Posts Tagged ‘stupid people’

Things I Don’t Understand

Monday, November 23rd, 2009

The phones have been all fucked up at work because some of the pipes in the basement were corroded and, whenever someone (usually I) ran the kitchen sink, water would pour out of them and down the wall over the telephone circuits and short out the phone lines. So, sometimes, the phone rings but won’t let me answer it. This has been an interesting experiment in human behavior and in annoying Dawn because it’s interesting to see how many times people will continue to call a phone line that hangs up on them every time.

Today, someone keeps trying to call the 39 line. Only the 39 line isn’t working. (Also, no one ever uses the 39 line, so I suspect it is a wrong number to start and nothing important.) This person has probably tried to call a dozen times in the last ten minutes. The phone rings 1.75 times and then disconnects. They call back. Ring! Rin–! Click.¬† Call back. And so on.

What’s worse is when my coworkers–who know the phones are acting up–will continue to call a line that is demonstrably not working. I suppose they don’t give any thought to the fact that I have to sit in the office and listen to the phone ringing and ringing and ringing and ringing and ringing, knowing that I can’t answer it (because all I hear is a dial tone). I suppose they don’t give much thought to how annoying that is.

¬†Another thing I don’t understand: there are new guidelines for breast cancer screenings that push the recommended age to start mammograms back from 40 to 50 years of age. This is nothing new. I have seen research and recommendations in the past few years touting this. What I don’t understand is why people are so upset. And I’m not talking about the right-wingnuts who are shrieking over “Rationing! Rationing!” (as though a health insurance company deciding that a patient is too expensive and deciding to cancel the person’s policy isn’t rationing, but I digress). But when I hear,

1. Studies are showing that we can keep you just as healthy with less of *insert uncomfortable medical test here* (pun intended) and

2. Studies show that too much of *insert uncomfortable medical test here* will produce false positives that are more likely to do you harm than not having the test at all,

then my reaction is “Woohoo! Fewer uncomfortable medical tests! What’s not to like??”

So I don’t really get why women are upset that they won’t be recommended to squish their boobs in a machine at age 40 anymore because said squishing tends to do more harm than good.

Maybe they don’t trust medical science. But if they’re having their boobs regularly squished, apparently they trust it enough to tell them when they should go ahead and hack off a body part. But they don’t trust medical science to make recommendations about testing? Hmm. The mind boggles.

Talkin’ ’bout My Generation

Thursday, September 24th, 2009

At one time, I had high hopes for my generation. After all, these were the same people who managed to be more liberal than me in college, who voted for Nader (I voted for Gore), and marched around campus with No Blood for Oil! signs. I figured that we would be the generation to buck a lot of the bad habits into which our predecessors had fallen, namely letting our lives be ruled front and back by corporate interests.

Early adulthood was promising. The “Millennials,” as we came to be called, were giving corporate employers a fit, demanding things like four-day work weeks and time to go to the gym and more casual dress codes. Every sneering, snide report I saw disparaging the millennials “lackadaisical” work ethic had me cheering. It seemed, to me, that the other generations were jealous. Why didn’t we think of this? they probably wondered. It is certainly rather silly to protest being treated better by one’s employer. I was proud of my generation for putting our collective foot down and demanding that our work would not rule our lives.

But then I go into Columbia for lunch. And I see these earnest-faced young adults around my age or younger, all done up in their corporate tool get-up with their ID badges blazoned on the fronts of their suit coats and polo shirts like some kind of prize and their belts laden with an arsenal of tech gadgets so that they can be at the beck and call of some corporate master who will work them eighty hours for a measly promotion in a few years and, meanwhile, collect accolades and bonuses fed by their sweat. One always has one of those cell phone ear pieces that seem to announce, “I am a drone. Robots have penetrated and taken over my brain.” And they talk of nothing but work work work while eating their Panera sandwiches and taco salads: clients and sales and meetings and WTF, Generation? Do you ever look in the mirror in the morning and realize what a fucking tool you are?

I suppose I just don’t understand why anyone would want to go work for a corporation that does work one is not interested in, doesn’t believe in, or even outright opposes, working one’s fundament off to make some CEO who doesn’t even know one’s name rich. So that, in a few years, one can be passed over for promotion or laid off or, at best, settle into an unfulfilling life in middle management.

But I suppose it pays better than government.

Do I Look Like I Just Fell off the Applecart?

Tuesday, September 22nd, 2009

We went apple-pickin’ with the fambly on Sunday at Baugher’s. The weather couldn’t have been better: clear, sunny, warm in the sun and cool in the shade. We went via tractor, pulled in a cart while sitting on wooden crates, out to the orchard.

Happiness is walking in the sun beneath endless rows of trees. I wish I had an orchard. When I went further than the rest of the family in search of some low-hanging Matsu apples, I was alone and at peace with that happy feeling of life busy all around me. *happy sigh* It’s the same feeling I get, crouched amid the plants in the garden, only without the sore knees!

I do wonder, though, at people. The day would have been perfect but for the intrusion of people. People who are rude and shake ten apples from the trees to get one and pick a peck and leave the crate when they decide they no longer want them; people who are so busy snapping photos that they fail to notice much less enjoy what’s around them. (I do wonder at this: I love photos, too, for the memories they allow to be so easily preserved, but I also don’t want to miss what I’m experiencing, and these people who go about hunched over with a camera lens pressed to their eyeball and trained at the back of some kid’s head … how are they experiencing anything if they don’t even look up to note the look of the leaves against the sky?

(Oh well. Their loss.

The habit of punctuating multiple parenthetical paragraphs like one punctuates multiple quoted paragraphs I learned from Oscar Wilde. Thanks, Oscar!)

We went to dinner afterwards at O’Lordans, which was excellent as always. Then it was back to the house for dessert: fresh mint ice cream layered with chocolate cream and the apples we’d picked dipped in homemade caramel and peanut butter-caramel sauce. The latter, especially, was very popular. I even wrote down the recipe for Dad. Fancy the day that Dad would ask me for a recipe!

All in all–silly people aside–it was a good day.