Tag Archives: Humor

PSA: Scams… Same ol’ song and dance…

So, I know that most of this is old news to anyone with internet, but I found some of it entertaining and some just a bit more concerning. I’ll start with a little game I like to call the “telephone game.”

My phone rang for the umpteenth time in the past few days with the same number that was still unknown to me (209-813-0503, and yes… it has been reported. More on that later…). So, I decided that since they were so very desperate to get in touch with me (but never wanted to leave a message), I would answer. A very heavily accented (I can’t really tell you what the accent is because it changed locals and dialects about five times during the conversation) voice asked if I was the person to whom they were speaking (not in those terms, but you get the idea). The rest of the conversation went like this:

Me: Yes, this is.

Caller: This is Kevin [um…yeah, whatever], and I am with the U.S. Government Grass Department…

Me: The what department?

Kevin: The U.S. Government GRNSS department.

Me: Ok, I’m still not getting it. What department is that?

Kevin: The U.S. Governm….

Me: Kevin, yes. I got the whole government part in this, but I am completely unfamiliar with which department that might be. Perhaps we are experiencing a linguistic problem?

Kevin: The GRNSS… G-R-A-N…

Me: Oh! Grants. The grants department. We’re talking about money. I don’t have any. You’ll need to talk to someone else.

Kevin: No, ma’am. I am with the U.S. Govern…

Me: Yep. Gotcha, Kevin, but I don’t have any extra to contribute. The government already took mine, and I gave at the office.

Kevin: *crickets* Um, no. You have qualified to receive $7193 for your own purposes.

Me: What?!? You mean you want to give ME money? That’s how much?

Kevin: $7193.

Me: Ok. So, you gonna mail me a check or something?

Kevin: You have two options to receive the money. You can receive it by bank account, like checking, savings or something. Or you can receive it on plastic card.

Me: Plastic card? Not paper or metal? Ok… so, I definitely want money. How do I get this $7193?

Kevin: I need to verify that it is you.

Me: Ok.

At this point, Kevin proceeded to verify address and phone number. I was a little disturbed by the address portion of the program, but it’s not like it is difficult to Google these things. Once my identity had apparently be verified, we continued.

Kevin: Now, for what purpose would you use this money?

Me: Why?

Kevin: Excuse me? Why what?

Me: Why do you need to know? If I have qualified already, why would I need to explain myself?

Kevin: Um… we… I mean the U.S. Government Grants Department needs to inquire if there is a purpose for the funds dispensed. For repayment of debt? For purchasing a car?

Me: Well, that wouldn’t be much of a car. But, ok. Um… I would probably repay some bills.

Kevin: Repay…some…bills… [as if he is writing it down] Ok… that is all.

Me: Awesome. That was pretty painless. When can I get my money?

Kevin: Ok, how would you like to receive your money? You have two options: Bank account or plastic card.

Me: Oh, I think I would rather you mail the plastic card.

Kevin: *crickets* Um…what?

Me: You are going to mail me some sort of debit card with the money on there, right?

Kevin: Oh, no ma’am. You misunderstood. We put it on your card.

Me: My card? Like a card I have? I don’t have a card. Did you mail it to me?

Kevin: No… um… you have plastic card?

Me: Oh, like a credit card. Oh! I see. Wow, I’m dense. Sorry. No, I don’t think I want to do that. Let’s do the bank account.

Kevin: Ok. What is the account number?

Me: How should I know?

Kevin: Your account number where we will put the money.

Me: How would I know the account number for the account you are opening for me to draw on?

Kevin: [who now thinks that this is possibly the stupidest woman he has tried to con all day] No, your account, ma’am.

Me: Oh, I’m being silly again. You want me to give you my bank account information so that you can wire the money into it, right?

Kevin: [with an audible sigh of relief] Yes, ma’am.

Me: Oh, well that information would be “No”.

Kevin: What?

Me: Wasn’t I clear? Hell no, then. How’s that?

Kevin: But without the information, we cannot give you the money.

Me: Kevin, sweetie, I believe you are going to give me $7193 about like I think I can go outside right now and fly. This may be news to you, but I don’t give money, social security numbers, or account information to displaced Nigerian princes either, sweat pea. However… I have managed to keep you on this nice phone long enough to pick up environmental information in the background and send the spoof number to the law enforcement registry to try and get a trace…

Kevin: Um… uh… ma’am. I don’t… [CLICK]

Yeah, and that was my entertainment for about 15-20 minutes of my lunch break. This is nothing new, it is just repackaged. What I do find intriguing is that these artists are learning and using new tricks and tales. I liked the U.S. Government Grant flourish. Everyone and their second cousin twice removed have seen the infomercials and ads for how to get unclaimed money from the government. According to all these TV hawkers, the federal government has billions of unclaimed funds that all you have to do is ask… How about not-so-much? While there are a number of programs with money that has been earmarked for programs or assistance, I know not one of them that you don’t at least have to fill out some pretty impressive officially bureaucratic forms or write and actual grant proposal and explanation of what you want to do with the funds to obtain. Which brings me to another new, very nice touch: Kevin asked the purpose to which I would put the funds. This is another confidence booster to the unsuspecting mark. Hearing something like that, you might actually think they were official. I mean, the government is always wanting to know what you are doing, right? Lastly, the genius touch: The amount of the payoff.

This is a tricky part. Cons and scams always rely upon the greed of the mark. They are offering something for nothing or something that is too good to be true. The old email scams had astronomical sums of money involved, and these days, most people are wise to that old story. So, this new twist, they offer a sum that is big enough to be tasty and tempting, but not so big that it is unrealistic. My guess is that it would work on a lot of people, especially with bailout programs and federal student loan forgiveness. It is a new shine on an old scheme.

If you get one of these calls, I would not expect that the number is actually the one to which you were connected. It is most likely spoofed, randomly mapped and projected to your caller ID. It is often a real number. My favorite is when they spoof my own bloody number. That is an absolute riot. I always want to answer those with “It’s done, but there is blood everywhere.” If it isn’t your own number, report it. There are sites where you can report scam number. Also, add your own numbers to the “Do Not Call” list. There is a government (real this time) site for it. I’ll list the sites below.

So, not all scams are at a distance. Believe it or not, there are still some old school charlatans working the old games. There are no new cons.

In my local area, there are a couple of groups doing the old pavement game. This is a pretty standard con, and usually focuses on homeowners of the older variety. A group of workmen approach a home and offer to pave the driveway. Usually, they offer this service for an extremely reasonable amount. They ask for a down payment, maybe $200 and set up to start the job. However, once they set out saw horses and maybe some safety equipment (goggles or hardhats), they notice it is close to lunch… or perhaps they say then need to go buy sealer. They depart, leaving the equipment to make it appear that they have every intention of returning. Voila! They disappear. They’re out maybe $15 worth of materials, and the homeowner is out $200. Occasionally, they actually do some work. Often, it is shoddy or much less than they offered (like oiling the drive, rather than paving it).

With some of the storms and weather we have experienced, another version of the above has cropped up. Again, this type tends to focus on older people in the community. And… as it happened, one of our law enforcement friends got to deal with this type today.

A mature lady answered her door to find a group of men there stating that her roof was damaged and that they were there to fix it. The lady being of more sound mind and will than they were expecting told them that they were not, but as she was outnumbered and a bit threatened, they went up the roof and started working. Our gal wasn’t to be bullied… So, she called 911. The officer responded to watch all of the men scoot up the ladder as fast as they could go.

Um… why would they do that? Wouldn’t they be trapped up there? Not the best exit strategy.

Correct, you are! However, that was not their intention. Apparently the “gentlemen” in question were in possession of what might be perceived, to the casual or not so casual observer, as illegal substances. Yep. They emptied their pockets on the roof. There were any number of interesting packets and items for “recreational” use, and there was about $40. The law enforcement officer asked the guys if all that stuff was theirs (we wouldn’t want them to lose any of their possessions, right?). Strangely enough, they all denied any connection to the items found on the roof. Mrs. Smith (pseudonym) should probably keep an eye on who is using her roof as party central. Anyhow, as no one claimed the substances or the or other items from the rooftop collection and since no damage had been done to the roof, no arrests were made. And Mrs. Smith got $40 out of it. It was on her roof after all.

It seems that every week (if not more frequently), I read or hear about some newly concocted method attempting to target unsuspecting people for money. Part of it is probably that we are in difficult times, and not everyone bears up under hardship to the credit of their character. However, another part of it is that the public, in general, is more vulnerable, precisely because we are in such difficult times. Everyone is struggling, financially, emotionally, and we’ve lost hope that good things will come. We are all vulnerable to the desire to have some of the burden lifted from our shoulders. Now, most, still retain enough cynicism and intellect to know that if something sounds too good to be true, it probably is, but there is always that next wave of cons, scams, and schemes designed to overcome that natural cynicism and wariness. So, beware the predators out there. Be careful with your personal information, and say hello to “Kevin” for me.

Report The Call – http://www.reportthecall.com

Federal Trade Commission – http://consumer.ftc.gov

Do Not Call Registry – http://www.donotcall.gov

The Stars Are Stacked Against You Girl, Get Back In Bed*

There are certain things in this life that appear to be universal. For instance, it’s a bad idea to let someone you just met pick your tattoo after a night of tequila shots. Bartenders want all Journey songs removed from jukeboxes and karaoke lists. No one looks like a Mensa member with a flat-billed, oversized baseball cap turned to the side. Legos are deadly when stepped on in the dark. And if I have planned to get into the office earlier than usual, I am guaranteed to forget everything, including my wardrobe in various steps making me at least ten minutes later than my usual arrival.

I had one of those mornings. You know the kind. The kind or morning that indicated apparently my subconscious and the universe had a meeting and decided that they did not want me to leave my home. I forgot everything but my pants, and not all at once. It was piecemeal. Get to the car…and, I forgot that folder. Run upstairs and grab the folder only to remember that I left my briefcase on the couch. Remember the keys to the car were left in a pants pocket now in the laundry pile… And manage to get all the way to the stop sign at the end of your neighborhood to realize that I left my coffee in its go-cup on the counter.

Yes, of course I turned around to get it. Did you really want me driving in morning rush traffic in a caffeine deficit?

Speaking of traffic, apparently to have instant idiots on the roadways, just add water. No lie. It is astounding how many people think that they have some sort of magical shielding on their small, compact vehicle that will somehow, miraculously prevent them doing an impression of a trash compacted soda can while they whip it out (yes, I said it like that on purpose) in front of the semi barreling along at 55 miles per hour. This favored risk-taking behavior seems to occur with a much higher prevalence when rain has fallen increasing braking distance by a relative factor of how much friction is decreased by rain mixed with oil and other mechanical fluids coating the asphalt surface.

After the harrowing experience of morning traffic, I finally arrived at the office to find that the pushers of all things technical and software related had run an update on the network that my comp had to catch up with, and I was threatened with my life if I did so much as breathe hard while the warning was on the screen. I sat, hardly daring to glance away, should the technology gods perceive that I had not adhered to their admonitions and corrupted my entire workspace. Finally, a new window appeared indicating that my computer would reboot in 60, 59, 58… or I could Reboot Now. Gratefully, I clicked the reboot now… AND… Just kidding, WRONG ANSWER! The BSOD, the “blue screen of death” for those who are unfamiliar with the acronym. Heaving a ponderous sigh… I shut down the computer and sat momentarily staring at the darkened screen. I sent out a plea to the universe. As I pushed the power button and waited expectantly to see if the computer would behave, I told myself that should it fail to do so, I would take it as a sign that today was a bust and I should just go back to bed.

I’m not sure if it was a benevolent higher power looking after my work ethic and taking pity on me or some more maleficent entity that said, “Nay, you must endure the rest of your day, limping along in anxiety about your data and reports…” but the computer came back readily. So, no day off for me with the excuse of technology SNAFUs or Mercury in retrograde. However, on days like this, I really would love to be able to hit the reset button and get a Mulligan, but what the hell! I might get lucky today.

*Thanks to Mary Chapin Carpenter , “I Feel Lucky” 1992

Physical Fit: Instruments of Torture

allthatspam.blogspot.com

While the title of this particular episode along my path of self-imposed physical virtue would lead one to think that the apparatus described would be the mechanical destroyers of sinew and will, drawing from the tired and overtaxed muscles of my physique the sweat, like blood, that fuels their sadistic pleasure… Um, yeah, not so much. I shall speak of something much, much worse. Something so hideous that it could only be imagined by a sociopathic sadist that revels in the tears of all women. Yes, my friends, I speak of that heinous device… the SPORTS BRA!

For those of you who do not know me, I will only say that the majority of my life, even after traditional puberty, has been free from the need or desire from the architectural marvels to defy gravity’s effect upon the secondary sex characteristics of the female form. I was, to quote that old phrase, flat as a board. While this particular trait was the source of my despair in my adolescence as my friends were getting their first training and more substantial foundation garments, my natural athleticism quite soon convinced me that my lot in life was not so bad.

I witnessed more well endowed friends in tears after basketball, volleyball, and softball practices and games. I watched as my aquatic sisters strapped themselves down like Julie Andrews in Victor/Victoria to “reduce drag” for a swim meet. I listened to the complaints of friend and foe in the dressing room and dugout about the uncomfortable tightness of uniforms and lack of support in their underwires while girding themselves with enough metal, fake whalebone, elastic, and lycra to divert satellite signals from space.

However… karma, they say, is a bitch. Apparently, my gift of middle age and premenopausal life was a second puberty, graced by a hormonal surge that gifted me with the feminine curves that I had never before possessed. I have often joked that I finally figured out what Victoria’s secret was… she had my tits held hostage for 44 years and apparently decided to give them back when gravity could overpower my body’s natural elasticity. Crafty bitch! For a tidy sum, she will also let me have the technology (satin covered and fashion conscious) to combat said gravity… but I digress.

Thus begins my tale of woe… What my male readers probably do not understand (or you might… I won’t judge) is that the process of improving physical fitness and “getting into trim” has a curious effect as we grow older. Age decreases the collagen and natural elasticity of our skin. That’s right, folks! We lose inches in adipose tissue (fat) and firm up our muscles… and we are left with some flabby epidermal and dermal material that hangs on us a bit like an ill fitting suit. In the younger individual, the skin will tighten up incrementally, but the older we are (or the more weight we lose), that outer layer of ourselves may not ever quite catch up. Like a pair of old, stretched-out tubesocks, gravity sings the siren song, and so the folds of extra flesh fall to the floor. I could, at this point, go off on a tangent of my own with the medical concerns and other issues that come from this, but I am only prolonging the agony and procrastinating my shame.

In my particular case, my primary issues with extra dangle in my bangle happens to be in my chest… Hey! I’m just as surprised as anyone! This is something that I have never… EVER… had to deal with… the extra bounce in my jog. Plus, it hurt! Actual pain accompanied gravity, running, and my boobs. No bueno. This should be an easy fix. I mean, I have foundation garments, right? But no, these are nice bras. These are pieces of lovely feminine construction that I do not wish to sweat through… and they weren’t cheap. Additionally, laundering said garments are not precisely the wash and wear instruction.

This presented a predicament. I recalled that I did actually own what was formerly known as a “jog bra” in my former life. This sort of garment is made of lycra and sweatsuit material; thus, washable and providing necessary support. I put on my pith helmet and got out my shovel… and found it! Clutching my holy grail in victory, I placed it in my gym bag with the rest of my workout gear and toddled off to work.

Fast forward to the end of business. All of my staff have gone home. I shut down my work space, grab my bag, and betake myself to the restroom to change into my workout gear. I almost chuckle to myself. The dreaded cardio would face a worthier opponent today as I faced it bravely, and upright, without having to clutch my saggy, sore bosom in response to repeated gravity-impacted jolts. I had my secret weapon. My “JOG BRA”! Muahahahahaha!

Two miscalculations:

1. Remember my “second puberty”?

2. I’m not so flexible as I used to be.

Before I continue, let me say a bit more about the construction of a “jog bra”. As I said, this is a construction of lycra and cotton designed to be washable, supportive, and wick away the perspiration. Additionally, these bastions of the athletic female form are designed to hold everything still… and tight… and … dear heavens! I have seen male impersonators that put less effort into flattening their own chests! Really?!?

First thing I noticed? I must have been half asleep as I packed the tiny… and I do mean tiny piece of elasticized fabric in with my running shoes and other workout gear. Either that, or my euphoria upon actually locating the damned thing overrode any other sense… (take that as you may). Why? Because, I am pretty certain that I couldn’t have comfortably fit into this thing before I passed my first puberty, flat-chested or not!

Second thing I noticed? I had ill-advisedly chosen as my external workout apparel a shirt that required some… nay, any undergarment or else I would be arrested for indecent exposure and put away forever as a psychological harm to others.

I am nothing if not stubborn. I had laid my wardrobe, and I would wear it. This thing has elastic, it must stretch. Poor, foolish woman!

I am pretty sure that the military has not yet developed the technology to resist physical effort in the way this small piece of elasticized cotton can. I managed to get my arms, and head levered into it when it failed to accommodate any further efforts I made. There I stood: Arms pinned to my ears and blind (imagine Mr. Bean with a turkey on his head… and, there ya go). Strain as I would, this beast would not be moved. Near to losing consciousness from hypoxia, I leaned back against a wall and must have relaxed in just the right way so that I was able to ease one shoulder and my head through the appropriate holes. The other arm was pinned resolutely to my latisimus dorsi for all I could tell, but this was progress! My hope was renewed that I would not be trapped in the bathroom until my staff let me out the next day half naked and suffocated from my efforts. After much grunting and wiggling (that was much less enjoyable than one might imagine from that highly descriptive language), I was able to push through my other shoulder. This must be something like entering the world through the birth canal! Another brief respite resting on the only available seat… use your imagination… and I disentangled the lower elastic band from somewhere behind my left ear and pulled it sharply into place below my breasts…

And they were immediately relocated to my underarms and shoulderblades. Really?!? This is more comfortable than just letting gravity do its thing?!? After forcing the air forced out by pain back into my lungs, I managed to rearrange myself (do you guys do this with jockstraps all the time? If so, I have new sympathy) into something that was less painful that being crushed under boulders… something more along the lines of having steel bands wrapped tightly around your ribcage suppressing normal respiration.

Sagging against the wall for support, I found that I was sweating profusely, exhausted, panting with physical exertion, and exhibiting all the symptoms of a hernia and pulled muscle somewhere in my neck and shoulder… Hang on girls! I’m going to work out now!

Physical Fit: The Saga Continues…

Contrary to the expectations of the majority populace… and mainly myself… I did make it to the gym. As readers will recall, I had my momentary maniacal fit resulting in a gym membership and went so far as to purchase suitable attire and footwear. So far, so good. I half expected my determination to completely fail at that point. Good intentions count, right?

WRONG! My friend. I shall stand upon the gospel of good health and tell you that intention is only part of the formula! Can I get an ‘amen’? I tell you, my brother and sister couch tubers, we must also walk, run, and lift our less than firm physiques from the comfort of our chosen seating and move. Ye-eahsss!

So, against all my natural indolent tendencies, I did in fact go to the gym. I felt about as natural and graceful as a frog trying to dance Swan Lake. Thankfully, I had the moral support of a good friend who was able to show me the delicate technological procedures involved with using an elliptical machine. I am grateful for his patience as I stared at him like a monkey doing a math problem and nearly amputated an extremity as coordination was completely absent from my skillset that day (or any day really). I managed to get through 10 minutes of elliptical at the blistering pace of 4 miles per hour, all the while feeling not only the burn but pretty much like someone had lit my lower extremity completely on fire. However, as I said, I managed to complete the full 10 minutes (we won’t discuss the 3 minute cool down). Achievement unlocked! On to the circuit training.

For those unfamiliar with the lingo of the Dungeon of Torture, circuit training is a collection of weight machines and cardiovascular stations interspersed together and programmed to give you some resistance training for building muscle but also keeping the heart rate in the “target zone” to continue burning calories. Believe it or not (and I will assume you are believing as I am breathing and still in control of my physical movements enough to be able to type this), I finished this 30 minute ordeal as well. After a 5 minute cool down on a treadmill, during which I kept imagining myself tripping and being shot out towards the back wall, I made it home to collapse on the couch.

And like a complete moron, I went back the next day to do it all again. Yes, I did. That was five weeks ago. I decided it was time to unlock my next achievement. I scheduled an appointment with the personal fitness trainer. I am lucky enough to have a reasonable amount of intellect, and I recognize and read and research, but I still felt that consulting the expert would be the best way for me to gain the results I was hoping to achieve. She flattered me by saying that I was doing exactly what I should and only needed a few additions and tweaks to address my desired goals… And she assisted me in designing my own tailor-made system of torture designed to reverse time and gravity and turn my decrepit body into a temple worthy of worship… Ok, even I cannot keep a straight face for this, but hopefully, if I am very good and attend to my designed regimen, I will at least not have to purchase a whole new wardrobe to avoid indecent exposure charges.

At this same time, I had noticed a very large, brightly-colored poster plastered conspicuously in the gym that said that if I was a member of a certain health insurance that they would pay me to work out. Wait! What? I am a member of that health insurance. I actually work for the health insurance company as well. So, I can get money for this, too? I decided to check on this, though I suspected that my plan would not qualify based on the requirements indicated on the poster. Nothing ventured, nothing gained. So I called the toll-free number provided.

According to “Crystal *squeek*” who is the very perky representative of my insurance company’s Healthy Incentives Program, our employer is not eligible for that reward, but “We do have an impressive list of gym discounts to offer, can I walk you through our website?!?” (I swear I could see pigtails and pom-poms.)

Um… no, Crystal. so, what you are saying is that I work for the company and have our insurance coverage myself but am not eligible for a reward for trying to be healthier and a better example to our members?

“Um *squeek* ACME Insurance, Inc. [pseudonym, obviously] is, like, a really BIG company with lots of workers, and, like, ACME is only offering that for small companies.”

So, um Crystal? It was Crystal, right? [as opposed to Buffy, Muffy, or Elle] Does my gym have a discount on the list you mentioned earlier?

“Um… like, NO. Because your gym has such…low…rates… they really don’t have discounts.”

So, what I’m hearing is that I could get a discount from one of the expensive gyms, but the discount (if I’m reading you correctly) would still have my membership at a much higher rate than my current member ship of $10 per month… AND I would have to put up with douchebag muscleheads and spandex nazis?

“Um…wha…?” *cricket noise*

Nevermind, sweetie. You’ve been very helpful. Toddle off now and have a wonderful afternoon.

While this interchange might read to most as a frustrating display of unfair practice and a terribly rendered Valley Girl performance and evidence that the universe works against any financial breaks for the hard-working gal, I actually was just highly amused. Crystal really could not see why I didn’t want to take advantage of the gym discounts they offer. Apparently math was not her best subject. Rewards of a monetary nature might be nice, but ultimately were not the rewards I was expecting when I had my fit of madness and decided to become a denizen of the workout world.

As to those rewards, I am sad to report that I did not transform overnight into a supermodel. However, I can say that I am noticing other things, like the fact I can run a mile and a half without dying. (Always helpful in the event of zombie apocalypse and killer bird/bee/nature situations.) I still occasionally (as I integrate my individually designed plan into my workout each day) feel as if someone has substituted concrete into what was previously sinew, muscle, and bone, but overall, I’m feeling pretty good about this new thing. I have actually started having withdrawal if I have to change my routine and workout on different days than my usual schedule, and I actually found myself anxious and desperate to get to the gym on Monday after work as I was stopped by staff for a quick question. Hmmmm… something very odd here. I actually want to go to the gym. I suppose stranger things have happened, but I’m positive there are a few snowflakes in hell, now.

Surviving The Cube Farm: A Lesson in Office Etiquette

http://www.dilbert.com
http://www.dilbert.com

Having spent years, and years, and years (honestly, it feels like eons sometimes) in an office environment, I think I can officially pronounce myself an expert in office etiquette. I don’t have a medal, or a certificate, or a fancy diploma, or a fez with a fun tassel (fez’s are cool) to prove my expertise, but I promise, I am an expert. Though, truth be told, some of said expertise is actual and some of it is totally because I’m petting my peeves, but all will be totally worth your while.

Whether you have worked in an office environment or not, you’ll probably find this as helpful as you will amusing. See, even if you don’t work in an office, a lot of this is just common sense, best practice stuff that you can apply to your everyday life.

I need to also say that while this is about working in an office and the etiquette practices therein, I want to further clarify that I am mostly referring to those of us 9-5ers (ha-ha) who work in a cubed office environment. More commonly referred to as The Cube Farm.

PRIVACY

Let’s start with an easy one. Something everyone wants to have but that mostly no one gets. Nothing in The Cube Farm is private. Nothing. Or, mostly nothing. Just understand that it is likely everyone knows everyone else’s business all the time and you’ll already be on the road to success.

The Office Gossip (TOG). She (well…TOG could be a he, but for the sake of this argument, let’s let her rip) makes it known that she knows everything. She is the one to track you down on your first day simply to tell you that she is the eyes and ears of the place and if there’s anything to know, she’ll know it. Wink, wink, nudge, nudge. She wants you to spill…immediately…and will pressure you until you do. Depending on your own personality, and how much you want everyone else in the office to know about yourself, it’s probably wise to steer clear.

The Connected One (TCO). TCO knows everyone. Literally and figuratively. TCO is your personal 6-degrees of separation. You used to work there? Oh, do you know so-and-so? You live where? Oh, do you know… You get the picture. And heaven forbid if TCO finds out that you and they know someone in common (or several someones in common) because every time that someone makes a move, TCO is gonna tell you about it. TCO is great for networking, though.

Beware if TOG and TCO are one and the same. That’s a recipe for disaster! I suggest you hide. Just a couple examples of some Privacy Pirates that you might encounter.

If you’re an average Joe or Jane, sitting in your little cube, doing your work, going about your day, minding your own bees-wax, then you’ll probably escape any lasting damage. But offices employ many, many different kinds of people. I shall shout fervently: WHY CAN’T WE ALL JUST GET ALONG?  Here are a few pointers that might help when it comes to maintaining your privacy.

Never enter someone else’s cubicle without permission. I’ve seen it said in other places that you want to behave as if there is a door and knock, tap, or employ some other gentle method to get the attention of the person in that cube without simply barging in. You don’t like it when folks barge in on you, right? So why would you do it to someone else?

Try not to sneak up behind someone in a cube. See above.

Let others know when you can and cannot be interrupted. Well, yeah – I admit this one is kind of tricky. You don’t want to be interrupted and really don’t have time to tell anyone not to interrupt you so, now what? Well, some offices will allow you to post a flag, or a small sign, or a rotating magnet like you might put on your dishwasher to let the rest of the family know the dishes are clean or dirty. Wait…sorry. Hang on. The rotating office magnet should probably say something like busy and available, not clean and dirty.

Prairie Dogging. The end-all be-all of office interruptions. The popping up of heads all over The Cube Farm to see what’s going on. Up down. Up down. I feel like I need a giant hammer and so I can play a gratifying game or two of Office Whack-a-Mole. Aside from the dogs just being annoying, it’s an invasion of privacy. You do not need to see what is on the other side of that wall so badly that you can’t walk over there.

Loitering outside another’s cube. Totally rude, Dude! Don’t hang out while you wait for the occupant to finish a phone conversation. First of all, you have no idea how long that call is going to last and you could potentially be standing there forever. Kind of foolish, if you ask me. Secondly, if you see someone is otherwise engaged, it is just common courtesy to come back at another time. Common courtesy is, sadly, lacking these days.

Looking at other people’s stuff. Yep. We’ve all done it. The quick flick of the eyes to the monitor screen in front of you, whether it is your screen or not. The information contained on the screen of a co-worker does not apply to you. Period.

Listening to other people’s stuff. In The Cube Farm, it’s next to impossible not to hear your co-worker’s conversations. They’re on the phone or talking with other co-workers all day long. Sometimes it’s hard not to listen, but try. Don’t comment on overheard conversations, or answer overheard questions either. What someone is discussing with someone else does not apply to you. Period.

Touching other people’s stuff. We’ve established that cubes don’t have doors. Doors are a visual representation of privacy. There is definitely something to be said for doors. Doors rock. The lack of a door does not mean you can help yourself to whatever is contained within another’s space.   The pens, pencils, sticky notes, paper clips and various other office supplies are not yours, are not meant for you and should not even be borrowed without permission from the occupant. This goes for food, drinks, and stuffed animals. (Hey – we all have a stuffed animal at our desks, right?)

ANNOYING SOUNDS

As you’ve gone through your day in The Cube Farm, have you ever heard something that drove you nuts? Or something that was so…off…that you felt the need to go investigate? Like that anecdote about children; if they’re quiet, you need to check on them because probably someone is doing something they’re not supposed to?

Any office has sounds you cannot avoid: typing, ringing, the hum of the white-noise maker, which is supposed to drown out or muffle sound but tends to just make more noise. The air conditioner or heat coming on and off. The microwave beeping in the break room. The ice machine dropping ice into the bin. The hum of the vending machines. People walking, talking, drumming their fingers out of boredom or insanity because the conference call they’re on is now going into its second hour.

The Gum Popper. Om nom nom. Chomp chomp. Pop. Oh and the snapping. Don’t forget the snapping. They don’t even realize they’re doing it.

Slap Happy. The one who wears nothing but flip-flops year-round, even though they’re totally against the dress code, and does laps around the office twice hourly because they are getting their exercise by not taking the shortcuts everyone else uses. Slap. Slap. Slap. Oh, there they go. Wait! Slap. Slap. Slap. There they go again. What’s this, their fourth or fifth round this hour? Shall we take bets?

The Loud Food Eater. If the gum chewing wasn’t bad enough, there’s this guy. Constantly eating. Snacks. Crackers. Chew chew chew. And that thing he does when he’s got something stuck in his teeth? Shudder.

The Talker. This is the person who talks on the phone all the time, as loudly as they can. Or yells across The Cube Farm to the person four rows away to find out if they have any Ibuprofen. Or holds mini conferences outside their cube. It’s enough to drive anyone mad. Wait! Who has the headache?

A few descriptions of Annoying Animals in The Cube Farm for your amusement. I would like to put to you, dear readers, to be mindful of others as you move about the office during the day. Be considerate. Be aware of how your voice can carry or how the crinkling of the wrapper from your second bag of chips can be disruptive to your neighbor and that loud conversations are distracting and disruptive. And I haven’t even begun to talk about phones. That being said, let’s consider this further, shall we?

Ringing desk phones. We know that ringing phones are a product of being in an office. But did you know that the new-fangled technology we have these days allows you to adjust the volume of the ringer on your desk phone? You may be hard of hearing, but did you take into consideration that your neighbor might hear just fine thank you very much? A lot of office phone models have a little red light that blinks or flashes when you have an incoming call. If you place your ringer low enough for you to still hear it and within your range of vision (try peripheral, it’s awesome) you’ve got two layers of assurance you won’t miss a call.

Ringing cell phones. Turn ‘em off, people. Just turn them off. Or, set them to vibrate or silent ring. You do not need to have your personal cell phone on you all the time. Yep. I am like most of the rest of you, attached to my technology at the hip, but even I turn my ringer down, or off completely during the day. Your employer is not paying you to text (beep), play games, (boop), or chat (ring) all day long. And please, for the love of all that is good and peaceful in this world, do not leave your cell phone – ringer on – on your desk and then walk away. None of the rest of us need to listen to your Minion Ba-Na-Na PO-TA-TO ring tone over and over again. (Although props for a good choice of ring tone.)

Speaker phone conversations. Oh my. This one walks a fine line between being one of those aforementioned peeves I’ve been petting and being actual office etiquette. I haven’t weighed the scale to determine which side is heavier. But, if you must have a conversation using speaker phone, remember these key points: 1) Everyone else can hear you, and everyone else can hear the person on the other end of the line. 2) If you know about the call ahead of time, reserve a conference room so you can have a closed door between your speaker phone conversation and the rest of The Cube Farm. Your fellow dogs will thank you.

Voice Volume. If you’re a naturally loud talker, I understand. So am I. I’ve been known to burst my own ear drums from time to time. That’s another story. But there are these wonderful inventions called headsets. They are not only for comfort and convenience, but they also allow for a quieter (and more private) conversation. If you don’t have a headset for your desk phone, talk to someone who might be able to rectify that for you. They’re a good idea and should be standard equipment, right along with your computer and a monitor and a phone.

Tech Sounds. If you use email or instant messaging to communicate with your co-workers, turn the sounds off. Those dings and bings are enough to turn Dr. Banner into his big, mean, green friend with little to no warning.

Music.  If you are one of the bazillion people who like to listen to music during their work day, unless your office management says otherwise, it’s okay to use ear buds or headphones. Just remember not to get too zoned out, just in case you’re called by the little red flashy light on your phone or the loiterer outside your cubicle.

Are you feeling the burn yet? Think you can manage a couple more reps? Good. Let’s keep going.

SMELLS

Last on my list of things to discuss in the world of office etiquette is (drumroll please) smells. Odor. Scent. The things your sniffer sniffs out and process into four categories: good, bad, ugly and really, really offensive. (Points if you can get both random movie references there.)

The Scent Hound. Like a bloodhound to the scent of a missing person, the rest of us can smell you coming a mile away or follow your trail every place you’ve been. Your odor lingers when you pass through in such a way that one can almost see the molecules of your scent du jour hanging like a fog in the air. Patchouli does not equal bath.

The Lunch Eater. Here, ladies and gentlemen, we have The Lunch Eater. Sitting at his desk during lunch time, single-mindedly putting away the pastrami on rye he got from the local deli. Complete with onions, mustard and pickles. On the side, salt and vinegar potato chips. Look at him, ladies and gentlemen. Take note of how smoothly his arms raise the dripping sandwich to his mouth and how purposefully he bites, how possessively he chews. Beware. He is at his meanest at lunch time.

The Stink Monster. Stinky needs no qualifiers. Stinky is the leftover salmon for lunch eating, microwave popcorn burning, close-talking halitosis having, run the other way when you see him coming co-worker. Add in a layer of bad cologne and last week’s shirt (complete with armpit funk) and all I have to say is, “Eeeewwww!” It is Odoriferous Odiousness I share with you, my fellows. Let’s tone it down some, shall we? We, your co-workers, are breathing this air, too. You do know that, right?  Perfumes, colognes, body sprays, organic natural oils, scented hand lotions, hair sprays…what do they have in common? They all should be totally avoided in The Cube Farm. Period. Those of us with breathing issues like asthma or allergic sensitivities will thank you. File this under how to win friends and influence people. Not the book though. I mean it in the most literal sense.

However loudly you may complain about others, how loudly are they complaining about you? Take some time to think about your habits and ask yourself these questions:

1)      Does it invade or affect another’s privacy?

2)      Does it make noise and if so, how loud or obnoxious would I, personally, consider that noise to be?

3)      Does it smell? Period.

I am not judging. We are all individuals and we all have our own little quirks.  Some of us get along really well, some of us don’t.  Sometimes the best we can hope for is tolerance.  But as I leave you to go silently into that good night (or day, depending) I ask that you truly and openly think about those you encounter at  your office every day.  Maybe, just maybe, you’ll begin to see just what part of the corporate puzzle they play, and if you’re really lucky, maybe you’ll be able to fit that piece in exactly the right place.  Also, if you have very strong feelings about indivudual Privacy Pirates, Annoying Animals or Odoriferous Odiousness-es, talk to your manager about the best, most thoughtful, and least offensive or hurtful way to approach.  You could be doing them a favor.

While it’s absolutely impossible to please everyone all the time, your consideration of the above-mentioned things won’t go unnoticed. Your fellow Cube Farm occupants will thank you. They may not thank you personally, but they’ll thank you. Believe me.

Physical Fit: The consequences of a momentary madness

So, madness overtook me in a screaming fit of angst Saturday before Mother’s Day. Yes, indeed. It was something akin to full on psychopathic mania or possibly demonic possession, because I know that had I been in my correct cognitive state, I would never have been compelled to do what I did.

I joined a gym. Good heavens! What was I thinking?!? How could I have possibly been influenced? Yes, friends are consistently talking about going to the gym. Swimsuit season is upon us. The pool in the backyard is nearly ready for occupation by other than algae and other debris. However, I am still going to blame demons… or possibly aliens. They are always a good scapegoat. After a rather enjoyable dinner with friends from work, all of whom talked about various physical activity, and at least one works out regularly (and is the visual aid promoting said practices, I will say), I felt my jeans to be tighter than I would like. The constant reminder that gravity has impacted my physique in ways not pleasant to me, and the fact that diet alone does not appear to have any sort of impact at all these days has resulted in a desperation that could lead to pacts with evil entities… and that never works out well.

I have been asked multiple times by friends to join them in their workout routines. I have also been the recipient of workout propaganda that would have already been more efficacious than waterboarding except for one small thing… very small: My bank balance. Many people would say, spend the money for a monthly membership, and you will go because it would be a waste of your money to not go. That never worked on me. I hated going into the gym. I could always talk myself out of it, and before I knew it, months of membership fees had passed and along with it, many, many dollars. And, so, I told all my so very caring companions that it would be throwing good money after bad for me to even consider joining anything. I would just be wasting money I did not have. At one point in my life, I considered myself rather fit, and despite the continued learned commentary of several of my acquaintances on what I need to do to improve my physique and health, only one thing has ever worked for me: Aerobics. Sadly, and with shame, I admit I was one of the lycra clad women bouncing around to music with and without props (weights, bands, steps, etc.). I never was one that could lose myself in continued reps with free weights or a nice long jog on treadmill or elliptical. There was a time when I could ride miles on an actual bicycle, but to sit on a stationary bike pedaling away while watching inane talk shows or anything else was something that made me want to stab my own eyes out. Therefore, I would continue to do my progressive squats, crunches, push-ups, and such in the privacy of my own home where I would not feel shame comparing my own over-40 body to the myriad of spandex wrapped hard-bodies blithely climbing their invisible mountains on stair step and elliptical machines.

And then, it happened. I honestly cannot say what did it. Was it the conversation with my very fit friend? Was it the over tight feeling in the waistband of my jeans? Was it the unwelcome reflection in the mirror reminding me of time’s passage, or was it (most likely) my resistance failing in the face of too much peer pressure that resulted in my fingers, as if by their own accord typing in the pattern of key strokes that would make me a “joiner?” Before I realized what had happened, I had my very own gym membership. Hell hath frozen over.

Faced with Armageddon, there was only one thing left to do. I printed out the emailed version of my contract and took it down to the temple of fitness to get my “key” and free t-shirt. On a side note, I truly believe that we can take over planets with free t-shirts. Anyhow, the deed was done. I have been assimilated (Someone please tell me that I will soon have the physique of Jeri Ryan, Seven of Nine). Thus ends the tale, right?… not quite. You would think that purchase of membership and having the courage to walk in would be sufficient to insure the end of days, but no.

Working out is not exactly a simple matter of physical activity. There is apparel to be considered. No, I am not so vain as to require designer gear to be a physically fit clothes horse. However, appropriate clothing and footwear is necessary, because this facility is not in a nudist colony, and I don’t want shin splints. Once I had established my susceptibility to peer pressure, it dawned on me that I had no shoes that would actually protect my feet and joints from damage. I had a representative pair of tennis shoes that appeared to come from an archeological dig. I also (to my abject mortification) have a pair of platform sneakers advertised some years ago as able to firm your backside merely by having them on the feet and walking around. Needless to say, attempting to wear these for a regular workout will not only look ridiculous, it will also result in an injury to my lower extremities and/or me plummeting to my death… from humiliation. So, at the very least, a new pair of sneakers were in order.

Have any of you tried to purchase athletic footwear these days? I think I’ve bought a set of tires that cost less. I have been truly amazed at the prices on these things. At first, I thought it must be a matter of fashion again, noting the bright colors and brand names. Given the size of my feet, I tried the men’s section instead, naively hoping that the less fair sex might warrant less dear prices. Boy, was wrong! Men’s athletic shoe prices make the women’s shoes look like a yard sale find. Granted, the reason for the increased expenditure is that allegedly the construction of these beastly shoes provides the support and cushion that prevents injuries, like shin splints and compression fractures. That being said, I truly resent being charged triple digits for shoes, especially shoes that look like alien technology in neon colors. Thankfully, I was able to find clearance racks that provided a more reasonably priced alternative.

With my feet taken care of, my mind turned to the rest of my body. As a friend said, just wear a t-shirt and a pair of old sweatpants or shorts. A very reasonable and logical idea. Have I mentioned that working out in any public venue has not been part of my life for more than ten years? It isn’t an issue of being fashionable. I sincerely could not care less whether I match or have the latest thing on my body. However, my old clothing fall into three categories: Inappropriate, uncomfortable, or damn near pornographic due to strategically placed ventilation (not part of the original design). I felt it was necessary, therefore, to supplement my wardrobe with a few pieces to have at least three or four decent outfits that could be rotated through laundry, dresser, and wearing.

It is a testament to the amount of time it has been since I last purchased so much as a pair of sweatpants. I was again gob smacked by the sheer digits involved on the price tags attached to tiny pieces of stretchy cotton or spandex. Thank goodness again for the clearance bin without which I would not be able to afford so much as a tube sock. Three bins and six clearance racks later, I was sweating and exhausted, but I was able to find sufficient covering for my bottom half without depleting my checking account… well, at least not more than I already had. Making my way to the checkout, I saw other women already clad in color coordinated leggings and fashionably layered sports bras with tank tops. I clutched my meager purchases and timidly went through the check out. I made my way through the outer doors to my waiting vehicle and drove the rest of the way home.

Walking through the door, I found that my physical and emotional limits of the day had been reached. I sank down on the couch with my hard-won purchases resting on the floor at my side. Well… my journey of physical fitness has begun. I am sweaty, exhausted, and completely emotionally spent… and I didn’t even have to get dressed out. Let’s hope that my next outing is a bit more productive physically and less draining financially.

Holster It: A coming of age tale

holsterit

So, those who know me in the real world outside the “interwebs,” have heard my tales of woe as my own decrepitude and mortality was shamelessly flaunted before my very eyes in my quest for convenience. I shall share with you my pain, but this is not only a revelation… it is also a cautionary tale for the astute professional.

I do not know about the rest of you out there, but despite my best efforts to resist, I have become completely attached to the evils of technology. By this I mean, of course, the mobile phone. Yes, sad as it is, I seem to have forgotten what it was like in the days when you left home or office and people would just have to wait until you came back to speak with you on the phone. Other elements of my life have been impacted, however, in addition to just the communication-from-anywhere-at-anytime phenomenon. I no longer wear a watch. I rely upon my clever little mobile device to provide that information and be correctly matched to time zone (since the time is received from the closest tower). It is a right handy trick, especially for those of us who might be in multiple time zones on any given day. It truly was a bit of a challenge to keep appointments and meetings straight when merely relying on the timepiece secured to the wrist. Not to mention, there was always the issue of returning to your home time zone only to forget to set your watch back… ah yes, much like the Daylight Savings Time, there was always the risk of missing a meeting or showing up ridiculously early upon return from a different zone. But I digress…

Unlike many of my technologically savvy and technology-adoring friends, I firmly resist getting the latest and greatest every time something new comes out. I am not criticizing the impulse to get the newest shiny on the market and try out the latest updates. I am just not one to be always on the cutting edge. I will leave that to my dear ones who are always happy to provide me with unsolicited reviews of “Look What It DOES?!?” and “Oh my, they will need to fix that bug on the next firmware upgrade…” It helps me avoid any of the less successful technological advancements. However, as logical and appropriate as that sounds, I’m totally lying. I anthropomorphize my equipment. It’s true. My fear of change and resistance to same stems in many ways from my feeling deep down that my poor gadget will feel abandoned and cast aside for the younger model.

Regardless, the time came after four blissful years with my iPhone, that my formerly reliable equipment was no longer so reliable. It just no longer worked. It would reboot at random, never get a good signal, and froze up regularly. Sadly, the day came when I could no longer give the excuse of “It works just fine for me.” I had to bite the bullet and get a new phone.

I will not go into the details of that painful drama. With shaking hands and sweaty palms, I discussed and made arrangements with my telecommunications provider to get a new phone. Those of you out there that relish the excitement of new tech in your life cannot possibly understand my anxiety and stress over what must seem to most a very simple, though costly, transaction. However, by the end of the day, the deed was done. A new phone was mine. Herein lays the unexpected snag…

I have for many, many… I shan’t say how many years carried my mobile device in a holster. This is a pouch that attaches to a belt or waistband and into which you can put your phone. I found that it was also handy for carrying the most frequently used of my wallet denizens, driver’s license, ATM card, insurance card, etc. As you might expect, the holster was in about the same condition as the old phone. Sure enough, it disintegrated shortly after the new phone came into use (possibly died of grief, who knows).

Now, these days, it seems most people have their phones surgically attached to their hands. Seriously, this is merely from observation that no one seems to be able to put the darn things down. I have noticed that some folks pocket phones or maybe have them in voluminous purses, but primarily, the devices appear to be constantly in use or held in the hand. How do these people go to the bathroom?!?

I am not of the ilk to have phone in hand at all times, and not all of my fashion choices have pockets. I ceased carrying purses long ago as I had a tendency to leave them wherever I hung them over a chair or happened to set them down. Needless to say, I have been reliant on my handy holster for many years. When my old one disintegrated, therefore, I had absolutely no suspicion that this was the serious loss that it became. I figured, “I’ll just buy a new one.” Oh hell no… Did you know that there are about a metric blue-billion different colored, designed, bedazzled, blingged-out Otterboxes on the market? Did you?!? There are. I walked into the first store, and the young man working there became completely baffled when I asked for a holster. With his head on one side like an inquisitive dog, he proceeded to show me the varying array of rubberized phone condoms that I could choose. “No, I want a holster.” I was told that they had nothing like that, but wouldn’t I like a nice fuchsia Hello Kitty Otterbox? I managed to escape minus Hello Kitty, rhinestones, or glitter. I continued my search in a variety of office supply and technology gizmo stores. With every stop along the way, my spirit became more and more dejected. The lowest point of the day was when a store employee shortly out of his infancy and looking no more than 12 years of age informed me that he didn’t believe anyone made holsters anymore, because no one of the current technology age used them anymore. He hadn’t seen one in “ages,” and wouldn’t I like a nice Otterbox?

Now feeling even more like a relic of a bygone age, I was close to tears as I approached the last bastion of hope. I dared not meet the eyes of the staff who were likely young enough to be my offspring. However, I recollected myself enough to notice that a nice gentleman (who looked to be at least past puberty) holding the door open for me. I meekly asked if they carried holsters… AND they DID! I was giddy and in tears as I purchased my lovely leather holster and found that it fit my new phone with space for cards. It seems that despite my advanced age, I must not be entirely alone in my quest for an efficient carrying method for my phone.

Why, you may ask, is this particular article in The New Cheese? Isn’t TNC supposed to be about professional stuff? Yes indeed it is. Here is why. It is not only to free up my dexterity that I prefer to use a holster instead of a colorful rubber phone condom.

It has become common practice to keep your mobile phone permanently in your hand. People sit in social circumstances with their devices constantly before their eyes, consulting them approximately every one or two minutes. Sadly, this is the status of our society today. We spend every moment incapable of being separated from the electronics.

Most professionals holding positions of responsibility in any organization will have one or more electronic devices connecting them with the plethora of information sources on the internet, their staff, and their customers. Today, the instantaneous access to any individual has created the expectation that all employees, managers, and leaders have their phones on at all times. Phones remain in hands or on conference tables immediately visible to anyone present. However, many individuals in the modern workplace believe this expectation gives them license to have their mobile devices permanently attached to their hands in all environments and situations.

True professionalism involves basic civility and manners. What do mobile phones have to do with this? In interviews, meetings, business discussions, and trainings, people deserve the attention of their target audience. Distractions such as incoming phone calls, text messages, and social media notifications detract from the interaction and give the impression of disinterest, immaturity, lack of focus, and unprofessional conduct.

Be a professional. Presenters, trainers, and potential employers or employees deserve your respect and full attention. Holster the phone, iPad, or personal assistant device unless using it specifically to take notes or perform a function related to the discussion at hand. Use the silent mode. Turn off ring tones and notifications for the duration of the meeting, interview, or training. Use the “airplane” mode to suspend all potential signals until after the meeting. In the event of forgetting to silence your phone and receiving a call or message, remedy the situation by switching on silent mode and in one on one or meeting situations, apologize concisely and move on. People lived without instantaneous access for many years. You can always check messages, texts, and Facebook at a more appropriate time when you are not infringing upon the valuable time of others.

So, the moral of the story? The appearance of the professional is not enhanced by a constant barrage of incoming electronic communications on a rubber encrusted mobile device permanently ensconced in your hand. To all those currently holding or hoping to hold a professional position in some organization, with regards to your mobile phones, literally or figuratively, do yourself a favor. Present yourself in a mature and professional way… Holster It!

Diagnostic Evaluation of ‘But First’ Disorder: The Epidemic

It was a joke between my father and me. It was a collection of observations we made over the years. Many of our family members actually praised the organizational skills of my father. My mother frequently noted wistfully how much more disciplined I am that she. Dad and I knew what it was. It was the ‘but first’ disease.

The ‘But First’ disease is a remarkably prevalent disorder in the general human population. There are acute and chronic versions. It is a degenerative disorder and can become more chronic and severe with age. Here is a general case study of the criteria for this common disorder as described by an anonymous sufferer and disseminated to the internet in the early BBS days:

“I call it ‘But First’ Syndrome.  You know.  It’s when you decide to do the laundry.  So you start down the stairs with the laundry, but then see the newspapers on the table.  OK, you’ll do the laundry.

BUT FIRST you decide to put the newspapers away.  So on your way in to put the newspapers away, you notice the mail on the table.  OK, you’ll put the newspapers away.

BUT FIRST you’ll pay that bill that needs to be paid.  So you look for the checkbook.  Oops…there’s the baby’s bottle from yesterday on the floor. OK, you’ll pay the bill.

BUT FIRST you need to put the bottle in the sink.  You head for the kitchen.  Darn it, there’s the remote for the TV.  What’s it doing here? Okay, you’ll put the bottle in the sink.

BUT FIRST you need to put the remote away.  Head for the TV room.

Aaagh!  Stepped on the cat.  Cat needs to be fed.  Okay, you’ll put the remote away.

BUT FIRST you need to feed the cat…

So, here’s what happens at the end of the day: Laundry is not done, newspapers are still on the floor, bottle is on the table, bills are unpaid, checkbook is still lost, and the cat ate the remote control …

And, when you try to figure out how come nothing got done all day, you are baffled because …..you KNOW you were BUSY ALL DAY!!

That’s the ‘BUT FIRST’ Syndrome.”

~author unknown

I have for years blithely watched as various family members struggled with deadlines and due dates and arrivals and departures. There was always the last minute scrambling that occurred before heading out to any planned event. I always marveled at the frantic actions that accompanied any scheduled departure. I was baffled at the inability of so many to actually have a “To Do” list and yet fail miserable to get any item on it “Ta Done”. I believed myself to be immune to the plague from which so many suffer.

And then it hit. I’ve never really known whether it was age or stress or various life events that activates the “but first” disease, but it has hit me… with a vengeance. Along with the described progress of the disorder above, there is an accompanying cognitive disruption that culminates in a glorious confusion that prevents you from remembering exactly what you were even supposed to be doing or where you might be on the vaunted “To Do” list. I now find myself in the mortifying circumstance of mirroring the behaviors and symptoms previously regaled. I will share with all of you, my dear readers the criteria for this sad epidemic in our midst.

“But First” Disorder Diagnostic Criteria

Category

Cognitive Disorders vs Stress Induction Disorder

Etiology

Many theories have been introduced to explain this disorder, however at this time there is much controversy whether this disorder is a biological result of the progression of aging or whether environmental contributions have an impact. Additionally, there has been some speculation about the genetic contribution to the manifestation of symptoms. The increased occurrence with chronological age has led to it also being referred to as Age Activated Attention Deficit Disorder (AAADD). Further research is needed.

Symptoms

The symptoms of But First Disorder generally present at some point during adulthood. There is a broad range of ages in victims of this disorder; however parenthood appears to contribute somewhat to early onset of the illness.

Criteria

Two or more symptoms, each present for a significant portion of time during acute attack periods

  • Highly distractible even with specific purpose, intent, and initiation of action (source of disorder name, “but first…”)
  • Tangential communication resulting derailed train of thought, often in the middle of the sentence resulting in frequent inquiry of “What the @#$% was I just saying?”
  • Motor function devoid of active cognition, as evidenced by walking purposefully into another room of the house and finding that no conscious reason for said journey is evident
  • Memory reengagement function creating unnecessary physical movement, as evidenced by returning to previous room in house and sitting down only to remember why the previous journey was made
  • Finding at the end of any given day five or more open tasks/projects with no significant progress or action accompanied by significant physical fatigue

Modifiers

  • Acute
    • This is generally an onset that accompanies a day planner/activity calendar that has no empty spaces
  • Chronic
    • BFD that occurs periodically with some regularity, usually when there is a large amount of tasks to accomplish and only a short duration in which to accomplish them (see paid time off deficiency)

‘But First’ Subtypes

External Distraction Type

  • Often found in (but not restricted to) new parents or parents of young children
  • Inability to finish sentences due to phones ringing, children requesting attention, pet challenges, text messages, instant messages, etc.
  • Appearance and nutrition frequently impaired due to interruptions in normal routines in these areas sometimes resulting in arrival to work with shoes of different colors or un-brushed hair, or possibly forgetting whether any food has been consumed during the day

Hyperactive Type

  • Designated by frantic activity and larger numbers of initiated tasks generally with no evidence of completion after several attempted initiations

Procrastination Type

  • Designated by long lists of tasks to be completed that have no decrease over time accompanied by other initiated activities
  • Designated task days derailed by the irresistible urge to watch the entire Netflix collection of Murder She Wrote

Treatment

The most important part of treatment is allowing time and environmental cues to clear the mind of the sufferer, a reset, if you will. This can best be accomplished with a relaxing night out with an enjoyable companion. Spa treatments and massages are also beneficial. For extreme cases, more intense treatment is required. Oceanic cruises or at least a long weekend by a large body of water or other peaceful environment and application of appropriate beverages and nourishment can often significantly improve symptomology almost to complete remission. However, if symptoms re-present, repeat the aforementioned treatment.

Prognosis

There is currently no permanent cure for BFD. However, with proper alleviation of environmental factors and regular treatment, as above, the individual can learn to cope and improve social functioning. Additionally, appropriate treatment can prevent exacerbation of the disorder into full-blown CRS (Can’t Remember $#!%).

More research is needed to fully understand the condition and fully explore the most effective treatments… Actually, I think I’ll get on that exploration. *Hey, barkeep!…*

But First Syndrome http://www.funpages.com/butfirst

Daily Dose of “The Funnies” http://kcbx.net/~tellswor/butfirst.htm

Don’t Pet My Peeves

Before anyone gets the bright idea that this is a nicely gift-wrapped manual for how to get under my skin, I will preface this post with a declaration that not all of these little peculiarities are my own. I have gleaned from conversations with friends and colleagues a few of the little things that really bug them, and I’ve added some of my own. As it is, I believe it presents an interesting collection of quirks that range in response from rolled eyes to grinding teeth. This is by no means an exhaustive list, and I’m sure there are a good many others that could be added, but to capture them all might break the internet.

Pet peeves are those little things that bother us just enough to irritate, but never so much as to excite rage. Generally, they are insignificant behaviors or aspects of life that other people around us may not even notice, or at the very least find perfectly acceptable. The first use of the term seems to have originated in the turn of the last century. It allegedly is derived from the word peevish or annoyed. The point being that whatever the occurrence in question, the response was less explosive than seething.

And on with the show…

1. The “correct” way to hang toilet paper:

So, I’ve seen this over and over. There are polls and memes and you-name-it all over the internet debating the right or wrong way to hang the toilet paper roll on the holder. By this, of course, we are talking about whether the loose end goes over the top and comes to the front or if it goes back towards the wall and pulls from underneath the roll.

Seriously, people. I will admit that my preference has always been the towards-the-front application, but I strongly suspect that was instilled by my mother who always went the extra step of folding the end into a neat little triangle before guests arrived (don’t even ask). Truth be told, I don’t very well understand getting all that torqued over the perspective of the loose end of something with which I am going to wipe my bum. Generally, I am just thrilled when people actually think to put a new roll on the holder when the old one is spent.

2. I have an ideal. Axe me something about nucular strategery, irregardless of the previous topic, ekcetera:

We’ve all heard them, right? Those colloquial pronunciations that don’t quite match the spelling or Oxfordian English presentation of the vernacular. People will generally notice if it is a public figure making a general ass of himself or herself before the camera lens of publicity, especially if it also makes said individual look to have the verbal IQ of a mollusk. For the most part, however, people will usually overlook the occasional misquoted, poorly articulated presentation of the SAT wordlist. I do have to say, that there is some small nerve in my spinal cord that jumps every time people put that extra consonant on the word “idea” to make the concept into the superlative or place a ‘k’ in the Latin word to indicate “and so on”. It is worse when the speaker is supposed to be not only educated but also holds a professional role of some prominence and representative of my own field, institution, or position. While, I am aware that I may be the only person hearing it; it does make me concerned that the audience will tar me with the same brush of incompetence that could be construed by their ignorance of the English language (even if it is just a frequently used Latin term).

3. The recently much-abused Oxford comma:

This particular grammatical functionary has received way more attention in the “interwebs” of late than I ever would have suspected possible. For those who might not even understand the term to which I refer, the Oxford or serial comma is used when listing more than two items in a phrase or sentence. I found out in the process of editing my dissertation that this particular particle of punctuation is now considered optional. Um… optional? Really? When I was but a wee lass learning to actually compose sentences on paper (yes, sometime around the invention of written language, I know), we were taught about things like subjects, predicates, nouns, and verbs… (see what I did there?) AND the comma in a serial list of objects, people, entities, and ideas was always used before the conjunction (and, or, nor, but, etc.). This was so that you didn’t group the last two items in the list as one entity.

However, this small, insignificant punctuation mark has apparently gone the way of the dodo and is now considered unnecessary. It came as a complete shock to me, I can tell you. However, this seems to be the way of the new world in which we live. I read an article just yesterday about the new punctuation and how our use of texting and social media has changed how we punctuate due to implied emotional content. This goes back to my “Antisocial Media” article and some of the discussions I have had recently about what technology has done to our language and learning. I caution my readers (all three of you now, I think) not to give into this new lackadaisical application of the traditional grammatical forms. Punctuation is important, people! Just think:

It’s time to eat Grandma! vs It’s time to eat, Grandma!

Punctuation saves lives.

4. BTW, txt b4 omw:

While the above is probably an exaggeration, one of the things that appalls me in our current society is the all too frequent use of the “text speak” in what I might consider formal publications. Now, I am not suggesting that the editors of all the scholarly journals on the planet have suddenly decided to take a powder and leave off their duties as grammar police and guardians of comprehensive communication. I have not yet found any glaring incidents of seeing the ridiculous acronyms and abbreviations used for the character and time limited formats of the text environment; BUT sadly, I have seen too many of these used in emails, sometimes those of an alleged professional nature. This is truly a travesty in a world of informality that we cannot at least keep some professionalism with regards, say… formal memorandum sent to an entire department or company sector, correspondents between academic department heads, emails to professional colleagues, or official event fliers in the workplace. I know you are probably thinking, “She’s exaggerating again. Surely professionals wouldn’t do that!” Sorry… I’ve seen it. What people fail to consider (at least those used to communicating in that immediately gratifying way of technology and the speed of electronic transfer) is that when you send something across the internet, there is the very distinct possibility that the document (albeit brief) has the potential longevity to be there in perpetuity and be displayed to an entirely different audience than originally intended. I have found some of them truly amusing, in part because I know that the writer is not nearly as unprofessional as they appear in print. However, to the potential unknown reader, what might the impression be? I can appreciate the convenience of the acronym and abbreviation. I can even support the use of some of these expressions as an almost secret code-like communication, but for the love of all that is sacred to your dignity, please use language in its full beauty when composing communication that might be seen by a broader audience or presented as professional correspondence.

5. Uggs:

Let’s depart for a moment from the intellectual and academic arguments of things that make one peevish. Instead we shall briefly delve into the realm of fashion.

People who know me would tell you, I am not a fashionista, and I am not one to sacrifice comfort or large portions of my bank balance for the latest trends. That being said, the fashion in footwear called Uggs just perplexes me. I can only assume that the name comes from the word ugly. As far as I can tell, these foot coverings were created to look like something that should never leave the house and were designed with the intent to make the leg look as short and wide as possible. Apparently, the origin of these heinous things is actually Australia, where they were actually designed to keep the feet of surfers warm when out of the water. I can see how they might actually be effective in that capacity. I understand that they are warm and comfortable. My problem is that they have become the height of fashion and they can cost as much as $200. If I spend a couple of Benjamins on a set of footwear, they better make me look like the winner of America’s Top Model. Instead, what I generally see is young girls wearing these hideous things on their feet accompanying a miniskirt or leggings and a long sweater or possibly even skinny jeans (and that is a whole other discourse). The effect is incredible. Even if said gal was remarkably well-formed and legs that went from the ground to the sky, what this choice of wardrobe does is cut her off horizontally to produce a wider and shorter silhouette. Why would someone want to do this? Anyhow, out of curiosity, I looked up ugg boots to see what it was all about and found something I found both humorous and interesting:

THE Canadian Inuit call them mukluks, the Native American Indians call them moccasins, and here in Australia we just call them uggies — but no matter what you call them, no matter what part of the world you come from, the fur or wool-lined soft-leather winter boot will always be associated with daggy fashion sense, bogan behaviour, and the outer suburbs.” (Katz, 2006)

Now, anyone need a translation? Daggy and bogan are Australian slang terms that mean unfashionable, ugly, what we Stateside folk might call “the people of Walmart” (no offense to people who just choose to shop from that entity). The author actually states that the ugliest boots on the planet are warm and comfortable, but fashionable… not so much.

6. Uncomfortable non-silence:

Ever met those people who just seem completely unable to stand silence? I expect that going to a library would be pure torture for them. I don’t particularly mind the traditional chatterbox. They are lively people with a lot on their minds and have no apparent internal monologue as they tend to have a running commentary on everything that comes to their notice. It can be entertaining. It is not really these types that are the focus of disapprobation. Instead, I refer you to the random (and sometimes not so random) individuals who in an atmosphere of conversational lull have to fill the lack of speech, to ease their own discomfort, with a plethora of banalities that serve no purpose save to make noise.

Sitting with silence is not always easy. It is one of the most difficult skills that my own profession needs to cultivate before embarking on the path of providing counsel to those in need. I have found myself feeling a bit discomfited by the client who sits for a half-hour span without so much as a word spoken aloud. Sometimes, those are the most revealing and healing moments, however, and I have found my own Herculean effort to remain silent rewarded surprisingly by clients who have said that having a “calm, safe space” was the best therapy they have ever had.

7. Autocorrect hell:

The advent of the autocorrect function for most people have saved time and provided clarity of commonly used verbiage. On the flip side of that argument, I have seen some of the most ridiculous gaffs and blunders created by my own phone that assumes that it knows better than I what it was I was trying to impart. I am certain that you all have enjoyed some of the more spectacular failures of the autocorrect function. Personally, I have spent inordinate amounts of time perusing the damnyouautocorrect site and laughing uproariously at some of the unintended hilarity there.

That being said, I get somewhat aggravated when I am trying to type something in my text frame (or other electronic media) and the suggested words available are not even related to what I was going to say. Combined with the autopopulate feature, it usually takes twice the normal amount of time spent backing up and retyping my original word. Sometimes, I am genuinely baffled by the suggestions. At other times, I want to hurl the phone sharply against the most convenient hard surface because it will not accept that perhaps I know what I am saying and continues trying to convince me of my error by inserting the wrong word over, and over, and over again. Too many of us have become reliant upon our spellcheck and autocorrect for everything from spelling to punctuation and grammar. Sadly, these marvels of modern technology are not perfection and will sometimes substitute extraordinary things into our typed correspondence. So, my public service advisory for this item would be to always proof read rather than rely upon your technology to represent your thoughts in the way you intended.

And last one, for now…

8. The thing that does the thing with the thing:

We’ve all been there; that moment when someone asks you something believing you to be the source of knowledge on which they could rely, and you draw a beautiful blank from your internal repository of related facts on the topic of your supposed expertise. I admit, not gladly but truthfully, that I am ignorant of a good many subjects in this big, wide world in which we live. I get accused of being a know-it-all on occasion, but the more accurate assessment would be that I know just enough to be dangerous about too many things. I am Jill of all trades and master of not-so-much. I’ve always been curious. Hearing a smattering of conversation about something that I’ve never heard before will usually provoke me to look up anything I can find on the topic for my own edification. This way lays the evil of the Wikipedia rabbit hole and other such sources. It tends to make me annoying in a game of Trivial Pursuit and probably even more so in social conversations that range an extensive breadth of topics. I cannot, therefore, be terribly irritated by others of my ilk that have the same general bent about what used to be called “general knowledge” in a different academic age. There are the people out there, though, that don’t fall into the same category. In fact, these folk are so common that they have been canonized frequently in various entertainment genres. Think for a moment (those of you who remember) of Cliff Clavin, played by John Ratzenberger or of the seagull friend of Ariel, Scuttle, played by Buddy Hackett. These poor souls rely on and take pride in their reputations as the sagely sources of knowledge. The humor comes in when they don’t have all the verifiable facts and confabulate, sometimes even to the extent of creating new words to describe, explain, and elucidate their expertise in all things. We laugh at these caricatures of people that exist out in the real world, but when it comes to the ones we actually meet or experience in the course of our lives, it’s different. Nothing is more frustrating, or embarrassing, than having something explained (say a technical problem with some sort of technology at work) by someone who allegedly gets paid for knowing the problem only to be laughed at by those with real knowledge when you repeat what you were told. As difficult as it is to admit, sometimes it truly is better to admit you do not know something and appear ignorant than to blather on in a sea of confabulation to mislead others and appear an even larger jackass than would have been the case with acknowledgment of ignorance.

And that concludes the list for now. I am sure there are some other entertaining peeves out there for people to share. Be my guest. Some of them are amusing to others, though annoying to us. I dare say I can commiserate with a few of your own submissions, if not more. The point is, these are insignificant blips in the course of our daily lives, probably not even worthy of concern; but perhaps, if we avoid committing some of them ourselves, we can make someone’s life a little less annoying by not petting their peeves.

Katz, D. (2006). The uggly side of life. Retrieved from http://www.theage.com.au/news/danny-katz/the-uggly-side-of-life/2006/09/27/1159337216912.html

Memoirs of a Former Button-Pusher

Back in the days of my existence as a particularly unpleasant species of teenager (shortly after dinosaurs roamed the earth), I found that I had the extraordinary superpower of button pushing. And this was well before the days of Nintendo and Xbox and whatever other gaming systems exist out there with their controllers that require two hands and several tentacles to find the sequence of down-down-left-right-up to unlock a secret ninja move (FINISH HIM!!!). I can assure you that buttons exist within every person on the planet, and I had all the cheat codes.

Granted that teenagers are generally a misery to themselves and everyone else, I was just a prodigy at the skill of pissing everyone off. Misery loves company, and there is no doubt in my mind that I was as miserable a teenager as they come. The unwilling and pitiable recipient of my mad skills of manipulation was my mother. It wasn’t that she was worthy of such ill treatment, but as is common in the parent-child relationship; she presented a ready target for my adolescent angst. It is not a chapter of my life that I look upon with pride or pleasure.

My mum is pretty awesome generally. She has a touch of the Mary Poppins thing going on, but she is loving and supportive, if somewhat overprotective. I still am not quite certain what she did in a former life to be saddled with me as a daughter, but there it is. Some have “greatness” thrust upon them, and so I was my mother’s particular burden to bear. On the down side, my mother has a hair-trigger emotional response system. This isn’t entirely negative. She never was one to scream and yell, though the sound of my full given name is still a bit of an issue for me. However, she would cry for almost any emotional extreme. I am talking about happy, angry, sad, touched, proud… you name it. If there was an emotion involved, mum’s tear ducts got a workout. This was the particular facet of her personality that prompted my sadistic teenage prowess. I found that if I pushed all the right buttons, the tears would flow. Right-up-up-down-left… and cue tears. I win! Evil, right? I was a horrible child. I am well aware of it. I suppose that somewhere in the cockles of my consciousness I was aware of it even then, but as is the way of the self-centered adult in forming, I never let that awareness get in the way of me trying my superpower on my most convenient victim.

Karma, as they say, is a bitch. That being said, my years of torturing my mother’s tear production led apparently to a career path rife with the angst of teens and their conflicts with parental units. No one likes being reminded of their less than stellar moments, and I had chosen a field that put the mirror of my flagrantly ungrateful and malicious emotional manipulation front and foremost during the majority of my waking hours.

I recall one particularly dreary evening in the emergency room. I was not entirely certain if the reason for the parents bringing the child to the ER was due to her behavior or due to something else and the behavioral issues were just a bonus. Whatever the scenario, I was called in due to the excessive emotional conflict that ensued. I should have been warned by the looks on the faces of doctors and nurses alike in the ambulatory ward. This would have immediately prepared me for the onslaught of vexatious personality that was to greet me, but as usual, in the rush of my normal working life, I was primarily focused on task and failed to see the rolled eyes and looks of consternation on the faces of my colleagues.

I entered the room to witness a full blown stand-off worthy of a spaghetti western. Adult female on one side of the room; smaller and younger version of same on the other side sporting the makeup and clothing that appeared for all the world that a gang of Marilyn Manson groupies had attacked her with charcoal and chalk. The glares were palpable, the silence deafening and deadly. I immediately reassessed and took stock of my surroundings, noting every potential weapon (or shield) available in the room. Now was my cue. I broke the tableau by announcing my name and role. The mother had a momentary response of relaxing shoulders and look of relief. Here was someone to fix her problem child and relieve her of the parenting burden! The response from her antagonist was a narrowing of black-rimmed eyes and a visual assessment of my person, tinged with a soupçon of curiosity.

Much of what I did back in the day was a form of diplomatic negotiation. I assessed the situation, heard both sides, and attempted to reach détente between the warring parties. Occasionally, this was not possible and other arrangements had to be made. Primarily, though, my job was to keep the battle off the hospital grounds and avoid collateral damage. In this particular case, it appeared that the issues at hand were that the mother was completely ignorant of the latest trends without which life was not worth living in the social circles of middle school. Mother’s issue was that her child looked like she was playing as an extra on a new sequel of The Crow. There was much maneuvering by each party to get me to take their respective sides. I valiantly parried their advances to remain in neutral. However, it was a vain attempt. I really should have known better. As an adult, with no apparent fashion sense, I had been clearly relegated to the tribe of “THEM” in this pitched battle of wills. I witnessed the mother take a few shots of vituperative spleen and her eyes filled. As I attempted redirection, I received “What do you know?!? You’re just taking her side, and you obviously don’t care what you look like!” It really got no better after that. I did manage to gain some concessions on both sides. I convinced the young diva that perhaps she might try using less than half the cosmetics aisle at the Walgreen’s during the daylight hours of school, and I attempted to sooth the mother’s feelings with some tried and true wisdom about this being a developmental phase and was her daughter’s attempt to define herself as an individual. This too would pass… or else she would be authorizing us to lock her up in a tower until she reached her majority. Thus is the plight of the parent. I’m not sure any of my efforts actually resulted in relational improvement, but it kept down shrapnel and both parties were escorted from the unit sniffing and huffing with reddened eyes to make their way home.

I sat in an emotionally exhausted heap behind the nurses’ station to complete my charting. Beside me was the obligatory 17 billion line phone that is the norm in hospital settings. I stared at it for a few moments before picking up the receiver. Without thinking, I dialed the number to my parents’ home. It was not so late in the evening that it would register alarm, and my mother answered on the second ring.

“Hello?”

“Hi, mum. I am sorry I was ever 13.” Click. I would have given some excessive sums of money to have seen the look on her face. It was likely a mixture of bafflement and awe. That was the first of my apologies throughout the years. Over the course of many long hours in emergency services and working with children and adolescents, I have now apologized for every year of my life from age 10 to age 21. I’m pretty certain that there are a few questionable choices and actions that I made outside that general span of years, but I figure I have caught the majority of the glaring errors of my ways. Perhaps with the years have come a little wisdom, and perhaps, if I show true remorse, my mother will never regret not drowning me at birth.

“When I was a boy of fourteen, my father was so ignorant I could hardly stand to have the old man around. But when I got to be twenty-one, I was astonished at how much the old man had learned in seven years.” ~ quote attributed to Mark Twain but never verified