January 29, 2012

This Is Not Helpful

So, on Wednesday morning, I got into work to find the following emails in my in box. (I leave at 4:00 every day, so there's quite a bit of business that goes on while I'm not at work.)

This from the head of I.T.

From: Joe
Sent: Tuesday, January 24, 2012 4:26 PM
To: All of Wenchie's Work
Subject: Technology Implementation Team

Dear Colleagues,

To best prioritize Information Technology (IT) initiatives and meet the objectives of the Wenchie's Work Organizational Plan, a team has been created and charged to align the two areas together. The Technology Implementation Team will promote collaboration between IT, Wenchie's Work (WW) departments and affiliated companies to ensure efficiency and effectiveness in future projects. This team has the authority from the Executive Committee to share ownership in decision making related to project selection, prioritization and approval.

Starting in 2012, any initiatives requesting IT resources will begin with a new process, including the completion of a project request form; to determine needs, organization impact and level of effort. The Technology Implementation Team will review proposals and make project selection, prioritization and approval based on the evaluation of project goals, risks, budget and staff resources.

This team is comprised of members representing each department and affiliated company. Others will be invited to attend as topics require. IT and Department M will be represented by multiple individuals to ensure all aspects of the project are being appropriately considered.

[List of team members, about a dozen total.]

To submit a new project request, please talk with your department representative.

Thank you.
Joe

And this from random guy in the field:

From: Steve
Sent: Tuesday, January 24, 2012 11:26 PM
To: Joe; All of Wenchie's Work
Subject: Technology Implementation Team

Only 1 from Department C.......what about someone from the field, outside of Chicago????

English please????? This is institutional jibberish....and is incomprehensible to those not in IT.....

Peace,
Steve

Rev. Steve Q. Stephens
Director for Whatever
Northern U.S. State Area, Wenchie's Work
555.555.6865 (office)
555.555.9996 (cell)
rev_vatican@email.com

WOW. Let's break this down, shall we? There's just so much going on here, I'm going to have to take it in order:

To: Joe; All of Wenchie's Work
Yeah, dude replied to all 300 people in our organization, 250 in my building, 50 deployed around the country. They all got a taste of Steve's ire with their morning coffee. Way to out yourself as a dickhead to the entire company, Steve!

Department C.......what about
He lost my respect the minute he touched the period key more than once. I have no tolerance for excessive, superfluous ellipsis.

what about someone from the field, outside of Chicago????
Hey, remember that pesky recession, when we laid off 80 people? Yeah, we're trying not to have to fly people across the country to attend meetings. Also? We have plenty of qualified people in the building.

Chicago???? English please?????
He punctuates like a fifteen year old texting mom about why his/her curfew is so early.

This is institutional jibberish....and is incomprehensible to those not in IT.....
I understood it, and I'm not in I.T. I'm just sayin'.

Peace, Steve
I think this is my favorite part. He's obviously irate on several levels, but hey. Peace, man. He says it all with peace in his heart.

rev_vatican@email.com
Um... what? We're not the Vatican. I don't even know where he's coming from on that one.

[Hey, did I ever tell you guys about the time, at work, when I answered a call from Thee Actual Vatican Where The Pope Lives? Swear to God, it was Father Brian McSomething, some Cardinal's secretary. I was like, "Get out, you're calling from the Vatican?!" Real smooth.]

Okay, then there was this one from HR:

From: Carrie
Sent: Tuesday, January 24, 2012 9:55 AM
To: All of Wenchie's Work
Subject: 2011 W2 Info
Importance: High

ATTENTION ALL EMPLOYEES

The W2s have been loaded into the system.

You are able now to access your information if you log into Payroll Software, under Myself/Pay/W2/2011.

Please communicate any discrepancies.

Your Payroll Team

Short and sweet. Took me twenty seconds to pull up my W2 and print it off. Aw, but our little buddy had a slightly different experience.

From: Steve
Sent: Tuesday, January 24, 2012 11:28 PM
To: Carrie; All of Wenchie's Work
Subject: 2011 W2 Info

This is not helpful.....

Peace,
Steve

Rev. Steve Q. Stephens
Director for Whatever
Northern U.S. State Area, Wenchie's Work
555.555.6865 (office)
555.555.9996 (cell)
rev_vatican@email.com

I'm gonna go out on a limb here and suggest that, if Steve doesn't know the difference between Reply and Reply All, perhaps the fault does not lie with I.T. and HR...?

[And I don't know why I'm inconsistent with the periods in I.T. and HR. That's just how it's done. Don't question me. At least I know how to use ellipsis.]

But despite my dissection of Steve's emails, I must give him props for possibly the hugest accomplishment ever accomplished in the history of accomplishmentalism.

For the past six months, I.T. has been trying to ween our company off GroupWise and onto Outlook. And HR, well, they've introduced a whole new payroll software package. Now, if you've ever worked for anyone, ever, or touched any piece of technology anywhere, ever, you may have a teensy particle of an idea of how much fury and cursing-of-the-heavens these roll-outs have inspired from my co-workers.

And Steve. Oh, dear, peaceful, uncomprehending Steve. With his bitter, public sniping, he has managed the unthinkable -- he made the entire organization feel collective sympathy for their arch-nemeses, I.T. and HR.

Well played, Steve. Well played.

Posted at 06:54 AM | Comments (0)

December 08, 2011

Two More Sisters-at-Heart

To make up for last Thursday's barfiness -- because my life is nothing if not a perfectly balanced Jenga game of zen -- last Friday, I found much in common with two new women in my life. The stories go thusly.

So you know that I work for a religious organization that shall remain nameless. And you know -- or should -- that my cubicle is actually a stone's throw from the office of the Grand Poobah. Like, the Pope's equivalent in our religion (except that our Grand Poobah doesn't wear a pointy hat or red slippers).

On Friday, we had our Department Christmas Luncheon. I would say about 27 of the 33 employees in our department actually attended. Which is less than I expected when I searched on people's calendars, but some people don't keep up their calendars. So they missed out on BBQ Beef Brisket and Twice Baked Mashed Potatoes. Nyah.

Also in attendence was the Grand Poobah's wife, which isn't unusual. She has to put up with a husband who works about a 70 hour work week and travels 66% of the time, so we try to include her when we can.

It had been a whole years since all of us had been together in the same room (yeah, cohesive teamwork is not our forte), and there have been probably five or so new hires in the past several months. So we did that dumb thing -- at the Grand Poobah's request -- where you go around the room and introduce yourself and say what you do.

"Hi, I'm Bob from Accounting."
"Hi, I'm Wenchie, and I work for Lady Boss."
"Hi, I'm HR Troll #1, and I'm personally responsible for hiring each and every one of you. No pressure."

And then it was Mrs. Poobah's turn, and she didn't skip a beat, "Hi, I'm Wendy, and I sleep with the Grand Poobah."

Yeah, I actually did the gay man's gasp with my hand to my mouth. And then I died, and when my life flashed before my eyes, there were no regrets because I had been an eye-witness to the funniest thing ever said on earth. But then Jeebus told me it wasn't really "my time," yet, so I had to go back.

When I got back to this plane of existance, the Grand Poopbah was blushing and fanning himself with a napkin. It was another five minutes or so before any semblance of order was brought back to the room. Meanwhile, Mrs. Poobah just sat there, looking around nonchalantly, smiling a little bit to herself, pleased as punch at all the chaos she'd caused.

And it was then that the Holy Spirit washed over me, and I was absolved of all wrong-doings and every stupid thing I'd ever said because THE GRAND POOBAH'S WIFE HAS AN EVEN LESS EFFECTIVE BRAIN-TO-MOUTH FILTER THAN I DO!!!

God be praised!

The Grand Poobah's only comment? "Well, that'll get around the building in a hurry."

Yes, it will! And you're welcome.

And that night, I had a date with one of the Big Player Rockstars on the Christian scene. No, not a member of a Christian rock band. I'm talking about someone who is face-meltingly important on the world's religious stage. Seriously, she is so amazing, she shouldn't even be talking to mere mortal Wenchie.

But she's friendly and down-to-earth. She is kind of neurotic and confesses it openly. She's eight years younger than me and the mother of a toddler. When she calls a meeting, the men at the table are wearing black dresses and long beards and big crosses. And...?

She was looking for someone who would go see "Breaking Dawn Part I" with her. You guys, I almost wept with joy. This chick is sooooooo awesome, and I really want to hang with her, but I figured she'd automatically be hanging with the likes of Lady Boss and Grand Poobah and such. So here was my IN! What other total dumbshit moron would go see a Twilight movie with her! NO ONE! Hee hee! I'm the only person on my entire floor with standards so low that I read tween novels and watch tween movies simply because everyone else is doing it!

And now, Heather is like, "What the fuck? You already saw Breaking Dawn! With me! Are you cheating on me?!"

I understand that it may look like cheating, but here's why it's not:

1. I saw the movie with Heather first.

2. I didn't do my nails beforehand.

3. I wore all mis-matched clothes -- purple sweater over a black t-shirt, jeans, navy socks, and brown shoes. A fashion disaster, which I would never wear for Heather.

4. I had no cleavage showing, and my hair wasn't down.

5. Technically, Christian Rockstar got sloppy seconds, dear. You have nothing to fear.

But yes, okay, while I'm not a movie adultress, I do have to cop to being stupid enough to pay TWICE to see a horrible movie TWICE. And I still couldn't figure out what emotions Kristen Stewart was trying to convey through her dead eyes and seemingly Botoxed facial features.

But it was worth it. Rockstar thinks I'm cool because we both laughed in all the same places (and while the rest of the audience was silent), AND? She secretly loves Hello Kitty! I'm going to have to have her pick me up next time, so she can come in and see my collection of Hello Kitty Barbies.

Which would be a great opening line to some lesbian porn -- "Hey, you wanna come to my room and see my collection of Hello Kitty Barbies?" -- except the lesbians that I know would break out in hives at the very thought.

So, in summary, we have two new recruits for my crew -- one has no brain-to-mouth filter and routinely embarasses her big, important husband, and the other loves crappy tween movies and Hello Kitty. I'm sure all of those qualities will be very useful on a pirate ship.

Posted at 05:11 PM | Comments (0)

October 09, 2011

Black Hair, White Collar

Oh my God, I am getting so good at these black-n-white titles!

Anyhoo, strap in -- this is going to be a rambling post in which I expound about two things that are almost always on my mind nowadays: Black hair, and dress. Black hair, as you know, is a taboo that has held me spellbound for quite some time now.

Dress, and how it practically dictates our standing in the world, is something that is just starting to dawn on me like... something really heavy that would... hit me hard and... crap, I am way too burdened with ponderousness to come up with a decent metaphor right now. Yeah, I'm a little thick. Like pancake batter. Oooh, I did it!

Okay, here we go.

Recently, there was a changing of the guard at my work, and we have a new C.F.O. -- an African-American woman. This is cool because...

a) She is a woman. (If any of you assholes squeal Grrrl power!, I will stab you in the eye.)

b) She is African-American. (No, I'm not a sistah, but I'm at least savvy enough to appreciate the significance.)

c) She is in her forties. (Unlike 75% of the executives, who are over 60. I'm really hoping that the roll-out of the new Microsoft package, plus the switch from GroupWise to Outlook, will thin out their ranks a bit.)

d) She is the best person for the job. (So unusual! Except in my case.)

So you see, although, in my position, I have zero dealings with the C.F.O., I am quite pleased by the whole thing. However, some people in the African-American community in our organization are not pleased. The reason? Her hair.

Girlfriend has a 'fro. Or as it is often called, "natural hair." Now, it is a perfectly tidy 'fro -- about two inches long, well-groomed, and always kept away from her face with a headband.

But I have heard more than one woman of color say, "She's gonna have to change her hair, now that she's C.F.O. She can't be looking like that in her position."

FASCINATING!

I am a white person obsessed with black hair, and it never occurred to me to think about her hair. But apparently, there is something not quite acceptable about natural hair in the black community. (Or perhaps, just not in the successful black community...?) So much so that they discuss it openly amongst themselves! Like it's an unwritten rule that she's supposed to follow, and they are going to monitor the situation until she gets with the program!

Does that seem weird to you? It seems weird to me. Like, wouldn't they be happy that a person of African descent made it to the top without conforming to Caucasian hair ideals? Isn't this a big win for the African-American community? I'm confused.

And here's another question: Are they just jealous that she doesn't spend all the time and money on her hair that they do? Of course, I'm not actually going to pose that question anywhere but here. But the next time I hear someone ragging on the C.F.O.'s hair, I am going to ask why that's a bad thing. And hope I don't get smacked.

As I monitor, out of one eye, the monitoring of her hair, out of my other eye, I will be monitoring her clothes. CFrO, as I will call her (see what I did there?!), has now joined an elite group of seven men and women executives in our organization. She is the third woman and, I must say, the worst-dressed. Not that she dresses badly! Not at all! Dress pants, dress shirts and cute flats every day. Her clothes fit well and are always clean and pressed.

She's just not a natty dresser, ya know? (Stop it; I said natty, not nappy.) While the two other women are easily wearing $500 head-to-toe every day with their tailored suits and silk blouses, CFrO wears maybe... hundred and fifty? Or so?

When I moved from working for PhD Boss to the top floor of Working For The Head Lady Boss Who Runs EVERYTHING, I stepped up my game a little. No more hoodie sweaters and corduroys. No more Old Navy and Target. I don't own a tailored suit (or aspire to), but I wear dress pants and heels and nice sweaters and blouses. I'm all about J. Jill and Coldwater Creek now. And that's not to brag -- because who would brag about being a nerdy, lame-ass, middle-aged, middle-class white chick? It's just to say that when my position changed, and my surroundings changed, I changed to reflect that.

No one told me to, either directly or indirectly. I just did it because, when I tell people No, you can't knock on her door when it's closed, or I'm not even going to show this to her until you get the form signed by your supervisor, I want them to know, if only on a subconscious level, that I MEAN BUSINESS. My boss' time is gold, and you aren't getting past my smart cardigan and creased pants unless I SAY SO.

And I continue to step up my game. When I catch myself in a mirror at work, and I don't look polished and professional, I relegate that particular top or look or necklace or whatever to my casual clothes collection. (Yes, the clothes in my closet are divided into work clothes and play clothes, on different racks.) Then I start looking at the latest catalogues to find something that DOES look polished and professional, and might have a chance of looking halfway decent on me.

Why? Partly because I am OCD and a control freak. But also because I am growning increasingly aware of just how much, down to our very core, what we wear and how we look affects not only how others relate to us, but how we think of ourselves.

I know that I'm sounding stupid because, OF COURSE, we have all gotten the lecture from our mothers to comb our hair and wear clean jeans and stand up straight. And as teenagers, we think, People shouldn't just me by outward appearances! And we're right -- they shouldn't.

If you have a mole on your nose, or are missing two fingers, or have a lazy eye, or something else you can't help, I would absolutely be a dick to judge you by that. This isn't Salem, and you can't tell a witch by her birthmark.

(But you CAN tell her by her new-age jewelry and Stevie-Nicks-wanna-be blouse!)

On the other hand, why shouldn't we judge people by the THEM that they choose to present to the world? Here are what your appearance choices tell me:

Neck tattoo -- You don't care if you're ever gainfully employed.

Thick, black eyeliner and bangs in your face -- You are hiding because you don't like yourself. You aren't tough; you're scared.

Sweatshirt with a kitten applique -- You are a doormat. The world walks all over you, just like your cats do.

Okay, those are obvious. And mean. But you get my point. With a sledgehammer. Everytime we groom (or not) and/or dress ourselves, we are choosing what we are first communicating to the rest of the world. Eighty or ninety or something percent of all communication is non-verbal, and since people often see us before we even open our mouths to talk, some of what we are "saying" has already been said. Plus, the person/people we're talking to has already decided how much credence to give our words!

I have never thought about all this more than in the past few months, where I am noticing a very obvious correllation between dress and status in the organization in which I work. I'm also finding myself forming opinions about people at work based on how they choose to present themselves.

[Disclaimer: All of this ruminating is strictly work-based. Outside of work, in the real world, I do not turn this keen eye to the clothes of my friends and family.]

And my conclusion? Simply, the folks who are "dressing for success" are reaching it. And those who aren't,... aren't. Weird. And I'm not sure how I feel about it. I mean, shouldn't people be rewarded for being savvy enough to figure out the game? Maybe. Although savvy game-players are, perhaps, not the kind of employee you'd want too many of in your organization.

It bodes well for me, though! I have no college degree. But if I can dress like a college grad and make people take me seriously by dressing myself very seriously, maybe I can climb a wee higher than Executive Administrative Assistant...?

Do I dare become a savvy game-player? I guess the REAL question is -- do I have the money to become a savvy game-player?

I'll let you know where this devil's-advocate train of thought takes me. Perhaps post a few photos of outfits... I don't know; I don't really want this to be come a "fashion blog." I will, however, be keeping a keen eye on CFrO, to see what -- if any -- savvy changes she makes to her wardrobe. And/or hair.

Posted at 05:27 PM | Comments (3)

September 20, 2011

September Photo Diary: Part I of II

God, I have weird stuff on my camera. I mean, usually, it's loaded with photos of Billi's brood and/or my dogs looking stupid and/or Wisconsin landscapes. And Barbies. Always Barbies.

But lately, I have had... just... well, you be the judge.

This is my new, little friend at work. And this is his story of origin. Which is probably not comic-book-worthy, but it's at least Wenchie's-crappy-blog-worthy, so here goes.

I had just touched a Dove dark chocolate square to my tongue when my phone rang, and I could see that it was not someone who would completely understand if I answered the phone with food in my mouth. So I took the chocolate off my tongue and placed it on the little pad of stickies nearby.

When I got off the phone and stuck the chocolate back -- successfully, this time -- into my gaping maw, I noticed that the shape it left looked like a friendly choco-smile. What else could I do but draw two eyes?

And now, he is my own Wilson, like Tom Hanks had when he was on that deserted island and lost all that weight. Only made out of chocolate and not blood. Isn't he adorable? And like Wilson, my Wilson Jr. is embued with his own special personality. And I will keep him around forever.

Or until I build a raft and leave my shithole cubicle, and Wilson Jr. accidentally gets washed away in the storm. Whereafter I will always remember him fondly as the one who kept me company during my darkest days.

Yeah, I get a little bored at work sometimes.

Okay, photo two. This is The Girl Child. And this is what a ten year old girl thinks is a really cool outfit. (And I know this because I took her shopping and let her pick out an outfit all by herself.)

I'm assuming that, at school, this will be worn with Ugg boots on her feet. In her defense, this is way cuter -- and decidedly more feminine -- than the stuff I was wearing at her age. I could only describe my grade school style as Whatever the Boys Were Wearing That Made My Mother Cringe and Wonder If I Had Any Estrogen Whatsoever.

And then I hit 35, and the pendulum swung waaaaaaaaaaaaay the hell over to the other side. Now it's all sparkly nails and Hello Kitty! hoodies and false eyelashes. There is just no Happy Medium in Wenchie's World!

Hey, remember when I blogged about cleaning out my father's basement after a horrible flood? This is what the garbage men were confronted with during their route on the following Tuesday.

It may not look like much on my teeny-tiny blog, but trust me -- it cast a shadow over our Jeep Grand Cherokee. And it's not like he was hoarding feathers and packing peanuts, people! The man keeps WROUGHT IRON! And MOLTEN LEAD! And ALLOYS ANDIGIONOUS TO OTHER PLANETS! Those mutha-fockin' bags were HEAVY!

And that's all I'm allowed to say about it here because of the conditions stated in the lawsuit brought by the Waste Removal Workers of Cook County.

So let's end on a happy note. Look what Lola made me!

Isn't she adorable?! And she totally matches my office, which I love. And she has all kinds of cool textures on her! I could rub her nubbiness for hours! But then I would get her dirty, and I don't want that. So I just ocassionally caress her as I walk by...

And now I've said too much.

Posted at 07:40 PM | Comments (0)

August 30, 2011

A Plan for Implementation

Meanwhile, back at work, we are still "living into the new design," i.e. figuring out what the hell we're doing with forty percent of the workforce gone and the other sixty percent doing jobs slightly or very different than they did before.

In their attempt to placate us into thinking that our -- the little peoples' -- opinions matter, the Uppermost Echelon (UME) has decided to poll us on what we think of their lofty, incomprehensible vision for the organization's future.

Which is fine. I think it's cute that they humor us, and I'm happy to humor them right back by giving them a big ol' thumbs-up and saying, "Awesome ideas! Keep up the good work!"

Only, this time... this time, I actually have an opinion. Nay, not just an opinion, little minions, but an IDEA. I know! Can you believe that my no-college-degree-havin' brain actually came up with an IDEA?! And not just an idea, but a plan for implementation, goals, and measures! Holy crap, somebody stop me before I cure cancer!

So I carefully crafted a brief yet intellegent proposal for my idea. I made sure I used UME language, talked about "measureable goals," and made all of my sentences decisive statements, starting none of them with "I think" or "I believe."

I have no idea what I actually said, but I can assure you, it was brilliant. And it summed up my thought that our organization's support staff is a wealth of information and potential, and we need a group to tap all that awesomeness and turn it into cross-training, information-sharing, best practices, and other such admirable results.

I mean, c'mon, UME has their own secret club. Second level managers have their ocassional meetings. Why has it occurred to no one to let support staff be supported and supportive?! (I kind of think that they are scared to let us assemble, not knowing what we might do with our newly-found, collective power!)

Anyhoo, I sent my inspiring, ambitious email -- as instructed -- to the consultant employed by the organization to help us figure out what the hell we're doing, and to Vy, my boss. In return, I got the perfunctory thank-you-for-your-input emails.

Which was a little disappointing. I mean, I did kind of expect Vy to come running out of her office and laud me for showing such brave and daring initiative. But she is probably saving her speech for a more formal ocassion, like my congratulatory dinner or something.

So that was last week. Since then, I've been making a little fantasy football team in my head of who would be the best people for my (as of yet) imaginary task force. And it ocurred to me -- you know who would be awesome at leading this group? ME! I have the ideas! I have the ability to motive people to contribute and get them to work together as a team! I play well with others and don't eat paste!

In my new bible, a book entitled "Nice Girls Don't Get the Corner Office," I learned that one of the reasons that women don't get as much money/respect/benefits/prestige as men is that we don't ask for it. So, I got the notion into my tiny, peon brain that I should ask for what I want, for what I know I could do.

This afternoon, I resent my original idea-email along with this P.S. at the top:

Should the UME decide to implement my suggested plan, I wish to be considered for convener or co-convener of the group.

Haaaaaaaa ha ha ha ha ha ha! Do you believe the balls on this broad?! I am so proud of myself! This may not seem like much of an event to most of you, but to someone used to being "just a waitress/nanny/secretary" for most of my life, showing initiative and openly asking for the UME's trust is a huge, steaming deal! I'm learning to go after the things I want in a corporate setting! Who am I???

And then I got this response from the consultant: "Very cheeky, Wenchie!"

Well, I about burst out in tears right there at my desk. Admonished for being impudent! During my moment of possible glory!

SHIT! Did I overstep my bounds? I wondered. Am I way out of line? Am I being pushy, disrespectful or insubordinate?

You see what kind of ridiculous tailspin being a peon for twenty years has made me prone to? It's disgusting. Besides, who is she to call me insolant? Who is she to smack me down for daring to reach just one tiny finger out of my mud hole? This is why women still struggle so hard in the workplace -- because we don't mentor each other!!!

I wrote back, "Is cheeky good or bad? Because my only exposure to the word comes from Mary Poppins and Monty Python."

She replied, "It's good! I was being friendly! Nothing like those!"

Huge, weather-changing sigh of relief. And I'm glad I asked. She's from Australia, so we do often find ourselves asking each other to define certain words -- her, her Australian lingo; and me, American lingo. I guess, being from the opposite hemisphere as Mary Poppins, cheeky mean bold and saucy! Like a good BBQ -- or as she'd call it, a barbie!

Posted at 06:10 AM | Comments (1)

August 05, 2011

The Hot, New Thing in P.C.

My current project at work is called Beg People To Give Me Updated Numbers. Lady Boss Vy has a Big Presentation coming up -- involving scripts and rehearsals -- and she is presenting a Big Document. But this Big Document hasn't been updated in five years.

And that's where I come in, throwing myself on the mercy of various and sundry people in the building.

"Can you give me the amount budgeted for 2011 for your section?"
"Can you confirm or deny that this percentage is correct?"
"What's the dollar amount of gifts we've received as of June 30 this year?"

And I'm sure that's exactly what everyone wants to be doing with their time, digging out numerical minutiae for me. I am the bane of my colleagues' existance this week! If you see my name on your phone, just let it go to voicemail or you'll rue the day you answered it!

I also have to check things like up-to-the-minute political correctness.

PW: Rose, I have two columns here where I used to have one. Can you please tell me the difference between African-American and Black? I thought we weren't allowed to say Black anymore, yet here it is on this spreadsheet.

Rose, African-American: Black is American but not from Africa.

PW: How is that possible?

RAA: They could be from Haiti.

PW: Still, aren't all black people from Africa at one point or another? Besides, I think the Haitians are covered under African-Caribbean?

RAA: Where do you see African-Caribbean?

PW: Right here next to African Nationals.

RAA: I ain't never heard of African-Caribbeans.

PW: Well, they are apparently the hot, new thing.

RAA: I guess Black could also be from Australia. You know, the Aborigines.

PW: I'm sure in 2012, they'll be unveiling the Aborigine-American column.

I'm sure our Spanish-speaking brothers and sisters feel left out because, despite there being literally dozens of Spanish-speaking countries, they all get lumped under one column heading -- Hispanic.

PW: [talking to a male co-worker] Jon, where is Hispania?

Jon: What?

PW: Nevermind. This document hasn't been updated since 2006, and I don't think we're saying Hispanic anymore. I think we say Latino, but I'm not sure. Do you know?

Jon: Let us consult the 2011 Company Style Guide.

PW: There's a Company Style Guide? How have I worked here for four years and not known about the Company Style Guide?

Jon: I don't know. Hey, did you know we're not allowed to say Jewess anymore?

PW: What?!

Jon: Yeah, found that in the 2010 Company Style Guide. We're not allowed to call a Jewish woman a Jewess.

PW: Well, crap. Now I'm gonna have to change my business cards.

Jon: Here, I'll show you. [flipping pages]

PW: Dude, I don't have time for your Jewesses! Look up Hispanic!

Jon: Oh my God! It's not even in here! They took the word Jewess out of the Style Guide for 2011!

PW: GET OFF THE JEWESS!

And that's when four peoples' heads popped out of their respective cubicles -- "WHAT?!"

Would you believe me if I told you that we all undergo anti-racism training once a year?

Posted at 06:06 AM | Comments (2)

July 11, 2011

I'm Having a Cow

Dear Toddler Executive,

Yeah, well, since you already left a voicemail for me on the topic of today's lunch, did you really need to stop me in the hallway and repeat it verbatim? Really? I hope you got what you needed emotionally from that experience, which was probably to remind me how truly, truly special and worthy of my laser-focused attention you are.

Never mind that I spend weeks planning every last detail of this two-day meeting of executives. Never mind that I spent an entire day on the menu, making sure to include vegetarian options. Never mind that I spent my Sunday morning buying break food and hauling it to work. Never mind that my husband spent an hour last night slicing up fruit. Never mind that I've been up and down the elevator eleven floors two hundred times this morning.

What SHOULD have been going through my mind, while trying to make things perfect for forty executives, is Gee, I wonder if one of these executives might have a very special dietary need that I should drop everything in order to figure out? Seriously. Last thing from my mind.

So Mr. Special can't have dairy. And he is, apparently, incapable of opening the sandwich, taking off the cheese, and eating the now-cheeseless sandwich. And, if I'm to understand correctly, it is MY fault that he doesn't have a dairy-free meal.

MY. FAULT.

People, my bra is soaked with sweat. I have been running for seven hours straight, catering to the needs of forty people. It's not brain surgery, but it is a little tricky, and pretty darn tiring.

So at what point is it HIS responsibility to respond to the DOZENS of emails that he's gotten prior to this meeting -- many of which included the word LUNCH -- to let me know that Hey, Wenchie, I can't have dairy. Would you mind having the caterer provide a dairy-free option for me?

To which I would have replied, Certainly, Mr. Special! I'd be glad to! Thank you for letting me know! And I would have meant it! Because, if you are a freak, and you need something weird that your other 39 cohorts do NOT need, then it is YOUR job -- YOURS YOURS YOURS -- to let me know.

I cannot anticipate everything, people. And it's not my job to check the room for freaks.

Asshole.

Posted at 02:28 PM | Comments (1)

May 30, 2011

Less Decorum, More Fanfare, Please

Last week, my life changed radically, in the blink of an eye. No warning, no freakin' clue it was coming...

Although, looking back, I guess there were a couple signs. Hindsight being twenty-twenty, and all.

Last Friday morning, before I had even ingested my first mandatory cup of coffee, fuzzy and loveable HR Troll #1 came by to see if Vy was in. HRT1 thinks that she and Vy are besties, but they are such different people, I have to wonder if Vy would agree. Vy is so completely in control of herself at all times, and HRT1 can't hardly open her mouth without the completely wrong thing flying out. Know your audience, HRT1! Alas, she does not. But the unlikely pairing of she and Vy may actually bode well for me, as you will see.

As it was barely 8:00 a.m., Vy wasn't in, yet. So, like a good girl, I told HRT1 that Vy only has one meeting today, so she'd have plenty of time to get back to her, and I'd tell Vy that she stopped by. Oh, but HRT1 was in a chatty mood, and she wasn't going to give up that easily!

She sat down in the extra chair in my cube. First time ever. Weird.

She was all, "How do you like working here? Isn't Vy great? She's really one of the most amazing people I've ever met!"

And I, seeing as how my momma didn't raise no dummies, agreed, "She's great! I love it here! I really feel like I can learn a lot working for her!"

Ever auditioning, ever interviewing.

And then HRT1 went on, "You know, sometimes we're in meetings, and we can't figure out how to do something, and she'll come up with a whole new way of looking at it -- the things she brings to the table! She's just so brilliant!"

See? That's where she lost her audience. Why talk to me about a part of Vy that I'm never going to see? I'm never going to be in a problem-solving, brainstorming situation with Vy. That's not my place here. I'm not a decision-maker or opinion-giver. I'm a make-it-happen-er. The only Vy I'm ever going to see is that one that gives me my marching orders.

Thankfully, the conversation was over quickly, and HRT1 was on her merry way. So little time, so many awkward situations to create! Of course, she came back a little while later, and she and Vy were behind closed doors for a while, but that's nothing out of the ordinary.

Friday crawled by, and I mean c...r...a...w...l...e...d. It was one of those days where everything on my desk required a response from someone else before I could move forward or wrap it up. But apparently, Friday was a holiday that we weren't aware of because the phone weren't ringing and emails weren't being answered.

There are, ocassionally, times in my job when I am legitimately bored and without something real to do. However, I feel that those times are made up for by the times I am suddenly scrambling to save the planet at 3:30 on a Friday afternoon (my quitting time is 4:00). So while I don't sweat the down time, I don't enjoy it, either. Makes time go so slowly.

By 3:00, I was nearly dead of a coma. Brain activity had ceased to even register on the little sizmagraph that I'm required to have hooked up to my brain, as stated in my contract.

Vy's phone rang and startled me awake. I swear, it was the first time all afternoon anyone's phone had rung on the entire floor. The bright light retreated from my vision, and Grandma told me that it wasn't my time, yet.

Now, I never intentionally listen in on Vy's phone conversations. It's rude, and also boring. Seriously, you would be surprised how boring top secret, confidential information is. Probably because nothing is interesting unless it directly affects ME, but whatever. I don't eavesdrop, and even if I wanted to, I can't really hear her most of the time anyway.

So it's weird that one sentence, one question from Vy's lips seemed to come through loud and clear:

"Won't the staff think that's strange?"

Oooooh! Fascinating! Finally, something worth staying alert for! What could possibly be going on that the staff might think is strange? Are they replacing Lord God King with a look alike, a la Kevin Klein in "Dave"? Are they going to release spider monkeys into our workspace? Are they going to replace PhD Boss with a robot? So many exciting possibilities!

I didn't hear the rest of the conversation, which was brief, but I was kind of thrilled to have something to look forward to. I vowed to keep a look out for whatever trick the organizational muckity-mucks might try to pull on us. Oh, sweet scandal!

Half an hour later, Vy called me into her office and had me close the door behind me. Not an unusual occurrance, but kind of strange for wearisome Friday afternoon. I prayed she wasn't giving me some big assignment with only thirty minutes left on my forty-hour-work-week clock.

I sat down, and Vy said, "So, we're going to just transition you to regular employment. We're not going to post the job; we're not going to hold interviews."

...

"Uh... ... ...What?"

The rest of the talk is pretty much a blur. Here was my goal, finally reached. Here was my obstacle, finally surmounted. Here was the pay-off of all the crap I'd put up with for four years, finally culminating in a future of (relative) financial and employment security, and only a seven minute commute away.

Shouldn't there have been... oh, I don't know -- trumpets, or something? Trumpets played by baby angels? Maybe some hugging? A happy dance? Squealing and jumping up and down? There was none of that.

Well, things being what they are, I guess it's probably not appropriate to celebrate one's own doom and the slamming shut of the jail cell door behind you. Still, I was even less prepared for what followed.

Seeing Vy at a loss for the right words is not a common ocurrance. She's a Reverend Doctor, for Pete's sake -- she's hardly some slack-jawed simpleton. But she had a hard time describing exactly what is expected of me in this position, and it wasn't just because there exists no official job description.

Of course, the confidentiality remains a high priority of this position, and indeed, will be even more tatamount to the job because, presumably, I will be privy to even more classified information. (Ninety-nine percent of which is terribly boring anyway, so no problem there.)

But the really disturbing part was waiting for her to try to articulate exactly what the unwritten expectations of my new job are. Did I just imagine I heard things like "decorum" and "living the position"? Doesn't she realize that she's talking to Thee Wenchie?! I AM NOT A ROLE MODEL!

Well, of course, she doesn't know. But that hardly diminishes the irony. I fretted about it all weekend. My friends will understand that talking about work is now 100% off the table, and that's fine -- I have puh-lenty of other things to talk about. But the decorum part. Does she mean that I need to be like her? Reserved and polished absolutely every minute of the day? You guys,... I simply can't be that. Nor do I want to.

And this is where the HRT1 factor comes in. HRT1 is so lacking in spit 'n' polish, it's laughable. She's not inappropriate in the way that I'm inappropriate, i.e. vagina jokes and body language that screams, I think I'm in my sweats on the couch in my basement. No, she's inappropriate in the way that she phrases everything in the worst possible way, and she assumes that everyone in the world thinks the same way she does. Hard to describe, but just... surreptitiously rude.

But the baseline of both my personality and HRT1's is the same, relative to Vy's -- we both lack the will and the ability to work with absolute professionalism. So maybe... maybe Vy is unconciously drawn to people like HRT1 and I. As much as she requires consummate decorum from herself, perhaps she envies nonchalance in others. And maybe THAT is why she remarked, several times, on how well we work together and get along with each other. It may be that The Decorum Speech was lip service that she knows she must provide, but how much can she really hope to impose it on me? I've been in the building for four years and outside her door for four months -- she can't not know who I am!

Or perhaps I'm just blowing pink, shimmery smoke up my own ass.

Is that what she's afraid that the staff will think is strange? That she picked such a nonconformist for the position? Or is it that they're afraid people will be dissatisfied that the position wasn't posted and interviews held? I'm thinking it's the latter because she let me know there would be no announcement email to the building, and I should probably refrain from broadcasting the news.

Which is fine. I didn't tell her that what people think is strange is that she waited nearly four months to make the obvious decision. I also didn't tell her that the whole damn building knows that I'm contract because the whole damn building knows my story and ASKS me what's going on. So I'm going to have to tell a few key people about my change in employment status. I honestly hope it doesn't raise too many eyebrows.

Anyhoo, amonst all the strangeness -- and believe me, there is plenty -- my biggest worry is that perchance I am more of a Company Man than I think I am, and that is the bottom line of why I got the job.

As of June 1, my lovies, I am... The Man. And not in the good way, like You da man! I mean, I'm The Man.

Posted at 07:53 AM | Comments (1)

May 24, 2011

The Three Signs & the Three Remedies

For no apparent reason, this is what my friend spent time composing today, instead of doing real work:

* * * * *

[Uses own name in third person] identifies the three signs of job misery as anonymity, irrelevance and "immeasurement."

Anonymity: Employees feel anonymous when their manager has little interest in them as people with unique lives, aspirations and interests.

Irrelevance: This condition occurs when workers cannot see how their job makes a difference. "Every employee needs to know that the work they do impacts someone's life -- a customer, a coworker, even a supervisor -- in one way or another."

Immeasurement: This term describes the inability of employees to assess for themselves their contributions or success. As a result they often rely on the opinions of others -- usually the manager -- to measure their success.

Three Remedies for Job Misery
1. More money
2. Even more money
3. Really a lot of money

* * * * *

And then he emailed it to me, with no precursor or explanation. He cracks me up.

Posted at 08:00 PM | Comments (0)

May 11, 2011

Hello, My Name Is Wenchie

And I'm an enabler.

Lemme 'splain.

Around 11:00 yesterday, The Good Reverend Doctor Vy realized that her meeting with Lord God King and Highly Paid Consultant was going to run late, i.e. right into the lunch hour. So Vy waved me into their conference room, handed me her credit card and asked me to write down what they all wanted for lunch.

FLASHBACK! I broke out in a cold sweat, remembering my nine years as a waitress at various local establishments. I thought the days of serving my "betters" and trying to read my own hasty handwriting were over. But no. I also thought that waitress was as low as I would have to stoop that day. Again -- no.

You see, all three of them wanted roast beef sammiches from the deli downstairs. On wheat. And soup. And a Coke Zero, but if they don't have that, then a Diet Coke is fine. Lettuce, tomato, mustard and mayo on the sammiches, exept one without mustard.

And while the good folks at the deli will happily make you a turkey, ham, corned beef or tuna salad sammich, if you want a roast beef sammich, you have to make it yourself at the salad/sammich bar. I don't know who made that decision, nor do I know the reasoning behind it, nor would knowing the answers make my life suck any less.

People. I am forty-one years old. I got what my mother and others fondly refer to as "a real job" years ago, specifically to avoid ever having to work with food again. I don't wanna make it, and I don't wanna serve it. I don't wanna wear a name tag and/or a paper hat.

And I sure as hell didn't want to stoop to short order cook.

So there I was, in my cashmere Banana Republic cardigan and 2-3/4" heels, at the deli sandwich bar, making multiple roast beef sammiches. On wheat. With mayo. I hate mayo. I hate the smell; I hate the texture. It's slime, and I got it all over my hands because some sammich-makin'-newbie before me got mayo all over the handle of the mayo spatula.

DAMMIT! Of course, there were no napkins readily available, so I wiped my hands on my pants, and now I probably have may-oil stains on my work pants. DOUBLE DAMMIT DING-DONG DUMMY FUCK!

I took my stack of individually packaged, handmade roast beef sammiches, and I ordered three cups of soup, two broth-based, one cream-based. Let them fight it out over who gets which, I don't give a crap. Got the crackers. Got the spoons. What was I missing...?

Oh, yeah. The Coke Zero. Well, due to its recent pact with the Devil, the deli carries only Pepsi products. And here, my dear friends, is where I lost all respect for myself. Because instead of just getting a couple Diet Pepsis and expecting the grown-ups to suck it up and drink whatever carbonated, diet cola beverage I gave them, I remembered that they have Coke Zeros in the vending machines on the sixth floor of our building.

Now, before you lose whatever last microbe of respect-like feeling you may have for me, let's remember one thing -- my contract expires in less than three months. Technically, I am still auditioning, and I will take whatever ass-kissing opportunity I can get to wheedle my pathetic, little way into their hearts. If get the job, they will drink swill and like it. But until then, I am The Lunch Enabler.

I balanced the tower of soups on top of the stack of sammich boxes and made my way back, soups nestled between my ample breasts. And if you think I wasn't sweating before, let me assure you -- I sweated my balls off on that last leg of the sammich marathon. I, in fact, defied my DNA and grew balls, for the sole purpose of sweating them off. I'm the next evolutionary step, people! Behold, Ballsweatus Sapien!

*sigh* I don't wear a hard hat. I don't wear a ring of keys on my belt. I shouldn't be sweating at work.

Oh, and today, I had to go get two cobb salads. But at least I didn't have to make them myself. A promotion, indeed! Can my very own reserved parking space be far behind?

Posted at 07:18 PM | Comments (3)

May 03, 2011

Writer's Block Is a Persistant Bitch

So yeah, the unrelenting uncertainty of my job continues to wrest all joy from my life, making it hard for me to regale you with amusing anecdotes. Oh, dour Posh-Spice-at-the-royal-wedding face. Oh, wrestling with total non-problems that 50% of the population would gladly trade for their own. Don't I make you puke?

Okay, update on what's been going on, covering the essentials.

Food
I had my first Yorkshire pudding on Friday night. And it's not pudding at all. Stupid Brits. It's essentially a roast beef sandwich on a pancake. Tasty, but hardly worthy of its uppity name. Also had a crumpet, which is bread. In other news -- and at the same party -- I continue to enjoy brie, and anything I bake is always the first dessert to go, no matter what anyone else brought. So there.

Shelter
Had some guests the other day, one of whom Husband and I were meeting for the first time. It was an event for which I cleaned the entire house, cooked several courses and served wine. Dude is my age and showed up wearing gym shoes with no socks, jeans with rips and paint stains, and white t-shirt, and one of those knit ski caps, which he did not remove upon entering my house. Is it just me, or is that obnoxious? I understand that I am now officially An Old Biddy, but what the fuck? You don't make some effort when you are meeting someone for the first time and they are making you dinner?! Turns out, he's a fairly decent human being, but sheesh -- it literally pains me to say that after the indifference he showed to both himself and to me. Appearance matters, people! It shows that you give a shit! And in general, people like people who give a shit... about something, anything. God, just take off your hat. This isn't the old west.

Clothing
Obsession about what I will wear to Older Step Daughter's (OSD) wedding reached fever pitch over the weekend as I sobbed in Husband's arms about how I will never be glamorous and the only thing I can shoot for is to not look slovenly, and begged him to take a day off work to come dress shopping with me, which he readily agreed to in order to stop the crazy lady from getting snot on his shirt. Adding to my anxiety is the fact that Husband's ex is a size two, as is everyone on that side of the family. In fact, she still fits into her high school cheerleading uniform. I KNOW, RIGHT?! How have I not taken my own life, yet???

Work
Three months left in my current contract. And yet somehow, no end in sight... My job hasn't been posted, so no one has interviewed for it. I am coming to the horrific realization that my contract will probably be extended beyond July 31, and the even MORE apocolyptically-horrifying thought that I will probably agree to it. Shall we start a pool: What Will Be Wenchie's Last Day? I'll take September 15th for five dollars.

Family
Billi and I are having our annual Raise Money For Our Spring Trip To Door County Garage Sale on Thursday. And since it's also Cinco de Mayo, we are also putting up pinatas and serving complimentary margaritas to our shoppers. ... No, we are most certainly not. And you're probably wondering, as I am, Wenchie, how is it that you have enough crap in your house to make a hundred bucks at a garage sale every single year? I honestly don't know, and it's more than a little disturbing. Billi's children are constantly outgrowing their clothes, giving her a constant supply of wares to sell. Me? I just got tchotchkes. (Not to be confused with Chachi, whom I would never get rid of!)

Posted at 10:29 AM | Comments (0)

April 27, 2011

Happy Administrative Poor-fessionals Day!

Let's all celebrate our inner Joan Holloways and make someone in the office cry!

"Connie, you had better bring me some goddamn coffee, or I will sharpen my pencil in your cootchie."

You know what I love about Administrative Professionals' Day? Not a damn thing. I hate that I am old enough to remember when it was still called Secretaries' Day. I hate the bitter disappointment that inevitably comes with it. And I hate that no one is going to give me a Joan Holloway Barbie.

I mean, my God -- if any human being ever came close to Barbie's actual proportions, it's our Joanie!

At work, I continue to be underwhelmed by Vy's warmth and friendliness. She refuses to fawn over how awesome I am. I just wanna shake her by the shoulders and say, "Don't you know who I am?! Every executive in the building would give their eye teeth to have me!"

I guess I'm just not used to working for someone who plays absolutely everything so close to the vest. And my reaction is downright pathetic. I hang on every smile, every chuckle, every teensy inquiry as to how my weekend went. I'm considering asking PhD Boss to pass her a note during study hall.

Do you like Wenchie?
___Yes ___No ___Kinda

Gag me with a spoon. The final decision being that, yes, they are posting my job, and yes, I am going to have to interview for it.

Well... I guess I don't have to. I could just tell them to suck it. Walk outta there Jerry McGuire style.

WHO'S COMIN' WITH ME?!

I'll bet I could get at least one person.

But worse than no adoration at all would be the perfunctory #1 Administrative Assistant coffee mug, or flowers obviously purchased at Jewel on the way to work. Although a mug of coffee purchased on the way to work would be nice...

People, if you are lucky enough to have made the decisions in your life that led you to have a support staff person, be awesome to them today. Yes, I know. They get paid. It's their job. They should have finished college instead of dropping out to become a full-time waitress because they didn't want to have to keep seeing their stalker ex-boyfriend in the halls of the local community college.

But remember, we work their asses off, too, and we, most always, get zero respect. And we are awesome people who do a hundred things a day for you that you aren't even aware of, and then go home and do a hundred awesome things you're even less aware of.

Best gift you could give us? Hand us a twenty, tell us to buy ourselves lunch, and you'll see us tomorrow morning. Because that's what we really want. Time off, and not to have to eat lunch with you.

And fellow poor-fessionals -- buck up, little soldiers. You know I love you. And if you can't find it within yourself to channel some Joan today, remember that Jane Hathaway is also perfectly... adequate.

Posted at 06:08 AM | Comments (1)

April 01, 2011

Cute Headband

You guys, I have a new crush! Her name is Sasha.

(And now my Mom is thinking, "For Pete's sake, can't she ever have a crush on a boy?!)

(And Heather is thinking, "I will cut this bitch." Heather, my love, don't worry -- they are all but fleeting trifles. You know I ruv you.)

And here's where it gets kinda creepy: She works with Husband. She's the receptionist. I know, right?! You're all thinking, "Haven't I seen this porno...?" Okay, maybe Mom isn't thinking that.

I met her at Husband's Work Christmas Party, which I wasn't quite as upset about going to this time because I knew there would be people there older and less hip than I, so it wasn't nearly as intimidating as previous parties filled with glittering twenty-somethings who thought of me as their ancient boss' ancient wife.

Anyhoo, my go-to ice breaker with anyone, if my head is a blank and I can't think of one goddamn intellegent thing to say -- which is so, so often in these situations -- is to compliment a person on something they're wearing. Of course, it has to be sincere. The boss' ancient wife does not kiss subordinate ass. But if I like something, I say so, and it's usually good for enough conversation to make me seem adequately social.

First thing I noticed on Sasha was her super-cute headband. Big, grey flower with a rhinestone or something. Just the kind of thing I wish I were bold enough to try.

So I told her, "Cute headband!"

And she launched into something like, "Thanks! I had nearly given up at Macy's when I saw it. I thought it was so cute, I bought three. Christmas presents! I wore it tonight because my wrap doesn't really match my dress, so I'm trying to deflect attention from all that. Look! Cute headband!"

See? How could I not fall in love with that?! Accessory deflection is a way of life for me (said the girl who just finished painting her nails eggplant)! I was smitten. And she bakes! And she eats! And yeah, she's a glittering twenty-something, but she thinks I'm cool!

I know this because I had the following conversation with Husband a few days after the party:

PW: Sasha is so adorable. I totally have a crush on her.

H: Yeah, she likes you, too.

PW: What? How do you know?!

H: 'Cuz she said so.

PW: Oh my God! You didn't tell her that I have a crush on her, did you?!

H: No.

PW: What did you say exactly?

H: I don't know.

PW: Well, what did she say?

H: She thinks you're cool.

PW: WHAT?! WHAT ELSE?!

H: I don't know!

Men so suck at being women.

Sasha and her bi-racial friend Misha were the two people I talked to most during drink and appetizers. So I figured that I'd just sit with them during dinner, right?

Wrong. The Office Food Chain kicked in, and I had to sit with two of the other managers and their wives. I'm a manager's wife! Uck! I have to sit with all the older women and listen to them talk about their kids and the summer homes. Vomit!

Actually, the women I sat next to was pretty cool, and I really like her. I would probably not even mind hanging out with her and her husband, if it comes to that. She's a redhead, and he's quite salt-n-pepper-cute. Kinda bitchy-funny, once she got a couple of pinot grigios in her, and hardly mentioned her kids at all.

But still, I felt like a traitor to my kind. I'm not manager level. I'm staff support level! But I betrayed my peeps to go eat with the enemy. It felt very foreign to me. Executives are those people that you secretly resent and bitch about with your homies -- you don't dine with them.

But the tables divided themselves up by income levels, and I guess, since it was Husband's turf, we defaulted to his level. Makes me wonder -- who would we eat with at a Wenchie's Workplace party...? Enh, it'll never happen.

So, alas, we are star-crossed lovers. But we DO exchange the occasional email about baking. She made a Black-Swan-themed cake for an Oscars party! *swoon* Emo food!

Once every three years, the owner of the company Husband works at takes all the employees and their spouses on some big vacation or something. Crazy, right? I have GOT to get out of the non-profit industry! Anyhoo, if I can survive the plane ride, I'll get to spend a WHOLE WEEK with Sasha!

I told Husband not to expect to see me that week. He didn't even bat an eye. I think he's finally getting used to the idea that he married a thirteen year-old girl. Sleepover!

Posted at 02:17 PM | Comments (2)

March 28, 2011

Bacteria Is Just the Frosting on the Birthday Cake

What the hell is wrong with you people? And by "you people," I mean Americans. Your work ethic is retarded.

You are such self-important martyrs that you go work all sick and germy and contagious, and you're like, "No... I'm okay... I just really have to... answer these emails."

And then you stay all damn day -- despite everyone, including your boss, telling you to go the hell home -- coughing on everything and touching common area surfaces with your bacteria-laden hands.

Memo to sickies: No one is impressed. No one thinks you are awesomely taking one for the team, or dedicated to the mission statement, or whatever it is you're trying to prove. Everyone is just looking at you sideways, thinking, If I get sick this week, I am going to piss in his coffee.

So, yeah, thanks Asshole Who Came Into Work Sick On Friday. And special thanks to Asshole's Asshole Boss Who Made Asshole Come Into Work Because He Had Ordered A Cake For Asshole's Birthday. I'm not even kidding.

I'm sick now, courtesy of The Asshole Duo. Started yesterday with a sore throat and general ennui. Woke up this morning fully congested and sporting a pair of swollen neck glands. My head hurts. My back hurts. My teeth hurt.

Not even two months into my new job, and I'm already having to take a sick day. Great. That'll make a fantastic impression. Also? I had better not be sick for more than two days because that's the amount of sick days I have available. Nevermind that, on January 15, I ended my other position with eight sick days still on the table. Those went away when I moved to a different position with a new contract. Thank you, workplace, for finding yet another way to screw me over!

I'm dead tired but afraid to lay down because I know my sinuses will slam shut the second I get horizontal. And then I'll have to breathe through my mouth and wake up with an even sorer throat and a mouth as dry as Bea Arthur's elbow skin.

So I'm staying home. I will keep my infectious fluids to myself and single-handedly attempt to break the cycle of arrogant martyrdom.

Bitch, whine, moan.

Posted at 09:39 AM | Comments (3)

March 17, 2011

Understanding the Organizational Food Chain

I'm just trying to do my job here, people. I'm just trying to get a room scheduled for my boss and Jeebus the other big-wigs around here to have an important two-day meeting in July. But the forces of Satan are interferring. Get thee behind me, Douchebag!

It started simply enough.

"Rosie, would you please reserve the first floor conference room for July 21 and 22, for the building executives?"

"I would love to, Wenchie, but Maria has it reserved for pilates class at noon on the 22nd."

"Okay, I'll ask Maria and get back to you."

Now, Rosie is just doing her job. When one party wants to usurp another from a conference room, it is up to the two parties involved to work it out. And normally, I don't engage in that sort of thing, even though the group I work for has COMPLETE AND UTTER AUTHORITY when it comes to the usurping of other groups. I'd rather get along and make do with a different room.

However, this is a long, important meeting, and my boss asked for the first floor specifically (for a host of very good reasons that I won't bore you with here). And by God, I'm going to get it for her.

So I emailed Maria.

Good morning!

I was wondering if you'd be willing to move pilates to a different room on July 22? The building executives are having a two-day meeting, and the first floor is a good place to kind of be "off site" without actually spending any money. : )

Wenchie

Please note the pleasant greeting, smiley icon, and brief explanation. Could I be any more sweet and adorable? No.

This is Maria's reply:

I will have to see what else is available.

No greeting. No pleasantries. She didn't even bother to sign her name. And I believe there was an implied frowny emoticon.

Now, my gut reaction was to fire back with, "DO YOU KNOW WHO I WORK FOR?"

My boss is her boss' boss' boss. So when MY boss wants a meeting room -- and I can't stress this enough: for an actual non-pilates working work workplace -- Maria's response should be, "Of course! I will find another room for that day."

But instead, I get this passive-aggressive response and elevated blood pressure. Why is this bitch making my job more difficult? She's not going to win, so essentially, she's being a bitch for the sake of being a bitch.

I will have to see what else is available.

Implying what? That if she can't find another room, the upper eschelon of this organization will have to meet in the parking garage? That you're going to make me, and my boss, wait while you maybe get around to finding another room?

Oh no. That ain't happenin'.

Now, I don't like to do it, but I will invoke the name of Jeebus when provoked.

Okay. Vy is going to talk to the President this afternoon about the details of that meeting, so if you could get back to me by lunch time, that'd be great.

Wenchie

Oh, yes, I did. And I CCed Vy on it, too. I believe it's a tactic called "triangulation," when you CC others on your email to get the recipient to do what you want.

I emailed Bob. Waiting for a response.

Again with the shortness. Is that necessary? Is she just so super-busy-important that she can't be civil?

Now, Bob is the person who used to do the conference room scheduling, but Rosie took that over as part of her new job. Apparently, someone didn't get the memo. So I educated her:

Bob has handed over conference room scheduling to Rosie, as part of her responsibilities in her new job.

Why am I even having this conversation?! Jeebus Christ in a Chrysler! I know I shouldn't continue to engage this crazy bitch, but I HAVE TO WIN. At this point, it's the principle of the thing. She's not cooperating. She's making my job difficult. She's going down.

I worked with Bob on some room scheduling just yesterday and he said Rosie is his back up.....so I'll give him a bit to get back to me.

Do you hear condescension in that tone? Because I do, and I'm wondering if I'm the only one.

Bob isn't in today. Rosie is.

I can be short, too, bitch. Even though I'm a whopping six foot in these heels and can squash you like a maggot.

An hour went by, and still no reply. I told myself, "If she has to hear from me again, it's going to be at noon, as per my 'by lunch time' request, and it's going to be the final damn word on the subject."

People, I didn't have to be nice to her. I could have just told her, "The executives will be using the first floor conference room on July 22. You will need to find somewhere else to hold pilates that day."

But I didn't. I gave her the courtesy of a polite inquiry, and I expect my courtesy to be met with courtesy. Silly me.

At noon, I sent her this, CCed everyone involved, and went to lunch:

Maria,

The Department of the Big-wigs will be using the first floor room for a planning meeting on July 22.

I appreciate you rescheduling the pilates class and apologize for any inconvenience.

Wenchie

What can I say? She didn't get back to me by lunch time.

Had this waiting for me when I got back from lunch:

Wenchie,

I emailed Rosie as you suggested and didn't hear back - which is why you didn't hear back from me. Honestly, this was rude and heavy handed. Of course pilates would move for their meeting but you could give me a chance to find a new room before you officially kicked us out.

Maria

Oh, now she knows my name. Well, too late bitch. "Rude and heavy handed?" Pot, meet kettle.

Maria,

Frankly, I found your correspondence rude from the get-go.

"Of course, pilates would move," was never said nor implied, so I could not assume that was so.

I was being pressed for an answer and had to act. But before doing so, I checked the online schedule and saw that there are plenty of other rooms available for pilates for that day.

Wenchie

Also? What she doesn't understand that is that, according to the rules set down regarding pilates and room scheduling, I absolutely do NOT have to give her "a chance to find a new room" before scheduling my meeting. I just did it to be nice because that's how I approach everyone that I work with.

Lucky for me, Maria has shown me her true colors, so now I know that I don't ever again need to waste my time being polite to her. She gets informed from now on, not asked.

Some people just don't get it.

(Yes, I am printing off all the emails and keeping them in a file, just in case I get called into anyone's office.)

Posted at 01:45 PM | Comments (2)

February 24, 2011

My Second Full Week of Work: Part II

Thursday

Last Thursday was a big day for me. It was my first big in-house event that I planned for Vy.

Now, I've done a few meetings before -- the hunting down of the perfect conference room, the careful choosing of the menus, the nightmare of the speakerphones -- but I always had Alpha to help me. And, if I'm 100% honest, I always had her to blame if it didn't go exactly smoothly.

But this time, it was all me, baby. I had to design the room set-up, which had to accommodate:

a) a speaker
b) break-out groups
c) buffet lunch
d) a short DVD presentation
e) special, fancy dessert

I had to... nod authoritatively and say, "Looks good," when the meeting planner showed me the proposed menu. (Yeah, we have people at work whose sole purpose in life is to make our travel and meetings easier. It is HEAVEN. So much so that I gave one of them a Supergirl Barbie. Yeah, she's that good.)

I had to put linen tablecloths on tables.

I had to hunt down, within the building:

a) an extra tablecloth
b) seven flip charts
c) 20 flip chart markers (yes, they require special markers)
d) three easels

I had to decide on three different cakes from a gourmet bakery... okay, that part wasn't so hard.

Anyhoo, excruciatingly-long story slightly-less-long, I passed my meeting audition. It went off without a hitch, and I learned that Vy basically wants to give me a task and then not hear about it again until I'm done with it. Which is fine by me because it just gives me more opportunities to make decisions and prove that I am worthy of the Blue Fairy making me into a real employee!

Friday

My predecessor used to be a kindergarten teacher, which may explain her need to explain everything to me very, very slowly, and in story form, beginning with a detailed history of anything I may ask her about. Bless her little heart, she is giving me adult-onset A.D.H.D.

I, on the other hand, am quick. I make decisions quickly. I learn quickly. I work quickly (when properly motivated). I can look at a task and instantly see what it will take to complete it. Yeah, I'm bragging a little, but I'm not graceful and I'm not beautiful, so let me just have this one thing, will ya?

Twice on Friday, I made Vy do the hard blink of surprise (she's not very emotive, so I have to watch for smaller clues). Twice she gave me some small task two do. Twice she came back to tell me that it wasn't that important and not to spend too much time on it.

And twice I got to say, "I didn't; it's already on your desk."

And if that weren't enough to send me into fits of smugness, I also edited and formatted a huge, important, secret, 120-page document for her, and got it done by quittin' time. (I also added page breaks after the different sections, about which she commented, "Oh, good -- that was driving me crazy." Have I found a sister in O.C.D.?!)

At the end of it all, when the document had to sent to the various secret agents with clearance to read it, I heard Vy say to Lord God King of the Company, "We have this done because of Wenchie."

Awwwwwwwwwwwwwww, yyyeeeaaahhh.

Posted at 07:59 AM | Comments (5)

February 21, 2011

My Second Full Week of Work: Part I

Monday

Did you know that the words to "My Wild, Irish Rose" are kinda racey? Especially for the time it was written! Like everyone else in the world under the age of 70, I only knew the first four bars, usually heard in movies and t.v. shows in exaggerated, drunkenly singing. But here's the last quarter of the first verse:

And someday, for my sake,
She may let me take
The bloom from my wild, Irish rose!

He's totally hoping to deflower her, right? I like how he says, "For my sake." Good to let her know that she shouldn't expect much from the experience. Thanks for the warning, selfish lover!

Know how I know all this? Because last Monday was Valentine's Day, and in an effort to distract everyone at work from the fact that things have gotten even worse, HR Troll #1 came up with Love Songs in the Lobby. And guess who was singing them?

Yeah. Me. And another lady and two guys. A quartet of people singing in the lobby of an office building at eight in the morning. A capella. The things I do for that place! Hey, beats sitting in a cubicle, I guess. Especially when the cubicle I was sitting in was STILL a temporary cubicle.

At some point during our singing, my new boss, Vy, walked in. She didn't pause to listen or grab a piece of Valentine chocolate. Nor did she compliment me later on what was probably crappy singing anyway, so it's nice to see that she's not insincere, right? But she did give me permission to do it, so I guess that's something.

Tuesday

On the 15th, halfway into the first month of my new job, I was still not occupying the cubicle that went with the position. And despite it being the biggest cube I've ever had -- with it's own private printer -- my impatience wasn't just about the prestige. See, it's harder to do one's job when

a.) someone else is sitting conveniently right outside one's boss' office so that it doesn't occur to one's boss that one is the person one's boss should be asking to do things, and

b.) one isn't anywhere near the files and records and materials that one needs in order to do one's job.

Very annoying, indeed.

But Tuesday was the day that we were told we would be moved, and I was VERY excited. I think my predecessor was even looking forward to it,... UNTIL. She remembered that Vy had a WebEx meeting set for 2:00, and it just WOULDN'T BE HUMANLY POSSIBLE to switch our cubes AND host a WebEx meeting in the same eight-hour period.

Can I just say? My predecessor is a lovely human being. But she moves at the speed of tectonic plates and spends much of her day completely baffled and overwhelmed by her situation. It's no wonder she had a heart attack last year.

Immediately, she wanted to tell I.T. that we couldn't POSSIBLY move our computers and phones that day, but I was determined to talk her down off the ledge. It took thirty minutes of negotiations. I had to come up with THREE -- not one, not two, but THREE -- alternate plans, in case our computers weren't working at 2:00.

Plan D was to literally go to my house and use my home computer. That's how certain this woman was that everything was going to go horribly awry, and on no one day in the history of the world have two events ever happened that didn't result in utter catastrophe and the destruction of life as we know it.

Know how long it took for them to switch our cubes? Including her boxes and boxes of personal crap (and files from her old boss five years ago because she never throws anything out)? Go on, guess.

Three minutes. Including the time it took for us to make sure our computers and phones were working properly in their new homes.

Wednesday

Was awesome. Aware of my deep, pathological need to PURGE my new cubicle, Vy was out of the office for the day and encouraged me to use the day to do just that. Let's be honest -- she was probably tired of looking at the mess.

In cleaning out a small cabinet, two small drawers, and one big file drawer of surplus office supplies, I found:

* Return address labels bearing the name of a guy who retired five years ago.
* Rubber gloves.
* A non-working solar calculator.
* Herbal tea with a 2008 expiration date.
* Enough paperclips to circle the earth three times.

Plus, binders and files going back to 1987, the year I graduated high school. Video tapes. Not DVD's -- video tapes. Along with cassette tapes and floppy disks. My desk is a time capsule!

From my actual desk surface, I moved many binders to the bookcase, and many stacked files to the file drawer. Ya know, where they belong. I'm not done purging the files, but at least I have a clear workspace. Which is what a desk surface is for.

Oh, wait, I forgot about the most convenient of all storage places: the floor. There are 27 binders stacked on my floor, dated 2007 through 2009, which is apparently MY job to figure out what to do with them because my predecessor apparently didn't have any time. Frankly, that's like if I sold my house without cleaning out my basement or garage. Your shit is not MY responsiblity, lady!

Except that, yeah, it is. Because if I wait for HER to do it, it will still be here when I retire... or fly a plane into the building.

Posted at 10:26 AM | Comments (3)

February 03, 2011

Kinda, Sorta an Honor

Okay, weird, vague fairy tales aside, I figured I should give y'all the straight poop on my newest venture back into the cesspoll from wence I fled.

Last Tuesday, January 25, H.R. Troll #2 left a message for me. I didn't get it until late in the afternoon because I was living it up at the mall with Billi and the Kidlets, shopping for Husband's birthday.

Upon hearing the message -- which was simply "Call me back," -- I immediately called every person I know in the organization, asking them what they know about who might be hiring. The last thing I want is another measely temp job paying me way less than I'm worth, so if that was the case, I wanted to be able to steel myself to turn it down. These things take some talking oneself into sometimes.

I kept hitting informational dead ends,... until I called PhD Boss.

PW: Dude. What have you heard about anyone in the building hiring?

PhD: Um... Hang on for a minute, will ya?

PW: [hangs on for about a minute and a half, wondering where the hell he went]

PhD: Okay. Head Boss and I have known that this was in the works for about six weeks, but you didn't hear it from us.

What?! They had knowledge of all this for six weeks and didn't tell me?! What good is it having friends in high places if they aren't going to tell me what's coming down the pike?

But I didn't think it was prudent to chew-out someone who was about to help me at his own peril, so I just listened. Turns out, the person I would be working directly under is... The Vice President of the Entire Company. (I think I have called her Vy in past posts, so I will continue with that.) The Rev. Dr. Vy.

Holy crap. Not only is she Second in Command of an organization that essentially serves millions of people and an impeccable dresser, but she's is one of the TWO people in the organization who are allowed to choose their own support staff.

And she. Chose. ME.

I am as stunned as you are, ladies and gents. Not only does my awesome reputation reach incredibly far into the stratousphere, but they have FINALLY recognized that I deserve a position of PRESTIGE. A position worthy of my VAST SPHERE OF TALENTS AND SKILLS. And here, I thought they would remain blind to me forever. Seriously. Floored here.

PhD had no further details for me, but I didn't need them. If they were willing to elevate me from underpaid, underappreciated underdog, I was willing to listen. So I called HRT2 back.

She asked me, "Would you be willing to take another position?"

And I told her, "Well, I'd be willing to discuss another position. But I'm not going to accept until I know the details."

So she said she'd call me back with the details the next day. Really? You called me without knowing any details? After this being "in the works" for six weeks? What the hell? Why the pointless preliminary call?

By noon the next day, they still hadn't called, so I went to the grocery store. And of course, HRT2 called while I was in the pasta aisle.

She told me I'd be working for Vy on a six month contract and making 50% more than what they were previously paying me. Ho. Lee. Crap. I was way happy about the money -- still am! -- but I was less thrilled with the whole six-month-contract bullshit. So I asked what happens in six months.

Well, the organization is still going through a period of change, and the position may change, i.e. more responsibilities, or less responsibilities, or different responsibilities. And it's true. The laying off of so many people has really put the place into way more of a tailspin than they expected, so I buy that.

But really -- could they add anything to an administrative assistant position that I couldn't do? NO. So I asked for a guarantee, but HRT2 couldn't give that because, if the position changes, she is "obligated" to open it up to the people who've been laid off. So, yeah. I may have to go through an interview process for a job that I already have.

It makes no sense, and it smells like flaming dog doo to me, so I asked if I could call her back in a couple hours with my answer. Then it was her turn to be floored.

"I'm... shocked to hear you say that. And I have to tell you -- you were the only person that we considered for this position."

And if that wasn't painful enough for her to have to tell me, she went on and on singing my praises, buttering me up. Boy, Vy must've made it very clear to her that I was the one she wanted. Must've almost killed HRT2 to have to convince me -- let alone admit to herself -- how valuable I am to the organization.

I wandered around the frozen food aisle, confused and torn and upset and way too emotional to make an objective decision. I couldn't even decide what pizza to bring home!

But when I got home, I realized I'd have to be stupid to turn down money that good. And I have six months to convince Vy that, should it come down to interviews, they will be merely a formality because she can't live without me.

And if the worst happens -- if I have to go through interviews and MY job is given to someone else for personal and/or political reasons. Well, at least the most recent position on my resumé will be a damn impressive one, and my most recent salary will be the same. It'll give me a better jumping-off point, if nothing else.

In the meantime, I was able to buy some nice clothes, and I got TWO snow days in my first week of work. Yeah, it's all pretty much downhill from here.

Posted at 04:57 PM | Comments (0)

January 27, 2011

Happily Never After

Hey, you know how the sequel is never as good as the original movie or book or fairy tale or whatever? Well, this is no different. The plot is contrived, the characters are rehashed, and the acting is hollow. However, it may win an award for make-up and costuming because the star looks FABULOUS!

When we last left Princess Wenchie, she had thrown off the accursed shackles of enslavement and sashayed into the sunset in search of her own destiny. But destiny is a son-of-a-bitch, and the PhDragon isn't the only weird-ass thing in the forest.

The first town Wenchie happened upon was a lovely place called Sabbatical. It had plenty of book stores and chocolate stores and free wi-fi, so she took a room at a charming little inn. At some point, she planned to get a job at the local bakery or milliner. But for the foreseeable future, she was quite content singing to wishing wells, entertaining suitors for her hand, and feeding breadcrumbs the mermaids down by the pond.

One day, Wenchie was out for a stroll and came upon a creek in the forest. There was a stone bridge for crossing, but when she stepped foot on it, there came a terrible -- and strangely familiar -- voice from underneath.

"Good afternoon, pretty princess. How odd that we should run into one another so far from the castle."

It was HR Troll #2! Wenchie nearly crapped her bloomers!

"What do you want? Why have you followed me?"

"I missed you, dear one. We've ALL missed you. Why, the Queen herself sent me to find you and bring you back to the castle... for a six month contract."

"You're kidding."

"No! She asked for you special!"

"What happens after the six months?"

"Who can say? Perhaps she will keep you on forever. Perhaps she will cast you aside in favor of another. I'm a troll, not a wizard!"

"No. I won't be a slave anymore! Leave me!"

"Who said anything about slavery? The Queen would pay you, my dear. And pay you well!"

"How well?"

"A treaure chest of gold and silver!"

"How big of a ch-- oh, why am I even listening to you?! Be gone, foul temptress!"

"Fine. But this offer is only good until midnight tomorrow. After that... um..."

"I turn into a pumpkin?"

"Sure, let's go with that."

And Wenchie fled back to her cozy room at the inn. There, she flung herself on her bed, weeping woefully, her dainty teardrops glistening prettily on her long, sooty lashes.

"Oh, pity me, cold universe! Cast your soulless, uncaring eyes down upon this clueless princess! What the fuck am I to do?"

*ribbit*

Wenchie looked up to find a tiny toad sitting on the windowsill by her bed. It seemed to look right at her.

*ribbit*

"Tell me, little toad, are you, by chance, an enchanted amphibian, come to save me from my conundrum, in exchange for turning you back into a handsome prince?"

"Well, yes and no," replied the toad. "I am enchanted, but I'm not a prince."

"Huh. Well, whatever. What is your sage advice, o wisened froggie?"

"A chest of silver and gold is nothing to sneeze at. They must really want you, or they would have just pulled some scullery maid from the kitchen to do the job. That counts for something, even if it isn't the guarantee of ever after that is your heart's desire."

"Go on."

"The bottom line is this. Even if they do screw you over and banish you from the land in six months, at least, when you are job hunting, the most recent thing on your resumé will be a very pretigious position, and you can begin negotiations by telling prospective employees that your previous boss gave you a chest of shiny, precious coins."

"That does make sense. Could it be that they've finally realized my worth, and are truthful about not knowing what the future looks like?"

"I don't know. I'm an enchanted toad, not a wizard. Now pucker up; we have a deal."

Wenchie pursed her glossy lips and leaned forward, wondering what her future husband would be. Blacksmith? Woodsman? Mason? She kissed the tiny toad, and *POOF* From a cloud of smoke and glitter emerged... a young, pretty Korean lady.

"Hi! I'm Padawan."

"Wow. Not what I expected," Wenchie admitted.

"Yeah, well, if this fairy tale has a moral, it's that the world never fails to surprise."

"I hates morals."

"I know. How do you feel about lattés?"

So the two checked out of the inn and shopped every store and market on the road to the castle. After all, a prestigious, new position warrants a fabulous, new wardrobe.

God save the Queen.

Posted at 06:59 AM | Comments (2)

January 06, 2011

Happy Ending

Once upon a time, there was a girl named Wenchie. Like Belle, she loved to read and sing. Like Sleeping Beauty, she loved to nap. Like Rapunzel, she had long, lush hair. Like Tinkerbell, she was jealous and vindictive. In short, she was the very best of all princesses, wrapped into one package... and sprinkled with the fairy dust of Snow White's Evil Stepmother the Queen.

Now, because this is the Cliff Notes version of this fairy tale, I will not recount the many and various trials that Princess Wenchie went through in her search for bliss. Suffice to say that there were two trolls, a dragon named PhD, and a champion. And if you're new and need more back story than that, click here for a great way to waste an entire day of your life that you'll never get back.

When we last left our heroine, she was down to single digits in her Countdown to Freedom, i.e. the day the magic spell would be lifted and Wenchie freed from indentured servitude. As of her return from her extended holiday vacation, she had but nine risings and settings of the sun remaining.

As you may recall, Wenchie had tried many, many times to escape the clutches of the enchanted cubicle that held her prisonor, to no avail. The invisible bonds of the spell were much too strong, and every time she thought she had found the right magic to defeat them, she was only clutched tighter to the bosom of the beast.

Tuesday began like any other day. Wenchie rose to do her chores before sunrise, and then the little forest creatures dressed her, brushed her long, lush hair, and the birdies applied her make-up with their soft, tiny wings. (Except for the finches because they're always too heavy with the eyeliner.)

Upon arriving in the dungeon, an HR Troll slithered into Champion's quarters, upon his request, for a closed-door chat. Upon emerging from said meeting, Champion approached Wenchie's cube -- cape fluttering and eyes twinkling.

"Can you work two more weeks, through the end of January?" he asked quietly.

Her senses dulled by the spell he wove, Wenchie nodded and agreed, thereby sealing her fate, dooming her to yet another extension of her sentence. The prize she so desparately sought -- the prize of freedom -- was again moved out of her reach. Her eyes glazed over as she tried to pretend to be happy to be earning one more paycheck, but deep in her heart, she was miserable.

A dark cloud hung over Wenchie. She couldn't sleep. She turned down chocolate. Slowly, a plan began to form in her charm-addled brain. What if she was just like that blind idiot Dorothy? What if she, all along, had held the power to leave...? How fucking annoying! I hate it when fairy tales (or The Simpsons) have an obvious moral!

Summoning all her strength, Wenchie crept into the dragon's lair and cried, "I'm not staying another two weeks! My future does not lie within these walls! I am leaving to find my destiny!"

To her shock, the dragon did not breath fire at her or rip her to shreds with his talons. He merely nodded his grotesque, scaly head and looked at her with resignation, and even a little begrudging respect. He removed the enchanted shackles from her ankles and let her go.

Next, Wenchie went to the throne room and told her Champion, "Look, thanks for your repeated efforts to save me, but I don't need to be rescued anymore. I'm going to rescue myself. Starting at 4:00 p.m. on Friday the 14th. Farewell, and thanks for all the porridge."

And she lived...

~ HaPPiLY ~

~ eVeR ~

~ aFTeR! ~

Posted at 08:54 AM | Comments (2)

December 14, 2010

The Later the Date, the Goner I Get

Sixteen more days in this job, and PhD Boss is getting weird.

Now, this is a man who, as you know, has blown-off every opportunity he's had to show his appreciation for my AWESOMENESS through cold hard cash. TWO birthdays, TWO administrative professionals day, my one-year anniversary, Christmas, EVERYTHING.

And on the extremely rare occassion that he does take me to lunch (like, twice ever), he puts it on his company credit card. And I know because I do his expense reports. Bitching about how badly our jobs suck does NOT a business lunch make!

But in the past two weeks, he has spent money on me -- not once, not twice, not thrice -- but... frouce? Fronce? Frice? Okay, four times.

Event the First: We went to lunch to gossip, he paid in cash and threw away the receipt! Holy crap! Who are you, and where did you bury PhD Boss' body?

Event the Second: I created a really awesome PowerPoint for him to use when he teaches some class. A lot of the people at work do speaking engagements for money, so it's not considered moonlighting exactly. It was fun for me, and it was no skin off my butt, so I didn't mind helping him. And he wrote me a fifty dollar check! I didn't ask -- we didn't discuss. Just fifty smackers, outta the blue! (I have been searching for the pod but haven't found it, yet.)

Event the Third: He brought me a Starbucks Peppermint Mocha because he knows I like them. Now granted, it was a small, but he just DID IT. I am starting to worry that he has a crush on me. Or is trying to butter me up to work for free. Neither will come to fruition.

Event the Fourth: He brought me a bag of various chocolates. For no reason. Now, granted, they may well have been leftover from Halloween. But they were unopened, and the point is that he thought of me. He went -- Hmmm. Chocolate. Wenchie likes chocolate. I shall bring her this chocolate. It's an act of God, I tell ya!

He is really panicking about what's going to happen -- or more accurately, NOT happen -- when I'm gone. Perhaps the sudden generosity is some weird symptom of that?

Anyhoo, my symptom is that, the closer I get to leaving, the less I'm watching what I say. And if you know me, you know just how dangerous that is. For example, last week, I donated some wrapping paper to the children's charity that PhD's girlfriend, Jen, works for. They are wrapping gifts for the various needy kids that they work with. I asked what they needed; Jen said wrapping paper; so I bought some.

Later that day...

PhD: Did you see Jen today?

PW: No. Why? Does she look hott?

PhD: [looks away from me and tries to process what I've said but can't] She had nice things to say about you at lunch.

PW: Why? Do I look hott?

PhD: ... ... I... I have no idea how to respond to that.

PW: YES! I am getting so good at this!

And then I laughed for ten minutes while he ignored my hysteria and just kept reading me his presentation.

I'm almost sad that I will be leaving before finally driving him to permanant insanity.

Posted at 08:02 PM | Comments (0)

December 06, 2010

Another Piece of the Puzzle

I can't believe I forgot to tell you this! Twenty-one and a half more days to go at this stupid-ass job, and the drama just never relents. Now, it could be a small thing, this latest development, but knowing this place, it's probably not a coincidence.

A friend of mine told me that she saw someone veeeeeeeeeeeeery high up in the organization having lunch with Sylvia, a victim of the recent lay-offs, who had worked here for quite a few years. (By the way, Sylvia wasn't one of the shockers on the list of lay-offs because girl is just plain lazy.)

I found this lunch-pairing interesting because, although High-Up and Sylvia were always friendly, they certainly didn't lunch together while Sylvia worked here. It's always possible that they were "just catching up," but knowing what I know, and having the basic cognizant skill of pattern-recognition, I think it may be more than that.

Here's my theory:

Sylvia is being held in reserve for the job that is supposed to be mine. The powers that be are going to rewrite it to suit her abilities (or lack thereof) and then just hand it over to her.

Here's my reasoning:

1. On October 11, when I asked HR Troll #1 about the job, I may have caught her off guard, causing her to accidentally spill their plan when she told me that the job "may be rewritten" and then maybe there's "someone perfect for it" who may just be "transitioned" into the position.

2. Sylvia has not been back to HR to take advantage of any of the resume-writing or job-searching resources available to those who got laid off. Could be because she doesn't feel she needs it. Or, it could be because she knows there's already a job -- MY job -- waiting for her.

3. Sylvia is beloved because she really is a genuinely kind and gracious person. Not a go-getter, but a super-nice lady.

4. She's a single mom. And not only that, her ex is a singer in a band, so you know he's not forking up the child support.

5. She is a person of color.

6. She had The Big C last year. No, not cholera. Cancer. It's a little ridiculous, really. It's like some amateur is writing a novel and making extra-extra-sure that the reader sympathizes with Sylvia.

7. I have still not heard back from WM. I emailed him before Thanksgiving about getting together to chat, and I haven't heard back. Frankly, I think he's avoiding me. Out of embarassment.

Now I could be just showing my paranoia, but I believe I have reason to be concerned. And if you've been reading my whinings and snarkings for any period of time, then you've put the puzzle pieces together, too.

Posted at 06:11 AM | Comments (0)

November 22, 2010

I Got Me a Champion

Why did I make a doctor's appointment for every single work day this week? Did I not know that Thanksgiving is coming? How could I not be aware that I would need to do some grocery shopping at some point? Am I new to this country? I have to make a four-layer pumpkin cake to bring to Billi's!

Anyhoo, as I type this, I have twenty-eight and a half more days left in this shithole organization, in this soul-sucking job. (The half is because we get a half day off on December 10th as a thank you for... I don't know. Not shooting up the place? Time off for good behavior, I guess.)

In case you're new, I've been looking forward to ending my time here, as demonstrated by my counting down of the days. Yeah, I don't look forward to trying to find a new job or Husband nagging me to find a new job. But I look forward to no longer being in an atmousphere that is so bad for my complexion and digestion.

One of the people who was laid off on October 11th (a.k.a. The Columbus Day Massacre) came back to visit some friends today. The first comment Alpha made to her was, "Wow, you look great!"

Apparently, she has lost SIXTEEN POUNDS since escaping from Azkaban! SIXTEEN! I feel that's a very clear picture of what this place does to a person, don't you? I just couldn't be more jealous. And believe me, she's not the first person who has come back for a visit looking ten years younger. It's a universal phenomenon.

In fact, HR Troll #1 was walking by and chimed in, "How come everyone seems to lose weight after they leave here?" Um, because they're not compelled to fill the empty void that once was their self-esteem by eating their weight in Snickers bars? Just a hunch I'm throwing out there.

And speaking of the Ninth Circle of Hell, there is yet more news about my job. Son of Job News. Revenge of Job News. Job News and the Deathly Hallows Part IV. Abbott & Costello Meet Job News. And so forth.

It is one hundred percent fo-shizzle certain that my contract will not be renewed after January 15, and indeed, there is no chance that I will be continuing in my present position. And there was much rejoicing. Well, by ME. Not by the three people whom I support.

BUT. Head Boss seems to have taken a personal interest in getting me employed elsewhere in the building -- specifically in the job that I interviewed for months ago and got and then lost when I couldn't get a straight answer from HRT#1 because she was trying to spin the fact that they're just going to "transition" one of her little friends into my job.

Now, I don't know why he's interested in doing this. Maybe he really likes me and is actually interested in supporting me and my career? Maybe he really wants to stick it to HR and their bullshit "inclusive" hiring/promoting practices? I like to think that it's a little of both.

Anyhoo, he has told me that I need to speak to WM forthwith and make no delay. The dust has settled, the 2011 budget numbers are in -- so is that position officially taken off the books? If not, when is my start date? Head Boss and PhD Boss both told me to be 100% honest with WM about what I think is going on, and what I want to do about it.

Get this -- Head Boss even told me, several times, that he'd be more than happy to accompany me and/or WM into HRT#1's office and argue my case. The job is MINE, so if it still exists, what's the hold-up? Oh, sweet Jeebus, let me be a part of that conversation. Even if I don't get the job, just being given the opportunity to defend myself against the bullshit racism and zip-code-bigotry will be a balm to my soul.

I am quite unaccustomed to having a man champion my position. Mostly because they wouldn't dare. But hey, I'll be the first to admit that there are many instances in this world where I weild little or no power, and it would be FANTASTIC to have a well-respected man stand up and say, "This isn't right. She deserves better than this. This is an unjustice that I would see righted."

My heart flutters at the thought! But on the other hand, there is a feeling in my gut, like a ferret gnawing on my spleen, that tells me not to open myself up to this process again. Why set myself up for more rejection? Haven't they proven to me over and over and over that I have no future there?

And c'mon. Even if the HR Trolls acquiese, they're never going to pay me what I deserve. They will low-ball me in the hopes that I'll turn it down. And I will.

Coming soon to a theatre near you! The final Oscar-contender of 2010! Wenchie's oh-so-convincing performance of a woman who actually gives a shit about her job! "You don't like me! You really, really don't like me!"

Posted at 08:09 PM | Comments (4)

November 12, 2010

Clueless

You've heard the old axiom -- "While the cat's away, the mice shall play." Well, while PhD Boss was oh-so-conveniently traveling on my birthday, my REAL work-friends showered me with an embarassment of riches. (Which gives way to a mental picture of me naked, and gold coins raining down upon me. My arms are up in the air; I'm smiling and laughing and doing the Snoopy dance. Luckily for the retenas of the world, that's not what happened.)

I walked into the office at 7:30 a.m. on Friday to find a hot pink "Barbie Girl" tiara and a bowl of chocolate candy waiting for me. (As fashion fate would have it, I was wearing dark colors, allowing the tiara to be the focal point of my ensemble.) Now, that's pretty friggin' awesome in its own right. Tiara + Chocolate = Both of Wenchie's primary needs met -- Primary Need #1 being My Need To Be the Center of Attention. Pretty hard to ignore the crazy lady wearing a tiara in the copy room!

But I was to find, as the day went on, that there were even more amazing things awaiting me!

I knew that we were going to be ordering pizza -- me, Alpha, Head Boss, B.A. (the woman in the cube on the side that Alpha's not in, who is technically in another department, but hates her department, so she hangs out with us), and Scott, from the department near us that got downsized to TWO PEOPLE. (Scott is musical and gay and irreverent, so I couldn't be more pleased that he's basically forced to socialize with us or become a hermit.)

(There is way too much going on parenthetically in this post. I apologize.)

Pizza was to arrive at noon, and at about 11:30, I was getting antsy and wanted to walk around. So I got plates, napkins, etc. and put them in our little private library because that's where I assumed we'd be eating lunch. As I was walking back to my desk, Alpha accosted me.

"Where were you???"

"I just put plates and stuff in the library."

"We're not eating in there!"

"Oh, well, I--"

"You're not allowed to do anything! Now go back to your desk and sit down!"

Okaaaaaaaaaay. Weird. But kind of adorable, too, not wanting the birthday girl to lift a finger. I could go for being doted upon.

Suddenly, it was noon, and I was being escorted to the conference room right across from our cubicles. A conference room that was swathed in pink and lavendar and more pink and Barbie's vapid smile! There was Barbie tablecloth, Barbie plates, Barbie napkins, Barbie cups, Barbie centerpiece! It was as if Mattel had vomited on our lunch table!

I couldn't believe it! When the hell did they decorate the conference room, and how I did not notice?! Damn, I really am in my own, little world. And no wonder Alpha didn't want me walking around or setting up in the library!

So we closed the door and ate. We are blessed to have one of Chicago's finest pizza places in our building complex. In fact, it's my favorite deep dish in all of Chicago. Lunch of champions!

Now, I have a thing about lunch. Unless you are a firefighter or brain surgeon, you should never, ever, ever work through lunch. Get your ass up, get away from your computer, grab a friend, leave the building, and eat something yummy. You're not doing yourself any favors by trying to impress people with your Hardcore, Lunch-Skipping Dedication To Your Employer. You're just making it look like you can't handle your shit, so go check out the flavor of the day at Culver's, for God's sake.

I always take my full hour (and then some) for lunch. But half an hour after we started eating, we were done. Only half of my lunch hour was used up! I prayed that they wouldn't all go back to their desks, where the rest of them normally eat lunch. (Freaks!)

Luckily, Alpha started asking stupid questions, like, "What was your favorite party game as a child?" and "Did you ever play any make-out games in high school?"

So I answered them and explained to Head Boss the forced, flop-sweat-inducing awkwardness of Seven Minutes In Heaven. He's a reverend, in case you forgot, and found it fascinating. Pure. Awesome.

Then Scott, who travels all over the world playing liturgical music for various and sundry services, started telling stories about bishops and pastors and cardinals and nuns and deacons. My favorite one was about the right-wing Christian who was horrified to find out that there might be gay people at the church music convention she was attending.

Scott was like, "Are you kidding?! We're a bunch of church organists! Hellooooooooo! You might as well be at a hairdressers' convention!"

I love him. Anyway, halfway through lunch, I had taken off my tiara because it is, of course, made for a child's head and, therefore, was pretty tight on mine. At 1:00 exactly, as if on cue, everyone stood up and made to go back to their desks.

Head Boss said to me, "You should put your tiara back on."

And I was like, "I will later. I'm giving my skull a rest."

But he used his Father Knows Best voice and said, "I'm asking you to put on your tiara."

What the--? Okay. I knew something was up. I looked at the closed conference room door, which they were waiting for me to open, and was filled with terror. Clearly, there was someone on the other side of it, and I was going to have to find out... in my tiara.

I opened the door and was completely blown away by the sight that greeted me. There was more Barbie decorations, half a dozen of my bestest work friends, and a friggin' BARBIE CAKE!!!

A BARBIE CAKE!!!

For ME! I couldn't believe it! Sure, I've made one for The Girl Child, but I never thought someone would get me one of my own!

I must admit -- this sea-faring, embittered, world-weary pirate teared-up a little looking at the wonderful, thoughtful ladies who bought me a Barbie cake. Or maybe it was just a little sea water in my eye. Either way, I hope no one noticed.

So, apparently, the reason why Alpha was asking ridiculous questions after lunch, and everyone else made sure that we stayed in that room for the full one hour, was because the rest of my friends were just outside the room, silently setting up for dessert. I tell ya, dem bitches are sneaky!

I also found out that B.A.'s husband had, sometime that morning, picked up the cake from the bakery and delivered it here. I never saw B.A. and Alpha go get it from him, and I had no idea that it was sitting in a cube ten feet away! I am so flippin' clueless!

First the secretly decorated lunch room, then the surprise Barbie cake dessert gathering -- thank God they've chosen to use their powers for good and not evil. I'm sure, if we all put our heads together, we could take over this organization. But it wouldn't be nearly as rewarding as red velvet cake.

Posted at 09:47 AM | Comments (1)

October 26, 2010

Lunch Menu

Where I work, the first Monday of every November is All-Staff Day. This usually means some sort of off-site, team-building, food-eating, fun-having, skills-sharpening, game-playing, leaving-early day. Lame, yeah, but it sure beats workin' for a livin'.

Now, since I am Lowly, Indentured, Irrelevent, Invisible Temp-Turned-Contract-Employee, I have never actually attended an All-Staff Day. Depending on who I was temping for at the time, I was either allowed to be at work answering phones and blogging on company time while everyone else was all-staffing, or I was given the day off. Fine. Whatever.

But this year, since Head Boss and PhD Boss are so hellbent on getting me brought on permanantly (which is never going to happen), I'm expected to attend. Ohhhhh, and it gets better.

Since we have absolutely no budget to be nice to the employees, our formerly-tolerable All-Staff Day has been reduced to prayer, communion, and "a simple lunch," after which... we get to return to work until our regular quitting time! No traditional early dismissal! To the shock of no one, the year that Wenchie is actually invited to a company outing, it's turned into a suck-fest of lame-tastic proportions.

Now. One of the guys on the all-staff planning committee is a guy who regularly hangs out with my tiny department. And even more lately, since the rest of his department was laid-off, and he is now king of a whole row of empty cubicles. Sucks to be him. He's a great guy, and he let us in on some of what went down in the planning committee meeting.

As you know, we are a religious organization. However, not all of the employees are of the denomination that we represent. In fact, probably half are are not. So, for the big, all-staff eucharist, the Big Cheese was adamant that the service be interfaith-friendly, embracing not only our fellow Christians, but our token Jew and our token Muslim as well.

Great, wonderful. Very kind of them to be sensitive to that. In fact, I'm kind of looking forward to seeing what they've come up with. Empty Cubicle King Guy described it as "funky," which means it's sure to upset a few people, and that's always a good time in my book.

But the funny part is this.

After our Jew-and-Muslim-friendly, interfaith service, we are having pulled pork sammiches for lunch.

Pulled. Pork.

I almost peed myself. Yeah, it's quite an impressive think tank we have going on over here, folks. I'm so proud.

And when Padawan asked what Empty Cube King Guy reported as the vegetarian alternative to our pork lunch, I had to tell her -- nada. Zilch. Zip. Zero.

I guess Padawan will be making new friends on Monday when she takes a Jew and a Muslim out to lunch.

Posted at 08:59 PM | Comments (4)

October 21, 2010

Just Keep Going

If PhD Boss needs to get to the airport during normal working hours, I drive him. We work only ten minutes from O'Hare, and being behind the wheel sure beats being behind a desk. (At least until January. Then he's on his own.)

Yesterday was a lovely day in Chicagoland. Seventy degrees, mostly sunny, the surrounding forest preserves in full fall color. Delightful! So I was glad for the opportunity to cart PhD's sorry (nearly non-existant) ass to the airport. (But I still made it seem like I was doing him a huge favor. Don't worry -- I haven't gone soft on him.)

The pressures of the recent lay-offs and their subsequent fall-out have not abated, leading PhD to wax poetic and wistful during the car ride.

PhD: We shouldn't go to the airport. We should just... keep going.

PW: West? We should keep going west?

PhD: Yyyeeeaahhh...

PW: I don't want to go west. I'd rather go north.

PhD: Fine. North then.

PW: I could be on 294 North in five minutes.

PhD: Perfect! We could just drive up to northern Wisconsin.

PW: [Wait a minute...]

PhD: Or Minnesota!

PW: [Um... is he suggesting that we run away together?]

PhD: We'll stop for lunch along the way...

PW: [Holy crap. I don't know what's more disturbing...]

PhD: Do a little antiquing...

PW: [The fact that he appears to be fantasizing about me...]

PhD: Then we could just park the car by a lake somewhere...

PW: [Or the fact that he's doing it RIGHT NEXT TO ME.]

PhD: Have some apple crisp and a bottle of wine...

PW: [Or C, the fact that we apparently have so much in common!]

PhD: Sleep out under the stars...

PW: [Does he even remember that I'm here?]

PhD: Drive back tomorrow...

PW: United or American?

PhD: What?

PW: Are you flying United or American?

PhD: I don't know! You made the reservations!

PW: [And balance is restored to the universerve, God be praised.] We're here. Get out of my car.

My feelings about this can only be expressed in the over-punctuation usually reserved for thirteen year old girls.

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

... ... ... ...

???????????????

Yup. That sums it up.

Posted at 06:38 AM | Comments (3)

October 18, 2010

Thoughts Pulled from My Brain's Closet

The problem with garbage disposals is that everyone assumes that everyone has one, so if you don't have one, and an unsuspecting but well-meaning guest rinses your dishes in the sink, then YOU have to slop all the soggy food out of the drain. Because you can never yell at a well-meaning guest! Hostess taboo!

---

How weird is it that my friend and I were at dinner with a big group of people, and from across the table, she met my eyes and licked her hand, and I knew that that mean Pass the salt? We weren't even drinking!

---

I love ketchup, and I see hamburgers, hotdogs and fries as mere vehicles for getting the ketchup to my mouth in a socially-acceptable fashion. (Yes, I put ketchup on hotdogs. Shut up. I don't care.) But as much as I love it, as soon as I return to work from lunch, I have to scrub the smell of ketchup off my hands because it just makes me puke.

---

So, PhD Boss wasn't going to come in on Friday. He had three conference calls and some papers to write, so he was going to do it all at home, which is always music to my ears, especially on a Friday.

But then on Thursday, right before I left for the day, he called over to me, "Yeah, so, I think I'm gonna come in tomorrow."

"Why?"

"What, you don't want me to?"

"I already talked to Alpha. Tomorrow was going to be No Pants Day."

"... I can't... What... I don't know what to say to that."

"I know. That's my favorite part."

---

I think I'm almost trying to get fired now.

Posted at 07:10 AM | Comments (4)

October 14, 2010

Here's How It Went Down

When PhD Boss, Alpha and I got into the office at 7:30 Monday morning, there was an email waiting for us, from H.R. Troll #1. She said that she'd be the one telling us our fates, and she'd meet with us right after the all-staff meeting. Not great news, but at least it wasn't H.R. Troll #2, who is literally number two in my book. IF you know what I mean.

I checked email and fiddled on Facebook until 8:45, when Alpha and I went up to the conference room early to get good seats. And because we were anxious and didn't want to be at our desks. It was actually nice to kinda greet people as they arrived in the big room, sharing half-smiles if not words.

The big announcement was only twenty minutes long, and only The Big Cheese spoke. There were little details, but also few platitudes, so I'd call it a wash. The biggest thing I took away from the meeting is that we are now six departments instead of nineteen, and they're all headed by The Good Ol' Boys Club. Vomit.

By the time Alpha and I got back to our department, Head Boss' office door was closed, telling us that HRT2 and PhD were already in there. By the look on his face when he emerged, I was sure he got canned, but he wasn't allowed to tell me until HRT2 sat down with all three of us together. Seems petty, but whatever.

Then Alpha was through, and it was my turn. HRT2, in truth, looked ridden hard and put away wet, and it was only 9:30 in the morning. She'd already been crying, it was obvious, and she still had the rest of the day -- and the rest of the sackings -- to get through. So I gave her a hug. Weird, huh? I don't know what came over me. Sheer pity, I guess.

She told me what I already knew, that my contract would expire on October 31 and wouldn't be renewed. I think I smiled. Then she assured me that there would probably be plenty of temping opportunities for me in the coming months, as the restructing continues to play out. In my head, I said, Thank God for caller I.D. I've been your bitch long enough! Clean up your own mess.

Then I asked about the other job that I'd applied for and been accepted for but not yet allowed to actually do because of the limbo that everything has been in while we waited for the redesign to come to fruition. (Ouch -- regretably long sentence!)

Well, she could barely formulate a coherent thought because, of course, she couldn't tell me what the real answer was. If I deciphered her stammering correctly, she said that the job is, once again, going to be retooled with different responsibilities, so they'll have to get that done and then see where that leads. She is the Queen of Vague when she's up to something.

I asked if I could apply for it, since they often post jobs that only in-house people could apply for, and I would only be in-house through the end of this month. Her answer was that I could, IF it was actually posted because it may be that there's someone in the building who just perfectly fits the job description, so they would just "transition" that person into the position.

Which is clearly what they've been planning all along. They had no damn intention of ever letting me get that job. Here's what she's going to do: One, handpick one of her little non-white BFFs for the job. Two, rewrite the job description to match her friend's abilities. Three, simply move her friend into the job, giving WM no say in the whole thing.

I said okay and thanked her for her time, all the while imagining wild dogs eviscerating her.

Then PhD and Alpha were called in, and we all found out about the others. PhD and Alpha are staying on! I was floored! And so happy for them! But they were stricken with the thought of me leaving. And honestly, I felt really bad for Eileen.

HRT2 told us which humungo department they'd be part of now, and which Good Ol' Boy they'd all be reporting to, including Head Boss. Yes, demotions for all. And as bad as I feel that Alpha will be taking yet another pay cut, I'm a petty person and kind of smugly glad that the executives will know the bitter taste of devaluation as well.

Finally, HRT2 took her shabby self out of the room and shut the door behind her. And the first thing I said to my colleagues?

"I KNEW they'd find a way to fuck me out of that other job!"

I briefly explained that HRT2 had told me, and then we dialed Head Boss on speakerphone, as we'd promised him we'd do. He'd told PhD that he'd step out of any meeting he was in to talk to us.

We had just exchanged greetings with Head Boss when HRT2 opened the door and strolled back into the office. Rude! Does a closed door mean nothing to this person?!

She said, "I made a mistake! I have to correct something!"

Yeah. The definition of panic? That room, at that moment.

"Wenchie," she continued, "Your contract has been extended through January 15. So that's good news!"

My heart sank all the way into my black, leather pennyloafers. What's that quote from "The Godfather?" Every time I think I'm out, they suck me back in!

While PhD, Alpha and Head Boss rejoiced, I stood there in stunned silence. Trapped. Caged. An indentured servant for another three months. Greeeaaaaaaat.

Then Head Boss told us what had gone down.

As of a week before The Big Announcement, PhD, Alpha and I were all laid off, to be out of the building as of 5:00 p.m. this Friday the 15th. Head Boss was LIVID. I imagine he threw quite a hissy-fit and probably even threatened to quit, if they took all his staff away. I mean, good gravy, you can't expect the man to do the work of four people! Do they think the rest of us are just window dressing?!

Last Friday, when all the executives were handed the lists of who was staying and who was going, PhD and Alpha were staying. I wasn't even on the list. Head Boss didn't get confirmation that he could keep me on until Sunday night! I love the thought that I'm so controversial! But it makes me wonder -- on what are they basing these staffing decisions? One minute, we're all out; a week later, we're all in? Based on WHAT?! What magically changed? It's so random!

And speaking of random, there are lots of really amazing people walking out that door tomorrow afternoon, never to return. And there are lots of total slackers keeping their jobs. It's like they threw darts at a list of employees.

Very few people are happy with the decisions made, including the people who are staying. The restructuring is going to mean lots of demotions, lots of people uprooted from their former departments and working for new bosses. People handing their porfolios of work over to others and taking on completely new job descriptions. People unhappy that old, white males are in charge of everything. Women unhappy about the vast number of women laid off. Admins unhappy about the vast number of admins laid off. You get the picture.

In addition to the 65 that have already been let go (out of 270), I think we're going to see a lot more people jumping ship in the next six months.

And I hope to be one of them.

Posted at 10:45 AM | Comments (6)

October 11, 2010

As of 6:00 a.m. Monday

October 11th is the new September 11th. Today is the big day.

Last Friday morning, after months and months of being ignored by the decision-makers in the smoke-filled board room, we got this email from the tippy-top of the food chain:

Dear Colleagues,

As you know, the decision team has been preparing a proposal for board action today, October 8, 2010. You are invited to join me in the main conference room at 9:00 a.m. on Monday, October 11, to hear a report of the board's action and an overview of the new organization design. Following the gathering, you will return to your departments for more detailed information about how the new design personally affects your position.

The conversation will be live-streamed for staff who are not on site. More information will be provided.

You remain in my prayers.

Live-streamed, eh? So that means I don't even have to show up for work! I can just watch the whole thing on my computer, in my jammies, with a big mug of Kaluha and coffee.

The more I think about it, the more I think that arrangement would be the best for all concerned. I mean, bitterness and disgust greatly impare my brain-to-mouth filter, so I shall be inclined to heckle. But, since I already showered, I guess I'll just go in. Late. With Pumpkin Cream Cheese muffins from Starbucks.

The Build-Up

As of 2:30 Friday afternoon (we left early because, honestly, productivity was an unrealistic expectation), Head Boss still hadn't been told exactly whom would be breaking the news to our particular tiny department, since he left for a week-long business trip yesterday afternoon. I just hope and pray that it won't be either of the H.R. Trolls.

At 4:00 on Friday, all the executives went to the smoke-filled board room to FINALLYSWEETJEEBUSATLAST find out what the fuck is going to happen around here. And I have it on good authority that they were each handed a sheet of paper listing all the employees in their department and what's going to happen to them.

Can you imagine that shit? Being an executive and being TOLD -- after having zero input -- exactly whom is being chopped from your unit? Whom you're going to have to do without? And whom you're going to have to continue to put up with? I'll bet there was some yelling and table-pounding. Dear Lord, I hope there was.

So Head Boss had to live all weekend, knowing the fates of Alpha, PhD Boss and I, and not being able to tell us, upon pain of death. I honestly feel worse for him than I do for myself. That's a huge burden to bear. Frankly, I would have blabbed, but hey, I'm a Scorpio -- my friends are always my first loyalty.

Possible Aftermath

There are three options for what is written next to my name on that paper, as there are for everyone: Staying, Going, or Changing.

And let's not kid ourselves, pumpkins. "Changing" means "Demoting." It's laughable to imply that anyone might be getting a promotion out of this. Don't insult our intelligence!

I heard a rumor from several sources that the Executive Administrative Assistant is going to be a thing of the past. No more one-executive-one-secretary arrangements. All the execs are going to have to share, and all the admins are going to have more than one boss.

Which is fine. Rarely in my career have I belonged solely to one master. But here's what it really means:

The Breakdown

Everyone in the company is at a Level number. This Level is defined by their duties and responsibilities. In turn, this Level defines their paycheck.

Administrative assistants range from Level 10 to Level 15. Executives are Level 20. Levels 16 through 19 are middle management.

I am currently being paid at Level 10 because I am on contract, even though, if you look at my duties and responsibilities, I'm a Level 12 or 13. I have worked my ass off to learn more and take on more duties and responsibilities, so as to make myself more valuable and hopefully transition into a better paying position.

Such as the job I applied for and won but am not currently doing because we don't know if it still exisits. Well, WM knows, but he can't tell me until Monday. That job is/was a Level 13.

So here's what I'm guessing. My current contract is up October 31st, and I am 99.99% sure that it will not be renewed because I'm 99.99% sure that PhD Boss will be "downsized."

The job that I applied for and won, if it still exists, has probably been scaled back to a Level 10. Which is where I am now. Which SUCKS ASS. So if I'm offered that position, it won't be the position I've actually worked to deserve -- and there's only about a 50/50 chance that it still exists anyway.

The most likely scenario is that I will be entirely eliminated because I am white. And because the H.R. Trolls would rather keep people who "need" their jobs, rather than people who have earned them. (Because I am married, childless, and live in a nice suburb, it is assumed that I don't "need" my job.)

Of course, with good people being let go, and barely-competant people being retained, I'm sure there will be lots of temping opportunities available to me. But if they think I'm going to continue to be their bitch, THEY ARE HORRIBLY MISTAKEN. I deserve the whole enchilada, and if they're too stupid to see that, then they can SUCK IT.

The Bottom Line

Since there is no chance that I will actually get the awesome job that I applied for -- the awesome job that WM and Sterling have been wringing their hands over, desparate to have me working for them -- I just want to be shown the door. If I'm downgraded to some job that is just typing, filing and taking phone messages for half a dozen miscellaneous directors and managers, do you really think they're going to let that be the extent of my duties, knowing how much more I can do? Really? No. They will expect me to continue to be all that I can be, for the same handful of beans.

Those assholes had better not offer me some pissant job that I am totally overqualified for because I will kick those H.R. hags right in the taco.

---

Although I usually only post on Mondays and Thursdays, because of the work craziness this week, I'll probably be posting Monday, Wednesday, Friday.

Posted at 06:00 AM | Comments (0)

September 30, 2010

Glass Doors

In reading the comments to my previous post, I was like, "Holy crap! Heather made an Old Testament joke! I didn't know she could touch a Bible without bursting into flames!"

And then I remembered that the Simpsons have done several Biblically-based episodes over the years, so that explains it. I'm sure she learned the story of Moses and Pharoh from there. All is right with the world again. I don't have to start searching for the alien pod.

Yeah, okay, more about work. I can't help it, people, we're in the home stretch. (And Hope, I have no freakin' clue what I'd have blogged about for the past three years if I wasn't working for Jeebus' homeboys. The thought frightens me -- more time on my hands, and no bureaucratic asshattery to bitch about...)

Head Boss
He met with Second-In-Command Vy behind closed doors for twenty minutes. When he presented her with his dilemma -- i.e. he wants to be the one to tell us The Big News, but he's going to be outta town that week -- she told him to have one of the H.R. Trolls tell us. Did you hear my audible gasp? Cripes, I'd rather hear it from the janitor than give either of those cunts the pleasure of firing me. If that turns out to be the case, I'll need some sort of dramatic exit strategy. Somewhere between Jerry McGuire and flying a plane into the building. Because I hate flying.

PhD Boss
He's been circling the globe in a hot air balloon and dropping thousands of copies of his resumes over any city that has more than two stoplights. And he has told me that, as SOON as he gets a new job, he's going to call me to be his assitant. And he's going to put me in charge of his staff. I don't know what's more delicious -- his naivity in believing that he'll have a staff, or the thought of me bossing them around.

Security
Last month, our poor, penniless organization sprang for new doors on every floor. The doors that separate the elevator hallway from everything else on every floor. Doors with glass windows in them. Doors that LOCK. Now, we have to use our company keycards to unlock the doors every time we travel between floors. It annoys me because I refuse to wear mine around my neck on a lanyard and ruin my outfit. Rumor has it that the new security system was installed in aniticipation of some disgruntled newly-ex-employee -- or their spouse -- going postal on October 11th. See, now they're just getting my hopes up.

How Awesome I Am
On Wednesday, October 13th, once the horror of it all has sunk in, I'm hosting an intimate bullshit session at my house after work. Just a small, hand-picked group of people whose opinions and bitterness are enough like my own that none of us have to worry about offending any goody-goodies with our excessive venting and sheer evil hatred. Oh, yes, there will be booze. And cream cheese. And chocolate. And maybe a few ladies calling in sick the next day. From my kitchen.

Posted at 06:20 AM | Comments (3)

September 27, 2010

Two Weeks and Counting

The Dream Team has been assembled. The executives have been shut out of the restructuring process. The underlings have been ignored, debased and demoralized. You know what time it is?

It's two weeks to D-Day! The Big Reveal! The Unveiling of the Organizational Restructuring! The Giant Shit Storm!

Okay, I know I said I wouldn't be bitching about work again until afterwards, when we all find out if we're going to have to go live in a van down by the river, or if we're staying to trade forty hours of work a week for forty pieces of silver.

Wow. Has it gotten more bitter in here? I need to put on a sweater.

What's The Dream Team, you ask? The Dream Team is the group of eight random people who are deciding the fate of THE ENTIRE CHURCH BODY. Oh, and did I mention that they are doing it all without any input of the executives? Because they are.

Yeah, the executives don't even get to decide which of their people get to stay or go. Why ask those who might have an actual clue, when you can choose TWO PEOPLE to decide the fate of 250?

Guess which two people. Go ahead. Guess. I'll give you a hint. One of them is someone I ocassionally see in the elevator and whom has never warrented a mention in my blog, and is therefore HUGELY qualified to judge whether or not I'm longterm material.

And the other? Oh, my darlings, you've come to learn this place too well. Yes. It's H.R. Troll #1. The grandmammy of all H.R. Trolls. Who, coincidentally, I happened to say "Poop, poop, poop!" in front of last week, and "It sucked!" in front of today. My professionalism knows know bounds!

I might as well just serve her my keycard on a silver platter. Garnish it with some pencil shavings and communion wafers...

Anyhoo, despite The Dream Team's fear tactics, information has leaked out. Add that to some pretty well-informed speculation, and we here down in the muck have a pretty damn good idea of what's going to happen. Well, at least I do. People like to tell me things.

Rumors are flying. Some are hilarious. Some will most certainly come to pass. Fear is palpable in the building, and everyone is kind of gearing-up for mass indignation, disgust and resentment. And Head Boss is no exception. He's so pissed, I truly believe he's psyching himself up to reject whatever offer The Dream Team makes him.

And they will make him an offer.

Doesn't mean anything for me, though. I'm 99% sure I'm destined to be floatsam. You see, the TWO PEOPLE who are deciding which personnel will carry-on after the man-made disaster have made it known that their first priority is "inclusivity." I.e. get rid of whitey.

But back to Head Boss. He served two decades in one of the most prominent -- and demanding -- positions in the entire organization. When he retired, he was the first of his kind to EVER be granted Emeritus status by the people he served. And then, he came out of retirement -- and moved across five states -- to continue to serve this place at the H.Q. He is truly dedicated to our mission.

On October 8, The Dream Team are going to tell the executives exactly what The Big Restructuring is all about. That's a Friday. So they get to live with that knowledge all weekend. Knowing who's staying and going. Knowing that their people are wondering and obsessing and losing sleep. Knowing what they're going to have to do the following Monday.

And then on Monday the 11th, the execs get to call their people -- i.e. ME -- into their offices and tell us our fates.

Oh, but there's a glitch in the system.

MY executive won't be there on the 11th.

Two years ago, he was invited to a big, huge THING. It's a B.F.D., and he can't not go. He leaves on Sunday, October 10th, and doesn't return until the following Sunday. (Which, incidently, are the exact dates of Billi's family vacation to Disney World. Coincidence...?)

Upset at the prospect of making us wait a week to find out or, slightly less distasteful, having to possibly fire us over the phone, Head Boss went to H.R. Troll #1 and asked if he could assemble us at his house on Saturday the 9th and tell us all then.

With her sweetest, cheeriest smile, she said, "Absolutely not!"

"Well, what are my options?"

"You can have Lord God Kind of the Company or his Second In Command tell them."

"But they're MY people!"

"Sorry!"

So now you know why Head Boss is so infuriated. He's worked with Alpha for over a decade. And with PhD Boss for... five or six years, but I'm sure it seemed like a decade. He loves them. And he's just agonizing over not being able to be there for them.

Not one to be deterred easily, Head Boss is going straight to the top and asking Lord God King and Second In Command for special dispensation. I'm very interested to see what the outcome of all this is. Not that I give a crap who tells me to pack my things.

No, I'm more curious to see whether Head Boss goes rogue if denied the ability to do what is The Right Thing. To whom is he more loyal -- his people, or the company that is screwing them?

Stay tuned, kittens. I'm hoping for at least one complete breakdown when the shit begins its journey downhill. And who knows -- I may just have a front row seat.

Posted at 07:34 PM | Comments (2)

September 23, 2010

An Open Letter to the Women Who Work on the 10th Floor

Look, ladies.

We all have to share this bathroom, at least until October 11th, after which some of us will be using it for crying. And soon after that, 50% of us will be leaving, and perhaps it won't be so much of an issue.

But until the day when there are fewer of you annoying the watery, corn-laced shit out of me -- or I get mercifully released from my position directly adjacent to the bathroom -- I have a couple requests.

1. Shut the fuck up when you're in the bathroom. I know it seems like the bathroom is a wonderfully clandestine place to hold a conversation about your menopause symptoms or your sister's asshole husband, but it's not. The place is floor-to-ceiling ceramic tile. Lindsay Lohan's va-jay-jay echos less than the tenth floor bathroom! And don't be fooled just because my cubicle wall is a foot and a half higher than a standard cubicle wall. It is not a sound barrier. Trust me. I know that you forget I'm within earshot because I'm hidden behind the fabric wall, but just try to think of me as God. You can't see me, but you know I'm always there. Oh, also? Speaking a language I don't understand doesn't mean that I can't hear it. Just like ignoring me doesn't make me invisible. Are you seeing a pattern here?

2. Do NOT, under any circumstances, use the handicap door-opener if you are not in a wheelchair. Here's the problem. When you use the handicap automatic door-opener (or H.A.D.O.), it takes for-fucking-ever for the door to open and close. That means, if I sit down to pee, and then you use the H.A.D.O. to enter the bathroom, I have to hold my pee for two minutes until the damn door is closed again so that PhD Boss doesn't hear me peeing. That is just way more intimacy than I'm ready for. Oh, also? Same holds true even if I'm not in the bathroom. Because I don't want to be sitting at my desk and have to hear someone else's intestinal affliction. If you are grunting, moaning, or otherwise verbally-lamenting your toilet sojourn, it's time to rethink your diet.

In short, there is no privacy in the privy. Please adjust your lavatory habits accordingly.

Love, Wenchie

Posted at 06:36 AM | Comments (1)

September 07, 2010

Wenchie Christ, Superstar

The only thing worse than getting a really bad wedding gift is getting a really bad wedding gift from a tiny, adorable, old lady who means really, really well. I do have a shred of compassion, which makes it difficult to mock the aged. Curse you, Compassion! I'd be that much funnier without you!

I guess because Husband and I used to sing in the church choir, his elderly great aunt or something got use a big, dark, wooden cross for our wall. It's all gothic-looking and easily big enough to crucify a Barbie. I like the shape, but let's be honest -- overt religious symbols don't really jibe with our pinecone-and-milkcan style of decor.

So I hid the cross away and brought it out only on the rare occassion that said aunt visited us. I think it was once, actually. And then she died. And I promptly forgot where the heck I'd hid the crucifix, or that it had even exited in the first place.

Flash forward to last weekend, when I was switching the living room and dining room furniture because our dining room is teesy-weensy, and it's just easier during the holiday season if I can keep the leaves in the dining table and not try to squeeze my whole family into what was probably a walk-in pantry at one time.

That was a really long sentence.

And by the way, as far as I'm concerned, "the holiday season" starts on September 22nd with Billi's birthday and ends on January 7th with The Boy Child's birthday. In between there's The Spare, Egrau, my black dog, ME, The Girl Child, my parent's anniversary, Jeebus, Lola, Brad, and New Year's.

What the hell was I talking about? Ha ha ha ha ha! I actually had to scroll up to see what I'd started this post about! Right, yes, Jeebus' death tree. Got it. Back on track.

So while moving furniture, I cleaned out the drawers of the living room side tables and found -- lo and behold -- the cross! I was about to toss it in the box for Am Vets, but then I thought:

"Wait. I work for a religious organization. Everyone else has all kinds of religious paraphenalia in their cubes -- angels and icons and "Footprints in the Sand"* kind of shit. This. Is. PERFECT! I am so hanging scary, gothic cross in my cube!"

And so I did.

Ironically, of course. Although that's just between you, me, and my other reader (i.e. Mom). I'm hoping that my co-workers will think I am super-pious.

Hey, I don't rest of my laurels! I understand that I have to continuously earn my seat in Hell!

* Holy fucking shit, there is an official "Footprints in the Sand" website!

Posted at 08:01 PM | Comments (4)

August 26, 2010

And Now I Will Shut-Up for Forty-Six Days

Yeah. Well. Jeebus sent an email on Tuesday to let us all know that Monday, October 11th is The Day the Axe Falls. That's when the entire organization will find out who stays, who goes, and whose life sucks more afterwards.

And since none of you had October 11th in the pool, I'm keeping all the money. So there!

I took the short elevator trip to see Steel and WM yesterday afternoon. If you'll remember, yesterday was the last day of the "within three weeks" that WM was supposed to let me know whether or not the job I'd applied for -- and won -- still existed. But no cigar. They moved my cheese. (Damn. Now I'm kinda wishing I'd read that stupid book.)

I says to WM, I says, "So, I guess I'll be waiting until October 11th, like everyone else."

And WM says, he says, "Yeah, that's how it looks."

Well, at least I'm in good company, with the waiting and such. I guess I can understand it. Besides the fact that departments will be eliminated and people moved around, and nothing will be the way it is now, making it pointless to fill a position that will just have to be changed anyway -- it would probably look pretty damn bad if they hired/promoted someone while everyone else was waiting for their pink slips.

I mean, the position DOES need to be filled, and the temp doing it now just got a call and will be leaving to be a pastor somewhere very soon. But if it will spare me the envy and spitefulness of other support staff in the building, I guess I'm willing to wait another forty-six days.

(In all reality, I don't give a fuck what anyone thinks of me, you know that; I'm just trying to talk myself out of being a neurotic wreck for the next month and a half. Pretend there's a silver lining, Wenchie! And put down that crack pipe!)

So I'm gonna try really hard not to be a whiney, emo tween between now and Columbus Day. I'm not saying that I won't bitch about PhD Boss because he's due back in the office on September 13th, and let's face it -- after being without him for an entire summer while he was on his "extended leave," I'm not looking forward to having a stress headache again every weekend.

I'm just gonna try to remember that bigger things than Wenchie's So-Called Career are at stake and only cut myself where it won't show because no one likes a poser cutter.

So I will bid you Adieu for a few days, my pudding pies. I am going up north to gaze across the water, browse quaint antique shops, and have lots of sex with my husband without having to worry about if the dogs are watching or what time we have to get up in the morning.

Thanks for watching the dogs, Mom!

Posted at 08:38 AM | Comments (1)

August 19, 2010

Meatloaf or Spaghetti?

Let me share a comment from Stacey, which, I believe, succinctly sums up the thoughts of probably everyone here. (Or both of us here, depending on how many readers I want to pretend that I have.)

"Do you really want to work here permanently? Really?"

No. I don't. But I'm not sure that question, while poignantly logical, is entirely relevant.

You see, here in this organization, I have some worth. I have a reputation. I have value. Hard to believe, if today is not your first day reading, but there are many people here who know firsthand how awesome I am, and there are every more people who have heard how awesome I am.

I feel like, if I have any shot at all of getting a job during this recession, I have a better shot at a place where I'm a known commodity, rather than showing up on some doorstep with twenty other applicants as just another stranger with just another resumé.

Does that make sense?

Six more work days for me. Is that not crazy? I suppose I should be panicking and speculating and mining my contacts for information. But I'm not.

The strangest sense of ennui has come over me. I no longer have an interest in my own future.

Thirteen days from now, on September 1st, I will be doing one of two things.

1. Unpacking my box of stuff that I'd packed on the 31st and getting settled in my new cube, and meeting with my new bosses to find out how, exactly, to jump into the fray.

2. Waking up, making pancakes for husband, going back to bed for a bit, then texting all my friends to see who wants to play hookie and see an afternoon movie with me.

Both scenarios have their pros and cons. I would find both to be disappointing and a huge relief, in different ways. But each requires such a completely different mindset, I have no idea what to do with my brain in the meantime.

It's like, when you're really hungry, and you're deciding what to do for lunch, and you can't decide where to eat. You're hungry! You know you're going to eat! But nothing is jumping out at you. Your tastebuds seem to want something that's completely unavailable, but you don't even know what.

Wait, that's a dumb analogy.

It's more like -- I don't know what Mom's making for dinner, so I don't know what to set my tastebuds to. Is that a bizarre concept? I got it from my Dad. He liked to know what he was going to have for dinner well in advance, so he knew what he was looking forward to, and so he didn't have something similar for lunch.

Leftovers or steak? Meatloaf or spaghetti?

Unemployment or new career level? Freedom or indentured servitude? Working on my novel or being a productive member of society?

Pizza or chicken casserole?

What's for dinner, Lady Luck? What should I set my tastebuds to, Fickle Fate?

I'm not even hungry anymore. I'm going for a walk.

Posted at 06:22 PM | Comments (3)

August 16, 2010

This Is the Sound of the Fat Lady Not Singing

Have I lost you, yet, darling readers? Have my flying monkeys taken off for greener... monkey... places? Where the hell do monkeys live? Oh, right, jungles. Where was I?

Ah, yes. I was where the career drama continues, and I am just so fucking sick of it. At first I was anxious, then I was complacent, and now I'm just disdainfully perturbed. I mean, do they need someone to update the website, and make Steel's travel plans, and balance the unit budget, and plan huge events for V.I.P.s -- OR NOT?!?!

Of COURSE, they do! JEEBUS! It's not ancient Hebrew translation, people! A department with three executives needs a support person!

Head Boss is convinced that the new job is mine. Completely convinced. Done deal. So much so, that he hasn't even bothered to see if HR will extend my current contract beyond August 31 if I don't get the new job.

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

HOLY CRAP!

This cynic, however, remains unconvinced. I mean, if the job was mine, then they would have already made it official. The job isn't mine until I'm signing on the dotted line. In blood. And swearing on the Bible. "I do, and I ask God to help and guide me."

I'm taking a couple vacation days next week. So I literally have, as far as I know, NINE working days of gainful employment left. In my life. Absolutely no one has told me otherwise. Isn't that weird? I think that's more than a little weird. I feel like, if someone finally decides that they want me to work for them, I should make them beg. Just on principle.

Oh, and there's more! PhD Boss was in the office on Friday, and before he left abruptly, lured into the elevator by Meg's siren song, he told me that he's having Head Boss talk with WM about having me continue with ONE OF MY CURRENT DUTIES, should I get the new job.

Is that not completely fucked up???

PhD! Dude! I am applying for other jobs to ESCAPE YOU and your immature, arrogant, soul-sucking clutches!!! You can't just go ADDING responsibilities to my new job, in a completely different department! If you want me to stay on my current job, PAY ME WHAT I'M WORTH!

And have a personality transplant.

But seriously, I was so pissed when I heard that. And even more stupifying is that no one who is actually HAVING the conversation -- i.e. PhD Boss, Head Boss, and WM -- knows exactly how much time this particular quarterly project takes. And no one who actually UNDERSTANDS the magnitude of what PhD is asking -- i.e. ME -- is being involved in the discussion! Do you believe this shit?!

Amazing.

My first instinct was to go to WM and say, "Bro. Listen. Before you agree to adding anything to my job description, you should know exactly what it entails." And then tell him. Step by step.

But then I thought, screw it. No one has offered me anything. I'm not putting the cart before the horse. As far as I know, Head Boss is only humoring PhD Boss and hasn't asked WM a goddamn thing. So I'm not saying anything to anyone until HRT2 has to suck it up and put the paperwork in front of me.

And then I'm asking, "Considering all of the resturcturing going on, has any part of this job description changed since I interviewed?"

Posted at 07:27 PM | Comments (2)

August 09, 2010

The HR Trolls -- Foiled!

(A brief update as I am uncharacteristically blogging AT WORK, in between book sale drive this morning and singing this afternoon. Can you believe they haven't made me C.E.O. of this place???)

So here's some interesting news...

Head Boss is on vacation, and PhD Boss is on extended leave, so I emailed them last week about my possible re-employment, just in case they were thinking of extending my contract.

I got this back from Head Boss:

Wenchie, I was aware of the decision, but knew that it had to be shared by That Department. HR indicated that they were waiting for Vy's concurrence, since there will be many people leaving their positions and was not sure if one of them should also be considered. I'm glad that WM shared with you, because it is important for you to know. Best personal regards and congratulations.

[Important note: There are, apparently, two people in the building who outrank HR, and Vy is one of them.]

Okay, let's break this down. As I often do.

I was aware of the decision, but knew that it had to be shared by That Department.

Part of me is annoyed that he knew before I did, but he IS an executive. WM probably broached the topic in an executive meeting, which, considering the impending Huge Restructuring, is appropriately relevent. And he probably called me The Candidate, and Head Boss just happened to know that The Candidate is me. So I'm not going to take issue with this.

HR indicated that they were waiting for Vy's concurrence, since there will be many people leaving their positions and was not sure if one of them should also be considered.

Fucking HR. Here's what happened. When WM brought up the topic of The Candidate at the executive meeting, one of the HR Trolls suggested that they wait and see if one of the "many people leaving their positions" (i.e. one of their pet People of Color) should be "considered" (i.e. moved into the position in my stead). And Vy shot them down. HA!

So glad to know that Vy can be counted on to be reasonable. I'd love to know exactly what Vy said, but I'm sure she just didn't want to drag out the already ridiculously long hiring process any more, in deference to both WM and to me. She's a tough broad, but fair.

I'm glad that WM shared with you, because it is important for you to know.

Damn straight!

Best personal regards and congratulations.

He's so cute.

In short:
HR - 1 billion points
Fairness - 1 point

It's a start!

Posted at 10:31 AM | Comments (3)

August 05, 2010

The Clock Is Ticking

I CURSE THE HEAVENS!!!!

[shakes fists at the sky]

Because the heavens cursed me first. *sigh* What the fuck, people. Okay, you wanna hear the latest in Wenchie's Quest for Permanant Employment? Really? Are you reeeeaaaally sure? Because it's only going to piss you off. Well, I appreciate your loyalty, my darlings. Read on.

Last Wednesday, exactly two weeks after my second interview -- within which time they were supposed to make their decision, and their officer -- I went up to talk to WM. Call me a nag or whatever. I think I have a right, as a fellow child of God, to know what's going on.

So I said, "I'm just curious as to whether we're waiting for a few details to be ironed out, or if we need to wait until after The Big Restructuring*."

[* The Big Restructuring is pending, due to hit in September, November, or January, depending on which rumor you give creedance to. It's when the organization gets sliced and diced, and people are cut, along with the services they provide. I'm not even exaggerating when I say that it's going to be bad for the world. We help a LOT of people.]

But WM assured me that he was just waiting on a call from -- who else? -- HR Troll #2. He also let it slip that I'm their candidate. So essentially, the job is mine, and I'm just waiting around for HRT2 to tell me so. And she's certainly in no hurry to offer me my long-sought-after position, as we well know.

A week passed. I grew even more impatient. The calendar changed to August. Ah, August -- my last month of indentured servitude to PhD Boss. Uh, wait a minute. That means my last month in the organization. They're only hiring "in house" people. I have yet to be offered another temp position, or any continuation of this one...

Holy shit.

So I wrote an email to Steel and WM: "Good morning! Just a heads-up that my contract in Current Dept. expires on August 31, and after that, I'm no longer eligible for any other position in the building. Thought you'd want to know!"

No response. Time ticked by. At 3:30, I was ready to leave (early) and do some big grocery shopping at the Jewels. Thank God I stayed an extra minute because WM called me and asked me to pop by his office right away!

Well, it could either be great news or crappy news, right?

I didn't figure that it would be both.

"The good news is, I can officially announce that you are our candidate for the job. The bad news is, we can't offer you the job... just yet."

Apparently, some random hiring freeze was put into place two seconds after WM told HRT2 that they want to hire me. Now, I know I have a habit of making things all about ME. But this time? IT IS TOTALLY ALL ABOUT ME! Bitch just doesn't want to see me happy!

So. They're not hiring anyone at all right now. But WM assured me that my position hasn't been "taken off the table." Yeah, not until HRT2 can find a foolproof reason to get rid of me for good! All she did was buy herself some time. I'm convinced that she's just going to wait out the clock, and then, I won't be an option for WM. And she'll sit in her cold, dank, putrid cave and cackle.

WM said that they should know within three weeks, which is cutting it really damn close. But he told me to come bug him on the 25th, if he hasn't contacted me by then, but he's sure he'll know before that. Apparently, some big, important executives have to meet and look at big, important budget numbers blah blah blah.

But I know the truth. I know who's pulling the strings here. I know I have no future with this organization.

Honestly, it would be a relief. I'm just counting the days now.

So who wants to hang out on September 1st? Go see a movie? Drink margaritas at 2:00 in the afternoon? Anyone? Bueller?

Posted at 06:16 AM | Comments (3)

July 20, 2010

With Sprinkles On Top

Last week, our ever-so-competent-and-helpful Management Dept. sent out the following email to our entire organization:

(Please note: we are in a complex of five buildings -- 6725, 6735, 6745, 6755, and 6765. We are in the 6765 building.)

Please be aware that today there will be an ice cream social in the east end of the complex, including 6725, 6735, and 6755 W. Road. Due to lack of funds, the 6765 building will not be participating.

I swear to God, people, that's a cut and paste.

The odd email left many things open to speculation. Why send the email if we can't participate? Wouldn't it be better just to leave us in the dark? Why dangle ice cream in front of us, only to let us know that we won't be getting any? Did they just want us know that, should we happen upon the ice cream, we were not allowed partake of it? And most importantly -- what kind of ice cream, and would there be toppings?

I was tempted to send the following email to the entire building:

Please note that today, there will be an ice cream social in the front of the building, including 6725, 6735 and 6755 W. Road. There will be sprinkles and chocolate sauce. We will also have live dancing bears and a couple of elephants on loan from Barnum & Bailey on the front lawn.

We would ask that you not exit through the front of 6765 W. Road, as there will be a four-loop roller coaster positioned on the front lawn, along with the Notre Dame marching band performing their greatest hits for the W. Road addresses noted above. Following the ice-cream social, helicopter rides will be lifting off from the 6th level of the parking garage, including a whirl-wind tour of the lake front, before returning to the elephants and ice cream.

When you do exit the building, we want to apologize forthwith for having to step over the electric cables that are running to the bandstand, likewise positioned on the front lawn. Performing tonight will be Elton John and, (okay, this was going to be a surprise, but what the heck), the rockband U2.

Due to the cost of the event, however, we will not be participating in it. We did, however, want to let you know that it is taking place, so you are in no way hindered from exiting the building in a timely manner.

Instead, my Cool Lesbian Chick friend pooled her money with a few co-workers to buy ten boxes of ice cream sammiches, which they then shared with the entire company.

Now that's what Jeebus would do.

Posted at 06:47 AM | Comments (2)

July 15, 2010

The Follow-Up Interview

Well. After Rose told me about Laura Miller being the physical manifestation of All That Stands In My Way, it seemed that everyone in the world wanted to chime in on what kind of person Laura is. I heard the words "inappropriate" and "lazy" a lot.

I also learned that, years ago, Laura used to work in the unit we've both applied to. She had no clue how to behave around the V.I.P.s that unit deals with on a daily basis. But it took "years of struggle" to get her transferred to a different department. Sadly, neither Steel nor WM were around during that era, so neither of them are aware of Laura's checkered past. Nor, apparently, did HR feel it their duty to inform anyone.

But after many bowls of ice cream and hours of t.v., I came to the zen-like acceptance that, if they aren't smart enough to hire me, than they are too stupid to deserve and appreciate the awesomeness that is me. Besides, who doesn't love a little bout of unemployment? I could finally paint the hallway...

Screw all that, Wenchie! Tell us how the second interview went!

Okay, my darlings, I hear you! The second interview was shorter and less formal... and AWESOME! I rocked their fucking socks off! It's like there were angels hovering around me, depositing the most PERFECT answers into my brain, so that I could put them forth with sincerity and charm.

First, they let me know that they're glad they have some prior knowledge of my work skills, because if they'd had to base their decision solely in my first interview, I wouldn't have gotten a second. And I know that sounds harsh, but it's fair. I gave a tragically shitty first interview, and they were probably nervous that I was easily intimidated. So I assured them that that was NOT the case.

"I know! That first interview was horrible, but I want you to know that that was the exception and not the rule. I don't even know who that person was. I don't get nervous around new people or really important people. I've met all the V.I.P.s and got along with them great. There will not be a repeat of that episode."

They seemed reassured and even commented that I seemed more like myself. And smiling. Apparently, I'm known for smiling a lot. But, Wenchie, you hate people. Why smile at them? Because smiling disarms people and, therefore, makes my life easier.

They asked what I would have done differently in the first interview, and I said that I would have thought of all my great answers actually during the interview, instead of two minutes after I left the interview room.

"There's one answer in particular that I'd like to ammend. It's the first one you asked me -- why I applied for the job. And yes, all the answers I gave then still stand. I still want more money; I still want a permanant position; and I still really like working with the people in this department. But there's another reason I forgot to mention. I have outgrown the Administrative Assistant position."

Can't you just see them salivating?

"I can be The World's Greatest Secretary with one hand tied behind my back, and it's just not enough anymore. I want more to do, more to learn, more responsibility. I want to move up to the next level. I am totally ready for this."

They grabbed their spoons and dug into that one! And it's totally TRUE! It's not like I was bullshitting them or anything. I've outgrown being a secretary like I've outgrown cheap make-up and crop t-shirts.

All their questions were really general, leading me to believe that they had no particular issue they're concerned about. Like -- what do you think this department thinks of you?

"They like me! I know they do because every, single one of them told me that I should apply for this job."

Pause for laugh.

"And I like them. There are some units that don't help each other out. But during the big events here, everyone in this unit pitches in and helps out and works together and has fun. I like being part of that, and I've always felt that I fit in really well here."

Oh, I lied -- they did ask me one specific question, but I think it was more about Steel's experience with a former employee than it was about me.

He asked, "Let's say that you had some sort of problem with me. Something I said or did offended you, or you didn't think it was right. Would you feel comfortable talking to me about it?"

"Well, I wouldn't feel comfortable, but I'd certainly talk to you about it anyway."

"Why?"

"Because I know you and would assume that any offense was unintentional, and I would want you to have the opportunity to tell your side of things. It's not good to let stuff like that fester. It can hurt your working relationship and affect the whole team."

Another homerun! And it's funny -- a year ago, I would have never thought myself capable of confronting a superior about his/her behavior. But I've come to expect respect from people, especially the ones I work for/with because they should know firsthand how much I deserve it.

I've had practice diplomatically reigning in PhD's occassional arrogant snottiness, so I'm well-equipped to handle fire-breathing dragons now. And Steel is no dragon.

Finally, they asked what part of the job description I think I'd have the most trouble with.

"The budget stuff. I've only recently started to become familiar with the way our budgets are structured. I haven't had to make any decisions, but Alpha has included me in discussions and meetings, so I'm learning. And if you threw me into budget planning, well, that just means I'd have to learn it in a hurry!"

"Anything else about the job description you want to ask us about?"

"I know that I'm supposed to ask you questions so you can see that I'm interested and thoughtful, but honestly? I know this job. This job is a compilation of the three jobs that I temped in for you guys. There's nothing about it that looks unfamiliar."

Are you ready? Because this is where the fat lady sang. This is where I brought in the pyrotechnics. This is what my guardian angel leaned over and whispered in my ear:

"I've been all over this department, and all over this organization. I've picked up new skills and new information everywhere I went. So for three years, I feel like I've been -- unknowingly -- training for this position. Everything I've done and learned has been leading me here. I feel like -- this is it. This is what it's all been about. This is where I'm supposed to be."

Cue the music... aaaaaand scene.

I didn't actually invoke God or the Holy Spirit or anything, but I think I implied it enough to really hit home with them.

Now. Will they hire me? I don't know. Laura Miller, I've heard, is out of the running, but there is one other person being considered. I think I have a good shot. A damn good shot.

But even if I don't get it, I've proved to myself that I can be a fantastic interviewee, and I've proved to Steel and WM that I am not a dithering idiot. Not bad for fifteen minutes of chit-chat, eh? And I did it all while on the first day of my period, which is pretty Herculean, considering I'd rather me under my desk in a fetal position.

After the interview, my friend J.A.B. (Jab! Hee!) told me to send a quick email thanking them both for their time. Brilliant! So I did -- thanked them for fitting me into their busy week and giving me another opportunity to prove myself.

I got the following reply from Steel: "You did well, Wenchie. I look forward to the future."

Holy crap! Are you thinking what I'm thinking?!

Posted at 06:00 AM | Comments (1)

July 12, 2010

News Flash: Reverse-Racism Is Still Racism

Recently, a lovely lass named Stacey commented that she is "an eat out girl," and I almost peed in my pants. Because I am twelve. Happily, she left her URL, and I followed it to find a very cool blog that is my new fav. (Heather, seriously, you just don't post enough, honey.)

Sadly, I do not have a Blogger account, which means that I can't comment on her blog. So I will comment here. On this post entitled "Deaf Negro."

Stacey, thank you. Thank you for reminding me that I don't always have to be hilarious. That sometimes, I can forego the punchline and snarkiness and just vent my spleen. And thank you, most of all, for thwaping me in the head with the truth -- getting pissed at "people of color" does not necessarily make you a racist.

Yeah, "people of color." PoC. That's this year's politically-correct term for anyone and everyone who is non-white. It's kind of hilarious, isn't it? I mean, it tries so hard to be all-inclusive and non-offensive that it's almost... retroffensive. I mean, how is that different from "colored" of the 60s?

Anyhoo, here's my beef. I've lived in an affluent, (nearly) all-white suburb of Chicago for the majority of my life. And I had to get a job with a church in order to learn about racism.

Oh, but the irony gets better.

I get along perfectly with all the black people that I've worked with. (No one is calling me "Scandinavian-American," so if I'm "white," they are "black.") Apparently, they even trust me enough to talk about their hair in my presence! Social taboo! And if they secretly resent me for my "white priviledge," they don't let on. So it's all good.

The few Asian people who work there... well, honestly, has anyone ever met an Asian person with a huge chip in their shoulder and something to prove? No. Asians are chill. Yes, I'm generalizing about an entire continent of people. Sue me.

I don't even mind when the random Middle Eastern chick who speaks with a really thick accent is impossible for me to understand when she reads the Lesson in Chapel. I'm mainly there for the music anyway.

Do I get annoyed when the Spanish-speaking people at work speak REALLY LOUDLY in their native tongue because the people around them can't understand them anyway, and therefore, there's no reason to use their Inside Voices? Yes. But that's because they are RUDE, not because they are Latino. And when they're speaking English, we get along famously. I don't even assume they're talking about me when they're speaking Spanish.

I actually enjoy working with a varitable cornicopia of races. I've learned a lot of cool things about people and the places they're from, the lives they've lived. Knowledge is power, and my co-workers have helped to stretch my mind to the ends of the earth. After living in a homogenous area all my life, I feel like more of a grown-up working in our little United Nations, you know?

I work with women who wear saris! I am worldly!

No, in the most tragic and poetic plot-twist ever, it is The Human Resources Department that houses the biggest fucking racists I've ever met. And worse? They hide behind their cry of "Diversity! Diversity!" I wanna punch them right in the throat.

When my current boss -- Head Boss, not PhD Boss -- was fighting H.R. to get me my measly six-month contract, HR Troll #2 actually said to him, "You can't hire her. Your department isn't diverse enough."

Head Boss adorably played stupid, saying, "Of course, we are. We're fifty percent women!"

(And if you don't think that women are a down-trodden minority who need every advantage they can get in order to get a fair wage, then you haven't seen the gender salary disparities where I work.)

But Troll #2 wasn't fooled. She acquiesced only because he played the surgery card: "While I'm on sick leave, recovering from surgery, I need to know that things here are running smoothly! This is the wrong time for us to make a staffing transition!"

Regardless, I had suspected all along that my easily-sunburned skin was going to be a liability. Why? Because EVERY ONE of my good work friends have confided to me multiple examples of underqualified PoC getting and keeping jobs they have no business doing, and being hand-selected for promotions they haven't earned.

Wenchie Is Not a Racist Disclaimer: I freely and happily confess that there are PoC where I work who have earned and deserved their positions. Nor are they the exception to the rule. (And I hate that I feel compelled to add this knee-jerk renouncement!)

As you know, I submitted an application and resume for another position here. (Why? Because I am a glutton for punishment. And the devil you know is better than the devil you don't.) The position is THREE pay-grades higher than the one I'm in now. And most importantly, it's a position that is, essentially, an aggregation of three other positions in that department (thank-you, recession-induced downsizing), ALL OF WHICH I HAVE DONE BEFORE.

That's right, you heard me -- I have temped in this department three times, and in the great "restructing" of us, my three temp positions were combined into one position.

It's like Franken-job -- designed specifically for ME. There's not a person in the world more qualified for this job than Yours Truly! I mean, it's a no-brainer, right?

Right...?

Right, and yet... I am losing sleeping, dreading the day when I see a brown-skinned, underqualified person take that position in my stead. And worse, I am composing, in my head, the huge YOU-CAN'T-HANDLE-THE-TRUTH-style speech I'm going to make before packing a box and storming off.

I will be stunned if I get this job because it means breaking a pattern I've watched over and over. Despite the fact that the department already has four times the required percentage of "diversity hires;" despite every, single person in that department begging me to apply for the position; despite the extremely black department head giving me exactly the information I needed for my resume and cover letter -- I will probably not get this job because H.R. has the final say in ALL hires.

How fucked up is that?

On Thursday, fifteen minutes before I was supposed to leave work, Rose came down to see me. (Rose is the Official Title's big, black secretary, if you'll remember. Okay, well, she's called The Executive Administrative Assistant. Whatever. She likes me, and she is HILARIOUS.)

"I know for a fact that it's just you and one other person who got follow-up interviews," she said.

"Really?"

"Yup. So you're a shoe-in!"

"Who's the other person???"

"Laura Miller."

"I don't know her..." So I looked her up on our company database. She's black. "Oh, I'm screwed."

"What?! No. Trust me -- you're a shoe-in."

"Well, that depends on who is making the decision. Because if HRT2 is making the decision, she's all about the Diversity Hire. And I am so not Diverse."

"Oh, fuck that. I'm all the diversity they need. 'Sides, you've got way more skills than Laura. She should just stay where she is and answer those phones, that's what she should do."

I cracked up. Laura's job is to answer phones and send people resources. So yeah, she's got about one-tenth the skills needed for the job. But she's BLACK. And she's very well-liked.

And now I'm more scared than I was before Rose visited. Nice to know that the Official Title's secretary is rooting for me -- over a fellow "sistah" even -- but I kinda wish she hadn't told me.

I smell HRT2's stench all over this. With Laura's pitiful resume, she shouldn't even have gotten a FIRST interview, let alone made it to a second.

I don't think I'm gonna get this job...

Posted at 05:56 AM | Comments (1)

July 05, 2010

Updating the Loose Ends: Part II

Possibility
So. The day after my epicly awkward interview, I got a call from a woman who goes to my church and who ALSO works at the retirement center where I used to deliver hot lunches. (Meal on Wheels? Meet Wench on Wheels!) She asked for my resume because they need to replace a woman there who is moving on to bigger and better things. It's not my dream job -- I'd be working with food and geezers -- but it's well within my abilities, and it's money. It's a long shot, but I may have to resign myself to it.

Impending Layoffs
Meanwhile, back at ground zero, we're going to find out in mid-July who will be leaving this fall. Massive staff cuts are on the way, and this time, it won't just be we useless, superfluous support staff who are culled. They are targeting executives and directors and associate executives! The HORROR! Needless to say, although nothing's been said, I am 100% certain that my current contract will not be extended beyond August 31. That leaves less than two months to find me another cubicle to inhabit.

Restructuring
Of course, the November layoffs are just the appetizer. The real meat comes in early 2011, when the entire organization is restructured, and non-essential programs are slashed (along with the people who implement them). Instead of a dozen departments, we'll be three. THREE. Speaking from a strictly anthropological standpoint, this will be interesting to watch.

Follow-Up
Due ENTIRELY, I'm sure, to my impeccable reputation -- and certainly owing nothing to my disasterous interview -- I have a follow-up interview on the 14th. Thank God! A chance to redeem myself! And the buttercream on the cupcake? No H.R. trolls present! I'll be chatting with just Steel and WM! I'm so excited! I think I may actually be able to pull this off, people! Of course, there's always the possibility that I may be hired, only to be "downsized" in February...

Scary
Wouldn't it be ironic if PhD Boss' new venture were my only hope for employment? Please, Jeebus, don't let it come to that! I shall ply Thee with burnt offerings and songs of praise!

Posted at 08:03 AM | Comments (0)

June 30, 2010

Dishing on the Interview

What is it about interviews that make people use the word "dish" as a verb? Heather is the third person today to tell me to "dish" about the interview.

I wore all black. Like Johnny Cash. Or Kenny Rogers. Probably more like Kenny Rogers than I care to imagine. Hey, I don't own a navy blue suit, so I went with what I know.

Anyhoooooo...

Cast of Characters

(I should probably give these guys names, if there's a chance I'll be working with them from here on out..)

Steel: Named so because of his steel grey hair. I worked for him for several months last year. He is often described as "persnickety," but I liked working for him. Our respective obsessive-compulsive behaviors complimented each other quite nicely. He's even more organized and detail-oriented than I am, so there were never any surprises or last-minute assignments.

WM: Named so because those are his initials, and I like how those two letters look together. WM was brand new when I was working for Steel. I never reported to him directly, but my assessment of him is that he's calm, quietly in control, slow to anger, and very honest. He's the kind of guy you want on your team.

HRT2: H.R. Troll #2. Second in command in H.R. Hates whitey. Doesn't like to hire whitey. Likes to hire people of color who are in dire straights and desperately need the income. Makes for some questionable hiring practices and less-than-steller employees. She also has final say on all new hires, and does not possess the ability to mask her contempt.

In short, the interview would have been great if it'd been with just Steel and WM. As it was, I was more nervous than I've been in years. Singing and dancing like a spaz for an audience of 800? Walk in the park. My wedding vows? Piece of cake. (Get it?) Job interview with three people I've known for three years? GOD-AWFUL HORRIFYING!!!

There were some questions I answered quite well, and I remember thinking, Awwwwwww, yeah, that was exactly what they wanted to hear! But for the life of me, I can't remember what they were. I have a touch of stress-induced amnesia, like the day after finals.

It's funny. There were a few questions where I could tell that they were looking for a specific answer. Seven years of waiting tables made me pretty good at reading peoples' faces and tailoring my service to their expectations. So I'd just start talking until I saw someone perk up, and then I'd really hammer home whatever it was I said that got their attention.

But most of the time, I was just brutally honest because I didn't have the wherewithall to spin anything or remember one damn piece of good advice that anyone gave me. I think I may have admitted to having an inappropriate sense of humor sometimes, and not liking being on my feet all day, and blowing llamas.

Why is it so hard to sell ourselves and say complimentary things about ourselves?! Why can I type here with such conviction that I AM THE SHIZZLE, but I lose all confidence when it counts?! Well, at least I didn't mention the Barbies or the blog.

The hardest question was, "What are three words that describe you?"

Um... hungry, racist and sarcastic? Fat, horny and clairvoyant? Demanding, superficial and high-maintainence?

I ended up saying, "Organized, easy-going and... funny."

Yeah. I panicked. I should not have gone with funny. But that's what everyone always tells me! And SHE WROTE IT DOWN, for God's sake! Oh, and it gets better.

"What are three words that PhD Boss would use to describe you?"

Oh. My. God. He often tells me how much he appreciates me and respects me, but he's never actually used adjectives. Are they going to check my answers with him later?

"Wow. Um... hard-working, fast learner... and funny. We joke around a lot."

OHMYGOD! It's like I was TRYING to sabotage myself! Funny twice? Really? You think you're THAT funny, Wenchie? Jeebus. Get over yourself.

Last question: "And what are three words another colleague would use to describe you?"

At this point, I could only assume they were trying to get me to say funny again.

"Well, the person I work most closely with, after PhD, is Alpha. And I think she would say that I'm a good worker, nice to have around, and... helpful."

What about my Mom, HRT2? You wanna know what I think my Mom would say about me? HUH??? C'mon, bitch -- BRING IT.

Sometimes, they'd ask a question, and I'd have absolutely zero answer, or I'd forget the question halfway through my answer (happened twice), so I'd just pull a politician's move and start talking about whatever I wanted to talk about.

Then they hit me with, "Is there anything you feel we should have asked you and didn't?"

Oh, honey. It's time for mama to shine.

"I think you should have asked me about my personal code of work ethics."

"Okay, then! Go ahead!"

And that's when I finally got on the ball and started selling myself.

There's no such thing as It's not my job. Anything anyone asks me to do is my job.

In the unlikely event that I run out of things to do, I will ask for more work.

There's no such thing as I don't know. It's I'm not sure, but I will find out for you.

I keep my home life at home. I don't bring my problems to the office.

Unless I'm absolutely impossibly swamped, I will always help a colleague when asked.

I don't freak out under pressure.

I don't whine.

I make a point to be the kind of person that I would want to work with -- kind, helpful and professional.

It'll be two weeks before I know if I made "first cut." If so, there will be follow-up questions and/or some sort of task to complete... They're not really sure, at this point, what the rest of the process will look like. Fun, huh?

My tits looked great.

Posted at 08:08 AM | Comments (3)

June 29, 2010

Updating the Loose Ends: Part I

And by "loose end," I don't mean Heather's butt.

Thanks, folks! I'm here all week! Two shows on Saturday!

(Heather, don't pout. You know I'd eat dinner off your ass, if you'd let me.)

Anyhoo, here's the low-down on what's abuzz at Wenchie's Workplace, but keep the low-down on the down-low, Internets. Yeah, I'm lookin' at you!

Barry the Ferret

Following Barry's tactless instructions, I went on vacation and was merrily absent from work for three days. In that time, Head Boss handled Ol' Beady Eyes with great aplomb.

Barry's first and last mistake of the day was walking into Head Boss' office, tossing PhD Boss' expense report on the desk, and demanding, "What is it with this guy?"

A move made even stupider when you know how much higher up on the food chain Head Boss is than Barry.

Head Boss then carefully and condescending explained to Barry that he doesn't have time to comb through PhD's receipts and check for excessive tipping or five-dollar mystery charges. "How much money are we ultimately talking about here?"

"Thirteen dollars."

"I will tell PhD to be more careful in the future. And YOU," he tossed the paper back at Barry. "Process this as it is."

And the only thing more awesome that Head Boss' shutting down of Barry was how tickled he was when describing it to me upon my return. Hee!

The Invitation

Even though he's not at work, PhD still calls me at least twice a day. Mind you, 90% of the time, he has no actual information -- he's just calling to "check in" and see if I "need anything." Jeebus, if I didn't know better, I'd think he has a crush on me.

During one of these calls, he sprang this on me:

"So I was thinking. I should have you and Husband over for a BBQ or something sometime. It could be just the four of us -- you, me, Husband and Girlfriend. Cuz, you know, we're grown adults. I think we could do that."

I just... don't even know about the "grown adult" comment, nor do I care to speculate. It's just so... it's like he's an alien life form trying to learn how to be human.

While he was talking, my brain was screaming

DEAR GOD, NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!

But my mouth was saying, "Yeah, sure, that'd be great!"

Thank God I have a shred of self-preservation.

When I hung up, I immediately turned to Alpha, "PhD wants me and Husband to go to his house for a BBQ!"

She must have recognized the panic in my eyes, and she assured me, "Oh, don't worry. He invites everyone over to his house. But he always cancels at the last minute. One year, he called off our department Christmas party the day before!"

I hope she's right. I can imagine few things more awkward than BBQing with PhD.

Interview

If you happen to read this prior to 10:30 a.m. CDT today (Tuesday), please send good ju-ju my way. I am interviewing for another position in a different department. It's a department I have temped in three times before. Why three times? Because I won their hearts, and twice just wasn't enough!

What with all the down-sizing around here, the position I've applied for is actually a compilation of the three positions that I temped in! I KNOW! The job was MADE for me!

Frankly, I should just be able to walk in the building tomorrow, pack my desk, and take all my shit up one floor to my new job. And the people in that department have unanimously declared their desire to see me do just that!

However, there are pesky, bureaucratic hoops to jump through. And a very racist H.R. Troll #2 to get past. Sadly, despite Norwegians being constantly depicted as raping, pilliaging, horned-helmut-wearing barbarians, I'm not sufficiently downtrodden enough to be a minority.

Also? My skin's as white as Christmas snow. More also? The only words I can say in Spanish will either get me a beer or make you blush.

I was really freaking over this interview for a while, but now I feel like -- well, she's either decided to let them hire me, or to throw up every red-tape roadblock that she can think of. And whichever it is, it's already set in her mind. So why sweat it?

But that doesn't mean you shouldn't make with the ju-ju. After all, my employer is in the business of miracles, right?

Fingers and toes crossed, my flying monkeys...

Posted at 06:34 AM | Comments (1)

June 20, 2010

Rage-Induced Black-Outs: Part II

Thursday, I experienced a rage-induced black-out at the hand's of our unit account. Every department at work has a specific liaison to the accounting department, and ours is Barry. Barry, with his close-set eyes and food-mooching ways. He's basically a ferret.

I say this having only known one actual ferret in my life. Billi's ferret. The one she had when she got her own apartment. The one she thought it was fun to let out of its cage when company was over. The one that wouldn't let me sit down.

Oh, you heard me. I'd sit on the couch, and that little fucker would climb up inside it, up through the cushions, and bite me on the ass. Every! Time!

It didn't bite anyone else one the ass. Just me. It didn't even bit me on any other body part. Just the ass. Clearly, Billi's ferret had some kind of weird fetish. It was a fetish ferret. (What a great band name!)

But when I wasn't sitting down, the ferret was sweet as could be. So I guess it's unfair to Billi's ass-munching ferret to compare it to Barry. Barry is never sweet. If there are ten ways to say something politely, and one way to say it condescendingly, he will find the latter.

Although, I don't believe he's evil at heart. I believe he was raised by wolves and has absolutely zero concept of human social interaction. But I think he'd be surprised to discover that everyone who works with him thinks he is a complete jerk. Not that ignorance of civility is an excuse, but it does make me think twice about deliberately making someone cry.

Anyhoo, part of my job is to do PhD Boss' company expense report. This means matching up receipts to his monthly statement, filling out a form, and designating each charge to the correct budget line. Mind you, there is no published set of directions for this task. There's never been any class or training. And it all has to be done manually, i.e. with paper and pen.

It's ridiculous. So it's no wonder that I always seem to screw up on some minuscule detail. And oh, what pleasure Barry derives from pointing out my mistakes!

He starts by coming over to my desk, plopping down the finished report (with all attached receipts and forms, signed by PhD and Head Boss), and saying, "Well, this was a nice effort, Wenchie."

See what I mean? Ten perfectly civil ways to say that, and he chooses the douche-y one. He then proceeded to take five minutes to explain to me that there was a five dollar charge on PhD's Hyatt bill without a receipt, and that he added a tip to a dinner receipt that'd already had gratuity added to it.

Yes. PhD is in trouble for being generous. And Head Boss is in trouble for allowing it. And I'm in trouble for... oh, I don't know. Not caring?

Barry: So Head Boss needs to see these things and decide what he wants to do about them, since he signed off on the report.

PW: Okay, well, he's coming in at 7:30 tomorrow. You can stop by in--

B: No. Here's what you're going to do.

>:O

WHAT DID HE JUST SAY TO ME?!?!

I have no idea what came after that because I was too busy restraining myself from going all Jerry Springer on his ass. I literally have no idea what he thought I was "going to do."

You see, no one talks to me that way. My parents don't; they never did. Husband certainly doesn't. Even PhD Boss has never told me what I'm going go do.

I've worked my ass off for every tiny crumb of respect I've ever gotten in the business world. And THE HELL I'm going to let some pissant fucking ferret talk to me like I'm some idiot, piece-of-shit rookie!!!

When I came to, Barry was gone, and I'm not even sure how I got home that evening.

When I told Head Boss about it the next morning, he rolled his eyes and said, "Well, I don't want to talk to him. I've already had to report him to H.R. several times."

Awesome. But I'm not letting H.R. do my dirty work for me. Clearly, a mere reporting has no effect on the guy. No, the next time he talks down to me, he's going to get a face-full of Wenchie's scariest speechifying. I put the Brutal in Brutal Honesty. Ferret is a dead man walkin'.

Should've asked me nicely.

Posted at 07:52 AM | Comments (3)

June 18, 2010

Rage-Induced Black-Outs: Part I

Sometimes drunks experience black-outs. People can experience a memory black-out after a traumatic experience, which is basically their brain protecting them from memories of horrible, horrible shit.

Me? I experience black-outs when people are rude to me.

And I'm not talking cut-me-off-in-traffic rude, or check-out-girl-who-can't-be-bothered-to-acknowledge-my-presence-with-a-mono-syllabic-greeting rude. I'm talking about the kind of rude when something completely amazing comes out of someone's mouth, to my ears, directed at me personally.

But not like, "You're such a bitch," or, "You play with dolls?!?!." That kind of stuff just makes me laugh.

What really sets me off is when people -- mainly men -- utter thoughts so archaic that I'm left wondering if I'm allowed to vote in the next election, or if all that silliness was just a pleasant dream I had. And even worse -- the chauvenistic, misogynistic ideas that they utter are so ingrained into their psyche that they don't even know they've said anything offensive!

Example: Several times, at my current place of indentured servitude, when discussing "career moves" (i.e. job changes) with a male boss, I have been asked, "Have you talked to your husband about this?"

>:O

That is my Holy Fucking Shit, Did He Really Just Say That? face. This face is often accompanied by a numbness on the left side of my body, and the inability to hear anything else said for the duration of the conversation.

Translation: "Does your husband know you're doing this, and has he given you permission? Because God knows that no one with a uterus is qualified to make a decision about their own life! Why don't you go back to your knitting and your Sex in the City reruns and leave the heavy thinking to us men? Now here's fifty dollars -- go buy yourself something pretty."

I told Husband about this once, after about the third time it happened.

He was all, "Well, of course, they expect you to talk things over with me. I'm your husband. We make decisions together."

"Uh-uh. No. That was not the implication."

"How do you know?"

"In the four times that you've changed jobs since we've been married, has anyone ever asked YOU if you've talked things over with ME?"

*silence*

*nervous cough from an audience member*

"Exactly," I said.

"Well, Jen asked me."

"Of course, JEN asked you! She's a WOMAN! Only another WOMAN is going to give a moment's thought as to how starting your own company is going to affect your WIFE!!!"

And then the flames that were shooting out of my nostrils set the kitchen towel on fire, and we had to stop talking and extinguish the blaze.

I suppose it's only natural that a man would wonder if me taking on a few more responsibilities would really be worth the extra bushel of potatos I'd be bringing home, since it would obviously interfere with my ability to come home after an eight-hour day and cook and clean and care for the children and tend to the harvest.

Don't you worry, Mr. Man. I won't be coming home and plopping down on the couch and watching t.v. all night. I know there are clothes to be mended and pies to be baked! I know my place, don't you worry!

Asswipe.

Posted at 06:30 AM | Comments (1)

June 16, 2010

Meet the Interns!

I think we could all use a little levity around here, after the last few posts, don't you? I know -- let's make fun of the company's summer interns! Yay!

H.R. did something new and cutesie this year. They made the interns write little autobiographical paragraghs, which were emailed to the entire company. Adorable!

[Padawan is going to kill me for making fun of the interns, as she loves them dearly. But you know, my department can't afford an intern, so mocking them is the only possible way I can benefit from their presence. Indulge me.]

Hello! My name is A.S. and I am a senior Political Science major with Peace Studies and Gender, Women and Sexuality Studies minors at Blah Blah College.

Wow. She sounds fun.

Hi! I'm C.P. a recent college graduate with elusive plans for the future; I plan to go where the wind takes me, pray for me! You'll most likely hear me before you see me and even when you're stand right next you might just miss me, I'm short! I can be found anywhere there is coffee. My family and friends mean the world to me only they know how crazy I can get. Home is nowhere yet everywhere; I'm a TCK (Third Culture Kid). I love talking so stop by for a chat!

Thanks for the warning! I'm not coming within twenty yards of this one. Even to correct her grammer.

E.A. - I have always wanted to move north and become a Chicagoan. I am excited to test the waters of living here while interning. I have always loved to write and tell stories, and that love led me to the Blah Blah School of Journalism where I spent the last four years learning about all the creative ways stories can be told. I also spent much of my time working with my campus ministry and service groups throughout Missouri on many different projects to try to make a difference in the community. My ultimate goal is to work for a nonprofit organization where I can use my journalism skills to publicize education and poverty issues. My hope is that working for the magazine this summer will be a perfect bridge to connect my past and future work and education.

Is it wrong to be annoyed by her sunshiney attitude? Is it also wrong to want to contribute to her delinquency? As God is my witness, before the summer is over, this girl will be puking in someone's bushes!

Hello, my name is J.S. I am a theater education major at Illinois State University, hoping to get a job at a High School teaching theater and running the Theater department. I am auditioning for the Acting program at Illinois State in the Fall and hope to find success on stage.

Then what the hell are you doing here? Must be some executive's nephew.

Hi everyone! My name is J.R. and I am extremely excited to be interning here this summer! I became especially interested in hunger and justice during my senior year at college after I took a really thought-provoking class about World Christianity. I really enjoy dancing, drinking tea, Twitter, and summer.

Another one to avoid. "Drinking tea, Twitter, and summer"??? Hmm. Seems we don't have much in common. Oh, wait, I'm interested in hunger, too! Specifically, curing mine with some Ho-Hos.

[Okay, Padawan, I've satiated my need to mock, and I dutifully await my punishment.]

Posted at 06:22 AM | Comments (2)

June 14, 2010

The Selfish Thing, Revisited

Oh, my God, the insanity just doesn't STOP! PhD Boss is a complete piece of FILTH! Just wait until the end of this post, my darlings -- you will feel the same way. I hope you're sitting down because your blood pressure is in for a roller coaster ride.

We remember when PhD Boss did The Selfish Thing, in the absence of a department head, a support person, and any sign of brain activity from Head Boss, right? Well, not long after that incident...

HE DID IT AGAIN!!!

Holy shit, it's like he was hatched from an alien egg without a soul! How does this asshole look at himself in the mirror every day?!

Sorry. Deep breaths, Wenchie. You need to get to the meat of the story before the flying monkeys' eyes glaze over and they start wondering what to have for lunch.

Okay. After Head Boss, PhD Boss, and my predecessor -- I'll call her Eden -- all got settled into their new positions, Alpha was finally free to take some personal leave for continuing education. (This is not only tolerated where I work, it is encouraged.)

Now, she knew that, with all new staff, and other bureaucratic changes, there needed to be a restructuring of the department. Job descriptions needed to be revamped, but Alpha had already put off her continuing ed. for a year. So Head Boss assured her that they would all sit down and figure it out when she came back to work in three months, and Alpha went merrily on her way to better herself and become a more valuable employee.

Well, as you may imagine, she needn't have bothered. Head Boss broke it to her on her first day back.

"You're not going to like this. We reworked all the positions while you were on leave."

Does that not make your blood run cold? What does PhD have on Head Boss to keep bending him to his will?! Nude photos? Gay porn? Nude photos with Bea Arthur?

Turns out that, with the new job descriptions, Alpha got more responsibilities, but less authority. Her position was also downgraded one level, essentially from Junior Executive to Executive Administrative Assistant.

They didn't actually take any salary away from her (this time!!!), but being at a diminished level, it lowers the amount at which her salary will cap out. Wait, so, yeah -- I guess they did take money away from her. They just did it in the future.

Look! A white woman! Get her! Make sure she can't rise beyond glorified secretary on the corporate ladder!

Fuckers.

And Eden's job? Well, instead of being support person to PhD Boss, Alpha and Head Boss, she became PhD's support person. Soley. Which was obviously the entire point of the restructuring -- to make Alpha into Head Boss' support person, so PhD could have a secretary all to himself.

And that's the job that I stepped into. No wonder Eden got the hell outta there as quickly as she could.

*sigh*

It scares me, frankly, that PhD has been so (relatively) nice to me so far. I wonder when the other shoe will drop and I'll find a letter opener tucked between my vertabrae. I also wonder if it's already happened and I just haven't discovered it, yet.

And it's funny that I use the word "nice" because I don't really mean thoughtful or kind, I just mean "nice" in that he has refrained from royally fucking me over. He sure as hell ain't thoughtful.

Who got me a card and treats for my birthday? Alpha.

Who gave me a card with some cash tucked into it for Christmas? Head Boss.

Who took me out to lunch on Administrative Professionals' Day? Head Boss. After I reminded him.

Who took me out to lunch on my one year anniversary in this shitty job? Alpha.

Who brings in fresh baked goodies once a month? Me!

Who doesn't know that my opinion of him has done a complete one-eighty and that he will soon be facing both his own comeuppance and an empty support staff cubicle?

Pee. Aich. Dee. Boss.

Posted at 06:26 AM | Comments (1)

June 11, 2010

Not Crystal Clear, but Definitely Less Muddy

Wow. The Universe/God/Fate/Karma really has a knack for bringing things into sharp focus, just when you need it. And in ways that are completely unexpected.

If I were a full-on Christian who has accepted Jesus Christ as my personal savior -- and not the habit-Christian who has less of a belief system and more of a bunch of theories that are in a constant state of flux -- I might say that... God was working through Alpha to bring me some clarity...

I don't think she meant to tell me what she told me, as it kind of reflects badly upon Head Boss, and she is SOOOOOO mother-hen-protective of Head Boss. But we were out to lunch on a beautiful day, when no one wants to be at work, and tongues were wagging, and in such cases, people often... over-divulge.

Here's what she told me.

About four years ago, my predecessor hadn't yet started, her predecessor Zoe had just left, PhD Boss was brand new, Alpha had been there for ten years, Head Boss hadn't yet started, and his predecessor was slowly dying of cancer. Got all that? Go ahead and re-read, if you need to. No one will know.

With no support person and no department head, the burden of keeping the unit functioning lay squarely on PhD and Alpha. For six months, they ran the show, until Head Boss came on board. One of his first priorities was to become familiar with the budget.

In going over the numbers with Alpha, Head Boss learned that money had been budgeted to give Zoe a raise. Zoe was no longer there, but the money still was. So Head Boss asked Alpha what she thought they should do with it.

And this is where character comes into play.

Did Alpha say, "Oh, give it to me because I'm a single mom who has never received a penny of child support from my deadbeat ex, and I'm trying to put my daughter through college"?

No. No, she did not.

She said, "PhD and I have been working really hard picking up the slack these past six months. I think you should split the money between us."

And Head Boss thought that was a good idea. Until he shared the idea with PhD. And somehow, when Head Boss came away from that conversation with PhD, he thought that giving all the money to PhD was a better idea.

I'll just let that sink in for a moment.

Later, when Alpha didn't see a change in her paycheck and asked Head Boss about it, he told her that PhD had convinced him that he "really needed it." Yeah, you heard that right -- a PhD pulling down PhD-pay with a wife who was also working, and no kids, apparently "needed it" more than single mom Alpha.

First of all, one of my HUGEHUGEHUGEST contentions with businesses is that they tend to give people money based on need, or even worse -- perceived need. (I.e. Wenchie lives in an affluent suburb and therefore doesn't need to make any more money.) Whereas pay should be based solely on what people deserve through their hard work, or lack of it.

But in this case, the need issue is dwarfed by the fact that PhD Boss essentially STOLE ALPHA'S MONEY RIGHT OUT FROM UNDER HER. Head Boss had already agreed to splitting the extra raise money. It was intended for her. And then PhD somehow manipulated Head Boss into going back on what he had told Alpha he would do.

HOLY FUCKING SHIT.

I'm having heart palpitations just thinking about it. People, you don't fuck with another person's money! It's one of the most basic rules of decency! You don't wipe your boogers on someone's jacket; you don't eat from a stranger's plate in a restaurant; and you DON'T FUCK with someone else's MONEY.

I am so sickened by this. PhD had a choice: to do The Right Thing -- which would have entailed, essentially, doing NOTHING and just letting Head Boss' decision stand -- or doing The Selfish Thing. And he chose The Selfish Thing. He went out of his way and put effort into doing The Selfish Thing.

What does that say about his character, especially when compared to Alpha's character? PhD didn't know about the extra money when Head Boss talked with Alpha about it. Alpha could have convinced the apparently-easily-swayed Head Boss to give it all to her, and PhD would have been none the wiser. But she didn't. She did what was Fair and Just.

Good God, how does that woman come to work every day and not spit in their coffee?

When confronted with Alpha's "How could you do that to me?" Head Boss admitted that he regretted it. ... But he didn't change it. Doesn't speak very well to his character, but at least he has the decency to feel bad. I doubt PhD even thinks he did anything wrong.

I am so, so thankful that Alpha waited until a year after my start with this department to tell me about this incident. PhD Boss is on a three-month personal leave right now, praise God. Because if I had to come into work and see his face every day, I don't think I could be civil to him. He is everything that's wrong with corporate gender politics, and I no longer have an ounce of respect for him.

And THAT, my friends, is what gives me such a sense of clarity regarding my employment options.

I really hope that my current contract isn't renewed. And I certainly am never going to work for PhD in his new venture because I know that I am just a tool for his use, and he will never, EVER do what's right by me. And if I do end up getting one of the two possible other positions in the company, I will give PhD Boss my resignation with a smile on my face and a song in my heart.

So thank you, Alpha, for making my choices a little bit clearer.

Posted at 08:13 AM | Comments (2)

June 09, 2010

No Really, I Really Am an Idiot

I know I have expounded on my own idiocy before, but I reeeeeeeally stepped in it this time. I'm sick to my stomach just thinking about it.

Soon after getting into work this morning, my phone rang, and it was H.R. Troll #2 (HRT2). She asked if I could come to her office for a minute.

Immediately, my blood pressure rose, and I popped up to whimper fearfully to the woman in the cube next to me, "HRT2 wants to see me in her office! She's gonna tell me I have no chance of getting the job!"

"Calm down. She's just going to ask you if PhD Boss and Head Boss know you applied, so she knows if she needs to be secret or not."

Well, she's applied to, like, five other positions in the past year, so I figure she must know the routine. (Oh, she's a white woman in her 50s. Why do you ask?)

So I went over to HRT2's office, and she handed me my application form. The one I had filled out two weeks prior.

Backstory on the application form: After spending an entire weekend having everyone I know check my resume and cover letter for mistakes and awesomeness, those two documents could single-handedly get me elected Benevolent Dictator for Life. After turning them in to H.R., I was informed that I also had to fill out an application form. Like I wanted to flip burgers or something. And it was basically asking for all the information that was ON MY RESUME, but I had to fill it out anyway. So I did. Quickly.

Anyhoo, we then had this conversation:

HRT2: Tell me what's wrong on your application.

PW: Um... [searching] Hmm... [panicking] Should I not have put my home email?

HRT2: The UNIT!

And there it was. Instead of putting the name of the unit that I was applying to, I put the name of the unit I'm currently in.

Big fucking faux pas, right? Jeez, it's not like I put Security or Accounting or something equally unlikely. I was filling it out quickly and misunderstood it. The resume and the cover letter is what you should be scrutinizing, bitch! Who cares about some redundant, bureaucratic form?!

Oh, but it wasn't about the form, was it, my friends? No. It was about subtley letting me know that I am not the person for this job, as far as she's concerned.

In fact, she actually said to me, "You know, they're going to be looking for someone who's on top of things."

And I was so flustered and angry with myself for giving that bitch such an OPENING, that I didn't come back with what I should have said -- "Yeah, well, I think the time I spent with them convinced them that I'm pretty on top of things, which is why they asked me back. Twice."

But we never think of these comebacks when we need them, do we, my darlings? No. We do not. I'm just not quick on my feet when I'm so emotionally invested in something.

So I changed the application and returned it to her. She acted like she had done me some huge favor, even telling me that I now owe her one. Riiiiiiiiight. As far as karma goes, that hag owes me a unicorn with a rainbow mane and butterscotch-scented manure.

I am feeling so completely defeated. I just handed it to her. I handed her a heaping helping of my own stupidity on a silver platter. And then she carried the stack of applications up to the department I covet. It was a pretty thick stack.

Posted at 06:30 AM | Comments (2)

June 07, 2010

Options, In No Particular Order

For the past few weeks, I've been struggling. Struggling to sleep, struggling to focus on the task at hand, struggling with too many choices. Employment choices, to be exact. The next few weeks to months will mean changes in how I make money, if I make any.

There are so many ways this all could play out, it's overwhelming, but I can't tolerate the thought of just letting it all work itself out. I want to be in charge of my own life, but there are so many decisions that fall to other people. The control freak in me is slamming her head against the wall.

[I trust that the handfull of people whom I work with and who read this blog will keep my secrets.]

Option #1: My Current Job
My contract ends August 31, less than three months away, and it's unclear whether or not it will be renewed. I know Head Boss wants to keep me, as do PhD Boss and Alpha (the Sr. Admin.), but I'm sure that the trolls in H.R. have other ideas. Since I am neither a Person of Color, nor a Youth, nor a member of the Boys Club, I am pretty much a leper.

Option #2: The Recently Applied For Position (RAFP)
I recently applied for another position in the company I'm with now. Higher level, better pay, and PERMANANT. The job is made for me, really. Because of downsizing, it's a combination of three positions, all of which I've actually done before, in my intra-company travels as a temp. I'm currently waiting for an initial interview.

However -- and there's always a however with these people -- as much as the people I'd be working for/with would LOVELOVELOVE to see me get the RAFP, I know that, as a 40 year old white woman, I am basically invisible to H.R., specifically in terms of any promotion. Also? If I do get the RAFP, I will be offered crap pay, for the usual reasons -- skin color, gender, age.

(My working title for this post was "Why Being a 40-Year Old White Woman Is the Kiss of Death.")

Option #3: Possible Other Position (POP)
There is a possible second job within the company, the one that will be vacated when JB skips town. However, that department is currently undergoing yet another "re-structuring" (i.e. scramble to make sure all responsibilities are covered despite the hemorraging of employees). I have been approached by JB's boss, whom I've temped for, and sure, I'd be interested! ... If everything else falls through. See, there probably won't be a pay increase, and it may even be just parttime. Which is better than NO time, obviously, so I will keep this iron in the fire.

Option #4: The New Venture
This option is highly-classified-top-secret, so of COURSE I'm blogging about it on the worldwide internets. PhD Boss may be leaving to start a new venture, which isn't exactly illegal, so I don't know why it's a big, hairy secret. It's a pretty exciting venture, and he wants me in on it, as their support person. Seven to ten hours a week, at first, working up to fulltime within a year to eighteen months. There's just so much unknown and so much to finesse with this one. It's a huge honor, considering the brilliant people I'd be working for/with, but right now, it's just a giant question mark.

Option #5: Unemployment
This isn't much of an option, although it may be an unavoidable eventuality. It is quite possible that options one through four all fall through. And then I'll be stuck begging for odd jobs and going on *gulp* INTERVIEWS. Have I mentioned that I've never, ever interviewed? Yeah. My jobs have always just falled into my lap. I have no idea how to interview, and I can't help but feel that relying on my quick wit and charm is a really bad idea.

Option #6: Ridiculous Idea
I've often wondered if people would PAY me to run their errands for them...

Posted at 06:25 AM | Comments (0)

May 31, 2010

txts or sumn

I have a friend, Padawan* -- actually, I'm kind of inheriting her. My other friend, JB, is LEAVING ME FOREVER when her hubby gets a call (i.e. goes to be a pastor at a church) in one of the Dakotas (forget which one, don't care, they're both far away). Padawan sits next to JB, and is awesome and smart-as-hell and young and a savvy dresser and instantly makes me cooler by just standing near me.

Anyway, Padawan and I are friends through JB, so when JB CRUELLY ABANDONS US, Padawan and I will no doubt be latching onto each other in our grief. Meanwhile, JB will be in Bumblefuck, Something Dakota, where there are no employment opportunities except Pastor or Forest Ranger, so she'll get to be all unemployed and slacker and lucky. Bitch.

And then in six months, Padawan and I will be all:

"JB who?"
"Remember? She used to wear the sweaters?"
"Ohhhh, right."

AAAAAAAAAAAANYway. Padawan. Me. Friends. And that's how I became privy to this little treasure trove of crazy. Padawan's cell phone number is, apparently, one number off from someone who... well, we'll just let the texts speak for themselves.

Text #1, received on a weekday afternoon:

Come blaze wit a sista. its liz

I'm not entirely certain, but I think the text can be translated as such:

I am inviting you to smoke marijuana with your fellow African American female. This is Elizabeth.

(Yes, I realize that I am racist for assuming that the text sender is black, but I've never heard any Chinese women refer to themselves as "sista," so I'm going with what I know.)

Mind you, Padawan is a responsible young adult and does not know anyone who spends their Tuesday afternoons getting stoned (because she hasn't met my extended family, yet), so she did not reply.

A little while later, she got another text from the same number:

We can sit outside or sumn. its jus me njoe

Apparently, Elizabeth and I have different cell phone providers because I get to use 140 characters in one text, and she only gets 43. Hence the very clever spelling of what I assume is supposed to be "something," and the lack of space between "n" and "joe." Personally, with such restrictions, I would go with an ampersand (&) instead of "n," but to each his own.

Padawan is really a kind-hearted person and did not want Elizabeth and Joseph to think that their stoner friend was ignoring them, or dead from some kind of overdose or a drug deal gone wrong, so she politely texted back:

You have the wrong number.

Now, you'd think that Padawan's use of correct spelling and grammer would be a tip-off that she's not one of their home girls. But she got this text in reply:

o da hell this is tj jim even told me

Hmmmm. Despite the lack of periods, I believe this is three sentences:

Oh, the hell it is the wrong number. You are T.J. Jim even told me that this is your number.

So Padawan tried again:

You have the wrong number. Please stop txting. I get wrong calls for that person often. Tell your friends, too. Thank you.

Well, that must've convinced them because she didn't hear anything strange for a few days.

And then she got this at 5:45 a.m.:

well thanks for leavin me with danny when i dont got any medicine for him to quit burning up really a good mom bitch

Huh. It would appear that Padawan's alter-phone-ego, TJ, is a mother. And a bad one. I would traslate this as:

Well, thank you for going off to smoke pot with your fellow African American females and leaving me with Danny when I don't have any medicine for his fever. You are a very good mother, bitch.

Clearly, this is sarcasm, and the texter does not really think that TJ is a good mother. But how did the texter get stuck with TJ's kid? Are they roommates? Lovers? Is the texter TJ's teenaged offspring, annoyed at being left with a baby?

Now I want to know more about these people! Does Danny get well? How many children does TJ have? Does Joe live with her? If so, in what capacity? I hope Padawan gets more texts.

And I promised her that I'd let her read this post before it goes live, since this is her first appearance on my blog, buuuuuuuuut... I think she'll be fine with it.

* She picked her own name.

Posted at 07:42 AM | Comments (0)

May 24, 2010

Lunch Orders

I leave the office building every, single day for lunch. I often go out to Potbelly's or Jason's with friends. But even when my friends are busy, I still get out and go home to eat lunch, and to take the dogs out.

Partly it's because preparing a lunch ahead of time is a huge hassle. I'm not five, so a PB&J and a juice box isn't going to cut it for me. I require more elaborate lunches, which would necessitate planning and shopping and prepping and special packaging for transport. Remember Molly Ringwald's sushi lunch in "The Breakfast Club?"

I would need something at that level. And alas, I have no maid to prepare it for me.

But mostly, I leave for lunch every day because I need to get the hell out of there. No, PhD Boss, I don't want to go grab a salad at the deli downstairs and eat in one of the meeting rooms with you. I get enough of you in an eight-hour day. I am not pining to spend yet another hour with you, trapped inside harvest-orange walls.

If you want to have lunch with me, you must leave the building. Sadly, he will not leave his email for the amount of time it takes to wolf down a tuna salad sammich, so he will never, EVER have the pleasure of my company during lunch.

Anyhoo, every day, I don my purse and sunglasses, and with car keys in hand, I head to the bank of elevators. And without fail, I run into some colleague who bids me to, "Have a good lunch!"

God, that annoys me to no end!!! It's such a non-communication. Like, "Hihowareyou." Or, "Hot enough for you?" They relay absolutely no information. They are verbal puke -- reflexive and utterly worthless.

Have a nice lunch. DON'T TELL ME WHAT TO DO! Gee, I was planning on having a crappy lunch, but since you told me otherwise, I believe I will go with your idea for my lunch. Thanks for your well wishes! They certainly turned my day around!

Also? Duh. Of COURSE, I will have a good lunch. Even without your prompting, I will have a lunch that doesn't suck. Know why?

1. I wont be here.

2. There will be food. Food of my choosing. Food that someone else will cook for me and bring to me. That is the dictionary definition of "a good lunch."

So don't worry about me, co-workers! I can handle this lunch thingy all by myself! No need to throw your two cents in! Go choke on your microwavable, low-fat fish entree! And have a nice day.

Posted at 06:33 AM | Comments (1)

May 20, 2010

The Levels of Office Attire

PhD Boss was waxing philosophic the other day...

PhD: It's so quiet. I wonder why it's so quiet around here.

PW: Um, could it be the impending sense of doom? Knowing that another round of lay-offs is a WHEN, not an IF?

PhD: Really?

PW: Or it could be the bitterness of knowing that, despite taking on the responsibilities of all the people who were laid-off, none of us are getting a raise for at least two years.

PhD: You think that's it?

PW: I know that's why I'm bitter.

PhD: Are you bitter?

PW: Have we met?

I was relating this story to my work-friend, JB -- yes, she and I hate all the same people -- and she said that she was noticing a definite decline in the appropriateness of what people are wearing to work.

Since JB and I are both facing probable impending unemployment -- she because her hubby will soon be taking a job in a galaxy far, far away; me because my contract expires on August 31 -- we decided we should probably document...

The Levels of Office Attire

Suits, Ties, Skirts
The upper-echelon of business wear. I have made my career decisions specifically to avoid having to wear tailored jackets and waist-to-toe nylons.

Button-Down Shirt, Dress Slacks
Okay, you're not full-on formal, but you're obviously still a contender.

Polo, Khakis
De rigour for business casual. The uniform of mid-level executives and Target employees alike.

Henleys & Corduroys, Hoodies & Jeans
Perhaps, if you dress them up with a bespangled scarf, no one will notice that you're losing interest.

Yoga Pants, T-Shirt with Necklace
When your job is slowly sucking your soul, you don't have to energy to take off your clothes before crawling into bed and going fetal for ten hours. (I have a fabulous necklace collection. Even PhD Boss has said so.)

Walking Around the Office with Shoes Off, Socks Optional
Some people spend so much time dicking around on Facebook, they forget they aren't at home.

Sweats or Shorts
I firmly believe that capris fit in here, especially when worn with flip-flops or Crocs, but some may argue. Those some are wrong.

Pajamas
Plaid, flannel pants. Oversized t-shirt. Bathrobe. Perpetual mug of coffee, optional. Did you know that, with Netflix, you can stream cartoons directly to your computer?

Bathrobe
JB: Wait. We just covered that.
PW: No, I mean bathrobe only. When you don't even care if people see your wang.

Posted at 06:32 AM | Comments (0)

May 17, 2010

Why I Should Be Fired: Reason #42

So after a work day that literally included five minutes where me and PhD boss just sat and made stupid faces at each other on Skype (despite the fact that our desks are literally ten feet apart)...

"This is you. Du-huh-uh..."
"Well, this is you. Gar-rrr-llll..."
"Well, this is you. Uh-doiiiiieeeeee..."

...he says to me, "I should probably stop being so goofy at work. That's not cool for a boss."

So I says, "PhD, do you think I don't respect you because you're goofy sometimes?"

"Maybe..."

"Noooooooo, honey. I don't respect you because you're an idiot."

And then I laughed for five minutes. Hey, he's got no one to blame but himself for that one.

Posted at 06:15 AM | Comments (1)

May 10, 2010

Where the &*%@ Is Shenzhen?

My cousin, Ramone, works at a company whose name I'm not going to share, working with big machinery... making parts for stuff. I'm not being secretive; I seriously have no idea what he does for a living.

Anyhoo, he occassionally gets cold-call emails from companies overseas wanting to do business with his company. And because he knows that I love to mock, he forwards them along to me.

Like this one, from Shenzhen:

Dear Sir,

How are you doing recently?
The weather in Shenzhen is becoming hot and hot these days,
I feel summer is coming though it is still spring.

Today I would like to send some mold pictures for your reference,
They are molds for medical, TechCo made all of them.
And if you develop any new plastic parts or meet any technical problems,
please feel free to let me know, TechCo will be very happy to provide you big help.

Welcome to your inquiry,
we will give you our best quotation at the earliest time.
hope we will work together in the near future.
TechCo will spare no effort to make your project perfect.

Looking forward to hearing from you soon.
Have a nice day.
Best regards.

Crystal Wan
Sales of Marketing Department

Ah, so many little gems in there. And no fewer than three sign-offs!

But clearly, the stand-out winner is "happy to provide you big help." Heap big help! Me help you long time!

Oh, like we didn't know I'm a racist! Okay, I'm posing a serious question here -- is thinking that all Catholic bishops look alike considered racist?

We recently rented our meeting space at work to a bunch of Catholic bishops. Father Mulligan came to me during their morning break and asked if he could have something faxed to him here. I said Sure and gave him our fax number. My instructions were to bring the fax to him in the meeting as soon as it arrived.

Yeah, cuz that's not intimidating at ALL, walking into a room of twenty bishops.

So the fax arrived. I hoisted up my pants and straightened my shirt and finger-combed my bangs, readying myself to interrupt the flow of the Holy Catholic Spirit. Hopefully, I wouldn't trip or be struck by lightening or anything. A rain of frogs is really hard to get out of the carpet.

Fax in hand, I peeked into the meeting room, looked around the room for Father Mulligan... and had no freakin' idea which one he was. Mind you, I'd just seen him less than an hour ago. But the room was FILLED with old, white, clean-shaved, white-haired men! I didn't know what to do!

Should I call, "Father Mulligan?" Should I clear my throat and wave the fax over my head? Should I go and find someone who knows Father Mulligan to point him out to me?

Thank God Father Mulligan finally waved to the stupid, racist secretary staring like a deer in the headlights of an Ford F150. There was no way I was gonna figure that shit out on my own.

Posted at 06:39 AM | Comments (0)

May 06, 2010

The Basis of Work Friendships

Recently, at an all-staff meeting at work, I was invited to sit with the cool girls when an older, VERY-out lesbian waved me over to an empty chair next to her shouting, "Come sit in the gay section!"

On that particular day, "the gay section" was made up of three women: one of whom I know well, one I know a little bit, and one I don't know at all. Kind of like Goldilocks and the Three Dykes. (I don't know where all the gay men were sitting. Perhaps in the Snow Hag and the Seven Fags section?)

So I sat next to Gretchen -- the one who called me over, the one I only know kinda-sorta -- and as the presentations wore on, our running commentary became increasingly unprofessional. How nice to discover a kindred spirit, snarky and jaded.

At one point, her disdain became very specific, towards a member of the H.R. department (my sworn enemy, as you know).

But then she stopped herself mid-sentence and said, "Hmm. We need to find out if we hate the same people."

After I stopped laughing, I thought, How sweet. She doesn't want to offend me by talking smack about someone who might be a friend of mine.

And then I realized, Bitch, please. She just doesn't want me narc-ing on her to someone who might be a friend of mine.

But what really struck me was the bare-bones truth of that statement. For isn't that pretty much what all work-friendships are based on -- hating the same people? At least initially. Think about it. When you start a job, people are pretty nice.

But then, as they get used to you, their real personalities come out, until you are forced to look around and find the one person to whom you can whisper conspiratorially, "Jeebus E. Cheese, these people are the candy in the big piñata of crazy!"

Indeed, perhaps Gretchen and I should have lunch and reconcile our enemies lists...

Posted at 06:26 AM | Comments (2)

May 03, 2010

I Haven't Experienced Linear Thought In Three Months

I'm baaaaaaaaaaaaaaack!

Oh my gawd, you guys, I can't blog at work anymore. I'm actually, I think, kinda important. I answered a phone call from the freakin' VATICAN last month. And this isn't even me-exaggerating-for-the-sake-of-humor; I'm totally legit here. (Did you know that even their low-level secretaries are cardinals? Dude was like, "This is Secretary Cardinal Brian Mueller." Seriously? I think I need a title change.)

And now that I'm trained to work on our website and spend half my days mucking around in HTML, I have become the person I feared -- the person who says, "When I get home from work, the last thing I want to do is sit in front of the computer." My blood ran cold just typing that!

I know I've been neglecting you lately, precious blog, precious admirers. And it would be easy to just shrug and say, "Oh, well, I'm busy. Out of my control!" And then snuggle my box of sangria on the couch while watching everything that National Geographic ever produced about ancient Egypt.

BUT NO! I will persevere! When the going gets tough, the tough get blogging! How do I think I'm going to get a novel written if I can't even commit to two measly blog posts a week?! I'm being tested. So here's some crap that's been rattling around my noggin lately.

* * * * *

If you leave a comment and tell me that I'm interesting, informative, or an excellent source of news, I'm going to assume that you are a spam robot. Also, if your name is zxcvbnm.

* * * * *

A few days ago, I was dead tired at 2pm. Not like I-had-pasta-for-lunch-and-need-a-carb-nap tired. More like my-plane-just-landed-in-Japan-and-I-haven't-had-solid-sleep-in-37-hours tired. It was weird. I actually went home after work and slept for two and a half hours, got up, ate dinner, watched "Dirty Dancing" (Damn, I'd forgotten how fucking hot that movie is!), and then went back to sleep for the entire night!

Now, I know that some people feel like they are a woman trapped inside a man's body. Or, there's the old joke, "Somewhere inside this fat body is a skinny person trying to get out!" So, is it possible to be, like, I'm a New Zealander trapped inside a Chicagoan's body? Because my internal clock just isn't on midwestern time. Is there such thing as an internal biological global shift?

If not, I am hereby copyrighting it and claiming all rights. Maybe I'll start a support group...

Posted at 06:26 AM | Comments (1)

April 01, 2010

Office Zen

For April Fool's Day, I thought I'd unleash a bit of crazy on you -- wenchie-style. And not, like, omg-blue-nail-polish! crazy. I'm talkin' was-she-dropped-on-her-head-as-a-baby? crazy. So, you know -- the good kind!

Okay, this week I am obsessing about something completely new that has nothing to do with my appearance, PhD Boss' incomprehensible conversation skills, or Heather's boobs. I'm obsessing about...

My Neighbor's Office

Our across-the-street neighbors go to our church, AND the husband works where I work. They are awesome neighbors who love our dogs and bake us bread. He just happens to be an ordained minister, so I will call him Rev. Neighbor.

[Mom, you know who I'm talking about. You park at our house when you go to parties at their house.]

Rev. Neighbor is a department head and is, therefore, the inhabitant of one of the few corner offices at work. Now. What does one normally find in the offices of the executives where I work?

1. Desk.
2. Computer.
3. Shitload of books.
4. Photo of family.
5. Photo of yourself with the Pope/Archbishop of Cantebury/Random World Leader.
6. Ergonomically-designed chair on wheels.
7. Telephone.
8. Stacks of papers and files.
9. Various gifts from around the world that kind of make your office look like a Morroccan street fair.
10. Maybe a plant.

Right? Right. Variations on a theme of Typical Exec Habitat.

But in Rev. Neighbor's corner office?

1. Big rocking chair.

...

I am completely blown away by the genius of this. And I want to know -- what does he know that the rest of us don't???

Dudes! He doesn't have a desk! Or a horrible, vinyl chair that makes the backs of your thighs sweat and rolls around a hard, plastic sheet on five wheels!

Just a rocking chair.

That is brilliant. And you know what? He is one of the most productive, responsive, organized, got-his-act-together execs in the building. If not THEE most! Dude knows what he's doing.

The implications are staggering.

Yes, he has books. And some papers, although they are neatly filed away. And he has a phone and a laptop. But here's the key, in my theory -- he doesn't treat his office like a combat staging area; he treats it like an extension of his home.

Think about it. What's more personal than a rocking chair? Everyone who has one has a story behind it. "My grandfather made this" or "My mother used to rock me to sleep in this" or "I bought this at the Cracker Barrell after eating too much biscuits and gravy."

In his office, he is comfortable. He is content. He is relaxed. Jeebus in a Jamboree, this guy has a level of pure Zen going on that one rarely sees in this hemisphere!

So what would happen if we just... took away all the desks? No more laminate workspace. No more beige cubicle walls. No more metal cabinets. Just a little personal space with a nice throw rug and perhaps a floor lamp for task lighting. Maybe a rice-paper folding screen for a little privacy and ambiance.

What if we all brought in a comfy chair, and a side table that reflects our individual style? (I'd have Husband build mine.) Stay with me here, folks, I'm dead serious. Think of the feng shui!!! What are we doing by positioning ourselves behind a big hulk of metal and faux wood? Think of how the energy would flow if we all came out from behind our desks!

My stars, I'm practically giddy!

What if we walked around the building and talked to other people instead of sending emails from our desk? That's what Rev. Neighbor does. If I email him, he calls me on the phone. If I call and leave a message, he comes up to talk in person. It's crazy. He acts like... like we're neighbors. All of us.

I have been pondering this for a week. I'm going to have to just flat out ask him what his personal work philosophy is, and then try to apply his answer to my whole life, thereby solving all my problems.

Or else I'll just write the new "Who Moved My Cheese?" and call it "Rocking Chair Office Zen," and everyone in the corporate world will eat it up, and it will become The Next Big Thing, and I'll make a bazillion dollars.

There are many paths to achieving inner peace.

Posted at 08:16 AM | Comments (2)

March 30, 2010

Old Dog, New Tricks

OHMYGOD, YOU GUYS, LOOK WHAT I LEARNED!!!

SLIDESHOOOOOW!!!

Okay, I admit, I learned it in a company training session, for use on the company website. But of course, I'm going to use it here first!

Think of all the possibilities! Baking! Dressing Barbies! The-Changing-of-the-Seasons montages!

Yeah, expect to see a LOT of slideshows in the future. At least until I tire of them.

Posted at 01:34 PM | Comments (0)

March 22, 2010

And THEN She Said...

BILLI, on the phone with me:

*sigh* I just found a diaper and a pair of pants in the dining room. I gotta go. I think there's a half-naked boy running around my house.

PhD BOSS, about mid-way through Friday afternoon:

I have been so uncool as a boss today.

You see what's wrong with this one, right? He said, "Today."

The MOM-OF-THREE in the cube next to me:

Why isn't anyone in my whole family answering the damn phone?!

What I wanted to say: "They've probably all been murdered and are lying in pools of their own blood, and that's why they're not answering."

But then I figured, with my luck, they probably were lying there disemboweled, and she'd go home and discover all their bodies, and then I'd be real asshole. That kind of stuff always happens to me.

Posted at 06:44 AM | Comments (1)

March 15, 2010

Penny for Your Thoughts?

A year ago or so, at work, they built a desk in the lobby of our building. They made sure it was manned from 7:30 a.m. until 5:30 p.m. And they bought this huge, elaborate security system that involves guest registration and photo I.D.s and uniformed guards. People, if you didn't scan your card every time you came or went from the building; if you didn't fill out the proper form for anyone who was coming to see you -- it was LIFE OR DEATH!!!

Then the economy took a dump, they fired the person at the front desk, and now they're all security-schmecurity. Kinda makes us scratch our heads and wonder -- if the Security System of Ages Past was so goddamn IMPERATIVE, are we safe... now?

The answer is no. No, we are not safe. Any bag of crazy can wander around our building unimpeded.

Case in point: Penny.

Or Crazy Penny, as she came to be known.

Penny showed up in our department, quite unannounced, which, in and of itself, isn't insane. People often come by and say Hello to Head Boss when they're in the building for a meeting. Head Boss is probably the most awesome person in all of Christendom. Alpha is constanting fielding people who just want to bask in the glow that is Head Boss for a couple minutes.

So imagine Alpha's surprise when Penny announced that she was here looking for "that man who was at Jeebus Advocacy Days two years ago."

Alpha cocked her head like a dog and was like, "You mean PhD Boss?"

"Maybe... How old is PhD Boss?"

"Uh... forty."

And Crazy Penny was all, "But he looks much younger, right? Really sharp dresser?"

And Alpha was like, "Um... yes?"

Well, thank God it wasn't ME talking to Crazy Penny because I would have been laughing hysterically by that point. Women of all walks of life just FLOCK to PhD Boss. It never fails to amuse me, and Alpha was geniunely stymied. PhD Boss -- young-looking and well-dressed?! Dude can't even match his socks to his pants!

Anyway, Alpha explained that PhD Boss was out of the office that day, and that should have been the last of Penny. But it turned out she had a meeting in the building THE NEXT DAY, but she just came into the building a day early to wander around and talk to people.

Sorry -- to talk at people. Penny handed Alpha her "business card," i.e. a penny. An actual copper penny. That's all, just a penny. And then she proceded to explain the Alpha -- who hadn't asked -- how she came to be named Penny when her parents were both Swedish so she should have been named Helga or something but blah blah luck blah blah red hair blah blah OH MY GOD.

Crazy Penny talked until Alpha's eyes glazed over. And believe me -- Alpha loves a good chat session as much as the next hen! But Alpha never got a word in edgewise because Penny, apparently, has gills and didn't need to pause to inhale.

Now, I realize that we work at a church-y organization. But the operative word in that sentence is work. Do you see a 40-cup, stainless steel coffee urn on my desk? No. Do you see a plastic tray of Jewel Bake Shop cookies? No. Because it ain't Sunday morning, and this ain't yo mama's Fellowship Hour!

I am trying to convert sea shells and pieces-of-eight to American dollars for PhD boss' expense report and where the fuck did this guy go last month anyway?! Jeebus, Mary and Joseph, we are not Passing the Peace at this moment, Penny! God A. Mighty!

Moral of the Story: Do NOT laugh at your receptionist and/or rent-a-cop, people! This is what happens when you don't have anyone at the front desk!

Posted at 07:41 PM | Comments (0)

March 02, 2010

Easter Pastels & Lasagna Blues

Yes, I know it's Lent. How do I know? Because of all the annoying people at work who have given up

a. chocolate,
b. desserts,
c. carbination, and/or
d. caffiene

and won't shutthefuckup about it.

Hey, martyrs. I once read a thing called The Bible, and it says that, when you fast, you're not supposed to eat ash or rend your garments or complain all damn day about how much you want what you gave up. You didn't hear Jeebus bitching in the dessert, did you?!

[If a savior bitches in the middle of the dessert, does he make a sound?]

So, yeah, it's Lent, but I'm going to blog about Easter anyway because it's prettier than Lent and involves actual baskets full of chocolate.

I went to Target at lunch and then IMed Heather afterwards.

PW: god, there was so much pastel Eastery goodness at Target!
PW: I was bewitched!
PW: because I am gay

H: adorably so.
H: didn't see any high-waisted alexander mcqueen skirts, perchance/

PW: um, didn't look
PW: there were BUNNIES

H: ha.

PW: seriously
PW: cute bunnies
PW: like cute RUSTIC bunnies
PW: on tan canvas with muted pastel flowers and butterflies
PW: needless to say, I spent $50 on cute Easter shit

H: you're adorable, have I told you that often enough?

PW: awwwwwwww, am I rustic-pastel-bunny adorable?

H: yes, yes you are!

PW: so there's leftover food here AGAIN
PW: and I put some lasagna on my plate
PW: and then some salad because people were probably watching and judging
PW: and then I saw...
PW: PIZZA BREAD!
PW: like, pizza foccacia bread!
PW: and I was like "fuck this lasagna and salad! MORE PIZZA BREAD!"
PW: but I coudln't put back what I already took
PW: so now I'm gonna have to discreetly dump this and go get more pizza bread

H: ha.
H: I would totally dump it right there in front of people.

PW: there weren't even people in the room
PW: that's how lame I am
PW: I just felt like, it would be my luck for me to be putting it back, and someone would walk in

And then the conversation ended awkwardly when Heather disappeared from I.M.

Kinda like now.

Posted at 05:39 PM | Comments (2)

February 25, 2010

Latter, Dude

This has been The Week Of Bizarre Questions at work. We really need to take our phone number off our website. Often, I just cluck my tongue and forward them on to the person least unqualified to deal with it.

Wednesday afternoon's email, however, deserved some special attention. Lucky for Billi, she happened to be on I.M. at the time.

PW: dude, you will love this.
PW: we have an "info" email where people can direct general Jeebus-related questions.
PW: this one got forwarded to my dept.
PW: "My favorite nephew has married a lady who is of the Latter Day Saints. If she is still a member of LDS when she dies, would she still go to heaven to be with God and nephew?"

B: OMG

PW: isn't that hilarious?

B: That's insane.

PW: welcome to my job.

[For those of you stalking me and trying to figure out where I work, you may assume that I do not work for the Latter Day Saints. Not that I wouldn't -- they just haven't made the right offer, yet.]

B: Just write back and say, "no, she's going to hell."

PW: actually, I'm tempted to say, "She's going to heaven. YOU're the one going to hell for questioning it, bitch!"

B: Ha! She'll go to pergatory, because she's too stupid to follow the light!

Posted at 06:23 AM | Comments (1)

February 04, 2010

Lunch Date

Yesterday before lunch, Meg, the office tart, brought a big muffin to PhD Boss' cubicle to "share." And "sharing," apparently, includes eating tiny pieces of muffin, licking her fingers, tossing her hair, and crossing and uncrossing her legs.

The body language was unmistakable, and PhD was riveted. They laughed and whispered like they were on their third date and they both knew that sex was inevitable. See, Meg is currently off-again with her on-again-off-again boyfriend, so she was in need of some male attention.

Finally, they wrapped up their pre-mating ritual, just as I was prepping for my lunch date with Bobbi. A woman. Whom I always call "Bobbi the Girl" when I talk to Husband, so he doesn't think I'm lunching every week with some guy.

PhD: Wenchie, can you come over here for a minute?

PW: Fine. But when my phone rings, I'm outta here. So make it quick.

PhD: You know that meeting on March 4th? Did you reserve a room for that?

Phone: *ring* *ring*

PW: Later. [answers phone] Okay, I'll be right down.

PhD: So what're you doing for lunch? You wanna go get lunch?

PW: ... Noooooooo. I have plans.

PhD: With who?

PW: Bobbi.

PhD: Who's Bobbi?

PW: My boyfriend.

PhD: Oh.

PW: Besides, the way you were eating up Meg, I 'm surprised you're even hungry for lunch.

PhD: [audible intake of breath] Wow.

Uh-huh. That's right. I don't "share" my muffin.

Posted at 08:57 AM | Comments (2)

February 01, 2010

The Giving Never Stops

Your green nail polish is waiting for you, Miss V. Whenever shall I see you again?

It's called "Lime Lights!"

And because Miss V. loves dark humor...

At work, Alpha has been trying to to figure out what gifts Head Boss should bring on his tour of all the important world religious leaders next month. (No, I'm totally serious. Head Boss has met ALL of Jeebus' rock stars. Yes, they let me work with important, holy people. Can you believe it?!)

For the Pope's gift, I suggested, "a nice burning-heretic-scented candle."

And then I remembered that Alpha is Catholic.

D'oh!

Hey, at least I didn't suggest one that smells like a boys' locker room. Because THAT would've been over the edge.

Posted at 06:24 AM | Comments (2)

January 07, 2010

The Work Kiss

Earlier today, I told PhD Boss that he seemed angry and asked him if he was mad at me. So from then on, he was RIDICULOUSLY, bend-over-backwards nice to me. Which was disconcerting, especially when he insisted that we walk out to our cars together.

But first I had to wait for him while he was distracted by Meg, the Rubenesque blonde who has a cube near us.

Meg: Bye! See you in February!

PhD: Oh, that's right! Where are you going this time?

Meg: Tanzania, then Palestine, then London.

PhD: Wow. Well, have a safe journey! *smooch*

Meg: Oooooh, you're all scratchy!

PW: *eyeroll* God. Are you dating her now, too?

PhD: What? Nooooooooo!

PW: Dude. You kissed her.

PhD: We're friends!

PW: Whatever. I don't kiss my friends.

PhD: Oh, stop.

PW: And I sure as hell don't kiss anyone at work.

PhD: Did you see Alpha's face?! She was, like, COMPLETELY taken aback!

[Alpha is the other secretary here, if you'll remember.]

PW: Yeah, that's cuz you kissed Meg. On the lips.

PhD: I've seen Alpha kiss Head Boss.

PW: Neither of them are a hott, young blonde.

PhD: So you don't kiss people.

PW: Dude, I'm Norwegian. I barely hug. If someone hugs me, fine, but I don't initiate. And the only people I kiss are my parents.

PhD: What if someone's going away on a long trip?

PW: Nope. Oh, wait, Heather and I kiss, but it's that Hollywood kiss, where you kiss the air next to their face. I don't even know how that started.

PhD: See!

PW: ... Don't ever kiss me.

PhD: Really?

PW: Really really.

And for the record, my car could eat his car for breakfast.

Posted at 08:20 PM | Comments (1)

December 28, 2009

In the Bleak Midwinter

This office is a ghost town. No, I take that back. It would be really awesome and much more exciting if there were actual specters around here. As it stands, we are haunted by the empty cubes that are a daily reminder of the people who were laid off and Jesus H. Eggnog-Drinking Christ, when did I get so morbid? Dickens' ghost of Christmas future is going, "Dude, she's such a buzzkill."

Anyhoo, I'm bored, and morbid, so I walked around and took some photos.

These are the signs on the wall in the bathroom.

These are on the wall next to the sink, which is a stupid place for them. No one reads them there because, while we wash our hands, we are busy checking out our hair in the mirror and making sure there's nothing in our teeth from lunch.

The signs should really be posted inside the stalls so that we have something to read while we are doing big potty.

Here is the nativity scene in the main reception area.

Have you ever seen Christmas look so sinister? Mary is wearing a black turtleneck and matchng eyeliner, and Joseph is cutting himself because it is all just TOO MUCH TO HANDLE! And won't everyone just LEAVE HIM ALONE?!

Here are the rest of the decorations in reception.

Sorry for the poor photo quality. It is hard to fit this much holiness in one photo. How many manger scenes can YOU count, boys and girls?

And here is MY contribution to the Christmas spirit.

Snot tissue made from recycled Christmas trees!

No, not really.

Posted at 10:35 AM | Comments (0)

December 22, 2009

PhD Boss Entertains Me In His Absence

As funny as PhD boss is in person, somehow, he's even more entertaining when he's not around. I present Exhibit A: The White House Spoon Incident, where he provided for my benefit a fun, little mystery to theorize about while he was out of town.

Yesterday, I took a two-hour lunch because it’s three days ‘til Christmas and who the hell is around to keep track anyway? If you are at work and expecting you or anyone else to get anything done this week, then you are retarded. Go home.

Upon my return, I had TWO calls from PhD on my voicemail. Isn’t that typical? He probably called a minute after I left and a minute before I got back and spent the time in between prepping a good lecture on accountability.

But I needn’t have feared because this was the first message, barely discernable over the background noise:

"Hey, it's me. Um,... I'm in Vegas. Gimme a call back."

And this was the second message:

"Hey. Me again. Uh, I figured it out on this end, so don't call me back."

-- the hell??? He’s supposed to be in Palm Springs with his father!

So I didn't call; I texted him: "omg, you're in vegas?! did you get a quickie marriage?"

As of this hour, I have still not heard back from him. And I am prayed to the Sweet Baby Jeebus that he married some topless dancer. PLEEZ, God, grant me this Christmas miracle, and I promise I will honor hit with the Best Blog Posting Ever! In Jeebus’ name we pray. Amen.

Posted at 11:30 AM | Comments (0)

December 10, 2009

The Plan of Attack

Okay. I talked with Head first thing Tuesday morning to broach the idea that I'm being discriminated against because of my socio-economic status. He said that, yeah, that's probably the case, but HaRpie #1 hadn't come right out and said that she wants to give the job to someone needier.

She mentioned some single mom who is going to be out on the street and can't afford to buy milk for her kids, but only in the context of "We need to give laid-off fulltime employees preferential treatment." Which is still a complete load of crap, but whatever. Hey, I need to buy a WEDDING for my stepdaughter, but you don't see me cryin' about it! Go steal the damn milk if you need it that bad. Sheesh!

Anyhoo, unless we can actually get her to say that some specific person "needs" this job more than me, proving discrimination is going to be hard. And I think the HaRpies are too clever to let themselves be caught doing anything illegal. But Head is going to keep his ears open for an opportunity.

In the meantime, he DOES have a plan to stick it to the HaRpies, based on our organization's current financial situation, which is -- according to an email sent out on Monday -- worse than our "worst scenario" predictions. So on Wednesday, there was a meeting of executives, discussing another 5% budget cut. More on that in a moment.

Now, in HR's move to bring back this supposedly homeless single mom to the fold, HaRpie #1 went to Vice Treasurer and magically had enough money put back in our departmental budget to hire a fulltime, benefitted employee to replace me. Nice, huh? No money to pay Wenchie what she's worth, but plenty of money available to boot her ass out! And what the hell alternate dimension are they summoning money from for our budget??? Fuckers.

So at the meeting on Wednesday, all the executives were instructed to bring line-by-line specific numbers and explain exactly how they are going to cut still more money from the bone. Well. In front of God and HaRpie #2 and Vice Treasurer and everyone, Head said the following:

"I have already cancelled two trips I was scheduled to take in January. And we are going to have Wenchie remain with us on contract, rather than hiring a permanant person to replace her."

Without batting an eye. God, I wish I could have been a fly on the wall! Needless to say, no one dared to challenge his excellent money-saving strategy.

Now, this doesn't solve the problem of me continuing to work for peanuts. And it WOULD be nice if they got the money to hire someone permanantly, and that person was ME -- but still, this is better than nothing. It at least buys us some time. And once I am established, perhaps we can work on the more-money thing.

Also, apparently, even tho' I haven't actually SEEN this contract, a contract has been drawn up, and I am officially not a temp anymore. I am "contract." Which means nothing, except that I don't have to clean out my desk today. Yes, I am going to demand a copy of said contract, if only to be an asshole because HR are SUCH fucking sticklers about all their little made-up rules.

Anyhoo, I know this contract thing is effective because HaRpie #2 informed Head that, now that I am contract, I can work five days a week if I want. Now, I don't really want to. I have a principle -- if I'm not getting benefits outta you, you're not getting fulltime outta me. However, I kinda think that this is a test, for HR to see just how serious I am about this position.

Luckily, Head was like, "Well, she's not going to in December because there's so much holiday stuff going on!" But come January, I am going to work five days a week, just to prove to the HaRpies that, yes, I do, in fact, NEED this job, despite my affluent-suburb area code.

It's still complete crap that I should have to prove ANYTHING other than the fact that I am damn good at my job, but whatever. If it'll keep the wolf from our door, I'll do it. However, despite having won this battle, I have no delusions that we have won the war.

Don't let them put the blender away, JB!

Posted at 05:24 PM | Comments (1)

December 07, 2009

Professional Placeholder

Being a temp, my position is always precarious. And my work friend, JB, knows she's leaving this summer because her husband, a pastor, will be getting hired at a church God-knows-where. So we made a pact -- on the last day of employment for whichever one of us leaves first, we are having a multiple-margarita lunch.

[Even though it has no relevence to the story whatsoever, I'd like to note here that I have seen JB's pastor-husband shake his ass on the dance floor.]

Well, my last day is February 15. Mark your calendar, JB! Actually, mark it for Friday the 12th, cuz I ain't comin' in on no Monday. However, I also reserve the right to call you AT ANY TIME for margaritas because -- who knows! My last day could be tomorrow, depending on what Her Majesties in HR decide.

Apparently, there's some rule on our books that you can't keep a temp person on indefinitely. This, as you may imagine, is news to me, since I will be celebrating my three year anniversary of when I started working here, on the day I am also drowning my sorrows in margaritas. But perhaps they mean per position and not cumulatively? Well, either way it's a bullshit made-up rule because this is not the longest I've ever worked in the same position.

Bottom line is, the HR harpies (HaRpies?) have decided I've been here long enough and have to go. Mind you, they gave no heads-up or two-week warning to the Head of my Department. They merely told him to boot me out.

And since they were keeping Head in the dark anyway, the HaRpies also went to the office of the treasurer and got money put back in our budget to reinstate my position back to a full-time position with benefits.

Great news, Wenchie! You'll be able to start hitting the outlet malls again!

Oh, not so fast, my little eager beavers. There's always a catch, remember? And the catch is -- I'm not allowed to apply for my own job! My bosses aren't allowed to hire me to do the job I'm already doing! Of course! Why would they be allowed to pick their own support person? This is the CHURCH, for Jeebus' sake! We have to think about the children, or the terrorists have already won!

In the lengthy talk that Head had with me (I am really so grateful to him for being really honest and telling me everything, including how angry he is!), he mentioned that HaRpie #1 had given him some sob story about some former employee who was let go recently and is single with several kids and can't afford to buy milk, or some such thing. So MY job has been ear-marked for her. I am now, officially, just a placeholder. Like those people who sit in the seats of people who have to go pee during the Oscars? Only way less glamorous.

Needless to say (but I'm gonna say it anyway, you know I am), Head is extremely upset and is totally fighting this. PhD Boss is livid and feels extremely helpless because all this is going on while he's out of the country for several weeks. And I'm upset because I have EARNED this job, and their trust, and their respect, but apparently, I'm not WORTHY because I'm not poor enough. I'm just a rich, surburban housewife who works so that I'm not reaching for the vodka at 10:00 a.m. Right?

Is this even legal? Can I get a ruling on this?

HaRpie #1 wanted me gone effective immediately, since Friday marked the end of my sixth month in this position, but Head is trying to convince them to make me "contract" so I can stay on, since I can't stay on as a temp, according to the new rule. That would at least buy us some time, during which I could hire a hitman to off both HaRpies.

Currently, they are considering letting me be on contract, but only until February 15th, which is when the benefits run out for the people who were laid off. So basically, Single Mom gets a nice, three-month vacation while I keep her chair warm, and then I'm tossed aside like used Kleenex.

"Nothing is settled!"
"Everything is up in the air!"
"We're not giving up!"

So say Head and PhD Boss and Bea. But I've dealt with HR before, and I know in my heart that the HaRpies have already promised my job to their little Single Mom Pet Project. I am gonna be celebrating Valentine's Day by packing up my desk.

I wonder if Hallmark makes a card for that?

Posted at 02:11 PM | Comments (3)

November 24, 2009

Drawing the Line

Wenchie at work: BWAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA!

PhD Boss: What's so funny?

PW: My friend just texted me a photo of herself in a cowboy hat, rhinestone belt, and the whore-y-est shirt I've ever seen.

PhD: Is she hott?

PW: She's totally hott.

PhD: Is she single?

PW: You can't have her.

PhD: What?

PW: She's mine, and you can't have her.

PhD: You won't introduce me?

PW: Absolutely not.

PhD: Why?

PW: Okay. Scenario one: you guys date, you break her heart, I'm forced to hate you. Scenario two: you guys date, she breaks your heart, I have to hear you whine about it. Scenario three: you guys date, you get married, I puke.

PhD: ...

PW: So you see my point.

PhD: You think I whine?

Posted at 02:52 PM | Comments (0)

October 30, 2009

Finding My Place In the World

Yesterday, about half an hour before I was supposed to leave work and begin my own, personal birthday celebrations at home, PhD Boss called me over to his desk.

PhD: I have a few things for you.

PW: Make it quick. I'm outta here soon.

PhD: YOU make it quick! I need these documents scanned and put on the K drive. I need you to find out what fares are like to and from Palm Springs. And I need you to find everything we have on Pirate-Ninja relations and send them to Kate Johnson.

PW: In the library, or on the K drive?

PhD: K drive.

PW: Who's Kate Johnson?

PhD: She works for PNR. Just type in Johnson on GroupWise, and she'll come up.

PW: Not if I've never emailed her before.

PhD: Yes, cuz you have proxy to my email!

PW: Just to read it! I don't have access to your address list. That's not how it works.

PhD: Fine. I'll get you her address.

I went to my desk and opened the K drive, which is the shared drive where all the folder are for our department. There are 116 folders on the K drive. I shit you not. It's the craziest thing I've ever seen.

PW: [yells over to his cube] Dude! There are 116 folders on the K drive, and none of them have anything to do with Pirate-Ninja relations.

PhD: There aren't 116.

PW: I counted them.

PhD: Well, there shouldn't be.

PW: Come over here and look at my screen.

PhD: [begrudgingly comes over] That's too many folders.

PW: I know! You people are crazy! How do you find anything?

PhD: You really can't find the Pirate-Ninja documents?

PW: NOTHING here even remotely pertains to Pirate-Ninja relations, and I am not opening every, single folder.

PhD: It shouldn't look like this. Come over and look at my screen.

PW: Fine. [follows him to his cube]

PhD: This is how the K drive should look.

PW: [smacks forehead] Okay, the only thing different is that you have the folders in list form, and I have them as thumbnails. THERE ARE STILL 116 FOLDERS HERE! How do you find anything?!

PhD: It's easy!

PW: Well, I wasn't here when you geniuses created this mess, and it's not at ALL intuitive, so NO, it's NOT easy.

PhD: It's intuitive! You just have to learn it.

PW: Do you even know what intuitive MEANS?!

PhD: Shut up. Here, I'll find the Pirate-Ninja documents for you. [spends several minutes finding the documents]

PW: [looks out the window and sighs repeatedly]

PhD: THERE! There are the documents!

PW: Yeah, that was easy.

PhD: Now go.

PW: There are 30 documents there. Which ones do you want sent to Kate Johnson?

PhD: Um... Lemme see... [clicks on various items] This one... and this one.

PW: Should I be writing these down?

PhD: I'll tell you what. I'll email you the ones I want you to send to her.

PW: Don't forget to include her email address in the email.

PhD: Jeez, why don't I just send her the email myself?

PW: GREAT IDEA!

PhD: [starts typing the email] You really are something.

PW: [laughing my ass off] And YOU, my dear, are the BEST SECRETARY EVER!

Do you know what this means, my darlings?! It means that I have finally figured out how to bend others to my will! To make them do my bidding! I have finally started to use my powers for EVIL!

On my 40th birthday, I have become a force to be reckoned with! It's the dawning of a new era, I tell you! All shall love me and despair!!!

Posted at 04:26 PM | Comments (1)

October 28, 2009

Bitches Are On Notice

I have a very low tolerance for bullshit and fabricated drama, and I am quite willing to confront the people who engage in such retardedness and, if necessary, banish them from my life.

This being said, I am not taking off my earrings every time a skank looks at me sideways. I do not look for fights, and I put many, many hours of thought into a situation before deciding to get in anyone's face.

In short, I do not seek out confrontation, but when it finds me, I am ready for it. I am, after all, a Scorpio. BRING IT.

I'll start from the beginning. My predecessor, I'll call her Alfa because she came first, did support work for PhD Boss as well as adding things to our website and sending out an e-newsletter. When I was brought on, she was contracted to continue working on the website and e-news. (No one even asked me if I knew how or could learn. Because temps can't learn or do hard stuff, right?)

On her way out to bigger and better things, she threw a few parting shots in PhD Boss' direction (I know they included the word ignorant), which hurt him very much because he thought they were friends.

Needless to say, things between he and Alfa have been chilly since then. He even went so far as to throw the ignorant comment back in her face, which was probably unprofessional on his part, but whatever. I can't say for certain I wouldn't have done the same thing, so I can't wholeheartedly condemn him for it.

Meanwhile, Alfa was still doing work for us, and I played go-between for she and PhD Boss. Not wanting to cause undo drama, I tried to stay neutral and friendly with both of them. Their tiff doesn't have to involve me, right?

Oh, but if it didn't, I wouldn't be writing this, and you figured that out, my clever minions.

Enter the Executive Administrate Assistant in my department. I'll call her Bea. As in busy as a bee. As in BUSYBODY. She is so fucking special that she doesn't consider herself a mere administrative assistant or staff support, so you know what she must think of me. Monkey on a tricycle!

Bear in mind, also, that I work in a four-person department. So the Head Boss, PhD Boss, Bea and Alfa (with whom I communicate only via email) are the only people around. It would be nice if I had a fellow peon with which to share the trials and tribulations of being support staff, but I don't. I can't share shit with Bea because she thinks my job is soooooo easy compared to hers, and anything I say to her will be broadcast all over the damn building.

For the past several weeks, I have been going back and forth between Alfa and PhD Boss, trying to iron out a renewed contrat so Alfa can keep doing our website and e-news. Really, all it would take is a ten minute phone call between the two, but I couldn't get a straight answer from Alfa about when that would be best for her.

There was definitely some passive aggression going on there, but I was still stunned by her actions yesterday. She sent an email to the HR person who was handling her contract saying:

I received the contract renewal paperwork, dated October 16, 2009, last week. I am writing to regrettably inform you that I will not be renewing my contract. Thank you for your time and attention to this matter. Hope you are doing well, and blessings to you in the future!

Mind you, she did NOT send this to PhD Boss. He had to find out from HR when he was CCed on the reply, "Thank you for the notification."

Holy fucking shit! How rude is that?! I mean, I have given notice to some serious asshats, and I have never handled it that obnoxiously! What a BITCH! And completely unprofessional, to boot, but I'm mainly focused on the bitch aspect of it.

Now, I found out about all this over the phone from PhD Boss yesterday morning because he worked from home. And when he told me, I was floored and reacted quite verbally. I didn't go so far as to call her any names, knowing that Bea is always well within earshot. But to anyone listening to my end of the conversation, there was clearly some outrage and drama going on.

And what could be more interesting to the building's biggest busybody than outrage and drama? Honeynut Cheerios, apparently. Once I got off the phone, instead of coming over and salivatingly pleading for the details of the conversation, as I would expect her to do, she just quietly continued eating her breakfast. Didn't say a word to me. Didn't even look up.

Now is it just me, or is that a little suspicious? Methinks that Bea knew precisely what I was talking to PhD Boss about because she knew well beforehand what was going down. Oh, yes, my friends. While I was carefully trying to retain neutrality, Bea and Alfa were feeding off each other like the parasites they are.

This morning,... wait. As a sidenote and backstory, you should know that PhD Boss has been toying with the idea of replacing the department e-newsletter with a blog. I, of course, am wholeheartedly behind the idea, but that's neither here nor there. Now back to our story.

This morning, PhD Boss sauntered in at his usual time -- two hours after I got here -- and we went into one of the small meeting rooms to talk about things that needed to be done, as we are wont to do. But before we got down to business, we got down to business, IF you know what I mean.

No, we didn't have sex. We had a very bitchy and in depth discussion about Bea and Alfa. I was surprised to learn that, on several occassions, things that PhD Boss had mentioned to Bea had gotten back to him through Alfa! Now, it's one thing to be a gossip; it's quite another to out yourself as such! STUPID!

I was also surprised -- and I don't know why -- that Alfa had once brought up ME in a conversation with PhD Boss. As in, "No TEMP can manage an e-newletter, a website or a blog!" Apparently, they were aruging about how awesome/non-awesome she is? I don't know the context, and I don't particularly care. My issue is this: BITCH DON'T KNOW ME!

There's so many things about that statement that anger me, I am going to have to get all anal-retentive and make a numbered list, as such.

NUMBERED LIST FOR ALFA

1. Don't talk about me when you, LITERALLY, have never even met me. That's a given.

2. Don't talk smack about me to someone who likes me better than they like you. That's just going to backfire on you. A bit of advice.

3. Don't assume that because I am a TEMP that I have no skills beyond typing and filing. I've got fifteen years on you, sweetheart, and I've managed to pick up a thing or two in that time.

4. Your skill set is not so magical and special that you can safely assume that I don't have it. Okay, I don't, but that's not the point. The point is, you don't know me, and lots of people can write basic HTML. Statistically speaking, anyone in this position could very well know enough code to update a website or e-newsletter.

5&TheMostImportant. Okay, I can't build a blog from scratch like Alfa and Heather, but I CAN MANAGE A FUCKING BLOG, YOU COW! Jeebus, half my friends have their own blogs and/or websites! I can even add photos and pop-up links and change around my sidebar! IT AIN'T ROCKET SCIENCE!

And while these are all quite valid enough to be carved in stone, and the tablet hung on a thick, hemp rope around Alfa's next, it all boils down to one thing.

If you're going to talk smack about me, make sure you know what you're talking about. I mean, there's plenty of material there. You can say that I'm stuck-up, or I'm fat, or I'm a closet lesbian, or I'm a self-absorbed blogger geek -- whatever. It's not like I don't have any actual factual quirks. YOU DON' GOTTA BE MAKIN' SHIT UP!

I'm onto you now, Alfa and Bea. Consider yourselves on notice. I will let this particular shit slide because PhD Boss knows I'm awesome, and the only real harm you did was to your own characters. But be warned. If any of your covertly-typed emails do MY character any harm,... I don't even know what. But you can bet it's gonna be BAD!

Posted at 02:16 PM | Comments (2)

October 13, 2009

Outing Myself To My Boss... and the World, Apparently

Last week, my boss attended a big, huge, important muckity-muck meeting in D.C. He ate dinner in the Benjamin Franklin State Room. The guest list included princes and His Beatitudes and the like. He practically got noseprints on the Treaty of Paris.

I tell ya, there is NO living with him now. This was him last week, baiting me from his cubicle across the hall. (We have a lot of conversations at decible levels inappropriate for the office.)

Boss: Did I tell you that Tony Blair is gonna be there?

PW: Four times. Hey, get his autograph for me!

Boss: Bill Clinton's gonna be there, too.

PW: You can skip Bill's autograph.

Boss: ... You're a republican, aren't you?

PW: Yes.

Boss: [huge eyeroll]

PW: Don't you roll your eyes at me!

Boss: [laughs] How did you know???

PW: And don't make some blanket assumptions about who I am just because of the way I vote. I get enough of that shit around here.

Boss: [still laughing] I'm sure you do!

PW: Don't make me come over there.

Boss: [laughing harder]

PW: I mean it! You couldn't handle half of me!

Boss: [stops laughing] I know.

I also told him to bring me a present. So I got this!

Event-specific chocolate is WAAAAAAAAAY better than a White House spoon!

Posted at 08:50 AM | Comments (0)

October 12, 2009

Totally Copping To the Fact That I Suck

As my current state of Being My Workplace's Bitch continues to shred my soul, and a general state of ennui encroaches upon all other aspects of my life, I continue to ponder the question: what the hell is going on with my blog?

Most workdays, I can barely manage having any civil, mono-syllabic communication with Husband. I'm sure he's walking on eggshells from day to day, wondering if he's going to get Chipper Wenchie or Dark Cloud Wenchie. I don't envy him.

It's not like I'm bi-polar or clinically depressed or anything. I just feel trapped in a way I never have before. At least, when I was married to a drunk, I had the option of divorcing him. Which I did. But my only option here is finding another job, and, well, I'm going to need a helluva lotta luck for that to come true. Which is also scary -- having to rely on fate and not merely on my exceptional skills and experience.

Ah, yes, we come to the real reason I'm so scowly-faced lately -- lack of control. It is at the root of all the perceived evil in my life. Learning that I can't control other people, only myself, was a pretty easy lesson for me, and one I embraced. At least I had the option of doing something.

But now I face a situation where the only thing I can control is how I deal with the problem, emotionally, and that is NOT easy. I am too easily enraged by people who don't acknowledge and reward my worth. And it makes me feel stupid, like a child stomping her feet on the playground crying, "It's not fair!"

Lame. Especially lame when I have it better than so many others. I have a job, I get a paycheck, I work with nice people, my commute is short, I don't do any manual labor. My glass is half full, and it's a constant struggle for me to see it that way. God, I totally suck.

Then I think about The Great Depression, and both of the World Wars. People had to toil like animals to keep their families together, to keep some semblance of a life, to not starve to death. Now THAT's hardship. How embarassing that I'm constantly whining about being underpaid. I'm sure I'm not instilling any confidence in Husband that I'll be able to tackle anything life throws at us.

I've never been good at sucking it up, but I'm trying. I'm new at this, so cut me some slack, eh? As for my blog, posts may be shorter for a while. But they WILL NOT CEASE. My blog will always be half full!

P.S. Yes, in the previous post, I really did refer to Stella and Daisy as "well-adjusted and well-behaved." I was working on a sliding scale. Compared to a lot of the dogs in my neighborhood, my dogs wreck the bell curve.

Posted at 11:49 AM | Comments (1)

October 02, 2009

Boobs 'n' Blood

Mom, there will always be things to rant about. So long as there is breath in this body!

And I am feeling the need to compensate for the whiney, self-pitying crab-fest that I puked into your laps on Tuesday. So here are some funny things about work.

Boobs

I was totally busted checking out some woman's bust at work. In my defense, her boobs are amazing, especially for her age.

Judging by the wrinkles, she's definitely older than me. And yet? Her boobs are, like, three inches from her chin! It's crazy! Once a woman hits 30, her tits start trying to flee from her face! Where does she get off have such buoyant boobies?! It's not fair!

I was merely trying to discern what kind of bra she was wearing, so I could go get one. But then yeah. Totally busted. She gave me a really dirty look, too, which I think is completely unfair. I mean, if you're going to display them like that, you can't get pissed when people notice! It's just rude.

Blood

If you've noticed that the Lamb of God looks a little anemic lately, it's because I sloshed a bunch of His blood all over my hand in chapel yesterday. Yeah, I was Assisting Minister again, which means that I'M the one who has to pour the blood of Christ into the chalice. It never goes perfectly.

I poured too fast, and I slopped Jeebus blood onto the altar tablerunner, my hand, and the sleeve of my alb. Holy Moses, I just used "alb" in a sentence. Correctly. I think...

Anyway, I didn't know what to do. It would look tacky if I wiped my hand on the alb, and I didn't want to stain it. So I just... let it dry. Dried Jeebus blood, on my hand. We don't believe in transubstantiation, but it's still a little disconcerting to be covered in something that had been consecrated.

Should I be worried that it burned a little...?

Posted at 08:24 AM | Comments (0)

September 29, 2009

Nothing Spectacular

Oh my God, my sweet-baby flying monkies. I have missed you soooooooo much. The department I've been "temping" in since June is kicking my ass so hard! And when I typed "temping," I even paused in my typing for a moment to make the quotes sign in the air because that is how NOT-temporary my "temping" job is this time!!!

Basically, I am in a permanant position. One that would still BE a permanant position -- with good pay and full benefits -- had the woman filling it before me not gotten an offer she couldn't refuse. Was she fired? No. Was she down-sized? No. She merely ran for her life. So technically, the position is still a position.

Let me offer here to difference between a Position and a Temp. A Position is when someone comes to work every day, five days a week, receives a salary and benefits. A Temp is someone who is brought in to either a) help out with a specific project, with a specific end date; or b) cover about 50% to 75% of a Position until someone permanant can be hired.

So, boys and girls, when is a Position NOT a Position? When some poor sap like me is doing it for shit pay, no benefits, and hourly floggings. Then it's a "temp" job, by H.R. standards, because of a "hiring freeze" that H.R. is currently enforcing. (Yes, another pause for vicious air-quotes because their "freeze" is quite selective.) The bottom line is -- I Am H.R.'s Bitch. You should see the tattoo they made my get!

I know what you're thinking -- Well, Wenchie, ya loopy broad, why don't you just quit, since the money you're making barely covers gas to and from work, lunches with work friends, and blog fees? Because, my darling chew-toys. Husband got laid off in June.

MIND YOU. Husband did NOT get fired. Husband got laid off because he was the newest person at the company. THE ONLY REASON. He is a fucking deity in his field, and he WILL get another job... as soon as one of the three companies who want him get their act together and get him a damn offer.

*deep cleansing breath*

Meanwhile, back at the ranch, I am stuck in a department that has had it's personnel and budget cut by 40% -- and here's the rub -- WITHOUT CUTTING ANY PROJECTS, RESPONSIBILITIES OR EVENTS! There is no math in the world that can make that equation balance. Even I know that, and I got a D in math!

And what does this all mean for me? Basically -- indentured servitude. Working harder than I've ever worked in my life, for the kind of money I was making at the beginning of my secretarial career. Sheer suckitude.

So that, my dearest love, is why the blog has been a black hole lately. I can't blog at work; hell, I don't even have time to check my personal email at work. And once I get home, all I want to do is eat, watch a little t.v., and stagger to bed (and not in the good way).

But for you, oh snuggly angels, I will try. I will try for twice weekly. Because I wuv ooo.

And from my Mom:

Okay! It's been 23 days since you've blogged. I hope you are not ill or have left the country or the dogs have locked you in a closdt, or----------------- GASP!!! You've run out of things to rant about. I do follow you on FaceBook, but have seen nothing spectacular lately. God Bless.

Love, Mommie dearest

Posted at 02:03 PM | Comments (1)

September 16, 2009

The Finns are Jackholes, Too

I know that people in other countries, especially Europe, like to get down on Americans as being, well, assholes. But I'd like to present Exhibit A in the case of Americans Don't Own All the Asshattery In the World.

Part of my job description includes Resources, meaning that people ask for things, which I send to them.

I got the following email from a guy in Finland (names and religions have been changed to protect the pious):

Hello,

I'm a Finnish post-doctoral scholar in Ecumenics. I'd like to order the following research materials (one copy of each item) for my study of which topic is the full communion relationships of the HCWWF (Huge Church Wenchie Works For):

Beckoned to Mutual Work: A Heatheran Proposal for a Revision of the Document of Agreement

Commentary on "Beckoned to Mutual Work"

Interim Eucharistic Sharing Agreement (1982)

The Document of Agreement (the text and background for the first full-communion proposal that was not accepted); NOTE: this should be available online but it is not, so I ask you to send me a paper copy of the document.

Wenchacy (Heatheran-Piratist Dialogue II): Report of the second Heatheran-Piratist dialogue

Wenchacy: A Heatheran-Piratist Common Statement to the Church

The Church: Neighborhood of Awesomeness (the final report of the joint commission between the Heatheran World Organization and World Piratist Group)

Please, send the materials to the following mailing address:
Jack Hole McFinn
Tallest Iceberg on the Left
12345 Llama-Impala
FINLAND

I'm very grateful if I could get the materials as soon as possible. I'm ready to pay whatever they may cost (also the postage). Please, inform me how I could pay the order (do you send me a bill with the order or what is the paying method?).

Yours sincerely,
Dr. J. H. McFinn

Here is the first draft of my response:

Dear Jack,

It took me less than a minute to Google the first three items. I was going to provide you links for them here, but then I remembered -- I'm not your bitch. You're a doctor; I'm sure you can find them on your own with a teensy bit of effort.

Regarding your fourth item, The Document of Agreement: Who the hell are you to decide, for the entire internet, what should be online and what should not? The internet was not designed for your personal convenience. The Document of Agreement is actually 262 pages, and goes for $110 American. (I don't know what that is in Finnish beads or fox pelts or whatever you use there.)

I suppose you think that ALL books should just be available for free download on the internet, at least for YOU. Why should authors make any money off their hard work and talent? Whould should publishers, at the very least, be reimbursed for time and materials? That's just greedy!

I don't have a stack of free copies of 262-page, $110 books under my desk to distribute like candy on Halloween. Go Google the book, Jack. And you can purchase it, just like us non-doctoral slobs have to do.

As for the last three documents you request, they are small, and I do have copies in our library, which I will send you. Then again, we don't have many copies of the last one, so I'm going to scan it and attach it to this email, which is still more than you deserve.

And you can bet, although the ones I'm mailing you are only $4, there will be a sizable Arrogant Prick Fee, in addition to shipping costs. Enclosed will be an invoice. It's your damn job to figure out how to convert animal pelts to American dollars.

God's peace,

Wenchie

P.S. I don't believe for a second that you're actually going to read all these.

Still debating whether to send it via airmail or ground...

Posted at 11:41 AM | Comments (3)

September 14, 2009

An Open Letter To Boss' Colleagues

To Whom It May Concern:

As the sorely-underpaid, temporary administrative assistant to an extremely frenetic man, I feel professionally obligated to inform you of the following:

1. I do not posess the ability to make time magically appear on Boss' calendar. My superpowers are limited to typing at the speed of light and Herculean patience. I cannot, yet, bend the ways of the universe to my whims.

2. If you wish to meet with Boss, you must give me more than a few day's notice. I am currently scheduling for March 2010.

3. If you, a grown-up, miss two deadlines, I am not required to be polite when reminding you of that fact.

4. My job description does not include dialing Boss' phone and holding it up to his ear. If he doesn't return your call, don't imply that I didn't give him your message. That's just a self-fulfilling prophecy waiting to happen.

5. If you are calling from a cell phone in Senegal, write me an email.

6. If you only started speaking English three months ago, write me an email.

7. I really hope, for your safety, that you're not telling me how you like your coffee because you expect me to get it for you.

8. There is a Search feature on our website. Please give it a whirl BEFORE calling me to ask for something.

9. Don't ever thank me "in advance" for something that I may choose NOT to do.

10. I. Am. No. One's. Bitch.

Disrespectfully yours,
Wenchie

Posted at 10:24 AM | Comments (2)

September 02, 2009

Wenchie's Resume 1987-1994, Part I

Earlier this year, I started telling you about my initial foray into the work-a-day world, circa 1984-87. At the time of that post, I thought I was soon headed to a permanant position in the department of my choice.

Alas, it was not to be. I am now in an endless temporary limbo in a new department, with no end -- or payraise, or permanant job offer -- in sight. Seriously, I could make more money if I went back to waiting tables. And I'd do it, too, if I wasn't so damn lazy. Also, as I've gotten older, my ability to tolerate crap from people has seriously deteriorated.

After quitting Pizza Hut and moving out of my parents' house, I pretty much had a whole new life just waiting for me. I moved in with my boyfriend's best friend's girlfriend (and her toddler), and I started working where said boyfriend, best friend and girl friend had all worked before me. The Main Cafe in Evanston. It's easy to score a job when you have three previous employees vouching for you!

I must admit, I loved the Main Cafe. It was on Main St. and Chicago Ave. in Evanston, right across from the Metra stop. It was one of those diners that had been in the neighborhood forever and really belonged to the people who frequented the place. It was like an extension of everyone's home. "Here's the kitchen, here's the master bedroom. Oh, and here's The Main Cafe."

I swear, if you took off a chunk of that ancient wood paneling, you'd find veins and flesh and bones. Okay, kind of a gruesome analogy, but you get my point -- that place was an entity in and of itself.

I normally worked the counter for breakfast and lunch and saw the same exact people eating the same exact thing every day. There was Tom, the 70 year old manic-depressive who told a great story. There was Tex, the hundred year old cowboy who often tipped me with jewelry he had made.

And there was John, that GORGEOUS, blue-eyed, coffee-slugging artist who loaned me books and tipped me $5 on a cup of coffee every day. *sigh* Totally should've been with him instead of the caveman I was with, but that's a whoooooole other blog.

There was also an old guy -- can't remember his name -- who had numbers tattooed on his forearm. Never having seen that before, I thought it was a really bad decision he'd made while docked in Singapore or something. But one of the other waitresses told me that he'd been in one of the Nazi concentration camps during WWII, and made it out alive. Marked forever with an identification number. I kinda wish I'd asked him about it. I mean, how often does anyone get the opportunity to talk to living history like him? But I never did. I don't think I'd want to talk about it, if it were me, so I never brought it up, and neither did he.

Anyhoo, I had to quit that gig when I just couldn't take my caveman boyfriend's jealousy shit anymore. And since I moved out on the spur-of-the-moment -- at seven in the morning -- I was forced to move back in with the Ps and find a new job.

I didn't have a car, but luckily for me, my parents house was mere blocks from a bustling, suburban business district. So I applied for a job at the local LePeep. It wasn't much of an interview, considering I had a pulse and experience, and the rest of the wait staff consisted one hardened lifer and three cheerleaders from the local high school.

Now, I've already told you how I gave my boss his nickname, Spud, and I don't have time to tell you about all the co-workers I dated there. So I'll just tell you about Kent. He was my favorite, anyway. Probably because I didn't date him.

Our little LeFamily grew to include, in the front of the house, a couple students from the local community college, and a closted queen to serve as host -- Kent. Ah, Kent. Kent of the slicked-back, bleach-blond hair, long before Draco Malfoy made it popular. Kent, who used to tell me stories of how he'd balance his ashtray on his girlfriend's ass while he did her doggie-style. God, he was mean to his girlfriends.

My favorite times were on weekends when Spud would put both Kent and I at the front desk to seat people and take money and whatnot. It was a nice break from having to wear an apron, but my favorite thing was the game Kent and I would play -- Guess What Faces That Person Makes During Sex. A game difficult to describe in mere words, but I'm sure you have the imagination necessary to do it justice.

*sigh* How I miss evil, nasty, embittered, gay Kent. I'm going to have to revive that game. Who wants to come out and play?

Posted at 11:17 AM | Comments (0)

August 31, 2009

Sacred Spoon Is Holy Grail

My boss -- PhD Boss -- has been gone for about a week and a half. In that time, I've been going through his mail and email and phone messages. One would think that I'd get to slack off a bit in his extended absence, but no. I get to do my job and his. It blows.

This morning, I saw a note on his chair. It was written on notebook paper in big, round letters, folded in half with "Dr. Boss" on the outside. Naturally, I didn't think twice about reading this bit of obviously personal correspondence. I mean, I read the man's email and open his mail. A note on his chair is hardly off-limits. What if it's a vital emergency I need to take care of?!

Inside: "Where is my White House spoon? Elizabeth"

Yay! A mystery! Just the thing to make this dreary, intolerably-boring day go a little faster!

First of all, no one who knows him calls him Dr. Boss, for God's sake. It's not like he's the Pope or Sir Sean Connery. Everyone calls him by his first name. Except me -- I mostly call him Dude or Homie. Fo shizzle.

So this person is either, a) totally kissing his ass because they don't know him well enough to know that it's not worth kissing; OR b) being silly and flirty in a way that will TOTALLY work on him because, seriously, if you called me Dr. Wenchie with any degree of earnestness, I couldn't get on my back fast enough. And I know he's no less of a whore than I am.

Secondly -- "White House spoon"??? What the hell???

Okay, he has been to the White House for a couple meetings in the past month or so. Once, with President Obama.

Yes, in the game of Six Degrees of Separation, Wenchie just one person away from Barack Obama. The thought doesn't exactly bewitch me, considering I didn't vote for him; however, it pleases me that Heather is giddy with the knowledge that she just two people away from our President.

Anyhoo, my first thought is that PhD Boss was being a big show-off and told the little hottie in I.T. that he'd bring her something from the White House. But what the fuck -- a spoon??? I.T. hottie was in the Army, for God's sake! And she's not 97 years old, so I can't imagine she'd be craving a White House spoon to complete her collection of Spoons of the 50 states in her breakfast nook.

Besides, she calls herself Liz, not Elizabeth. Also? She's dating some hottie I.T. guy, who, although he may not have a PhD, is waaaaaaay hotter than PhD Boss. And I'm not sure a spoon is going to make up for that, regardless of where it's from.

I'm completely obsessed now, wondering who Elizabeth might be, so I IMed Heather for help. Help solving the puzzle, or help getting over my obsession. At this point, either would be quite useful.

But of course, Heather was of little help: "even tho I love our pres, I would rather DIE than flirt for a spoon from a visitor. what the hell?" And then she went back to her liquid lunch.

Remembering my workplace's awesome intranet, I did a search for all the Elizabeths in the building. No contenders. I mean, lots of very nice ladies, but none that Mr. Ridiculously High Expectations would deign to flirt with.

I can't believe he didn't bring me something from the White House. I mean, I booked his flight for the exact times and airline that he wanted. I found him a nice hotel. All at the last minute and within our departmental budget! I am a goddess!

But apparently, as I am neither hott nor 97 years old, I do not warrant a White House souvenier. I guess being the funniest person in the building, the best administrative assistant he's ever had, AND willing to put up with him every day, doesn't entitle me to shit.

I'm suddenly bitter about a utensil from a White House I'm not even a big fan of. What an idiot I am.

When he gets back, I'm demanding to know where my White House spatula is.

Posted at 12:34 PM | Comments (0)

August 26, 2009

How Do I Still Have a Job?

So PhDBoss needs to go to some event, for which I needed to make hotel reservations on his behalf. But he's not just staying for the event; he's staying two extra days to do some other stuff I don't even know what.

Which means that he'll be getting the event group rate for the first four days of his stay but have to pay the regular room rate for the last two days. Which is waaaaaaaay too difficult for their namby-pamby website to handle, so I had to call the hotel's 800 number.

I had to. Call. A stranger. On the phone. And talk.

I would literally rather go to the dentist.

So I called Bambi Frontdesk and explained what I needed rate-wise, and she put me on hold for three and a half days.

While on hold, I had the following conversation with PhDBoss.

PW: I'm having to talk to a stranger on the phone. This is all your fault.

PhD: Is there something wrong with that?

PW: I hate it.

PhD: But you talk to people on the phone all the time.

PW: And I hate it. Each and every time.

PhD: Well, you don't sound like you hate it.

PW: I'm a Scorpio. We're good liars.

PhD: I'll remember that. So what exactly do you hate about it?

PW: I hate people.

PhD: So you hate the phone, or you hate people?

PW: Both, separately. And together, with the white-hot hatred of a thousand supernova suns.

PhD: You know, that might hinder your ability to remain employed here.

PW: That's fine.

PhD: ... You didn't even have to think about that.

PW: Nope.

PhD: You're quick. I like that.

PW: I hate you so much. Don't talk to me until at least tomorrow afternoon.

And not ten minutes later, he was telling me how awesome I am at my job, and thanking me for all I do for him, and begging me to stay forever. And I'm not even sleeping with him.

I've never before pussy-whipped a guy while still wearing all my clothes. Apparently, my powers have grown even beyond my own comprehension.

I believe this is the sign I've been waiting for -- it's time to begin my play for world domination.

Posted at 08:35 PM | Comments (3)

August 11, 2009

OMG LOL

At the Pride Parade -- and I promise that, after this, I will move on to a new topic -- I saw a sight that really warmed the cockles of my heart. It was a bunch of people, from various churches of differing denominations, all marching together in the parade.

A representative from each group help up a sign with the name of their church, the flavor of their particular deity, and a rainbow. Being that a church -- and the relationship of this church with other churches -- is how I'm currently earning the peanuts on which I subsist, this sight was of particular interest to me.

I don't know what it's called in other denominations, but in my church, it's called Reconsiling In Christ -- the conscious decision to welcome EVERYONE through the church doors, regardless of age, gender, race or orientation (and probably some other factors, but since I was a bit amused we even had to vote on something that I thought always went without saying, I didn't pay much attention to the details; I was like, "I vote Yes! Where's the coffee cake?").

And I thought, "Well, here is a news-worthy moment. People of different creeds, banding together to welcome their homosexual brethren. Bravo, little lambs. Bravo."

Suddenly, I was moved by the Holy Spirit... oh wait, that wasn't me.

Probably because I'd had two alcoholic beverages, and it wasn't even noon, I thought it would be a good idea to text my boss. On a non-work day. From the Pride Parade. While drinking.

In my defense, it doesn't take a whole lotta booze to impair my judgement, so it's not like I'd done eleven watermelon shots or anything. Plenty of people routinely consume two glasses of champagne for breakfast under the guise of "brunch." And at least I had the good sense not to send him a photo.

So I texted him, "there are churches here carrying signs! we should so have a float in next year's pride parade!"

As the day wore on -- and the giddiness of champagne and exposed male buttocks wore off -- I came to regret my T.U.I (texting under the influence). Not that I had said anything wrong, but it was probably over-familiar at best, and unprofessional at worst. Monday morning, I tried to make ammends.

PW: So, um, sorry about drunk-texting you from the Pride Parade.

PhDBoss: You were drunk?

PW: Well, I'd been drinking a little...

PhDB: I didn't know you were drunk. I just thought you were being funny.

PW: Oh. Well, I only had two...

PhDB: I probably didn't need to know that you were drunk.

PW: Yeah...

Paralyzing Awkwardness: Hey, Wenchie, Boss, how you guys doin'? Mind if I join you? I think I'll just have a seat right here. Looks like I'm going to be sticking around for a while. You guys wanna order some Chinese food?

Posted at 02:42 PM | Comments (0)

July 24, 2009

Oranges & Apricots

So my boss is in charge of the Bible study for some event he's going to, and he had me make 50 hand-outs to accompany his talk. Pictures of Masaccio's fresco The Expulsion of Adam and Eve from Eden.

Real uplifting stuff, eh?

So I hit print and hear the printer wind up and print two... but then it stops. Great. Paper jam. I walk over there to find my openly gay co-worker, Sam, already at the printer.

Sam: Is this you, printing out Adam and Eve's Expulsion from Hell?

PW: Expulsion from Eden.

S: Whatever. I thought I was getting a fax, and all of a sudden, there's penises printing out!

PW: Where are they?

S: I think there's a paper jam.

PW: Well, open it up!

S: [pops open the front cover] Wow! Lookit all the apricot dials!

PW: You know how I know you're gay?

S: Because I said apricot?

PW: Totally. A straight guy would've said orange.

S: Apricot isn't gay!

PW: Of course, it is!

S: It's not like I said mauve!

PW: Straight guys only know five colors, and two of them are black. And none of them are APRICOT!

S: I think you're avoiding the real issue.

PW: Which is?

S: Why are you printing off penises?

PW: They're for Boss' bible study.

S: ...

Posted at 10:52 AM | Comments (1)

July 03, 2009

Introduction to My Boss

PhD Boss: Wenchie. C'mere.

PW: [grab my pen and notepad, go sit in his cube] What do you need?

PhDB: What's your favorite candy bar in the whole world?

PW: Um... Rolo Bits, but they don't make those anymore, soooo probably Milky Way.

PhDB: Wrong. Twix. Is the best.

PW: Um... okay.

PhDB: ...

PW: So, what do you need?

PhDB: Nothing.

PW: You called me over here to ask me what my favorite candy bar is?

PhDB: Yes.

PW: Because... you're going to buy me one?

PhDB: No.

PW: Okay, don't ask me for anything else for the rest of the day.

Posted at 10:52 AM | Comments (1)

June 26, 2009

W.W.J.D.

Okay, I already love this new department I'm working in. Not only can I give my boss Ultimate Verbal Shit and he doesn't denounce me to Hell, he gives it right back to me! It's awesome.

Also awesome are some of the people who are on the various committees we're in charge of.

Take, for example, this email from one such committee member to me, my boss, and my boss' boss. I especially love his salutation:

Greetings, Holy Triumverate!

I have a "minutes" question. I will be receiving electronic minutes from Will. I will be keeping the minutes I take on my computer. Should I keep also a hard-copy file? Do you keep a copy of the minutes from the Network?

I know that when Jesus returns, He will want a copy (unless He will bring His own flash-drive).

Thanks & peace - Tom

Hee!

Posted at 07:50 AM | Comments (0)

June 19, 2009

The Lord Said To Noah...

Ho-kay, stream-of-consciousness post today because I have been A.W.O.L. and have prepared nothing.

VERY quiet at work today, which is why I have the opportunity to sit and blog like the reprehensible slacker that I am. There was a company picnic planned for today, but I didn't sign up. And those of us who didn't sign up must report for work. Nice, huh? Truly I say to you, 'tis better to be at a picnic with random co-workers than at work, but the principle of forced fellowship just grates on me.

I have a few good friends here at work with whom I socialize, and I am kind and professional to absolutely everyone else in the building. I just don't particularly feel the need to break bread with those not on my Fav List in the vast buggy-ness of a forest preserve. Add to that the awkwardness of meeting peoples' spouses and/or children, and that's just too much fake merriment for me.

Wanna boost morale, H.R.? Give us all $25 and bus us to Woodfield for half a day, then let us go home. It would endear you to us forever, and the next day, we could all chat around the coffee maker about what we bought. Voila! Fellowship!

Anyhoo, those who signed up for the picnic get a free day off today because the picnic was cancelled due to the Severe Thunderstorm Alert in the area today. Lucky bastards. And I'm stuck here, watching the sky grow ever blacker, until it finally burst forth in copius amounts of water and lightning.

Kind of a scary view I have from the tenth floor. And the lights keep flickering. I'm sure the power is already out at my house, and I'm getting nervous about water in my basement. The only other person on this floor today is the head of my department, and I made him promise to hold my hand if we have to walk down ten flights to get out of the building. It's not a romantic thing -- I'm just afraid of plummeting to my death in the dark. Two of my phobias at once! Phobia overload!

He told me I can go home as soon as I've finished any pressing work I have (i.e. nil). And I may do just that, go home for lunch and not return. Water... basement... scary... panic. Good God, it's really coming down! When will Jeebus send the rainbow?

Posted at 10:22 AM | Comments (1)

June 12, 2009

Procrastination

I just can't seem to get the job done this week. I have three posts about three-quarters done, but I'm just not motivated to wrap them up and do the finishing touches. I don't know why. So here are some photos that were in my phone.

Get a load of my new, giant cube!

I'm the luckiest gerbil on the block! I even have a bookcase! ...Although it is filled with I-have-no-idea what kinds of crap. But lookit how much work space!

Here is my nieces' "dog." Wearing a bubushka.

Or a kitchen towel. Or a napkin. Or someone's underwear. I'm not sure. And I put "dog" in quotes because, really, if it weighs less than a pound -- I think even you off-balance tiny-dog-lovers can agree -- it's not a dog.

You think I'm kidding? The dog literally weighs less than sixteen ounces. Want a better idea of just how teensy-weensy this dog is? Here is my nephew wearing the dog.

On his hat. The "dog" is so wee that it can run laps on my nephews cowboy hat. Oh, and it's name is Pippin. Of course. No idea what gender it is.

And speaking of ridiculous dogs...

Don't be alarmed. Stella doesn't have crippling arthritis, and she's not injured. She's just double-jointed or something. She always sits like this. She can stretch her paws out; she just prefers not to.

But I think you can understand why I haven't deleted these images from my phone.

Posted at 01:53 PM | Comments (0)

May 27, 2009

And Speaking of God's Wrath...

If this eConversation with Heather doesn't get me on the next Hummer to hell, then I don't know what will. It also contains some social commentary on how I feel about corporations -- and lots of them do it -- who base salaries on what they perceive that employees NEED instead of what they actually DESERVE.

And how we make that leap from blasphemy to equal rights, I don't even know. Just go with it.

(eConversation had while in the throes of my most recent temp job)

PW: so, it looks like the person who now has the job I might have, works full time

H: but you're so smart you could do it in half time?

PW: that would be AWESOME
PW: cuz the broad who has it now is one of those who likes to bustle around and look busy and important and put-upon.
PW: so I"m thinking if I DIDN'T spend so much time on the cross, I'd get more done in less time

H: that's what we thought about jesus, too.
H: in case you're wondering if I could get any cooler?
H: I just got the invite to [Famous Huge Corporation] President's retirement party.

PW: SHUT THE FUCK UP!

H: I know!
H: I am the coolest!

PW: first the Rock Me Sexy Jesus bracelet, now this?!

H: how do you STAND me?

PW: I'm feeling so inadequate.
PW: I'm like, "Yeah, I MIGHT have a job that COULD have anywhere from 20-40 hours, but my potential boss is outta town, and no one KNOWS anything, LEAST of all what I'd make". and you're like, "I'm lunching with the Pope!"
PW: get me and my not-really-employed-ness

H: your boobs are still bigger, and your hair bouncier.

PW: I think I should get $45K/yr. for the bouncy hair alone

H: DUh.
H: you havn't accpeted unless you konw how much you're getting.

PW: clearly
PW: and it had better be GOOD
PW: I think a dump-truck full should hold me for a little while

H: Seriously.
H: although if you're part time at 45K? I will die of jealousy.
H: just hope you're prepared.

PW: that'd never happen
PW: I'd be lucky to get half that at fulltime
PW: because I am a woman and have no children, remember?

H: no family to support, right.

PW: exactly
PW: clearly, I"d just be working for spending money, so I can buy mascara and shoes
PW: because my husband is RICH and has no children that we are supporting
PW: I'm really just woring as a hobby
PW: I usually just roll up my checks and smoke them. never even deposit them.

H: Like Karen on Will and Grace!

PW: only drunker
PW: with bigger boobs

H: EXACTLY!

Posted at 08:23 AM | Comments (2)

May 24, 2009

The Smoting Hand of Lawyer

What with the current economic situation...

God, I can't wait until we don't have to hear that phrase -- or some variation of it -- in every, single commercial. "In today's economy, you can't afford NOT to use our product!" And yet...

In today's economy, I'm looking at what may be the longest bout of joblessness I've ever had. And that's a little scary. So let's relieve the tension by fondly remembering some of the good times from my cubicle days!

I remember one day in particular...

Begin sepia tone denoting olde tyme days.

I was in Bill's office, talking Battlestar Galactica because he is both God and Worshipper of All Things Sci Fi. Also? Powerful, brilliant lawyer. On the one hand, intimidating as hell. On the other, hilariously nerdy. How could I not love him?

Anyhoo, Bill asked if I was going to see the new Star Trek movie opening weekend, and I replied that I was not because I had three shows to do -- Friday, Saturday, Sunday.

Well, after some snide remarks about how some people don't even bother to see Star Trek when it's in the theaters, Bill finally got around to asking about the shows I was doing. Because he's interested in things other than sci fi. No, really.

I explained to him about the bottle band, and how it's a musical-comedy group, and how we make money for charities, and how we've been on Letterman twice. And he was relatively impressed, even though there were no lasers or cyborgs in our shows -- until I mentioned Act Two.

Traditionally, the bottle band does a parody of a musical for the second act. "The Sound of Bottles." "Snow White and the Seven Bottles." "Cows" (much better than "Cats"). This year, we did "Les Bottleables."

Well. You'd have thought I'd called his mother a dirty, sailor-humping trollup, the way he looked at me. He then proceeded to lecture me on the Vast, Global, Timeless Importance of the book "Les Miserables," and how the American civil war soldiers used to carry it with them into battle and blah blah blah.

And when he started in on the musical, I just couldn't keep a straight face. I mean, I loves me some "Les Mis." I've seen it three times, I have the CD, it's definitely in my Top Five. But he was just so zealous about it, I couldn't help myself!

I said, "Yeah, but haven't really heard it until you've heard it performed in the original bottle!"

And do you know what he did then?

He threatened to call The Wrath Of God down upon me!!!

End sepia tone denoting olde tyme days.

Cooooool!

Can he really do that?! Is that a standard lawyer power, or is it just because he works for a religious institution? Can he do it himself, or does he have to call in an ordained minister to come at me, hand in the What up, bitches! position, shooting flames and locusts and bad hair days out of his palm?

I really want to know what that looks like -- The Wrath Of God, Lawyer Style! What would the soundtrack be? The Flight of the Valkyries? Something from Mozart's Requiem? Barney's Theme Song?

And what does one wear to experience God's Wrath? Is sackcloth and ashes too obvious? Should I shave my head? Maybe some vestal garments?

So many questions! And all of them moot because Bill has yet to invoke said wrath. I'm almost starting to think that he can't really do it...

Posted at 09:02 AM | Comments (0)

May 01, 2009

I Passed!

IMing with Heather about various and random stuff...

PW: warning: racism ahead
PW: okay, now that I'm back from the *multi-racial feminist conference...
PW: all the black women in the building are making it a point to talk to me
PW: I guess word got around that I passed the test or something

H: the "is she lacist" test?

PW: apparently
PW: and apparently, I'm not

H: incredible.

PW: or at least no more than anyone else there

PW: who knew?
H: are you exchanging manicure tips?

PW: talking about hooker shoes!
PW: I'm IN!

H: aw. now you get to say "some of my best friends are black!"

PW: sweeeeeeet!
PW: I can add that to my repetoire of "some of my best friends are gay"

PW: and "some of my best friends are evil, soulless bastards"
H: kind of awesome that I am all three.

PW: you're the trifecta of P.C. awesomeness
PW: which is kind of an ironic twist
PW: and basically makes you the funniest, best dresser in the universe

H: in hooker shoes

* You guys, I cannot BELIEVE that I never blogged about the multi-cultural feminist theological event that I went to! (And by "went to," I mean "sat out in the hall playing with my fellow support person's iPhone while, inside the conference hall, over-educated people gave speeches that were way over my head." So much material! How did I miss that?! I have failed you.

Posted at 05:03 PM | Comments (0)

April 16, 2009

God Is My Blog

Yesterday morning in chapel, the gospel choir sang...

Yeah, I'm really starting a blog entry like that. God, I hate myelf.

So they're singing:

God is!
[God is!]
My ev-er-y-thiiiing!

And while this is going on in the background, the lead singer ad libs some things that God Is, i.e. "my brother and sister," "my prince of peace," "my shelter from the storm," etc.

So now, of course, I have this gospel song going through my head. And while my little back-up singers -- who are wearing fringe and white go-go boots and are all in cages -- sing "God is my everything!" My lead singer, who is... well, me, is ad libbing about what God is.

God Is!
My mother and father!
God Is!
My plumber and mailman!
God Is!
My shelter from taxes!
God Is!
My burger and fries!
God Is!
My Google and Yahoo!
God Is!
My Prince spaghetti!
God Is!
My black, leather Coach bag!
God Is!
My last day of work!

That's right, brothers and sisters, Pastor Wenchie has left the building. At 4:00 yesterday.

Remember all my bitching and whining about having to find a fulltime job? (To be distinguished from all your other bitching and whining HOW, Wenchie?) Well, the Bible tells us that God has a wicked sense of humor -- what with the smoting and wandering and sacrificing and all -- and the Bible is right. Because God heard my prayer and answered it, completely to my detriment.

Okay, God! I get it! You can stop F-ing with me now!

Yeah, the position I was temping in -- the position I applied for and almost had in my grasp -- was eliminated in the last round of budget cuts.

So.

Here I am. It's 9:00 a.m., and I'm still in my jammies, unshowered. The only thing I've managed to accomplish today is making French toast for breakfast. After I burned the oatmeal. (Fuck you, oatmeal! If you were easier to make, I wouldn't have to eat something bad for me! Look what you made me do!!!)

Posted at 08:57 AM | Comments (2)

April 13, 2009

The Gospel According to Wenchie

This is not good. I am getting a reputation. The reputation of being The Churchy Person. I KNOW! The irony is killing me! But apparently, I am now the go-to person for all of my family's gospel-related needs. There goes all my street cred!

Spikette teaches Sunday School. Yes, a woman who wants to do lurid things with the bleach-blonde undead is leading America's youth to spiritual salvation. Glory hallelujah!

So Spikette called me and was like, "You work at that churchy place. I have a question about a Bible passage."

For her Sunday School class, made up of 3rd graders, the cirriculum called for Spikette to somehow tie together Abraham's near-slaughter of his son Isaac (my least-fav Bible story), shepherds and lost sheep, and some sort of dramatic puppet show. And make it all relatable to eight-year olds.

No, really. And she's not even getting paid!

Clearly, she was at a loss, so she turned to me -- Your Helpful Neighborhood Theologin. Who doesn't really like children. Or teaching. Or puppets. Shepherds I like. But I digress.

Yes, I've read the Bible. It bored the shit outta me, but I read it because I wanted to see what all the fuss was about. My favorite story, which doesn't get told very often, is the one about Balaam and his talking donkey, but there I go, digressing again.

Inspired by the talking donkey, I pulled a Sunday School sacrifice-shepherd-drama lesson right outta my ass. Pun intended.

I told her to forget the Bible lesson because it's creepy and disturbing to small children; instead, focus on the shepherd-protecting-his-sheep aspect of the day; have the kids break into small groups and come up with a three-minute skit about how they can be a "shepherd" to a lost sheep in their daily lives; discuss amongst the class.

Am I not brilliant? Perhaps I should rethink this whole seminary thing...

Yeah, RIGHT.

I made Spikette promise to tell me how it went and got this response:

Thank you for your great Sunday School suggestion. We had 2 groups of 3rd graders making up a skit on a) either how to be kind to others or b) how to help those who are "lost".

One group of three had a girl asking her friend for money for breakfast, since she didn't eat yet. The boy said no. Then Jesus came and told him to give the girl money. She gave a dollar, Jesus said more. She gave another one, Jesus said more. She threw in another dollar, so the girl had a whole $3 for breakfast!!!

The other group of 4 had a girl who kept stealing. The devil was on one shoulder telling her to do it; an angel was on the other shoulder telling her not to. Then God would come out after each theft and say "You should not steal. Just for that, you have to go to church". In the end, she gave everything back.

For 5-10 minutes of prep time, it wasn't bad. We had lots of time for discussing how to help those who are lost and how to be a good Christian with ways to help others.

HA! Two things that I love. Okay, three -- the first being that I am awesome.

I love that Jesus resorted to peer pressure. And I love that church is a punishment. A little peek into the spiritual minds of 3rd graders.

What the hell kind of breakfast is she supposed to get for three bucks?!

Posted at 10:20 AM | Comments (2)

April 09, 2009

The Reverend Pirate Wench

Happy Maundy Thursday, everyone! And Blessed Good Friday and Happy Easter, as well, because I know those AT&T asshats aren't going to fix my internet before Monday. Opps! Probably shouldn't mention our Savior's resurrection and asshat in the same sentence!

How 'bout some church talk for this Christian high-holiday weekend?

After my Assisting Minister gig, no fewer than three people asked me if I'd ever considered going to seminary. As in, school where you learn to be a pastor. By the third inquiry, I'd gotten pretty good at keeping the look of Are-you-fucking-nuts??? from my face.

Would it shock you to know that there's more than one good reason I shouldn't be a pastor?

1. I don't do high collars or turtlenecks. I only do V-necks. I don't want a career that involves a wardrobe change. I'd have to, like, have a pastor collar tattooed onto my neck or something.

2. I like the message of the New Testament. "Love one another," the eleventh commandment, given by Jesus to his disciples, is just darn good advice. But I'm terrible at following it, especially when I'm in the car.

3. The whole born-of-a-virgin, bestowed-with-magical-powers, rose-from-the-dead thing? I think we're missing some pieces of the story. I also don't get the logic of someone dying to save my soul. Couldn't God just save me because He wanted to? He's God! And I'm kind of uncomfortable with some nice man enduring horrible torture for the salvation of my sorry ass.

I'm not knocking faith. Frankly, I wish I had it. I wish it all made sense to me and was something beautiful I could cling to in difficult times. But my brain isn't programmed that way. I question everything. I am constantly playing devil's advocate in my mind. I need more information before I make any kind of decision, which is pretty much the definition of non-faith.

And what the hell kind of pastor doesn't believe in The Greatest Story Ever Told? Well, no kind because they'd never make it past the examination panel. Can you imagine my sermons?

"Easter is the day we celebrate Jesus' triumph over the grave! Or at least, the best practical joke ever. I mean, he wasn't on the cross that long, and some people did survive crucifixion. Perhaps it was all an awesome prank that Jesus and his pals played on the Romans! You know, fake his own death to get outta town, or to avoid paying taxes or whatever. Brilliant! Now let's sing a hymn because that's really the best part about Easter anyway -- great music! Oh, and chocolate! May the force be with you!"

The congregation would stone me to death right up there in the pulpit.

My friend Beatrix was one of the well-intentioned crazy people who mentioned me becoming a pastor.

"What?!" I exclaimed. "I'd be a terrible pastor!"

"No, you wouldn't! You have a good heart! You just have to stop doing evil things."

This was very disconcerting to me. Not because she thinks I'm evil -- Lord knows I am! But I was like, Wait a minute? What evil things have I done that Beatrix knows about? Most of my evilness happens in my brain, or my car. So what tipped her off?

Oh, right, the horns. I try to keep them covered with my bangs, but it is often windy when Beatrix and I go to lunch.

Posted at 03:54 PM | Comments (3)

March 12, 2009

Wenchie: Servant of God

Okay, because I work at a church organization, there's a chapel on the first floor of the building, where we have a church service every Wednesday morning. I find this awesome because I can get paid to attend church, while missing work, my boss heartily approves, AND I can sleep in on Sunday mornings. Accepting Jeebus Xt as my personal savior never felt so good!

What? A gal's gotta have a personal savior, right? Might as well be Jeebus. It's not like Depeche Mode has done anything good lately.

A couple months ago, because someone was apparently desparate, I was asked to be a "lector." Which is just a fancy word for "reader." Okay, I can lect, that's easy. I read a lesson from the Old Testament, correctly pronounced a couple weird names, and distributed the wine during communion.

That's right, the words "the blood of Christ, shed for you" have actually passed through these lips. Without irony. How's that for keeping you awake at night?

Don't worry, I haven't lost my trademark sacralicious edge. I just couldn't think of a viable reason to say No. Besides, channelling the holy spirit can't hurt me in my quest to become permanantly employed there.

Actually, the first time I was holding the chalice (i.e. huge cup of wine), I blanked on what was going on. I had an out-of-body experience, looking down on myself thinking, "I really hope these people don't die, receiving the sacrament from such a blatant evil-doer. Can they tell I'm an imposter? I wore my most holy sweater!"

And the dude just stood there, holding his bread, like "Well...?" So I blurted, "Oh! ThebloodofChristshedforyou! Sorry!"

Two weeks ago, I got another email from the administrative assitant in the worship department. Yes, we have an entire department devoted to worship. You're wondering how I've managed to avoid a lightning strike, aren't you?

This email asked me, at short notice, to be Assisting Minister. To do a job with the word "minister" right in the title. Again, lacking a good reason to say No, I agreed. She sent me the script for the service (I'm sure it's not called a script, but what the hell do I know?), and I had to read a prayer that was a page and a half long! Immediately, my mouth dried up, and butterflies with razor-sharp wings set up housekeeping in my large intestine.

But it got worse. The Prayer of the Day is where you pray for every possible person and thing that the congregation and ministers can think of, 95 percent of which is prescribed by the church year and such. However, there's a place in the prayers for the Assisting Minister to pray for a few things that are current and important and whatever.

Which means that I had to come up with timely and deserving people to pray for. Which also means that I had to ask someone what to pray about.

Now, I know a lot about Chicago politics because they are a constant source of entertainment. And I know a bit about U.S. politics because my dream of living in a cave has yet to be realized. But I sheepishly here admit my ignorance of world events. Unless they talk about it on WLS AM, or my Oslo cousins email me something, I am sadly unaware. And until O*P*I quits making up new nail polish names every damn season, there just won't be enough room in my brain to remember the current state of every country.

As in all times I trouble, I ran to Chris (which is just Christ without the T on the end), and he directed me to BBC.com. After much deliberation, I decided on:

We pray for the people of Sri Lanka affected by the civil war there. We pray for the people of Mexico struggling with the increased violence between the drug cartels and the federal government.

I'm not sure these people are any more deserving of prayer than anyone else around the world, I just wanted to sound current and edgey, like I knew what the hell I was talking about. And it worked! Or at least, I assume it did, as no one mocked me after the service.

In fact, several people even came up to me and said, "You should be a pastor!"

If Jeebus hadn't risen from the grave, he'd be rolling in it right now.

Posted at 03:10 PM | Comments (3)

February 25, 2009

I Am a Racist Bastard Who Should Be Dragged from My Cubicle and Beaten Publicly

On the way home in the car the other day, I realized, during a commercial on the radio...

"Holy fucking shit. I just said, to an African American woman, Is that a black thing?"

Immediately upon reaching home, I got on I.M. and told Heather the sin I had committed.

Once she stopped laughing at me, I explained the circumstances so I could get her ruling -- Total Asshole or just Ignorant Dipshit?

I was admiring the headband that Rose, an African American co-worker, was wearing. She has dreadlocks and was keeping them off her face with a very wide, almost net-like headband. I thought it was cool and was wondering if it might work on my hair because I love headbands, but they always snap off my giant melon and/or give me a headache.

So I asked Rose about it. She told me where she got it and how much she paid, and that's when I said...

Is that a black thing, or can a white person wear it?

Now, my concern is this: I really hate white college kids who dread their hair and wear rasta colors and listen to Bob Marley and think they know something about the plight of the Haitians. They don't. They are total poser douchebags.

See, Rose wears lots of African fashions, and I didn't know if the headband was an extension of that. If so, I don't want to wear something similar and look like a total poser douchebag.

Get it? I wasn't trying to be an insensitive dicksmack! I just... completely came off that way.

And I didn't even apologize or explain my reasoning or anything because I didn't even realize what I'd done until I was driving home!

AAAAAAAAAACK!

So Heather asked how Rose responded. And I told her that she just kept laughing and talking because I was explaining my fear of asking African American people about their hair, which she thought was hilarious. And considering how much time I've spent on this blog positively obsessing about African American hair... or just African hair, because I'm sure people in Africa have the same hair, but they're not American...

Good God, being politically correct is exhausting and confusing.

Anyhoo, my point is -- I have clearly missed my calling to be a world-famous Norwegian hairdresser of African hair.

And my other point, the point I was getting to when I started this blog fourteen unrelated ramblings ago, is -- can I still be considered a racist if my racism is completely accidental? And the subject of my racism didn't even seem to notice?

I just opened up a whole can or worms right there, didn't I? Discuss it in your small groups, and then we'll talk about our findings with the whole group. You have ten minutes.

(P.S. Tomorrow I will try to work into conversation, "Several of my closest friends are black!")

Posted at 11:38 AM | Comments (2)

February 11, 2009

Wenchie's Resume 1984-1987

Well, the ax has fallen. On my life of leisure. Since the crappy economy took a huge bite out of our retirement fund, Wenchie has to go back to work fulltime to replenish it. *sigh*

(I'd like to know what percentage of my posts begin with the word "well." I'll bet it's pretty high.)

I started a new fulltime temp job on Monday, a different position in a department where I've already temped in two other positions. Guess they like me. Oh, why be modest? They LOVE me! Today is my first day flying solo, without the position's previous occupant training me.

When they post the job in March (I have no idea why they're waiting so long), I'm going to apply for it. I know I seem like a shoe-in, but one can never tell, and this is not the time to get cocky. In preparation for the competition, I'm brushing off and glossing up my resume.

*shudder*

Looking at the list of all the places I've worked is a trip down memory lane that is as bizarre as it is surreal. I got my work permit the day I turned 15, October 30, 1984. And from 1984 to 1987 alone, I had four jobs, often overlapping.

My very, very first job ever was at What's For Dinner? It was a small take-out place owned and operated by an old friend of the family. I did food prep and ran the cash register. The basic jist of the place was that it sold casseroles and salads and stuff that busy moms could take home and heat up, instead of KFC or burgers. Stuff like chicken tetrazzini and tuna noodle casserole that you couldn't get other places. I liked it.

But it was because of What's For Dinner? that I met the boy who would later become my first husband. I worked with a couple of senior girls from my Art class, and they kind of took me under their wing and invited me to a party. It was my first non-adult-supervised party, where I had my first (and last!) gin and tonic. My future ex-husband thought I was adorable and waited on the curb with me for my Dad, who picked me up at midnight.

He wanted to ask me to prom, but he had already asked the woman who would become his first ex-wife. It's a total soap opera, I know. Wish I'd never gone to that party! But, future suffering aside, What's For Dinner? was a nice introduction to my world of employment, and my first big purchase was a brown leather bomber jacket. It was the 80s, after all.

My other pre-sixteen job was working a couple days a week during the summer for a different friend of the family. He was a CPA, and I answered phones and did data entry, having to make sure all the columns added up. Kind of a yawner, but he couldn't have been a more laxidaisical boss, so it wasn't a bad job.

"Uncle" Ken would pick me up in the morning, and I'd be forced to endure opera music for the entire commute. In the afternoon, he'd put me on a train home. He was a nice man, and I miss him. I called him Uncle because, not only were our families close, but he and my Dad looked like they could be brothers.

He and his partner would often take three-hour, multiple-martini lunches, during which me and the partner's son were left alone in the office. Man, what's-his-name was cute. We never hooked up, but I always finished my work really quickly, so we had fun goofing around.

The second office I worked with was the exact polar opposite of Uncle Ken's. It was a secretarial agency run by a woman who thought I was so incompetant, I don't even know why she hired me. I think she was a friend of a friend of my Mom's or something.

This agency was about half a dozen women who did secretarial work for people/businesses who couldn't afford a fulltime secretary. I spent the first week or so of my parttime employment with an instruction manual for the electronic typewriters they used there. Apparently, they were extra-fancy because they had a little L.E.D. screen on the front, so you could type something into the typewriter and proofread it without ever using a single piece of paper.

First, I had to read the manual, front to back. Only then was I allowed to start practicing on the actual typewriter. But only on envelopes! I'd already aced my high school typing class with 120+ words per minute, but God forbid they let me type even a fucking memo!

I don't know what I did to convince the boss that I was an idiot, but I was soon demoted to mailings, i.e. I stuffed and labeled envelopes, being sure to keep them in zip code order. And even then she hovered over me and often checked my work. I wasn't used to not being trusted by an employer. God, how I hated her.

Then came the day that there was to be a huge protest at a local hospital. A pro-life protest. Oh, did I mention that everyone else in the office was a devout Catholic who attended the same church? Yeah, I'm sure my being Lutheran did nothing to foster any good will.

So boss lady told all the employees that, if they wanted to attend the protest with her, she'd pay them the same as if they were in the office all day. Now, hoping to be sexually active someday, I was pro-choice, all the way. Plus, I hate crowds, so there was no way in hell I was to go with them.

I gallantly offered to stay behind and answer the phone while everyone else was gone, but boss lady saw right through that. The next day, she called and said that there was no work for me that day, but she'd call me whenever another mailing came up.

She never called. Big shocker. I wasn't heartbroken. In fact, I was quite relieved. And I dated her youngest son a few times after that. He was a year younger than me, and I made sure she knew about us. A little revenge-dating, just for fun.

Luckily, a Pizza Hut had just opened up within walking distance of my house, and I was, apparently, the only person in my town stupid enough to apply. Seriously. Everyone else there lived in The City, including the second and third African American people I'd ever met. It was quite the education, lemme tell ya!

And you know what it taught me? That people who live in the ghetto are really sweet and supportive and fun, and the people who live in my town are rude, condescending, demanding, impatient, non-tipping assholes.

It also taught me to hate the songs "Pour Some Sugar On Me" and "Don't Worry, Be Happy" because those were the only songs on the juke box that the customers played.

It was soon after that when I went to college, moved outta my parents house and had to start working to support myself. But that's a story for another day.

Posted at 06:31 AM | Comments (1)

January 14, 2009

So Long

A few months back, I had to part with the best department a temp ever had. There were hugs and presents and pasta dishes.

You know how you have a job, and you're like, "Aw, man, this job would be great... if so-and-so weren't such and utter and incurable seeping bag of vomit!"

Well, that job didn't have any vomit bags, puke sacks, or even bile totes. It was completely spew-free. I loved them, they loved me. If great sex was a job, it was that job.

So when I left, I was presented with a gorgeous necklace. A pink pearl on a silver chain. Waaaaaaaaay better than I deserve, perhaps...

I also got The Obligatory Card That Everyone In The Department Signed. Only there was nothing compulsory about the notes inside. "You are a joy to work with!" "We will truly miss you!" "Please come back and visit us!"

And then there was the inscription from Chris:

"Thanks for the baked goods and sarcasm."

Suddenly, I'm Wenchie's Guide to the Galaxy. "So long, and thanks for all the sarcasm."

Warms the cockles of my heart. I think I've found my epitaph.

Pirate Wench

1969 - 2049

We will miss her cakes and sarcasm.

Awww, I'll miss you most of all, ScareChris.

Posted at 08:40 PM | Comments (1)

November 24, 2008

Beatrix Cops an Attitude

I have a standing lunch date with Beatrix on Wednesdays. Normally, I plan ahead so that moths don't escape when I turn my pockets inside-out. But last week, I had to send her this email:

Lunch today? I have 3 dollars to my name.

This is what she wrote back:

Your options are...

1. Stand outside the window and watch me eat my lunch.
2. Purchase only what you can afford.
3. Maybe you can convince someone to share their lunch with you.
4. I will buy this time you buy next time or how about a loan. (This is the one I recommend).

Everybody's a comedian. I made her buy me lunch, as punishment for getting sassy.

Posted at 11:15 AM | Comments (0)

September 23, 2008

Classy Broads

I think it's safe to say that, where I work, the majority of the top positions in the company are held by women. And the floor I work on is where many of these women have their offices. And these women -- lemme tell you -- fabu-freakin'-lous dressers! Hands down, these are the classiest broads I know.

Today, I was sitting at my desk when my cell phone rang. Figuring it was my Mom, I answered without looking. I was surprised to hear the voice of one of these classy broads.

CB: Hi. Are you in your office?

PW: Yes...

CB: Can I ask you to do me a favor?

PW: Of course! (figuring I was to get something off her desk and bring it to some meeting she was in)

CB: Don't laugh.

PW: (starts laughing) You can't tell me that! That automatically makes me laugh because I know this is going to be good!

CB: Alright. Don't think I'm weird, but can you come to the bathroom?

PW: I'm on my way. Should I, um... bring something? (imagining some type of Caddyshack- or Porkys-esque shenanigans)

CB: No. You'll see when you get here.

I walked into the bathroom, not even being able to imagine what I could possibly imagine in this case. I said her name, and she stepped out of a stall with her tailored skirt around her hips and her arm awkwardly at her side.

"My bracelet is stuck to my pantyhose!"

BWAAAAAAAAAAAAA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA!

I bent over for a closer look, and sure enough, Brighton had falled in love with Hanes, and they refused to be parted.

"I tried ripping the pantyhose, but they're really strong! And I can't see it to unhook it! And I didn't want to walk to my office with my skirt pulled down! I'm so glad you were here!"

Once my face was the inches from her hip, it was an easy thing to unhook the offending trinket.

I guess this falls under the "and other duties as needed" portion of my job description.

Posted at 07:25 PM | Comments (0)

September 19, 2008

The Emissions

Dear Woman in the Bathroom Stall Next To Me,

There are four stalls in the 11th floor bathroom. I was in the last one, the furthest from the door. Which means there were two very convenient stalls that you could have used, leaving at least one buffer-stall between us as we powdered our noses, so to speak.

But you chose neither of those stalls. Which I find quite odd. Yes, there was a "wall" between us. But the wall goes neither to the floor nor the ceiling, so it's not so much a wall as it is the mere hint of a politeness barrier.

I don't like going potty two feet away from another person. Unless it's Billi, and then I couldn't care less because we spent at least 30% of our childhood in the bathroom together -- peeing, bathing, shaving our legs, brushing our teeth.

But as you are not my sister, I don't want you airing your hoo-ha, sphincter, and all the emissions thereof so damn close to me.

Ah, but you took it one step further, didn't you?

You collapsed onto the toilet seat and unleashed a torrential barrage of farts and excrement of various consistancies. It was noisy. It was smelly. And it was, at most, two feet from my person.

And you did it on purpose! You chose to be that close to me! You deliberately put me in the immediate vicinity of your DIARREAAAAAAA, YOU DISGUSTING PIG!!!!!!!

I can't imagine what would possess a woman to subject a sistah to that. I mean, I would expect that from a man because they like to fart in the car and roll the windows up and activate the child-proof window-locks. But I would expect a female to have a teesny, tiny bit more class than that.

I feel personally insulted and violated. I hate you and wish you unsolid, ass-burning, volcanic poop for the rest of your life.

Love, Wenchie

P.S. You left you diet A&W can on the sink. I know who you are.

Posted at 06:19 PM | Comments (2)

September 08, 2008

Eagle Poop

I've hired a speaker for this big event I'm planning at work, and I know I need to get a contract for her, but I have no idea how to go about it.

So I asked my co-worker, Chris, and got this reply.

Make small leather pouch, fill it with tobacco. Go down to the lake and throw it out as far as you can while singing this song.

Oh hi-ne-gi nah-dv-ga ni-hi a-go-wa-dv
na-v-i hi-a de-ga-lv-yi l-lv-yi e-ga-hi

If an eagle poops on your car within 2 days, write the terms of the contract on a green piece of paper and throw it in the lake too.

You contract should be delivered to you within 4 months.

If nothing else, one must admire his total commitment to sarcasm.

Posted at 08:53 AM | Comments (1)

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 (2)

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 (3)

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