No matter what is happening or not happening at my job, I always have my window. I have a more premium desk location than most middle managers, right next to floor to ceiling windows, on the street level. It sort of resembles the gorilla exhibit at Woodland Park. The place where the gorillas sit right next to the glass, doing their thing, acting oblivious to the humans staring in. I however, am not so oblivious. I work with a lot of large digital files, so there is quite a bit of spinning hourglass time while things process. Even if I am working away, I keep one eye out on the sidewalk.
It's a lot of fun, actually. It's like a life outside of my life that I can write the script to and develop the characters in. Most people that I see regularly, have nicknames. ___ ___ Guy. Or ___ ___ Lady. A lot of them are blatant stereotypes or culturally insensitive as far as Political Correctness goes. But this is the nature of people watching. Cute Tattooed Intern Guy is what he is. Bleachy Haired Jessica Simpson Girl looks made up and vaguely beautiful every day at 9:50 on her way to work in the salon supply store.
It is my tendency and my responsibility, really, to observe and appreciate my fellow man. And by fellow man, I mean men. My brothers in Christ. As a single girl, it is a veritable parade of lovely, hardworking, potential suitors all day long. Pleasant looking construction workers, cute graphic designers, dapper business men or intelligent looking scientists inhabit my workahood. A lot of them are young too, as a result of the sorts of companies this part of town attracts. I have considered many times, printing and posting a sort of personal ad on my window, telling men what I am looking for and how to apply. But whenever I get serious about it, some slummy, scary guy will walk by and gesture or stare. There would be no way to filter, and that seems like a lot to deal with.
So I continue to watch, like the neighborhood busybody, everything that goes on. Firetrucks, police, drug deals, deliveries, the trolley going by, bike wrecks on the trolley tracks, the trolley getting blocked by a parked delivery truck once a day... You never know whats going to happen next on Westlake. It's a wonder that I get as much done as I do.
My Dad retired a couple weeks ago from 42 years working for the Washington State Department of Transportation as a civil engineer. I've only been alive for 27.75 years. I've only been working for 5 years, at two different firms, with a year off in between and I feel exhausted.
The whole family went up to Dad's office on his last day. They were having some cake and coffee in his honor. We took a look at his office, which wasn't packed up at all. The sign read, 'Project Manager' outside the door. Inside, rows of yellow post-its served perfectly as a phone book on the wall. The stacks of books and drawings were no doubt cataloged in his mind. Old photos of holes in the ground and overpasses in downtown hung on the walls. In-boxes and shelves, all chock full of information. It was the space of someone who knows. Someone who helped finish building I-5.
We went down to the conference room and mingled for a while with the coworkers. They had dad introduce us before saying a few words about him. The Assistant Project Manager, started out by saying that she had only found out that Marlin was really retiring on Thursday the week before. She was shocked and upset because she learned everything from him, and didn't know what they were going to do without him. She said that my dad knows more about their line of work than anyone out there. She said DOT people respect you more when they know you are from Lenssen's office. They assume you know what you are talking about, because you learned it from my Dad.
Some of the younger people said that he was a good manager. He knows everything, gives you the information you need, and then lets you make your own decision. Another person said he has an elephant's memory. Any detail about any project back to the beginning of his time, he remembers. Not only what project you mean, but where the drawings are stacked or what happened with the concrete. They said, "Marlin's a quiet guy, so you know when he talks, you better listen, because it's important." They said, " No one else ever reviews the signal plans. No one looks at them. But Marlin does and he has good comments on how to make them better. He never misses anything."
I'm not sure why I am surprised that at work my Dad is the same nice, cool, sharp, kind person that he is at home. The things about him that I learned to love and appreciate a long time ago, these people learned too. They really like him. It makes sense. A man of integrity is always a man of integrity.
They also spoke about how he could have moved on, could have found better pay or more respect elsewhere. He didn't have to stay, but he did. I have been thinking about this for weeks now. I feel little to no faithfulness towards my employers. I feel that I am treated lukewarmly, so my commitment is lukewarm. If someone told me about a great opportunity, worth uprooting the rest of my life for, there would be no hesitation to leave my job. That would be the last thing to hold me back. How can this be since I have come from a man that spent 42 years committed to his cause? Am I really that spoiled? Is there no where that I want to go in my firm? Are my expectations too high? Is it because my need for income is scarcely more than what I could make working at the surf shop? Do I not know how to work hard? It is my generation? Am I in the wrong line of work? Who knows. Maybe someday I'll ante up and commit to a job for real. I can't imagine it from where I sit now, but maybe it could happen. Maybe if it was that good. Or maybe if I was a little more disciplined, like my Dad. We would all be better off if I was. The DOT was lucky to have him around and we are all lucky to be driving through better tunnels. Good job Dad!! Maybe when I grow up, I can be as good as you.
9 years ago I was 19 years old over Memorial Day weekend. My roommates and I decided to hit the road for a weekend trip to Victoria B.C. We felt a lot like grown-ups, so why not take a mini-break getaway like grown-ups do? We pooled our money and crammed into a smoky room at the Days Inn above the bar. We took the ferry, wandered the streets, got into minor trouble and had a great time. Every year since, we have celebrated our friendships with a day or a weekend event. Camping, concerts and cabins. Nowadays, it's the only time I see some of these friends during a year. Small babies are allowed to come along and there is more talk about groceries and child development than about chasing boys. No one has danced on a sofa or flashed the neighbors for years. Oh wait, someone did actually flash the neighbors this year too.
Every year, I am overwhelmed with thankfulness for these women who are still a part of my life. Yakima, Bellingham, Tacoma, Portland, Wenatchee, San Diego and New York have taken most of my girls away from my everyday life. This makes me sad, and I mourn the loss of the best community of friends that I have ever had. Luckily though, we still hold together even if our visits comes in fits and spurts instead of consistently over a hot pan of brownies on Sunday evenings as college sophomores.
I don't have much to offer in the way of marriage advice, childbirth stories or home ownership tips and I feel a little like I've been lapped. This doesn't seem to matter though. I could just show up and sit quietly the entire weekend, and feel like I have been understood completely. We sit and drink coffee and talk for 36 hours straight, yet it barely matters what we are talking about. It matters more that we are sitting next to each other. I know that most people don't have friends like this. A tribe like this. An urban family. How do I deserve this blessing?
As we all seem to be getting older and growing in different ways we are still very much connected. Not just through the fun memories and the silly stories, although those would be enough to sustain us if they had to. Somehow, we are still making new memories and working to know each other's souls in the present. Unless we could all live on the same street again, there is nothing else I could ask for in my friends.
It's a lot of fun, actually. It's like a life outside of my life that I can write the script to and develop the characters in. Most people that I see regularly, have nicknames. ___ ___ Guy. Or ___ ___ Lady. A lot of them are blatant stereotypes or culturally insensitive as far as Political Correctness goes. But this is the nature of people watching. Cute Tattooed Intern Guy is what he is. Bleachy Haired Jessica Simpson Girl looks made up and vaguely beautiful every day at 9:50 on her way to work in the salon supply store.
