Writer's Bloque Blog

I sent out 44 individual emails today. One day: 44 emails. That, my friends, is too much.

I often worry about what it means to be a woman in the workplace. Women who know what they want and get to the point are usually perceived as evil bitches; while women who are kind and cooperative are deemed matronly, get walked all over. And then there’s the whole period thing. If a man is having a bad day, no one is alarmed or probably even notices; but if a woman fails to smile at you in the hallway, she surely has to be menstruating. If you assume a woman is on her monthly cycle, please keep this assumption to yourself. Sometimes we ladies are just in a bad mood.

I will admit, however, when I am in the midst of the raging hormones, exhaustion, cramping and headaches, I have indulged in a desk cry or two. This is always a risky way to release your emotions, because someone could catch you. I was caught once, but luckily I had pungent flowers at my desk and blamed “allergies” for my red eyes and patchy skin. The desk cry doesn’t usually last too long, but is a needed release for when someone emails you a nasty response to an innocent question you had as a new employee. But I digress.

Several months ago, I was going through a stressful work project. I was assigned (against my will) to assist another writer in our group. We’ll call this other writer Ninja, mostly because this person never showed up to work, but never seemed to get in trouble for it either. So, while helping Ninja, I realized I couldn’t help Ninja, because I had no idea what Ninja did. “Why didn’t you just ask Ninja?” you ask appropriately. Well, please refer to the sentence where Ninja never showed up to work. This was an endless cycle of stress in my life, and finally I knew I had to take things to our director. I set up the meeting, and spent the whole time leading up to the meeting pumping myself up not to cry in front of the director, who, also is a woman in the workplace. If I cried in front of my strong, capable, role-model woman director, all would be lost. She would know that I don’t have what it takes, and send me away forever. As a last minute change of events, the director decided to change the location of our meeting. Instead of meeting privately in her office, where if a tear or two escaped the borders of my eyelids would be slightly more acceptable, she wanted to meet in an open lobby by the lunchroom. At 1:00. More pep-talk, don’t you dare cry.

I went down to meet with my director, and immediately she asked why I wanted to meet. I started crying. But in an extremely shocking turn of events, she also started crying. There we were, sitting in public place, talking and crying, being stereotypical women in the workplace. Nightmare. However, the meeting ended well, and I knew that she would take care of my stressful situation. But little did I know that I opened a can of worms.

A few months later, the project I was working on was complete. My director was very happy that this was something that could be achieved and decided to present me with an award. Instead of expressing her appreciation in a quiet and humbling way, she decided to single me out in a department meeting to present me with this honor. She started talking about the project, and could not finish because she had started crying. She threw the certificate at me, as if to pass the speaking responsibilities to me as well. I took the piece of paper and expressed my thankfulness, but then just sat there in silence. I think she was expecting me to also cry so that we could recreate the public humiliation we had once shared. It was kind of like that awkward moment when someone says “I love you” and you don’t want to say it back. The only difference was that I couldn’t just fake a quick little cry to appease her in that moment. An eternity later, the meeting ended.  Shortly after that, we hired a new manager who we would report to instead of the director. I was relieved that I could start over on a non-crying leaf with this new manager.

So now in present day, we are having performance reviews. This is usually an exciting time for us as lower food chain employees. A prospect of getting a raise is so exciting. What will I do with my extra $27 per paycheck? The possibilities are endless. But in the midst of my excitement, I failed to remember that since I had reported to the director for most of the year, she would be doing my performance review. It seems like I would be excited. She recognized me for a job well done, right? But as a woman in the workplace, I used my witch powers of premonition. I knew that the conditions would be perfect for her to squeeze in another cry session. And boy, were they ever. Moments after the review began, I could see her face turning the slightest shade of pink. Were her eyes watering? No, it was just a little humid in there, right? Oh wait, oh nope, it was happening. I tried to sit there as respectfully as I could. I did not engage in her cry party. I did, however, in my awkwardness decide that laughing would be the best response to her raw emotion. I’m a heartless, evil bitch. But what would you do if someone, in regards to processing useless documents referred to you as “brave”? It was hilarious.

Like many companies in corporate America, our office has an instant messaging system.  While this is very useful, and a great way to chat between friends, without being obvious that you’re avoiding work, the range of emoticons is questionable. 

There are, of course, the classic faces: happy, sad, angry, yawn, etc.  Then we have the random images: thundercloud, coffee cup, flower, wilted flower, webcam, and others that tend to get used in a random office emoji war. 

Then it gets a little weird, we have a set for just animals: cat, dog, snail, sheep.  Snail I can almost understand, maybe someone’s working slowly.  But sheep? What’s that for?  Who uses that and in what context?

Finally, we come to my favorite set of emoji’s, the ‘never appropriate for office life’ set: kiss lips, martini glass, beer, heart, and broken heart.  I’m assuming that these are the standard emoji’s that come in a multitude of programs.  However, I like to pretend that somewhere out there, in their panoramic view office, is lonely corporate director, sending someone: smiley face, flower, heart, kiss, winky face, cocktail.  Eventually leading to: sad face, wilted flower, broken heart, crying face, thunder cloud.  Hopefully never turning to: angry face, broken heart, web cam, car.  It could happen, people are crazy.  We have a theory that working in a corporate place long enough will turn you crazy.  Is it inevitable?  Do I still have time to get out?  Frantic Face Emoji. 

Regardless, emojis are a great office tool.  Smiley face, so I don’t sound too mean.  Emoji story to my cube friend while I’m waiting on emails.  Sheep emoji, just because.  Emoji that represents someone we want to talk about without them knowing.  I would recommend trying to fit emoji’s into your office life, it makes the cubicle life so much better.

P.S. Can we please get a poop emoji, nothing is ever more relevant.

<3

It looks like today is going to be a day of tech writer go fetch.

I am certain this is not a condition unique to tech writers. It is likely something that happens to all of us mucking through the corporate bog and working at the end of the line. With less time than everyone else on the team you embark on your part of the relay race to product launch partially blinded and with an impossible time limitation. When you are about to cross the finish line, in fact when you say, “Hey all, we've been through two rounds of review and edits, I've implemented all your feedback, so I’m finalizing the document and will have it out by the end of the day,” middle manager X says, “Actually I just completed my review and I have a few questions.”

MMX (Middle Manager X) just wants to make you go fetch and see how far you can run and how much you will take in order to meet the deadline.

***

MMX: Where did this new information come from?

Me: There is no new information in the document, just new formatting.

MMX: I need to see some kind of proof about where this information came from.

Me: That information is in all other documents like this. We started using this information in documents in 2005. It not new.

MMX: Well I need to see those other documents to support this new information.

Me: Ok here are the numbers for those documents. You can pull them right off of the server.

MMX: Reading online is hard. Print them out and bring them to me. (Go Fetch!)

***

MMX: What is this issue about? I didn’t read the emails I’ve been receiving about this issue.

Me: Oh, well, it’s kind of difficult to summarize because there was a lot of discussion.

MMX: Can you please just summarize? (i.e., Can you please send me an email about the emails you sent me…Go Fetch!)

***

Me: OK, so based on your feedback I think we can just remove this text. It was not necessary anyway.

MMX: I like this new text, though.

Me: Ok, so maybe I’m misunderstanding what you’re asking me for.

MMX: Well the new text is confusing so it shouldn’t really be there.

Me: Oh, ok. So I think the solution here would be to take that part out.

MMX: No I like the new text. Set up a meeting with everyone to discuss this.

Me: What are we discussing?

MMX: What to do about the text (Set up the meeting, MMX walks into the meeting and immediately says, “I think this text needs to be removed. It’s confusing.” Everyone agrees with him even though they already approved the previous change. I change the documents and now we’re back in reviews.….Go Fetch!)

One of the great things our company does is provide free flu shots to all employees. Well, all full-time employees. Because it makes sense that if you are a temporary worker without any health insurance or paid sick days, you wouldn’t be granted the same basic human privileges of vaccination.

Last year was my first time being offered this free flu shot, and I was pretty skeptical. I was always wary of the flu vaccine because I sometime watch the news. What? You’re putting a little bit of the flu virus inside of me to prevent more of the flu virus? I don’t want that in me. But I did some non-wikipedia research and found out that the vaccine doesn’t really work like that, and that it’s a pretty safe and harmless procedure. I felt empowered and received my flu shot, felt great, and did not get sick that winter.

So it’s that time of year again, and I received my flu shot (I’m a veteran now) yesterday. It was quite an experience this year. First of all, I didn’t really remember which day it was, and therefore was not planning my outfits properly. The way our company sets up flu shots, is that everyone is in a big lobby, and all the vaccine stations are set up in the middle of the area. There is no privacy what-so-ever, and everyone gets to watch some random stranger in scrubs stab their colleagues. If I would have anticipated that the event was going on that day, I would have made sure to wear a work appropriate sleeveless top + cardigan combination, or some kind of short sleeve number. But alas, I work a long sleeved button down shirt. As I was standing in line for the shot, I was desperately trying to think of ways to still get the shot but not have to take off my long sleeved button down shirt, revealing my skanky tank to the whole finance department. I mean, to my credit, at least I wore this undershirt. I tried rolling up my sleeves as far as they would go. It was pretty far, and I was proud that I found a solution. But then I heard a male nurse scolding a man and growling “I need to get higher on your arm.” I assessed the location of my sleeve and realized my plan would not work.

In my cubicle I often wear headphones.  Sometimes I listen to music and secretly dance in my chair (yes, I’ve been caught before, thanks a lot Tyga!), or I could be listening to a documentary, maybe a podcast.  Depending on my project, I might have a lot of free space in my head for entertainment; it’s definitely one of the perks of my job and cube location.  However, there are times when I don’t have anything blocking out the noises of our office area, and those times are exciting, annoying, and sometimes terrifying. 

I wish I had explanations for the sounds I hear, but I don’t. 

There’s nail clippers, which didn’t disgust me until a cube friend told me that they saw them being used on someone’s toe nails (gag).

I love the long, loud, drawn out, and often inappropriate and misplaced laugh that bursts over my cubicle wall, often followed by an uncomfortable pause for all involved.

Occasionally I can hear someone else’s music streaming through their headphones, reminding me to check mine the next time I hit play.

On certain Fridays, a group of people play jeopardy, off of those one-a-day calendars.  Sometimes it’s rowdy, but on Fridays no one really cares.  When I can hear I like to play along in my head.  I rarely know the answers.  I’ll never be the next Ken Jennings.

There’s loud, angry guy, unafraid to yell at whomever or whatever has offended him.  He shocks me with his bold tone, unaware or uncaring of who’s around him. 

Whenever someone brings a kid in, there’s a flock of ladies who turn into complete giddy, inappropriate child snatchers.  They make such a fuss it’s beyond irritating.  I feel bad for the kids who are not yet old enough to be left at home, but too old to be offered dusty candy from a lady whose voice is raised three octaves, smiling at them with her head cocked to the side.  

But my least favorite noise in the office is something that happens every. single. day.  Sometime around 1:30, out of the depths of a neighbor cube, comes forth the loudest, wettest, most unapologetic belch.  Every. Single. Day.  For the people around, it produces gags, wrinkled noses, disgusted sighs, but from the belcher, nothing.  No excuses, no apologies, no muffling or shuffling to try and cover it up.  Nothing but the belch that comes from deep within their gut, torturing us all.  EVERY. SINGLE. DAY.

My favorite part of any day in my corporate job is my stroll to and from meetings where I get to meander down various aisles and enjoy the not so secret cube of my colleagues. Many cubes are empty or have just enough bits and pieces of a person’s home/work life to remind them that they get to leave their gray padded cell when the clock strikes five. Their cubes simply say, “This is only a temporary state. I get to rejoin real life soon.”

Some people however, create a cube world filled with fantasy, mystery, fancy and weirdness. It may be their real life. Their cubes hold the key to their alter egos, secrets, hopes and dreams. Some cubes scream, “I’m lonely” while others whisper, “I’m the guy that’s might bring a gun to work.” 

My first stop in any cube walk is the homage to the troll doll. This is a piece of corporate Americana that can be found in every office in America. It speaks to my heart and makes me feel connected to everyone stuck in a cube. Per what one might imagine, Trolls are stuck to every single available surface in and on the cube. Each inch of soft, gray cubicle wall is infected writhing plastic tanned bodies with pot bellies and acrylic neon hair. Some trolls have clothes, others are bejeweled, but most are naked as they are intended to be. It is mystifying, disturbing and somewhat inappropriate.

Another cube, usually the second stop on my Monday walk, can also be found in most offices. It’s the “I Love Disney” cube. Instead of naked trolls covering every inch of gray, the cube is lost in Disney paraphernalia: pins, stuffed Mickey, Minnie’s, and Donald’s, pens and pencils that are only on display and not for use, pictures of the cube’s inhabitant with each family member and each Disney character, specialty banners and flags, deflated Mylar Mickey balloons, plastic bags, tickets that span 1986 to the present and mickey mouse ear hats with the embroidered name. It’s exhausting and fascinating like an episode of Hoarders. When a grown adult (with or without children) loves Disneyland that much, their cube says, “I’ve given up on life so now I have no life. Disneyland is real!!”

Cube number three of my typical Wednesday meander is one that is over-filled with a mother’s devotion. Pictures of kids and their art work cover every free space of cube. Each item is layered and ordered with construction paper and extra baubles of memorabilia. The cube is actually a scrap book to her children and their trite activities. Even the outside wall of the cube is papered with pictures of the woman’s myriad tots to ensure no one will forget she is a mother.  Sadly, the only people that want to see that much of her kids are her and the other two child obsessed weirdos, one of which, doesn’t have any children but really likes bath time pics of the young ones.

My all-time favorite type of cube (cubes four through six on the cube walk) is the teeny bopper bedroom themed cube. There are various versions of this, but in each instance you can’t remember if you’re at work or you if you wondered into a thirteen-year-old’s sanctuary. One forty-something cube loves the Jonas brothers, while a fifty-something cube worships the teens on American Idol. There are photographs, autographs, posters and album covers. These are not the cubes of hoarders. The placement of the items is precise and alter-like. Once in a while, they fandom gets a bit crazy and color printouts appear as if the midday urgency of their Jonas love needed the gratification of an inkjet.

I try not to judge as I am a true admirer. What else would entertain and soothe me as I walk to yet another meeting, if not the accidental installation art of my colleagues?

I wasn’t feeling well last Friday, and I had checked out a laptop from our IS department. Even though I could have made it into work, I knew that the conditions were perfect to try out my dream scenario of working from home; more specifically working from my California King-sized bed. I wanted to recap the pros and cons of my working from home experience, so as to educate anyone who is looking to expand their bedroom into a home office.

Pros: Sleeping In Without the prospect of 1) waking up in order to scrub, brush, conceal, and squeeze myself into pre-sedentary lifestyle clothing in order to make myself somewhat presentable to the working professional scene (and public in general) and 2) taking the long commute looming before me, I knew I could sleep in and not get ready whatsoever in order to make my usual start time for work. These extra two hours would be blissful and welcomed, since as I already mentioned earlier, I wasn’t feeling that great.

Cons: Neighborhood noises My sleeping in fantasies were quickly squashed when I was roused by the alligator tears/wailings of my young neighbor girl. Apparently, she doesn’t like to wake up early either.

Pros:  Working in pajamas This was an all-time fantasy, which was everything I thought it would be.

Cons: Paranoid Truman-Syndrome I’m pretty sure that our IS department has hacked all the laptop webcams and they were all watching me in my pajamas.

Pros: Being at my house all day I was able to accept delivery on an online purchase I had ordered. And by “accept” I mean, cower away from any windows until the mailman leaves so I can quickly pop outside and grab the package before anyone sees me in my pajamas and/or steals said package.

Cons: Heat-stroke I don’t have A/C in my house, and it was 99 degrees out. Our office is usually blasting the A/C at 65 degrees, which is always why one should store a cube sweater at work.

Pros: My own personal bathroom access Please refer to Thursday’s blog post about the horrors of the office bathroom etiquette to understand why this is an ideal situation.

Cons: I took about 82 bathroom breaks

Pros: Uniterrupted Productivity I usually am very easily distracted, and I had a very tedious task ahead of me this day. I knew I had to get this project done by the end of the week, and if I were in the office I would be too tempted to take walks with my office buddies, take a long Friday lunch, and generally indulge in regular Friday slacking antics.

Cons: Since I was so productive, I forgot to eat during the day. By 5:00 I was a mess, and had to drag myself out of the house in order to scavenge for food to sustain myself.

In summary, I realize that there are always reasons that coming to the office is good; for my sanity and for my personal hygiene. I’m glad I was able to try “working from home” out, but as long as I have great office buddies in which to share our horrific and awkward cube-life adventures, it’s not so bad to drag myself in during the week. 

I have a love/hate relationship with casual Friday.  On the one hand, all I want in my office life is to wear flip flops and t-shirts. However, like most things, it comes with a price.  For every pair of jeans I pull on I have to see someone in inappropriate casual day attire.  Below is a list of felonious outfits worn on casual Fridays:

Thin, tight, white tank top (so tight I could see the outline of her belly ring), with a black bra underneath.

Orange top, with the entire back cut out.

Just a straight up spaghetti strap camisole.

Extremely baggy jeans.

Saggy jeans.

Thin leggings/yoga pants with a short shirt.

Stomach showing (this is also an offensive act on a non-casual day).

90’s style whale tail. 

Shorty shorts.

A ridiculous amount of cleavage.

Club attire. 

 Sweatpants Jumpsuit (Velour is out people, I better not see JUICY or anything else written on your butt!).

Wallet chains.

I thought I was turning into a robot.

When I first started working here I had some sense of communal bathroom etiquette, particularly in reference to the second of the two toilet options. I used to walk into the work bathroom, assess the number of people occupying the stalls and mirrors and then decide whether to carry on with the number two or move it to another bathroom or another time.

I planned my trips around certain known bathroom down times so as not to inconvenience anyone with any unnecessary un-pleasantries. And, if I did have to go, and a colleague was simultaneously using an adjacent stall, the sink or the mirror, I would politely flush occasionally throughout the number two venture in order to hide any smells and sounds that might occur.

This has all changed. Last week I walked into the bathroom to find that blasted tooth brusher taking up sink and counter space. I thought that the more polite option, particularly while someone brushes her teeth, would be to take my number two elsewhere. But I didn’t. I continued, almost angrily, as to drown out the smell of her minty saliva.

Yesterday I entered the restroom to be greeted by two women applying their second daily coat of makeup. Again, the polite option was not the one I chose. I carried on with my business regarding the number two and I didn’t even attempt my usual courteous flushing routine. I almost smiled as I heard them hurriedly pack up their mascaras and glosses to silently scurry out of the bathroom.

Today the bathroom was teeming with women in suits and heels after some important meeting. All the stalls were full except one, the mirrors were occupied and the sinks were busy. Still, I proceeded undeterred, without hesitation and minus any type of polite flush.

It was there, in the middle of my stink, that I realized something had changed. The bathroom was full and I did not care. I had finally lost all sense of shame. It was both beautiful and tragic as I realized I might be a robot.

Well it was beautiful and tragic for a second until the moment passed and I realized people might recognize me by my bright blue patent leather flats. Terrified, I hung out in the bathroom stall wishing I had brought in my phone with my Kindle app and wondering if anyone could tell who I was. Were they looking at my feet? Should I get up? Should I sit down? What was the most inconspicuous thing I could do while cowering a bathroom stall at work?

I sat on the toilet listening for every last heel to click out of the bathroom. When all I could hear was an adjacent stall shut, I flushed, ran out of the stall, washed my hands and left.

Looks like I’m not a robot at all.

For most people today is a normal Wednesday, a hump day, you’re at the half way mark to your overly short weekend.  But not for us, not today, because today is Sunny’s 61st birthday, and she’s starting off with a bang. 

After the excitement from her decorated cube and new succulent died down she received a call.  It was a wrong number.  A simple mistake, most people would just hang up and try again. Now, here’s where our Wednesday, gets better than most Wednesdays.  Sunny doesn’t say wrong number and end it, no; she spends her time with this person:

>Hello this is Sunny.

>No, I’m sorry, you have the wrong number.

>Where are you?

>Oh, across the United States!

>No, no I’m in San Diego, California.

>Are you calling for this company?

>Hmmm, well you know what…let me try and transfer you…

 Classic Sunny, you shouldn’t offer to transfer someone when you have no clue how to do it.  She accidentally hung up on them.  But don’t worry, because whoever was on the other line must have a little Sunny-ness in them too.  They called back.

 >Oh, hello again!

>Yeah, I don’t think I did it right…

>Hold on a minute please.

  Sunny walks over to our cubes:

>Do you guys know the number to the front desk?

No, we’ve never transferred anyone, we think it’s xxxx.

>Okay thanks!

  Success and a long 15 minute laugh.  Happy Birthday Sunny!

Some fun facts about me. I may not be the most awkward person you’ve ever had the chance to read about, but please believe that I’m up there. I’m married to the best man in the world, and we have a cat named Lady Ronte: Gypsy Cat. I’m technically a technical writer, but I don’t actually write anything while I’m at my job. Unless you count the massive amounts of emails that need to be sent out, averaging to roughly 1,217,094 per day; and of course, now this blog post. I mention the fact that I don’t write anything because it means that someone else is writing content for me, and then I insert it into a special and mysterious program, and out comes a user’s manual. If anyone found out that this magical process actually only required basic knowledge of selecting “Edit>copy” and “Edit>Paste” then I would be out of a job. But since I use my college degree-level skill set of knowing how to use “Ctrl + c” and “Ctrl + v” I think I would still be a valuable asset to the company.

Today I was at a meeting with a dude that writes content with me. I use the term “dude” purposefully, not in the flippant way that youths use it. He is a dude. He has the upmost of “bro” qualities, including but not limited to: hipster glasses, surfing hobby, ATV with utility rack, super-hot and exotic wife, and generally bad attitude; and I am 100% sure he thinks I’m an idiot. He probably thinks I don’t know about the secrets of “Ctrl + c” and “Ctrl + v”. The whole purpose of the meeting was to collaboratively work with the dude to get new content for a manual. I have been waiting for him to give me edits since June. Please refer to the date of this blog…it’s the last day of September. Nevertheless, our meeting consisted of the dude telling me that I couldn't possibly help him, but that he just needed more time to provide me with the content. More time. Great. Meanwhile, halfway through the meeting a normal person joined our meeting and we figured out a timeline that everyone could be happy with. This normal person is a lady who actually believes I have brain cells, so I like her.

As we wrapped up the meeting, we all got up and the normal person turns to the dude and proclaims, “Whoa! Look at that!” then turns to me as if I have any idea what she’s talking about and therefore can share in her excitement, points to the dude’s crotch and explains “He has really fancy pockets!” I can sense that my eyes are shifting down towards where her finger is directing…inches from the dude’s package. I can also sense that everyone in the whole world is watching my eyes descend to a place that is inappropriate to look at in a normal, everyday, non-strip club atmosphere and thus tremendously inappropriate and mortifying in a professional, workplace setting. I actually can’t see the pockets because the dude and I are facing each other, and to properly look inside a man’s side pockets one must be standing by said man’s side. I won’t use the term “flanking” because it would be too much for this situation. Please refer to the image (which is a google image and NOT an actual picture of the dude that I took) and notice the angle at which the cameraperson must have been at.

So there I am, standing there, staring at the dude’s junk. What a normal person would have done would be to lie about seeing the fancy pockets and say, “Oh, interesting.” But since I am mostly awkward I just stood there blushing, still trying to get a glimpse of the fancy pockets even though I had not moved my position. Eventually, I blurted out, “OK, bye!” and left the room.

Today I used red and blue sharpies to turn my hand into a little puppet. It had beady eyes and bright red lips. It even had eyebrows and a nose. We walked from friend cube to friend cube trying her out.

“Hi cube friend.”

The puppets mouth opened and closed like a fish.

“Hi cube friend.”

We laughed each time we performed this silly cinema. Show by show we made our way back to our cubes. This activity burned five to seven minutes out of an eight hour day. Now I have a little face on my hand.

I wonder if this will still be funny after work.