I love wooden furniture. You see, I grew up hanging around my grandfather's home-office, where a stately, polished narra table held his neatly-filed legal briefs. The table never seemed to run out of surprises. Just when I thought I had opened just about every drawer, there would be one more secret compartment--an extended writing drawer perhaps, or yet another drawer within.
Because I am partial to wood, there was a time when I thought modular furniture were depressing. There's something a tad too impersonal about the sleek dividers, the uniform worktops and the ergonomic "executive" chairs. And probably because I've seen a tad too many movies, modular meant corporate power plays and disturbed--hell, psychotic--junior executive types on the verge of unleashing nuclear bombs.
Well guess what? Our office--the entire city hall, actually--has suddenly gone modular. With a wave of the contractor's wand, we went from bureaucratic to call-centerish, minus the phones and the twang, of course. There were the initial frayed nerves and flaring tempers from having to cram who-knows-how-many years of stash into defined spaces. Glass-topped office tables were stripped of pictures of children and good times and saints, and there was a tug-o-war of sorts as the more senior among us held on to their stuff and tables were hauled off to who knows where.
The dust of carting off the old and installing the new has settled, and "property" lines have been drawn. I have settled into my space and have since adopted a modular mindset. I have no choice, after all. Unless city hall decides otherwise, I will have to do all my slaving and griping and working on this table until retirement. Which, if you ask me, is still a long way off.
Showing posts with label The Workplace. Show all posts
Showing posts with label The Workplace. Show all posts
July 10, 2009
December 8, 2008
It Figures
Having hated math for most of my school life, I have suddenly developed a fascination for numbers. I just love it when the disbursements and balances even out, when the liquidation tallies. If I had known that I'd breeze through crunching numbers, I wouldn't have considered accounting--and accountants--boring. I would have taken statistics seriously, the same way I internalized mythology and African lit.
While I have no wish to revisit the confusing algebraic expressions that put an end to my graduating-with-honors aspirations, I really wish I had paid better attention. I am told that grade four students already have some semblance of algebra in their curriculum. I wonder if I'll have it in me to guide my daughter through the maze of XYZs when the time comes.
Sitting through a particularly engaging presentation at the office, I realized that, while I am averse to reducing people to mere sticks in mounting statistics, figures do matter. How can we map out emergency response, for example, if we do not have the statistics to back us up? And how can we come up with adaptation measures if we have no grasp of the real, factual situation?
It boils down figures, really. And as late as I am in the game, I am glad that I can now see clearly the connection between numbers and real life.
While I have no wish to revisit the confusing algebraic expressions that put an end to my graduating-with-honors aspirations, I really wish I had paid better attention. I am told that grade four students already have some semblance of algebra in their curriculum. I wonder if I'll have it in me to guide my daughter through the maze of XYZs when the time comes.
Sitting through a particularly engaging presentation at the office, I realized that, while I am averse to reducing people to mere sticks in mounting statistics, figures do matter. How can we map out emergency response, for example, if we do not have the statistics to back us up? And how can we come up with adaptation measures if we have no grasp of the real, factual situation?
It boils down figures, really. And as late as I am in the game, I am glad that I can now see clearly the connection between numbers and real life.
December 5, 2008
Field Work
Some days at the office have the feel of the soft breeze, the scent of the sea and the proximity of crowds. It is on days like these that figures take on faces, when we know for certain that life--planned or unplanned, in full color or in monochrome--just happens.
This is our office on field, where there are no walls. Where there are only people and a lot of stories. Theirs and ours.
November 21, 2008
Going to the Dogs
There's this makeshift sign on my neighbor's gate that warns of his German Shepherd. "Beware of TF Dog," it reads. I don't know about the F word, but where I work, there are days when I feel like spewing unprintables.
Every week, there are at least three dog-bite cases. They range from the usual accidental nip after roughhousing with the pet to the really serious (and possibly rabid). All of them are "accidental," although most could have been easily prevented if somebody exercised a little more responsibility.
Last week, a youngish mother came to the office asking for an anti-rabies shot for her two-year old, who looked as though he needed a really long bath and a really good scrubbing. The boy, it turned out, was bitten twice. On different occasions and by two different dogs.
The first bite the mother dismissed as "minor" and thus did not merit a visit to the doctor. The kid, after all, was "attacked" by the pet after the kid (intentionally) stepped on the tail of the then-sleeping dog. The second bite, which occurred two days later, was a lot more serious: a gash on the right cheek, just a little below the eye. This time, the boy who was supposed to be sleeping, tried to "steal" a new-born puppy from beneath the neighbor's nasty dog.
And where was the mother in the middle of all this? Why, she was happily exchanging juicy news with the neighbor over the gumamela hedge, oblivious to the wrestling match ging on between boy and bitch.
Twice or thrice, we have come across dog-bite cases involving babies. There's this case where the mother left the 10-month-old baby in the "care" of the family dog. And then there's the 20-day-old baby who was nipped in the mouth. The dad, it turned out, placed the baby--mattress and all--on the floor so that he could sleep without worrying that the baby might fall.
Hay naku! If our congressmen will continue to hedge on the RH issue this country might just as well go to the dogs.
Every week, there are at least three dog-bite cases. They range from the usual accidental nip after roughhousing with the pet to the really serious (and possibly rabid). All of them are "accidental," although most could have been easily prevented if somebody exercised a little more responsibility.
Last week, a youngish mother came to the office asking for an anti-rabies shot for her two-year old, who looked as though he needed a really long bath and a really good scrubbing. The boy, it turned out, was bitten twice. On different occasions and by two different dogs.
The first bite the mother dismissed as "minor" and thus did not merit a visit to the doctor. The kid, after all, was "attacked" by the pet after the kid (intentionally) stepped on the tail of the then-sleeping dog. The second bite, which occurred two days later, was a lot more serious: a gash on the right cheek, just a little below the eye. This time, the boy who was supposed to be sleeping, tried to "steal" a new-born puppy from beneath the neighbor's nasty dog.
And where was the mother in the middle of all this? Why, she was happily exchanging juicy news with the neighbor over the gumamela hedge, oblivious to the wrestling match ging on between boy and bitch.
Twice or thrice, we have come across dog-bite cases involving babies. There's this case where the mother left the 10-month-old baby in the "care" of the family dog. And then there's the 20-day-old baby who was nipped in the mouth. The dad, it turned out, placed the baby--mattress and all--on the floor so that he could sleep without worrying that the baby might fall.
Hay naku! If our congressmen will continue to hedge on the RH issue this country might just as well go to the dogs.
October 10, 2008
Wet and Icky
I used to think that fingertip moisteners were one of those semi-useless office thingamajigs. They could find use in banks, perhaps, if one has to really count bills by hand. Or, in our case, the treasury department which keeps our--err--treasures.
I now take back the "semi-useless" tag.
I was at this department waiting for the clerk to check if my papers are in order. We were making small talk when suddenly he stuck out his tongue, licked his fingertip and started leafing through my documents with the finger. I was almost tempted to gag at the "unsanitariness" of it all!
As it turned out, the clerk isn't the only one with the habit. There's this woman at the office who does the same every time she thumbs through notes, books, anything. And then there's this client who, after wetting his fingertip and riffling through his papers proceeded to tap me on the shoulders.
I swear, I almost jumped! And I swear, I'm going to include fingertip moisteners in this quarter's request for supplies!
==========================================================
Speaking of laway ("saliva" sounds so scientific, :P), here's an upside:
For three days last week, I had an inexplicably bum stomach. The kind that goes with sweaty palms, beads of perspiration on the forehead and the very real threat of dehydration. Loperamide didn't help, and neither did a doctor's prescription. Somebody suggested that perhaps I was the unknowing victim of someone who had "sibang" (usog in Tagalog, which doesn't really have a western translation.) And the antidote? The laway of one who has sibang!
And so it came to pass that after three days of being all-too-familiar with the toilet bowl and just about every brand of loperamide, all it took was a thin film of a friend's laway rubbed on my belly. It may be grossly unsanitary, but what do you know? It worked!
I guess it's true: there are some things that science just can't explain. :p
I now take back the "semi-useless" tag.
I was at this department waiting for the clerk to check if my papers are in order. We were making small talk when suddenly he stuck out his tongue, licked his fingertip and started leafing through my documents with the finger. I was almost tempted to gag at the "unsanitariness" of it all!
As it turned out, the clerk isn't the only one with the habit. There's this woman at the office who does the same every time she thumbs through notes, books, anything. And then there's this client who, after wetting his fingertip and riffling through his papers proceeded to tap me on the shoulders.
I swear, I almost jumped! And I swear, I'm going to include fingertip moisteners in this quarter's request for supplies!
==========================================================
Speaking of laway ("saliva" sounds so scientific, :P), here's an upside:
For three days last week, I had an inexplicably bum stomach. The kind that goes with sweaty palms, beads of perspiration on the forehead and the very real threat of dehydration. Loperamide didn't help, and neither did a doctor's prescription. Somebody suggested that perhaps I was the unknowing victim of someone who had "sibang" (usog in Tagalog, which doesn't really have a western translation.) And the antidote? The laway of one who has sibang!
And so it came to pass that after three days of being all-too-familiar with the toilet bowl and just about every brand of loperamide, all it took was a thin film of a friend's laway rubbed on my belly. It may be grossly unsanitary, but what do you know? It worked!
I guess it's true: there are some things that science just can't explain. :p
August 26, 2008
Real Stories
For all my moaning and groaning about the bureaucracy, I do love my job. I love most of the people I work with, and barring the times when I come across people who could use a refresher course in GMRC, I love working this close to people. Real people with real stories; not just mere statistics.
I have always had a fascination for stories. In my past life, I have come across people who spewed and lived and breathed brands. Their stories are the stuff of precious column inches.
Working in government is my reality check. Suddenly, Prada is inconsequential. The people who go to my office do not know the difference between Vitra and Monobloc. They do not live by brands; they hardly check the labels. And yet, their stories are just as interesting. More heroic, even, considering the struggles they have to put up with every single day.
Every working day reinforces the notion that life is not easy. But it is beautiful, and its beauty lies in the fact that it goes on. No matter what.
I have always had a fascination for stories. In my past life, I have come across people who spewed and lived and breathed brands. Their stories are the stuff of precious column inches.
Working in government is my reality check. Suddenly, Prada is inconsequential. The people who go to my office do not know the difference between Vitra and Monobloc. They do not live by brands; they hardly check the labels. And yet, their stories are just as interesting. More heroic, even, considering the struggles they have to put up with every single day.
Every working day reinforces the notion that life is not easy. But it is beautiful, and its beauty lies in the fact that it goes on. No matter what.
August 12, 2008
Immature
Our office at the city hall is relatively small. There is just enough room for five middle management people, five associates, and the usual come-and-go clients. All things considered, and barring the times when it got really cramped, the set-up worked quite well.
Until the two middle managers started getting on each others' nerves. At first, we didn't give it much thought and dismissed their catfights as a case of familiarity breeding contempt. It was even a source of minor amusement.
But then the spat between the two warring women has become increasingly irritating, and it just isn't funny anymore. A has taken to name calling and "invoking" the saints for ill to befall B. B has taken to thumping A's bag and declaring "fake, fake, fake." Both have taken to regaling those who cared to listen--and those who didn't--with versions of their "episodes," in what can only be a glorified version of agawan base.
The thing is the corporate gladiators are not exactly that young. Leaving all of us to conclude that really, immaturity knows no age.
Until the two middle managers started getting on each others' nerves. At first, we didn't give it much thought and dismissed their catfights as a case of familiarity breeding contempt. It was even a source of minor amusement.
But then the spat between the two warring women has become increasingly irritating, and it just isn't funny anymore. A has taken to name calling and "invoking" the saints for ill to befall B. B has taken to thumping A's bag and declaring "fake, fake, fake." Both have taken to regaling those who cared to listen--and those who didn't--with versions of their "episodes," in what can only be a glorified version of agawan base.
The thing is the corporate gladiators are not exactly that young. Leaving all of us to conclude that really, immaturity knows no age.
July 10, 2008
Not So High-Tech
You would think, from the millions and millions the government spends on computers, that we would be one tech-savvy bureaucracy, right?
Wrong. Not in our case, at least. There are computers, alright. Internet-capable PCs, sleek laptops, high-end thingamajigs. The thing is, they are rarely ever used to make things a lot less complicated for you and me.
Following the paper trail is still an exercise in patience as one is shunted from one office to another. Almost everything is manual: you look for something and the clerk riffles through logbooks that have obviously seen better days. You follow up action on a request, and your paper is retrieved--after much finger pointing--from a pile of virtually untouched documents. You need something, and you are made to wait, wait and wait. Sometimes for nothing.
Where are the computers in the middle of all these? Busy, of course. With Text Twist and Solitaire and Friendster. The older, on-the-wings-of-retirement set are too jaded to learn something new. The younger ones are clueless on the ways of government. Those in between? As usual, we are caught in the middle.
And so, in this day and age of high-speed connectivity, the wheels of the bureaucracy turn on their own slow, agonizing pace.
Wrong. Not in our case, at least. There are computers, alright. Internet-capable PCs, sleek laptops, high-end thingamajigs. The thing is, they are rarely ever used to make things a lot less complicated for you and me.
Following the paper trail is still an exercise in patience as one is shunted from one office to another. Almost everything is manual: you look for something and the clerk riffles through logbooks that have obviously seen better days. You follow up action on a request, and your paper is retrieved--after much finger pointing--from a pile of virtually untouched documents. You need something, and you are made to wait, wait and wait. Sometimes for nothing.
Where are the computers in the middle of all these? Busy, of course. With Text Twist and Solitaire and Friendster. The older, on-the-wings-of-retirement set are too jaded to learn something new. The younger ones are clueless on the ways of government. Those in between? As usual, we are caught in the middle.
And so, in this day and age of high-speed connectivity, the wheels of the bureaucracy turn on their own slow, agonizing pace.
March 2, 2008
Go Team!
At first I wondered what I was doing up on the bleachers, lost in a sea of pink shirts and pink balloons. I was certainly here "for compliance," I thought, as I stewed in the gym.
Then the pep squad competition started. And before I knew it, I was on my feet, egging on the Pink Team and booing the rest. Call it mob culture, but it really, really felt good to shout, to cheer, to jeer even.
The last time I shouted myself hoarse was close to 20 years ago, during the Varsitarian's Vakvakan sa Vaguio. Between then and now, I was happy to coast along, to laugh hard, to live it up, to love. But never to let loose.
For six days, during the intercolor sportsfest that had the corniest of themes, I was part of a team. A fiercely competitive team, if I may say so. I almost signed up for the obstacle course, but soon realized that I'm (probably) not as limber anymore. And that I'd be running against girls and boys who are reflections of my 20-year-old self.
I may shout "Go Team!" until my vocal chords give in. But I don't think I can outrun anyone. Not until I get my steroid boost anyway...
Then the pep squad competition started. And before I knew it, I was on my feet, egging on the Pink Team and booing the rest. Call it mob culture, but it really, really felt good to shout, to cheer, to jeer even.
The last time I shouted myself hoarse was close to 20 years ago, during the Varsitarian's Vakvakan sa Vaguio. Between then and now, I was happy to coast along, to laugh hard, to live it up, to love. But never to let loose.
For six days, during the intercolor sportsfest that had the corniest of themes, I was part of a team. A fiercely competitive team, if I may say so. I almost signed up for the obstacle course, but soon realized that I'm (probably) not as limber anymore. And that I'd be running against girls and boys who are reflections of my 20-year-old self.
I may shout "Go Team!" until my vocal chords give in. But I don't think I can outrun anyone. Not until I get my steroid boost anyway...
January 4, 2008
Ah, the Inefficiency!
I am generally a very patient person. Too patient, in fact. Or so my friends say. I can wait for my turn, I can wait for the light to go green, I can weather long, snaking queues. But I can't, for the life of me, tolerate inefficiency. I can wait, wait and wait for as long as I get results.
And so off I was this morning to this particular office with every intention of getting results. I had been told to come back on the first working day of January. Since it's already the third, I figured I'd be out of there in no time.
Wrong. The first person I approached--the head of office on whose desk I saw my office's documents last year--gave me a blank stare and pointed me elsewhere. He continued to chomp on his Skyflakes.
The person "elsewhere" riffled through a tattered logbook then pointed me somewhere else. Four tables and four equally blank stares later, they told me that perhaps it's still with this other office, who showed me proof that the darn thing was received by the first office on December 5!
Miss Tattered Logbook leafed through the pages once again, as if the documents would materialize right before her, sensing that I wasn't being Miss Congeniality anymore. By then, I had already wasted two hours. I went back to the chief, who had the nerve to tell me that he couldn't possibly keep track of all the documents flowing in and out of his territory.
Thirty minutes after my dour exit, a staff from that office showed up with the document. It was, she said, on the chief's desk all along. True enough, it still had a hint of Skyflakes sticking on it.
Talk about "gross" inefficiency!
And so off I was this morning to this particular office with every intention of getting results. I had been told to come back on the first working day of January. Since it's already the third, I figured I'd be out of there in no time.
Wrong. The first person I approached--the head of office on whose desk I saw my office's documents last year--gave me a blank stare and pointed me elsewhere. He continued to chomp on his Skyflakes.
The person "elsewhere" riffled through a tattered logbook then pointed me somewhere else. Four tables and four equally blank stares later, they told me that perhaps it's still with this other office, who showed me proof that the darn thing was received by the first office on December 5!
Miss Tattered Logbook leafed through the pages once again, as if the documents would materialize right before her, sensing that I wasn't being Miss Congeniality anymore. By then, I had already wasted two hours. I went back to the chief, who had the nerve to tell me that he couldn't possibly keep track of all the documents flowing in and out of his territory.
Thirty minutes after my dour exit, a staff from that office showed up with the document. It was, she said, on the chief's desk all along. True enough, it still had a hint of Skyflakes sticking on it.
Talk about "gross" inefficiency!
December 12, 2007
A is for Attitude
A colleague told me that one of the bosses thinks I have an attitude problem. And what is The (Minor) Boss's legal basis? I asked. After all, my Mom still has this medal stashed somewhere: a medal that proudly proclaims that I was--ahem--third in conduct in the CM Kindergarten Class of '73.
As it turned out, The Boss was irritated because I "snubbed" him. He was calling me, he told the colleague, and I obviously heard him but I walked on. I do remember being in the corridor and hearing someone shouting "hoy" behind me. And since I thought "Hoy" couldn't possibly be me, I went about my business without bothering to look where--or from whom--that demanding "hoy" was coming from.
Now it can be told: I have an attitude problem because I have a name. And it's not "Hoy."
As it turned out, The Boss was irritated because I "snubbed" him. He was calling me, he told the colleague, and I obviously heard him but I walked on. I do remember being in the corridor and hearing someone shouting "hoy" behind me. And since I thought "Hoy" couldn't possibly be me, I went about my business without bothering to look where--or from whom--that demanding "hoy" was coming from.
Now it can be told: I have an attitude problem because I have a name. And it's not "Hoy."
October 1, 2007
Me, Myself and I
There's this one character who is so into herself she thinks the whole world revolves around her. To say that she is self-centered is an understatement. She loves hearing herself talk, and in most cases it's always about me, myself and I. As in "I" alone did this. Oh, "I" have this wonderful, wonderful idea. "Yours truly" thought up the whole thing.
Once, Ms. MMI was asked to comment on/edit/correct a manuscript. The manuscript came back virtually untouched, except for the part where the members of the team were listed. Across her name, alongside her official designation, Ms. MMI added a "few" more titles: chief of this and that, chair of this and that, head of this and that...Obviously, the other members of the team were just, well, members. Ms. MMI had to be a member and a star.
Ms. MMI just can't resist hogging the "limelight." In one training sponsored by her well-staffed office, she put on a one-woman-show of sorts. She emceed, she led the opening prayer, she conducted the national anthem, she introduced the guest speaker (mercifully,it wasn't her), she did the closing remarks and she acted as the facilitator and lecturer. Ironically, the training was about empowering and motivating the staff.
Recently, Ms. MMI raised hell because some little usherette forgot to pin a corsage on her. She shed (crocodile)tears and went up to the usherette's boss, moaning about how insulted she was and how, given her stature, she should have been given that darn corsage. To her credit, Ms. MMI can really do a Vilma Santos if she wanted to. To cut an unbelievable story short, memos were issued, program designs were written and a whole bunch of "experts" were flown in to lecture on workplace ethics. And all because of one frigging, cheap corsage!
For all her self-centeredness, Ms. MMI might as well borrow this monologue thought up by a colleague from a long time ago:
"Okay, enough about me. Let's talk about you. So, what do you think of me?"
Once, Ms. MMI was asked to comment on/edit/correct a manuscript. The manuscript came back virtually untouched, except for the part where the members of the team were listed. Across her name, alongside her official designation, Ms. MMI added a "few" more titles: chief of this and that, chair of this and that, head of this and that...Obviously, the other members of the team were just, well, members. Ms. MMI had to be a member and a star.
Ms. MMI just can't resist hogging the "limelight." In one training sponsored by her well-staffed office, she put on a one-woman-show of sorts. She emceed, she led the opening prayer, she conducted the national anthem, she introduced the guest speaker (mercifully,it wasn't her), she did the closing remarks and she acted as the facilitator and lecturer. Ironically, the training was about empowering and motivating the staff.
Recently, Ms. MMI raised hell because some little usherette forgot to pin a corsage on her. She shed (crocodile)tears and went up to the usherette's boss, moaning about how insulted she was and how, given her stature, she should have been given that darn corsage. To her credit, Ms. MMI can really do a Vilma Santos if she wanted to. To cut an unbelievable story short, memos were issued, program designs were written and a whole bunch of "experts" were flown in to lecture on workplace ethics. And all because of one frigging, cheap corsage!
For all her self-centeredness, Ms. MMI might as well borrow this monologue thought up by a colleague from a long time ago:
"Okay, enough about me. Let's talk about you. So, what do you think of me?"
September 19, 2007
Tuning Out...
I am not cut out for meetings. I have a very, very short attention span, and when plans for a very real three-hour weekend activity branch into immeasurables such as social transformation, values formation and spirit of volunteerism, I find ways to amuse myself. Like doodling. Or dreaming up imaginary conversations. Or imagining thought bubbles coming out of the speakers.
I tend to tune out when meetings turn verbose, when two-minute monologues can be summarized in three words. I have this urge to echo something that came out of my years in corporate slavery: that Romans didn't build an empire by having meetings: they did so by killing all those who opposed them.
I have no wish to build an empire, and I'd like to believe that I have no homicidal tendencies. But I don't like pointless, just plain shooting-breeze meetings. I'd much rather doodle. Or listen to what's not being said. In most cases,it's what's not being said that matters anyway.
Weird Sister (check out Immateur Anthropologist) told of this blah teacher in high school who practically bored the whole class to death. So that they would stop short of notching a world record for simultaneously nodding off to sleep, she and her classmates devised ways to keep boredom at bay. For a while they thought reading komiks on the sly (hidden between the pages of the textbook) was the neatest thing. Until they saw this boy at the back of the class making bubbles out of his laway (saliva).
I wonder if I can pull that off during meetings :p
I tend to tune out when meetings turn verbose, when two-minute monologues can be summarized in three words. I have this urge to echo something that came out of my years in corporate slavery: that Romans didn't build an empire by having meetings: they did so by killing all those who opposed them.
I have no wish to build an empire, and I'd like to believe that I have no homicidal tendencies. But I don't like pointless, just plain shooting-breeze meetings. I'd much rather doodle. Or listen to what's not being said. In most cases,it's what's not being said that matters anyway.
Weird Sister (check out Immateur Anthropologist) told of this blah teacher in high school who practically bored the whole class to death. So that they would stop short of notching a world record for simultaneously nodding off to sleep, she and her classmates devised ways to keep boredom at bay. For a while they thought reading komiks on the sly (hidden between the pages of the textbook) was the neatest thing. Until they saw this boy at the back of the class making bubbles out of his laway (saliva).
I wonder if I can pull that off during meetings :p
July 9, 2007
Talking Trash
Today, we did a lot of cleaning. Eleven offices moved out of our building and into the new city hall. That's about seven kilometers of distance between our offices. Which means that they can no longer be bothered by the cleaning up. As a result, we were left with three truckloads of trash and four cussing utility workers.
Looking at other people's trash, I wonder if we're ever going to really get down to the waste-segregation thing. True, there are trash cans marked "nabubulok" and "hindi nabubulok," but their contents are still a confusion of plastics and paper. Of bottles and left-over baon. Tucked in corners and little-known crevices are folded biscuit wrappers and stuff. It will probably take the same amount of time throwing them into the trash as the time it took to meticulously fold and insert them someplace. But I suppose the latter has much more appeal, huh? Surreptitious, for some, is far more thrilling than doing the obvious.
One other thing about the mountain of trash unceremoniously dumped on our department is that some of the things aren't really trash to begin with. It could be that the "movants" just got tired of the business of packing up and moving that they decided to give up midstream. From among the "legitimate" trash, we found boxfuls of printing paper, thick deposits of substance 20 bookpaper, fasteners, paper clips--our tax-paying money in the guise of office supplies. And to think that we had endless discussions with the Bids and Awards Committee as to the lack of supplies...
Looking at other people's trash, I wonder if we're ever going to really get down to the waste-segregation thing. True, there are trash cans marked "nabubulok" and "hindi nabubulok," but their contents are still a confusion of plastics and paper. Of bottles and left-over baon. Tucked in corners and little-known crevices are folded biscuit wrappers and stuff. It will probably take the same amount of time throwing them into the trash as the time it took to meticulously fold and insert them someplace. But I suppose the latter has much more appeal, huh? Surreptitious, for some, is far more thrilling than doing the obvious.
One other thing about the mountain of trash unceremoniously dumped on our department is that some of the things aren't really trash to begin with. It could be that the "movants" just got tired of the business of packing up and moving that they decided to give up midstream. From among the "legitimate" trash, we found boxfuls of printing paper, thick deposits of substance 20 bookpaper, fasteners, paper clips--our tax-paying money in the guise of office supplies. And to think that we had endless discussions with the Bids and Awards Committee as to the lack of supplies...
July 7, 2007
Here We Go Again
July is a crazy time when you're in government. In an election year, it is time for reinventing and "reinventorying". For terminating job orders and issuing new appointments. For revoking old office orders and issuing new ones.
Election-year July is when you see new faces widowing their way through old office routines. When college graduates are initially given tasks of opening doors, answering telephones, mixing instant coffee. When terminated contractuals join the throng of new hopefuls, wishing for another stab at employment.
In measurable terms, all these translate into around a hundred reams of bond paper. Fifty reams long bond for the inventory forms, for purchase requests, for the personal data sheet to be accomplished in "triplicate." Fifty reams short bond for application letters, office orders, office memoranda, resume, memorandum receipts, etc. etc.
On a non-election year, July is just as "paper consuming." It is when mid-year reports are due, when next year's budget has to be submitted, when outstanding cash advances have to be liquidated, when performance evaluation reports for the first half and performance targets for the next half have to reviewed by the Personnel Evaluation Review Committee.
Never mind if the PERC is non-functional, or if the reports are carefully calculated so that every employee merits a "very satisfactory" rating. Never mind if the computations don't tally. There is, after all, the Productivity Incentive Bonus in exchange for the three copies of four back-to-back pages that takes the better part of two working days to accomplish.
Needless to say, exasperation fills the bureaucratic air every July. This is especially so in the case of Officemate A, who has recently decided that government work is not for her. In the process of "clearing," she found out that she has unliquidated cash advances for travels and seminars. To settle these, she needs tickets, official receipts and certificates of appearances.
Now, Officemate A really attended these seminars. Problem is, all her supporting documents were destroyed along with the old city hall.
"Why don't you just tell them that you lost everything?" someone clueless as to the bureaucratic paper trail asked.
"Because they want you to lie," was the ready answer. Because the rules and regulations say so and not a word more. And because government won't be government without the "here we go again" syndrome that is the theme every July.
I wonder: was Sisyphus--he who was forever condemned to roll a rock uphill--a bureaucrat?
Election-year July is when you see new faces widowing their way through old office routines. When college graduates are initially given tasks of opening doors, answering telephones, mixing instant coffee. When terminated contractuals join the throng of new hopefuls, wishing for another stab at employment.
In measurable terms, all these translate into around a hundred reams of bond paper. Fifty reams long bond for the inventory forms, for purchase requests, for the personal data sheet to be accomplished in "triplicate." Fifty reams short bond for application letters, office orders, office memoranda, resume, memorandum receipts, etc. etc.
On a non-election year, July is just as "paper consuming." It is when mid-year reports are due, when next year's budget has to be submitted, when outstanding cash advances have to be liquidated, when performance evaluation reports for the first half and performance targets for the next half have to reviewed by the Personnel Evaluation Review Committee.
Never mind if the PERC is non-functional, or if the reports are carefully calculated so that every employee merits a "very satisfactory" rating. Never mind if the computations don't tally. There is, after all, the Productivity Incentive Bonus in exchange for the three copies of four back-to-back pages that takes the better part of two working days to accomplish.
Needless to say, exasperation fills the bureaucratic air every July. This is especially so in the case of Officemate A, who has recently decided that government work is not for her. In the process of "clearing," she found out that she has unliquidated cash advances for travels and seminars. To settle these, she needs tickets, official receipts and certificates of appearances.
Now, Officemate A really attended these seminars. Problem is, all her supporting documents were destroyed along with the old city hall.
"Why don't you just tell them that you lost everything?" someone clueless as to the bureaucratic paper trail asked.
"Because they want you to lie," was the ready answer. Because the rules and regulations say so and not a word more. And because government won't be government without the "here we go again" syndrome that is the theme every July.
I wonder: was Sisyphus--he who was forever condemned to roll a rock uphill--a bureaucrat?
July 2, 2007
Updates
The past week has been a blur. Between rushing and dashing, between beating deadlines and meeting schedules, all my blog ideas just plain disappeared. Early this week, I meant to blog about the view from my backyard and about how this office wrap-up thing is driving me crazy. I mind-sketched ideas for Thursday Thirteen and I so looked forward to Friday's Feast.
Alas, intentions and ideas do not thread words and sentences into a post. To blog, I need to think. Then write. But since thinking requires energy--and I am just so drained at the moment--I'll skip the thinking part and just ramble on.
Here's a slice of life from my little pocket of earth:
Monday, while I was silently berating myself for not sorting my clutter when there was still time, I got a tempting job offer. I looked at the filing cabinets that needed my attention, at the files that needed to be put away and I thought I could walk away from them all. That is, after getting three speeches done. At home: It's back to the '80s as the precious two-year-old discovered Vanilla Ice and "Ice Ice Baby." The kid sure dances funny. I swear, I laughed so hard I got teary.
Tuesday, I crossed out speech numbers one and two off my to-do list. Even as I did, rush-rush tasks cropped up, and I had little time to get to work on my clearances. Much less think about moving. At home: I heard the kid scolding her doll: "Time out ka sa crib. Pasaway ka kasi." Uh oh. A case of "My Mother, Myself"?
Friday was a no-work day in Sorsogon, as it was the feast of Sts. Peter & Paul. Fiestas are still the big things that they were, and for once, traffic was really bad, with people packing the streets. In the afternoon, we took Gianna and Sam to the park. I wanted to buy cotton candy to complete the fiesta picture, but the mommy in me said no. So much for the fiestas of my youth...
Saturday, I woke up really early for the city day mass. Then, it was off to the capitol for the oath-taking, to the clinic for Gianna's checkup (she must have taken something that didn't quite agree with her tummy, and she had runny poo-poos), to a friend's house for lunch and to the office for the final fixing up. Whew!
Today, I thought I could breathe easy. And for a while, I did. Gianna had clean diapers all through the day, and despite our little spats, things went well. At the chapel for the 5pm mass, though, she tripped on something and took a fall. It wasn't serious enough to warrant a trip to the ER but it was serious enough to merit an ice pack, which we got from the convent. Three minutes later, she was running like crazy again, making me one crazy mom. :)
Alas, intentions and ideas do not thread words and sentences into a post. To blog, I need to think. Then write. But since thinking requires energy--and I am just so drained at the moment--I'll skip the thinking part and just ramble on.
Here's a slice of life from my little pocket of earth:
Monday, while I was silently berating myself for not sorting my clutter when there was still time, I got a tempting job offer. I looked at the filing cabinets that needed my attention, at the files that needed to be put away and I thought I could walk away from them all. That is, after getting three speeches done. At home: It's back to the '80s as the precious two-year-old discovered Vanilla Ice and "Ice Ice Baby." The kid sure dances funny. I swear, I laughed so hard I got teary.
Tuesday, I crossed out speech numbers one and two off my to-do list. Even as I did, rush-rush tasks cropped up, and I had little time to get to work on my clearances. Much less think about moving. At home: I heard the kid scolding her doll: "Time out ka sa crib. Pasaway ka kasi." Uh oh. A case of "My Mother, Myself"?
Wednesday, I walked an officemate through a panic attack. Her filing system was a lot more disorganized than mine, her lovelife was "complicated, as usual" and her desk was a not-so-happy mess. At home: The kid's fascination with Maria has reached "imaginary friend" proportions. She "texts" Maria, she talks on the phone with Maria and she asks me to leave a space on the bed for Maria...
Thursday, I finally turned in speech number 3. I also (finally) decided to stick it out at the city hall. I just realized that for most of my working life, I have been following an invisible template: when the boss leaves, I leave as well. I'm no longer the footloose and fancy-free me of ages ago, and I figured it's time I settled for some permanence. At home: My decision to stay on has a lot to do with the little girl. True, the paycheck would be an improvement, but then it means I would have to cut down on the bonding time.Friday was a no-work day in Sorsogon, as it was the feast of Sts. Peter & Paul. Fiestas are still the big things that they were, and for once, traffic was really bad, with people packing the streets. In the afternoon, we took Gianna and Sam to the park. I wanted to buy cotton candy to complete the fiesta picture, but the mommy in me said no. So much for the fiestas of my youth...
Saturday, I woke up really early for the city day mass. Then, it was off to the capitol for the oath-taking, to the clinic for Gianna's checkup (she must have taken something that didn't quite agree with her tummy, and she had runny poo-poos), to a friend's house for lunch and to the office for the final fixing up. Whew!
Today, I thought I could breathe easy. And for a while, I did. Gianna had clean diapers all through the day, and despite our little spats, things went well. At the chapel for the 5pm mass, though, she tripped on something and took a fall. It wasn't serious enough to warrant a trip to the ER but it was serious enough to merit an ice pack, which we got from the convent. Three minutes later, she was running like crazy again, making me one crazy mom. :)
June 23, 2007
Moving on
In a few days, I'll be saying my "official" goodbyes. The old boss is moving on, a new boss is moving in. I am saying so long to this building that is slowly losing the battle to termites, hello to the spanking new city hall. I am trading six years' worth of speeches and press releases for who knows how many years worth of personnel files, personnel actions, personnel conflicts.
Technically, it's not a change of career. I'd still be in the same office, doing the administrative job that I signed up for in the first place. But such is the way of the bureaucracy: along with the changing of the guards comes the cleaning of the house.
I should be no stranger to this. I've had ten bosses, all of whom taught me--in no uncertain terms--that change is inevitable. That change is always good.
And yet, as I sift through the accumulated paper and photographs and documented memories of the past six years, I find myself not hankering for change. I'm perfectly happy in the company of Asia and Helen and Papiyo. I'm okay working with Orly, John, Roel and the three Als.
For six years, our team tried to give a little sense of "urgency," a little zip to the workplace. We set and met deadlines. We went beyond the usual projects. We had more than the requisite eight-hour workday. And we were happy. Tired, yes. But happy just the same.
In a week's time, our little team will be taking on new and separate assignments. Asia goes to Environment, Orly and John go to Planning, Roel and Alvin go to Licensing, Papiyo goes back to Public Affairs, Helen and the two Als go someplace else. I end up in Health.
As a veteran of leave-takings, I know that it won't be long before we settle into our new assignments. But as I look at the things that have to be packed and the files that need to be sorted, I wish I won't have to start all over again.
Maybe, I am getting too old for this business of moving and moving on. No matter how good the prospects are.
Technically, it's not a change of career. I'd still be in the same office, doing the administrative job that I signed up for in the first place. But such is the way of the bureaucracy: along with the changing of the guards comes the cleaning of the house.
I should be no stranger to this. I've had ten bosses, all of whom taught me--in no uncertain terms--that change is inevitable. That change is always good.
And yet, as I sift through the accumulated paper and photographs and documented memories of the past six years, I find myself not hankering for change. I'm perfectly happy in the company of Asia and Helen and Papiyo. I'm okay working with Orly, John, Roel and the three Als.
For six years, our team tried to give a little sense of "urgency," a little zip to the workplace. We set and met deadlines. We went beyond the usual projects. We had more than the requisite eight-hour workday. And we were happy. Tired, yes. But happy just the same.
In a week's time, our little team will be taking on new and separate assignments. Asia goes to Environment, Orly and John go to Planning, Roel and Alvin go to Licensing, Papiyo goes back to Public Affairs, Helen and the two Als go someplace else. I end up in Health.
As a veteran of leave-takings, I know that it won't be long before we settle into our new assignments. But as I look at the things that have to be packed and the files that need to be sorted, I wish I won't have to start all over again.
Maybe, I am getting too old for this business of moving and moving on. No matter how good the prospects are.
June 15, 2007
What a Character
D, our office messenger, passed away on Tuesday. It was truly an independence day for D, his friend said. Finally, he was free from the disease that slowly ate up his liver. Finally, he was free from the pressures of not knowing how to say "no." Finally, he was free from the loneliness of an empty home.
But D was anything but lonely. To the outside world, that is. He was a constant source of laughter. Barring the few times that he would sulk in a corner, nursing a bruised ego (the way a child does when the world doesn't seem to meet expectations), he would go around the office cracking jokes. Never mind that the jokes were usually on and about him.
When we learned of his passing, we were quiet for a while. We were clinging, perhaps, to our individual pictures of D. Disbelief turned to quiet remembrance, and eventually to happy memories. And then we were all laughing. For who could forget the day when ...
But D was anything but lonely. To the outside world, that is. He was a constant source of laughter. Barring the few times that he would sulk in a corner, nursing a bruised ego (the way a child does when the world doesn't seem to meet expectations), he would go around the office cracking jokes. Never mind that the jokes were usually on and about him.
When we learned of his passing, we were quiet for a while. We were clinging, perhaps, to our individual pictures of D. Disbelief turned to quiet remembrance, and eventually to happy memories. And then we were all laughing. For who could forget the day when ...
- D showed up with a tub of Star Margarine, when the boss asked him to buy a copy of (The Philippine) Star?
- He summoned an officemate named Elmer when D was asked to get stamps enough for "airmail."?
- He happily displayed $10, which he pocketed from among the stash of Salvation-Army shorts that eventually landed on the ukay-ukay?
- He came to a party armed with a mic and videoke CDs of Matt Monro and Engelbert Humberdinck?
Because D had no immediate family, the office was left to take care of all the arrangements when he died. When it was time to settle the bill, the hospital said they forgot to ask D to sign the Philhealth papers. A thumbmark would do, they said. Either that or the office would have to pay the whole amount.
And so, two hours after he expired, D thumbmarked his "release" papers from the cold stillness of the funeral parlor. Obviously, he remained a character to the very end.
June 5, 2007
Not-so-manic Monday
Items on my Monday to-do list:
1. Get started on the state-of-the-city address
2. Prepare invites for the citizens' charter launch
3. Finalize management comments on the audit observations
4. Request for a transfer of assignment
5. File, file, file
My progress so far:
1. I'm done with the first line. "Ladies and Gentlemen" is a line, right?
2. Hooray on this one! (Microsoft didn't key in cut-and-paste for nothing, he he).
3. Wish I could just brush it off with "no comment." This bureaucratic jargon is lulling me into a state of absolute catatonia. I can' t, for the life of me, get past the "failure to obtain the authority from the trustors to use the unexpended balances for other noble projects" part without spacing out.
4. Scratch this one. I tell the HR people and they give me this "who-are-you-kidding" look. I might as well request to be transferred to the slaughterhouse...
5. Pile, pile, pile
Mondays in government--especially when a new set of officials is due in three weeks--is like navigating EDSA on Good Fridays: unclogged, uneventful, uninspired. You know that there are traffic signs, but hey, who's minding anyway?
This Monday is no different. I got in early enough, in time for flag ceremony and First Monday Mass. As the day wore on, though, I felt less and less inclined to accomplish the tasks on my to-do list. The secretaries have a case of Monday sickness, the boss is on leave, the clients are nowhere.
So here I am, just coasting along. Physically present but mentally gone. My mind should be on the bond paper paid for by Juana de la Cruz, but it is way out there, in the blogosphere. I am going, going, gone.
Ahh, where would I be without the blog?
1. Get started on the state-of-the-city address
2. Prepare invites for the citizens' charter launch
3. Finalize management comments on the audit observations
4. Request for a transfer of assignment
5. File, file, file
My progress so far:
1. I'm done with the first line. "Ladies and Gentlemen" is a line, right?
2. Hooray on this one! (Microsoft didn't key in cut-and-paste for nothing, he he).
3. Wish I could just brush it off with "no comment." This bureaucratic jargon is lulling me into a state of absolute catatonia. I can' t, for the life of me, get past the "failure to obtain the authority from the trustors to use the unexpended balances for other noble projects" part without spacing out.
4. Scratch this one. I tell the HR people and they give me this "who-are-you-kidding" look. I might as well request to be transferred to the slaughterhouse...
5. Pile, pile, pile
Mondays in government--especially when a new set of officials is due in three weeks--is like navigating EDSA on Good Fridays: unclogged, uneventful, uninspired. You know that there are traffic signs, but hey, who's minding anyway?
This Monday is no different. I got in early enough, in time for flag ceremony and First Monday Mass. As the day wore on, though, I felt less and less inclined to accomplish the tasks on my to-do list. The secretaries have a case of Monday sickness, the boss is on leave, the clients are nowhere.
So here I am, just coasting along. Physically present but mentally gone. My mind should be on the bond paper paid for by Juana de la Cruz, but it is way out there, in the blogosphere. I am going, going, gone.
Ahh, where would I be without the blog?
June 1, 2007
Chismis
"What's the latest?" officemate A asks officemate B as she settles into what looks like another uneventful workday.
"Yilmaz was a no-show in LA, Miss USA fell on her butt, Dennis and Marjorie called it quits," comes the disinterested reply. B is not really that chatty in the first place.
A leaves in a huff, telling every body within her line of vision that B is in a bad mood. "But B is always in a bad mood," C chimes in, and for the better part of the day, A and C--along with D, E & F--spend their energy talking about B, her moods and more.
Such is the way with gossip. You ask, you get a reply. But you don't really listen. You digest only what you want to hear, draw your own conclusions, inject your own opinions and pass on the story as "straight from the horse's mouth."
Or you see something (even if you don't have 20/20 vision), you imagine hearing something (but you don't have ultrasensitive ears) then go blabbing about "what happened" from the first-person point of view.
Or someone floats the idea of something, your mind goes "aha, so that's why..." and the story goes on and on and on, losing all semblance of the truth as it goes on its merry way.
For sure, chismis is the byproduct of idle minds. In the office, for example, it almost always starts with departments that have seasonal peaks, or those that are so over-manned that killing time is the primary function. Or during over-extended coffee and cigarette breaks. In neighborhoods, gossip travels over gumamela bushes and through gaps in fences, from sari-sari stores and barber shops. In the palengke it starts as cheery banter between the vendor and the vendee and is dissected (and deboned) during the off hours, when there is just way too much time.
Showbiz chismis is, of course, an entirely different thing. Names and industries are made because of rumors-- the nastier, the better. And this is why you get the likes of Ruffa and Kris, washing their dirty linen in public and begging for privacy in the same breath.
It drives me crazy every time some star tearfully pleads to be given breathing space while the talk show host nods along condescendingly. But showbiz chismis does perk up Sunday afternoons. And makes for good enough conversation at the office on lazy Monday mornings. Unless something crops up at the office that has definitely much more meat and juice than Annabel and Ruffa and Kris combined...
"Yilmaz was a no-show in LA, Miss USA fell on her butt, Dennis and Marjorie called it quits," comes the disinterested reply. B is not really that chatty in the first place.
A leaves in a huff, telling every body within her line of vision that B is in a bad mood. "But B is always in a bad mood," C chimes in, and for the better part of the day, A and C--along with D, E & F--spend their energy talking about B, her moods and more.
Such is the way with gossip. You ask, you get a reply. But you don't really listen. You digest only what you want to hear, draw your own conclusions, inject your own opinions and pass on the story as "straight from the horse's mouth."
Or you see something (even if you don't have 20/20 vision), you imagine hearing something (but you don't have ultrasensitive ears) then go blabbing about "what happened" from the first-person point of view.
Or someone floats the idea of something, your mind goes "aha, so that's why..." and the story goes on and on and on, losing all semblance of the truth as it goes on its merry way.
For sure, chismis is the byproduct of idle minds. In the office, for example, it almost always starts with departments that have seasonal peaks, or those that are so over-manned that killing time is the primary function. Or during over-extended coffee and cigarette breaks. In neighborhoods, gossip travels over gumamela bushes and through gaps in fences, from sari-sari stores and barber shops. In the palengke it starts as cheery banter between the vendor and the vendee and is dissected (and deboned) during the off hours, when there is just way too much time.
Showbiz chismis is, of course, an entirely different thing. Names and industries are made because of rumors-- the nastier, the better. And this is why you get the likes of Ruffa and Kris, washing their dirty linen in public and begging for privacy in the same breath.
It drives me crazy every time some star tearfully pleads to be given breathing space while the talk show host nods along condescendingly. But showbiz chismis does perk up Sunday afternoons. And makes for good enough conversation at the office on lazy Monday mornings. Unless something crops up at the office that has definitely much more meat and juice than Annabel and Ruffa and Kris combined...
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