The cracker saga

This is a true story but the names have been changed to protect the guilty (and me)...

John and Marcia were in the kitchen at work. John gave Marcia a hearty bowl of soup that was chocked full of yummy ingredients--shrimp, potatoes, tomatoes...the whole bit.

Marcia remarked that the soup looked absolutely delicious, but she said she needed crackers to make the meal complete.

"Well," said John, "I just gave Cindy a box of crackers for the food drive she's conducting. Maybe you could use those."

Cindy is collecting food that will be put into the backpacks of young children who have very limited access to food once they leave school.

Marcia gleefully marched down to Cindy's office, grabbed the box of crackers out of Cindy's collection box and pranced off to her office.

"Taking food from the mouths of babes, heh?" I said to her as I passed her in the hall. Marcia laughed heartily, thinking I was joking.

She pulled out the crackers, crumbled them on her soup, and joyfully ate her lunch. The remaining crackers were left on her desk.

This has set off a torrent of anger throughout the staff. Emails are flying wildly from one group to the other. One staffer is threatening to pile mounds of cracker crumbs outside Marcia's office.

Another is demanding that she be told to replace the crackers ten fold, right now.

Cindy has already sent an email to Marcia asking her when she plans to replace the crackers...no response yet.

Crunching could be heard coming from behind Marcia's closed door...

24 hours without power.

What did I do?

• Read a book
• Turned the bathroom light on each and every time I went in.
• Went to bed at a ridiculously early hour
• Woke up at 3 am (because I went to bed at 8 pm)
• Burned candles
• Paced back and forth between the living room and the dining room about 800 times.
• Called the power company to see when the power would go on. They hung up on me...
  
• Had a long conversation with a neighbor who has lived next door to me for 7 years. This is the first time we've had an extended conversation.
• Craved a cup of coffee
• Pined for the Internet
  
• Found out there was power in the next town over. Drove there and bought 2 large cups of coffee and hot food. Drove home with my goodies and found out the power was back on.
  

The tax man cometh...

I marched into the meeting room, loaded for bear. I was going to get to the bottom of this tax revaluation. I was going to squeeze an admission of guilt out of the tax appraisal person, no matter how long it took. I was going to stand my ground. I was not going to let up. I was going to leave that room with a lower tax bill! Yeah! Yeah!

Ummm. No. Not quite.

I asked my questions and the appraiser calmly and logically answered. He knew my house inside and out. He knew the kitchen hadn't been updated in 15 years. He knew I have yet to update the bathrooms. He knew I have no garage. (The only thing he didn't know was how long it had been since I had last done my laundry.)

"But you based the value of my home on those gigantic new places!"

"No, I didn't. They're part of your development, so we have to list them, but we didn't compare your house with those."

"But you used homes sold before the housing crash! I know you did. Admit it! Come on. Admit it."

"No. Actually we looked at values in 2009. See (he pointed at a date included on one of the descriptions)."

Crap. He was so reasonable, and he was right.

I went to the tax assessors office to see how much my bill would increase.

I expected to find a wheezened little man. I thought he would be grumpy and ill-tempered...a Bob Cratchet type. But no. The man I found was was pleasant and outgoing. "Come on in. What can I do for you? Have a seat."

He was nice and friendly. How was I going to assert myself to such a nice person?

"They're going to double, aren't they? I just know it. My taxes are going to go through the roof. I'm going to have to move. I'm going to have to start commuting an hour to work. I'm going to have to leave my neighbors. And what about my garden? I'll have to start over, won't I?"

"Nope. Your taxes will go up about $500 for the year. That's not so bad, is it?"

Oh, I said. Oh. Hmmm. But I'm still loaded for bear! I bet there are other people who will have to move! I was still full of bluster and I was looking for a fight. There wasn't going to be one.
Bear. I was loaded for bear. Now what? I gathered my things, gave the guy a sheepish smile, and wandered out to my car. I guess I should be happy, but I'm still a little loaded for bear...

The friendly skies?

Why do I turn into a bumbling idiot when I have to fly?

At home, I carefully pack "only the essentials" in my carry-on bag.

I wear slip-on shoes and the one pair of socks I own that don't have holes in the toes.

I locate the smallest amount of shampoo and conditioner I can find, and I put them into a plastic sandwich bag.

I wash the explosive residue from my hands...in case they're checking.

I wear nice underwear...in case they're REALLY checking...

And yet, when I get to the airport,

• I can't find my boarding pass.
  
• My wallet is stuck in an inaccessible pocket of my bag.
  
• My itinerary with the flight number is no where to be found.
  
• Dollar bills are falling out of my pants pockets (I put them in there so that I wouldn't have to dig through my purse to find my wallet).
  
• I drop my passport while I'm waiting in the check-in line. (Should I feel good that when the man who had the passport seemed a bit skeptical that it was my passport when he compared my picture to my actual face?)
• To top it all off, I end up in the security line in front of an extremely well-dressed, organized, irritated businessman.
  

Well, I'm home now. When they swabbed my hands for explosives, there was no residue and they haven't yet installed the full-body scanner in an airport near me.

What I did on my snow day...

A Whole New Experience

The company restroom now boasts:

• automatic flush toilets
• automatic soap dispensers
• automatic water faucets
• automatic paper towel dispensers

Only the obvious is left...

Inside the Garage

Facebook is something I haven't quite figured out, but it has definitely brought back some memories of things and people I haven't thought about in a long time.

I joined a few months ago after receiving a request from someone. I posted the least possible amount of information about myself on my page as I could. My plan was to sit back and watch, but no, I couldn't do that. It's not set up that way.

My niece pinged me and became my first "friend." My nephew found out and became annoyed that I hadn't friended him. He became my second friend.

The next friend requests came from some of my colleagues at work. Even though I didn't really want to, I accepted them as friends. It seems odd to friend people who you see at work every day, but that's how it goes.

A woman I had gone to high school with asked "Are you the Julie from the Chronicle?" The Chronicle was the high school newspaper she and I had worked on. I added another friend. I was kind of into it. It was fun to see who else might turn up. I was amassing a decent number of friends.

Like bees to honey, people I had known in high school began approaching me (ok, that sounds a little arrogant, but you know what I mean, I hope). The most surprising came from a guy named Larry whose family had lived down the street from me when I was growing up. I have no memory of his parents, but I do remember him. I'm surprised he friended me because I was always running away from him.

He and his family lived in a big two-story house. It was typical of houses one might see in the Midwest. Behind the house was a big garage. It was a fairly big structure with large barn-style swinging doors. I don't recall there ever being a car in it. All I know was that it was big and empty. So what better place could there be than this to smoke and make-out?

I was always intrigued with that hang out, but I never went in. I come from a devout Catholic family and the fear of God had been instilled in me at a young age when it came to anything remotely related to sex. I have to admit it was pretty pathetic. All the neighborhood kids would collect and one-by-one enter "the garage." All of the kids, except me would go in for an afternoon of fun. Not me. I would wander to the back of the crowd and then slowly back away from the garage, round the corner, and run back to my house. To this day, I have no first-hand knowledge of what went on in that place. I suspect that my fantasies are far more interesting than anything that might have happened.

Late one summer, the fun in the garage ended. The neighborhood gang had decided to sneak out of town and go swimming in one of the big retention ponds outside of town. It sounded like it was going to be a blast, but once again, I ran home. The next day, the news flew through the neighborhood. Larry's brother drowned in the retention pond that day. The gang never again met in the garage. It was almost as if the entire neighborhood was frozen. The family disappeared into the house and a short time later, moved from the neighborhood. I never again heard from Larry or his family, until I was pinged on Facebook.

When he reached out to me, he didn't say anything about the garage or his brother. I wonder if he remembers the garage the way I do?

Now children...

It's an understatement to say that it is difficult to manage people in an office setting. I used to think I could be very good at it. I am an empathetic person who finds it easy to listen to others. I try not to be judgmental. I try to be open to the ideas of others. Turns out, these may not be the traits that make a person a successful manager. I'm beginning to think that I would be a more effective social worker than manager.

I have recently taken over the management of 5 people. Two of these people share an office and could not be more different from one another. There is an age difference, an economic difference (in terms of their backgrounds), and a huge difference in work ethic. The younger has inadvertently shared his views on work with the older staffer. I say inadvertently because it happened when the younger was talking on the phone to a friend in the presence of his office mate. The younger openly flaunts the already loosely imposed rules about hours and time off. He talks about freelance work he's doing on the side, sometimes during office hours. He routinely calls in with medical issues even though he appears to be a young, vital, and healthy fellow.

Enter the social worker.

The older has shared many of these insights with me. He is indignant about this fellow's blase attitude toward work. It infuriates him that this young fellow routinely works at home even though it is a perfectly accepted practice in our office and one that the older fellow could utilize himself. He is furious. He down right hates this guy! The problem is I cannot act on the information that's been gleaned from the office relationship. I have no first-hand knowledge of the younger fellow's comments. As far as I can tell, he completes his work in a timely way. And it is not against the rules to be arrogant or flip. It may be bad manners, but it's not against the rules. How many of us have had bosses who have been incredibly arrogant you-know-whats?

Can I really meet with this guy and tell him he's arrogant and being rude to his office mate? Somehow it seems like something his mother or father should have addressed when he was a child, but here I am in this situation. One "child" is annoying the other. The other sees no problem with his behavior.

I don't want to be their mother. I don't even want to be their social worker. I just want them to treat each other with respect and do their work.

I'm considering hanging a "your mother doesn't work here" sign on my door.

Dear Lizza

The smell of a dead animal of some kind (maybe a mouse, maybe a squirrel) emanated from one area of the office today.

In response, one of my colleagues sprayed air freshener throughout the office to mask the smell of the dead animal.

Because the smell of the air freshener (used to cover up the smell of the animal) bothered another colleague who is extremely sensitive to fragrances, another colleague cooked up a batch of popcorn to cover up the smell of the air freshener, which was sprayed to cover up the smell of a dead animal.

Did anyone call the facilities staff to get rid of the offending animal? Nope.

This reminds me of a song...

There's a hole in my bucket, dear Liza, dear Liza,
There's a hole in my bucket, dear Liza, a hole.
Then fix it, dear Henry, dear Henry, dear Henry,
Then fix it, dear Henry, dear Henry, fix it.

With what shall I fix it, dear Liza, dear Liza?
With what shall I fix it, dear Liza, with what?
With some straw, dear Henry, dear Henry, dear Henry,
With some straw, dear Henry, dear Henry, some straw.

The straw is too long, dear Liza, dear Liza,
The straw is too long, dear Liza, too long,
Then cut it, dear Henry, dear Henry, dear Henry,
Then cut it, dear Henry, dear Henry, cut it.

With what shall I cut it, dear Liza, dear Liza?
With what shall I cut it, dear Liza, with what?
With an axe, dear Henry, dear Henry, dear Henry,
With an axe, dear Henry, dear Henry, an axe.

The axe is too dull, dear Liza, dear Liza,
The axe is too dull, dear Liza, too dull.
Then sharpen it, dear Henry, dear Henry, dear Henry,
Then sharpen it, dear Henry, dear Henry, whet it.

With what shall I sharpen it, dear Liza, dear Liza?
With what shall I sharpen it, dear Liza, with what?
With a stone, dear Henry, dear Henry, dear Henry,
With a stone, dear Henry, dear Henry, a stone.

The stone is too dry, dear Liza, dear Liza,
The stone is too dry, dear Liza, too dry.
Then moisten it, dear Henry, dear Henry, dear Henry,
Then moisten it, dear Henry, dear Henry, moisten it.

With what shall I moisten, dear Liza, dear Liza?
With what shall I moisten, dear Liza, with what?
Try water, dear Henry, dear Henry, dear Henry,
Try water, dear Henry, dear Henry, try water.

From where shall I get it, dear Liza, dear Liza?
From where shall I get it, dear Liza, from where?
From the well, dear Henry,dear Henry, dear Henry,
From the well, dear Henry, dear Henry, the well.

In what shall I fetch it, dear Liza, dear Liza?
In what shall I fetch it, dear Liza, in what?
In a bucket dear Henry, dear Henry, dear Henry,
In a bucket dear Henry, dear Henry, in a bucket.

There's a hole in my bucket, dear Liza, dear Liza,
There's a hole in my bucket, dear Liza, a hole

Confused

How productive is it to 1) bake brownies before the exercise class, 2) think about the brownies during the exercise class, and 3) eat the brownies after the exercise class? It's hopeless, but man, were those brownies good.

Squirrely Addendum

The facilities crew at my office have been attempting to capture the squirrels that have been frolicking in the ceiling of my office. So far, they haven't had much success. The squirrels slip into the have-a-heart style traps, grab the food that’s been left as bait, and then escape through the sides of the traps.

Scorecard

Squirrels: 4

Facilities Staff: 0

A drop in the bucket

My office manager organized a bake sale for Haiti in the office today. She collected an astounding $400 by selling cupcakes and cookies.

How many containers of baby formula will that purchase? How many gallons of water might that provide? Not much, I suspect, but I'm glad she did it. At least we've added a little to the effort.

Look Out! I'm coming through!

Holy smokes! Driving from Jersey to Brooklyn is like competing in the Indy 500.

Hop on the NJ Turnpike.
Get in the EZPass lane.
Avoid the truck.
Zoom past the guy going 40 (in a 65 mph zone).
Pray that guy doesn't sideswipe you as he flies around you.
Watch it! Two lanes have collapsed into one.
Squeeze between a truck and the guardrail on your way to the Goethals Bridge.
Avoid gazing about as you cross the Verrazano Bridge.
Zip past the double-parked cars at the Chinese restaurant.
Avoid the shoppers at the Circus Circus food market.

Drive around and around the block, searching for a parking space.
Crap...perfect spot, except for the fire hydrant.
Squeeze in between 2 cars.

Grab the GPS.
Hide the rest of the valuables.
Hop out.
Breathe deeply.

Your mother wears army boots.

Performance appraisal meetings are being conducted at my office this month. For a half hour, each employee sits with their supervisor and hears what the supervisor thinks of their work. When there's a good, collegial relationship, it's easy. "You did a great job. It's a pleasure to work with you."
"Well, thank you very much. Goodbye."

When the relationship has been less than stellar, it's a painful process.

It's a strange dance between a person who has power and a person who doesn't.

The supervisor gingerly comments on the less-than adequate work.
The employee tries to defend himself.
The supervisor tries to be encouraging and offers suggestions for how to change.
The employee seethes and wonders what's the point.
The supervisor ends the session with a "things will be better next year" comment.
The employee hangs his head and wanders away.

From the manager's point of view, it's tough to face someone and tell them how you really feel. I suspect that most managers avoid being completely frank. Afterall, how do you continue to work with someone when you've just told them they suck.

It's a necessary evil, I suppose.

I wonder what would happen if each supervisor and employee were completely frank?

"You're a control freak!"
"You take no responsibility for your errors!"
"You're a whiner!"
"If you call in sick one more time on a Friday, I'm going to scream!"

Hmmm. Wouldn't that be interesting...

I'm going for the phony approach.

Pray for them

Haiti has essentially been obliterated by a 7.0 earthquake. Wasn't it enough for it to be the poorest country in the western hemisphere? The pain and suffering is unimaginable. We stand by helplessly. We can pray and offer money. What else is there to do?

Are you sure this road leads to enlightenment?

In my quest to get healthier, lose weight, and lower my blood pressure, I've decided to learn yoga. The first class I went to was sublime. The teacher spoke in a soothing voice and reminded us all that if we chose not to do a pose (or couldn't do a pose), we were free to just lie on our mats and breathe. (I'm certain she was looking at me when she said this.) If we wanted to just sit and breathe, she was cool with that. I can do this, I thought. And then I took another class from a different teacher.

I happily went to the class and reassured a person new to the class that it's called "gentle yoga" and that I was quite sure she had nothing to fear. The teacher would be understanding of those of us who couldn't do the poses. And then the class began.

The teacher spoke with a heavy German accent. Though sympathetic, she insisted that we try every pose. "They're not as hard as you may think." I struggled to do the poses, but I tried each one. I even managed to stretch my arms down in front of my prostrate body and nearly (with emphasis on nearly) touch the floor with my palms. I turned my head one direction and my body the other. I was trying. Really, I was.

"Lie down on your stomach," she instructed us.

"Reach your arms behind your back."

"Bend Your legs at the knee and grab your ankles with your hands. If you can't reach your hands, I'll give you a strap to put around your feet so you can reach your hands."

I rolled over onto my ample belly, put my hands behind my back, and came absolutely nowhere near close to grabbing my feet (and my feet are big). I ignored the strap that was next to my mat. I was content with myself. I had caused no injury to myself, I was minding my own business, and no one seemed to care. Well not quite.

"Would you like some help," the teacher asked as she loomed over me, interrupting my deep breathing.

"No, no. I'm fine," I whispered so as not to break the concentration of the rest of the completely silent class.

"Are you sure? It's a great stretch."

"No, no. I'm fine. Really."

"Come on. I'll help you."

"No," I muttered as she straddled my body.

"Here. I'll put the strap around your feet and then you can grab it."

"Ok," I grumbled as she hog tied and quartered me.

"Ok. Relax. I'm going to hold your shoulders."

Relax? Is she serious? She grabbed my shoulders and I hung suspended in the air while Godzilla hovered over me. Finally, I couldn't take it anymore.

"Ok. I'm fine now. That's enough," I whispered. No response.

"Really. I'm fine now. That's enough." No response.

To hell with the concentration of the rest of the class. "Let me down!" I implored. I flopped to the floor and Godzilla moved on to the next pose.

I have been enlightened: choose your yoga class carefully.

It's raining squirrels...where can I hide?

Squirrels are dropping from the ceiling like flies! You never know when one might fall on your head! They'll grab your hair and scratch your scalp! Look out, 'cause they may have rabies. One might bite you and you'll be frothing at the mouth and carrying on like a crazy fool. Look out, I tell you. Look out!

Ok, maybe there was just one, but the thought of masses of squirrels running around, building nests, and raising babies in the ceiling is a pretty exciting concept. Can't you imagine them leaping from a grand old tree outside the building, onto the ledge, and then tunneling through holes in the building. I can see teams of them hauling twigs and leaves and hoisting them onto the top of the ceiling panels. Maybe there are whole colonies of them, some conducting business, others creating birthing centers.

Oh well, here's the reality: one little baby squirrel was found running around the office, terrorizing the staff. He was scooped up into a box and let go outside.

I prefer the first version.