PC Load Letter: Tales from the Office

2009-07-26T12:33:00.000-07:00

This blog has moved here. Thanks for reading.

Am I a writer who works as a financial aid advisor, or a financial aid advisor who writes?

2008-12-13T17:53:00.000-08:00

I think I have that existential dilemma figured out. I think writing all the time, even while I'm at work, so I'd say I'm a writer who works as a financial aid advisor. I'd like to be a writer who works as a writer--hopefully that will come soon.

I find my work experiences and some certain traits of my colleagues creeping into my writing. Such as a scene in my completed manuscript, Office Politics, where narrative character Frannie Freeman falls down in the parking lot for absolutely no reason. That incident is based on an actual occurrence. I couldn't walk across a flat parking lot swept free of debris in the middle of summer without falling--which is pretty much what happened. Behind the Heavy Equipment/Diesel Mechanics classrooms, no less. With all the Heavy Equipment/Diesel Mechanics students watching.

As if that public humiliation wasn't enough, when Chicken Little and I got back to the office, she tells me, "Sharon, I KNOW you've got to be bleeding; you fell on that knee pretty hard." I tried to pull up my pants leg, but it wouldn't go up over my knee (that was back when I was a slimmer and trimmer Sharon who could wear peg-leg jeans) (I just dated myself with that term, didn't I?). There's nothing for it but to take the pants down and have a look at that knee.

I didn't have an office at the time--she'd been promoted before me and got the last remaining office; I was still in a cube, and students had no problem popping around my cube wall to ask a question when they wanted to circumvent the line. So we went into her office and I stood behind the door while she she stood in front of the window so students passing by outside couldn't see me. This was necessary because both windows in her office--the one looking out into our lobby and the one looking out onto the campus--were those tall, narrow sidelights. Behind the door was the only place I could stand and hope to not be seen.

So down come the jeans, and sure enough, I was bleeding. My knee was hamburger, in fact. I spent the evening pulling threads out of the wound, and let me tell you, that is not fun! I think I'd rather go through childbirth again. Anyway, there I was, pants down below my knees, in my friend's office with the door closed--and in came our work study student to ask a question. She sees Chicken Little by the window and says "What are you doing?" Then she turns and sees me behind the door with my pants down and exclaims, "OH MY GOD!! I DIDN'T NEED TO SEE THAT!"

We're pretty sure she was scarred for life; once she left to do her clinicals in Salt Lake City, she took a job there in Utah and hasn't been back since. I doubt a lifetime of therapy could erase from her mind the vision of me behind the door with my pants half off.

And as if THAT wasn't bad enough... A week later I decided that riding my bike to work was the way to help my campus meet the Commute Trip requirements of the state. All went well until I got to my building and started to get off my bike. I don't know what happened, but the next thing I knew I was on my back in the grass, staring up at the sky. A student across the street called to me, "Are you all right?" I recognized him from the week before; he was in our lobby when I limped back into the office after falling. God. Kill. Me.

But here I sit--scarred physically but relatively unscathed mentally--with two completed manuscripts, a third about half-finished, a fourth about one-third finished, and a fifth about one-fourth finished. I woke up last night for no reason at all, and lay awake for about an hour and a half. I have this weird form of insomnia where I can't stay asleep for the whole night. I don't know what the technical term for it is, but I call it sleepus interruptus. It's hell on a work night, but last night was no big deal. By the time I went to sleep, I had the rest of my current WIP planned out. Women's fiction...who'd'a thought I'd ever write women's fiction? I'm no girly-girl; I'm not really much of a romantic, to tell the truth. But I find that my writing consistently puts relationships in the forefront, and often romance comes into play. Maybe I'm more romantic than I thought I was.

I think it's really important that you know who--and what--you are. So yeah--I'm a writer who works as a financial aid advisor.

a day in the life of yours truly

2008-12-07T15:32:00.000-08:00

I posted this in my other blog (under my pen name), but it really seems to belong here. :-)
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4:30: Shut off the computer, and THEN see the call that sneaked into the queue at the very last micro-second. Oy.

4:45: Finally make it out to the parking lot because I’ve been gabbing with Wide-Mouth Frog and The Happy Wanderer. Sometimes Wide-Mouth Frog is already gone, and we’re just waiting until she’s clear of the parking lot and it’s safe to go out.

4:50: Pull up to the curb and have to PARALLEL PARK in front of MY OWN HOUSE because the neighbor, who has a billion cars, has parked two of his trucks along the curb and taken my parking spot, and La Princessa's (my daughter) friend Clueless (and yes, she is) is parked behind Long-Suffering Spouse in the driveway. Make mental note: Charge Clueless rent for parking spot.

4:55: Get out of the car. (Yes, it took me five minutes to parallel park. Thanks for noticing. One minute was actually spent listening to the last bit of Jimmy Wayne’s “Do You Believe Me Now” at a decibel that can be heard in Omaha, so there.) Pet indoor/outdoor kitties (Pudge, Bandido, and Sylvester).

5:00: Finally in the house. Long-Suffering Spouse asks, as he does every night, why it takes me half an hour to drive less than a mile home from work. WonderBoy (son ) answers, as he does every night: “Because she’s flapping her jaws.” La Princessa asks if she can “take the car” to “go on her walk” to the park; still not sure how driving to the park equates to taking a walk, but that isn’t the oddest thing about my family, so I don’t worry about it too much. I go downstairs to my bedroom and change into my sweats, and head upstairs to do homework.

5:50-6:30: Check my e-mail. Do homework while watching [The Office/House/Dexter/Supernatural/CIS/24—depending on what night it is or what Long-Suffering Spouse has rented] and while serving as Long-Suffering Spouse’s living & breathing spell-check and thesaurus—he’s writing an e-mail to [pirate brother/rocket scientist brother/teacher brother/sister/nephew] (Yes, my one brother-in-law really is a rocket scientist. He works for a company that subcontracts to the Department of Defense. When something goes wrong with a rocket or missile, he is one of the guys who figures it out) (no, my other brother-in-law isn’t really a pirate; he just talks like one. AAARGH!).

6:30ish: Somewhere in here Long-Suffering Spouse makes dinner and brings me a plate or coaxes me to the dining nook table.

Around 7ish: We feed the animals. The cats are conditioned to the clanging of their food bowls almost like Pavlov’s dogs were conditioned to the ringing of the bell. The dog cowers by the back door with her food dish, afraid to wade through the writhing mass of feline feeding frenzy (she has learned hard lessons). For her own safety, we let her out in the back yard until they’re done. We have to break up several ninja-kitty skirmishes because the kitten, Chloe, tries to steal the others' food.

7ish to 10:00: Homework. I quit at 10:00. Now I can get a little writing done!

10:05: End up in chat with my writing girlfriends…

11:45: Realize it’s nearly midnight and I’ve only written three paragraphs, but I had a good chat with my friends. They had some good ideas for my tricky plot issue. Now if I could just find time in my busy schedule to write…

Morning has broken (don’t expect me to fix it. I can barely keep track of the superglue in my house).

5:45: Hit snooze button first time

5:52: Hit snooze button second time

5:59: Hit snooze button third time

6:06: Hit snooze button fourth time (after letting it play a little because a good song is on)

6:13: Hit snooze button fifth time (Long-Suffering Spouse is starting to make little grumbling noises of annoyance)

6:20: Hit snooze button sixth time—because I know what you guys don’t: my clock is set seventeen minutes ahead because when I reset it after a power outage two years ago, the silly thing went so fast, it went right past the correct time. I made a mental note that it was seventeen minutes ahead, and there it’s been for two years. So really, it’s only 6:03.

6:27 (aka 6:10): I roll out of bed, stumble into the bathroom, brush my teeth and hop into the shower. After five minutes or so, I’m able to open my eyes.

7:07 (aka 6:50): Makeup and hair are done. I get dressed, wondering for the one-trillionth time where I put my dark blue backless Keds… Maybe they got sucked into the same black hole as my first wedding ring and my favorite book…

7:17 (aka 7:00): Eat a breakfast with one hand while holding Chloe with the other so she doesn’t dive into my plate—only because WonderBoy has gotten up early and went into the bathroom and doesn’t appear to be emerging from it any time soon, so I can’t corral her in the bathroom (I can’t even walk down the hall when he’s in the bathroom without him freaking out: “Don’t come in, Mom!” Like I’d want to…).

7:47 (aka 7:30): Gather my jacket, sunglasses, glasses & contacts cases…put them all down because I HAVE to straighten the living room before I go…gather them all back up, forgetting my glasses & contacts case as I do every morning. Run out to the car. Run back in the house to get my cell phone, forgetting my glasses & contacts case again. Back out to the car. Have to move the seat back while standing outside because La Princessa borrowed the car last night and she’s short. Start the car, check the gas gauge. Hmmm…MAYBE I can make it to the gas station on these fumes she left me…

7:52: Pull into the parking lot a la Jeff Gordon (watching The Happy Wanderer leap out of the way), almost late because there was a line at the gas station.

Oy. I need coffee!!!

Post Script: The backless Keds have been found. Alas, the book and my first wedding ring are still lost.

Surviving the Cataclysm

2008-12-07T13:53:00.000-08:00

You've reached the blog of a possibly mad financial aid advisor at a large community college. If you've reached this blog by mistake, I suggest you run now. Should you continue forward, you do so at your own risk, and I cannot be held responsible for any bad dreams, gross outs, or coffee snorted out the nostrils via the sinus cavity.

Every blog has to start somewhere, so I'll start with how my week went. No, actually, I'll start with the "superhero" names for my office coworkers, for the sake of their anonymity. This is an idea I had for my current novel-in-progress, and it seems suitable to carry it over to here. Some of the names used in my manuscript are used here; forgive me for the lack of originality, and please know that none of my characters in the novel are based on anyone living (only on some of their antics and circumstances, my own included).

Fearless Leader - Boss Lady's boss. This is not a term of endearment, either. We're the redheaded stepchild of the departments under his scope of supervision, and he's often clueless about our needs and requirements.
Boss Lady - Our fearless leader. She does two jobs for the pay of one and little thanks except from us.
Pokey - Slower than the movement of the tectonic plates. It may take her a while, but she'll eventually get the job done; unfortunately, it's usually too little, too late.
The Happy Wanderer - We never know where she is, which is unfortunate because she knows everything. We only seem to need her extensive knowledge when we can't find her.
The Cruise Director - If there's a party to be planned, she's your gal. She has decorations for all seasons and is ready to plan an event at the drop of a hat. I may also refer to her as Her Majesty, as she is the self-professed Queen of Everything.
Chicken Little - The sky is falling, the sky is falling! Everything is a catastrophe. But she's fun.
The UOM - Every office has one of these: the Unofficial Office Manager. We love her to death, but sometimes she takes command when it's not her place to.
The Germaphobe - She's the one who's always cleaning and disinfecting. And yes, we give her large rations of crap about it.
Wide-Mouth Frog - Couldn't shut her up if you superglued her lips together. If you want something broadcast far and wide, she's your girl.
Yours Truly, aka Tasmanian Devil - Don't piss her off. Please. This is me. :-D

Now, for how my week went:

The Federal Student Aid Conference was held Dec 2 - 5 in Las Vegas. Yours Truly was scheduled to go, along with The UOM, but due to statewide budget cuts, our travel was axed. Probably a good thing, too--not sure I could have afforded Vegas this year. My Exploder died and I had to get a new car. Cost us a minimal down, but it was our Christmas money, so times are tight.

Aside from that, it's a good thing for the office that we didn't go as well. As it was, there were five of us left in the office (Yours Truly, Chicken Little, The Germaphobe, The UOM, and Pokey). Pokey doesn't answer phones, although she's supposed to, so that left four of us on phones. Our work study students had various issues this week: mandatory DSHS one-day seminar, illness, death in the family, and broken pipe in apartment, so we only had intermittent help.

Of course, this week was the last week to turn in paperwork and have our guarantee that we'll have financial aid ready to pay tuition. Last-minute Lucys scurried like lemmings into our office--most of them after calling first; nothing like a double-whammy--to turn in paperwork and resolve issues. At one point in the week, I felt like that lady in OfficeSpace--the one who answers the phone multi-line phone with the same greeting over and over: "Financial Aid, how may I help you? Financial Aid, how may I help you?" Talk about conditioning--I don't salivate at the ring of the bell; I get up to answer the phone.

The UOM nearly imploded over Pokey not answering phones or disappearing for 45-minute lunches and 30-minute breaks (our allotted times are 30 and 15 minutes, respectively); Chicken Little managed to maintain her equilibrium, and we actually managed to have a pretty good time even though it was really stressful. At one point in time, we found the front desk unmanned, so she and I ended up there for two and a half hours without quite knowing how. Since The UOM had class and The Germaphobe had to pick up her mother at the airport, that left Pokey on phones (or, rather, not on phones). And Fearless Leader never showed his face until Friday afternoon despite the fact he promise Boss Lady he would. Typical.

Add to the stress of the week: I had my final transcription tests to take, and 37 applications to score for a position at the District business office for which I'm serving on the interview committee. Guess what I did all day Saturday? Yup--read applications. And by the way, peeps, having totted up the end-of-the-day cash receipts at the local 7-11 does not qualify you as a Fiscal Technician. Oy. At least learn some PeachTree.