The Yam* was chatty today, feeling helpful. He had to give advice, express appreciation, ask questions so that he could ignore the answers. The Yam does not respect personal space; he stands in my bubble. I think about stabbing him in his eyebrow, and wonder how his wife can stand to be around him. I expect she drinks, and that she has a lover. Maybe several.
The Chatterer* talked on the phone about her child who will soon be attending a party. There is much concern over what the girl will wear, over selecting the right color of jaunty cowboy hat. The girl is under two. The Chatterer does not know that her daughter will one day come to hate her. Eventually, the girl will come home with a shaved head, a bondage collar, and a girlfriend in flannel. Either that, or she will grow into the worst kind of spoiled princess. A young woman capable only of narcissism and avarice. No matter how this turns out, there will be screaming and recriminations.
The Chatterer is contemplating divorce, although she might not even know this yet. She does not like her husband, and likely never did. One day, in a year or 18 months, she will finally find a "reason" to leave him. I wonder if he knows.
I love my job.
*The V.P.
*His assistant
Showing posts with label Corporate Happy Fun. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Corporate Happy Fun. Show all posts
Friday, April 10, 2009
Sunday, April 5, 2009
Annnnddd . . . We're Back!
I haven’t written. Again.
I have parted ways with Corporate Happy Fun Job, and I find that the decompression caused my brain to get all . . . fluffy . . . Not to mention, the sudden dearth of day-to-day contact with douchebags and morons has left me at a loss for things to write about. It seems that without someone actually in my presence being a dickwad, I can’t work up the necessary amount of irritation to write about anything.
Which means that my writing is like a pearl--an un-grammatical, profane pearl. Letters are the nacre I use to lessen the irritating grit that is Other People’s Bullshit. Or something. Doesn’t that sound nice? I think it sounds nice.
The intervening weeks have also seen me take a much needed trip to visit The Esteemed Liquor Fairy in her coastal lair; as well as winter entering its final death throes (even if it is supposed to snow tomorrow, which really? Fuck a bunch of that). April might be the cruelest month, but March turned into a most eventful one.
Now that I’m getting settled, more or less, in the new job and the new season I find that I’m somewhat more inspired to write and participate. Also, although the new job—CHFJ.2, if you will—is in no way as idiotic as the last, working for a living still pretty much sucks.* My new bosses are not either of them swaggering dildos, although the one does have that unfortunate spray tan addiction that makes one look all sweet potato-y. I see in my future many exciting days of self-control followed by evenings of profane venting.
*Currently accepting applications for a patron. Contact me through this blog.
I have parted ways with Corporate Happy Fun Job, and I find that the decompression caused my brain to get all . . . fluffy . . . Not to mention, the sudden dearth of day-to-day contact with douchebags and morons has left me at a loss for things to write about. It seems that without someone actually in my presence being a dickwad, I can’t work up the necessary amount of irritation to write about anything.
Which means that my writing is like a pearl--an un-grammatical, profane pearl. Letters are the nacre I use to lessen the irritating grit that is Other People’s Bullshit. Or something. Doesn’t that sound nice? I think it sounds nice.
The intervening weeks have also seen me take a much needed trip to visit The Esteemed Liquor Fairy in her coastal lair; as well as winter entering its final death throes (even if it is supposed to snow tomorrow, which really? Fuck a bunch of that). April might be the cruelest month, but March turned into a most eventful one.
Now that I’m getting settled, more or less, in the new job and the new season I find that I’m somewhat more inspired to write and participate. Also, although the new job—CHFJ.2, if you will—is in no way as idiotic as the last, working for a living still pretty much sucks.* My new bosses are not either of them swaggering dildos, although the one does have that unfortunate spray tan addiction that makes one look all sweet potato-y. I see in my future many exciting days of self-control followed by evenings of profane venting.
*Currently accepting applications for a patron. Contact me through this blog.
Monday, February 23, 2009
The Resignation Letters I Wish I Could Send
Dear Immediate Boss,
I know you're going to miss me, my knowledge, and the opportunity to take credit for my ideas. However, because you're an ass-kissing yes man, I feel confident that you have a future of middling achievement ahead of you here at Corporate Happy Fun Job.
While I do regret that I will not be present to witness your future grammatical flights of fancy, I can only trust that your tangential understanding of the English language will continue to serve you and your unending pursuit of mediocrity.
I cannot thank you enough for all the important things you've taught me, including exactly how much alcohol a 32-year-old woman can reasonably expect to consume and still make it into work the next day. In return, please do contact me here if you should need assistance in my absence.
Sincerely,
etc.
Dear Swaggering Dildo,
I really do not know how to thank you for the opportunity to labor in in the unventilated mine shaft of your team for the past . . .god, it's so hard to tell time in this place without light. . . let's just call it a year.
Your inability, nay, unwillingness to listen to anything but the throbbing of your own engorged-yet-tiny penis has been an important lesson to me. To wit, that knowledge is secondary to swagger, and that knowledge is secondary to swagger.
When in my new role I am compelled to make a decision I will follow your fine example and simply masturbate--because input from knowledgeable actors invested in the process is for communists and losers.
In short, fuck you. I wouldn't piss in your mouth if your teeth were on fire.
Yours,
etc.
Dear Co-Workers,
God help you. You're all so fucking stupid that I can't imagine how you don't just die because you forget to breathe.
Please note: before my final departure, all inquiries will be filtered through the ticking clock of my remaining days and answered accordingly. Following my departure, please seek your answers here, or when in doubt, here.
Word to your mother,
etc.
Dear Corporate Happy Fun Job,
Behold, my sublime left tit.
I'm out. Peace.
I know you're going to miss me, my knowledge, and the opportunity to take credit for my ideas. However, because you're an ass-kissing yes man, I feel confident that you have a future of middling achievement ahead of you here at Corporate Happy Fun Job.
While I do regret that I will not be present to witness your future grammatical flights of fancy, I can only trust that your tangential understanding of the English language will continue to serve you and your unending pursuit of mediocrity.
I cannot thank you enough for all the important things you've taught me, including exactly how much alcohol a 32-year-old woman can reasonably expect to consume and still make it into work the next day. In return, please do contact me here if you should need assistance in my absence.
Sincerely,
etc.
Dear Swaggering Dildo,
I really do not know how to thank you for the opportunity to labor in in the unventilated mine shaft of your team for the past . . .god, it's so hard to tell time in this place without light. . . let's just call it a year.
Your inability, nay, unwillingness to listen to anything but the throbbing of your own engorged-yet-tiny penis has been an important lesson to me. To wit, that knowledge is secondary to swagger, and that knowledge is secondary to swagger.
When in my new role I am compelled to make a decision I will follow your fine example and simply masturbate--because input from knowledgeable actors invested in the process is for communists and losers.
In short, fuck you. I wouldn't piss in your mouth if your teeth were on fire.
Yours,
etc.
Dear Co-Workers,
God help you. You're all so fucking stupid that I can't imagine how you don't just die because you forget to breathe.
Please note: before my final departure, all inquiries will be filtered through the ticking clock of my remaining days and answered accordingly. Following my departure, please seek your answers here, or when in doubt, here.
Word to your mother,
etc.
Dear Corporate Happy Fun Job,
Behold, my sublime left tit.
I'm out. Peace.
Sunday, February 8, 2009
Bitter
So, this week at Corporate Happy Fun Job has been crazy making. At this point the negativity surrounding my job has gown, cancer-like, to the point where it is beginning to blot out the sun. There is nothing, nothing not eclipsed by the ticking clock that counts the minutes between now and when I have to go back to that place.
I am particularly susceptible to career-related disgust right now because they announced our raises this past week. The fact is this: I knew that I was going to be righteously pissed by the entire affair; that there was no way they were going to give me what it would take to make me happy. What blew me away is how VERY, VERY pissed off I was. As my boss sat there and blathered on and on and fucking ON about how generous CHFJ’s fucking package is, I just sat there and stared at the sheet in front of me. The one that, in black and white, laid out for me just how underpaid and overworked I am; just how worthless the hours I’ve wasted making everyone around me money while I struggle and get nowhere.
What I said was, “I see this, and I am disappointed.”
What I thought was, “Only a fucking retarded person would be satisfied with this, and I am not fucking retarded.”
At this point, I am permanently exhausted. I spend 40-50 hours a week biting my tongue; 40-50 hours a week avoiding the truth; 40-50 hours pretending that somehow I am not totally, terribly, pissing away my life in this ridiculous place with these ridiculous people.
And it’s not working any more. Do you have any idea how much self-discipline it requires to lie convincingly for 40-50 hours per week? Because I sure as shit didn’t. It’s excruciating.
And then, and then, AND THEN . . . The stupid bint asked me to coach (coach?!?) the fucker on our team who has the job I should have—who makes more money than I do—because he’s underperforming.
*sputter*
At that point, I think a part of my brain actually turned black and died. Collapsed on itself, like a wee dying galaxy. The part of me that is the real me, the part of me that I like and bring out off-leash to spend time with loved ones, wanted to jump up and overturn a chair. It wanted respond with a perfectly reasonable “Are you shitting me?” My god, the woman has no sense of irony and no concept of timing.
Instead, I sat there like a whipped fucking bitch and just took it. And today? Five days later? Recalling the conversation makes me want to cry. I’ve become complicit in my own fucking failure, my enthusiastic disappointment.
Working on not spending half my waking life with people I hate doing things I detest, and waiting for Spring.
I am particularly susceptible to career-related disgust right now because they announced our raises this past week. The fact is this: I knew that I was going to be righteously pissed by the entire affair; that there was no way they were going to give me what it would take to make me happy. What blew me away is how VERY, VERY pissed off I was. As my boss sat there and blathered on and on and fucking ON about how generous CHFJ’s fucking package is, I just sat there and stared at the sheet in front of me. The one that, in black and white, laid out for me just how underpaid and overworked I am; just how worthless the hours I’ve wasted making everyone around me money while I struggle and get nowhere.
What I said was, “I see this, and I am disappointed.”
What I thought was, “Only a fucking retarded person would be satisfied with this, and I am not fucking retarded.”
At this point, I am permanently exhausted. I spend 40-50 hours a week biting my tongue; 40-50 hours a week avoiding the truth; 40-50 hours pretending that somehow I am not totally, terribly, pissing away my life in this ridiculous place with these ridiculous people.
And it’s not working any more. Do you have any idea how much self-discipline it requires to lie convincingly for 40-50 hours per week? Because I sure as shit didn’t. It’s excruciating.
And then, and then, AND THEN . . . The stupid bint asked me to coach (coach?!?) the fucker on our team who has the job I should have—who makes more money than I do—because he’s underperforming.
*sputter*
At that point, I think a part of my brain actually turned black and died. Collapsed on itself, like a wee dying galaxy. The part of me that is the real me, the part of me that I like and bring out off-leash to spend time with loved ones, wanted to jump up and overturn a chair. It wanted respond with a perfectly reasonable “Are you shitting me?” My god, the woman has no sense of irony and no concept of timing.
Instead, I sat there like a whipped fucking bitch and just took it. And today? Five days later? Recalling the conversation makes me want to cry. I’ve become complicit in my own fucking failure, my enthusiastic disappointment.
Working on not spending half my waking life with people I hate doing things I detest, and waiting for Spring.
Sunday, February 1, 2009
Musing on a Sunday, Not At the Office
The lingering winter and my steadily deteriorating work situation have worked in concert to lobotomize me. My brain is mired. I am completely uncreative, totally uninspired, and borderline unable to interact with people. My life has, in essence, turned me back into me at 13, but without the urge to write truly awful poetry.
I mistakenly believed that things wouldn’t ever get as bad at Corporate Happy Fun Job as they did last year at this time. I can only attribute that ridiculous assumption to optimism born of desperation—to have believed otherwise would have melted my soul and destroyed me. Now, in the throes of misery, I’m too close to it to reflect upon it. There is only the one-foot-in-front-of-the-other forced death march, interspersed with momentary speculation about how much my manager resembles a swaggering dildo frat boy.
That explains a lot, actually. That whole swaggering dildo thing.
As works sucks up more and more of my time, the rest of my life concomitantly begins to ravel around the edges. Things like socks and clean panties sort of fall by the wayside, and let’s not even talk about the whole damn dust situation.
And winter. . .winter. I am so done with winter. Rather than becoming more accepting of the entire season situation as years go by, I fight it more and more. I feel like I have done my time and paid my dues, and should no longer have to suffer the indignities of winter. Unfortunately, February is only beginning. Spring is at least a six weeks away, and the days when we can be confident there will be no frost are longer still.
The madness, he is lurking.
On the bright side, the dark and hopeless days of the Bush administration are finally, fabulously, behind us. President Obama (*swoon*) has impressed me incredibly during his first two weeks in office. Further, I don’t believe I’m impressed solely by the contrast between Obama and his idiotic predecessor, but rather by his determination to do right; to be a statesman and a leader rather than a politician.
When he signed the Executive Order to close Gitmo, I sat there sort of dumbfounded, thinking to myself, “Huh. He can just do that. Just . . . make good things happen. Because he’s the president. Fuckin’-A right.” And then he signed the Lilly Ledbetter Fair Pay Act into law, and I almost wept, because suddenly I no longer felt so much like I had a target painted on my ass and a sign around my neck that said “Fucking Sucker” in letters 3 inches high.
Hand to god, I would likely hump the President’s leg, but it would upset Michelle and his kids and the Secret Service would wallop my ass. The Boy, though, would understand because I am a woman of serious and sudden wants and, as my husband, he knows and accepts this about me.
I mistakenly believed that things wouldn’t ever get as bad at Corporate Happy Fun Job as they did last year at this time. I can only attribute that ridiculous assumption to optimism born of desperation—to have believed otherwise would have melted my soul and destroyed me. Now, in the throes of misery, I’m too close to it to reflect upon it. There is only the one-foot-in-front-of-the-other forced death march, interspersed with momentary speculation about how much my manager resembles a swaggering dildo frat boy.
That explains a lot, actually. That whole swaggering dildo thing.
As works sucks up more and more of my time, the rest of my life concomitantly begins to ravel around the edges. Things like socks and clean panties sort of fall by the wayside, and let’s not even talk about the whole damn dust situation.
And winter. . .winter. I am so done with winter. Rather than becoming more accepting of the entire season situation as years go by, I fight it more and more. I feel like I have done my time and paid my dues, and should no longer have to suffer the indignities of winter. Unfortunately, February is only beginning. Spring is at least a six weeks away, and the days when we can be confident there will be no frost are longer still.
The madness, he is lurking.
On the bright side, the dark and hopeless days of the Bush administration are finally, fabulously, behind us. President Obama (*swoon*) has impressed me incredibly during his first two weeks in office. Further, I don’t believe I’m impressed solely by the contrast between Obama and his idiotic predecessor, but rather by his determination to do right; to be a statesman and a leader rather than a politician.
When he signed the Executive Order to close Gitmo, I sat there sort of dumbfounded, thinking to myself, “Huh. He can just do that. Just . . . make good things happen. Because he’s the president. Fuckin’-A right.” And then he signed the Lilly Ledbetter Fair Pay Act into law, and I almost wept, because suddenly I no longer felt so much like I had a target painted on my ass and a sign around my neck that said “Fucking Sucker” in letters 3 inches high.
Hand to god, I would likely hump the President’s leg, but it would upset Michelle and his kids and the Secret Service would wallop my ass. The Boy, though, would understand because I am a woman of serious and sudden wants and, as my husband, he knows and accepts this about me.
Wednesday, January 7, 2009
I'm Just Here for the Check
I can only describe my current career related mental state as being the final stage of professional grief: acceptance.
Things at Corporate Happy Fun Job are fun indeed. At present, I can best compare our management to my dating and mating habits prior to the boy:
1. Inability to learn from past mistakes
2. Noteworthy powers of denial
3. Insistence that a difference in appearance must indicate a difference in substance
Also similar? If I could go back in time, I would kick my own ass. And if I were the evil overlord, I would most assuredly be dispensing some ass kickings to the people captaining this particular ship of fools.
I have accepted that for the time being I should at least maintain at least a small amount of humility because I do have a relatively secure job, even if at times said job can best be likened to inserting pine cones into my butt. It is what it is. If I could travel back in time, shortly after I got done kicking my younger self in the head for her dating habits, I'd send her off to learn how to do something fucking useful. Alas, non. C'est la vie.
That being said, I am NOT A FUCKING IDIOT. So when I realized today that various co-workers and I were all more or less working for free in an increasingly vain effort to meet the whimsical flights of fancy--also known as goals--laid out by management, it took me approximately 30 seconds to decide that this shit was going to stop. I do, and will continue to, work my ass off. I do a difficult job and I do it well. However, it is a job. My family, my friends, my knitting, my booze, my books . . . these things are my life. My job is a Life Subsidizing Device.
What really blows me away about this entire thing is that so few of my co-workers were even really that pissed off about it. What the fuck, over? I get being afraid for one's job, but really? There is always a bum outside the blood bank looking for a handjob.
Whatever, I went and had a chat with the HR person that basically said we were being indirectly pressured to work for free. I believe she broke into a mild sweat and her butt cheeks took a bite out of her ergonomically correct office chair. That in itself was pretty much worth the conversation.
Seriously, fellow Pink Collar Wage Slaves. Repeat after me. "I am not your bitch."
Things at Corporate Happy Fun Job are fun indeed. At present, I can best compare our management to my dating and mating habits prior to the boy:
1. Inability to learn from past mistakes
2. Noteworthy powers of denial
3. Insistence that a difference in appearance must indicate a difference in substance
Also similar? If I could go back in time, I would kick my own ass. And if I were the evil overlord, I would most assuredly be dispensing some ass kickings to the people captaining this particular ship of fools.
I have accepted that for the time being I should at least maintain at least a small amount of humility because I do have a relatively secure job, even if at times said job can best be likened to inserting pine cones into my butt. It is what it is. If I could travel back in time, shortly after I got done kicking my younger self in the head for her dating habits, I'd send her off to learn how to do something fucking useful. Alas, non. C'est la vie.
That being said, I am NOT A FUCKING IDIOT. So when I realized today that various co-workers and I were all more or less working for free in an increasingly vain effort to meet the whimsical flights of fancy--also known as goals--laid out by management, it took me approximately 30 seconds to decide that this shit was going to stop. I do, and will continue to, work my ass off. I do a difficult job and I do it well. However, it is a job. My family, my friends, my knitting, my booze, my books . . . these things are my life. My job is a Life Subsidizing Device.
What really blows me away about this entire thing is that so few of my co-workers were even really that pissed off about it. What the fuck, over? I get being afraid for one's job, but really? There is always a bum outside the blood bank looking for a handjob.
Whatever, I went and had a chat with the HR person that basically said we were being indirectly pressured to work for free. I believe she broke into a mild sweat and her butt cheeks took a bite out of her ergonomically correct office chair. That in itself was pretty much worth the conversation.
Seriously, fellow Pink Collar Wage Slaves. Repeat after me. "I am not your bitch."
Thursday, December 18, 2008
Professional Literacy
So, in my work as a Pink Collar Wage Slave I have long labored under the delusion that no matter how frustrating and idiotic my co-workers and bosses behavior is, no matter how non-sensical their decisions and incomprehensible their thought processes, no matter how banal their conversation and shallow their thoughts, that at the very least they were all literate.
Nope.
Yesterday, my two supervisors showed up at my desk with a look of great seriousness on their faces.
"We have a question, and you always have the answer."
"Um, ok"
"So, we have a Report with result X. Do we need to order Common Industry Specific Product to go with it?
*blink*blink*blink*
"Nope."
"Wow. Thanks!"
Now, I did know the answer to that question right off the top of my head. But really? It's wasted brain space. Why? Because the Report says what, if anything, else you need to get to go with it. Says so right there. In English. Plainly written.
*sigh*
So, I think I get a by when I TOTALLY LOST MY SHIT on my boss because I refuse to complete the GODDAMN TPS REPORT FOR EACH AND EVERY FILE.
Ugh. Monday one of the managers is supposed to sit with me for three hours to observe how we do our job. He's been the boatswain on this ship of fools for the past year, and so far all I know about him is he swaggers and glandhands like a total ex-fratboy choad.
Monday goal? Don't get fired for Christmas.
Nope.
Yesterday, my two supervisors showed up at my desk with a look of great seriousness on their faces.
"We have a question, and you always have the answer."
"Um, ok"
"So, we have a Report with result X. Do we need to order Common Industry Specific Product to go with it?
*blink*blink*blink*
"Nope."
"Wow. Thanks!"
Now, I did know the answer to that question right off the top of my head. But really? It's wasted brain space. Why? Because the Report says what, if anything, else you need to get to go with it. Says so right there. In English. Plainly written.
*sigh*
So, I think I get a by when I TOTALLY LOST MY SHIT on my boss because I refuse to complete the GODDAMN TPS REPORT FOR EACH AND EVERY FILE.
Ugh. Monday one of the managers is supposed to sit with me for three hours to observe how we do our job. He's been the boatswain on this ship of fools for the past year, and so far all I know about him is he swaggers and glandhands like a total ex-fratboy choad.
Monday goal? Don't get fired for Christmas.
Tuesday, December 16, 2008
Fourth Quarter Quotes
Good times of late at Corporate Happy Funjob. . . after several months of slowdown while we assessed where fuck we had gone off track, we're quickly finding ourselves back in the thick of it.
One would think that in the months when were all basically told to sit in a corner and think about ourselves, my co-workers might have learned a thing or two and stopped behaving like such incredible idiots. One, though, would be wrong. It's like they've saved up all their fuckery for the moment that they would have a chance to unleash it.
Part of it is, I know, that I support sales people who are mostly all bunged up because they have been earning less during the months that we've been grounded. I am, to some extent, sympathetic. At the same time, though, most of these mouth breathers make tens of thousands of dollars more a year than I do because. . . Fuck. I have no idea. They don't either. I guess because they sell stuff? I know more and work harder, and the only thing most of these people can do without the support of my peers and I is wipe their own asses.
Ah, the joys of pink collar wage slavery. Another happy accident of accidentally fulfilling at typical gendered job.
Either way, though, production is now ramping up with nary a backward glance at lessons learned. This has, as a result, led to some FANTASTIC conversations between me, my co-workers, and my boss.
Things I have actually said in the past few weeks:
To my boss:
"I hope that isn't going to be our '09 goal, because it if it is, I'm not signing it. I refuse to acknowledge as a goal something I believe to be impossible."
"I'm applying for everything available in the company that isn't actually a demotion."
"I'm tired of the all stick, no carrot performance management philosophy we've adopted"
"No, I didn't look at it. Because I've accepted that we actually cannot be successful, it didn't seem worth my while to see where I'd failed."
To my co-worker, who wanted something by end of year:
"Hahahahaha. No. Not going to happen. If you think someone else can get it done for you, then by all means, request someone else. But they can't do it either. Give it up, let it go, tell the customer."
To a different boss:
Me: "No. I can't stay late."
OtherBoss: "Why not?"
Me: "I'm sorry. I misspoke. I CAN stay late, but I'm not going to. I didn't create this problem, and I don't think it is fixable at 4:30 on a Friday."
I guess I should watch my mouth and be nicer, but frankly unless I walked into the director's office and whipped a tit into his face I don't think I could get fired. It's kind of how my company rolls. Not to mention I know more than anyone on my team including my boss. I know everyone is replaceable, especially in this economy. However, really? They're too fucking lazy, better to put up with the mouthy bitch who knows everything.
One would think that in the months when were all basically told to sit in a corner and think about ourselves, my co-workers might have learned a thing or two and stopped behaving like such incredible idiots. One, though, would be wrong. It's like they've saved up all their fuckery for the moment that they would have a chance to unleash it.
Part of it is, I know, that I support sales people who are mostly all bunged up because they have been earning less during the months that we've been grounded. I am, to some extent, sympathetic. At the same time, though, most of these mouth breathers make tens of thousands of dollars more a year than I do because. . . Fuck. I have no idea. They don't either. I guess because they sell stuff? I know more and work harder, and the only thing most of these people can do without the support of my peers and I is wipe their own asses.
Ah, the joys of pink collar wage slavery. Another happy accident of accidentally fulfilling at typical gendered job.
Either way, though, production is now ramping up with nary a backward glance at lessons learned. This has, as a result, led to some FANTASTIC conversations between me, my co-workers, and my boss.
Things I have actually said in the past few weeks:
To my boss:
"I hope that isn't going to be our '09 goal, because it if it is, I'm not signing it. I refuse to acknowledge as a goal something I believe to be impossible."
"I'm applying for everything available in the company that isn't actually a demotion."
"I'm tired of the all stick, no carrot performance management philosophy we've adopted"
"No, I didn't look at it. Because I've accepted that we actually cannot be successful, it didn't seem worth my while to see where I'd failed."
To my co-worker, who wanted something by end of year:
"Hahahahaha. No. Not going to happen. If you think someone else can get it done for you, then by all means, request someone else. But they can't do it either. Give it up, let it go, tell the customer."
To a different boss:
Me: "No. I can't stay late."
OtherBoss: "Why not?"
Me: "I'm sorry. I misspoke. I CAN stay late, but I'm not going to. I didn't create this problem, and I don't think it is fixable at 4:30 on a Friday."
I guess I should watch my mouth and be nicer, but frankly unless I walked into the director's office and whipped a tit into his face I don't think I could get fired. It's kind of how my company rolls. Not to mention I know more than anyone on my team including my boss. I know everyone is replaceable, especially in this economy. However, really? They're too fucking lazy, better to put up with the mouthy bitch who knows everything.
Monday, June 30, 2008
I Like My "Fuck You" Neat
So, until today, I'd felt we'd turned a real corner at Corporate Happy Fun Job. I had come to accept that I was, and was likely to remain, a corporate whore. I had made an uneasy peace with doing shit work for shit money, while using my considerable talents to try to provide camouflage for the uncovered asses all around me.
Like any golden age, it had to end. While knowing more than my boss has proven rewarding in its own way, it's not really my goal. Speaking slowly and using small words has its own charm, but really, it gets old. Except for the necessity of a constant exercise of self-control not to throttle the dimmest of my co-workers, my job had lost its zest.
And yeah. I am seriously under-fucking-paid. File monkeys who can barely alphabetize make as much as I do, and they let me make decisions regarding hundreds of thousands of dollars. Yeah. The thought kind makes me tinkle my panties a little, too.
So, as part of my ongoing plan to better position myself on the fluffy corporate tuffet, I applied for a promotion. Since I'm bottle a bottle of wine into an evening spent at home in my underwear with a fiance who is petrified of my ever-accelerating mood swings, I think you by now have safely guessed that I did not get the job.
Considering who actually got the position, I can now see that my mistake has been my failure to veil my contempt behind a thick haze of pot smoke. Apparently, corporate enthusiasm is aided by weed. Who knew?
So, tonight? Drinking of wine and sour grapes. After I work through my considerable snit, I will decide if this is the path for me. I would have, and could have ROCKED this job. However, it might have required slightly more of a personality lobotomy than I am willing to obtain. So, really? Fuck it. Drink up, buttercup.
And, as a note, to my dumb CHFJ boss. Lady? We need to clear up some shit. One, I don't know what I did to give you the impression that I'm the least bit stupid, but that half eyelid look I give you is the result of indifference and a hangover, not low IQ. Two, although I am sick of being smarter than you are, I'm kind of used to it by now and it doesn't bother me. I'm pissed about the money. I don't work because I can't find better shit to do with my days, you dig? So don't expect me to thank you for the chance to continue underpaid. Three, don't blow sunshine up my ass. I'm pretty much a Kinsey 1 and I don't let The Boy blow sparklies up my ass; you sure as shit are not going to get an invite. Don't try to make me feel better about this shit--I know the score and I'm not buying it.
Like any golden age, it had to end. While knowing more than my boss has proven rewarding in its own way, it's not really my goal. Speaking slowly and using small words has its own charm, but really, it gets old. Except for the necessity of a constant exercise of self-control not to throttle the dimmest of my co-workers, my job had lost its zest.
And yeah. I am seriously under-fucking-paid. File monkeys who can barely alphabetize make as much as I do, and they let me make decisions regarding hundreds of thousands of dollars. Yeah. The thought kind makes me tinkle my panties a little, too.
So, as part of my ongoing plan to better position myself on the fluffy corporate tuffet, I applied for a promotion. Since I'm bottle a bottle of wine into an evening spent at home in my underwear with a fiance who is petrified of my ever-accelerating mood swings, I think you by now have safely guessed that I did not get the job.
Considering who actually got the position, I can now see that my mistake has been my failure to veil my contempt behind a thick haze of pot smoke. Apparently, corporate enthusiasm is aided by weed. Who knew?
So, tonight? Drinking of wine and sour grapes. After I work through my considerable snit, I will decide if this is the path for me. I would have, and could have ROCKED this job. However, it might have required slightly more of a personality lobotomy than I am willing to obtain. So, really? Fuck it. Drink up, buttercup.
And, as a note, to my dumb CHFJ boss. Lady? We need to clear up some shit. One, I don't know what I did to give you the impression that I'm the least bit stupid, but that half eyelid look I give you is the result of indifference and a hangover, not low IQ. Two, although I am sick of being smarter than you are, I'm kind of used to it by now and it doesn't bother me. I'm pissed about the money. I don't work because I can't find better shit to do with my days, you dig? So don't expect me to thank you for the chance to continue underpaid. Three, don't blow sunshine up my ass. I'm pretty much a Kinsey 1 and I don't let The Boy blow sparklies up my ass; you sure as shit are not going to get an invite. Don't try to make me feel better about this shit--I know the score and I'm not buying it.
Wednesday, May 28, 2008
Wednesday
What happened today:
I learned that the impression I've been harboring is, in fact, correct. It's not a good idea until SOMEONE ELSE comes up with it. Good to know; takes the pressure off.
I need to just stop thinking--everyone else is happier that way.
I learned that my boss at CHFJ, while nice enough, has the attention span of the average slow-witted six-year-old. She wears this weird multi-colored ring, though, which distracts me when I talk to her. It's like I'm a bird or something. On the bright side, I find that if I only half pay attention to our conversations, they're less one-sided.
I went to the gym and did not desire to vomit. I call it progress.
I got shoes! For the wedding! They are fucking adorable! I danced about the house! Jessica Simpson is a talentless pop tart, but wow. She slaps her name on some cute ass shoes.
I absolutely aborted this recipe from Gourmet. I don't even know why I bother with recipes for anything except baked goods, anyway. It's like a have a constitutional inability to follow them, or even remember to buy the right goddmamn ingredients. Which is how I wound up with "crushed tomatoes" (what I would call fucking tomato sauce, if I hadn't bought the organic shit) instead of diced tomatoes, and wound up substituting gin for vermouth. I knew I didn't have the right liquor at the house, and I thought about stopping to buy it. Thank god I didn't though, because I remembered the recipe as reading sherry. Which, yeah. Not the same. The gin was fine, though. I guess. Next time I'm going to just ignore the fucking recipe entirely.
Two minutes for the garlic? My undulating right buttock.
And finally? Oven rebellion. As we were wrapping up dinner--an entirely stove-top affair I might add--the oven began to beep in a truly annoying manner. And the oven latch which is put in place for the self cleaning function had decided to engage itself. So, basically, my oven locked itself in its room like a petulant teenager.
Meanwhile, the shitty LED display showed some error code, a quick Google of which indicated that it is some kind of error having to do with, you guessed it, the door latch.
We finally unplugged it to make the beeping stop. It's like The Boy says, "It's the fucking appendix of the oven." I have used that self-cleaning "feature" exactly once, right when bought the house. I don't really get the point. I don't frequently spill grease and shit in my oven, so it I guess I don't feel it's that dirty. Further, it's regularly hot as hell because it is a goddamn oven after all, so I figure it's already reasonably sterile. If I had need of a kiln I might have an opportunity to put this to use. As it is, this is sizing up to be a plot to make me part with money on something lame. Like a new lock sensor or some horseshit.
*sigh*
I'm going to bed.
I learned that the impression I've been harboring is, in fact, correct. It's not a good idea until SOMEONE ELSE comes up with it. Good to know; takes the pressure off.
I need to just stop thinking--everyone else is happier that way.
I learned that my boss at CHFJ, while nice enough, has the attention span of the average slow-witted six-year-old. She wears this weird multi-colored ring, though, which distracts me when I talk to her. It's like I'm a bird or something. On the bright side, I find that if I only half pay attention to our conversations, they're less one-sided.
I went to the gym and did not desire to vomit. I call it progress.
I got shoes! For the wedding! They are fucking adorable! I danced about the house! Jessica Simpson is a talentless pop tart, but wow. She slaps her name on some cute ass shoes.
I absolutely aborted this recipe from Gourmet. I don't even know why I bother with recipes for anything except baked goods, anyway. It's like a have a constitutional inability to follow them, or even remember to buy the right goddmamn ingredients. Which is how I wound up with "crushed tomatoes" (what I would call fucking tomato sauce, if I hadn't bought the organic shit) instead of diced tomatoes, and wound up substituting gin for vermouth. I knew I didn't have the right liquor at the house, and I thought about stopping to buy it. Thank god I didn't though, because I remembered the recipe as reading sherry. Which, yeah. Not the same. The gin was fine, though. I guess. Next time I'm going to just ignore the fucking recipe entirely.
Two minutes for the garlic? My undulating right buttock.
And finally? Oven rebellion. As we were wrapping up dinner--an entirely stove-top affair I might add--the oven began to beep in a truly annoying manner. And the oven latch which is put in place for the self cleaning function had decided to engage itself. So, basically, my oven locked itself in its room like a petulant teenager.
Meanwhile, the shitty LED display showed some error code, a quick Google of which indicated that it is some kind of error having to do with, you guessed it, the door latch.
We finally unplugged it to make the beeping stop. It's like The Boy says, "It's the fucking appendix of the oven." I have used that self-cleaning "feature" exactly once, right when bought the house. I don't really get the point. I don't frequently spill grease and shit in my oven, so it I guess I don't feel it's that dirty. Further, it's regularly hot as hell because it is a goddamn oven after all, so I figure it's already reasonably sterile. If I had need of a kiln I might have an opportunity to put this to use. As it is, this is sizing up to be a plot to make me part with money on something lame. Like a new lock sensor or some horseshit.
*sigh*
I'm going to bed.
Monday, April 21, 2008
Quality of Life, CHFJ Style
Today we had yet another meeting at Corporate Happy Fun Job. I don't know why it still surprises me the sheer number of meetings that occur there and the subset of those to which my attendance is compulsory. It is abundantly clear that I have nothing to say that anyone wants to hear; a feeling which is, I must admit, mutual. Frankly, there isn't anything that they have to communicate which can't be done in writing, although admittedly the vast majority of e-mails are deleted unread.
I recommend a handout. If someone has gone to the trouble of collating, I'm going to at least give it a peek.
Anyway, this was to be a quick meeting about overtime and phone time, that is, the time we spend waiting for people to call from around the nation so that we can either tell them lies in a vain effort to appease them OR marvel at the mind-blowing stupidity of Americans. Since I'm actively cultivating indifference towards every aspect of my job that doesn't actually involve the part where I'm getting paid, I care little about the substance of the meeting--less because I had a pretty good idea what it was about.
So, we're all sitting around, and our supervisor comes in. Without excessive ado, she announces that because we work for a family-oriented company, and because her and the other middle-management goobers are worried about our "quality of life," they want us to cut back on overtime and don't want us to work any extra hours without their approval.
*blink*
I feel like I made real progress in my quest to behave appropriately in the corporate hive because I didn't actually snicker out loud. Puh-fucking-leez. These people would pimp my mother and sell my children into a sweatshop if they could make a buck doing so. It was a statement so utterly farcical on the face of it that I am astounded that she was able to suppress her laughter while she made it. Further undermining my already threadbare credulity is the not-uncommonly known fact that we've already blown through the overtime budget for the year.
Poor fucking planning, yo.
You know the weirdest part, though? Someone in the meeting actually kind of bought it.
*sigh*
I recommend a handout. If someone has gone to the trouble of collating, I'm going to at least give it a peek.
Anyway, this was to be a quick meeting about overtime and phone time, that is, the time we spend waiting for people to call from around the nation so that we can either tell them lies in a vain effort to appease them OR marvel at the mind-blowing stupidity of Americans. Since I'm actively cultivating indifference towards every aspect of my job that doesn't actually involve the part where I'm getting paid, I care little about the substance of the meeting--less because I had a pretty good idea what it was about.
So, we're all sitting around, and our supervisor comes in. Without excessive ado, she announces that because we work for a family-oriented company, and because her and the other middle-management goobers are worried about our "quality of life," they want us to cut back on overtime and don't want us to work any extra hours without their approval.
*blink*
I feel like I made real progress in my quest to behave appropriately in the corporate hive because I didn't actually snicker out loud. Puh-fucking-leez. These people would pimp my mother and sell my children into a sweatshop if they could make a buck doing so. It was a statement so utterly farcical on the face of it that I am astounded that she was able to suppress her laughter while she made it. Further undermining my already threadbare credulity is the not-uncommonly known fact that we've already blown through the overtime budget for the year.
Poor fucking planning, yo.
You know the weirdest part, though? Someone in the meeting actually kind of bought it.
*sigh*
Tuesday, April 8, 2008
Fucktard, Holding on Two
I found myself in the unenviable position today of having to rely on someone who MAY or MAY NOT have suffered traumatic brain injury in the past month or so in order to do my job. After not one, not two, but SIX requests for this person to do HIS job so that I could do MINE, I finally called one of his employees and asked HER to do it. I would have, by the by, done that in first place, but the demented fucker with a dent in his head just kept answering the goddamned phone.
I spent about 20 minutes this morning thinking about taking up cutting like some emo 13-year-old. Is that weird? That seems weird to me. . .
I spent about 20 minutes this morning thinking about taking up cutting like some emo 13-year-old. Is that weird? That seems weird to me. . .
Thursday, April 3, 2008
Career Suicide
Well, I am now most of the way through a bottle of wine, and I feel like I can say the following with some degree of authority.
Today totally sucked donkey balls.
5 months of failure is about 4 months too many, and finally, after yet another doomed process is implemented with nary a thought to the monkeys who are going to have to actually use it, I completely lost my shit. Lost. My. Shit. Sobbing, howling, OH-MY -GOD-DOES-SHE-HAVE-SNOT-ON-HER-SLEEVE? lost my shit.
And although I completely committed "career" suicide today...because no boss, no matter how ethically suspect, wants to hear an employee compare her shit job with her failed first marriage.
Whatever. No comparison, really. None of my exes have ever fucked me as much as my job does.
Today totally sucked donkey balls.
5 months of failure is about 4 months too many, and finally, after yet another doomed process is implemented with nary a thought to the monkeys who are going to have to actually use it, I completely lost my shit. Lost. My. Shit. Sobbing, howling, OH-MY -GOD-DOES-SHE-HAVE-SNOT-ON-HER-SLEEVE? lost my shit.
And although I completely committed "career" suicide today...because no boss, no matter how ethically suspect, wants to hear an employee compare her shit job with her failed first marriage.
Whatever. No comparison, really. None of my exes have ever fucked me as much as my job does.
Monday, March 31, 2008
Just When You Thought It Was Safe...
So, yeah. It's been like 70-odd days since I last posted anything. Except for pointing out that my life is pretty fucking uninteresting and admitting I'm a lazy slob, there isn't much I can do about that. I will take this opportunity to suggest that have found yourself sorely missing my participation in the blogosphere, then perhaps you should explore new avenues with your psychiatrist--what you have must not be working.
I guess there are a few things that have dragged me from the morass. Today, as I was sitting in a Corporate Happy Fun Meeting and contemplating burning myself with lit cigarettes, I came to the conclusion that yes, I do have a dead-end pink-collar wage slave job for which I'm grossly underpaid and hideously overworked, but that I might as well try to mine it for humor. Or an opportunity to judge others. Or both. Whatever.
As though the ongoing, slow motion car wreck that is my job isn't enough to make any sane person (which I'm not) batshit crazy (which I most assuredly am), I'm also planning a wedding.
Now, lest you get the wrong idea, I am pleased as punch about marrying The Boy. Further, since I know that many of the misanthropes who read this blog are also future guests, I want it to be clear that I'm happy to be celebrating our commitment through the public statement of our vows and the steady hemorrhaging of money.
All kidding aside...I am totally excited about this whole getting married thing, and I GLADLY declined the offer to elope. That said, planning a wedding has put me back into the mix with other people planning weddings, which means that I spend a decent amount of time surrounded by people who have completely surrendered the restraints of this Earth and are floating around in some sort of la la land covered in tulle and lacking Google. I want to share the stupid with you, my readers.
And, as though having a stupid job and a big fucking party to throw weren't enough, I'm about ready to embrace some home improvement projects. The roommate is moving out; The Boy is moving in; and the carpet needs to go see The Jesus. It would seem, I guess, that my brain is fucking melted--I KNOW nothing good can come of this.
But...I seem powerless to stop.
Of course, at least I'm not in their shoes.
Yeah. The next couple of months should be awesome, interspersed with the occasional hospitalization.
I guess there are a few things that have dragged me from the morass. Today, as I was sitting in a Corporate Happy Fun Meeting and contemplating burning myself with lit cigarettes, I came to the conclusion that yes, I do have a dead-end pink-collar wage slave job for which I'm grossly underpaid and hideously overworked, but that I might as well try to mine it for humor. Or an opportunity to judge others. Or both. Whatever.
As though the ongoing, slow motion car wreck that is my job isn't enough to make any sane person (which I'm not) batshit crazy (which I most assuredly am), I'm also planning a wedding.
Now, lest you get the wrong idea, I am pleased as punch about marrying The Boy. Further, since I know that many of the misanthropes who read this blog are also future guests, I want it to be clear that I'm happy to be celebrating our commitment through the public statement of our vows and the steady hemorrhaging of money.
All kidding aside...I am totally excited about this whole getting married thing, and I GLADLY declined the offer to elope. That said, planning a wedding has put me back into the mix with other people planning weddings, which means that I spend a decent amount of time surrounded by people who have completely surrendered the restraints of this Earth and are floating around in some sort of la la land covered in tulle and lacking Google. I want to share the stupid with you, my readers.
And, as though having a stupid job and a big fucking party to throw weren't enough, I'm about ready to embrace some home improvement projects. The roommate is moving out; The Boy is moving in; and the carpet needs to go see The Jesus. It would seem, I guess, that my brain is fucking melted--I KNOW nothing good can come of this.
But...I seem powerless to stop.
Of course, at least I'm not in their shoes.
Yeah. The next couple of months should be awesome, interspersed with the occasional hospitalization.
Tuesday, January 15, 2008
Plays Well With Others
So yeah. I was totally going to look over the initial version of my annual review tonight, but decided instead that I would rather not spend the evening all pissed off. I mean, I'm sure the review is probably fine, but I'm equally sure that it doesn't say that I "have demonstrated competence at walking on water." Since at this point I think that's a fair assessment of my skills, both the performing of miracles AND the constant dying for sins of others,I know I'm just going to be disappointed.
Further, I figured out today that even if I got a 10% raise (a patent impossibility, don't you think), I would still consider myself underpaid by many thousands of dollars. This made me laugh out loud in my cube in a manner that frightened my co-workers. As far as I'm concerned the entire exercise is pointless, but whatever. The boss people have to do that so that they in turn can be pointlessly reviewed and unfairly compensated in the future. It's the circle of life.
I do know that says is that I need to work on remaining more positive on the floor. I suppose that means it's time to up my medication and start douching with rainbows. JOY!
Further, I figured out today that even if I got a 10% raise (a patent impossibility, don't you think), I would still consider myself underpaid by many thousands of dollars. This made me laugh out loud in my cube in a manner that frightened my co-workers. As far as I'm concerned the entire exercise is pointless, but whatever. The boss people have to do that so that they in turn can be pointlessly reviewed and unfairly compensated in the future. It's the circle of life.
I do know that says is that I need to work on remaining more positive on the floor. I suppose that means it's time to up my medication and start douching with rainbows. JOY!
Monday, November 26, 2007
Tonight, On PBS
So, tonight Le Boy and I were watched a documentary about a lunatic Frenchman exploring the most dangerous place on Earth. Oddly enough, it was not a visitor's guide to Detroit, but a film about a dude in a submarine exploring the bottom of the ocean.
One of the shots was of all these phosphorescent jellyfish, blooping and floating through the sea. Watching their aimless, mindless, actions all I could think of was my co-workers. And calamari.
Which leads, logically, to the next thing, I want to corner the market on the aquatic beasties that inhabit the darkest depths of the ocean--floating around in super-heated toxic water, blind and thoughtless. I want to gather them up, raise them out of the depths. The lack of pressure will cause them to swell to many times their normal size and I will SELL them to snooty gastronomes and the Japanese for thousands of dollars a pound, never mind the fact that their flesh stinks of sulfur and tastes of briny rotten eggs.
Think about it.
One of the shots was of all these phosphorescent jellyfish, blooping and floating through the sea. Watching their aimless, mindless, actions all I could think of was my co-workers. And calamari.
Which leads, logically, to the next thing, I want to corner the market on the aquatic beasties that inhabit the darkest depths of the ocean--floating around in super-heated toxic water, blind and thoughtless. I want to gather them up, raise them out of the depths. The lack of pressure will cause them to swell to many times their normal size and I will SELL them to snooty gastronomes and the Japanese for thousands of dollars a pound, never mind the fact that their flesh stinks of sulfur and tastes of briny rotten eggs.
Think about it.
Tuesday, November 20, 2007
Space Staples
So. Today was a day so bogged down in stupidity that I fully expected someone to whom I was speaking to actually drop dead in the middle of our conversation because he had forgotten to breathe. Had you been a party to the idiocy that I was, you would feel the same.
At one point during the during the day, stymied by the silly workplace prohibition against calling business vendors "cocksuckers," I stated aloud that I hoped the bank with whom I was dealing was heavily invested in mortgage backed securities, and that as a consequence, the women (read: dumb fucking whores) with whom I was dealing would lose their jobs and become homeless. And be forced to reside under a pile of old cheese.
Upon reflection, though, I think the most incredibly stupid conversation of my day was regarding someone who had snail-mailed documents that were desperately needed as soon as possible. Didn't fax them. Didn't e-mail them. Didn't even copy them before consigning them to the dubious care of the USPS. Why, you ask?
Because they were stapled.
Space staples. Coming soon to an Office Max near you.
At one point during the during the day, stymied by the silly workplace prohibition against calling business vendors "cocksuckers," I stated aloud that I hoped the bank with whom I was dealing was heavily invested in mortgage backed securities, and that as a consequence, the women (read: dumb fucking whores) with whom I was dealing would lose their jobs and become homeless. And be forced to reside under a pile of old cheese.
Upon reflection, though, I think the most incredibly stupid conversation of my day was regarding someone who had snail-mailed documents that were desperately needed as soon as possible. Didn't fax them. Didn't e-mail them. Didn't even copy them before consigning them to the dubious care of the USPS. Why, you ask?
Because they were stapled.
Space staples. Coming soon to an Office Max near you.
Thursday, October 25, 2007
So Many Shortcomings, So Little Time
So, The Liquor Fairy is off to trap bats. Sounds like a plan.
I have figured out why I’m not writing more, either here or in other areas of my life. It is, in fact, because the human psyche is built to tolerate so much fucking failure. When it all comes down to it, there is only so much failure that one human mind can endure before it crumbles under the weight of it.
And right now? A quick pit sniff tells me that I absolutely wreak of failure.
It’s not that I don’t already have more than a glancing familiarity with Mediocrity and its close cousin, Gross Incompetence. I have fallen out of more trees than most people are ever lucky enough to try to climb. Lately, though, I taste a new flavor of fucked—one that I must say I don’t much like. Suddenly, instead of the regular 32 Flavors and Then Some of screw-up to which I have historically subscribed, suddenly it’s like a Mochachino Chip Implosion of FuckedUppedNess. With sprinkles.
So, yeah. My job sucks. Sucks. SUuuuuuuuuucccccckkkks.
Everyone’s job sucks, you say? Well yes. Indeed. Indubitably.
Yesterday I spent 45 crying over approximately $12. Twelve. American. Dollars. Broken, crushed, snotting, tear-stained sobs over $12 that was the difference between the deal closing and getting off of my desk forever and . . . not.
The story is too long, not to mention too stupid, to relate. The short version—for real this time—is that I find myself in a situation where I have about three times the amount of work that can be handled by anyone in my position. Our software is the worst piece of shit I’ve ever had the misfortune of touching. I soothe myself by imagining tromping on the balls of the purchasing asshole who picked this thing. For variety I vary the shoes I’m wearing in the fantasy.
Were that not enough, I find myself in the fucking untenable position of explaining many of the finer points (and basics, frankly) of our industry to my co-workers so that they can continue to make more than $10,000 a year more than I do. Every time I help them to re-invent the wheel, I make more work for myself. I hate *everybody*.
I start dreading Monday after brunch on Sunday. I would be dreading tomorrow right now, but I’m a bit tipsy so I don’t actually care. Every day is much like shoving a little hedgehog backwards up my ass, and then poking it in the nose so it gets all spiny. Except hedgehogs are kind of cute, and there is nothing at all cute about my day and the douchebags I am forced to spend it with.
I pray for Death, but Death doesn’t listen.
No. Seriously. I had my wee mini breakdown, followed by pizza and wine and romantic comedy on DVD. I also locked myself out of my house and had to cut open the kitchen screen and crawl through. (Plus last night I fucking punched myself in the eye because my pets are ginormous fatasses who need to NOT sleep on their mommy’s covers.)
I got up today. I went to work. I have decided that for awhile most questions are going to have to be addressed to my PEZ dispenser (“Ask the PEZ head!”). Tomorrow will be the same thing. Things will either get better or will get replaced..
In the meantime, though, I have to scrape up energy. To exercise. To write. To clean my house. Because right now? At the end of each day? All I want is to sit, and stare, and hide my face against The Boy’s neck and get ready to force myself to do it again.
You know what really sucks for me, though? I think there was a chance that I might have been okay at this job if I had only been given some portion of the tools necessary to do it. That’s saying a lot for me. Mostly, jobs are just something I do while I try to find another job. This one? I could have been good at it.
I have figured out why I’m not writing more, either here or in other areas of my life. It is, in fact, because the human psyche is built to tolerate so much fucking failure. When it all comes down to it, there is only so much failure that one human mind can endure before it crumbles under the weight of it.
And right now? A quick pit sniff tells me that I absolutely wreak of failure.
It’s not that I don’t already have more than a glancing familiarity with Mediocrity and its close cousin, Gross Incompetence. I have fallen out of more trees than most people are ever lucky enough to try to climb. Lately, though, I taste a new flavor of fucked—one that I must say I don’t much like. Suddenly, instead of the regular 32 Flavors and Then Some of screw-up to which I have historically subscribed, suddenly it’s like a Mochachino Chip Implosion of FuckedUppedNess. With sprinkles.
So, yeah. My job sucks. Sucks. SUuuuuuuuuucccccckkkks.
Everyone’s job sucks, you say? Well yes. Indeed. Indubitably.
Yesterday I spent 45 crying over approximately $12. Twelve. American. Dollars. Broken, crushed, snotting, tear-stained sobs over $12 that was the difference between the deal closing and getting off of my desk forever and . . . not.
The story is too long, not to mention too stupid, to relate. The short version—for real this time—is that I find myself in a situation where I have about three times the amount of work that can be handled by anyone in my position. Our software is the worst piece of shit I’ve ever had the misfortune of touching. I soothe myself by imagining tromping on the balls of the purchasing asshole who picked this thing. For variety I vary the shoes I’m wearing in the fantasy.
Were that not enough, I find myself in the fucking untenable position of explaining many of the finer points (and basics, frankly) of our industry to my co-workers so that they can continue to make more than $10,000 a year more than I do. Every time I help them to re-invent the wheel, I make more work for myself. I hate *everybody*.
I start dreading Monday after brunch on Sunday. I would be dreading tomorrow right now, but I’m a bit tipsy so I don’t actually care. Every day is much like shoving a little hedgehog backwards up my ass, and then poking it in the nose so it gets all spiny. Except hedgehogs are kind of cute, and there is nothing at all cute about my day and the douchebags I am forced to spend it with.
I pray for Death, but Death doesn’t listen.
No. Seriously. I had my wee mini breakdown, followed by pizza and wine and romantic comedy on DVD. I also locked myself out of my house and had to cut open the kitchen screen and crawl through. (Plus last night I fucking punched myself in the eye because my pets are ginormous fatasses who need to NOT sleep on their mommy’s covers.)
I got up today. I went to work. I have decided that for awhile most questions are going to have to be addressed to my PEZ dispenser (“Ask the PEZ head!”). Tomorrow will be the same thing. Things will either get better or will get replaced..
In the meantime, though, I have to scrape up energy. To exercise. To write. To clean my house. Because right now? At the end of each day? All I want is to sit, and stare, and hide my face against The Boy’s neck and get ready to force myself to do it again.
You know what really sucks for me, though? I think there was a chance that I might have been okay at this job if I had only been given some portion of the tools necessary to do it. That’s saying a lot for me. Mostly, jobs are just something I do while I try to find another job. This one? I could have been good at it.
Tuesday, October 2, 2007
Your Regularly Scheduled Ennui, Already In Progress
Kate's Plan For Career Advancement
1. Grab boss's penis
2. Place boss's penis in a standard table vice
3. Place hand on vice
4. Discuss rate of pay
Sounds like plan, non? I'll keep you posted.
1. Grab boss's penis
2. Place boss's penis in a standard table vice
3. Place hand on vice
4. Discuss rate of pay
Sounds like plan, non? I'll keep you posted.
Tuesday, August 21, 2007
Prisoner's Dilemma
The good news is, my co-workers have started making coffee. The bad news? Someone has introduced decaf into the building.
Our break room has three identical coffee pots. One of these things is not like the other. Some communist has put decaf in one of the coffee pots, and I have no way of knowing which one.
With good coffee, one can generally tell decaf by smell. One can certainly tell by taste. It’s like someone playing a chord incorrectly—something is just missing. There is a note that’s just missing from even the best decaf coffee.
Now, I have friends who for various reasons have given up caffeine. Sort of the way mother pandas sometimes forsake their young, or guppies eat their babies, but that’s their business. They’re good people and I don’t judge them. There are even occasions on which I have been known to order decaf, namely, after dinner on a school night with dessert. Tiramisu without coffee is crime against nature, and if I know I need to get sleep shortly after leaving a restaurant I will order decaf, as long as I know that it has been made from what were once decent beans.
With bad coffee, though, there is no point to decaf. Bad coffee already tastes out of tune. The one real perk is the jolt of wakefulness and the way it can sometimes evoke decent coffee. Bad decaf, though, is just . . . bad. When Jesus looks down from heaven and sees His children drinking decaf coffee, He cries. He did not die on the cross so that sinners could drink decaffeinated Folgers. He wanted us to enjoy his Father’s blessings. Do you know how hard it is to hold a tissue to dry your Holy Tears when you have big, gaping holes in your hands? DO YOU?
Whatever. I don’t care what other people choose to put into their bodies. Their diets of canned peas and stale Krispy Kremes are none of my affair. But the first time I figure out that the reason I’m falling asleep at my desk because I accidentally drank decaf I’m replacing it with Euro Roast cut with methamphetamine.
Our break room has three identical coffee pots. One of these things is not like the other. Some communist has put decaf in one of the coffee pots, and I have no way of knowing which one.
With good coffee, one can generally tell decaf by smell. One can certainly tell by taste. It’s like someone playing a chord incorrectly—something is just missing. There is a note that’s just missing from even the best decaf coffee.
Now, I have friends who for various reasons have given up caffeine. Sort of the way mother pandas sometimes forsake their young, or guppies eat their babies, but that’s their business. They’re good people and I don’t judge them. There are even occasions on which I have been known to order decaf, namely, after dinner on a school night with dessert. Tiramisu without coffee is crime against nature, and if I know I need to get sleep shortly after leaving a restaurant I will order decaf, as long as I know that it has been made from what were once decent beans.
With bad coffee, though, there is no point to decaf. Bad coffee already tastes out of tune. The one real perk is the jolt of wakefulness and the way it can sometimes evoke decent coffee. Bad decaf, though, is just . . . bad. When Jesus looks down from heaven and sees His children drinking decaf coffee, He cries. He did not die on the cross so that sinners could drink decaffeinated Folgers. He wanted us to enjoy his Father’s blessings. Do you know how hard it is to hold a tissue to dry your Holy Tears when you have big, gaping holes in your hands? DO YOU?
Whatever. I don’t care what other people choose to put into their bodies. Their diets of canned peas and stale Krispy Kremes are none of my affair. But the first time I figure out that the reason I’m falling asleep at my desk because I accidentally drank decaf I’m replacing it with Euro Roast cut with methamphetamine.
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