I'm an hourly employee, not salaried. I punch a time clock.
Yesterday I punched out for the day, had my purse and gym bag slung over my shoulder and was walking out of the office. A coworker stopped me. "Can I ask you a quick question?" "I'm off the clock, now," I replied, heading toward the hallway. "Ok, I'll walk with you." And she did. And she asked me a work-related question as I headed toward the ladies room to change for the gym. She stopped short of walking into the ladies room with me. Her question was one that almost anyone else (still on the clock) could have answered. I found this rude and inconsiderate of my time. I had told her quite clearly that I was off the clock. When I punch out for the day, my head is instantly not in the work game anymore. I was in me mode. It was MY time. Her question, my answer, took maybe 30 seconds. No big deal, right? Wrong. Those 30 seconds were unpaid. Those 30 seconds, added to the current time I had put in for the day, might have rounded my work-time up to the next quarter hour, which might have been another $6 in pay. It's not a lot to some people. But it's something to me. It might pay for another 2 gallons of gas. And I look at it this way: If I'd been at home, she wouldn't have called to ask me the question (God, I hope she doesn't resort to that!) because she knows I'm OFF WORK. Besides, it was technically illegal for me to "work off the clock" to answer her question. I once went head-to-head with the director of our department at a big major retail headquarters where I worked when he tried to tell our entire department we had to all come in to work 15 minutes early for a meeting, without overtime pay. I told him this was illegal. He was dismissive, I went to employee relations. We got paid 15 minutes of overtime. He was livid, he yelled at me during a team meeting. I cried. I was right. He was wrong. We devote a huge portion of our lives to work. Some of us may love our jobs and are happy to work off the clock. I don't hate my job. But I value my time off work. That's my time. Even the 30 seconds it takes to walk down a hallway. I don't work for free and that's the bottom line.
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If this were real landscaping, I'd seriously question the overall design and arbitrary placement of these plants. It looks like it's in the dirt driveway. Where are you going to park your car now?
But, it's not real. I'm thinking the realtor recently purchased Photoshop and decided to show off his/her newfound graphic "skills." What a hot mess. Just because you know how to copy/paste a fern doesn't mean you SHOULD copy and paste a fern. FIVE TIMES. The mulch is huge - not in proportion with the copy/pasted plants. The lilies have been stretched and flattened. Oh, hey, let's stick in a bird bath. And are we supposed to believe the crudely drawn black line is garden edging? You couldn't copy/paste in some paving stones or something? Someone needs to revoke this realtor's Photoshop privileges. When Cousin Clyde is released on parole, he needs a place to stay.
Throw a mattress on the floor, cut a hole in the entertainment center for a small television and video gaming unit and put up an American flag to remind him he's in AMERICA, BY GOD! Welcome home, Cousin Clyde, where freedom reigns! This homeowner decluttered their home appropriate before the realtor took photos. They left some decor on the dresser, I suppose to keep it from appearing too barren. What is on the dresser, asked no one. Yet the realtor felt it important we should know: Gosh, thank you for letting us know by including a close-up shot of the owner's expensive perfumes.
I'll take the house for sure now! This "room" frightens me.
At least it has a window. And a socket for a tiny, dim light bulb. This is the room where dreams go to die, though. All right, you crazy Wisconsinite, you.
It's time to trim your philodendrons or use the cuttings to make new plants. This is ridiculous, bordering on creepy. But maybe it's just me, after reading the scary book The Ruins, I'm not a fan of any kind of ivy taking over anything. Dear Neighbor to the North,
I recall you proudly telling me your first dog was a rescue pet. You remember him, the one who got hit by a car twice while under your care because he wasn't contained in your yard? He had to have his jaw reconstructed and lost a few teeth before you finally put in an invisible fence. Remember how he kept eating cough drops because you hadn't installed your new medicine cabinet yet. It was sitting on the floor and he kept getting into it. You thought it was cute that he was basically eating poison. He was so lucky you adopted him, God rest his soul. And years later, you've started your own pack, maybe thinking yourself the neighborhood Cesar Millan. I'm sure the three dogs you currently own are also rescue animals. And this time you trained them with the invisible fence, so they stay safe in your yard. All day. All year around. Even when it's -15 in the winter. Maybe you weren't thinking "audible lawn ornaments" when you adopted them, but that's what they are now. You rarely interact with them except when getting in and out of your car. They are crazy for any attention, so they bark. They bark at joggers, bicyclists, neighbors. You leave them out all day, even when you aren't home. In fact, sometimes it's late into the evening before you do arrive home and let them in. In the meantime, they've been barking. All damn day. Several times I've asked you to please manage your dogs' barking. In writing and in person. And you do manage them after I've asked. For about three days. And then it's back to the old habits - your dogs barking, you ignoring them and me watching our property values decline. It's spring now and we can finally open our windows to air out the house. Oh, wait, no, we can't. Because when your dogs HEAR us open our windows (or front door) they start barking at us from across the street. In fact, when our windows are already open and they hear us open our Goddamn oven door, they start barking. That's right, I can't even open my own squeaky oven door without your dogs going on high alert. There's no point in asking you to manage your dogs anymore because YOU. DON'T. CARE. You don't care about your dogs while at the same time you probably brag to your friends you've rescued these animals. Sure, they have a home, of sorts, and are fed. But that's about it. No one in your household gives a crap about those dogs. At least they have each other, passing joggers, bicyclists, the UPS guy and my squeaky oven door to entertain them. Stop puffing yourself up with how noble you think you are by adopting rescue pets. You're a horrible dog owner. Sincerely, Neighbor South This is just odd.
It's not like there is counter space at each window to hold a plate. A drink maybe. But then there's no leg room. I just don't get this. Every year my husband and I head up north with a few friends where we rent a cabin on one of Minnesota's many lakes. We spend a week boating, fishing, drinking and relaxing. Sometimes we visit local casinos and shops and there's always a trip or two to town for supplies. We've accrued many memories of our annual summer trips.
Two years ago, August 2016, we stayed on Girl Lake near the small town of Longville, MN. On one of our many trips to town, my friend Susie and I waited by the truck while our friend Mandy walked behind a gas station to dispose of fish guts. Within a minute, she was power-walking back to us, a bear cub behind her. "Is he following me?" She asked, her voice tense. Yes, indeed, he was following her, at an unhurried pace. As the bear came closer we realized he wasn't a bear, but a really shaggy, large dog. The dog came over to us and waited patiently as we each pet him. Susie looked at the tag hanging on his collar. "Bruno" was his name. After visiting with us, Bruno headed down the street. The three of us fretted - where's his owner, why was no one looking for him? Should we tell the local police? We watched Bruno walk with purpose as he disappeared around a corner. I posted his picture on Facebook and one of my friends responded with a link to a news story about Bruno. He was the town's most famous resident and we'd been lucky enough to meet him! Every day, Bruno trekked about 4 miles to town to make his rounds before heading home again. He greeted locals and tourists alike and was well known throughout the state of Minnesota. On Sunday, May 7, Bruno was struck by a car and killed. He'd been 15 years old, a long time for a dog. And a life he enjoyed on his terms, belonging not just to his owners but to the Longville community. Rest in peace, sweet Bruno. We'll always remember you. While there's nothing really wrong with this real estate photo (and, hey, the photographer isn't even in the mirrors!), I really don't like what's going on here.
I'm not a fan of sinks that look like bowls sitting on the vanity counter. What's worse, this vanity isn't large enough to warrant two sinks. But I really have an issue with the two oval mirrors. They look like eyes. The space is too small for two sinks and two googly-eyed mirrors. |
About Sally FarleyI'm a typical, hardworking Midwesterner, enduring (and sometimes participating in) the passive-aggressive complexities of life in Minnesota. ArchivesLinksAsk a Manager
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