February 1st, 2005

documentation, writing, quill

GLP: Theme song for Mr. Shallow

I found a Theme Song for my friend Mr. Shallow, the one who is very physically attracted to me, but who refuses to let it be known because it's bad for his image.

The song: Culture Beat's "Mr. Vain".

Collapse )
  • Current Music
    "Mr. Vain" in my head
running, bomb tech

No backup

Today I wound up doing the check-in position all by myself. It's a lot more exciting when you're doing it and you realize that really, no one else is looking over your shoulder to make sure you're doing it right, and you know everything you're supposed to do (well, actually, I spaced the 800 number message checking, but that's a small thing), and everything gets done.

My only real question for the shift was, "Say a phone goon thinks he might be having a heart attack, what do we do?" Ponytail-Guy Former Monitor (the one who throws Mormon gang signs) was feeling like hell. Pink Shirt Guy ran me through the procedures: first, ask if they want us to call them 911. Next, encourage them to seek medical attention. Finally, send them home (sick).

Fortunately, the guy started looking decidedly healthier. I was concerned, though.

Today was the end of the month, and stuff was due to finish up. Amazingly enough, all quotas were filled before the scheduled end of shift, and the interviewers were packed up and sent off home before I was even done with my paperwork. As it was, the Pink Shirt Guy and I were out of there by 10:30, which is a good hour or two sooner than usual.

I went grocery shopping, and found myself a $0.94 clipboard to stuff in my bag so I'll have a clipboard of my OWN for when I need one at work. To distinguish mine from all the other clipboards hanging around there, not only is it a different style (the clip is different), but I've put my name on it ("Joan L's Clipboard") and am decorating it to suit myself (yet still be work-safe). The front says "Inexplicable Clipboard of DOOM!", and has little cute illustrations: a cloud, some stars, some raindrops or teardrops, and a shiny gem. (Yes, the illustrations are at the four quarters of the clipboard, making the thing a handy portable altar with preset elemental representations. Heh.)

In other cheerful news, Motley is still training to be a monitor. She's going ARGH. It's very difficult for me to call her by her mundane name in the workplace to keep up appearances. There was a monitor meeting today, and people had a lot of things to say. I may have impressed the Pink Shirt Guy by being able to recite back to him who-all was at the meeting, complete with seating arrangements, and only a few people missed by name from the lineup, though I was able to indicate to him that there were people there whose names I wasn't clear on.
running, bomb tech


It's a little ritual.

Figment says something saucy.

I stick my tongue out at him.

"Don't point that thing at me unless you intent to use it," he says.

I hastily reel my tongue back inside my mouth.

It's one of those things. If it weren't that the unmade bond is hovering there, unmakable, I'd poke my tongue out at him even after he said that, and tease him further. As it is, I know that there are some things I can't tease him with, because it wouldn't be teasing, and neither of us is going to go there.
flaming, angry

Sad little spammer

A spam popped up in brightandbroke -- it was some college kid with a spam-journal created to pimp a bunch of pyramid schemes. I stomped on it heavily, hitting LJ, the pyramid scheme site (with my sacrificial spamtrap e-mail address), and the little punk's college abuse department. He'd used his college webspace to upload his "See, I got a free iPod" photo, you see...

Out of curiosity, I peeked at the guy's webpages. He and his little friends were trying so very hard to look cool. Mini-car-punks with too much flashy jewelry and premature hearing loss from way the fuck too loud music, it looked like. If they hadn't been annoying me with spam, it could have been cute, just because I remember trying to present "Look, I'm so awesome, and these are my awesome friends," to the world, when all of it was mostly just friends and our silly in-jokes. These guys are more mainstream, but still... so young.

And. Spammers. *crushes them like bugs*
Eris Raven, Marah


I've updated the note_to_cat bio. I'm just Mary Fucking Sunshine this time of day, aren't I.

(Yes, this is posted in my personal journal for a reason. Mostly, because I'm still annoyed enough to cuss on general principle, and I'm very tired, and I Nobly Restrained myself from posting the following sentence in the updated bio:

To be perfectly frank, many self-described "cat-lovers" are oversensitive whiny wet dishrags who bore the living snot out of me, and probably out of most cats.

Instead, I diplomatically pointed out that everyone's got a different definition of "cat-lover", and didn't include my personal definition.

But, yeah. The tact filters? So very missing. Writing like myself and not borrowing the elliptical and wacky style of norabombay? Also very missing.)
sad, greensad

Sick? No, just off my meds.

I felt ill yesterday, with sneeziness and the beginnings of what I could tell was going to be an epic-level sore throat. I woke up today, had all kinds of dried & nasty ick in my throat, and once I coughed all that out and tried to get another two hours of sleep, I had to immediately run back into the bathroom because my nose had just downloaded another few gigabytes of snot.

Clue moment. That's not cold-action from the nasal unit. That's allergies. And when did we last take our loratadine? Too long ago.

The placebo effect, plus gravity, made me feel better immediately when I did take my allergy medicine. I now feel reasonably good -- not top-of-the-world good, but human and not dead or with zombie-creatures trying to invade my throat and explode out my nose.

Allergy meds are not optional this time of year. Argh.
teddyborg, geeky

Spammer: the sequel

I e-mailed the abuse department of the college webspace of the spammer, expecting little better than a "Sorry, we can't babysit these little twits," in two to three weeks from the person monitoring that address, if I got anything at all.

This is (roughly) the e-mail I sent (edited for identity, of course, because I'm not THAT mean...)
Subject: Harboring a Spammer
Dear Wrangler of College Brats,

One of your little darlings, user [link to user's webspace], has been spamming up LiveJournal with some "get free stuff" type deals, the sort where you get ten friends to sign up too and then get some free cool stuff. They are using the account [LJ name], which has been reported to LiveJournal for flagrant abuse of the service & being a general crackhead.
[explanation of links to specific instances of user spamming, followed by links.]
I realize that there may not be much you can do about their activities on LiveJournal, but if they're splashing that much crap around on LJ, they may also be abusing your e-mail system with more of the same.

JL, moderator of [community]
I sent that out at Gawdawful AM. About an hour ago, their abuse department lit up my inbox.

The user has been notified of this complaint and the content has been removed from our webserver. Thank you for notifying us of this problem; we take these reports seriously. Please email us if you encounter any similar problems from users on our network. Additionally, I have to say that your email had very unique, humorous language. Thanks for the kick.

[name, rank, serial number]
It looks like I was right on in my discussion with wibbble (who was also taking similar action against said spammer): I was the one who thought that the Geek in Charge of Punk College Kids' Web Access would appreciate a little snark from someone who's got a bit of an idea what s/he's up against. Given what kellinator has to say about the punk kids in the college library she works in, snark is one of the things that makes the world keep spinning when the brats look like they're about to take over.
  • Current Mood
    satisfied satisfied
running, bomb tech

"...no more than three days..."

Well, I'll be moving my pretty tailfeathers into a studio apartment in the same complex around this time or so next month. Will I have all my stuff all boxed up and ready to go and get swapped over in that three-day timespan? I think so. And will I have a helpful gang of friends ready to help me shuffle the stuff? You betcha.

I've got to, now, remember to check with the office to see when the three days are going to be, so I can arrange them, and perhaps a few days before, off work so as to maximize the potential moving time.
high energy magic

I crack me up: Rabbit Hole Day follow-up comment, and work.

Because Irish have Wings, I shared a bit of my-day-as-it-would-have-been:
I hear you. I so hear you. I'm half Scotch-Irish and half Finnish, and the elves were out in force today. They were even out at work, and usually they avoid that place like the plague. But no, there I was, having to ask permission to enter the bathroom, the break room, and forget about the copy room. At least the wings didn't break through until *after* the Corporate visitors were gone. Ah well.
cadhla expressed her sympathies, but I decided to look on the bright side:
It wasn't all bad. I was able to marshal some semblance of orderly behaviour out of the sort of punks, freaks, misfits, old ladies, and college students you get in a call center, while a good third of the Irish-descended had their wings just popped, about to pop, and in the process of popping, and Corporate was reasonably impressed.

Some of the more excitable interviewers have this habit of starting to hover mid-call, especially if the person on the other end of the line's being difficult, and evidently anyone who can keep the majority of the call center grounded when there's chaos flying randomly and red-hats accosting people at the threshold of the lunch room and hitting them up for their change is on the fast track to management.
Work, minus the fantasy-fun, does like me, because I am well-organized and I work very hard -- and I have an evil laugh that proves that I'm twisted enough to fit in. (I think Pink Shirt Guy was a little worried about my compatibility with the rest of the crew after-hours, because I always seem so stiff and professional. Heh.)