The Office Chronicles

“We farm.”

This overheard during an all-morning-long phone conversation with an insurance agent. With a little googling effort on my part, I discover she is what’s called a Poll-Ette. I thought it had something to do with voting at first, but no, she’s with an organization that promotes cow education. I think that means they educate people about cows, not the other way around.

What’s that expression about being raised in a barn? Now don’t get me wrong, I love a good farmer, but I can’t say I want one confined to a cubicle next to me. They’re not meant for cubicle dwelling. They have outside behavior.

The constant chair movement. The radio. The phone calls. The outside voice. The opening and closing of drawers every day and all day long. And the chewing. I know, it’s just too obvious to insert a cow/cud comparison here, so I won’t, but I hear unnatural levels of chewing.

Oprah did an audience participation test recently called “Are you rude?” One of the tell-tale signs you were rude was whether or not you had ever typed on your computer while talking on the phone. This is something I would never do. It’s rude. But guess who does? Ol’ Poll-Ette.

So where there’s smoke, there’s fire. Which brings me back to the farm and the insurance. And that I think I’d rather try to get my work done sitting next to a cow than a Poll-Ette.

A long, long time ago, I worked in a small Georgia town and sat too close to a gal who was a little older than me at the time, but had almost grown children. Two daughters, 18 and 17. She had married her husband, Gary, the day after her high school graduation. They were that much in love. And as she liked to let us know, all those years later, still were. 

She spent hours on the phone each day talking to Gary and her girls. He was a firefighter and had some extra time. One of the girls was out of high school and wasn’t in a rush to get a job, so she had some extra time, too. 

While not on the phone, she socialized. But the only thing she talked about was Gary and the girls. Gary and the girls. Gary and the girls. The girls were so this, so that. Just joys. She was proud as punch of both of them. They were funny, pretty, smart, popular (“their phones just ring off the hook”), you name it. And Gary. Well, he was just the bestest man, the bestest husband, the bestest looking, the bestest fireman, the bestest cook, the bestest in every room of the house. 

And she was the expert on bestest men, after all. On and on and on. Twenty years. Gary. Girls. Twenty. Gary. Girls. Gary. Gary. Gaaaaaarrry. Ahhhhh. She’d sigh. She’d actually sigh when she talked about him. 

“I’m sorry ya’ll don’t have what I have.” 

Yup. I still have a clear picture of where I was. Sitting three people away (it was the farthest spot I could get) at a long lunchroom table. Rather than schooling her right there, we calmly pointed out to her that since Gary worked 24 on and 24 off at the firehouse, her twenty years of marriage was really the equivalent of ten, which, while still envious and all, is not quite to the same level. 

What we really wanted to point out was the problem with her claim to perfection. There was something about Gary and the girls that the whole town knew that she didn’t. First, the girls: being well-known and in demand high school meth dealers was mistaken by Mom for popularity. Second, Gaarrrrrrrrrrrrry: he was sleeping with everything in town. 

So, while she’d go on and on and on, we’d say nothing. But we knew that we knew and that made listening to her almost like entertainment. Plus, she was either the queen of denial or just stupid. No matter, both were just icing on the cake of satisfaction.

There was a man named Robert who I’ll always remember fondly. What a nut.

Probably close to his 60th year, with at least that many botox injections. He reminded me of Liza Minnelli’s “husband”. Robert was better looking, but he had that same plastic appearance.

There were six of us in a room that under normal circumstances would have been someone’s office. Three desks facing each of the longer walls. Robert got a corner, but it was still beneath him. He was too good for his job, his lot in life, his partner, his employer, his house, this city, you name it. If you put a man like this in a room this small with contractors (even though he was one of us), it doesn’t take long for something to snap in somebody.

He would later tell us that he had to persuade three of his friends with offices (this was meant to point out that he knew more important and better people than us) to relinquish their rolling whiteboards. Granted, they can be used for room dividers, but he put them all around himself. So, he’d sit at his desk surrounded by these three rolling walls of whiteboard to separate himself from us, the riff-raff. I always loved his busiest days, because he would open and close one of them like it was a real door and it was so fun to watch.

Nothing has made me happier about getting to my desk each morning since. I’d get to the office door each day and stop to smell the roses of being exposed to such an unapologetic fruitcake. I’d look at him (yes, he could still be seen, but we never told him) between these whiteboards and couldn’t help but laugh. He always ignored me, though, because after all, it couldn’t have anything to do with him – he couldn’t be seen.

He couldn’t conjure up a secretary, so he wrote “Robert is OUT” on one of the whiteboards with a box beside it that he’d check when he’d leave and erase when he was at his desk. I really don’t think he had any idea that he was still visible. It didn’t take long for us to write things on the whiteboard while he was out. We’d add things like “…to lunch” and “..of his mind” and “….finding more walls” and “…talking to better people than you” and ”…..and invisible, so please knock”. A gal who sat by the door would keep an eye out so we could erase our notes before he saw them.

Robert made for hours of crazy room-full-of-contractors fun. And yet, he never knew. I hope he’s somewhere nice with real walls and better people.

I worked on a project with a woman who became the fourth person on my list of “deal-breakers” (people with whom I refuse to work – so far there are five). Her name was Felicia. I had a hamster named Felicia when I was a kid. I have fond memories of the hamster. 

Felicia – the human – was a combination of attempted bitch and idiot. Attempted, because it’s impossible to be both. (This might seem belittling. It is.)

She had Bible scriptures taped all over her overhead cubicle cabinets. I think it was her contribution to teach and help her fellow man, because they were all at perfect eye level for passers-by or visitors, but, of course, out of her line of sight. 

She loved to say things like, “I’m sorry if you feel that way” and “You’re not an employee here” and “I’m sure we can do better” and “You misunderstood me.” 

She carried her $1,500 (but who really knows) purse to meetings. Most meetings were twenty feet from her desk. And the damn purse always managed to make its way to the middle of the conference room table. (I used to love watching her repeatedly move it here and then there – all the while scouring the room for attention.)

She put MBA beside her name in her email signature.

‘Nuff said. 

Well, maybe just one more….

She was a certified personal trainer, and loved to talk about how cute that made her. She also fell asleep for hours at her desk every day. On particularly fun days, you could hear her snore. It’s hard to be impressed by a fitness expert with that kind of energy.

Then, today, almost two years later, a gift from the Heavens. Her name popped up on some networking website I ran across.

Her list of credentials and skills said many things, but ended with this: 

Creative and detailed oriented.

That’s no typo, my friends.

This guy’s UserID to the system I’m writing about is payned. I used to call him D’Payne, but payned fits better, since I am payned by him.

He sighs about every 7.26 minutes. A long sigh, like he’s been curing cancer. 

Says things like: 

“Doesn’t help to howl at the moon. The moon doesn’t care and you just annoy your neighbors.” 

“I’m a problem. I know it. I guess that’s your problem now, though.” Then, raucous laughter. His own. 

“I have a million in the bank and I’ll bring home about 3,000 a month, so I guess that’s enough to retire any day. I don’t know what I’m waiting on.” This is when the audience is supposed to mention how necessary he is, I think. 

“I don’t know. I just work here.” (ah, the newness of this one)

She comes down to visit him too much (she works two floors up). 

Kissy noises. Mmmmmm sounds. “Don’t do that, I can’t take it today.” 

I had a dream. I brought shot glasses to work. Lined them up around my three sided cubicle. Every time he said fiancée I drank. I slept in a bathroom stall that night. 

What was my fiancée, my fiancée, my fiancée has no idea what she’s getting herself into, my fiancée said I can’t, my fiancée loves to ride….motorcycles. <insert predictable Beavis uhhuhhuhuhhuhuh laugh>

Now it’ll be my wife, my wife, my wife this, my wife that, I can’t because I have a wife, I need to call my wife, my wife, wife, wife.

Has a cartoon in his cube where the wizard who is supposed to be God is sprinkling things onto the Earth during the creation process. The jar he’s holding is labeled “JERKS” and the callout says, “Just to make things interesting…” 

He has no idea he is part of the problem. Or, maybe he does and he thinks he’s here to make life interesting for the rest of us? Could that be? 

Oh, D’Payne!