Dead man sleeping

After nearly 20 years working at my office, I experienced a "first" today. Bright and early this Friday morning I drove up to our parking lot to find it full of police vehicles. Standing in the middle of the driveway was our company vice president, a petite woman who looked even tinier surrounded by burly police officers. She was holding a cell phone to her ear with one hand and motioning at me to drive in with the other hand.

"You may park in your regular stall, but just to let you know, the homeless man who sleeps in our lot passed away."

If the caffeine had not kicked in at that point, her bit of news woke me up.

Homeless dude. An unnamed fellow who decided a few months ago that our parking lot was a great place to camp out each night. I only ran across him once or twice as he was very good about clearing out when the first employee drove in before dawn. Sometimes, he would oversleep, but when car headlights woke him up, he would silently pack whatever belongings he had and move along.

By the time I parked my car, the firefighters and paramedics had arrived. I often wonder why firefighters get dressed up in full gear to respond to ambulance calls. They spent maybe 10 minutes at the most on the scene, then left the paramedics to do their work. I found it interesting that the paramedics hooked up a heart monitor and took a blood pressure reading from an obviously dead man. I mean, the full-rigor status was convincing enough for me, but I guess protocols must be observed. A couple of hours later, the coroner arrived to officially pronouned the man dead. Another hour or so passed before the morgue van came to whisk the man off to his final destination.

I am often nonchalant about the homeless people who wander the neighborhood where I work. In the past few years their numbers increased dramatically when the city closed Ala Moana Park at night to discourage homeless camps. I admit becoming highly annoyed when the Waikiki Health Center opened shop two doors down from our office and their homeless clientele used our parking lot as a toilet. (The center left the area after a few months.) But looking at the lifeless body of one of these forgotten souls made me realize homeless people are human just like the rest of us.

At one time, this man lying dead in our parking lot was someone's baby. He may have been someone's brother or uncle or even husband and father. One of my co-workers said she had heard he was employed. Another said that she would say "Hi!" to him when she had to come to the office after hours.

It is sad that this man died alone in our parking lot. No one was there to hold his hand as he took his last breath. No one shed tears when the last essence of life left his body. I'm sure this scenerio plays out all across our city every day. The remains of unattended deaths probably fill the city morgue. But getting an up close look at such a tragedy makes you wonder: What happened to this man that brought him to this place and his ultimate demise? And how many more like him are on a similar path? There are no easy solutions and no quick answers.

Welcome to Life in the Cube

Change is supposed to be a good thing. Just ask the baby with a loaded diaper. I don't mind change as long as it's loose and causes cans to fall out of the soda machine. But a recent change in my work environment unleashed a surprising sea of emotion.

A misunderstanding led me to believe I needed to move out of my cozy little office at the back of the building into a cubicle next to the lobby. I had been in my office for 10 of the nearly 20 years I've been at my job. It became somewhat of a sanctuary when office politics became overwhelming or when certain coworkers became unbearable. Now my office was needed as a small conference room, which is what it used to be before I moved in.

Trying to be the obedient worker drone I said yes when my boss asked me to make the move. A few days later, she informed me that it was "just a question" and not a directive. Funny how one message comes out of one person's mouth and enters another person's ear completely different.

This happened at a particularly challenging time when the inability to meet deadlines on the part of others became emergencies on my part. Bogged down with work, I was unable to really think about moving out of my office. The enormity of this change hit me when I got out of a meeting one morning and the entire contents of my office were now placed in the cubicle. The lack of privacy and sense of loss hit me hard. As one sympathetic friend said, "Welcome to Life in the Cube!"

Day One in the Cube

Trying to look on the bright side. More square footage allows me to spread my stuff out. There's nothing like having a place for 20 years of accumulated stuff. Wait! Where the hell is my stapler? I move 20 feet from my office to the Cube and I lose a stapler? What happened to that manila envelope I need to take to a meeting tonight? Aaargh.

Day Two in the Cube

Attempted to participate in a webinar without real walls and a door. Distractions abound! People talking on all sides of my Cube. Foot traffic in and out of my boss's door. Got to put on the headphones. Dang! Volume is redlining and I can still hear all the noise. Frustration sets in and I log out of webinar. Good thing I bought the downloads so I can watch later. In an enclosed space.

Day Three in the Cube

Requested an additional panel to block distracting foot traffic passing my Cube on the way to boss's door. Unfortunately, the Cube panels are not high enough to prevent my taller coworkers from peeking over at me like an army of "Killroy Was Here" characters. (Now there's a Google-worthy 1970s reference!)

Day Four in the Cube

Talking to business associate on phone. Suddenly the entire staff gathers in the lobby, whispering. Looks like they're getting ready to sing Happy Birthday to big boss. What? He's not in his office? Must be in the men's room, which is right next to my Cube. I hear shuffling around and muted giggles. Suddenly 15 questionable warblers burst into song as big boss exits the men's room. This effectively ends my phone conversation. (Insert heavy sigh here.)

By the end of the work week, I was emotionally drained. It surprised me how moving from one space to another could affect me so deeply. I've had challenges in life before and either handled them well or completely fell apart. For the sake of my sanity and because I am a woman of faith, I resolved to believe that God has a plan for me that doesn't include four walls and a door. Why should I complain about where in the office I do my job when I am blessed to actually have a job? And though a misunderstanding with my boss precipitated this move, she is still an awesome boss. So with the Lord by my side and a steady supply of dark chocolate, I will embrace my new life in the Cube. Just know that if you peek over my Cube panels, you do so at your own risk.

Out of the jury pool, into the sea of humanity

Today I appeared in court for jury duty, fulfilling my obligation as a proud citizen of this country, resident of this state, and because fear of a bench warrant kept my rebellious nature in check.

This was only my second time as a potential juror. The first time - some 13 years ago - ended quickly as it began. I was newly pregnant among four similarly endowed women in the jury pool. After hearing three pregnancy related sob stories, the judge dismissed me with a wave of his hand before I could even finish my tale of morning sickness woe. This time, I had no such excuse.

Today's jury selection process involved such a hodge-podge of humanity. If this was supposed to be a jury of peers, just what exactly did it say about the plaintiff in the case? I'm sure some looked at me as an aging goth, but others would have been difficult for me to sit with in a closed room, let alone deliberate a verdict.

There was the perky substitute teacher whose sunny disposition made Mary Poppins look like a suicidal emo. If she wasn't grinning, she was giggling while I sat next to her suppressing the urge to gag. Then came macho guy with attitude who was quickly dispatched to the bench for a whispered dressing-down by the judge. As if by some cosmic retribution, Mr. Macho and his attitude ended up in among the final 12 jurors.

But my favorite jury pool compadre was the tall, curvy brunette who tossed back her full head of curly hair and told the judge, "Your Honor, I'm getting married on Saturday (insert pause for drama) and start chemotherapy on Monday." The judge bought it and frankly, I would have excused her too, whether her statement was true or not. She gets kudos for creativity, delivery, and stage presence.

The whole jury selection was a long, drawn out process which thankfully for me, ended before lunch. When the 12 jurors were seated along with the alternates I was ecstatic. I didn't have to feign mental illness as one friend urged. I didn't have to bring up the fact that I have an unfinished root canal that needs attention this week. And I didn't have to faint from hunger, which was quickly becoming an issue as the morning wore on.

I am done with jury duty for now. Tagged and released from the jury pool into the sea of humanity. And if my track record holds, it will be another decade before I am summoned again. Just look for the crazy old lady dressed in black.

TV commercials not ready for prime time

The proliferation of male enhancement commercials on TV recently leads me to believe we are a nation of overstressed men who can't lift the garage door anymore. I don't really care, since I was born without the part in question and raising the bar was never an issue personally. What I do care about is my kids being exposed to these commercials during prime time and on the weekends. No longer are "adult" commercials relegated to late, late night viewing.

What do you do when your nine year old daughter sees a Cialis commercial on TV and the following conversation ensues,
"Mommy, what's an erection?"

"Uh...it's when a man's, you know, wing-wing, uh, gets bigger."

"Mommy, it's not a wing-wing, it's a penis! Why would a man want his penis to get big?"

Lots of answers race through your mind when faced with that question:

"It makes him happy."

"It's a guy thing"

"Ask your father!"

I hate to admit, I took the easy way out..."Just because! Hey, let's see if Hannah Montana is on right now!"

My son seems slightly amused by the whole male enhancement thing. His reaction to one of those "natural" male enhancement commercials featuring Bob as an insanely happy Santa and his incredibly giddy wife, is typical for a 13 year old. "Hehe! He said 'sackful of joy'."

Now I am by no means a prude and I intend to have "the talk" with my kids one of these days when my calendar clears. (February 2011 looks good right now.) I just don't appreciate all of this talk of "erections lasting more than four hours" being thrust upon me, demanding explanations from two curious kids.

I will tell them such intimacy is truly a gift from God that you share with your spouse. I promise to use the correct terminology. (Wing wing and ching ching are off the vocab list.) I will tell them...honest! Or as one commercial says, "When the time is right."

Don't be a Meanie! Don't ban the Weenie!

Today, the Outdoor Circle in our fair city is calling for a ban on the Oscar Mayer Wienermobile saying its presence is a violation of the City's billboard advertising law. I got two words for you uptight tree hugging, granola grinding, Birkenstock wearing, raging aging hippies: BITE ME!

These are the same folks who mandated soda machines facing public areas to be "masked" so those nasty brand names would not be visible. I'm sure it cost businesses a chunk of change to retro-fit all their vending machines with generic facades, but hey, it's all about aesthetics.

Now I wasn't happy when the Wienermobile stood me up earlier this month. (Alright, I admit I got the dates wrong in my head, but that's beside the point.) But the one thing that struck me when I finally did see said Wienermobile was how small it was. I was expecting some mammoth, tank-sized wiener on wheels. What I saw was not much bigger than a cargo van or maybe a flat bed truck. It was definately not some environmentally offensive behemouth that some want you to believe.

But, Outdoor Circle-ites argue that the Wienermobile is a moving billboard. Well, I say those ginormous Polynesian Cultural Center tour buses are still-frame IMAXs on wheels. Not so, say the tree hugging ohana, the main purpose of those buses is transportation. Sure, they transport unsuspecting tourists to spend untold dollars at their final destination, but doing so in a huge full-color postcard with three foot tall letters spelling out the name of business is advertising, pure and simple. The granola gang argues that the Wienermobile's sole purpose is advertising. Not so fast my fur phobic friends. The Wienermobile transports Oscar Mayer representatives to their jobs so they can spread the gospel of processed meat at supermarkets in a neighborhood near you.

All this is just plain ridiculous. I am not advocating the proliferation of actual billboards nor do I think the Outdoor Circle is completely irrelevant. But I think people need to be more selective in picking their protests. If you want to get rid of ugly eyesores in our fair city, I say ban all political signage during election season. Just leave the rolling hot dog alone, please.

Quesy: An Ode To The Undetermined Stomach Virus (sung to the Patsy Cline tune "Crazy")

Quesy
This is an ode to my nausea
Quesy
This is my tummy ache blues

Hurling
Why do I keep on hurling?
Spinning
My head keeps on spinning too

Pregnant
Hell-to-the-No I'm not pregnant
Poison
I cannot prove that my food was no good

Queasy
I'm quesy and feeling so lousy
Quesy
I'm quesy just thinking of food

I'm quesy and trying to hold my head high when
I'm parked at the porcelin throne.

Cover up those tatts, baby!

I found out today that our employee policy manual is being updated. It will officially ban visible tattoos on staff. Since I am the only one with multiple, visible tattoos, I was notified in private before the updated manual goes public. (I guess I need to re-think inking "Regular" over my right boob and "Unleaded" over my left boob.)

My supervisor, bless her heart, approached the subject with great trepidation. (Perception: tattooed people are scary. Reality: I can be when provoked, she-lion that I am.) My boss broke the news to me after a glowing annual job performance review. Good timing on her part since I was in a very festive mood. After explaining that the policy manual "had not been updated in YEARS" and that "OTHER items needed updating as well", my boss explained the new rule. All visible tattoos must be covered up when employees are doing business outside of the office, such as field visits, chapter meetings, public lynchings, etc. The latter part was just my snarky inference.

"Employees" in the new rule I think means mostly me, but for litigious reasons, it cannot single me out. However, my sweet natured boss quickly conceded that I can have my tattoos visible when I am in the office. In other words, when I am safely tucked away in my office, located waaaaaay in the back of the building's second floor. This probably means with my door closed and blinds shut, too. Then if, and only if, I need to emerge from the confines my my office (potty break, beat some copies out of the Xerox machine, get water for my meds) I may consider a stylish sweater or jacket.

Quite honestly, I'm not upset about this new rule. (See, Dr. Devegvar! The increased dosage works!) I find it amusing that some people find body art, which I started collecting on my 30th birthday, so distasteful. About 15 years ago when I first started this job, I attended an industry workshop with tattoo in plain sight. One workshop participant actually wrote these words on the program evaluation:

"Tattoos should be hidden and not flaunted!"

Of course, this person did not leave his or her name on the evaluation. Tattooed people are very scary, after all.

The Going Green Blues

When I was a kid alpha amphibian Kermit the Frog lamented that, "it's tough being green..." Fast forward 30+ years and everyone is "going green".

I am not against saving the planet. After all, without Mother Earth we'd be homeless. (You don't see any Sunday Open House signs on the moon.) I dutifully bring my cloth shopping bags with me to the grocery store. I recycle my empty soda bottles. I even use all-natural, biodegradable pine kitty litter. What I find irritating is the proliferation of eco-jargon.

So many individuals and businesses claim to be green or are going green. Just what that means depends on what's being sold or what they want you to believe. Honestly, the last time I "went green" was after eating a bad shrimp quesedilla at a Mexican restaurant.

Sustainability is another eco-buzz word making the rounds. On a personal level, sustainability means staying awake past 9:00 p.m. I don't even understand what a carbon footprint is, but it you track one into my kitchen, I will be seeing red.