Archive: January 2007

I have a theory that my career path is based on doing things that other people would rather not do themselves. Now, I don’t mean jobs that would qualify for Dirty Jobs. It’s more that I doubt that the majority of professionals would choose to:

• Check if periods have one or two spaces after them
• Beat uncooperative headers, footers, and page numbers into submission
• Ensure that every copyright sign is superscripted
• Create graph and table templates in Excel that can be inserted into Word and still maintain legibility
• Format an existing document so that it can populate a table of contents gracefully
• Make sure that compound adjectives are properly hyphenated

See, my technical writing background has exposed me to a whole spectrum of tasks that are generally unsavory for the general population but I happen to relish. Boring to some, my workload caters to perfectionist tendencies and allows me to build and flex my Office muscles. I enjoy surpassing people’s expectations of Excel formulas and the challenge of a recalcitrant file that will not behave. Because Microsoft insists on making its applications think too much (die, Clippy!), my job is often a battle between how I want files to function and how Microsoft thinks I want them to function. You’re not the boss of me! I shout in my head, shaking my mental fist.

Today I was at home, hunkered down on my couch, for a day consisting of all of the above. Nothing says par-tay like software documentation! Pages of rough tech content had to be polished into a user-friendly, non-technical reference for project managers of all different learning styles. I’d already spent at least a full day on it, but I still had a long way to go before my end-of-day deadline. I spent hours making screen shots, reproducing examples, and creating hyperlinks. The sections had to be reordered for usage’s sake and I had to switch around the orientation of pages (fun with section breaks!) to maintain some white space for notes that should be scribbled down during an upcoming training session.

When I finally sent off my final (hopefully) twenty-four pages of hard labor, I realized that I was roasting. Having my computer on my lap, typing steadily for hours, and concentrating fiercely had made a physical effect on me. As I took off my hoodie, I felt a settling sense of satisfaction in my day’s work. Normally, I don’t feel a significant degree of accomplishment because my role essentially boils down to making other people’s jobs easier. Even though my work today had the same result of making processes run, this time was different; this morning, these twenty-four pages did not exist, but I made them! I created what would be helpful for the largest team at my company by finessing the output from the tech team and thinking through how the users would interact with it. I produced a clear, supportive piece of communication and I’m sure that I’m more excited about this than others might be. I am positive that when I have that documentation in my hands, I’ll know that it would not have come together if not for me. It really means something to me.

The question is, how do I get paid more for this odd skill set?

Late-night games! Tables full of junk food! Door prizes! Overnight bags! Yep, my church’s women’s retreat is not a typical rustic, campfire, singing “Kumbaya” affair. I got to spend the weekend with really wonderful women who have helped grow me up and I’m not exaggerating when I claim that they are freaking hilarious. Full-contact, cross-country games of spoons and hard-core hikes in 45-mph winds are just some of the things that make these women are so much fun. As a younger one of the group, I’m more of a rare species, and stories about my wedding and being a newlywed jog their own memories. It’s a good time.

There was another group on the premises at the retreat center on the Chesapeake Bay. When I encountered participants in hallway, they wore slippers and oversized t-shirts with a giant logo emblazoned across the chest: the Mad Scrappers. A whole auditorium was devoted to what they called “cropping around the clock” and scrapbookers sat at tables covered with photos and craft supplies. In the background, elevator music hummed and an announcer held up crafty doodads that were available for purchase, of course.

Initially, the auditorium exerted a magnetic attraction for the avid scrapbookers in my retreat group. They nosed their way into the outskirts of the group, wondering what was going on. Upon discovering that the Mad Scrappers intended to have a marathon session of craftiness, the group became an object of fascination, rather than admiration. Did these people know each other? What compelled a person to sit at a table for a possible 48-hour stretch? Who could stand the background music? What if you didn’t want to buy anything? Wasn’t the announcer irritating? Were the slippers mandatory?

Unfortunately, the world may never know since none of us had the courage to ask one of the Mad Scrappers about their weekend. Speculation was part of the fun, really.

This morning, I discovered that, in the midst of transferring documents in preparation for reformatting my hard drive, I somehow left out the folder that held all of the digital photos from the wedding. The ones from the photographer, our almost-photographer friend, and all the others that friends and family had sent us were sent to their doom in reformatting oblivion. To make matters worse, the carnage included a slideshow from the reception that was I compiled from photos from our childhood, dating relationship, and engagement. I planned on watching with JG for a significant anniversary, but that mood-lit plan faded as the realization took hold.

No. No!

It was a moment fit for a Homeric “d’oh” and a hefty chorus of “stupid, stupid, stupid!” I clacked away at a frazzled e-mail to JG:

So, I managed to delete all of the wedding photos. And the slideshow! I think we have backups of the photographer’s ones, but everything else is gone. I want to cry.

I was at work, so I couldn’t cry. Instead, my stomach developed a hollow that ached in a nagging, guilt-inducing way. I kept checking throughout the day to see if the folder had magically appeared, but of course, it didn’t. The computer only does what you tell it to do, which is not necessarily what you want it to do. It doesn’t intuit that you’d want to reserve a folder for the rare but significant times that you need some random item out of it. I’m irritated that I retained edited versions of a graphic that I used for the ceremony program but not the spreadsheet with people’s addresses. I am so stupid.

I feel somewhat sheepish that this has upset me so deeply because I wouldn’t assume that a loss of digital pictures would have that effect. The super-pragmatic imp in my brain says reasonably, “It’s not as though you lost something of value, you know. Like your car.” But, protests the rest of me, sentimental value is valuable! I can’t slap a price tag on it, but I’d still guard it carefully. I just didn’t realize that I had to, so I didn’t … now a lot of it is gone. Maybe that’s the point.

Thankfully, JG was understanding about everything and at least we found a backup of the expensive, professional photos, so it’s not all bad. I still feel like an idiot, though.

It was raining. It was a Monday. I was running late. I had to go out of my way and pick up coffee and pastries before I got in to the office. Needless to say, I was not in a very good mood. I got up to the counter, holding my company credit card, and the barrista (Is it barristo for a guy?) said, “Oh, we only take cash and check, but we have an ATM over there.” I gritted my teeth into a smile and muttered that I would be right back. My bank was in the same shopping area, so I ran out into the rain to use their ATM to avoid that pesky surcharge.

Upon obtaining the cash, shivering in line, and then paying for bagfuls of muffins, croissants, and the like, I noticed that the slot where my ATM card usually goes in my wallet was strangely vacant. I panicked.

This would be something I would do, like forgetting my Styrofoam box of leftovers at the restaurant or the address when I need to ship a package! What if someone took it? I have to call the bank and make sure no one is debit-ing up a storm!

I grabbed the food, ran through the rain to the car, and frantically clawed through my whole wallet and purse – no ATM card. I ran back to the machine, only to find a beneficent green light blinking under the words, Insert Card Here. I took a deep breath.

The bank wasn’t open at the time, so I went to my office, trying not to overreact. I talked it over with a co-worker, who was almost positive that the ATM has a security measure to suck the card back inside the machine after maybe 30 seconds, so I followed his recommendation to call the branch itself, and lo and behold! They had my card! I walked over to pick it up -

Me: Hi, I called earlier because I left my ATM card in the machine out front.
Teller: Oh, are you RA?
Me: Yes, I am. (goes to pull out license)
Teller: Okay, I’ll be right back. (leaves, returns with card) Here’s your card and have a nice day!

Close observers will note that not only did I not have to show my photo ID to verify that I was the holder of the card, I didn’t even have to state my own name. Any random girl could have walked in and ended up with the same result! And maybe I’m just paranoid and maybe it’s just that I have a shifty bank, but honestly. What did I learn? Don’t leave the ATM card in the machine.

But that’s probably common sense already. Or something like that.