So, I guess Bound Manual is a story about a young mexican sex slave worker?

Mr. Jack trained us shlubs about six months ago on How To Do Our Jobs in the New System.

He printed and handed out many printed handouts. He used big shiny alligator clips to keep the different sections together, and separate from each other. We ooohed and ahhhed appropriately.

Well, at least I did. The other two knuckleheads whined about not having a binder to put it all in.

Ungrateful bastards. They should have been rejoicing in the fact that we had handouts. With pictures! What more could a lowly confused office drone hope for?

Then came the Other Trainers. Those trainers that would train me in the Art Of Buying Shit. They would have to really shine to outdo Mr. Jack's training.

And boy did they shine.

Well, if only in the Grand Offerings department. These Other Trainers came to us with preassembled gifts from the gods. Bound Manuals. On purple paper!

Mr. Jack suffered from Manual Envy.

But he was not to be outdone.

On no, not he! Not the Training God amongst the mightiest of gods!

Because you see, as it turns out, The Powers That Be had decided earlier to actually, in fact, delay the inevitable. We were given time to redo all of our last minute preparations, because if hectic last minute crunch time preparations are fun the first time around, they're certainly more enjoyable/insightful/helpful/life fulfilling the second time around.

"Oh joy!" shouted my fellow employees from across the land. "More prep time after years of prepping!"

And with more prep time came the need for more training. Refresher training if you will. Because most of the stuff we learned 6 months ago had quietly and secretly oozed from our memory retention cells.

Enter stage left: the awesome Mr. Jack, Training God to the Stars. And with him all three inches of nothing less than ambrosia from the gods themselves.

I am now the proud owner of a three inch binder full of reference material on How To Do My Job. My sweet lil office Man-u-well has color coded alphabetical dividers for easy access. And it has three, count them three different Table of Contents!

I love my Manual. He makes my life so much easier, now that we've entered The Final Stage on our road to Tartarus. The Big Change is just around the corner. The day we've been preparing for, and crying over, for months - nay years! - is just around the corner. But I've got Manual to keep me company, to keep me safe.

I love you Office Manual.

*smoooooch*

sorry, there is no little puking emoticon for me to select from *

* The above post title comes from an IM conversation I had with Jack yesterday. Like the good little time waster that he is, he eventually found me one. A puking emoticon that is. I meant to save it and use it as my new computer wallpaper... but I lost it. Le sigh.

Today's post comes from the category of Things I Never Wanted To Learn About My Coworkers.

Random Coworker (one of two that has made the comment that I sound like a phone sex operator when I use my 'quiet voice' on voice messages - eek!) is in the office and says, "The second thing..." And I'm suddenly wondering what the first thing was. I wasn't paying attention and can easily tune out surrounding conversations when the mood suits. The mood suits often enough, especially when I've got a cold. (Like I do now, just a week or two after getting over the last one. *whine*)

Random Coworker sounded kind of hurt, like Mr. Desk Neighbor had made some joke about clowns without knowing that Random Coworker's mom is a clown who's won National Clown awards for Recognition in Promoting Clown Excellence across the country or something, which then caused Random Coworker to be so deeply offended by said clown joke that he, naturally, felt compelled to school Mr. Desk Neighbor in what to avoid saying as to not make him so upset.

I don't know if Random Coworker's mom is a clown or not. All I know is that the whole thing sounded kind of awkward by the time I tuned into the conversation. And then I heard the rest of that sentence.

"The second thing that really burns me up? Going to the bathroom and finding the seat warm."

Oh good lord.

"I just can't do it. I have to come back when the seats cold..."

I thought he was joking at first. He was just pulling Mr. Desk Neighbor's leg, trying to make him feel bad, then whammo! Out comes the punch line.

But I think he was kind of serious.

"...Someone's ass had made it warm!"

Seriously. I didn't need to know.

"You agree Lisa?"

Huh? Whaaaaaat?

"Uh... no comment."

I went back to ignoring them after that. He got my attention again when he asked me a question.

"I'm sorry," I said, dragging my attention from the Very Important Work I'm engrossed in. "What did you ask?"

"Never mind. Sorry for bothering you," he said.

"You're not. I have to pay attention to you for you to bother me."

Ah ha! Score one for me! That put him in his place. For a bit. Playing with me was like playing with fire - he got burned! - so he went back to joking with Mr. Desk Neighbor and I went back to ignoring them.

But one snippet made it through the filters.

"I have to watch my weight... so I can wear my thong."

That almost elicited a response, but I know that's what they were hoping for. So I kept on ignoring them as best I could.

Kind of like when the boogeyman is standing in your room, in the shadows, ready to pounce. If you just shut your eyes real tight, throw the covers over your head and pretend he doesn't exist, he eventually gets bored, gives up, and finds someone else to annoy.

Oh, its on like donkey kong now!

The other day, right before a very (yeah right) important business meeting, someone told me I should be a comedian.

I can't remember why he said that. I'm really not that funny. And he doesn't need to kiss my ass for any reason...

Well, it doesn't matter. I was mystified all the same because being a comedian, especially of the stand-up variety, is the last thing I'm qualified for.

That and Resident Rocket Science Expert. But I digress...

I told him he was wrong, gave Jack the evil eye, then I left the conference room to get a snack before the Big Meeting Of Nothingness commenced. I meant to get a snack when I was at the vending machine only minutes before, but some whore (re: Jack) snuck up behind me and screamed which made me scream and skip a few heart beats and curse like a fourth grader who just learned a new cuss word.

It also made me completely forget I'd wanted a damn snack in the first place. So... I guess I almost owe you a 'thank you' for that Jack. Next time though, make the forgetfulness last a bit longer so I don't gravitate back towards the Evil Vending Machines.

I mean, if you're going to be a bitch, be the best bitch you can be.

:)

Anywho, I get back to the conference room to find that my dear friend Jack has drawn me a picture. A little visualization cue card if you will.

I don't know why I'm wearing a 'pwnd' dress but that's pretty awesome. I'll need to get me one of those sometime.

And now he's resorted to calling me names on his own blog.

*tee hee*

It's almost pointless to link to his blog since there's nothing there. Except for the one post where he lovingly (I'm sure) calls me a bayatch.

I guess he got drunk one night and ate all the posts. All three posts or whatnot.

Sheesh. You're such a slacker dude. Now go validate my data!!!

A post about my mom that deserves a better title than this lame ass one

So my mom just called me. I was ending a phone conversation with my boss when my pants started to vibrate (ooh la la). I pulled out my cell and saw the name MOM scroll across the screen. Considering the last time she called (see explanation below**) I didn't want to miss her call so I hit the little 'talk' button and hoped she hadn't been sent to voicemail yet.

Me: Hello?
Mom: Hellooo. So whatcha doing?
Me: Uh... work.
Mom: Oh. Ohhhhhh. I thought it was Saturday!

Hahahahahaha.

My mom's not retired. Or senile. So she's generally on top of what day of the week it is.

She doesn't work Fridays but apparently for the last couple of weeks she has. Today was her first Friday off in awhile. Hence that warm fuzzy Saturday feeling.

Mom: Your father has the day off too! We're just running around, getting things done.
Me: Uh huh.
Mom: Thought I'd see how you were enjoying the weekend.
Me: Sigh.
Mom: Okay, call me later.

At least this wasn't one of her "guess-where-we're-at-that's-right-the-beach-nayh-nayh-nayh-nayh-nayh!" phone calls. (I swear, I get one of those every time they go, which is often. They're a couple of beach-aholics.) That might have made this Friday sucks just a little bit more.

But hey, its Friday! This is supposed to be a Suck-Free-Zone for crying out loud.

So thanks for the phone call Mom. It made my day. Even if you did point out how much fun your having not being at work today. :)


** The last time my mom called me was last Wednesday (july 4th). Some girl had just called her, a girl who, under the duress she was obviously under, sounded an awful lot like me.

All she said was, "Mom? Are you there? Mommmmmm????" And then the phone disconnected.

The girl was crying and upset and needing to talk to her mom in a very bad way.

The girl didn't sound exactly like me, but people don't always sound like they normally do when they're really upset. So my mom worried. And called me on my cell.

I was driving at the time and didn't answer.

Which worried my poor mom even more.

I called her back when I got home and reassured her I was fine. I think she was still a little shaken by the phone call so I reassured her several times that I was perfectly wonderfully and enjoying the holiday.

I don't know if I'll ever have kids. It'd be nice to have someone do my chores and feel obligated to wipe my ass when I'm old and senile and needing a place to stay. But those aren't exactly primo reasons to spawn.

And yes I know children are wonderful and change your lives and are blessings and fill your hearts with joy and love and blah blah blah. I know they're worth all the pain and angst you might have in direct result of them being in your lives.

But if I never have kids, at least I'll never have that gut ripping parental fear that something bad might be happening to your child.

So mad props to any parents out there. I don't know how you do it. Maybe one day I'll know... maybe.

My brain is unlike that of any mortal! It consists of witchcraft, spells, and ideas for pastries that the world has yet to see! *

Driving into work this morning I smelled something weird.

Now, I don't have the greatest sense of smell. I'm not sure if that's always been the case or if moving down to smogsville has affected my allergies so much its messed with my nose. Sometimes I can't smell anything. That I can see as being a side effect of the allergies. But sometimes I smell things that others can't. (And I've never been pregnant so no excuse there.) Sometimes there's a faint smell in the air, just under everyone else's radar, but for some reason my nose can pick up the scent.

And then my brain messes up the signal so it makes me think I'm smelling something I'm not.

Like yesterday... the coffee in the coffee pot was burning. Or something. That's what New Girl said as she came back from turning the burner off. Then all of a sudden I smelled it. But it wasn't burnt coffee I was smelling. It was tuna. Yes, I smelled tuna. And there was no tuna to be found. On further sniffing however I was able to define the smell into a more clearer... I don't know, memory I guess. It smelled like tuna sandwiches on toast. Did the burnt coffee, which was the basis for the burnt bread smell, make me think of the last time I made a homemade tuna sandwich? Is that why I smelled tuna?

I smelled myself as best I could. No tuna smell there. I swear.

Actually, now that I recall, New Girl had eaten a tuna sandwich for lunch yesterday. But that was around 9 in the morning (so it was more of a brunch I guess) and the coffee/tuna smell hit me around 2 in the afternoon. So I doubt I was picking up on the sandwich wrapper in the trash can across the room and...

Well anyway, where was I before the tangent... ah yes, weird smells at work.

I work in a warehouse district. Lots of big processing plants and packing plants and etc. While driving down one of the streets around here I almost always smell fried chicken. This weirds me the hell out. Why in the hell am I smelling fried chicken in the middle of nowhere? There's no KFC anywhere close. Are one of these buildings a frozen chicken farm? If so, they sure as hell shouldn't be smelling like fried chicken. I almost always picture those cute little chickens from the Fosters Farms commercials. I don't want to associate their cuteness with the fried greasiness but I just can't help it. Poor lil chickens.

I'm not even sure if others can smell it. I've pointed it out to people. We'll be driving along and I'll say something like, "Dude! There's that fried chicken smell again! What the hell is that?" and the passenger usually ignores me. Or doesn't find it as intriguing as I do. So I'm not sure if they smell it. It's strange. Coworker Jack, you've smelled the fried chicken, right? What the hell is making that smell????

But anyway, that's not the weird smell I felt compelled to write about today.

It's play-doh.

That's what I smelled on my way to work this morning.

What in the world smells like play-doh other than play-doh???

Maybe I drove by a new play-doh factory. Oh god, could you imagine working in a hot smelly play-doh factory. I think I'd rather die.

Or not, because dieing sucks.

Have I mentioned yet that I only got 4 hours of sleep last night? Hmmmm.....

* I couldn't think of a blog title, so I tried a web search for nose/smell quotes and found this fabulous site.

How My Tuesday Morning Was Almost Ruined

So I'm driving into work this morning and I turn down the street that I park on, the street parallel to my Place of Employment that's always littered with big honking semi's that feel its their god given truckers right to park right in the middle of the friggin street, right before the curve in the road so that I can't pass them without fearing for my life. Grrrrr....

So, anyway, I turn down the street and see a little bunny chilling his little bunny butt right there on the yellow lane divider strip.

And, naturally, I yelled, "BUNNYYYYY! HI BUNNY!!!!!" because I'm a dork like that and no one else was in the car.

I think that was the first time I've ever seen a bunny near my Place of Employment. Poor fella must have been lost.

As well as mentally imbalanced.

Because when the little bunny heard me scream his name, his ears perked up and he ran. But did he run away from The Big Speeding Car of Death? No. He chose to run in front of The BSCoD.

I was just joking around before, but now I was really truly yelling.

"NO BUNNY NOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!"

I swear to all things fuzzy that's exactly what I said. As if the damn bunny could understand me.

Stupid bunny.

And no I didn't run him over. He had a nice set of bunny angel wings on his back and zoomed just a little bit faster than my car was going.

Let the therapy begin...

I wrote the following a couple of months ago as a way to relieve stress. I had nothing to hit, nothing to throw of any substantial substance, and no zen garden to tend to. So I typed. Great therapy, this typing thing is. Venting out loud also works but I don't believe I had an ear to bend under the weight of my annoyance. So I typed and ranted and relieved myself over the page.

Hmmm... that sounds kind of gross.

Anywho. This is what I wrote.

I got an email just a bit ago from someone who orders stuff in our system. The email said: "Please mark this PO as received."

I don't know how many times I've explained this to the chick, but I can't receive PO's. I order stuff so its kind of a conflict of interest. The Guy Who Receives Things receives them. That's why he's called The Guy Who Receives Things. Why is this so hard to understand?

He gets the paper work that says X amount of X item from X vendor on X order has been dropped off. Then he goes on the computer and updates the order in the system. Just because she says its here isn't good enough. Great! Its here! Good to know! But how much of its here? Just because she ordered 500 of whatever doesn't mean they shipped 500 of whatever. Sometimes they ship 510. Or 487. It varies. (Which may seem stupid, I know, but they charge us for the overall weight of the item and not the individual pieces.)

Which I've told her several times now. How many more times do I have to say it???

She says she knows the item is here because her inventory is bigger. Great. But by how much? We can't just receive the order and fix the quantity later. It's a pain in the ass. Does she know how much they shipped? No? Then we have to call the vendor or wait for the paper work. The Guy Who Receives Things should have the paperwork, but the guys in her department squirrel the paper away for rainy days. Maybe for when they run out of tp and need something to wipe their asses with. Who knows.

The other day she sent me an email asking me to "update" the order. Which I can't do. Instead of explaining it again, since in-your-face-rationalization doesn't work for her, I tried subtlety. I replied to her email, and copied Guy Who Receives Things and asked if he had the paper work yet for the item. In doing so I'd hoped that she'd realize, 'Ooooooh yeah. If I want an ordered updated in the system I should ask the guy who *&#@ing updates the *&#^%ing system.'

But alas, she's still sending me emails asking me to receive orders. Bah!

So yeah. I work with morons.

I got a similar email this morning. Different Order Placer Girl, same department. And she too knows, maybe more than the other girl, that The Guy Who Receives Things is the guy that receives orders in the system. That's his job. And yet today she sends ME an email telling ME an order needs to be received.

I really wanted to respond with, "And I'm supposed to do what exactly? I personally can't friggin receive the order so it must not be that? Hmmm... Where you just letting me know so I didn't worry about the status of an order I had no idea existed? Gee golly thanks."

But I didn't. I Replied to All and CC'd the Guy Who Receives Things and said, 'hey, apparently there's an order for you to receive and apparently know one knows your name or knows your job and they're afraid to make contact with you via email lest they catch some nasty Receiver Guy Germs so receive please!'

It's a silly thing to be annoyed by and if this is the worst of my day I am very fortunate indeed. I know this. And yet it still gets to me. So I vent, vocally and in print, and then I get some damn prospective and get the hell over it. Hopefully.

Damn morons.