8 posts tagged “secretary”
It's already been that kind of week. I got my annual review yesterday and my boss gave me "exceptional" marks on all categories. That's me: Redzilla the Exceptional Secretary.
I am not currently Redzilla the Exceptional Writer, because along with my exceptional marks as a secretary, I got three (3) rejections yesterday. I'll return when I feel more like an Exceptional Blogger.
I'm always interested in the quotes and phrases people include with their signatures on e-mails. I've never used one, either personally or professionally. After all, what would I put? Don't make me destroy your Tokyo? Answer my question, bitch, or I will cut you? You can see the problem. My particular kind of humor doesn't translate well into e-mail signatures.
When I worked at a church, it came as no surprise to me that my co-workers all had little religious phrases and Biblical quotes in their signature lines. Some of them were even so delusional as to suggest scripture that I might use in mine. Once, for a week, I jokingly used a signature with my name and my favorite Biblical verse: Jesus wept.
Now that I work at a Big-12 University, though, I confess my surprise at the number of people who include very personal things in their signatures. One lecturer signs his with Matthew 4:17--"Repent for the Kingdom of Heaven is near." At first I thought this was meant ironically, as a warning to his students. Later I learned he was quite sincere, although he doesn't seem to have the appropriate sandwich board to go with that sentiment.
Another woman signs hers: Work like you don't need the money, love like you have never been hurt, and dance like you do when nobody's watching. It seems to suit her rather vibrant personality, but I did find it interesting that an accountant would tell me to work like I don't need the money.
Today's signature is brought to you from the Department of Irony. I've recently had a little run-in with someone in another department from whom I had to ask a favor. This favor wasn't for me. It was for the College, and I was asked to ask for the favor by the secretary to one of the Asst. Deans at the College. The response to my request was...snippy, to put it politely. Unnecessarily snippy and a refusal to boot. The secretary of the other department, for reasons that will always confound me, felt that it was not only okay but desirable to be rude to me, a fellow secretary. It's like Raisin Syndrome or something.
This rude secretary's signature line?
Make yourself necessary to somebody. ~Ralph Waldo Emerson
I guess that's as necessary as she's willing to be. I hope somebody is benefiting from her personal philosophy of necessary-ness. The moral of the story? Don't believe everything you read in an e-mail signature.
Oh, sure we all knew they were hell on big red wheels when it came to genocide and Final Solutions, but were we aware how devious their torture techniques are? I wasn't, until I walked by their office this morning and realized what they're doing to their new student worker.
I don't really understand how it works, but German is about half the size of our department, but every semester they have three student workers. We have one student worker and she's about 70% student, 30% worker. As I've mentioned, there really isn't 100 hours a week worth of work in our department to split among the three of us, so our little worker spends about half her time doing homework. It's federal work study money, so I don't mind her putting in 10 hours a week of studying.
The Germans, though, the Germans. They got a new student worker two weeks ago and trotted him by to meet me. His name is Amet; he seems like a nice kid. A sophomore, originally from Egypt.
Every day this week, when I walk by, what are the Germans making Amet do? He's sitting on the sofa in their reception area, listening attentively to the receptionist, Oklahoma*, talk. At least he's doing his very best to listen attentively. He's been there for an hour and a half and his eyes are a little glassy, but he's still nodding and making little listening noises at the appropriate places.
That's his job, basically. They've got a student worker who makes copies and a student worker who answers the phone and makes coffee. And they've got a student worker who listens to Oklahoma* talk. It's a tough job, but somebody has to do it, and better Amet than me.
*Not actually her name, but she IS named after a state. In fact, here in Brain Tumor Hall, three different departments have secretaries named after states. After you dismiss the obvious ones, Georgia, Virginia, Carolina, and Alabama, can you guess what state the German receptionist is named for?
Today is one of those days when I need a warning sign. Nothing too fancy--just a little something that lets people know they should not cross me.
Such a delightful morning. I've got four separate payroll crises--all caused by the failure of other people to follow my simple instructions. Naturally, at least one of the problems involves a faculty member who thinks I'm psychic. Of all the amazing powers I've claimed to have over the years, I've never claimed to know what a PhD was thinking of doing with her grant money. Like trying to guess whether a monkey plans to take a nap or fling poo.
Two of the problems took nasty phone calls in which I brow-beat people who had failed to listen. The other two problems will require the use of my time machine to unfuck the problem. Anybody want to go back to July 29th? That's where I'm headed.
I've also just hired my new student worker, after tormenting interviewing the various applicants. I have to say, after years of having bosses who were micro-managers or nutjobs, I like having a boss who says, "Whatever you decide will be just fine." That's right, pal.
Outlook for today--in control, but nobody better cross me. I plan to get in slack today and anybody who interferes with that plan is cruising for a bruising.
Dear Freshmen,
Welcome to college. I hope you learn a lot and broaden your horizons--there really is more to the world than you heard about in Podunk, Kansas. I'm glad you're here, because your tuition pays my salary. So be sure to pay promptly; my mortgage is due the first of each month. Now that you're here, however, let's just run over a few quick ground rules that will help all of us get along better in these first few weeks.
- If you're walking along with four of your friends, please leave a reasonable space on one side to allow people traveling in the opposite direction to get past you. If you do make the mistake of walking five-abreast and you encounter me, one of you will certainly be injured, and on my good days, I'll get two of you by taking my share of the sidewalk out of the middle. I may look harmless, but I will hurt you and it won't be an accident. You'll get an elbow in your kidney as we pass, or I'll step on your unprotected flip-flop-wearing toes, or my large backpack will slip off my shoulder and slam into you. As you may not yet know what I look like, I recommend following this precautionary guideline at all times.
- Similarly, do not stand in the cafeteria line talking to your new friend behind the counter while I'm trying to get lunch. I only have an hour and if you steal 10 minutes of it, there will be dire consequences. I may not be the secretary in your department, but when you inconvenience a secretary, there is karmic retribution. Someday your time sheet may go missing, or your add/drop permission form may be filled out incorrectly and ultimately, it will be because once you stole ten minutes of a secretary's lunch hour.
- As for you, Class Act in the bathroom stall next to mine, consider this your one and only warning. If you come into the bathroom and stall #3 is occupied, you have four other toilet stall choices. You can go into stalls #1, 5, 6, or 7. Never, never, never go into stalls #2 and 4. Once you're in your stall, you can blow it up. That's what it's there for, but do not ever take out your cell phone and begin talking while you're in the middle of taking a crap. If you insist on taking the stall next to mine and talking on your phone, do not be surprised when I yell, "OH MY GOD! WHAT IS THAT SMELL? FUCKING CHRIST, LADY, IS YOUR ASS ROTTING OFF? THAT SHIT IS BURNING THE HAIR OUT OF MY NOSE! COULD I GET A COURTESY FLUSH?" Also, when you come out of the stall and I'm giving you the stink eye, don't waste your breath saying, "That's so rude," because all I'm going to say is, "You know what's rude? Treating the bathroom like a phone booth. Get some fucking manners, you little twat."
- If you're nice to us, we'll be nice to you. If you have a question, you can ask it. If you need help, just say so. If you're lost, just point hopelessly at your map. I recognize the universal gesture for "Oh hell, where am I going?" I even have a time machine that lets me travel back to yesterday and unfuck whatever mistake you made with your paperwork. All you have to do is say, "Excuse me, could you..." And at the end, just say, "Thank you."
Sincerely,
Redzilla
I attended a training session for new purchasing guidelines at the university this morning, with a hundred other secretaries from other university departments. It was like being in a room full of people who had just been unfrozen after ten, twenty, even thirty years in cryogenic fashion tanks. I had the eeriest feeling that with a little investigation into the hairstyle trends of the last thirty years, I would be able to tell what year most of the women began working at the university, judging only by their hairstyles.
There was a woman with the giant Hairbow Ponytail of 1986.
She was joined by her compatriot: Clue Catcher. The lower mass of the hair had been toned down in the intervening 20 years, but the upper "wave" was still standing tall.
And the Lady Mullet. Let's not forget her.
There was even one magnificent example of the 1960's Bouffant Helmet Flip. She's probably going to retire soon, so it was exciting to get to see her still in situ in her secretarial position.
As for the new generation. They were there in all their Jennifer Aniston glory, like it was still the 4th season of Friends. Sure, right now there's nothing strange about a ten-year old hairstyle, but in another ten years...
As for me, I'm unsure. It's been so long since I've had anything resembling a "popular hairstyle," that I just don't know what I'll look like in ten years. Perhaps I'll be frozen in time, too, with a headful of messy red hair.
With the feeling that I'm in need of some discipline, I'm taking a writing assignment from Mathilda today. She writes:
Write a paragraph about yourself in the third person. Make yourself one of your own characters- describe everything about yourself, even if it's unflattering. Describe your habits. Are we supposed to love or hate you? Don't be afraid to flatter yourself, either! If you're a great dancer but a horrible cook, mention both. This can be a character sketch or even a scene that you think shows a lot about you.
She doesn't take her eyes off the computer screen, even when the young man in the camouflage ballcap says, "I need to declare my major."
Her fingers do not hesitate on the keyboard. She says, "What's your major?"
"French," he answers, with an insufficient degree of uncertainty for her taste. If one is going to speak in such firm tones, one ought to have the decency to major in history or business or engineering.
"So can I?" the young man says.
At last, her gaze drifts toward him, although for a few moments after, her fingers go on typing. "You just did," she says.
"I have this form, though. Is this where I bring the form?"
"Ah," she says gently, in the tone one uses to humor crazy people. She catches the end of one braid in between thumb and finger, rubs it as though polishing verdigris off the copper in it. Glancing at the young man's form, she says, "You haven't filled it out."
"Well, is this where I bring it?"
"Not the blank ones. If you filled it out, you could leave it here." She is careful to leave out any pronoun that might render her responsible for the form, completed or not. While he scribbles, her gaze has already returned to the computer screen. After a small adjustment to her glasses, she puts her fingers back on the keyboard and begins typing.
"Which copy do I keep?" the young man says. She squints hard at the computer screen, willing him to silence until the sentence is complete. Leaving a dangling sentence is always dangerous. Even the lapse of ten seconds can return a different writer to the story.
She wants to say, "Fend for yourself," but can't spare the words.
After another moment of silence, the young man looks at the form, mumbles, "Pink Department Copy, Yellow Registrar, Green College, Blue Student." He fends for himself, tearing off the blue copy. She goes on typing, doesn't speak when the young man leaves his form on the edge of her desk.
