Paying the Piper (Through the Nose)

"If my love for you were nickels and dimes," a guy I dated in college once told me, "you would be able to buy a mound of cocaine the size of Greenland."

To this day, it's possibly the best thing a guy has ever said to me, and its impact is in no way lessened by the fact that a month or two later he dumped me for another girl in our co-op. Still living with an ex is fairly unpleasant. Living with an ex and his new squeeze is highly contraindicated.

Geographically speaking, Greenland is really not all that big.

Last week, coming out of a two-and-a-half hour staff meeting, I realized that I absolutely love my new job. Obviously I've been aware that it was better than the one I came from, which still blows the socks off Corpus marketing hell, I'll tell you what. But it wasn't until this staff meeting, which ran over its allotted time solely because all of us were having so much fun talking and laughing and working, too, genuinely exchanging ideas and being productive - that I came to realize I'm simply in love. How did I get so lucky?

The number of times, by the way, that the subject of how to request time off, and the fact that everyone persists in doing it exactly wrong, has come up in staff meetings during the five months that I've been there, is zero. Nor is there guilt, blame, or finger-pointing; and I don't think the panicmonger (God rest her, um, work ethic) ever held a single meeting that didn't loose every single one of those particular workplace demons.

Not that I'm merely basking in an absence of negativity, because I actually quite like and respect my bosses, the feeling appears to be mutual, and my coworkers are hardworking and competent, every single one of them. And most of the work is interesting and downright fun! It cuts down on blog fodder a bit, which is a pity. But I can hardly complain.

So the unpleasant task, the fly in this ointment, is Tropical Storm Dolly, gaining intensity as she spins west-northwestward across the Gulf of Mexico. She's only projected to be a Category 1 hurricane, possibly Cat 2. But she's only the first of who knows how many there will be this year; and the problem with landing this plum of a job just now is that over the next few years, I expect hurricane season will expand until it encompasses approximately February - December, and soon I will be doing nothing except answering the phone to the stranded, angry and frightened traveling public. And do you think they're going to be interested in where the wildflowers are? I'm betting they won't give a rat's ass.

I suppose if things get bad enough I can always move to Greenland.

Not Enough Rats' Asses in Detroit

Well, actually, there probably are.

When I first started working at Crazyland Corpus, I helped a consultant who was working on an assessment for the City of Detroit. They were in the market for a new website design, looking for advice on how better to attract site visitors and convert them, poor saps, into real visitors.

The existing website had links on the home page for residents and business owners in addition to their promotional material. One of the questions in the residents' FAQ, just one step down in the navigation, was "Who do I call to complain about a rat infestation?"

We advised them that this was not Best Practices.*

"Best Practices" was a phrase that got tossed around a lot by our sales staff, i.e. everyone except for the seven or eight peons who actually designed, programmed, or otherwise did stuff. "Industry Best Practices dictate that you should..." we'd begin, then either go on to recommend whatever it was we'd been told to sell that day, or dissuade a client from something that we didn't know how to implement. Once, after I'd worked there a year or so, one of the account managers actually found a definitive list of our Best Practices filed away in a subfolder of a subfolder on one of the network drives. We read them with glee, and forwarded them out to the senior sales consultants we worked under, who had been completely unaware that such a document existed.

What's funny about all this is that I hated that job so much, by the time I left, that I spent much of every day in tears; but I couldn't stop giving rats' asses, handing the damn things out like they were going out of style. I cared that I was on the crazy president's** shit list. I cared that the senior consultant*** I worked with didn't think I could schmooze clients****. I cared that I was giving the web designers***** more work than they could handle. I couldn't quit caring. I couldn't sleep nights.

Work is much less stressful when you don't give a rat's ass, though this is not the solution I'd recommend. (Best Practices dictate you find a job that you can care about, but which won't drive you completely up the wall.)

My guest speaker for the November safety meeting on Monday, a local "personality," verbally confirmed on two separate occasions about a month ago, but has not responded to emails or returned phone calls since. We've already notified attendees to expect him. My boss is panicking.

But I can't find that I really care. I checked out a safety video on the same topic he's supposed to cover, in case he doesn't show up, and notified the panicmonger that we have something to fall back on if the speaker doesn't come. Speakers have no-showed before, and this is just an internal presentation for a handful of construction site workers, to satisfy occupational safety requirements. It's not that big a deal.

"It will be a big disaster if he doesn't show," she wrote back, cc'ing my coworker, who knows the "personality," and who had approached him about speaking at our meeting. "Everyone is expecting him. Everyone is enthusiastic about him. The division head is coming to this meeting. Haven't you heard back from him yet???"

No. It's not a paid engagement; he agreed to do it as a favor. He doesn't owe us this. We've both called; we've both emailed. I guess he's busy. What does she expect us to do, squat down and produce the guy?

I read her email and shrugged. I just don't give a rat's ass. I appear to have run out, and I'm not planning to travel to Detroit to stock up anytime soon. It's not Best Practices.

------------------------
*It's "Whom"
**Fired
***Fired
****Mostly quit
*****All quit

A Fashion Citizen's Arrest

I love thrift-store shopping. Depending on the store, of course, you can find some unique and beautiful pieces that help express your personal style. It takes a little more digging than just going to a department store; but on the other hand, you're much less likely to end up in a public place with someone else wearing the exact same outfit: fashion death!

Plus, it's cheap.

My in-laws gave me a TJ Maxx gift certificate for my birthday, though, so I went shopping there today. It's a bit more of a challenge. Not that I'm averse to a bit of a challenge! There's kind of a hodgepodge of items to pick through, like a thrift store, but everything costs a little more than it should, and many of the items are heartbreakingly ugly. I did find three very nice new tops. But the trip also made it clear that it's incumbent on me, as a public service, to post a quick list of all-time fashion don'ts. I don't give a rat's ass if these things are in style and all your friends are wearing them: DON'T!

Shoulder pads. Just when you were heaving a sigh of relief, deciding the 80s were just a horrible, cocaine-fueled nightmare, you come across something with shoulder pads at what is supposed to be a respectable clothing store. Do you really want to look like a football player? It's okay to buy these shirts, though: this is why God, in Her infinite wisdom, gave us scissors and garbage cans.

Stripes. Stripes should be worn in black and white ONLY, do you hear me? And no, navy is not an acceptable alternative. We all know you're not a sailor, no matter how many - never mind.

Animal prints. Be they zebra, leopard, giraffe, crocodile, or any other animal pattern; be they on shoes, bags, or garments, animal prints are tacky, tacky, tacky. Why not put on rhinestone-studded glasses and a quarter-inch-thick layer of lipstick while you're at it?

Excessive ornamentation. This includes fringe, non-functional buttons, seashells, rhinestones (shudder), and aggressive beading. Delicate beading is okay.

Neon colors. Acceptable on swimwear, nowhere else.

Pant or skirt sets which use the same print on the top as on the bottom. Ugh! Solids are okay, though you really ought to mix it up a little. But wearing the exact same print on your blouse as your capris makes the baby Jesus cry.

Long, pointy-toed shoes. I can't understand why any woman would want to look, not just like a witch, but like a witch with big feet. Granted that, in a pinch, you can stab an attacker with the toe. But why would you need to? That's what the stiletto heel is for.

Shapeless garments, or, alternately, garments with a shape that contrasts with your own. You have a waist. Use it. And don't wear clothes that argue with you, because you'll lose.

Short empire-waist tops. Personally, I love empire-waist tops! But be sure they're long enough, otherwise your hips will look like a refrigerator carton.

Boring clothes. One word: why?

And lest you think I'm just trying to impose my own taste on the fashion world as a whole, here's a quick list of things I wouldn't be caught dead in that you are nonetheless allowed to wear.

Mod or retro prints. Not my thing, but go for it if you like it.

High-necked garments. Don't think it doesn't cause me a few pangs to allow these. You shouldn't be afraid of a little cleavage. I myself am not afraid of rather a lot of it; but if you must, you may.

Slacks. I look awful in them. Maybe you don't.

Collars. I hate them, but I couldn't tell you why. It's entirely irrational; so you may wear all the collars (and lapels, for that matter - even notched!) that you want.

Sensible shoes. Just don't wear white ones from Labor Day to Memorial Day, okay? Not even in Texas. That's all I ask.

I hope this has been enlightening. Happy Fashion! I'm off to play dress-up.