There’s a woman with her two kids. I’m judging by the tones of mumbles that they’re about 1 and 2 years old.
They’re babbling mostly. Ocassionally squealing. I guess I can handle that, though I’m trying to transpire minutes off a tape recorder and I can’t hear everything.
But the mom keeps going
“no”
“nooooo”
“Get back here.”
“Ah ah!”
It’s the “ah ah” that’s driving me the craziest. It’s a combination of “ack ack” and “uh uh” to try to reason with a 1 year old that whatever the heck he’s doing he shouldn’t be doing. “Ah ah!” “Ah ah” “Stop. Get back here.” Every two seconds it’s “ah ah!”
I want to arc my cup of water over my cubicle wall and splash them. SHUT THE HELL UP.
And now the less than one year old is making a continued squeaky door whining sound. I think he’s trying to say “ah ah” as his first words.
My office is right next to a conference room. When meetings are scheduled back to back, people tend to gather outside my door. They talk, which is annoying, and they look over my shoulder, making it impossible for me to read the Dope. One of these days I’m going to kill one of them. Yeah, you, the asswipe looking over my shoulder right now.
My cube is right next to (as in 6 feet from) the men’s restroom. I’m about 15 feet from the women’s restroom. Every day I hear what I call “The One O’Clock Noise”. It’s an interesting noise, kind of wet-sounding. I like to do conference calls via speakerphone when the Noise is imminent.
Yeah, I’m there only three days a week (18 hours total). Yes, the best cubicle for me to work in (next to the project leader) already had the office coffee setup in there. And, no, I really don’t mind sharing the space.
However, I’ve been working there on Mondays, Tuesdays and Wednesday for four months now, so you know I use that cubicle and computer when I’m there.
And don’t get me started on the ras bumbaclot who was sitting on my desk, with her feet in my chair seat, and continued to sit there even after I arrived, put down my bag and went to the bathroom to give her a chance to pretend she hadn’t been sitting there in a totally clueless, disrespectful and shit-footed way.
I have a naturally loud voice that carrys across the room. Og forbid if an employer ever decided to put me next to the lobby. The last time I was a cube dweller, I was in the far back corner of the office.
I used to work with a woman who would sit in my chair to talk to my office mate if I so much as got up to use the bathroom. I’d come back, and she’d totally ignore me and continue to use my chair. I’d have to do my computer work standing up. You’d think she’d have gotten the hint, but I think she did it as some sort of power play. I’d have told her to leave, but she was the kind of bitch that would have used it as an excuse to fire me. She was just that sort of megalomanical assmunch.
I’d feel sorry for her if I didn’t hate her with the rage of a thousand suns. As it is, I hope she dies in the most horrible of ways.
[sub]I was told that I would only have to listen to the kids whining at a reasonable volume from nine to eleven, I told Bill that if Sandra is going to bring her headphones while she’s filing so as to not listen to the kids or the “ah ah” then I should be able to not listen to them either while I’m collating so I don’t see why I should have to listen to them because they’re not at a reasonable volume from nine to eleven. [/sub]
Today’s overheard conversation from the lobby area: a black guy in a wheelchair explaining the difference between racial strife in the '60s and gay rights protests now. They’re completely different because blacks can’t choose what color they’re born but being gay is a choice. Oh, and it’s insulting that gays want black support for their position because the two issues are completely separate. I think that’s about the gist of it. I wish I had actually been listening from the front of the conversation to determine what spurred this rant on. I guess I could wander 10 feet over and ask him, but I think I’ll get back to work.
My office in grad school was between the two elevators of the busiest class building on campus. Everyone assumed I was the janitor, even though I had a sign on my door:
PoorYorick
Department of Anthropology
Gah, freshmen are so clueless, it’s a wonder they survive on their own (I’m including myself here). At least once a day I’d get a tentative tap on my door, and I knew exactly what it was. “Excuse me, did someone leave a book in 202?” or “Someone threw up on the stairwell.” Even when I said I wasn’t the janitor, half the time they’d just stare, like it didn’t register. “But I really need my book.”
On the positive side, it did remove any fantasies I might have had about joining the worderful world of janitorial service.
