Red Light, Green Light

A couple came to the counter this morning at City Hall and asked me about renting the Machine Shop for a wedding some weekend in July. I pencilled them in and took their name and number, which I wrote down in the calendar book Mikey uses to keep track of the reservations. Half an hour later, while I was on the phone with another customer, Jo handed me a Post-it with a name and number on it, and I didn't recognize them as the woman's. I returned the call and as soon as she started talking about July it all came back, but Jo was truly disturbed when I told her I hadn't put the two together. Have I no short-term memory? Is it because I was focusing on something else? Do I not focus at all?

I despise my job. (The actual work and logistics, not the people and place. City Hall is lovely and the girls are my friends. But the paperwork!!! Ugh!) I want a new one. There's a slim-but-there chance I could get another one here at the City, at the Water Treatment Plant, but there's a minefield between now and then, and I'm not sure I want it bad enough to dodge the flying debris from Jim's and Mikey's offices. And I'm not sure I want to work for someone who goes by his high school nickname, which is 'Oop.' He's a nice fellow, but I have to tell people that when they call for the Superintendent of Public Works. I say "that would be Oop Hansen, I'll transfer you." They say "what? Oops?" and I say, "no, Oop. Please don't ask me," and they giggle. Which is only a tiny bit gratifying, even though I like to make people laugh. Local government jobs, mes amies, are a pain in the ass.