TRAINING
“Um, I just got a call from Bob and he asked me to tell you to get off training.”
I’d set the phone system on training to help a colleague out of a sticky situation without interruption.
So I didn’t know quite know whether I wanted to laugh or to storm down three floors and smack Bob across the head (figuratively speaking of course). Of late, everyone’s obsessed with our adherence to the roster. So much so, they’ve brought on a big-brother team to make sure we’re not goofing off.
I understand the company has to protect its interest but as the screws tighten I’m beginning to feel the pressure.
I email Bob and make my distaste at his inability to contact me directly clear. But, from the response, I have my new enemy. Bob is “the man”.
“Training is not for your convenience” he wrote. “The only breaks you can take are those that are rostered into the system”.
I'm boiling. I want to protest against the company’s dehumanisation.
Then I email my response:
“It's a case of having two newbies on either side of me. I would be more than happy to improve my overall adherence however, since the "help-line" has them on hold for up to five minutes, they rely on the people around them. When the issue is particularly complicated I can't stop half-through otherwise they risk violating privacy or one of a number of critical errors because there's no one there to help them.
I can assure you, it has nothing to do with using it for my convenience or just for taking a break. But I will tone down the assistance; refer them to the help line, to bring up my adherence. I will even cease taking personal breaks to go to the bathroom and risk kidney stones to ensure my adherence is at a suitable level.”
The silence deafening.
This war isn't over. I love my job. I love the people around me. I have no intentions of leaving. But, as my team leader is smart enough to realize, I won’t be silent when something’s wrong.
My co-workers make it bearable.
“Maybe we should all get catheters,” Michelle chirps in one of the rare breaks in the calls.
“It’d just be cheaper to cut holes in our seats and install plastic bags,” Sam suggests.
“You people are disgusting. I wouldn’t work in an office like that,” Liz’s tone was too serious for our liking but with the way the conversation was going we were at risk of offending someone sooner or later. But a smirk creeps across her face. “This is the wireless age people. Headsets and laptops. You don’t have to defecate at your desk anymore. That could be Big Company’s new recruitment logo.”
We giggle and laughed for a full hour about the possible implications of not being able to leave our desks and the anger is vented. There are grunts and moans and immature behaviour all around.
And then the response comes:
“i think you are taking this whole thing way out of proportion, i was not saying you where doing anything bad or using training to your convenience, i was just asking if you could please jump off training…i do agree with what you are doing and saying so there is no need to freak out, but i need to know, or else i get in trouble.”
Fair enough. He, too, is being oppressed by “the man”. Still he’s a little closer and he’s doing “The Man’s” dirty work so I can’t cut him too much slack.
“Look, don’t stress so much, I’m simply saying that if you’ve got a question then call us directly. That way the message won’t be reinterpreted. It also wouldn’t hurt if you got to know the personalities involved so that you’ll be able to see the kind of people involved and then you wouldn’t need to question our motives.”
And it's left at that. The issue is dead (for now).
With all the quality jokes the situation offered us, it’s hard to maintain the rage.
Thursday, October 27, 2005
Wednesday, October 19, 2005
INVASION
The tiles were crooked and slid down the wall in a subtle arc.
“Did you drink the water?” The doctor was young, probably in his early 20’s. His red hair and freckles made him less authoritative then I would have liked but he balanced enthusiasm and seriousness like a skilled juggler.
“I couldn’t hold it.” They wanted me to drink 1 litre of water and then hold it in my bladder for two hours. It wasn’t going to happen. Not a full 10 minutes after consuming the lot I was in horrid pain and couldn't get to the bathroom quick enough (I mean literally, didn't make it. Luckily I have my own car and don't rely on public transport). “But I drank a litre 15 minutes ago so hopefully that’ll be enough.”
For some reason this particular medical institute had chosen a creamy-brown tile and that always made me anxious. How in the hell did they know if they were really clean or if they’d missed some scungy piece of offal from a procedure gone awry?
Suddenly the goop hit my lower abdomen and I flinched. The doctor smoothed out the gel and began examining my internal configuration.
“That’s plenty of water. I can see your bowel clearly.”
I didn’t respond, instead I focused on the tiles. Rather than completely smooth they had a soothing ripple. The reason for allowing the intrusion far out-weighed my embarrassment at dropping my pants in front of yet other stranger. Still, it helped to focus elsewhere .
I returned my focus to the doctor and to the small area he had targeted. “I didn’t realise it was that small. I mean all those drawings we’re shown growing up it’s a hell of a lot bigger.”
He laughed at the monitor and responded without looking at me. “Those pictures are to give you a general idea but in reality it’s only about eight centimetres wide and four centimetres long.”
He hummed and hared over the monitor, making small sweeping motions and stopping occasionally to take a snapshot of my innards. Then, he abruptly stopped.
“See, that wasn’t so bad. Now there’s just one more thing. While this scan is 85% clear we do have another procedure that allows us to see things a lot more clearly. You don’t have to do it but it will be able to see things with an accuracy of 99%”
The instrument he was holding was nothing short of offensive.
I shook me head and got off the bench in disbelief but 'in for a penny in for a pound' as they say. So into the little cubicle where I shed my clothing. I then dressed in the funkiest plastic robe they owned and re-perched myself on the bench - bracing myself for the invasion..
And back to the tiles I went for the next 40 seconds watching them arc and twist in the light.
“All done,” he chirped. “It looks as though everything’s in perfect working order.”
I re-shuffled into the cubicle, dressed, paid for my violation at the front desk and then left.
If everything’s fine with the hardware then it’s time to start considering there could be a bug in my software. So I’m off for more test. Off for more poking and proding and exposure.
But it’s worth it. I have to believe that in the end it’s all going to be worth it.
The tiles were crooked and slid down the wall in a subtle arc.
“Did you drink the water?” The doctor was young, probably in his early 20’s. His red hair and freckles made him less authoritative then I would have liked but he balanced enthusiasm and seriousness like a skilled juggler.
“I couldn’t hold it.” They wanted me to drink 1 litre of water and then hold it in my bladder for two hours. It wasn’t going to happen. Not a full 10 minutes after consuming the lot I was in horrid pain and couldn't get to the bathroom quick enough (I mean literally, didn't make it. Luckily I have my own car and don't rely on public transport). “But I drank a litre 15 minutes ago so hopefully that’ll be enough.”
For some reason this particular medical institute had chosen a creamy-brown tile and that always made me anxious. How in the hell did they know if they were really clean or if they’d missed some scungy piece of offal from a procedure gone awry?
Suddenly the goop hit my lower abdomen and I flinched. The doctor smoothed out the gel and began examining my internal configuration.
“That’s plenty of water. I can see your bowel clearly.”
I didn’t respond, instead I focused on the tiles. Rather than completely smooth they had a soothing ripple. The reason for allowing the intrusion far out-weighed my embarrassment at dropping my pants in front of yet other stranger. Still, it helped to focus elsewhere .
I returned my focus to the doctor and to the small area he had targeted. “I didn’t realise it was that small. I mean all those drawings we’re shown growing up it’s a hell of a lot bigger.”
He laughed at the monitor and responded without looking at me. “Those pictures are to give you a general idea but in reality it’s only about eight centimetres wide and four centimetres long.”
He hummed and hared over the monitor, making small sweeping motions and stopping occasionally to take a snapshot of my innards. Then, he abruptly stopped.
“See, that wasn’t so bad. Now there’s just one more thing. While this scan is 85% clear we do have another procedure that allows us to see things a lot more clearly. You don’t have to do it but it will be able to see things with an accuracy of 99%”
The instrument he was holding was nothing short of offensive.
I shook me head and got off the bench in disbelief but 'in for a penny in for a pound' as they say. So into the little cubicle where I shed my clothing. I then dressed in the funkiest plastic robe they owned and re-perched myself on the bench - bracing myself for the invasion..
And back to the tiles I went for the next 40 seconds watching them arc and twist in the light.
“All done,” he chirped. “It looks as though everything’s in perfect working order.”
I re-shuffled into the cubicle, dressed, paid for my violation at the front desk and then left.
If everything’s fine with the hardware then it’s time to start considering there could be a bug in my software. So I’m off for more test. Off for more poking and proding and exposure.
But it’s worth it. I have to believe that in the end it’s all going to be worth it.
Tuesday, October 11, 2005
IN THE NEWS
I’m doing eight things at once and not one of them is being done properly but finally the task that I’ve been working on for the past two weeks has been completed.
My first, national, press release.
Australia’s leading newspapers, magazines and radio stations are now all in possession of my dry, yet informative, release. Well, not all of them, I’m still knee deep in fax cover sheets and email addresses – sitting comfortably half-way through my always updated contacts list.
It’s an introduction, of sorts, of not only my organisation but of my newly formed company – Nameless Promotions. No doubt, burried under the hundreds of faxes and emails they receive a day but it's out there.
I’d been toying with the idea since I left journalism. While the entire industry makes me sick to the stomach I couldn’t see one reason why my journalism skills couldn’t be put to use helping organisations I believe in.
Suffice to say, the assistance I’ve provided to date has been minimal.
Local papers, local radio and so forth. But when I was first asked to make it a more national approach I couldn’t resist dragging out the old contact book and touching base with the world I left behind.
I called in favours, apologised for my lack of contact over the past 18 months and I made sure my friends were still my friends. I equally made sure my enemies didn’t know it was me (the married name has helped create new bridges where the old ones were burnt).
While the project has brought the stimulation I’d craved of late, it’s also brought a sad reminder of what I’ve left behind.
Deadlines. Cafes and idle chatter. Questions.
My mentor was the first on the line. I’d left on less that fantastic ground last time when she challenged my decision to quit.
“I knew you couldn’t stay away,” She was chatty and friendly but a little too smug for my liking.
“It’s just a visit.” She smiled but it was half-hearted.
“You know of all my juniors I honestly thought you’d be a journalist till the day you died.”
What could I say? I mean, when I started in journalism I had all intentions of making a big career and becoming a political correspondent. Leading some adventurous life. Maybe settling in New York or London.
Something more exciting than this. Something remarkable.
But then my priorities shifted. I said something I meant and lost a job I didn’t want. There is not one thing I would change about that decision.
But with my press release on the fly and the adrenaline pumping through my veins I’ve temporarily forgotten what it was I hated about journalism.
Finally I dig up the response for my old editor.
“I thought that too.”
When my head clears I’ll remember why I’ve chosen having a life over having a career but for now I’m feeling the slightest pangs of regret.
I’m doing eight things at once and not one of them is being done properly but finally the task that I’ve been working on for the past two weeks has been completed.
My first, national, press release.
Australia’s leading newspapers, magazines and radio stations are now all in possession of my dry, yet informative, release. Well, not all of them, I’m still knee deep in fax cover sheets and email addresses – sitting comfortably half-way through my always updated contacts list.
It’s an introduction, of sorts, of not only my organisation but of my newly formed company – Nameless Promotions. No doubt, burried under the hundreds of faxes and emails they receive a day but it's out there.
I’d been toying with the idea since I left journalism. While the entire industry makes me sick to the stomach I couldn’t see one reason why my journalism skills couldn’t be put to use helping organisations I believe in.
Suffice to say, the assistance I’ve provided to date has been minimal.
Local papers, local radio and so forth. But when I was first asked to make it a more national approach I couldn’t resist dragging out the old contact book and touching base with the world I left behind.
I called in favours, apologised for my lack of contact over the past 18 months and I made sure my friends were still my friends. I equally made sure my enemies didn’t know it was me (the married name has helped create new bridges where the old ones were burnt).
While the project has brought the stimulation I’d craved of late, it’s also brought a sad reminder of what I’ve left behind.
Deadlines. Cafes and idle chatter. Questions.
My mentor was the first on the line. I’d left on less that fantastic ground last time when she challenged my decision to quit.
“I knew you couldn’t stay away,” She was chatty and friendly but a little too smug for my liking.
“It’s just a visit.” She smiled but it was half-hearted.
“You know of all my juniors I honestly thought you’d be a journalist till the day you died.”
What could I say? I mean, when I started in journalism I had all intentions of making a big career and becoming a political correspondent. Leading some adventurous life. Maybe settling in New York or London.
Something more exciting than this. Something remarkable.
But then my priorities shifted. I said something I meant and lost a job I didn’t want. There is not one thing I would change about that decision.
But with my press release on the fly and the adrenaline pumping through my veins I’ve temporarily forgotten what it was I hated about journalism.
Finally I dig up the response for my old editor.
“I thought that too.”
When my head clears I’ll remember why I’ve chosen having a life over having a career but for now I’m feeling the slightest pangs of regret.
Monday, October 10, 2005
NUSIENCE
The crank calls simply stopped but the identity of the caller was revealed.
“Well, I guess it was just our turn,” my mum said. “She’s called everyone else in the family and it was only a matter of time before she started abusing us.”
The Friday they stopped at our house, they began at my parents’. My father and I have the same initials so we’re often mistaken for each other by anyone who uses the phone book as their primary resource.
And who was the mystery caller? My Aunt Unstable, or rather her daughter Cousin Apple, making the nuisance call rounds.
Back when my father’s mother died there was a massive dispute over the will. For some insane reason my grandmother left everything to my father and his other sister but flat-out ignored her adopted daughter, Aunt Unstable. Prior to that my father hadn’t spoken to Aunt Unstable for near on twelve years.
After discussing the issue Dad and my other Aunt proposed to sell Grandmother’s house and split the money three ways to be completely fair. Aunt Unstable simply wasn’t satisfied.
She wanted the house.
Bare in mind this house was built by my grandfather in the early 1960s. Neither a carpenter nor an electrician the house is a death trap. Lights flicker when it rains. The wind has removed most of the fibro at the back of the house. There are more car parts and broken bricks in the foundations than actual concrete.
The real estate agent valued the place, on a massive block of land, for $600,000 plus – one third being more than enough to buy Aunt Unstable a nice town house. My father and aunt also said they would contribute $25,000 each for a trust fund for Cousin Apple.
It wasn’t good enough. Aunt Unstable wanted the house.
The saga dragged on for nine months until through some miracle the unemployed, single-mother who has no credit rating “found” the money and paid out my aunt and father – for a considerably lower amount than market value.
What ever, both my father and aunt were glad to have the matter put behind them and to move on. But Aunt Unstable and Cousin Apple weren’t satisfied.
Ever since the settlement Aunt Unstable or Cousin Apple have called my cousins, my aunt and uncle and now me and my parents to abuse them for all their current woes because they can’t afford the upkeep of the house.
My father and aunt have done what they can for Aunt Unstable. One of the stolen generations they did what they can to encourage her to embrace her Aboriginality but Aunt Unstable was adamant that she was in fact African.
Like so many of the stolen generation lies surrounded her adoption. My grandparents were told that her real parents had been killed in a car accident and, being kind hearted, they wanted to share their good fortune.
Kind of ironic considering my grandparents didn’t have enough money to buy themselves shoes that they would still considered themselves fortunate.
When she was 20 her real mother walked possibly the longest path of her life to my grandmother’s front door to meet her daughter. The family celebrated. My father and my other aunt waited quietly in the kitchen as she approached. After a few minutes of muffled talk, Aunt Unstable slammed the door in her face, once again telling her that she wasn’t an Aboriginal.
I remember seeing my father crying that night - for the torment Aunt Unstable's mother had gone through and for what Aunt Unstable had lost.
Perhaps it’s because my grandparents spoiled her. As the baby from such a tragic background they had bent over backwards for her. Knowing she’d lost so much they wanted to make it up to her.
Perhaps my grandparents were too hard on her. My grandmother, in her last years, was a bitter, twisted woman. Without my grandfather she was a spiteful cow and we couldn’t possible know what she went through at the hands of that woman.
I honestly don't know. She's a stranger to me. Like my grandfather I know her only through stories and there's nothing to say those stories aren't heavily biased to make my father and grandparents look as the saviours of the piece.
There is no way I will ever know the truth. I may ask again and again but the truth is subjective.
The phone calls have stopped – for now – and I can go back to pretending like she doesn’t exist.
It makes my life so much easier to put her in the “Family I Don’t Know or Don’t Care to Know” cupboard along with my Uncle Greedy Snob and What’s His Name grandfather.
The problem is that the skeletons in that particular cupboard pick up the phone and call me - bringing my sense of guilt to light.
The crank calls simply stopped but the identity of the caller was revealed.
“Well, I guess it was just our turn,” my mum said. “She’s called everyone else in the family and it was only a matter of time before she started abusing us.”
The Friday they stopped at our house, they began at my parents’. My father and I have the same initials so we’re often mistaken for each other by anyone who uses the phone book as their primary resource.
And who was the mystery caller? My Aunt Unstable, or rather her daughter Cousin Apple, making the nuisance call rounds.
Back when my father’s mother died there was a massive dispute over the will. For some insane reason my grandmother left everything to my father and his other sister but flat-out ignored her adopted daughter, Aunt Unstable. Prior to that my father hadn’t spoken to Aunt Unstable for near on twelve years.
After discussing the issue Dad and my other Aunt proposed to sell Grandmother’s house and split the money three ways to be completely fair. Aunt Unstable simply wasn’t satisfied.
She wanted the house.
Bare in mind this house was built by my grandfather in the early 1960s. Neither a carpenter nor an electrician the house is a death trap. Lights flicker when it rains. The wind has removed most of the fibro at the back of the house. There are more car parts and broken bricks in the foundations than actual concrete.
The real estate agent valued the place, on a massive block of land, for $600,000 plus – one third being more than enough to buy Aunt Unstable a nice town house. My father and aunt also said they would contribute $25,000 each for a trust fund for Cousin Apple.
It wasn’t good enough. Aunt Unstable wanted the house.
The saga dragged on for nine months until through some miracle the unemployed, single-mother who has no credit rating “found” the money and paid out my aunt and father – for a considerably lower amount than market value.
What ever, both my father and aunt were glad to have the matter put behind them and to move on. But Aunt Unstable and Cousin Apple weren’t satisfied.
Ever since the settlement Aunt Unstable or Cousin Apple have called my cousins, my aunt and uncle and now me and my parents to abuse them for all their current woes because they can’t afford the upkeep of the house.
My father and aunt have done what they can for Aunt Unstable. One of the stolen generations they did what they can to encourage her to embrace her Aboriginality but Aunt Unstable was adamant that she was in fact African.
Like so many of the stolen generation lies surrounded her adoption. My grandparents were told that her real parents had been killed in a car accident and, being kind hearted, they wanted to share their good fortune.
Kind of ironic considering my grandparents didn’t have enough money to buy themselves shoes that they would still considered themselves fortunate.
When she was 20 her real mother walked possibly the longest path of her life to my grandmother’s front door to meet her daughter. The family celebrated. My father and my other aunt waited quietly in the kitchen as she approached. After a few minutes of muffled talk, Aunt Unstable slammed the door in her face, once again telling her that she wasn’t an Aboriginal.
I remember seeing my father crying that night - for the torment Aunt Unstable's mother had gone through and for what Aunt Unstable had lost.
Perhaps it’s because my grandparents spoiled her. As the baby from such a tragic background they had bent over backwards for her. Knowing she’d lost so much they wanted to make it up to her.
Perhaps my grandparents were too hard on her. My grandmother, in her last years, was a bitter, twisted woman. Without my grandfather she was a spiteful cow and we couldn’t possible know what she went through at the hands of that woman.
I honestly don't know. She's a stranger to me. Like my grandfather I know her only through stories and there's nothing to say those stories aren't heavily biased to make my father and grandparents look as the saviours of the piece.
There is no way I will ever know the truth. I may ask again and again but the truth is subjective.
The phone calls have stopped – for now – and I can go back to pretending like she doesn’t exist.
It makes my life so much easier to put her in the “Family I Don’t Know or Don’t Care to Know” cupboard along with my Uncle Greedy Snob and What’s His Name grandfather.
The problem is that the skeletons in that particular cupboard pick up the phone and call me - bringing my sense of guilt to light.
Friday, October 07, 2005
BUY, BUY, BUY
I’m not one for gushy recommendations. I respect Paul Ford. He’s a talented writer and always produces something worth putting everything else on hold to read. In this age of over information it's rare to find something that's actually worth reading but Paul Ford always delivers.
http://garybenchleyrockstar.com/
Go. Look. Enjoy. And then buy a damn copy (if you want).
I’m not one for gushy recommendations. I respect Paul Ford. He’s a talented writer and always produces something worth putting everything else on hold to read. In this age of over information it's rare to find something that's actually worth reading but Paul Ford always delivers.
http://garybenchleyrockstar.com/
Go. Look. Enjoy. And then buy a damn copy (if you want).
Tuesday, October 04, 2005
HOME
I’ve been thinking a lot lately about the six degrees of separation. I think about how small my world really is and how easy it has been for me to cross paths with people who have links to every facet of my life.
One of my supervisors, I discovered after 12 months, is the husband of my sister-in-law’s best friend.
Yesterday I discovered that a woman in this building has also lived in Canmore, Alberta. Our experience at that crossroads overlapping by a few weeks. She, too, talks about that town and her experiences there in hushed tones.
I did a dance with my husband for 17 years. Only one person away from each other the whole time. Oblivious to the coincidence until we finally met – at just the right time to think the separation humorous.
Then there’s his ex who lived a suburb away from me for the entire time I lived at home.
Little things, knitting themselves together, to create the tapestry of my life.
I wonder if this is what karma is – the coming back and repeating of your life until it makes sense. Coming together of the same people, of similar situations, until I figure it out.
Have I got it right this time or is there something I overlooked?
I guess there’s no point to trying to figure this out. I don’t know the mistakes I made before and I don’t know that knowing what they were would stop me repeating them. But this time I feel as though something has slipped into place.
Five months after getting married I find that I am still essentially the same – except for one minor difference. I’m happy.
If I’m going to overdo metaphors I may as well continue.
My life feels like a baseball game. For the first 25 years I don’t even get out of the dugout to swing. Finally my chance comes and I hit it out of the park.
I run to Canada, I run from one side of that continent to another.
Once there I can't stay still and I run to Canberra and then I head full pelt for home. Suddenly I realise that the hit wasn’t as far as I thought it was or that the opposition are a lot more organised than I planned and I can see that this is my one chance to reach the place I’ve been running towards my whole life.
Home.
It’s close. The ball’s in the catcher’s mitt but I have to do it, there’s no point standing on third, nestled with Trevor, and being “safe”. I want to win.
So I slide home. At first the slide is unnatural but then I ease into it and I’ve won.
I’m home.
A strange thing, that we should do everything we can to run away from home only to struggle to reach it again.
I’ve been thinking a lot lately about the six degrees of separation. I think about how small my world really is and how easy it has been for me to cross paths with people who have links to every facet of my life.
One of my supervisors, I discovered after 12 months, is the husband of my sister-in-law’s best friend.
Yesterday I discovered that a woman in this building has also lived in Canmore, Alberta. Our experience at that crossroads overlapping by a few weeks. She, too, talks about that town and her experiences there in hushed tones.
I did a dance with my husband for 17 years. Only one person away from each other the whole time. Oblivious to the coincidence until we finally met – at just the right time to think the separation humorous.
Then there’s his ex who lived a suburb away from me for the entire time I lived at home.
Little things, knitting themselves together, to create the tapestry of my life.
I wonder if this is what karma is – the coming back and repeating of your life until it makes sense. Coming together of the same people, of similar situations, until I figure it out.
Have I got it right this time or is there something I overlooked?
I guess there’s no point to trying to figure this out. I don’t know the mistakes I made before and I don’t know that knowing what they were would stop me repeating them. But this time I feel as though something has slipped into place.
Five months after getting married I find that I am still essentially the same – except for one minor difference. I’m happy.
If I’m going to overdo metaphors I may as well continue.
My life feels like a baseball game. For the first 25 years I don’t even get out of the dugout to swing. Finally my chance comes and I hit it out of the park.
I run to Canada, I run from one side of that continent to another.
Once there I can't stay still and I run to Canberra and then I head full pelt for home. Suddenly I realise that the hit wasn’t as far as I thought it was or that the opposition are a lot more organised than I planned and I can see that this is my one chance to reach the place I’ve been running towards my whole life.
Home.
It’s close. The ball’s in the catcher’s mitt but I have to do it, there’s no point standing on third, nestled with Trevor, and being “safe”. I want to win.
So I slide home. At first the slide is unnatural but then I ease into it and I’ve won.
I’m home.
A strange thing, that we should do everything we can to run away from home only to struggle to reach it again.
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