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Charlie Hatton
Brookline, MA
I was catching up on my email at work today, and encountered that most dastardly of work correspondences, the Email to Which You Cannot Possibly Respond.
“He’s the ‘Data Nazi’; even look at him the wrong way and it’s ‘No results for you!‘”
The Email to Which You Cannot Possibly Respond comes in many flavors, of course. It might come from your boss on your off day, asking whether you could possibly stop by the office. Perhaps a coworker has written you, urgently requesting that you take a project off her hands. Or the office manager has emailed to broadcast the license plate — your license plate — of the car that’s been rudely left in the clearly-labeled executive parking area. Certainly, these qualify as Emails to Which You Cannot Possibly Respond.
The mail I received today was just a tad different. It was from a guy in the office — a guy in a support role. He does one thing — one esoteric but necessary, very specialized thing — and by all accounts, he does it quite well. But he’s picky. If you want him to do his thing — to perform his unusual, weird, freakly skill on your data — you’ve got to deliver it just so, in exactly the right format, attached in precisely the specified way, with no special requests, extraneous information, or innocent questions. He’s the ‘Data Nazi’; even look at him the wrong way and it’s ‘No results for you!‘
And apparently, I’ve crossed him.
Before leaving for vacation, I sent off a couple of requests for our Data Nazi to handle. And, it seems, I broke some unwritten code or other about the manner in which I asked. Maybe the files were attached rather than pasted in, or vice versa. Maybe I wasn’t clear about which project was involved. Maybe, in a subconscious fit of defiance, I addressed the email to ‘Dear Poopyshoes‘. I can’t say, really.
All I know is that I returned from vacation to find an email from the gentleman — a scathing, pedantic, self-righteous bit of fluff, full of ‘I’ve said it a thousand times‘ and ‘shouldn’t you know by now‘ and ‘is this really the best use of my time‘ verbiage.
I assure you, meanwhile, that my transgression — if, indeed, there was one — was trivially minor. I do my best to meet the unreasonable and illogical demands of other people in the office, I really do. Mostly so I can someday justify launching a maniacal reign of terror myself, mind you — but still, I play the game. So whatever it was that set him off was the merest trifle — a typo on a file extension, or forgetting to ask ‘Mother, May I?’ in the requesting email.
I’d like nothing more — particularly since the missive was copied to several other folks in the office food chain — than to respond with an apology couched in subtle, witty sarcasm. ‘I’m truly sorry for my egregious error,‘ I might say, ‘and for the tiny, tiny penis that must have led you to send your email response.‘
(Okay, so apparently ‘subtle’ sarcasm is out the window. You get the point.)
Believe me, I’ve tried. I started four different responses, cc’ed to all of the original recipients, intended to clear my name as best as possible and point out the man’s blatant overreaction. Sadly, I couldn’t find a way to reply that didn’t start with: ‘Look, bitch‘. Somehow, I don’t think that would highlight my ‘overreaction’ message very well.
Plus, I need this guy. He does one thing, but it’s a thing that no one in the office does, and it happens to be a thing I’m forced to ask for from time to time. Digitally pimpslapping him back would only drive me further up whatever sort of ‘Shit List’ he’s tallying. And that’s a list of shit I can’t afford climbing.
So, I’ve got myself an ‘Email to Which I Cannot Possibly Respond‘. I simply amended my original requests — with no additional text, lest that ‘look, bitch‘ slip out — and sent them back. And now I have to hope I don’t run into the guy for a few days, lest a face-to-face lecture turn into a chocolate swirly that I’d probably (eventually) regret.
Still, that won’t stop me from slipping a couple of Ex-Lax into his coffee, at the next possible opportunity. I didn’t say I wouldn’t get the bastard back — I just said he wouldn’t know it came from me. Paybacks are a bitch, Poopypants. Hope you’ve got a magazine to pass the time.
Permalink | 3 CommentsI don’t have much time left. Ten, maybe eleven hours at the most. Sometime tomorrow morning, I have to go back to work.
It’s not the worst thing in the world, I suppose. I like my job — as vocations go, I wouldn’t kick it out of bed for nibbling Triscuits. But the office and I have been ‘on a break’ for the past week and a half, and frankly, I’ve grown accustomed to my slothful ways. You can’t just turn off ten hours of sleep and nine hours of lounging around each day, you know. There has to be a post-vacation re-adjustment period, doesn’t there? Here are a few suggestions I’ll be making when I hit the office tomorrow:
Two o’clock siesta: If I manage — painfully, mind you — to roll in by ten or eleven in the morning, I’ll be positively pooped by two. While I’m still on ‘cantina time‘, why not let me catch a few mid-afternoon winks, to ensure an alert and productive employee for the twenty minutes I’ll manage to work before I duck out at five?
What? Like I’m going to miss happy hour on my first day back? Slavedriver, please.
A place in the sun: I’ve had the hot Mexican sun shining on my shoulders for the better part — and I do mean better part — of the past week. Surely, it’s not too much to ask to have my desk moved outside for a few days, to allow me to acclimate to the harsh New England weather.
Yes, I know the sun’s not nearly as strong up here, but I’ll find some way to manage. I’m a real trooper that way. Of course, if you’re feeling sorry for me, boss, I could always take a few extra days in the Carolinas — to ease the transition, of course. I’m just trying to help.
Margarita meetings: Three words — ‘tequila withdrawal syndrome’.
“Wouldn’t it be easier for everyone involved if you threw some Cuervo and lime juice in a glass over ice, and brought it to my cabana— I mean, cubicle?”
I’m not positive my health plan covers such a condition, but if it does, the office would be out a lot of money, right? Wouldn’t it be easier for everyone involved if you threw some Cuervo and lime juice in a glass over ice, and brought it to my cabana— I mean, cubicle?
And easy on the salt, there, Sparky. I have sensitive lips.
A menu muy bueno: Normally, I have very simple tastes in lunch food. I’ve always been easy to please that way. But after a few days of authentic tamales, ceviche, and huevos rancheros, I’m simply not sure I can go back to those lunch truck burritos.
How about springing for something from that upscale Mexican place down the street? I’m not picky; empanadas, flautas, chile rellenos — it’s all good. I wouldn’t want to be a bother, really. And I’m sure I’ll be able to go back to the old routine soon. It shouldn’t take more than a couple of months. End of the year, max.
Somehow, I have a feeling it’s not going to work out. They’ll probably even get upset when I show up tomorrow in my swimming trunks, with a mariachi band and a bottle of Herradura. I bet the help desk people won’t rub suntan lotion on my back, either. Tomorrow’s going to be one loco Monday, amigos. Ay, chihuahua.
Permalink | 2 CommentsAs promised, I’m happy to present the following brief slice of my trip to Mexico, using personal photos to illustrate. Or, as I like to call it:
What This Gringo Did on His Summer Vacation
Here, we have the view from the balcony connected to the room in which my wife and I stayed. We overlooked the ‘Royal Service’ pool, which our package allowed us to access. And access we did, for a very large percentage of our time there.
For a first hint as to why, please note the thatched-roof palapas lining the pool. These are essentially outdoor canopy beds, providing shade, comfort, and a place to set your drink while lounging just out of reach of the scorching summer sun. Our palapa was poolside, second from the left on the far end. You may begin turning green with envy… now.
This is the view from our palapa. Please to be noting the following four important features in this photo, taken by yours truly:
Also, though it wasn’t planned, the topmost balcony on the left in this photo is attached to the suite where we stayed, and is the spot from where the previous picture was taken. How’s that for synchronicity, eh?
This is a wider-angle view of the pool and pool bar, taken by my wife from our palapa. You may have the impression by now that all we did was lounge by this pool and drink. You would be a wise and perceptive reader.
There are no bartenders present in this shot, which means one of two things — either it was taken on the one morning we managed to find the pool before ten AM, when the bar opened, or — far more likely — the bartender was delivering drinks to one of the guests. Also note the lack of noisy, hairy, obtrusive, demanding, annoying, or underaged people in and around the pool. At ‘our’ pool, one-to-two people in the water was common. Two-to-three was ‘typical’, and four-to-five was ‘crowded’. Six or more was ‘don’t you lazy bastards have a buffet to stuff your gullets at or something?’ And usually, they did.
This is a portion of the ‘other’ pool, for folks who didn’t have access to the ‘Royal Service’ one. That access cost a little more — but darn it, we’re worth it. When are we ever going to have another tenth wedding anniversary together? Probably never.
This pool was pretty nice in its own right — wide and expansive, just yards from the beach. In this pic, you can see the fountain, the slightly submerged ‘lounge slabs’, and in the distance, the thatched umbrellas, deck chairs, and the swim-up bar. We paddled around the joint one day. It was fancy.
Of course, that didn’t stop us from calling it the ‘peasant pool’. Look at all those people in the water! All that greasy sunscreen and sweat and sand — and some of those people are kids. You know the place is just swimming with pee. Tsk.
So basically, don’t ever give my wife or me any special treatment whatsoever. Apparently, ‘priveleged’ goes to our heads rather quickly. If we could afford to fly first-class, we’d probably moon the commoners in coach as they passed by. We’re bad people.
There’s more to Mexico than pools and drinking and feeling suprtior to other people, though. Like, the ocean.
This picture was also taken from our balcony, leaning around the side of the building in the other direction. To the resort’s credit, they didn’t call our suite an ‘ocean view’, as one would have to risk falling thirty feet onto the pavement to view said ocean. You don’t see that kind of class at Sandals, I bet.
We didn’t spend a lot of time on the actual beach, though. One quick dip in the water, a few beach volleyball games, and a snorkeling trip out to the reef. See that foam in the water, towards the horizon? That’s the reef. There’s coral out there, and starfish, and kelp, and other such undersea critters. Oh, and fish — lots and lots of fish. And you just know they’re peeing in that water, or worse. Filthy little beggars. This is why we can’t have nice things.
We took one day off from our week of boozing and lazing in an attempt to better ourselves. Just two hours from our resort was Chichen Itza, the center of Mayan culture many hundreds of years ago. We took more pictures that day than the whole rest of the week combined, but I’ll burden you with only two.
This is a shot of a few of the ‘Thousand Columns’ that were thought to support the sprawling roof of an area used for trading, worship, and possibly living quarters.
This is also the first picture we took after dropping the camera on a solid slab of stone while trying to take the shot. For a few tense moments, we had a camera that wouldn’t open, and thus couldn’t be used. After some fiddling, we now have a camera that can be used, but can’t be closed. Not exactly ideal, but at least it works again. And the shot isn’t even particularly spectacular. Dammit.
This one is, though. With our newly-revived camera — and a break in the tourist traffic — I was able to snap this shot of the famous El Castillo temple in isolation. You’d think we had the place all to ourselves. I almost felt like we were back in the priveleged people pool.
It turns out that tourists aren’t allowed to climb El Castillo any more. Our guide made it seem as though renovations were ongoing; Wikipedia says that an elderly woman fell down the stairs early this year. Either way, I was actually relieved. If we could have climbed it, then we would’ve had to climb it. How could we not?
But given the withering heat, the midday sun, and that I’m only getting older, fatter, and slower every day, it wouldn’t have been any picnic. I’d probably still be there, halfway up and asking for a boost. Or another margarita.
Speaking of margaritas, let’s end this little odyssey back in our favorite spot in paradise. My wife took this shot of me swimming from the palapa — presumably to jumiliate me with, should I ever run for office. But the picture does illustrate a few important points:
That’s all, amigos. I hope you enjoyed ouyr little Mexican holiday extravaganza. We’re back in chilly, rainy, dreary Boston now, so this is likely tyhe last you’ll hear of paradise for quite a while. Reliving the glory is simply too painful in a forty-degree drizzle.
But I’ll still drink the mezcal we brought back. That’s a little tasty sliver of Meh-hi-co I can enjoy in my own casa. Now if I can just get one of those palapas built in the basement, I’ll be all set. Ole!
Permalink | 4 CommentsThe missus and I have returned to Boston, touching down on an afternoon-turned-evening-turned-redeye flight at around two this morning. Somewhere in the few thousand miles between Quintana Roo to Logan Airport, we lost the sun, the summer, and forty degrees of heat. But our Yucatan sunburns still itch. Mother Nature is a puta sometimes, yo.
Still, it’s good to be home to see my own bed and TiVo and keyboard again. I’d include the dog, too, but she’s in the midst of her customary post-vacation pout. We’ll eventually coax her out of it with a nice long walk and reparation treats, and she’ll be fine. Nothing says lovin’ like fourteen Snausages and a Milkbone breakfast, apparently.
As for the vacation, we had a fairly spectacular time. Last time we left the country, I recounted our adventures in no less than six full posts. While that was a valuable writing exercise, it also established beyond the shadow of a doubt that I have no future in the travelogue industry. This time, I’ll spare you the weeklong recap and limit the vacation verbiage to two posts. Words today, and pictures manana. Let’s do eet.
“I can converse in Spanish at the level of your average three-year-old child, provided that we’re talking only in the present tense, and the discussion centers around the finer points of guacamole.”
My initial fear during this vacation was that I hadn’t brushed up enough on my Espanol to see us through. My language training consists of two semesters of high-school Spanish taken nearly veinte anos ago, plus the occasional Chi-Chi’s menu. So I can converse in Spanish at the level of your average three-year-old child, provided that we’re talking only in the present tense, and the discussion centers around the finer points of guacamole.
Luckily, we were staying at a resort frequented by Americans even more ugly than I, so nearly all the staff were bilingual. I employed the local language where I could, with a ‘que pasa, amigo‘ here and an ‘otra margarita, por favor‘ there — but mostly, we got by en Ingles.
(In the ‘small victory’ category, though, a couple of kindly staffers heard my attempts at Spanish and asked:
‘Hablas Espanol, senor?‘
To which I responded:
‘Solamente un poco, gracias.‘
Which I believed to mean, ‘Only a little, thanks.’ Given the very odd looks on their faces — and the fact that they immediately switched to English — I now wonder whether it means something more along the lines of ‘Your grandmother was a banana, thanks.’
Maybe my pronounciation needs a little work.)
Mostly, I found that ‘conversational Spanish’ is really only useful if you know enough to get yourself into a conversation in the first place. Most of what I know, I could only use at various points while talking to my wife. Which is unfortunate, because she doesn’t speak any Spanish at all. On the other hand, she won’t get desnudo when I ask her in English, either, so it’s not really so different.
At any rate, we were better off than on a trip to Paris a few years ago, when our roles were reversed. As we mingled among the French, we found fewer English speakers, and had to make do with my wife’s basic French and my admittedly less-than-ideal charade techniques.
(You can likely imagine the trouble that ensued when I tried using only hand gestures to ask:
“Can YOU TELL ME where to PEE?”
We all had a nice chuckle over that at the gendarmerie afterwards.)
The other details of the trip were pretty standard, really — lots of sun, lots of food, and lots of tequila. We slept late, swam a lot, missed most of our dinner reservations, toured the heart of one of history’s greatest civilizations, and never quite knew who, when, or how much to tip. Pretty standard all-inclusive Mexico resort stuff, really. I’ll tell you more tomorrow. There’ll be pictures. You’ll like it, really. Right now, I need my siesta. I’m still on margarita time. Hasta manana, amigos.
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