My Girl

I have a full-time job. With health insurance. And a steady paycheck that is directly deposited into my checking account every two weeks. I have a desk with a computer on it. I know; I don't get it either. And here's the cherry on top of my 9-5 sundae with shredded file sprinkles and whipped cubicle cream...I have, for lack of a better word, an assistant. Actually, it is quite a disservice to call her an assistant when the more appropriate and fitting title is Allie's Whole World, Both Professionally and Personally, Would Fall Apart Without Me Life Manager.

Whitney is ten years my junior and about twenty years my senior in every developmental way imaginable. She's smart, organized, never loses her cool, manages stress by actually addressing it, she's a home owner, she and her husband just refinanced their mortgage (I have no idea what that means but I do know adults do it), and she's already filed her taxes when there are still 3 days to go until she actually has to do so! She is everything I am not and thank Rebecca Black because I simply don't know how I would get by...

It was decided long ago that I needed help when, while working in an Excel document, I could not, for the life of me, figure out how to delete a row of data. I know it's bad...I do...but you have to recognize that, 1) I have no understanding of anything that happens inside of a computer and, 2) they didn't teach Excel and Power Point and whatever else is living inside of a keyboard when I was in school. Or they did and I was too busy failing out to show up for that particular session. Whatever. Anyway, when my boss, kindly but with some genuine concern, basically asked what my fucking problem was, I recanted the following story. 

My first job out of college, I was hired as a grant writer for a small non-profit. Part of that job, aside from just writing (which is all I thought I had to do at the tender and naive age of 22) unfortunately entailed tracking grant cycles, evaluation schedules, etc. I figured I could handle that enough...in my own database stored within my imagination, of course. So one day, my supervisor asked me to bring in a copy of my grant tracking...the copy that was obviously was being kept in an Excel sheet I had been updating on a regular basis. Well, as we now know, I wasn't doing that. Because I didn't have a fucking clue as to how to use Excel. So, in about 45 frantic minutes, I got in there, threw in all my prospects, deadlines, projections and evaluations. And you know what?? On the computer screen, it looked pretty good! But here's the thing with Excel...it may look nice on the screen, but when you print it all out, it can be like, 50 pages long with 1 column on this page, 2 random rows popping up on another, a title mysteriously appearing in a totally different spot than it was supposed to...it's that whole, crazy formatting bit. That word meant nothing to me...kinda still doesn't. What I thought would be a 3 page, beautiful Excel synopsis of my work, turned out to be thirty pages of disaster and mess. Naturally, as my denseness allows for much ignorance and therefore much bliss, I assumed this was what was supposed to happen when you printed Excel documents. Then I went further in assuming that everyone must just tape the pages together until they fit all pretty and stuff.  Like a big, fun puzzle game! Hehehehe! How neat! A puzzle game! Yay!

I got down on the floor, laid out all the pages and used a roll of scotch tape to meticulously stick each page together until it shaped itself into this enormous spreadsheet that I then proceeded to roll into a scroll and deliver to my supervisor's office. To this day, I can still see the look of sheer terror and disbelief on her face as I proudly unrolled a scotch tape Excel scroll onto her desk with a huge smile on my face. I...I just...I just can't even believe I was/ever have been employable. 

So back to my present day boss and my inability to delete a row of data and his inquisition as to why and my above story and final plea, "I will never be able to do this. I've tried. I can't. Please send help."

A few months later, the clouds parted and a sweet little stork dropped a Tumi briefcase at my feet with my very own Whitney inside. And my life was forever changed. 

It is unfortunate for Whitney that her broad skill set is limited to dealing with my dumb ass. We typically have slight variations of the same conversations each day:

Example 1:

Me (yelling for her from across the office - she sits maybe 10 yards away): WHITNEY! HELP! POWER POINT!

Whitney: I'll be right there.

Me (after she calmly makes her way to my desk while I'm pounding on the keyboard and throwing papers around in a panic): HOW DO I MAKE A BULLET?!?! WHERE'S THE BULLET?!?! THERE'S NO BULLET ON THIS THING!!!

Whitney (inserting a bullet point): It's okay. I'll take care of it. See? All better.

Me: Thank you, Whitney. I love you. 

Example 2:

Me (emailing Whitney): Subject: HELP! EMERGENCY! HELP!

Whitney: I'll be right there. 

Whitney (arriving at my desk): What's wrong?

Me (pounding on the keyboard and throwing papers around in a panic): HOW DO I DIVIDE IN EXCEL!?!? WHO EVEN DOES THAT ANYMORE!?!? DIVIDING!?!? IS THIS FUCKING MIDDLE SCHOOL?? HELP!!!

Whitney (inserting a formula, dividing): It's okay. I'll take care of it. See? All better. 

Me:

Example 3:

Me (standing up and flailing my arms wildly until Whitney sees me): HELP!!! HURRY!!! OH MY GOD!!! 

Whitney (professionally getting up from her chair and quietly coming to my aid): What happened, Allie?

Me (pounding on the keyboard and well..you know): THE PRINTER WON'T PRINT! I HAVE A MEETING! I'M GONNA DIE!

Whitney (adjusting print settings, hitting print, things printing): It's okay. See? I fixed it. You'll be fine. Don't worry. 

Me: Thank you, Whitney. I lo..

Whitney (walking away): I know. Thanks. 

You're probably wondering why Whitney doesn't loathe me, talk shit to her husband and friends about me, curse and hate me...and to that I would say, I wonder the same thing too. She should despise me. I know what I'm like to live with - a total pain in the ass. I get that and I believe with every ounce of me that Whitney deserves sooo much more. In time, she'll absolutely be the woman telling women like me to shut the fuck up and get it done. But by some fluke in the cosmos, I ended up with her today and by an even greater fluke, she actually does like me. Yeah, it's true, she likes me. And I like her.

Aside from my daily meltdowns, we have a very friendly relationship. We find the same people annoying, we find the same people cool, we have the same outlook on most every issue we've ever talked about, we have honest discussions concerning work and her future and mine...we're buds. We balance. Well, to the extent that I entertain her while she manages almost everything I do...sure, we totally balance. 

The other day she was showing me a new, fancy vacuum cleaner she was purchasing on Amazon. Wouldn't you know, when she pulled it up - it was the exact same vacuum cleaner I own (let's just ignore how lame it is that we were getting off on discussing home cleaning products). 

Me: "Oh my god. You're going to love that thing. It's awesome."

Whitney: "I've wanted one forever. I can't wait to get it."

Me: "What are those other things you have in the cart with it?"

Whitney: "Vacuum cleaner bags."

Me: "What?"

Whitney: "Allie, you have vacuum cleaner bags, right? You have to change those things. Tell me you have some."

Me: "I don't have some. I don't know what those are! I don't know what you're talking about!! HELP!"

Whitney: "How long have you had your vacuum cleaner?"

Me: "Um, 2 years, I guess?!?"

Whitney: "Go get your credit card right now. You need to take care of this."

Me: "Okay. But what do I do when I get them?"

Whitney: "I'll have to come over and teach you. Just go get your credit card."

And that's where the Life Manager part kicks in. Not only does she keep me in check at the office - she keeps me in check at home as well. Who knew anything about vacuum bags!?!? I'll tell you who...Whitney. Whitney knows vacuum bags. 

Whitney has also been helping me with my diet lately. And a few months ago, I decided it would be funny to start sexually harassing Whitney too. Hold on...these things will come together in two shakes. Let me start by explaining the harassment part right quick. We work for a non-profit organization. Our HR department consists of 1 part-time employee. Most of us are friends with her. You know that corporate environment you likely exist in day-to-day? Well, we don't operate like that. We roll pretty loose. And while that might be fun and all, take comfort in knowing that even as a corporate slave, you'll always be much, much richer than we'll ever be in our wildest dreams as non-profit worker bees. Because of the somewhat laid back, casual pace of our office...we can maybe joke around a bit more than what might be acceptable at your office...or any life situation in general, I guess. Okay, the more I'm trying to preface this, the more I realize it's never going to sound appropriate...so whatever...yes, I sometimes call Whitney "sugar tits" and "sweet ass". And maybe, one time, I told her it would be in her best interest to wear more pleather to work. I, of course, fell out of my chair laughing myself to tears, while Whitney just walked off and said, very rightly, "You're absurd."

This past weekend, while Whitney was off the clock and therefore had no obligation to deal with me at all, I sent her an email which was nothing more than me just freaking out, as usual, because I couldn't figure out how to roast a beet. I considered this to be Whitney's problem since she was the one that told me I needed more beets in my diet and to that end, I felt entitled to her attention and her proposed solution for the trouble she had brought on me by recommending such a stupid vegetable. 

Three long hours (inexcusable!) after I emailed her, she replied with the roasting instructions. I replied to that email via text. I'm including a snapshot of our conversation, and our wonderfully dysfunctional relationship, below (and yes, I was asking her about wheat gluten. It's complicated). 

There you have it. The consummate professional and her Life Manager. So, for Whitney, who will likely never see this here blog, I dedicate the most classic office jam of all time. Someday, we'll hold hands and skip our way to the big time, baby. Until then, don't forget the short shorts.