I always promise myself that I will not blog about work, but I can’t help it. People keep doing stupid things.
Like this morning, as I was walking to the bathroom, I overheard one of the new, young guys talking to another new, young guy (hey, at least my company isn’t outsourcing overseas) about my skinny-but-thinks-she’s-fat co-worker former friend, Danielle.
Boy A: “Yah, she’s hot.”
Boy B: “Mmmmhmmm.”
Boy A [looking at Boy B in complete seriousness]: “The problem with chicks is you never know which ones are crazy.”
News flash #1: She’s one of the crazy ones.
News flash #2: You think women are crazy now, at the age of 21? Just wait until you’re married and have a kid and your wife has gotten 0.3 hours of sleep because you’re sleeping downstairs because you have to go to work in the morning and you finally answer her calls for more formula after making her scream at the top of the stairs for an hour and you come up the stairs and rub your eyes and ask why she’s so upset and she hucks a bottle at you and it ricochets off the wall and she laughs maniacally because she was going for your eyeballs and wishes she had knocked you unconscious.
Later that afternoon I had the privilege of sitting in on one of the meetings of the Higher Ups. On the agenda: “Designated breast pumping quadrants."
Really? Quadrants? Because we work on Deep Space 9?
The short version of the story is that there’s a new mom in the office who wants someplace quiet and private to pump (i.e., not the germy bathroom that oftentimes reeks of poo because of this woman). So the company president appointed a Breast Pumping Committee of 70-year-old men who were charged with establishing a breast pumping area and guidelines. The meeting went something like this:
“How much time will the mother need? A few hours?”
“Er, on each, er, um, br…br…how much time, exactly?”
“Let’s put her in the room with the photocopier.”
“But people will have to get their copies.”
“We’ll put a sign on the door.”
“What should the sign say?”
“We don’t need to go into specifics. How about ‘meeting in progress’?”
“Yes, but what about the photocopies? People will want their Xeroxes.”
“She’ll need a chair to sit in. There’s no chair in there.”
“Ask Tony in Purchasing for a furniture catalog—”
“—I’m still concerned about access to the copier…”
“Now what type of chair should we get her?”
They all looked at me then; I just shrugged my shoulders.
“We’ll get her a recliner.”
“Yes, a recliner.”
News flash #1: If you put a recliner in a secluded office, it's highly probable that Dennis from IT will fall asleep there with his hands down his pants, which, in my opinion, makes a secluded bathroom stall quite attractive.
News flash #2: I’m beginning to think that I am a crazy one in a very vast, looming sea of crazies.
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