Last week, everything was going swimmingly until I tanked the Public Works department budget.
I was entering invoice data, minding my own business, when Excel started to act funny. Cells I clicked on turned blue. A pretty sky blue, mind you, but blue nonetheless. Then they acted like they needed a formula, all dotted line perimeters and such.
“That’s strange,” I said to myself. I closed the program and opened it again. Same song, different verse. Then I rebooted my computer. Still little blue cells.
Ever heard “doing the same thing over and over again expecting different results is the definition of insanity”? Well, I lived it. Then I got a black screen.
RIP, 2016 budget for 7 different departments.
But not for long. Our intrepid IT expert revived it. Telling people it was missing in action was tough, though. The humiliation. The questions.
“Susan, what happened to my link to the budget countdown?”
That’s not all. Last week had more in store.
About 7:40ish a.m., I picked up the handset of the shop phone to call a vendor. No dial tone. Hmm. Thoroughly old school, I knelt under my desk and unplugged the jack from the wall. I shoved it back into its rectangular slot.
As I stood up, I noticed the display blinked in a rhythmic fashion. Black, clear, black clear. Awesome. Now what? What else? I did it again. I unplugged all the different pieces of the phone and put them back together again. Because, people, that’s the extent of my phone knowledge. I realize it’s 1980s technology. It’s all I got.
The facilities manager came out after my call.
“What did you do?” he asked.
“Nothing!” I said. Which was mostly true.
He dug around under the desk. He stepped out to his van and replaced the phone cord.
“Usually that works,” he offered. He knew I felt bad.
Only it didn’t.
“Sometimes I have to go to the phone room and cycle the phone back on,” he said. He tried that. Nope. RIP, 30-year-old phone.
The upside? I got a phone new non-greasy phone out of the deal.
Today, I had high hopes.
Then this morning, the handle to the shop toilet stopped working. I jiggled the handle, an obligatory motion. Completely loose. It wouldn’t flush unless you shoved a lever *inside* the tank. Someone should put a sign around my neck. “Walking disaster. Don’t let her touch anything!”
I told our acting superintendent about the damaged lavatory, as the regular super is on vacation.
“If that’s the worst thing that happens on a Monday, we’re good.” And he walked away.
Mercifully, in a shop full of fix-it guys, someone took care of it without saying a thing. Whew!
Can I go home now?