Not My Desk - Temporary Insanity

6.20.02 - Letter to the Editor

So, here's a little something Rob of www.the-wabe.com sent me! It's a letter to the editor, just like in the papers! Golly! It outlines his recent experiences with a temp, and here it is in its entirety. I will follow it with my blisteringly angry remarks.

Why Temps Are Worthless —
A Rebuttal to the Myths Purported by Not My Desk

Frequent visitors to this web site may have noticed that the protagonist often couches himself as the underdog, blithely sowing chaos and confusion as he attempts to perform tasks beyond his limited skills. He likes to remind the reader that this is not his fault (emphasis mine); that he is thrust, blind, into a situation in which even the most seasoned professional would be aflutter; and that temps in general provide a useful service to corporations and society at large.

This is, of course, utter bunk.

Temps are worthless creatures who are too distracted playing Solitaire on the receptionist’s computer to pay attention to the important information their employeur du jour has provided. Because of this, innocent third-parties (e.g., this humble author) are often inconvenienced to the extreme. Companies would do well to terminate the lot of them, or at least toss their sorry behinds onto the street.

Take my latest tête-à-tête with a minion of the temping world:

Act I: Thursday, 4 p.m., The Home of Rob

[phone rings]

Rob: Hello?
Temp: Hello, I'm calling for Mr. Feltman's office. He has read your resume and would like to arrange for an interview.
Rob: Ah. May I ask what position he wants me to fill?
Temp: I don't know.
Rob: Excuse me?
Temp: I'm just a temporary employee. I was told to call this number and schedule an appointment.

[sound of klaxon going off in Rob's head]

Rob: Oh. [pauses] Well, what does Mr. Feltman do?
Temp: I'm not sure.
Rob: Well, what does the office look like?
Temp: It's an office building. Would 10 a.m. Monday be good?
Rob: For what?
Temp: For an interview.
Rob: For what?
Temp: For an interview!

[At this point, Rob feels like he's trapped in the old "Who's on First?" sketch]

Rob: All right then. Where?
Temp: Here. At the Feltman building.
Rob: And I get there how…?
Temp: Well, coming from Pomona you take…
Rob: [interrupting] And NOT coming from Pomona?
Temp: Uh… I'm not sure.
Rob: [sighs] What is the address of the Feltman building?
Temp: It's…

Act II: Monday, 10 a.m., The Feltman Building

Rob: I'm here to see Mr. Feltman.
Secretary: Ah, yes. The ten o'clock. Mr. Feltman will see you shortly.

[Rob sits down on a leather couch to wait. As he does so, he scans the surroundings: lots of old furniture, faux antiques, hunting prints and other quasi-anglophile decorations; typical of someone trying to appear to be old money. Plus, not a computer in sight.]

Feltman: Hello. This will only take a moment.
Rob: Oh?
Feltman: Yes, I must apologize. You see, we do financial consulting here. And while we occasionally hire outside of the MBA track, we don't normally contact IT professionals.
Rob: [realizing he wasted a perfectly good morning getting dressed up, not to mention fighting mid-morning cross-town traffic] Oh.
Feltman: You don't have any interest in investment banking, do you?
Rob: No, not really.
Feltman: [sighs] It's that temp we had last week. I wanted her to sort through résumés while I was gone, pull out the ones with MBAs, and arrange appointments. Instead, she just called the numbers on the first twenty and took off early. I've been canceling interviews all morning; unfortunately, you were the first and I called your house after you left.

So, that's why temps suck.

So, Rob had a bad day there, I'll agree to that. Blaming the temp, and not just the temp but all temps... that I take issue with. Here are some excerpts of wabe's letter, with my comments:

This is, of course, utter bunk.

Bunk? I'll show you bunk, smartass. First of all, I'm the first one to point out that most of my misadventures are nearly all my fault (emphasis yours). While I am thrust, blind, into these situations, as you put it, I generally tend to make them worse with my inept bumblings. Nine times out of ten, I am the real problem.

Furthermore, I don't recall ever once stating that temps provide any use to anyone. Ever. But that's beside the point.

Temps are worthless creatures who are too distracted playing Solitaire on the receptionist’s computer to pay attention to the important information their employeur du jour has provided.

Ha ha ha. Supposedly provided. More on this later.

Because of this, innocent third-parties (e.g., this humble author) are often inconvenienced to the extreme. Companies would do well to terminate the lot of them, or at least toss their sorry behinds onto the street.

Sure! Because we all know permanent employees do their jobs well all the time, plus the company would get the added bonus of having to pay their benefits, vacations, holidays, etc.

Also, the correct terminology is "inconvenienced to the X-TREEEEEEM!!!"

Rob: Excuse me?
Temp: I'm just a temporary employee. I was told to call this number and schedule an appointment.

[sound of klaxon going off in Rob's head]

Klaxons were probably going off in her head, too, because here she was being questioned on things she hadn't been briefed on. How many times have I been given a task, told what to do, and yet been denied essential information I would need? Especially on the phone. "Chris, call this guy and tell him this." "Okay, will he have any questions for me?" "No." And of course the guy has a bazillion questions, as Rob does:

Rob: Oh. [pauses] Well, what does Mr. Feltman do?
Temp: I'm not sure.

and:

Rob: For what?
Temp: For an interview.
Rob: For what?
Temp: For an interview!

[At this point, Rob feels like he's trapped in the old "Who's on First?" sketch]

Yeah. I know when I'm trying to get information, and I am not getting it, I simply repeat my question over and over, not rephrasing it at all. This approach also works with people who don't speak the language. Really, Rob (if that is your real name), would it have been so hard to say "An interview for what?" Not that she would have known, because she hadn't been told, but still. Don't be a putz.

Rob: All right then. Where?
Temp: Here. At the Feltman building.
Rob: And I get there how…?

Bzzzzzt. Never, EVER ask the company you are interviewing at for directions. It's sooooo rookie. Just get the address, say thank you, and then go look it up online, on one of the several hundred mapping websites. You can even get satellite photos!

Temp: Well, coming from Pomona you take…
Rob: [interrupting] And NOT coming from Pomona?
Temp: Uh… I'm not sure.
Rob: [sighs] What is the address of the Feltman building?

Why the sigh? Because she doesn't know directions to a building she's been in probably only once in her life? She probably got lost on the way in, you know. Excuse her for not having exact directions from your front door to the building she's been in for five minutes. Sissypants.

[Plus, not a computer in sight.]

No? Huh. I thought you said: Temps are worthless creatures who are too distracted playing Solitaire on the **receptionist’s computer** to pay attention to the important information their employeur du jour has provided.

Guess I must have imagined that. Or maybe you just weren't paying attention to your own information?

Feltman: [sighs] It's that temp we had last week. I wanted her to sort through résumés while I was gone, pull out the ones with MBAs, and arrange appointments. Instead, she just called the numbers on the first twenty and took off early. I've been canceling interviews all morning; unfortunately, you were the first and I called your house after you left.

Well, that's Feltman's side of things. Of course he's going to blame the temp, wouldn't you? Oh yeah, you did. You blamed ALL OF US. But what's Feltman gonna say?

"It's that temp we had last week. I wanted her to sort through résumés while I was gone, pull out the ones with MBAs, and arrange appointments. Of course, I didn't BOTHER TO TELL HER ANY OF THIS. I mumbled something about setting up appointments, handed her a stack of résumés, then went and got on my phone and couldn't be disturbed for the rest of the day. So, it's my fault, not hers."

Bah. Never. They, like you, will blame the temps. For everything.

So, that's why temps suck.

No, you suck! A lot! Jerk!!!

There. I feel I have completely discredited this "Rob" person (or should I call you the-rob) and successfully defended the poor, innocent temp, as well as all temps everywhere.

And I will do so again ANYWHERE and ANYTIME a temp is brutally attacked! Do you have some bitch-story about a temp who you think sucked? You let me know. You write to me, in detail, about a temp you think sucked, and I will defend them, on this site. Word by word, deed by deed, I will defend them.

Unless I'm too busy playing Solitaire on the receptionist's computer, of course.

e:mail: temp@notmydesk.com

6.19.02 - Nothing but the Truth

Last week, I mentioned visiting a temp agency and having to take a computerized "personality test", which I had never done before. This week, I again had a new experience at another new agency, once more running into a situation that was completely new to me, something that can make a veteran temp such as myself feel quite out of place in this new fangled world of new technology and new standards and sentences that use the word "new" far, far too many times.

What was different about this agency was that before I sat down with an agent to be interviewed, we (the agent and I) were both dosed intravenously with thiopental sodium, better known as Sodium Pentothal, a truth serum*. This would cause us to be completely honest and express all our thoughts during the interview**. Here is the transcript:

*You with me? You buying this? Okay. Good.
**Yes, I know Sodium Pentothal can't actually force you to tell the truth. It simply deadens the nervous system, as it is an anesthetic, and makes those dosed (lightly) with it more communicative and more likely to share their thoughts. I just thought the complete truth angle it would make for a funnier interview***.
***This is based on an actual interview.

AGENT: Hi. It's not really nice to meet you.

ME: Wow, you've got a big rack.

AGENT: Okay, looking over your resume, I see you have about six years of office experience, you have a familiarity with a great deal of software, and you have no idea how to format margins properly.

ME: Well, the reason the margins are so narrow is so I could cram every bit of experience onto one page, because I was way low on printer paper when I printed this out ten minutes before I came here.

AGENT: And?

ME: And I'm not really sure what the second page of a resume looks like, anyway. Like, what goes at the top? My name again? A big "Page Two"? Do I have to put "Continued on Page Two" or "Over -->" on the first page? I don't know these things.

AGENT: And?

ME: You have a really big rack.

AGENT: And?

ME: And I don't know how to format margins properly.

AGENT: Okay. What would be your absolute minimum acceptable wage for the crappy positions we probably won't be offering you?

ME: My absolute minimum wage? I'd have to say $15 an hour.

AGENT: Okay, $15 an hour minimum. Now, would you be willing to work for less?

ME: See, why would you ask me that? You asked my absolute minimum wage. That would be absolute, meaning definite and total, and minimum, meaning smallest amount, that I would work for.

AGENT: You're right. I'm a complete idiot for asking that.

ME: Yes, you are.

AGENT: So. Would you work for less than $15 an hour?

ME: Yes, I would.

AGENT: Now, I see that -- oh, I'm going to answer this phone call in the middle of your interview, so you have to sit there like a lump while I explain to the person on the phone that we have no jobs for them and that they should stop calling because we have no jobs for anyone, which will probably make you wonder why you're even bothering to interview with me.

ME: Okay. I'll sit here and look at your rack when you're not looking directly at me.

AGENT: Now, I see on your resume that you have experience working in television, with Nickelodeon. I also see most of it doesn't pertain to the kind of work you'll be doing if we find you a job, which we won't.

ME: Well, I keep the Nickelodeon stuff on there because sometimes I interview with people who have small children who watch Nick shows, and thus we strike up a conversation about Nickelodeon and it makes me seem cool. One agent I used to have would say "Hey, it's the Nickelodeon guy!" whenever I'd call her, and so I figure it might help people remember me after the interview.

AGENT: Does this happen often?

ME: No. Hardly ever.

AGENT: Are you really dating someone named Melissa Leary?

ME: No. It was a joke.

AGENT: Ah. Makes sense. You look kinda gay.

ME: I know.

AGENT: You also forgot to post new Diversions this week.

ME: Oops.

AGENT: Well, now I'm going to pretend I was really impressed with you, so impressed that I don't need to interview you any more, but it's really just so I can go take my lunch break.

ME: Fine, I need a cigarette anyway.

AGENT: Bye! I didn't like you and I won't be calling you with jobs!

ME: Bye! Burn in hell for all time! This office smells like stale farts!

(By the way, in case anyone is interested, I am selling my beloved ColecoVision and 33 games on e-bay. The link is right here. Includes Smurf Rescue!)

e:mail: temp@notmydesk.com

What if Not My Desk wuz a personal "vanity" site?

6.18.02 - What If...

When I was a kid, I was a fan of this comic book series called "What If..." from Marvel Comics. "What If..." involved the regular Marvel crew, like Spider Man, The Incredible Hulk, Fantastic Four, Avengers, The X-Men, etc. Basically, it presented an alternate reality based on a question, for example, "What if the the X-Men died on their first mission?" and "What if someone else had been bitten by the radioactive spider and become Spider Man?" and "What if The Hulk got in touch with his feelings and stopped smashing things and maybe bought some new pants?"

They were fun because anything could happen, but since it was all speculative, it wouldn't affect the "actual" Marvel universe. The Hulk could freak out and kill the Fantastic Four, and the Fantastic Four wasn't really dead, it was just an alternate reality type thing. Which was too bad, because I fucking hated the fantastic four.

I think those comics must have been fun for the creators to write and draw, namely because they got to kill off tons of superheroes for a single issue, heroes that really should have been killed off anyway, like the Human Torch or Ghost Rider or Storm or The Power Pack. Eurgh. The Power Pack.

Besides all the death and carnage, it's sometimes fun to just think about things as they might have been, instead of what they are. Like, oh, I dunno, let's see... what could I speculate about... hmmm...

Actually, I've been planning alternate realities of this website since the beginning of this update! I was just pretending to try to think of something just now. For suspense or whatever.

Now! Weblogs are quite the happening thing these days. Community weblogs are nice, because people post links to news items or other interesting things online, and then members discuss them thoughtfully. Which begs the question...

What if Not My Desk wuz a community weblog, like metafilter?

Then, there are "vanity" sites, basically personal endeavors, where people let others know who they are, what music they like, what movie stars they dig, and sometimes post links to their favorite sites. Hmmm, makes me wonder...

Music sharing is quite the fad these days, and mp3's can be downloaded and passed around among your friends with ease. Sure, some sites have gone down after lawsuits, but a new site will rise to take its place, and hey, that gives me a thought...

What if Not My Desk wuz a music-sharing site, like Napster or AudioGalaxy?

Still, if you really want to bend reality, you need to ask yourself, as my parents often do, no doubt, why is Chris still a temp? What if he'd had one iota of ambition, or tenacity, or smarts, or common sense, and gotten a real job and become wealthy and comfortable instead of being a poverty-stricken doofus with a website? Well, you might as well just ask...

What if Not My Desk had never existed?

e:mail: temp@notmydesk.com