Posts tagged work

The Early Bird is a Bookworm

We have a rather special policy on tardiness and timekeeping in the office. If you badge in before the electronic timekeeping device flashes 7:30:59 a.m., your shift ends early, at 4:30 in the afternoon. If you badge in between 7:31:00 and 8:00:59, you may go home at 5. Enter the lobby between 8:01:00 and 8:30:59, and you’re good to go at 5:30. Show up a second later than 8:30:59, and you’re late.

Today I woke up unusually early, and I went about my morning rituals in a jiffy. I arrived in the office and waved my proximity card, victoriously. The timekeeping thingy greeted me (Welcome, Aldrin!) at exactly 7:30:12. I badged out later (Goodbye, Aldrin!) at 4:30:36.

I had a critically acclaimed movie to catch in less than an hour. I arrived at the multilevel shopping and entertainment center where I decided to watch it just ten minutes later. I was early. But I never made it to the cinema in time.

I was held up by a bookstore.

Sometimes, it can’t hurt to let loose of your inner child and just be the playful, mischievous little devil you used to be. I just came from a children’s party which was attended by full-grown working professionals: us. Every man, woman and inner child from our department who RSVPed affirmative to the invitations sent out a week before was present. The party was essentially a joint birthday and sendoff celebration. Five of us turned a year older this month while one member was assigned to work at an overseas affiliate company for a year. The party was held at McDonald’s. It was a welcome change of environment as we came to the venue right after another long, routine-filled eight hours in the office. As expected from a kiddie party, there were balloons floating above the room like neon sentries, party hats featuring colorful cartoon characters and loot bags waiting on a table to be given out as parlor game prizes. Yes, there were parlor games, of course. Although they were of the cheap thrills and fast rides variety, the consensus among us kids at heart was that, quite simply, they were loads of fun. But, decidedly, not nearly as fun as when a special guest showed up right after we finished eating our Chicken McDo and McSpaghetti meals. We wreaked havoc while eagerly waiting for the guest’s arrival. One of us had a chair above his head. Another grabbed the yellow Caution: Wet Floor sign and waved it around carelessly. We were hoping, wishing that it would be him. The suspense was killing us. It was a riot. Then, the collective excitement soared to a climax as, finally, he appeared. It really was him. In the flesh, purple fur and all, he was the one, the only, Grimace. And we went absolutely gaga over him. Whatever he was supposed to be, whoever was underneath that costume, no matter how repulsive the smell of his fur was, we didn’t care. We were having the time of our lives with this most lovable of all fast-food chain mascots. We were letting the inner child in each of us break free, letting it go crazy and take pictures with him. We didn’t care. We were smiling and laughing. We were smiling and laughing with no less than Grimace himself. And that’s all that mattered tonight. That is, until we realized that upon waking up tomorrow, we’d all be our usual grown-up and serious-minded selves again. Now ain’t that just something to grimace about?

Sometimes, it can’t hurt to let loose of your inner child and just be the playful, mischievous little devil you used to be.

I just came from a children’s party which was attended by full-grown working professionals: us. Every man, woman and inner child from our department who RSVPed affirmative to the invitations sent out a week before was present. The party was essentially a joint birthday and sendoff celebration. Five of us turned a year older this month while one member was assigned to work at an overseas affiliate company for a year. The party was held at McDonald’s.

It was a welcome change of environment as we came to the venue right after another long, routine-filled eight hours in the office. As expected from a kiddie party, there were balloons floating above the room like neon sentries, party hats featuring colorful cartoon characters and loot bags waiting on a table to be given out as parlor game prizes. Yes, there were parlor games, of course. Although they were of the cheap thrills and fast rides variety, the consensus among us kids at heart was that, quite simply, they were loads of fun. But, decidedly, not nearly as fun as when a special guest showed up right after we finished eating our Chicken McDo and McSpaghetti meals.

We wreaked havoc while eagerly waiting for the guest’s arrival. One of us had a chair above his head. Another grabbed the yellow Caution: Wet Floor sign and waved it around carelessly. We were hoping, wishing that it would be him. The suspense was killing us. It was a riot. Then, the collective excitement soared to a climax as, finally, he appeared. It really was him. In the flesh, purple fur and all, he was the one, the only, Grimace. And we went absolutely gaga over him.

Whatever he was supposed to be, whoever was underneath that costume, no matter how repulsive the smell of his fur was, we didn’t care. We were having the time of our lives with this most lovable of all fast-food chain mascots. We were letting the inner child in each of us break free, letting it go crazy and take pictures with him. We didn’t care. We were smiling and laughing. We were smiling and laughing with no less than Grimace himself. And that’s all that mattered tonight. That is, until we realized that upon waking up tomorrow, we’d all be our usual grown-up and serious-minded selves again. Now ain’t that just something to grimace about?

Win Some, Lose Some

My first ever memory of winning something was in third grade. A Milo caravan of some sort visited our school to serve free cups of the tonic chocolate malt drink as well as to give away some promotional novelties to schoolchildren. Our names were entered in a raffle. Up for grabs were Milo notebooks, pens and pencil sharpeners. I won a sharpener-cum-Alvin Patrimonio action figure.Three points!

Three years later, I won some money. I took home P2,000 cash after winning at an inter-school poster-making contest promoting environmental consciousness. Soon after that, I won even more dough in a nationalistically themed collage-making competition. Whoever said there’s no money in art obviously didn’t know how to make green drawings and patriotic arrangements.

Fast-forward to my senior year in high school, I was editor-in-chief of our school paper. I was sent to a press conference where the supposedly sharp pens of budding journalists from other schools in different towns and provinces clashed with each other. My editorial piece on jueteng impressed the judges. I won a shiny piece of paper with my name on it.

Attending university the following year found me abusing my thumbs for the sake of winning. I spent my free periods joining countless text-in promos from my then cellular service provider, Smart. For my first over-the-air triumph, I won a Nokia 3530, one of the first ever color phones tp be released, for being the top scorer in a The Lord Of The Rings: The Fellowship Of The Ring trivia contest. Afterwards, I claimed a sleek Samsung DVD player, the top prize in a similar contest for The Matrix Reloaded. Then came the greatest point thus far in my ongoing winning streak. Coming in first numerous times in a daily speed-texting/word-building game, I managed to collect, by the end of the promo, 7 Nokia 7250s and 33 P500 prepaid cards. Whew!

I graduated from college, and my interest in text-in contests carried on. I won heaps of stuff from radio contests, including my copy of Harry Potter And The Deathly Hallows. I also bagged a total of P50,000, give or take, after outsmarting other eager texters on an almost daily basis in yet another Smart speed-texting game. I thought of opening an account at Gringotts.

Now, I’ve become one of those hapless board-certified professionals. At some point, my job became so increasingly taxing that my preoccupation with joining contests began to wane. That my luck was evidently running out didn’t help either. I tried several rounds of speed-texting but, alas, my mind and thumb coordination wasn’t as quick as it used to be. Now, I’m working my bottom off full-time, trying hard to make ends meet. I wonder, where have all my luck gone? And, more important, whatever happened to my seminal Milo sharpener-cum-Alvin Patrimonio action figure?

Cache. Cookies. Cleared.

The past week turned out to be a particularly good one.

Item: For the first time in months, I actually enjoyed working. It felt like I was falling in love/like again with the job I applied for a year and a half ago. It’s a welcome change, considering that over the past couple of months I was on the brink of quitting. I even took a quiz online to help me assess my situation. The result was “Yes! Get out of there alive! Better start looking though.” AND “No, keep your current job.” 50-50. What do you know? Apparently I wasn’t the only one that’s undecided. Even the thing that I turned to to supposedly help me decide was.

After thinking it through, I finally chose to stay put. I just couldn’t shake off the prospect of receiving envelope after envelope of credit card and phone bills in the mail and not being able to pay them in between my current job and the next. Plus, the present state of the economy isn’t exactly conducive to successful jobhunting.

I chose to start over and stay. On my ergonomic chair. In front of my flickering monitor. Amongst soldering irons, printed circuit boards, signal generators and oscilloscopes. In the company of some of the best and funnest people one could hope to be teamed up with. And with hindsight, I’m glad I did.

Come to think of it, my rekindled interest in my job is also due to my newfound food fave, Arcor Tortitas. These deeply satisfying vanilla-filled cookies are available in the pantry-cum-honesty store in our office. It’s really hard not to get out of bed early and turn up for work every day when these little devils are waiting for you. Believe it or not, I quit Oreos for these.

After months of enduring long commutes (40 minutes in the morning and 20 minutes, tops, longer in the afternoon) from my old place in Sampaloc to my office in Ortigas, I decided to move into another room/apartment/condo, preferably just a stone’s throw away from my workplace. Fortunately, with the help of Willson, an old friend who, having just nabbed a job in Makati, was also looking for a place to stay, I found a fairly suitable spot that is well within walking distance to my office. We moved house last Sunday. Thank you, St. Anne. St. Anne is the patron saint of moving house. Did you know that? Of course you didn’t. If you’ve never watched Danny Boyle’s wonderful film Millions or read the book by Frank Cottrell Boyce the film was based on, then there’s no chance of you knowing that. Besides, what person knows the patron saint of whatever anyway? Such a silly thing to do, committing every single canonized person in history and every single thing he or she’s the patron saint of to memory. Silly, and practically useless, but it’s what Damian Cunningham does best. Moving House by Damian Cunningham Fourth Grade We have just moved house to 7 Cromarty Close. The patron saint of moving house is St. Anne (first century). She was the Mother of Our Lady. Our Lady did not die but floated up into Heaven while still fairly young. St. Anne was upset. To cheer her up, four angels picked up her house and took it to the seaside in Italy, where it can be seen to this day. You can pray to St. Anne for help with moving house. She will watch over you, but not do actual removals. Anne is also the patron saint of miners, horse-riding, cabinetmakers and the city of Norwich. While alive, she performed many wonders. Well, Damian, you’re quite a precocious boy, aren’t you? But I happen to be pretty awesome myself. I could repeatedly carry out the difficult task of assuming a horizontal position for hours in front of one of those terrible things of which St. Clare of Assisi is the patron saint. If only the one here in our room had cable.

After months of enduring long commutes (40 minutes in the morning and 20 minutes, tops, longer in the afternoon) from my old place in Sampaloc to my office in Ortigas, I decided to move into another room/apartment/condo, preferably just a stone’s throw away from my workplace. Fortunately, with the help of Willson, an old friend who, having just nabbed a job in Makati, was also looking for a place to stay, I found a fairly suitable spot that is well within walking distance to my office. We moved house last Sunday. Thank you, St. Anne.

St. Anne is the patron saint of moving house. Did you know that? Of course you didn’t. If you’ve never watched Danny Boyle’s wonderful film Millions or read the book by Frank Cottrell Boyce the film was based on, then there’s no chance of you knowing that. Besides, what person knows the patron saint of whatever anyway? Such a silly thing to do, committing every single canonized person in history and every single thing he or she’s the patron saint of to memory. Silly, and practically useless, but it’s what Damian Cunningham does best.

Moving House

by Damian Cunningham
Fourth Grade

We have just moved house to 7 Cromarty Close. The patron saint of moving house is St. Anne (first century). She was the Mother of Our Lady. Our Lady did not die but floated up into Heaven while still fairly young. St. Anne was upset. To cheer her up, four angels picked up her house and took it to the seaside in Italy, where it can be seen to this day. You can pray to St. Anne for help with moving house. She will watch over you, but not do actual removals. Anne is also the patron saint of miners, horse-riding, cabinetmakers and the city of Norwich. While alive, she performed many wonders.

Well, Damian, you’re quite a precocious boy, aren’t you? But I happen to be pretty awesome myself. I could repeatedly carry out the difficult task of assuming a horizontal position for hours in front of one of those terrible things of which St. Clare of Assisi is the patron saint. If only the one here in our room had cable.