More annoying tales from work.
Just about every day, somebody will toss a crappy handmade birthday card onto my desk for me to sign. These are generally made of construction paper and have a couple stickers haphazardly placed on them with a marker that says, “Happy Birthday, Jessica!” or something similar. We are all expected to sign it and pass it on to the next person. I’ll grab it, and halfheartedly scribble my name on it before dropping it into my neighbor’s cube. This means that on their birthday, everybody receives a piece of crap card that looks like it was made by a 4th grader with ADD featuring a series of signatures on it. It has absolutely no sentimental value whatsoever because it was mandatory for everybody to sign it. The process is a waste of America’s construction paper.
I’ve often been tempted to write something like this:
-”It is mandatory for me to sign this card. Sincerely, Peter”
-”Happy Birthday Jessica! I don’t know how old you are, but judging from the bags under your eyes every morning, you must be pushing 40.”
-”I don’t know you. Apparently it’s your birthday. The first statement renders the second statement meaningless to me.”
I don’t know. Maybe I’m too cynical. Maybe there are people in my office who find this tradition meaningful. Perhaps orange construction paper and rainbow stickers have great significance to these individuals. They may have cherished their half-assed birthday cards and read them every day to encourage themselves. These people probably work in the mail room and go home to a steady diet of mac n’ cheese and video games. They likely don’t wash their sheets very often and wear sweatpants whenever possible. They probably smell like musty bacon fat. Their speech is indistinct and mumbly. Their skin is sallow.
To these people, I offer my warmest mandatory birthday tidings.
I am thankful that TBE will just tell you, “There’s a card for so-and-so in so-and-so’s office.” If you don’t sign, it’s not like you’re going to be fired.
Of course, neither do I work in a cube farm.
I blame women. In general, but for this too.
Our workplace suffers from a similar plague–except the cards are purchased and have lengthy generic poems about whichever occasion is appropriate—however, often the birthday card passing serves as a beacon of things to come: usually birthday cake is served and we are either invited into a meeting room or the lunchroom to silently consume the cake.
Silently Consumed Cake. That would be a good album title.
I work in a cube-farm. Somebody really screwed with the cubical walls at Deltak because they are insanely tall. When sitting in my cube, I enjoy the towering carpeted walls, but, when walking around the narrow maze, every intersection is a blind intersection and there is bound to be disaster and akwardness around every corner.
Luckily, I’m just about the level where I can peep over the top of cubes and look for other heads/hair traveling in my direction. Unfortuanatly, Deltak has a manditory “four-to-one” ratio of short people to tall people. The gods of “one-to-four” ratios are pleased again, but inverted
The moral of the story. Please walk on the RIGHT side of the hallway, sidewalk, overpass…, we’re in AMERICA.
Doug
I usually just write:
You are a lazy employee, and I wish you were dead. Happy B-day! Don’t drink to much!!!
What I dislike is the responsiblity put upon me in finding someone who hasn’t signed the card yet. For some reason I always get the card after 20 or 30 people have signed it, then I need to read the card and try to distinguish who hasn’t signed yet. I feel like I’m invading the birthday boy or girl’s privacy. Plus, it takes me an additional 10 minutes asking around the office to find the one person who still needs to sign. Which usually means sneaking into an office and leaving the card on some poor souls office chair when they are in the bathroom…..
That’s so classic, Alexis. I’ve done that many times.
That is a phenominon that exsists in every workplace I beleive. What I dread is signing the card of a co-worker when they come from another country, where one of two things may happen:
1. You sign and write something polite, hoping that they read english, and can decipher that you wish them well. But usually that’s not the case, and it is meaningless to them. Or:
2. You copy a greeting written by another co-worker, in their native language. Only to find out later, that what you wrote was an insult, involving at least 3 swears.
I guess I opt for the smile-and-one-pump-hand-shake. Universal in any country.
Disclaimer: most of my co-workers do not read english, and speak in their own language. I work in a restaurant. This is not a generalization for all immigrant workers in the u.s.
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