Temping Talent

by Anna

Congratulations are in order, as it has been one year.

My temp agency and me. Together.

With this milestone, I find it an appropriate time to reflect upon and recap my experiences with you all.

Before temping, I used to be scared of First Days. Butterflies in the stomach, tossing and turning the night before, wanting to bail at the last minute- no more. Temping is almost all first days. I can now comfortably walk in anywhere and convincingly pretend like I work there. Like Kramer in that Seinfeld episode. Here's why: all offices are the same. I can work your phones even though you can't. I can work your fax machine even though you struggle. I can take a pretty good guess where the coffee pot is and when I find it I will brew some more because it was kindly left on and empty. Su casa es mi casa.

Although all offices are essentially the same, there are weird things about each one that the employees are so used to they now find normal. And these things are frickin' weird. Like the 150 pound German Sheppard guard dog that wanders around the office when the boss feels like bringing him in. Or the Sting fan who does tarot card readings in the dark in the conference room during lunch breaks and has a black umbrella open above her cubicle. Or the bosses teaching each other ab-crunch and sit-up technique on the floor next to the copy machine. Bosses with fanny packs, bosses with bandanas, bosses with Tourette's level cursing at top volume.

People tell the temp secrets. And I'm not an especially welcoming chatty person. I was the FIRST hear of a wife's pregnancy. I knew the divorce histories of bosses, which calls from exes to courteously blow off and which to pass along with adequate warning. One after-work drinks session revealed the CEO's wife's failed business venture in the neighboring office space and their ultra-religious family's attempts to separate themselves from her gay celebrity sister. I was consulted about travelers' diarrhea.

Secretaries, especially those trained in computers late in life, leave passwords all over their desks. Voicemail and computer passwords scattered all over the desk, like peanut shells at Brothers. They don't quite get that these things are supposed to be secret. My only negative temping experience thus far deals with this topic. Allow me to relate my brush with accusations of corporate espionage:

Some Friday I was sent on a one-day assignment to fill in for a receptionist at an insurance firm. I was told they were strict and not to fool around at all, I wasn't even allowed to bring a book. Fine. I arrive and discover that not only it is mind numbingly slow and boring, the person who was meant to be supervising me was out for the day. I sit for 2 hours looking out the window and at all the secretary's Grandchildren Art. I am driven by boredom to ask permission to use the computer, even though I was told not to play around on the internet by the temp agency.

My sanity was on the line here, people. No one knew the password to log on to the secretary's computer, but I was given the impression I had the go ahead, if only I could get on. My sleuth work revealed the password on a Post-It amid crayon drawings and kitty notepads. I signed on, checked my email, and looked at the news online. Entertained myself for 6 hours and answering the phone a grand total of 8 times. Day ends, I clear the history of sites visited and delete cookies, log out, and bid good riddance to one of the more boring experiences of my life. Well, on Monday I receive a call from the temp agency.

agency: I need to talk to you about your assignment last Friday.
me: Is there a problem? (uh-oh)
agency: Yes. Did you go on the computer there? (in voice used to talk to 4-year-olds) You were told not to.
me: Yes, actually I did. I was given the impression it was all right by an employee. All I did was check email and look at the news.
agency: (ultra-accusatory tone) Well, first of all-how did you get on the computer? They're telling me there is NO POSSIBLE WAY you could have gotten that password. Also, they're saying there is absolutely no record of you using the internet. What were you doing on that computer?
me: The password is on the desk. I only looked at the internet, no files on the network, nothing like that, if that's what you mean.
agency: They assured me there was NO POSSIBLE WAY you could have logged onto that computer. And why doesn't it show you were on the internet?
me: I don't know what else to tell you. That's what I was doing. I did clear the history since I checked my personal email.
agency: You cleared files?!?!?!
me: No. No files, just history.
agency: Well (not understanding a thing), they are REALLY freaking out about security issues right now (you know, because of 9/11) and you have really jeopardized our relationship with this client.
me: I'm sorry if I caused a problem.
agency: Well, you did.
me: (after hang up) Well........you........Shut Up.

The life lessons I have learned from temping in the past year are these:
People take themselves too seriously. People take their work too seriously. Most of the "paper-moving" efforts (filing, faxing, mailing) done from 9-5 don't matter. At least for now, though, it pays the bills and seems to amuse me well enough. At least temporarily.

Potty Talk

by Stephanie Anderson

The bathroom is a highly sensitive location. We make excuses for going to it, and even give it pet names, as if saying "the little girls room" or "the head" actually secures from our audience our destination or intent. While in the restroom, not resting, we avoid the eyes of and certainly conversation with our fellows. No matter how many Everybody Poops books are penned, there will still exist some degree of social discomfort about this universal and frequent bodily function.

Why then, Why, when it is clear that this is a potentially embarrassing task, do establishments insist on upping the ante? The only thing worse, it seems than going to the bathroom with members of your sex, would be to walk into the same room intended for the opposite. The nightmare of happening into the wrong bathroom ranks right after standing before an all-school assembly in your underwear.

Despite the potential embarrassment of their patrons, restaurants, bars, and various public gathering places have found a need to creatively mark the respective doors of their male and female bathrooms. Some have taken to using photographs that require close examination to decipher who is who. Some use drawings, where you actually need to form an art history panel to analyze. I hope you don't frequent foreign locales, or that if you do, you read up on travel conversation for the appropriate language, because, at a glance, "senor" and "senorita" are similar words.

I was recently at a fast food establishment, somewhere I expect to be a final strong hold of plastic, faux wood signs, donning, in bleach white, "WOMEN" and the universal skirted stick figure. Instead, when I politely excused myself from the company of my charming companion, I found two doors marked "M" and "W." One the exact inverse of the other, Isn't there some pro-dyslexic legislation to protect us from this sort of outrage.

At least the toilets in this country can be used for free, but we wouldn't have them strewn about if they weren't a necessity. They need not be adorned or made festive in any way. Please, I'll just take mine clean and clearly marked.