So there is an episode of the American version of The Office where two coworkers mess with the weird guy’s head by sending him fake letters from the CIA and telling him to do certain things. There’s also a hilarious episode where they send him letters to himself from himself in the future, but that’s for a different story. Anyway, I’ve kind of stolen that concept but tweaked it a bit to make it more pertinent to my own office environment. I'm on a mission to mess with my neighbor. Well, not my neighbor, neighbor - she's cool and has done nothing to deserve the level of "messing" I'm thinking. I mean my creepy, "Awkward Acquaintances and TMI" neighbor (if you haven't read that entry in my blog yet, stop reading and go do that). To those of you who know me and want in on it, just say the word, I could use all the help I can get.
Now, you might be thinking that it’s cruel to think of screwing with people like this. To those people I will say only, did you read that blog story I just told you about?! Why do I want to do this? I dunno... vindication, because I can, good ole' fashioned fun, whatever - you name it. This guy is getting on my last nerve. Every day at work I have to watch him literally find ways not to get anything done, which, apparently, gets harder after six months of doing it. He rolls into the office at 9:45am after staying up all night playing World of Warcraft with all his weird cyber buddies, leaves the office at 10am to make a 30 minute coffee run, then spends the next two to three hours tracking down every other WOW player in our office to talk about the neat-o escapades his fucking mage (or whatever the hell the characters in that game are called) had last night (which, by the way, include raiding zeppelins in mid-air, throwing parties for his 'guild', and attending the weddings of other WOW players for the, I quote, free booze - WTF?! ). Right about then its lunchtime, and we all know that takes 90 minutes. In the afternoon he might bother to go to a conference call, but then he's so exhausted from all that work he'll have to find something to yell at the admins about and then go find his WOW cronies again and spend the next hour and a half talking strategy for tonight's quest, then he'll spend about an hour aimlessly walking around the site so nobody can find him to ask him to do anything, and he's out the door by 4:30pm max to get home and start the cycle over again.
So maybe you can see why this guy irks me. Hence, Operation 303. It is very simple, which is why it’s so brilliant. There are three WOW players who all sit right by me at work, and who constantly engage in very animated conversations about some random ass WOW topic. To them, one comment made to passer-by (my friend Blake who's a manager there) can set their little gamer, quest-hungry brains spinning: hey, did you get the details on operation: 303? They want us to get started on that ASAP. WOW’ers hear, but they aren't included, and it sounds like something important - I get instant Dwight-like reactions: What? What is operation: 303? Can I be involved? Is it dangerous? ... No, I tell them, you shouldn’t have heard that. Besides, it’s not like video games, and we don't need anymore help, thanks. I can see the wheels in their heads actually spinning.
What is Operation: 303? Hell if I know. World of Warcraft = WOW = IIIOIII = 303... Just something I thought would be fun. And, oh, it is.
Wednesday, January 24, 2007
Tuesday, January 23, 2007
Power Yoga ≠ Harmonious Serenity
My best friend and I are on a kind of never ending quest to be gloriously fit. We haven't "let ourselves go," as it were, but we both remember skinnier days where we were at the height of our soccer playing and track running years, and we really really want to get back to that level - except that we've agreed that its really flippin' hard when there's nobody around to yell at you to keep going.
For as long as I've been fit, it was because of the sports I played and the teams I was a part of. There was no option to stop running - you veer off to the side, hurl, and catch your ass back up with the team ASAP so you don't end up making everybody go again. Sure, I could train on my own back then, but it was a lot easier to push myself into running a few more sprints when I knew I'd be manned up with fucking Flo-Jo reincarnated as a soccer player who happens to be the other team's wing midfielder in my game this weekend. Now though? I'm 20-something, just worked a long day, and am perfectly fine ellipsing away on level 4 while catching up on the news with my trusty The Week magazine. The only problem is that at that pace it would take 5 hours a day on that machine to get the chiseled, bounce-a-quarter-off-my-ass body I'm going for. Sure, my friend and I could motivate each other, except we’re too good of friends for that. Meaning, in the 45th minute on that machine, no matter how encouraging or motivational she sounds when she tells me, you’re almost done! Why don’t you knock it up a few levels and really finish strong?! I have no problem giving her a "go to hell" look and telling her to bite me.
It is with this realization that we decided we needed an intervention, and as we’re not fit enough to join a sports team just yet, we thought that this Power Yoga class at our gym would be perfect. I mean its yoga for pete’s sake – a little stretching and some core strength? Yes, please! Umm, apparently we were wrong. All you birkenstocked, Prana-wearing, modern-day hippies do not be fooled. "Power" Yoga is NOT just the peaceful stretching to the sound of waterfalls that you're used to. Power Yoga, as it turns out, is exactly what I should have expected from the title - and now I can't feel my shoulders.
The only sense in which power yoga is a path to connect with your inner being is that you are going to become acutely aware of every tiny, individual muscle in between each of your ribs that you never knew existed but which are now causing you searing pain with every stretch of your lungs as you breathe in and out. I have an entirely new level of respect for yogis. I mean the human pretzel thing always looked ridiculously hard, but I would just marvel knowing that I’d never try that shit. What is astounding about practicing this art is that all the stuff that looks easy takes an unbelievable amount of strength to execute. Maybe that’s the key – once I get gloriously fit and my body can handle these poses yoga will open my mind up to the harmony and serenity people always rave about. And hell, if nothing else at least the quarters will by flying!
For as long as I've been fit, it was because of the sports I played and the teams I was a part of. There was no option to stop running - you veer off to the side, hurl, and catch your ass back up with the team ASAP so you don't end up making everybody go again. Sure, I could train on my own back then, but it was a lot easier to push myself into running a few more sprints when I knew I'd be manned up with fucking Flo-Jo reincarnated as a soccer player who happens to be the other team's wing midfielder in my game this weekend. Now though? I'm 20-something, just worked a long day, and am perfectly fine ellipsing away on level 4 while catching up on the news with my trusty The Week magazine. The only problem is that at that pace it would take 5 hours a day on that machine to get the chiseled, bounce-a-quarter-off-my-ass body I'm going for. Sure, my friend and I could motivate each other, except we’re too good of friends for that. Meaning, in the 45th minute on that machine, no matter how encouraging or motivational she sounds when she tells me, you’re almost done! Why don’t you knock it up a few levels and really finish strong?! I have no problem giving her a "go to hell" look and telling her to bite me.
It is with this realization that we decided we needed an intervention, and as we’re not fit enough to join a sports team just yet, we thought that this Power Yoga class at our gym would be perfect. I mean its yoga for pete’s sake – a little stretching and some core strength? Yes, please! Umm, apparently we were wrong. All you birkenstocked, Prana-wearing, modern-day hippies do not be fooled. "Power" Yoga is NOT just the peaceful stretching to the sound of waterfalls that you're used to. Power Yoga, as it turns out, is exactly what I should have expected from the title - and now I can't feel my shoulders.
The only sense in which power yoga is a path to connect with your inner being is that you are going to become acutely aware of every tiny, individual muscle in between each of your ribs that you never knew existed but which are now causing you searing pain with every stretch of your lungs as you breathe in and out. I have an entirely new level of respect for yogis. I mean the human pretzel thing always looked ridiculously hard, but I would just marvel knowing that I’d never try that shit. What is astounding about practicing this art is that all the stuff that looks easy takes an unbelievable amount of strength to execute. Maybe that’s the key – once I get gloriously fit and my body can handle these poses yoga will open my mind up to the harmony and serenity people always rave about. And hell, if nothing else at least the quarters will by flying!
Tuesday, January 9, 2007
Corporate Debutantes
Last Wednesday I hated my job. Well, really, I hated my bosses for keeping me at said job, but at this point that's just getting a little too nitty gritty. The point is, I was pissed, and here's why:
I work for a huge company. Global enterprise, multi-billion dollar type of huge, and it never ceases to amaze me how we ever get anything done. So here's the back-story. A little over nine months ago I moved into a new position at my job. The typical time in role for this job is 9-18 months before you can effectively say you've mastered it and are ready for something bigger and better, or even just something different. I knew taking this job that I would be ready to move on after around nine months, so, naturally, about two months ago I started getting the word out to other divisions that I would be looking to move to another role soon (in about 3-4 months). I tie off with my boss, let his boss know, and get back to my work.
Well, six weeks ago a buddy in another division calls me up saying he's working on creating a new job that I would be perfect for - am I interested? My answer is heck yes, so I go tell my boss, and I tell my boss's boss, and they say to keep them posted. That job came through last Wednesday, and when I went to aforementioned bosses I definitely got the Big Company Cop-out, Lumberg'eque, uhhh, gee, you know, we really can't afford to lose you right now... answer. Apparently, the way it works here is that your boss(es) have to agree on some set date in the future that they deem fitting for your departure from role, and (god forbid) if for whatever reason your departure would leave your current team in any state of disarray or deficiency they have full authority to hold you back from accepting any other positions. So really, I'm under some form of weird, unspoken rule contract... I just don't get paid $24 million for it. Once said departure date is agreed upon, there is a whole process of announcing your "eligibility to relocate" that is seriously nothing less than a corporate version of a debutante ball where a bunch of big wigs from all different divisions sit around in a room, throw your name up in a PowerPoint slide, and proceed to discuss at length every strength, weakness, and potential job fit they might see for you. Its so involved and intense that I'm mildly shocked that I don't have to show up in a white dress and a tiara escorted by the son of a prominent Honorable Mr. So-and-So.
The good news is that, while I can't take this job, I did get my bosses to agree to my release date and I already have other opportunities in the works. In April I will be unleashed into our own little corporate society, ready to find the perfect job fit and move. I get all fluttery just thinking about it, and, technically, April is spring so I guess I can wear white...
I work for a huge company. Global enterprise, multi-billion dollar type of huge, and it never ceases to amaze me how we ever get anything done. So here's the back-story. A little over nine months ago I moved into a new position at my job. The typical time in role for this job is 9-18 months before you can effectively say you've mastered it and are ready for something bigger and better, or even just something different. I knew taking this job that I would be ready to move on after around nine months, so, naturally, about two months ago I started getting the word out to other divisions that I would be looking to move to another role soon (in about 3-4 months). I tie off with my boss, let his boss know, and get back to my work.
Well, six weeks ago a buddy in another division calls me up saying he's working on creating a new job that I would be perfect for - am I interested? My answer is heck yes, so I go tell my boss, and I tell my boss's boss, and they say to keep them posted. That job came through last Wednesday, and when I went to aforementioned bosses I definitely got the Big Company Cop-out, Lumberg'eque, uhhh, gee, you know, we really can't afford to lose you right now... answer. Apparently, the way it works here is that your boss(es) have to agree on some set date in the future that they deem fitting for your departure from role, and (god forbid) if for whatever reason your departure would leave your current team in any state of disarray or deficiency they have full authority to hold you back from accepting any other positions. So really, I'm under some form of weird, unspoken rule contract... I just don't get paid $24 million for it. Once said departure date is agreed upon, there is a whole process of announcing your "eligibility to relocate" that is seriously nothing less than a corporate version of a debutante ball where a bunch of big wigs from all different divisions sit around in a room, throw your name up in a PowerPoint slide, and proceed to discuss at length every strength, weakness, and potential job fit they might see for you. Its so involved and intense that I'm mildly shocked that I don't have to show up in a white dress and a tiara escorted by the son of a prominent Honorable Mr. So-and-So.
The good news is that, while I can't take this job, I did get my bosses to agree to my release date and I already have other opportunities in the works. In April I will be unleashed into our own little corporate society, ready to find the perfect job fit and move. I get all fluttery just thinking about it, and, technically, April is spring so I guess I can wear white...
Friday, January 5, 2007
Wall of Fame
Every solid, life-long friendship has an identifiable beginning. For Mary and I, it was Post-It notes - I guess post-its have a unique purpose for everybody. In college, we had an entire wall of our dorm room covered with them. It didn't start out that way, but as the year went on more and more things found their way onto the Wall.
Before you get too enraptured by our incredible work ethic and study habits, these post-it notes were not formulas. They weren't even vocabulary words. Really, they had nothing to do with studying or education whatsoever - they were a year's worth of inside jokes, hilarious quotes, and single words that could make either one of us crack up at even a hint of the slightest utterance. It was a year's worth of building blocks to one of the strongest friendships I'll ever have in my entire life, all randomly posted to the wall of a dorm room at UCLA from two people who didn't know each other three months ago and were thrown into the same situation with the same concerns, fears, and goals.
Admittedly, we were the outcasts of our floor, and that's where most of the comments began. We were the two soccer players on a floor of people who had studied their whole life to go to UCLA. We were the two who had to get up at 5:30am for 6am strength training and be able to shower and make it to 8am lecture when the rest of the floor didn't set their alarms to go off until it was enchilada day in the cafeteria. We were different. One day we decided to count the number of times daily we heard the phrase, "are you guys, like, twins?" Which was funny and ironic to both of us because Mary is, in fact, an identical twin. To the UCLA-ers, however, both blonde, both blue eyed, both soccer players = twins. So began the Wall of Fame.
We started to write down every inside joke, every hilarious quote we heard, and other one word reminders of things that would set us off into laughter in a heartbeat. It was our outlet. It was our connection.
I thought of our Wall of Fame today, seven years later, because my best friend Nate' just finished telling me the greatest story ever about getting hit on at a New Year's Eve party. A drunk, nasty, middle-aged married white man definitely said to her, This is my song. It should be your song, too, because you've got junk in your trunk. I have made the executive decision to reinstate the Wall of Fame with that quote. And Mary, in your honor I will add:
fanny-pack guy
damn! I dropped my highlighter
and Mary, can you turn off the lights??
Love you guys, and welcome to the Wall of Fame.
Before you get too enraptured by our incredible work ethic and study habits, these post-it notes were not formulas. They weren't even vocabulary words. Really, they had nothing to do with studying or education whatsoever - they were a year's worth of inside jokes, hilarious quotes, and single words that could make either one of us crack up at even a hint of the slightest utterance. It was a year's worth of building blocks to one of the strongest friendships I'll ever have in my entire life, all randomly posted to the wall of a dorm room at UCLA from two people who didn't know each other three months ago and were thrown into the same situation with the same concerns, fears, and goals.
Admittedly, we were the outcasts of our floor, and that's where most of the comments began. We were the two soccer players on a floor of people who had studied their whole life to go to UCLA. We were the two who had to get up at 5:30am for 6am strength training and be able to shower and make it to 8am lecture when the rest of the floor didn't set their alarms to go off until it was enchilada day in the cafeteria. We were different. One day we decided to count the number of times daily we heard the phrase, "are you guys, like, twins?" Which was funny and ironic to both of us because Mary is, in fact, an identical twin. To the UCLA-ers, however, both blonde, both blue eyed, both soccer players = twins. So began the Wall of Fame.
We started to write down every inside joke, every hilarious quote we heard, and other one word reminders of things that would set us off into laughter in a heartbeat. It was our outlet. It was our connection.
I thought of our Wall of Fame today, seven years later, because my best friend Nate' just finished telling me the greatest story ever about getting hit on at a New Year's Eve party. A drunk, nasty, middle-aged married white man definitely said to her, This is my song. It should be your song, too, because you've got junk in your trunk. I have made the executive decision to reinstate the Wall of Fame with that quote. And Mary, in your honor I will add:
fanny-pack guy
damn! I dropped my highlighter
and Mary, can you turn off the lights??
Love you guys, and welcome to the Wall of Fame.
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