First off….phffffff (spit spit) fffffFFFFFFUUUUUUUAAAHHHHHHHHWWWWWKKKK!!!!
Topics of discussion:
1) Lateness (background on this: I've been coming into work anywhere from a half hour to 45 late every morning for years – this has never appeared on my 'record').
2) My 2-4 nights a week of overtime and how we can 'work together' to ease some of the burden on me….without paying me for any overtime or giving me an assistant.
3) And…my favourite: "We're worried about ya
Lunch with the Satan on Friday. Satan was a half hour late. That was fine -- really that shouldn't bother me anyway since I make a pretty conscious point each morning of coming in late myself. Cute. (Oh…and by the by – I'm at work RIGHT ON TIME this morning – and I'm eyeing the clock to make sure I spend approx. one half hour to 45 minutes writing THIS ha ha).
So we headed out to a sweet little luncher, tucked well away from the big 1pm hubbub. Hmmmm, I think, maybe I'll finally get in some real shit about the lateness? Well, if so, I'll counter with my 4 page report on my overtime – the breakdown of my tasks/responsibilities and how many man-hours they take to accomplish which I provided the Gunt with days before that I guarantee have still not been read. Heh, no probs….all you have to do is look the Satan straight in the eye and the empty stink pit where the heart would normally go is plainly exposed through the Gunt's blank little gummied pupils. True enough, a small part of my soul is in danger of being sucked into said pit-through-the-eye-hole each time I risk this contact – but my heart is still pure and pumping enough fresh bright blood it reminds Gunt what a beating healthy heart is and I score that small point before any discussion begins. Disadvantage Gunt.
Topic one: Lateness. Yes, I'm always late. And I make up for it every night by staying late and often eat lunch at my desk (if I eat lunch at all). And no, I don't waste time standing around outside our building ogling unknowings, sucking in cancer sticks and considering all the wild and wonderful ways to cheat on my (main) girlfriend before I head back inside to my filthy (Satanesque) desk to waste time chattin' up the ladies in my low-talkin' baby baby voice. And I don't spend my average day spying on co-workers to report to the Gunt. No, gentle readers, I don't smoke. ANYway, Satan sez: Ya gotta try to try to make the effort to be at work on time. If ya don't there will be a price to pay. I have the feeling I can still afford it. But I'll give them this I quietly decide. We'll see how it goes at any rate. (So far so good – 15 more minutes o' this and I'll have to sign off to start my work day!) Okay…so lateness, right naughty me (even though I work more hours than most around here)…I will indeed try to try.
Topic two: Overtime. Yes, I work a helluva a lot of overtime for about 4-5 months each year, as I have for almost a pathetic decade. A few of us put in a lot of this 'extra' work because our jobs need to get done, we care about our jobs, our reputations, and this place is horribly understaffed in some departments and sickeningly overstaffed in others – hence some departments leaving early and taking 3 hour lunches and spending outrageous amounts of time looking at internet silly/smut video at full volume.
Satan: We're working at a deficit this year dontcha know. We can't afford to hire anyone for you right now. We don't need to I say – how about an intern, a co-op student. I've got piles and piles of donkey work that someone else can look after for once so I can spend more time working on some i-ni-tia-tives.
Satan blinks. Huh? Satan: We need to use our own department staff more effectively. Yep, yep we do I agree. Satan: How about using So and So for more support? (who already has plenty on her plate). Me: Hmm…yes, sure (and smile inside knowing secretly that So and So will only be around a couple more weeks before setting free and leaving the country). So…..and SO….I look down at my apple salad. There is no one else in our department to consider for support.
We eat our lunch. Satan changes the subject to mortgage payments. I'm barely living above the poverty line, barely managing rent and pet food. So I talk about how poorly our industry perceives our organization….carefully. I mention that our organization needs a serious boost in image, in communication, in ethics….very carefully. The Satan offers….that the Satan is biding time. Oh yes, I know about that….I don't say.
Topic three: Touching concern felt by upper management that I'm not myself lately. My work quality and output is unaffected and outstanding, but I'm just not appearing like my old happy go lucky self – gosh, for some time now! (ahhh, yeah, that would be 4 years actually). Satan: is everything okay in your world??? Why yes! I say a bit too enthusiastically. Life IS good for me these days. Work is good too. (But in my pumping heart: It's just YOU, Satan. It's you and your evil regime, the cacklers and hacklers and wicked back-slackerers!) Satan: We've noticed you're not really hanging out with the gang anymore? Me (in my bloodied heart): You've fired, tortured, framed the gang that I hung out with, Satan. You've mentally/emotionally raped the rest of us who have stayed and continue to work hard for you. You've lied, you've stolen, you've been disrespectful in every conceivable way and we realize you are mentally unstable and there's nothing we can do about it but take your abuse until we find a way out and hold our own sanity safe in our big red bloody hearts. You believe in yourself….you're the only one who does and that's a problem. Me (out loud): My gang. Is gone.
Of course I do not mention that the rest of us (survivors) are now a gang of sorts. The worst thing this uncommunicative place can know about is just who is communicating with who around here…at this hopeless point.
Satan: Well, this has been really nice – we've GOT to do this more often! How about lunch on us at least once a month so we can keep in better touch about things? Henh? Satan tries for the old eye twinkle, but I see/smell nothing but smog.
Mmmm, delicious lunch! (if you don't mind the taste of your own raging bile chasing down your gob after that apple salad). It should take about a month for my intestines to heal.
Me: Sounds sweeeell.