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    This is our corner of the Internet. We're happy here. We're definitely "we" -- this blog is a group project. We all post as "My Own". This is where we write the things we can't say on our own blogs for one reason or another. We hope you like it here as much as we do. We hope you'll stick around.


  • At my work, I am the person responsible for collecting money and keeping coffee supplies stocked.  About a month ago, I happened to see an employee who does not contribute to the fund, scoop some coffee grindes for his own use.  I did not confront the guy nor did I report it to my boss.  But I did do something.  I started an investigation.

    I started keeping the coffee locked in my office.  I also kept a closer eye on how much coffee we use.  Over time, it became obvious a few people were dipping into our stash.  There was too much missing for only one person to be helping themselves.  (Especially the day where half a can of coffee was suddenly used up.)  I sent an office memo informing people of what I've noticed and asked for suggestions.  This created conversation and I did mention to a couple of so-called trusted people what I had seen.  But I also said there had to be others involved because of the quantity being taken.  That and the fact that many other things in the school go missing including food and kitchen supplies.  After a couple of weeks of discussion, one person made a suggestion.  Her idea was to paste a list of contributors to the fund.  Apparently, that's helped in the past.

    Anyway, fast forward to yesterday... As I was leaving work, the guy who I saw take the coffee asked if he could talk to me.  He brings me to his office under the stairs, offers me a seat and sits behind his desk.  It felt like I was being called to the principal's office.  "You know about all this coffee going missing business? Yeah, well, I hear someone is saying that I've been taking coffee.  Now, I admit I took it.  And it ain't right.  But I always replaced what I took!  This one time I even brought in a big can and put it up in the cupboard.  So, yeah... I don't appreciate people saying that I took coffee, even though I did because I put it back.  OK!?"
    I looked at him and asked, "Are you upset about this?" 

    He answers, "No.  I just don't want people beaking off about me!"

    I then said, "Ok, then.  The next time I talk about, or hear people talk about you taking coffee, I'll make sure they also know you say you've always returned what you took."  He agrees.

    While walking home, I couldn't help thinking about the absurdity I had just experienced.  I couldn't wait to share the funny story of "the guy at work who's upset people are telling the truth about him" with my husband when he got home.
    This week's drama in the condo highrise...

    -After the annual sprinkler inspection, a resident complains.  The inspector not only left lights on, he also left doors that were supposed to be closed (for a good reason!), open. At least this year, he did lock the suite's door.   Because this is the third year it happens, it's clear proof that the board does not care.  Either hire a different company or make the company hired pay for its mistakes.  Resident also thanks the board for, once again, upping his power bill.

    -Light bulbs have been burnt out for weeks.

    -The dog in ### is still in the building. 

    -Dogs are peeing in the elevator...again. 

    -Homeless people, drunk teenagers and pot heads are finding their way into the building via an unlocked emergency access door.  The new alarm will be here in two days. 

    -It's cold in parts of the building.

    -The electronic key system isn't allowing access to gym during hours of operation.  There's a problem with the software. 

    -The metal plate in the gargabe compactor broke after 20 years of garbage slamming into it.   (Last month, there was a blockage all the way to the 5th floor because someone threw away metalic blinds and jammed the compactor.)

    Thank goodness there's a Property Manager hired to take care of most of this stuff.
    In the summer of 2000, I was a young gal, fun-loving and free. I lived in a town called Inuvik, above the Arctic Circle, where I had my dream job: a position at CBC and a show of my own. My husband and I were very happy there. The sun never set. (Literally.) It was the perfect life.

    I was called to Yellowknife, our regional centre, for muckety-muck meetings with the MotherCorp's northern senior management. It was part of what management types call a "visioning exercise": what did we want to be in five years? Ten? Twenty? I was the Inuvik rep.

    As most people from the smaller communities are when visiting Yellowknife, I was keen to go shopping and eat in restaurants. I went to one of the local shops with a few of the other reporters, and came out empty-handed. Nothing fit. Not the clothes in my size. Not the clothes in the next size up. They just didn't fit right. What a downer.

    All was well, though: there was a pub around the corner from the mall. We ordered big, pink, girly drinks. Then we ordered some more. And then we ordered some more. We were really, really drunk by the time we staggered out the door and headed home.

    The next morning was not one of my better mornings, but I am not the sort of person to call in "hungover" to work. I went back to the meetings. That day I was very conscious of the fact that I had to go to the bathroom a lot. It's one thing to constantly excuse yourself during an evening of binge drinking to drown the sorrows of unsuccessful shopping trips, but quite another to constantly excuse yourself during your boss's boss's boss's presentation about Reflecting Canada To Canadians.

    "HAHAHAHAHA," I thought to myself in the hallway outside the meeting room during one of my unscheduled breaks. "I sure have to pee a lot! I'm either diabetic or I'm preg -- wait a minute..."

    Fortunately, I had plenty of pee for the stick. There were two lines.

    I spent the next six months desperately quizzing doctors and nurses about fetal alcohol spectrum disorder.

    My son is fine. No thanks to me.


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