I went to my first salsa class tonight. I’ve wanted to do something dance-like again for a long time, but what with my ridiculously changeable work schedule – OK, and a fair bit of the fact that I wasn’t willing to put on my big girl pants and step out of my comfort zone – I just hadn’t done it.
With the new job, and the fact that at twenty-seven years old I really ought to be willing to do something like dance All By Myself, I found a salsa class. The eight-week beginner’s class? Started today. My birthday was yesterday. It seemed like the right kind of omen, so I signed up, paid in advance, and did the first class tonight. It was fun!
There was the predictable mix of couples, unattached females, and one wannabe lothario present. He didn’t quite fit the mold, in that he actually possessed a chin and appeared to be of Asian descent, but still.
I had fun, in a mildly malcoordinated I-wish-I’d-left-my-high-heels-on kind of way. Also predictably, I failed to catch signals from men trying to lead me – I get insistent on staying in time and forget that women are supposed to follow their partner’s lead, but by the end of the class I’d more or less gotten over myself.
It’s funny, I’ve gotten to the age of 27 and still periodically discover a way in which I have unexpectedly grown up, or gained confidence, or whatever. A month or so ago I was in a foodcourt, couldn’t find an empty table, and marched up to a chap eating by himself, plonked down at the table (politely, with a “d’you mind?”) and proceeded to eat my lunch. I wouldn’t have done that a few years back. No confidence.
Funny the things that change.
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Policy: Skype banned on Company machines.
User: departs for overseas for two weeks. Tomorrow.
Time: 5:21pm. Friday.
User: “I want you to install Skype.”
Me: “I’m sorry, I can’t do that – policy prevents me from installing Skype on Company machines.”
User: “You won’t install it? Fine. I want local admin rights.”
Me: “So you can install it yourself? No.”
A dialogue in which I politely explain the policy for acquiring admin rights follows, in which I explain that it requires management approval at his side and mine. Along with a good business reason for the use of admin rights.
User: “What, family reason isn’t good enough? Company are sending me overseas for TWO WEEKS and YOU say I cannot talk to my wife and children??”
I explain that I do understand his position, but regardless of my personal opinions, I am required to apply company policy unless management explicitly allow an exception.
He hangs up in a hump.
I made the mistake of trying to contact the IRD today. Because I was attempting to find out if a thing I thought I owed them money for was, indeed, a thing I owed them money for, or if I was actually allowed to keep the money. The IRD website didn’t reveal what I wanted to know. Primarily due to me not knowing what to look for. So, I figured, hey! I’ll telephone them!
I dialled the 0800 number on my lunch break. A helpful male voice replies, and tells me that it’s terribly sorry but it does not accept 0800 calls from mobile telephones – if I want, I can dial a number that will cost me monies, or perhaps I could visit the website instead! Goodbye. *click*
I dial the number. A helpful male voice replies, and tells me that it’s terribly sorry but the lines are overloaded; perhaps I could visit the website instead! Goodbye. *click*
I dial the number. A helpful male voice replies, and tells me that it’s terribly sorry but the lines are overloaded; perhaps I could visit the website instead! Goodbye. *click*
I dial the number. A helpful male voice replies, and tells me that it’s terribly sorry but the lines are overloaded; perhaps I could visit the website instead! Goodbye. *click*
I dial the number. A helpful male voice replies, and tells me that it’s terribly sorry but the lines are overloaded; perhaps I could visit the website instead! Goodbye. *click*
I redial the number a total of NINETEEN TIMES. Eventually the phone is picked up (by the same automagic male voice) and I am walked through one of those godawful phone trees where you have to use voice-response for everything.
I apparently mis-navigate the system, because the helpful male voice replies, and tells me that that information is available on the website! Goodbye. *click*
I swear. Quite a lot.
I dial the number. A helpful male voice replies, and tells me that it’s terribly sorry but the lines are overloaded; perhaps I could visit the website instead! Goodbye. *click*
I bang my head on the desk.
I dial the number. A helpful male voice replies, and tells me that it’s terribly sorry but the lines are overloaded; perhaps I could visit the website instead! Goodbye. *click*
I do this a total of four times, before eventually getting through to the damnblasted voice activated phone tree.
It turns out it is much easier to navigate phone trees when you are so angry that you are snarling at the telephone.
After a number of grumpily snapped responses, I finally got the phone tree to agree to forward me to a human being. At which I discover that I am in a 45-minute queue. If I want, I can hold, which I am sure my phone bill would appreciate – or the IRD will call me back! But only on a land-line number, not on my cellphone; perhaps I could visit the website instead!
I swear vitriolically at the system and hang up the phone. Then I bang my head on the desk.
It only took twenty four phone calls, all of which I had to pay for, and a significant chunk of my sanity.
I returned to the website, gave up; searched the wilds of the general internet until I found a forum that answered my question, and armed with the correct tax terms, returned into the wilds of the website to extract my answer.
After all that, I don’t owe the bloody tax department money.
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I got to the carpark this morning, and went to pay – and there was a screeching harpie trying to rip the poor attendants a new one because she didn’t understand how earlybird parking works.
See, she’d parked on level 3, discovered the machines on level 3 don’t take credit cards, and so she’d driven up to level one to pay. Instead of, y’know, leaving her car down two levels and walking up to the booth like the rest of us. Apparently the fact that the levels aren’t labelled (lady, they’re still in the middle of construction) is MISLEADING and she can’t work out what level she’s on – “it’s the PINK ONE isn’t that GOOD ENOUGH????!??!?!?” She was doing the whole nine yards, the “WHY WON’T YOU TAKE MY MONEY???!!?!?!?!?”, and I just lost it in laughter when she actually started jumping up and down in frustration. This is a slim, mid-40′s woman in high heels, business clothing… and she’s jumping up and down clacking her heels on the concrete like a toddler in a tantrum. She just would not be told that you’re supposed to LEAVE your car on the third level, not just visit it in passing.
She turned to the queue building up behind her to apologise for the communication failure; judging from the snickering behind me (and also the way no-one was willing to catch her eye) no-one agreed with her. I kind of wish I’d spoken up, but I couldn’t face arguing with an idiot before I even started my shift.
Eventually they gave up arguing with her, and she drove off, presumably to go back down to level three and park (I wouldn’t count on it).
My own transaction went quite smoothly.
Me: “Hello, I’m parked on Level Three!”
Her: “Excellent, that will be Twelve Dollars Please!”
Me: “You know, I never thought parking here was terribly complicated.”
Her: *snicker*
I splashed out and bought myself a 900ml tub of Movenpick. Caramelita, because caramel is… let’s just say I’m a caramel girl not a chocolate girl. I can and have eaten myself sick on the stuff.
Anyhow.
Tub of icecream: Labelled Caramelita. It’s on the top shelf of a cupboard-style freezer, I yoink it into my basket, and go.
Two days later, I decided to have some. And think “huh, that’s odd, a walnut. And this doesn’t actually taste much of caramel.” But it’s late at night and I kind of forget about it.
Two days later I decide to have some! And there is walnut again, and this time, I notice the LID has a Maple Walnut label.
The tub? Caramelita label, Caramelita ingredients list. The lid? Maple Walnut. The contents? Maple Walnut!
Actually, it’s pretty tasty, I am totally eating it anyway, and I’m mostly just glad I don’t have e.g. nut allergies. And as, somewhat to my surprise, I still have the receipt, I’m contacting Movenpick NZ just, you know. As a polite FYI…
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Born in 83, New Zealand, geekgirl extra-ordinaire. Or so I'd like to think. Happily married to a Brit import.
