BICWWIG

Bicwwig.

Meet my new work motto. It applies to everything I do each minute that I do it.

The Best I Can With What I Got.

I manage a team of three bodies. I say bodies, because they breathe and are alive.

Otherwise? Bicwwig.

I gave one of the dudes an assignment to copy some files from one server to another. The files got copied all right. Right into the recycle bin. I fired a ninja throwing star into the wall next to his head.

Bicwwig.

I asked another to do a list of ten things, very specifically described in painstaking detail. Four got done, the rest ignored. I dropped a one ton weight on his head while he held up a comically undersized umbrella.

Bicwwig.

The third one built a house out of bricks. I huffed and puffed and sent him a thousand emails asking him what the status of his task was, but I couldn't blow down his wall of stupid. I finally lobbed a grenade of intelligence through his window only to find that he had a force field of indifference. He is impervious to intelligence, you see.

Bicwwig.

I do the best I can with what I've got. Give me lemons and I'll make lemonade that tastes strongly of failure and tears. Give me vodka and I'll make karaoke that tastes the same way.

Bicwwig.

Office Doorway Etiquette

I work in an office. I think I have mentioned this before. I work in the kind of office that you picture in your head when you hear the word “office”: Rows of cubicles with grey walls and little windows. Some of the walls have jaunty decorations with lots of pictures of the kids thrown in for good measure. Around the holidays, everyone expresses their “individuality” by putting up little strings of lights or other similarly themed decorations (until corporate circulates a memo reminding everyone that they work in a corporate environment and should treat said environment with such respect as a corporate environment deserves in these trying…zzzzzzzzzzz)

Huh?

Oh, the office. My office building has two sets of doors at the main entrance. The main front facing door and then two steps after that a second door. The little foyer or entranceway in between the two sets of doors serves no purpose, but it is there anyway taking up space (kind of like the people who type up corporate memos). When I arrive at work each morning, there are usually at least two or three other co-workers arriving at the same time making a tiny dispirited parade as we near the first door. The man ahead of me swipes his employee ID card and opens the outer door, holding it open for me as I swipe my ID card.

I say “Thank You!” to the man for being so considerate.

He then arrives at the second door and holds that door open for me also.

At this point, a variety of things happen.

Sometimes I say “Thanks” in a quieter voice hoping to somehow diminish the gratitude I’m displaying in light of the fact that I just gave him a hearty “THANK YOU” not seconds before.

Sometimes, I say nothing because who does this guy think he is wanting two separate displays of gratitude mere seconds apart? Ghandi?

Sometimes (though not often) I say “THANK YOU” just as enthusiastically as the first time, especially if he looks like he’s about to weep openly or side-kick my Achilles tendon.

Sometimes I say “FUCK OFF!” as loud as I can just to completely throw him for a loop and make him rethink his chivalrousness.

OK, I don’t do that last one. Most often, I go with option one which is an odd “Doorway Etiquette” rule that I see many other people engage in also.

“Thank you!” *quieter voice* “Thanks”. As if giving out two “Thank You’s” in a row at the same volume is somehow off-putting to the recipient. Do people feel that the gratitude offered has to be on sliding scale and the second expression somehow has to be diminished so the recipient doesn’t think you are hitting on them, or just insane? If you omit the second thank you, do you feel a little bad as you walk thinking that maybe the person who held the door open for you two times in a row thinks you are a total prick?

What do you do when faced with two sets of doors and “Harry Helpful” holding them both open for you?

What would you do if there were three consecutive doors? Are there any buildings that have 15 consecutive doors?

How low can your voice get while still remaining audible?

Would you eventually write “Thank You” on a post-it note in smaller and smaller writing?

What if “Harry Helpful” was actually “Harriet Helpful” and for the life of you it is impossible to tell if that is a dude or a woman?

At the end of the day when everyone is leaving the building, why is there someone always rapidly walking back toward the building and why does someone inevitably say “Hey, you’re goin’ the wrong way! LOL! LOL! LOL! LOL! LOL!” as the rapid-walker mumbles an excuse about forgetting their keys?

These are the things I think about as I wander up the stairs toward cubicle town.

The worst job interview in the history of jobs. And interviews.

Tom Johnson walks confidently into the office of Bill Richardson, CEO of Diatzu Motors. Tom is looking to be hired as a high level executive in the business.

“Hi Tom, I’m Bill Richardson. I’ll be conducting your interview today.” Bill says, extending his hand to Tom.

“Thanks Bill. Can I call you Bill?”

“Uh yes, that is my name.”

“Can I call you Will? Like Willy Will? Like Willy Mo Pena? Billy Bear?”

“Absolutely not!”

Tom considers this for a full minute of silence and then says “Call me Bill.”

“You want me to call you Bill?”

“I’m sorry, I forgot the comma. I meant ‘Call me, Bill.’”

“Call you? On the telephone?”

“Yes, please.”

“Now?”

“Please.”

Bill shrugs and picks up the phone at his desk, dialing Mr. Johnson’s cell phone number. Tom’s phone rings and he quickly flips it open, turning his back to Bill and hunching over as if being secretive.

“Yes?” Tom whispers while furtively glancing over his shoulder.

“Yes what? It’s me!” Bill says with a frustrated tone.

“Me who? I have no time to talk, I’m having an interview with King Blah Blah of the Car People.”

“Tom, I don’t have time for these games. Can we start your interview now?”

Tom makes a loud fart noise into the phone and then flips it shut dramatically. He straightens up and turns to Bill as he puts his phone in his pocket.

“Sorry about that, had to take that call. So what, you want me to sell cars to people? Like ‘Buy this car, it drives on wheels.’ ‘You want a red car? Absolutely Mr. Havasham!’ ‘I can definitely give you a car with seats, Mrs. BluBleeBlee!’ ‘Right this way, Mr. bopbopbop, blah bloo blee GPS.’ No sweat. So do I have the job? In all honesty, a monkey could do this job. A retarded monkey.”

“This is extraordinarily silly. I have no time for this. Your interview is over.”

“Is it? Or is it just beginning?” Tom asks with a devilish glint in his eye.

“No, it is over.”

“Can I call you Bill?”

“I told you that is my NAME!”

“Ha! That comma again! I meant…”

Bill leaps from his seat and grabs Tom by the elbow, forcibly taking him to the door of his office and pushing him into the receptionist’s area. The door slams in Tom’s face.

“Well, I think that went well,” Tom says with his face pressed into Mr. Richardson’s office door. Two security guards appear on either side of Tom as he straightens his tie. “Looks like you’ll be working for me soon, gentlemen. Just call me Mr. Manager!”

Tom is escorted to street level by the security guards and left on the sidewalk. Tom looks around and whistles sharply. Just then, LuLu Tom’s retarded monkey pet comes running around the corner and climbs up onto his shoulder.

“LuLu, I think we got the job!” Tom says as he laughs loudly frightening some passers by. In response, LuLu takes a huge crap on his shoulder.

The Office

Have you ever seen the movie ‘Office Space’? It is such a great movie, and so accurate that you could probably get away with classifying it as a documentary. My office is very much like the office in that movie. What follows is an actual conversation I heard this morning when I went to get my coffee:

Man 1: Almost the weekend.
Man 2: Yep, what a week.
Man 1: See the game last night?
Man 2: Nope.
Man 1: Yeah, at least it didn’t rain yesterday.
Man 2: Yep.
Man 1: Tough week huh? Workin’ hard or hardly workin’?
Man 2: *laughs harder than he should*
Man 1: Hey, I know you! *pointing to Man 3 walking over*
Man 3: Ghostbusters! *all three men laugh and walk away together*

This was an actual conversation by three grown human men. Ghostbusters? I don’t even understand the reference. What is it about an office that makes people talk so strangely? This isn’t just limited to the workers. Here is an actual excerpt from our company’s holiday memo from management:

Join us from 2:00-2:30 PM on December 22nd for cookies and punch in the company cafeteria. Santa has been seen and may be making an appearance!

Employees are reminded that they are not allowed to consume any type of food or drink at their desks at any time.

Merry Christmas!

Wow, way to shut down the celebration before it even gets here. They can’t just let everyone have a good time for a half hour out of one day; they have to hit you over the head with policy even in the holiday memo. I think management is one step away from having monitors follow us around the cafeteria whispering in our ears while we innocently try to buy our lunches:

“Employees are reminded that trans fats are the number one cause of heart disease and obesity.”
“Employees are reminded that high cholesterol is the nation’s number one killer.”
“Employees are reminded that foods high in sugar cause enormous weight gain and depression.”
“Employees are reminded that 75 years is the average lifespan of a human male and aren’t you turning 50 soon? Maybe get a salad?”

Did they change the name of my company to “Wet Blanket Ltd.” without telling me? Anyway, be glad you don’t work here. The paranoia is overwhelming. What was that?!? Oh, they are just installing the mini-webcam over my monitor so they can take a picture of my facial expression every 15 seconds. It’s part of the “Be Happy or Else” campaign to make sure the workplace is a happy one. Then, on Friday, it’s Hawaiian shirt day! Employees are reminded that Hawaiian shirts are only to be worn for a total of 10 minutes time and then changed to a three piece suit.

Office Spark

I work in an Office. I know, that word immediately brings to mind rows and rows of grey cubicles with silent workers diligently typing away and filing IMPORTANT DOCUMENTS, sending URGENT FAXES and taking 15 MINUTE SMOKING BREAKS OUTSIDE IN THE DESIGNATED… sorry, I didn’t realize I was yelling that whole time. Silence would be welcome here at my office, but fate has not granted me this wish. I work 10 feet away from an Office Spark. What’s that? You have never heard of this term? I figured every office had at least one. I think my office has the head Spark, or at least the regional manager of the Northeast branch of Office Sparks. An O.S. is someone who arrives at the office first thing in the morning and gets a conversation going before even reaching their desk. "Starts the fire", as it were. In my case, the O.S. is an older woman with a voice that would curl a bald man's hair. Think late 20th century Long Island hairdresser. Vintage. I’m talking about Fran Drescher without the lilting fairy tones she sprinkles through the air with her siren song. She doesn't contribute to the conversation, she just comes in and shouts a random topic as her way of greeting everyone. Some examples:

"American Idol, everybody! American Idol last night!"
"The election! Coming up everybody! Obama! McCain!"
"Snow coming everyone! Get your shovels ready!"

Then she sits at her cubicle and waits for the fire to spread. And it does, oh it most certainly does. Someone will inevitably make a response comment that really gets the fire going. Then other voices join in, and suddenly there is a firestorm of conversation when before there was only silence. Like a spark, the O.S. burns bright only for an instant, and then lays dormant with nothing more than a few murmured responses or ambivalent grunts. Our O.S. has done her job again, like a Town Crier, only I'm the one crying. In lieu of the standard "Good Morning Everybody!" we get "Economy everyone! Dow Jones!" Just random snippets of current events, like a match thrown into a pile of dry kindling.

Our Spark also varies her tone depending on the gravity of the events surrounding the topic. Frivolous topics get a hearty shout with a little laughter mixed in ("Deal or No Deal! *giggle* A million dollars! *chuckle*), while national tragedies get a solemn tone; a reverential hush as she sadly announces the topic at hand and waits for the resulting inferno (*low voice* "Katrina everybody...yeah, I know...Katrina...the weather...so sad *trailing to almost a whisper*). Regardless of the state of the world, she comes in ready to burn every cubicle wall to the ground with nothing but a cup of coffee and a bullhorn voice. If she is on her game, and she always is, the conversation (fire) rages for a good 15 to 20 minutes, at top volume, while 10 feet away this lonely office worker tries to keep himself from getting overwhelmed by smoke (vomit).

I suppose it could be worse. It could always be worse. She could choose personal subjects as to use as little verbal firebombs instead of world events:

"Explosive diarrhea, everyone! Breakfast Burrito!"
"Hit and Run, everybody! Rearview mirror blind spot, everyone!"
"DUI, everybody! Vodka Martinis last night! Driving backwards on the turnpike, everybody!"

Yikes. I'll be thankful for small favors as I sit here in my asbestos cubicle hoping that the fire doesn’t overwhelm me. Or I could just get a good pair of earplugs.