Anti-work

I love my job, especially all the parts I don't hate.

I have become proficient at my vocation in the past decade. I have moved past the reactive "Reboot" or "Why don't you remember your password" responses. I am proactive, which is to say I have disabled Caps-Lock on certain keyboards.

As a direct result of my expertise I expect I am now being diagnosed by the clients as bi-polar. This is because one of two things happens:

1. I arrive at their computer, sigh loudly, smile, press three buttons and then wander away with half of an explanation of their original problem.
2. I sit in their chair for half an hour fending off sleep.

It isn't my paternal narcolepsy that has me nearly napping at their desks, it's the the second most hated part of my job.

The status bar.

Like most geeks I am obsessed with efficiency. I pre-plan errand routes to prevent doubling back and to maximize waiting time. Within the confines of my own office it is common to see me switching between 3 or 4 different computers pretending to work.

But when the problem doesn't warrant confiscating the computer I support it at their desk. This is a waste of my time.

The problem comes in the unpredictability of the status bar. That offensive graphic which taunts me as it crawls across the screen like molasses chasing a snail.

I can't leave the computer in case a prompt asks me for my genius to apply the correct x/y co-ordinates on the interface to facilitate my endorsement of the current information and initiate the subsequent action.

That means I wait around to hit 'Next'.

For those who have never enjoyed this angle of the tech world, let me give you a play by play.

Minute 1 - Analyze problem
Minute 2 - Curse under my breath and inform client to take a leisurly walk for a coffee. Repress the urge to growl at them while they feign disappointment for the sponsored break.
Minute 3 - Log the client out, log in as all-powerful, initiate install or uninstall or the really dreaded uninstall/install combo.
Minute 4 - Click the gratuitous combination of Yes, Next, Custom, Next, Next, Yes.
Minute 5 - Watch the status bar creep across the screen. If attentive I can observe the narrowing of people due to 4th dimensional space/time relativity.
Minute 16 - Begin playing 'Breakout' on my blackberry in an attempt to stay awake.
Minute 17 - Lose the game. Reflect on what shape the other person's butt must be by sensing the form their chair has adopted.
Minute 21 - Attempt to urge the status bar forward with my mind.
Minute 27 - Begin praying.
Minute 28 - Hold my insults as the client returns and says "You're not done yet?"
Minute 32 - Complete the install with a reboot. Return to my lair and close the ticket so that any subsequent calls start the clock again giving me at least 24 hours before I need to see the status bar again.

So the part of my work I hate is that which is not work, or the anti-work. I love the rest of it.

Except rebooting.

Elevator Etiquette

Children live in a world full of wonder. That is a nice way of saying they are exceptionally ignorant of the simple physics, biology and chemistry around them.

Moments of amazement and surprise should diminish with age. And yet gratefully, as a gift from above, we can find little wonders every day because we are surrounded by beings whose behavior is random and unpredictable. As I was this week by how people use the elevator.

I work in a building with a lift. Whenever I bring my children along in one it is like they are at a carnival. They fight to press the buttons and then freak out when the thing begins to move.

I take those moments to teach my children the simple etiquette of using an elevator. And to my wonder this week I find I should publish this for adults too.

1. Don't make smells in the enclosed space. It doesn't matter what perforation in your skin that odor comes from, no one else wants it. And if you find it necessary to either refrain from washing your clothes or begin bathing in cologne then just take the stairs you freak.

2. Unless there is only one elevator: let it go. Don't hold it for your five friends who are 'just around the corner'. Other people have places to be, and being held hostage by your buddies tardiness only inspires us to break rule number 1. Remember, the first time is tardiness. The second time we add the prefix RE.

3. Don't talk. This is an awkward enough social situation. Overhearing the continuing conversation of indiscretions resulting from toxic amounts of alcohol consumption is not how anyone wants to spend 2 minutes of their day. Trust me, we all assume you are a loser, don't give us verbal evidence.

4. No touching. My word, no touching.

5. No liquids. If it is moist and in you keep it there. This covers sneezes, coughing, crying and spitting.

6. No jumping. I know it seems funny to shake the little box with the people in it but if you scare someone half to death in the lift they will finish the job on you when you get out.

7. When the elevator stops get in right away or let it pass. Waffling about "it's too full" punishes everyone in the cramped space hanging in the air.

8. Face the door. There is a level of weird reserved for people wearing tuxedos at WalMart and folks who don't face the door in an elevator.

9. Let people get off the elevator before you get on. You may be critically important in your own mind but the 11 of us stuck in the suspended container would rather not be kept waiting while you push your way through the people trying to escape the guy who had a bean chimmichanga for lunch.

I think that covers most of it. If anyone breaks these rules feel free to use this line when they exit and the doors are closing:

"Oh, you should see your doctor about that rash. Mine said it was a good thing I'd come in when I did for mine."

Unless it's your boss.

That's because I'm working.

A workplace is an interesting environment. You spend 12 to 18 years in the grim artificiality of institutionalized life based mainly on what year you were born in. Finally you arrive in the "real world" which lumps you with whoever is willing to pay you enough to keep you doing what they tell you to. Unless you work for Google, where they automatically assign you an oompah-Loompa (or so I hear).

And during the course of your time in somewhere they have to pay you to stay in you make new acquaintances and friends. Or that is how it's supposed to be.

I honestly am a terrible person to have at work. I know some of you would simply omit the last five words to the previous sentence to generalize.

Most days I toil away at my workstation (I call it that instead of a desk to make me sound like I work at NASA). I strive against the forces that hinder our ability to do business, which is code for "I tell them to reboot first and ask questions later".

I have learned to love my job like a trophy bride learns to love her decrepit spouse. I close my eyes a lot and imagine I am working for a more important company. And yes I fake enthusiasm, everyone does.

And to keep that cognitive-dissonance going I am not what people would call warm. Or nice. Or happy. I whisk around as a busy drone bee tending to tasks as efficiently as I can.

During the course of all this people kindly wish to include me as a friend in the facebook of life. They attempt to strike up a conversation, occasionally mentioning that they don't see me around that much.

This is where my years of training with machines kicks in and I reply:
"That's because I'm working."

Right. Not a popular response, no matter how accurate it may be. The implication that they are keeping me from such important work as organizing my papers is no slight slight.

This happens on the phone too. They say things like:
"How are your wife and kids?"
"Sustained. Did you click on 'Start' yet?"

Instead of the class clown I'm the office grouch. I could easily make the time to be more attentive to others, but then who would do my job?

And there I go again... (I meant who would be the office grouch)

Jobs with benefits

Tomorrow is my birthday. The joy of it is that counting sleep, work and transit time and I'm looking at spending a wonderful 31% of my 'anniversary of breathing air' doing what I want to.

I used to be more positive about work. At least the first week after being hired. My job isn't bad, but somehow the positive-go-getter attitude fades like a skid mark after so many washes.

2 and a half decades ago, when I first joined the military reserves I was so gung-ho. A somewhat jaded superior pointed that out to me saying that 'someday you'll be just like us'.

'How depressing' I thought. 'You're downright ugly'. He also was not a happy little soldier anymore, and he was promising me the same future. 'I won't be that way, I'll serve Her Majesty with all my resolve and vigor' I promised myself.

Two years later I quit because I missed a Weird Al concert to attend a range shoot.

Each subsequent employment has had me make a similar promise to myself. And yet it happens. Work beats the desire to work out of me.

3 years ago I promised myself I would make the my job work by rigidly adhering to the rules and doing the best job I could. I believed I could be the bureaucrat who made the system work.

6 months later I asked for a transfer to another department.

Once there I determined to be the 'fresh blood' that brought new life to the department, showing them that a lack of knowledge and skill can be overcome by trying harder than everyone else.

20 months later I asked to be transferred back.

I'm no quitter. 10 years of marriage, 8 years of parenthood, I even stuck through a whole season of wrestling because I had committed to. No where else in my life am I as negative and cynical as I am at my job.

So to all you young up-and-comers (Perverts who read my blog don't have to re-read the last sentence) consider the new culture of work a positive one.

It used to be you had one career for life and were miserable for it. Now you have just have jobs with benefits.

Your accomplishments won't have a lasting impact (unless they are debacles, then you won't stay around to make another). Your retirement lunch will be later in life with fewer people attending. Still you have the gift of short term, temporary happiness. Enjoy it while you can.

Oh, and learn to love what you do, no matter what the stuffed shirts (perverts get to save time here too) say about dressing up as your favorite Star Wars character.

Freud would have laughed too.

There is a saying that goes "I may grow old, but I will never grow up." I would say that applies well to my father who despite working for a bureaucracy and raising 3 children kept his sense of humour.

I often enjoy his anecdotes of practical jokes and general enjoyment of the more serious moments of life. The honest fact is during the traditional reading of the 10 commandments in Church my father and I have a charismatic moment of emotional fits of laughter. We can never get past coveting our neighbors 'ass'.

There are times where it is inappropriate to have a giggle breakdown. A videoconference is one of them. It gives the impression that there is a problem with the equipment or an earthquake has struck the office.

Interrupting is a bad thing. And so no matter how funny the moment is, pinch your mouth closed, tear up like someone had onions for lunch, and see if you can hold your breath long enough for the funny moment to pass.

A few weeks ago we were discussing some new servers and server housing equipment that was coming to the office. This is exciting because our lives are boring. I was so into paying attention for mistakes that we were half way through the topic before I clued in and said to my in-room co-workers (our microphone WAS muted):

"Do you realize he has been discussing big racks for 5 minutes and none of us commented on it?"

Loss of composure in: 10 seconds.

That did it. The presenter continued to discuss the problem of ensuring the equipment would fit by saying "We could get a tape measure to assess the racks. You guys haven't had a problem with humongous racks up there, have you?"

It must have been fun to see us begin to glow red trying to contain the outburst. Then all three of us began to bellow in laughter, tears running down our faces.

The worst part is trying to point out to a grown man in a business meeting that you're laughing at what he is saying because it sounds like boobies. No lesson in college prepares you for that. Thankfully I've never had to explain to a priest why I get so emotional during the reading of the 10 commandments.

I may be increasingly cellular degenerate, but I'll still find body parts funny.

Business, Career and a Dress code.

Work is something you do, a career is when your work becomes your identity.

For some people their career has respect built right in: Doctors, Nurses, Police Officers, Military personnel, 'McDonalds' line managers. They all have more respect than what people give a professional bureaucrat.

It could be that all of them get to wear uniforms. By the way, the thin difference between a uniform and a costume is when everyone wears the same costume it's a uniform.

I grudgingly accept that after a decade I am officially in a CAREER. Not because I chose it, but because I failed to chose to avoid it. And now I am a professional order follower and repeater of the popular line 'please reboot'.

I once asked a project manager if they ever dreamed as a child that they would one day grow up to nag other grown ups about their inability to finish their work. Silly question, any child who dreams of that would spend their adult life in a different institution.

I mock bureaucracy a fair amount here and it really does deserve it. No one aspires to build an empire that has no limits to the number of rules it can impose on itself.

A business is an artificial entity without a soul or a mind. This differentiates it from political lobbyists because a business wasn't born normal. A business exists simply as a vehicle to make money.

When the business's business is to NOT make money then you have what amounts to a lobotomized Frankenstein's monster suffering from manic depression. And much like that monster, no matter what food or organs you put into it the result would be the same: A mashup of Pinocchio and Night of the Living Dead. By the way, I don't count charities or not for profits here because they do want to make money for their clients.

I have had the pleasure to work with dozens of motivated, professional people who are good at what they do. And yet somehow we still end up with the maddening situation of waiting for someone to get back to someone for some information that a team of 7 year old sleuths could track down.

In an effort to bring some dignity back to my job I may try wearing my Hawaiian shirts as a uniform. That way people can take me seriously when I say "Don't worry, corporate told me to do this, and as long as I don't think about it, it should work out fine. And if not, just please reboot."

My Secret Identity

Hobby: a pursuit outside one's regular occupation engaged in especially for relaxation. Merriam Webster Dictionary

I am one of peculiar pass times. In my culture it is common for a man of my age and social position to enjoy watching sports; namely Hockey, Football and NASCAR.

For some reason this doesn't appeal to me. And it isn't some inclination away from activities that portray groups of mostly men in Gladiatorial themed competitions.

Ok, maybe it is, but I'm smart enough not to point out that Freud would have a few words for the most virulent of that fan base. Especially when they watch the sport live and half naked.

I will be in trouble for that one methinks.

My hobbies are ironically presumed less characteristic of a man. Writing, acting, classical music and of course, cooking. I have only recently been re-instated to the kitchen at my home.

I was once allowed to be a cook right after we were married. It took a Christmas dinner party conversation on the finer points of pastry creation to convince my wife that I belonged elsewhere. She simply said 'I need somewhere where I'm better than you.' My reply of 'you COULD practise for the bedroom' was thankfully held until now.

Another one that just got me in trouble.

Nonetheless my re-introduction to the culinary mastery came from a series of business trips that wore out my wife's palette for fast food and frozen pizza. By the way she is a great cook and has a higher success rate on recipes, I think because she follows them.

I was making homemade pizza this week, reviewing my favourite cooking show as I did it, when she asked:

Her: Why are you trying to do it perfectly?
Me: Because I love doing this. Do me a favour, turn up the Rossini on the stereo please.
Her: But why don't you just let it be good enough?
Me: Because in my day job I never get to see anything like this.
Her: A lump of dough?
Me: A COMPLETED work. Of my own hands. My chief challenge of my day job is heroically struggling against a bureaucracy that measures jobs in fortnights.

And so in a floury rant at my wife I discovered why I pursue creative outlets like that. My job is so mind-numbingly unimportant that being able to make a perfect pizza becomes not only an obsession, it becomes my secret identity. And not the one that involves flying using underarm deodorant.
The pizza crust was a bit of a failure by the way; but at least I enjoyed the short journey to 'eww Dad, this tastes ucky'. It's far better than the much longer, boring epic quest to be given an award certificate with my name misspelled on it.

So what do you do to escape the insignificance of your contribution to your place of employment?

What are you thinking?

There are a few chosen professions where you enact your trade via proxy. In some cases it is clear why this would be wrong, like, say Firefighters. Or Natural Gas technicians.

But geeks are in the more benign category of careers for remote helping. Inso that we won't kill you, but you'll want to see a doctor about us after a while.

Most of my interactions on the phone are pleasant. They involve co-workers that I enjoy spending my ever shorter life with. And they are typically professional and wish to get the job done, mainly because it involves them getting on with their day by working instead of conversing with people who talk through their noses, or other orifices.

But once in a while you get a special treat of a call. And that is what I want to discuss today. These calls involve people who on that day are vague to a fault, confused almost with purpose, and for some reason don't want their computer fixed before you suffer major head trauma from the inside out. Sometimes the person on the other end of the conversation is a relative, which makes it even harder.

And as a person who could be considered 'special' in social interactions I am too timid to push them to getting on with the call. And because your week probably needed a seasoning of the macabre I'll let you read my thoughts. I have an unspoken dialogue that sounds a lot like this:

Me: - Tech support, we fix your everyday.
Them: - Yeah, my program isn't working.
Me: - Must not reply 'all your base belong to us' - Which program?
Them: - This one!
Me: - If I pretend I'm dead maybe they will go away. ...
Them: - The thingy to do the forms.
Me: - If I chloroform myself right now, is that considered self inflicted injury? - Oh, how far do you get?
Them: - Nowhere.
Me: - Then by logic you haven't tried anything. You're either depressed or lazy. May I recommend an Anthony Robins tape to you? - Ok, can you click on Start, then Programs, then click the program icon.
Them: - Why are these computers so slow?
Me: - Shut up. ...
Them: - You computer people aren't good at making them work better.
Me: - Please shut up. ...
Them: - And my icons keep moving around, can you fix that?
Me: - For the love of mercy shut up. - Can you see the icon for the program?
Them: - I can't see anything.
Me: - Dear heaven you've gone blind. - It should be in the program list. Can you read the list out to me?
Them: - Can't you just come here and fix my problem?
Me: - Yes, but the computer would remain untouched and one of us would have to plead insanity. - No. Just look for the icon that looks like a Jackal with a hernia.
Them: - Huh?
Me: - No Mom, I don't want to be a writer, I want to fix computers all day and have fun. - It's red. Looks like a box.
Them: - I don't see it. I just see this rectangle here. It's orange. Can you do something about the printer, it's making funny noises.
Me: - Happy Happy Joy Joy. I don't think you're happy enough. I'll teach you to be happy. Hahahahahaha --Just click the orange rectangle. Do you see the program now?

I'd be lying if I said that call ended in less than 5 minutes after that. I expect that as some cosmic joke I'll become suddenly telepathic and end up getting fired or brought before a human rights commission at the UN.

Of course the days that I'm not so swift with third level support I expect them to not think this when the network lights go all blinky.

Grown-up age kids.

There used to be a popular poster stating "Everything I needed to know in life I learned in Kindergarten". I couldn't agree with it, I didn't learn that you couldn't get 'pantsed' if you were wearing a belt until grade 10.

I don't know why but a lot of school age behavior carries on into the grown up workplace. For example, in high school there were grad dues, bake sales, and various fundraisers that you were pressured into participating in, all in the name of 'school spirit'.

School spirit by the way isn't the Mickey of Rum behind the bleachers, nor is it 'Moaning Myrtle' (I still get the wrong impression writing that name). It's the belief that your school is better because you have to go there.

At work there are bake sales, co-worker's kids selling raffle tickets and cheese, and of course 50/50 draws. And to my chagrin 50/50 is not a statement of the odds involved, but when the Doctor says that its entirely different.

Here are some games played in the business world:

The "I'm not here so you can't ask me a question teacher" look. This is common in meetings when project assignments are being handed out. Everyone stares at the table and won't make eye contact. It's like we're having a moment of silence in anticipation for whoever ends up with this job.

"Not It!" This is when paperwork is being delivered and no one will touch it with their hands. The rule is that if it touches your body or lands on your desk it's yours. My co-worker's policy of pack-rat clutter desk works well, as the paperwork just slides away.

Phone Tag. As the name implies you leave voice mail messages for each other, but refrain from giving the information the other person actually needs. See how long you can be unproductive without getting fired.

I guess what I'm saying is this: Kids, stay in school. You can't be taught this stuff anywhere else. Except in the Military. Or prison.

No respect for Oscar

My job involves answering the phone. That should say enough, but let me explain. No one makes happy business calls (try one sometime, call someone in your organization to talk about how happy you are, see where that goes). The phone is an instrument used to deal with a problem. By the time you touch the touchpad, you are already upset because something is wrong enough for you to interrupt your day interrupting someone else's.

And then my phone rings. I've been cried to. I've been sworn at. I've been flirted with. I wonder how I missed taking social work classes getting into this job.

And yes, I know I'm a jerk. I really don't care enough for the opinions and feelings of others, or at least that is what THEY claim. But I do TRY to empathize with all and sundry who call my phone, trying desperately to understand what stupor they were in to manage to confuse a keyboard as a place mat or to think that ignoring my suggestions/recommendations/orders would be MY fault.

But I will not suffer people who are grouchy.

In Sesame street all the other muppets (puppets with the strings of marionettes and the cold, cold hands of puppeteers. Think of Pinocchio having a permanent prostate exam) try to cheer Oscar the Grouch up. These poor misguided codependent mutant marionettes spend so much energy doing for Oscar what he is too lazy to do for himself. In fact, most children's programs have someone grouchy who just needs "enough love" to win over. This is generally done by the useless runt of the group with the high pitched voice.

Bull.

IMHO they just need a HappyByFour tm to the cranial lobe until they cheer up. Or exile.

Grouchy people are in a state of self perpetuating misery. They are emotional entropy. So I ask myself "What does a doctor do?", and then apply the same level of beside manner to them.

Them: "My computer doesn't work. Again. Can't you people fix these things right?"

Me: "Yes. The problem is you are allowing your belly to rest on your keyboard."

Them: "This is so stupid. I don't know why we are having to use these stupid things anyway."

Me: "Not sure. Bye."

So there you go. The secret to happiness in a job with a phone: Use of the release button. I'd suggest having one made up to rival the "Easy" button by Staples, but an "Easy Release" button gives the wrong message. No matter how happy that would make people.

I'm smarter today. I think.

I enjoy training. I don't mean dogs, I mean being bettered through education. What beauty it is to drink from knowledge's fountain, and when I have quaffed my draught, to cry out "How did I exist before today? I have been an invertibrate's inferior before now!"

Today was nothing like that.

My morning was interupted by some mandatory training. It was only an hour, but I found myself watching the clock as if it held the secret to my escape. I don't like being taught stuff I could more easily have read myself. I don't like sitting in a stuffy, overheated room without a desk to hide behind. I despise poorly aligned powerpoint presentations.

At least it was just an hour.

My problem mostly stems from my empathy. I TRY SO HARD to pay attention and give the instructor the benefit of respect. And then they read from an email and try to sound excited.

I crawled back to my desk, refilled my coffee cup, and had less than an hour before the next session.

This one was much better in a way. The room wasn't stuffy, and it was a teleconference.

For those who haven't had the benefit of a teleconference, imagine your teacher teaching a class via the intercom. I can still make some cool paper airplanes!

But you know me, even with this newfound freedom, I can't help but find fault. This was taught by an instructor who had two teaching faults equivalent to scraping dog whistles against my neck.

1. Repetition. He repeated himself 3 times for each point. I counted. 3 times!

2. Noticing everything, commenting on most, too polite to confront on any.

Teleconference etiquite says you mute your phone. This prevents sound effects like a voiceover track from an obscene phone call, comments like "This is the biggest crock of sh.." and sneezes that sound like you were using your microphone as a q-tip up the nose.

There were a few people on the call who missed that lesson. And the instructor would passively remind us to mute our phones.
"Mute your phones please."
"Keep your phone muted until you need to comment."
"OW, that sneeze was really loud."
"My right ear is bleeding."
"You should see a doctor after you mute your phone. You sound like you have 3 lungs."

Being a spectator to all of this when I could be hitting myself repeatedly with my stapler in the comfort of my own cubicle was exhausting. Oh, and it ran through lunch hour.

This is why I tell my kid's class I'm a fireman.