The lady right across the cubicle from me, whose name I shall spell backwards to protect her identity, is a LOVELY PERSON. She's the kind of person that drives everyone nuts, yet she's completely oblivious to that fact.
There are three other women that do the exact same job that I do, and we all have different "Ad Taker" numbers. That way, when we print off an obit for our records, we can tell by the number at the top who did it.
Last week when I couldn't remember which number belonged to which person, I asked Innal which number was hers. "I'm 701. Just remember... I'm number one!"
I mustered up a fake laugh. I'm pretty good at those.
Innal's comment worked, however. I never have trouble differentiating her ads from anyone else's.
This afternoon one of the guys from IT stuck his tongue out at Innal. Behind her back, of course.
Today when the maintenance guy came to take measurements for a desk extension I asked for last week, I told him I had changed my mind and didn't want the extension after all. He rolled his eyes and threatened to hate me forever. "If there's something I hate more than having to come all the way down here to fix something, it's coming all the way down here and NOT having to fix something." He made me promise to bring him cookies for his trouble.
I saved him an afternoon's worth of work, but he is bribing me anyway. Rude people these days.
A nice man from a funeral home in Texas sent me an email addressed to Sizie Seigle. THAT IS NOT EVEN CLOSE TO MY NAME.
When I got to work this morning, I found out that I have been coming into work a half hour late every day this week. Whoops. But it was not my fault. My boss looked pissed until I showed her that it was the schedule she gave me that led me astray.
Obituaries cost a TON. For instance, this post you are reading right now, if printed in the Kansas City Star, would cost about $500. That's without the paragraph breaks. And if I wanted to add a picture of myself, that strips me of an extra hundred dollars.
I went to the gym this morning, and since I was running short on time, I took clothes and makeup and stuff with me so I could shower afterwards and go straight to work. Whaddya know, when I was trying to get dressed, I realized I had forgotten to bring a shirt.
I would forget my head if it was not attached to my body.
Wednesday, August 31, 2011
They don't get much classier than this.
"People, even more than things, have to be restored, renewed, revived, reclaimed, and redeemed; never throw out anyone."
~Audrey HepburnThe Bugs in Our Apartment
The other day, I woke up at 3 a.m. and couldn't go back to sleep, so I went into the living room and turned on the TV.
Apparently I fell asleep, because I woke up to a series of strange sounds coming from the bedroom.
PSSSSST *flick* PSSSSSSSST *flick*
What on earth?
After several minutes of this, I rolled off the couch and went to investigate. Dylan was standing in front of the bedroom window, with his bottle of cologne and a lighter, igniting the windowsill.
"There's a crapload of ants coming in the window. I am lighting them on fire."
Seriously.
That's not all. Last night, I was curled up in a ball, almost asleep, when I felt something on my face. I thought it was the ceiling fan blowing a wisp of my hair into my eyes, and I was going to just ignore it, but after a while I found it unbearably obnoxious. I pulled my arm out from under the covers, but when I brushed the "hair" away, I felt a couple of spiny legs attached to a little bitty body....
I hurled myself out of bed and did a little "get-away-from-me-you-creepy-arachnid" dance. I knew it HAD to be a spider.
Dylan sat up. "Suz. You okay?"
"THERE WAS A BUG. ON MY FACE," I whined, prancing around like a little child.
Dylan threw on the light and stripped the bed, but the bug was no where to be found. "It's okay," he said. "It's gone now. You scared it."
I was not convinced. "What if it comes back?!"
"It's not coming back..."
I went back to my fetal position. Dylan sprawled across his side of the bed, engrossed in a game on his phone.
Almost asleep.... but then I felt something tickling my shoulder.
"DYLAN, IT IS ON MY BACK!!!"
Using his phone as a flashlight, he flicked it away, quickly informing me that it was "a very big cricket."
Resume whining. Finally I forgot about it and fell asleep.
This morning, after my alarm went off, I stumbled into the bathroom, and WHAT DO I FIND ON THE FLOOR, but Mr. Cricket. On steroids.
I promptly bounced out of the bathroom, wringing my hands and shrieking a little. Dylan mumbled, "Stomp on it." Um, no, I am not about to step on it with bare feet. So I pulled a shoe out of my closet and chucked it at the floor.
A noise came from the other room. "Suz. It's just a cricket."
"But I am scared of them!"
"He's scared of...no, actually, he's not. He likes you."
Screw that.
Mr. Super Cricket is now deceased.
Apparently I fell asleep, because I woke up to a series of strange sounds coming from the bedroom.
PSSSSST *flick* PSSSSSSSST *flick*
What on earth?
After several minutes of this, I rolled off the couch and went to investigate. Dylan was standing in front of the bedroom window, with his bottle of cologne and a lighter, igniting the windowsill.
"There's a crapload of ants coming in the window. I am lighting them on fire."
Seriously.
That's not all. Last night, I was curled up in a ball, almost asleep, when I felt something on my face. I thought it was the ceiling fan blowing a wisp of my hair into my eyes, and I was going to just ignore it, but after a while I found it unbearably obnoxious. I pulled my arm out from under the covers, but when I brushed the "hair" away, I felt a couple of spiny legs attached to a little bitty body....
I hurled myself out of bed and did a little "get-away-from-me-you-creepy-arachnid" dance. I knew it HAD to be a spider.
Dylan sat up. "Suz. You okay?"
"THERE WAS A BUG. ON MY FACE," I whined, prancing around like a little child.
Dylan threw on the light and stripped the bed, but the bug was no where to be found. "It's okay," he said. "It's gone now. You scared it."
I was not convinced. "What if it comes back?!"
"It's not coming back..."
I went back to my fetal position. Dylan sprawled across his side of the bed, engrossed in a game on his phone.
Almost asleep.... but then I felt something tickling my shoulder.
"DYLAN, IT IS ON MY BACK!!!"
Using his phone as a flashlight, he flicked it away, quickly informing me that it was "a very big cricket."
Resume whining. Finally I forgot about it and fell asleep.
This morning, after my alarm went off, I stumbled into the bathroom, and WHAT DO I FIND ON THE FLOOR, but Mr. Cricket. On steroids.
I promptly bounced out of the bathroom, wringing my hands and shrieking a little. Dylan mumbled, "Stomp on it." Um, no, I am not about to step on it with bare feet. So I pulled a shoe out of my closet and chucked it at the floor.
A noise came from the other room. "Suz. It's just a cricket."
"But I am scared of them!"
"He's scared of...no, actually, he's not. He likes you."
Screw that.
Mr. Super Cricket is now deceased.
Tuesday, August 30, 2011
First Week!
As of 5:30 p.m. today, which is in 34 minutes, I will have worked at The Kansas City Star for six full days. My cute little cubicle is decorated with pictures, notes, a teddy bear, and water beads (HAVE YOU EVER PLAYED WITH WATER BEADS?! They're SO distracting...). I'm settling into a routine, and I know my way around the system fairly well. I have figured out which of my coworkers I love and which ones I do not care for, which ones don't think it's weird when I laugh at the stupidest things, and which ones will only say the bare minimum when I accidently run into them coming around the corner. I've laughed a lot and even almost cried once.
Working as an Obituary Representative sounds very morbid, weird, and a bit boring. Thank God for the people I work with; they make it much more lighthearted than I ever expected it to be. I'm not sure if that's a good thing, but I will choose to look at it as such.
Sometimes it does tend to get a little depressing - like, when I have to print a notice and picture for a five-year-old. It's the pictures that are always hard. Until you see a picture, you can kinda keep the name in an anonymous box in your head and not take anything personally. But then you see the picture of a chubby-cheeked, happy-go-lucky little tyke -- and suddenly the stuff his parents wrote in his obituary seem a bit more heartwrenching.
It's really awful to sit down and actively think about; all of these people, all the names and faces, don't exist anymore. Someone's at last giving them their inch of "fame," but it's the end of their life. That specific person won't ever be alive on this earth again. That's pretty strange to process.
When it gets busy, all the names start running together, and if one of my coworkers asks me if I did so-and-so's obit, I have to look at my list to remember, even though I usually remember names easily. And even though it doesn't really matter, I try to avoid that. These were real people, with lives and hearts and families and wants and desires, just like me, and they deserve to be remembered.
Before, I never understood why people would pay out the butt for a little square of words in the newspaper-and, my, do they cost an arm and a leg!-but now I am beginning to realize that for some, it's a way of remembering the person they loved one last time. It's how they share what they care about with the world. It's important to them, so it should be important to me.
There is so much more I want to tell you about! I promise tomorrow I'll say happy, nice stuff! :)
Working as an Obituary Representative sounds very morbid, weird, and a bit boring. Thank God for the people I work with; they make it much more lighthearted than I ever expected it to be. I'm not sure if that's a good thing, but I will choose to look at it as such.
Sometimes it does tend to get a little depressing - like, when I have to print a notice and picture for a five-year-old. It's the pictures that are always hard. Until you see a picture, you can kinda keep the name in an anonymous box in your head and not take anything personally. But then you see the picture of a chubby-cheeked, happy-go-lucky little tyke -- and suddenly the stuff his parents wrote in his obituary seem a bit more heartwrenching.
It's really awful to sit down and actively think about; all of these people, all the names and faces, don't exist anymore. Someone's at last giving them their inch of "fame," but it's the end of their life. That specific person won't ever be alive on this earth again. That's pretty strange to process.
When it gets busy, all the names start running together, and if one of my coworkers asks me if I did so-and-so's obit, I have to look at my list to remember, even though I usually remember names easily. And even though it doesn't really matter, I try to avoid that. These were real people, with lives and hearts and families and wants and desires, just like me, and they deserve to be remembered.
Before, I never understood why people would pay out the butt for a little square of words in the newspaper-and, my, do they cost an arm and a leg!-but now I am beginning to realize that for some, it's a way of remembering the person they loved one last time. It's how they share what they care about with the world. It's important to them, so it should be important to me.
There is so much more I want to tell you about! I promise tomorrow I'll say happy, nice stuff! :)
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