It's Saturday night, and I'm blogging and researching for an article. My life is so full.

So I thought that I'd share the misery that is reflected in my daily work correspondence. Episodes such as the following email exchange rile my inner Wegnerd, and it's all I can do to retain my composure and perservere through the business-speak and overinflated language. Oh, and it's also tough to keep myself from bitchslapping people with a dictionary and a syntax guide.

Read and enjoy your own confusion. Nothing has been changed or omitted to protect the ignorant.

The other guy starts: "Please issue to Wing Chan for records in Agile and Corey N and David B so they can communicate to Hitron."

Me: "I just need to clarify. Do you want me to send this to Wing Chan so he can put it in Agile, or do you want me to put it in Agile and then forward to Wing Chan?"

The Other Guy: "Have the final been issued to our supplier already. You can work thru Agile record keeping with Wing."

Me (to myself): What the fuck does that mean? Is that a question, a statement, or a demand? Have I gone crazy? Have I suddenly lost my power to comprehend? How do I respond to this? Why couldn't he have just answered the question? Why am I here? Is this a test?

I think that I'll just go home and deal with this tomorrow.

When I talked to him the next day, he admitted that he often writes emails too quickly and omits words. He then proceeded to not answer the question and tell me a bunch of things I didn't need to know.

This exchange proves that you can earn a master's degree, and yet still not master the art of communication.

I'm a spaz

At least at "work" I am. That is the first official reference to my new job as work. This doesn't mean that I have settled in and feel like one of the gang. Not yet. I'm still the new guy, and I'm sure that I'm still the odd new guy.

Because I'm a spaz. It's just my nature, especially when I start something new. I'm on edge. My nerves are raw. My senses are heightened. All of this manifests in quirkiness and clumsiness.

I jump, visibly, when I run into people unexpectedly, especially at corners and when entering the washroom. So I approach these potential embarassment zones cautiously, slowly, which probably makes me look like a freak. I open the bathroom door a crack and look in. Casual observers, of which I'm sure there are many (because my surreptitious bathroom entry probably draws a lot of attention), probably think I'm a freak. I can't argue. If I run into someone who is leaving the washroom, I jump a couple of feet into the air. Freaky!

And I'm clumsy. As I've written before, there are too many purveyors of tasty frozen blended coffee beverages in the vicinity, so I usually get one when I go for my lunch time walk. (Who am I kidding? The beverage negates the walk. But it's my delusion, and I like it.) When I'm finished, I take the empty drink container to the coffee room, where I rinse it out before throwing it away. I know...the eco-horror! The reason why I rinse it out is because I don't want dirty garbage going into the garbage. And the reason why I take it to the lunch room is because I figure that that garbage gets thrown out more often than the garbage can at my desk. Therefore, less dirty stinky garbage.

However, last week, when I was doing my compulsive good duty and rinsing out my drink, the straw gleefully leapt out of the cup and swirled down the drain. Even though it was in dream-like (or nightmarish) slow motion, I could not catch it before it was gone. After a few seconds of "shit, shit, shit" thinking, I realized that I had no choice but to fess up. So I went to the office manager, who followed me back with her extra-long tweezers and a positive attitude. When we looked under the sink and saw that the downpipe was over a foot long, we realized that I was screwed. She made the executive decision that the straw could stay because this was the coffee room sink, and that only liquids enter the drain. Unsure of the decision, but relieved that I had confessed, I went back to my desk.

The next day, the Roto-Rooter guy stopped by. I didn't see him come upstairs, but I also couldn't deny that his visit was mighty timely. No one asked me to foot the bill.

So if you want to know how the job is going, the answer is: I'm a spaz, but perhaps a lucky one.

I need a good moodle. But unlike some people, I'm not even that organized. But I am pack-ratty. There are at least three desks (one is a drafting table...so much square footage to cover!), a dining room table, and various other flat surfaces covered with my precious ephemera. My biggest downfall is newspaper clippings. I barely have time to read the papers, so I flip weekly (not weakly) through the gathered pile and clip out anything that interests me. Then I put those in another pile, which I will someday read/scan, and sort into stuff for the magazine, stuff for me, and stuff for the recycling bin. It's MY system, and I like it.

My mother complains about my pile (to my dad and not to me), saying that it is a fire hazard. So is the stack of Christmas Wish Books she saved from the day my sister was born until the day both of us realized that there is no Santa. I won't divulge how old I was. I was old enough but not too old.

Anyhow, I've completed week #4 at the New Job. I guess it's about time I stop calling it new. I'm settling in, I guess. By the end of this week, I almost felt like I knew what I was doing AND that I was being productive. So it's almost like I'm earning the money they're giving me. Almost. I still can't believe that I'm getting paid to do this. I think my disbelief is connected to all the years I worked crappy restaurant jobs. You work damn hard, long and late hours, for a mere pittance without pity. Instead, people usually treat you like crap. But not at the (new) job. People are mostly respectful, kind, and nice. Fun? Not so much (still). But nice.

Today is my dog day of late summer. Just me and the dog and some quality time. The poor little guy, who is still recovering from his surgery over a month ago, is doing well. He limps a little if he wants to run. But there's nearly no sign of the injury if he walks. But that doesn't mean that he won't work my sympathy nerve whenever he can. I swear that he has given me the "oh, it's you...whatsyername" look several times. So today, it's just me and him. His routine hasn't changed. He's sleeping. But he's sleeping next to me. And that's okay.