Many, many things irritate me. One of my bigger bugbears is being interrupted at work. I realize people have questions and I realize that I’m the one with the lack of patience. I fully accept my flaws and eat the fault. I simply cannot abide by instant messaging, though.
A few months ago, our IS department decided to turn all of our laptops into mini-cyborgs with the magic of Office Communicator. It’s pretty slick program and while I’m not the biggest fan of VOIP, I do love the convenience factor. What I love most is the ability to share my screen and work collaboratively. The amount of problems solved in short amount of time is staggering. Being able to explain something to someone and have them actually get it without rolling out the white board and dry erase markers is sheer joy.
Being interrupted every five fucking minutes (via IM) by some stupid question or “ohaihowareyou” comment is enough to drive me to kill. I’m so not fucking around here, either.
As I’m happily pecking along, creating a monument to Rube Goldberg in Excel, I am confronted with the ping. The dreaded ping. The ping to end all pings. And I know that on the other side of the ping is an otherwise lovely individual deliberately interrupting my brilliance for their stupid questions. Or boredom. Or frustration.
We are not permitted to disable this feature. Don’t bother setting your status to busy or do not disturb, either. No one pays any attention to this. Particularly those who are prone to sending you an instant message about what flavor of oatmeal to have for breakfast. I don’t fucking care. Sincerely. Really. I don’t care.
I’m not the least bit concerned of the whereabouts of a meeting agenda. I don’t care that you cannot find something. I don’t care that you’re doing something tedious and need some amusement to lighten your day. I. AM. BUSY. I am doing something. I am occupied and that’s all that really matters in this world, isn’t it?
I would love to generate some sort of automatic response that reads: Unless you’re on fire, kindly fuck off and die. Alas, I cannot. I don’t want to hear feedback about my lack of interpersonal skills and that I need to be a “team-player.” No. No. Instead, I will grit my teeth, inhale deeply, slap on a fake smile and say “ohaithar! howareyoutoday?” while pointing a finger gun at my temple.