I was absolutely, positively certain I'd left all the work-related garbage in New York. I was shown differently tonight.
I wrote most of this in Notepad from my cubicle in that big building H. Ross Perot owns on West Plano Parkway, in Plano, Texas (where CherryTAP and MySpace are both blocked due to NSFW content). Though this shift is a short one (midnight to 6 a.m.), an issue with a co-worker has been gnawing at me for the past three hours.
This will require some setup. A co-worker on the same service desk account as I am (for anonymity, I'll just call her "Zee") is a former model, still looks physically cute in a size 6, and is generally popular around the service desk. She's also quite intelligent when it comes to her work. However, her work ethic seems questionable, and she is fighting off rumors that she is dating someone from another account (despite a somewhat selectively-enforced non-fraternization policy), and doing a half-assed job at that. When she does her job, she's great at it, but I can't help feeling that she is more of a distraction than a help.
In November, back in Oregon, Zee saw me in the blue-and-white Seton Hall University jacket I'd been wearing since I'd lived in New York. Having only been in Texas for a week before being shipped off, I didn't have time to buy new clothes. This didn't stop her from immediately voicing her disdain at seeing me in it. "That jacket is dirty and dingy --" (there's a soft-g in that word; it implies a garment's state of being dull or faded) "-- either you need to wash it or throw it out or something. When we get back, I don't wanna be seen in public with you if you're going to wear that jacket."
Though it did need a good wash, and there was a rip in one of the sleeves, I blew it off, initially. She was a fashion model at one point, and entitled to her own opinion. I, however, was entitled to wear whatever clothes I wanted to, since she is not financing my wardrobe. However, her distaste popped up again when I returned to Texas and reported to work
in that jacket, even though it had been washed.
Zee asked me, "Are you still wearing that jacket?"
"Yeah," I mumbled, still jet-lagged from having barely deplaned just two nights earlier. "I haven't bought a new one yet."
Now, I'll fast-forward to last Friday, December 8. Zee told me she would be going bowling with the guy from that other account that she was "seeing" that afternoon, after work. (You know that finger gesture a person makes when she's pretending to put the words she's vocalized in double-quotes? She actually did that where I quoted her.) Remembering that we'd discussed going bowling together when we were back in Oregon, I suggested we go as a group. She backpedaled, saying how she was afraid my presence would start drama with her man.
Not wanting to rock the boat, I said, "OK, so how about we just do this another time?"
She agreed, and suggested that upcoming Sunday. That was perfect for me, since I wasn't scheduled to work on Sunday or Monday this past week.
Sunday approached, and I called her at about 5 o'clock that afternoon. "Are we still doing the bowling thing?" I asked.
"Yeah, OK!" she responded. "I'm just finishing up some laundry. I have one more load to dry, and I should be ready."
We briefly discussed the particulars - she wanted to go to a bowling alley of her choosing, one that was closer to her house (she lives in Dallas proper, of which Plano is a suburb), and then we would go from there.
"Sure, do your thing," I said.
Three hours later, I still hadn't heard from her, so I called her again.
"I'm still drying my clothes," she said. "I'll tell you what - I'll give you a call afterwards, because I still gotta drop the clothes off at home."
"OK, let me know," I said, looking at my watch, seeing the clock strike 8:05 p.m., and knowing she had to be at work at 10 o'clock Monday morning.
Maybe it was the darkness outside, or the boredom of sitting and waiting, but at about 9ish I took my contact lenses out and sat down in my bed, and I must have dozed off because I was awakened by the "DDR: Legend of Max" MIDIring tone on my phone. I glanced at the clock and saw 9:45 p.m.
"Hey, it's Zee," she greeted. "I don't think I'll be able to do the bowling thing tonight."
"Oh?" I said, in mock surprise.
"No. It's late, and I have to work tomorrow. Why don't you go on ahead?"
"Because you're the one who knows where the bowling alleys are," I pointed out. "Besides, they're probably closing or closed... and I kinda now have to figure out what to do with the rest of my night."
"Oh," she said, the concern in her voice dripping like sarcasm. "Well, you could always go to a movie."
"Go... to a movie," I repeated, almost incredulous that she seemed to have missed the point. I guess I was listening in vain for an apology for the act of wasting my entire evening while she spent four hours and 45 minutes drying her one load of laundry.
"What, you've never gone to a movie by yourself?" she queried.
"No, I don't like to," I shot back. "Tends to show the world you lack self-esteem."
"Why? I go all the time... Well, I'll talk to you later," she said, as she hung up the phone.
Zee's total lack of concern, as well as her flakiness, reminded me of another girl I once knew, who'd regularly do the same thing to me (see my October 20th blog entry, "R.I.P. Fairweather Friend").
Ordinarily, I would have blown off the incident if it were just the isolated flake-out. The lack of apology or remorse for the situation added more demerits, but even that would probably have gone away in time. However, the clincher came... just before I left for work tonight.
The time: About 10:45 p.m. One of my roommates, whom I'll call "Laura" (because... well, it's her name, and I have nothing bad to say about her at all) came home from work with lots of KFC. Since she, "Jason" (roommate #2) and I all work at the same place, we sometimes swap stories during dinner during the rare occasion that all three of us are in the apartment at the same time.
"So, Scott," Laura began, breaking the ice, "I heard you went shopping at Burlington Coat Factory today."
"Yeah," I said. "I bought some jackets, a few shirts, some socks... Maybe now, Zee can stop asking me about my Seton Hall jacket."
"She asked me about that today," she said, rolling her eyes.
"Oh, really?"
"Yeah. She asked me if you had that jacket from way back when we worked at North Shore." That was in 2003.
Although Laura and Zee were good friends, I could tell from the snarl that was forming on Laura's face that she was irritated by that incident.
"And of course she expects you to remember what clothing your entire team wore three years ago?"
"Uh-huh. She asked me if you had finally gotten rid of that jacket yet."
I guess that's when my true feelings about this junior-high-school level situation came out. This brand of immaturity is something I was hoping to have left in Westbury... in Jericho... in Queens Village... in East Meadow... just... back east, in New York. I was hoping that gone were the days where I had to deal with people obsessed with pointing out other people's faults or areas requiring improvement, even though they'd failed "to pluck the great pillar out of their own eyes," to paraphrase a Jewish proverb. I'd seen another type-A personality firing stones from the turret perched high upon her glass house.
So, when I made it to work, I opened my e-mail... and saw, among other things, a message from one of my team leads, with a PowerPoint presentation attached. The message read:
Scott,
I just want to make sure you are aware of the Perot Dress Code Policy. Mr. Perot frequently visits the Service Desk area as well as Perot current and potential customers, therefore, we always want to look our best.
Please review the attached Perot Dress Code Presentation. Please note that there is no hats to be worn once you enter the building.
Let me know if you have any questions.
Actually, I do have a rather complex question. I noticed I was the only recipient on this dress code e-mail; I'm left to infer that either there was a complaint or I violated some rule. I have never been out of dress code since I've been here. No one has ever said anything to me about what I've worn
except for Zee. If the comment is about my headgear, I've only worn it upon entering the building, and have always taken it off when I've gotten to my desk. Why the overkill, and more importantly (getting back to the glass-house comment), did you bother to send an e-mail to the ex-model sitting in the next row who shows up to work in obviously distracting apparel, including a top with a plunging neckline which shows off what appear to be a 36DD bust, while barely covering enough of her midsection so that the large tattoo on her back peeks through when she bends over her desk to write something down, sticking her behind out? Several things in that PowerPoint presentation overtly describe that type of clothing as what CherryTAP would call... well, NSFW.
There are plenty of things in the world to blow up about: your paycheck being short, your car getting a flat tire, your roommates' pet puppy christening the carpet just in front of your bedroom door. These are all relatively large things compared to what I'm being pelted with at work. However, as Ovid once said,
"Adde parvum parvo magnus acervus erit" ("Add little to little and there will be a big pile").
