Chris darlin',

I just wanted to get in touch with you after all this time to find out
how life is treating you and to thank you for plugging my book.  My
stats show that there is traffic coming from your site to mine.  I am
especially flattered to be included in the same category with that 
major literary, scholarly tome, "Who Moved My Cheese?"

Things are going well with Gordon and me. You remember my husband,
Good-guy-Gordon, don't you?  We've been doing quite a bit of traveling
lately and are thinking of coming down to see you.  We were reminiscing
about the old days when you and I worked together at all those 
different places.  Remember when you were the overpaid president of an HMO and
spent your whole day arranging your next golf date?  I covered your 
tush so well that they gave you an award!

And then you became an arrogant SOB when you invested a few bucks in 
the start-up computer manufacturer and thought that made you some sort of a
technical genius. I was the one who put the appropriate magazines on
your table, gave you a cheat sheet of acronyms, and responded to all 
but your most personal phone calls.

I also worked for you in that all-male programming bull pen. Your 
honcho programmer made it a point to ask everyone in the room if they wanted a
pizza or a sub for lunch; except when he got to my desk, he avoided
looking at me as he walked by to ask the next guy what he wanted.  I
never figured it out. Was he more cheap than rude -- or vice versa?
Anyway, when the food came, I just sat there and salivated.  I watched
them bite, chew and swallow. Each in turn.  It wasn't till I got to the
fourth or fifth insensitive dolt that someone asked me if I wanted
something to eat. I said "Yes," put a dollar on the pile of change on
the table, and took a now cold slice of pizza.

And then I ran into you twice when that huge financial firm had a major
shredding job. The first time, you told me to make a copy of each page
for the files before shredding. The next time, you told me to put the
papers in alphabetical order before shredding. Duh and double duh.

BUT, the most memorable time was the morning that you gave me a 
notebook of sales reports to copy for your 12 sales managers who were coming in
from all over the country.  I made about 8 copies of each but the cheap
copier that you refused to pay maintenance for broke down yet again and
there wasn't enough time to go to Kinko's.  Besides, if I did leave the
building, who would be there to answer your phone and greet your
visitors? I hated to be the one to break it to you, but the days of
indentured servitude were over. I was simply not paid enough to respond
to people who snap their fingers and grunt instead of  communicating.
And so, I left what I had done on the Conference table and tried to 
call around to see if someone in another department could help me out. 
(You'd think that I was working on commission!)  You called me into the
Conference Room and dressed me down in front of them for not having
enough copies for everybody.   Oh, Chris, how mad you got when I bowed
low from the waist and put my arm up protecting my forehead and said in
a tearful voice: "Don't hit me no moah, massah, I be good!   Please,
massah, don't hit me no moah!"

Afterwards, I did back out of that Conference Room; I went immediately
to my desk, packed up my things and got my time sheet out and started
putting on my coat. You opened the door and came over to my desk and 
you said that you were sorry.  It was at that moment that I realized you
weren't as mean as I thought you were -- you were just plain dumb.  And
you needed my help. Maybe you were even salvageable.

You of all people ought to know how important my needle and thread 
were.  Wasn't it you who borrowed it to sew up your fly when the zipper popped
open just before you were going "on stage" with the customer?  Not that
I imagine there was all that much to see.

You certainly moved around a lot, Chris.  You were at your worst form 
in your many middle management slots where you wore your MBA like some
third-world Generalissimo wears his medals.

I was just a little put out that you never called me by name in spite 
of the fact that I had my name plate in the front of my desk.  For the
whole time I worked for you, you referred to me as "uhhh" or "errummm."

You wrote: "Being able to adjust your own habits to suit the office you
happen to be in that day.  That's what Carol Feltman doesn't seem to
get, and probably never will."  Sweetie, you're missing the point. I
didn't want to adjust. I was the only one who knew what was happening.
The Work Log was the most benign way I could think of to get you and
your co-horts to realize that all you panic stricken, late-as-usual
deadline pushers couldn't all be first in line. I didn't think it
appropriate to put up that sign showing a bunch of shmoos holding their
sides laughing and the last one is saying, "You want it when?"  Or, the
other alternative would be to put up the sign that says: "Your poor
planning does not constitute my emergency."

While I'm on the subject of signs, I have another one that I 
embroidered and put in a little wooden frame. It's a small green frog with a
pathetic face sitting on a lily pad saying: "If you smoke, I might
croak." I'm sure there have been assignments where people who didn't
usually smoke walked past my desk with a cigarette just to see what I'd
do.  I typically got up very quietly, walked over to them and asked 
them to sign my time sheet -- for four hours, minimum.  Then I'd take my
purse, my Survivor's Kit, my coat, and I'd go home. (Home was never 
more than 5 miles away because that was the outer limit of my work area.)

I never took an assignment without being assured that I'd be in a
smoke-free environment. The agents had a tough time swallowing it, but
they finally realized that I wasn't kidding. They learned not to send 
me anywhere and tell me to "see how it goes."  Because if it doesn't go
well, if somebody lights up, I go home!  I somehow have the feeling 
that you think I'm fussy. I don't agree. I'm just not your doormat.

This is off the subject, but you asked me one time if I had ever
considered becoming a librarian.  And I do fantasize about it
sometimes.  But I can't imagine spending all day, everyday, just 
sitting around saying "SSShhhh." So I opted for the next best thing, temping
from year to year -- and job to job -- teaching you how to behave; and
more so, how not to behave.  And by the time I was finished, you were
pretty damn reasonable. You no longer treated me like "the temp" and I
no longer regarded you as some overpaid, underqualified dumbo. But,
based on your website, you've done a lot of backsliding.

Anyhow, I'd really like to see you again.  Give me a call at
XXX-XXX-XXXX and let me know where you are these days. We might fly out
to take you out to lunch. I'll probably even pick up the tab (tip
included) just for the fun of seeing how much or how little you really
have retained from my tutelage.

With fond memories,
Carol Feltman
Author of TEMP.tation
http://www.kahrol.com/

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