Administrative Types

I had an interesting experience today with what we (that's a collective "we", as in the place where I work officially designates them as such) call an "administrative assistant". This experience got me to thinking. Especially as how this particular experience with this particular administrative assistant has been ongoing and has been humorous. (Humorous to me and to a select few of my exiled colleagues at any rate.) To the place where I work, not so much. More on all these various and diverse threads momentarily. (For those who enjoy my tangents, diversions and ramblings, you're in for a treat today. For those who don't, perhaps you should waste your time elsewhere today, because I will be rambling on rather randomly today. It's all connected but in a rather disheveled way. Expect a lot of alliteration as well.)

So, let us begin. First of all, I have a number of stories which involve people of this ilk. Call them secretaries, clerks, administrative assistants, receptionists, usw. (First tangent: "usw" is an abbreviation in German standing for "und so weiter", as in "and so forth", think of it the same way you would et cetera, commonly abbreviated etc. I'm just so tired of using "etc", it's so de rigueur don't you think?) Now where was I? Oh yeah, people who do forms of administrative work. For the purposes of this post let's use the term "Admins"? Capitalized of course. Everybody good with that? Kris in NE?

Before proceeding I have to make one thing perfectly clear: a good Admin is worth their weight in gold/stock options/Treasury Notes. A bad admin (note the lack of capitalization) is, on the other hand, such a detriment to an organization that, that... (no, I just can't go there, the concept is far too horrible.)

As many of you know, I like to start my posts with a photo of some sort. Kind of a tone-setter. Something to get me in the mood to write and something to put you in the mood to read. Works for me, YMMV. (And I am seriously thinking of starting up an acronyms page, my nephew (The Young Vermonter) and old school buddy Greg (in Fla) chastise me from time to time for my abbreviation and acronym usage. This will (might?) happen soon, as in maybe before the decade is out. Maybe not. We shall see.) So I go to Google Images (Safe Setting On of course) and type in "administrative assistant". Now I am an old-timey kind of guy and certain things don't annoy me as much as they may annoy your more modern fellow, but seriously? Google Images provided me with images of Administrative Assistants which were like 95% WOMEN? (And the very few men shown were, to my mind, not exactly the type of guy who would answer to "rugged and tough looking". If you get my drift. In a NTTAWWT kind of way.)

Also the female admin types were generally all rather attractive in a physical sense. I guess the folks who programmed the Google Image search function must generally be white guys of a certain age, OWGs I call them, ya know Old White Guys. Now I feel that I can use that term without hesitation or any sort of fear of consequences. Because I am an OWG. Not only that I am of the subset of OWGs known as OBWGs. (Old Bald White Guys, sometimes abbreviated OBG, a term coined by my work daughter and which encompasses older gentlemen who are follicly-challenged yet non-specific as to race, creed or color. I personally prefer OBG to the more specific OBWG.)

All that being said, I felt that none, repeat none, of the photos presented by Google met my requirements. So, knowing full well that an Admin's deadliest weapon most useful tool is the computer, I went with a stock line drawing of a computer. (A rather archaic computer now that I look at it!)

And the story today revolves around computers, in a peripheral sort of way. (Heh. Lame software geek humor.)

While exiled to the Far Northern Reaches of my company's vast holdings I used a laptop computer. But a simple laptop would be woefully insufficient and inefficient for the needs of your typical engineer. After all we do more than check e-mail and surf the web. Sometimes we look at "technical manuals" and "engineering drawings" which are a tad hard to read on a laptop screen. So I was issued with what I referred to as a "docking station".

To me a docking station encompassed the actual piece of equipment to which the laptop "docks", a full size monitor, a full size keyboard and a mouse. Four separate items make up what I refer to as a "docking station". Peripheral equipment really... (pregnant pause, laugh here, or groan, the choice is yours.)

Now when I began to split my time between Up North and The Home Office (THO), I decided that I needed another docking station. One for there, one for here. I tried working off of the tiny laptop screen for a while, it was painful. So I put in a requisition with my department's admin. (See what I did there. Think about it...)

My request was approved by my department manager and the order was placed. Our admin gave me a long involved explanation as to how previous equipment orders had been lost, misplaced and otherwise fouled up. So she has the equipment shipped directly to her. Rather than to me, the guy who needs the stuff. But she said "not to worry" she would stay "on top of things". (Key point, the admin is at THO, not Up North, where I was.)

A few weeks later I received a partial shipment. Just the bit the laptop plugs into. This came to me Up North and NOT to the admin at THO. So I called her and told her what happened. She told me to look inside the box again, perhaps there was a monitor, keyboard and mouse in there and I'd just overlooked them.

Let me explain. The box was just big enough for the docking thingy. I explained that to her. She bade me "go look again, sometimes those other items are actually underneath something else". I was sore puzzled and confused. I tried to explain to her that nothing else could possibly be inside the box, unless the box was somehow an "inter-dimensional portal". I actually used that term mind you, "inter-dimensional portal", the admin said, "No, I'm pretty sure Hewlett-Packard makes all of the equipment we lease."

At that point, I say, "Let me check. Okay, nothing else is in the box. Nothing."

Admin: Are you sure?

Me: <dead silence>

Admin: Hello, are you still there?

Me: Yes, I'm still here. The box is empty, devoid of everything except air.

Admin: So there's nothing else in the box.

Me: <dead silence>

Admin: Hello...

Me: Yes, I'm still here.

Admin: Hmm, I'll look into that for you.

And with that we went our separate ways. Now a couple of weeks went by, no further equipment arrived either Up North or at THO. Then the miraculous occurred and I returned from exile.

<Telephone ringing...>

Me: Hello?

Admin: Hi. Do you still need that extra monitor?

Me: Not really.

Admin: Do you want me to cancel the one on order?

Me: <Desperately wanting to say something snarky but...> Yes, please cancel it. I don't need it. I don't want it anymore.

Admin: Okay. I'll take care of it.

Weeks go by. The seasons change. My phone rings.

Admin: Hi. They received your monitor Up North. Do you still want it?

Me: Not really, but I'll take it.

Months go by. The seasons change. Thanksgiving comes, then goes. First snowfall occurs. Then, my phone rings. Again.

Admin: Those guys Up North won't answer my e-mails and won't answer the phone. By any chance did you receive the monitor?

Me: Uhhhhh, No.

Admin: Are you sure?

Me: Yes. Very sure.

Admin: Do you want me to cancel the order? I shouldn't be wasting anymore time on this issue.

Me: Yes. Cancel. The. Order. Please. And yes I'M SURE!

Admin: Okay. Hope to see you at the "Year in Review Luncheon"! <That's the company code-phrase for Christmas Party, by the way>

Me: Yes. Bye.

I fully assume that I have not heard the last of that monitor. Not to mention the keyboard and mouse. I'm guessing that sometime in the spring I will receive 20 monitors and an equivalent number of keyboards and mice. And the admin will ask me why I needed so many. I don't know what I'll tell her.

I feel as if I have somehow fallen into The Rime of the Ancient Mariner.

The sun now rose upon the right:
Out of the sea came he,
Still hid in mist, and on the left
Went down into the sea.

And the good south wind still blew behind,
But no sweet bird did follow,
Nor any day for food or play
Came to the mariners' hollo!
And I had done a hellish thing,

And it would work 'em woe:
For all averred, I had killed the bird
That made the breeze to blow.
Ah wretch! said they, the bird to slay,
That made the breeze to blow!

The monitor is MY albatross. 

Where Have I Heard These Before?

Oh yeah, substitute "WIFE" for "PILOT" and substitute "HUSBAND" for "CO-PILOT".

Stolen Borrowed from  the JOPA.

I Had A Gut Feeling About This...

I didn't really need to see this article, I think I sensed this all along.

But still, to see it spelled out like this? I guess Rhode Island COULD have been dead last.

But seriously?

Only California is lower?

Gee, how do we compare with say, Greece?

Or perhaps Afghanistan?

You can read the entire article here.

It Was Sublime

Crossing the Connecticut

Returning to work after an entire week off can be, shall we say, "challenging". And so it has come to pass, that after a week of pretty much doing whatever didst please me, I have returned to my normal mode of operation. Get up, go to work, work, come home, go to bed. Monday through Friday. My it certainly looks depressing when you write it out like that. Oh well.

But I'm not here to talk about being back at work. No, the purpose of this post is to regale you with tales of Thanksgiving and my travels to the more northerly bits of New England. By "more northerly", I mean farther north than my normal haunts. Not so northerly as to be almost in Canada, I have not been that far north in New England in quite some time. (I believe the last time I was that far north was circa 1973. In the vicinity of Lake Memphremagog it was. Said lake being depicted below.)

(Hhhmm, first time I've done an aside which had a pictorial component. I may do that more often. I rather liked it. Also I enjoyed the way Google reacted when I attempted to search for "Memphremagog". Another aside: if you spell it "google" then Blogger indicates that it's misspelled. It does however like "Google". Well, it is a proper name I suppose. And Google and Blogger are stable-mates. But I see that I have gone way off topic at this point. So let's get back to it. Shall we?)

Yes, Thanksgiving was a time to gather with family, eat far too much food, watch football and be thankful for one's blessings. All four of which I did. It was sublime, as in "not to be excelled; supreme". For you see, I had not been in the ancestral homeland for Thanksgiving since the early 70's. I have many fond memories of the Thanksgiving holidays of my youth. Perhaps an attempt to recapture those memories was doomed to failure. There was only one way to find out and that was to head north for Thanksgiving. North to the land of my youth.

So on Wednesday last (the 21st of November by my reckoning) the Missus and I bid the feline inhabitants of Chez Sarge a fond "see you in 3 days", boarded the vehicle (for those in-the-know, that would be "Big Girl", for those not in-the-know, do your research, much is revealed on one's right), started the engine, backed into the street and headed North. North to the land of my birth. North to see my Mom, my two brothers and assorted relatives.

We arrived at my Mom's house with an hour or so of daylight still remaining. Being as how it was the day before Thanksgiving there were no volunteers willing to step up and prepare a meal. So, in keeping with the spirit of the holidays, we naturally headed out to a Chinese restaurant. While the Missus and my Mom saw nothing at all humorous about going to a Chinese restaurant on "Thanksgiving Eve", I (having watched "A Christmas Story" perhaps one too many times) was nearly horizontal, so consumed by laughter was I. The Missus explained to my Mom, "He's been like this ever since he quit smoking."

And the Missus is correct. It seems that since I've kicked the habit I am somewhat, shall we say, "unrestrained" in some emotional aspects. At work I have a "self-evaluation" form sitting in my e-mail In Box. Every time I look at it, I begin to chuckle. Because I have filled it out as follows:

Summary Comments: I think that I’m wonderful and am the greatest thing since sliced bread. To say anything less about myself would be both dishonest and questionable. I sometimes believe that I am from a more highly evolved species than the rest of my co-workers.

Key Strengths: Smart. Quick learner. Although taking 36 years to quit smoking would seem to indicate that I’m not actually a quick learner, this is about work, not personal life-style choices. And I did actually quit smoking which is apparently effecting my tolerance for this “self-evaluation” nonsense. I do know that the lack of nicotine in my system has certainly increased my tendency to be brutally honest.

Key Development Needs: Unknown. I don’t know what I don’t know. By definition.

I'm thinking that I may need to reword this before I submit it to the "powers that be". Not sure that they would see the humor in this. (Oh crap. I see I've wandered off on another tangent. Sorry.)

Back to Our Story
Okay. Dinner on "Thanksgiving Eve" was at a Chinese restaurant.

Thursday morning (Thanksgiving Day for those of you not paying attention, don't try to hide, I know who you are) dawned chilly and rather foggy. The fog burned off eventually, it also warmed up quite considerably for the two or three hours of daylight we have this time of year. (Yeah, yeah. I know there are more hours of daylight in New England than 2 or 3. I was being dramatic.) And my youngest brother arrived from his current area of operations, slightly north and west of Boston. We were now ready to head over the river to my oldest younger brother's house.

Now another short digression is in order here. I have two younger brothers. Younger at this point being a very relative term. We're all over 50. My dear Mom does NOT like to hear that the ages of her three sons adds up to 167. As in, "Hey Mom, your kids are 167 years old!" Sure to garner a dirty look from my mother that would kill a lesser man. At any rate, I have two brothers, both of lesser years.

It feels wrong to refer to either of them as a "kid brother". None of us are "kids" any more. At least not physically. So I refer to the younger of my two younger brothers as my youngest younger brother. And the older of my two younger brothers as my oldest younger brother. Typing all that out made my head hurt. Reading it must surely be as painful. So, to make things easier I will refer to the eldest young'n as "The Vermonter" and the youngest young'n as "The Musician".

The Vermonter is truly an old time Vermonter. Non-liberal, loves to hunt and is also a very talented carpenter and builder of things. Now The Musician is a truly talented fellow. Plays the guitar like nobody's business. And I mean CLASSICAL guitar. Oh he can rock with the best, but he can make an acoustic guitar sing like a choir of angels. So those are my two brothers. It is The Vermonter's home we are traveling to for Thanksgiving dinner.

That picture up yonder? That is the bridge between the New Hampshire side of the family and the Vermont side of the family. I've been crossing that bridge since I was a sprout, as a matter of fact, I think that bridge has been there since my Dad was a teenager. He and his two brothers had some stories about that bridge. Did I mention that this used to be a toll bridge? Owned by (ahem) THE RAILROAD. Note the use of all caps. This is intentional, this bridge was owned by THE RAILROAD when the railroad was truly a big deal. A big powerful deal. By again, I digress.

So we're at The Vermonter's house. There's him, his wife (Missus Vermonter, AKA Queen of the Yard Sale), my nephew (The Young Vermonter), my niece (City Girl, after all she went to college up at the University of Vermont in Burlington - Vermont's "big" city), my niece's boyfriend (The Chef, man that kid can cook!), The Vermonter's two dogs (both mostly black lab, both the size of small horses, both friendly as the day is long), Missus Vermonter's two cats (who apparently are not visible to the naked eye), my Mom, my Missus and of course, Yours Truly.

Now I have to tell you that The Vermonter's home is the ancestral dwelling of my tribe. My Dad purchased this home in the Way Back for the princely sum of 15 thousand American dollars. (My maternal grandfather exclaimed that blowing that much cash on a house would surely ruin the young couple that was my Ma and Pa! Not so much, but we came close a couple of times.)

The ancestral palace looks only a little like its original configuration. The Vermonter added an in-law suite a while back, said in-law, sad to say, is no longer with us. The upshot is that the manse is bigger than it used to be. (So am I and I catch hell for it constantly!) The Vermonter and his Missus have really gone to town decorating the place so that now it looks just like one of those quaint old-timey homes you see in Yankee Magazine. Only lived in, well lived in.

So we all sat down to an incredible dinner. Lovingly prepared by the ladies and The Chef, lovingly consumed by us all. The Young Vermonter and I had a grand time berating The Musician over the relative merits of the Lord of the Rings trilogy in print versus the version presented on the big screen by Peter Jackson et al. My brother bemoaned the loss of the trilogy's "quaintness" he remembered from the books. The Young Vermonter mentioned that perhaps the lack of Brazilian music in the movies were perhaps off-putting. (The Musician has quite a thing for Brazilian music. Even taught himself Portuguese after a fashion, his accent sucks but ele entende muito bem! Muito obrigado!

So we somehow managed to twist things such that The Musician didn't like the Lord of The Rings movies because they didn't have Portuguese subtitles. The Vermonter understood, none of the ladies had the foggiest idea of what we were on about. The Chef (wisely I might add) stayed out of it. But there was an unfortunate side effect to our lunacy. Missus Vermonter and Missus Sarge determined that quite enough beer and wine had been consumed and that all and sundry would now have coffee. And watch football.

We watched the Lions lose (sorry Big Time, but when's the last time the Lions won on Thanksgiving?) We watched the Cowboys lose (much to my Mom's delight, she hates all things Texas since the Kennedy assassination, go figure. She condemned the entire state. But especially the Dallas Cowboys! Not me, I can't bring myself to "hate" the Cowboys. Not sure why...

So coffee was savored. Pie was eaten. Football was watched. As evening deepened we eventually recrossed the Connecticut back to Mom's place. There to watch the New England Patriots crush the New York Jets. The Musician left the TV for less than a minute, thus missed the "three touchdowns in 52 seconds"  moment. The Missus and Mom kept exclaiming "that has to be some kind of record, doesn't it?"

Me, I just sat back and soaked it all up.

Yes, it's been the best part of forty years (and more!) since I last had the chance to spend Thanksgiving with the "folks back home". It was well worth waiting for. It was superb. It was fun. It was fantastic. Yes, indeed...

It Was Sublime.

Happy Thanksgiving

Blogging has been light to non-existent this week. I have the entire week off and I've been engaging in some of my favorite pastimes. Reading, watching football, reading (I like reading), watching movies and doing as little as possible. What I like to call "The Perfect Vacation".

Tomorrow we go over the river and through the woods, literally to grandmother's house we go. Not my grandmother mind you, my kids' grandmother, my Mom. Haven't been to Thanksgiving in the ancestral lands for quite some time. I'm looking forward to it. A lot.

To all of you out there: I pray you have a wonderful Thanksgiving, I hope you get to spend time with loved ones. Eat much, make merry and enjoy the holiday. I know I will.

There is much that I'm thankful for. A roof over my head, food on my table, a wonderful wife, great kids and grand-kids, good friends and talented colleagues at work. God has truly blessed me and my family.

But most of all I'm thankful for my Freedom and the men and women who keep us free. Spare a thought for them this day. I will.

Japanese Musings

Of course, upon arrival here at Chez Sarge you may wonder if the old boy has gone off his meds again.

Negative, I assure you that I am fine. A little tired perhaps after a long week, but in full possession of my faculties, thank you very much.

Two things set me off on this particular road. Item the first: I have been re-reading Stephen Hunter's most excellent novel The 47th Samurai. Set in modern Japan, it tells the tale of Bob Lee Swagger and a sword. A sword which came into the possession of his father during the fight for Iwo Jima.

I won't say more than that. If you like tales of action it's just the thing. It is also a tale of honor. Something sorely lacking in modern society.

Item the second: I was visiting over at Buck's Place and noticed an ashtray in one of his photos. The logo on the ash tray was Japanese, katakana characters to be precise.

Of course being an avid amateur linguist, I had to know what the ash tray said. (Well, not what it "said" per se but what was written thereupon.)

Having lived on Okinawa for 2 and a half years, I have some passing acquaintance with Japan and many things Japanese. (Honto! ホント)

Anyway, whipped out Google Search, found a table of the katakana characters and puzzled it out. But of course the logo was (in English characters) Kirin Biru. Which is, of course, Kirin Beer. Appropriate as the topic of Buck's post was beer. A topic near and dear to my heart.

So those two things kind of set me off down this Japanese path. Once again, I blame Buck. No, that's not right. I should say that Buck inspired this post. Or more properly Buck's ash tray I guess.

Ah ha! (I know some of you are thinking this.) The Sarge quit smoking, now he's starting to notice anything connected with tobacco products and smoking! Well, hate to rain on your parade (those of you having a parade that is) but no. That's not it.

Speaking of smoking, it is now DAY THIRTEEN of The Great Smokeout at Chez Sarge. I'm not getting cocky, but this is the longest I've been without a cigarette since about 1989. I'm getting there, slowly but surely.

What's that?

What about the pictures? Oh yeah, right, the pictures! Glad you mentioned those.

The first picture is of Mount Fuji with, of course, cherry blossoms (桜 sakura) in the foreground. I must raise a rather pedantic point here. You can say "Mount Fuji" or "Fujiyama". Don't say "Mount Fujiyama". What you're saying is Mount Fuji Mountain, redundant. Mountain in Japanese is 山, pronounced "yama".

The second picture is of Miyamoto Mushashi (宮本武蔵), perhaps the greatest samurai who ever lived. He is also famous for his Book of Five Rings (五輪書). This book became something of a "must have" for trendy American businessmen in the 1970s as I recall. Somehow they thought that reading this uniquely Japanese book would somehow enable them to compete more effectively with Japanese business.

I read the book back in the day. I found it fascinating on many different levels. The thought that your average American business-type could somehow read this and suddenly out-Japanese the Japanese was, of course, ludicrous. You could put a bear in a Brooks Brothers suit, but the bear couldn't suddenly start working effectively on Wall Street. (As much fun as that might be to watch, I have too much respect for bears to put them through such a thing. Though who knows, they might be more effective than the current lot!)

To understand the Book of Five Rings, you'd need to understand Japanese culture and history. You would have to think like a Japanese. Nearly impossible for a Westerner to accomplish, the book Shogun and the movie The Last Samurai notwithstanding.

So I confess to a great liking for many things Japanese. The samurai period fascinates me. The swords made in those days were exquisite. Both as weapons and as works of art. I saw a sword on Okinawa which IIRC was produced in the 16th Century. A very old and still very lethal weapon. But it was magnificent to behold.

My wife (who you may recall is Korean) tolerates my fascination with Japan. You may not know this but the Japanese and the Koreans traditionally do not really get along all that well. Think Greeks and Turks. Yankees fans and Red Sox fans. (Though my Dad rooted for the Yankees and my Mom is a Sox fan, somehow my brothers and I survived.) That kind of thing. But she tolerates this quirk in my character.

Come to think of it, there is much she tolerates in me. What a marvelous woman. How great is that, I married perhaps the one female on the planet who could actually put up with my antics, quirks and outright character flaws. I am one lucky guy.

Before leaving you to ponder these ramblings, I wanted to show you a picture of a Japanese sword. Well, I found one that was pretty good and I found one which was humorous. So guess which one you get?

Good night.

今晩は

Memories

New England Autumn

While driving home from my place of employment today I started to reminisce. After a few moments of this, it struck me "What caused me to suddenly travel down memory lane like this?" Then I realized what it was. It was a smell.

Now one thing I remember about being a wee lad in the Fall is the leaves. (Bear with me, I'll get to the smell thing momentarily.) They were, at first, slowly changing in color as the days grew shorter and the nights grew colder. Then one morning you'd wake up and spread across the valley was this amazing riot of color.

We lived on a hillside facing what my Mom and Dad always called the "Seven Hills of Springfield". (Never counted them, but Mom and Dad said it, so I believed it. (Parentes sunt veritas!) To our North, well beyond one of the hills, loomed Mount Ascutney. Due east was a long ridge running alongside the Black River as it flowed down to the Connecticut River.

Over yonder was Elm Hill where I once watched two airmen die when their T-33 rolled over on its back and plunged to the ground, exploding first in the air and then again as it hit the ground. (Not all childhood memories are pleasant.)

Now each of these hills/ridges were a good 3/4 of a mile to a mile and a half away from where the family abode perched on the side of our hill (Craig Hill, if I rightly recall), so we had a pretty good view. And in the Fall there came a certain time when those hills were ablaze with multiple shades of red and gold. Here and there was the deep green of a stand of pine or evergreen.

Looking back on it, I am amazed. People actually travel long distances and pay money to see this sight which was mine, for free, while I was growing up. I never took it for granted, though seeing it everyday was kind of routine. But what a memory!

Now eventually those leaves fell from the trees. They went from being gorgeous and breath-taking to being a chore, a task which must be accomplished. Somebody had to rake all those leaves. They were not going to rake themselves, unlike Rhode Island where I think they DO rake themselves. (I do very little raking in my yard. The wind blows constantly from October to June, nearly always from the southwest. Leaves I see in my yard when I leave for work, have moved on when I come home. Off to the small forest which lies due east of Chez Sarge. It's rare for me to actually rake leaves. Mind you, I'm not complaining!)

Now at some point in time, all those leaves lying about are bound to get wet. It's not all sunshine and apple cider up here. No, sometimes it rains in the Fall (and in Vermont, we usually saw snow before Thanksgiving, sometimes even before Halloween.) And wet leaves, if there aren't too many of them and if they're well ventilated, have a distinct aroma. A smell which I find pleasant. A smell which never fails to take me back to the days of my youth (cue Led Zeppelin).

That's the smell which triggered the reminiscing on the drive home. The smell of wet leaves. Thanksgiving approaches, I see deer in the fields in the gloaming. Fall is moving along, winter is not far behind.

But for now, I think of getting to spend a holiday with my Mom and my two kid brothers. Unlike some, I can go home again. Because in my heart, I never left. My roots are deep in the soil which lines the banks of the Connecticut. My ancestors lie buried on either side of that old river, in New Hampshire and Vermont. It is my home, it always will be my home.

Life is fleeting. Enjoy it while you can and praise the Lord for each cherished moment with family, friends and loved ones. I do.

It's also nice that I have ALL of next week off. Sweet.

The Sarge, 12 Days, Smoke Free. Woo Hoo!