Brushes with fame.

After two hours of standing in line, waiting patiently, and trying to think of something clever / interesting / non-douchey to say, this happened:


Amy: Hello!

Me: Hi.

Amy: Oh, "Tyler." You're my first Tyler today!

Me: Oh. That's pretty exciting.

Amy: "Oh. That's pretty exciting." You sure sound pretty excited.

Me: Well, I'm just trying to keep it cool. You know, I don't want to embarrass myself, just in case I ever see you again.

Amy (while making direct eye contact): Oh, we'll be seeing each other again. [Beat] Okay, thank you!

Me: Bye!

Amy: ...and good luck at the clinic!



Aaaaand scene.

If only I could actually speak in all CAPS.

It's a really bad sign when you've conceded that your day is shot at 8:48 AM.

I woke up at 7:30, and usually when I wake up fifteen minutes before I'm typically at work I panic and run around my room trying to get dressed and brush my teeth and fix the hair that is conveniently standing ON END because I fell asleep the night before while it was still wet. This morning, however, I took my time, because I am SO OVER IT. I even got downtown at 8:20 but decided to stop at a 7-11 to buy a Coke instead of getting to work earlier than expected.

When I got in, I noticed that my manager stuck one of the other temps at the laptop next to me. Yesterday, Katy and I got in trouble for TALKING. We were sitting AT OUR COMPUTERS and WORKING and having a conversation, but apparently that is NOT ALLOWED because I'm actually a child and, hell, I wouldn't be surprised if I get written up. This is why I hate my job. It's one thing to have benefits I don't really take advantage of, or the need to work EIGHT HOURS on this Saturday because I don't get paid enough for working my normal thirty-five hours. And sure, after my health insurance and taxes are deducted from my paycheck I only make less than twenty-thousand dollars a year. The REAL problem is that I'm treated like a child. I may be only twenty-three but I'm DEFINITELY a little more capable than a fifth-grader.

This bad mood of mine carried over from last night. I called my mother because, as usual, the best way to get over a bad mood is to project it onto loved ones, but I managed to keep from yelling at her without reason, which she appreciated. She also tried to trick me into accepting that my job was not 100% Suck, but I was having none of it (they can give me a week's paid vacation and all the free doughnuts they want, Mom, but it's still not winning me over).

Also, I had one of my haircut-inspired nervous breakdowns. Christina has diagnosed me with an unnamed disorder where I have the constant desire for / the constant fear of getting a haircut. This also clashes with my fear of calling strangers on the phone, so I'm basically what is known in the psychiatric community as "fucked."

My big plan for this evening was to buy two copies of Amy Sedaris's book (one for myself and one for my mom), I Like You: Hospitality Under the Influence, and take them to the Border's on Michigan avenue to have her sign them. Unfortunately, I have to pay rent tomorrow. After I write that lovely check, I will have sixty five dollars to last me until next Friday's paycheck. I'm reconsidering my purchases. Hell, I'm reconsidering CHRISTMAS. (I blame gin and tonics.)

All I want to do right now is go home, drink three bottles of wine, watch Reality Bites, and work on my resume. I would update my resume at work, but I feel that would probably not be appropriate. Also, I don't want to have a breakdown AT work, and that would surely ensue once I open up that Word document.

Luckily, I have my roommate, Christina "WHY DON'T I HAVE A BOYFRIEND?!" Boucher, who allows me to humor myself by listing off the top reasons why she does not have a boyfriend. Here's one: last night, she came home and shouted, "TYLER. Guess whose CLOTHES I TOUCHED TODAY?!" I guessed John Malkovich, thinking that made sense given her excitement and her employment at Steppenwolf, but she replied, "NO! DAVE PASQUESI!!!" There isn't even a context in which to put that in order for anyone to understand why that's impressive.



PS. I got an A in Southern Lit. I'd be excited about this if I gave a shit.

Army of Temps.

One good thing about having temps in the office is that I begin to notice some Temp Rivalry. It was the management's poor planning to have nine temps working on mail and applications and such, work which require computers to access the PeopleSoft system. Unfortunately, there are only seven computers available for the temps to work on, so every morning my manager walks around the office, trying to figure out which full-time staff members might not come in to work. The temps, eight of which come in at eight, have begun getting here earlier and earlier in order to snag the only open cubicle which allows some privacy from people walking by. (Every other computer sits on a table against a wall and everyone who walks by can see what that person is looking at - GMail? Shock!) Our new boss, who comes to our office about twice a week to tell us, "Good morning," and then promptly disappears for a few hours, managed to find two laptops for the temps to use. Of course, one of them would not connect to the internet. After working fine for two days, the second decided to jump ship, as well. Ah, if I only had the balls.

The other great thing is that the temps float in and out of our lives so much that no one in the office even knows who the hell is still working here. I mean, I know who still shows up, since I usually see them every morning when they come in. The newest batch of temps were told to come directly to me upon their arrival so I could train them and then set them on their merry little ways. They mistakenly assumed that I was their manager. One of them would even let me know when he left on his bathroom breaks, yet I avoided the awkward explanation that I was, in fact, just a half-notch above him on the office totem pole and that, frankly, I didn't care where he went.

Yesterday, I noticed one of the temps did not show up for work, and I assumed, "Hey, she must be sick." My manager and my boss didn't say anything about it to me, and I figured it didn't matter because I'm not a manager and really don't need / care to know that information. Then, at 2:30, my manager walked up to me and said, "Hey, [The Temp] didn't come in today!"

This morning, when I was complaining to another manager about general office grievances, I mentioned how the temp didn't come in and no one noticed until late in the afternoon. She paused and said, "Wait, who is that?"

We run a tight ship here.

Lazy-assed blog entry, this time with cranberry sauce!

Things I did on my Thanksgiving break:

1. Slept past seven!

2. Saw two good movies: Volver and Stranger than Fiction.

3. Ate stuffing. Stuffing!

4. Went to the huge cineplex on Thanksgiving night, sat in the second row, and had an emotional reaction to the trailer for Dreamgirls. Now, I'd seen the preview before, but there's something about seeing it twenty-feet tall after three bourbon and ginger ales that does something to you.*

5. Saw a homeless man get kicked in the face on the Red line.

6. Saw Andrew Bird, who put on an amazing show (that whistle! those violin skillz!). It was one of the better shows I've seen all year, if only because I was standing behind an army of tiny indie rock girls who were all under five feet, was not standing near any douchey fans, and was not the person to my left who fainted about three songs into Mr. Bird's set. Seriously, I heard a loud thunk and thought, "That sounds familiar..." Then I touched my finger to my nose and said, "Not it!"

7. Watched the entire first season of Soap.

8. Bought five new pairs of underwear, ensuring another week of not having to do laundry.

9. Downloaded "Not Gon' Cry" by Mary J. Blige and listened to it non-stop on my iPod.

10. Managed to stay stress-free for four whole days! WHO'S READY FOR WORK TOMORROW?!



*Christina also had an emotional reaction to the preview, but she was sober. She's just a musical theater nerd. And thinks Jamie Foxx is "fierce."

Sick day.

I woke up this morning with a grade-A sore throat. I had about a ten minute period of time before I absolutely had to get ready for work where I laid on my bed trying to decide if I should just call in or actually do the whole rushed preparation and commute thing. I picked the former. I mean, even though I still don't have any sick pay despite working there for six months, and not all of my overtime hours are actually overtime because we only work a thirty-five-hour work week, I figured that being miserable at home alone in bed would still be more tolerable than being miserable at my desk, punching ACT scores into the PeopleSoft system. I can be miserable at work any day!

Also, there's that added bonus of the three-day work week, which has now turned into a two-day work week. Sweet, duder!

Nicole hates me.

What happens when I try to spoon with Nicole?

Usually in this nightmare I'm not wearing any pants.

My manager informed me on Thursday that, in a meeting with two other office managers, our boss, and our soon-to-be boss, she volunteered me to give an "accelerated training" session for the temps. Basically, this would entail me writing up a training packet to do the job that I've already trained them to do. Oh, and a presentation in the conference room downstairs.

I was a little taken aback, since my history of "public speaking" usually involved "passing out in front of a projector." Well, I exaggerate. Usually I go through one of those spells and keep it together long enough to rush through my speech and run back to my seat before I fall over. (The best public speaking moment: I volunteered to compete in forensics senior year of high school. I chose to read "The Macbeth Murder Mystery" by James Thurber, this big production that involved accents. During the first of the three readings, I started to lose it. I remember reading the beginning and the ending of the story, but I have no idea what happened in the middle. I came in last place.)

I spent most of yesterday writing up the three-page handout on Microsoft Word, which, I'll admit, was kind of exciting since all I wanted was a job that required some writing skills. (Yes! I MADE IT!) When I finished, I went to show my boss and do a quick run-through to make sure I remembered anything. After she praised me for being "so thorough," I asked, "So, is anyone else coming to this thing?"

"Oh, yeah," she said. "Everyone will be there."

Oh.

Shit.

Then I started freaking out. I can handle "training" the temps over again, but suddenly I'm training my co-workers who have all been here for about four or five years. That's only potentially awkward. Also, that involves more public to speak in front of. Oh, and did I mention that the conference room is on the first floor and has a huge window facing State Street? Yeah, so the homeless men outside could also enjoy my performance.

I quickly emailed my mom, who responded, "See? They think you're smart enough to do this! I'm so proud of you!" Well, thanks Mom, but being (incredibly) intelligent is not going to keep me from wanting to die in a professional setting. When I told Christina last night, she had a similar reaction: "That's great!" she said. Uh, right.

In a perfect world, I would try to have some fun with this. Katy and John were trying to give me suggestions like having an animated Powerpoint or wearing a funny hat. I jokingly told one of the other managers that I could always force an icebreaker upon everyone, since the people in the office are notorious for not speaking to one another and not acknowledging the temps. Even though forcing awkwardness upon others for my own benefit sounds hilarious, it'd also involve extending the presentation. So, no. They aren't going to get anything fun; instead, they're going to get an hour of me shaking and speaking in a monotone voice. At least they might get a nap out of it.

I'll have to remember to buy some glucose tablets that morning.

Dear Mr. Pentagon: Don't worry, I'm not a terrorist.

What's more frightening: the fact that someone from The Pentagon checks my blog, or that someone from The Pentagon found my blog from the link in my FACEBOOK profile?

Sic semper tyrannis

In about nine hours from now I will most likely be very drunk and, most importantly, finished with SoLit class. Now I just need to somehow make it through work, which is still progressively sucking more and more each day and making me want to die, and finish my stupid outline for the final, which I really can't give two shits about even though I do secretly want (and deserve, goddammit) an A in the class. My plan right now is to just write pages and pages of what I KNOW to be bullshit, simply because Dr. Douchebag lives in Opposite Town and thinks everything that is wrong is actually right.

See how well I can compromise my values? Corporate America, please hire me for a real job.

Welcome to Gross City.

Last night Christina and I went to Improv Olympic and there was this guy sitting in the row in front of me, slightly to my left. He was with his girlfriend (or perhaps his "flava of the week"), and was very affectionate with her.

I typically have a problem with public displays of affection, but sometimes you have to appreciate it when two people are so in love and shit that they can't help but make out all over the place. Last night, however, was not one of those times.

It was extremely uncomfortable, considering that the guy had his eyes open while kissing his ladyfriend. And also because he kept staring at me while kissing his ladyfriend.