Wired Writer: October 2005

Tuesday, October 25

She Stood Up By Sitting Down

Rosa Parks

1913 - 2005

"Memories of our lives, of our works and our deeds will continue in others."

Salesmanship begins when the customer says no

With a final wheezing cough and a few impolite splutterings, I've resurfaced from the storm surge of an overwhelming work load from the past week.

Boss, in his latent albeit correct wisdom, has hired another person to cajole prospective tenants to fill his newly opened apartment complex. This comes as great relief to myself and co-workers C. and G. The activity of this new business phase threatened to overwhelm us all: work hours tabulated with ever increasing numbers on time cards; lunches late, shortened, or all together missed; stacks of papers stretching tall and looking eerily much like Devil's Tower in the grey morning twilight of my pre-Columbian Cup O' Joe morning; tempers sultry and rising, knives being sharpened and cleaned for back stabbing, and overall grumbling and mumbling from the entire skeleton crew.

New co-worker Z. won't start for another 2 weeks, so the much anticipated softening effect on our schedules won't occur till then.

Z. arrived with all the dynamic blustery good cheer that any salesperson worth their weight in closed contracts should have. In every fiber of her being, from her thick wavy hair down to her (I imagine) scrubbed, manicured little piggies that went weee-weee-weee, she is the personfication of the art of closing a sale.

In spite of that, I like her. She does not carry the usual glossy, cheesy aura that most salespersons do. That very present sense of "You are MY WORLD until I realize you are not a sale" type of thing. It is then you are dropped more quickly than a slice of moldy bread; your enthusiasm for the possibility of the moment sucked dry by the vampire fangs of the salesperson's probing conversation.

Although the ultimate goal is never far from her mind, Z. takes care to put forth a presence of being in the moment with whomever she is sharing the air with. No one in the conversational area left unattended, uninvited, or unrecognized. Eyes fully focused and listening whenever someone else speaks. Rewarding all participants with genuine, eye-crinkling smiles and nodding with a gracious, energetic enthusiasm that is a blurred mixture of proud motherhood and patient sales technique. It is a treat in of itself to watch; it is even more so to have her harken you into the happy fray.

There is always that possiblity that she may replace myself or co-worker C. I am non-plussed by that fact. While I have complained about my job, I also realize it is a valuable, sometimes unwelcome, teaching lesson: that this job is a stepping stone and that no one is irreplaceable. I also have the luxury of a husband with a good job.

It will be interesting to see in the coming days the unfolding of the new office dynamics.

I won't be blogging as much as I want; between the work schedule and a freelance writing job, time will be parsed out first to those projects most crucial. Blogging will have to wait for now.

And hopefully, not for long.

Monday, October 17

What We Have Here Is Failure To Communicate

Yesterday's blog was the lamest piece of kaka ever to be pixelated in this blogosphere.

I was frustrated.

Rankled that Monday was coming upon me with fast hairy feet and it would find me, as usual, throwing back my bed covers to make entry into another day as a secretary and part-time writer, instead of what it really should be: a former secretary and full-time writer.

I wanted to rave, to peel back the layers of cherry wood and marble that surround me in the office and see the raw pettiness of the humanity behind it. Then onto those daily, small town courtesy smiles that begin and end every sentence, purred and curled from the lips of my higher ups; very much white and small like a grain of rice and then with a second look, notice it's a maggot instead.

Peel those smiles back, too, to reveal the ever driving need for control and domination reflecting their inner life of fear and criticism. Each day ending in smallness and a familiar bitter taste that chases them until they sigh to sleep in their pillow, another $23,000 richer this month, but still hungry in the dark for something, something so close like an eyelash and yet just as easily missed, only occasionally and dimly aware of its presence from time to time.

Rant, rave, strip away all of it to reveal the pith beneath their bark and in doing so, reveal mine.

For what I despise in them, I see and despise in myself. Their bitter taste on my tongue. What I loathe in my job has little to do with them. It is really nothing more but a creative grocery list of my failures in not being courageous enough, bold enough, fearless enough to lift up my arms to the world and say, "With my warmest, most sincere regards, fuck you all! I love you, truly I do, but I'm tired of being afraid of what you might think of me, of my thoughts, of how I consistently do things sideways and sometimes end up satisfactorily anyway, even by your capricious judgements and fluid standards. So long, good luck, and thanks for all the coffee."

In that vein, I've decided to slog harder, to write more, and to be more -- much more -- grateful. For as I sit here and complain and rebel, like all artists do, since that's what they do, I have my freedom, my family, my health, and the opportunity to change this with a good night's sleep and a strong cup of coffee. Try doing that in Darfur.

And that's what I really meant to say yesterday. It just came out in a Mad Lib kind of way.

Mad Lib Monday

Dear Supervisor,

As required by my contract of employment, I hereby give you _____ weeks' notice of my intention to leave my position as a _____.

I have decided to move on and I have accepted a position elsewhere. This was not an easy decision to make. However, I remembered on several occasions your ability to _____ my projects as well as _____ my customers in the _____. These incidents helped me realize how _____ unhappy I had become with my job.

In addition, the day I accidentally _____ you _____ on your _____ certainly gave me further reason to consider employment elsewhere. I wouldn't have minded it so much except for the fact that it was a " _____ doing the _____ " type of _____, and that is just _____ on so many different levels. Especially so, since you are a _____ man, as well as a _____ member of the _____ and very active in your _____.

I understand my notice is for _____ weeks, but I would like to join my new employer at the earliest date. Therefore, I would like to request that you _____ this notice time frame and relieve me of my duties immediately. Please rest assured that I will _____ to _____ in a _____ transfer of my responsibilities before I _____.

I wish you and the rest of _____ good fortune and I would like to _____ you for having me part of your _____.

Yours _____,
Former Employee

Friday, October 14

Looky What I Found In My Pocket Protector Today

Ah, yes! Finally Friday!

I want to share a few blog/computer tools that I think are fun.

Thanks to an obsession Frederick Glasson developed over blog statistics, we now have TalkDigger. This nifty little program lets you find out who has mentioned or linked to you. You simply type in your URL at the top of the page under the yellow box that says "Who's talking about it?"(for example: my blog would be http://wiredwriter111.blogspot.com) and it will pull from 9 major sources any mention, link, or cached page of your blog/website. It's a kick for yourself, but it's also interesting to see the stats on other URL's. I did a search on bOINGbOING.net and got 28,065 hits on BlogPulse alone. Rest your cursor on each of the little symbols below the number and it will give the option of either opening the results in the same window or in a new one, or just show you a Cliff's Notes version of your newly found, slightly narcissistic data.

Google, my all time favorite uber Web engine, has a fascinating little program called Google Earth. This is so unbelievable, you really have to see it for yourself. Ever wonder about those satellite pictures you see in the movies where the spy is poring over them, looking for the evil dude? Well, guess what-- they got a picture of your house. And your mom's. And your cousin Mario over in Italy, too. Go to Google, click 'more' next to 'local' and scroll down the screen on the left hand side until you see 'Earth' under Google Tools. It's a short download that won't take up much space on your PC. Once you type in your address (or whatever you happen to be interested in) sit back and enjoy the ride! You smoothly yet quickly zoom in on the planet Earth, then onto your continent, then onto your state, etc. All with extraordinary graphics and topography and utterly pixelated views that are staggering.

Planet Earth a little too boring to schlep around on? Try this awesome slick trick also from Google: go up to your address bar, type in moon.google.com and hit the zoom in button on the lunar landscape pictures until the last setting. The last picture of the moonscape will surprise and make you laaauuuugh!

Last but not least: my absolute, would-die-without-it, keyboard shortcut trick. I save the most time with this combination: hold down your Windows key (if your keyboard has one, it will be located next to the Ctrl key on the lower left) and then hit the letter 'd' at the same time. Ta Daaaa! You are back to your desktop without having to minimize all your programs. You can also do Cntrl + Alt + D if you don't have a Windows key.

Alrighty, time to push the nerd back into the closet and become 'Working Writer' again. Unless Bill Nye happens to be around...

Thanks to Geek.com for the photo!

Wednesday, October 12

Announcing The Scruffy Dog Review

Golf clap of appreciation for fellow writers and new publications:

--Devon Ellington of Ink In My Coffee blog, Colin Gailbraith of Freedom From The Mundane blog and Michelle Miles of the funny Ye Olde Inkwell are associate editors (Devon wearing one more hat as PR manager) of a new electronic literary magazine called the The Scruffy Dog Review. Cogratulations to all!

The Scruf' Dog is now taking submissions, as well as offering a fashionable array of logo items ready for wear here. If the ezine is anything like these editors' personalities and talents, then we are all in for a great treat!

--Don't forget, Colin Gailbrath's Brick By Brick, an ebook of poetry of and photography is still available for free download here. Wait! Don't let your eyes glaze over yet! Colin's book is not your mama's poetry. It is easy to read. It is easy to understand. It has pictures. Download it. You won't regret it, I promise.

--Devon Ellington, The Patron Saint of Artists Who Do Not Need Sleep, is also accepting submissions for her poetry site Circadian Poems. Another "Oh, I get it! That's cool!" poetry site. Check it out.

For all those who are poetryphobic (like I was throughout high school and college):
Just think of poetry as a description of something that doesn't fit neatly into a complete paragraph -- or sentence, even. If you are a mui macho man that turkey hunts and drinks beer and gets misty eyed over your gun collection, well then pardn'r, you've got a poem in the works right there.

Still not convinced? Just remember, all your favorite radio play songs started with lyrics, which is poetry without music. Uh -huh, see? You were a poetry fan all along and didn't even know it!

Tuesday, October 11

A Gargoyle To Watch Over Me

Here's Johnny!

Yesterday at work the phone rang. Third line coming in, not one frequently used unless the other lines are busy.

I answered.

"Is Alicia there?" asked a male voice, mispronouncing my name.

"This is she. Can I help you?"

Click. The line goes dead.

Well, look who's back. My very own stalker.

I've worked for a little over four years at my current job, and for three of those, I've had this same scenario happen over and over.

At first, it occurred with weekly or bi-weekly frequency, for months at a time. Always the same thing: "Is Alicia there?"

And whether or not I'm there, whether or not I answer the phone, as soon as the person on the other end hears "Yes, can I ask who's calling for her?" or "No, can I take a message?", it's the same ritual:

Click. Beeeeeeep.

His number always shows up as "Private Line" on our display. And when you dial *69 to trace the call, the automated female voice responds, "I'm sorry, this number cannot be determined through this method."

Things have slowed recently though. It's been awhile since I've heard from him last. It's been 4 months. Maybe 5? Of course, there's been more than the usual amount of distractions: oil prices, hurricanes, wars. It's hard for a stalker to keep his plate balanced these days. Can you imagine the sticky notes he writes to keep himself on track? "Doctor's Appointment at 2:30" and "Don't forget to TiVo CSI: Miami" and finally "Do Not Forget To Obsessively Call and Hang Up On Secretary!!"

I wondered out loud to co-worker C., "I can't figure out if he hates me or if he likes me. It'd be nice to know which one."

C. , well aware of my stalker guy, shuddered. "Ugh. I wish you didn't have to think about it at all."

Me too, I thought.

Everytime I try to push it aside, a quote I read a while ago echoes in the back of my brain:
Keep your friends close, but your enemies even closer.

Monday, October 10

So, I'm showing the apartment model and this person says...

"Would you please go in and flush the toilet?"

"Um, I'm sorry, one more time?"

"Just go in, close the door, flush the toilet and then step back out again."

"Okay."

So I go in, flush, open the door, and step out. The person of whose request I just completed is standing there, mouthing numbers: "10, 11, 12, 13..." He held up a finger to be sure I didn't interrupt.

He stopped at 35 because that's when the toilet stopped filling up.

He nodded, smiling. "Good."

"What?"

"It's a low flow."

Saturday, October 8

Oh look! Yet another vacation photo or two...

Not only did these Chicago fountains look like large towering TV's, they held a little surprise...

How cool is that? My family and I went to Chicago for three days just this past summer. First time for all of us -- great fun!

Crazy Is As Crazy Does

Good grief, I have to share this with you, lest I explode due to the enormous and still swelling disbelief I have of stupid people!

What really gets me is the responses she received from the authors upon their rejections:

World's Worst Book Proposals
by Angela Hoy (of WritersWeekly.com and Booklocker.com)
This week, I'm sharing snippets of some of the worst book proposals we've ever received. I hope you get a giggle from them like we did. Yes, these are real!
~~~~~
"The Complet Guide of How You Can Havethe most Happiest Family on Earth - my book is highly recommede for married couples."
~~~~~
"It is intresting, intriging and has a cute little twist."
~~~~~
"My book is a fresh idea. I have been told its original and there isnt any out there quit like it."
~~~~~
"A practical handbook fir families"
~~~~~
This ebook is of exceptionally high quality and offerrs its readers a complete and unusually practical solution..."
~~~~~
"This book will not be acceptable to 99% of people..."
~~~~~
After all, hard work doesn't necessarily get you anywhere in life. If anything, working hard is stupid, and theft seems a lot more intelligent.
~~~~~
"This is a very offensive book, and the reader should not be warned of this in any way."
~~~~~
And finally, after rejecting their proposals, I received these lovely emails from the authors:
"I'm not a nice guy, because nice people get trampled on, and don't say they don't get trampled on, 'cause they do. (Yes, that's a subtle insult to you.)"
"I think the one who is rude is you. I have tried my best to be diplomatic. I hope God forgive you of your sins......and cure you of the mental demons that are raging inside you!""You are a big over-reamed sloppy prostitute's (bleep) who worships the (bleep) that rapes you."
~~~~~

Me again:
Holy shit.
Makes me think of this quote by Robert Wilensky:
"We've all heard that a million monkeys banging on a million typewriters will eventually reproduce the entire works of Shakespeare. Now, thanks to the Internet, we know this is not true."

Thursday, October 6

Your laboratory or mine?

I received a check in the mail the other day. This doesn't happen very often and I almost jumped up on a nearby chair to do the "I got extra money" dance, not caring a whit as to the source of such monetary loveliness

But, like George and his famous addle-brained, Yellow-Hatted caretaker (Hello? Can we say "restraining harness"? And don't teach the monkey to smoke a pipe! What kind of primatologist are you, anyway?), curiousity soon swelled to proportions that leaked over into my impulse center and I found myself reading the accompanying letter:

Dear Alicia,

I hope this letter finds you well. Harcout Assessment has decided to use your article "The Best Spread On The Bread" as testing material for elementary students. While no byline will be provided, it is a wonderful writing credit to put on your resume, as well as experience the satisfaction of having your work seen by potentially thousands of students each year.

I have enclosed a check for the amount originally paid when the article first ran in our magazine.

Thanks,

J.

Well, hotdiggety dog! I had no idea that testing material could even come from freelance articles. The check itself will barely pay for dinner for the family at any given fast-food restaurant, but that doesn't matter. I now have the satisfaction that tykes all across the country will be sweating it out over the answers to my article about peanut butter in a proficiency test. When were peanuts first discovered? Who held the first patent on peanut butter? Which president shaved with peanut butter while camping? Hard to believe that some kid might be stuck in third grade for a second year beause he couldn't remember the difference between smooth and chunky.

Another day, another writing suprise from the snail mail route: I will have an activity published in the GIANT Encylopedia of Science Activities for Children next year. Oh yes, that' MY EXPERIMENT right there, the one with the empty pop can and an electrically charged comb. You can make the pop can move back and forth without touching by holding the comb near it. What can you say? STATIC ELECTRICITY ROCKS!

And now would be an appropriate place to mention that I totally adore Bill Nye the Science Guy and would love to have dinner with him. No, no need to get upset, folks, my husband is well aware of this "dinner with a wealthy science nerd" fantasy of mine. I have always found white lab coats a little sexy, and if you show me a Bunsen burner firing up a bubbling test tube or two, then I am truly putty in your hands. Dinner with Bill would be awesome, to say the least. Can you imagine the conversation? He would discuss the NASA Mars missions and I would proudly show him my Periodic Table of Desserts. Ah, good times, good times.

P.S. So I don't get sued, here are the photo credits: Bill Nye from the William Morris Agency; Periodic Table from Eblong.com.

Wednesday, October 5

I Wonder When My Pre-Lunch, Post Breakfast Snack Will Be Served

Tuesday, October 4

And thou shalt kneel and genuflect at the altar of Joe Boxer

Another backside sighting worthy of blogging:

Yesterday as I was at my desk looking for more ways to fit chocolate into my life, Boss came zooming round the corner.

"Alicia, time for a road trip." He held out two credit cards.

I jumped up and grabbed my pen and pad because: 1)I love road trips and 2)am memory-challenged so I need to write down where I'm going. Let's just say I have had a few small panic attacks behind the wheel because after I finished belting out the words to "Don't Cha" by the PussyCat Dolls or anything by Nickleback, I realized I didn't know why I was in the car or where I needed to go. Temporary episodes, of course, but intense enough to make you want to pack an extra pair of undies in your purse.

"Just take your cell phone and start driving toward Columbus. You might be going to Computer Store 'A' or maybe even Computer Store 'B', we're not sure yet. Just start driving and we'll catch up with you." Boss waived the credit cards in front me, in case I had somehow missed it the first time.

Rock on! An ambiguous road trip! The BEST! I grabbed his two credit cards and headed out the door with a 'Captain, My Captain' salute. "I will be awaiting your further instruction, sir."

Boss rubbed his face tiredly, not amused. "Just go DRIVE," he said, motioning me away.

I made a mental note not to waste time joking with Boss the next time he hands me two credit cards and says "Quick, drive away." Apparently, this must constitute a SERIOUS MOMENT in the office and be respected as such.

20 minutes later, I park outside Computer Store 'A' and beep the office. "I' m here and I'm packing plastic. What do I do now?"

Co-worker G.s' voice came in: "Go inside and ask for Gabe. Introduce yourself and he will know how to help you."

With the 'Mission Impossible' theme playing in my head, I enter the store and ask for Gabe. The sullen and silent CUSTOMER SERVICE clerk 'John' glances at me as if I just told him his shit stinks and then reluctantly points to a far corner of the warehouse-like room we are in. Ah yes, another loyal servant of the public.

After a few moments of searching, I find Gabe and introduce myself. "Yes, I've been waiting for you," he says, smiling.

I nervously glance around, looking for a guy with patch over his eye and a monkey on his shoulder or possibly one of the taller, happier customer service clerks to suddenly pop up out of an aisle, smiling with mouth full of metal shark teeth.

Nothing of the sort. Gabe says he has put aside the battery back up and cables needed for our server upgrade and if I could just stand here for a moment, won't I please wait while he brings it out and rings it up?

Sure, I said, a little relieved. Gabe disappeared among the aisles for a moment and then re-appeared carrying a full load in his arms. "Follow me and we'll check you out," he said, slightly out of breath.

I tee-hee'd a passing naughty thought on the phrase "check you out" and started to follow Gabe. Then I saw it.

Perhaps Gabe had recently lost weight or maybe bought a pair of pants that were slightly too big. Either way, his pants were definitely not cooperating with him on the back end of things.

They loosely drooped over his behind and if Gabe had been going Greek that day, I would have definitely seen the Moon Over His Miami. This was not the case, however, as Gabe walked toward the register. Today, he was not Greek. Today he was Boxer Man.

They were dark red boxers, washed to fine deep dusty rose color and sprouting yellow and white stars all over. They looked soft and well-worn, and a lot like little boys' pajama bottoms.

I had plenty of time to take in the view, but instead looked down at the ground until I finished my trek to the register. All the while an internal debate raged. Do I tell him? Perhaps a small hint? A little nudge and whisper of "Hey, mate, hike up a bit, would ya?"

In the end (pun intended), I decided against it.

No, this was not a case of upbraiding someone on their professional appearance or a quoting chapter highlights from The Book of Appropriate Uses of a Belt. It was more along the lines of religion, really. A moment of reverence to The Traveling Sanctuary of Comfort And Familiarity, so to speak.

In the end (sorry, can't let go of it!), my heart went out to him and his boxers.

It was obvious: something so loved and worn to almost a threadbare state deserved a little respect and quiet reverence from the attending public. :0)

P.S.
And this is the Holy Boxer Dance, Christmas style:
http://www.joeboxer.com/ads/holiday.html

Saturday, October 1

Taco, Burrito, Something's Coming Out Your Speedo...

S., the computer techie and all around Windows wizard for my workplace, bent over the other day to search for a dropped disk. Being not of slender build, S.'s pants don't always sport that snug fit. As he stooped, a vertical smile bigger than the crack of dawn suddenly graced our office scenery.

My co-worker G. and I, standing on the other side of the front counter with our coffee cups, were mometarily stunned. Then we both turned around, eyes wide and mouths covered, trying hard not to snigger. S. is really a lovely guy even if he is apparently without a good belt or a decent pair of suspenders; and we, after all, would be quite the jackasses if we offended THE one man whose voodoo fixes our computers.

S., unaware of the sudden abundance of his skin showing on his backside and apparently not sensitive to the cool office air blowing across it, rooted around in the dark areas under the desk in a leisurely manner. My other co-worker, C., a 50-something medical professional, came round the corner and beheld the shining pale glory before all of us with first a startled, then bemused, look.

She slowly turned back around, and cast a glance our way as she walked out of the room. She was singing, barely audible.

G. and I leaned forward, straining to hear her as she passed:

"Taco, burrito, what's that coming out your Speedo? Problems, you've got problems!"

G., biting her lip in an effort to cover her laugh, starting humming. Which was fine, except she began humming the tune "Blue Moon" and then succumbed to the urge to walk quickly out of the room, too.

S. was oblivous to it all. He straightened up from his impromptu expose to find just me, all alone on the other side of the counter, red-faced with coffee dribbling down the nose and chin.

He looked at me, curious.

I smiled apologetically as I blotted my face and shirt with a Kleenex.

"I guess you need to switch to decaf in that cup of yours,"he remarked.

No, S., I thought to myself, Not decaf.

More like Bailey's.

Wired Writer