Yesterday did not start auspiciously. Unless auspicious means that it began with the jangling crash of heck(1) and went down hill from there.
It began in fact, by waking up 35 minutes before my alarm was due to go off, needing to visit the loo. I don't know about you, but at this point, an internal war begins. One side insists that I should simply get up, have a nice shower, drink a leisurely cup off coffee, and start my day off as a civilized person. The other side is equally sensible, but slightly more manipulative, insisting that it is cold in the house, and my flannel duvet cover is warm, and really, I am very tired.
Back to bed always wins, I find myself crawling back into warmth, dislodging cats who have taken over, and trying to fit my legs into the impossibly small space left me. I look at the time on my alarm clock and it is already too late, and I will myself back to sleep. When my alarm goes off, too soon! I insist that I am tired still, and I hit snooze more than I should.
When I finally dragged myself out of bed, Mr. Spit greeted me (back in the loo) with an empty coffee bean jar in his hands. There were, oh, as many as 30 coffee beans in the bottom of the jar, and that was not going to do it. I began my drive into work, satiated by a cup of mostly decaf coffee, with egg nog, the cream having met a similar destiny to the coffee beans.
The drive was chaotic and traffic-filled, and the news on the radio was all bad news, and I arrived to my office 10 minutes late, having been waylaid by construction, and a stalled, abandoned car in the middle of the busiest downtown street.
I was required to navigate the vicissitudes of office politics, with a focus on naming and blaming, and a minor in ridiculous and unreasonable expectations, all before 9:15 am, and with no coffee. Before 9:30 a colleague was earnestly requesting that I silently assassinate another department at my company, indeed a skill I have not been keeping hidden in my back pocket.
It was 9:45, and I was quite ready to consign this day to the rubbish heap, pleading with Phil, the denzien of heck, and also the prince of insufficient light, to make this day end.
But, a miracle did occur.
At 10:35 or so this morning, I was offered a new job. Well, a new title, reporting into a new division, with new responsibilities, for a one year secondment. No extra money, but henceforth, you may refer to me as Mrs. Spit, Business Analyst. (I'm actually quite firm on this, and have been making Mr. Spit call me this all night.)
Finally, I came home today, to a package (and if I have loved anything about blogging, it is the sending and receiving of packages). This one was full of love from Jen and Jamie. Filled with hot chocolate and gourmet marshmallows (who knew there was such a thing) and bubble bath. The spaces filled with love and care and concern, kindness and mercy and grace.
Even a happy life cannot be without a measure of darkness, and the word happy would lose its meaning if it were not balanced by sadness. It is far better take things as they come along with patience and equanimity.
Carl Jung
(still working on that equanimity thing)
********
(1) I actually do believe in hell. I didn't start my morning there. Not even close.
Showing posts with label Evil Corporations. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Evil Corporations. Show all posts
Go to Nait and be a Plumber.
Anyway, the story starts with a grumpy faculty chair and ends with a furnace dying on Easter.
As I talked about a while back, I stumbled my way through University, from start to finish. Maybe by 3rd year I had made some friends, and I knew and was known by my prof's. I had certainly established that 8 am classes were of the devil, and that existentialist philosophers had way too much time on their hands, but that was the sum total of my knowledge at the ripe old age of 21.
I wrote what must have been a thrilling essay for a poli sci class (John Stuart Mill and female circumcision) and the prof teaching the class recommended that I enter the honours program. As we have already established, I am not so much a process person as a project person. The end of the matter is better than it's beginning(1).
And I went to go and see the chair of the program, and at the end of it, I tentatively asked what one might do with a degree in poli sci, even you know, with an honours stamp on your degree.
Now, perhaps it is important that I tell you, Dr. L is now retired, but he was somewhat famous for 3 things:
1. An esoteric specialty, that should have guaranteed him lots of media time, but because of reasons 2 and 3 didn't.
2. His astonishingly bad dress sense
3. His tirades about the strangest things.
I hadn't ever taken a class from Dr. L, but his reputation, as they say, preceded him. Which leaves us back where we started, in a tiny office on the 11th floor of the Tory Building, looking out over the river valley, with me in an upright chair, and Dr. L about to blast me.
"If you want a job, go to NAIT and be a plumber"
I graduated, years after I started, with a degree in Poli Sci. Effectively a double major with economics (excepting the problems with econometrics).
And I did the only thing I could do. I got a job as a receptionist. 4 years later I was an Executive Assistant, and then a Policy Analyst.
Which takes me to the Easter weekend of 2005, in which our furnace died. Now, Mr. Spit and I are pretty well educated folk. And the furnace wasn't working. We looked at it. We phoned my uncle the plumber. We poked at it some more. Still not working. 2000 books in our house, and the furnace wasn't working. Either of us could converse earnestly and with great knowledge on the properties of structural steel or price elasticity of demand, but the only use the darn books were going to be was if we burned them to stay warm.
I was talking to someone else last week, and she remarked that after she bought her house, she looked around at her friends, friends that were doctors, lawyers, accountants, and thought that none of them were of any use.
Perhaps, perhaps just Dr. L had something.
(Yesterday was not the most spectacular day at the office, I'm just saying)
As I talked about a while back, I stumbled my way through University, from start to finish. Maybe by 3rd year I had made some friends, and I knew and was known by my prof's. I had certainly established that 8 am classes were of the devil, and that existentialist philosophers had way too much time on their hands, but that was the sum total of my knowledge at the ripe old age of 21.
I wrote what must have been a thrilling essay for a poli sci class (John Stuart Mill and female circumcision) and the prof teaching the class recommended that I enter the honours program. As we have already established, I am not so much a process person as a project person. The end of the matter is better than it's beginning(1).
And I went to go and see the chair of the program, and at the end of it, I tentatively asked what one might do with a degree in poli sci, even you know, with an honours stamp on your degree.
Now, perhaps it is important that I tell you, Dr. L is now retired, but he was somewhat famous for 3 things:
1. An esoteric specialty, that should have guaranteed him lots of media time, but because of reasons 2 and 3 didn't.
2. His astonishingly bad dress sense
3. His tirades about the strangest things.
I hadn't ever taken a class from Dr. L, but his reputation, as they say, preceded him. Which leaves us back where we started, in a tiny office on the 11th floor of the Tory Building, looking out over the river valley, with me in an upright chair, and Dr. L about to blast me.
"If you want a job, go to NAIT and be a plumber"
I graduated, years after I started, with a degree in Poli Sci. Effectively a double major with economics (excepting the problems with econometrics).
And I did the only thing I could do. I got a job as a receptionist. 4 years later I was an Executive Assistant, and then a Policy Analyst.
Which takes me to the Easter weekend of 2005, in which our furnace died. Now, Mr. Spit and I are pretty well educated folk. And the furnace wasn't working. We looked at it. We phoned my uncle the plumber. We poked at it some more. Still not working. 2000 books in our house, and the furnace wasn't working. Either of us could converse earnestly and with great knowledge on the properties of structural steel or price elasticity of demand, but the only use the darn books were going to be was if we burned them to stay warm.
I was talking to someone else last week, and she remarked that after she bought her house, she looked around at her friends, friends that were doctors, lawyers, accountants, and thought that none of them were of any use.
Perhaps, perhaps just Dr. L had something.
(Yesterday was not the most spectacular day at the office, I'm just saying)
Working Life
I got to do kind of a cool thing today. I had to go to the passport office today, to get my passport re-issued, and I got to talking to the passport officer.
Now, I was looking around the office, while I was waiting in line, and I must confess, I was kind of wondering what your sins must be to have to work in the passport office. It's an honest job, but, oh my!
Anyway, I was talking to the passport officer, and she asked how I got into my particular line of work, and if I liked my job. I laughed and told her that I got into policy because when I Convocated from University about the only thing I was qualified to do was to become a tin pot dictator, and there weren't any third world countries that needed dictating. (No longer a growth industry, what with the spread of democracy. Also, all the openings were very far away from Town Shoes.)
So, I did what every other arts major does, I got a job as a receptionist, to help pay the rent. And then I got a job as an Admin Assistant, and then I was an EA, then I was still an EA, but someone else was setting up the appointments and doing the expenses, and I was writing policy, and then I got my present job.
And I looked up, and I realized, that time, all those jobs, that was about 6 years. It wasn't quick.
And I smiled, and I told her that it did happen. To most of the people I know. Most of us didn't finish school and walk into our career; we stumbled around and paid our dues with profoundly crappy jobs, and then, slowly we got there.
There isn't here yet, in some sense. I'd like to move up, to move on, I'm still ambitious. I'm only starting to get a very small sense of what I'd like to be when I grow up.
But still. Crappy jobs. Bad is not forever. Stuff I sure wish someone had told me 6 years ago.
Tell me, oh wise internets, what was your first job out of school, and what did you learn from it?
Now, I was looking around the office, while I was waiting in line, and I must confess, I was kind of wondering what your sins must be to have to work in the passport office. It's an honest job, but, oh my!
Anyway, I was talking to the passport officer, and she asked how I got into my particular line of work, and if I liked my job. I laughed and told her that I got into policy because when I Convocated from University about the only thing I was qualified to do was to become a tin pot dictator, and there weren't any third world countries that needed dictating. (No longer a growth industry, what with the spread of democracy. Also, all the openings were very far away from Town Shoes.)
So, I did what every other arts major does, I got a job as a receptionist, to help pay the rent. And then I got a job as an Admin Assistant, and then I was an EA, then I was still an EA, but someone else was setting up the appointments and doing the expenses, and I was writing policy, and then I got my present job.
And I looked up, and I realized, that time, all those jobs, that was about 6 years. It wasn't quick.
And I smiled, and I told her that it did happen. To most of the people I know. Most of us didn't finish school and walk into our career; we stumbled around and paid our dues with profoundly crappy jobs, and then, slowly we got there.
There isn't here yet, in some sense. I'd like to move up, to move on, I'm still ambitious. I'm only starting to get a very small sense of what I'd like to be when I grow up.
But still. Crappy jobs. Bad is not forever. Stuff I sure wish someone had told me 6 years ago.
Tell me, oh wise internets, what was your first job out of school, and what did you learn from it?
Icons
Eaton's was the department store of my childhood. We didn't go to the Bay, or even Sears, we shopped at Eaton's. Where winter coats and boots were purchased, where church clothes, and hats for Easter came from. Eaton's had the china department that gave me my life long love of pretty things - the china department you would walk through with your mother, in the china department position.
You would be stopped outside of the china department, just at it's beach front, women's wear behind and the racks of crystal in front. You would be stopped, and warned. A raise of the eyebrow, a certain look, and you would assume the Eaton's china department position. It was not until much later in life that I realized the china department position was never so singular as I imagined, rather almost every child knew it. You crossed your arms in front of you, holding on to your hands, and you.did.not.touch.anything.
I was 20 when I went to Eaton's for the last time, in their final sale close out. I went to the flagship store, and I remember I bought a blue cardigan, a leather day planner, and nothing from the China Department. Do not misunderstand, I wanted to. I wanted something from there, something I could keep, something stunning: I could smile and run my hand across, something to polish, that I could say "Yes, that came from Eaton's. I miss Eaton's." In that picked over world, there was nothing left to have.
I was sorrowful that a once great place of my childhood, a great lady of Canada, was reduced to such circumstances. Eaton's, occupying a small corner, smelling of desperation and sorrow and lament. It was tawdry, brightly-lit, with goods and fittings and refuse bundled on tables. I was looking at a strangers' bits and bobs, looking them over, commenting and speculating, forced to purchase. I felt wretched, and small and repellent, and it is a feeling that I have never quite shaken in memory. It broke my heart that Eaton's closed the way I did, and I have never been proud that I was among the many that picked over her last few effects.
And all of that discussion is a long ending, to discuss a beginning. The Hudson's Bay Company was sold to a private American investment group a few years ago. The living icon of Canadian history now rests across the border, leaving us an American CEO, and commercials narrated by Bonnie Brooks, who is almost sort of Canadian (if you squint). All of this is annoying and offensive, but perhaps not the worst. At least I could say, we still have the HBC. There is still a Bay.
HBC has the contract to outfit the Canadian athletes at the Olympics in 2010. And in the Canadian way, there has been much angst and wangling about clothing, and the Cowichan people were approached to make Cowichan sweaters for the athletes. And I'm not sure what happened but I know and can tell you this:
What the Bay is selling is not a Cowichan sweater. It is an overly expensive, machine knit piece of dreg, misinterpreting traditional patterns, and trampling all over cultural tradition. It has taken the traditional livelihood from a group of people, and insisted on the almighty name of fashion. As a knitter, as a Canadian, I'm ashamed.
I told you that I never wanted to see a Canadian icon die the way Eaton's did. I was wrong. If private American investors want a piece of Canadian cultural identity, they can have it. They can have it all the way south of the 49th parallel. I don't want it here any more.
You would be stopped outside of the china department, just at it's beach front, women's wear behind and the racks of crystal in front. You would be stopped, and warned. A raise of the eyebrow, a certain look, and you would assume the Eaton's china department position. It was not until much later in life that I realized the china department position was never so singular as I imagined, rather almost every child knew it. You crossed your arms in front of you, holding on to your hands, and you.did.not.touch.anything.
I was 20 when I went to Eaton's for the last time, in their final sale close out. I went to the flagship store, and I remember I bought a blue cardigan, a leather day planner, and nothing from the China Department. Do not misunderstand, I wanted to. I wanted something from there, something I could keep, something stunning: I could smile and run my hand across, something to polish, that I could say "Yes, that came from Eaton's. I miss Eaton's." In that picked over world, there was nothing left to have.
I was sorrowful that a once great place of my childhood, a great lady of Canada, was reduced to such circumstances. Eaton's, occupying a small corner, smelling of desperation and sorrow and lament. It was tawdry, brightly-lit, with goods and fittings and refuse bundled on tables. I was looking at a strangers' bits and bobs, looking them over, commenting and speculating, forced to purchase. I felt wretched, and small and repellent, and it is a feeling that I have never quite shaken in memory. It broke my heart that Eaton's closed the way I did, and I have never been proud that I was among the many that picked over her last few effects.
And all of that discussion is a long ending, to discuss a beginning. The Hudson's Bay Company was sold to a private American investment group a few years ago. The living icon of Canadian history now rests across the border, leaving us an American CEO, and commercials narrated by Bonnie Brooks, who is almost sort of Canadian (if you squint). All of this is annoying and offensive, but perhaps not the worst. At least I could say, we still have the HBC. There is still a Bay.
HBC has the contract to outfit the Canadian athletes at the Olympics in 2010. And in the Canadian way, there has been much angst and wangling about clothing, and the Cowichan people were approached to make Cowichan sweaters for the athletes. And I'm not sure what happened but I know and can tell you this:
What the Bay is selling is not a Cowichan sweater. It is an overly expensive, machine knit piece of dreg, misinterpreting traditional patterns, and trampling all over cultural tradition. It has taken the traditional livelihood from a group of people, and insisted on the almighty name of fashion. As a knitter, as a Canadian, I'm ashamed.
I told you that I never wanted to see a Canadian icon die the way Eaton's did. I was wrong. If private American investors want a piece of Canadian cultural identity, they can have it. They can have it all the way south of the 49th parallel. I don't want it here any more.
The Power of the Keyboard
I wrote a blog entry a few days ago, about rotten customer service experiences, and a few days after I published it, a lovely representative from Home Depot Customer Service emailed me, asking for more information about the store I was at, and what happened. She apologized profusely, and we emailed back and forth a few times, so I could provide her details.
Finally, a store manager called me, from the store. Actually, she called me yesterday, and I didn't have a chance to call her back, so she called again today.
And the store manager and I spoke. And I'm go to call the store before I go next time (when I go and buy the tile and the vanity for the bathroom reno) so that she can arrange to be there, she'd like to apologize in person.
And I have to say, after I complained about their service, this knocked my socks off. More than knocking my socks off, this earned more of my business. (And it's not like we don't do any reno's here at Chez Spit.)
And the entire point of this post is to say say Home Depot may have sucked, but they have done a really great job redeeming themselves! In fact, this rocked.
The tag below says evil corporations, but I'm pretty impressed with this one!
****
FWIW, I have not heard a word from Michaels, who apparently doesn't care that they lost out on $150 worth of my custom. I think we should start an anti-Michaels revolution!
Finally, a store manager called me, from the store. Actually, she called me yesterday, and I didn't have a chance to call her back, so she called again today.
And the store manager and I spoke. And I'm go to call the store before I go next time (when I go and buy the tile and the vanity for the bathroom reno) so that she can arrange to be there, she'd like to apologize in person.
And I have to say, after I complained about their service, this knocked my socks off. More than knocking my socks off, this earned more of my business. (And it's not like we don't do any reno's here at Chez Spit.)
And the entire point of this post is to say say Home Depot may have sucked, but they have done a really great job redeeming themselves! In fact, this rocked.
The tag below says evil corporations, but I'm pretty impressed with this one!
****
FWIW, I have not heard a word from Michaels, who apparently doesn't care that they lost out on $150 worth of my custom. I think we should start an anti-Michaels revolution!
Frankly,
I'm going to spend 5 minutes whinging about things. Oh, nothing serious. Just stuff that has made me grumpy this weekend.
On Thursday night, we went to Home Depot (which I hate). They had low flow toilets on sale. (As an aside, you know that you are really, truly an adult when you get excited because a low flow, dual flush toilet is on sale). Anyway. We get to Home Depot, we find the toilet, we go to buy the toilet, and there are no cash registers open. Only those stupid self serve checkouts. (And I'd like to point out, the American chains have the stupid self serve checkouts. The Canadian ones don't, just sayin') Now, maybe you've noticed, but to use the ever loving self checkouts, you actually have to be able to lift and scan the item.
I had a toilet. In 2 pieces. (And why do you buy toilets in 2 pieces. It's not like there's an option of having the bowl or not). And these 2 pieces are heavy. Finally get everything checked out, and realize they've billed me the wrong price. So I go and see the girl who is supposed to be the self service checkout help, and she can't do anything to help me.
So I go to the returns desk. Who inform me that the sale starts on Saturday, and can't I read their advertisements.
Dear Home Depot:
Why yes. I can read. Also, I can type. I can type an email to your store manager, pointing out how incredibly rude your staff are, and reminding said store manager that there are 5 Home Depot's in town, and I will be shopping at any of the other 4 from now on.
****
I go to Michaels on Saturday, because they have a 25% off sale, and I would like some nice fall decorations. I get garland and some pumpkins and a sign and some silk flowers and a basket, and some leaves, and some scrap booking stuff, oh, probably a hundred dollars worth, and I get to the till and I can't find my 25% off coupon. I'm holding up the line, digging it out, and I can't find it. I had a 50% off one item coupon, but I gave it to a little boy, who wanted the skull, so he could play Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull, but he only had $10, and the skull was $15, and so I decided to help him out. Anyway, I couldn't find my stupid 25% off coupon. And your store policy says that you don't keep them at the till.
Dear Michaels:
It would cost you $1 to print out the 25% off coupons to keep one at each till, for when customers realize they forgot them. Your policy of not keeping them cost you $100, plus the time for your staff to return the items in my cart.
Penny wise and pound foolish, not just an aphorism for your grandmother any more!
You listened to me, so I'll happily listen to you in the comments.
On Thursday night, we went to Home Depot (which I hate). They had low flow toilets on sale. (As an aside, you know that you are really, truly an adult when you get excited because a low flow, dual flush toilet is on sale). Anyway. We get to Home Depot, we find the toilet, we go to buy the toilet, and there are no cash registers open. Only those stupid self serve checkouts. (And I'd like to point out, the American chains have the stupid self serve checkouts. The Canadian ones don't, just sayin') Now, maybe you've noticed, but to use the ever loving self checkouts, you actually have to be able to lift and scan the item.
I had a toilet. In 2 pieces. (And why do you buy toilets in 2 pieces. It's not like there's an option of having the bowl or not). And these 2 pieces are heavy. Finally get everything checked out, and realize they've billed me the wrong price. So I go and see the girl who is supposed to be the self service checkout help, and she can't do anything to help me.
So I go to the returns desk. Who inform me that the sale starts on Saturday, and can't I read their advertisements.
Dear Home Depot:
Why yes. I can read. Also, I can type. I can type an email to your store manager, pointing out how incredibly rude your staff are, and reminding said store manager that there are 5 Home Depot's in town, and I will be shopping at any of the other 4 from now on.
****
I go to Michaels on Saturday, because they have a 25% off sale, and I would like some nice fall decorations. I get garland and some pumpkins and a sign and some silk flowers and a basket, and some leaves, and some scrap booking stuff, oh, probably a hundred dollars worth, and I get to the till and I can't find my 25% off coupon. I'm holding up the line, digging it out, and I can't find it. I had a 50% off one item coupon, but I gave it to a little boy, who wanted the skull, so he could play Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull, but he only had $10, and the skull was $15, and so I decided to help him out. Anyway, I couldn't find my stupid 25% off coupon. And your store policy says that you don't keep them at the till.
Dear Michaels:
It would cost you $1 to print out the 25% off coupons to keep one at each till, for when customers realize they forgot them. Your policy of not keeping them cost you $100, plus the time for your staff to return the items in my cart.
Penny wise and pound foolish, not just an aphorism for your grandmother any more!
You listened to me, so I'll happily listen to you in the comments.
In Which I Mention Liquidity Hardly at All.
I am tearing myself away from my draft policy on liquidity, to write this blog. The draft policy is a test assignment from the job interview I had last week, and is due tomorrow, and possibly I should have started it before now. If you would like to scold, go ahead, but frankly, I`m way ahead of you, and I wish I started earlier too.
If there is any saving grace in this, it is that I write policy for a living, and I understand liquidity and the compliance requirements, so I should be able to explain them in 3 pages. Having said that, I`m still freaked.
I am extremely focused on being very clear about liquidity. I contemplated writing about it here, just so you could all understand it, thinking you might be laying awake at night, wishing you only knew what liquidity was, but I decided it really wasn`t that interesting, and you didn`t want to hear about it. I`m not going to talk about it at all.
Back to the reno`s.
This is a mail box, on a post. Except for the really big problem with the letters, I believe we can call the mailbox issue solved. Also, I can`t show you the rest of the porch, because I have only painted the one railing, so you could see the effect. Yes, that`s right, I was painting a railing, in weather that was threatening rain, while not writing about liquidity, so I could show you the entire effect. Also, because like all painting situations, I knew I would start putting the paint on, and I would panic and hate it, and think I had the biggest mistake of the entire universe, bigger even than a bank who screws up their liquidity ratio`s, and suffers a company specific event, and thus suffers a liquidity failure, also known as a funding deficit.
Tell me you like the paint.
Anyway. Micheal`s is apparently doing inventory for the month of August, which means that they aren`t re-stocking anything.
So, Micheal`s doesn`t have any letter ``L` or any number 1`s left, which is going to make it really hard to paint them white and put them on my mail box (spelling `MAIL`), or on the plaque which will have my house number on it. It`s rather like it would be if senior management had not established a market access strategy and did not delineate between first and second priority assets to release in the case of a company-specific liquidity crises, as part of their OFSI mandated contingency plan.
(and because I will almost certainly forget to ask, yes Martha, I do need you to check your Michaels, please!)
Ah, freshly painted blue door, with charming letter slot (not functional) picked out in silver paint. Also, nice, drooly mastiff, looking about as fierce as OFSI would were they to discover that you did not have templates of your liquidity reports for them to view, as part of your liquidity and funding plan.
And finally, jack hammered concrete, which Mr. Spit is calling `the cobblestone effect`, that is treacherous to walk on, only an initial step in bigger project to get pavers put in and reflects a need for significantly more work, much like an organization that has only completed one liquidity stress test, and not used the most conservative of assumptions.
Also, dear J. came by tonight, looked at our back door, refrained from laughing at the Joe Job of the previous owner and told us that not only did everything have to come out, we needed to buy a new door, and we also needed to come up with a way of shoring up the sagging flooring. All of this in a bid to finish mudding and taping some dry wall, and fixing up the flooring in the back entrance to our house. It is perhaps worth noting that we started the entire front porch project because the floor was sagging, and we didn`t like the outdoor carpet.
(and you were asking how these things got started).
Well, that`s it for me tonight, and look, I didn`t talk about liquidity at all!
Also, I don`t know why my apostrophe`s are all wrong. I can`t figure it out, and since it relates to neither home reno`s or liquidity, I`m not going to worry about it.
If there is any saving grace in this, it is that I write policy for a living, and I understand liquidity and the compliance requirements, so I should be able to explain them in 3 pages. Having said that, I`m still freaked.
I am extremely focused on being very clear about liquidity. I contemplated writing about it here, just so you could all understand it, thinking you might be laying awake at night, wishing you only knew what liquidity was, but I decided it really wasn`t that interesting, and you didn`t want to hear about it. I`m not going to talk about it at all.
Back to the reno`s.
This is a mail box, on a post. Except for the really big problem with the letters, I believe we can call the mailbox issue solved. Also, I can`t show you the rest of the porch, because I have only painted the one railing, so you could see the effect. Yes, that`s right, I was painting a railing, in weather that was threatening rain, while not writing about liquidity, so I could show you the entire effect. Also, because like all painting situations, I knew I would start putting the paint on, and I would panic and hate it, and think I had the biggest mistake of the entire universe, bigger even than a bank who screws up their liquidity ratio`s, and suffers a company specific event, and thus suffers a liquidity failure, also known as a funding deficit.
Tell me you like the paint.
Anyway. Micheal`s is apparently doing inventory for the month of August, which means that they aren`t re-stocking anything.
So, Micheal`s doesn`t have any letter ``L` or any number 1`s left, which is going to make it really hard to paint them white and put them on my mail box (spelling `MAIL`), or on the plaque which will have my house number on it. It`s rather like it would be if senior management had not established a market access strategy and did not delineate between first and second priority assets to release in the case of a company-specific liquidity crises, as part of their OFSI mandated contingency plan.
(and because I will almost certainly forget to ask, yes Martha, I do need you to check your Michaels, please!)
Ah, freshly painted blue door, with charming letter slot (not functional) picked out in silver paint. Also, nice, drooly mastiff, looking about as fierce as OFSI would were they to discover that you did not have templates of your liquidity reports for them to view, as part of your liquidity and funding plan.
And finally, jack hammered concrete, which Mr. Spit is calling `the cobblestone effect`, that is treacherous to walk on, only an initial step in bigger project to get pavers put in and reflects a need for significantly more work, much like an organization that has only completed one liquidity stress test, and not used the most conservative of assumptions.Also, dear J. came by tonight, looked at our back door, refrained from laughing at the Joe Job of the previous owner and told us that not only did everything have to come out, we needed to buy a new door, and we also needed to come up with a way of shoring up the sagging flooring. All of this in a bid to finish mudding and taping some dry wall, and fixing up the flooring in the back entrance to our house. It is perhaps worth noting that we started the entire front porch project because the floor was sagging, and we didn`t like the outdoor carpet.
(and you were asking how these things got started).
Well, that`s it for me tonight, and look, I didn`t talk about liquidity at all!
Also, I don`t know why my apostrophe`s are all wrong. I can`t figure it out, and since it relates to neither home reno`s or liquidity, I`m not going to worry about it.
Disheartened
I had my regular meeting with my manager today. And while we had a very rocky start, since my old manager went on stress leave, and I have been reporting to the new one, things have been better. Much better. We still don't see eye to eye, but we aren't hating on each other, either.
Among other things, I have been getting feedback about my job performance for the first time in 2 years. Real, actual, feedback. Things done well, and things to improve on. Which is great. Honestly there was nothing surprising, I tend to dominate the discussion in meetings, I'm sometimes impatient with people who are slow to catch on, and the like. It's absolutely true. She's also said some nice things about me too.
I got some feedback, via her, from another business unit, for the huge project I have been working on. Some of it was true, and I know I need to work on those issues, some of it wasn't worth the proverbial paper it wasn't written on, and 1 piece was just odd. (Apparently I have negative body language? Huh?)
But that's not the issue. This is the project I knew very little about, spent a pretty fair bit of my own time bringing myself up to speed, so that I could hit the ground running. This truly was a case of "a lack of planning on your part is now going to equal a very huge, very stinking crises on mine).
So, of the 5 pieces of feedback this business unit provided about me, 2 were valuable, 1 was a situation that I would handle differently now that I know my boss better, and 2 related to stuff I wasn't going to win at, any way it happened.
But of the 5 bits, some worth hearing and some not, there wasn't a single good thing. They had nothing good to say about me. Not at all.
And I won't lie.
That was a kick in the teeth.
Excuse me, while I slink off to a job interview tomorrow, with lots and lots of answers to what my weaknesses are.
Among other things, I have been getting feedback about my job performance for the first time in 2 years. Real, actual, feedback. Things done well, and things to improve on. Which is great. Honestly there was nothing surprising, I tend to dominate the discussion in meetings, I'm sometimes impatient with people who are slow to catch on, and the like. It's absolutely true. She's also said some nice things about me too.
I got some feedback, via her, from another business unit, for the huge project I have been working on. Some of it was true, and I know I need to work on those issues, some of it wasn't worth the proverbial paper it wasn't written on, and 1 piece was just odd. (Apparently I have negative body language? Huh?)
But that's not the issue. This is the project I knew very little about, spent a pretty fair bit of my own time bringing myself up to speed, so that I could hit the ground running. This truly was a case of "a lack of planning on your part is now going to equal a very huge, very stinking crises on mine).
So, of the 5 pieces of feedback this business unit provided about me, 2 were valuable, 1 was a situation that I would handle differently now that I know my boss better, and 2 related to stuff I wasn't going to win at, any way it happened.
But of the 5 bits, some worth hearing and some not, there wasn't a single good thing. They had nothing good to say about me. Not at all.
And I won't lie.
That was a kick in the teeth.
Excuse me, while I slink off to a job interview tomorrow, with lots and lots of answers to what my weaknesses are.
Monday Miscellany
As variously promised, the Adirondack chairs are assembled, varnished and ready for seating.Which is good. Because my street, last night has a large pile of dirt on it. Today, they are ripping up the street. (You would have thought we would have gotten a sidewalk first, but apparently the City of Edmonton exercises the 'make everything look really, really bad, before you make it look better' school of project management.)
Also, Canada Post has suspended our mail delivery, as Mr. Spit and I have neglected to provide their letter carriers a safe working environment.
So, no street, no sidewalk. no (mail) service.
A Mari Usque Ad Mare (except for the bits with no sidewalks)
Off the Record
I am a fairly open person. It's both a great strength, and possibly my biggest weakness.
On Thursday the whole work situation exploded again. I was in a routine meeting with my manager (the semi-annual quarterly meeting we are supposed to have), and I expressed my concern over how a situation was handled. I expressed concern over the perceptions it left me with, and how I felt about the situation.
It quickly became apparent that my manager was going to blame my supervisor, for everything. Now, neither of them are great, and usually, blaming my supervisor would not be unreasonable. She's, frankly, a little outclassed.
But probably more than that, she's miserable. With the onset of the new manager last March, things seem to have gone from really bad, to well, worse than really bad. And we all see it. We see the hunted look, and we know who's doing the hunting.
So, after meeting with my manager, when it became quite apparent that my supervisor was going to be blamed, I took my supervisor out for coffee. Left the building. And I told her what happened, what I said, and what I thought was coming. She took a sip of her water, and she started telling me that she knew. She told me she was miserable. And I, truly trying to be compassionate, suggested that maybe she should think about finding a new job. I wasn't implying that she wasn't competent, I wasn't implying that I thought she should leave, but she was and is clearly miserable.
And somehow, out of all of this, I wound up in a Vice President's office with my manager, accused of:
Insubordination.
Yeah, I know. I'm a bit perplexed. Mostly because I truly meant it with compassion.
But more than that, as the VP threatened me with a letter of reprimand, there was shame. I have to confess, I was fired once, long ago, but I've never been reprimanded. And I still don't get it. I could see a charge of manufacturing dissent, of being disrespectful, but insubordination? And a threat of a reprimand without the supervisor or even someone from HR there? And a threat that did not actually materialize? What do I do with all of this?
And this leaves me confused. I was truly trying to be compassionate. And realistic. It's just that I can't reconcile how speaking the truth in this case, could possibly be insubordination.
I sucked it up. It seemed, in that office, looking out over downtown, that this was not the time to suggest the context of the conversation made the comment something less than disrespect, and something more than simply being human.
But here I stand, accused of insubordination, and more than a little confused.
On Thursday the whole work situation exploded again. I was in a routine meeting with my manager (the semi-annual quarterly meeting we are supposed to have), and I expressed my concern over how a situation was handled. I expressed concern over the perceptions it left me with, and how I felt about the situation.
It quickly became apparent that my manager was going to blame my supervisor, for everything. Now, neither of them are great, and usually, blaming my supervisor would not be unreasonable. She's, frankly, a little outclassed.
But probably more than that, she's miserable. With the onset of the new manager last March, things seem to have gone from really bad, to well, worse than really bad. And we all see it. We see the hunted look, and we know who's doing the hunting.
So, after meeting with my manager, when it became quite apparent that my supervisor was going to be blamed, I took my supervisor out for coffee. Left the building. And I told her what happened, what I said, and what I thought was coming. She took a sip of her water, and she started telling me that she knew. She told me she was miserable. And I, truly trying to be compassionate, suggested that maybe she should think about finding a new job. I wasn't implying that she wasn't competent, I wasn't implying that I thought she should leave, but she was and is clearly miserable.
And somehow, out of all of this, I wound up in a Vice President's office with my manager, accused of:
Insubordination.
Yeah, I know. I'm a bit perplexed. Mostly because I truly meant it with compassion.
But more than that, as the VP threatened me with a letter of reprimand, there was shame. I have to confess, I was fired once, long ago, but I've never been reprimanded. And I still don't get it. I could see a charge of manufacturing dissent, of being disrespectful, but insubordination? And a threat of a reprimand without the supervisor or even someone from HR there? And a threat that did not actually materialize? What do I do with all of this?
And this leaves me confused. I was truly trying to be compassionate. And realistic. It's just that I can't reconcile how speaking the truth in this case, could possibly be insubordination.
I sucked it up. It seemed, in that office, looking out over downtown, that this was not the time to suggest the context of the conversation made the comment something less than disrespect, and something more than simply being human.
But here I stand, accused of insubordination, and more than a little confused.
Judy
I'm not sure what happened yesterday. I forgot it was Wednesday. I thought it was, I dunno, some weird, previously undiscovered day of the week, perhaps Tursday? Anyway, The Etiquette Lady will come back next Wednesday. (provided I don't make up another day).
*****
In November, a colleague literally dropped dead. I'm sorry, it's not the most gentle way to put it, but that's exactly what happened. She went to have a nap on a Saturday, and she didn't wake up. Today I was working on something, and I looked up at the person I was working with, and I said "I miss Judy." I said it with a fervor that surprised me. I miss her when I have to talk to another lawyer, and Judy is in the corner of the room, and we navigate around her, around her absence, around the unfinished files we are slowly picking up. I miss her for her acumen. I miss her for her gentleness, I miss her for her kindness. I simply miss walking into a conference room, and seeing her there.
I remember a meeting after I returned to work last year. No one outside my department knew what had happened. The more observant among them knew that I had been pregnant, and I now wasn't, and that I clearly hadn't been gone for a year. A few thought I came back early. Most didn't really ask - they just stared. I still don't know what's worse, the asking or the not.
But, we were in this meeting, wrapping up. Chatting, the way we do at the end of meetings. I think I was likely apologizing that whatever we had been discussing had been dropped when I left on 'medical leave'.
And there was that moment. You know it. When someone is about to say something about what happened, about to ask a question, about to express some sort of sympathy. And truthfully, I was probably fed up with talking about it. I used to joke that I was going to hand out a card. With a timeline on one side, the frequently asked questions on the other. I was tired of explaining my son's death in corridors and elevators and on the thresholds of meeting rooms. I was tired of his short and wondrous and miraculous life reduced to 2 sentences. I was tired of talking about it, of thinking about it, of re-living it, just to give someone the Cole's Notes version. I was, just tired.
But this moment, in which Judy looked as if she wanted to say something, was going to say something: I did that almost instinctive thing, where we start speaking really quickly and stop looking at the person, and change the subject, and hope the moment passes, silently.
Perhaps I was resentful, I had worked on an entire project, for months, with my belly getting slowly, and silently larger. Others commented. They laughed at my snacking and my brain dead tendencies. Judy, well, Judy said nothing, which seemed strange. She surely noticed, and she was the sort of woman who you would think would say something.
I read the obituary, those tiny words towards the end - pre-deceased by her daughter. Suddenly, with 8 months of experience at this grieving thing, suddenly I saw that look in her eyes the day she tried to, wanted to speak to me. I understood why she wouldn't say anything to me while pregnant.
I wrote her husband a letter a few days after her death. Telling her family, and especially her young daughters how wonderful it was to work with her. Telling them how much I missed Judy. And I closed my eyes, and my heart broke for her husband and son and daughters here on earth. I hurt for them, for no mother, no wife. But my heart also soared. For a tiny little girl who waited such a long time for mummy to come home.
*****
In November, a colleague literally dropped dead. I'm sorry, it's not the most gentle way to put it, but that's exactly what happened. She went to have a nap on a Saturday, and she didn't wake up. Today I was working on something, and I looked up at the person I was working with, and I said "I miss Judy." I said it with a fervor that surprised me. I miss her when I have to talk to another lawyer, and Judy is in the corner of the room, and we navigate around her, around her absence, around the unfinished files we are slowly picking up. I miss her for her acumen. I miss her for her gentleness, I miss her for her kindness. I simply miss walking into a conference room, and seeing her there.
I remember a meeting after I returned to work last year. No one outside my department knew what had happened. The more observant among them knew that I had been pregnant, and I now wasn't, and that I clearly hadn't been gone for a year. A few thought I came back early. Most didn't really ask - they just stared. I still don't know what's worse, the asking or the not.
But, we were in this meeting, wrapping up. Chatting, the way we do at the end of meetings. I think I was likely apologizing that whatever we had been discussing had been dropped when I left on 'medical leave'.
And there was that moment. You know it. When someone is about to say something about what happened, about to ask a question, about to express some sort of sympathy. And truthfully, I was probably fed up with talking about it. I used to joke that I was going to hand out a card. With a timeline on one side, the frequently asked questions on the other. I was tired of explaining my son's death in corridors and elevators and on the thresholds of meeting rooms. I was tired of his short and wondrous and miraculous life reduced to 2 sentences. I was tired of talking about it, of thinking about it, of re-living it, just to give someone the Cole's Notes version. I was, just tired.
But this moment, in which Judy looked as if she wanted to say something, was going to say something: I did that almost instinctive thing, where we start speaking really quickly and stop looking at the person, and change the subject, and hope the moment passes, silently.
Perhaps I was resentful, I had worked on an entire project, for months, with my belly getting slowly, and silently larger. Others commented. They laughed at my snacking and my brain dead tendencies. Judy, well, Judy said nothing, which seemed strange. She surely noticed, and she was the sort of woman who you would think would say something.
I read the obituary, those tiny words towards the end - pre-deceased by her daughter. Suddenly, with 8 months of experience at this grieving thing, suddenly I saw that look in her eyes the day she tried to, wanted to speak to me. I understood why she wouldn't say anything to me while pregnant.
I wrote her husband a letter a few days after her death. Telling her family, and especially her young daughters how wonderful it was to work with her. Telling them how much I missed Judy. And I closed my eyes, and my heart broke for her husband and son and daughters here on earth. I hurt for them, for no mother, no wife. But my heart also soared. For a tiny little girl who waited such a long time for mummy to come home.
Work Woes - Part 2
1. Thank you for your prayers. The fact that I was able to sleep at all, and teach 2 young women to knit last night is in direct measure to your prayers for sanity.
2. The meeting went well. It has a lot to do with the fact my direct manager seems to hate me. I don't know why. But, if there is a problem, she automatically thinks the worst of me. She doesn't listen, treats me with contempt, and when another department complains about me, she doesn't look in to it, she just blames me.
3. Yes, I will send my supervisor an e-mail documenting our discussion, and I will send an e-mail indicating my concern and confusion that my manager told me to stop cc'ing her on the emails and provided me with little assistance when it seemed I wasn't going to get anywhere on my own.
At any rates, the storm seems to have somewhat blown over.
Please pray I get pregnant this cycle, so that I can go on medical leave and get the hell out of here?
thanks,
2. The meeting went well. It has a lot to do with the fact my direct manager seems to hate me. I don't know why. But, if there is a problem, she automatically thinks the worst of me. She doesn't listen, treats me with contempt, and when another department complains about me, she doesn't look in to it, she just blames me.
3. Yes, I will send my supervisor an e-mail documenting our discussion, and I will send an e-mail indicating my concern and confusion that my manager told me to stop cc'ing her on the emails and provided me with little assistance when it seemed I wasn't going to get anywhere on my own.
At any rates, the storm seems to have somewhat blown over.
Please pray I get pregnant this cycle, so that I can go on medical leave and get the hell out of here?
thanks,
Work Woes
I can't get into it, but it's ugly and I'm worried and frightened, and I'm going into a meeting tomorrow and I have no idea what the problem is, only that I would appear to be getting blamed for it, and I am terrified I could lose my job.
I hate the job, but it pays the bills, and should I ever get pregnant again, it has great benefits.
Could you please say a prayer for my sanity tonight and tomorrow, that I would make it through, with a job?
And that even in this wretched economy, I could find another one? I promised myself a long time ago that any job that kept me up at night agonizing over politics and fear was not worth the pay cheque that came with it.
Thanks,
I hate the job, but it pays the bills, and should I ever get pregnant again, it has great benefits.
Could you please say a prayer for my sanity tonight and tomorrow, that I would make it through, with a job?
And that even in this wretched economy, I could find another one? I promised myself a long time ago that any job that kept me up at night agonizing over politics and fear was not worth the pay cheque that came with it.
Thanks,
I'm Sorry
No blog.
I am caught in something with work, and it is horrible and wretched and every awful thing, and it is all I can do to keep my head down and be silent and not tell them where they can take this rotten job and stuff it.
No, really, it's that bad. The fact that I have put 34 hours in this week, and that does not count today, and I took Monday off for the knitting retreat, and my house was broken into and I am clearly not pregnant this month, well, I'm not sure how much worse of a place I can be in.
I'll talk to you on Sunday. I promise. I'll bring the funny. Right now I'm just bringing the tired and weary and defeated and holding it together enough to get through this.
Oh, and if you have e-mailed me, I'm sorry. I'm not ignoring you. One of the things the burglars made off with was my laptop. A new one is ordered, and I'm using Mr. Spit's in the interim, but it's hard to check e-mail when you get home at midnight.
I am caught in something with work, and it is horrible and wretched and every awful thing, and it is all I can do to keep my head down and be silent and not tell them where they can take this rotten job and stuff it.
No, really, it's that bad. The fact that I have put 34 hours in this week, and that does not count today, and I took Monday off for the knitting retreat, and my house was broken into and I am clearly not pregnant this month, well, I'm not sure how much worse of a place I can be in.
I'll talk to you on Sunday. I promise. I'll bring the funny. Right now I'm just bringing the tired and weary and defeated and holding it together enough to get through this.
Oh, and if you have e-mailed me, I'm sorry. I'm not ignoring you. One of the things the burglars made off with was my laptop. A new one is ordered, and I'm using Mr. Spit's in the interim, but it's hard to check e-mail when you get home at midnight.
Frustration
So, someone from White Guys with Blue Ties, Inc. called me shortly after Gabriel's birth, telling me that I was eligible for dependant life insurance for Gabe, because he was born alive. And I was pleased that they called. My number one thought at that moment was not insurance. It was something else. I thought it was nice that they made sure I got what I was entitled to. I was pleasantly surprised, it's not like White Guys with Blue Ties, Inc. is known for its stellar HR procedures.
Then I wasn't eligible.
Then I was. After I called to follow up on why.
Then I had to fill out these forms, and provide a death certificate.
Then I had to provide a birth certificate.
Now I have to provide a certificate of live birth, or a doctor's statement of live birth.
I don't have one of those. I remember, there were forms. I signed them. I have no idea what I signed. Mr. Spit gently handed them to me. He said, sign here. And here. And maybe some other place.
As it happens, OB the wonderful's amazing nurse called, and OB wasn't there when Gabriel was born, but from the delivery record, he can fill out the insurance companies' really stupid form. We hope. Cause I know that the OB who came into the room after Midwife the Amazing caught Gabriel was an @#%hole of the biggest order. (Why no sir, I'm not going to hand you my baby, and I really don't appreciate you screaming at me. Go away. You can come back when he's dead. It will be all too soon). I actually never want to see him or talk to him again.
So, I'm frustrated. I've provided evidence that Gabriel was born alive (can't get a birth certificate if he wasn't). I've provided his death certificate. I've detailed the circumstances. I've explained. It's not even like I went looking for the money.
So, I wonder. How many other parents do they put through this? Does Insurance Company the Really Stupid not understand, to have to talk about Gabriel's delivery is to re-live it? I start to wonder, is that their intent? To make is so difficult to claim the money that I will back off? Do they have no compassion? Can't they just say at the outset - here's what we require, submit it all at once? Would that not be easier? I had assumed this would have been as simple as Mr. Spit's insurance company, who wanted the Funeral Director's statement of death, and a one page form. A cheque arrived 3 weeks later.
Do they honestly think, having suffered the loss of my son, I'm trying to scam them for a measly 10K? It wouldn't matter if it was 100 million, do they not understand, we really just want Gabriel here? I'm frugal. I'll take the money, use it. But it's poor recompense. And I'm angry.
Then I wasn't eligible.
Then I was. After I called to follow up on why.
Then I had to fill out these forms, and provide a death certificate.
Then I had to provide a birth certificate.
Now I have to provide a certificate of live birth, or a doctor's statement of live birth.
I don't have one of those. I remember, there were forms. I signed them. I have no idea what I signed. Mr. Spit gently handed them to me. He said, sign here. And here. And maybe some other place.
As it happens, OB the wonderful's amazing nurse called, and OB wasn't there when Gabriel was born, but from the delivery record, he can fill out the insurance companies' really stupid form. We hope. Cause I know that the OB who came into the room after Midwife the Amazing caught Gabriel was an @#%hole of the biggest order. (Why no sir, I'm not going to hand you my baby, and I really don't appreciate you screaming at me. Go away. You can come back when he's dead. It will be all too soon). I actually never want to see him or talk to him again.
So, I'm frustrated. I've provided evidence that Gabriel was born alive (can't get a birth certificate if he wasn't). I've provided his death certificate. I've detailed the circumstances. I've explained. It's not even like I went looking for the money.
So, I wonder. How many other parents do they put through this? Does Insurance Company the Really Stupid not understand, to have to talk about Gabriel's delivery is to re-live it? I start to wonder, is that their intent? To make is so difficult to claim the money that I will back off? Do they have no compassion? Can't they just say at the outset - here's what we require, submit it all at once? Would that not be easier? I had assumed this would have been as simple as Mr. Spit's insurance company, who wanted the Funeral Director's statement of death, and a one page form. A cheque arrived 3 weeks later.
Do they honestly think, having suffered the loss of my son, I'm trying to scam them for a measly 10K? It wouldn't matter if it was 100 million, do they not understand, we really just want Gabriel here? I'm frugal. I'll take the money, use it. But it's poor recompense. And I'm angry.
