Office theory

A few observations about office dynamics.

A nonfunctional or bad worker is a net negative, not a net zero, but a negative, a drain on office energy and efficiency and morale and spirit. Almost anyone who has worked in an office situation knows this routine. The nonfunctional person—slacker, malevolent, incompentent, attitude-negative, or simply cluless—is a pebble in the gearbox. We all know the person at whose desk the workflow grinds to a halt, and the unending frustration of trying to either induce the slacker to act or else racking one's brain to try to find a way around the roadblock. The consistent rude response to any question. Not only must the efficient people do their difficult jobs, but they are forced to expend time and energy on the frustrating task of devising workarounds to move work past this inert—or worse—roadblock.

The #2 person almost always does more work than the #1 person. This observation comes from a capable and innovative water systems chief engineer (the #2 person) who was much busier than his attention-seeking (and to my mind, clueless) water system manager. In any organizations, large and small, public and private, such is the case. The hard-working, compliant, behind-the-scenes person makes it happen, while the boss enjoys the accolades and marvels at his/her own efficiency.

It's not how capable you are, but rather how you present yourself. Persons blessed with a strong, self-confident, seemingly knowledgeable presence (the "baffle them with bulls--t" type) will always trump the competent nebbish-like grind. Knowing your business, is not nearly as important, appearing to be capable and in charge. Case in point: the business assistant for a user laboratory had a confident, easy-to-get-along-with demeanor, but had raised slacking to an art form. She arrives for work every day a half-hour late, and left for home 1.5 hours early. (Ostensibly, she worked through lunch, but according to my Aggie math, even with a working lunch, that is still 7 hours.) Said business assistant did not even know how to open Excel. Unbeknownst to her supervisor, I gave her a few basic pointers in the use of Microsoft Excel. Later, her supervisor exclaimed to me how impressed she was when this employee wowed her with the versatility of Excel. Diplomacy kept me from revealing the size theworker's tiny skill set and the fact that even that much was due to my instruction.

On the backs of others. The corollary to the self-confident slacker is that the fact that the more these people shirk and allow the workload to fall on others, the more efficient they appear to their supervisors. You know the type: the person who lets everything slide, confident in the knowledge that some conscientious grind will swoop in at the last minute and frantically get it all done, while the slacker soaks up the props.

Would you care for some freshly grated bizarre experience on your pasta?

Last night, a dear friend and I celebrated my birthday with dinner at my favorite restaurant, a downtown bistro with a trendy-funky decor, with the plaster randomly removed from the walls to reveal original brick. The bistro-esque blackboard listing specials was gone. New ownership, I'd heard.

The waitstaff were all wearing double-breasted chef’s coats. A unique touch. Or maybe a touch that portends something odd. As a former waitress, I'm not unaware of the meager interpersonal skills of cooks.

All previous visits to this place have proved outstanding dining experiences. This place is my first recommendation to tourists and to visitors to my academic department. The service is attentive and the contemporary cuisine outstanding.

Last night, not so much.

After we were seated, an apparently agitated waiter (or perhaps a repurposed cook) appeared and asked for our drink order and if we would like an appetizer. We both ordered coffee and demurred on the appetizer.

The menu had changed; many of my favorite dishes were gone. Prices had, understandably, all notched up at least a dollar or two, but no longer was the crisp dinner salad with house-made viniagrette included in the price of the entrée. Effectively, prices had increased $5 or $6  per patron.

The pasta dishes, which on previous experiences were write-home-able, this evening were far off the mediocre mark. My entree was described to be rich with sautéed roma tomatoes and with grated parmesan cheese. Instead, two cold, raw, unripe quarters of beefsteak tomatoes were plopped atop a paltry portion of basil-spiked angelhair. No freshly grated parmesan cheese was offered. My date's order was described in the menu as an alfredo penne dish with sautéed mushrooms, spinach, and chicken. A generous man, he gave me one of two tiny slivers of mushroom on the plate and ate the other. I could not discern any spinach.

Appearing again, the waiter “apologized” brutishly, “Sorry I could not serve you bread with your meal. We are out of bread. Really sorry that that happened. Your meal is supposed to be served with bread, but we can't serve any."

The bistro’s signature bread, he explained is just now (at 7:30 p.m.) being kneaded.

I asked if the bread would then have to go through a rising and a baking. The baking, he explained, would take seven minutes in a convection oven. I asked, mainly just weigh in with a reply and maybe alleviate some of his stress, “If we linger a bit, perhaps we might have some bread.”

Several times throughout the meal, although we were still actively engaged in dining, fork in midair, he asked to remove our plates, twice reaching out to grasp my date's plate. Finally, the pungent bread finally arrived, and we both nibbled a slice with the last of our coffee. Four minutes later, he gallumphed up and asked if he could  remove the still-warm bread.

Then things got bizarre. What, you thought it was already bizarre?

We asked for the check. And waited.

The waiter stomped up and apologized in his agitated manner that their computer system was down and could we wait until it was back up and running for the check. Okay, we’ll linger a bit more. (Having some experience with the computerized ordering and check-generating software at my previous job, I thought about offering my assistance.)

And waited some more.

A young man who appeared to be a manager or maitre d’ or at least someone wearing street clothes instead of a chef’s coat materialized with a handful of other people’s credit cards. He made the same apologies. My friend offered to pay with cash with handwritten tab, and he agreed.

At about this time, a professional-looking couple in their 40s, who had arrived after us, got up to leave. Somehow, I sensed they had not paid. I even noted which way they walked out in case someone had to chase them down. No theatrics ensued, so I forgot about it.

A young couple who arrived after us left.

The manager walked by us four or five more times, ignoring our signal for the check.

I stood and climbed into my coat and wool scarf; my date, returning from the men’s room, into his  heavy jacket.

Nothing.

We estimated the amount of the check, left the cash, and got out of there.

Bizarre. I would like to know the story behind the story on this one.

Sweet with the sour

Just an observation: the small anomaly, the contrast, makes life so much more interesting:

Chefs know that the taste of chile or coffee enhances that of chocolate. The flavor of fruit (or strawberry ice cream) is made sublime with a sprinkle of chile power, or even better, Tajin fruit seasoning (salsa en polvo),

Displayed at my former hair salon was a studio photo of the owner's then four-year-old grandson, respendent in a dazzling white suit...in stocking feet and sporting devil-may-care grin. His Mom was initially disappointed to have forgotten his shoes for the shoot, but the surprise of the stocking feet made the picture lively and highlights the personality of this all-boy little boy.

In the LBS (local bicycle shop), Sun 'n Spokes, in my former home town, Sierra Vista, Arizona, was a photos of female cyclist on her wedding day, posting, in her wedding gown and veil, with her mountain bike and iridescent shades.

The flower girl at the wedding in which I was maid of honor, walked delicately down the aisle, pelting friends and family with her rose petals. Long after the perfection of the wedding is forgotten, that impish flower girl will be remembered.

Of course, there are the living-large contrasts, such as the team in the Freeze Your Fanny organized bicycle event, each man wearing large sunglasses and enormous rainbow-hued wigs.

In the lurch

I'm grousing today.

What is it with certain of my gal pals who stand me up at the last minute?

Entomologist and I were good friends, and I was always there for her: to listen for long hours when she needed a shoulder to cry on at a moment's notice, to drive 50 miles round-trip after work daily for a week every summer to look after her animals and gardens, to help her with her professional papers, to be there at distant funerals (although I had started a new job that week at was trying to make a good impression as a dependable worker) and at family celebrations.

But I was and am a good an loyal friend. She was going through a rough patch. She needed me. Later, she needed my professional editing advice. She apparently did not trust her neighbors to look after her house. She needed moral support. That what friends are for, and I was happy to be there. She visited me in the hospital after my breast surgery, indeed. Unfortunately, Entomologist was bitingly dismissive and downright mean when the tables were turned and I needed a shoulder a few years later.

Whenever we set a date for lunch, and I could almost guarantee that she would cancel five minutes before the appointed time. Sometimes I had turned down another tempting invitation because we already had a commitment. She would  invite to meet for coffee, but never commit to a time until an hour beforehand. She said I had no sympathy for how busy her life is! Busy! Ahem, I am also busy. I invited her to a concert, purchasing advance tickets when she responded in the positive. When I arrived to pick her up for the concert (about a 45-minute drive away), she declined to go. Hello!!! Could you have given me a little notice? Now I'm stuck with this second ticket and shlep alone to yet another concert.

Entomologist once asked me if I would like to go with her for a weekend hiking trip in a lovely state park in Texas Hill Country. What a lovely invitation! I so looked forward to going. So I was so hurt and surprised when, a few weeks later, she eagerly showed me the photos of her weekend-long trip to that park, oblivious to the fact that she had, once again, blown me off. I was polite and cordial, but inside, not happy.

Agriculturist three times stood me up. I know, I know, once it happens, shame on you; twice it happens, shame on me. Agriculturist seemed so apologetic the first time, so I agreed to a second date, and a third.  Agriculturist felt that because I had not called to comfirm as the date drew near, that we did not have a firm date. My take: when two parties agree on a date/time/place, it is a tacit commitment, somewhat of a pact, for lack of a better word. If one party cannot honor their commitment, it is incumbent upon that one to cancel. Ahead of time.

Almost-Professor often asked me to lunch. My office was a floor above hers, so I stopped at her office and off we went. Well, not quite. No doubt professors are busy people, as I was, working 65- to 70-hour weeks at this time. Lunch out was a real treat. Almost-Professor would invariably keep me waiting. A while. A long while. But I did not want to be perceived as impatient or as a bitch, so I waited. Okay, finally we were off. She never, once, not ever once, introduced me when a colleague of hers would greet her in a restaurant or outdoors en route somewhere. In one particularly flagrant case, she engaged in a lengthy "shop" discussion with an Italian exchange graduate student while were were en route somewhere outdoors. (The student,with Continental flair, scooted over on his Vespa to talk with us.) The student periodically smiled at me, and we exchanged nods, but never did Almost-Professor feel it incumbent upon herself to introduce us. Finally, as Almost-Professor wrapped it up and prepared to leave, I extended my hand and introduced myself, to vigorous two-handed shaking by the graduate student.

Almost-Professor, no joke, several times floated the name of a (distasteful) male colleague as a possible romantic interest for me, then immediately dismissed him (before I had a chance to firmly decline), saying, "He would not like you, [Waitress]. You don't have enough letters after your name."

These are all women of a certain age: all 35 or better, some in their 50s, so it's not the irresponsibility of youth.

Yes, I realize when one disregards a commitment with another, it is a reflection on her, not me, but I cannot help being hurt. I forgive (not forget) and give people the benefit of the doubt, but yeah, maybe I'm casting myself as a victim. But why does this happen?

Sierra Vista Chicken Casserole recipe

This recipe is my own variation of King Ranch Casserole, named after Sierra Vista, Arizona, the lovely city in which I lived for 15 years.
Sierra Vista Chicken Casserole
1 to 1.5 pounds chicken thighs
¼ C apricot or peach preserves
½ C picante sauce
1 large onion, diced
3 cloves garlic, minced
2 C pineapple juice
juice of one lemon
½ C white wine
½ cup soy sauce
½ cup black olives
1 can corn kernels
¾ cup Anaheim peppers, diced
2 C shredded cheddar cheese, reserving some for topping, most inside casserole
2 C tortilla chips, crushed, reserving some for topping, most inside casserole
½ pound cooked pasta
Chili powder, salt, and pepper to taste

Preheat oven to 350°. Brown chicken in a large pot. Mix preserves and picante; spread over chicken. Roast chicken in oven until done, about 45 minutes.

While chicken is roasting, saute onion and garlic in same pot. Mix pineapple juice, lemon juice, soy sauce and white wine. Turn heat to high and deglaze pot with juice mixture. Bring to a boil, then lower heat and cook on very low heat until liquid is reduced to about half by evaporation. (Slow cooker alternative: Place chicken, pineapple juice, and soy sauce in slow cooker until done: 8 hours on low or 4 hours on high). Drain liquid into sauce pan and simmer on low heat to reduce liquid by evaporation to less than 1 cup. Remove chicken from bone and set aside. (Make chicken stock from bones for use in another recipe.)

Mix black olives, corn kernels, and chiles, and Anaheim peppers, and chile powder, salt, and pepper. In a large buttered casserole dish, twice layer pasta, chicken, corn mixture, cheese. Pour liquid reduction over cassrole, top with crushed tortilla chips and more cheddar. Cover with aluminum foil. Bake for 30 to 40 minutes, removing foil last 10 minutes.

One degree and 25 years of separation

Heather of Simple-Green-Frugal, the impresaria of the Brazos County Farmers' Market and locavore extraordinaire, visited her blogosphere compadre Chile Chews in Tucson, Arizona, en route from Texas to Aptos, California, for holiday break. Heather also visited another kindred spirit, Beany, in San Diego.

Talk about coincidences! Via Heather's blog, Chile told me that we were southeastern Arizona hiking companions 25 or so years ago. After exchanging e-mail addresses, we are now enjoying the process of getting reacquainted. Chile and I walked the trails in the Huachuca Mountains and at least once enjoyed a wonderful backpacking trip in the Chiricahua Mountains, birders' paradises both. Good times. When did we get to be women of a certain age? She's now living an enviable low-impact, vegan, frugal lifestyle in Tucson. There is much to emulate and learn from Chile's blog. On the issue of self-propelled transportation, we are exactly in sync. And as for diet, well, I intend to strive for a healthier one.

Out of the hallowed halls and into the world

Nine of the graduate students for whom I am administratively responsible graduated with doctorates this month. These are intelligent, analytical, persistent, no-nonsense types: they need to be so to earn a doctorate in engineering.

I am so proud of them. For all, their graduate career was characterized by challenges overcome, unfairness absorbed, frustrations dealt with. There were difficult, and sometimes unreasonable, advisors. The culture shock. The oppressive volume of paperwork. The red tape. The seemingly conflicting rules. The late nights. The papers published.

But when they walked across that stage and allowed themselves to be hooded, I was bursting with pride. I could sense what it must be like to be a proud mother. And they should have been also.

The majority were international students, excelling in very difficult courses taught in a language other than their native tongue, but also overcoming the cultural differences, the homesickness, the multiple demands on their time, financial constraints. Imagine being dropped in Beijing, Istanbul, Seoul, Hyderabad, or Taipei and negotiating the demands of graduate school, as well as dealing with cultural differences.

There were a few nontraditional students, sometimes battered by life, but finally taking control, committing, then pushing them through graduate schools.

Variously, I was in loco parentis, sometimes a coach, sometimes a dispenser of tough love, sometimes an advocate, sometimes a shoulder to cry on, and always a bulwark against the juggernaut and bureaucracy that is this enormous state university.

Last Saturday, I volunteered to serve as a graduation marshal, lining up masters students in alphabetical order. They seemed to leave a vacuum in their wake as they silently and quickly filed out of the gym-cum-staging area en route to the arena floor in their regalia.

Go forth!

Streamline moderne, late-era art deco

Art deco from Bryan and Vernon, Texas, and Albuquerque, New Mexico. Streamline art moderne is my favorite. A few more example of art deco architecture in downtown Bryan, Texas.

Print shop office, Bryan Avenue, Downtown Bryan, Texas

Streamline art moderne: La Fonda Hotel, Vernon, Texas, with wide-radius curves, long horizontal elements, and glass block. Love it!

Service station, Bryan, Texas

Law office, Bryan, Texas

S&S Auction house, downtown Bryan, Texas

Faux art deco, highway sign, Cline's Corner, New Mexico

Faux art deco, Route 66 Casino Roadrunner cafe, west of Albuquerque. Interestingly, I sat at the counter next to a friendly trucker of the shaved head/Van Dyke beard/sunglass variety. Going against stereotypes, I enjoyed a trucker's breakfast of Indian fry bread, green chiles, eggs, and beans with coffee. Meanwhile, he tucked into a camper's breakfast of oatmeal, dried cranberries, and coffee.

Updated December 6, 2009.

Fabulous collection of streamline modern architecture.

Wonderful collection of streamline moderne design.

Recalibration

I consider myself a Liberal progressive, even more so since the "L" word morphed into an epithet, courtesy Rush, his dittoheads, and their AM radio talk show host brethren.

But two similar events, one before the Will Rogers' watershed age of 40, one after, instigated some self-assessment. In my early twenties, I worked as a daily newspaper reporter for a substandard salary as a daily newspaper (which involves a seven days/week work regimen, late night meetings, early morning deadlines) in a medium-sized town, ferreting out red-banded produce and subsisting on a pasta-heavy diet out of necessity. Once, in the grocery checkout line, a woman leaned over me to ask the cashier if she could buy lobster with food stamps. Lobster! I looked at my cart filled with blue boxes of mac and cheese, black-spotted bananas, and store-brand oatmeal…and had a recalibratory moment.

Fast-forward to today. I still live modestly and work hard. I have a demanding job running an engineering program at a big university, and I often work late at night at my technical editing consulting business. Sometimes I come home so drained it's all I can do to feed my animals and fall into bed. I bicycle to work, mostly brown bag it for lunch: still frugal after all these years. Luxuries are few to nonexistent. My only vacation in years was the road trip to Arizona for a wedding.

Into the rental house next door moves a couple. She told me she does not work, just "sits at home and gets fat." And smokes. Cigarettes are an expensive habit. This couple apparently have not paid their utility bills for several months, although it appears that he works. Their gas was cut off. On one of the few days I drove to work (as I have to carry in seminar refreshments), before I even shut the door of truck, she was out her door and halfway up my driveway, asking for a handout, lit cigarette in hand. I had been working until 1 a.m. that morning on a technical paper, worked a hard 10-hour day at the office. In addition, the day before, I had overhead her, without provocation, speaking about me to a neighbor using words prevalent in Rap lyrics.

I refused to give her money, both out of exhaustion and hurt feelings. I referred her to restaurant within close walking distance—my former employer—which was looking for waitstaff. She, with no intention of following up, whipped out her cell phone and demanded their number. When I said that she would have to apply in person, she again demanded their number, with no intention of ever following up. From where does she get this sense of entitlement?

Is it rebellion against societal slugs that turns otherwise rational people into vituperative Conservatives?

Comments?

TextEnglish

Following are three actual e-mail messages from a prospective student inquiring about the graduate engineering program I coordinate. He seems not to realize that e-mail is now considered a virtual means of formal business communication, and that textese is denigrated. It is probably a good idea to write to impress from the outset, especially regarding a graduate program that so highly values publication in refereed journals.

Dear sir/madam,
I was directed towards u by mr. [name of female staff person]. I m highly interested to pursue my masters from [university name].....i want to specialize in welding as i already have a bachlors. So i wud like to know how it wud be possible to take up this course at yr end??

[he failed to sign his message]

As he was referred by an undergraduate advisor, I inferred he was already on campus. Response to my request that he telephone:

Sir i wud have loved to obeyed u but alas i m from [country whose language of instruction is English]. moreover that sound lag on the telephone is something i m very uncomfortable with.

It would be the best for me if u cud explain my chances in the mail. i hope i m clear to wat i meant.

[again neglected to sign e-mail message]

Response to my e-mail in which I corrected his written English and used "(Ms.)" before my name in my e-mail signature to hint at my gender. Note the allusion to shakespeare (sic):

Respected sir/madam,

I am extremely sorry for my dismal electronic mail which supposedly had innumerable errors as pointed out by you. Thank you for correcting me. This is the first time I have been told the correct way to email to a course advisor.

I am aware that I am not perfect in english language so I used , by my highest regards to him, shakespeare's freedom of expression.
Secondly i would like to direct your attention to the fact that in [his native country], we do not have any one language of instruction in schools [not true] as we believe language is no bar for education but is only a medium for education. I have been studied in a medium other than english but still my GRE verbal marks(560) are about your requirement for giving toefl.
Lastly, in attention to your doubts regarding my cognizance in achieving bachelors, i have a grade point of 3.97 (university gold medalist, Prime Minister's scholar awardee) and my majors is not in english but in machines.

However, as my tradition goes, i would still be deeply apologetic for my informal letter content.

My Highest Regards,
Mr. [his full name, which could not be discerned from his e-mail address]