Teeth Lady

The teeth lady fills me with rage and then pity. She’s the teeth lady because two times a day (there could be more we don’t know about) she cleans her entire mouth in the office bathroom. My co-worker will pass by my desk and say “Teeth Lady’s in there.” It’s a kind of warning, but it’s also a signal to stare at each other and shake our heads, “Some people!”

Sharing the bathroom with a large law firm has been hard for us to adjust to. We used to have the floor to ourselves, and all the ladies had a favorite stall. We joked about getting name plates. Now you can’t frequent the same stall reliably because someone might have soiled it, so to speak. Also, I can’t unbutton my pants in the hall anymore. Intimacy with strangers is always fraught (I’ve written about it before), and these law people, it was decided, have no decency. One woman likes to stand by the sinks and comb her long weave with her fingers, watching it shed and form a pile around her. Then she leaves the pile so the hair can roam free, and for the rest of the day, I find her hair on me. But Teeth Lady is the worst.

The ole tooth in coke experiment.

She is in her thirties and mouse-ish: she treads lightly and looks at you like you might run at her. This of course makes me want to run at her. She knows she’s doing something unusual, but she can’t help it. At first I gave her the benefit of the doubt. I thought maybe she’d just had oral surgery and needed to clean after eating. Like really clean. First with the flossing, then brushing and then with some sort of gum picks. It’s a full scale attack, and she finishes with mouth wash that always sprays and splatters a bit on the marble counter. She also takes up half the counter with all her tools. You try to politely dodge around her and make your way to the sink without getting sprayed. Ironically, she keeps her dental tools in a Coca Cola toiletry bag, which always makes me think of the Science Fair in elementary school where I saw a tooth dissolve in a jar of Coca Cola.

Unprofessional Interview: College

This is what I imagined the interview would look like. Which one's me?

I’ve always struggled with the interview process because I forget that we’re not just getting to know each other. Sometimes this hasn’t been completely my fault. When I interviewed for Sarah Lawrence (I wanted to go to all those girly east coast schools), they had an alumna meet me in San Francisco. I showed up at the bustling coffee shop she picked, and I found Helen, my interviewer, and her three-year-old son. He was usually crying or grabbing something off the table, so we spent most of the time talking to and looking at him. When I wasn’t trying to prove I was good with children, I answered her haphazard questions about school. Then I’d shout my answer again because it was so loud inside the cafe.

Some how my family came up. I explained my three family situation. I was raised by a stepfather who is my father in every way except for biologically. She seemed amazed, puzzled. Most people don’t bat an eye. Divorce has bred a multitude of unusual family situations. But Helen was really good at honing in on the important part. “So your father, he’s gone.”

“That’s true.” I said. I was working hard to project well-adjusted calm, hoping maybe this “disadvantaged childhood” would help me get in.

Helen nodded as if she saw through my little act, and as she blew her son’s snotty nose, she said, “That’s like that song.”

“That song?”

“God, Mark would know the name.” By Mark I think she meant her husband. “My daddy gave me a name. Then he walked away.” She started singing “Father of Mine” by Everclear. Even though I was incredibly nervous and inclined to let her do whatever the hell she wanted, I knew she wasn’t handling this very professionally. Was she mocking my pain?

After she grilled me on my family history, we took a walk to the park up the street so her brat could run around. She told me how incredibly creative her son was. He was in the sandbox, eating sand. I said he seemed like a very bright little boy. She nodded, “What’s your essay about?”

“My grandparents.” I paused. My essay was about their death and my grief. Was I really going to have to tell her about another loss? I gave up and told her. She gave me a long hug, there on the park bench, and I felt like I’d somehow prostituted myself. Since this was the second hour of the interview, I figured I could finally mention how I needed to meet my mother. She seemed sad to see me go, and Helen promised to send positive remarks to Sarah Lawrence. I was waitlisted.

Office Twitter

Executive Courtney Sharpe-Henrickson re-organizes her office furniture, so that she has more light. #goodidea!

Snack cabinet restocked! By popular demand, we did not order @MilanoCookies this time. #watchthosewaistlines.

Copy room stapler jammed. If you are guilty, please fix it.

Executive Fred Gold drinks entire case of Diet Coke while brokering the Shaunassy deal!!

@JohnMayerson29 wins the Most Decorated Cubicle Contest for his “island vacation” desk. We know what you want for Christmas/Kwanzaa and/or Hannukah.

Kitchen microwave disgusting. Temp hired to clean it. #thankgod.

Interns Josh and Tammy will clean the fridge every Friday. Your food will be thrown away unless you label it. See Helen Lee for the label maker. #seriously.

East side of the office reports freezing temperatures. West side says it’s too hot! Building claims entire floor is 72 degrees. #weirdphenomena.

Floorwarden training begins Friday March 28th in the lobby at 7:00 am. Your office is counting on you!

Mary Schlessel wishes the office be reminded that she is a coordinator and not an assistant.

Susan Thompson in accounting was the source of the office flu epidemic. #gotcha!

Reply to this tweet to vote for your favorite hold music!

Floor Warden

Nothing ruins a bran muffin like news of impending doom. In the first place, the only reason you choose a bran muffin is because you’re trying to ward off disaster (heart failure, constipation, obesity etc.), so they should have served us donuts at Earthquake Preparedness 101. Eating a donut is a brave move: each circle of fried dough is its own natural disaster. If I had been eating a sprinkle donut, I would have felt daring, bold and ready to entertain the dozens of apocalyptic situations that Dave, our very own retired fireman, was about to describe.

As I had a bran muffin in front of me, I felt like a neurotic pussy. I felt critical of the whole event, a defensive reaction to my sudden vulnerability. First of all, I was the youngest person in that room. I rolled in with my homeless-chic-look and a chip on my shoulder. Who were these squares taking everything so seriously?

Why bother saving those two?

I should explain that high-rise office buildings are required to train their tenants in disaster preparedness. Otherwise they would face costly law suits. Usually some poor receptionist is elected the position of “floor warden.” By attending this meeting I was essentially announcing, “I’m a new hire!” I think it’s ironic that the lowest man on the totem pole always gets chosen to be the office savior. In all other things, we’re taught to turn to our CEOs. Why do we trust an administrative assistant with our lives? Is it because she’s our office mother figure? I digress.

So I was sitting in this sterile, cold conference room nibbling on my bran muffin when Dave, our disaster teacher, started his power point presentation with a declaration, “We will 99.9% have a high magnitude earthquake within the next thirty years.” I started taking notes. I needed to spread the word, save those lovely people who gave me a job and appointed me floor warden. Floor wardens even get their own flourescent orange vests. Suddenly I felt overwhelmed and honored.

This will save you (no really, apparently it will).

Dave was a pro. You could tell by his memorized jokes about duck and cover, but he took his job very seriously. ”I have attached my glasses to the headboard of my bed. If an earthquake happens in the middle of the night, I’ll be able to see.” Will he also be able to see in the dark? Dave must also have night-vision goggles.

This man entertains death and destruction twenty-four seven. I thought that was the definition of depression, but strangely, the people around me didn’t seem to recognize Dave’s disorder. To the contrary, they chipped in with other tips for the apocalypse.

Dave was explaining how we should store money in our cars because, “They won’t be taking credit cards after the big one.” A woman raised her hand and explained that we should keep small bills because during the Northridge earthquake, the people selling water didn’t give change.

Dave agreed heartily with this woman, who I noticed was daringly eating a chocolate, chocolate muffin. If an earthquake happens while you’re in your car, you can expect to walk home and encounter exploitative street vendors. Why wasn’t Dave teaching us how to be the people selling the water? Maybe this was the unspoken lesson of the class–buy water in bulk at Costco and wait to strike it rich. But more importantly, after a huge earthquake, the last thing I’ll be worried about is my change.

The end is nigh!

Anyway, when you’re walking home from your stranded car, you’re going to want a pair of comfortable walking shoes, especially “for all you ladies out there.” I imagined putting a pair of jogging shoes in my car, and it seemed like a huge embossed invitation to the earthquake Gods. It seemed comparable to putting cookies and milk out for Santa. Dave also wanted us to keep survival kits attached to our bed frames, so we could easily reach them, along with our prescription glasses, if disaster strikes during the night.

This suggestion revealed that Dave’s been married for a long time. There’s nothing sexy about a bag of granola and band aids swinging above your head. Dave also wanted us to prepare for disaster in each of the places we spend the most time. What are the emergency plans at In-N-Out and Goodwill? Would Goodwill already have a kit that could accommodate me? Would it be second-hand? I’m sure In-N-Out prepares for the apocalypse. After all, they are owned by born-again Christians.

I went back to the office determined to affect change, without being an annoying floor warden. I would rule with a gentle touch. I sent out a panicked email, summarizing the lessons I’d learned in the meeting (remain indoors and don’t stand in doorways because the door may slam on your fingers). No one responded to my email.

This one comes with a toilet.

I was also determined to attend the Disaster Fair on Friday and purchase an emergency kit for my house. When Friday came around, I completely forgot about the fair. To this day I don’t have an emergency kit, but at least now I feel guilty about my lack of preparedness. Previously I felt defiant and haughty. I thought nothing could touch me because I eat bran muffins.

Intern Memo

Dear Interns,

In order to receive school credit you must fulfill all of your intern duties, including emptying the trash, loading the dishwasher, filling the copier, recycling, and fetching anything (especially edible items) anybody asks you to get. Although these aren’t the glamorous parts of the industry, they are necessary, vital elements of running a business, and no doubt your educational institution wishes you to experience them. If you are not receiving school credit for this internship, we remind you that as you are under no obligation, emotionally or physically, to continue working here, this can not be considered slavery, as defined by the United Nations.

Also, it has been brought to my attention that some of you have been hording M&Ms. We graciously allow you to partake of our office snacks, but please consume them modestly, allowing the actual employees to have their fair share.

Regarding the recent security breaches, from now on please confirm all security clearances with an actual employee. If the interns had followed this procedure, the incident with the lady and her parrot would not have happened. Also, please do not sign anymore legal documents on behalf of the company. This kind of behavior will result in the refusal of school credit or, if you are not receiving credit, the barring of your person from the premises.

This brings me to my final point. The ladies restroom was not designed to withstand persistent yoga use. It has been brought to our attention that several female interns have been using the handicapped stall as a yoga studio, marring the wall with their feet marks. While we realize this internship has its stresses, please refrain from performing yoga handstands. We also question whether exercising in the bathroom violates state-instituted standards of office sanitation.

Thank you so much for your continued assistance, and Happy Holidays! Those of you who volunteered to stay here on Christmas and New Years please see me (there might be compensation in the form of chocolate and pretzels!)

Sincerely,

Kathleen McPhee-Etz

Intern Coordinator and Office Manager

From the Company

Atrocious Torture & Terror

Dearest readers,

It’s been a while since we last communed via the written word, and I’ll tell you whose to blame, the man (and Netflix). I recently moved, and I foolishly assumed I could call AT&T, place an order and receive service. I ordered internet on August 10th. They were supposed to set up high-speed internet on my birthday, August 14th. They failed, a bad sign for my 24th year, so I called.

Was he around back then?

After navigating the automated system, I finally reached a person, Lou, but I don’t think that really was his name. He paused before he said it, as if he was reading it off a list of “Western” names. He also had a British accent, suggesting his country liberated itself later than 1775. I should have acknowledged the fact that I knew he was in India. How were we supposed to create a healthy relationship founded on lies?

I gave him my account number, and he announced that he couldn’t tell what was wrong with my account. There was some sort of technical problem, blocking his ability to access my account. I wanted to ask what he was doing at work if that was the case? What could he possible do for me or anyone else for that matter? I didn’t do this. I wasn’t that angry, yet. My service had only been delayed a day or two, but I would have to call back later.

I called the next day and had a harder time finding a person. I don’t know what was wrong with the old system of pushing buttons when communicating with a phone computer, whatever you call those robots that have taken over all major corporations’ phones. If you push a button, you’re at least speaking the robot’s language. If you have to actually speak to the robot, you always get, “I’m sorry I didn’t get that.” Of course you didn’t get it, you’re a machine! But you have to remain calm because even phone robots sense emotion. They know when you’re angry and they retaliate. “I’m sorry I didn’t get that. I’m sorry I’m having a hard time understanding you.” The third time it didn’t understand me, it’s because I was sputtering with anger, and then the robot hung up on me. “Please call back when you have more information.” I felt hurt and rejected and patronized. The machine thought it was smarter than me, and it probably was because I couldn’t figure out how to get it, something humans designed, to help me.

I went through the hoops again, speaking calmly and steadily, channeling a robot. This time, I was put on hold for the Order Status Department. “All our representatives are currently assisting other customers” repeated until it became a taunt, “All our representatives are currently assisting OTHER customers.”

Finally Mary Beth explained that the 1/2 in my address so confused the company that they had extended our activation date until the 21st. The next week I went out of town, but my roommate received a phone call saying they still didn’t believe our address was legitimate, so they were contacting our landlords, those pillars of responsibility who failed to fix our gas leak and never return our phone calls. I called AT&T again.

They claimed to have activated the account, so now we could finally put in a help request because it still wasn’t working. I thought I might actually see someone affiliated with AT&T at my house, but I wanted reparations.

A month had passed since we ordered internet, so I was less than civil on the phone. I wanted some free internet or else I was calling Time Warner. I was transferred to the Retention line. They kept me on hold for an half an hour, until I had to get off in order to go to work. In what world is it a good idea to keep someone on hold for the Retention Department?

Two phone calls later, and I was talking to Ed in St. Louis, a fact he proudly stated at the beginning of our phone call, as if to say, “Don’t worry, during certain hours our calls are taken by actual Americans.” Ed couldn’t locate my account, which puzzled him. He also didn’t really want to talk about my immediately stated reason for calling, “I want some free months or I’m canceling.”

Finally, using my blood type and birth certificate, he was able to locate my account. “What happened?” he wondered out loud. This isn’t something the people providing you with the service are supposed to ask. This is when I lost it.

This is how I imagine Ed.

I’d already wooed Marge, Thomas, Henry, and Phyllis. They all agreed that I deserved some free internet. They were horrified by my plight, especially since the lack of internet was keeping me from my long-distance boyfriend. “You’re denying me love, AT&T. LOVE. No one can live without love!” But Marge and Henry could agree with me because they didn’t work in billing. Ed worked in billing. I started shouting, and I don’t remember what I said, but I did hear myself say, “I need you to show me you appreciate my customership.” Customership.

Apparently, inventing words raises a red flag, so Ed threw a hundred dollars worth of credit at me. I calmed down, feeling like it should take more than just a measly hundred dollars to solve this. He hadn’t expressed any remorse. Customership is the combination of “relationship” and “customer,” and this was an abusive relationship, where I did all the work.

Perhaps I was choosing to take a stand because this was all too familiar, reminiscent of all the boys I dated in college. If they had had phone robots answering their cell phones, the message would have been like this, “Please state your purpose for calling. For example, say, ‘Booty Call, What’s up, Bro?, or I want a relationship.’ I’m sorry. I’m having a hard time understanding you. Did you say relationship?”

It was still another week after I talked to Ed before we had internet, which means I made two more phone calls. In total I probably talked to ten different people, and each of them heard my complaints. If only I could stand up for myself in my real, non-AT&T life. I wouldn’t have kept calling those silly boys in college. I need the safety of talking to someone in India, via phone robot, to express my anger. Perhaps I will save on therapy and simply call AT&T. After all, they’re in communications, and communication is essential for a healthy emotional life. I’m calling Lou right now.

Dealing with Dinosaurs

This sign would have been helpful.

The signs look bad, literally. The laminated signs I’ve crookedly affixed to the walls keep falling off. This week, and this week alone, laminated signs hold power over me. Every time I walk by them, they fall, like they’ve been waiting for their cue. I put them back, hoping that this time the tape will take, and as soon as I turn my back, they fall.

It’s the week of literature summer camp (okay, actually it’s a world-renowned research conference, but it might as well be a summer camp), and I’m the den mother. I’m actually an assistant mother, and I spend a lot of time answering questions with, “I’m not sure, you’ll have to speak to my boss.” In fact, asking me anything is usually just a waste of time, a stop-gap until the “conference participant” is afforded some time with my boss (I’m like the elf who leads you to the mall Santa), but people find it comforting to know someone’s listening to them, and they have a lot to say.

Half our participants are senior citizens, enjoying a literary holiday. They are big “communicators.” The traffic on the way to Santa Cruz was abysmal. Their room isn’t ventilated properly. They have special dietary needs. Where will they be able to park? How many stairs are there to their room? In all fairness, it’s hard for them to get around, so they need to plan ahead, but a lot of them aren’t used to needing help, and this makes them surly. It’s a huge blow to the old pride to have to rely on other people, but still—when someone moves a cooler from your car, up a hill, and then into your room—you should take the time to be extremely appreciative. Especially when that same person moves your cooler and luggage and then moves the microwave (you made her order especially for you and your dietary needs) to your room.

The other half of the attendees are academics, and the professors haven’t made it to the 21st Century. I’ve had to explain Word to several professors and the importance of turning machines on before trying to use them. Do career counselors assess computer skills and suggest that those who fail become professors? Would these people die without the nurturing care of a university? Who watches them when they’re at home?

Generation gap.

The senior citizens aren’t in the 21st century either, but at least they have an excuse: they’re hellza old. The families of the senior citizens usually strap them with cell phones, but they don’t know how to use them, so they try to use our phone as an answering machine. I tried to explain that a cell phone will also function as an answering machine, but checking messages on “that thing” is “impossible.”

The century divide causes other problems. Most of our conference information is on our website, but I often hear, “I’m not on the internet,” read: “I’m not a functioning member of society.” These people become extremely irate when they’ve missed vital information because it wasn’t mailed to them.

This reluctance to use technology is annoying but usually kinda adorable, “the little old lady can’t even use her phone,” but apparently it can also be deadly. A lovely, ludite lady, who was struggling with our office portable phone (she thought it was a cell phone and kept going outside its range), told me that she was walking in her neighborhood when she came across a woman who’s husband was having a medical emergency. The woman needed to help her husband, so she handed her cell phone to the ludite and instructed her to call 911, but she might as well have told her to make a call with a lobster. The ludite ended up running back to her house in order to make the call on her rotary phone. “Luckily, he didn’t die,” she said.

“Did you learn how to use a cell phone?” I asked. There was an awkward pause.

She's in a hurry.

“I need to learn.” She said. YOU THINK? It’s as if she jumped on her horse, rather than getting in a car to speed to the hospital. I’m not even going to get into the tirades I’ve also heard this woman go on about her Plantar Fasciitis (a strange foot disorder I pretended to also have just so I could be part of the conversation).

I’m dwelling on the quirks of our participants because while working twelve hour days, it’s important to focus on the defects of those bothersome people who keep expecting you to do your job. Otherwise you might have to acknowledge your own ineptitude and the brutal reality that when you try to help people you often make things worse. After several participants complained that we were instructing them to come to our office, so we could tell them to go to another office, I put a sign up telling them to go directly to their final destination. Unfortunately, at 1pm that office closed, so participants parked near our office, saw the helpful sign, drove to the other office, and then had to drive back to our office.

I do stupid things too, and I look forward to my grandchildren making fun of me because I can’t use a Badingus (high-tech tool of the future), but the generation gap between mine and those I’ve been dealing with this week is particularly gruesome. Just look at Carolyn Dreary Patillo.

I’m writing this right in front of her, but she hasn’t noticed because she’s too busy talking. I’m not sure talking really is the right word because it implies some form of communication. She’s blathering about the journey to Santa Cruz and “are the geraniums in our office put there because they were Dickens’ favorite flower?” Finally I have no choice but to decipher what she needs. This is difficult—her brain doesn’t work linearly—but I correctly assume she needs help to her room. I grab her luggage and load it into the sweet golf cart I drive like a terror, hoping to scare the Golden Girls. As I drive her to her room, she talks about her trip to Cleveland, where there are “lots of black people.” When I point out her room, which she couldn’t find earlier, she explains that she couldn’t find it because the woman she asked for directions had a “Spanish accent. She looked half Mexican.”

I wish.

Having grown up in the capital of PC, I am shocked: actual unchecked racism, unabashedly displayed. I don’t say anything. I just unload her bags, letting her carry them upstairs, and speed off in my golf cart. On the drive back, I’m angry that I didn’t say anything, but then I realize, she will be dead soon. Besides, she was wearing two different shoes, and it’s hard to find that threatening. I’m part of a different generation, one that elected a black president. Granted, I’m positive my grandchildren will shake their heads and wonder how people in grandma’s time could ever have made gay marriage illegal, but for now, Obama becomes comfort for a week of dealing with dinosaurs.

Toilet Vigilante

This is me.

The toilet vigilante calls twice a day to report on the ladies restroom on her office floor. I’m the receptionist at the building manager’s office, so it’s my job to listen to her patiently and then radio her request to the people who will actually do something about it. I see myself as the building sheriff, protecting our town of janitors and engineers from her neurosis. She’s up there on floor fourteen, checking on the toilet, all day. How does she get work done?

She sounds like a nice enough woman (she has a sweet and cheery voice), but her freak flag flaps when she begins to describe the problem.“Yeah, the handle—I think it’s not working or something. It’s making this hissing sound, but it’s not flushing.” Fine. This is how most toilet related complaints start and end, but the vigilante goes the extra mile.

“It’s not flushing. It’s clogged. And people are still using it. People are STILL using it!” The panic rises in her voice. “It’s just really clogged…” Here is where we both imagine the shit-packed toilet, and we are both silently repulsed.

“It’s just gross! You know what I mean?” Oh, I know what she means. She just made me think about it. But no matter how much I assure her that I understand, she gets graphic: texture, color, consistency, girth, size, and smell. How she thinks this will help the cleaning process escapes me. Does she think janitors use different products for different shaped terds?

Brian, the terd

I reassure the vigilante that I will “call it in.” She thanks me exuberantly and calls fifteen minutes later to let me know that things, “still haven’t been resolved.” I’ve already radioed the janitor, politely describing the situation as a, “clogged toilet.” I know what Nina, the janitor, will have to face when she gets there, and I resist the urge to radio a red alert, “bring backup.” At least Nina won’t have to talk about what she finds in the toilet. She will clean it up, try not to think about it, and forget about it. I have to listen to the vigilante describe it, and words make the situation take on a whole frightening life. The shit begins to have a personality: her vivid description of the  “situation” makes me think of the name Brian–a quiet kid who plays too many video games and is on the chubby side.

If I was a different person, I would politely cut her off, but I like to see how far she will take it. What do the people in her office think of these conversations? What do they imagine she’s talking about? Or do they know. Is she working with people who experience an abnormal number of bowel movements, each one with a personality and potential name?

The first time she called to talk dirty I was sympathetic. She had a valid complaint. There was a foul monster of shit clogging up her toilet, and it understandably disturbed her. But then she started calling with smaller problems. “The handle still isn’t working.” “It’s making noise in the third stall.” What does she do at home? Who looks at her toilet constantly there?

One day I’m going to snap. I’m going to wait for her in the fourteenth floor women’s restroom. She’ll come in, checking each toilet, like a drill sergeant inspecting new recruits, and I’ll tell her she’s lost her complaint privileges. The building relinquishes control of these toilets to her. She’s won. It’s a two state solution. She will move her office into the bathroom, where she can keep an eye on things, preventing disaster and handing out breath mints. Until that day, I will eat my lunch at least two hours after her morning call.