Do Not Pass Go. Do Not Collect $200.

The American Dream of achieving prosperity through ingenuity and hard work is still alive and well. However, when you combine this with someone who is functionally insane (or maybe just not the sharpest knife in the drawer-- it's sometimes hard to tell the difference), the results are often entertaining. And illegal.

The borderline-criminal act in question occurred back when I worked at a local college. One afternoon I went to the copier room to make use of the machine, but it was already occupied by my coworker, Brian. Whatever I had was not urgent, so I decided to just come back at a later time.

An hour or so went by, and I returned to the copier room, only to find Brian still there making copies. Nothing about our jobs required us to be tied to the copy machine for that long. If that was the case, our employer would make us hand over our shoelaces and all sharp objects at the start of each work day. So, obviously he was working on something personal. And massive. There was a good story behind this marathon usage of the copier. I HAD to know.

I managed to pry Brian off the copier and asked him what in the Sam Hill was he doing. He explained that he had devised a brilliant plan for making extra cash. He had a textbook for one of the classes that the college was offering that semester (I assumed he had taken the class in a previous semester). His plan was to make copies to sell to students that were taking the course. He was so excited about the profit margin of this little venture that he was even contemplating buying textbooks for additional classes and selling copies of them.

There were SO many things wrong with his plan that I sat silently for several seconds deciding what to tackle first. I chose to start small. I pointed out that while most businesses look the other way when their employees make the occasional personal photocopy, they tend to blow a gasket when an employee abuses company resources in order to subsidize his side business. And, in fact, if our company knew that he had just burned through over 80 sheets of paper and no telling how much toner, they would fire him on the spot. And then they would fire the spot.

Next, I introduced Brian to the term "copyright infringement." It was apparently a new concept for him that a book company (not to mention the bookstore and the authors) wouldn't want some Joe Blow from off the street to sell their product without permission. It was understandable that he did not know the exact term for his misdeed. (Actually, it's not understandable, but go with me on this.) However, he should have at least known that his plan wasn't strictly legal. I guess he was too busy counting the big piles of money he thought he was going to make.

Brian was a little disappointed that I had crushed his get-slightly-richer-quick plan. Still, he was grateful that I had stumbled upon him first and not someone with keys to the pink-slip drawer. I was happy to help. It was important to help Brian understand the legal implications of his actions. Plus, it gave me the opportunity to laugh at his attempt at entrepreneurship. Of course, it was mostly about the helping. The laughs were just extra.

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She must get lost. A lot.

When you temp for a living, you get to meet a lot of interesting people. And by "interesting," I mean to say "functionally insane." I guess you can say that on some level everyone is sanity-challenged, including me (did I mention that I temp for a living?). But it's my blog, so I've decided that I am the sane person in the room. And the voices in my head agree with me, so there!

Anyway, this brush with the bizarre occurred during my first week on a temp job. "Abby" was showing me the ropes. As she trained me on what I was to do, Abby handled a multi-line phone and juggled several responsibilities at the same time without breaking a sweat. All in all, she was a very competent person. So there's NO WAY someone like that would open up a can of CRAZY, right?

Well, during a slow moment in the day, Abby complimented me on my manicure. I thanked her and said that if she was interested, I had it done at the nail shop across the street, just north of this building. I tried to point in the direction of north, but the area where we were sitting did not have any windows, and being new to the job, I didn't have my bearings. Abby, surprisingly, did not know either; however, she mentioned that she had a compass in her desk that could help us.

A compass? Really? This wasn't a temp job at the Timberland Outlet Store. This was a paper pushing job at your standard office building. There was no conceivable reason why anyone would need a compass. But no worries: I'm sure there was a perfectly reasonable explanation for her having a compass. Maybe it was a keychain. Or maybe it was part of some novelty paperweight. Or heck, maybe she was an avid hiker and liked to keep her compass/GPS locator with her at all times because she never knew when the urge to go hiking would overcome her and she liked to be prepared. Whatever.

So, imagine my shock when she pulled a mouse pad out of one of her desk drawers. A MOUSE PAD. One of those little flat pieces of foam and cloth that you place under your computer's mouse to make it glide easier. A. MOUSE. PAD.

It was one of the company's promotional mouse pads-- it was circular and had a pattern of a compass printed on it. It represented the company's slogan which was something like, "using this company's products is going in the right direction." But it couldn't have been more not a compass. And yet I sat in stunned silence while this very accomplished woman ROTATED THAT MOUSE PAD clock-wise and counter clock-wise, trying to "adjust" it so that it faced north. After several long seconds, Abby finally gave up and said to me, "I guess this won't help."

No, I guess not.

[Note: I am completely joking when I say "the voices in my head." I once made that joke with a casual acquaintance, and she looked at me funny for the rest of the evening. Please don't assume that it is a cry for help. I let my drinking do that for me. KIDDING!]