March 05, 2013
It's been a long, long time since I have bitched about my co-workers.
Please don't think it's because they have ceased pissing me off. No, no, no. It's because their pissing-me-off has because so commonplace, so ordinary, that it very rarely merits mention anymore.
Of COURSE, Big Cheese's secretary pays for snacks for meetings out of her own pocket, because she doesn't know how to fill out an expense report.
Of COURSE, Big Cheese's back-up secretary is working pretty close to the actual 40 hours a week for which she is paid, because the one event for which she is annually responsible is coming up.
Of COURSE, New Girl is prattling on about anticipating with great excitement the weather during which she will be able to wear her summer dresses -- causing the rest of us to wonder how much more skin will her summer dresses show in comparison to her quite skimpy non-summer dresses.
These things happen like the waxing and waning of the moon. Except way less poetic.
Whatever. One person's recent behavior has merited mention. And far be it from me to pass up the chance to slander Jeebus' right hand man. Yeah, that's right. I'm serving up Big Cheese on a platter of shit crackers.
A couple weeks ago, I was covering the reception desk during lunch, as I sometimes do, when Big Cheese came flailing out of one of the conference rooms.
"I need eating utensils!" he cried. And then disappeared as suddenly as he had appeared.
I'm not sure if he was shouting it to the heavens, or... perhaps there was someone else down the hall, out of my field of vision? After all, he hadn't said my name or addressed me directly, so I couldn't really be sure he was talking to me.
Plus, he didn't ask a question. He didn't make a request. There was no question mark at the end of his proclaimation. He merely stated a fact and ran away. Thanks for the info, Big Cheese! Now I know what to get you for Christmas!
But of course, I couldn't ignore it. Because when a total dick crashes someone else's lunch meeting and needs a fork and knife with which to eat it, a total dick announces his plight to the nearest serf and expects that the wrong will be righted.
I hated him for that expectation. And I hated myself even for more fulfilling it. Yes, I went and got him his fucking eating utensils! And he is so lucky that it was me at the front desk that day. Because no one else hoards leftover eating utensils like I do!
I had the whole spoon-knife-fork-napkin-salt combo pack, hermetically sealed for his protection. I am a fucking GENIUS of eating-utensil-providing!!!
And did he thank me? Don't be stupid. He didn't even turn his head when I set it down next to him. If a total dick doesn't address you by name or say please, then a total dick sure as shit ain't gonna say thank you.
Last week, he addressed me by name, five hours into the work day. This happens about twice a week -- him actually using my name. Most of the time, he doesn't bother to even say good morning, Wenchie before he starts barking orders at me. But about semi-monthly, he'll treat me almost decent.
"Wenchie," he said. "I think Jonathan stole my pencil. Can you call him and tell him I need it back?"
I laughed. Oh, that wacky Jonathan and his silly antics! Oh, that wacky Big Cheese, pretending there are no other pencils to be had! Hee hee hee! Ho ho ho! How jovial are my colleagues!
A couple hours later, Big Cheese was back at my desk.
"Did you get my pencil from Jonathan, like I asked?"
WhatwhatWHAT?!?! Nooooo. C'mon! That was a joke, right? Right?!
"Um... no." BECAUSE I'M BUSY RESEARCHING A PRESENTATION THAT BOSS LADY HAS TO GIVE IN TWO DAYS! BECAUSE I'M WORKING ON BUDGET NUMBERS FOR THIS FISCAL YEAR, AND I HAVE TO FIND $30,000 SO H.R. CAN HIRE SOMEONE! BECAUSE A MILLION THINGS!!!
"Well, can you? It's my favorite pencil."
Are you fucking kidding me.
His favorite pencil.
Without thinking, like a trained dog, I emailed Jonathan and asked him if he knew anything about the pencil. Five minutes later, he called me from the airport. I am not even kidding. Does Jonathan know something that I don't know? Like the pencil has magical powers or something?
Following Jonathan's instructions, I found it on his desk next to his keyboard. And I dutifully returned it to Big Cheese's desk. But he was in a meeting, so he didn't say thank you.
I am out of my goddamn mind to do anything for that man. In my head, a future conversation with him goes like this.
Big Cheese: I need a Diet Dr. Pepper to go with my lunch.
PW: There's a pop machine on the fifth floor.
BC: Can you go get me one?
PW: You never say please. You never say thank you. I am not interrupting my work to fetch you things anymore.
BC: Do you know who I am?! You're FIRED!
PW: Yeah. Go tell Lady Boss. See what she has to say about that.
Please, Jeebus, just give me the opportunity! And the guts.
Because you know what? Twice a year, Lady Boss asks me to get her something, i.e. a bowl of soup, a glass of ice water. She says please, and she apologizes a thousand times, and then she thanks me a thousand times, and then she buys me lunch. You know why? BECAUSE SHE'S A SELF-SUFFIENT, SELF-RESPECTING, OTHER-PEOPLE-RESPECTING NON-TOTAL-DICK!
And if I gave Big Cheese the what-for for being rude, I'm 70% sure Boss Lady would verbally back me up, and 99% sure she wouldn't even chide me for it. And I like those odds!
So, c'mon, Big Cheese. Don't you want me to fetch you some mayo?
February 19, 2013
On Christmas Eve, I had Billi bring their mutt, Lucy, to our house with them. I didn't want them to have to worry about her being alone for so long, and I know that Stella looooooooooves playing with her.
Besides, it's not like another cubic yard of black dog hair is going to make much of a difference in my already bewhiskered home.
After covering each other's heads in spit (I don't know why they do this), they laid down and took a breather in the middle of the kitchen.
Lucy: So. Do you miss her?
S: Daisy who?
L: Uh, the other dog who lived here? You were together for five years?
S: Not ringin' a bell.
L: Was here when you got here? The only mother you've ever really known?
S: Oh, her. Was her name Daisy? I just called her Other Dog.
S: ... What was the question again?
L: Do you miss her?
S: Psshht. No.
S: Why would I miss her?
L: She was your constant companion!
S: Yeah, that's more of a reason not to miss her.
L: Wow. That is cold.
S: Look. She got in the way, okay? Whatever I wanted, she wanted, too. Mom's attention, the patch of sunlight on the kitchen floor, the best spot for poopin'. She was always up my butt! Like, literally -- she was really into butts.
L: But surely you had some good times, right?
S: It's Stella, not Shirley.
S: We had a few good times, like... Well, I can't think of anything off-hand.
L: I just can't believe you're so blasé about it.
S: It's not like she ever played with me! Like you do!
L: Well, I'm sure she had other good qualities.
S: Hey, your head is dry. Let's start playing again!
L: Okay! At least I know you'll miss me when I'm gone!
L: I said, you'll miss me when I'm gone. Right? Because we like playing together...
S: Jesus, are you still going on about that?
L: I just thought...
S: Look, we're just playing. I don't want any long-term entaglements.
L: Geez, you are one fickle bitch.
S: Maybe I should just ask Mom for a guinea pig or something.
L: Forget it. I'm gonna go lie down under the dining room table.
S: ... Was it something I said?