Tinker, Tailor

“The chairs are here!” someone exclaimed when the delivery man opened our office doors.

We had ordered office chairs for everyone as some of my colleagues’ chairs were starting to show their age.

The new chairs that came in were all high backed swivel arm chairs, and they were wrapped tightly in plastic.

“Time to tear the hymen!”

“Yeah! I like being the first. I like virgins!”

Soon, one of my colleagues was getting a bit frustrated with the plastic wrapping and was getting particularly rough.

“Hey be gentle with her,” someone told him. “It’s only her first time.”

Before long, some of us were done with the deflowering and were happily seated on the new chairs.

“Nice. I like being on top.”

“Yeah and it feels good doing this”, he said while rocking rocking the chair.

We soon had to put away the old chairs.

“How do we stack them?”

“Let them do a 69,” came the reply. It worked.

Eventually, one of my colleagues decided he could bring a couple of those chairs back home to use. So they were asking who’s old chair was still in good condition.

“My ex is still good,” I told them.

“Which one is yours? Is it the blue one?”

“Ermm… I really can’t remember. Once I dump her, it’s over. Time to move on. No more looking back.”

“You heartless jerk.”

“But I have to say, she was pretty good. You should take her - she’s got experience.”

We eventually decided to name our chairs.

Mine’s called Chairyl.

We were all gathered around the table as the birthday boy lit the candles on his birthday cake. When he was finally done, we sang the usual Happy Birthday song. (Okay I didn’t sing but that’s besides the point.)

Then just before he blew the candles, someone shouted,

“Hope you have a good year and have lots of sex!”

He was grinning from ear to ear.

SO there I was, standing inside a large florist shop, surrounded by rows and rows of pretty flowers - sunflowers, roses, carnations… and plenty more that I’m unable to name.

But who cares about the flower names? It had been a hectic morning at work, so it was really calming to be surrounding by so many lovely flowers. I took in a deep breath, taking in the sweet scent of the flora around me…

It was a clever decision of mine. My colleagues and I were having lunch at the foodcourt just a floor below. After lunch, I decided to come upstairs just to explore a little while they went on back to the office. I was sure that none of them knew of the existence of such a beautiful sanctuary so close to our office where we could just pop by to sooth our souls.

Standing there in that beautiful and sweetly scented environment, I admired the flowers more closely.

The roses looked fake. In fact, they were fake.

“So which of these are fake?” I asked the florist.

“All our flowers are artificial,” came the answer.

I went back to the office.

Jane, the colleague sitting in front of me started groaning. It’s really not that unusual, except that this time it was louder. Then she went “oh my god! oh my god! oh my god!”

“Biscuit?” offered Sue, who sits next to her.

“Chewing gum?” I offered. Yes, I do have a stash for emergencies like this.

“I WANNA KILL MYSELF!!!” went Jane

“Scissors?” “Knife?” Sue and I responded simultaneously and respectively.

We’re such helpful colleagues.

I was doing some work at a client’s place this afternoon, so they parked me in a room.

It was nice of them because only the big bosses had their own office rooms like that - everyone else there had to be in a cubicle. In fact, the room I was in was adjacent to the office of one of the bosses.

It was just a matter of time when I heard a voice from the next room, given the lack of sound insulation. I could hear practically every word the person in the next room was saying.

Which was a little worrying, because just a few minutes before I heard the voice, I let out a rather loud groan when I realised some mistake I had made. Thankfully I didn’t utter anything comprehensible.

But I soon forgot about my groan when I heard the voice.

It was a female voice. She was speaking on the phone, sounding rather sweet, or even cute.

Then I thought - there’s no way she’s a sweet cutesy young thing, since she’s a boss.

Okay maybe she’s a hot old thing, like Angelina Jolie.

I eventually ventured out of my room to take a peek.

I never knew old hags could sound so sweet.

Quite unfortunately, there is a part 3, continuing from my last post, Close Encounter of the Queer Kind. Read it first if you want this post to make sense.

* * *

So Jane (the contact person) told me today that gay dude wants to speak to me.

“What is it about?” I asked.

“I don’t know. He just says he wants to speak to you.”

“Maybe I could drop by his desk later to talk to him.”

“He might be busy,” said Jane, “I’ll send you his phone number - why don’t you just sms him?”

Sms him was exactly what I didn’t want to do. It would mean that he could get hold of my number.

But sms him I did, because I had no other options (and believe me, I tried hard to think of other options, but given my constraints, there were no other options).

He eventually called me.

“Hello!” he enthusiastically greeted me. He didn’t identify himself, but it was obviously him.

“Hullo? you are?” I pretended not to know. Maybe he’d be able to tell that I haven’t saved his number under my contacts that’s why I don’t seem to know who’s calling.

To cut the long story short, he asked for my facebook account, because he wanted to “show me something” related to what he was talking to me about in the meeting.

“Oh it’s ok, I already have the information I need. But thanks anyway.”

“Or can we meet up maybe later this evening to… discuss a bit more?”

I could feel him blushing already.

“Any particular thing you have in mind?” I still had to be open since it could help my work. You see, I still can be highly professional under severe emotional stress.

“Nothing in particular. I just thought maybe we could talk a bit in the evening.”

“Oh it’s ok don’t worry, I’ve got enough information from you. But thanks alot. I’ll contact you again if I need anything ok?”

The kinds of things I go through - I should ask my boss for a raise.

So there I was, sitting in a small room, alone with this gay dude.

No, he was sitting at the other side of the meeting room table, and not on my lap. This was work, so I had to be there, talking to him.

He was cooperative. Very cooperative. Highly cooperative. Too cooperative. Eager, keen, answering all my questions with complete enthusiasm, albeit a little breathlessly.

I, on the other hand, tried my best not to display anything that might be misconstrued as being remotely interested in him; yet I had to look interested in the information he was giving. It was stressful. Especially with that longing gaze he was giving me when I was speaking

When the meeting was finally over, I thanked him, stood up and opened the door and motioned for him to leave.

He was still in his seat, not quite ready to leave.

“Oh by the way, do you have a name card?”

“I’m sorry I ran out of name cards.”

Okay - I made a grammatical error - it should have been in the present continuous tense - “I‘m running out of name cards” - but you get the idea.

“Can I have your email?” he asked, “in case I have more information I can email it to you.”

“You can email it to Jane (the contact person) - she’ll forward it to me.” I was impressed by my quick thinking under duress.

He reluctantly got up. I noticed that he was blushing hard by then.

“By the way, I forgot your name. You are…” He wanted to remember my name.

I gave him my first name.

He used his right index finger to spell out my name on his left palm. He wanted to remember my name.

I figured that he wouldn’t be able to get my contact only with my first name. Unless he tried really, really hard. The problem is that he might.

I was still holding the door open for him, and he finally and reluctantly bade me goodbye and stepped out.

He was still standing outside and looking in when I shut the door.

Part 2

Yes, quite unfortunately there’s a part 2 to this.

A few minutes later, I went to the toilet. After I was done, guess who came in?

He was quite thoroughly delighted to see me, and said ‘hello’ and tried to make small talk. Thankfully, I was already about to leave.

I slowed down a little to be polite and say ‘hi’ back, but he’d already turned around to face me to have a full-on conversation with me. His face turned bright red again.

As mentioned earlier, I was already about to leave. I wasn’t about to change my mind.

“Hey nice seeing you around - I better get going - got lots to do” said I before disappearing around the exit bend and thanking my lucky stars that he didn’t come in half a minute earlier when I was in a much more vulnerable position.

FAQs

When I related this incident to some friends, these were their FAQs, followed by my answers:

1. How old is he?

Mid 20s.

2. Is he cute?

WHO CARES?!?!?

So there I was, in the men’s restroom at the office.

(It took me a couple of seconds to settle on “men’s restroom”, as alternatives like “Gents” “toilet” “men’s room” “restroom” and their combinations went through my mind. Why must there be so many terms for the same thing? But that’s another rant for another post.)

I had just micturated, washed and dried my hands, and was about to go out when…

(Yes, I always wash my hands after I micturate.)

As I was reaching to open the door to go out, someone from the outside pushed open the door and stepped in.

It was a Malay woman in her 40s, garbed in the blue uniform of the cleaning company.

She jumped a little in shock when she looked up at me,

And she Screamed.

It wasn’t a long scream of help, but a short scream of shock. But it was definitely a scream. A loud one.

I was expecting her to then laugh or at least smile in embarrassment. But no. She continued looking at me.

Staring at me.

Staring at me in horror, like I was some kind of freak from outer space.

Staring at me, until I decided to ignore her stare, step past her, and walk out, wondering, What The Hell.

I’m sitting here in a cantankerous mood because it’s past midnight and it’s still so hot.

Those who know me well know that I don’t function well when it’s too hot. I’m like a computer CPU chip - when it’s overheated, things don’t function properly, and the computer might even hang.

So here I am, sitting in the 30 degC heat.

I can’t help but think about an office I used to work in.

It was cool. Literally.

The office was a small room with just me and my colleague.

After he assured me that he liked that cold, I decided to tweak the central aircon vent, so that more cool air could come into the office. The temperature fell from around 23 degC to 18 to 19 degC.

On some evenings, it dropped to around 15 or 16 degC.

I know because I had a thermometer stuck on my computer monitor.

Once in a while, colleagues would pop by the office. Common comments included

“So cold in here!”

“It’s like a fridge in here!”

“How do you all stand it in here?”

Anyway, during those days, our boss was this very chatty and sociable person. He enjoyed popping by our office, partly because both of us had pretty wide knowledge so there were many areas we could talk about that was unrelated to work, and partly because we were the only ones who didn’t ignore him.

The problem was, he could spend a couple of hours chatting with us, so that it actually interfered with our work.

So when he started complaining about the cold, it was good news. It meant that he wouldn’t stay very long in our office.

Or so we thought.

I still remember him sitting there on the chair, with his arms crossed and hugging himself while bouncing his legs to warm himself, while excitedly chatting with us. It was a strange sight.

But his conversations still lasted as long.

Ah well. I miss the aircon.

Connie’s a close friend of mine, so she gets to share some of my secrets.

As a close friend, we sometimes go shopping together, where she gets to influence the outcome of my wardrobe, which can leave my wallet quite vulnerable.

But that’s beside the issue. This time, I was unloading my work problems on to her through MSN.

It was about what happened in the morning when I was at a client’s place for a presentation.

Me: i was there an hour early as usual to prepare
Me: then this guy in a bright pink shirt comes in 45mins early
Me: at first he sat on the 2nd row
Me: then he moved to the first row
Me: the way he spoke, i suspected he’s gay
Me: but nevermind, if they don’t bother me, i’m ok
Me: but as he was sitting there, he was just looking and looking at me

Friend: WHAT

Me: then when i walked by him, his eyes was looking at my crotch!

Friend: WTF

Me: your fault lah

Good friends are there to help you take the blame. Why else do we need good friends?

Friend: what????
Friend: my fault????
Friend: my fault
Friend: why>??>?

Me: i was wearing those sexy jeans u chose!

She made me buy this pair of jeans costing over a hundred bucks. And now gays are staring at my crotch because of that.

Friend: oh man
Friend: i got taste, u gotto gimmi that

Me: hahahah
Me: ok if that wasn’t bad enough
Me: halfway during the lesson
Me: he was looking at me
Me: and licking his lips
Me: i almost freaked out

Friend: oh man
Friend: i am sorry

Me: when he licked is lips
Me: i blanked out for a while
Me: had to recompose myself

Friend: oh man….
Friend: is he good looking

Me: WHO CARES!?!?

Friend: okok chillllll

Me: prob in his 40s
Me: i feel violated!!

Friend: ok chill dude

Me: the perils of my job
Me: why?? connie, why?!?!

Good friends also know how to make you feel better after a difficult incident at work.

Friend: coz u are hot

See what I mean?
Except that she had to add a bit more.

Friend: u just wanted me to say that right

Pffft.

8.13 in the morning, and I’m in a taxi wondering why the traffic is so heavy, and I have to be at the client’s place to give a presentation in another 17 minutes.

5.00 it says on the taxi meter, not counting the 35% peak hour surcharge and the $3.50 for phone booking, and, *tick*, now it says 5.20.

8.16 in the morning and I’m wondering why the taxi driver chose this route with so many traffic lights that have to turn red just as when we approach them, when he could have gone by the expressway, which might be jammed so maybe he made the right choice.

6.00 it says on the taxi meter, and I’m wondering why I have to go through such unnecessary stress. It’s one thing to go through the stress of a presentation, quite another to go through the stress of heavy traffic. 6.20. And the stress of paying such a high fare price, and still facing the prospect of being late.

8.22 and I’m still stressed because it’s only 8 minutes more before the meeting. When I finally reach, it should take me 2 minutes to pay the driver, get into the building, get into a lift and go up to the client office. This means I really have 6 no 5 more minutes in this taxi.

8.80 the meter says and 8.25 my watch says and something in me says that I’m likely to be late. Then I figure that there’s no use getting stressed over it, since it’s not going to help the traffic situation in any way.

I take a deep breath, and breathe out slowly.

I finally arrive, and I have to pay $16.45: $9.60 for the metered fare, $3.50 for the booking, and $3.35 for the 35% peak hour surcharge.

8.30am.

I walk coolly into the client office, on time.

But he’s not there yet.

The boss and I were discussing some stuff when he talked about trying to find a picture on a T-shirt that was popular when he was much younger:

It had this huge eagle swooping down with its massive talons just about to seize this mouse that is calmly sitting there showing him the finger.

If possible, we would get one to add to our office poster collection.

After a bit Googling, we found that it was called “the Last Great Act Of Defiance”.

They even have a newer design on a cafepress t-shirt.

But I doubt I’ll get the t-shirt. Otherwise all of you will know it’s me

Due to the nature of my company’s work, we often request for a room at the client’s office building for the duration of the project to do our stuff.

So recently, as we (the project team and the client rep) were inside the lift, it occurred to the client rep to inform us about the project room she booked for us.

“It’ll be on the nineteenth floor,” she announced.

Then she looked at me with a knowing smile as she continued, “the nineteenth floor has a lot of pretty girls.”

“Er why were you looking at me when you said that?” I immediately protested. But she kept smiling.

WTH.

And just today, when we were having a meeting, I was trying to make a point about the use of language, that we should be more direct.

“It’s like me saying that I’m a non-female,” I said, “when it just means that I’m a guy.”

“You’re gay,” she retorted.

WTH.

Speaking of me being suspected of being gay, it’s been such a regular thing that it’s not worth mentioning anymore.

But last week, as I was sitting on the wet grass after the rain letting mosquitoes and sandflies eat me, a friend from my previous workplace SMSed me:

She: I just heard some rumours about you from a friend!

Me: Tell me everything!!

She: Well, they say you had a brief relationship with Mark last year. And something about you appearing in a video. In short, they say you’re gay.

WTH.

Me: Warrau!!! Must be some sour grapes girl.

She: Hur. Are you sure it isn’t true?

WTH! What kind of friend is she?

Me: None of it is true lah. Who told u?

She: A friend? She didn’t mention who told her though.

Me: Scarly it’s Mark who’s the sour grapes one. Ask her more!

She: Hah. Okay I asked her. She said someone else (she can’t remember who) told her last year. And the video thing, apparently you were the one narrating the video.

Me: Weird stuff. The narrator better sound good.

She: She said you sounded gay. Haha! You mean you really narrated for the video?

Me: Don’t have lah. Damn my lunch not here yet!

She: So weird! Then why would she say you were?

Me: Slowly find out more. I’m starving.

After a while she SMSed me again, after consulting her gay friend.

She: He thinks you’re gay.

Me: How dare he. You mean I give gay vibes???

She: No lah, from the replies you give me and the ‘denials’ you’re making, he says he can tell.

Me: Buah. I shall take a nap now.

For the record, I’m a very straight non-gay heterosexual guy.

What do you do when you’ve only started work a short while ago, and your work desk is already in a mess, and your boss walks by your desk every morning?

And what do you do when your boss dumps a book on one of the piles on your desk, a book that talks about mess?

You read it of course.

It helps that the book’s title is A Perfect Mess. The subtitle is even more compelling: “The Hidden Benefits of Disorder–How Crammed Closets, Cluttered Offices, and On-the-Fly Planning Make the World a Better Place.”

As the subtitle suggests, this book explains why some messiness is actually beneficial and even more productive than a neat and highly-organised system.

Like a (moderately) messy desk being more efficient than a very neat one - something which I’ve known for a while. It’s always comforting to have someone else agree with you on something so radical.

Besides efficiency, messy desks can inspire serendipitous ideas and breakthroughs, when things are connected together by chance, just because they happen to be placed close together.

The book also covers other areas where some mess can be beneficial, including work - work planning. Everyone knows that long-term planning is useless. What most people don’t realise is that it can be harmful as well. No wonder the company I work for doesn’t have a real long-term plan, but it’s doing well. No wonder the boss passed me the book…

Whatever it is, this is an eye-opening book, whether you’re a messy Bessie or a neat Nazi. If you’re the messy type (like me), you won’t be ashamed of your mess again after reading this.

P.S. I find some of the cases in the book a little stretched, probably because of the pro-mess bias of the authors. But not enough to harm the book.

We used to drink wine at the office.

That was in my last company, in the first department I joined. Even though the company itself was large and bureaucratic, my department was small and maverick - a skunkworks type of place.

It all started one afternoon when my colleague sneaked in a bottle of cheap wine. We were all pretty excited, and couldn’t wait for evening for our boss to be gone. Even our 2 young interns were happy to stay behind.

The time finally came when about 5 of us crowded around the table with our plastic cups as the foil wrapper was peeled off. We then found that there was a cork planted firmly into the bottle opening. We didn’t have a corkscrew.

There wasn’t enough space for the cork to be pushed in, so that was out. The cork was flush with the opening of the bottle so it was impossible to dig it out. And we didn’t have a corkscrew.

After a bit of thirsty thinking, we found a self-tapping screw (a screw with a pointed tip), and screwed it into the cork. Using a pair of pliers, we slowly pulled the screw, so that the cork would be pulled out along with it.

Out came the screw without the cork.

We tried screwing in a two screws together. Didn’t work either.

“Remove cork without corkscrew”, we googled. We finally found a method that made sense - slam the bottom of the bottle onto the table protected with a towel, so that the inertia of the wine in the bottle would push out the cork.

After I tired myself out banging the bottle onto the table, the cork got exposed, by a total of 1mm. We took turns banging. And banging. And banging banging baning.

Still 1mm.

From that one experience years ago, I learnt that the best way to remove a cork from a bottle is to use a corkscrew.

Anyway, we eventually established a tradition. Every now and then, someone would present a bottle of wine, and we would stand around the office, cup in hand, sipping and chatting.

Of course, the boss eventually caught us. He was very happy. We weren’t as happy.

However, our wine tradition eventually died off. The company was restructured, and our department was disbanded (we were too maverick for upper management). Different ones of us were transferred to different departments, and some eventually resigned.

It was quite by chance that after a few years, a few of us who were left were put into the same office area again, even though we weren’t even in the same department.

Not long before I left the company, I took out a bottle of cheap wine, some styrofoam cups, and my Swiss army knife corkscrew.

The 4 of us stood around the table, styrofoam cup in hand, reminiscing the good ol’ days.

It was my last day at work. Another one of us would be gone in a few weeks. And another would probably go in a matter of months. There wouldn’t be much left of that original department anymore.

It was a poignant moment.

I don’t think they drink wine there anymore.

Arrgh I just consumed the last piece of chocolate in my office stockpile!

Can anyone help me replenish it?

Here are some requirements:
- The chocolate must have at least 43% cocoa.
- It must not have more than 81% cocoa.
- Should not be of Asian/Australian origin.
- Western European (especially Swiss) origin preferred.
- Must not have mint or raisins or other funky stuff.
- Must be smooth.
- Nuts are optional.
- Cannot be too cheap.

Thanks!

Years ago, when I was still in my first office, my colleague and I both had a stuffed Tux, the Linux penguin.

My colleague’s was a bigger one, tall enough to fit nicely inside a size-10 shoe box. And in fact, I did put it in a shoe box, and decorated it such that it looked like one of those red Chinese altars with a deity sitting in it. And I stuck it high on our office wall.

It eventually fell off the wall after some months (the duct tape couldn’t take the weight), but not before bringing a lot of smiles to our visitors’ faces.

As for my smaller Tux, I stuffed it inside a narrow glass:

Now it sits nicely on my office desk.

At my previous office, the cubicle farm I was in was actually a large room with 2 glass doors, one at each end of the room.

However, we’d only bother to unlock one of the doors - the one on the left which is nearer the main department entrance. The other one on the right was perpetually locked.

Unfortunately, every now and then, some visitor would come and decide to enter from the locked door. They’d push the glass door, only to find it locked. Some morons had to push and pull and push and pull a few times before getting convinced that the door was locked. And every time the door was pushed (or pulled), it would cause a banging noise, disrupting our concentration.

One day I decided I had enough. I stuck a sign on the door.

Here’s a closer look:

It helped a lot.

But after that, every now and then, some moron would still come a visiting.

Here’s a picture of the keyboard of my old computer that got fried.

Yeah, I actually wrote on different parts of the computer - the CPU even had my name on it. Surprisingly, no one said a word.

I’m not about to write on my Macbook Pro though.

Updated

New job, new office, new boss.

Yup new office, without a cubicle. Yayness.

The boss seems cool. Or maybe weird?

Here’s why-

1. His office wall looks like this:

Here’s my wall for reference:

How can he have more posters than I have??

2. He calls me “boss”.

And I call him by his name.

Something’s not right.

Well, at least like Yoda he does not speak.

Update:

I forgot one important point.

3. He blogs.

And he’s been blogging way before I started blogging.

And he’s got more readers.

Damn.