echocardiogram

You'll no doubt be pleased to know that today was finally a slow day at work. I'm down to about 99.

I. Rule.

email jail

As a self-acknowledged Crazy List Maker, one of my favourite itches to scratch is to keep a very thorough and organized email filing system on my computer at work. I pride myself on my Folders. My first few weeks at a new job are invariably spent lovingly nurturing A System - a system that lets me pull up an email on any given topic with just a few assured clicks of the mouse. Though it's occurring to me as I write this that I could use the general Search function to the same effect, there is no glory in that. There is no challenge in typing, "Sport", and "Hosting", "Good god, HOW MANY TIMES do we have to go through all this sh!t AGAIN?!!", so that the email with all the answers pops up, to remind you of that funding formula that you still don't understand, but have to brief up on anyway. No. That email is in its proper Folder, waiting. Waiting for me to dig it out again, show it the glaringly florescent light of day (or early evening, as is too often the case these past few weeks).

It's why I got the twitches briefly, earlier, as I watched in the matter of seconds seven emails come in at once. Bang... Bang... Bang, bang, bang, bang.

BANG!

And I looked at the counter, and realized the ridiculousness of my days: over 300 emails. Unread. And most of them: un-Foldered.

I. am. losing. control.

Sure. Many, if not most, of these emails are the day's headlines. Notices from friends about social gatherings long since past. Diatribes by up and coming young whipper snappers about what reasonable accomodation really means in Quebec. Emails by bright young things years younger than me, some of whom will someday be my boss. And so I want to keep them, read them one day when I have a half hour to spare.

But - alarmingly - there are also too many emails left unopened that I know contain some important nugget of information relevant to one or more of the twenty-two tasks at hand. I'm skating. And I've fallen through the ice a couple times already. Today. I'm not too concerned about my ability to manage all this - yet. I am learning at an astonishing rate; exponentially. I've reminded myself that I'm generally a good employee. I ask questions. I admit error. And I move on. (Or try to, anyway.)

It's the lack of Folder organization that's going to kill me. The next time my boss Berries me frantically four times in 10 minutes without recieving a response, it won't be because I'm getting a coffee down the street. It'll be because I've reached 400, and my heart could no longer take it.

lost in translation

During the 1995 referendum, We Westerners were pretty unequivocal: Let 'em go, We said. Don't matter to us, We claimed. And, truth be told, it wouldn't really matter to the West were Quebec to separate. Don't get me wrong. I'm not saying I want them to (as though I am the voice of the West or something - though I guess at least for this post I am.) I'm just saying, aside from a few bumps and bruises, life would most certainly go on. It would probably be good for Quebec's tourism industry, actually; somehow, it would become more exotic.

To my consternation, I am not even close to being bilingual. And why should I be? I come from a family of farmers. I should know Ukrainian if anything, and I don't even know that. I can barely speak and write English, for mercy's sake. French? I remember one friend in university ask me why I took Spanish instead of French: French? I looked at him quizzically, (and somewhat disgustedly, I must admit). French? The only reason I would have to learn French is if I moved to Ottawa someday, and that will only happen if Hell freezes over. At least with Spanish I have an excuse to drink tequila in Mexico.

News flash: Hell has frozen over. But that tequila was so, so awesome, wasn't it girls?

I have A File that's blown up at work over the last week or so, A File that involves Quebec. As such, I've spent a good part of this last week on Alta Vista Babel fish, trying to figure things out. As an average Canadian citizen, does this scare you? Because it scares me. And it makes me feel like an a-hole, every single time I have to ask one of my bilingual buddies, Umm, what does this mean? (It means Yes, Winter, they tell me. Oui. Means. Yes.)

But as dumb as I feel when it comes to French, Bureaucrat-ese is even more ridiculous. Today, in a three hour meeting, I discovered a new language. I expect anthropology PhD candidates everywhere to line up to get behind this new line of study (because I would guess that the federal government would only be TOO HAPPY to use its spending power to dole out grants to become an international leader on the subject). Can anyone, ANYONE, please tell me what this means?

If it walks like a duck, and quacks like a duck, it's a trilateral, not a bilateral.

OH REALLY. I SEE. SORRY I GOT CONFUSED ON THAT ONE.

answer: damned near impossible

Question: How is it to Ferberize your child at 9:30 at night while writing a briefing note for the Big Kahuna due at 8:00 am the following morning? (At least Adoring and Wonderful Husband is out watching the Sens get their asses whooped instead of sitting here tsk tsking me with his, "Are you REALLY SURE we should be letting him cry like THAT??!")

Don't worry, Blogging Buddies. I am still alive. (Just barely.)

one down, two to go

Edit: I resolve not to eat at my desk while emailing the Pope asking him to troubleshoot why I can't type question marks, only e accent aigus. This, I think I can handle. (Unless nobody else can help me on that one. In which case, I won't have to worry about eating at my desk because I WILL JUST QUIT MY JOB, BECAUSE E ACCENT AIGUS? THEY ARE DRIVING ME $#&*ING CRAZY.)

tales from the cubicle farm

It’s started. Sifting through my mental list of possible blog topics inevitably takes me to one flavour: bold, dark roast coffee, from either Africa or Mexico (it doesn’t really matter which, because they’re both under-developed regions I can put my $1.79 behind.) In another word, work. Because high octane java is what I’m going to need to get my juices flowing everyday in just two short months, instead of the 9:00 am cuddle session with a warm and slightly snotty baby I currently count as part of my morning breakfast. (Zero calories, BTW.) Work. Is this the only topic that’s going to inspire fodder for this blog now? Because blogging about your 9 to 5 agenda is a slippery slope, my friends - one garbage mountain covered in dirt and snow I refuse to slide down this winter.

I have no doubt this will be hard. Because garbage mountains covered in dirt and snow can be so, so fun to slide down - if you have the right toboggan. And the right snow pants. And a helmet in case you happen to smash head first into a tree on your way down. Because garbage mountains can be dangerous. Especially if you write about sliding down them. And especially if your boss comes across your blog and decides that he or she isn’t comfortable with you writing about how your co-worker stole your low-fat yogurt out of the mini fridge, or about how your boss’ boss hinted in your private meeting with her that your boss might not be around for too much longer. It can be the stuff of Desperate Housewives in those ivory towers sometimes, except for all the warm and slightly snotty babies.

Yes, garbage mountains may be fun, but they pay for neither the mortgage, nor the morning coffee you pound back on the bus at 8:45 am like you do Jagermeister on a Saturday night. So on this issue, I am willing to self-censor. Which may mean there will be a lot more pictures of a warm and snotty baby on this site to greet you as you sip your morning java and do some blog checkin' come January, but I can honestly think of no better way to start the day.

babies, lies and the Standing Committee on Citizenship and Immigration

I go back to work in less than two months. Two Christmas season months. So, basically, I start my new job tomorrow.

I've been trying to get into the head space of someone who's in paid employment for the last little while in anticipation of my return to the cubicle farm. First stop: a new bra, because I don't think I'll need my nursing bra in the boardroom. (At least I hope to God not.) Second: figuring out what the heck is going on in the real world.* So this afternoon is a trippy juxtaposition of watching the Standing Committee on Citizenship and Immigration discuss the Supplementary Estimates (A, I presume?) and reading about Borat and FedEx on the gossip blogs. (And of course, watching the Babe as he squirms and sqiggles along the floor, having recently - like yesterday recently - learned to pull himself up into the sitting position from his stomach). In addition to looking forward to the dinner party B-Rad is hosting at our place tomorrow (what shall I bring, I wonder?), and planning my December calendar obsessively, much like K. does, I'm sure, I'm secretly loathing the person (man) who said that moms can have it all: a career, a happy family, a fulfilled and actualized self. Oh really? Where does Borat fit into this? Answer: HE DOESN'T.

* I am so sad that my real world consists of Supplementary Estimates. Even more sad that I find pleasure in guessing if it's Supp A season, or B. Puke.