September 29, 2009
Nothing Spectacular
Oh my God, my sweet-baby flying monkies. I have missed you soooooooo much. The department I've been "temping" in since June is kicking my ass so hard! And when I typed "temping," I even paused in my typing for a moment to make the quotes sign in the air because that is how NOT-temporary my "temping" job is this time!!!
Basically, I am in a permanant position. One that would still BE a permanant position -- with good pay and full benefits -- had the woman filling it before me not gotten an offer she couldn't refuse. Was she fired? No. Was she down-sized? No. She merely ran for her life. So technically, the position is still a position.
Let me offer here to difference between a Position and a Temp. A Position is when someone comes to work every day, five days a week, receives a salary and benefits. A Temp is someone who is brought in to either a) help out with a specific project, with a specific end date; or b) cover about 50% to 75% of a Position until someone permanant can be hired.
So, boys and girls, when is a Position NOT a Position? When some poor sap like me is doing it for shit pay, no benefits, and hourly floggings. Then it's a "temp" job, by H.R. standards, because of a "hiring freeze" that H.R. is currently enforcing. (Yes, another pause for vicious air-quotes because their "freeze" is quite selective.) The bottom line is -- I Am H.R.'s Bitch. You should see the tattoo they made my get!
I know what you're thinking -- Well, Wenchie, ya loopy broad, why don't you just quit, since the money you're making barely covers gas to and from work, lunches with work friends, and blog fees? Because, my darling chew-toys. Husband got laid off in June.
MIND YOU. Husband did NOT get fired. Husband got laid off because he was the newest person at the company. THE ONLY REASON. He is a fucking deity in his field, and he WILL get another job... as soon as one of the three companies who want him get their act together and get him a damn offer.
*deep cleansing breath*
Meanwhile, back at the ranch, I am stuck in a department that has had it's personnel and budget cut by 40% -- and here's the rub -- WITHOUT CUTTING ANY PROJECTS, RESPONSIBILITIES OR EVENTS! There is no math in the world that can make that equation balance. Even I know that, and I got a D in math!
And what does this all mean for me? Basically -- indentured servitude. Working harder than I've ever worked in my life, for the kind of money I was making at the beginning of my secretarial career. Sheer suckitude.
So that, my dearest love, is why the blog has been a black hole lately. I can't blog at work; hell, I don't even have time to check my personal email at work. And once I get home, all I want to do is eat, watch a little t.v., and stagger to bed (and not in the good way).
But for you, oh snuggly angels, I will try. I will try for twice weekly. Because I wuv ooo.
And from my Mom:
Okay! It's been 23 days since you've blogged. I hope you are not ill or have left the country or the dogs have locked you in a closdt, or----------------- GASP!!! You've run out of things to rant about. I do follow you on FaceBook, but have seen nothing spectacular lately. God Bless.Posted at 02:03 PM | Comments (1)Love, Mommie dearest
September 18, 2009
Halloween Came Early
So I was outside with the dogs a few mornings ago, and it was all cool and half-lit and foggy and quiet. I love mornings like that.
While the dogs found the perfect spot on which to leave their gift of poo, I looked around at the dew-covered garden. The tiny-leafed ivy groundcover; those lace-like white flowers I can't remember the name of; snapdragons, which all bloomed for the second time this summer.
And I noticed that a band of small spiders had left a few tiny, delicate webs on the bushes and flowers, made dazzling and fairy-like by the dew.
And then EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEK!
Spiders laid a trap for me! They're not supposed to weave huge webs on manmade objects! They're supposed to stick to nature! I can't have bugs encroaching on my patio furniture! It's not like there aren't plenty of twigs and leaves for them to build on! Who do they think they are?!
I hadn't even begun to forgive the spiders when this asshole showed up.
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAACK!
ON MY KITCHEN WINDOW! WHAT THE FUCK?!
How the hell did he get so high up?! Aren't grasshoppers supposed to stay in the grass? Hence their name? He's, like, seven feet in the air! Is he even indigenous to this area?!
And this photo is not even life-size. He (she?) was actually bigger than this!
God, nature sucks!
Posted at 10:09 AM | Comments (0)September 16, 2009
The Finns are Jackholes, Too
I know that people in other countries, especially Europe, like to get down on Americans as being, well, assholes. But I'd like to present Exhibit A in the case of Americans Don't Own All the Asshattery In the World.
Part of my job description includes Resources, meaning that people ask for things, which I send to them.
I got the following email from a guy in Finland (names and religions have been changed to protect the pious):
Hello,I'm a Finnish post-doctoral scholar in Ecumenics. I'd like to order the following research materials (one copy of each item) for my study of which topic is the full communion relationships of the HCWWF (Huge Church Wenchie Works For):
Beckoned to Mutual Work: A Heatheran Proposal for a Revision of the Document of Agreement
Commentary on "Beckoned to Mutual Work"
Interim Eucharistic Sharing Agreement (1982)
The Document of Agreement (the text and background for the first full-communion proposal that was not accepted); NOTE: this should be available online but it is not, so I ask you to send me a paper copy of the document.
Wenchacy (Heatheran-Piratist Dialogue II): Report of the second Heatheran-Piratist dialogue
Wenchacy: A Heatheran-Piratist Common Statement to the Church
The Church: Neighborhood of Awesomeness (the final report of the joint commission between the Heatheran World Organization and World Piratist Group)
Please, send the materials to the following mailing address:
Jack Hole McFinn
Tallest Iceberg on the Left
12345 Llama-Impala
FINLANDI'm very grateful if I could get the materials as soon as possible. I'm ready to pay whatever they may cost (also the postage). Please, inform me how I could pay the order (do you send me a bill with the order or what is the paying method?).
Yours sincerely,
Dr. J. H. McFinn
Here is the first draft of my response:
Dear Jack,It took me less than a minute to Google the first three items. I was going to provide you links for them here, but then I remembered -- I'm not your bitch. You're a doctor; I'm sure you can find them on your own with a teensy bit of effort.
Regarding your fourth item, The Document of Agreement: Who the hell are you to decide, for the entire internet, what should be online and what should not? The internet was not designed for your personal convenience. The Document of Agreement is actually 262 pages, and goes for $110 American. (I don't know what that is in Finnish beads or fox pelts or whatever you use there.)
I suppose you think that ALL books should just be available for free download on the internet, at least for YOU. Why should authors make any money off their hard work and talent? Whould should publishers, at the very least, be reimbursed for time and materials? That's just greedy!
I don't have a stack of free copies of 262-page, $110 books under my desk to distribute like candy on Halloween. Go Google the book, Jack. And you can purchase it, just like us non-doctoral slobs have to do.
As for the last three documents you request, they are small, and I do have copies in our library, which I will send you. Then again, we don't have many copies of the last one, so I'm going to scan it and attach it to this email, which is still more than you deserve.
And you can bet, although the ones I'm mailing you are only $4, there will be a sizable Arrogant Prick Fee, in addition to shipping costs. Enclosed will be an invoice. It's your damn job to figure out how to convert animal pelts to American dollars.
God's peace,
Wenchie
P.S. I don't believe for a second that you're actually going to read all these.
Still debating whether to send it via airmail or ground...
Posted at 11:41 AM | Comments (3)September 14, 2009
An Open Letter To Boss' Colleagues
To Whom It May Concern:
As the sorely-underpaid, temporary administrative assistant to an extremely frenetic man, I feel professionally obligated to inform you of the following:
1. I do not posess the ability to make time magically appear on Boss' calendar. My superpowers are limited to typing at the speed of light and Herculean patience. I cannot, yet, bend the ways of the universe to my whims.
2. If you wish to meet with Boss, you must give me more than a few day's notice. I am currently scheduling for March 2010.
3. If you, a grown-up, miss two deadlines, I am not required to be polite when reminding you of that fact.
4. My job description does not include dialing Boss' phone and holding it up to his ear. If he doesn't return your call, don't imply that I didn't give him your message. That's just a self-fulfilling prophecy waiting to happen.
5. If you are calling from a cell phone in Senegal, write me an email.
6. If you only started speaking English three months ago, write me an email.
7. I really hope, for your safety, that you're not telling me how you like your coffee because you expect me to get it for you.
8. There is a Search feature on our website. Please give it a whirl BEFORE calling me to ask for something.
9. Don't ever thank me "in advance" for something that I may choose NOT to do.
10. I. Am. No. One's. Bitch.
Disrespectfully yours,
Wenchie
September 07, 2009
Welcome to Ruralville. Population: Wenchie
...was among the many things in the middle of the damn road on this trip:
1. A lone cow, sans farmer or obvious destination.
2. Four tourists on scooters, riding four abreast.
3. A hitchhiker on a bicycle, laden with ridiculous amounts of camping gear, whom I took pity on and drove to the campgrounds. It wasn't until later that I found out that Schwinn + camping gear is pretty much the equivalent of big van + heavy couch.
Posted at 09:02 PM | Comments (1)September 04, 2009
"Lord, Give Me Strength"
That was the subject line of the email that Billi sent to me. "Lord, give me strength." I figured it had to be either Boy Child or The Spare that was inspiring her plea for God's mercy. Billi specified which one:
Boy Child dropped his DS in the toilet today. Damn kid can't even pee without playing a video game. The little shit thinks Santa can just bring him a new one.
BWAAAAAAAAAA HA HA HA HA HA HAH A HA HA HA HA HA HA!
I really hope she wasn't expecting any sympathy because there was no way I could stop laughing long enough to whip up any convincing concern.
The most obviously funny thing about this is the mental picture of Boy Child standing at the toilet, his tiny wang in one hand, and his DS in the other.
The other funny things about this is more subtle, as it requires an intimate knowledge of Boy Child's psyche. Or having someone tell you about it on the internet.
Boy Child does not like water on him. Baths are okay because that's when you are supposed to be wet. But wetness at any other time is just wrong. If a droplet of water moistens his shirtsleeve like the morning dew while he is washing his hands, he must change his shirt.
I think he might be a little O.C.D. I don't know where he gets it...
So here's the child who will not voluntarily become damp outside of bathtime, standing next to the toilet, gazing into the bowl, staring at the red DS sitting on the bottom.
The dialogue inside his head begins:
I gotta get it outta there.
But it's the toilet.
I can't leave it in there. I'm not done with my game.
But there's water in the toilet.
If I leave it, Mom will find it and kill me.
If you get it, you're going to get wet.
Can I fish it out with something?
It's pee-water! What if it gets on your sleeve?!
Maybe Girl Child will get it for me...
Girl Child will tell on you.
I don't have a choice. I have to stick my hand in.
I wonder how long he stood there, contemplating all options. Oh, he amuses me so. I'm telling this story at his wedding.
Posted at 05:20 AM | Comments (0)September 02, 2009
Wenchie's Resume 1987-1994, Part I
Earlier this year, I started telling you about my initial foray into the work-a-day world, circa 1984-87. At the time of that post, I thought I was soon headed to a permanant position in the department of my choice.
Alas, it was not to be. I am now in an endless temporary limbo in a new department, with no end -- or payraise, or permanant job offer -- in sight. Seriously, I could make more money if I went back to waiting tables. And I'd do it, too, if I wasn't so damn lazy. Also, as I've gotten older, my ability to tolerate crap from people has seriously deteriorated.
After quitting Pizza Hut and moving out of my parents' house, I pretty much had a whole new life just waiting for me. I moved in with my boyfriend's best friend's girlfriend (and her toddler), and I started working where said boyfriend, best friend and girl friend had all worked before me. The Main Cafe in Evanston. It's easy to score a job when you have three previous employees vouching for you!
I must admit, I loved the Main Cafe. It was on Main St. and Chicago Ave. in Evanston, right across from the Metra stop. It was one of those diners that had been in the neighborhood forever and really belonged to the people who frequented the place. It was like an extension of everyone's home. "Here's the kitchen, here's the master bedroom. Oh, and here's The Main Cafe."
I swear, if you took off a chunk of that ancient wood paneling, you'd find veins and flesh and bones. Okay, kind of a gruesome analogy, but you get my point -- that place was an entity in and of itself.
I normally worked the counter for breakfast and lunch and saw the same exact people eating the same exact thing every day. There was Tom, the 70 year old manic-depressive who told a great story. There was Tex, the hundred year old cowboy who often tipped me with jewelry he had made.
And there was John, that GORGEOUS, blue-eyed, coffee-slugging artist who loaned me books and tipped me $5 on a cup of coffee every day. *sigh* Totally should've been with him instead of the caveman I was with, but that's a whoooooole other blog.
There was also an old guy -- can't remember his name -- who had numbers tattooed on his forearm. Never having seen that before, I thought it was a really bad decision he'd made while docked in Singapore or something. But one of the other waitresses told me that he'd been in one of the Nazi concentration camps during WWII, and made it out alive. Marked forever with an identification number. I kinda wish I'd asked him about it. I mean, how often does anyone get the opportunity to talk to living history like him? But I never did. I don't think I'd want to talk about it, if it were me, so I never brought it up, and neither did he.
Anyhoo, I had to quit that gig when I just couldn't take my caveman boyfriend's jealousy shit anymore. And since I moved out on the spur-of-the-moment -- at seven in the morning -- I was forced to move back in with the Ps and find a new job.
I didn't have a car, but luckily for me, my parents house was mere blocks from a bustling, suburban business district. So I applied for a job at the local LePeep. It wasn't much of an interview, considering I had a pulse and experience, and the rest of the wait staff consisted one hardened lifer and three cheerleaders from the local high school.
Now, I've already told you how I gave my boss his nickname, Spud, and I don't have time to tell you about all the co-workers I dated there. So I'll just tell you about Kent. He was my favorite, anyway. Probably because I didn't date him.
Our little LeFamily grew to include, in the front of the house, a couple students from the local community college, and a closted queen to serve as host -- Kent. Ah, Kent. Kent of the slicked-back, bleach-blond hair, long before Draco Malfoy made it popular. Kent, who used to tell me stories of how he'd balance his ashtray on his girlfriend's ass while he did her doggie-style. God, he was mean to his girlfriends.
My favorite times were on weekends when Spud would put both Kent and I at the front desk to seat people and take money and whatnot. It was a nice break from having to wear an apron, but my favorite thing was the game Kent and I would play -- Guess What Faces That Person Makes During Sex. A game difficult to describe in mere words, but I'm sure you have the imagination necessary to do it justice.
*sigh* How I miss evil, nasty, embittered, gay Kent. I'm going to have to revive that game. Who wants to come out and play?
Posted at 11:17 AM | Comments (0)