Copying tax returns is a big part of my job at the Tax Place. M and I use the copier so much, in fact, that I am convinced we will both develop a rare and debilitating disease. I first became aware of my risk of contracting Toner Lung when I noticed the acrid, tangy fumes permeating the air around the over-used office apparatus. They definitely smell harmful, and they make your nose sting when you inhale. My fears were compounded when M began exhibiting likely symptoms of the illness. She was coughing more than usual, and complained about her frequent sneezing. Both symptoms, to me, are sure signs of aggravated respiratory passages.
And then there's M's accountant. Now that I think of it, I'm positive Toner Lung is the cause of his constant throat-clearing. Hmm. Or, rather, "Hrm."
Aside from slightly searing my fingertips by touching the copies before they've fully cooled, I've yet to experience any adverse copier-related effects. But I have had several mechanical issues with the machine in the past few days. Shortly before leaving on Monday afternoon, I picked up a five-state, 18 shareholder return to assemble. Just the original document was about as thick as an entire package of paper, so I knew the multiple copies I had to make would produce a staggering pile. I was about halfway through the arduous replicating process when I accidentally caught and slightly opened one of the multiple doors on the top of the copier. It began beeping furiously and immediately refused to keep working.
Annoyed, I gazed at the screen to see what debilitating injury the petulant office fixture was supposedly suffering. Per the copier's instructions, I fully opened the door I'd just bumped and cleared the mis-fed sheet from 5A. Once that had been taken care of, the screen insisted that I open the front door and check for a jam in the cavernous compartment it concealed. I did as I was told, and was shocked at what I found. There was paper everywhere. 3A, 3B, 3C and 2A were all clogged. I managed to clear all the afflicted sections and safely shut the door without burning myself on the fuser. But the copier kept beeping and insisting that I recheck compartment 3.
I opened the door again to find that the paper jam had seemingly regenerated itself out of nowhere. Paper had mysteriously reappeared, lodged in all the places from which I'd just removed it. I diligently pulled out all the firmly lodged sheets and shut the door. The copier resumed its protest, and the same series of events occurred at least twice more. Finding my usual small-repair capabilities exhausted, I sought the aid of my supervisor. She deleted the current print job (I'd cancelled it, but that must not have been definitive enough for the copier to understand) and cleared paper from sections I didn't even know existed. Her assistance silenced the copier's aggravating beeps and left it in perfect working order. By then it was time for me to go home. I was relieved to do so and left the rest of the burdensome copying process for the next morning.
After that debacle, each copy endeavour I've undertaken has run smoothly. Until this morning. I had to use a different copier than normal in order to take advantage of its ability to stamp COPY across documents as it replicates them. What I didn't realise was that while this copier has superior extra features, it's not as intuitive as the copier to which I am accustomed. This new machine doesn't sort the document unless you specifically ask it to do so. I wasn't aware of this until it was far too late.
I loaded my 50-plus page return into the tray, changed the number of copies to three and waited. I watched, slightly horrified, as the copier spat three copies of page two on top of three copies of page one, three copies of page three on top of three copies of page two, and so on. It was a small disaster. Rather than simply picking up a neatly staggered stack of three complete returns, I had to collate the documents by hand when they came off the printer.
Despite the tedium of this task, it didn't actually take too long. And now I know better. I'd still prefer dealing with jams and unsorted documents to suffering from Toner Lung.
21 March, 2008
20 March, 2008
Ah, Ahhhh, Mr. Willllson. Ah, Ahhhh, Mr. Heath.
It's tax season. While this widely dreaded occasion usually passes without much consideration on my part, it is more evident to me this year than ever before. This is because I've spent the last five weeks temping at an accounting firm. As one might imagine, the work is eye-gougingly tedious. I'm helping to alleviate the strain of the rush by assembling tax returns. This involves making a lot of copies, then stapling, red x-ing, Post-It noting and paper clipping the federal return and the state return(s). Then I bind a copy for the client and print a cover sheet and mailing label. This over and over and over and over, hour after hour, day after day.
"Fine," I answered. "We're all caught up. There's nothing in the bins."
"RE-ally?" she asked, obviously astonished."Yeah, I just checked five minutes ago, and they were empty." I hesitated, and when she issued no response, added, "I can check again..."
We both walked back up to the front of the support area and looked in the still-empty bins.
"Well," she stammered, clearly taken aback by the light load we were carrying. "I wonder if someone's slacking off in review."
"Nope, we're just fast!" I quipped as I was walking away. "Oh, you are?" she asked, a bit too eagerly and gullibly.
"...Yes?" I'd intended the comment to be flippant, but this nuance had gone undetected.A little later in the afternoon, this same woman had decided to help the flagrantly lagging reviewers by checking some of the returns herself. I brought one over to her after I'd finished assembling it.
"That was a really fun one," I said as I handed it over. "A three-state shareholder one.""Oh! You liked that, did you?"
"...No.""Ooooooooooh! You were being sarcastic!"
Since she'd called me out on it, I then had to find a way to detach myself from my snarky statement to avoid looking like a complete snot."Well, it was nice because it was different. Otherwise it can get a little monotonous."
"Oh, that's funny," I commented, "A librarian action figure."
"Yeah," she answered, "It's kind of a joke."Um, I know! While librarians are certainly staunch defenders of citizens in the literacy and educational arenas, theirs is not a profession that would traditionally inspire one to create a miniature replica. That's why producing one is funny. Thankfully, my coworker then went on to say that she'd been educated as a librarian but couldn't find a job in that field. So she wasn't explaining that the existence of a librarian action figure was funny. Rather, her owning the action figure was the joke.
Though these coworkers don't seem to entirely understand humour, that is exactly what makes them funny (to me). Another of my coworkers takes a different approach to amusement. The standard procedure in the office is for the reviewers to put the returns that are ready to be assembled in bins at the front of the support area. One of the accountant managers flagrantly flouts this established practice. He prefers to bring his returns directly back to me and the other assembly temp. Actually, he prefers to bring them only to the other assembly temp. If she was in the middle of assembling a five-state, 35 shareholder return and I was idly checking my facebook, he'd still hand the new return to her.
"Nope. I can take it," I offered, only slightly sympathetic to his dashed dreams of seeing her in all her assembling splendour. He went away, and I didn't think much of it. But he came back with another return just before a firm-wide, in-office happy hour scheduled for that day was due to begin. M's accountant looked for her, then settled for talking to me when he saw that her chair was still crushingly empty.
"M didn't stick around for happy hour, huh?" he asked. "Hrm. Hrm.""No, she went home," I confirmed. "I can take it."
He handed me the return and walked back to his office, clearing his throat in a decidedly lacklustre and heartbroken fashion. When M returned the next day, I informed her of what had transpired. "You make me sound like a..." she hesitated, the word she wanted escaping her.
"Seductress?" I supplied helpfully. "That's because you are. He tries to stay away, but he just can't resist your charms." Pointing out the special attention her accountant paid to her may have made M feel a little awkward around him. The consequences were disastrous. She came up to me late in the afternoon and rehashed an incident that had just occurred. She'd passed her accountant in the hall, and he'd said "Hi" and stopped (presumably to have an intimate chat with her). She returned his greeting without breaking stride. "It's just getting too weird," she confided. He must have taken her not-so-subtle hint. When he brought back a return the following day, he placed it on the neutral shelving unit between our two cubicles rather than handing it to M directly. "I'll just leave this here. Hrm. Hrm."I didn't fully realise the significance of the direct interaction M's accountant had insisted upon until last week. This time, he intercepted me near the bins and handed me a return to reassemble. This exchange happened in front of one of my supervisors, who questioned me about it after M's accountant had gone. "Which return is that?" she asked.
"Oh, <name withheld to protect confidentiality>," I responded."He shouldn't be giving you stuff directly," she chided.
"I think he just gave it to me because I assembled it in the first place," I explained."Well, he knows better," she countered.
So, he knows better than to give us returns directly. But M's special lustre is just so impossible to resist that he'll defy all the approved procedures in order to see her, consequences be damned. It must be love. While he has not made much of an impression on M, M's accountant seems to have a more powerful effect on another of my coworkers. The returns that this particular woman prepares for assembly always seem to have something wrong with them. They're missing pieces, or the pieces are wrong, or they're out of order. A few days ago I noticed an interesting correlation between her mistakes and the location of her office. It's right next to M's accountant's. I hear his incessant throat-clearing every time I pass his office, and I have thought to myself several times how annoyed I would be if I had to sit anywhere near him. But she is actually forced to live the experience that makes me cringe to even imagine. Perhaps listening to this repetitive and, frankly, rather disgusting sound all day drives her to distraction and causes the problems I so often encounter with the returns she's reviewed for assembly. An interesting theory, and one I'll likely explore in the remaining weeks.
22 February, 2008
Turning the Entry
It seems that I'm surrounded by dancing lately, whether I'm voluntarily doing it myself or others are inflicting it on me. Andy and I went to see Chris Koza, Romantica and the Alarmists at the 7th Street Entry last weekend. Another venue, another nutter. The show started out innocently enough. Perhaps we can credit Koza's infectious melodies and riveting lyrics with keeping the insanity temporarily in check; the only odd character was a balding man leaning on the side of the stage. His eyelids drooped and he nodded his head absently as though he were about to fall into a deep sleep at any moment. The cause of this could probably be explained by his protruding beer belly.
When Romantica took the stage, though, all crazy broke loose. It came once again in the form of a particularly avid crowd dancer. Other people around us were moving along with the music as well, so she did not seem to be remarkable at first. In fact, she was very polite and apologised for each of the numerous times her fervor caused her to collide with an innocent bystander. But suddenly she decided she was not content to keep her momentum to herself and took to spinning those standing near her in the crowd. This, of course, included me and Andy. And about 10 other people. To her credit, she did not physically grab and twist us. Rather, she insistently offered her hand and commanded, "Spin!" until her target complied.
After she'd acted the dervish in our section of the audience, she started working her way through the more remote portions of the venue. She disappeared for a noticeable period of time--at least one song. When she returned, Andy and I started speaking with her. She enlightened us as to the logic behind her mission to spin. "I just want to have a good time," she said. "Good music, good beer...it should be fun. I'm trying to get people to have a good time." Indeed, many of our fellow crowd members looked as though they could use her assistance in lively-ing up themselves. Despite being at a concert and having easy access to an abundance of beer, a good portion of the audience seemed unaffected and wore stony, gloomy expressions on their faces.
The girl continued to recruit spinning partners throughout the rest of Romantica's set, through the break and into the Alarmists' set. And, far from being as hopelessly crazy as I first suspected, Andy and I became a bit fond of her. She did make the atmosphere a little more fun. And we definitely couldn't argue with her philosophy.
When Romantica took the stage, though, all crazy broke loose. It came once again in the form of a particularly avid crowd dancer. Other people around us were moving along with the music as well, so she did not seem to be remarkable at first. In fact, she was very polite and apologised for each of the numerous times her fervor caused her to collide with an innocent bystander. But suddenly she decided she was not content to keep her momentum to herself and took to spinning those standing near her in the crowd. This, of course, included me and Andy. And about 10 other people. To her credit, she did not physically grab and twist us. Rather, she insistently offered her hand and commanded, "Spin!" until her target complied.
After she'd acted the dervish in our section of the audience, she started working her way through the more remote portions of the venue. She disappeared for a noticeable period of time--at least one song. When she returned, Andy and I started speaking with her. She enlightened us as to the logic behind her mission to spin. "I just want to have a good time," she said. "Good music, good beer...it should be fun. I'm trying to get people to have a good time." Indeed, many of our fellow crowd members looked as though they could use her assistance in lively-ing up themselves. Despite being at a concert and having easy access to an abundance of beer, a good portion of the audience seemed unaffected and wore stony, gloomy expressions on their faces.
The girl continued to recruit spinning partners throughout the rest of Romantica's set, through the break and into the Alarmists' set. And, far from being as hopelessly crazy as I first suspected, Andy and I became a bit fond of her. She did make the atmosphere a little more fun. And we definitely couldn't argue with her philosophy.
20 February, 2008
Squares
I have not done any salsa dancing since I've been back in the US, and I've been a bit restless. The urge to dance, combined with my quest to explore the Twin Cities as a repat, made my friend Erinn's invitation to a square dance very appealing. This despite having a great and professed inclination to stay home. Jackie's birthday celebration the night before had taken a small toll. I was also a bit concerned because my square dancing skills were limited to what I'd learned in 8th grade PE. But Erinn didn't seem too bothered by her own inexperience with dancing in squares, so I decided I shouldn't be, either.
We arrived at the Bedlam Theater just as a new dance was about to begin, and we initially partnered up to form one side of a square. But our square-mates decided it would be better to disperse us around the figure so as to minimise the damage we could inflict. That was a wise decision. From the beginning, my square dance experience was filled with rather exhilarating confusion. The caller walked us very slowly through the applicable calls before each dance, explaining to us what "allemand left" or "dig for oysters" meant in terms of motion.
I thought I had the hang of it until the band started playing and the calls came at full speed. I suddenly felt very inadequately prepared to face the mysterious ways of the square. For one thing, I hadn't thought to enquire about the step to use. I began with a fairly normal stride but quickly noticed that everyone around me was doing something else. I shifted into a small variation on skipping, which seemed to work well. I never did find out if there was a universally accepted step. After that, I was able to remember what the calls meant and execute them properly. And if not, I managed to get out of the way before I caused irreparable harm to the figure.
The dizziness that soon followed added another layer of complexity to the procedure. The second square proved to be particularly nausea-inducing. One of the calls, which was repeated four times throughout the dance, dictated, "Ladies in the centre, back-to-back, gents go around the outside track. You elbow-swing the one you swung and swing the next one on the run." That's a lot of swinging. And swinging is a lot of spinning around with your partner in one spot. Perhaps it was the vertigo, but that dance seemed particularly exhilarating.
After we took a break for some beer, Erinn and I felt confident enough in our new found square dance abilities to be partners. We made it all the way through the dance without causing any sort of breakdown, though there were a few narrow escapes. By this point I was able to start focusing some attention on my fellow dancers. They represented a wide range of ages, styles and experience levels. Some looked the (stereotypical) part in cowboy boots and plaid shirts. Some wore skirts. Some weren't wearing any shoes. Some men had a great and wild profusion of facial hair. Some were bald. But nearly everyone was smiling. One person I'm not sure about; his mouth was buried in his beard.
The last square of the night got me very dizzy again. It used the same "Ladies in the centre" call that had threatened my balance earlier in the evening. But it also incorporated a more complex motion where one couple split a second, made an arch with their arms over the guy, went slightly over to the right and, walking backwards, made an arch over the lady. It was called Peekaboo something or other. So after being spun like crazy, you were actually required to recover yourself enough to make or go under arches without smacking anyone in the head. This square was, understandably, the most chaotic of the evening. And the most fun, in my opinion.
After the hectic square was complete, the square dance finished with a waltz. My partner initially said, "I'm not going to show you what to do" when it became obvious I didn't know. But he quickly conceded a bit under the looming threat of me stepping on his feet (or worse). He counted the steps for me and pointed out how the dancers were meant to progress around the room in a large circle. I managed to catch hold of it by the end of the song. My satisfaction in this was short-lived, because I then erroneously referred to the Minneapolis Eagles club as a VFW. He then explained the difference between that and a community centre, adding in a slightly embarrassed fashion that noting the distinction was "an old man thing."
I think the excessive spinning jarred something in me and helped to reawaken my hibernating adventurous side. It was the first time since coming home that I'd entered into a situation where I didn't know what I was doing and didn't know many/any of the people who were interacting with me. I'm glad I made the attempt. And I'm glad Erinn goaded me into it. I'd gone so far as to send her a lame backing-out email on the day of the dance. A few hours later she sent me a text enquiring as to whether I'd changed my mind about dancing in squares. In fact, I did. And I've no regrets. Where's the daring in sitting home?
We arrived at the Bedlam Theater just as a new dance was about to begin, and we initially partnered up to form one side of a square. But our square-mates decided it would be better to disperse us around the figure so as to minimise the damage we could inflict. That was a wise decision. From the beginning, my square dance experience was filled with rather exhilarating confusion. The caller walked us very slowly through the applicable calls before each dance, explaining to us what "allemand left" or "dig for oysters" meant in terms of motion.
I thought I had the hang of it until the band started playing and the calls came at full speed. I suddenly felt very inadequately prepared to face the mysterious ways of the square. For one thing, I hadn't thought to enquire about the step to use. I began with a fairly normal stride but quickly noticed that everyone around me was doing something else. I shifted into a small variation on skipping, which seemed to work well. I never did find out if there was a universally accepted step. After that, I was able to remember what the calls meant and execute them properly. And if not, I managed to get out of the way before I caused irreparable harm to the figure.
The dizziness that soon followed added another layer of complexity to the procedure. The second square proved to be particularly nausea-inducing. One of the calls, which was repeated four times throughout the dance, dictated, "Ladies in the centre, back-to-back, gents go around the outside track. You elbow-swing the one you swung and swing the next one on the run." That's a lot of swinging. And swinging is a lot of spinning around with your partner in one spot. Perhaps it was the vertigo, but that dance seemed particularly exhilarating.
After we took a break for some beer, Erinn and I felt confident enough in our new found square dance abilities to be partners. We made it all the way through the dance without causing any sort of breakdown, though there were a few narrow escapes. By this point I was able to start focusing some attention on my fellow dancers. They represented a wide range of ages, styles and experience levels. Some looked the (stereotypical) part in cowboy boots and plaid shirts. Some wore skirts. Some weren't wearing any shoes. Some men had a great and wild profusion of facial hair. Some were bald. But nearly everyone was smiling. One person I'm not sure about; his mouth was buried in his beard.
The last square of the night got me very dizzy again. It used the same "Ladies in the centre" call that had threatened my balance earlier in the evening. But it also incorporated a more complex motion where one couple split a second, made an arch with their arms over the guy, went slightly over to the right and, walking backwards, made an arch over the lady. It was called Peekaboo something or other. So after being spun like crazy, you were actually required to recover yourself enough to make or go under arches without smacking anyone in the head. This square was, understandably, the most chaotic of the evening. And the most fun, in my opinion.
After the hectic square was complete, the square dance finished with a waltz. My partner initially said, "I'm not going to show you what to do" when it became obvious I didn't know. But he quickly conceded a bit under the looming threat of me stepping on his feet (or worse). He counted the steps for me and pointed out how the dancers were meant to progress around the room in a large circle. I managed to catch hold of it by the end of the song. My satisfaction in this was short-lived, because I then erroneously referred to the Minneapolis Eagles club as a VFW. He then explained the difference between that and a community centre, adding in a slightly embarrassed fashion that noting the distinction was "an old man thing."
I think the excessive spinning jarred something in me and helped to reawaken my hibernating adventurous side. It was the first time since coming home that I'd entered into a situation where I didn't know what I was doing and didn't know many/any of the people who were interacting with me. I'm glad I made the attempt. And I'm glad Erinn goaded me into it. I'd gone so far as to send her a lame backing-out email on the day of the dance. A few hours later she sent me a text enquiring as to whether I'd changed my mind about dancing in squares. In fact, I did. And I've no regrets. Where's the daring in sitting home?
03 February, 2008
Morning Bus Freakout
When I am not borrowing my friends' Subaru while they are on holiday in Hawaii, I ride the bus to work. Or, to substitute Raf's name for it, I ride the Rolling Box of Despair to work. Usually the Rolling Box of Despair from Maple Grove into Minneapolis isn't all that desperate. People tend to keep to themselves, reading the paper or chatting at a normal voice level to a friend. But one day last week, the typical atmosphere of calm was shattered.
The last stop on the route I normally take is a park and ride lot. The bus had waited for several minutes at the stop and was on its way out of the lot when a couple of straggling cars pulled in. "Stop!" several passengers cried. "There are people coming!" The driver didn't appear to be stopping immediately, so one particularly passionate rider yelled, "STOP! There are people coming! This is a service!"
The bus driver eventually halted the bus. While we were waiting for the late people to park their cars and walk over, he turned on his microphone and admonished, "Chill out. I don't slam on the brakes on the ice."
"You don't stop!" the irate passenger countered. "There have been several occasions where you haven't stopped."
"Sir, if you don't quiet down, I'm going to call the cops," the driver threatened.
"Ooooh, I'm shaking!"
"Sir, if you have a problem, call customer service..." the bus driver began.
"I DID!" interrupted the aggrieved rider.
"...call customer service, but don't create a negative experience for everyone else on the bus," the driver continued, seemingly unfazed.
"I think the negative experience is with you!" the rider exclaimed, his voice modulating to a higher pitch.
"Sir, like I said, if you don't stop, I'm going to call the cops."
The rider made some incomprehensible quip.
"Not another word..." the driver growled in a warning tone.
Not another word was heard. We made it downtown without any further emotional outbursts or incidents. But I was still really grateful to drive the Subaru in the next day.
The last stop on the route I normally take is a park and ride lot. The bus had waited for several minutes at the stop and was on its way out of the lot when a couple of straggling cars pulled in. "Stop!" several passengers cried. "There are people coming!" The driver didn't appear to be stopping immediately, so one particularly passionate rider yelled, "STOP! There are people coming! This is a service!"
The bus driver eventually halted the bus. While we were waiting for the late people to park their cars and walk over, he turned on his microphone and admonished, "Chill out. I don't slam on the brakes on the ice."
"You don't stop!" the irate passenger countered. "There have been several occasions where you haven't stopped."
"Sir, if you don't quiet down, I'm going to call the cops," the driver threatened.
"Ooooh, I'm shaking!"
"Sir, if you have a problem, call customer service..." the bus driver began.
"I DID!" interrupted the aggrieved rider.
"...call customer service, but don't create a negative experience for everyone else on the bus," the driver continued, seemingly unfazed.
"I think the negative experience is with you!" the rider exclaimed, his voice modulating to a higher pitch.
"Sir, like I said, if you don't stop, I'm going to call the cops."
The rider made some incomprehensible quip.
"Not another word..." the driver growled in a warning tone.
Not another word was heard. We made it downtown without any further emotional outbursts or incidents. But I was still really grateful to drive the Subaru in the next day.
The Bruise
I have a big bruise on my hip. It has turned a very vivid shade of purple and is shaped like a duck. It reminds me of falling off my bike last year. And falling off a tree this summer. And dancing with an elderly gentleman in Excelsior last Saturday. That was the cause of this most recent contusion. At the beginning of the night, Jackie and I met for comfort UK/Irish food at Jake O'Connor's pub in the beautiful and historic County Hennepin. Upon discovering that the pints there were a little dear, we decided to take advantage of the much cheaper local taps in a nearby townie bar.
We had settled into a booth and were chatting over the rather wretched cover band when a man approached us. He appeared to be about 50 and attempted to chat us up by asking, "Do you have any gum?" Both of us claimed to have eaten our last pieces earlier that day (an excuse that was true on my part; I'm not sure about Jackie). We suggested that he try asking some of the couples seated at other booths. They were far more likely than we to be in possession of such tools of personal hygiene enhancement, since Jackie and I have reached the point in our relationship where we no longer feel the need to impress each other.
The man's disappearance from our booth was brief. He succeeded in sourcing breath mints at a different table, and he took enough from the generous donor to allow him to bring some back to us. He then swept Jackie out onto the dance floor. After their song was over, he came back for me. We danced to a Rolling Stones cover. Between leading me in incessant spins, he morphed into Keith Richards (he was about the right age) and fit in some impressive air guitar work.
I rejoined Jackie at our booth, but we didn't stay long. The guy came back, bought us drinks, and took us out to dance floor again. When Keith was occupied with Jackie, a younger guy complying with the dress code of a t-shirt and backwards baseball cap captured me for a dance. He soon tired of trying to win me over with this gentlemanly display of culture and decided to revert to a more failsafe method: alcohol. He repeatedly asked me what kind of shot I wanted, despite my unchanging answer that I didn't want one because I was driving. I even resorted to steering an imaginary wheel to help illustrate my complex answer. Finally it either sank in or he became frustrated. In any event, he went back to the bar.
Eventually Jackie and I took leave of the dance floor, Keith and Bayside. Without consulting each other, we had both turned up dressed in brown shirts and cowboy boots. While we both shared the blame for committing this egregious fashion faux pas, I ultimately suffered more than than she. The lack of traction in the soles of my boots left me suddenly sprawled on the ice outside the door of the bar. During previous mishaps on ice, I've been able to tell that I was slipping and that a fall was both imminent and inevitable. This spill, however, was completely unexpected. I just suddenly found myself on the ground. "Are you OK?" Jackie asked (while trying to suppress laughter, I discovered later). I said that I was, but I wasn't entirely sure. It hurt. It hurt a lot.
In the end, I was OK. Despite the pain that indicated I should have a massive bruise, it was a few days before one actually appeared. It was worth the wait. In addition to proof that my injury was as grave as I imagined, I now have a nice memento of my first townie bar experience.
We had settled into a booth and were chatting over the rather wretched cover band when a man approached us. He appeared to be about 50 and attempted to chat us up by asking, "Do you have any gum?" Both of us claimed to have eaten our last pieces earlier that day (an excuse that was true on my part; I'm not sure about Jackie). We suggested that he try asking some of the couples seated at other booths. They were far more likely than we to be in possession of such tools of personal hygiene enhancement, since Jackie and I have reached the point in our relationship where we no longer feel the need to impress each other.
The man's disappearance from our booth was brief. He succeeded in sourcing breath mints at a different table, and he took enough from the generous donor to allow him to bring some back to us. He then swept Jackie out onto the dance floor. After their song was over, he came back for me. We danced to a Rolling Stones cover. Between leading me in incessant spins, he morphed into Keith Richards (he was about the right age) and fit in some impressive air guitar work.
I rejoined Jackie at our booth, but we didn't stay long. The guy came back, bought us drinks, and took us out to dance floor again. When Keith was occupied with Jackie, a younger guy complying with the dress code of a t-shirt and backwards baseball cap captured me for a dance. He soon tired of trying to win me over with this gentlemanly display of culture and decided to revert to a more failsafe method: alcohol. He repeatedly asked me what kind of shot I wanted, despite my unchanging answer that I didn't want one because I was driving. I even resorted to steering an imaginary wheel to help illustrate my complex answer. Finally it either sank in or he became frustrated. In any event, he went back to the bar.
Eventually Jackie and I took leave of the dance floor, Keith and Bayside. Without consulting each other, we had both turned up dressed in brown shirts and cowboy boots. While we both shared the blame for committing this egregious fashion faux pas, I ultimately suffered more than than she. The lack of traction in the soles of my boots left me suddenly sprawled on the ice outside the door of the bar. During previous mishaps on ice, I've been able to tell that I was slipping and that a fall was both imminent and inevitable. This spill, however, was completely unexpected. I just suddenly found myself on the ground. "Are you OK?" Jackie asked (while trying to suppress laughter, I discovered later). I said that I was, but I wasn't entirely sure. It hurt. It hurt a lot.
In the end, I was OK. Despite the pain that indicated I should have a massive bruise, it was a few days before one actually appeared. It was worth the wait. In addition to proof that my injury was as grave as I imagined, I now have a nice memento of my first townie bar experience.
29 January, 2008
Trailer Temp
In order to finance my exploration of the Twin Cities music scene, I've taken up more or less gainful employment with a temp agency. While I was originally looking and hoping for a job in advertising, I tried to stay positive about the situation. I decided that I would be like Ryan the Temp on The Office. I would be sent to a slightly bizarre and dysfunctional office, meet some interesting people, and create a stock of writing material that would last for years.
After exhausting me with math, spelling, filing, typing and computer software exams, the temp agency called back the same afternoon to offer me an assignment. I arrived at the Minnesota Green Expo at half 6 the next morning, bleary-eyed and dressed in my former Olive Garden uniform. My duties involved typing information into a Word document, printing name tags, affixing star or dot stickers to them when necessary, stuffing them into a plastic clip-on protector, and finally handing them to the registrants. Far from being the long, excruciating day I'd anticipated, the time flew by. The queues were huge, and we were kept quite busy.
Fortunately, my stint at the Green Expo was only three days. The work was perfectly acceptable, but I am desperately trying not to re-acquire the elongated vowels of my former Minnesota accent. The Green Expo, attended by a large number of outstate landscapers and nurserers, was definitely not the place for my mimic's ear if I wanted to continue to stave it off successfully. The proliferation of general ohhhhhh's and aaaaaaae's, and especially someone's comment about a "bohhh-t," demonstrated to me that there is at least a little truth in the stereotypical accent portrayed in Fargo.
The assignment I began the following week seemed to be an immediate improvement, if only because I would be starting at 8 instead of 6.30. I successfully navigated the buses and arrived at the building early. When I walked inside, eager to escape the cold, I found a slightly less frigid entryway that smelled of of canned fruit that had just gone off. After finding the doors to the main office locked, I happened upon a different office under the stairs. The receptionist buzzed me in, and we chatted for a bit. She informed me that the company was a potato processing plant. While that was interesting, the sentence from the conversation that really stands out in my mind is, "Did you know you'll be working out in a trailer?"
So I spent the last two weeks working in a trailer at a potato factory.
As you might imagine, it turned out to be rather entertaining. The job itself required fairly low brain-wattage: alphabetising, hole-punching, filing, filling out forms, stapling, entering data. But I liked my fellow HR trailer occupants. At regular intervals I would take a break from my clerical tasks and cover the receptionist while she went on breaks. The route to her office under the stairs took me through the maintenance area of the plant, where I was always greeted by the smell of potatoes. But not just normal potatoes. Potatoes that had been trodden upon and left on the ground to soak up some indeterminate liquid and spoil. I'm not sure what brought this image to my mind (perhaps the constantly wet door handle), but it seems to be the only sufficient way to describe the smell.
Generally not much was required of me when I was covering reception. Between phone calls, I usually had plenty of time to read or examine the numerous paper cuts I'd acquired. But that's not to say that strange things never happened. On one occasion, a man appeared outside the glass windows of the office and shouted that he needed a favour. Probably against my better judgment, I buzzed him in. He pointed out a dump truck near a line of semis and asked me if he could park it there overnight. Apparently the brakes had gone out and a mechanic wouldn't be available to service it until the next morning. His dump truck was not affiliated with the company in any way, so I called the plant manager to see if that was OK. He flatly refused, I relayed the information to the suddenly belligerent driver, and he stalked out.
During my second week on the assignment, I went on a tour of the plant. I felt a little guilty for going with the plant manager instead of the safety guy who had repeatedly offered me a private tour, but it was fascinating nonetheless. I was outfitted in a white coat, boots, a hairnet, a hard hat and earplugs. It was as though I was participating in one of the segments on Mr. Rogers' Neighborhood where they toured factories and taught the audience how things were made. Recalling it now, I can remember Mr. Rogers' exploration of a crayon factory down to a disconcerting level of detail. I'm not exactly sure if this is because I was really interested in crayons (I was) or had a previously unrevealed affinity for factories (apparently). Regardless, I was happy to discover that the odor coming from the plant itself was far more pleasing than that I regularly encountered in the maintenance room.
Despite my initial incredulity, I grew a little fond of the potato plant over the weeks. It was my last day there on Friday. And while leaving has not made me sad to the degree that I'm going to visit the grocery store and press my face against the freezers where they store our hash browns, I have to admit I enjoyed my time there. Maybe I already found my Dunder Mifflin.
After exhausting me with math, spelling, filing, typing and computer software exams, the temp agency called back the same afternoon to offer me an assignment. I arrived at the Minnesota Green Expo at half 6 the next morning, bleary-eyed and dressed in my former Olive Garden uniform. My duties involved typing information into a Word document, printing name tags, affixing star or dot stickers to them when necessary, stuffing them into a plastic clip-on protector, and finally handing them to the registrants. Far from being the long, excruciating day I'd anticipated, the time flew by. The queues were huge, and we were kept quite busy.
Fortunately, my stint at the Green Expo was only three days. The work was perfectly acceptable, but I am desperately trying not to re-acquire the elongated vowels of my former Minnesota accent. The Green Expo, attended by a large number of outstate landscapers and nurserers, was definitely not the place for my mimic's ear if I wanted to continue to stave it off successfully. The proliferation of general ohhhhhh's and aaaaaaae's, and especially someone's comment about a "bohhh-t," demonstrated to me that there is at least a little truth in the stereotypical accent portrayed in Fargo.
The assignment I began the following week seemed to be an immediate improvement, if only because I would be starting at 8 instead of 6.30. I successfully navigated the buses and arrived at the building early. When I walked inside, eager to escape the cold, I found a slightly less frigid entryway that smelled of of canned fruit that had just gone off. After finding the doors to the main office locked, I happened upon a different office under the stairs. The receptionist buzzed me in, and we chatted for a bit. She informed me that the company was a potato processing plant. While that was interesting, the sentence from the conversation that really stands out in my mind is, "Did you know you'll be working out in a trailer?"
So I spent the last two weeks working in a trailer at a potato factory.
As you might imagine, it turned out to be rather entertaining. The job itself required fairly low brain-wattage: alphabetising, hole-punching, filing, filling out forms, stapling, entering data. But I liked my fellow HR trailer occupants. At regular intervals I would take a break from my clerical tasks and cover the receptionist while she went on breaks. The route to her office under the stairs took me through the maintenance area of the plant, where I was always greeted by the smell of potatoes. But not just normal potatoes. Potatoes that had been trodden upon and left on the ground to soak up some indeterminate liquid and spoil. I'm not sure what brought this image to my mind (perhaps the constantly wet door handle), but it seems to be the only sufficient way to describe the smell.
Generally not much was required of me when I was covering reception. Between phone calls, I usually had plenty of time to read or examine the numerous paper cuts I'd acquired. But that's not to say that strange things never happened. On one occasion, a man appeared outside the glass windows of the office and shouted that he needed a favour. Probably against my better judgment, I buzzed him in. He pointed out a dump truck near a line of semis and asked me if he could park it there overnight. Apparently the brakes had gone out and a mechanic wouldn't be available to service it until the next morning. His dump truck was not affiliated with the company in any way, so I called the plant manager to see if that was OK. He flatly refused, I relayed the information to the suddenly belligerent driver, and he stalked out.
During my second week on the assignment, I went on a tour of the plant. I felt a little guilty for going with the plant manager instead of the safety guy who had repeatedly offered me a private tour, but it was fascinating nonetheless. I was outfitted in a white coat, boots, a hairnet, a hard hat and earplugs. It was as though I was participating in one of the segments on Mr. Rogers' Neighborhood where they toured factories and taught the audience how things were made. Recalling it now, I can remember Mr. Rogers' exploration of a crayon factory down to a disconcerting level of detail. I'm not exactly sure if this is because I was really interested in crayons (I was) or had a previously unrevealed affinity for factories (apparently). Regardless, I was happy to discover that the odor coming from the plant itself was far more pleasing than that I regularly encountered in the maintenance room.
Despite my initial incredulity, I grew a little fond of the potato plant over the weeks. It was my last day there on Friday. And while leaving has not made me sad to the degree that I'm going to visit the grocery store and press my face against the freezers where they store our hash browns, I have to admit I enjoyed my time there. Maybe I already found my Dunder Mifflin.
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