You can tell everything you want to know about him from the way walks: short clipped fast steps, his heels pounding the floor with a slap. He wears the corporate casual wardrobe like a uniform. His khaki Dockers pressed to a crease in the front, his oxford shirts in several solid muted colors, afraid to show any personality. It’s the same thing every day of the week. He is completely ordinary in every way, except one. He’s compensated for a complete lack of charisma and talent with longevity. He is where is he is because he’s stuck around, moving to management when the technology surpassed him and he couldn’t keep up. He knows the words, and tries to pepper his audience with them, hoping they won’t ask him to explain what any of them mean. He knows his days of walking his zip-zip heel slapping way through the halls are numbered and tries to look busy by inventing projects with important names. To justify his salary, he must keep busy. He must keep track of numbers, whether they mean anything or not. The spreadsheets and reports pile up, highlighted in a pastel rainbow according to a indiscernable color code. He is the bane of our existence. He stays while those who do real work drop like flies around us, caught in “budget cuts” and “restructuring”. We whisper and point and wonder, why not him? He does nothing. He makes more than three of our former colleagues combined. We sit, we wonder, we seethe.
Is it wrong to goof off at work on a day you were supposed to have off but had to cancel because off last minute requirements and changes needed on a project that all of a sudden became the top priority?
How can you tell your sinus infection is gone?
At work, I deal with our QA (it stands for Quality Assurance for the unitiated) group almost daily. When I make changes to any of our search products, I have to give the QA folks the code and then fix any bugs they find before it can go into production.
The QA process is weird. I work with the same two people all the time, and we have a rhythm. If the changes are fairly minor, we work on just that until it’s done. The problem is it’s like playing tennis with a medicine ball. I send the code over, they look at it, do their tests, send me a list of problems, I fix them and the process begins again. When we’re really moving, I can’t work on anything else. It’s hard to switch gears fast enough to remember what line of code does what and where to find the code to fix whatever bug’s been reported. So, I spend a good part of the process trying not to think about anything else. I do a lot of blog surfing, looking for new sites to read. It’s a weird feeling, reading but trying not to get too into it so I can react quickly to the latest list of bugs that could show up at any time.
That’s what I’m doing today. Until my QA-Buddy clears my latest Opus to the Search Gods, I’m writing (which is distracting me) and surfing. Yes, boss, I’m working! I’m QA-ing!! I swear!
I am now on a quest. Since I started this site, started checking search engines for it, and other people have found me because of the domain name, I’ve become fascinated by all the Lawvers in the world that I never knew existed.
I guess that wouldn’t surprise a “Smith”, “Brown”, or “Black”. Lawver’s not a normal last name. It’s weird. I didn’t think there were many of us out there, because once a name’s been out there for a while, people start to recognize it and don’t mispronounce it. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve been Kevin Lawyer. I’m sure the other Lawvers can raise their hands in agreement.
I always wanted a normal last name growing up. I wanted my mom’s maiden name: Cookson. There was always a lot of history wrapped up in. There were the stories of the guy who came to New York in the 1600s. We went to see a chest he made in a museum in Utica when I was in high school. Thomas Buell was his name. There was Lord Dalrymple the Earl of Stair who started a war in Ireland because he forgot to relay a message (or something like that). On the Lawver side? Zip. We didn’t even see my dad’s family. There were no great family stories. So, I thought we were alone in the world, a little Lawver Ship floating in a see of giant SmithLiners and BrownTankers.
Back to the present. I’ve been contacted by a Lawver who has a really cool first name (Tone, yeah, really). There are a couple Professor Lawvers. There’s a chiropracter Lawver, a racecar driver. There’s a type of soil called Lawver. There’s weather station in Wyoming called Lawver. There’s a Lawver Post Office in Campbell County, Wyoming. We’re all over the place.
There was a Lawver I know nothing about who showed up in a Google Lawver search who lived in Rawlins County, Kansas in 1900.
I like seeing that there are more Lawvers than I will ever know. It’s nice to know that on both sides of my family, I go back farther than the eye can see. I can’t explain as eloquently as I’d like, but knowing that I come from a long line of people who lived, worked, did their people things and died long before I existed makes me feel like I’m somebody. I’m standing on a mountain of people who’s essences came together, got distilled, jumbled and mangled to produce me. The farther down the mountain I go, the more people there are. The more lives lived and stories that I have yet to hear.
I just found out that this big evil project that’s been the bane of my existence since August is clearing QA today. It means I’m done, done, done for a while. No more bugs to fix. YES!!
Monkeybutt, and the joys of being 10. It reminds me of walking home from school in Iceland. The school and our apartment house were about 150 yards apart across a rocky field (they call it “tundra”, which is the perfect word for it). There were a couple of us who went to the school (A.T. Mahan K-12) and lived in our little apartment house or the one next door. In the winter, the wind would whip across that field between the houses and the school at about 30 miles an hour. To combat this, my little group of friends made a leanto out of rocks about halfway across the field. We’d run for the windbreak, collapse into it and catch our breath for the rest of the trip. It felt like an odyssey every day. Mr. Wilson wishes he was 10. I wish I was 7, sitting in the little leanto all bundled up, puffing steam laughing with my little brother.
Government says women have no right to drug (from Salon). Wow… and I thought we were bad.