August 27, 2008

Parts 'n' Hooters

Ah, my minions. Much has happened in the 843 days since my last post. We're almost done building the mission church, and BoBo's cubs are all healthy and growing fast.

Enh, who cares about that shit. America's Next Top Model Season 11 starts next week Wednesday! Here's a fun game to play:

Remember that old Sesame Street song? "One of these things is not like the others; One of these things just doesn't belong!" Look through the photos of the new meat and guess which one of them used to have meat!

That's right, models! Now Tyra isn't the only she-male on the show! There's a transsexual in the bunch!

Not sure of the difference between a transvestite and a transsexual? Well, a transvestite is a person who dresses up as the opposite sex, but keeps all their parts and may or may not be gay. A transsexual is someone who gets their original parts surgically replaced with the opposite parts. And I'm not talking about McNuggets here, folks!

(Or wait. Am I...?)

Who said my blog is for entertainment purposes only? We learned something today, boys and girls!

Anyhoo, this means I'm going to have to renew my commitment to blogging recaps of the ANTM episodes. That's gonna be hard, what with me working an excruciating 24 hours a week now!

And speaking of work, there's been more fall-out from The Hooters Incident, as it has come to be known. I brought baked goods to work today, of which Official Title partook.

And then. After eating the fruit of my labor. He dared to ask Rose, "Did Wenchie really work at Hooters?"

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

And the bitch was laughing so hard, she didn't even correct him!

OH!!! MY!!! GOD!!!

I can see that this is going to take more than cookies to correct. I may have to bake a big cake. And then jump out of it.

Posted at 07:23 PM | Comments (4)

August 22, 2008

The Pretty, Pretty Timesuck of Despair

There were only three others besides me at work today. And two of them left at lunch. Yup, pretty quiet. Which can lead to the dreaded Not Much To Do Syndrome. You know how it is.

I thought to myself, Wenchie, you look kickass today. Unfortunately, there aren't many people here to revel in it, so what are you going to do with your time? Your nails are perfect. Your birthday wish list is updated. What to do...? I know! Join Facebook!

Sue and Heather are already on it, so seriously, what the hell was keeping me??? Welcome to the 2000s, Wenchie!

I started as soon as I got my coffee. Two hours and 45 minutes later, I had eleven friends. And not the lame, friend-of-a-friend type friends. REAL friends! That I actually know!

Or knew in high school and haven't seen in nearly twenty years, but who's counting?

I'm up to sixteen friends now, as Younger Step Daughter was kind enough to Friend me. I know how to chat. I've SuperPoked someone. And I added a birthday calendar! Go me!

Yes, it's true, I am Facebook's bitch. I am a Tool of the Book that is Face. I'm a whoring whore who whores, and Facebook is my pimp.

Which would probably bother me, if I weren't so used to it. Starbucks, Coach, Sephora -- I am butt monkey to them all. I don't even complain anymore when they tell me to grab my ankles. I just keep downloading photos on my precious, shiny Facebook.

Those of you who know me by name -- look me up and Friend me!

Those of you who don't know me by name -- you're better off. Trust me, you don't need me around complicating your life and wasting your time.

Just ask Husband.

Posted at 09:37 PM | Comments (2)

August 18, 2008

Office Space, Wenchie Style

Some days, my life resembles a sitcom. One of those sitcoms where I'd the dufus next door neighbor. I'm not the star, but I do provide the ocassional comic relief.

Friday was such a day.

I work on the top floor of my organization's building. It's the floor where all the bigwigs have their posh offices with the fabulous views. I am, indeed, awash with bigwigs.

This week has been very different in that The Biggest Wig Of Them All has been here all week. Usually, he's off touring hospitals in Africa or meeting with Bush's cabinet or speaking to an assembly of other bigwigs. Seriously, he's like Jeebus. I've been scared all week that some asshole was going to fly a plane into the building. That's how important he is.

Although everyone on this floor calls him by his first name, my peon brain has elevated him to TOTAL ROCKSTAR STATUS, and I call him by his official title. He's a very kind, personable man, but since I'm a temp, and prior to this week, he's only been here a total of 7 days in the past 3 months, we've never spoken.

Until Friday. THREE TIMES Friday, we spoke.

The last three days of last week, my department hosted a big event for 70 important people. All their meetings were on our floor, and we provided them with breakfast, lunch and dinner every day. This means that the other admins (administrative assistants) and I got to run around like bus boys. I hated it, but I got to eat what the important people ate, so it's a decent trade-off.

Friday morning, the caterer didn't bring enough little individual cereals. You know, the ones that come in the little bowls? Mind you, this was Chris' fault, not the caterer's. He panicked when he saw 45 bowls of cereal for 70 people and sent me to the Dominick's for more.

So at 7:15 in the morning, having been at work a full 15 minutes, I grabbed his money, my keys and my sunglasses, and headed back out to the parking garage.

Outside the front entrance of the building, Official Title was being dropped off by his wife. Stupidly, I decided to initiate contact, so I said, "Good morning, Official Title!"

To which he replied, "You put in a full day's work already?"

Deer in the headlights.

"Uh... I have to get cereal."

Really? "I have to get cereal"? That's the best I could come up with? Real clever, Wenchie. What a sharpie.

Later that morning, it was plastic cutlery that were were running low on. Chris sent me to get forks and knives from the filing cabinet in our department. (We have to hide supplies from the other departments, otherwise, they disappear. I have six boxes of granola bars, two rolls of Saran Wrap and some big Ziploc bags in my cube.)

I grabbed the box of 500 knives and put it on my little handcart. Then I grabbed the box of 500 forks.

Only it was a box of 499 forks because some yabbo had already opened it.

You guessed it. All 499 forks spilled onto my feet and the surrounding rug. Official Title CAME OUT OF HIS OFFICE to see what the racket was, only to see the idiot temp standing in a sea of plastic forks.

He goes, "What happened?"

Deer in the headlights.

"Uh... nothing."

Seriously? I'm like a genius with the snappy answers. I should go on tour.

As I picked up the forks, I thought to myself, I'm going to have to bake cookies for Monday so he'll think of me as Baker Girl and not Fork-Dropping Cereal Girl. I must redeem myself!

Later that afternoon, Mark had a birthday. Well, Mark had a birthday earlier that week. We had a birthday celebration for him Friday afternoon. There were about half a dozen of us standing around the file cabinets, eating cake. All of them are waaaaaaaaaaaaay more important than me.

One of them was Official Title's Executive Secretary. She's this 60-year old black woman named Rose. She has dreadlocks. And last week, she, too, talked to me about her hair!

Anyhoo, have I mentioned that Official Title is also a man of the cloth? Because he is. See? Just like Jeebus.

So we were standing around, eating cake, shooting the breeze, talking about what we used to hate to eat that our parents tried to make us eat and we tried to devise original and sneaky way to dispose of. Things were going well, I was engaging and witty without dominating the conversation. I felt that Official Title was starting to warm to me and see me as a person instead of just That Idiot Temp.

And then? Rose threw me under the bus.

Appropos of NOTHING -- we were talking about lutefisk -- Rose was like "Wenchie said the funniest thing at lunch today!"

Oh. Shit.

I covered my face with my hands and laid my head on the counter, trying not to pass out.

I instantly knew what was coming. I'd been lunching with three very highly-ranked, older women in the organization, whom I worship and adore and want to be like when I grow up, and I'd gotten a little too giddy and comfortable with my company.

Rose continued her story, "TJ asked me where I worked before I came here. And before I could even open my mouth, Wenchie said, Hooters!"

Well, the reaction at the birthday celebration was the same as the reaction at lunch. People laughed so hard they couldn't stand up, let alone speak.

I looked up to tell Rose that I hate her, and The Rev. Official Title pointed and me and said, "Lookit how red she is!" Before continuing to laugh his ass off.

I knew that, one day, my lack of a brain-to-mouth filter would get me into trouble. But I never thought that I'd actually have to leave the country.

Heather, you might want to start a rough draft of my eulogy blog.

Posted at 08:54 AM | Comments (1)

August 06, 2008

The Black Hair Taboo

So there I was, standing in TJ's office at the end of a Friday afternoon, not expecting to have a completely surreal experience. We were discussing our plans for the weekend, when TJ led me down a path of interracial taboo.

TJ is black. And yes, I'm going to say black instead of "African-American" because TJ is not from Africa. She's from Tennessee. I, in case you're new, am white. My family is from northern Europe, but I am from Illinois.

Having been born and raised in my particular suburb, I didn't know a lot of black people growing up. There were two mixed-race kids one block over, but they were adopted by a white couple, and they weren't in my grade. The first black person I ever interacted with was my junior high music teacher, Miss Street. And I worshipped her.

After junior high, it wasn't until my first job at Pizza Hut that I met more black people. In fact, I worked with TWO of them. From the city. Oh, they thought I was a trip. I was their little mascot, and they began my training in the "food service industry," a career that led to an interesting education, indeed.

Years later, when I was a secretary, I worked with another black woman. And her hair fascinated me. One month, she'd have a full-on Beyonce weave. The next, a complicated pattern of braids that turned her scalp into a work of art. I wanted so very badly to have a girly conversation with her about her hair, but I was warned -- "Black people hate it when white people ask about their hair."

Damn. Foiled.

Since then, black people -- and indeed, people of many hues -- have become a regular part of my world. And I like it. I don't feel like a naive, over-priviledged, suburban brat anymore. And I've had some really great conversations about the Big, Bad Topic of RACE.

But I've never broken The Hair Rule. I will go so far as to compliment a particularly fabulous hairstyle, but even then, I imagine I can feel the wearer bristle, so I quickly change the subject.

Never in my wildest dreams did I dare think that a black woman -- freely and of her own volition -- would TELL ME all about her HAIR!!! Holy shit! Was she trying to get me into trouble?! What if the other black people found out?! They'd take away her Black Card!

There she was, talking about her plans to take all her braids out, and she'd probably pay someone to do it this time, even 'though she's cheap, because she always ends up crying.

And there I was, staring like a deer in headlights. Shit, shit, shit! What do I do? Does she... did she forget that I'm white? Well, I am a pretty good dancer...

She's going to get it rebraided one more time, to let it grow out another inch. Some of it is her real hair, and some of it is synthetic. And then she's just going to ditch the braids and have her natural hair, which is the texture of cotton.

I SWEAR TO GOD! SHE SAID ALL THIS TO ME! ALL THIS AND MORE!!!

I'm pretty sure this makes me an honorary black person. What do you think? You think they'll give me a Black Card?

Posted at 09:42 AM | Comments (3)

May 13, 2008

Cats and Wenches Always Land On Their Feet

GodDAMN, being unemployed is hard work! I have to do so much stuff just to justify my existance!

Like now? I'm delivering lunches to shut-ins.

(I'll wait for you to stop laughing.)

Twice a week.

(Okaaaaaaaaaay, get it all out of your system.)

Tuesdays and Thursdays.

(You know, you're not even really laughing now. You're just faking it to annoy me.)

I was going to be working for the guy I worked for in my most recent temp position. PART! TIME!

FROM! HOME!

FANTASY!!! JOB!!!

But -- due to circumstances that I can't write about here (YET!!!) because of a certain weepy, delusional backstabber -- I'm going to have to curtail my "official" business with the guy. At least for a while...

[And, yeah -- the second it's safe to do so, you are getting the Gossipy Blog Mini-Series of a LIFETIME!]

Aw, don't cry for me, my darlings! It is adorable when you care. But didn't you read the title? I popped right back into bigger and better things! Like a cockroach after a nuclear bomb. A singing, bejeweled cockroach.

I'm going back to work at the same company, but in a different capacity. On the top floor. Working at a desk mere feet from The Big Man Himself! God, it's just BRILLIANT! I'm like the star of my own fabulous movie! "The Princess Blog Posts!"

Oh, don't fret, my cuddly wittle wombats. It's only part-time. Three days a week. Well, one day this week. And then I go outta town for a long weekend. I RULE!

I hope my computer isn't facing The Big Man's office. That'd make it a lot harder to I.M. with my co-dependants.

Posted at 09:10 PM | Comments (4)

February 25, 2008

The $1,500 Check

I am currently staring down the barrell of a major flu bout. Considering what's been going around my floor at work, I expect to erupt in open, running sores any minute. I came home from work and spent the majority of the evening under the covers, in my sweatsuit, shivering.

So here's my post for the day. I was going to pretty it up, but I'm about to fall out of my chair. So here it is, in all its unpolished glory, a work-related rant that I IMed to Heather. Here's praying it's 80% coherent.

PW: so we got a check for $1500 here at Workplace. and I have no idea what it's for cuz there was no attached backup

Heather: it's for me!

PW: so I called the church where it came from, and the bitch is like, "We ALWAYS send $1500 to you. Every month."
and I can hear her talking to someone else in a snarky voice, and she's all, "She doesn't know what to do with our benevolence check."
Like I'm a fucking retard.
so I'm like, "Well, it says Attn: Hannah Peters, who hasn't worked here in 6 months, and who changed her last name to Stanford 2 years ago. So might it go to someone else?"
and she's all "Yeah, Sharon Reinhardt."
and I'm all, "There's no Sharon Reinhardt here. But I'll check it out and get back to you."

H: bwahahah

PW: mind you, she's all pissy and acting like I'M the idiot here

H: bitch! "our benevolence check"

PW: meanwhile, I find out that the check should have gone to Related Organization, where Sharon Reinhardt works
so even tho' I said, "I'm Wenchie and I work at the WORKPLACE IN CHICAGO" and she knows their Related Org. is in COLORADO, she STILL thought I was the idiot!
so now I get to call her back and tell her that she not only sent it to the wrong person, she sent it to the wrong ORGANIZATION in the wrong STATE
BITCH!
who's laughing derisively NOW, church secretary snotbag!
This will be the first phone call here I've ever enjoyed

H: bwahahaha I love that
AWESOME!

PW: I know!

H: did you call her?

PW: just got off the phone
she's all, "I don't know why that happened. we do this every month off Quickbooks."
and I'm thinking -- retard behind the wheel is why!

H: bwahahaha
like "I didn't screw up! it's the comp0uter!"

PW: exactly

Yup. That's all I got. Sorry so lame. Would have been funnier, if every inch of my skin didn't hurt.

Posted at 09:36 PM | Comments (1)

February 19, 2008

I'm Infamous... Again

I am so Lady Boss' bitch again today.

Smokey is all impressed that I manage to deal with her by laughing it off. But Smokey has been here for several years, whereas I've only been here since September. It just seems like several years. If I'd been here as long as Smokey, I would go African wild dog on LB's ass and start eating her entrails while she's still alive.

Smokey said, "You might as well have taken a bullet and bore children for her. She pretty much had you do everything else." Hee! Secretarial comradery is the best!

Things I've Done For Lady Boss Today

1. Called the I.T. dept. to get a speakerphone in the conference room she's using. Normally, they require 3 days notice. Because of LB's procrastination, I've never given them more than 3 hours notice for any item she has needed. I am famous with the I.T. people.

2. Called the I.T. dept. because LB couldn't get the speakerphone to work. So she called me, so I could call the Help Desk for her. I begged them just to go to her, rather than making me relay messages. Now I have to name my firstborn "Dilbert," in accordance with the agreement I had to make with them.

[I'd like to interrupt this pathetic list to say this: I have an I.Q. of 146. Mensa, I believe, starts accepting applications at 145. Not that the I.Q. is the end-all measurement of braininess, and I'm not saying this to brag. I'm just saying -- Mensa-worthy. To put this post into persepctive.]

3. Called the mail room to ask them to call me as soon as her overnight package from the printer arrives. Which was pointless because LB just sent my butt down there anyway to stalk the mail guys. (I'm famous with them, too.) Luckily, her package had just arrived, so I could open it for her and bring it up to her meeting. As a reward, she was kind enough to loosen my collar a bit.

4. Checked her email every 5 minutes looking for one from Barb. There was an attachment that I had to open, print off, make 10 copies of, and deliver to her conference room.

5. Lunch. I'd talked to the caterer weeks ago, so all that was left to do today was bring a cart with ice, drinks and cups to the meeting. Oh, and set out juices in the morning. Oh, and meet the caterer and sign for the food. Oh, and find a table for the food. Oh, and play Food Police so the other vultures having meetings today wouldn't eat my peoples' food.

Oh my God. I just saw my fav I.T. guy in the hall. He's like, "Oh, you're the one we're supposed to try not to kill today." See? Famous. Or infamous, as the case may be.

I'm like, "It's not me! It's my Evil Overlord! I'm really a nice person!"

I'm sure Lady Boss will call me any minute now and ask to have I.T. set up a complete surround sound system in the conference room, and I'll have to bring them 3 virgins, 2 white doves and a bull.

There are 400+ people in this building, and 100s more deployed. I have been here for 5 months. I don't believe it is a testament to my sparkling personality that the entire I.T. dept. knows me by name.

Posted at 02:54 PM | Comments (2)

February 15, 2008

24 Blunders

The following takes place between 11:00 a.m. and 1:00 p.m.

11:13
I call Beatrix and arrange to meet her in the lobby by the fountain at 11:45. We are going to Camille's Cafe for lunch, and if you don't get there before noon, you don't get a table.

11:35
Lady Boss calls me. She sounds like a man, due to an upper-respitory infection. She tells me that our department head has forbid her to come into the building and spread her germs. Thanks be to God. However, she needs to pick up the 120 pages I printed off for her to proofread. Fine. I can leave the documents at the front desk for her to pick up. Oh, and? Her work friend, Sabrina, who also lives in Lady's Boss' building, asked Lady Boss to pick up her lunch for her. (????) Can I go get it from Maria Lopez on the 8th floor and leave it with the documents? Fine. Whatever.

11:37
I call Maria Lopez and explain, to her voicemail, that I am looking for Sabrina's lunch, which I have to leave at the front desk for Lady Boss.

11:38
I call Beatrix and explain, to her voicemail, that I have to do one quick thing for Lady Boss, and then I'll call her and we can go.

11:42
I call Maria Lopez again, but she persists in being away from her desk. I don't leave another message.

11:43
I call Lady Boss and tell her that I can't find Maria Lopez. She says she'll call Sabrina.

11:45
Lady Boss calls back and says that Sabrina says that Maria Lopez is up on the 11th floor. I'm assuming that Maria Lopez is a secretary and is up on the conference floor in order to meet the caterer, who will bring lunch for some meeting, and with it will be Sabrina's lunch.

11:46
I make Smokey come with me to the 11th floor to find Sabrina's lunch, since I don't know Maria Lopez or anyone on the 11th floor, and I don't want to be arrested for lunch snatching.

11:47
On the 11th floor, we run into Chris from our department, who is waiting for a caterer to bring lunch for a meeting. A different meeting. Not the Maria Lopez meeting. I ask her if Maria Lopez is on that floor, and she says that Maria is IN a meeting. NOT waiting for the caterer. Shit.

11:49
Smokey and I stand outside the meeting room where Maria Lopez is, allegedly. We decide that there is no way we are interrupting the meeting to ask about Sabrina's lunch. We look in the little window and see a small table with some fruit on it but can't discern whether it is lunch-fruit or leftover morning-break-fruit. There is no other food on the entire 11th floor. We discuss whether or not they might already be done with lunch, since it's ten to noon, and lunch usually isn't served until noon. She tells me that, if she were me, she would just call Sabrina and tell her to make a fucking sandwich, but for some reason, I find the whole thing hilariously funny, like a madcap sitcom full of hijinx. Smokey makes sure not to stand too close to me in the elevator. The doors open, and there's Mr. Furley. Clearly, there's been some sort of misunderstanding with Jack.

11:54
I call Lady Boss, explain the situation and ask her what she wants me to do. She says that she'll call Sabrina, and I can hunt for the lunch again when I get back from my lunch.

11:56
I call Maria Lopez and leave a message saying that, if Sabrina's lunch turns up, to please put it somewhere safe and leave me a message with clues as to where it is. Preferrably in the form of some sort of word puzzle. No math.

11:57
I go down to the lobby as fast as the elevator will take me.

11:59
Beatrix is not there. I call her on her cell, and she is up on my floor looking for me. Lou Costello rounds the corner and barrells into me, knocking me over and sending all my packages flying. He also knocks over a fruit cart, then lands on a cat.

12:02
Beatrix and I go have a lovely lunch at Camille's Cafe. We even get a table.

1:05
I arrive back at my desk to find a styrofoam container full of Chinese food. It's labeled Sabrina. As if I might mistake it for someone else's lunch. Or a gift from friendly gnomes.

1:06
I call Lady Boss and tell her that Sabrina's lunch has magically appeared. She says she'll pick everything up at 1:45 at the front desk.

1:07
I decide to wait until 1:40 to bring the food down, so the poor guy at the front desk doesn't have to smell Chinese food for 40 minutes.

1:30
I decide that Lady Boss would probably like to enjoy the roses from her boyfriend over the weekend, so I empty the water from the vase. I rummage around in her desk and find a canvas tote. I also see an open bag of Starburst and make a mental note for later. I wedge both Chinese food and vase of flowers into the tote.

1:38
I realize I'm cutting it close enough and take the tote down to the front desk. I find that two other people have also left packages there for Lady Boss, in addition to my original stack of documents. Front Desk Guy is decidedly unamused. I leave the tote anyway.

1:58
Maria Lopez calls to tell me that Sabrina's food is missing. Not even bothering to conceal my laughter, I tell her that everything is fine and Sabrina's food has already been picked up by Lady Boss. I hang up and wonder who put the Chinese food on my desk. It was probably Curly.

Posted at 02:11 PM | Comments (0)

February 01, 2008

Wenchie vs. Nylons

As I watched the White Scourge of the Midwest fall outside my cubicle window yesterday afternoon, I had this conversation with Heather via I.M.:

[By the way, Meebo lets you chat without having to download software onto your work computer -- check it out!]

PW: It's a bitch outside.
PW: I'm really hoping they close the building early, and then just LEAVE it closed until Monday!

H: yeah. liek that'll happe.
H: n
H: sorry. trying to type and hold a pen at the same time...

PW: don't worry - I speak Heather
PW: last time it snowed 5 in., they closed early and didn't open until, like, 10:00 or so the next morning. which was awesome
PW: and tonight we're expecting EIGHT

H: damn. sweet.

PW: I know!
PW: The person who makes the decision must live far away or something

H: that is genious.
H: it takes me an hour to get home no matter what, and they don't seem to mind if I come in late, or early, or on time, or whatever.

PW: at my old work, the guy making that call lived 5 min. away, so he didn't give a crap

H: I hate that
H: my last job, at IEC, they NEVER EVER cared about weather.
H: because the guy lived walking distance away.
H: fucker.

PW: fucker

H: ha!

PW: oh, tomorrow, I have to attend a staff-only-plus-spouses/partners dinner for Husband's work at the Bumblefuck Country Club

H:

PW: 28 miles away
PW: and I have to be there by 6:30, in rush hour traffic, so if Google says it takes 42 min. I'm gonna have to leave at 5:00 or something
PW: and drive to fucking Bumblefuck in the snow, in rush hour traffic
PW: to have dinner with strangers
PW: in a skirt

H: wear pants. and a low-cut top, or no top, just a bra and jacket.

PW: and I'm not even sure I OWN nylons, and I'm not going shopping in this weather
PW: Husband said that one lady's partner hates these functions, too
PW: I'm like, "Partner as in lesbian?" He goes, "Yes." I said, "Awesome. We're sitting with the crabby lesbians."

H: nylons? in this century? what happened to good old fashioned tights?

PW: don't have any of those either
PW: Yeah, I may do pants
PW: with black sheer blouse and black shelf-bra tank
PW: and my sword necklace
PW: so everyone gets the right impression of me right off the bat
PW: "Yes, I'm a bitchy, pirate hooker who'd rather fall on her sword than be here. Nice to meet you. Where's the bar?"

H: the perfect dinner date!

PW: exactly

You know, I live my live in a specific manner that ensures that I never have to wear nylons/tights/pantyhose/whatever you want to call those demonic strangulation devices. So thank God that He intervened and dumped a Rhode-Island-sized load of snow on Chicago.

(Sure, the one prayer of mine that He answers is about snow. Figures.)

Since my conversation with Heather, my work building has announced its complete closure for the day, and Husband has decreed that it's too dangerous for his precious, delicate angel to be driving to Bumblefuck this evening.

Nylons: "You got away this time, Wenchie! But I will return! Mark my words! I WILL RETURN!!!"

Posted at 10:59 AM | Comments (4)

January 30, 2008

Reasons I Need This Job To Be Over Really, Really Soon

1. The more I stay here, the more I learn, so the more work they give me, and it's really cutting into my nail polishing time.

2. The items that friends have given me to eBay are taking up ridiculous amounts of space in my basement. My feng shui is so screwed up, I can hardly walk without falling down.

3. The air in this building is making me age prematurely. It's so dry that even my super-oily skin -- oily enough to produce zits on a 38 year old complexion -- shrivels up and dies after I've been sitting in my cube a mere half an hour. It's like I'm molting, for God's sake.

4. Billi is having to spend inordinate amounts of time alone with her own children, and that's just wrong.

5. I'm really, really bored.

6. I have, like, a dozen blogs that I've started and can't find time to finish. The ones that involve photos are just out of the question until I'm finally fired. I'm not going to get famous this way!

7. I miss driving out to have lunch with The Bitches from my old job. And I haven't seen New Girl, my little Bitch In Training, for so long! I'm sure she's forgotten all the ways of The Dark Side by now.

8. The longer I stay here, the more often I need to bake cookies in order to get through the day, and that's not helping my ass. I'm not saying Husband refuses to have sex with me -- I'm just saying that I haven't worn my jeans this tight since 1989.

9. Did I mention I'm bored?

Posted at 02:33 PM | Comments (1)

January 25, 2008

Filthy, Yet Incredulous

I'm an excellent typist. Seriously, I'm freakin' fast, bay-bee. Which is, I guess, why my boss asked me to take minutes for a day-and-a-half meeting she had this week. Lots of people in from all over the country, brainstorming and consulting and all sorts of boring shit, which they will want to read about over and over in the coming years.

Whatever. It's a paycheck. And a free lunch. And all the free Kudos bars and bottled water I can consume.

They did this SWOT thing where they listed the program's Strengths, Weaknesses, Opportunities and Threats. So I wrote them all down. Then they graphed those into Invest, Decide, Defend and Abandon. So I wrote all that down. Plus all the pompus, quasi-intellectual blather that when into it.

By quitting time today, I had 11 pages of shit typed. Oh, and whenever they wanted to see what they had come up with, I had to go print shit off and make copies to distribute.

Right before the closing prayer, Kevin had to pipe up -- with his need to dominate every aspect of every event and every conversation -- and asked if "anyone had written down everything they had been talking about."

In a move that was probably less infused with decorum than the situation would have inspired in a non-Scorpio, I whirled around in my chair and gave him the filthiest -- and yet most incredulous -- look that I could possibly muster, and I said, "Have. We. Met?"

That son-of-a-douche-hole. What the hell does he think I was DOING for a day and a half? Picking my nose and blogging? Was I up there by CHOICE because listening to bureaucrats quibble over semantics is sooooooooo much better than the REAL work that has been piling up on my desk during my jury duty?!

WHAT?! THE?! FUCK?!

Half the room saw the look I gave him, and I'm glad. What a self-important jacktard that guy is. He wants us all to think, "Gee, Kevin, what a great idea! I wish I could have all this information for my very own!"

Well, then it's a good thing that my boss thought of that DAYS ago and asked me to take minutes. To write down all the important things said. On 11 single-spaced pages. To share with whomever wants to see it. SHITHEAD.

How dare he undermine my role there? How dare he call into question, in front of the whole committee, my work there? How dare he infuse them with the suspicion that -- gee, maybe she hasn't been writing everything down like we all assumed she was...?

Fortunately, I think most people in the room had ample opportunity to rub their two brain cells together and wonder, "Um, doesn't he know that Wenchie is here to take minutes? Because she has been openly thanked by the meeting coordinators several times. Was Kevin asleep?"

No, but his social skills are definitely deep in hibernation.

Dicksmack.

Posted at 04:36 PM | Comments (3)

January 03, 2008

Introducing Kevin

As is true with every place of business in every corner of the earth, we've got one real asshole in this department. Kevin. Luckily, I haven't had much to do with him so far. And yet, in what limited time I've spent with him, I've still been able to reach the following conclusions with little or no effort:

1. He enjoys invading the personal space of young and/or attractive women.

2. He likes to have Smokey and I do things for him that he could have done by himself faster because it makes him feel important.

3. He hasn't called the IT dept. in the 6 months that his computer won't print because he enjoys emailing things to Smokey and I so we can print them for him.

4. He's a thoughtless, arrogant douchebag, greatly lacking in any social skills.

Kevin's latest game is to email Smokey a dozen times in one afternoon, bombarding her with ridiculous, pointless requests for the convention that she was just going to "book a block of rooms for" and is now completely running single-handedly.

(Man, this guy really makes me talk in run-on sentences.)

Requests made of Smokey:

1. Make sure they get a conference room with really big windows.

2. Reserve the hotel shuttle to take them to wherever they decide to have dinner [I'm pretty sure hotel shuttles aren't taxis].

3. Make sure that the pad of paper at everyone's seat is 100% recycled paper.

4. Contact security and fill out a hundred forms because the building closes at 6:00 p.m. and they want to meet until 6:30 p.m.

Today, I received from him an Excel spreadsheet, 13 pages long, single-spaced. However, I received no instructions to go along with said spreadsheet.

No, the instructions were given to my boss, so she could pass them along to me. Because, you see, not only am I too lowly for him to contact me directly without tainting his holy aura, but I am too stupid to read directions in an email and must have them explained to me very... very... slowly. Preferrably with flash cards.

The instructions are to look up every one of the 600+ organization on the spreadsheet in our Big Book of Organizations, find their in-house code number, and enter it into the spreadsheet.

Well, first of all, I'm not flipping through pages when I can get the info online in two clicks. Secondly, what kind of bullshit busywork is this, anyway?! Jesus H. Data-Entering Christ, I'm not a monkey! Go get some college kid home on winter break to do this shit!

So I start the tedious crap, like a good little trained monkey, and I find that, in some sections of the list, the organization names don't match up with the addresses. They're one off, i.e. the correct organization name is in the cell above where it should be.

My boss heard me swearing, so I told her the problem. She's like, "Can you still do the list?" I'm like, "Yeah, I'll just make sure the addresses and names match up and change them where they don't. But it's gonna take me longer."

And she was cool and thanked me and tossed me a Snausage. Later, I overheard her talking on the phone, and I knew she was talking to Kevin because I heard her explaining the one-off problem. She was like, "Okay, I'll switch you over to Wenchie," blatantly ignoring my vigorous head-shaking.

Greeeeeeeeeaaaaaaaaaaaaaat.

PW: Hi.

K: Hi!

PW: ...

K: So how were your holidays?

PW: Very nice.

K: ...

PW: ... [You wanted to talk to me, dipshit. So talk!]

K: So you're working on that spreadsheet?

PW: Yeah.

K: Do you know how to fix that? Because I can explain it to you.

PW: [Seethe, seethe, seethe.] Well, I would just cut and paste the whole column one cell down, except that it only happens in random sections of the spreadsheet, so they have to be corrected individually as I go.

K: Oh. I think I know how that happened. I deleted some rows that didn't need to be on there. You know how you go into Edit and then Delete?

PW: [Are you kidding me? You open up the Edit drop-down every time you delete something? Don't you know there are at least three quicker ways???] Uh-huh.

K: I must've done something wrong when I was doing that.

PW: [YA THINK!?] Oh. [You don't know how to delete a row without fucking it up, and you wanted to walk me through cutting and pasting, asshole???]

K: ...

PW: So when do you want this done by?

K: Well, I was hoping to have something by next week.

PW: No problem. [And since you didn't specify which of the five days next week you want it, you'll get it on Friday. Fucktard.]

I'm on number 187. I'll be done by Monday afternoon or Tuesday morning, but he doesn't need to know that. I'm almost looking forward to the day when he pushes me from Passive-Aggressive to just plain Aggressive. Because you know that day is coming.

Posted at 03:37 PM | Comments (3)

December 13, 2007

eHarmony eSchmarmony: Part II

We now return to our regularly scheduled program, which is already in progress.

Remember, people, I am not making this stuff up!

Bachelor #3

The one thing Bachelor #3 is most passionate about:
"I am most passionate about living a life pleasing to my Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ, and fulfilling a lifelong dream of becoming the best pastor I can be. Following Christ is an adventure and I want to make the most of it while I can!"

The most influential person in Bachelor #3's life has been:
"Other than my parents (who have had a tremendous influence on me through their godly example & commitment to Christ), I would say Jesus, because He is my Savior & Lord. Besides Christ, my childhood pastor, because he boldly communicated the Gospel & stirred in me a desire to become a pastor myself someday. My high school youth leader also had a great influence on me because of his authentic love for Christ & for us youth (great times! :-))."

The most important thing Bachelor #3 is looking for in a person is:
"A genuine, sacrificial love for Christ and people. If someone has this kind of love, everything else tends to fall into place. Related to this would be authenticity/honesty--I think this is key to a healthy relationship."

The one thing Bachelor #3 wishes MORE people would notice about him is:
"It depends on the person. If they get to know me, they'll soon discover my sense of humor. Youth pick up on this more quickly, since their zaniness rubs off on me and gives me an excuse to be silly! ;-p "

The things Bachelor #3 can't live without are:
God & His Word
family & friends
fellowship with other believers
good books
Troy (my Jack Russell terrier) :-)

Some additional information Bachelor #3 wanted you to know is:
"I've never been married, have no children, am a virgin, and am looking for a soulmate who also has never been married and has saved herself for her future husband. Also, ideally, I would like someone who is also ministry-minded! :-) "

** I don't hate Bachelor #3 as much as I just pity him. eHarmony only allows people over 21, so he's not a teenager, and yet, he's still using emoticons. He is doomed to remain a virgin because he's not going to let any woman forget about Jesus' omnipotent presence long enough to feel comfortable getting it on. **

Okay, here's what would happen if I got on eHarmony...

Wenchie

The one thing Wenchie is most passionate about:
Having enough time to myself. It's really, really important that you leave me alone much of the time and not pester me with silly requests, such as dinner, a clean house, or a trip to visit your parents.

The most influential person in Wenchie's life has been:
My second husband. He bought me a car as an engagement present, thereby really raising the bar for the rest of you schmucks. If you don't have a 401k and good credit, look elsewhere.

The most important thing Wenchie is looking for in a person is:
Money. What? I'm not shallow! Sure, candlelight is romantic, but not when you can't pay the electric bill.

The one thing Wenchie wishes MORE people would notice about her is:
The color of my eyes. Or that I have eyes.

The things Wenchie can't live without are:
Carbohydrates, my Sleep Number Bed, Allegra, shoes with arch support, and a good moisturizer.

Some additional information Wenchie wanted you to know is: If you smoke, live with your parents, have more than one cat, or are currently umemployed, don't waste my time.

You know, these questions are so impractical. I realize that they're trying to get to know Your Deepest Inner Self, but seriously, when the hell does that ever come up?

Daily married life -- and I address this point because eHarmony is geared towards holy matrimony -- is much more about the mundane and necessary than the imperative and passionate.

Here are the questions I think people should be forced to answer honestly:

1. What was your most recent house-related disaster, and how did you handle it?

2. Do you collect anything, and if so, how much room does it take up?

3. When was the last time you called anyone in your family, and what did you talk about?

4. How much time do you spend watching t.v. in a day?

5. What kind of mood are you generally in at the end of a work day?

6. How high is your tolerance for sarcasm?

7. Do you want children?

8. Am I allowed to notice that people of the opposite sex exist and may be, in fact, better looking than you?

9. What kind of movies do you like?

10. Are you occassionally willing to lie to family and friends to get me/us out of social obligations?

[P.S. Since I first started to put this post together, my co-worker has come into the office with some very prominant stubble burn on her chin. Me thinks her luck may be a'changin'...]

Posted at 08:20 PM | Comments (2)

December 10, 2007

eHarmony eSchmarmony: Part I

I have a friend. She is single. She is young. She is pretty, smart and funny. She is employed. She's a catch. However, I'm not revealing her name because she's a little embarassed about that fact that she has recently joined... eHarmony.

I pass no judgement upon her because, if I were again single (and mildly retarded, as I'd have to be to want to date ever again after having two husbands), I'd probably give eHarmony a shot, too.

I will, however, pass judgement upon the walking freak shows that she has been "matched" with, according to her 238-question compatability test.

Now, let me clearly state that "Jane," as I will call her, is just a normal person. She has a dog. She yells at other drivers. She's losing patience with her mother. She loves PB&J sammiches. Normal, normal, normal.

Of her eHarmony experience so far, she has said, "I have been on eharmony for 3 weeks now. I've been sent 195 matches. I've deleted 188 of them for being like the ones below. The rest have deleted me. I'm telling you, it has been lame. And the time has come that I show you how lame it is. I don't think you can really understand without reading these profiles that were sent to me today."

Bachelor #1

The three things that Bachelor #1 is most thankful for:
"my mother, education (when it's good), globalization."

The most important thing Bachelor #1 is looking for in a person is:
"Tacit magic of understanding and compatibility. I believe in working things out, but starting from a good match helps."

Five things Bachelor #1 can't live without:
"Music (but I happily got rid of my ipod last year)
Paper, the greatest invention.
Internet. Almost as good as paper.
Tea.
Daily Show and Colbert Report."

One thing that only Bachelor #1's best friends know is:
"a. I wouldn't readily admit, but since I found out there's free cable in my apartment I've started watching a little bit of TV (after 10 years without it). b. This is a terrible secret: I don't like movies, and do not watch them unless it's supposed to be really good for my soul in some way (like a bitter medicine). This has got to be the worst quirk to have in American culture, because everyone is immersed in movies (or "films")."

[ ** I can't even express how much I hate Bachelor #1. Globalization? Tea? TEA?! And who happily gets rid of their iPod? Oh, that's right -- the same sanctimonious asshole who hasn't watched t.v. in 10 years and doesn't like "films." What a prick. I'm not even going to delve into his mommy issues. ** ]

Bachelor #2

The one thing Bachelor #2 is most passionate about:
"I am most passionate about inspiring others to see the wonder of creation all around them and to remind them that we do walk in beauty on this earth. While work and the diurnal consumes our time, we are always connected to the eternal, which can be found in any moment. I seek to know the tender revealed truth of another and to love in full awareness, seeking not the sentimental but the glorious revealing of another soul, the tenderness of vulnerability and the strength of a strong will and loving heart."

The most important thing Bachelor #2 is looking for in a person is:
"I think the most important quality is the ability to see past material obsessions and worries and to see the world in a glorious new light, in total surrender to Christ's love and will. I am looking for someone who is practical but who can also imbue the domestic with passion and adventure. I seek someone who lives with an expansive joy and deep spirituality, understanding her own being and sense of aliveness in a living relationship with the Creator. In this vein, I seek someone daring and unafraid to reveal her own vulnerability and who seeks to live authentically."

The first thing you'll probably notice about Bachelor #2 when you meet him:
"They may notice how quickly my deep voice and stern expression can turn to joyous laughter. They may also realize how quickly I can segue to conversation, from the most trivial to the most profound subjects."

Bachelor #2 typically spends his leisure time:
"I love to write, read, and see thought-provoking films. I can write in any genre and love to evoke the most fascinating mental images and sensations. I read novels, poetry, nonfiction, etc. I also read to keep current with events in order to advance my knowledge and be a better teacher. As for other interests, I have many, including singing, but that is something I reserve for only the most daring woman! I also love hiking and the outdoors. I am a man of many talents and surprises, and I love to enjoy every moment..."

One thing that only Bachelor #2's best friends know is:
"I have a great sense of humor and aptitude for caricature."

Some additional information Bachelor #2 wanted you to know is:
"If you want intimacy, if you want a guy who can be both tender and strong, and can take the good times with the bad, I'm your guy. Walk with me for a while past the transience of our days and let me awaken you with a kind word and loving touch. I am an original thinker and can definitely provide you with a unique perspective and a passionate embrace of life. Maybe I can even make you smile! Also, I grew up in Dallas, TX (lot of family there) but have lived in diverse places such as Chicago, Phoenix, etc. so I am familiar with a wide variety of regions in the US and have the potential to move to other regions for academic positions if need be."

[ ** If you want a guy who can talk your damn ear off without taking a breath, Bachelor #2 is your guy. I give him two points for not putting quotation marks around the word film, but I take off five billion points for being a self-obsessed jackass in love with his own vocabulary. Notice that he is willing to move anywhere in the U.S. to find a woman who can tolerage his presence. I see a mail-order bride in this guy's future. ** ]

Tune in Wednesday for Bachelor #3 and Wench #1...

Posted at 09:53 AM | Comments (8)

November 19, 2007

Pumpkin Pie Cake

I like to bake. More specifically, I like to lick the bowl and the beater after I bake. But I don't want tons of baked goods in my house, lest I eat nothing else. So my place of employment provieds me with the perfect outlet. I get to bake, and then I get to bring it to where I won't eat all of it myself. As an added bonus, it also endears me to co-workers.

Well, most of them.

Recently, I made pumpkin pie cake [see recipe below] and brought it to work. I have noticed over the years, that bringing baked goods to work separates everyone into three categories:

1. The people who tell me it looks wonderful and then don't have any. These people are usually thin and/or vegans and/or exercise addicts. They are quiet and don't really bother me.

2. The people who complain about me bringing food into what is apparently their own personal Diet Zone. I hate these people. I am not trying to ruin anyone's life, so don't rag at me. One guy was like, "Oh, man, I'm on a diet, I can't eat that. Why you got to bring that in here? You should bring cottage cheese or something!" Dude? Buy your own fucking cottage cheese. It's not my responsibility to keep fattening food out of your mouth -- it's yours.

3. The people who help themselves to a piece and tell me how nice I am, and then come back later and tell me how wonderful it was. These people are typically overweight to varying degrees, and I love them. They're not giving me shit; they're not making me listen to them bitch about their size. They like food, and they're okay with that, and they're okay with people knowing that.

I'm not anti-thin, and God knows I'm not anti-diet. I'm just anti-make-everyone-else-suffer-because-you're-on-a-diet. Just save your energy for your will power because you're going to need it. The holidays are approaching!

Today, I brought in chocolate chip cookies.

Cottage Cheese Guy saw me watching him take a handful, and he said, "I'm not on a diet anymore."

I said, "Good! Because you were boring the shit out of me."

* * * * *

Pumpkin Pie Cake

Ridiculously simple, decadantly yummy.

1 29-oz. can pure pumpkin
1 12-oz. can evaporated milk
4 eggs
1-1/2 cups sugar
2 tsp. cinnamon
1/2 tsp. nutmeg
1 box yellow cake mix
1 cup butter

Preheat over to 350. Mix pumpkin, evaporated milk, eggs, sugar and spices. Pour into ungreased 9x13 pan. Sprinkle box of cake mix evenly over top. Drizzle with melted butter. Bake 65-75 min., until lightly browned on top. Cool. Refridgerate several hours before serving. [Wenchie tip: When you serve it, if you flip it so it's upside down, it's easier to get your fork into without squashing it all over the place.]

Posted at 01:20 PM | Comments (1)

October 05, 2007

Career Schmareer

Wenchie has a bit of melancholy today, my pets. I just had to leave a job for the third time this year.

In February, I quit my job of nine years because I was the only one with the cajones to stand up to a douchebag.

This spring, I worked for Mr. Frowny Face until I'd swallowed all the bile that I possibly could.

Then in June, my dynamic ass starting working for Husband's financial advisor of twenty years.

And today? Today I left him in the lurch. It sucked. And now I'm having to learn a whole new job. Again. All new names, new acronyms, new email system, new copy machine, new supply room.

I don't like change. Well, change that's not about purses, I don't like.

This only serves to make me hate GB more. Hmmm... what's more than the white-hot rage of a thousand burning suns?

It's possible I'm just romantisizing Days Gone By, as we poets are wont to do, but I had a pretty good thing going at Eight-Year Job. I'd earned a pretty good amount of respect, considering the scant politeness that managers usually show secretaries. I knew my way around the mail room, and the politics. I was comfy.

I wonder -- will Wenchie ever find a real home for her spectacular typing skills and attention to detail? Or am I doomed to roam the earth like an unemployed Cain?

My youthful fantasies of knights on unicorns have been replaced by a yearning for The Perfect Job.

*sigh*

In the meantime, enjoy The Gashlycrumb Tinies. They always cheer me up.

Posted at 12:30 PM | Comments (2)

September 27, 2007

Back On the Chain Gang

Well, it's official. My work shoes are five-hour shoes, not nine-hour shoes.

How did I come to this brilliant -- if not painful -- conclusion? Did I go straight to the mall after work and forget my tennies? Did Husband surprise me by picking me up at work and taking me downtown for the day? Did I just feel like being taller?

No.

People, you had better sit down for this.

I've been at WORK. For NINE HOURS. Minus an hour for lunch.

Weep with me, my darlings. Your beloved Wenchie has had her cute, button nose pressed hard to the grindstone once again.

It went like this:

Thursday p.m. -- After much inner-debate and external waffling, Husband went into full-on Panic Mode and informed me that, in order to avoid living in a van down by the river, I had to go back to work fulltime. Effective immediately.

Friday a.m. -- To appease him, I emailed the H.R. lady from my old job with Mr. Frowny Face.

Friday p.m. -- H.R. Lady called with a possible job.

Monday p.m. -- I got offered a fulltime job, starting as soon as humanly possible.

Tuesday a.m. -- Had to break the news to New Boss, and break his heart. It was like breaking up with a really nice guy just because I'm not that into him.

Wednesday -- Had one last bittersweet day of freedom.

Thursday a.m. -- Spent 5 hrs. at current job.

Thursday p.m. -- Spent 3.5 hrs. at New New Job.

It's gonna be Dead Man Walking tomorrow morning. Husband is gonna have to drag me to my car, blubbering and dragging my feet.

But I'm still going to do my damnedest to keep cranking out the blogs (no guarantee as to quality), even at the expense of clean floors and homemade dinners, if only to passively-aggressively prove to Husband that I can't possibly pursue my dream of becoming a famous writer while working fulltime.

And believe me, he will not enjoy being married if I'm robbed of my lifelong dream. I'll see to that.

Posted at 05:52 PM | Comments (2)

July 25, 2007

Pigs No More

Like me, New Boss (NewBo?) has added some extra pounds to his near-middle-aged self, like cream cheese to a bagel. He's not in any danger of having to be removed from his own home with a crane, mind you, but he's not happy. Like so many of us, he'd like to scrape a little off the middle, ya know?

As my efforts to organize his office continue, I went on an electronic file purging hunt. Like a territorial animal, I got rid of all my predecessor's files, while resisting the urge to just squat on the computer.

In doing so, I noticed a lot of documents that belonged to NewBo, and yet weren't business-related. So I made him a Personal file and dragged them all into there.

Most of them were traveling league baseball schedules, batting line-ups and such. But one jumped out at me. It was called "Pigs No More." C'mon, I had to read that one! I mean, it's not like he was trying to hide it, after all!

It was... like a menu. A spreadsheet of three meals a day plus a snack. I assumed it was diet-related and put it in his Personal file. And I'm not one to discuss peoples' weight unbidden (this post being the exception, apparently), so I certainly had no intention of mentioning it to him.

In fact, it was all but forgotten when I told him how I had arranged his files, and he's like, "Did you see Pigs No More?"

He sounded quite excited about it, so I told him I'd glanced at it briefly. Then he told me about this diet plan he had going with his friend last year. The whole jist of it was that they had to email to each other a list of everything they ate. And apparently, shame is a great incentive because NewBo lost 12 lbs. rather than admit to Big Macs for lunch.

In my relentless search to shave off a few pounds, I have never come across this method. Sure, I've heard you're supposed to write down everything you eat. But I will tell myself out-and-out bald-faced lies -- and believe them -- so that never worked.

But having someone else hold you accountable... hmmmm, that's an idea worth looking into. So I emailed Billi and bounced it off her. Her reply?

"That's a good idea. Only I'm not ashamed to tell you I just had potato chips and french onion dip for dinner, then a bowl of choc. chip ice cream for desert. No fruit or veggies passed these lips today!"

And therein lies the rub. Neither of us have any shame. I could have an entire tube of Pringles and some Twizzlers for lunch, then a Coldstone Creamery All Lovin' No Oven for dinner, and not only would I have no qualms about admitting that to her, I'd be bragging about it!

I wrote back to her:

"Please. The closest thing I had to a veggie today was the salsa and chips at 4:00. Right after the Chips Ahoy and before the Blizzard."

I guess it's some weird frat-boy-esque thing. Guess what I can eat and still not throw up! So lady-like. I'm sure my mother is beaming.

Well, I'd sure love to hear any other ka-ka-may-mee weight-loss gimics that have worked for others! And don't gimme that "eat less, move more" crap -- that's just crazy talk!

Posted at 02:31 PM | Comments (5)

June 18, 2007

Shortest Career Ever

Friends, I have been struck ill.

On the weekend before I'm to start my new job, my new "career opportunity," I have taken to bed, surrounded by kleenex, Zicam and Nyquil.

(Lest any nasty rumors get started: Yes, Heather got sick on Friday, too. No, we weren't making out. On Friday.)

I'm not the kind of sick where you have some adorable sniffles and a delicate cough. No pretty, little bout of consumption for me. No, I'm diseased to the point where I can't put my head down or I'll drown, and when I cough, green spittle flies out of my mouth. Lepers are like, "Ew, get her away from me!"

Obviously, God has smote me down for not following His chosen path for me -- as a Kept Woman.

Yeah, so, I called in sick this morning. Went a little something like this: "Hi, I can't come in for my FIRST DAY of work today because I'm deathly ill. I realize this means I'm fired, but on the bright side, you don't have to go through the bother of mailing me final check. Since I never really started. Well, it was nice... almost working for you. Good luck with... whatever it is that you do."

How's that for "dynamic?" Shit, I'd fire me.

And to top it all off, I just coughed so hard that I barfed. Which isn't funny at all, so I don't know why I shared.

Posted at 12:25 PM | Comments (2)

June 15, 2007

Workin' Eight to One, What a Way to Make a Living

Oh, dear Christ, I have a job. You can all stop hating me now. I start Monday. My life is over. A little piece of my soul just died screaming.

I'll be working a grueling four days a week, five hours a day. I'll have Wednesdays off, so I can still have lunch with my Bitches. (You know who you are!)

Monday, I start three full days of training classes. I don't know how the hell I'm going to keep from nodding off for eight hours. But it's a good thing, the training -- considering I have no clue whatsoever about what I'm going to be doing. Seriously. I don't even know what my boss-to-be does. Something about... finances?

Come to think of it, what the hell did we talk about in those two interviews...?

Boss2B assured me I wouldn't have any trouble doing the job.

PW: I emailed you my resume, right?

B2B: Yeah, but I barely glanced at it.

PW: Dude! That took me HOURS to put together! You could have at least scanned it!

B2B: Oh, I'm sure you're qualified.

Why do I feel like Dolly Parton's character in "Nine to Five?" Hmmm, perhaps I can work that to my advantage. After all, I'll be just a hop, skip and a jump away from a Coach store and a Tiffany's. And I look so damn good when I hop, skip and/or jump...

Well, the woman I'm replacing got fired for internet usage. She was reading People magazine online every day. Personally, I would have fired her for bad taste. I mean, why read People when there's The Superficial and The Gilded Moose?

Anyhoo, it probably goes without saying that I won't be installing I.M. on my work computer. So no more Fucking with Heather in the mornings. Except on Wednesdays. No more googling Christian Bale. Or blogging. Or searching for the shoes to the vintage Barbie Little Red Riding Hood outfit on eBay.

What? They were only made for that one outfit and are really hard to find! Besides, you haven't seen naughty until you've seen a vintage brunette ponytail Barbie with scarlett lips in a blue Swiss polka dot dress, a black corset and a red, hooded robe. Scandalous!

Posted at 11:27 AM | Comments (5)

June 11, 2007

Dynamic Diva

Husband and I had a pleasant surprise a couple weeks ago. A barn just landed in our laps. Luckily, it was empty at the time, so we weren't badly hurt.

Okay, seriously. You know how we wanna buy land up north and build a timberframe? (Thereby ensuring that I'll never, ever see Heather again.) Well, in the timberframing community, there are a very lucky few who get their hands on an old barn and salvage the vintage timbers.

(Oh, God, I just keep getting dorkier and dorkier.)

Such an opportunity has presented itself to us, and we may be able to buy a barn. It's in really great condition; none of the wood is rotting. If you were a Wood Nerd, like Husband, you'd know what a Chance-of-a-Lifetime this is.

But barns aren't cheap. So I reluctantly -- very, very reluctantly -- volunteered to go back to work to help make our wildest dream come true a little sooner.

(I just admitted that my wildest dream is an old, empty barn. Will no one commit a mercy killing?!)

Now, I haven't gone completely crazy. I'm only going to work parttime. As few hours as possible. After all, Stella isn't going to train herself!

I'm a little daunted by the prospect of having to go find a job. I've never had to go GET a job before. They've always just landed in my lap (like dinner, drinks and weed). I had to create a resume, which required me thinking waaaaaaaaaaaay, way back in time. It was like, 'Okay, where was I working before the accounting firm? Who was I dating then?'

That's the only time I can remember when anything happened. Who was I dating then? I could create a dating resume much easier than a work resume. However, it would be much less impressive.

Ever helpful, Heather said, "So. First job that comes to mind... fluffer on the set of Evil Dead IV."

Oh, IF ONLY.

But let's be honest -- we've all seen the Old Spice commercials. Bruce is too old to be kicking evil's ass anymore. At this point in his life, he'd probably rather just pay some neighbor kid to do it for him. Don't get me wrong; I'd still let him bend me over the back of his couch. But I probably wouldn't argue if he wanted to keep his shirt on.

So with that off the table, I'm considering a job as an assistant to our financial advisor. Yes, a job at the Home of the Frowny Face would mean much less of a commute, and they have been courting me.

However, our advisor's office is just a stone's throw away from a huge, upscale shopping mall. AND it has a Tiffany's and a Pottery Barn, unlike the huge, upscale shopping mall by my old job. It's totally an upward career move!

Plus -- and this is the real kicker -- he called me "dynamic." TWICE. I not only want to work for this guy, I want to run away with him! DYNAMIC!!! He knows me so well already!

I'm going back again this week to talk with some marketing guy he wants me to talk with. And more importantly, he's going to let me talk with one of the other assistants, so I'll have a very good idea of what I'm getting into.

Of course, there will still be a last-ditch effort to remain a kept woman, but, failing that, I think being part of my own, little Dynamic Duo is a good fallback position.

Posted at 10:36 AM | Comments (1)

March 22, 2007

Letter Writing: B-

At the end of next week, they stop taking applications for my temp job and start interviewing prospective full-time employees. And not a minute too soon!

Most of the people I work with are really nice. In fact, it's kind of like working with my family.

One gentleman is half deaf, so I have to use my "outside voice," just like with Dad. Another man is often singing, reminding me of Mom. And while I'm practically sweating in a short-sleeved blouse, the woman whose cube is directly across from mine is chilly in her turtleneck and blazer. Remind you of anyone, Spikette?

(Have I mentioned before that Spikette is the name Older Sister chose for herself? It's because she's in love with Spike from "Buffy.")

However, there's no one in my family, or even my circle of friends, of whom I am fondly reminded when I deal with my temporary boss. He's quite the perfectionist.

Any letter I do for him must go back to him perfect and ready to be signed, no matter how unclear he is on the tape, or how unfamiliar I am with the lexicon of this particular industry.

Now, normally, he just corrects my mistakes in black pen. But in this particular instance, he switched to a red pen -- mid-letter -- because I misspelled the name of The Big Cheese of the company.

He also added his own charming little opinion, in graphic form:

A sad face. He made a fucking sad face on my letter! Like he was grading a third grade book report, for God's sake!

Dude is totally on probation. One more move like that, and I'm outta here. I didn't leave the tyranny of my old job just to suck up some arrogant condesension from this guy.

I think, when/if I start job searching in earnest, I should have employers submit their resumes to me, along with a list of references. And I should be allowed confidential interviews with the other employees.

Seriously, why is the employee the only one who gets grilled and inspected? It starts out the whole relationship wrong when you're already in a superior vs. inferior setting.

Seriously! Who says that, just because they're looking for a secretary, I should be turning cartwheels in hopes that they'll honor me with the opportunity to serve them? Here's a question for ya: Why the hell did your last secretary leave?!

I'm going to do it. I'm going to interview all my potential bosses. Every question that gets asked of me, I'm going to turn back onto them.

Thereby ensuring that I never work again. : )

Posted at 08:17 AM | Comments (4)

March 09, 2007

Babbling about Mileage and Work and Whatnot

Just got back from the gyne. He checked under the hood, and the ol' vagirino is good for another six months or 6,000 miles -- whichever comes first.

And speaking of mileage, my Check Gage light finally went on today. Why do I say "finally?" Because I haven't put gas in my car since February 20th! And we all know I'm an arrogant, environment-hating SUV-driver, so that's really saying something!

My new commute is so awesome. Five minutes to drive from home to parking space; five minutes to hobble from parking garage to desk. I think, commuting to my previous job, I was working just to put gas in my car!

By that way of thinking, if I didn't have to drive to work, I would need to work... Hmmmmmmm. Well, I'd still have to drive to almost-Wisconsin to see Billi & Brood, so I guess that's worth working for. Sort of.

Speaking of work, as you know, part of my duties is answering the department phone and directing calls. (Ironic, no?) Since I only work five hours a day, when I come in every morning, there are voice messages waiting for me.

This morning, I got the following call from a local number (name changed to protect the guilty):

"Yeah, I'm calling for Tonia Stanford. She stole my car. She's driving my car, and she doesn't even have a license. She got her license suspended, but she took my car anway, and I want my car. So tell Tonia Stanford to bring my car back."

That's it. No name or number or anything. Giggling to myself, I assumed it was a wrong number. But just for the hoo-ha of it, I checked the company phone list.

And there was Tonia Stanford.

I was like, Oh my God, someone who works here got her license suspended and stole some guy's car. That is so awesome!

Well. As a receptionist, it is my moral duty to deliver phone messages. So I emailed Ms. Stanford:

"Hi! Someone called this department looking for you. He didn't leave his name, but he said something about wanting his car back. I thought I should probably tell you."

I mean, what do you say? I was kind of embarassed for her, knowing that I know she's a felon. But I had to tell her, right? What if she didn't realize that he didn't want an illegal driver stealing his car? I was obligated to tell her!

Awesome. I work with a criminal, and this job is STILL better than working with old G.M.

Posted at 03:56 PM | Comments (1)

February 19, 2007

The Thinly-Veiled Ultimatum

(Yes, I know this has been a long time coming. I've been distracted by sublime contentment.)

Know what else makes me special? The kind and helpful way I answer the phone with my sultry-yet-professional voice. I mean, that's the only reason I can think of for the G.M. to keep insisting that I do switchboard every morning, to the exclusion of every other secretary in the company.

Special! It oozes through the phone, my specialness!

I can't even put into words how fed-up and frustrated I was at this point. And, against my better judgement, I went to H.B. with the offer of a compromise. Compromise is good, right? Fair and mature. So I offered G.M. every other day. I would consent to do switchboard every other morning until The Big Switchboard Meeting of '07 had settled the bullshit once and for all.

But G.M. was not in the mood for compromise, fairness or maturity. Not when he could smell blood in the water! Not when his ego was on the line! My offer was rejected. I got called into H.B.'s office for the billionth time and was told that G.M. had given me "No option." Literally. Direct quote.

That's when I decided to call in The Big Guns. I.e., the H.R. person. It's their job to make sure employees are treated fairly and not harassed, right? It's their job to see that the workplace remains professional and not an arena for petty grudges, right?

So I spoke with H.R., and after answering many objective questions with honest answers, I got the impression that they, too, felt I was being treated unfairly. Or maybe that was just wishful thinking on my part. Either way, they agreed to go talk to G.M., and for the first time in weeks, I felt a tiny bit of weight lift from my shoulders.

Which didn't last long. I was called into H.B.'s office, with H.R. present, for what turned out to be the last time. I was told that I had to do Switchboard... or else. Or else what, H.B.? I'm fired? Welllllllll, H.B. didn't want to say that... but it was clearly implied. I got the message. Enter The Thinly-Veiled Ultimatum.

Just so I was clear, I said something to the effect of, "So you're asking me to give in to his harassment and do Switchboard every morning, knowing that there's no guarantee it will change even after The Big Switchboard Meeting at the end of February?"

Yes.

I looked H.B. in the eye. "Would you do it?"

"Well, yes, but I'm of a different generation."

"I'm not of a different generation," said H.R. "And I'd do it."

More than I want to know who killed Kennedy; more than I want to know what happened in Area 51; more than I want to know what Britney ever saw in K-Fed -- I want to know what the fuck went on in G.M.'s office.

What is it that made H.R. change their tune? What is it that made H.B. bow to a man who had no official authority over either of us? What the hell did G.M. say that was so goddamn convincing, when both H.R. and H.B. knew I was right and he was wrong???

Meh. I'll never know.

I think I left saying something brilliant like, "Fine, I'll do it. But I won't like it." And cried all the way to my desk.

I felt so dirty. Like I had just compromised everything I feel is important about myself. I'm nobody's bitch, and I felt in my soul that, having caved to their demands, things were only going to get worse for me there.

When Husband got home that night, I was a mess. On the verge of tears, nauseous, boiling mad. I said, "You have to do my rational thinking right now because I am just too emotional about this."

See, I wanted to quit. I wanted them all to go fuck themselves. But since that would mean loss of income, I knew that wasn't a decision I should make by myself in the heat of the moment.

After a brief discussion, Husband surprised me by saying exactly what I wanted to hear, "Quit. Just quit. That place is a joke. Here, I'll help you write your resignation letter."

And as good as it would have felt, at the moment The Thinly-Veiled Ultimatum was issued, to have quit on the spot, it felt even better to do it the next morning. After they knew I had slept on it. After they knew I'd had time to give it much thought. After they knew I had discussed the whole thing with my husband.

It felt great demonstrating, not a hasty resignation that might be regretted later, but one that was made thoughtfully and with complete confidence. I had that paper waiting for H.B. on his desk when he got in the next morning. Signed, sealed, delivered, I'm not yours.

And that, my friends, is how Wenchie got her groove back.

Posted at 05:18 PM | Comments (2)

February 16, 2007

Outing Myself

For the past almost-a-year or so. Or less. I've been toying with the idea of "outing" myself on my blog. That is, putting my name on the damn thing and posting a photo of myself once and for all.

But I never did. And I don't know why.

Is it because I'm ashamed of it? No. I stand by my smut. If my Mom can handle it, how bad can it be? Now, it could be argued that years and years of my limit-pushing behavior has merely served to numb the poor woman. And indeed, if my mom- and dad-in-law saw the site, I'd probably be a bit stymied. But in the end, I would choose to continue my superfluous use of the word vagina, and they'd just have to learn to forgive me for it.

Is it because I'm afraid it will ruin Husband's standing in the community? No. I think most adults can accept this site for what it is -- a bit of rakish shenanigans. And I don't think anyone would be shocked to learn that we occassionally indulge in a bit of The Oral Pleasure, within the sanctity of our marriage.

Is it because I'm horribly disfigured? Well, only when I'm PMSing.

Is it because I'm psychic? YES.

Wednesday, I was supposed to start my new job, right? And I was freaking out Tuesday afternoon as I weighed my options. On the one hand, drive home in a blizzard and end up in a 30-car pile-up. On the other hand, call in stranded on my very first day of work. Neither was appealing.

But then Husband called and said that the H.R. woman called and told him that my new boss was stranded in Baltimore, so I shouldn't bother coming in until Thursday.

Sweeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeet! I stayed at Billi's until Wednesday afternoon.

Anyhoo, I got to work this morning, and H.R. told me how she managed to find me. See, she was working from home on Tuesday and didn't have my resume or contact info with her.

So she Googled me.

Googled. Me.

People? Can you imagine what would have happened if she had Googled me, and this site popped up??? Yeah. Bad News Bears, all the way. Especially when she read me bashing my EX-employer! I'd be fired before my official first day! Shortest career ever!

So my decision is made for me. I can't out myself until I find a permanant position, preferrably with a boss cool enough to appreciate potty-talk and hatred of the entire human race.

I wonder if I should include that in my cover letter...?

Posted at 05:01 PM | Comments (2)

February 15, 2007

Santa Baby

So here's my first day of work at my new temp job.

The people are all really cool, and I have quickly ascertained who are the ones I can joke around with. I'm still on my good behavior, mind you. I'm The New Girl, and it's a church headquarters I'm working at, so I haven't mentioned my vagina.

One of the jokers, R, is standing by my desk when a man rushes into a meeting right across from my cube. The man has bright white hair and a bushy beard to match.

R goes, "You know who that was who just went into that meeting?"

I blurt out, "Santa?"

"Nooooooooooooo. That was the Presiding Bishop."

Great. Juuuuuuuuuuust great. It took me less than five hours to secure myself a place in the innermost circle of Hell. That's gotta be some kind of record.

Posted at 05:22 PM | Comments (2)

February 02, 2007

And I Didn't Let the Door Hit Me On the Way Out

Pure Awesome Things About Today, My Last Day at The Company

1. I took a Xanax when I got to work, so instead of being weepy when saying goodbye to thirty people I've known for over a decade, I was toooooooooooootally mellowwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww. (Xanax -- not just for airplanes anymore!)

2. Prezzies! Balloons! Candy! Cards! Heartleft notes! Books! Gift certificates! Flowers! *sigh* I am loved.

3. Leaving a fart trapped in the cushion of the chair for the next person to unwittingly unleash.

4. Hugging all the men good-bye! And lemme tell ya -- they didn't mind it too much either!

5. God's little going-away present to me: I guess there was no one to cover the Switchboard during lunch today, so G.M. was doing it HIMSELF! BWAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HAAAAAAAAAA! Instant karma, baby!

Posted at 02:09 PM | Comments (4)

January 29, 2007

Usurped!

I've been usurped!

I am no longer the hottest topic of conversation here at work. The Payroll Chick totally stole my thunder on Friday.

See, since Nicki left us and the new Payroll Chick took over, the job STILL doesn't have any back-up or help or anything! So it was really only a matter of time before she left.

But there was an additional factor that made P.C.'s career here much shorter than Nicki's. They switched bosses on her, and instead of having a cool, non-meddling boss, she got G.M.'s Golden Boy. Bringing her that much closer to G.M.'s Evil Lair.

I'd quit, too. Oh, wait -- I ALREADY DID!!!

When I talked (i.e. gossiped) in the bathroom with her for 20 min. on Tuesday, she didn't mention anything about quitting. So I'm thinking that it was some unexpected incident that was the last straw, and she just couldn't take it anymore. Proverbial straw, meet camel.

Seems she gave G.M.'s Golden Boy her resignation and ten days notice. And G.M. waddled over, collected her key card from her and told her not to come back. He really has a way with the ladies.

And as much as I hate being upstaged, I'm kinda tickled that she quit, too. I mean, I'm sorry it got that bad for her -- she's a cool broad. But it just further proves that this place is ass on toast to work for.

I'm kinda disappointed that she didn't tell me. We could have staged some grand mass exodux, a la "Jerry McGuire" or something.

"I! Will go with you!"

That would've been cool.

Posted at 11:47 AM | Comments (0)

January 23, 2007

The Schedule

Yes, I'm still obsessing about this. Bear with me. It's traumatic. I have to get it all outta my system before I can get on with my life... such as it is.

A week or so ago, the Receptionist sent out a schedule for switchboard relief for the month of January. Mind you, only an idiot thinks that she put this together herself. We all know where it really came from.

On this schedule, all lunches are covered by G.M.'s Assistant's Assitant. All morning breaks are covered by Yours Truly. And afternoon breaks are divided up between the remaining support staff so that each secretary does about two afternoons a month.

That's two afternoons a month.

Every morning.

Two afternoons a month.

Every morning.

Two afternoons -- are you seeing what I'm seeing? I'll give you a hint. It starts with Huge, and ends with Discrepency.

To my mild surprise, and amusement, the other secretaries immediately started replying to the Receptionist's schedule-related email with heated questions. Who authorized this? Was my supervisor consulted? Can I do breaks at 2:00 because I leave at 3:00? Etc., etc.

Now, I'm kind of disappointed that the other secretaries attacked a person who is, essentially, one of our own. And I'm really sickened that G.M. had the Receptionist do his dirty work for him. God, the whole thing was just screwed-up... however, it was kind of fun to sit back and watch the meltdown. Just another feather in G.M.'s cap!

Something came of this that basically amounts to G.M. eating his hat.

He emailed all the support staff with one of his trademark longer-than-necessary diatribes. It included an explanation of what he did and why; a vague admission that the schedule was "sent out prematurely," or some such bullshit; and an assurance that all supervisors will be met with before another switchboard relief schedule is made. Probably by the beginning of February.

Because that's how long it takes a G.M. to schedule switchboard relief. Because it's a complicated process. Because if he had given it to a secretary to take care of, it would have been done by lunch time.

You're probably wondering, "Well, Wenchie, if he acknowledged the mishandling and promised to fix it, what's the problem? Why did you quit?"

Oh, my darlings, haven't you figured it out by now? I'm special! I'm not like other people! You can't just lump me in with everyone else!

No, no, the apology wasn't geared towards me, and neither was the raincheck for the switchboard schedule. Although I received the email, I was clearly exempt from it, as I found out when I went to H.B. with the news.

Although none of the other secretaries would be doing switchboard until after The Big Switchboard Meeting of '07, I was still expected to cover every, single morning break. See? SPECIAL!!!

More special than the sauce on a Big Mac! More special than the kids on the short bus! More special than the episode where Blossom gets her period!

S to the P to the E to the C to the I to the A to the L!

Special.

To be continued...

Posted at 02:37 PM | Comments (2)

January 22, 2007

The Gauntlet

Well, I think it's safe to assume that blogging at work is definately BACK ON. I seem to have developed somewhat of a lax attitude about my employment here. Go figure.

This morning, at the Monday Mornings Managers Meeting, G.M. apologized to all of the managers for his bungled handling of Switchboard Relief.

Hey, guys? Where's my apology? Where's the apology for the person most heiniously fucked by G.M.'s bungling?

Don't worry, my darlings -- I'm not holding my breath.

Flashback to January 2nd. I received, via Lotus Notes, a meeting invitation. The meeting agenda? Switchboard relief. The other invitees on the list? G.M., G.M.'s Assistant, G.M.'s Assistant's Assistant, and the current Receptionist.

I took this to mean that I was the only non-Administration Dept. support staff lined up to help with switchboard relief. This did not sit well with me, as you may imagine. There are a dozen other secretaries in this company who know how to answer a phone. Why was I the only one invited to the meeting? Could it be... oh, I don't know... because G.M. hates me with a seething hatred usually reserved for the Packers/Bears rivalry?

Jokingly, I just thought to myself, Heh. I should just decline the meeting. But the more I thought about it, the less of a joke it became. Why shouldn't I decline it? I was being "volunteered" unfairly and against my will! At the very least, I wanted to talk with Head Boss first.

So I did the unthinkable. A staff support person actually DECLINED a meeting with the G.M. I'm sure a series of small strokes followed, which would explain his irrational behavior since then.

I declined with some comment to the effect of:

I would like to meet with my supervisor before committing to any responsibilities outside my department, especially considering that I now work half the hours that I used to.

And thus began the power struggle. Mind you, it is expected of me, according to company protocol, never to let work outside of my department interfere with my main function here -- to support my department. And while I have many, many times over the years volunteered to help out in other departments, I've always made sure I got my work done first. As expected.

But declining a G.M. meeting, well, I pretty much just slapped him in the face with my glove, as far as he's concerned. "I WILL NOT BE IGNORED!" I expect to find Stella boiling in a pot on my stove when I get home today.

I won't detail the numerous trips I made to H.B.'s office in this Battle of Wills. Too long and boring. Besides, I don't remember. I will just highlight a couple of things:

One. Never, at any point, was I allowed to speak to G.M. directly. Have to go through the "proper channels," doncha know!

Two. H.B. didn't really express his own thoughts as much as he relayed mine. So actually, I doubt he did anything the a carrier pidgeon couldn't have done. And far cheaper.

Three. I verbalized many rational points. I'm doing the same amount of work in half the time; I'm the only non-Administration person being asked to do so much switchboard relief; I don't report to G.M.; he's singling out because of the email fiasco. H.B. agreed with all of these points but couldn't make them stick, once he was in G.M.'s presence.

Disappointed in him? Yeah. JUST A LITTLE.

To be continued...

Posted at 04:05 PM | Comments (3)

January 19, 2007

The Story of Wenchie & the G.M.

In the beginning, I was a part time temp here at Company. I had, like, three other jobs (nanny and church secretary at two churches -- weird, huh?), and I'd work when I could.

I was the only staff support that my department had. This was back in the days of my Previous Boss (P.B.). P.B. really wanted to hire me to be their full time secretary, and I really wanted to be their full time secretary. But there was an obstacle. A 500-lb. obstacle.

General Manager. Yes, the G.M. of Reading My Emails Fame and Soda Machine Outrage Fame. He didn't want me working there because both my sisters already worked there, as secretaries in different departments, and he apparently was afraid that we would pool our supernatural, secretarial powers and take over the entire company. Wonder Twin powers -- activate! Form of... an ice fax machine!

At the time, all the department heads, including P.B., reported to G.M., who basically had control of the whole company. Ahhh, but with great power comes great responsibility, and since G.M. is no Peter Parker, he abused his power and got "promoted" to a position where no one reported to him. Hee!

P.B. hired me on the spot. Double hee!

Fast forward to G.M. reading my email conversations with Nicki and discovering that we both hate him. As does everyone else at the company. Awwwwwww, he got his wittwe feewings huwt.

Here's my thoughts on that. When you're a petty, spiteful tyrant, you can't rationally expect people to respect you. The best you can hope for is fear. And an assassination that kills you quickly. But you should pretty much assume that people despise you and have started a betting pool on when you're going to retire.

I'm fine with G.M.'s feelings being hurt. And I'm fine with him hating me. I'm even fine with him throwing darts at my photo. But what I'm NOT fine with is him using his authority to totally fuck with me. That's unprofessional and shouldn't be tolerated by anyone.

Now, I didn't mind covering the Switchboard every other day in December because, frankly, I didn't have much else to do and was basically biding my time until I was only working half days. The G.M.'s Assistant's Assistant was brand new and just settling in to things, so I didn't mind helping her out.

I was under the impression that it was a temporary gig and would eventually be taken over entirely by G.M.A.A. Especially since I was cutting my work hours in half, which doesn't really jibe well with sitting at the front desk, trying to beat my high score in Zuma.

Imagine my surprise when, with the consent of no one, it was assumed I would be doing ALL morning Switchboard breaks, once I went part time. Ajeckamonga-HUH???

To be continued...

Posted at 12:25 PM | Comments (0)

January 18, 2007

Thank You for the Opportunity

No blog yesterday because I was too freaked out. Yesterday will forever be known as Black Wednesday. Well, maybe not forever. Probably more like for the next week or so, until it slips my mind.

But I digest.

Yesterday was the day I was given the thinly-veiled ultimatum of, Continue to turn tricks for the Good Ol' Boys Club or be fired.

But I'll get to that in good time.

Husband has this thing with clothing. Not only does he love it, he calls it his armor. When he has an important meeting to go to at the Mayor's office or something, he'll put on his best suit, a white shirt, his favorite tie, and his shiney dress shoes. He feels ready to do battle when he knows he looks immaculate.

My voice teacher, too, subscribes to this theory. Whenever I'd sing in a voice recital, she'd always tell me, "Wear something you feel gorgeous in because you'll sing better."

This morning, I took a little extra care getting ready. I put on my favorite grey pants, and a pink, V-neck sweater. I curled my hair like a friggin' Breck girl and donned my favorite faux-Tiffany necklace. I'm even wearing flowered socks. I feel confident... and just a little brassy.

And I put this letter on Head Boss' desk:

Dear Head Boss:

This letter is to serve as my official resignation from Company. My last day will be Friday, February 2, 2007.

Please send my final check and all retirement fund information to my home address.

It’s been a great pleasure working at Company for the past eight (or so) years. Thank you for the opportunity.

Sincerely,

Wenchie

Currently playing on the soundtrack of Wenchie's life -- "Human Nature" by Madonna.

In her immortal words, "I'm not your bitch. Don't hang your shit on me."

To be continued...

Posted at 12:35 PM | Comments (7)

January 12, 2007

I Stepped In It

Dear Co-Workers & Cube Neighbors,

Please pardon the smell.

It's not me. It's the puppy poop on the bottom of my shoe.

Yeah, I just noticed it.

"How did you JUST NOTICE the stench of feces following you everywhere?!" you ask.

You raise a good point, but clearly, you don't understand the world in which I live.

It's a world in which puppy pee is clear and insidiously invisible, until it has saturated your sock. A world in which tiny puppy poop is indistinguishable from an autumn leaf in the back yard. A world in which the smell of pee and puppy breath and harsh cleansers have numbed my sense of smell to all else.

Yes, I have cleaned it off my shoe. (Thank God I keep Lysol Wipes in my desk.)

I'm just really, really, really glad that the smell didn't turn out to be eminating from me.

I would have worn my other brown shoes today, but those are covered in even more poop than these are and are currently sitting on my back stoop, waiting for me to work up enough courage to face them. Or throw them away.

Thank you for your understanding.

Respectfully yours,
Wenchie

Posted at 04:28 PM | Comments (1)

December 20, 2006

God Bless the Inventor of the Elastic Waistband

Ah, the Holiday Food Table -- bane of my ever-expanding existance.

It's a tradition where I work to have a Holiday Food Table the Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday of the week before Christmas. People sign up with whatever they're going to bring each day.

I'm signed up for Thursday, and I'm making my Famous and Eagerly-Anticipated chocolate chip cookies (or are these people worthy of Igor Bars...?) and probably some Tastefully Simple cheeseball-type product.

You know who I hate? The asshole who brings a box of candy canes as his/her contribution. First of all, if anyone actually eats a candy cane, it's one per year, tops. Secondly, is that really the best they could do? I mean, they were obviously in Walgreens -- they couldn't get a package of Oreos or something? Pathetic. Don't let me catch you eating my cheeseball, you cheap bastard!

Candy canes aside, Tuesday's table had a pretty good spread. By 9:00 a.m., I was already burping up taco dip while eating Keilbasa sausage with my fingers. An exceptional way to start the day, by anyone's standards. And for dessert? (Yes, breakfast comes with dessert. Well, at least second breakfast does.) Frango mints!

Life is good, my friends. I may have been sluggish and unable to concentrate for the rest of the day, but by God, it was worth it.

Posted at 06:26 AM | Comments (3)

December 13, 2006

Fan, Meet Shit

God, I HATE not blogging every day! I'm really out of practice, so today's post will be sub-par and scatter-brained.

Here at Wenchie's Work, the shit has really hit the fan, which was on High at the time. It's also one of those oscillating fans on a tall stand, so the shit has coated everyone and everything.

The clever individuals in charge around here have put the second biggest asswipe in the company -- a man despised by everyone inside the company, as well as everyone we do business with -- in charge of "Business Development," i.e. "Having Close Contact with All Our Customers."

And next week, they're having me give lectures on "Proper Use of Company Time," "Professional Decorum" and "Business Attire."

I'm at the Reception Desk all day today, so I have sworn a solemn oath, written in chocolate smudges, to do absolutely nothing work-related today. If they're going to waste my skills on answering a phone and signing for packages, then I'm going to make it hurt!

So far, I have answered all those emails that have been sitting in my Yahoo! account, waiting for me to get to. A lot has happened since I last did that! My cousin's chemo is having excellent results; my friend had to put her beloved cat to sleep; and Billi asked me and Husband to be The Spare's godparents. I should probably do this more often.

So I wrote an email of encouragement and an email of empathy. The godparent thing, however, was not so easy to handle. And I know that sounds insensitive -- which is a huge shock coming from me -- but I didn't realize godparenting was so involved.

PW: Oh, I'm so touched and honored that you want me to be The Spare's godmother!

Billi: Great! [handing The Spare to me] He has a poopy diaper. I'm going up to take a shower!

PW: Dammit! Can't I just give him a saving bond and a "Baby's First Bible" or something?

Apparently, being a godparent means always wearing something washable and bringing a change of clothes when you visit. I think I'm going to crossstitch that on a pillow.

Posted at 11:38 AM | Comments (3)

December 01, 2006

The Big Announcement

First of all, do you know how HARD it's been to keep this quiet since August (when I first got the okay from Husband)?! Oh, how I've longed to tell you, my muffins, since you are part of the reason this means so much to me! Yes, YOU!

In August, Husband finally relented to my relentless pleading and gave his blessing for me to cut my work hours to part time. That's right, I said...

PART TIME!!!

More time for blogging! More time for exercising (both myself AND Daisy)! More time for cooking decent food! More time for doing the hundreds of things Husband can't help me with because he works 1,000 hours per week to support me!

Oh, it's just gonna be so awesome for so very many reasons! *sigh* So sublimely content...

Anyhoo, I finally gave my official, written request to Head Boss a couple weeks ago, immediately after everything went down with the G.M. H.B. had to talk to the C.E.O., but his initial reaction was completely positive. Wheeeeee!

Meanwhile, G.M. is still on the warpath, so I'll feel much better when all the details are all settled, and I can stop worrying that he'll worm his way in and find some way to screw me.

Every Monday morning, the V.P.s and other such bigwigs have a meeting just to "touch base" on what's going on with the various departments for the upcoming week.

At this meeting last week, G.M. told H.B. that he wants me to distribute the mail every morning from now on. This job, for the past three years, has belonged to his assistant's assistant. But now, apparently, it's my job. Enh, no biggie. It's not hard. I don't know why the fuck the G.M.A.A. can't do it any longer, but whatever.

G.M. is clearly looking for a.) busy-work for me to do; and b.) revenge. But there's no reason I can't do it, and it makes H.B. soooooooooo happy when I'm a "team player," so I kindly agreed.

THEN, G.M. told H.B. that he would also like for me to do Switchboard Relief every other day. I HHHHHHHHHATE Switchboard Relief.

Our receptionist sits in our front lobby and mans the phones and such. She gets two 15-minute breaks per day, and a 45 minute lunch. However, she has been known to stretch those breaks to 40 minutes, and all her lunches are well past an hour long.

So, in addition to being a big waste of my time, and a big waste of company money to pay me to sit and read, it's boring, and I don't like interacting with strangers, in person or otherwise. Also? I don't type 120 words a minute so I can "direct your call."

Now, G.M.A.A. is supposed does Switchboard Relief full time, also. As she has been since the invention of the telephone. But now, G.M. wants me to do it. I can't begin to describe how fucking livid this makes me.

So H.B. goes, "Well, I just agreed and played along because he doesn't know that you'll be part time in another month!"

I totally high-fived him for that one. But now, G.M. knows that we're in talks. Luckily, there's huge shit going down regarding company changes for 2007, so he doesn't have a lot of energy to devote to my persecution at the moment.

Anyhoo, after the Monday morning meeting, H.B. went in and talked to the C.E.O of the company, THEE head guy. H.B. explained what I had asked for and that he was happy to work with me that way, and you know what C.E.O. said?

He said, "That's fine. Whatever you two want to work out between you is fine with me."

BECAUSE THAT'S WHAT A NORMAL BIGWIG SHOULD DO! Trust his underlings to do the right thing and leave them to sort out the details.

Ohhhhhhh, but not G.M. He's not gonna let me do what I want without a fight. H.B. and I will iron things out with the H.R. person, and then he'll come in and start nit-picking and find something he doesn't want to let me have. Mark my words.

Mind you, I'm not asking for anything extravagant. Just half. Half work days, half sick days, half vacation days. It's all simple and logical. But he won't want me to have it all, just on principle. I have dared to defy him so many times; I'm evading his switchboard-relief clutches (after December) -- he won't let me have it for the simple fact that I want it.

But I've anticipated this. I've got a couple cards up my sleeve, and I'm not tipping them to him just yet. He wants a fight? Bring it. I'll not be made his bitch.

Keep your eye on the Countdown in my sidebar -- that's how many full time work days I have left.

Posted at 12:14 PM | Comments (2)

November 12, 2006

Smoke Screen

There are a few things that have perplexed me from the minute I walked out of Head Boss' office last Monday morning, following my "inappropriate email" reaming:

Why aren't I fired?

Why aren't I at least on probation?

Why wasn't an H.R. rep at the meeting with something for me to sign, to be put into my permanant file?

The answer may surprise you...

BECAUSE THERE IS NO PROOF! The whole charge is bogus! Well, maybe not completely bogus -- we all know what an internet junkie I am -- but there's no hard evidence to back-up all of G.M.'s charges! He just made some good guesses based on what he sees when he walks past my desk.

The Facts [including some info I scrounged up in the I.T. department]

1. As a matter of habit, Nicholle deleted all her personal email the second she read it, and emptied her trash bin twice a day, during normal work hours. I know her well enough to know that, if she had screwed up, she would have copped to it immediately and apologized. But I also know her well enough to know that she was, indeed, religious about scouring her computer of personal stuff.

2. The company's computers are backed up once a day. Between 10:00 and 12:00 p.m. (it takes two hours). Whatever is on an employee's computer between ten and twelve that night gets backed up. Whatever has been deleted during the day is gone forever.

3. The back-up tapes are recycled every two weeks. Therefore, anything older than fourteen days old is gone forever.

4. In order to get one's hands on a back-up tape, one has to submit a request to the I.T. department. The I.T. department has received no such request from G.M. or anyone, regarding Nicholle's emails.

The Conclusion

G.M. only had access to whatever was on Nicholle's computer the day she left. I am 99.99% certain that my emails were not on her computer. If Nicholle accidentally missed one, it certainly wasn't one that encompassed everything that G.M. accused me of.

And while I am relieved to know that G.M. isn't privy to every aspect of my private life, these new revelations raise a whole new concern. Mainly, why am I being singled out for persecution?

The Crime

Since the simplest answer is usually the correct one, this is what I surmize:

A few days after Nicholle's last day, I sent her an email, from my work address, about getting together for lunch. And since I'm an idiot, I forgot to specify to send it to her Yahoo! account, so it went to her work account, which was still open.

Two minutes later, G.M. came by my desk and informed me of my mistake. I politely thanked him for pointing that out to me and silently thanked God that I had only mentioned lunch and not our mutual burning hatred of the man or our plans for world domination.

This was two months ago. I believe this incident planted a seed in his head, and it took him this long to perfect his plan. He's not the fastest search engine on the web.

The Motive

A year ago, our company went to a new system of timekeeping for hours worked by employees. It's on the internet, which caused a lot of confusion and panic for everyone here over the age of forty, especially Head Boss. But that's fine -- that's job security for me!

See, we all sign on and fill out our timecards, and then H.B. signs on his Special Super-Secret Wonder Twins Manager Account to review and approve them all. Except that he doesn't want to, and he travels quite extensively, too, and is often gone when approval time rolls around. So he gave me his password and told me to sign on a approve all the timecards.

Well, word got out that H.B. had given Power and Control and Authority to a mere staff support person -- and a woman at that! -- and G.M. went ballistic. Peons aren't supposed to perform managerial tasks! Even if the manager wants them to! It's FORBIDDEN!!!

And that, my friends, is why I believe G.M. has it in for me. Well, that and my generally blasé attitude...

Posted at 08:23 PM | Comments (0)

November 08, 2006

Back-Up

While I didn't really blame Nicholle for my predicament with the emails, I certainly thought it was dumb to leave personal emails on her computer when she quit. After all, she's very computer savvy, plus, she suffers from total paranoid dementia, so it didn't make sense that she would knowingly leave behind any personal information for someone else to find.

It just didn't make sense. She's too smart to leave a trail; she didn't stage an intricate, two-year plan to sabotage me (although I would have to give her props for that, if it were the case),...

So how did G.M. get his hands on all those emails...?

The only answer my friends? Back-up tapes.

Apparently, because he thinks that everyone in the company is a feces-flinging, unevolved, knuckle-dragging, slope-headed moron, G.M. didn't trust that Nicholle -- having given two months notice -- took the time to properly ensure that her replacement would have all the information, training and learning materials that she needed.

So G.M. must have requested many months worth of back-up tapes to sift through.

Christmas is coming up. I think I'm going to buy him one of those books with a map of all 50 states where you collect the quarters from all the states and put them in the holes. Because clearly, this man needs a hobby.

As distressing as this bit of info is, on so many levels, it gets better. Or worse, as the case may be.

I wasn't the only co-worker that Nicholle routinely exchanged very personal, "inappropriate" emails with. And as devastated as I am to learn that she was committing e-dultery on me, I'm even MORE disturbed that other perfectly decent people have probably been implicated in WenchGate 2006.

I know of two, specifically. I'm going to have to ask around and see if they, too, had a closed-door meeting with G.M. recently.

If so, it would certainly explain why I got off with merely a warning and wasn't fired. They probably realize that it's a universal human behavior, and they can't very well fire everyone Nicholle ever talked to. The company would shut down!

Oh, the possibilities are staggering. Like, now that he has me pegged as a Problem Child, is he going to request back-up tapes and read all of my email? Heh. I'll be fired then for sure!

Posted at 04:29 PM | Comments (1)

November 06, 2006

Secrets Are Good

Secrets are important. They help us to function in relationships, in society, and at work especially.

In relationships, we keeps secrets from our spouses that make it easier for us to function in our day-to-day lives. I'm not talking about adultery-sized secrets -- just stuff like how you really feel about their family, and where your private stash of cookies is hidden.

At work, as with any randomly-chosen group of people, there are going to be people you like, people you dislike, and people you wish a plague upon. So you have fun with the people you like, and the rest of them, you deal with on a courteous, professional level, never letting them