Cultural Differences

The woman who works in the office at work is Japanese (as in actually born and raised in Japan). I’ve posted a couple of stories, years ago, about a few times when she had a little trouble with our language or ways of doing things, such as this example. After things are explained to her, she usually questions why things are done, or said, that way.

I rarely have the answer.

Yesterday, however, the tables were turned and I was the one left wondering why she said something that she did.

I have been congested and coughing for almost a week now. Well, yesterday I was in the tech room and I felt a sneeze coming. There were no tissues in the tech room, so I tried to hold it in. I was only partially successful. A little bit of snot came out. I looked around, found a paper towel, and wiped my nose.

It was bleeding.

I held the paper towel in place and walked to the office to get a tissue because the paper towel was rough and hurting my nose. She asked what happened. I told her. Then she said, “It’s probably from all that porn you watch.”

Ummm…. what?

First of all, I don’t watch porn. Not anymore, anyway. Although, even when I was younger I only watched a couple. It’s not that I have anything against porn, it’s just that I don’t care about any sex that doesn’t involve me.

Second, even if I did watch porn, I sure wouldn’t do it at work. Having my coworkers around would be a pretty big mood killer.

Finally, and perhaps most importantly, why would watching porn give me a nose bleed? How would watching porn give me a nose bleed? What connected the two things? Did I even want to know the answer to these questions?

Probably not.

So, I just let it drop and walked away. When I got back to the tech room, one of the techs, who saw me walk out holding the paper towel to my nose, asked me what happened. I told him. Then I mentioned the comment made by the woman in the office.

“Yeah, that’s a thing in Japan apparently,” he told me. “In just about every anime that I’ve watched, any time a man sees a woman naked, their nose starts gushing blood.”

Again… why? I would think that if watching porn was going to make a man start gushing fluids, it wouldn’t be blood and it wouldn’t be coming from his nose. Unless, of course, the bloody nose is supposed to be a metaphor for that.

I suppose the easiest way to get the answers to these questions is to ask the woman in the office about it. I won’t be doing that, however. I realize that she’s the one who brought it up, but, depending on the answer, it might make for an uncomfortable conversation for me to be having with someone who is technically my boss.

I think I’ll leave well enough alone for now and hope someone reading this will tell me in the comments.

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Following Orders

On Friday, I was sent an email by the head man of the company my company contracts with. He told me that he wanted me to send a particular radio to their offices in Mexico. Getting emails asking me to ship stuff is nothing new or out of the ordinary. What was out of the ordinary was that the package was going to Mexico.

Let me explain why that’s out of the ordinary.

About 2 years ago, I shipped something to Mexico that got held up in customs for reasons that were not really explained to me. Because of this outrageous offense, we were told that we weren’t allowed to ship to Mexico anymore. That was fine with me. Less work that I have to do.

So, when that email came in on Friday, I found it a little odd. I was actually going to question it until one of my managers, who was CC’d in on the email, responded to it. Now, any package being shipped internationally requires specific paperwork in order to get through customs. I’m not allowed to fill this paperwork out because I’m not a manager. She is. And her email response contained an attachment with the customs paperwork.

Since both of them seemed ok with the shipment, I went ahead and did it.

Apparently, that was wrong…

The package once again got held up in customs. I got a new email from Mr. Head Man today asking for a copy of the shipping label on the box so he could try to identify the problem. Because it shipped out already on a different day, it wouldn’t let me reprint the label, so I sent him a report that the software did let me print. My team lead, who wasn’t included in the original thread but was on this one, voiced my original concerns and said that he thought we weren’t allowed to ship to Mexico. Mr. Head Man responded with, “Well, then why did you ship it?”

As Cloud would say, “….”

At this point, I was doing my best to keep my inner Samuel L. Jackson from escaping. It was extremely tempting to go to his office and yell, “Because you told me to, MOTHERFUCKER!” I need my job, however, so I stopped myself.

My team lead, to his credit, replied with my response, minus that last word of course.

Now, instead of admitting that he played some part in what happened, Mr. Head Man told us that we needed to put measures in place to prevent something like this from happening again.

Yes, you read that correctly. He said that we needed to put measures in place to prevent something like this from happening again. The tool conveniently forgot that the only reason I did it in the first place was because HE TOLD ME TO!!!!!

I have no problem getting bitched at when I’m the one who screws up. So, for example, if I had sent that package to Australia instead of Mexico, go ahead and chew me out the whole day.

But don’t come bitching at me because you screwed up.

Down With the Sickness 

I haven’t done a lot of writing this week (Sorry, Matt!). I actually haven’t done much of anything this past week. I spent more time at the doctor this week than I  did at work.

I went to the doctor a week ago today and he told me that I have pneumonia. He ordered a chest xray. Since the outpatient part of the hospital was closed by the time my appointment was done, I had to wait until Monday to get that done. The doctor said the xray looks clean, so I should’ve  been able to go back to work on Tuesday… That didn’t happen. 

The thing about pneumonia is that it makes it kinda hard to breathe. I could barely walk from my couch to the bathroom without being out of breath. Not to mention the headache inducing coughing fits. I wasn’t going to make it at work all day. So, I missed Tuesday as well.

On Wednesday, I tried to go in. I lasted about an hour and a half. I was still having trouble breathing, and the headache, plus my lungs were starting to hurt. I went back to the doctor. She said there was still crackling sounds in my lungs and that the antibiotics they gave me on Saturday should’ve made me better by then. She then gave me a shot (which she originally said was going to be in my butt, but ended up being in my back. I honestly didn’t care where it was, but I felt kinda stupid after I pulled my pants down and she didn’t stick me there). Right before I left, she informed me that I would be staying home from work the rest of the week too.

Thursday was just a resting day. Friday, I had to go back to the doctor. She listened to my lungs again and said that they sounded better. She also said I’d start to feel better soon, but it might take a bit to be back to normal because pneumonia sucks so bad.

Today, I’m breathing a little better. I’m not coughing as much. I still don’t really feel like doing anything, but I have a 4 year old, so doing nothing is impossible. 
Hopefully, I’m mostly back to normal by Monday. I can’t afford to take any more time off work. Hell, I couldn’t afford the time off  that I already did.

Stupid being sick….

The Room That Wouldn’t Shut Up

For the past 6 or 7 years, I have spent a lot of time around people who work for temp agencies. For a couple of those years, I worked for one myself, so I was surrounded by other people who did too. At my current job, we’ve taken on so much side work that we actually have more people from temp agencies than people who actually work for us.

In my time with these people, I’ve come to realize that everyone that works for a temp agency falls into one of two categories: Those who rarely talk, or those who never shut up.

Out of the two, I certainly prefer the former. Out of the two, I was the former.

When I meet people for the first time, it usually takes me a while before I feel comfortable enough around them to open up. Of course, some of that is also because I tend to say inappropriate things and I need to guage whether or not someone will go running to my bosses if I say inappropriate things.

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Filter Adjustment

During the summer months, because it gets so hot in the warehouse, I’m allowed to wear shorts. However, if I have to go into the tech room for some reason, I’m not allowed to wear shorts. You have to wear pants in there. So, I keep a pair of pants in my locker at work.

Normally, this would be an unimportant detail. Yesterday, though, it proved very important….I ripped my pants.

They were older jeans, that I really only wore to work, and the seam in the crotch ripped apart. I groaned, thinking I had to go the rest of the day with ripped pants. That’s when I remembered I had that pair in my locker. I immediately walked towards the locker room.

On my way there, I ran into the woman who works in the office. You may remember her from this story. She stopped me and asked me about a radio we were having trouble finding. After I told her that I found it, she looked down and saw my pants.

“You have a big hole in your crotch,” she said.

Before my brain could stop my mouth, I responded with, “Yeah? Well, so do you.”

Oops. I should’ve done a facepalm on myself, but, instead, I watched as her face crinkled up in confusion. She looked down at her pants and replied, “No, I don’t.”

Thankfully, she missed what I actually meant and thought I was talking about her clothes. I ended up playing it off as a “I made you look” joke, not the “you have a giant cooter” joke that it actually was, and got out of there as quickly as I could.

I’ve been making jokes like that (and smartass comments….and sarcastic remarks…) for as long as I can remember. I learned a long time ago (after getting myself into trouble a large number of times) that I need to check myself before speaking.

Apparently, I need to continue to work on it…..

A Stupid Question

Despite what your teachers told you when you were younger, there is, in fact, such a thing as a stupid question. Most, if not all, of us hear at least one of them a day. Unfortunately, they are something that we have to deal with, no matter how much we might wish otherwise.

If you don’t believe me, go and listen to one of Bill Engvall’s Here’s Your Sign bits. Sure, some of those might be made up for comedic effect, but, something tells me, most of them aren’t.

Need further proof? Here’s one that’s happened to me. The question is so stupid, I was surprised I got it once. Imagine my surprise when I got it a second time.

Some of you might remember my Newb stories. I could tell you who he is, but I think I’d rather just put a link in here and make you go read my older posts (I’m an evil genius! MWAHAHAHA!). By the time Baby E was six months old, it had been close to a year since I had last seen Newb. One day, while out grocery shopping with my family, we ran into him. After saying our hellos, he proceeded with the stupidity.

“Is that your baby,” he asked, pointing at Baby E.

I was very tempted to say something Bill Engvall-like at this point. “Nope. We figured we’d go ahead and get her since she’s on sale this week. Here’s your sign.”

Instead, I simply told him yes, while Mrs. Revis was giving me a, “Is this guy actually serious?” look. I made up an excuse for why we couldn’t talk longer and we got out of there. At the time, I just put the stupid question down to the fact that Newb isn’t very bright and then kind of forgot about it.

Jump ahead to one of my current coworkers. This guy doesn’t have a history of saying stupid things like Newb does. Once again, it happened while we were out grocery shopping. I saw him a little bit further up the aisle, so, while Mrs. Revis was looking at something, I pushed the cart over to him so I could say hello. When I got there, I told Baby E to say hello too, but she just stared at him blankly. That’s when he hit me with the stupidity.

“That your kid?”

I had to hold in my inner Bill Engvall a second time. “Nope. That’s a diaper coupon. They just made it life-size. Here’s your sign.”

Now, if they didn’t know I had a daughter, this wouldn’t be a stupid question. Both of them knew, though. Seriously, who else would it be? Did they think I grabbed a random kid out of someone else’s cart and started walking around with them? Idiots….

Song Stories: The Dance

Earlier this week, I told you one of my fast food adventures. So, for my newest song story, I figured I’d go ahead and tell you another one. This one comes from my time at Arby’s.

I started there about a year after I graduated high school. When I started, I was a closer. That meant I went in at 4 in the afternoon and left whenever we got everything done for the night. If staffed properly, there should be 4 people there every night: a manager, someone on ‘front line’ (running the drive-thru), someone on ‘back line’ (making the sandwiches), and someone in ‘back room’ (doing the dishes and taking care of food prep).

I was almost always in back room. That meant I helped out on back line until the dinner rush was over, then go back and start on the dishes. Once the dining room closed, I had to go out and clean it, gathering up all of the trays as I went so I could wash them, then spend the rest of the night doing dishes. Then, right before I left, I’d have to put the roast beef in the oven so it’d be ready when the morning people got there. There were two perks to being the one doing the back room: One, you rarely had to deal with customers and two, there was a radio in the back that you got to listen to, provided you didn’t turn it up loud enough for the customers out in the dining room to hear it.

One night, the guy on back line was a little tired of my music. Apparently, 3 straight hours of The Offspring isn’t for everyone…..weird, right?

I, being the nice guy that I am, said that he could control the radio for a little while. Out came The Offspring, in went Garth Brooks. I’m not a huge fan of country music. Most of it is not for me. I do, however, like Garth Brooks.

We had listened to almost all of the CD. Just as the last song started playing (The Dance), our manager came back to ask me to do something. She (I’ll call her Mrs. Fudd, because…well, that’s what I used to call her. She talked like Elmer Fudd.) got done telling me what she wanted me to do and got a disgusted look on her face. “Why are we listening to this country crap,” she complained.

Now, had she asked me to change the CD nicely, I would’ve just let it drop. Since she was a huge bitch about it, however, something had to be done. So, I hit the repeat button on the radio…. and that’s where the radio stayed for the rest of the night. We listened to The Dance for 5 hours in a row.