat on my counter, at home.  In a way, I’m glad I didn’t bring it because, well, brings up to number 4.

4. No one touches it

I feared no one would touch it, as well.  So, in a way, I was glad I left it home.  But, I had a chance to redeem myself by bringing it later on during the week, for another potluck opportunity, for a good friend of mine.  Well, I could see so many things going wrong with that. One, I had to go to the dentist that day, and two, I could see myself, either forgetting to bring it, forgetting an ingredient, and once again, no one touching it.  Brings me to number 3.

3. Picky Eater

I’m a picky eater. I’m not going to deny that.  Certain things, I’ll touch, other things, I won’t touch. You’ve  probably got that assumption by now from 10-4.  If I don’t know how it was made, who made it, the hygiene of the individual, and how their counter top is set up, I’m not touching it.  If I don’t know of all the ingredients, and given some sort of foreign name of what it is, I’m not going to touch it.  If I see people lingering away from it, I’m not going to touch it. If it’s finger food, not going to touch it. Especially if its a mass produced product, such as a bag of chips, I am not going to touch it.  If I don’t know the hygiene of everyone placing their hand next to the finger food or the mass produced finger food, not going to touch it.  You get my idea.

If the three German potato salads are the ONLY thing there, I’ll have all three.  Yet, if I have ANY doubt in my mind, on who created it, not going to touch it.  Which brings me to number 2.

2.  The Fear of the Potluck

How much I love explaining to people, why I don’t do, potlucks.  I don’t want to offend anyone.  Not knowing the hygiene and things like that, is a big thing for me.  Having to dodge that "What are you bringing" bullet is not fun.  I always let people know, I didn’t bring anything, I can’t join, yet, there is plenty of food to pick from.  Sometimes, I look on, and sometimes, if I feel daring enough, I’ll have some.  When everyone has encouraged me it’s safe, I might go ahead.  In a way, I want an introductory line up to who made it, whats in it, and why am I encouraged to try it.  Hesitantly, I’ll try it.  That involves the risk of possibly offending the person of who made it.  Another thing I don’t want to do.  And then there is ever pressing question of how long the substance has been out.  Which brings us to the number one reason, as to why I don’t do potlucks is…….

Drum roll please……..

1.  The Potluck “Safety bubble”

The myth that the food that is sitting out, is safe, because it’s in that magical bubble that nothing bad can penetrate it.  This nice little safety net that all germs can not effect this holy ground of the bounty.  Things happen to stand out for much longer, and food poisoning is just, unheard of.

Besides, there’s “luck” in the word “Potluck.”

The only ”luck” I’ve recieved from a “potluck” is the bounty of the usage of the pot.

 

So, I’ll pass on this one.  Thankyou.

“May I call you Sheila?”

I continously, get my name pronounced wrong.

I truly love how phonics over the phone is not used as a learning tool for how people speak.  How, phonetically, names sound alike.  For me, it’s either, Terry, Kelly, Marry, Sherry, and so far, my favorite, Sheila.  How they get Sheila is beyond me.  And my real name, is Carrie.

When they try to spell my name, I think of either one or two things.  Either, its a deterant to be nice, which, I always am, or depending on how good I am, they’ll want me back.  With my name, there is at least a good twenty different ways of spelling it, and they have a fifty/fifty percent of getting it right.  What annoys me is when they spend a good deal of time trying to ask for the spelling, where, after a while, I’m like, sure, that’s how it’s spelled.  Then I look passively over my neighbor, letting them know, this call is getting off to a great start.

There are those calls that start off calling you “honey,” or “babe”.  Like, you’ve magically changed your name, right on that phone call, to be called “Honey.”  After a few “Honey’s” you know either one of three things.  One, he wants you to do a favor for him, two, he easily forgets names and calls everyone by that, even the men, and he’s straight, or three, he’s done enough 900 numbers by now that everyone is either “honey” or “babe.” 

Then there are those calls that, you find out, you have the same name.  Even the same spelling.  Sometimes, your name rhymes, and you are both in giggling fits of laughter, because THAT’s just so FUNNY.  Which, in reality, its one of those jokes you have to be there, and you are both so tired from your job, anything is redeemable as funny.

There are those calls that you are talking to someone, and they have the same name as the person sitting right next to you.  So, as a costumer service thing of repeating the name several times throughout the phone call, you say their name a few times, and your neighbor, gets confused that you are talking to them.  What’s even more funny is when someone walks by, with the same name of the person you are talking to.  I find myself saying their name a few extra times, especailly if the person sitting next to has annoyed me, and I just want to get them back for some odd, unspeakable reason. 

Then there’s the irrate costumer who calls and they want to speak to so-and-o.  This never stops to amaze me that it’s this open understanding that, you work in a small office and you know everyone.  They don’t know so-and-so’s extension, so you offer to assist them.  They want you to look it up for them.  Come to your horror, there is like, twenty so-and-so’s, and they are in every concievable department you can imagine.  So you advise the costumer this.  They either decide to hang up and try again, or, press for a supervisor, who gives them the SAME answer.  By now, they’ve given up and you end up helping them after five minutes of diligent search.

Insert Joke Here

There’s not a day that goes by, where I don’t laugh at work. 

My biggest thing is, if you can’t laugh at work, you’re at the wrong job.

Even criminal investigators have a sense of humor. I know one.

Life can be pretty boring and strenuous, if you can’t laugh.  Laughter, in my opinion, is better then sex.  More then one person can enjoy it at a time, and there’s no competition on who finishes last or lasts the longest.  You don’t have anyone turning over after three minutes, angrily looking through the bottom shelf of the night stand, or someone getting up to have a cigarette.  Then again, I do work with a few smokers, so what can I say.

Having a good sense of humor, will get you through the day.  Whether it be making fun of a stereotypical costumer, or surprising someone with a random verbal, accidentally placed, interjectory, aka, the last remnants of what remains of my blondness.  Age has been kind of enough to darken my hair, to hide the fact that, underneath this auburn, I was born a blond.  Whether it be diet, or hormonal changes, I can easily camouflage myself as a common household nerd.  Then I say a comment, a random, “Eureka” or “Ah ha” comment, where, it just happens to be the wrong time to say it.  Hence, my ever persistent nickname, “Random.”

Enter the office where you have one compulsive person who MUST USE hand sanitizer, because of a brief newscast of “dirtiest places in the office.”  This guy makes a Virgo seem less anal retentive.  Well, suffice to say, I am a Virgo, so I am allowed to make fun of myself.  I love my neighbors, but some of their antics, can be a little much.  Especially this one neighbor in particular.  He could use his hand sanitizer as a cologne and no one would suspect any differently.

On this particular day, a good friend of ours came into the office.  Someone we never see much, and we adore to the same extent as a body part we can’t imagine without.  Another good friend, and equally admired body part we can’t imagine living without, walks over.  Now, mind you, the large percentage of us in this little area of the office, was in the same training class.  So, for nearly a year now, we’ve gotten to know each other pretty candidly.  A little too well, but well enough that we know what we can get away with around each other.  You really do not need alcohol interjection to enjoy each others company.  It comes naturally.  Case in point, the one friend puts his arm around the other friend’s shoulders, and jokes that, they are dating.  That is an inside joke in itself.  One guy is straighter then a ruler at a Catholic School, and the other guy has a boyfriend that doesn’t strike me as the jealous type. Anyway, at that coincidential moment, I realize, what that smell was, that was bothering me throughout the previous day, and retorted, “So that’s what I was smelling.”  My lovely, anal retentive neighbor, had just used his wonderful hand sanitizer and the air had a familiar fragrance to it.  I should have had made the connection yesterday when I noticed his hands being wrinkled.

If I ever had one of those moments where I wanted to hide underneath the desk and wait till the coast was clear, this was one of those moments.  This was where the internal dialogue happened to slip out and was no where near “inside voice.”

Later on that day, I had another “oh, shiny” moment, when I realized the paper our managers were writing on, looked like a giant notepad.  Well, because it is meant to look like a giant note pad.

At least I’m not the only person who falls prey to saying off the wall things in the most unique times.

I remember through high school, where the word “ball” would make my face flush so red.  Well, I found out I have an ally that kind of has the same problem.  During a quick break during a workshop, they handed us ice cream.  Well, I and another person happened to grab an ice cream with nuts on it.  “I should be careful, my nuts are dripping on the floor.”  This time, that did not come out of my mouth.  This came from a female and coincidentally, a blond!

So, through a good portion of the meeting, I was picking on her, about her “dripping nut” problem.

You must have to be a certain criteria to work here, because I have never worked with so many randy people.

I needed a cigarette after that one.

Board Room Blues

You can give me as many coffee, and sugar laden donuts as much as you like, I still hate meetings.

Especially those that last the whole day.

I wasn’t thinking of creating a blog while at today’s meeting, but I was thinking about how we were all missing the opportunity for finger paints and those adorable “Hello my name is” branding name tags.  We have, however, paper passed out, where we kindly scribbled our first names in bold letters, so other people could place a name with the face.  Towards the end, it was a jostled, tired, mess.

I love nothing more to get away from every day, paper pushing, humdrum stuff.  The only way to get away from this is, to go to a meeting.  This was, by far, the longest meeting I’ve ever been to.  It could have been easily set up as adult day camp, and each of us assigned a camp counselor.  I don’t like crowds, let alone, being in a small crowded space with a lot of people I don’t know, few people I do know, and some I’d like to forget.  You always try to find those familiar faces and rush to find a seat next to them.  That can be your saving grace.  I was grateful it wasn’t going to be assigned seating, like on some cruise ships, where the person next to you will not stop guffawing at bad jokes, and smells like onions and hemorrhoid creme.  To my pleasant surprise, we had an exercise where we moved around, joined teams for “game time” and I scooted over to a couple of familiar faces I hadn’t seen for a while.  That was my saving grace for the day. I wasn’t, painfully alone, in this whole workshop ordeal.  Someone else was there to endear the same pain.

I have no complaints how today’s workshop went.  By no means.  It was an unfamiliar orgy of people that made my stomach queasy.  Most of them, women well over fifty, and ripe in menopause.  The majority of them sat at one table, and the “motley rest” sat at the other.  I was part of the “motley rest” and glad of it.  The intensity and passion was thick at the other table.  It felt like a live rendition of “The View” minus, Rosie O’Donnell taking charge.

Meetings never go as planned.  You have a group of people, who specially fly in from somewhere distant, like Miami.  These people, diligently, mapped out, what they wanted to cover, how they wanted to cover it, and what time frame.  Herding a group of people is harder then herding cattle.  You can’t use cattle prods or scare tactics on a group of angry, confused, people.  Granted, it did feel like, the running of the bullheads for a short while.  The table with the most menopausal people, won in that quick debate. The cattle herders, the people who made the special trip to speak at the meeting, lost slight rein for a spell, and there was an invisible podium stand by one of the handlers.

Whether it was coincidential, or purely by irony, pressure hit me between the eyes.  Maybe it’s the shrill of someone’s voice, trying to overspeak a small group of upset people, or my ability to not adjust with the weather well.  Either way, it was a good three or so minutes, where I don’t remember anything but pressure between the eyes, and feeling self concious of my behavior. With the glasses off and the eyes close, you still have a sense of people looking.  At that moment, I only cared about the pressure that had hit, and area it was effecting.  I wanted it gone.

My saving grace was the few office buddies I knew in the whole meeting.  One of them in particular, BJ. I appreciate his attentiveness and his concern kept me at bay.  After riding the storm out, I was a little groggy and unsure footed at first.  Its not an unfamiliar spell I go through.  My family has the same issue, when the barometric pressure changes suddenly, our head and body will react in unusual ways.  I joke with my friends, I’m a walking, breathing, barometric gauge.  Ask me if we’ll get rain today, and I’ll tell you when and how much.

This was a particular time I wished I was privately behind my desk, doing my usual humdrum work.  As the case may be, nothing ever turns out the way you like it to turn out.  One can never predict how people in large groups will react, and how long, the actual meeting will feel.  Or, when certain things happen, such as a spell, how grateful you are to be next to a saving grace.

For that, I’m grateful to my office buddies.

My saving grace from the Board Room Blues.