Office Jargon Decoding, 101

The office environment is riddled with inuenda, hidden meaning, reading between the lines and flat out lies. Terms have been created to make things sound much more PC and acceptable in today’s over-litigious world. If we said what we meant, we’d all get our asses sued until next Tuesday. Or whatever that ridiculous saying is.

For all of you lucky bastards who don’t have to work in offices, or even for those of you who do and are just to naive to realize what people are saying to you, please to be allowing me to decode these cryptic office terms. Also, there’s a few wonderful tips on how not to talk to someone who is answering your phone call in here.

Ahem:

• “I’ll have to look into that for you.” = For the love of all things holy, you have asked me the same question 17 times, you are just rearranging the words and I am so over it, you dumb fuck. I don’t know why you don’t understand when I say ‘I don’t know’. I am not Google, I do not spit out answers in 0.17 seconds when you ask me questions. I really want to tell you to go DIAF, but instead I am going to politely cut off this conversation at the knees, hang up and breathe deeply before I sucker punch the next person who walks in the door.

 

• “I’ll pass that along, thanks!” = You stupid prick. You really let that bother you enough to bring it up to me? Holy shit, I wish I had a life that was so vapid that I could worry about the ridiculous things that you do. I feel sorry for you that you just wasted your time and energy like that. It must be really difficult to go through life getting so worked up about minutae. Oh, and by the way, there is absolutely no way I am passing that along. I will get laughed out of the office if I bring it up. But I’m sure you feel much better now that you’ve let me know that you don’t love the hold music. Carry on.

 

• “I’m sorry, can you repeat that? I didn’t catch it.” = I’m sorry, can you repeat that? I didn’t catch it. It doesn’t mean I didn’t understand. I don’t want you to launch further into a story when I don’t even know what it’s about. And please, do not get mad at me when I don’t understand your name, especially when you are mumbling and english isn’t your first language. I’m not stupid, you’re just incoherent.

 

• “Yeah, I totally emailed them to follow up! I can’t believe they haven’t answered me yet!” = Shit. I totally forgot about that. You told me, then I went back to playing bejeweled online. I never once gave it a second thought. But I am totally going to throw the intended email recipient under the bus, so that I can save my own ass. This time, I really WILL send the email. Probably.

 

• “Sorry, I’m not sure we’re on the same page….” = Nobody in the history of the world has ever been more wrong than you are right now. OMG, you hurt my brain. Let me explain this to you one more time, before I pull out the finger puppets to try and act it out for you.

 

• “Please advise” – I’ve given you one option in this email. There’s nothing to advise. I’m moving forward whether you like it or not. But I don’t want you to feel like you’re being overruled and backed into a corner. Anyways, nice chat.

 

• “Let me review the contract and get back to you.” = I know I’m right. You are wrong. You signed for it, sucker. Now I’m going to go dig it out of the file and blockquote the exact condition that you’re arguing. Then, I’ll scan it so you can see your pretty pretty signature right underneath that. That’ll learn ya to disagree with me. I’m also going to forward the email I kept in my archives where I explained that condition explicitly to you and you said, ‘Okay, sounds great!’. You’re gonna feel soooooo dumb.

 

• “I haven’t forgotten about it. It’s on my list” = Yeah. It’s there. And sliding further and further down it every time you ask me about it. Go ahead, ask me again. I dare you. You have fallen waydown the list, below my bejeweled playing and sorting through my elastic bands to see which ones have become brittle, because you keep bugging me. Stop it. I hate you.

 

• “Thanks for letting me know, I’ll definitely talk to them about that. Yeah, no, it’s important to know, so thanks!” = Go away, you douche. I’m not yelling at my staff cuz you got all butthurt when they didn’t roll out the red carpet for you. They deal with crap all day and I’m fully aware that they snap ocassionally. But they show up on time and generally manage to complete their tasks, so I’m not about to go berating them on your behalf. But yeah, totally, thanks for the feedback! I can’t wait to use it to improve our efficiency and general operations!

 

• “Good morning, Office ABC” = Good m0rning, Office ABC. I know where I work. Please, don’t ask me if this is the Canadian Alien Contact Embassy or whateverthehell. When I repeat myself saying, ‘Office ABC’, don’t ask me if I’m sure. I am. Shockingly enough, reciting the phone number you called isn’t going to change that. Also, telling me that your friend Martha gave you the number cuz Jim recommended the place and you’re calling now cuz you’re on your lunch break since you took it early today cuz Janet has to leave at 4? Doesn’t change anything, you have misdialed. It happens. Put on your big boy pants and move on. You’re wasting my time, I have a game of bejeweled to get back to. Some people.

 

• “Well, see, I can’t do that. Corporate policy. Head office would kill me!” = I don’t really feel like going out of my way for you. I dont see any point in exerting myself more than necessary. So I’m going to pass the buck and blame the faceless ‘corporate’ people. Hate on them, not me please.

 

• “Regards” = I’m not sincere, I don’t want to say cheers, I don’t want to say thanks, and I am trying to mask my disdain for having to deal with you. I can’t just say, ‘Do this now, bitch’ and then sign my name. I need some type of closing line. So, regards it is. Warm regards means I really hate you but I’m trying to cover it up with syrupy sweetness, which is totally transparent if you know me, but I don’t care.

Now, go forth and spew bullshit! Or at least get unfoundingly offended when you hear one of these terms, cuz now you’re wise to the hidden meanings. You’re welcome.

Deadly fruit, OR, learn to spell.

Pinapples.

Not pineapples, mind you. Pinapples.

That was the first thing I saw when I walked into my local grocery store, written out by hand on the little produce signs.

The spelling and grammar nazi part of me starting having a mini rage attack, without the mini part. I looked around quickly to see if I could find the marker they used and quickly insert an ‘e’ into the word. I didn’t want people to think that a new fruit had been invented. God forbid someone who was allergic to pineapples picked up one of the fruits mislabelled by the dim supermarket employee. They would go happily on their way, looking forward to their fruit salad snack later in the day, only to die a horrible suffocating death when their throat swelled up and slowly it dawned on them……….it wasn’t an amazing new fruit, remarkably similar in appearance and taste and name to the pineapple….it WAS a pineapple!

Choose carefully. Amongst these pinapples is one deadly pineapple.

I am assuming that the speller in question was a pimply 16 year old boy. Why the hell can’t this current generation (Generation Me, I think they’ve been dubbed) do the simplest of things like get their damned hair out of their face or SPELL? I hate you emo kids! These kids have grown up, suckling on the teats of spellcheck, and when they leave their computers behind they fall apart. They’re essentially illiterate. How are they passing spelling exams? Do they still have them? Did this same thing happen to math after the invention of the calculator?

It saddens me that a basic pillar of human civilization has fallen apart in one generation. Thousands of years to build it up and poof, we have pinapples. Granted, I’m as guilty as the next of using lolspeak and texting in phonetics, but for actual correspondence where I want to appear as though I am someone who isn’t a moron, I whip out my mastery of the English language. There was a time when people were judged for bad spelling. I miss those judgemental times.

Everyone else is slowly adapting to spellcheck laziness too. Someone I know put up a new website and implored me to look at it. The spelling mistakes and misuse of words (their, they’re, there; to, too, two) were rampant! It was a damned spellingmistakepalooza! Reading it made my head explode. True story.

And another thing! You can’t just rely on spellcheck. It isn’t smart. It just isn’t. Observe:
“There going to go their with they’re friends.”
Spellcheck would have absolutely no issue with that non-sensical sentence. Everything is perfectly fine in the spelling department. However, it is a major fail in the ‘What the ass are you talking about?’ department.

I know all you bleeding heart liberals are going to cry out in defense of those with dyslexia and who are ESL. Well, my first rebuttal is why are you on my blog? Get off. Second, this isn’t about those people. I am speaking of perfectly abled, native English speakers who are just lazy and apathetic.

To end my pointless rant on how angry improper spelling makes me, I will close with this eloquent photo. It conveys my sentiment and makes me a massive hypocrite all at once. Frankly, I find that funny:

Indeed.

Living with a med student, 101

Last night we went on our nightly romp around the neighbourhood, I brought up the rear, trudging along behind the beau and the dog who marched dutifully onwards through the eerie suburbs of Ottawa. He blathered on about this and that, while I tried to avoid tripping on the dog as she weaved around erratically. I was mainly focused on my Spitz. In fact, fully focused on my Spitz. I come from the prairies, where Spitz are a way of life and I’d just scored myself a three-pack at Costco this weekend. They make the walks much more bearable, as it gives me something to do other than just walk. Pft, physical exertion is overrated I say!

It’s a long walk and I guess I ate a bunch more Spitz than I thought, which means I’d probably consumed more sodium than any one person should in a matter of half an hour. That didn’t stop me though, I’ll eat those things until I get blisters from the salt.

We got home and I went to brush my teeth before bed. I absent mindedly muttered that my stomach hurt.

Wrong move.

Instantly, the beau was in the doorway of the bathroom, Med Student hat firmly ON. It was amazing how fast he’d gotten up there, he’s usually a pretty slow moving kind of guy.

“Your stomach? Like, here?” he asked, vaguely indicating somewhere that I had no idea involved my stomach. It’s way higher up than I thought. I could have sworn he was pointing to his heart, which frankly, is much more central than I ever realized.

“I don’t know, like, my stomach.” I kept brushing my teeth.

“Okay, well, like, here? Or is it further down? What do you mean by hurt?” He was getting into it now, the medical glaze was making its way over his eyes. “Why does it hurt? What’d you eat? What kind of pain do you mean by hurt?”

I really kind of just wanted to brush my damn teeth and go to bed. I didn’t feel like playing doctor. Trust me, it ISN’T a fun, sexy game.

“I dont know. Whatever. My tummy hurts, THAT kind of pain. Tummy hurt pain.”

He pondered this, no doubt running through his lectures and textbooks in his head, trying to remember when someone says ‘tummy’ does that indicate ‘death is imminent via gigantic tapeworm and tumor’ or ‘generally nothing, give them ginger ale and send them to bed’

“Well, I mean….”

“Gah! I dont know! My stomach hurts! I just ate a million sunflower seeds covered in salt that was covered in salt! It was just something to say! I’m fine, I just want to go to bed! I don’t need a full work-up!!”

I am slowly learning to never mention anything about my physical being or experience while living with him. Every itch, tic, spasm, cough or hiccup gets rocketed into ‘let’s play diagnosis!’ I’m barraged with questions, never-ending, subjected to pokes and instructed to breathe deeply. I’ve gotten very good at describing pain other than ‘ow’ or ‘I dunno, it hurts, stop pushing on it!’

Maybe I’ll get a shirt that says, “I’m fine, don’t touch me!”

I’m sure that’ll go over REALLY well. Maybe I should just try and not eat a pound of sunflower seeds on the walks, or else soon he’ll be lecturing me on strokes and hypertension.

No. I don’t speak french, and no, that doesn’t make me a moron or someone who should be reported.

Dear Entitled Francophone Jackass:

I understand that I have to share a country with you. I also understand that you think you’re pretty hot shit, since in Ottawa, French is in demand and if you can speak it, you really don’t have to do much else during your 8 hours at work.  I also understand that in Canada, ‘bilingual’ means that people who speak english need to be able to speak french, but that the french don’t have to be able to speak english.

Yeah, I love a good double standard.

I understand all of those things. Doesn’t mean I agree with, or comply with them.

I know that you think that since you speak the francais, that I should speak the francais. Unfortunately for you, you lost the war, so I don’t have to.

Today, when I passed through a client of yours and asked you to kindly speak to her since you’re bilingual and she was blathering away in french, I don’t understand why you turned into such a pansy bitch.

Me: “Hi you, I have a person on the line who wants to speak with you. I couldn’t understand her since she only speaks french and I don’t, so can you speak with her?”
You: “Uh, well, can you just take a  message?”
Me: “But, she only speaks french. I don’t speak french. You do. Can you take the call?”
You: “No. Just take a message please.”
Me: “But…..I can’t speak to her…..I don’t speak what she’s speaking….?”
You: “You don’t speak FRENCH?”
**Crickets**
Me: “No. I don’t.”
You: “So, you don’t speak french.”
Me: “No. I don’t. She does. I can’t speak to her. Instead of me just throwing her to voicemail without a word, did you want to speak to her?”
You: “You don’t speak FRENCH??”
Me: **Looking around for the hidden cameras, cuz surely you aren’t that retarded and this must be a joke. I mean, it isn’t like I’ve just told you that I’m actually a six headed alien here to devour you and take over the world. It isn’t THAT shocking. Surely, in your time in Canada, you’ve encountered a (gasp) anglophone**
You: “What’s your name please?”
Me: “Talea. T-A-L-E-A. Here she is.”

I then transferred her over, so you two could talk about what a stupid english speaker I am.

Okay, so I know that since you asked my name, you’re going to turn around and tell your boss, who pays me to answer his phones remotely, that I don’t speak French. Um, knock yourself out. Being pissed that I can’t speak two languages isn’t going to make me magically bilingual. It’s only going to make you look like someone who kept a client on hold for a stupid amount of time while you boggled over the fact that I dared call you with this. I’ve called your boss about eleventy billion times telling him that there’s a language barrier and I need him to speak to this person. He takes the call and deals with it.

I hate you so much. I spend all day dodging the french here and just trying to get the goddamned Starbucks baristas to converse with me in English. It shouldn’t be that hard, since I live in Ontario, but it is. I hate that I am made to feel like a foreigner all day long in my own country. If I moved to Quebec, I’d expect it. This ISN’T Quebec. All of Ottawa, including yourself, seems to have missed that memo.

And you know what REALLY irks me? I talk to people from Quebec all day long, and they never throw the same attitude at me as Ontario francophones.

Does this post have a point? No. Not really. I was just pissed at you for treating me like a fucking idiot and thinking that the fact that I only speak english is a reportable offense. It isn’t.

In short, vous pouvez allez mourir dans un incendie.

Hugs and kisses,

Talea.