May 30, 2011
Less Decorum, More Fanfare, Please
Last week, my life changed radically, in the blink of an eye. No warning, no freakin' clue it was coming...
Although, looking back, I guess there were a couple signs. Hindsight being twenty-twenty, and all.
Last Friday morning, before I had even ingested my first mandatory cup of coffee, fuzzy and loveable HR Troll #1 came by to see if Vy was in. HRT1 thinks that she and Vy are besties, but they are such different people, I have to wonder if Vy would agree. Vy is so completely in control of herself at all times, and HRT1 can't hardly open her mouth without the completely wrong thing flying out. Know your audience, HRT1! Alas, she does not. But the unlikely pairing of she and Vy may actually bode well for me, as you will see.
As it was barely 8:00 a.m., Vy wasn't in, yet. So, like a good girl, I told HRT1 that Vy only has one meeting today, so she'd have plenty of time to get back to her, and I'd tell Vy that she stopped by. Oh, but HRT1 was in a chatty mood, and she wasn't going to give up that easily!
She sat down in the extra chair in my cube. First time ever. Weird.
She was all, "How do you like working here? Isn't Vy great? She's really one of the most amazing people I've ever met!"
And I, seeing as how my momma didn't raise no dummies, agreed, "She's great! I love it here! I really feel like I can learn a lot working for her!"
Ever auditioning, ever interviewing.
And then HRT1 went on, "You know, sometimes we're in meetings, and we can't figure out how to do something, and she'll come up with a whole new way of looking at it -- the things she brings to the table! She's just so brilliant!"
See? That's where she lost her audience. Why talk to me about a part of Vy that I'm never going to see? I'm never going to be in a problem-solving, brainstorming situation with Vy. That's not my place here. I'm not a decision-maker or opinion-giver. I'm a make-it-happen-er. The only Vy I'm ever going to see is that one that gives me my marching orders.
Thankfully, the conversation was over quickly, and HRT1 was on her merry way. So little time, so many awkward situations to create! Of course, she came back a little while later, and she and Vy were behind closed doors for a while, but that's nothing out of the ordinary.
Friday crawled by, and I mean c...r...a...w...l...e...d. It was one of those days where everything on my desk required a response from someone else before I could move forward or wrap it up. But apparently, Friday was a holiday that we weren't aware of because the phone weren't ringing and emails weren't being answered.
There are, ocassionally, times in my job when I am legitimately bored and without something real to do. However, I feel that those times are made up for by the times I am suddenly scrambling to save the planet at 3:30 on a Friday afternoon (my quitting time is 4:00). So while I don't sweat the down time, I don't enjoy it, either. Makes time go so slowly.
By 3:00, I was nearly dead of a coma. Brain activity had ceased to even register on the little sizmagraph that I'm required to have hooked up to my brain, as stated in my contract.
Vy's phone rang and startled me awake. I swear, it was the first time all afternoon anyone's phone had rung on the entire floor. The bright light retreated from my vision, and Grandma told me that it wasn't my time, yet.
Now, I never intentionally listen in on Vy's phone conversations. It's rude, and also boring. Seriously, you would be surprised how boring top secret, confidential information is. Probably because nothing is interesting unless it directly affects ME, but whatever. I don't eavesdrop, and even if I wanted to, I can't really hear her most of the time anyway.
So it's weird that one sentence, one question from Vy's lips seemed to come through loud and clear:
"Won't the staff think that's strange?"
Oooooh! Fascinating! Finally, something worth staying alert for! What could possibly be going on that the staff might think is strange? Are they replacing Lord God King with a look alike, a la Kevin Klein in "Dave"? Are they going to release spider monkeys into our workspace? Are they going to replace PhD Boss with a robot? So many exciting possibilities!
I didn't hear the rest of the conversation, which was brief, but I was kind of thrilled to have something to look forward to. I vowed to keep a look out for whatever trick the organizational muckity-mucks might try to pull on us. Oh, sweet scandal!
Half an hour later, Vy called me into her office and had me close the door behind me. Not an unusual occurrance, but kind of strange for wearisome Friday afternoon. I prayed she wasn't giving me some big assignment with only thirty minutes left on my forty-hour-work-week clock.
I sat down, and Vy said, "So, we're going to just transition you to regular employment. We're not going to post the job; we're not going to hold interviews."
...
"Uh... ... ...What?"
The rest of the talk is pretty much a blur. Here was my goal, finally reached. Here was my obstacle, finally surmounted. Here was the pay-off of all the crap I'd put up with for four years, finally culminating in a future of (relative) financial and employment security, and only a seven minute commute away.
Shouldn't there have been... oh, I don't know -- trumpets, or something? Trumpets played by baby angels? Maybe some hugging? A happy dance? Squealing and jumping up and down? There was none of that.
Well, things being what they are, I guess it's probably not appropriate to celebrate one's own doom and the slamming shut of the jail cell door behind you. Still, I was even less prepared for what followed.
Seeing Vy at a loss for the right words is not a common ocurrance. She's a Reverend Doctor, for Pete's sake -- she's hardly some slack-jawed simpleton. But she had a hard time describing exactly what is expected of me in this position, and it wasn't just because there exists no official job description.
Of course, the confidentiality remains a high priority of this position, and indeed, will be even more tatamount to the job because, presumably, I will be privy to even more classified information. (Ninety-nine percent of which is terribly boring anyway, so no problem there.)
But the really disturbing part was waiting for her to try to articulate exactly what the unwritten expectations of my new job are. Did I just imagine I heard things like "decorum" and "living the position"? Doesn't she realize that she's talking to Thee Wenchie?! I AM NOT A ROLE MODEL!
Well, of course, she doesn't know. But that hardly diminishes the irony. I fretted about it all weekend. My friends will understand that talking about work is now 100% off the table, and that's fine -- I have puh-lenty of other things to talk about. But the decorum part. Does she mean that I need to be like her? Reserved and polished absolutely every minute of the day? You guys,... I simply can't be that. Nor do I want to.
And this is where the HRT1 factor comes in. HRT1 is so lacking in spit 'n' polish, it's laughable. She's not inappropriate in the way that I'm inappropriate, i.e. vagina jokes and body language that screams, I think I'm in my sweats on the couch in my basement. No, she's inappropriate in the way that she phrases everything in the worst possible way, and she assumes that everyone in the world thinks the same way she does. Hard to describe, but just... surreptitiously rude.
But the baseline of both my personality and HRT1's is the same, relative to Vy's -- we both lack the will and the ability to work with absolute professionalism. So maybe... maybe Vy is unconciously drawn to people like HRT1 and I. As much as she requires consummate decorum from herself, perhaps she envies nonchalance in others. And maybe THAT is why she remarked, several times, on how well we work together and get along with each other. It may be that The Decorum Speech was lip service that she knows she must provide, but how much can she really hope to impose it on me? I've been in the building for four years and outside her door for four months -- she can't not know who I am!
Or perhaps I'm just blowing pink, shimmery smoke up my own ass.
Is that what she's afraid that the staff will think is strange? That she picked such a nonconformist for the position? Or is it that they're afraid people will be dissatisfied that the position wasn't posted and interviews held? I'm thinking it's the latter because she let me know there would be no announcement email to the building, and I should probably refrain from broadcasting the news.
Which is fine. I didn't tell her that what people think is strange is that she waited nearly four months to make the obvious decision. I also didn't tell her that the whole damn building knows that I'm contract because the whole damn building knows my story and ASKS me what's going on. So I'm going to have to tell a few key people about my change in employment status. I honestly hope it doesn't raise too many eyebrows.
Anyhoo, amonst all the strangeness -- and believe me, there is plenty -- my biggest worry is that perchance I am more of a Company Man than I think I am, and that is the bottom line of why I got the job.
As of June 1, my lovies, I am... The Man. And not in the good way, like You da man! I mean, I'm The Man.
Posted at 07:53 AM | Comments (1)May 24, 2011
The Three Signs & the Three Remedies
For no apparent reason, this is what my friend spent time composing today, instead of doing real work:
* * * * *
[Uses own name in third person] identifies the three signs of job misery as anonymity, irrelevance and "immeasurement."
Anonymity: Employees feel anonymous when their manager has little interest in them as people with unique lives, aspirations and interests.
Irrelevance: This condition occurs when workers cannot see how their job makes a difference. "Every employee needs to know that the work they do impacts someone's life -- a customer, a coworker, even a supervisor -- in one way or another."
Immeasurement: This term describes the inability of employees to assess for themselves their contributions or success. As a result they often rely on the opinions of others -- usually the manager -- to measure their success.
Three Remedies for Job Misery
1. More money
2. Even more money
3. Really a lot of money
* * * * *
And then he emailed it to me, with no precursor or explanation. He cracks me up.
Posted at 08:00 PM | Comments (0)May 11, 2011
Hello, My Name Is Wenchie
And I'm an enabler.
Lemme 'splain.
Around 11:00 yesterday, The Good Reverend Doctor Vy realized that her meeting with Lord God King and Highly Paid Consultant was going to run late, i.e. right into the lunch hour. So Vy waved me into their conference room, handed me her credit card and asked me to write down what they all wanted for lunch.
FLASHBACK! I broke out in a cold sweat, remembering my nine years as a waitress at various local establishments. I thought the days of serving my "betters" and trying to read my own hasty handwriting were over. But no. I also thought that waitress was as low as I would have to stoop that day. Again -- no.
You see, all three of them wanted roast beef sammiches from the deli downstairs. On wheat. And soup. And a Coke Zero, but if they don't have that, then a Diet Coke is fine. Lettuce, tomato, mustard and mayo on the sammiches, exept one without mustard.
And while the good folks at the deli will happily make you a turkey, ham, corned beef or tuna salad sammich, if you want a roast beef sammich, you have to make it yourself at the salad/sammich bar. I don't know who made that decision, nor do I know the reasoning behind it, nor would knowing the answers make my life suck any less.
People. I am forty-one years old. I got what my mother and others fondly refer to as "a real job" years ago, specifically to avoid ever having to work with food again. I don't wanna make it, and I don't wanna serve it. I don't wanna wear a name tag and/or a paper hat.
And I sure as hell didn't want to stoop to short order cook.
So there I was, in my cashmere Banana Republic cardigan and 2-3/4" heels, at the deli sandwich bar, making multiple roast beef sammiches. On wheat. With mayo. I hate mayo. I hate the smell; I hate the texture. It's slime, and I got it all over my hands because some sammich-makin'-newbie before me got mayo all over the handle of the mayo spatula.
DAMMIT! Of course, there were no napkins readily available, so I wiped my hands on my pants, and now I probably have may-oil stains on my work pants. DOUBLE DAMMIT DING-DONG DUMMY FUCK!
I took my stack of individually packaged, handmade roast beef sammiches, and I ordered three cups of soup, two broth-based, one cream-based. Let them fight it out over who gets which, I don't give a crap. Got the crackers. Got the spoons. What was I missing...?
Oh, yeah. The Coke Zero. Well, due to its recent pact with the Devil, the deli carries only Pepsi products. And here, my dear friends, is where I lost all respect for myself. Because instead of just getting a couple Diet Pepsis and expecting the grown-ups to suck it up and drink whatever carbonated, diet cola beverage I gave them, I remembered that they have Coke Zeros in the vending machines on the sixth floor of our building.
Now, before you lose whatever last microbe of respect-like feeling you may have for me, let's remember one thing -- my contract expires in less than three months. Technically, I am still auditioning, and I will take whatever ass-kissing opportunity I can get to wheedle my pathetic, little way into their hearts. If get the job, they will drink swill and like it. But until then, I am The Lunch Enabler.
I balanced the tower of soups on top of the stack of sammich boxes and made my way back, soups nestled between my ample breasts. And if you think I wasn't sweating before, let me assure you -- I sweated my balls off on that last leg of the sammich marathon. I, in fact, defied my DNA and grew balls, for the sole purpose of sweating them off. I'm the next evolutionary step, people! Behold, Ballsweatus Sapien!
*sigh* I don't wear a hard hat. I don't wear a ring of keys on my belt. I shouldn't be sweating at work.
Oh, and today, I had to go get two cobb salads. But at least I didn't have to make them myself. A promotion, indeed! Can my very own reserved parking space be far behind?
Posted at 07:18 PM | Comments (3)May 03, 2011
Writer's Block Is a Persistant Bitch
So yeah, the unrelenting uncertainty of my job continues to wrest all joy from my life, making it hard for me to regale you with amusing anecdotes. Oh, dour Posh-Spice-at-the-royal-wedding face. Oh, wrestling with total non-problems that 50% of the population would gladly trade for their own. Don't I make you puke?
Okay, update on what's been going on, covering the essentials.
Food
I had my first Yorkshire pudding on Friday night. And it's not pudding at all. Stupid Brits. It's essentially a roast beef sandwich on a pancake. Tasty, but hardly worthy of its uppity name. Also had a crumpet, which is bread. In other news -- and at the same party -- I continue to enjoy brie, and anything I bake is always the first dessert to go, no matter what anyone else brought. So there.
Shelter
Had some guests the other day, one of whom Husband and I were meeting for the first time. It was an event for which I cleaned the entire house, cooked several courses and served wine. Dude is my age and showed up wearing gym shoes with no socks, jeans with rips and paint stains, and white t-shirt, and one of those knit ski caps, which he did not remove upon entering my house. Is it just me, or is that obnoxious? I understand that I am now officially An Old Biddy, but what the fuck? You don't make some effort when you are meeting someone for the first time and they are making you dinner?! Turns out, he's a fairly decent human being, but sheesh -- it literally pains me to say that after the indifference he showed to both himself and to me. Appearance matters, people! It shows that you give a shit! And in general, people like people who give a shit... about something, anything. God, just take off your hat. This isn't the old west.
Clothing
Obsession about what I will wear to Older Step Daughter's (OSD) wedding reached fever pitch over the weekend as I sobbed in Husband's arms about how I will never be glamorous and the only thing I can shoot for is to not look slovenly, and begged him to take a day off work to come dress shopping with me, which he readily agreed to in order to stop the crazy lady from getting snot on his shirt. Adding to my anxiety is the fact that Husband's ex is a size two, as is everyone on that side of the family. In fact, she still fits into her high school cheerleading uniform. I KNOW, RIGHT?! How have I not taken my own life, yet???
Work
Three months left in my current contract. And yet somehow, no end in sight... My job hasn't been posted, so no one has interviewed for it. I am coming to the horrific realization that my contract will probably be extended beyond July 31, and the even MORE apocolyptically-horrifying thought that I will probably agree to it. Shall we start a pool: What Will Be Wenchie's Last Day? I'll take September 15th for five dollars.
Family
Billi and I are having our annual Raise Money For Our Spring Trip To Door County Garage Sale on Thursday. And since it's also Cinco de Mayo, we are also putting up pinatas and serving complimentary margaritas to our shoppers. ... No, we are most certainly not. And you're probably wondering, as I am, Wenchie, how is it that you have enough crap in your house to make a hundred bucks at a garage sale every single year? I honestly don't know, and it's more than a little disturbing. Billi's children are constantly outgrowing their clothes, giving her a constant supply of wares to sell. Me? I just got tchotchkes. (Not to be confused with Chachi, whom I would never get rid of!)