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.


OK. I’m dead. I just wrote an entire passage explaining how dead I was and then accidentally closed the window when I leaned on my keyboard. So in short, it’s 4:52am, I haven’t slept more than 3 hrs/night all week, and I stayed here to import files and draw a washing machine. I got stuck here longer because it’s deluging outside.

Why do I do these things to myself? But yay, Andrew thinks my washing machine is sexy.

Time to pass out on my keyboard now. ;lkjsd;afahsklhkdiienfjffednj