It's possible that after this post you'll think less of me, but less is more, right? Okay, probably the person who came up with that saying didn't mean for it to be used in a case such as this, but as a modern American, I've decided to apply for my right to use words out of context in order to feel more a part of my generation. So here goes.
I enjoy the spectacle of passive aggressive hostility. In fact, not only do I enjoy it, I envy those that are able to successfully employ it.
Mind you, I'm not a huge fan of this kind of behavior when it's directed at me. I know what you're thinking: who could ever be angry with Kari? Hard to believe, I know, and yes, it's a rare occurrence, but every once in a while I manage to tick off someone in my close proximity. When this happens, I'm rarely confronted by the person who has taken issue, but I can feel their subtle anger. My coping mechanism? Avoidance. I simply wait it out. Maybe not the most mature course of action, especially when an apology is in order, but it's always worked for me.
However, on the flip side, I must say that I've never been able to hold a silent grudge efficiently enough to make any lasting impact on the offending party. The problem is I've never been mad enough at anyone to remember why I'm mad at them in the first place. Last year I dated this guy for a couple months, and he did some things that made me feel angry and hurt. I stopped talking to him for a week, and when I did tell him what was wrong, it was over the phone. I knew that if I talked to him in person, the concern in his eyes would make me forget why I was angry. You see, I wasn't even really that upset, I just knew that due to his behavior towards me I was supposed to be upset. So I wrote a list entitled "The Reasons I'm Mad At You" and brought them up one by one during our phone conversation. Lame, yes, but I honestly am incapable of holding offences against people for longer than a day, and often that includes even a clear memory of the offence.
That's why I stand in awe of people who are capable of becoming so intensely angry they loudly confront the object of their anger. Even more impressive are those that avoid direct confrontation in order to inflict their wrath subtly.
This morning there was an incident at work, and one of the guys in our shop feels he was unjustly yelled at for something that wasn't his fault. Rather than yell back, or attempt to explain that he is not responsible for the problem he is being blamed for, he remained completely silent throughout the verbal carnage. I'm positive that the accuser will be sorry for the things he said when he realizes the way in which the accused handles this type of thing. The payback has already begun. The wronged man will do everything within his power to make the confronter's job something to be dreaded. Already he has gone around undoing the courteous things he had done to benefit his coworker, from this day forth prepared to help him with only the bare minimum required. No one would want to have this man for an enemy. Considering what I know about him, I'm pretty sure he's never let go of a grudge in his life.
I guess I shouldn't be enjoying the gruesome updates on this matter, but I can't help it. I'm so impressed by both of them that my respect for each has grown. I applaud the confronter for his boldness. I cheer for the passive aggressive for his revengeful determination. To me they're not petty men, but heroes.
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
Horn Tooting
There's no way he's going to make it. The truck is too big. The driveway, too small.
Where I work, I see the phenomenon that is semi-truck driving several times a week. Situated in a narrow streeted business district, the Hotwork building houses not only offices, but a large work shop as well. You might be surprised to learn that in our own Lexington, KY, tools and machinery used to maintain factories and refineries all over the United States, Canada, and Mexico are tested and repaired, a constant stream of comings and goings as one job finishes and another begins.
Surprisingly, it doesn't take much manpower to unload and reload the humongous trucks that
carry equipment from one location to another. The men employed in these positions are strong and fairly young, not yet to the age of worrying about the potential negative long term repercussions associated with constant intensive labor. They work quickly and efficiently, barely giving the transport driver a chance to use the restroom and stretch his legs sufficiently before he reluctantly assumes his position behind the large wheel awaiting his instruction.
Sometimes the shop guys complain that the truck driver's are annoying, because they talk too much. Often after their departure, everyone talks about how odd they are, laughing about the queer things they say. It's true. They are usually annoying and say weird things, but come on, you've got to cut them some slack. They are alone in a tiny cab all day, every day, driving, driving, driving. When I drive long distances, it's my excited anticipation of the place I'm journeying toward that keeps me sane. In 4 hours I'll get to see Kelly. Just 10 more hours to Green Bay. Without a great payoff to look forward to , I don't know that I'd be able to force my body to sit still and solitary for hours and hours, knowing I'd be doing the same thing the next day. It's true that there are many mundane things we must do to live life. We have to work, if we want food and shelter. I don't know of anyone who's job is so stimulating, they are always eager for more. But it's one thing to be bored, daydreaming about the end of your shift, and quite another to be caged inside a small box day after day, never having anyone to talk to or make any kind of contact with.
There are days I get tired of spending time with my co-workers. Tired of the whining and complaining. Tired of sympathizing with their mundane problems. Tired of their weird habits and odors. Tired. But if I had to choose between working with them or working completely alone, I would most definitely choose the former. Any sane person would. That's why solitary confinement is a punishment, not a reward.
I don't know how truck driver's do what they do. Besides the solitude, they perform miracles. I've seen trucks that seem wider than roads maneuvered to into tiny driveways, then backed up to be unloaded and reloaded for a new task. When I use a mirror, it's for the sake of vanity. When they use one, it's a tool that saves property and lives.
In summation, truck drivers should be admired, even if they are weird conversationalists.
So next time you pass a giant semi on the highway, be sure to smile, wave, and make the universal arm motion for horn tooting; it might be the only contact with another human being they have all week.
Where I work, I see the phenomenon that is semi-truck driving several times a week. Situated in a narrow streeted business district, the Hotwork building houses not only offices, but a large work shop as well. You might be surprised to learn that in our own Lexington, KY, tools and machinery used to maintain factories and refineries all over the United States, Canada, and Mexico are tested and repaired, a constant stream of comings and goings as one job finishes and another begins.
Surprisingly, it doesn't take much manpower to unload and reload the humongous trucks that
carry equipment from one location to another. The men employed in these positions are strong and fairly young, not yet to the age of worrying about the potential negative long term repercussions associated with constant intensive labor. They work quickly and efficiently, barely giving the transport driver a chance to use the restroom and stretch his legs sufficiently before he reluctantly assumes his position behind the large wheel awaiting his instruction.
Sometimes the shop guys complain that the truck driver's are annoying, because they talk too much. Often after their departure, everyone talks about how odd they are, laughing about the queer things they say. It's true. They are usually annoying and say weird things, but come on, you've got to cut them some slack. They are alone in a tiny cab all day, every day, driving, driving, driving. When I drive long distances, it's my excited anticipation of the place I'm journeying toward that keeps me sane. In 4 hours I'll get to see Kelly. Just 10 more hours to Green Bay. Without a great payoff to look forward to , I don't know that I'd be able to force my body to sit still and solitary for hours and hours, knowing I'd be doing the same thing the next day. It's true that there are many mundane things we must do to live life. We have to work, if we want food and shelter. I don't know of anyone who's job is so stimulating, they are always eager for more. But it's one thing to be bored, daydreaming about the end of your shift, and quite another to be caged inside a small box day after day, never having anyone to talk to or make any kind of contact with.
There are days I get tired of spending time with my co-workers. Tired of the whining and complaining. Tired of sympathizing with their mundane problems. Tired of their weird habits and odors. Tired. But if I had to choose between working with them or working completely alone, I would most definitely choose the former. Any sane person would. That's why solitary confinement is a punishment, not a reward.
I don't know how truck driver's do what they do. Besides the solitude, they perform miracles. I've seen trucks that seem wider than roads maneuvered to into tiny driveways, then backed up to be unloaded and reloaded for a new task. When I use a mirror, it's for the sake of vanity. When they use one, it's a tool that saves property and lives.
In summation, truck drivers should be admired, even if they are weird conversationalists.
So next time you pass a giant semi on the highway, be sure to smile, wave, and make the universal arm motion for horn tooting; it might be the only contact with another human being they have all week.
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
Blame The Paper
I'm tired. I'm hungry. Nothing works. Someone's going to pay!
These were the words running through my head last night as I struggled to maintain sanity after working for 11 hours straight. On a normal week, I set aside one week night after my regular 8-5 job, and go to my second job, where I am in charge of mailing all kinds of marketing brochures. I work until I've finished the tasks set to me, which usually takes anywhere from 2 to 5 hours. Overall, this makes for a long day, but with all of the other activities and obligations I have going on, one night is all I can spare, and that just barely.
Last night was incredibly frustrating, because when I got to job #2 (not having had time to get dinner), I found that the printer I use to print my brochures on is gone, and a new one is sitting in its place. This would have been a good thing since I sometimes have problems with the old printer, except that my computer had not been set up to use the new printer. I tried several different computer functions to try and get my machine to recognize the new device, but as my computer knowledge is fairly limited, I ran out of ideas, having accomplished nothing.
After giving up on the idea of printing new brochures, I figured I could at least get down to business on the ones that had been pre-printed. I worked steadily for an hour or so, loading stacks of paper into the folding machine, combining the various flyer's, cramming them in envelopes and setting them aside. Everything was going okay until for seemingly no reason, when I put a stack of papers into the folding machine, the stupid thing tried to pull about six pieces of paper through at the same time, causing it to jam. Unscrewing this and pulling on that has always fixed paper jams in the past, but this time I was unsuccessful. I prodded and poked at this thing for a while before giving up in frustration, cuts, broken fingernails, and despair.
By this point, the combination of my hunger, tiredness, and anger were becoming an issue. I wanted to leave, but since I didn't know when I would have another free night to work, I figured I should barrel through and get as much done as I possibly could. So I put my head down and began trifolding everything by hand. If you've never folded paper in mass, you may not understand what I'm saying when I tell you it HURT! If someone tells you they got hurt at their office job, you probably assume they mean a paper cut, and you laugh. Paper cuts are a somewhat humorous job risk when you consider someone in the field of construction or some other hard labor profession who has to worry about smashing their thumb with a hammer, or having a brick fall on their head. It's true that I wasn't in danger, sitting in my cushy, hydraulic chair, but that doesn't mean my job wasn't causing me pain. Folding large stacks of paper cuts your fingers in 10 different places each time you make a crease. As you pull your fists along the thick stack of folded sheets to bend them into the proper shape, you get long, carpet type burns . It actually wears the skin off your hand after you do it enough times. This type of folding also requires quite a lot of pressure, so it doesn't take long for your entire hand and wrist to cramp up and become worn out and inflexible.
You're probably thinking that I'm being ridiculous in making such a big deal over something so minute, and probably your right. It's just paper after all. But when you add these afflictions on top of my previously mentioned bodily shortcomings and technological frustrations, maybe you can sympathize as least a little with my building anger. In my head, with every cut and burn I received, I assigned blame. This was my boss' fault for not maintaining the folding machine properly. That was the tech. guys fault for forgetting to hook up the new printer to my computer. The more I folded, the madder I got, and the more irrational I was in my placing of blame. This was my teacher's fault for giving me such a big assignment over the weekend and causing me to lose sleep. That was my friend's fault for talking me into going out to dinner a few nights ago, leaving me with no money to eat out when I'm hungry. This was my friend's boyfriend's mother's dog's fault for...
The thing about placing blame is that once you get started, it's almost impossible to stop.
This morning, after getting a good night's sleep and some Fruit Loops in my tummy, I sat down to read the news. I came across an article about a government subsidized Mexican daycare that burned down, killing over 40 young children. This tragedy has become a large scale political drama, the heartbroken parents and other members of the community claiming that this horrific event (sparked by faulty wiring in an old air conditioning unit) is the fault of ambivalent politicians. Obviously I don't know all the details surrounding this situation, but it seems to me that the deaths of these innocent children are not specifically anyone's fault. Perhaps there is an aspect of neglect in this case, but no one meant for such a terrible thing to happen.
When we consider the past and present, there are certainly instances in which we can place authentic blame on definite parties. However, more often than not, bad and hurtful things just happen, because we live in a flawed world. Attributing blame to one specific person or thing is not incredibly productive, but I suppose it's just human nature.
This is what I know: I am now truly grateful for my usually working folding machine, because I have felt the pain and frustration of folding by hand.
These were the words running through my head last night as I struggled to maintain sanity after working for 11 hours straight. On a normal week, I set aside one week night after my regular 8-5 job, and go to my second job, where I am in charge of mailing all kinds of marketing brochures. I work until I've finished the tasks set to me, which usually takes anywhere from 2 to 5 hours. Overall, this makes for a long day, but with all of the other activities and obligations I have going on, one night is all I can spare, and that just barely.
Last night was incredibly frustrating, because when I got to job #2 (not having had time to get dinner), I found that the printer I use to print my brochures on is gone, and a new one is sitting in its place. This would have been a good thing since I sometimes have problems with the old printer, except that my computer had not been set up to use the new printer. I tried several different computer functions to try and get my machine to recognize the new device, but as my computer knowledge is fairly limited, I ran out of ideas, having accomplished nothing.
After giving up on the idea of printing new brochures, I figured I could at least get down to business on the ones that had been pre-printed. I worked steadily for an hour or so, loading stacks of paper into the folding machine, combining the various flyer's, cramming them in envelopes and setting them aside. Everything was going okay until for seemingly no reason, when I put a stack of papers into the folding machine, the stupid thing tried to pull about six pieces of paper through at the same time, causing it to jam. Unscrewing this and pulling on that has always fixed paper jams in the past, but this time I was unsuccessful. I prodded and poked at this thing for a while before giving up in frustration, cuts, broken fingernails, and despair.
By this point, the combination of my hunger, tiredness, and anger were becoming an issue. I wanted to leave, but since I didn't know when I would have another free night to work, I figured I should barrel through and get as much done as I possibly could. So I put my head down and began trifolding everything by hand. If you've never folded paper in mass, you may not understand what I'm saying when I tell you it HURT! If someone tells you they got hurt at their office job, you probably assume they mean a paper cut, and you laugh. Paper cuts are a somewhat humorous job risk when you consider someone in the field of construction or some other hard labor profession who has to worry about smashing their thumb with a hammer, or having a brick fall on their head. It's true that I wasn't in danger, sitting in my cushy, hydraulic chair, but that doesn't mean my job wasn't causing me pain. Folding large stacks of paper cuts your fingers in 10 different places each time you make a crease. As you pull your fists along the thick stack of folded sheets to bend them into the proper shape, you get long, carpet type burns . It actually wears the skin off your hand after you do it enough times. This type of folding also requires quite a lot of pressure, so it doesn't take long for your entire hand and wrist to cramp up and become worn out and inflexible.
You're probably thinking that I'm being ridiculous in making such a big deal over something so minute, and probably your right. It's just paper after all. But when you add these afflictions on top of my previously mentioned bodily shortcomings and technological frustrations, maybe you can sympathize as least a little with my building anger. In my head, with every cut and burn I received, I assigned blame. This was my boss' fault for not maintaining the folding machine properly. That was the tech. guys fault for forgetting to hook up the new printer to my computer. The more I folded, the madder I got, and the more irrational I was in my placing of blame. This was my teacher's fault for giving me such a big assignment over the weekend and causing me to lose sleep. That was my friend's fault for talking me into going out to dinner a few nights ago, leaving me with no money to eat out when I'm hungry. This was my friend's boyfriend's mother's dog's fault for...
The thing about placing blame is that once you get started, it's almost impossible to stop.
This morning, after getting a good night's sleep and some Fruit Loops in my tummy, I sat down to read the news. I came across an article about a government subsidized Mexican daycare that burned down, killing over 40 young children. This tragedy has become a large scale political drama, the heartbroken parents and other members of the community claiming that this horrific event (sparked by faulty wiring in an old air conditioning unit) is the fault of ambivalent politicians. Obviously I don't know all the details surrounding this situation, but it seems to me that the deaths of these innocent children are not specifically anyone's fault. Perhaps there is an aspect of neglect in this case, but no one meant for such a terrible thing to happen.
When we consider the past and present, there are certainly instances in which we can place authentic blame on definite parties. However, more often than not, bad and hurtful things just happen, because we live in a flawed world. Attributing blame to one specific person or thing is not incredibly productive, but I suppose it's just human nature.
This is what I know: I am now truly grateful for my usually working folding machine, because I have felt the pain and frustration of folding by hand.
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