And I can’t get a permanent job.

This work week is STILL not over. This has literally felt like two weeks crammed into one. Several reasons for this, but I’m only going to elaborate on one—Linda.

Linda is a middle-aged British woman who has moved into the desk behind me. Tuesday morning I am introduced to her. “This is Linda. She’s a designer. She does freelance for us here and there, and she’s going to be using Teresa’s desk for a while.”

“Hi, nice to meet you, yadda yadda… “

Note: I share an office with a woman named Lori. Fun stuff. I’m temping for Teresa who is on maternity. We usually have to do a lot of production stuff so we welcome the extra space in the office. Now it’s being occupied and we’re pissed off.

So I wasn’t too annoyed at first. Just continuing to do my work. She leaves the office for a sec and comes back and turns all the lights on.

Another note: Lori and I usually leave the lights off. The window supplies more than enough light for us, plus we like it a bit dim. The fluorescent lights in the office are blinding.

So Linda flips the lights on to my surprise and I’m nearly blinded. No asking or anything. She could’ve just turned the one on over by her desk, but no. So I’m not irritated yet. Just uncomfy. Then come the no-no’s—stupid questions.

She asks me twice that day and once the next day if Acrobat Distiller prints to the B&W printer or the color printer. I’m like, “It’s Acrobat. It doesn’t print.” <stares blankly back at me> “It makes PDFs.”

“Oh… I see.” She asked me that a few times over two days as if I were lying the first few times. I later found out she also asked Lori a couple times the same question. She said she just pointed at Linda’s computer and said, “It prints there.”

She also asked me a couple times how she can print something (seeing as she kept sending it to the how-you-say ‘Acrobat Distiller’ and nothing was coming out.) I don’t want to be bothered explaining stuff to her, so I just say, “E-mail me the file and I will print it from here.” <blank stares> This woman’s full of them.

“Oh, but I don’t have an e-mail account set up yet.”

“Do you have any e-mail account? Hotmail, Yahoo, anything?”

<pause> “Oh, OK.”

This is a question that followed the few questions about Acrobat. She ended up never sending me anything to print. I found out later from Lori that Linda doesn’t know how to send attachments. Might I repeat for emphasis, Linda is a designer.

Then comes the kicker. Linda is there, I guess, for the purpose of web research for this guy Lou (a.k.a. Lou-ser). She interrupts me again to ask a web-related question. Fine, but this better be worthy of losing my place in the insane multi-tasking I’m in the middle of.

“I have a question about Google.” (I’ll give her the benefit of the doubt… Maybe Google’s server is having problems today.) “When I’m in my search list and I click on a link, how do I get back to the list?” <Now it’s my turn for the blank stare.>

“Umm. The ‘Back’ button.”

“Oh… Now suppose I’m 10 pages ahead of the search list. Do I have to hit ‘Back’ 10 times?”

“No… You can use the dropdown menu next to the ‘Back’ button or the History menu.”

“OH! That’s so great! You know this is all so confusing.”

I let out a deep, long sigh as I go back to my pile of work trying to figure out where I left off.

After much venting by Lori and I, they finally moved her to her own computer somewhere in the building. I don’t understand why they planted her in my office anyway seeing as there are several other large offices, each with at least two computers, that were empty that day. Fortunately, now she’s gone, but her being there for two days this week really made the days drag like no work day ever can.

More later. The work week still isn’t over.

Just another “while I was on the can” thought

So there I was easing nature in the cool interior room and I got to wondering–those screws they use to hold bathroom stalls together–those ones that can screw on but can’t be taken off. Why do they use these in public restrooms? Are they afraid someone will come in & steal the stall doors?

So there’s my profound thought for today.

Some things never change… Well, one thing at least.

I’m doing nothing so I figured I’d fix my Quotebook’s inconsistencies and typos. I’m noticing how my knowledge of HTML has improved since it’s first started. Odd thing is that I’m editing in reverse starting with this month and now I’ve gotten as far as May 2002. Really feels like I’m going back in time.

The point I’m at now, May 2002, was the month right before graduation where we were all insanely working on ELMO. Even odder thing is that I’m sitting in the same spot in the lab now where many of these things took place. I think that’s more sad than odd. Two years have gone by and this computer has since become a G5, but my butt hasn’t moved. I’m still here. I suck.

I’m not a loser after all (well, today anyway)

I just instantly won a 7 oz bag of Jolly Ranchers (I call them Horny Cowboys) in my packet of Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups!! Of course, this is after the first packet got jammed in the vending machine. And the 2nd packet I tried to buy got jammed after it pushed the first one out. But the first one was a winner and it all worked out even.

Reason number… I lost count… why I hate to go shopping.

Reason #?: I swear, people were having sex in the changing stall across from me.

This is a bit late. Last week I faced the fact that I needed to buy a shorter skirt since it’s getting hotter out. So in the spare hour I had before I went home, I stopped at Macy’s and attempted to shop.

Sidenote: I’ve recently taken to logging my life via pen and paper so I’ll summarize a rant I made about Macy’s that’s not on the LJ. Long story short (I swear this time), Macy’s in Boston has fitting rooms with doors that I can clearly see over. I’m not the tallest person in the world so this means the doors are really low. So you try to tuck yourself into the corner and throw clothes on as quickly as possible. See? Short story. Now back to my long rant.

So I find a skirt that looks presentable and go into the fitting room to see if it fits. Redundancy, I know. This is when I’m hearing what clearly is a man’s voice coming from the stall across from me. I sit there in my changing cubicle thinking, “Nah, it can’t be,” just to then hear a woman’s voice in the same stall. Then it all starts to get steamy. They’re making all these moaning, groaning, gross noises and after a minute I hear her say, “… and then we can go home and have SEX.” So much for inuendos. I wanted to yell over, “As opposed to what you’re doing in there now?!?!” But I didn’t. I think I was too nauseous to speak.

Then I gather my things and get out of there just as he leaves his stall. I give him this look of, “What the *^!%!@#*?!?!” and the bizarre thing is he gives me this same look back. Hey buddy, YOU’RE the one in the ladies’ fitting room. Don’t give ME that look. (And to think there are some times I don’t feel “lady” enough to shop in the lady’s section of Macy’s, but now I guess it’s all relative.) As I’m walking out and he’s walking out and in the other direction, he maintains his dirty look at me. Oh, and he walks out the fitting room, right past the cashier and she doesn’t even look twice.

Who’d have thought I’d have to list “perverts in the fitting room” on my list of why I hate to shop, but there it is. I should make a sign for them, “Welcome to Macy’s. Children under 17 not admitted without parent.”

Oh, and the skirt didn’t fit.

Reason number… I lost count… why I hate to go shopping.

Reason #?: I swear, people were having sex in the changing stall across from me.

This is a bit late. Last week I faced the fact that I needed to buy a shorter skirt since it’s getting hotter out. So in the spare hour I had before I went home, I stopped at Macy’s and attempted to shop.

Sidenote: I’ve recently taken to logging my life via pen and paper so I’ll summarize a rant I made about Macy’s that’s not on the LJ. Long story short (I swear this time), Macy’s in Boston has fitting rooms with doors that I can clearly see over. I’m not the tallest person in the world so this means the doors are really low. So you try to tuck yourself into the corner and throw clothes on as quickly as possible. See? Short story. Now back to my long rant.

So I find a skirt that looks presentable and go into the fitting room to see if it fits. Redundancy, I know. This is when I’m hearing what clearly is a man’s voice coming from the stall across from me. I sit there in my changing cubicle thinking, “Nah, it can’t be,” just to then hear a woman’s voice in the same stall. Then it all starts to get steamy. They’re making all these moaning, groaning, gross noises and after a minute I hear her say, “… and then we can go home and have SEX.” So much for inuendos. I wanted to yell over, “As opposed to what you’re doing in there now?!?!” But I didn’t. I think I was too nauseous to speak.

Then I gather my things and get out of there just as he leaves his stall. I give him this look of, “What the ^!%!@#?!?!” and the bizarre thing is he gives me this same look back. Hey buddy, YOU’RE the one in the ladies’ fitting room. Don’t give ME that look. (And to think there are some times I don’t feel “lady” enough to shop in the lady’s section of Macy’s, but now I guess it’s all relative.) As I’m walking out and he’s walking out and in the other direction, he maintains his dirty look at me. Oh, and he walks out the fitting room, right past the cashier and she doesn’t even look twice.

Who’d have thought I’d have to list “perverts in the fitting room” on my list of why I hate to shop, but there it is. I should make a sign for them, “Welcome to Macy’s. Children under 17 not admitted without parent.”

Oh, and the skirt didn’t fit.

Who you callin’ “Doll?”

gi joe
You’re GI Joe with the Kung Fu Grip!! You’re
strong, tough, and know how to kick some ass.
Don’t forget though, no matter how manly you
think you are, you’re still just a doll. God
Bless America.

What childhood toy from the 80s are you?
brought to you by Quizilla



HAHAHA!! Thanks for sending this, Kathleen. I loved the response, “Use your ability to puke at will to vomit your breakfast all over his face,” although I didn’t choose it. I can’t puke at will. It’s always a surprise to me and others involved.