B: 1/2/03

Work Diary, 1/2/03

After a brief, non-scientific, and thoroughly impartial survey, I have
determined that I have the messiest office of any of the other
supervisors.

Except for the four odd corners around my computer, there is very
little of my desk showing. Calendars, memos, sticky notes, pens, my
un-trusty green auditing marker that dries out within seconds of
contact with the open air - they all have their place, which is to say
they've all been placed wherever they happened to land. Many of the
items on my desk have gone condo?Kleenex perching on the adding
machine; road atlas on top of old road atlas, which in turn sits atop
an automobile appraiser list. This office will be a very messy scene
indeed if my lotion decides to jump off that stack of phone
books.

The wall next to the left of my computer is partially covered in sheets
of paper: Negligence laws by state, manager and supervisory lists, how
to reach an interpreter. The wall would have more lists, but I can only
reach so far from my seat.

Fortunately, there's a window to the right of my computer. I'd cover
that with paper, too, but I'm afraid the building management would
issue a curt and decisive memo on the practice (a memo that,
undoubtedly, would end up hidden somewhere on my desk).

On my floor is an extra calendar, a laminated chart (something about
the statute of limitations for property claims, all of it color-coded
and divided into the jurisdictions of the western United States), two
chairs that make handy receptacles for my laptop and jacket, and study
materials for courses in liability claims, claims for beginners,
supervising claims, and commercial claims. The study materials are
stacked neatly to remind that I really need to?well, study.

I have five filing cabinets. One of them - the tall one - is
permanently locked after the surly IT rep pushed in the pop-up lock and
then ran, giggling, from the room. I can't remember what's in it,
anyway. Two others are full of the prior supervisor's paperwork,
including employee reviews, office guidelines, and a strange folder
marked, "Me Own." I haven't had the heart to go through those, though
the "Me Own" file beckons. The last two cabinets actually do contain me
own stuff: Protein Power bars, packs of gum, old files I haven't gotten
around to closing, and paper clips. I am rich in paper clips.

I don't understand it. Also I'm a bit worried - my boss sits in the
office next to mine. Her desk is a polished expanse of cherry veneer,
with African violets spaced out evenly across the front. She has framed
prints; I have computer printouts of my dog looking fat. She has a bowl
of candy for visitors; I have crumbs of stale doughnut dotting my
keyboard. Her monitor shines like a mirror; mine is a testament to
allergies and sudden sneezes.

Two weeks ago, the regional vice president stopped by my office. He had
some other vice president with him, someone from the home office.
"Sorry about the mess," I said, to which the VP replied, "Ha, ha. A
messy office means you're hard at work." This freaked me out. I had
some logic in college, after all. Messy office : hard worker. Neat
office : hardly working. All of the managers and VPs have very, very
neat offices.

This job is turning me into a nine-year old who pitches a fit when told
to clean his room. Whereas I should be rebelling against political
strife, impending war, and/or the admirably tolerant Hillary Clinton's
poor choices in hairstyles, I'm refusing to tidy up my office
instead.

New Year note to self: Try to focus on what's important.