Paranoia raises its head

I am slowly going crazy... I, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6 Switch. Crazy going slowly am I, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1 Switch...

I used to sing this repetitively since I thought it was funny to speak backwards or jumbled up. I was good at it. But now I truly believe I am going crazy and I blame the characters in Cell Block C.

I've worked there for the past four years and when I started I was confident, funny, loyal and meticulous. I wore my rep and my skin with pride. Now, I am more paranoia than perky, proof in point a conversation I had with myself today.

A co-worker has invited me to join her for lunch, not an uncommon thing in the workforce. We work with people day in, day out for 8 or 9 hours a day. You're bound to make friendships. Except on Cell Block C. Everyone seems to be out for themselves and will throw you under the bus on a moment's notice. No, I'm not being paranoid, though you may be apt to think so. I've seen it happen and I've had it happen to me. So, when the newest charge asked me what I was doing for lunch this Wednesday, I stopped and thought: "I wonder what she has to tell me. I wonder what her motives are."

Yes, those were my initial thoughts and how sad is that state of affairs that people can't bond over lunch, over coffee in the cafeteria or a stopover at a desk to say hello and discuss the weekend's happenings? After much debate, I've come to the conclusion that she doesn't seem to have any ulterior motives, save grabbing a coffee and sandwich outside of work hours. It will be a nice break to the day, and for someone who takes only 15 minutes to feed my Tim Horton's addiction, it will be different, nice and strangely comforting to see perhaps the atmosphere is changing for the better.

That's not to say that I will push any warning signs to the back of my mind. I'm not that naive. But until then, I will enjoy the change of scenery away from the Negative Nellies in Cell Block C - and yes, my boss is the leader. I will also enjoy a bit of the camaraderie no matter how short the lunch.

Perhaps I will dazzle my new co-worker with my ability to put the po-po under my spell with my "Occifer, Occifer, I am not under the alkafluence of inkahol as some thinkel peep I know."

It was cuter when I was five and my dad was coaching me. Now it may lead to a night in the slammer. Oh well. At least it will be a day (or five) off.

C is for Chicken...

Guess what, bloggers!?! It's a flippin' miracle today. The second coming. I am home. And, it's before 7:30 p.m., well before darkness hits and I'm sitting at the computer NOT doing ANY work. I'm blogging, which to me, is not work. It's fun. It's connection, it's inter-connectivity. And, it has nothing to do with any wasteful promotional products, unless you count the branded mug from which I am drinking my well-earned, nay, well-deserved Coke Zero. It's a treat and I'm enjoying every minute of it.

The Man made dinner tonight. Poultry. I have to say poultry because the dog goes nuts whenever we mention the C word. No, it's not the C U Next Thursday (it makes me giggle even if it's written out like that). C-H-I-C-K-E-N. Yes, chicken. It's not because he really knows what it is but he thinks whenever we mention the C-word it means that his prized rubber chicken will make an appearance, out of  whatever hiding place we choose. He whines, he cries and he howls. Man, does he howl. I'm not sure if he's howling to let us know he's got a catch or if he's saying "Hurry up and die, why don't you!" This rubber chicken has 50 billion lives. It's like the song that never ends. It's great for him but not so good for us since his play time consists of a screaming chicken and a howling dog, for hours on end or until we tell him to drop it and we go and hide it away again for another month.

So now I'm at a loss for what to do. I might take Kao to the P-A-R-K - the dog park, that is. Or, I might just sit back, drink my Coke Zero in peace and take a long bath. I think the bath is winning out.

That, my bloggy friends, is a post about nothing. It feels great.

Happy mini-Friday!

And there will be much nashing of teeth too...

I heard the best line ever today, and it came from work, which in itself is amazing that anything brilliant could come of this cesspool: "Will there by yelling?" Why, yes, yes there will be yelling and hair pulling and much nashing of teeth.

We had a new employee start at Cell Block C (which is what my place of employment will be called from now on). She's nice. Like really nice. Like too nice to work here. Her very first task on her very first day is to attend a hockey team fitting, complete with hockey moms, hockey dads and wanna-be Sidney Crosby's only in the female form. In short, it's hell although not nearly as hellish as Cell Block C. But, she does not know that. According to management, everything is sunshine and lollipops here.

So, when wished good luck at the fitting tonight (yes, she's pulling overtime already), she asked why. "Will there be yelling?" With the boss there, I couldn't enthusiastically nod my head nor make the slicing across the throat kill motion. All I said was that it gets busy but to take a deep breath. Everything will get done, everyone will be served and remember it's your first day. Oh, and remember that NyQuil and Valium make a great combination.

Can Dolly do my job?

She may have a nice smile but does she rock the gaudy rings like me?

If I create my clone, will she have better fashion sense than me? Dolly the Sheep did it, so why can't I? Sure, she didn't last very long but that was years ago and I'm sure technology has advanced, so a clone for a year may be possible now.

Unlike Dolly, however, who was content to roam the hills of Scotland (yes, Scotland again - I just love the place!), I would put my clone to good use, putting me in two places at once, doing double the work and easing the voice that seems to ring out in my head every day of the five-days of hell at work: I need it yesterday.

As some of you know, I work in a high-stress environment with people yelling for their crap to get done even though I have 17 other pieces of crap work to go through. Today was stellar. With my coworker, Red, going off to greener pastures (see how I tied the sheep metaphor in there? Gawd, I'm brilliant), I inherited one extra salesperson, doing admin work for now three, sometimes four sales nazis. And, everyone needs their stuff, their orders done... you guessed it, yesterday.

In an ideal world or the world that our company manual seems to represent, admin people have 24 hours to deal with an order. That's 24 hours from the time it lands on their desk. Idyllic, right? Not so. Every order that flies  across  my desk must be done immediately, orders shouted from across the office, nothing written down and I have to ask how high I must jump. I'm used to it. It was how I was raised, my work ethic, nose-to-the-grindstone ingrained in my DNA.  But it's the raised voices, the sighs and tones emanating from the corner cubicle.

Today it was a mutter: "Idiot" under his breath, low so he thought I couldn't hear it, uttered when I had done what he had requested but sent a file in a version that could not be opened by the intended recipient. It was easily remedied by sending a follow-up email with the correct version. One request, one question and no attitude and it would have been done immediately and without issue. Instead, my hackles were up. The email was still sent but I was seething.

I don't do well with attitude or muttered insults. Kiss your teeth at me and I'll put you through the flippin' window. Head first. I'm not a violent person by nature, but disrespect me and question my intelligence and hellfire will be forth coming.

Tomorrow is interview day. Finally. And to top it off, I'm nervous as hell as it's been a while since I was on the job trail and this close to a potentially good job with good people, good pay and a chance to contribute anything but a body in a chair. I just hope they don't kiss their teeth.

Got a bite... now to reel it in

I will be happy to note that I have an interview this Thursday. Anyone whose been reading this blog over the past several months will know that my job search has not been exactly jumping with offers. I know... who wouldn't hire me? Well, a lot of people apparently. But my tide is turning, my ships are coming in and I'm ready to take another voyage. Enough metaphors? Yeah, I thought so too.

I don't want to go into detail as to not jinx this chance. Suffice to say, it pays a hell of a lot more and it's not working with the douche-canoes with whom I presently spend my days. That's enough for me at the moment. I'm sure there will be opportunities for growth. I will make sure of that. But, let's get past that first hurdle -- the interview.

I need to wow them with my stunning personality, my vast work experience and my never-ending work ethic. Should be a piece of cake...

I'm a feckin' ray of sunshine..

Actually, I'm not. And I'm going to get in trouble because: a) I'm slacking off at work. With an hour left until home time and on a Friday, the weekend is calling me. And I'm answering with slacks on - slacker slacks; b) I actually stole (yes, me!) the phrase from my friend at work, who stole it from a t-shirt - okay she read it off of a t-shirt and laughed her ass off. Literally. It's gone. She can't find it. Not really, but it would be really funny, wouldn't it?


I'm trying to find anything to make me laugh, to muster me out of this fog. There are many reasons for it: post-holiday blues, a fucktastic job that I would like to shove down someone's throat, negativity on a daily basis from my boss who loves when there's drama, and worse, a feeling of helplessness over a future without a Gusafus.

Gusafus is not a thing, he's a person - a little person - who doesn't have a bad bone in his body but who has a very large (and growing) tumor in his brain. And still he's all light and laughter, long, gangly legs that he will not grow into. It's a sad state when all I can do for him is kiss and hug him, fluff his pillows and love him with all of my ever-breaking heart. I would take the tumor and claim it as my own if I only could. I would sprinkle him with fairy dust to make him invisible, invincible. But I can't. All I can do is love and hold him tight to keep the monsters at bay.

Sad to say, but it puts the lives of us mere mortals in perspective. Shitty job? Gusafus will never have a job. Pining over a loss love (or lack thereof)? Gus will leave behind a legacy of love but never experience his first grown-up kiss or walk down the aisle and into the loving arms of his wife.

I had a really shitty day at work. Actually, it was a week's worth of shit to make up for the two weeks I was pretending my life here didn't exist. I do like some aspects of my life - it's not all bad - but I discovered that I would need to leave my present state of employ to leave my sanity intact. I know with some of you that's up for debate. I say piss off. I'm awesome (see, I've got an award to prove it). So now I'm here at home, Blackthorn cider in hand, remembering that others have it worse and sometimes the grass is not greener on the other side. All I have to do is look at Gus, his parents (my very best friends) and his sister to realize that while Gus doesn't have a choice on how to live his life, I do.

A toast to Gus, my little stinkpot. You make my life worth living well.

Trading my stapler for an uzi

I wrote this short story about a month ago for the salesperson I work with. He had been on holiday and in his absence I was ordered to clean up his cubicle. It did look like a bomb had gone off in there.

So, I did. Clean it up, that is, not set off a bomb. It took three boxes and a vat of general purpose spray to get the desk and filing cabinet to an acceptable standard.

I knew he would be pissed. I knew I would get the brunt of it. So, to ease the tension I wrote him a story. The fact that I'm still alive and still gainfully employed today goes to show how a little creativity can get you out of some tough spots. Names have been changed to save my own hide.

An Uzi-doozy of a day

She dressed in battle fatigues that Wednesday morning, lacing up her combat boots, affixing her helmet and crossing her fingers for no casualties that day. It was D-Day. Black Wednesday. And, it was expected the cloud above her work station would disperse only with the weekend’s approach. Battle ready, she stepped from her porch toward her car, wishing it a tank to take out the enemy.

“I think I just threw up in my mouth."

It was the commander’s return that had her poised for attack, and there was bound to be backlash for her week’s activity – a general’s order to clean up his work station in his absence.

“$%##@@$$%%^$!!!”

She could hear him from the parking lot. He’d seen the desk.

“I think I just threw up in my mouth,” she said to her co-worker as she entered the office.

“Get ready for it. He’s on a rampage and you’re top on the list. But remember, you couldn’t disobey an order. You had to do it.”

“Yeah, he should be pleased that I kept it organized,” she said, pointing to the tabbed file folders. “If General Golden had his way everything would be swept off into the trash.”

But she knew he would not even see past the sparkling, barren desk, drinking glass washed and catalogues neat and tidy.

“It’s too late to phone in sick, isn’t it,” she asked.

“Given his mood today, you will be able to call in dead tomorrow,” her co-worker answered with a grin.