Filed under: Workplace 101
My quest to visit all 48 contiguous states continues this week, as I find myself far from home in a lonely hotel room down by the river. I’m here in The First State, the home of Joe Biden and Joe Flacco, the blink-and-you-missed-it I-95 rest stop otherwise known as Delaware.
Truth be known, I actually lived here in Delaware briefly in the mid-90′s when I interned at a large financial institution to remain undisclosed. I liked it here, although the state’s biggest advantages are it’s lack of sales taxes and proximity to major East Coast cities like NYC, Philly, DC, and B’More. Delaware itself? Meh.
Still, my brief summer here taught me a lesson I would carry with me for the rest of my professional life: Do not evar, evar, evar, under any set of bizarre circumstances, evar date a co-worker!!!
I’m married, and long since off the market, so I’ll spare ya’ll all the drama. Besides, my wife reads this site from time to time, and I don’t wanna have that convo once I get back to DC. But let’s just say I learned my lesson abundantly.
Forgive my total and complete lack of context, but I’d like to hear your opinions on this issue.
Question: Is it okay to date a coworker? Do you have any particularly bad experiences you’d like to share with the rest of AverageNation™?
Filed under: Workplace 101
You know him. You hate him. You might could be him, but I pray you’re not cause that would be really triflin’ on so many different levels.
That’s right party people, I’m talkin’ about fonky assed co-workers.
Every office has that guy whose breath, armpits, or assorted nether-regions smell like hot trash on a hundred degree day. And my office is no exception. We actually have two of them though.
The first guy is named Dikembe[1]. He is from Nigeria, and smells like he hasn’t bathed since he left the Motherland, which wasn’t exactly yesterday. His feet are the stereotypical “jumping jacks in a bag of Gold Medal” that you come to expect of some of our sistren and brethren. Was that mildly xenophobic? Sure. But you should see the Mount St. Helens level of ash on this cat’s ankles. He needs to take a few baths in Eucerin.
Worse, Deke’s breath is legendarily bad, but he (much like Office MotorMouth Stanley) is pretty good as his technical niche, which means sometimes you can’t avoid going to visit his office if you really need the answer to a question. And unfortunately for me, since his area of expertise is one I know little about, this means I’m down the hall at his place more than I’d like. I always emerge with the desired answers, and far fewer nose hairs.
Perhaps worse is Pfong[2], another co-worker who seems to have no concept of his personal hygeine or lack thereof. Again, I know I’m toeing the line of xenophobia yet again here, and I’m aware some people’s religious or cultural customs might be at play. But still, how can you not smell your own ass? I know he can. And since he can, how can he not be completely repulsed to the point of exhaustion. I can literally smell this cat the moment he pulls into the parking garage.
Even Dikembe walks past his office and is like “what the f*ck was that smell?”.
Unlike the first in this series, I don’t really have any point in posting this one, so consider the question merely a suggestion, while I duck outside for some fresh air.
Question: How do you typically deal with co-workers who have less than stellar personal hygeine?
[1] Not his real name.
[2] Not his real name either. I love my Day Job and my home. I’d prefer to keep both.
Filed under: Workplace 101
You know him. You hate him. You might could be him, but I pray you’re not cause that would be really triflin’ on so many different levels.
That’s right party people, I’m talkin’ about fonky assed co-workers.
Every office has that guy whose breath, armpits, or assorted nether-regions smell like hot trash on a hundred degree day. And my office is no exception. We actually have two of them though.
The first guy is named Dikembe[1]. He is from Nigeria, and smells like he hasn’t bathed since he left the Motherland, which wasn’t exactly yesterday. His feet are the stereotypical “jumping jacks in a bag of Gold Medal” that you come to expect of some of our sistren and brethren. Was that mildly xenophobic? Sure. But you should see the Mount St. Helens level of ash on this cat’s ankles. He needs to take a few baths in Eucerin.
Worse, Deke’s breath is legendarily bad, but he (much like Office MotorMouth Stanley) is pretty good as his technical niche, which means sometimes you can’t avoid going to visit his office if you really need the answer to a question. And unfortunately for me, since his area of expertise is one I know little about, this means I’m down the hall at his place more than I’d like. I always emerge with the desired answers, and far fewer nose hairs.
Perhaps worse is Pfong[2], another co-worker who seems to have no concept of his personal hygeine or lack thereof. Again, I know I’m toeing the line of xenophobia yet again here, and I’m aware some people’s religious or cultural customs might be at play. But still, how can you not smell your own ass? I know he can. And since he can, how can he not be completely repulsed to the point of exhaustion. I can literally smell this cat the moment he pulls into the parking garage.
Even Dikembe walks past his office and is like “what the f*ck was that smell?”.
Unlike the first in this series, I don’t really have any point in posting this one, so consider the question merely a suggestion, while I duck outside for some fresh air.
Question: How do you typically deal with co-workers who have less than stellar personal hygeine?
[1] Not his real name.
[2] Not his real name either. I love my Day Job and my home. I’d prefer to keep both.
[Yep, more exclusive New Series! Take that Deborah Lee!]
You know em’. You prolly hate em’. For all I know, you might could be em’.
Yep, I’m talking about The Office MotorMouth.
Every office has that one person who just can’t stop talking. I’m not necessarily referring to gossipers (another topic for another time), rather that guy (or girl) whom you hate getting caught in the break room with, because you know there’s no way of possibly avoiding the 15 minutes of pointless conversation they’re about to subject you to.
My office has one such Chatty Cathy or Talkin’ Tim. We’ll call mine Stanley, or Stan for short. Stanley is probably one of the most technically savvy and experienced of the engineers on staff. He knows his stuff, and thankfully, he’s not so conceited and selfish that he won’t help you if you need some assistance. The problem is, that advice comes with a stiff pricetag. Because there’s so such thing as a short answer when you’re dealing with The Office MotorMouth.
A routine question about an obscure programming routine becomes a half-hour dissertation on biography of the programming language’s author, the weather in Fort Wayne, and what Stan bought his stepson for Christmas back in 1998. And since you need that answer, you endure the extracurriculars, because hey, Stanley wants to talk.
Even worse is when I run into Stanley (in the copy room, the restroom, or the aforementioned break room) when he’s in a talking mood (which is always). Your lunch plate cannot warm up quickly enough. Worst of all, on rare occasions I’ve had Stan “just drop by my office to talk”, nearly always when I’m trying to ditch work early. 20 minutes later, I find myself cursing my employer for not allowing me to telecommute, and wishing I had those 20 precious minutes of my life back.
It would be easy to just tell Stanley to kick rocks, but in Corporate America, few things are so simple. For one, he’s a tech guru, and you don’t need him pissed off the next time you’re in a bind on a client site and really need an answer. And… well, okay, that’s the only answer.
So, as I try and run to the elevator without somehow crossing paths with Stanley in the hallway, I pose this query to you guys.
Question: How do you handle your fellow Office MotorMouths? What is a tactful way of telling someone to “step off” without pissing them off to the point that you won’t be able to get at em’ when you actually do need em’?
