Cubicle wisdom

The half hour of my workday with the least obvious benefit to me, or anyone else, is the final half hour of the day, a period granted the simultaneously sterile and cloying title of "Supervisor Interaction Time." The idea seems to be mostly to get us used to dealing with the people who will eventually be our immediate superiors, but while we're still in training, which is done by trainers, they have precious little to impart.

To wit, yesterday, the half hour was spent reading from a list of motivational quotations, attributed variously to Einstein, any number of self-help authors, and "anonymous," which I assume means "someone who wrote one of those chain e-mails."

They asked, after we discussed the page of treacly wisdom, if anyone had any quotes by which they tried to live, or at least to keep in mind in the workplace. I spent a period of my teens reading any number of collections of literary and philosophical quotations. In spite of that, it's probably for the best that the boss didn't call on me for mine, because after 8 hours of sitting in that chair, everything but Mencken escaped me completely.

Economic Indicators

While, undoubtedly, there's a great deal for a person to learn about the world of whatever-it-is-I-do, it has seemed clear for the past six or seven weeks, that four months of training probably isn't necessary. I spend half the day doing the actual job, at this point, which makes it very difficult to convince myself, or the majority of those in my training class, that the remaining four hours of training and instruction are valuable enough to warrant full attention or even complete consciousness. HEY PARENTS, THAT WAS A JOKE, I'M A HARD WORKER AND EVERYONE AT WORK LIKES ME.

Seriously, that's a little true. Except for my trainer, who has an unnerving lack of affect and seems to find my casual confidence and easy command of the material a little tedious, all the coaches, supervisors and even less popular co-workers seem to find me charming and interesting.

It's really a relief to have a job that feels permanent. It's been a while. It's been quite a bit longer than it's been since I had a job that was, technically speaking, permanent. The pun seems obvious, but my job at SHPS always seemed destined for disaster. I guess every disaster looks like it should have been predictable after the fact, though. That's probably a good lesson for me at the moment.

The biggest annoyance at the new job until recently was a web filter tight enough to turn rubbing alcohol into vodka. Luckily, the new future phone has solved by daily Facebook DTs quite nicely, albeit only at pre-determined work-appropriate intervals. The phone has also been a nice reminder of how much I had missed being able to buy something nice without agonizing over its impact on my finances over the next six weeks.

I tell you, kids. Things are looking up.

Forward. A bit.

My apologies, Internet, for the unforgivable lapse in this admittedly fairly young blog. Many of my readers are no doubt aware that this was not, as one might assume, the result of usual shiftless nature, but rather distraction by another, somewhat more productive project.

Back in early August, in an uncharacteristic fit of ambition and optimism, I decided that I should start posting Craigslist ads. One hundred of them, in as many days. I didn't tell everyone about the project immediately, as I usually do with a new undertaking, which makes it all the more surprising that I was as conscientious about continuing it as I was, until recently. Eventually, many or most of my friends/usual internet readership became aware of the project, and I was convinced to transcribe the ads, in their entirety, to a new blog, 100 Days of Craigslist.

As you can no doubt tell from reading the most recent entry, as well as, I suppose, the earliest, the project was met with success quite aside from its dubious acclaim throughout the local 50-year-old divorced woman community. The project lasted 50 days, though, which makes only slightly less catchy of a title for a book.

My standards, according to friends, co-workers, ex-girlfriends and a recent fortune cookie, are unreasonably high. Of the several dozen applicants, only five or six reached the point of phone numbers being exchanged, and one three culminated in actual face-to-face meetings. Pleasant but awkward, initially, but the most recent put a firm halt to the project.

I was on my way to Uptown last Tuesday night because of an unusual bout of generalized irritation with being at home, so I sent a few text messages to see who was interested in passing an evening drinking extremely cheap beer in school-night-appropriate amounts.

Maria, a considerable amount of champagne into her own evening of irritation at being at home, agreed enthusiastically, and I picked her up for a lovely evening on the patio at Cause (pronounced "Sauce.") The majority of our conversation consisted of my recounting of The Craigslist Ad Project up to that point. I told her about a few odd coincidences, some hilarious setbacks (which, if you know me in person, I would encourage you to ask me about, because they're not necessarily appropriate for Internet publication for various reasons), and the remaining possibilities ahead. Most of my focus for the future was on the lady-scientist who was among the more recent respondents, but who had failed to respond to her text that evening.

Maria wished me the best of luck, and read 40-some days worth of ads after I dropped her back at her apartment, and I drove home and went to bed, after writing another quick ad for that day.

At about 7:20 the next morning, as I was driving to work, I got a phone call. Oddly the first phone call I had received since getting my new phone, so I spent what seemed like a very long time figuring out how to answer, and then glancing quickly back and forth between the screen and the brake-lights ahead of me.

Eventually, I gathered my senses enough to say "Hello," and was met by a surprisingly chipper apology for having missed my text the previous evening, and an offer to go out after work that day. It seems that if I want a date after work on any given day, all I have to do is wake up too late to shower. I nonetheless agreed with more enthusiasm that pre-10 o'clock Dan is known for.

Jimmy's is a delightful bar. I had never been there for happy hour, but its one small double-paned window doesn't mar its dreary dankness in the least during daylight. We talked our way through the initial awkwardness and the first couple pitchers of "whatever is the strongest" between the two nearly interchangeable domestic taps at Jimmy's, until deciding to move on to The Vegas Lounge. It went very well.

If you've never heard a drunk girl with an English accent standing on a sidewalk in Northeast, complaining about what George Lucas did with Star Wars starting in the late '90s, then I really can't recommend it enough. At the end of the evening, we arranged another date for Friday, and I went home to put The Project on hold, much the the mixed chagrin and congratulations of its readership.

Some time the following day, through a mixed haze of post-first-date head, and Old Style hangover, we discussed that she was leaving town the following week, and, that being the case, squeezing in an extra date before the one we had already scheduled seemed like a good idea, just to make sure we had as good a time as the bar-light and beer had made it appear. Eventually, that tally grew to four dates in five days, with the total time spent together just over that of a normal work-week.

I know I always say "cautiously optimistic," but I can't actually remember a time, past the e-mail stage, when caution has been the right choice.

I'm going to be pretty annoying for a while.

Atlas Sucked

I woke up with a headache this morning, which always seems unfair when my schedule hasn't allowed for any time to go out the previous evening. It never seems to bode well for the day ahead, though today seems to be going as well as can be expected of a Wednesday.

I saw, in the parking lot at work, what may well be the most odious person in all of creation. I was walking from my car when I was nearly run over by a white BMW 335i driven by a well groomed young blonde. She rolled her eyes in a small fit of pissy entitlement before swerving around me, and as she rolled away, I saw the vanity plates gleaming in the fluorescent lights. J GALT.

I've never hated anyone so much based on 10 seconds. I assume that car runs on the blood of the working man.

On a more positive note, I took my favorite phone call ever at work today. A middle-aged to elderly woman called in, gave her name and told me in a cheerful voice, "I'd prefer to speak to a lady." No problem at all ma'am. I wish every problem that confronted me in life took only five seconds to become someone else's problem.

Hannoi Grilled Pork Specialty

I've been neglecting the blog a little, but it's been in favor of other, more commercially viable writing projects, so you'll have to forgive me.

Friday was payday at the insurance mines, which means this weekend included a fairly pricey trip to the new brakes store. It's nice to have both the going and stopping in more or less working order on my car. I actually saved $70 or so by sleeping so late on Saturday that Midas didn't have time to finish the job before work on Monday and I had to get an estimate from Tires Plus instead. How a car repair business can operate for only a half day per weekend was the subject of considerable confusion, both for me and for the guy at Tires Plus.

In addition to being payday, Friday was also one of my co-workers' birthday, which meant that I was invited to, and for the first time in my life, attended an after-work happy hour with co-workers. At some point in recent weeks, a portion of my training class splintered off into a separate "cool table," and they were fairly insistent both that I attend, and that I repeat several stock anecdotes for the benefit of spouses in attendance.

At some point, my admittedly stentorious banter drew the ire of a lumpy, graying pile of South Suburban privilege and entitlement who told me that I was very loud and that I didn't know anything about communicating with people. The specifics of her remaining complaints were drowned out by my co-workers asking who she thought she was and telling her to go back to her table. Afterward, they told me that I handled the exchange with more politeness than they expected, and I assured them that I had only caught part of her tirade over her extremely loud jacket.

I excused myself from the outing some time after the birthday girl and went to join Joe Mahon for dinner. He suggested Vietnamese and after finding Pho Tau Bay on the verge of closing, we went to a place that had heretofore escaped my attention where I ate one of the best meals of my life. The garrulous Thai woman behind the counter (apparently not an actual employee, just a helpful family friend) amiably bullied both Joe and I into ordering a glass of cane juice with iced tea each, as well as the D-14. It takes about 20 minutes, she told us, but was well worth both the money and the wait. We were both equally impressed, if slightly baffled, by the pressed and rolled pork, sliced over rice noodles and vegetables.

After accepting a round of enthusiastic thanks and compliments for the dinner recommendation, our host politely demanded we each by a sandwich for the road. I did, and was more than delighted to have done so before bed last night, after a night of cocktails and 4-Square at Noah's, when I remembered the precious bahn mi in the refrigerator upstairs. Stevie, who had never had a proper introduction to the cuisine of Vietnam until her small portion of that sandwich, is now insistent that we get some more as soon as possible. I couldn't agree more.

Once more unto the beach, dear friends.

I saw a truck on the way to work this morning, apparently driven by a distributor for Rappala. Emblazoned on the side of the vehicle was the slogan "Prepare for battle" alongside a rendering of what I assume was supposed to be an especially vicious looking game fish of some kind. Now, in spite of whatever urbanite contempt I might hold for The Outdoors, I consider fishing to be a pleasant enough pastime and its material rewards more than delicious. Moreover, when the War on the Ocean is finally declared, I'll be among the first to enlist. Just the same, it seems like elevating anything you can do while listening to a baseball game and drinking Keystone Light to some sort of aquatic Thermopylae seems like self-importance. Until the DNR repeals catch-limits on anything but non-combatants, you’re not really a patriot to the dry land, you’re a tourist to an enemy nation.

Lunch today was a corned beef sandwich with cole slaw. Ordinarily, this is exactly the kind of bastard offspring of Ruben and Rachel that would enrage me, but I made an exception in this case because the good people at The Eatery made no claim to either proper sandwich designation. It was good. Horseradish in the slaw dressing.

Never ask, "Where will you be having the sigmoidoscopy done?"

Stevie and I went to the outlet mall on Saturday to buy me some work clothes. It turns out that I suck the fun out of the outlet mall. Unsurprising. Lane Bryant is not as good a place to meet women as you might imagine. I bought some pants, but everything else fell above the "cheaper on eBay" price point. I already won a bid on a new coat and some "only worn once" work shoes.

Ms. Krantz invited us to the drive-in Saturday night, and honestly, I had at least mild interest in each part of the triple feature, but since Stevie can barely muster the attention span necessary for a full episode of HGTV's House Hunters, we eventually eschewed the movies in favor of an evening with Missy and her cousin Maggie in Apple Valley. The hotel bar is a cheap and reliable good time, though for the life of me, I can't imagine who stays at a hotel in Apple Valley.

I got new front tires for my car this weekend, and was reminded what a pleasure driving is when my car isn't shaking like an old-timey weight-loss machine. New tires for your car, as my dad often says, are like new laces for your shoes. All the pleasure and luxury, with none of the painful expense or break-in period. Someone kindly send an e-mail to me about three years ago, telling me to start a blog of all my dad's earthy wisdom so that I can option it into a book deal and a sitcom pilot.

I'm back to work, and pleased to find that I haven't forgotten everything over the weekend. They're selling some kind of Thai beef and noodle dish in the Eatery today, but it smells suspiciously like beef stroganoff. I will be having diet cola and granola bars.

My body Thetans are ISO 9001 certified.

We took an online course called "Introduction to Operational Excellence" this week. For the life of me, I couldn't tell you what it was about. That's really saying something, because it sounds like it should have been about "doing stuff awesome," which is kind of my thing. There seems to be a whole section of corporate America who are so far removed from the actual productive stream that they're free to spend their well paid time inventing vague fanciful phrases about how to make yourself better. And these always sound suspiciously like the kind of things cult leaders say.

At a certain level, corporate rhetoric becomes almost indistinguishable from the doctrine of the Church of Scientology.

It's come to my attention while learning the jargon of my new job that, according to Wiktionary, at least, the words "preventive" and "preventative" are equally valid and identical in usage. Naturally I have fallen into an instant and unwarranted dislike and distrust of those people who choose the less succinct four-syllable variant. Whenever one of my co-workers seems to stumble over the distinction, I prompt them helpfully that the word they're looking for is "preventatative."

Much of the work of the new job is done in a sprawling and poorly written database of insurance policies called "internet benefits at a glance" or IBAAG, for short. I've pointed out to more than one person that the tool is not actually accessible through the internet and suggested changing the common term to "database benefits at a glance."

No one seems to be biting on that one, though it's not clear whether they're on to me or not.

I'm here all week. Well, sixteen weeks, I guess. Tip your trainers.

I realized today that it's probably for the best that training is 16 weeks, if only because that will probably give me enough time in the training room to make all the jokes for which the job offers a regular opportunity. That way I won't be tempted to drop one-liners on the actual callers.

Caller: How would I be covered for a routine mammogram?

Me: Well... I guess I would imagine there's some kind of curtain.

Unprofessional.

Our regular trainer is back today, and he doesn't seem to have the appreciation of my (or anyone else's) sense of humor that his understudy did. Northside is not fazed by the change.

Trainer (looking at an example policy with the name "Vander Schaffe"): Okay, not let's look at Ms. Van-- Vander...

Class: Schaffe.

Northside: Shut yo' mouth.

Me: Just talkin' bout Schaffe.

(high fives ensue)

Rad life, sweet job.

Today, at work, we learned about how to quote benefits for x-rays and other radiological procedures when they're not routine or preventive. The learning module was titled "Quoting Sick Rad Benefits." It turned out to be a little disappointing.

I also tried the sushi from "The Eatery," for which "a little disappointing" would be a very charitable description.

I got my first taste of the actual job today; it doesn't seem difficult, but it also doesn't seem like it will provide consistent fodder for my blog.

I should probably develop some inexpensive hobbies.

In a group, I often: C) give whatever answer makes me seem like a supervillain.

Apparently later this week, we're going to be taking a course on something called "Behavioral Analytics," which sounds suspiciously like one of those interdepartmental classes at the U of M that only existed to give PR and Marketting majors a math credit.

In preparation, the training class took a personality test today. It took about half an hour, for everyone but Apple Polisher, who, apparently paralyzed by the idea of "no right or wrong answers" seems to be frozen in deliberation at each question like a TBI patient in the cereal aisle.

Each question had six answers for us to rank in order of preference, and it only look three or four questions before the results became fairly transparent. I would bet money that, when our results are revealed on Friday, they divide us neatly into six categories.

I suppressed my instinct to intentionally bury the needle on the "cold and logical" category, mostly because the quiz inexpliccably tied all the answers involving "clear thinking" and "logic" together with phrases like "hard work." I tend to think that when we receive our officially sanctioned personalities, mine will be roughly equal parts "evil robot," "grifter," and "shiftless layabout."

Those sound bad, but the other categories are basically "mama's boy," "hippy," and "sociopath" as near as I can tell, so at least I picked the answers that imply that I've got people skills.

"Oh, that Macaroni Grille is usually so good."

After an hour listening to fully trained folk of my pay grade, it is my preliminary determination that this job is no more difficult or demanding than the one I did at General Mills. It is less interesting, by virtue of my answers to customers' questions never involving the phrase "not enough butter," but it didn't appear, even on a Monday (purportedly the busiest day of the week) to be anything beyond my capacities.

I nonetheless embrace my remaining 14 weeks of training, if only from a purely economic standpoint. If I'm not doing any real work for my pay, then it's a purer profit for me, even though doing actual work might make the days go faster.

I finally identified the source of my immediate affinity for our substitute trainer. He has a certain aloofness to the corporate culture that seemed familiar, but unplaceable. It turns out, he was a journalism major.

I used to say that if my lifetime of cordial indifference toward my fellow man is eventually punished by an eternity in hell, my own hell would be an endless drive through the suburbs with a full bladder and no place in sight to stop. After a customer care exercise last week, I've revised my theory. I would be in a warm, slightly humid room with nothing to eat or drink, seated by an infinite number of Barbs while a supervisor asks everyone in the room to give an example of a time they received poor customer service. My soul would then be shredded away, century after century by rambling, poorly articulated stories filled petty bitching and baseless feelings of inscrutable entitlement.

It's bizarre to me that I've always excelled in customer service jobs, despite my own ideal consumer experience being one that is as cold, impersonal and efficient as possible. Unless the transaction involves bourbon or pancakes; then it's okay to call me "hun."

I forgot to bring any lunch, and I can't commit to the slippery slope of signing up for an automatic payroll deduction account at the Eatery.

Why would you wake up and go to work when you could stay here and make out with Ms. Pacman?

Yesterday was my first test in "going out on a school night" since the start of the new job. The reliably fun Ms. Krantz joined Stevie and me at Sauce for a pleasant evening that ended, in a fit of admirable responsibility, just before midnight. I felt acceptably rested this morning and strangely enough, Stevie woke up before I did. I even managed a shower.

Word around The Internets has Jill rolling into town some time today. Experience tells me she won't be available to entertain non-relatives until some time this weekend, but since my first week's pay doesn't hit my account until just after midnight tonight, I doubt I'd be up for fun this evening even if I hadn't gone out last night.

I've gotten a series of calls from Book Boss over the past week or so, asking me to send my progress on the most recent 237-page section of longhand manuscript she dropped on me a few weeks ago. Since one of the first messages she left told me that, because my last invoice included drive-time to get to the meeting with her, she's denying an hour of charges and declaring herself a credit. Let me assure you, Internet, it's hard enough to begin slogging through that rambling waste of pencil lead before learning that my first hour of work would be unpaid.

Combine that with the fact that she recently cut my hourly rate again, this time to less than that of my full time job, I'm seriously considering extricating myself from the project. If anyone can suggest a classier way of doing so than changing my phone number, feel free to lay it on me.

Keep in mind, I probably need a new phone anyway.

Role call

My training class, presented in unflattering nicknames:

Skinny Blonde Barb (and I don't care)
Bible College
Art Teacher
Sassy Black Lady
Old Nerd
Craft Fair Willy Nelson
Apple Polisher
Northside
Yokel Barb
Clueless Barb
Old Bag

I'm not sure Taco Bell for breakfast is an improvement over hot dogs.

Yesterday was my first paid day off in about 18 months. I spent the majority of the day watching sattelite TV and scratching the many mosquito bites I accrued over the previous two days of sitting on the lawn/garage floor/porch/boulevard of an industrial park in Coon Rapids.

A couple of times this weekend, I noticed some sort of unidentified varmint in the front yard. From the glimpses I've managed, it appears to be about half again the length of a squirrel and maybe four or five times the overall size. It's dark brown to black in color. All of this has led me to rule out woodchuck, squirrel and small raccoon from the list of suspects. I couldn't swear to the presence of a puffy tail, so muskrat is still a contender, but if anyone else has an idea, I'm interested to hear it.

I noticed today that the cafeteria at my new work is termed officially, "The Eatery," which makes me like it less in spite of the undeniable value of the pita and hummus plate for a mere two dollars fifty. That's all academic really, because eating is a social activity and therefore not something I generally do while at work.

Week two has brought us a new trainer. I like him better than the regular guy, who seems like a boring version of Ira Glass. I know what I said, and I meant it.

He'll be back Monday.

Mash the keypad with your paycheck

As of this morning, my cell phone service was disconnected for the first time in many years. That means I've gone 15 months paying the bill without a full time job, only to have my phone shut off a week before my first payday at the new job. Luckily, my last paycheck from the interim temp job should be enough to pay the past-due amount, and that arrives in my bank account some time around bar-close tonight.

It's become clear over these first few days of training that 16 weeks is too long. I'm more than happy to be collecting a paycheck without being in the productive stream, but they hired a dozen people with years, in some cases decades of industry experience, and it's still taking a half a day to get through the course on the search function on the help menu of one of the dozen or so programs that we'll be using on the job.

I'm not unsympathetic to the fact that many of those dozen people are old enough to have a difficult time setting the clock on their VCRs. And to, you know... still own VCRs.

There is, apparently, between the several corporate websites and the intranet databases available to employees, a vast amount of information available to me about my new job. Among this sprawling treasure trove of data, however, there seems to be no sign of a map of the building where I work, especially one marking the location of a damn drinking fountain. Every office building in the western world has a drinking fountain outside every pair of public restrooms, but in the corporate cathedral to healthcare consumerism where I now spend 40 hours a week, there isn't even a water cooler to be found.

I don't care; I'll drink from the toilet before I spend $1.35 on a bottle of water.

Generating creative, “next generation” solutions...

I've discovered that, while Live Journal is blocked at work (category "Social Networking"), Blogspot/Blogger, it appears, is open for business.

Nothing much to report just now, but it's good to know.

It's my first week.

I suppose it makes sense to have a different blog in your 30s than you had in your 20s. As much as it pains to say, I think Live Journal is pretty much dead. I haven't actually checked, so it's possible that it's just as easy to cross-post to Facebook from Live Journal as it is from Blogspot, but I'm making the switch anyway. I only chose Live Journal to begin with because Google didn't own a blogging site yet. There are very few things I believe in, but if Google ever starts a religion, I'll beta-test it, and I'll send you an invite if you comment on this post.

I suppose this means I'll have to switch from Flickr to Picassa at some point.

In any case, I started a new job this week. This is the job that will be moving me back out of the suburbs, so it's more noteworthy than the last one, which was the only job that's gone unblogged about in close to ten years.

So, anyway, I'm going to make an effort to say the name of the company I work for as little as possible, since two different jobs have found my blog in the past now. The important part is that I'm doing customer service for an insurance company in Minnetonka. I just completed day two of a 16-week training course. The first day went pretty much as I expected, starting with security photos, then moving on to a sprawling executive conference room for a two-minute commercial for the company featuring inspirational music over interspersed shots of children throwing toy airplanes in a wheat field in slow motion and black and white title cards displaying phrases like "new technologies" and "promoting consumerism."

That sounds cynical. Really, I'll watch anything if you play it on a screen made from nine 54-inch plasma TVs.

Compared to the low-slung, square, gray office park shitboxes full of drop-ceilings and bail bondsmen where I've been working in the past eighteen months or so, the building at least, is pretty sweet. There's an on-site cafeteria, 24-hour fitness center, urgent-care clinic and skeet range. The bathroom where I take my lunchtime deuce has 12-foot ceilings and granite wall-tile. I have yet to see a fluorescent light. Thursday mornings, they make peanut-butter pancakes and teams of kittens pull them to your cubicle in tiny wagons.

Some of those things aren't true.

In any case, here's a list of things grownups and Kristina will find interesting:

• I get 26 days of PTO per year.
• My medical and dental benefits (both the more expensive "low-deductible" plans) only cost me $6/week.
• I've already put $6 into my 401k.
• In December, I'll be eligible for the employee stock purchase program, with a 6-month purchase period, something called a "look-back" provision, and 15% discount from market price.
• Pending good productivity after training, I'll be allowed to work from home starting around February of next year.

Training is slow. I think I have more computer and call center experience than most of my fellow trainees, if less insurance experience, but it still didn't seem necessary to spent the entire morning teaching us how to use the search function of one program. I maintained a bland expression while biting back mutters of "don't tell ME about Boolean operators."

Training goes 8am to 4:30pm. Around 3:30, the trainer broke the class into three teams for a game quizzing us on the day's material. I was grouped with three humorless Barbs who didn't understand why I thought Team 4 was a good name for our team.

It's also worth mentioning that I'm the second youngest person in a class of over a dozen. This is mostly a meaningless oddity, except that they're hiring people with 30-years of work history for an entry-level job at a company whose stock price has dropped 50% in the time since I last had a 40-hour-a-week job. I'm not saying this to speak ill of the company, just to illustrate to those of you who kept your jobs, just how bad the job market had gotten.

I literally was applying for jobs with the time I used to spend blogging. But today, I've deleted two e-mails from Careerbuilder and one from a temp agency.

So here I am.