“Don’t Bore Me With Adult Love”
It sounds like a line, and it probably is.
Picked it up from a blog site, the author of which stumbled into my own some days past. I had a feeling he picked it up from somewhere else too, possibly from a Hed Kandi remix.
Anyway, it stuck to me like LSS.
“Don’t bore me with adult love.” I liked how arrogantly cool it seemed. So tongue-in-cheek… Made me want to think of the people I could say it to, but the list stopped at the first entry -- me.
How many people on the Office floor are married? About half.
How many of the single people are involved? About half, as well.
How many of the uninvolved, single people are gay? None. (The gay people on this floor
are involved.)
How many of the uninvolved, single people are girls? All of them.
At lunch hour in the workplace, the situation becomes more pronounced when the single, uninvolved, straight females huddle together, criticizing the unspoken “rules of engagement,” such as the girl can’t ask a guy out, can’t be too proactive, etcetera, etcetera. I used to take pleasure in joining in the discussions, but later on, it wore me out. Ultimately, I thought, we couldn’t change culture by just talking about it in the pantry room. One has to walk the talk. Even it means the end of self-preservation.
Wish Ko Lang
We all want a pay raise, a few more weeks of paid vacation, and the elusive corner office. But sometimes, the simplest things can make the most distraught employee the happiest little worker.
Some suggestions I picked up from conversations with the Office-mates:
1. Free Bottomless Gourmet Coffee. I found out from a classmate that Smart Telecoms actually has this kind of perk in their office.
2. Free Weekly Back Massage. Was already planned by HR for their Wellness Month but never pushed through. Budget constraints, I suppose.
3. Venting Room. A manager from the support groups thought this up. It was the answer to “Don’t you wish you could just lock yourself in a room and scream?”
4. Free Parking. Mere bottom-dwellers that we are, parking rates at P120 a day are excruciating.
5. Napping Quarters. Trying to get fifteen minutes of undisturbed naps in the cube can be tricky. It’ll be nice to have an actual bed with comfy pillows.
6. Relaxed Internet Policy. Cutting-edge marketers need to do real competitor spying. Ibalik nyo na ang Friendster!!!
7. Free Use of the Media Room. How does Surround Sound and Personal Movie Screen sound to you? Just book a laptop, a projector, a nice DVD, the conference room…
8. Jeans or Better Uniforms. The current get-up makes us look like bankers, teachers, SM salesladies…nothing wrong. But I’ve expected more from a beauty company.
9. Downstairs Nursery. When everyday is Bring-Your-Kid-to-Work Day, it’s a good place to keep hyperactive children away from dangerous objects, like me.
10. MP3 players as Christmas gifts. Yes, Kuya, I am so jealous.
New GirlFanny is the new girl in town. She took the post of Junior Planner, a few months after Florence resigned. (She wanted to have a family. I noticed it’s the usual excuse nowadays.) Marian, our boss, handpicked her from a selection of three gutsy candidates. We remember that the rounds of interviews went on for weeks—it was our little group’s fear that Marian would never finish, and we would be left for dead with the avalanching workload.
Fanny, luckily, was everything we needed to take on this job. She was a fast-learner and smart; she was comfortable with numbers and understood the Office business quite well. She had a healthy sense of humor and a remarkable gift for memorizing names. Her Day One rang along “Ah, hello there, Aling Becky! Nice to see you, Ching. Have you seen Melo this morning? Oh, you know, the new products development guy?”
There was just one itsy-bitsy thing that bothered me … one insignificant little detail.
She… has… flatulence.
Sa madaling salita sa tagalog, Utot-titis.Flatulence. I can write a long list of jokes linking Fanny and Flatulence. Fanny the Flatulent. Fanny lifts her Fanny. Fanny Fans For Air When You Say Something Funny. Fanny, That’s Not Funny, We’re in a Meeting. Fanny’s Fanny Not Allowed in the Elevator.
Fanny’s flatulence. How on earth. It’s interesting to note
how she does it. Early in the morning, I hear a faint muffled sound of muscles flapping against fabric in surging air. It starts with an “f” sound –
fffff ... then after a few seconds, it breaks into a trombonic
ffffwwwwwot!! Come to think of it, the more amazing thing is how Fanny figured out that the hum of the air-conditioner drowns out the sound.
When the air conditioner gets switched off (everyday at 4:30 PM sharp; another cost-saving initiative brought to you by our fine friends at finance), she dislodges truckloads of air by walking around the floor. You won’t be able to hear it, but oh my dear, you can smell what could probably have been in a gas chamber, as it ever so faintly drifts into your cubicle.
My sisters actually have a term for people who fart while walking. They call them “nag-pu-plup-plup-plup.” And at 4:30PM, Fanny starts “plup-plup-plup-ping” in the marketing hallway, her stiletto heels disguising the “plups” with their rhythmic pacing.
In one of Fanny’s walks, I once heard Carlos the copywriter declare – “Finally!! No more energy crisis!!! The source of Bio-gas has been found!!!”
Fanny’s a brilliant kid. I feel sorry for her – of course flatulence was something she did not wish for her 9th birthday. But I can’t help it. I just cannot work with her without bursting into giggles or gasping for air.
The Art of Doing Nothin’
I came to tha Office at half-past nine,
A-knowin’ t’was a borin’ day aheada me.
Snailin’ to the cube, a-takin’ all ma time
Tho the folks in HR know that it shouldant be.
Papers piled on top of another.
Calls to be returned tuh the cahl-ler.
But there are gossips lain fer hearin’
And some bile yah want tuh write in.
Takes a lot to do the art of doing nothin’.
Mah boss just served me numbers befo’ I sat.
She says, Why doncha make reports for the day?
Your sales are a-dipping, the losses gettin’ fat.
Make it fast, we just can’t take no delay.
T’ sudden pressure makes me m-ired
And suddenly I’m feelin’ t-ired.
So I take the numbers to the bin
And then I snooze and do mah thing.
Takes a lot to do the art of doing nothin’.
The Campaign for Real Beauty
We sat down last Friday for a review of the Christmas campaign to be launched in December, which happens to be my campaign.
My Campaign. I really like saying that. Although I know that a hundred other hands are dipping into this project, working to death the nuts and bolts of it, I flatter myself that somehow I am the lead, and the one solely responsible for its success. Or failure.
In a rare lull in the meeting, Daisy, our head copywriter threw the question “What do you think of Dove’s Campaign for Real Beauty?”
Marian, my boss, who seems to be so out of touch with the world, with her kids and all, asked what it was. I explained that Dove’s campaign was concentrated on billboard exposure, some I’ve seen strewn along South Luzon Expressway. In each billboard is a picture of a woman with non-stereotypical attractions, and on the side of that picture is a question, the answer of one can vote for via the wonders of SMS. The results of the survey are updated on the billboard on a regular basis.
To further illustrate, another writer, hefty Veda, raised both her arms above her head, mimicking the seductive pose of one Dove model, and said, “Extra Large? Or Extra Sexy?”
Taking her cue from Veda, Daisy stood and arched her back, “Flat? Or Flattering?”
Everybody laughed. We were not expecting this from Daisy. She had been in a pressure cooker all week because of the work order changes mutating in her inbox.
After the laughs subsided, I said, “So far the score has been close. It’s almost a split down the middle – 42/58 or 49/51 for the two scoreboards I’ve seen for
Aging or Ageless and
Flat and Flattering. How disappointing that anyone could have the heart to vote for Aging or Flat? To think that the questions themselves were leading questions…”
“Overall,” interrupted Neecee, our events coordinator, “I like that campaign. The intentions are very noble. It’s an attempt to break the leading notions of what beauty should be. ”
Janice, a newly recruited brand manager, thought aloud, “Ha! I don’t think their intentions may be noble. Their intentions may in fact, be very sinister! This attempt to project a broader sense of beauty widens an opportunity -- they’re expanding their market share. They’re strengthening their positioning that their product is something that’s perfect for just about anyone, whether flat-chested or obese or a senior citizen. Not just the catwalk model types. They bring with them the promise that beauty is achievable however you look now.”
Spoken like a true marketer, I thought. She must have some regrets leaving Lever some years back. Or was that P & G?
“But I couldn’t resist saying that somehow, the campaign still has some disconnect,” I interjected. “It focuses on the different types of body conditions, such as fat or thin, ... something a product like Dove, chiefly a
face product, does not address. It deflects the current issues or ‘notions’ on facial beauty – symmetry, perfect teeth, doe eyes…”
There wasn’t one person in the room who caught my drift.
“What I mean,” I hopelessly babbled on, “is that Dove is hypocritical in saying what Real Beauty is, because if you still look at all their
faces on the billboards, Dove still picked the pretty ones. Inner Beauty doesn't matter at all.”
Janice looked at me quizzically. “Are you sure you’re working for the right people? We are, after all, a beauty company.”
Well, Janice, I thought. I
don’t really know the answer to that.
Rainy Days and Wednesdays“You’re Late.” Marni declared haughtily at me. She had waited some twenty-odd minutes in the coffee shop near the Office, when I came in shivering with water spots on my uniform.
“Umulan kasi,” I replied. “I had to go up all seven floors again to get my umbrella. And besides,” I looked reprimandingly at her, “
you were the one who was always late. Yabang mo naman.”
Marni smirked as she passed me the coffee shop menu. “Not naman mayabang. I just didn’t want you to forget that I still have the ability to be punctual.”
I caught the waiter and ordered a grande of raspberry café mocha. I was caffeine-loading today – I needed to be alert for the 3-hour meeting later. Marni fidgeted with the cigarette in hand and reached out for the lighter in her pocket. As soon as the flame touched the tip of the stick, she flicked the lighter cap back on and extinguished it. She bent the cig in half and ground it on the ashtray.
“Quitting?” I said, surprised. “Since when?”
“Since I,” she paused, changed her mind and reeled off, “Do we have to start the conversation this way?” she turned to me, annoyed.
“Hey, I just asked! … It’s not like you to turn down a good stick of Philip. Ever since I met you, you’re nevverrr without a smoke, even in a non-smoking area. Daig mo pa Smokey Mountain sa usok e.” I downed a third of my coffee and placed the cup on the table. “If you don’t want to answer, fine. No big deal anyway.”
The rain outside the shop grew stronger and slapped violently on the glass panes. As I looked outside, people in corporate attire were running on the sidewalk; caught without umbrellas, they were hopelessly using bulky laptops as substitutes. A weighty and meaningful silence fell between Marni and me, until she gasped and broke it.
“It IS a big deal.” Her voice was low and void of the cheerful perky character I had associated with Marni. “I haven’t had my period in two months now.”
Instantly a horrific vision of her and Apong Joel (an elderly single manager from where we worked) flashed before me. I wanted to laugh out loud. It was a joke that was ringing clearly in my head, the insensitive maniac that I am.
“Well, well, well,” I said to her, “Guess who’s late again.”
Breaking Down and Breaking It Up
Last Friday, my family (meaning Dad, Mom, and sister), and a friend of mine went out to dinner right before watching some dreadful English play[1]. Just as my sister dipped her spoon into the hot pho soup, her face turned red and tears sprang from her eyes. She covered them quickly with both hands and tried to suppress a strong compulsion to cry.
“What’s wrong?” Mom asked.
“Re-shured ja ork,” Sis mumbled.
“Ano daw?” I asked, too. I didn’t quite hear it at all; her words were jumbling with the vermicelli spilling from her mouth and the clear balloon of beef stock blowing out of her nose.
“Pressured na ko.” She was pertaining to her two-month old stint right after college at an advertising agency. I thought she was choking on her soup.
Ahhhh… The first flush of work. The bottomless pit of nerves that knots tightly like coiled snake, hissing and flicking its double-forked tongue on the ends of your medulla oblongata. Interesting how mounds of work piled on top of another, served by an emotionally-impaired boss, can break your limbs at the mere thought of them. To finish everything on the deadlyline (usually Yesterday), you’d think you’d need to grow more tentacles.
My sister, whom we shall hide by the name Lilibeth, fanned her face with her hands, and pulled herself together in a matter of seconds. She was probably embarrassed to have shown such rare display of breaking down, … more so in the presence of a non-family member, … and in a public place. Instantly, Mom, Dad and I began to pour Chicken Soup for the Soul into her bowl, giving her what we thought were the best ways to handle the situation.
Now, I don’t quite remember anything we’ve said to her (I guess she doesn’t either), but I hope I was able to tell her the best advise anybody ever gave to me. It was one I heard from Rina (my most favorite manager of all time), something she said to comfort me when I broke down under sheer pressure months ago.[2] She just said, “Just relax… Take it one day at a time.”
It seemed so simple, and yet … it works! It may not lessen the amount of To Do’s on your list, but taking everything one day at a time, miraculously lifts the mental load off you, making you clearheaded enough to stop and enjoy the flowers. Or pho soup for that matter.
Here’s to you, Lilibeth. May your boss grow horns on the sides of his head if he ever makes you cry again.
[1] Taming of the Shrew, tickets courtesy of the Office. I say dreadful not because of Willie’s writing (Alas, no!) nor the actors’ performance (quite good, actually), but because of the overbearing English accent the Pinoy actors were painstakingly wanting to get right.
[2] I was pressured that day to deliver two humongous tasks -- a revised pagination that morning (or the Creatives would slash my right wrist for me), and the revised pricing the following day (else Estimating would slash my left).
Tip # 13. Never cross a Creative.
Never cross a Creative. I learned this painful lesson firsthand when I was newly posted as a planner for the Marketing team. Coming from a manufacturing background where people were as plain as bond paper can be, I was amazed at the explosion of color and sound in Marketing, exaggerated by a mile by a unique breed of Office talent called the Creatives.
Creatives are the artists, writers and designers in the company. They render the monthly brochures that come out, each page an expression of their artistic temperament and the planners’ merchandizing tricks. Most of the time, they are fun and frivolous, quick to laugh at the slightest joke. On special occasions like Christmas parties and General Assemblies, the company makes use of the Creatives’ special function, which is to execute the theme of an event on a grand scale.
Being new to the department years ago, I was “forced”[1] by my manager to sing for the annual Marketing Christmas party. Only a handful of the hundred-strong department knew of my past musical experiences (being a choir singer for close to a decade), so most didn’t really know what to expect of me. I was probably in their eyes a three-second novelty, whose attraction dissolves before going onto the chorus.
Much to their surprise, in between gulps of San Mig lites and tequila, they heard me belt out a Pink song with the most outrageous bridge (“Get this parteh starteeeeeeeedddddd!!!”). My planning teammates shrieked in delight, and the Brand people were hollering (for more? or for less?). However, when I glanced to where the Creatives sat, they were taunting one of their graphic artists (the gayest of them all), whom we shall call Pats.
It seems that in my short pop star stint, I have slighted this prima donna and challenged him to a duel.
Pats had been the regular singer for the department’s parties for years since he was here. He always had a Regine Velasquez CD rotating heavily on his PC’s media player. At the end of the working day, he dishes out On the Wings of Love all the way to the high notes, although not as perfectly as Anton (a gay impersonator of Regine) does it.
After I sang in the party, he went up, took the microphone and sang horrendous covers (not that I am biased, but you would have found it awful if you’ve heard it) of Regine’s To Reach You and Falling. Jen, another planner like me, wanted to pull the plug off the mixer when Pats was contemplating on a third song. Fortunately, then-Director Saul invited everyone to a fresh round of games.
That was three years ago. Months after that, I regularly received Pats’s icy head-to-toe look-overs each time we passed by the hallway. Just weeks ago in my campaign’s Brochure Meeting, he was relentlessly thrashing[2] my campaign pagination[3] , deliberately making fun me. Needless to say, the others in the team could not make heads or tails of what he was saying. (Figured that out when I saw Daisy, the head copywriter, arching her left eyebrow involuntarily in Pats’ direction.)
When the meeting finished, I was raring to grab what was left of his thinning hair, but decided against it, and went straight to my cubicle to cool off instead. I cringed at the thought that this could go on forever for as long as both of us are employed in the same building.
I am at a loss at what to do, although Marni says I’d better start practicing my songs for this year.
[1] Boss: “Wanna sing?”; Me: “Yeah, sure!”
[2] Thrashing is such a weak word. Chaka-ing is more to it.
[3] Pagination is a page per page summary and sequencing of the product brochure.
