The filters through which we all perceive the world are amazing things.
Two or more persons can look at the very same situation or issue with the same amount of information about it and come away with two completely different views of what happened.
Sometimes I wonder how we communicate at all. Women and men, Democrats and Republicans, faithful and humanists, we all have obvious generalized filters that skew our recollection of events differently than the opposite camp. But there are many shades of gray, too.
Today a very strong willed colleague of mine took filters to a new level.
To set the stage, understand that we are nearly polar opposites, with communication habits that slam against the outer limits of both the Myers-Briggs scale and the caricatures our respective genders paint of the other.
She’s a guy’s nightmare: an overly loquacious female who insists on saying the same thing five times in excruciating detail to ensure I understand every nuance of her position and the varied logical, historical, and spiritual reasons she arrived there.
I’m a gal’s nightmare: a virtual Saturday Night Live sketch of the non-communicating male, someone who considers it a data mining expedition if I need to listen to more than one sentence in a row and for whom “Yes,” “No,” and “I don’t know” are perfectly acceptable (and desired) responses to almost any query.
In a draining 90-minute meeting this morning, we discussed a task our client wanted us to accomplish. It went something like this:
Her: Ten minutes on why we should change our client’s mind and do it a different way.
Me: One minute on how our client was very specific about his request and that it would be easy to tailor a similar existing project to meet his needs.
Her: A ten-minute restatement of her position, followed by the truism that sometimes we need to guide our client to a better idea.
Me: OK, but let's give him what he asked for (a one-day job) as a start and then present ideas for enhancing the process.
Her: A ten-minute restatement of her position.
Me: Several Al Gore-like sighs.
Third party: Why don’t we offer him a choice? We can present him the options of having: a) Exactly what he asked for, or b) This modified scenario.
Me: That’s OK, but we need to present those options as our department’s recommendation. We need to go to him with one solution, even if it’s a menu of both options. We don’t want to provide him one or the other option, and then have competing voices from within our group politicking him to select a different option.
Her: "No, we DO want to provide him two options," followed by a ten-minute restatement of her position.
Me: Leg tapping incessantly as I endure the same movie yet again. Finally, “No, what I meant was that, OK, we DO provide two options, but that we present them as our overall departmental recommendation so that we are speaking with one voice.”
Her: “No, what you meant was…”
Cue the record needle ripping across the surface of the LP. OK, right there we crossed a line.
We all have our filters, but this filter is MINE. I’m sorry, but unless John Ashcroft has his way over the next few years, what I am thinking and what I mean to say when I say it get to remain all mine.
At least for now, your filter is not allowed to extend into my head...
The filters through which we all perceive the world are amazing things.
Two or more persons can look at the very same situation or issue with the same amount of information about it and come away with two completely different views of what happened.
Sometimes I wonder how we communicate at all. Women and men, Democrats and Republicans, faithful and humanists, we all have obvious generalized filters that skew our recollection of events differently than the opposite camp. But there are many shades of gray, too.
Today a very strong willed colleague of mine took filters to a new level.
To set the stage, understand that we are nearly polar opposites, with communication habits that slam against the outer limits of both the Myers-Briggs scale and the caricatures our respective genders paint of the other.
She’s a guy’s nightmare: an overly loquacious female who insists on saying the same thing five times in excruciating detail to ensure I understand every nuance of her position and the varied logical, historical, and spiritual reasons she arrived there.
I’m a gal’s nightmare: a virtual Saturday Night Live sketch of the non-communicating male, someone who considers it a data mining expedition if I need to listen to more than one sentence in a row and for whom “Yes,” “No,” and “I don’t know” are perfectly acceptable (and desired) responses to almost any query.
In a draining 90-minute meeting this morning, we discussed a task our client wanted us to accomplish. It went something like this:
Her: Ten minutes on why we should change our client’s mind and do it a different way.
Me: One minute on how our client was very specific about his request and that it would be easy to tailor a similar existing project to meet his needs.
Her: A ten-minute restatement of her position, followed by the truism that sometimes we need to guide our client to a better idea.
Me: OK, but let's give him what he asked for (a one-day job) as a start and then present ideas for enhancing the process.
Her: A ten-minute restatement of her position.
Me: Several Al Gore-like sighs.
Third party: Why don’t we offer him a choice? We can present him the options of having: a) Exactly what he asked for, or b) This modified scenario.
Me: That’s OK, but we need to present those options as our department’s recommendation. We need to go to him with one solution, even if it’s a menu of both options. We don’t want to provide him one or the other option, and then have competing voices from within our group politicking him to select a different option.
Her: "No, we DO want to provide him two options," followed by a ten-minute restatement of her position.
Me: Leg tapping incessantly as I endure the same movie yet again. Finally, “No, what I meant was that, OK, we DO provide two options, but that we present them as our overall departmental recommendation so that we are speaking with one voice.”
Her: “No, what you meant was…”
Cue the record needle ripping across the surface of the LP. OK, right there we crossed a line.
We all have our filters, but this filter is MINE. I’m sorry, but unless John Ashcroft has his way over the next few years, what I am thinking and what I mean to say when I say it get to remain all mine.
At least for now, your filter is not allowed to extend into my head...
It's no secret that I do a half-assed job at work. Which is why it is so disturbing to get reports, letters, memos, what-have-you that are not up to my half-assed standards. How could this be? HOW COULD THIS BE? My co-workers are honestly doing quarter-assed work.
Additionally, I can't seem to organize any meetings. NO ONE understands how to use thier Outlook calendar. It is the easiest and most convenient thing in the world, but no one can do it. That would be too much of a half-assed effort for them to make a couple of clicks with their mouses.
Sigh.
Remember the work study intern I told you about who shows up to work proudly sporting hickeys as only a geeky college underclassman can? The latest one is, I swear, the size of a kiwifruit and RIGHT on the front of his neck. As luck would have it, he had front desk duty this week since our receptionist was away. Thank God I am not his supervisor. Can you imagine having to explain to someone that hickeys are not appropriate workplace attire? It was bad enough when we (actually, the colleague I call Squeaky) had to advise our intern not to wear a black bra with a white shirt.
I have a colleague who is very excitable -- let's call her Squeaky. The other day she was eating pistachios. One nut was not quite open so she tried to bite the shell open. Instead, the shell pinched on to her inner lip. She started running around the office squeaking, "Get it off! Get it off!" I tried to get it off, but I was afraid I'd rip a big chunk of lip off along with the shell. Fortunately, The Only Guy In The Office whipped out his Swiss Army knife and pried the pincher off without drawing blood. It was quite exciting. Beware, pistachio-eaters!!!
When Number Two refers to his wife in our office, he calls her "Mom." With a big wad of chewing tobacco in his mouth he says things like, "Mom says that the highway is closed up north so you should all take an alternate route."
I swear. I can't take it anymore.
I am a white woman. I note that I am white because I cannot speak to the experience of minorities in the workplace. I note that I am a woman because I CAN speak to the stupidity and outright misogyny of many men in the workplace. (That makes me sound really pissed off, but I'm more just incredulous that in this day and age, etc.)
To wit: one day I was on a teleconference with 2 men and about 4 other women. The 2 men were big VP types, including our friend, the Lieutenant. (What frequently happens on these teleconferences is that 1 or 2 bigwigs monopolize the conversation while the rest of the group sits in silent agony, wishing for an instrument of death with which to end the torture.) Here is a snippet of the conversation between the Lt. and the other dude.
Other dude: Yeah, my wife is due to give birth any day now.
Lt: Well, if she's anything like my wife (mother to 5 of his issue), who always has quick labors, she'll drop it like candy. (Cue laughs)
???
Several things wrong with this statement:
1. Use of completely unconnected simile
2. Insulting to wife, who is made to sound like breed cow
3. Who do you know, male OR female, who purposely drops candy?
The worst part about it is how NOT funny it was. If I do say so myself, I'm fairly witty and can take a joke as well as anybody. But only if it's funny. This guy can't even insult women in a CLEVER way, which would make his insults more tolerable to me, interestingly.
Now I'm off in search of Reese's peanut butter cups. Thanks for nothing, Lieutenant.
It's like this, see? I'm an associate in a small D.C. law firm. In case you don't know, the difference between large firms and small firms is that at large firms, everyone gets rich. Be that as it is, we are a very small family, trying to keep from openly hating one another, biding our time before we each find something useful to do with our time.
Among the peculiarities of our firm, our social events largely consist of two parties. The winter event is a typical holiday party, the summer event is when we go to the managing partner's house for a catered dinner.
The problem is that even in this modern day and age, when we call our coworkers by their first names and are allowed to enter in through the front door of the office regardless of rank, visiting Casa de Partner is sort of like the Cratchits visiting Scrooge, if Scrooge lived in a multi-million dollar house in the close-in suburbs.
Maybe the incongruity of employees (including attorneys, not that it makes a whole hell of a lot of difference) struggling to pay rent in shared apartments visiting an ostentatiously decorated mini-mansion once a year shouldn't rankle. It does. As much as I believe in capitalism and the profit motive, seeing first-hand how the firm's profits translate into opulence for the firm's leadership is jarring.
I guess the way I can wrap my head around the disparity is to be proud of the managing partner the way whores are proud of their pimps. Our efforts make it possible for Daddy to drive the stretched out Lincoln, with a gold and gem-encrusted goblet and a feather in his ermine hat. We make the Johns happy, we give Daddy the cash, and we hope that Daddy doesn't have to put the smackdown on us.
The funny thing is the point of the outing is to improve morale and firm solidarity.
Last year I was on the planning committee for a conference for my company. The head of the committee was telling us some of the logistics we'd need to know for the conference, which was held in another city. She discussed things like: name of hotel, conference schedule, confirmation numbers for travel, time and place for us to meet once we all arrived, likely weather, etc.
The head of the committee had asked an admin assistant to sit in on the meeting and take notes on these logistics so she could circulate them to us for our reference later. I happened to be sitting next to the admin and happened to glance down at her notes. After this long litany of details it was vital for us to know, the only thing she had written on the page was "light coat."
This was in response to the committee head's admonishment that it might be chilly in the evenings.
Please allow me to preface this by saying that the Deputy Director of my organization is a very nice man and cares very much about his staff. Now let me get to the I-can’t-believe-this-crap part.
I’ve finally gotten over the fact that he calls me “sweetie.” Fine. Whatever. It could be worse. So is it too much to ask that he doesn’t bring his spitting cup to my desk while he’s chewing tobacco? Oh yes. You heard me right. Yesterday he came to my desk for a 20-minute discussion, the whole while spitting gross tobacco crap into a paper cup. At least it wasn’t a tin can.
Today he forwarded me an email that he wants me to forward to two of his contacts. I think he needs to go back to Outlook training. No, wait . . . he forwarded the email to me, which means he knows how to forward. I’m confused.
And is it my duty as his secretary to tell him to stop using the words “simular” and “irregardless”? Is it?
The 23 year old just gave me a purchase order that she needed to have approved. Apparently it’s for something very important because she asked me to “expedia” the process.
We're having a going away lunch for an employee next week. Let's call him "Employee Manuel." The 23 year-old secretary girl just emailed a flyer out to our entire agency with menu selections. Among them:
Chicken Cordon Blu w/ Hollandaise Sauce
Sweet Burbon Salmon Filet
I wonder if they'd let me have some Burbon with my plate of Blu.
So a couple of weeks ago our entire staff of 40ish had an entire day of traning to learn how to use Outlook. Before I went down to our training room I, as did probably everyone else, stopped by my office to check my first-thing-in-the-morning email (using Outlook). I had some emails to return (using Outlook), a meeting to schedule (using Outlook), and some things to change aound on the reception desk staffing calendar (using Outlook).
Even though I'd rather go through a manual on my own, training could be good . . . I'm sure there are all kinds of forms and macros and stuff that would make life easier and a little more fun. Lo and behold it was a class for beginners. Beginners!
OK, so some people didn't know about tasking and meeting scheduling and seemed to maybe have learned some things. Good. Great. So WHY am I still getting emails like the one I got today:
Demon, Please see following correspondance with Annoying Coworker #1 and schedule a meeting with him, me and Annoying Coworker #2 sometime after June 15th. Can be in his office; probably about 1/2 hour. You can check the master and staff calendars for Annoying Coworker #2's and my availabiltiy or check with us directly. Thanks so much, Annoying Coworker #3WHY??
Don't you just love dorky, confident, soooo young college students? One of my colleagues alerted me to the fact that the new intern who's been filling in at our front desk and some other places has "a different hickey each day." Don't you miss the days when a hickey was an adornment to be worn with pride? Today he was wearing a camouflage T-shirt that said "Ha ha, now you can't see me!" Love the dorkiness.
Our department's graphic designer is a consultant who I have always thought of as a comrade, since I was once a consultant, too. Various events outside my control forced me to become an actual employee, but I try to deny that I work here as much as possible. To that end, I have not brought in my books, put up any pictures of family or friends or done anything else that suggests that my office is anything but temporary digs.
Anyway, the graphics designer just came in here, said he had made me some art for my walls over the weekend, and proceeded to tape up three poster-type things. The first one is a picture of a kid in a soccer uniform sitting in some mud and says "The grass is always greener wherever you're not." The second one has a picture of a little kid staring off into space and says "You're using a lot of air that could go to someone more deserving." The third one has a picture of little hands reaching for a set of playground rings and says "I know jellyfish with stronger backbones than you."
I am choosing to be amused by my new art but am also taking it as yet another sign that it's time to get a new job.
I'm going to say something shocking.
I suspect that some of the decisions my company's muckety-mucks make are made not with the company's, but with the muckety-mucks' best interest in mind.
Oh yes I did go there.
Case in point: The company recently hired a consultant. In this case, "consultant" means "crony of the CEO." He is a shortish Asian guy who has a military rank and has kept the military 'do. His job is to come in and get a project finished within a couple months that will tax our already overburdened, skeletal staff. As far as those of us who are at the consultant's mercy can see, the payoff of this project will be in helping the muckety-mucks ensure their huge bonuses for the year.
When I met with the consultant, I explained that I was willing to work with him on the project, but that it came at a particularly busy time for all of us. He said, "You know, when I was deploying my reserve troops to Iraq, my one soldier said to me, 'Sir, can you send me next year? This year is just too busy.' And you know what I said to him?"
Here, the consultant stood up, leaned over my desk, and pointed right into my face. "I said, 'There's never a good time, private! You just gotta do it!'"
So our project has been equated with a military operation. Whatev.
Oh, and he looks at my boobs, too. So whoever wrote about that, I know what you mean!
To help me become further acclimated to office procedure, the 23 year-old (the one who educated me on the intricacies of casual Friday) gave me a folder labled "Employee Manuel." I guess I'm supposed to go talk to him or something? I've been asking around and no one seems to know an employee named Manuel.
(Even after I corrected the title on mine, she ran off about 20 new copies of this document. Stubborn.)
What does it say about an organization that tolerates the licentious behavior of an individual whose misdeeds are so widely known that even vice presidents warn their staffs about him? I'm going to a conference in Miami in a couple of hours . . . Mr. Inappropriate will be there as well. No fewer than 5 of my coworkers have warned me to be careful around the pool, where Mr. Inappropriate is known to ogle the ladies, make suggestive remarks and otherwise behave in an egregious manner. Gross.
I was already well aware of his lewd proclivities. He has told me that I am referred to around the organization as one of the two "hot blonds" in communications and I've caught him trying to look down my shirt. I started keeping my office door closed which effectively stopped his dropping in for a chat.
How this organization has not been sued yet is a mystery. But the fact that they tolerate his behavior tops my list of reasons to look for a new job.
On my first day at my new job, I was shown around by a 23 year-old secretary who had been here for 5 years. I'm guessing she's never worked anywhere else. As part of her "orientation" she informed me that the office dress code was business casual. Then she informed me that we also observed casual Friday. Hmm.
So what passes for casual Friday wear in an already casual office? I'm glad you asked:
1. Jeans and a NASCAR t-shirt
2. Clean and pressed overalls
3. Grass-stained and wrinkled overalls
4. Juicy sweatsuit knock-offs
5. Parachute paints
6. Trucker hats and baseball caps
7. Flip flops
8. Leggings and a long t-shirt
And that's just today.
It's been awhile since I had a desk job. . . which means I'm the perfect person to host this, since I don't have any work colleagues whom I can offend at the moment. My friends will be contributing some of their horror stories as they happen, however. If you've got some good ones, feel free to e-mail me with them!
In the meantime I offer just this one I-Can't-Believe-I-Work-With-These-People story:
Once a women I worked with knocked on my door to announce that a bunch of people were ordering pizza and did I want in? I said yes, and could we order the Quattro Formagio pizza. She looked dismayed and said, sorry, they'd already decided to order the Four Cheese pizza.
I just nodded and said that would be fine. It's tough being smarter than everyone else, isn't it??