The Royal We and Why I Hate It

I think most of you probably know what I mean by the royal we-- when someone says "We think/say/do/eat/whatever" when they're really only talking about themselves and ought, really, to be using the pronoun "I."

I have a problem with this pronoun (I have a problem with a lot of things, as you might have noticed): when used in emails and the like, it's confusing.

Like, really confusing.

At work, I handle (mindlessly easy) paperwork and arrangements. There are only two things that ever make my job difficult: when everyone needs something at once and when people don't say what they mean.

The first problem is pretty unavoidable. Things happen-- stuff sometimes comes up all at once; I can usually deal with that pretty easily, though it does stress me out.

The second one, though....

There's been a situation today (forgive me, I have to be vague) where one of the things I worked on needs to be changed. But the person who needs the change made wasn't the one who told me that the change needed to be made.

Take a breath; I'll wait for you to catch up.

Ok, the person who told me what needed to be fixed is working on a similar thing with the person that needs the thing fixed (wow, the gossip in high school didn't seem this complicated). Long story short (er...kinda), I thought that what needed to be fixed was what BOTH of them were doing, not just the one.

I was wrong. I was told I was wrong. That's fine, I don't mind being wrong. I asked what I needed to do to fix the problem.

I got a response that uses the we.

After staring at my computer for a few moments, trying to figure out what the hell was going on, I got it.

"We" meant just the one guy. Apparently, it had all along.

So things are getting fixed-- hopefully, they're already fixed.

But, man, that was a lot of trouble for me to have to go through just because someone else felt like being pretentious.

Best Stress Relief Ever

My job stresses me out.

Not because it's hard. It isn't. At all.

It does require that I be suspicious of people (there's a post about this somewhere on here, I think), which is not something I'm good at. I like to think that people are generally telling the truth.

Anyway, sitting at my desk for eight hours being suspicious and (at times) rude--you have to get the solicitors off the phone somehow-- stresses me out.

I'd love to be able to go home and collapse on the couch to unwind, but I'm not wired that way. If I lay down on the couch, I'll just think of a million and one things that I have to do.

Or Mom will tell me to get out of her spot. Either way, relaxing that way is out.

Some people who know me well might say that I should draw or write or sing to calm my nerves, but that doesn't work for me either. Those things all carry their own different stresses. (Especially writing, now that I'm working on a story for a competition--yikes!)

So all of that leaves me in a bit of a pickle. What can I do to de-stress?

My parents have a dog--a big, beautiful mutt-- that they don't get out to play with very often. Last week, I grabbed a tennis ball and went into the back yard to spend some time with the dog.

As the title says: best stress relief EVER.

The wonderful thing about dogs is that they realize that humans need to give love as much as get it. Petting and playing with a dog is the most relaxing thing in the world.

Even when you do have to remind the dog that a tennis ball is not the same thing as food (poor thing kept trying to eat the tennis ball--that's probably a good indication that she doesn't get played with anywhere near enough).

Now my problem is solved. Pretty great, isn't it?


see more dog pictures

This looks so much like Hershey! (I love my dog.)

The Time Warp

(Before anyone asks, yes, seeing Eddie Izzard was great. But that's another post for another time.)

Most of the time, I have a pretty reliable internal clock-- not to the point where I can tell what time it is without ever looking at a watch, but I am able to wake up on time without an alarm on most days and I never have to worry about napping for too long.

The only problem is that any change in my routine--and I do mean any change--and my clock's screwed up for days.

Yesterday, for example, I woke up with a migraine (the kind that spreads from the back of the head to the temples and gathers right behind the eyes... ick), so I didn't go about my usual Sunday routine.

I slept most of the day and, because of that, wasn't able to sleep last night.

So I overslept this morning.

It took longer than usual to get ready for work, even though I didn't do anything extra. The drive might not have been longer, but it certainly seemed longer. And when I got here, everyone was gone.

Well, okay, that might be an exaggeration. But the people in the offices closest to me aren't here. Which makes me feel weird, because I usually leave before they do.

So my sense of time has been pretty skewed today on it's own-- the last thing I needed was a computer messing with it.

But don't we always get the last thing we need?

I was sent some paperwork to work on by someone who uses a different version of software than I use. The computer, of course, flipped out.

Computers are good at that.

It told me that I'd have to download the compatibility feature before I could work on the paper. So, I (grudgingly) went to the website and started the download.

Those download things are little liars-- did you ever notice that? They'll tell you that something will take five minutes to download. Then it'll jump to three minutes. Then back to five; then to six.

After about ten minutes of trying to decide if the download would take two minutes or seven, the download was done.

All of this combined has completely thrown me off.

It's only ten o'clock in the morning. Why do I have to feel like it's three in the afternoon?

Sleep-working

A few days ago, I read something on Yahoo News that said there has been research to show that people who sleep 6 to 7 hours a night generally live longer than people who sleep 8 hours a night.

As a college student, I have to say that this is good news for me.

Anyway, last night I ended up staying up later than I normally do-- not to prove a point or anything: just because the Tony Awards were on last night, and I had to watch them through to the end (and it was a disappointing experience so far as musicals go, really, but that's what happens in dry years, I guess). Normally, I get 8 hours of sleep. Last night I was probably an hour and a half under that mark.

And today, I can barely keep my eyes open.

It doesn't help that my job in incredibly dull or that the blinds on the windows are closed and no outside light is getting in. But I'm really having a difficult time staying awake, here.

I think maybe the reason people who sleep less live longer is probably because they're too tired to engage in risky behaviors. Maybe the researchers should have thought about that.

Well, I'm going go find some caffeine so that I don't start snoring at my desk.

...!!!...!

Apart from answering phones (and browsing around the Internet), what I do most at work is send emails.

I'm used to poor punctuation in emails-- in today's world, there's really no escaping it. In time, even someone like me can become desensitized to the occasional missing period or incorrect spelling of you're.

One thing that's really been driving me bugnuts, though, is the ridiculous overuse of exclamation marks.

I'm not a journalist, nor do I have any desire to be, but I did have a stint as a teen guest columnist for a local newspaper, and one of the first things that we were taught was that exclamation marks are a no-no.

But that aside, I have a personal issue with people giving me a too-generous helping of these marks. To me, an exclamation mark is not unlike a swear word or the shock factor of crashed cars sitting in front of a high school during the weeks before prom: if you use it too much, it stops carrying any meaning. I mean, think about it-- when you hear someone like Chef Ramsey (I mention him for you, Josh) drop the f-bomb twenty times within ten minutes, it stops landing on your ear with the weight it should have.

Apparently, the woman I have to email all day never received that lesson.

It's ridiculous. I'll send her a message that might say, "Hey, can you please check these numbers for me?"

Her response will be, "Ok!"

I'll send, "I didn't get the message about -x-, can you please send me a copy?"

I'll receive, "I'll send it right to you!!" (That annoys me even more, because, clearly, if you're sending me this message, you're NOT sending the message I asked for.

...But I digress.)

Really, I have to wonder if she just uses exclamations because they're the easiest mark for her or if she's actually just THAT chipper.

I'm hoping it's not the latter-- can you imagine how hard it would be to work with someone that enthusiastic?

I can only imagine how she'd deal with news of any real weight.

Maybe something like this?



See more dog pictures here.

Trophy desk

When I came in to work yesterday morning, the furniture in my work area had been completely rearranged.

Which totally freaked me out--Monday is not the best day to spring drastic changes on me. But I dealt with it. Or, at least, I dealt with most of it.

There had been two softball trophies sitting on a table in the front area of the office building near where my desk is. The table they had been sitting on has gone to furniture heaven (or something like that-- whatever happened, it's no longer with us), so the trophies had to be moved. Perfectly reasonable, you might be saying. They do have to go somewhere.

I agree; they can't just be left sitting on the floor.

The trophies ended up being placed on my desk--I'm assuming that's because the desk was really the only other surface in the area.

Now, these are not the dinky little team trophies that kids get from little league just for participating. No, no, these were tournament trophies: the kind that are two and a half feet tall.

And they were right behind me all day yesterday.

In my mind, I could see these plastic monstrosities toppling over and cracking my skull open (I really think they were in league with the vending machines-- the one here has a thing against me too, though it's not out for blood like the one in the dorm used to be).

And there were TWO of them--I was outnumbered!

Fortunately, the trophies have been moved; I'm no longer in any immediate danger.

But now they're where no one can hear them plotting.

Looks like I'll have to keep an eye out for them from now on.

Odd Jobs

(Not only the name of the post, but also a potential title for the next Odd Thomas book, if there is one.)

Most of my friends are employed now. Save your congratulations for something else--we're still all leeches on society in one way or another. In my conversations with them, I've noticed something.

I've never had a typical teenager job.

By this, I mean that I've never worked as a clerk in a store, in childcare, as part of a lawn-mowing or house cleaning business or in a restaurant.

But I have been employed in some form or fashion since I started high school.

My first job was as a personal assistant to a Mary Kay senior consultant. If you know me, you're probably laughing your face off at the irony of that. This was probably the only time that I dealt with such enormous amounts of make up for something other than a show.

And this was during the time when all of the compacts and lipstick tubes were pink. As were a majority of the boxes. This made for a rather painful experience. It's also quite possible that this job led to the creation of my inner feminist. (So, now you know what to blame for that.)

After that job ended (I never quit and I wasn't "fired"... I think she just ran out of stuff for me to do), I worked as a shipping clerk for a company that makes detectors for coal mines.

Wrap your mind around that one.

I've never been near a coal mine. I don't know what the process is for making a detector, and I think my head would explode if you tried to explain it to me.

But I did well enough with my job. I got the detectors in their boxes; I made sure everything was properly packaged and wrapped.

And I only sent the marker I was using to mark the boxes to Ohio on accident twice.

And now I'm a receptionist, which, I've decided, is a job I couldn't do for the long term. There's way too much suspicion involved; it wears me down. But, if I'm going to be able to afford my apartment in the fall, I'm going to have to put up with it for a while.

I suppose I should consider myself fortunate-- as of yet, I've not had to flip burgers to get a paycheck.

Not too bad, really.

'Let' It Be

When I have nothing to do at work (which is never... *wink wink*), I read the news online. At more desperate times-- you know, when no one's blown anything up, started any fires, been involved in some kind of political scandal, etc.--I read the entertainment stories. Yesterday, I noticed something that bugged me. Every time a female celebrity was referred to, the people writing the stories called her a "starlet."

This bothers me on a number of levels.

First, the word "star" should be reserved for two things: the stars in the sky and actors from the Golden Age of Hollywood (y'know-- the people who created the medium, the real talent from the old days--oh, I've seen Gone With the Wind now, by the way). I can't think of a celebrity today that I think is worthy of being called a star.

Also, my inner feminist (some of you might not have met her; those of you who have a probably rethinking reading this post now that she's been mentioned) has a real problem with this word. "Starlet"? What? Just because someone's female, you feel the need to add a diminutive to the word? Someone ought to kick your ass with a pair of stilettos.

But I might have been able to live with these two had it not been for this:

EVERY female was called a "starlet," regardless of her age.

I'm sorry. Someone who's in their fifties or sixties is not a "let" of any kind. And I for one am offended that the people who write these entertainment stories think that I could be fooled into thinking of someone that age as a "let."

"Starlet." Please.

"Someone's got to make sure this dock stays off limits to civilians"

So there was no post yesterday. I'm sorry; I know you're disappointed.

Or not. Whatever.

Work yesterday was better than usual-- there was some stuff for me to do. Nothing important or challenging, mind you, but still--something.

The place where I work has very tight security. Someone has to be at the front desk at all times to sign in and monitor our visitors.

Yesterday, when everyone else went to lunch, I stayed behind to man the desk. It made me feel like those two guards in the first Pirates of the Caribbean movie. You know the ones-- they get left out of Commodore Norrington's promotion ceremony.

"Some one's got to make sure this dock stays off limits to civilians."

*Sigh*

I tried to put pictures here. I really did. I guess Josh will just have to teach me how to do that.