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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

To be continued...

Posted at 12:25 PM | Comments (0)

January 18, 2007

Thank You for the Opportunity

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

But I digest.

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

But I'll get to that in good time.

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

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

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

And I put this letter on Head Boss' desk:

Dear Head Boss:

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

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

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

Sincerely,

Wenchie

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

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

To be continued...

Posted at 12:35 PM | Comments (7)

January 12, 2007

I Stepped In It

Dear Co-Workers & Cube Neighbors,

Please pardon the smell.

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

Yeah, I just noticed it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thank you for your understanding.

Respectfully yours,
Wenchie

Posted at 04:28 PM | Comments (1)

December 20, 2006

God Bless the Inventor of the Elastic Waistband

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

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

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

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

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

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

Posted at 06:26 AM | Comments (3)

December 13, 2006

Fan, Meet Shit

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Posted at 11:38 AM | Comments (3)

December 01, 2006

The Big Announcement

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

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

PART TIME!!!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Posted at 12:14 PM | Comments (2)

November 12, 2006

Smoke Screen

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

Why aren't I fired?

Why aren't I at least on probation?

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

The answer may surprise you...

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Conclusion

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

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

The Crime

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

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

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

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

The Motive

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

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

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

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

Posted at 08:23 PM | Comments (0)

November 08, 2006

Back-Up

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

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

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

The only answer my friends? Back-up tapes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Posted at 04:29 PM | Comments (1)

November 06, 2006

Secrets Are Good

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

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

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

This works for me. I'm never unkind to anyone here, and no one has been intentionally unkind to me, so I don't care if they think I'm an immature bimbo with a tendency to show too much cleavage, as long as we can all work together in some semblance of harmony.

I mention this because I no longer have any secrets. For the second time in two years, my deepest, darkest ventings have fallen into the hands of the last person I would want to read them. I am utterly exposed.

When a friend of mine quit here, there were hundreds of emails she left behind, going back months and months. Since she worked with money and was involved in H.R. issues, it was decided that, before vaporizing her company email account, someone should go through her back emails and see if there was any information that would be important to the company.

Among these important company emails were -- you guessed it -- personal emails to and from yours truly. And I do mean personal. She and I were very close and trusted each other implicitly. Therefore, these emails contained rantings and updates on, but not limited to: our marriages, our families, our in-laws, my step daugthers, this blog, the infamous (and now defunct) Stepmom Blog, my internet habits, my eBaying obsession, my IMing habits, many rounds of Marry-Date-Fuck, and my opinions on many of my co-workers.

(Ugh. Re-reading that paragraph, I'm cringing more than when I saw "The Ring.")

But who should go through all these emails? Well, the G.M. here, who no one likes, nominated himself for the job. It makes sense; after all, payroll emails could contain confidential information. Such as, salaries, raises and EVERYTHING I HAVE EVER VENTED OR CONFIDED TO HER. Yeah. My worst thoughts on my worst days fell into the hands of the worst person I know.

And he read them all.

Monday morning, early, my Head Boss called me into his office, which isn't unusual. G.M. was sitting there, too, which is unusual. Within five seconds, H.B. mentioned the email account, and I had an immediate, very clear picture of what had transpired, and what kind of lecture I was in for.

I steeled myself to be fired, and yet, I was surprisingly calm. G.M. and H.B. both assured me that G.M. hadn't shown anyone else the emails. H.B. was pissed, sure, but I've seen him more angry, and I know I can count on his ability to forgive and forget. He is the definition of A Good Guy.

As for G.M., you'd think that being caught by the company's #2 would have me freaking out. But I literally think so little of him that I just didn't care. I don't care what he thinks of me. It sickens me to think that he knows all about my personal life, but...

I'm not a bad person. What I think is my business, and the business of a chosen few. What I do is, I believe, a better indication of who I am. And I am kind to everyone I work with. I'm not phoney; if I don't like someone, I don't seek them out and chat them up, but I'm always nice.

I don't know a person on earth who hasn't thought a bad thought about someone else, and vented it to another person. It doesn't make me a bad person. I'm just a stooge for being careless and getting caught.

And I will totally cop to gossiping and improper use of company email. The company I work for has a friendly, casual atmosphere, and I just got too comfortable. I have to be a better employee and remember that that comfort is earned. By me. Every day.

So, I was lectured for improper use of company time, inappropriate emails and something about me "spreading a cancer through the company." Wow. Such power I have! Frankly, I think it's a stitch that The Most Hated Person In the Company was scolding me for hurting morale, but whatever.

What I most regret is that I brought this down on H.B. As if it's his job to babysit me. As if he's supposed to watch every, little thing I do. None of this was his fault. It was 100% mine, and I wish G.M. had just confronted me personally. But approaching a female secretary directly is beneath him and would have rendered him inpure in the eyes of his god.

My biggest concern is that, until I make other employment arrangements, I can only write during my 45-minute lunch break and after work. But I often spend my lunches out of the building, and after work, there's always some damn thing that needs to be done around the house. So my blogging may be sporadic for a while.

PLEEEEEEEEEAAASE don't abandon me, my lovelies! Believe me, restricting my blogging hurts me more than it hurts you. I'm going to aim for three times a week, for now, so please don't neglect me. I am an attention whore and live only for my Visitor Count!

You're probably wondering why I don't just stop putting my thoughts down "on paper" (so to speak). Just quit writing anything to anyone, anywhere. Well, that's just not an option. Writing has always been my outlet, and that's not going to change.

I also contend that my deepest, darkest thoughts do not make me a horrible person, as they aren't any worse than anyone else's innermost ravings.

Ninety-nine percent of the time, we have no business pointing at and judging anyone for their private thoughts. Instead, we should embrace them as a universal experience and accept that, inside, we are often very much the same. Wouldn't that be much less lonely?

Embrace your Inner Asshole, people. Just don't let him behind the wheel of your car.

Posted at 05:46 PM | Comments (4)

September 27, 2006

I Hate What I'm Wearing. Can I Go Home?

I should really just have a blog category called "My Boobs," since I can't seem shut up about them.

In an attempt to answer that age-old question, "Why do my clothes always look better at home than they do at work?" Heather and I had the following innane and mostly irrelevent conversation via IM (edited for coherency):

PW: I'm so getting rid of this shirt. it's pretty, but it just doesn't hang right and looks so retarded. but how come I never notice these things until I'm already at work?

H: oh, I know. it's because we don't have indirect florescent lighting at home.
H: I am dressed like murphy brown - didn't realize it until I got here. and now my editor is laughing at me. if he had a blog, I'd be RIGHT UP in there.
H: what are YOU wearing?

PW: oh, it's a pink, v-neck shirt, but it just... doesn't hang right. and I feel stupid and frumpy.
PW: and I put my black cardigan over it cuz I"m cold, and now it looks even dumber cuz it has 3/4 length sleeves

H: so, both tops don't fit right? I hate THAT!

PW: well, the cardigan is awesome but looks stupid over the stupid shirt
PW: I think I"ll go take off the shirt and leave on just the black one

H: ohohoh. yeah. take it off, baby.

PW: I'm too sexy for my shirt.

H: does it hurt?

PW has changed status to Away: I am away from my computer right now.
PW has changed status to Available

PW: not really, but now that I've changed, my neckline is waaaaaaaaay plunging
PW: and I don't have a necklace on

H: you don't have backup jewelry? anything you could borrow from barbie?

PW: no, back-up sweater is an organized as I get

H: ah. I dont' even have that.

PW: and I need a safety pin for this sweater. my tits are bursting out

H: how is that a problem? wear it backwards!

PW: HA! I work at Conservative Insurance Co., not Playboy
PW: it's not porno, but I would still feel better if it were an inch more closed

H: scotch tape? paper clip it to your bra?

PW: it's Banana Republic! I would totally use double-sided tape, if it were Old Navy or something
PW: well, at least I can blog about my boobs today... which is pretty much my fav topic anyway, so I'm always happy for an excuse

H: yay! awesome!

PW: Female Co-Worker just offered to lend me a sweater, and it's totally cute, but she had, like, three lunches spilled on it.
PW: I'm like, "Take your sweater home and wash it!"
PW: I'd rather be a slut than a slob.

H: that is hilarious
H: I don't keep a sweater here, because I hate that whole sweater-on-the-chair look. I'd rather be cold than ugly.
H: becuas ei am weird.

PW: I keep it in my drawer, not on my chair! I'm not an animal!

H: I don't have drawer space - it's full of porn!

PW: you have way better priorities than me

H: obviously.

And then we started talking about porn, which is appropriate because I look like Chesty McMelon. In fact, this illustration is pretty accurate:

Ah, Captain Cleavage. You can always find her throwing back drinks at The Salty Nipple. She's the scourge o' the seven seas... as long as it's not too windy.

To make matters worse, I did this last week, too -- decided I hated my shirt and changed into my sweater. Of course, I had a pink tank on underneath, so it wasn't as risque. But still, people are going to think this is the only top I own!

I'm just going to start telling people that I gave all my worldly posessions to George Clooney so he can save Africa or whatever it is that he's doing. Oh, who cares what he's doing? It's George Clooney! Why wouldn't I give him my clothes?!

Posted at 11:26 AM | Comments (1)

August 23, 2006

Mud Pies

Several months ago, I read a book I really liked called "Julie & Julia." It's about a woman, Julie, who decides to cook her way through Julia Child's entire book of "The Joy of French Cooking" or whatever. Heather gave it to me, and I must say, it was a bold move on her part, what with my hatred for cooking and all things French.

But I really liked the book. In it, the author wrote this:

"...there are two kinds of friends in the world, those who inspire in you all that is great and good and those who'd prefer to get right down on their haunches and help out with the mud pies,..."

That really struck a chord with me, and I pondered it as I fell asleep. Who are my inspiring friends, and who are my mud pie friends?

Well, that's pretty damn easy. Egrau and PJ are obviously the ones who inspire me to new heights of kindness and fulfillment... or at least shame be into not being such a bitter asshole all the time.

Egrau is a Lender of Books. Books that make your soul soar and your heart sing poetry. Books that say, "Come, rise up! This is what you can be! This is what you can write! Or at least learn a couple new vocabulary words so you're not saying fuck so often."

PJ has overcome a lifetime of being Irish, to become one of the kindest, most selfless people I know. She makes me want to bake goodies for strangers and be nice to all living creatures, even cats and children.

And then... there's Nicki and Heather, my mud pie friends. Ah, how I adore them and their limitless capacity for evil.

When Nicki and I are out at the mall during lunch, we often point out what we will buy to decorate our all-pink condo, where we will live after we've divorced (killed) our husbands.

And, oh, how I thrill to see Heather's eyes light up and shoulders hunch in laughter over the prospect of setting unicorns on fire or performing an "ethnic cleansing" of the French.

But now? Heather's new, fabulous, well-paying job that she loves is keeping us from the constant, constant IMing that, once upon a time, brought us into blissfull co-dependence.

And Nicki? Hmmm... Nicki is the reason I'm musing on friendship today because Nicki is totally breaking up with me. Or more accurrately, she tendered her resignation and, as of September 1st, will no longer be working here.

I. Am. Devastated!

Sure, given a choice, it would always be preferrable to lose Nicki and Heather, rather than Egrau and PJ. Given an ultimatum between the Good and the Evil, I could never subject the world to a Wenchie influenced solely by the devils on her shoulder. It would be a chilly, barren world, where even Nicki and Heather would eventually become skittish.

But, GAWD, I'm going to miss her. Nick. Nicki. Nicholle.

No more absolutely imperative walks to the snack shop to vent about a husband's latest lapse in brain function. No more stress-relieving lunches of BBQ nachos and chocolate cake. No more furtive emails bemoaning the unfortunate fashion choices of our co-workers.

Oh, sure she'll email me fairly frequently for a while. Perhaps even call. But then it will drop off, as she luxuriates in her new, employment-free lifestyle -- drinking, napping, walking the dog -- and it becomes more and more difficult for her to empathize with my tedious tales of office life. What is this "fax machine" you speak of, Wenchie?

And I'll be left with only the Barbie she bought me, a mix tape she made me, and the sight of her empty desk, which I will ride my bike past at least once a day, hoping against my knowledge of reality to see her there.

*sigh*

Where's my cookie dough ice cream?

Posted at 02:46 PM | Comments (1)

August 17, 2006

Dear Shadey McParkerson:

I guess this week's theme is "Strangers Who Piss Me Off."

Upon returning to work from the Post Office, since my parking spot close to the building had been taken, I decided to park at the far back of the lot, in one of the few coveted Shade Spots. There's not much mature foliage around this building, so shade is hard to come by and vied over, in the summer months especially.

I got a spot on the edge of the shade, but since I'm not Sacajaweeuh or Pokahontus (I'm not as fluent in Apache as I used to be), I didn't know if I was going to be in more shade or full-on sun when I came back out at quittin' time.

I would have gotten a spot more in the middle of the shadey area, except for the fucknut whose car was straddling two spaces. Because, you know, he doesn't want anyone opening their car door into his 1997 Honda.

Well, I was in Full Burn Mode after the Post Office, so I got my pen and little pad of paper out of my purse, and I wrote him a note:

You park like an ASSHOLE!

Then I stuck it facedown under his driver's side windshield wiper.

Hee! It still makes me giggle!

I know it doesn't accomplish anything. I know Honda Boy is going to keep on being an asshole. But lemme tell ya -- I made the trek back to the office with a smile on my face and a song in my heart, and that doesn't happen very often.

Posted at 02:59 PM | Comments (4)

August 10, 2006

A Thoughtful Token

So I get to work this morning, and my Chick Boss hands me a little bag with a notepad in it.

CB: I got something for you when I was shopping in Colorado! It just made me think of you.

PW: WHAT?!

CB: Because you like dogs!

PW: Riiiiiiiiiight.

I'm going to use it to write down Husband's weekend To Do List.

Posted at 02:30 PM | Comments (3)

July 31, 2006

Some Random Hazards of Office Life

GodDAMMIT! Who is using the only color printer to print twenty-four fifty-paged reports -- IN BLACK AND WHITE -- when I have to print ACTUAL COLOR DOCUMENTS?!?!

* * * * *

So this morning, all of a sudden, my left eye started killing me, and I knew my contact had some unwanted company in there.

So I flushed it out with wetting solution and all that stuff, but to no avail. And I could hardly keep my eye open, and all the tearing was making my nose run. I had to walk to the bathroom with my eyes closed, snot trickling down my lip.

Well, I got the contact out of my eye, and then I'm like, "Now what?"

I'd forgotten to even bring wetting solution, and Lord knows I'm not prepared enough to keep soaking solution with me.

The options before me:

1. Throw it out and walk around with double vision all day (I have astigmatism).

2. Try to scrape the offending particle off my contact, put the dry-as-unbuttered-toast contact back in my eye, and hope for the best.

I opted for the latter.

Turned out to be an eyelash, and by the time I got it off, there were a bunch of other unidentifiable specks on my contact. Without checking to see if it was inside-out or whatever, I jammed it back onto my eyeball.

My vision has been blurry ever since. I'm pretty sure I've contracted some horrible bacteria, and tomorrow morning, my eyeball will fall out of its socket and roll around until it is snatched up by some mangy monkey.

* * * * *

I just got back from the printer, where I found that someone had printed off the entire article about Lance Bass being gay.

This led me to wonder -- to whom in this office is this piece of information so crucial that they had to print off the article? And why?

* * * * *

I have a crush on the guy who works the little sundries shop downstairs (and I admit this, knowing that I will now be mercilessly taunted by the few co-workers who read this). He's a big, dumb moose, but he has pretty, pretty eyes.

Nicki and I went down to get a snack, and we were talking about our usual retarded stuff, and I go, "Ooh! I'll be famous!"

And Moose goes, "Can I come with? Strong back, weak mind!"

And, people, do you know how hard to had to bite my tongue not to say That's how I like 'em?

Nicki goes, "I heard you stop breathing."

That hard.

Posted at 02:52 PM | Comments (3)

July 19, 2006

Nicki's Career Threat Level System

I believe I have mentioned, on at least one occasion, my lackadaisical attitude towards my work wardrobe, which more closely resembles pajamas than anything Tess McGill ever wore. I have a head for business, a bod for sin, and a cotton hoodie.

Nicki shares my loathing of corporate dress. She also loathes her job, and with good reason, as she is contractually obligated to be patient and kind with fucking retards every day. So her poor fashion choices may be just a symptom of the larger problem of her husband being unable to support her in a luxurious, work-free lifestyle.

But I'm not her damn shrink, so I'm not going into that here. We both push the limits, is the point.

I have started to notice certain trends in Nicki's appearance. A ponytail means that she opted to sleep in rather than wash her hair. A t-shirt means that she has recently screwed up so badly that one of the C.E.O.s is probably going to jail. Ponytail and t-shirt means to check her trunk for bodies.

To make these things easier for me to interpret (so I'll know when to prepare an alibi and/or wait outside with the car running), Nicki developed a new Threat Level System for her impending career-ending mental snap:

[I have edited for continuity because, let's face it, the broad is barely coherent.]

* * * * *

The following is a chart to help decipher (black dress pants are a constant):

US Homeland Level: Red - Severe
Career Snap Level: T-shirt, No Jewelry

Expanded Description
Employee is not even trying. She sports no make-up and dirty ponytail, paired with a late arrival and excessive sighing and trips to the kitchen for water and snacks to fill the sucking void of corporate gloom.

US Homeland Level: Orange - High
Career Snap Level: T-shirt, Necklace and/or Earrings

Expanded Description
Employee attempts last minute appearance-save by adding necklace to the shirt worn to edge the lawn and sweep the garage over the weekend. Eye make-up only, to balance the bling of the necklace. Hair down and unbrushed.

US Homeland Level: Yellow - Elevated
Career Snap Level: Pilled Knit Top, Gym Shoes

Expanded Description
Employee cannot be bothered to iron but wears full make-up, as this requires less appliances than ironing. Gym shoes are passive-aggressive swipe at draconian corporate policies. Also, loafers are lost in the house due to lack of time to properly organize her life.

US Homeland Level: Green - Guarded
Career Snap Level: Dress Shirt, Coordinating Purse

Expanded Description
Employee must have somewhere better to go directly after work and will undoubtedly skip out at least fifteen minutes early.

US Homeland Level: Blue - Low
Career Snap Level: Same as Green Level, plus Perfume

Expanded Description
Actually the most dangerous level. Contempt and despair so carefully and deliberately concealed that employee may never return from a trip to the copier.

* * * * *

I, myself, am wearing a ponytail and glasses today (as opposed to contacts). Also, we took a two-hour lunch. In about five minutes, I'm just gonna put my feet up and crack open Anne Rice's latest book, I swear to God. Level Orange! Level Orange!

Posted at 02:42 PM | Comments (1)

June 15, 2006

Barbies 'n' Beige

Photo spread today because I'm moonlighting at work. Doing a PowerPoint presentation for a co-worker's husband, for which I'm being paid. Haven't decided how much, yet, 'though...

Anyhoo, it took much searching and toil on eBay to finally bring together this vintage vacation-in-Holland look for Midge and Allan (Barbie and Ken's best friends, duh):

And since that small glimpse of my desk no doubt left you wanting to see more, here's where the magic happens:

Now you know why some of my posts are so uninspired. Could there BE any more beige?!

Posted at 04:00 PM | Comments (5)

June 06, 2006

The Bitch with a Heart of Gold

Nicholle is an evil person, which is both: a) why I love her, and; b) how she puts up with me. The funny thing about her, though, is that I seem to be the only one who knows how evil she is (until now, I guess).

Everyone else in the world thinks she's a peach. She's sweet and adorable and charming..., until one has walked away. Then the whips out her voodoo doll and starts muttering curses and slaughtering chickens. She's so effortlessly duplicitous -- it's kinda scary and often makes me doubt my own sanity.

For example.

I'm in charge of our in-house company newsletter. I have help, but I do a lot of the work because I'm anal-retentive, and I want it the way I want it.

We have an office in Raleigh, NC, and they were kind enough to send me some tidbits for an article (the hoi polloi are not allowed to write their own articles). Apparently, in the space of one month, the Raleigh employees -- the whole damn office, mind you -- sponsored and worked a rest stop for a local MS walk, and helped old people in a retirement home color Easter eggs.

And it's not like it was during work hours, and they were being paid for it. On no. This was extracurricular, volunteer work.

I looked around my own office and thought, We are selfish, horrible people.

I also feel this way after Husband insists we watch "Extreme Makeover: Home Edition." The person who gets the new house is always like some blind, widowed pastor, who is also an army veteran, with seventeen disabled, adopted children, in addition to her three orphaned nephews, who take in runaways, abandoned animals, and battered women, while running a soup kitchen and suicide hotline.

After seeing such selfless giving and looking around my own cushy lifestyle, I can't help but turn to Husband and ask, "Can we rescue a pony or something?"

I voiced my self-reflective concern to Nicholle, and she was very sympathetic. She even tried to help me think of ways our office could help out in the local community.

She reached deep inside her black heart and said, "How 'bout we do makeovers of other people in the building -- it will be fun and charity wrapped in one!"

See? This is why I love her.

Posted at 03:42 PM | Comments (1)

May 16, 2006

Soda Machine Outage... and Outrage

Remember the G.M. of our company, famous for such emails as Stewards of Electrical Resources and Pig Sty? Well, he's at it again. Yes, we pay him six figures a year to write this:

V.P. has elected to keep your price of soft drinks at $.25 even though it cost the company $.65 per can. This cost includes the cost of the soda, machine rental, service, and overhead to the vending company. This is an employee benefit and intended for employee consumption while at the office.

We are periodically reminded of the machine being out of a specific soda. The machine is filled three times per week. Our outage of a specific brand has increased substantially in recent weeks. Why are we having an outage with more frequency? We have fewer employees within our space than when we first moved. Are our employees drinking more soda? Are people taking advantage of the subsidized price and taking the drinks home or to other areas? We had one employee observe a member of the cleaning crew purchases many and place them into a basket for removal from the area. I do not know if increased outage is one primary reason or if there are several contributing factors.

Here is what has been done:

1. I met with the building management and they will communicate to the cleaning crew that they should not be purchasing subsidized goods or removing goods from tenant space. While we do not object to them having a soda for their own use while in our space, purchasing multiple drinks at our subsidized rate and removing them in inappropriate. Depleting the supply is inconsiderate and inconvenient to you.

2. Executive Secretary checked with the vendor and found a timer can be installed which will render the machine inoperable during certain hours. This would certainly stop the purchase of drinks after regular office hours. I do not want to do this as it would inconvenience employees here after normal hours.

Other options:

1. We could eliminate one of the other drink options so more Diet Coke could be available. That may please the Diet Coke drinkers at the expense of those preferring the product eliminated.

2. If the low price is influencing the purchases, we could reduce the amount of company subsidy (increase cost at the machine). I do not think that is something you want us to do and I do not think V.P. wants that to happen.

3. Adding another machine is not an option for consideration.

Suggestions:

1. If you observe inappropriate use of the vending machine, tactfully reminder the offender and/or report the incident to an appropriate person.

2. If you are having a group function that may require a large quantity of drinks, consider purchasing your needed quantity of drinks elsewhere rather than depleting the supply in the vending machine.

3. If the machine happens to be temporarily out of your favorite soda, consider trying an alternate brand until the machine is refilled. Better yet, consider the filtered water.

4. If you are really attached to a specific brand that is not available from the machine, you may find it in the Atrium Shop (non-discounted price).

5. Remember that we do not have a supply of drinks to replenish the machine and we do not have a key to access the machine. The vendor is here on a regular schedule (Mon, Wed.& Fri. morning) and is the only one able to refill the machine. Let's try to patiently wait for the vendor to arrive and refill the machine.

6. Let's continue to monitor the usage without currently implementing additional changes.

Well. I knew I just had to blog it.

I was drafting some witty comments to go with it, when I received this from co-worker Ann O. Nymous, which is much funnier than anything I was coming up with:

Solution 1

1. Compare the daily fluctuations in soda inventory against the badge reader data on the restroom doors.

2. A decrease in soda inventory that coincides with an increase of trips to the restroom would implicate a suspect.

Solution 2

1. Install retina scanners, fingerprint scanners, or card key readers on the soda machine.

2. The information from these access devices can be correlated to the fluctuations in soda inventories, thereby allowing the determination of the individual (or individuals – we cannot rule out the possibility of a conspiracy) consuming excessive amounts of soda.

Solution 3

1. Install realistic-looking, artificial bushes and trees in the lunchroom.

2. Wearing camouflage clothing, appointed company officials can hide in the fake bushes and trees and await for the arrival of the cleaning people

3. When the cleaning people are observed removing excessive amounts of soda from the machine, fire a tranquilizer dart into their shoulder or haunches. The amount of tranquilizer needed will vary from cleaning person to cleaning person – depending on their weight.

4. Once darted with the tranquilizer, follow – at a safe distance – the cleaning person(s) until they drop.

5. Once down, they can be weighed, their teeth and nails can be checked, and blood can be drawn. The glucose levels of the blood can aid in determining whether “too much” soda has been consumed by the cleaning person. Also, if the cleaning person was carrying soda cans, these can be collected and returned to the soda machine.

6. The sleeping cleaning person will awaken within 20 minutes, with only a slight headache and a thirsty sensation which will undoubtedly cause them to return to the soda machine for a drink.

Posted at 12:17 PM | Comments (4)

May 03, 2006

My Work Son

You know how they say that 75% of people have a "work spouse"? Well, I'm a secretary, so I don't have a "work spouse." I have "work children."

Hot Boss is my teenaged son. His cell ringtone is something by Metallica. He dresses poorly. He curses. He is suspicious of authority. And he's a complete moron.

Case in point. Our I.T. dept. has asked us all to go through our computers and delete old files, both on our hard drives and on the company shared drive. Knowing Hot Boss' utter imcompetence, I took it upon myself to go through all his files with him. Not only deleting old ones, but organizing the 800 files he has in his My Documents folder.

(It is my dream to someday get to the over 500 emails with attachments he has saved in Lotus Notes and save those damn files onto his hard drive, earning the praise and adoration of the entire I.T. department.)

Hot Boss is so technologically challenged that when I created a New Folder, he told me I should be working in the I.T. dept. Yeah, because that's what Brother-In-Law sits around all day doing -- creating New Folders. And sometimes? He Cuts and Pastes! Astounding!

"Okay. Where are the majority of your files saved? The C drive or the U drive?"

"I don't know. I save them all in Word."

"Yes, but where do you save them to?"

"To Word!"

"Dude, you can't save anything in Word. Word is just a program."

"But that's where I save them!"

*siiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiigh*

So I went into the voice I use when explaining to Boy Child why he has to eat three more bites of apple before he can have fishy crackers.

"Okay, your My Documents folder is like a storage bin. It stores things on your C drive, so they're not taking up space on our server. When you open Windows and want to open a file, it will dip into your My Documents and only show you the files saved as Word documents. You can save IN Word, but you cannot anything TO Word. Word is NOT a storage device. Don't ever tell anyone that you saved something in Word."

"Oh, bite me."

"Hey, I'm trying to help you here! I'm trying to keep you from sounding stupid! I don't want you telling a client, 'Oh, I must've saved your proposal in Word'. Don't EVER tell ANYONE that you saved something in WORD. ... And don't ever wear that shirt again."

"Fuck you."

"Now, this is very important. If you delete a file, you are deleting it from your whole computer, whether you are in Word or Excel. You aren't just deleting it from Word or Excel, you are deleting it from My Documents entirely. Understand?"

I didn't tell him about his Recycle Bin. When he comes to me one day, freaking out that he deleted an important file, I'll just pull it outta the Recycle Bin, and he'll think I'm David Fucking Copperfield.

Posted at 01:00 PM | Comments (6)

March 14, 2006

Shortest. Workday. Ever.

Well, that was a waste of a shower.

Ack! I used my $23 conditioner this morning, too! Dammit!

Yeah, I'm home sick. Felt fine when I went into work. Twenty minutes later, I was praying to God, Please don't let me blow chunks at my desk.

There was no gradual, Hmmm, I feel weird. It was very sudden -- nausea, light-headedness, and that freaky thing where your body is freezing then sweating then freezing then sweating. I hate that.

Now, our office takes up half of one floor of a building, so it's very loooooooooooooooong and narrow. The lobby is smack dab in the middle of the office, and the bathroom is outside the lobby doors.

My cubicle is at the furthest possible location from the lobby, and thus, the bathroom. I walked there briskly, praying to God, Please don't let me blow chunks before I get there. I don't wanna have to use someone else's garbage can.

Thank God, the feeling subsided after I stood in the stall for a while. Cuz the last thing I wanna do is stick my head where a thousand people have had their asses.

I went into my boss' office and told him, "I know I just got there, but I'm going home. I felt fine until fifteen minutes ago, and now I'm all light-headed and nauseous."

He goes, "Same thing with my daughter this morning! She was getting ready for school, when all of a sudden, she got light-headed and nauseous. So she went back to bed."

"That sounds like a great idea."

Damn. I really liked my outfit this morning, too. Waste of a perfectly good outfit. Oh, screw it, I'll just wear it again tomorrow. It's not like I was seen by more than half a dozen people!

My outfit now? Well, as you know, the rule about sick clothes is that they are worn for comfort ONLY, and fashion matters not a whit.

Blue knee socks; aqua, capri-length, Hello Kitty pajama pants; Happy Bunny t-shirt; grey sweatshirt with my company's logo on it. I am a vision, truly.

I've slept for three hours, but I'm still yucky. I don't think the soup and Girl Scout cookies helped much. I think I'll go back to sleep. Hopefully, I'll return tomorrow, my usual perky self.

Heh.

Posted at 01:48 PM | Comments (6)

March 01, 2006

You Don't Sing Me Love Songs Anymore

I got flowers delivered to me today, which is always a big deal in an office, so I've had many people nosing around my desk.

Tom: Hey, what are the flowers for?

PW: 'Cuz I'm awesome in bed.

Tom: Oh. Who are they from?

* * * * *

Oh, and Minty Michelle My Belle, you were my 800th commenter a couple days ago -- ASK ME A QUESTION!

Posted at 02:05 PM | Comments (3)

February 23, 2006

Okay, This Is Getting Ridiculous

This makes three times in as many years. Yes, I'm talking about Husband's latest trip to the E.R. (which is why I didn't post last Wednesday, or Friday).

Now, I thought that The Curse of Valentine's Day had been broken this year. But it turns out that, although we didn't recognize it at the time, Husband's symptoms started that evening at dinner, when he didn't finish his spaghetti. Husband loooooves spaghetti, so I thought that was weird. But since Husband so often displays weird behavior, I didn't think much of it.

The next morning, he woke up all cold and clammy with a headache and stomach ache. He's been working himself to death, so I figured it was just the flu and Mother Nature's way of forcing himself to spend a couple days in bed. (Ma Nature is a bitch that way. Not exactly the subtle type.)

I went to work; he stayed home.

About 9:00 on Wednesday, he called me -- winded -- and said my Dad was on his way to take him to the E.R.

He's like, "Yeah, I'm kinda worried. I've been pooping black. Since early this morning. I probably should have told you."

Um...

YA THINK?!?!

Still, I'm very proud of him going to the hospital of his own volition. So Dad took him to the E.R. (one of the many benefits of having retired parents in the same town).

Now, you know that I have the easiest job in the world and the coolest bosses in the world, and on any other day of the year, I could have just sauntered out the door, stopped for a McShake, run a few errands and dropped by the hospital. But nooOOOooo, not that day!

That day, I had to type some endorsements for Chick Boss that needed to be emailed IMMEDIATELY!!! Oh, and also? Head Boss' daugthers' book report needed to be typed.

But seriously, he wasn't dying, he wasn't in any pain at that point, my Dad was there, he was being taken care of, the doctors weren't very worried. What's the point of going to the E.R. to watch him nap and listen to other people puke and moan and whatever?

My family has always had a very strict rule -- "Don't panic until it's time to panic." And I just didn't think it was time to panic. Of course, everyone at work thought I was a monster for not going to babysit him. And frankly, I didn't really like what I was wearing that day, so I left work about lunch time.

By the time I got there, the doctors had pretty much ascertained that it was a bleeding ulcer, and they were going to keep him overnight and do an endoscopy. Husband was a little nervous about the thought of a camera going down his throat into his stomach, but I've had it done, and it's a piece of cake.

Mmmmm, caaaaaaaaaaaake.... arghlrghlrghlrghl...

Yeah, that anesthetic is weird. It's not like sleeping, where you're semi-aware of falling asleep and waking up. It's like you blink, and you're staring at a different ceiling going, "What room is this? What time is it? Did you already do the endoscopy? Is PoPoZau even a real word?"

Anyhoo, Husband was in a holding pattern -- waiting for a bed, waiting for an endoscopy -- so he dismissed me. Seriously, he was like, "Well. You can go now. Nothing to see here. Move along."

All he wanted was a nap. Which was pretty much all I wanted, too. Oh, sure, I had big plans for the rest of my day.

1. Take down Christmas tree.
2. Grocery shopping.
3. Hang curtains in basement.
4. Alphabetize my Silkstone Barbie Fashions.

But in the end, it was just...

1. Masturbate.
2. Nap.
3. Watch "The Simpsons."
4. Call and check on Husband.

In that order. It's not that I don't care about my husband; it's just that there wasn't anything bloggable going on.

Tomorrow, I'll finish the story, which will include a topic I have never yet talked about on this blog. A person, actually. Someone I have always thought it was best not to blog about -- and I'm still right about that -- but it's just too nuts not to share, so I'm breakin' all the rules! And then? I'm going swimming right after lunch! Craziness tomorrow, chilluns! Tune in!

Posted at 01:57 PM | Comments (7)

February 09, 2006

Eatery B

Wow, I guess we've been at this new office space for over two years now. Our old digs were harrrrrrrible. Beige and grey and off-white. Ack! And when the G.M. asked all of us peons what colors we'd like in the new office, we were like:

"Blue!"
"Mauve!"
"Sage green!"
"NO BEIGE!"

So what's the color theme of our new office? Tan and olive drab. I shit you not. It's like a cruel joke. And people wonder why I have a Hello Kitty! and a Barbie calendar in my cube. FOR THE COLOR, PEOPLE!

Anyhoo, on the bright side, we are walking distance from one of the country's BEST indoor malls, and thus, many fine eateries. There's one, in particular, that we have been frequenting every Friday at 11:30 because it's just right across the parking lot from us. And we're lazy.

They have good BBQ pulled pork, and lots of TVs, and crack-whore waitresses in retro-harvest-wheat polo shirts. It's a decent place, and I guess we became "regulars," even though' no one recognized us even one our ONE BILLIONTH VISIT!

Oft-heard phrases at Eatery A:

"Have you been here before?"
"Oh, good, then you know about our BBQ sauces?"
"Did you want to start with some of our famous cornbread?"
"Can I start you off with a couple of margaritas?"
"Are you under any time constraints for lunch?"
"Be sure to save room for our fresh cinnamon donuts!"

Seriously, I could work there ane not need any training. Not that I'm sure anyone gets any training there. Oh! You may remember this post about our favorite employee, Danny, whom we're pretty sure was killed and served to us. His biceps alone could feed our entire office.

Anyhoo, a couple months ago, another restaurant went up right across the street from Eatery A, with a very similar name -- Eatery B. I wondered why someone would put a restaurant of a specific genre right by one of the same genre. Seems like bad planning, ya know?

But Nicholle and I got brave and tried it last week, and OH MY GOD EATERY A SUCKS ASS COMPARED TO THIS PLACE!

The nachos are an anal-retentive's dream. Each nacho has four BIG chunks of chicken on it and it covered edge-to-edge with cheese. We're talkin' individually handmade nachos here, folks! With all the accoutrements on the side, so one can assemble them exactly to one's specifications.

Clearly, I'm a picky, picky eater. Seriously, I'm a nightmare. I don't like mushrooms, cilantro, bananas, jalapeños, olives, onions of any kind, asparagus, yogurt, raisins, peppers of any color, pork, potatoes. In any given restaurant, I can find about, oh, two or three things I would even consider eating.

But on the menu of Eatery B? I found, like, a dozen things I would eat with a smile on my face and a song in my heart! And that's not even including the dessert page!

The floors are hardwood, the walls are stone and not covered in that Bennigan's-esque "whimsical" random crap. There are gently crackling fires instead of ESPN. There's natural light. The napkins are like Viva paper towels instead of gas station toilet paper.

And the wait staff! All 20-25 year old attractive, nubile females dressed tastefully in all black. The managers? Male and gay -- just the way I like 'em!

Nicholle and I go there, and it's like we're at Disneyworld. It's like when Dorothy and her friends finally make it out of the haunted forest and see the Emerald City for the first time! It's like when Elwood is picking up Jake from Joliet Prison, and the doors open, and the light is silhouetting Jake as he walks to the car!

We cooed and whimpered and fawned throughout the entire meal. We are so Eatery B's bitches!

And then. After lunch, on the way out. I had to use the bathroom. Because God forbid my acorn-sized bladder should let me cross a parking lot AND a street after finishing off 16 oz. of Diet Coke.

I walked into the bathroom, took one look around, and went back to get Nicholle, who was standing by the hostess desk.

"Nicholle! You have to see this bathroom!"

The manager and hostess at the desk gave us funny looks.

Nicholle explained, "You don't understand how much we love this place more than Eatery A!"

The bathroom is like a religious experience. First of all, TEN STALLS, ladies!!! When was the last time you were at a restaurant with ten stalls?

And the decor? I would move in! Slate tiles in dark earth-tones. Twenty feet of mirrors. Stalls with actual walls between them and not just flimsy partitions. Stall doors of varnished wood with real doorknobs. And best of all -- the auto-flushing toilets flush at the perfect time!

Yeah, Eatery A can kiss my big, white, winter-dry butt.

Posted at 01:52 PM | Comments (3)

January 26, 2006

Power Down

This morning, I had to call the I.T. Help Desk.

ITHD: What.

PW: I can't get my Lotus Notes to open.

ITHD: Reboot.

PW: I did.

ITHD: Did you power down or just restart?

PW: Restart.

ITHD: Power down.

Moments later...

PW: It still won't open.

ITHD: You powered all the way down?

PW: Yes. Can you just send Doogie?

ITHD: He's out sick. Everybody's out today. I'll call Doogie at home.

PW: Tell him I changed my password yesterday, if that has anything to do with it.

ITHD: You changed your Lotus Notes password?!

PW: Yeah.

ITHD: I didn't know you could do that!

PW: Oh... Well, that's probably it then.

Posted at 02:01 PM | Comments (4)

November 10, 2005

Work Reviews

It's time again for Employee Reviews. Now, I understand that, for many people, reviews are a way of making sure that both you and your boss know that you've worked your ass off, taken on more responsibilities and totally deserve a big, fat raise.

In my case, however...

Why are you laughing?

In my case, a review is just pointless. What is my boss going to say? "File faster! Type smarter, not harder! Xerox outside the box!"

Seriously. I work as hard as I need to in order to do my work in a timely fashion, which rarely requires me to work my ass off. And my responsibilities just... never change. (And I married up, so I don't really need a big, fat raise.)

And Head Boss, God bless him, he doesn't even know what time I get in every morning, let alone what I do all day. How is he supposed to fill out a five-page questionairre on my performance? And how am I supposed to read it with a straight face?

He really shouldn't be required to say more than, "No complaints. Occassionally types my daughter's papers. Great hair."

So he says to me, "Wenchie, do you mind if I just copy what I wrote last year?"

"Go ahead. It's not like I'm actually gonna read it."

Meh, at least he's not making me write it myself. Although I'm sure it crossed his mind.

Posted at 02:57 PM | Comments (1)

May 03, 2005

Lean Cuisines, Five for Ten Bucks

Today, I'm blogging about Heather's work because she's too chicken.

On Friday night, I was Heather's stunt boyfriend. D from work gave her two tickets to "Wicked" cuz he couldn't use them.

And let me just pause to say... FREE TICKETS TO "WICKED"!!! IT WAS WICKED AWESOME!!! RUN, DON'T WALK, TO THE ORIENTAL THEATRE!!!

Anyhoo, several weeks ago, D happened to mention in front of Heather and their co-worker, Andrea, that he had these tickets, which made Andrea sit up and beg and yap, "Heather, I'll totally take you!"

Now, mind you, Heather is not all that fond of Andrea. She's nice to her for the sake of office harmony, but Andrea is what is known in the workplace as a Hoverer. She'll submit a job ticket to Heather, and then come back and ask about it every hour.

So, in an act of passive-aggressiveness that I heartily endorse, for every time that Andrea asks, Heather moves her job ticket one place lower in the stack. Heh.

Well, apparently, D doesn't particularly care for Andrea, either, because he gave his "Wicked" tickets to Heather. And because Heather is a nice person, she considered inviting Andrea... for about a nanosecond. Then she put down the crack pipe and invited me. (Her boyfriend hates musicals, hence Wenchie the Stunt Boyfriend, and I love that gig because the benefits are awesome).

This morning, Heather got an email from Andrea. And then a split second later, she got another one with the subject line: PLEASE DELETE THAT LAST EMAIL! IT WAS MEANT FOR MY MOTHER!

Oh, c'mon. Who could resist that?! Well, Heather couldn't, and neither could you, be honest. Here's the email:

Hey Mom,

Just wanted to tell you I didn't end up saying anything to H today about the play. I did email her in the afternoon when I was bored b/c I ran out of options and she was a bit rude. But the funniest part was in the am when I asked her about a ticket and she started an email with trust me, if I had one, I'd give it to you or tell you....hahaaaaa.....yeah right....

D and I had a convo today too. Short but normal. I think he started it, but I had to be off to that stupid wkly to-do mtg so I didn't get any real info. We'll see...

And, Jewel had lean cuisines 5/$10! Amazing!

Love you,
Andrea

Heather laughed her ass off and, of course, immediately forwarded it to me.

PW: you should totally put it on your website!
H: she's too stupid to write something good.
H: and: who e-mails about groceries?
PW: the lean cuisine part is my favorite
H: totally.
PW: but what's really obnoxious is that it's written as if her Mom totally knows what's going on cuz she rags about you all the time
H: oh, I know. that's worse than if it was explicit, even.
PW: I still think you should it in your blog
H: tempting.
PW: want me to put it o my blog?
H: ooH! that's better!
H: (i've started a monster! Its' dooce Deux)
PW: and she says "H" in stead of Heather
PW: you must be a regular character in the drama of her life!
H: TOTALLY.
H: I'm going to flick boogers at her at recess. wanna come?

Posted at 08:55 AM | Comments (3)

February 17, 2005

The Birds, the Bees & the Corn

Since I am now forbidden to blog about Anne’s mom or anything that happens at Anne’s house (mice), I have to blog about detassling corn. [Excerpt from an email from Anne: “P.S. My mother has taken to writing “No Blog!” in bold at the end of every e-mail she sends to me."]

Now, I work in an OFFICE in a fairly URBAN area, i.e. CHICAGO. The closest I’ve ever come to a farm is yelling “Moo!” at the cows while driving through Wisconsin, and I gotta say that 99% of the people I know are in the same boat.

So why the hell did the words “detassling corn” come up THREE TIMES in ONE DAY by three different people?! What are the odds?! I mean, unless one is a corn farmer or employed by a corn farmer, there’s just no call for it in normal conversation. It’s like, “Hand me that piano.” There’s just no call for it EVER.

So Anne came over to my desk to make sure I understand that I cannot blog about her mom (clean freak) and then stood there looking bored, obviously waiting to be entertained. So I told her about “detasseling corn,” which she found as inherently wrong as I did.

The she asked the obvious question, “What’s a corn tassle, anyway?”

Since it’s Anne and she would just hit me, I opted out of the obvious stripper joke forming in my mind and said, “Let’s ask Tim! He’s a hillbilly! He’d know!”

[Tim is one of my bosses, and he’s hot. And he’s from downstate Illinois, so he’s basically southern, as far as I’m concerned.]

To Tim’s protests, I said, “Dude, you’re wearing a Cosby sweater – therefore, you’re a hillbilly. Now what is detasseling corn?”

And, not surprisingly, he knew and proceeded to provide us with an explanation, complete with pictures of corn and stories of detassling corn with girls in bikinis.

At one point, Tim was like, “It’s to avoid…” and couldn’t find the word, so I said, “Pollenation?”

And he said yes, and both he and Anne looked mighty surprised and impressed with my great, big brain and vast knowledge of agricultural practices.

And then he goes, “So, yeah, basically, you’re deflowering the corn.”

Sure, Tim, you’re not a hillbilly. Uh-huh.

Posted at 05:05 PM | Comments (4)

February 09, 2005

Barbie Watch 2005: Crisis Averted

After lunch, J in Marketing (who is also married to Husband's Ex, by the way -- I know, it's all so disgustingly incestuous) comes up to me and goes, "Um... there's a... Bondage Barbie... on my desk. Is it yours?"

No, Einstein, the janitor left it there. YES, IT'S MINE!!!

Idiot.

So her hands and feet are tied, and there's a gag on her, which is pretty funny. And I left her bound and gagged for all to see. For a while anyway. I don't think she minds, the little whore. And it makes my co-workers laugh.

Nothing conclusive on who did it (it wasn't J, trust me, the man has no sense of humor), but I think, based on traffic patterns at the time, it was probably a couple of the actuaries. Which is unusual for actuaries, you know, to have personalities.

Needless to say, the Barbies will be coming home with me on weekends from now on. Obviously, when forced to work weekends, people get a little wonky, and Barbie is just too tempting.

Posted at 10:20 AM | Comments (0)

Barbie Watch 2005

Still no Barbie, and no note.

And when someone takes something personal off your desk, and you don't know who did it or when you're getting it back, I believe it's called stealing. I'm just sayin'.

Okay, ha ha, it was cute, but now I'm just irritated. It's the priniple of the thing, ya know? I don't take other people's stuff; leave my shit alone. And I'm sure they're thinking, "Oh, hee hee, stupid dumb doll." But you know, as with all collecting, every doll has a story and memories attached to it, especially the really good ones.

Like the one that's been stolen. She was my first Silkstone, and I got her at a doll show with Joe and Kara, after which we all went over to Kara's and fussed with our new stuff and ate Arby's and drank champagne. It was the last time Kara went to a show because then she had a baby and never goes anywhere anymore.

I mean, if they'd taken some crappy play-line doll, I wouldn't be so miffed. I still don't like my stuff being taken, but some generic doll wouldn't irritate me nearly as much as them taking something of value, both monetary and sentimental.

Sorry for the bitchy non-funniness. I have an actual funny blog in the works, I promise.

Now they're gonna have to buy me Barbie clothes to make it up to me.

Posted at 10:00 AM | Comments (0)

February 08, 2005

I Work With Freaks

Okay, I bring a different Barbie to work every week. It's just not fair to leave her where no one can admire her! ("And she's calling them freaks?!" Yes, very clever of you to point that out. Shaddap.)

This week, it's my beloved, newly-acquired Hard Rock Barbie. Last week, it was my exquisitely beautiful Delphine Silkstone Barbie.

Only now, Delphine Barbie is gone. There was only a note where her regal snootiness had once stood in judgement of my entire cubicle.

"We have Barbie. If you ever want to see her again, buy candy. Lots of it. Load up the jars on Toni's desk! You know what we like! Oh, and a million dollars would be a good idea, too! The Kidnappers"

[Toni sits near me and is known for the jars of candy she keeps on her desk, which I contribute to regularly... because I partake of them regularly.]

Now, I gotta admit. As much as I'm freaked about one of my most expensive Barbies going missing, that's pretty fuckin' funny. And since it's not very often that anyone pulls one over on me, I gotta admire the culprit. I also must admire his/her Word skills, as he/she has varied the fonts so as it make it resemble words cut from a newspaper. Cute!

My main suspect is Nicholle (in cahoots with Anne, possibly) because a) they're demanding candy; b) they're demanding money; c) the demand of candy came before the demand of money; and d) it's something I would have done, and very few people here are as cool as me.

My other suspect is Tom because a) he's a total buttmunch.

I sent out an e-mail to my list of about 15 possible suspects:

"I got your note, and I'm going to Target after lunch, where I will get lots and lots of candy. I hope you are treating Barbie humanely."

To which I got this reply: "If Ken wasn't such a wuss, he'd be out searching for these low-lifes."

And while he does have a point, that kind of attitude isn't going to get Barbie back, now, is it?!

So what choice did I have? I went to Target and plopped down $12.50 for various chocolate tidbits, put them on Toni's desk and sent out a follow-up email:

"I'm back from Target, and Toni has a buttload of chocolate on her desk, as per your demand. Now hand over the dame. Don't make me bring in G.I. Joe and Xena."

Which provoked another unhelpful reply: "G.I. Joe is probably too busy going down on Xena, anyway."

Nice. So this morning, I arrived to find another note, in the same style:

"You have met our demands, nice lady. Barbie will be returned to you, unharmed, in do time!"

Yes, that's right, in do time. And now I can narrow my list of suspects to the small crop of hobos I work with, for whom English is a second language.

And no, Barbie still isn't back.

Posted at 09:55 AM | Comments (0)

December 15, 2004

Actual Conversation Between My Boss and I

Boss: You know that, uh... sheet with, uh.. the...

Me: Two words? First syllable sounds like?

Boss: With the numbers on it! The phone numbers!

Me: The phone list, yeah.

Boss: You know the fax number listed on there? Does that go to this fax machine by us?

Me: No. Only J knows that number.

Boss: Well, where does it go then?

Me: To the main fax machine in the mail room.

Boss: Okay. So, if I get a fax, who picks it up?

Me: Whoever is there at the time, and they put it in our mail slot.

Boss: We have a mail slot? Where?

Me: You know those big, grey shelves in the mail room? There's one marked Underwriitng.

Boss: And that's us?

Me: That's us.

Boss: And who picks up our stuff?

Me: I do. Several times a day.

Swear. To. God. And this man is a V.P.

Of course, he knows how inept he is with simple stuff. And frankly, I think it's kinda of charming that he can't make two-sided copies or use his speakerphone. Because it means job security for me.

And as long as my job consists of ridiculously simple tasks that make the boss think I'm a fucking genius, well, I just couldn't ask for a better job, could I?

Posted at 12:36 PM | Comments (0)

November 05, 2004

An Open Announcement To Everything I Work With

No, I do not know where my Boss is.

I do not have x-ray vision, and if I did, I certainly wouldn't be spending so much time in a place filled with so many unattractive people. So if you are standing at my cubicle and cannot see if my Boss is in his office from where you are, than neither can I.

My Boss does not notify me when he leaves his office. Nor does he give an estimated time of his return. He does not say:

"I'm going to lunch."

"I am going to the bathroom, but I only have to pee, so I'll be back in just a minute."

"I'm going home for a couple hours because I don't trust my teenaged daughter to be home alone."

"I'm going to meander around the office and stop for conversation at random cubicles, so that when my wife calls, you have to jog up and down the halls to find me."

If he's in a meeting, that I can find out, as well as when the meeting is scheduled to be over. But then again, you have the same exact calendar system that my Boss and I have, so you can find that out just as easily yourself, from your own desk. Without interrupting me because I'm busy reading Dooce, for Pete's sake!

Posted at 01:04 PM | Comments (0)

October 27, 2004

A Story About What an Asshole I Am

Okay, enough of harshing everyone's buzz.

When I first started working here, Little Sister worked in the I.T. department along with Brother-In-Law (not her husband, but Older Sister's Husband), so I always ate lunch with the I.T. department. They are, by far, the coolest department in the whole company (which is not to say that my department isn't damn cool, but the overwhelming Southerners-to-Yankees ratio can often leave one... confused).

Let me put it this way. You know why I have AOL IM and games and complete internet access with no blocked sites on my work computer? Because the people downloading porn and trolling for hotties at work are all in I.T. They are overworked, underpaid, perverted, abused, bitter and vengeful, and I love them all dearly.

Soon after I started, the I.T. dept. got a new employee. His name is irrelevant because, the first time I saw him, I called him Doogie, and it stuck. He started eating lunch with us, natch.

When Doogie first joined us, he was a wiggly, eager, sweet little puppy, the youngest in the company. He would giggle a lot and admonish us for using our lunch hour to discuss the freaks that we work with. Then his girlfriend, too, came to work and eat with us. She soon became Mrs. Doogie, and she's even sweeter and more naïve than he.

Over the years, I'm proud to say, we have broken Doogie. He is no longer taken aback by my shameless flirting, but now grumbles impatiently when I try to make him blush. He has less hair and more butt. He can talk shit like a pro and hates every single person who has ever called the Help Desk. So basically, every single person.

Now let me tell you about Anne and Nicholle. We're the Pink Ladies on crack. Ever see "Kill Bill," where Lucy Liu's character is walking in slow motion down the hall, flanked by her bodyguard and personal assistant? Yeah, that's us, only Caucasian. And burlier. (I so want to live in a Quentin Tarantino film, but more on that another time.) We're your typical nightmare, and when co-workers see us walking together, the reaction is always, "Uh oh."

Every morning at 10:00, we do a lap around the building, which is half a mile. It's nice to get some fresh air and dish and bitch and regale each other with amusing anecdotes. (You hate us, don't you? Yeah, I kinda hate us, too.) Today, after I warned them that we'll be getting a memo from Gary about proper refrigerator usage because he caught me putting a yogurt in the executive refrigerator, Nicholle brought up an exciting topic.

N: "Have you guys seen The New Doogie?"
Me: "What? No!"
A: "Yeah, I didn't know we had someone younger than Doogie working here!"
N: "And they travel around together! It's hilarious! We have to go check him out."

Anne can't be bothered with such girlie silliness, since she's single and doesn't want to appear to be on the make, I guess. But Nicholle and I quite unabashedly tracked down New Doogie in Brother-In-Law's cube.

Me: [to B.I.L.] "Oh. I came by to gossip, but you're obviously busy."
ND: "Gossip is wrong."
Me: [half a chuckle] "You're so young."
ND: "I just shaved my goatee last night!"

At this point, I have to walk away because I'm about to bust out laughing, and Nicholle is already peeing in her pants. His goatee defense was killing me! It's like he sensed we were the Alpha Females and instinctively craved our acceptance. How adorable!

{sigh} We're going to have such a good time breaking his spirit.

Posted at 11:31 AM | Comments (0)

September 07, 2004

Oompa Loompas Cannot Type 120 Words a Minute

Okay, I have to vent.

I'm a secretary. I like my job. My bosses appreciate and respect me. My job, as I see it, is to make their lives easier so that they can concentrate on the company big picture. I get paid well for my position, I work a 37.5-hour week, and when I leave the office, I take no stress with me. I'm staying here for as long as they'll let me.

On Thursday, a man from another department, about my age, came over to my cubicle. Now, he has never even said Hello to me in the hallway, let alone addressed me on purpose, so I was intrigued.

"Are you in tomorrow?" he asked.

"No, I'm not," I answered, since Friday was my Summer Day. (Four-day weekend! Woo-hoo!) "Are you trying to ask me out?"

He stared at me blankly, the ironic humor obviously lost on him.

"Is there anything I can help you with today?" I offered kindly, always happy to help my co-workers.

"No, I need to send a fax to your boss tomorrow."

Said boss (I have 5 people that I support) left for our office in Missouri on Thursday.

Now, at this point, it may have dawned on you, o clever readers, what he was getting at. I, however, have this silly idea that all men are created equal, having read it somewhere or other.

He pondered a moment and asked me if the other secretary near me was going to be in. I told him I didn't know, and as I was wondering if he can really be thinking what I think he's thinking, he confirmed it with:

"I really need someone to send this fax for me."

Oh, NOW I get it. Duh! [forehead slap] He's not support staff, so he is FAR too important to send a fax, which is, apparently, women's work. We lowly minions are put here on this earth to serve and grovel to him. He thinks I'm a fucking Oompa Loompa.

Now, I know me. I know what kind of person I am. Which is why I summoned strength from gods I don't even believe in to stop myself from saying, "Why don't you just send it yourself?"

Because, I know that, had I let that little gem outta my mouth, it wouldn't have ended until he had three Ninja throwing stars embedded in his forehead.

I also refrained from pointing out that he is obviously spending more time trying to find someone to fax the thing for him than he would just faxing it his damn self.

And then asked me for the fax number. As if he doesn't have the same exact address and number database on his computer that I have. The information is, literally, three mouse-clicks away, but he chose to walk all the way over and ask me to e-mail it to him. Seriously, I'm gonna fucking kick his ass.

Posted at 08:04 PM | Comments (0)

September 01, 2004

Colossal Waste of My Time

It's a miracle that I'm here to write another blog entry, instead of at the hospital, having a self-inflicted sharpened pencil safely removed from my juggler. All-Employee Conference, thy name is Boredom.

I work for an insurance company. However, most of my co-workers, while remaining essential to the company, know nothing about insurance. They are accountants, I.T. nerds, finance experts, lawyers, HR gurus and support staff (a.k.a. secretaries). Granted, the lawyers and some of the accountants know basic insurance crap, but they're hardly experts.

So to whom did the management ship a dump truck full of money, to come and give us an 8-hour training session? These yabbos. Yes, I said eight hours. Eight hours of my life that I'll never get back.

To kill some time (but not nearly enough), I doodled, planned my meals and shopping list for the week, and wrote down the words/phrases in the lecture that I hated most:

1. Nuggets
2. Tyranny
3. Linkages
4. Sampler platter
5. Deployment
6. Plug 'n' play
7. Histogram
8. Whiz-bang
9. Actionable
10. Action item

Please, what the fuck is an "action item"? Isn't it an oxymoron, like verb noun? It makes no sense! And frankly, when I think "sampler platter," I think hot wings and potato skins, not insurance lectures. It was quite unfair to get my hopes up like that.

Then for the evening "entertainment" -- and I mean that in the loosest possible sense of the word - there was a hypnotist. Sebastian Black. Basically, a mortician with a speech impediment and a heavy New York Accent.

Christ, why didn't they just get a fucking mime if they wanted to continue with the Boring the Employees to Death?! Or a plate-twirling, balloon-animal-making clown, for God's sake?!

Posted at 07:56 PM | Comments (0)