Gotta beat Marcia

Someone's comments got me thinking about which breed of dog would be Republican and which would be Democrat. Your thoughts?

I am home from work late, because apparently I go to the Monica Gellar School of Competitiveness.

Yesterday morning they called six of us into a meeting and gave us a new task that had very little to do with proofreading, which is good because very few of us were proofreaders. We were from all over my department. We were each assigned 200 pages and had to do stuff on said 200 pages that involved spatial relations and coming up with percentages and basically other than asking me to be an emergency room physician, you couldn't find something I am worse at.

(Marvin and I sometimes ruminate over what our worst job would be, and he likes to do his impression of patients coming in to my emergency room, with me flapping my hands. "OH MY GOD! Oh! My God! Is there anybody who can help this person!? I'm going to faint. You aren't going to barf, are you? I can't be around barfing. I HAVE TO GET OUT OF HERE! STOP BARFING!")

At the meeting, I asked the person in charge when said task was due, and he said, "Yesterday."

Now, I happen to like deadlines. I thrive on deadlines. You give me a deadline, and I will KILL MYSELF to get the thing done before the deadline. But if you tell me something nebulous like "yesterday," you tell me that I have to go in a way-back machine, I will suddenly cease to care and I will handle the task like Butterfly McQueen.

Oh, look. Gone with the Wind.

The first thing I needed to do once I got back to my office was place a panicked phone call to my father. "They're making me DO MATH!" I whisper screamed. After he stopped guffawing, he tried to help. My father is very linear and scientific, so he makes fun of me a lot for not being so. He cannot spell his way out of a paper bag (he recently said, "Aren't 'Cooper' and 'copper' spelled the same?"), and I make fun of him for that, so we're even.

"You have to think of each page as a grid," my father began.

"Okay, you've lost me at 'grid,' " I said. "I can't think in grids. There are no grids in my head. In my head are laughter and flowers, father. Grids."

But you know what? Once I started thinking of each page as a grid, doing the whole percentage thing I had to do to each page was a snap. Why didn't someone tell me? Soon I was clipping along at my new task. After a few hours, I emailed one of the other people working on her 200 pages, and she had only gotten 20 pages done, and I had done 41. HAH!

This morning, one of my work pals meandered into my office. "So how's your project going?"

"Good! I got over 100 pages done yesterday!"

"A hundred! Great!"

He paused.

"You finished yours, didn't you?" Oh, I hated him right then. How had he FINISHED? He got all TWO HUNDRED PAGES done in ONE DAY?

"Did you proofread each of the item numbers?" I asked him. "Did you highlight your changes in pale yellow? I thought we should do that, so they knew we made changes, yet the pale yellow would be easy to read against. Did you do anything like that?"

This guy is not a proofreader. He looked at me for a long time. "…No. I didn't do anything in any pale yellow, June."

Okay. So he did a sloppy, sloppy, careless, color-free job. Who cares if he got his stupid pages done, they clearly weren't going to be up to snuff.

About 4:00 p.m., he came back in. "So, have a good evening. Got plans?"

"Did somebody else finish?" I asked. What was WITH these freebasing coworkers? Sure enough, he told me someone else got ALL 200 PAGES done. And she was someone I know would have done a really thorough job. She probably even highlighted.

And this, folks, is why I stayed till all hours and worked like a banshee and got that stupid task done. No one was gonna show ME up. Well, two people showed me up. BUT NO ONE ELSE!

Now I'm gonna knock over a can and get me some turkey.

 

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June

At one point, I was sort of hot, in a "she's 27 and probably a 7" kind of a way. Now I'm old and have to develop a charming personality. Guess how that's going.

24 thoughts on “Gotta beat Marcia”

  1. My worst job would be selling anything. I tried being one of those people who stop you and ask for donations to a charity one summer and I hate hate hated it. And was rubbish at it.
    Also it’s 7.30pm on Valentine’s Day and I am reading your blog while my boyfriend is sat next to me shooting things in a post-apocolyptic world (or whatever game it is). What romantics we are.

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  2. I am a socil worker becuase I did not have to take more than basic math in college – seriously that’s how I chose it, not becuase i wanted to save the world. Now when I have to do math – I panicy (is that a word?) call Hubby who is an enginerd and after he sighs a very deep breath – he tells me what I need to do. Usually it’s something simple like this example when asked to help me with perecentages “BIG SIGH …Divide the little number by the big number HB” all said in a lovely, condiscending tone..

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  3. Australian Shepherds are without a doubt Democrats! With a social worker mom from Massachusetts how could they possibly support any other party?

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  4. ROFL!!!! Sounds like something I would do–panic over percentages, then bust my buns trying to finish to meet the blooming deadline. Oh yes mam, you must use those colored highlighters. How can anyone complete a job without color coding?

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  5. If it is the Monica Geller School of Competitiveness, who is Marcia, and why do you have to beat her? Maybe dogs are republicans and cats are democrats, at least that seems to be the way things roll in our home….

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  6. All I know is that my dogs are definitely Democrats. You can’t be part Border Collie and live in Massachusetts with parents that proudly voted for Obama and be anything other than Democrats!

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  7. My worst job would be your job. SHUDDER! LOL! Give me the ER any day of the week, lots of action, quick decisions. Also lots of periods of inactivity and parties and food.
    Slaughter house would be bad. Mortician would be worse. Salesperson would be just under the job of proofreader.
    As for the doggies…. Republicans would be highly groomed poodles and Shar-peis (or however you spell it). Democrats would likely be yorkies and golden retrievers and Irish Setters. Dalmations would be Libertarians. Who knows though? Dogs could surprise me like humans do. I think “Oh, for sure this person is a XYZ” and then bam, they go and surprise me.

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  8. I think the worst job would have to do with dealing with poo that wasn’t your own. Septic tank cleaners, that type of thing. Slaughter houses would be up there also. That’s a bad job with bad karma. But God bless those people because the finished product is mighty tasty.
    Hasn’t the AKC already divided up dogs according to party. Working dogs are democrats and sporting dogs are republican.

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  9. Apparently, I need my own proofreader. That would be “long” division and well there was another typo in there as well.

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  10. I hate numbers. Anything math related. I am learning through my children’s schooling that I am a whiz with mulitplication facts and I rock out some log division. But algebra, grids, bullsh#* ! I’m here to tell you, I never use any of it in my real life.
    Now, if anyone wants to have a literature or anything english related contest, I’m all over it.
    I would have just shown your bosses how you can find the turkey under the can. They would ralized how brilliant you are and let you off the hook for this go round.

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  11. The Monica Geller School of Competitiveness! At least Monica Geller doesn’t have a dance school. Remember the dance routine she and Ross did on Dance Fever? I think it was Dance Fever.

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  12. I’m mixing your themes here, but the Tarleton twins are Irish Setters, Pa is a Cairn Terrier, Mammy and Prissy are a Newfoundland and a Chihuahua, respectively. Oh, and India Wilkes is a Pit Bull.

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  13. My worst job ever would be anything involving sales. My mom made me be a girlscout when I was little and I was the only one who couldn’t sell a single box! (People wait for those every year!) My best job…well, anything that is all about paperwork and planning…a bureaucrat, perhaps?

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  14. Ooo the classifying dogs assignment sounds like mucho fun. In political parties or jobs! Okay, German Shepherds, Yorkies and Laboradors would be Republican. Rat Terriers would DEFINATELY be democratic. German Shepherds are so police officers (duh), Yorkies are hair dressers and fashion designers, and Laboradors are blue collared workers.
    Worst job – selling anything that people don’t want/need to buy. Best Job – show wife, housewife, artist, social worker (well, it’s kind of best and worst at the same time).
    FYI I took the SAME math class in high school THREE times. And guess what? Math’s my job! Surprise!

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  15. Golden retrievers are most definitely Democrats. Why? Well, b/c I like them, that’s why. You had me rolling with Marvin’s impersonation of you as a doctor. I wonder what jobs different breeds of dogs would be? Like the bulldogs would be policemen, and dachsunds would be bankers. I see terriers as plumbers and Great Danes as brokers. omg, I am really putting too much thought into this.

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  16. I think wiener dogs and bull*dogs would be democrats……but enough about my politics, I want to know if that dad-gum red dress came in?

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  17. For the record, the Border Collie kicked serious bootie (boo-tay?) on the turkey under the can trick. The Lab/Chesapeake mix (whom we refer to as the dumbest dog EVER) took considerably longer, all the while I hollered “Get the turkey! Get the turkey! It’s under the can!” I guess he doesn’t comprehend English, and knew I was being a copycat.
    My worst job: door-to-door vacuum cleaner salesperson. Best job: anything grids… and numbers.

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  18. Good for you June! I would have been looking for a window in a tall building to jump out of, had it been me facing your task. I hope Marvin had dinner ready for you when you came home.
    My idea of a “worst job” would be working in collections.

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  19. Did you run around saying “I don’t know nuthin bout grids. Honest I don’t” until someone slapped you? Did you grab a pale yellow highlighter and scream “As GA-HAD is my witness I’ll never get bee-hind again!”
    Then bend over and puke?
    Ok maybe I’ve watched Aunt Piddypat one too many times look down her nose at Scawlette!

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