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This job, I tell you. I don't think I've ever worked somewhere where people from a different shift that I never see pissed me off so much (and this includes my warehouse stint where I shared a desk with a third shift person who ate my snacks and used my CD player without bothering to put it away afterwards).
After the weekend o' poop, I returned this past weekend to find this note in the book: "I emptied the poop bucket AND the big pile that was left next to it." A.) Good for you. Do you expect some sort of recognition for doing your job? B.) Actually the poop was LEFT scattered around the yard. I just put it all in one central location for you. I didn't waste any time responding to it; I couldn't be certain that I wasn't just choosing to read more pissiness into it than actually existed. We'll live in your little reality for now. Tery knows the actuality, and that's all that matters to me.
I felt only a little vindicated when Buddy the Poop Eater had to return for bloodwork to test his new-onset intestinal disease. Yep, disregard my notes. I have no idea what I'm talking about.
When I mean "recognition," one of Tery's ideas to boost morale was to set up a board in the breakroom with every employee's name on it. If someone does something exceptional, above and beyond the call of duty, you could fix a little note to their name thanking them that everyone can read. As you can imagine, we overnight staffers get the short end of this stick. Out of sight, out of mind -- until it's time to bitch about something else we don't do that someone feels we should.
One weekend the washing machine was dying a slow, horrible death. It would wash clothes, but only after locking up so much throughout the cycle that each load took three times as long as it normally does, requiring constant supervision. When I arrived there Friday night, the laundry bin was overflowing with a garbage bag-full on the floor beside it. Tery said not to worry about it, she would have one of the girls take it down the street to the laundromat. But I had a light workload otherwise, nothing else to do all night, so I got on the ball and I washed every stitch of laundry sitting there, a task which occupied me right up until the moment I had to leave.
Tery told me the next morning the girl who thought she'd have to go to the laundromat, upon being greeted with the sight of the empty room, danced up and down the hall singing my praises. She practically wept, she was so relieved. If Tery hadn't told me this I would never have known, since it took two solid weeks of nagging for her to get around to putting a note on the board for me. I didn't do it for the kudos and I was glad to make someone's day easier, but it isn't that time-consuming to leave a simple note of thanks. Knowing it only came after constant reminders from Tery really took away some of the shiny luster.
Similarly, there's something in Recovery called a Cold Tray. I have no idea what it's for, but it contains a myriad of different instruments that have to be wrapped and sterilized individually. Habitually people just stuff them in there any which way, and I couldn't imagine how long it took to find something specific in a hurry if needed. So, since I was chatting on the phone to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
kavieshana anyway and I do all my best multi-tasking that way, I cut up a cardboard box and created dividers, separating the instruments into categories (some of them were dated two years ago, so I also hoped this fact would be brought to someone's attention by doing this).
Tery told me a few days later that one of the girls noticed it and asked who did it. When Tery said I did, her response was "If that's not worth a note, I don't know what is!" Yes, well. To date evidently I'll have to be happy with the verbal version.
~*~
Just when I had run out of things to spend my hard-earned money on, Ryan sent me a video about the new "lock-bumping" craze that's sweeping the nation. Thieves make a "bump key" from a blank that they can tap with a piece of wood (naturally the blueprint for such a key is available on the internet -- in fact, I just Googled under images and there are actually websites that sell ready-made sets of them. How is that legal????). It makes the tumblers inside fall down and they can get through 99% of normal locks within seconds.
More disturbing still is that the majority of break-ins occur during the day, when presumably no one is home. Except me, who is always home. In those rare cases when a burglar catches the homeowner present, it could end in rape and/or murder. Terrific. Tery pooh-poohed my fears -- she thinks I'm plenty strong and angry enough to handle anyone foolish enough to try to rob us. As much as I appreciate her faith, I'd just as soon not have to test my abilities in a practical situation.
Not to mention with Tracey lately back to entertaining homeboys in track suits and avoiding probation officers (we got another knock on our door asking when we'd seen her last), I felt it really was better to be safe than sorry.
So onto eBay I went. "Bump-proof" locks are not easily or cheaply come by. Really the only manufacturers that come recommended are either Medeco or Schlage (and only the Schlage "Primus" line. Lock names are very MANLY). All that were available on eBay were Medeco locks, so I bought one.
It finally arrived, but I needed Tery's help installing it -- the door had all kinds of...attachments on it to accommodate our current lock that I wasn't comfortable dismantling on my own. Tery wordlessly took a screwdriver and hammer to them, pulverizing them into tiny pieces so there really was no going back.
Except we had to go back, because when I finally got the deadbolt mechanism into the hole, to our dismay it fell short about 1/4 of an inch, leaving a gap uncovered to the left outside. Which wouldn't do at all.
I plugged the hole with a sweat sock and ran to Lowe's for advice (wishing my boyfriend worked in every department and not just major appliances), where an old man assured me all deadbolts had a tiny pin you could push in to adjust the length. Except Medeco's, of course.
I spent at least an hour contemplating every angle and facet of every piece of hardware that came in the box, desperate for something that I could adjust. Most puzzling was an impossibly teeny tiny hex wrench that was included, which was entirely inadequate to screw in the massive hex bolts that attached all the pieces together in the final step. "What the HELL is the point of this?" I asked Tery, who did what she always does and pretended she couldn't hear me.
Unfortunately, I figured out what the point of it was. It fit into six impossibly teeny tiny hex nuts arranged in a line on the keyhole cylinder. Don't ask me why I thought this had anything to do with adjusting the deadbolt length, I just had to try SOMETHING. So I unscrewed the six teeny tiny nuts with disappointingly undramatic results.
Until I turned the cylinder over and suddenly a bunch of even teenier, even tinier pieces fell out of the holes. Six tiny springs, six tiny posts with beveled tips, and six tinier posts, unbeveled. The springs were uniform in size, but all twelve posts were different lengths. I wondered what these were for?
These, it turns out, were the tumblers that lined up to be unlocked by the special, unduplicatable Medeco key. Oh, nothing TOO important. Tery took one look at me helplessly arranging them in different rows with my big, meaty fingers and said, "Right. I'm going to the bar. Good luck." (she wasn't actually deserting me, the bar was the plan all along -- after helping me install the lock, which obviously now would take a little bit longer than I had anticipated). (She also later compared the entire scenario to a well-known Christmas movie, in particular the line "Ohhhhhhhhhh, fuuuuuuuuuuudge.")
I turned to the internet for any kind of clue how these were supposed to go back into the holes. I was hoping for a detailed schematic of the exact configuration of all twelve pieces, which I realize now would be impossible since every configuration is unique to each lock. I at least found an exploded view that told me which direction the bevels went and in what order each component sat (beveled post, plain post and spring).
So I set to work. I got all the pieces stowed into all the holes neatly, and thought, "Well, that wasn't nearly as hard as I thought!" Then it occurred to me to try the key in the lock. No go. This was when I realized that they had to go in a specific order, not just however they fit. How many combinations is that? 6 to the 12th power? 12 to the 6th power? I always sucked at math, I just knew it was a hell of a lot.
A weaker woman would have at this point broken down and cried, or at the very least chalked it up to a very expensive life lesson and walked away. I did neither. I instead had an extremely rare flash of insight and wondered if the key would turn without all six holes being filled. I randomly tried a few combinations in one hole, and after about eight pairs I turned the key and it worked. I can't begin to describe the relief I felt.
So from there, just pure trial-and-error until the key turned, verifying that one more hole had the correct pair in it. It actually was kind of fun from that point, and I wonder if there's any kind of potential for a new Rubik's Cube-type sensation here. In a matter of about twenty minutes I had a completely re-assembled and working lock. Go me!
BUT. This experience begs the question: WHY make this crucial lock configuration mechanism not only accessible to the stupid general public (yes, obviously I include myself in this category just this once), but supply a special tool for the job to them??? I suppose it's handy if you ever want the lock re-keyed, but then wouldn't it make more sense to give the pertinent tools to only locksmiths? Not smart, Medeco.
Now I just have to exchange this bolt for a longer one, which the seller assures me he has, for this to have a proper happy ending.
~*~
April is all about me, don't try to deny it. Not only is Sweeney Todd out on DVD Apr 1 (just in time for my birthday), but Cloverfield is out Apr 22 (just in time for a late birthday) -- an unprecedented shortest amout of time a movie I cared about went from theater to DVD. Happy birthday to me indeed.
After the weekend o' poop, I returned this past weekend to find this note in the book: "I emptied the poop bucket AND the big pile that was left next to it." A.) Good for you. Do you expect some sort of recognition for doing your job? B.) Actually the poop was LEFT scattered around the yard. I just put it all in one central location for you. I didn't waste any time responding to it; I couldn't be certain that I wasn't just choosing to read more pissiness into it than actually existed. We'll live in your little reality for now. Tery knows the actuality, and that's all that matters to me.
I felt only a little vindicated when Buddy the Poop Eater had to return for bloodwork to test his new-onset intestinal disease. Yep, disregard my notes. I have no idea what I'm talking about.
When I mean "recognition," one of Tery's ideas to boost morale was to set up a board in the breakroom with every employee's name on it. If someone does something exceptional, above and beyond the call of duty, you could fix a little note to their name thanking them that everyone can read. As you can imagine, we overnight staffers get the short end of this stick. Out of sight, out of mind -- until it's time to bitch about something else we don't do that someone feels we should.
One weekend the washing machine was dying a slow, horrible death. It would wash clothes, but only after locking up so much throughout the cycle that each load took three times as long as it normally does, requiring constant supervision. When I arrived there Friday night, the laundry bin was overflowing with a garbage bag-full on the floor beside it. Tery said not to worry about it, she would have one of the girls take it down the street to the laundromat. But I had a light workload otherwise, nothing else to do all night, so I got on the ball and I washed every stitch of laundry sitting there, a task which occupied me right up until the moment I had to leave.
Tery told me the next morning the girl who thought she'd have to go to the laundromat, upon being greeted with the sight of the empty room, danced up and down the hall singing my praises. She practically wept, she was so relieved. If Tery hadn't told me this I would never have known, since it took two solid weeks of nagging for her to get around to putting a note on the board for me. I didn't do it for the kudos and I was glad to make someone's day easier, but it isn't that time-consuming to leave a simple note of thanks. Knowing it only came after constant reminders from Tery really took away some of the shiny luster.
Similarly, there's something in Recovery called a Cold Tray. I have no idea what it's for, but it contains a myriad of different instruments that have to be wrapped and sterilized individually. Habitually people just stuff them in there any which way, and I couldn't imagine how long it took to find something specific in a hurry if needed. So, since I was chatting on the phone to
kavieshana anyway and I do all my best multi-tasking that way, I cut up a cardboard box and created dividers, separating the instruments into categories (some of them were dated two years ago, so I also hoped this fact would be brought to someone's attention by doing this). Tery told me a few days later that one of the girls noticed it and asked who did it. When Tery said I did, her response was "If that's not worth a note, I don't know what is!" Yes, well. To date evidently I'll have to be happy with the verbal version.
~*~
Just when I had run out of things to spend my hard-earned money on, Ryan sent me a video about the new "lock-bumping" craze that's sweeping the nation. Thieves make a "bump key" from a blank that they can tap with a piece of wood (naturally the blueprint for such a key is available on the internet -- in fact, I just Googled under images and there are actually websites that sell ready-made sets of them. How is that legal????). It makes the tumblers inside fall down and they can get through 99% of normal locks within seconds.
More disturbing still is that the majority of break-ins occur during the day, when presumably no one is home. Except me, who is always home. In those rare cases when a burglar catches the homeowner present, it could end in rape and/or murder. Terrific. Tery pooh-poohed my fears -- she thinks I'm plenty strong and angry enough to handle anyone foolish enough to try to rob us. As much as I appreciate her faith, I'd just as soon not have to test my abilities in a practical situation.
Not to mention with Tracey lately back to entertaining homeboys in track suits and avoiding probation officers (we got another knock on our door asking when we'd seen her last), I felt it really was better to be safe than sorry.
So onto eBay I went. "Bump-proof" locks are not easily or cheaply come by. Really the only manufacturers that come recommended are either Medeco or Schlage (and only the Schlage "Primus" line. Lock names are very MANLY). All that were available on eBay were Medeco locks, so I bought one.
It finally arrived, but I needed Tery's help installing it -- the door had all kinds of...attachments on it to accommodate our current lock that I wasn't comfortable dismantling on my own. Tery wordlessly took a screwdriver and hammer to them, pulverizing them into tiny pieces so there really was no going back.
Except we had to go back, because when I finally got the deadbolt mechanism into the hole, to our dismay it fell short about 1/4 of an inch, leaving a gap uncovered to the left outside. Which wouldn't do at all.
I plugged the hole with a sweat sock and ran to Lowe's for advice (wishing my boyfriend worked in every department and not just major appliances), where an old man assured me all deadbolts had a tiny pin you could push in to adjust the length. Except Medeco's, of course.
I spent at least an hour contemplating every angle and facet of every piece of hardware that came in the box, desperate for something that I could adjust. Most puzzling was an impossibly teeny tiny hex wrench that was included, which was entirely inadequate to screw in the massive hex bolts that attached all the pieces together in the final step. "What the HELL is the point of this?" I asked Tery, who did what she always does and pretended she couldn't hear me.
Unfortunately, I figured out what the point of it was. It fit into six impossibly teeny tiny hex nuts arranged in a line on the keyhole cylinder. Don't ask me why I thought this had anything to do with adjusting the deadbolt length, I just had to try SOMETHING. So I unscrewed the six teeny tiny nuts with disappointingly undramatic results.
Until I turned the cylinder over and suddenly a bunch of even teenier, even tinier pieces fell out of the holes. Six tiny springs, six tiny posts with beveled tips, and six tinier posts, unbeveled. The springs were uniform in size, but all twelve posts were different lengths. I wondered what these were for?
These, it turns out, were the tumblers that lined up to be unlocked by the special, unduplicatable Medeco key. Oh, nothing TOO important. Tery took one look at me helplessly arranging them in different rows with my big, meaty fingers and said, "Right. I'm going to the bar. Good luck." (she wasn't actually deserting me, the bar was the plan all along -- after helping me install the lock, which obviously now would take a little bit longer than I had anticipated). (She also later compared the entire scenario to a well-known Christmas movie, in particular the line "Ohhhhhhhhhh, fuuuuuuuuuuudge.")
I turned to the internet for any kind of clue how these were supposed to go back into the holes. I was hoping for a detailed schematic of the exact configuration of all twelve pieces, which I realize now would be impossible since every configuration is unique to each lock. I at least found an exploded view that told me which direction the bevels went and in what order each component sat (beveled post, plain post and spring).
So I set to work. I got all the pieces stowed into all the holes neatly, and thought, "Well, that wasn't nearly as hard as I thought!" Then it occurred to me to try the key in the lock. No go. This was when I realized that they had to go in a specific order, not just however they fit. How many combinations is that? 6 to the 12th power? 12 to the 6th power? I always sucked at math, I just knew it was a hell of a lot.
A weaker woman would have at this point broken down and cried, or at the very least chalked it up to a very expensive life lesson and walked away. I did neither. I instead had an extremely rare flash of insight and wondered if the key would turn without all six holes being filled. I randomly tried a few combinations in one hole, and after about eight pairs I turned the key and it worked. I can't begin to describe the relief I felt.
So from there, just pure trial-and-error until the key turned, verifying that one more hole had the correct pair in it. It actually was kind of fun from that point, and I wonder if there's any kind of potential for a new Rubik's Cube-type sensation here. In a matter of about twenty minutes I had a completely re-assembled and working lock. Go me!
BUT. This experience begs the question: WHY make this crucial lock configuration mechanism not only accessible to the stupid general public (yes, obviously I include myself in this category just this once), but supply a special tool for the job to them??? I suppose it's handy if you ever want the lock re-keyed, but then wouldn't it make more sense to give the pertinent tools to only locksmiths? Not smart, Medeco.
Now I just have to exchange this bolt for a longer one, which the seller assures me he has, for this to have a proper happy ending.
~*~
April is all about me, don't try to deny it. Not only is Sweeney Todd out on DVD Apr 1 (just in time for my birthday), but Cloverfield is out Apr 22 (just in time for a late birthday) -- an unprecedented shortest amout of time a movie I cared about went from theater to DVD. Happy birthday to me indeed.
