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2004-04-08 - 6:19 p.m.

Ducking work

A little lesson in the evolution of language:

It�s not that we�re not a great team, but I�ve had the most annoying week.
Really?
Yeah, one stupid thing after another. It�s like being pecked to death by ducks.
What?
Ever been pecked by a duck? It doesn�t really hurt you, but it�s painful and annoying.
Pause for a moment of fear before my colleague says I�m not on your list, am I?
No, you�re not on my list.
Duck, huh?
Ducks.

And, thus, more weird Theo-isms become part of my workplace�s vocabulary.


It�s been quite a week here in Lake Woebeogon, where duck season came, strangely enough, with the advent of spring. At least I suppose it�s spring. The calendar says April, but the weather is still vacillating, between 30 and 70 every day.

Theo, known for her blunt speech matching her red hair and Celtic heritage, got into a brawl with management about her problem employee. No one died, injuries were slight, and no prisoners were taken. It may all be ending well as soon as Emma teaches me how to write a remediation plan. At least all sides left impressed with each other�s honesty and integrity.

Things didn�t go so well for the independent reviewers who decided to run around like Chicken Little frightening everyone about design risks in Theo�s system. After four different high-level engineers called everyone *but* me, we spent a little time getting crystal with people.

It�s so nice to see clarity dawn on people�s faces, especially after you get their attention by threatening to tattoo it on parts of their bodies.

And if that makes you pause, consider this quote of the week from my hardware team exclaimed You think she�s blunt? No, she�s the tactful one. Try talking to me, and proceeded to rip them apart like a bulldog with a meaty bone.

That was a great spectator sport.


Best part of the week was dinner and a movie with K, where we tried (and failed) to eat a bucket of popcorn bigger than our heads. �The Prince & Me� is a completely cute diversion, well worth the mindless diversion. It�s longer than you might think for a formula script of �girl falls in love with guy who turns out to be prince,,� but it�s entirely worth the extra time for the lawnmower races.

Which made me think � all the racers had numbers painted on their mowers. Now, all I know about car racing is: I�ve driven around the Bristol Motor Speedway track; XM has NASCAR radio which I always skip; and where do they find women that still wear terry cloth tube tops?

How do the car racers decide which number gets painted on which car?

I asked the folks at work, only to discover engineers hate NASCAR because it�s (apparently) outdated technology, and Formula One is the only car racing worth watching. Never know what people�s soapbox will be.

(Formula One assigns numbers by your rank from last season. See, Jer, I learned something this week.)

Scribble to Theo

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