Work Lessons

My boss has a bottle of Jack Daniels that he keeps in his desk drawer. Next to the bottle is a hammer. Every time I see the two together I have to fight the temptation to snatch the hammer and take a big swing at that pristine glass. I think it’s the blend of fragility and destructiveness in such close proximity that brings about this urge, but it could just be that I hate whiskey…not sure which. Regardless of where this desire is rooted, I can’t help but think how satisfying it would be to crush the glass and watch it give way like an ice pond in Spring holding up a nearing-death-individual. Good times.

Anyway, I came to that inevitable question today… the question that had always been there but was never paid any attention. You know, like the middle child. I found myself harboring a little extra time and—what better way to use it—I decided to stop and really consider this eclectic combo. Hammer. Jack. Jack Hammer? I got a nice private chuckle out of this, but was still unsatisfied. Could be that The Boss just needed a place to put the hammer and the size and dimensions fit well against his whiskey. That just wasn’t fun enough though and severely lacked creativity such that I was accustomed to bringing to the table at a puzzler like this.

So here is what I came up with. Bossman, with his great foresight and wisdom, must have known that when the time came to ‘crack’ this bottle open, it would be a get-this-in-my-system-NOW sort of situation. Everything that could possibly go wrong, will have gone wrong. If he could shoot the stuff, he would. He will need escape quickly and without hindrance. He won’t have time to fiddle with petty devices that keep things in bottles. No, a hammer is what he’ll need. Take that metal to the neck of the glass and you have an instant, handy, wide mouthed opening ready to drain out all contents. Just pound it back and watch reality do a fade to black. Now THAT is setting up your environment for success.

I’m learning a lot at work.

Trashy Photos

Tonight is trash night, which means that tomorrow will enter in by way of a thundering, rumbling garbage truck. When I was a kid I always envied the garbage men that got to ride the side of that truck, jumping off at each house to heave another tin can of excess and waste. Not the highest of career aspirations, mine. Now, of course, they have that handy mechanical arm that I swear is almost a spot on replica of the arm that is constantly dropping stuffed animals at Chuck E Cheese’s. Luckily Mr. Garbage Truck’s arm is a little more efficient.

The recycling people have also become quite efficient in their processes. Eerily efficient in fact… Not too long ago Ty and I got notice that we were being charged $75 for putting Styrofoam in our recycling bin (a bold faced lie, of course…). Beyond that, however, they went on to state that there was photographic evidence of this infringement. Yes, the recycling folks are now taking pictures of your trash. I’m thinking it must be some sort of job creation strategy—after all, someone had to take in all of the unemployed garbage men once the mechanical arm came into play. But still—photos? Really? Someone is taking their job way too seriously. I’m just betting there is someone praying for the day that someone contests an item found in their recycling…

Sweat traces a trail down the female’s face, pooling at her jaw and dropping on the stainless steel table. Her new highlights are dulled in this gritty, cold room, and even her ruby red nail polish looks dull and lifeless on her numb fingers laid out before her. It is the perfect size for an interrogation room, confining as if to squeeze the truth from your inner most self. Stick to the story. Stick to the story.

A door opens and a figure enters, smoke swirls and twists from his hand and he raises his cigarette to his lips for one last drag. The burning ember of the butt bursts through the grey of the smoke, of the room, for a split second before it is stamped out at his heel. He drags the wooden chair at the corner over to the table and sits down on it backwards, with his chest leaning on the back. She shifts her hands nervously to her lap, wiping the sweat from her palms as she watches her hands evaporate from the table. A hanging light bulb barely swings above them, waiting for the scene to unveil. He eyes her, trying to weigh the strength of her resolve. She stares back; expectant and dreading.

“Do you know why you’ve been called here Ms. Fisher?”

“Not really, no. I have done nothing wrong to warrant this sort of treatment. And it is Mrs. Fisher.” Her voice shakes despite her willing it otherwise.

“So you deny the charges?” He says, putting another cigarette to his lips and pulling out his lighter.

“That I put Styrofoam in with my recycling? Yes! I absolutely have no idea what you are talking about. I haven’t even bought anything in the last six months with Styrofoam packaging!” She turns down his offer of a cigarette with only the slightest bit of hesitation.

He lights his Winston and takes a drag, never taking his eyes off her. The smoke drifts up toward the light bulb and envelopes it.

“So, you deny it then. That’s curious.” He rises from his chair. He begins to pace. “That is very interesting Ms. Fisher, you know why?” He stops pacing for a second. She contemplates correcting him again, but does not trust her voice.
“How many children do you have Ms. Fisher?”

“Three.”

“Three children. Do you love your children Ms. Fisher?”

“Well, yes of course. And it’s Mrs—“

“And you want them to grow up in a clean world, right Ms. Fisher?”

“Yes, of course.”

“See, now THAT is interesting. You want them to inherit a clean Earth and yet you try to dodge around laws designed to do just that! Amazing.” He goes to his shirt pocket and pulls out a photo.

“Ms. Fisher, what is the number on your recycling bin?”

“Well, I’m not sure..” She says, looking nervously toward the photo in his hands. He looks at her, annoyed and obviously feeling she should know this information.

“Your recycling bin number is 15473. Check when you get home if you want. Ms. Fisher, can you describe the contents in this photograph?” He sets the photo in front of her like a man presenting a royal flush. Despair floods through her.

“Styrofoam.” A meek reply.

“And what is the number on this recycling bin Ms. Fisher?” But the pressure has overwhelmed her and she cannot reply. Tears form as she lowers her head to the table.

He looks up knowingly at the double paned mirror on the wall. “We’re done here.”

“Fine her.”

High Hopes

I think I have overestimated the power of Microsoft Excel.

Snugly faceted in between various megabites and an Intel chip or two lies an excel sheet proudly titled “Kristie’s Schedule.” It is a newer creation relative to the other Excel grids and Word documents between which it is sandwiched. So new to be forgotten, so young to be labeled a failure. But there it lies on the virtual shelves of my hard drive—a week old without a chance. It’s a bleak picture and a bleak future is included—no additional purchase necessary.

Here was the reasoning that led to its birth; ‘They say that if you write your goals down you have a 15% higher chance of achieving them than if pen never went to paper. If that is the stat for old fashioned paper, just think of how much more successful I would be if I set up my intended schedule on an Excel sheet! That must bump my chances for success by at least another 50-60%, and if I add in some color coding, I am essentially sealing my victory!’

Nice huh. No wonder the schedule didn’t work. The person who made it is a moron.