Jiggery pokery

The job I've held for the last two years is one where I'm charged with strictly interpreting certain laws and policies.

And one of the things I've had to get used to is that policies are different from laws. You can appeal policies; you can make exceptions to policies, you can negotiate policies. You can't do that with laws.

In many ways, that's been a plus. When someone presses me with, "Well, can't you make an exception?" Or "Would it make a difference if we....?" or "Who can I speak with to get a waiver?" it's a quick conversation-ender to be able to say, "I'm sorry, but this is in the ordinance. It's a law."

There's a comfort in that. I can't get bullied. I don't ever make promises I can't keep. I don't go out on a limb for someone because I like them, and I don't have to feel bad for not going out on one for someone I don't like.

After two years I've gotten familiar enough with the laws I work with to figure out how they can be manipulated. I don't mind telling people how they can change their plans so that the law doesn't apply to them. This is always a good solution, but people have to make that decision themselves. And once they no longer need my services, I don't continue working with them, because now they are out of my jurisdiction.

But this week I ended up getting more involved than usual with, by coincidence, TWO situations. In order to solve one client's problem, I had to advocate for them with another client, to negotiate away a privilege that the second client didn't really need. For the first situation, it was because the poor woman had been jerked around by others so much that she was near tears. For the second, it was because although they were nice, the group I had to help was very powerful in our local political sphere, and I feared the uproar that would come if I said "No."

In both situations, my subtle manipulation was a win-win for all parties involved, without breaking any ordinances.  But now that it's all settled, I feel uncomfortable.

One of the things that makes me uncomfortable was how easy it was for me to engage in this jiggery-pokery. I was actually good at it. And my superiors gave me great praise. But it was also stressful, being a go-between, engaging in persuasive wheedling on the phone, biting my nails waiting for someone to respond to me. My stomach was actually tense.

I can see what a slippery slope it is for those with political power. One day you're the hero who solves everyone's problem, and then next day you're stepping over the line.

I'm glad I'm getting out.

Hobby horse

Detail from Children's games by Pieter Breugel the Elder, 1560, Wikipedia

Some communities have very finely tuned areas of sensitivity, and the community where I work is one. Many people in our little beach town are very, very concerned about the treatment of animals.

In recent years, a children's pony ride concession, which was a long-standing attraction at one of our farmers' market, became targeted by people claiming the ponies were being treated cruelly. I have no opinion on pony rides myself, but the result of the activists' efforts were to shut down the pony ride by failing to renew its contract, and have the City ban any future pony rides at the market.

Back in 2007, the City's squirrel abatement program in the parks came under fire. Not because the City was killing squirrels - they already knew that wouldn't fly. But the abatement program called for chemical sterilization of squirrels. Activists protested, claiming such interference with the squirrels' reproductive rights was cruel.

This year, I spoke with a local school PTSA leader who wanted to know what permits might be required to do a fundraiser called Cowpatty Bingo, which involved cows doing what they do best.  Later, I heard back from him that they'd abandoned their plans. Some of the moms were concerned that such an activity violated the cows' dignity.

So today, I received a call from far up the food chain, our department director. An outraged citizen had contacted her regarding a newspaper ad for a children's event put on by the local Jaycees in a City park. The event, titled "Frontier Days," will feature "a day of family fun! Wear your best Western wear! Tots to twelve years old! Face-painting, water balloons, and pony races!"

"I am very disappointed that the City is sponsoring an animal act in a City Park," read the email. "I was under the impression that there is an ordinance prohibiting animals in parks, except for dogs on leashes. The City recently banned the exhibition of exotic animals in P_____ Park and also ended the pony rides at the [redacted]Farmers' Market on Sundays.

As you know, many residents objected to the pony rides on ethical grounds. Now many more farmers' markets are eliminating pony rides from their activities. So, this announcement about having pony races at "Frontier Days" takes me by surprise. 

Is it too late to cancel the pony races?"

Hence the urgent call from upstairs. Apparently, certain City Council members' phones were ringing, too. I was directed to get to the bottom of this.

It didn't take long. One phone call to the event organizer. "Oh," she said. "They're ponies on sticks. You know. Toys. Stuffed ones?"

"You mean hobby horses?" I asked.

"Oh, is that what they're called? Yeah. The kids are going to ride them around."

Another impending crisis averted.

I think someone's riding a hobby horse, but I'm not sure it's the kids in the park!

Cheese in the Labyrinth - an Exegisis

“Who Moved My Cheese?”  by Dr. Spencer Johnson is said to be the most popular business book in the world. As an employee motivational tool it’s ubiquitous, but it can be oddly counterproductive as a morale-booster. Indeed, so many managers hand out “Who Moved My Cheese?” before layoffs or re-organizations that just the sight of it telegraphs to workers that they should start checking the job boards.

So when our newly hired manager announced at a staff meeting that he wanted us all to read “Who Moved My Cheese?”, several people just rolled their eyes at one another, behind his back.

I read it back in 2002 – that was three or four departmental re-organizations ago.  And of course, I love my cheese.  The book is a simple parable, designed to help people adapt to change. But now I’ve read it with a fresh eye, I’m seeing something I missed the first time.

“Who Moved My Cheese?” is a tale of a dystopian, cruel and arbitrary world, ruled by an anonymous and invisible monster, where captive creatures carry out desperate lives bereft of meaning, to no purpose.

Four characters – two mice, and two “littlepeople” - are trapped in a maze and forced to seek out their food, or Cheese. They spend frantic times racing through the maze searching, and getting lost in frightening blind corners, empty-bellied.

When they finally find a huge store of food, they mark its location, and adapt their lives around it.

Then, one day, their Cheese vanishes.

Like characters in a movie, each of the four learns to cope with the disastrous loss of Cheese.

The mice Sniff and Scurry collaborate, and go off to find New Cheese.

Littleperson Hem has a mental breakdown, and refuses to leave the empty Cheese Station.

His counterpart Haw, after much indecision, ventures out into the maze to seek New Cheese. He must overcome fear, self-doubt, and experiences a few set-backs, but eventually he finds not only New Cheese, but is reunited with Sniff and Scurry.

Haw considers and then discards the notion of rescuing Hem. Hem is left to survive or die. His fate is unknown.

Haw’s story is like the classic hero’s journey, a concept introduced by Joseph Campbell in The Hero with a Thousand Faces (1949). Joining Hem in denial of the problem, he first tries to ignore the call to action, but eventually he is drawn forth into the strange and frightening world of the maze, as Campbell says, “beyond the veil of the known into the unknown,” on a quest for the ultimate goal.

There, he travels what Campbell calls the “road of trials.” The epiphany he experiences becomes a series of simple, obvious truths. Change Happens. Anticipate Change. Adapt to Change. Enjoy Change. It's as simple and obvious as the message another hero, Dorothy Gale of Kansas, brought back from her journey to the unknown Oz, There's No Place Like Home.

Haw writes these truths as messages on the wall, markers to guide others – an Ariadne’s thread, like that used by Theseus to evade the Minotaur. The message is both a means of rescue for others, and the Gift itself, brought back to humankind.

The world of “Who Moved My Cheese?”, which is meant to mirror the corporate environment, is a strangely closed one, containing only these four characters. They are powerless and unaware, with no one to rely on but themselves. They don’t know what institution or person has trapped them here. They don’t question the reason they’ve been imprisoned instead of being free. They have no wider world-view, their lives revolve only around Cheese.

The smart ones, Sniff and Scurry, form a mutually beneficial alliance. To succeed, however, they abandon Hem and Haw to a fate of starvation and possible death. (When Hem rejoins them at the new Cheese Station, the reader may wonder how the balance of power between Hem and his murine rivals has been tipped. But that’s another parable!)

We are asked to accept the fact that Cheese just gets moved arbitrarily without explanation. Though overconsumption is cited as one reason, the vanished Cheese, moldy as it was, was simply taken. Why? Was it justified? What greater good came from the moving of the Cheese? Or was its removal a criminal act?

The book’s title is “Who Moved My Cheese?”, but that question goes unanswered. We never learn the identity of the person or thing with power over the Cheese. Yet it is a compelling question. Who is this omnipotent agent?

In myth, the Minotaur is monstrous, an unnatural creature neither man nor beast. Not unlike a multinational corporation, the Minotaur must devour people to sustain itself. In “Who Moved My Cheese?” the maze’s Minotaur seems to move the Cheese around for his own cruel amusement. The book assumes the reader will accept this tyrannical state of affairs without protest.

And while we’re at it, can we address for a moment how the author marginalizes the achievement of Sniff and Scurry? These are the true heroes of the book. While the littlepeople fall apart, these brave, proactive mice exhibit teamwork and diligence. They’ve already learned to anticipate change, the lesson that was so hard-won by Haw. Why isn’t their accomplishment celebrated? The author even dismisses them with casual, institutionalized speciesism as “simple rodents” with “good instincts.”

While it’s true that Haw learns a valuable lesson, it seems sadly pointless. What’s the purpose in teaching these poor incarcerated creatures to anticipate and react to change, when their lives are, essentially bereft of meaning? What will they do with their new wisdom, if they’re doomed to be trapped in a maze?

Haw endures a heroic journey of trials, but unlike Campbell’s heroes, his journey is entirely solipsistic. There are no dragons in this story, no wise protectors or temptresses. His struggles with fear and doubt are internal. Even his final epiphany comes from within. In a fulfillment of the libertarian ideal championed by the book’s corporate promoters, the true moral of “Who Moved My Cheese?” seems to be that every littleperson has to look out for himself.

Stinky Cheese

This is a workplace fable - any resemblance to actual individuals is coincidental

The new boss sent out an email to staff.  "Hopefully, most of you have had the opportunity to read the Who Moved My Cheese book. If not, I have two copies in my office available and strongly recommend everyone read it. I think we can all identify with the characters in one way or another. Some questions to ponder:

1. Which of the characters do you best identify with?
2. What is your "cheese"?
3. Do you think Hem ever changed and found new cheese?
4. How will you view change after reading the book?
5. If you have not read the book....Why?
6. Where do you find yourself in regards to the change of re-shaping [our division]? "

Lessons in leadership

A workplace fable. Resemblance to actual individuals is purely coincidental

The new boss called his senior administrative staff together for a meeting.

Someone should have brought a recorder. The meeting begins at 3:00 and for a solid hour he talks at the six people sitting around the conference table. Motivational seminar clichés pour out as though from a fire-hose.

Meet the new boss

A workplace fable. Any resemblance to real individuals is unintended and purely coincidental.



Photo from Shorpy.com

In the mornings while I go through the messages in my in-box, I can hear him. He's leaning on the door jamb to Sam's office, or maybe Wesley's, or maybe he's sitting in the chair in front of Sara's desk, or leaning over the top of Brian's cubicle wall.

His voice is going on and on. "I'm all about mutual trust," he says. "If we trust one another, we can work together toward our goal. The principles I believe in are..."

After a while I stop listening to the words, but I still hear the voice, yammering away.

A time of change

Well, I'm feeling a little foolish to be writing about this now. Some of you have commented; other discussions have gone on  Facebook. I didn't mean to be secretive, it just never seemed to be the right time for An Announcement.

You know that I'm in for a big change - I've submitted my retirement and notice at work, and I'm going to New Orleans to become a graduate student in Creative Writing.

But there's more change for us. Yesterday [The Man I Love]'s colleagues and co-workers honored him in a celebration of the thirteen years of service he has spent serving in an administrative role at the university. At the end of June, he steps down from that position and returns to the faculty again as a professor. It's been a good, long run with many great accomplishments. But it's great for him to get back to the work he loves.

But before he returns to the classroom, he is on a year's sabbatical. So for that year, we've decided that both of us will go to New Orleans - along with Jack the dog. [The Man I Love] will return to Los Angeles the following year to resume teaching, while I stay in New Orleans finishing my degree. We'll see what happens next.

The other decision we've made is bittersweet. We are selling our house in Topanga. We love our house; we've lived there almost twenty years. But it is too much for two people. When we return to Los Angeles, we'll live differently; a more urban life, perhaps, more downsized. We want to be more nimble, less burdened, with shorter commutes and fewer things to maintain.

It will be hard to leave this wonderful community, and the glorious natural world outside our windows. When we're back in LA, we'll be close enough to return, of course, and hike our favorite trails. I'm not sure how it will feel to be an outsider, though.

It feels good to go through the vast amount of material objects we've accumulated over the years and jettison them.

Do you ever wonder why people tend to say they're "buying a home" but "selling our house?"

Done deal

I submitted my retirement application online today. My last date at work will be July 23. There is a form we have to print off and sign before a notary, then send in electronically or by mail, but other than that - it's a done deal.

The wheels are turning

A street message I photographed in Paris.

I've started the process of leaving my job. I met with HR yesterday, and I'm completing my retirement paperwork by this weekend. I found out what happens with my vacation hour bank (I get it all!), and whether I can keep my insurance.

I gave my supervisor a heads up - I didn't tell her my separation date because I wasn't sure exactly when it would be.

The new boss popped his head in my door and started asking me to run reports that analyze my work, and I just smiled.

It's beginning to feel real!

Meet the new boss

Our division at work has been without a permanent boss for more than a year. Back in February of 2014, our then-boss was promoted, and a search was begun for her replacement.

During the search, an interim manager from outside was brought in. Though she was a nice lady, the interim boss had been given the message early on that she was not in the running for the permanent position. It's a testimony to her grace and professionalism that she led the division with a positive attitude until her term expired.

The search was not successful, so upper management began a new search. By that time, our interim manager got a permanent job somewhere else. We all wished her well when she left.

They appointed someone from within to serve as the next interim manager.

All this is background for the fact that early this month, our newly-hired permanent manager, B., came on duty. He's had a busy couple of weeks, with orientation and everything, and he has confessed that he's feeling a bit of information overload.

Today was my first one-on-one meeting with him. I gave him enough background to understand my duties, and also gave him a background on my experience here. I admitted that my career goal is retirement, though I didn't yet announce my plans.

He seems like a good guy - a little eager, energetic, a kind of a go-getter. He's already thinking of changes to the organization, questioning how we do things here. I think he'll probably need some adjustment to the glacial pace at which our particular bureaucracy operates.

I had an odd feeling, talking to him. In other circumstances, I might have been anxious about the potential changes he might make to my job; I might feel worried. But instead I just felt care slipping away from me.

Later this afternoon, I had talks with two senior colleagues of mine. They will be working more closely with the new boss, and will need to adjust to changes. Their moods seemed to mingle optimism and wariness in turn.

It was different for me, and I feel sorry it's not the right time to tell them. Six months from now, I won't be here. Whatever happens to our office is of no consequence to me.

It's a pretty liberating feeling.

Deference

I'm reading a great article by Francisca Mari called "The Assistant Economy," all about the growing field of the occupation of personal assistant.

We're not talking secretary or executive administrative assistant. Those are jobs that, while often involve a lot of hand-holding and personal connection, are still defined as work that benefits the employing organization, not the individual. A person may be the executive administrative assistant to the CEO of Big Business, Inc., but at the end of the day, that person works for Big Business, Inc., not the CEO.

The jobs that are the topic of the article are all about performing personal tasks for an individual employer. We often think of celebrities, movies stars or performers as people who hire personal assistants, but according to the article, many important and self-important people hire personal assistants, including authors, politicians, TV personalities, and - yes - CEOs of Big Business, Inc. even hire personal assistants. To perform tasks that are intimate, sometimes trivial, and often demeaning.

Personal assistants provide daily support and companionship, and nurture their hard-working bosses. They do everything from buying gifts for their bosses' families, to procuring the latest food craving. They are on-call all the time. They may even fake fan-mail for their bosses - providing a kind of bought-and-paid-for affirmation.

Sometimes the money is pretty good. You might think that being paid to be in the presence of an important and creative person, being close-up to genius, would be great, even if you're only there to shine the boss's shoes or make sure he doesn't run out of his favorite flavor of Altoids. Yet personal assistants are not viewed as equals. They are treated like servants, and often become the stand-in proxy for their boss's frustration and anger.

Once upon a time, I worked as an administrative assistant for a woman who was leading a fundraising effort for a performing arts theatre. Though our employer was an educational institution, and my job was a classified position, what my boss really wanted was a personal assistant. We were a two-person office, just her and me, and for six months I spent my time hand-writing invitations for her, buying her newspaper, and serving coffee and cookies when she held meetings.

I am not suited for such work. The final straw was when, after a day with just the two of us in the office, she set her used coffee cup on my desk as she pulled on her coat to leave for the day. She expected me to wash it, so it would be clean for her in the morning. I quit shortly after.

Some people are fine with this kind of work; or maybe some bosses are less imperious. I have a friend who has been a personal assistant to a certain movie star for many years. She's a bright and assertive person, certainly not someone who'd put up with being treated like a servant.

Mari's article also discusses the rising trend of books written about personal assistants - both roman-a-clef novels and tell-all non-fiction exposés. Since many people who become personal assistants are creative people in their own right, this makes sense.

Other assistants may aspire to take on their boss's role in the future. Movie producer Scott Rudin - who is known to have gone through over 200 assistants in five years - started out as personal assistant to a Broadway producer.

What do you think? Could you work as a personal assistant?

Down the hall from the men's room

My office is down the hall from the area in our building where the restrooms and kitchenette reside. I've written about this before, how I get to experience everyone's food smells. For the most part, it's nice, because everyone says hello or stops to chat on their way to grab a coffee or a snack.

One of the other things I get to experience is an unfortunate familiarity with everyone's bathroom habits.

The men's room is first in line down the hall, and it has a very loud exhaust fan. It's impossible to ignore it when someone strides past my door, opens and closes the bathroom door, lets the seat fall with a clunk, and turns on the exhaust fan. It's impossible not to be aware of what's taking place in there.

When both the restrooms' fans are going at the same time, it sounds from my office like the building is a propeller-driven plane, ready to take off.  Fortunately the fans are not only loud, but effective at their intended purpose.

I am thankful I have an office with a door to close.

Paper nightmare

Cut paper bear artwork, Ace Hotel LA

I've been asked to temporarily take over a co-worker's task, while she works on another assignment. My co-worker is the one who signs off on requests for activity permits at our small city's beautiful beaches.

It's been just shy of a year since our organization contracted out most of the work to a permitting agency, so my colleague's job is supposed to be easier - the process is all online. We get email prompts to approve a request, and we just go into the system and click.

But the system is clunky, hard to navigate, so my colleague still uses her previous work methods to track her work.

"When a call or email request comes in," I was told when in training, "just take one of these forms and fill it out." She pulled a piece of paper from a folder and grabbed a pencil.

The paper had blanks to fill in, with things like Name, Date, Location, Contact Name, Phone Number.

Then, we refer the applicant to the contractor, who handles all the rest of the details in their online system.

I know it sounds crazy, but the online system doesn't have a calendar view, so then we take the pencil and write the exact same information in a "Week-at-a-glance" notebook calendar - this assures we won't double book activity spaces.

When the agency has  completed the permit, the system prompts me for final approval. When this happens, I have to compare the information from the online system with the calendar and the penciled-in forms to make sure they're all correct. If there are any new details, I have to update the paperwork by hand. If I have any questions, I have to consult the paperwork for client contact info - the online system doesn't store email addresses or hyperlink to a message system.

 At some later date, someone will have to enter all this information into a separate Excel spreadsheet, that will keep track of permits for each fiscal year.

So, to summarize - because we are working with an online system that:

1) doesn't maintain a calendar view
2) doesn't include hyperlinks
3) doesn't run reports

we are maintaining an entirely separate system similar to one used in 1970.

To "help" me, our office has a screener who takes the initial phone calls with requests. The calendar and file of info sheets live on her desk.  So - adding to the inefficiency - anytime a permit request needs approval, I log into the system, pull up the online info, and then get up from my desk and go down the hall to retrieve the calendar and info sheet, before I can go into the online system and click "approved."

Is this insane? What year are we in, anyway?  Why am I printing pieces of paper off my computer so that I can fill in the blanks with a pencil?

Getting the brunt of it

Over the weekend, something overseen by my office went horribly wrong, and dozens of phone calls and emails have come in to complain about it.

It wasn't our fault - in fact, a third party violated the terms of their permit. And the people who were supposed to enforce the permit didn't do so. But it's my office who is responsible in the long run.

I have spent hours on the phone, listening to people rant and rave, and murmuring my sympathies to them. It's mainly a complaint about noise, and people have a lot of opinions about that!

The powers-that-be are also going to make adjustments to the rules, so that this can't happen again. In theory. Unfortunately the way they tend to adjust the rules make them more complicated, which means that getting people to follow them is even more difficult.

One day I'll write a comic novel about stuff like this!

Applying myself

Kid in a candy shop - click to "embiggen"

Making a decision to go to graduate school for a Creative Writing MFA isn't a trivial one, I've learned. There's a lot of planning to do, and a lot of work. Now that the idea is more concrete than is was a month ago, I've made some progress. I feel like I'm committed to this.

I've short-listed ten schools. Five of them are "for sure" choices; the other five are likely choices that I need to learn more about. I might narrow down the list. 

I've selected only schools that offer a concentration in non-fiction or allow students to work in multiple genres. I don't rule out working on fiction, or even poetry, but my strength is in non-fiction right now. It's my interest and my strongest work is non-fiction.

I've chosen three schools in Southern California. The other schools are out of state. When I first got the notion to do this, I limited myself to Southern California schools, but [The Man I Love] urged me to explore other places. "If you're going to do it, why not look at all the possibilities?" he said, and he's right. 

An MFA degree in Creative Writing is usually a two, sometimes a three year program. Living somewhere else for two or three years is not a hardship - in fact, I'm kind of excited by the idea. 

Expanding my horizon also lead me to thinking about the financial side of it. Many MFA programs provide full funding for the students they admit. Students work as teaching assistants or as editors for departmental journals, but tuition is covered and often there's a living stipend. Why shouldn't I compete for these positions? 

If I am offered a funded position at a distant school, naturally I will have to quit my job - which means I will take my retirement. That gives me a modest income, something that will supplement a graduate student stipend.

If I take an offer in Southern California, I can decide whether to quit my job or not; whether to drop to part-time, or even whether to go to school only part time and keep working. That's a bridge to cross in March, when the acceptance or rejection letters come in.

But before I can made any decisions, I have to complete the applications, and right now this makes me feel like a juggler spinning a dozen plates in the air.

All the schools I'm applying to have an online application process. But they're all different, and complicated, so I've created a spreadsheet to keep track of them. I need to coordinate letters of recommendation, and delivery of transcripts, and upload my CV and statements of purpose, and writing samples. 

Another big deal is the GRE, or Graduate Record Exam. Not all schools require it for the MFA degree, but two of the schools I'm very interested in do. So I have to take it. I took the GRE about 15 years ago, and did pretty well, but I need current scores. I'm reading study guides and taking practice tests, and hope to take the exam in mid-October.

It also costs money - each application fee is about $50. The GRE is $195. I'm trying to budget and plan out each fee.

The deadlines for application range from December 10 to January 15, and I feel I'm on track to meet that. 

This has given me quite a sense of purpose in my life, which feels really good, but I'm also scared and worried I'll blow it. I could use any advice or encouragement you all could give me. 

Updates

Flowers in the dunes at San Buenaventura beach

Sorry for the diminished postings. I've found my current day-to-day life uninspiring, while at the same time being riveted to current affairs. What's been happening in Ferguson, MO is polarizing, and this isn't the blog to discuss it.

Here's what's happening in my life:

1. Our son's summer is coming to an end and he will be moving to the Bay area soon, for his PhD. work. He's looking for a place to live. He'll be couch-surfing for a little while, but I know he'll get settled soon. And then we can visit!
2. The drought continues, and now, in August, heat. We're trying to stay cool
3. [The Man I Love] has made a big step toward healthy living. He's got a regular exercise routine going now. I, on the other hand, am still lazy.
4. At work, back in February, our Division Manager took a new job in our organization. They began a search for her replacement, hiring an Interim Manager during the, well, interim. Apparently, the search was unsuccessful; no one has been hired. They've asked the Interim Manager to stay on, but for a finite period. So what that means, I suspect, is a re-organization. Having been through one already, I am hunkering down, and scheduling a meeting with Calpers, our retirement agency.
5. I've decided for sure that I am going to try to go back to graduate school and get an MFA degree in Creative Writing. I've got four or five schools picked out. I'm reviewing their application procedures, and starting to contact people who can write me letters of reference. If I get accepted, it will be to start in Autumn, 2015. Application deadline is January, 2015. 

What's up with you guys?

Not my problem

I just got off the phone with a customer who needs our office to issue him a certain kind of permit that he needs by June 14. Months ago, he received a check-list of things he has to do before the permit can be issued, with a deadline of last Friday to complete them.

He has dutifully completed most of them, but there are some important items remaining, one of which is an official document from another government agency.

I contacted him this morning to let him know that I need him to forward me that item before noon on Wednesday, because I'll be out of the office on Thursday and Friday.

He told me he wouldn't be able to get it until Thursday, so if I needed it, I should contact that other agency myself. 

What is it about people who just rub you the wrong way?  This fellow has also told me, in reference to this permit he needs, that it's "just the same as last time,"  - I guess meaning I should look up last time's record and fill in the blanks on his application for him?

So, this morning I gently reminded him that it's his responsibility to complete the requirements if he wants the permit.

I restrained myself from adding that as far as our office was concerned, it didn't matter whether he got his permit.

Instead I gave him the name of another contact he can work with on Thursday and Friday.

Happy Monday!

Cowards, all!

Amanda deserves flowers

A woman just came into our office reception area from the park. "Do you hear that?" she asked. "Do you hear that high pitched whine out there?"

Amanda sits at the front cubicle in the main room, and she is charged with reception duties. "Um, do you mean the lawn mower?"

"Of course I mean the lawn mower! What do you think I mean? It's going on and on and on. No matter what time or what day of the week I come to this park, there's always some machine running around making noise and spewing out fumes. Can't they do it in the early morning, when nobody's here?"

She went on and on, alternately running her mouth and challenging poor Amanda to do something about it. Whenever Amanda opened her mouth to speak, hoping to explain that our unit does not have control over the landscaping contractors and their schedule, but that she would pass along the complaint and even give the woman the name of someone to contact - the woman charged onward, drowning her out.

She started telling stories about her grandfather, who loved landscaping, and invoked his holy name as someone who would be appalled at the fact that a person like Amanda could sit at her desk and not immediately reschedule the lawnmowers.

My office is a separate little room down the hall from the main area. I can't see the reception area. I was wondering whether Amanda was all alone in the room. I was biting my tongue, wanting to say "Hey lady, give her a break already! Do you think an Administrative Assistant is going to be able to intervene in another department's business?"

In my previous job, we often got some eccentric members of the public wandering in our reception area, and my office staff was pretty good and handling them. If I heard it start to spiral out of control, though, I'd go in and intervene, sometimes bringing one of the guys with me. What usually works is a kind of tag-team effort, offering a business card or a phone number, and promising to pass along their concerns right away.

"The Recreation Department, eh? Well, I'd like to be able to recreate maybe, but who can recreate with those mowers going all day. And those sprinklers! It's all wet out there, who can sit down? You're supposed to be able to sit down in the park!"

I thought about intervening, but realized at that point that another Administrative Assistant - me - jumping into the fray would probably not help things along.

So I waited until the woman ran out of steam, and I heard the front door close behind her before I stepped out the hallway to Amanda, who was laughing a little. "Wow, Amanda! I'm so sorry! I thought about rescuing you, but it seemed like it would have made it worse, so I stayed put!"

And then, my colleague next door, who manages the athletic fields, opened the door of her separate office. My boss's voice came from her office, just next to Amanda, but also invisible from the reception desk. Beyond her, the City's arborist poked his head out of his office, and at the very back of the main room, the financial administrator and manager of the Park Maintenance unit, came out of their offices, praising Amanda for her customer service skills. They are the ones who actually oversee the landscaping contract.

So we were cowards, every one of us!

The cat's away

All of the cats, actually. It's Friday, and my supervisor is on vacation; her supervisor is on vacation. Even our former manager, who got promoted to an at-large special-projects position, is on vacation.

A rush job came in yesterday afternoon, and although I am usually required to have every official document I produce proof read and approved before I dispatch it, there is no one in to do it. Since this job must be finished today, I'm on my own.

I had a co-worker proof read my work just for typos and misspellings, and now, secure and contented with my own authority, I've sent it off.

The phone hasn't rung. It's quiet. I am reading essays and watching the dappled sun move across my desk as the clock ticks.

Today's phone call

While I'm on the other line, I get a message on my office voice mail from a man whose name is unintelligible.  I call the number he leaves.

He's got a large collection of bags, he says, and he wants to know whether he needs a permit of some kind to lay them all out in a public space so he can take photographs of them.

I start asking questions, partly to figure out what he wants to do, and to determine whether I need to refer him to the Film Permit office, for a still photography permit.

But no, he's not a professional photographer doing a photo shoot. He's an artist and he wants a space large enough to lay out these bags - I'm still not sure what he is talking about - because he has so many of them. And maybe he wants this to be an art project.

I'm looking out my office window at the park with kids on their scooters and playing on the swings, and I say, "Well, you could do it in a park, but you'd want to be careful about foot traffic, I guess."

He says, "Yeah, that's why I don't want to do it on the Promenade or someplace like that. What I was thinking was the Civic Auditorium lawn."

"That would be a great place for it."

"Say whatever happened to that place, that was a great place, all kinds of great shows. Why'd the city shut it down, anyway?"

And I feel, unexpectedly, a spur of anger again, at the way things had gone. But I reel it in and I relate the story to him objectively - the plan created through years of community outreach and consultation, the partnership negotiated, the renovation planned, the lost funding, the shutdown.

"Such a shame, that was such a good place," he says. "How could they do that?"

It sounds almost like he's accusing me too, and I just blurt out, "Well, I lost my job!" I'm horrified at losing my composure. He murmurs something kind, and we return to discuss his project.

"The funny thing is," I tell him, "that space is kind of unregulated now. It's public property so anyone has access to it, but it's not a park so there's no rules for it."

I encourage him to do his art project  there, and ask him what he's going to do with it when it's done. He starts to tell me that back in the '80s he was a musician with his brother, who went on to be a success with some big name bands. But he worked with more arty groups on project that they hoped would be a big hit. He named a name I recognized.

"That must have been fun, working with him," I say.

"It didn't work out, it broke up over money," and I hear in his voice an echo of my own blurted out anger and disappointment. Like mine, a distant grievance brought back into sharp remembrance and pain.

I listen as he goes on to tell me how the world changed, the record business died, and 9/11 happened. He got into marketing, which resulted in the collection of what I now learn are gift bags distributed to guests at celebrity special events. He's written a song about them. He wants to photograph and make an art piece about them.

I listen and he talks, and then as I take a breath, I can feel another shift; it's like we both remember the context we're in again. I tell him I think his idea sounds interesting, and it should be fine for him to use that open lawn for photography. He thanks me for my time.