Tag Archives: work

The HSS Misanthrope

March 5, 2010

Harsh, But True: A compendium of rants from this week.

1. The femme fatale character arc, from sexual power to eventual destruction, may be blatant misogyny, but there is some truth to it. Sluts, however beautiful and promising, eventually stagnate on their own idiocy, but not before ensnaring idiots of the penile variety in order to beget more idiots. This is only a pity (and the stuff of novels) when the slut ensnares a man of nobler birth than herself.

2. An error, however minor, on my part will result in hours of agony, probably tears, and much self-censure. If it appears that I am taking a mistake lightly, it is because I am trying to convince myself that it is not rational to throw oneself in front of a bus because of a minor filing mistake.

3. When reading an adventure novel with zombies featured prominently, I should not find myself dozing off from the author’s mechanical writing style. Don’t enumerate emotion at me, let me experience it.

4. I can’t choose my co-workers, but I can choose my friends and I’m making a conscious effort to purge relationships I probably should have abandoned long ago. This is not necessarily a negative reflection on the people who I have chosen to no longer associate with, but more so a reflection of my choice to move in a different direction in my life. Unfailing loyalty is not the virtue I always held it to be; in many instances it is a crutch.

5. I very much dislike people who are positive all the time. Life is not always kittens and rainbows. Even when it is, very often the kittens pee on the couch and scratch you while you are sleeping. The point is, it’s okay to bitch.

6. There are few things more irritating than new converts. (Or highschool lovers, for that matter). This goes with the previous point. I understand that you are happy, and I’m happy that you are happy, but if I have to HEAR about your happiness one more time, I will rain down a world of hurt on your wee mind until you’re curled up sobbing in a corner. It goes something like this: AIDS! Haiti! Chile! Unemployment! Ingrown toenails! Disease! Child molesters! People who drive too slowly on the freeway! People who tailgate people who drive too slowly on the freeway! Cockroaches! Scratched DVDs! Dirty laundry! Hair in the bathtub drain! American Idol! Killer whales! Rapists! These things didn’t just go away because you think you’re in love with life, Jesus, the girl next door, Buddha, Yoda, or whoever; you’re just high on endorphins and idiocy. Your body is decaying, your sins are not forgiven, your girlfriend is faking it and world peace is not a viable answer to anything. Shut the fuck up. Learn to buck up. You’re absolutely worthless until you value yourself apart from anyone else’s opinions of you.

est finis.

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In the Interim…

December 6, 2009

I do have big plans for my two- (or perhaps three-) part blog on my selfishness theorem, but have not been able to devote a reasonable block of time to its completion for a number of reasons, most of which include (but are not limited to) working long hours, the theft of my laptop (I do not enjoy writing by hand), and my excessive amount of traveling of late to and from Boise. I was in Boise so frequently in November, I almost began to feel like I lived there again.

For those who are unaware, I am currently employed as an administrative assistant for a medium-ish sized company (I don’t know what constitutes a medium-sized company, I just know that the company I work for is larger than small and smaller than large. Precision is not my forte). My job description includes office management, administrative work, special projects, personal assistant to the CEO and “other duties” (a phrase the CEO is ALWAYS happy to remind me encompasses whatever the hell he wants at any given moment). It’s a good job, but it’s frequently overwhelming (I won’t go into detail of the amount of time I have spent sobbing in the bathroom).

The net result of this exagerrated work load is that I am forced to prioritize my work in such a way that some of the more basic tasks (such as ordering office supplies and fulfilling my coworkers’ menial requests) are put off in favour of more pressing issues. Most of my coworkers understand the level of pressure I am under, and docilely accept my inability to immediately cater to their requests. We have a process: coworker submits request verbally. Megan says, “send me an email”. Coworker submits request via email. Megan flags said email for follow-up within the next two weeks and gets to it when she has time.

Generally speaking, we have had no major issues with this routine. Until now. We recently had several new hires and several transfers from other offices come to our building. Most of these people have adapted rapidly to My Way (”Hit the road, Bucko” being the only other option presented), and as such we can maintain a cordial relationship. One particular creature, however, seems to have trouble adapting, so I have adopted a full-scale behavioural modification plan.

The offender frequently loiters by my desk, creepily rifling his bacteria-ridden hands through the bowl of candy I keep on my desk. He never says anything to me until I address him. (He displays extreme passive-aggressiveness - little does he realise that he is dealing with someone who is not at all passive, just aggressive). At first, I attempted to be polite. “How may I help you?” I would ask, in my least sarcastic and most officious* tone.

Him: “Yes. [Insert unnecessarily long pause while he continues to stare at me and violate my candy dish**]. I need.[Pause]. You. [Pause]. To order me. [Pause]. A/an [insert random office supply]“.

Me: “No problem! I’m sure you’ll need more than just that one item, why don’t you make me a list and then send me an email.”

A few hours later, this same conversation would be repeated, except I would become increasingly rude. I do not enjoy being stared at, particularly by someone who displays significant anti-social behaviours, and every time he would come stand at my desk I would ignore him for as long as possible, then, finally, snap.

“What?!”

“Yes. [Significant pause]. I would like [pause] [insert some other inane office supply]”

“Send. [Pause]. Me. [Pause]. An. [Pause]. Email.”

He NEVER sent a fucking email.

This was repeated about four times the first day, and probably the same amount of time the second day. Once, he even had the gall to ask me if his stuff had been ordered, to which I replied, “Oh, what stuff? I have not received an email requesting any supplies.”

He has yet to send an email, but HE WILL COMPLY. I shall prevail. Or else he’ll spend the rest of his time at our office without such simple amenities as power supplies and staplers.

Notes:

* I’m using the word in the archaic sense, since I did not realise until I just now lookied it up that it has taken the connotation of being meddlesome. I prefer the Jane Austen meaning.

** For the record, that is not a euphemism. Thank God.

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Conversing: Water-Boy

September 1, 2009

Coworker: Megan, we’re thinking of changing office water suppliers for our locations. What do you think?

Me (alarmed): What? No! We can’t do that!!!

Coworker: Why not?

Me: Because… because… I’m in love with the delivery guy!

Coworker: Oh, well we’re not changing OUR office water supplier, we’re switching everyone else over to ours.

Me: Oh, thank God, we’re keeping Carl.

Carl of the handsome face. Carl of the slightly ironic smile. CARL OF THE FOREARMS! Oh, God, the toned, brawny forearms. Forget Zeus, Aquarius est satis for me!

I must confess, I briefly thought of saying that I would quit if we switched water providers. That’s how bad this crush is. It’s bad enough that I only vaguely remember what his face looks like (though I recall that it was handsome enough), but I also know NOTHING about him, other than that he comes to my office every other Wednesday at 11:30am. Ish. And oh, how that “ish” spurns me. HOW AM I SUPPOSED TO SCHEDULE MY DAY AROUND “ISH”!?

Some of my friends have suggested that I simply ask him out. Historically, this approach has not worked for me. I tend to like guys who are emotionally unavailable and/or douchebags. I can only assume that Carl is one or both. Or worse, he’s stupid. Forearms are not an adequate substitute for intelligence, despite how readily they awaken primeval desire. So I will persist in NOT asking him out, and will continue pining, sadly.

After all, “next to being married, a girl likes to be crossed in love now and then.” (Bonus points if you are NOT female, and you know where that quote is from.)

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Pondering: Nipples, Pt. 2

July 14, 2009

Note: I know I said here that I wouldn’t talk about my nipples, but I really don’t have anything better to talk about.

Monday morning, I slept in until the last possible moment before I HAD to leave for work, threw my work clothes on in the dark (because Karissa had spent the weekend with me, and was still asleep). Two and a half hours into the work day, I realised that my black bra was clearly visible under my white work shirt. Thankfully, the day was cool enough that I could justify wearing a jacket for the remainder of the day.

Tuesday morning, I swore to myself that the bra catastrophe would not happen again, so I chose a pale pink bra that would not show. Four hours into the work day, I took a bathroom break, and noticed my reflection in the mirror. Two eyes and two very cheerful nipples stared back at me. I tried all my known nipple-disappearing remedies. None worked. Finally, I had to resign myself to going back to work, and hope that everyone would look me in the eyes.

On the TV show F.R.I.E.N.D.S., the girls are always wearing shirts that show their nipples. In fact, I believe they had specially constructed bras with false nipples sown on so that it would give the impression of perpetual nippleage. I don’t know why it was considered so desirable. Thoughts?

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Oh No You Di-int!

July 8, 2009

I’ve spent the better part of the past five days feeling sorry for myself, and I’m starting to feel a bit silly. I had a rather emotional weekend, followed by some distressing news from someone near and dear to me on Monday. Three days straight of excessive crying resulted in THE MOST GOD AWFUL MIGRAINE I’VE EVER EXPERIENCED. Seriously, it felt like zombies were feeding on my brain. So, I had to stay home from work on Tuesday, mostly because I couldn’t trust myself to drive. I slept all day, and then at 4:30pm woke up and remembered that I desperately needed to cash my paycheck so that I would have enough money to actually drive to work the next day (which would be today, for those who are paying attention).

I got to the bank two minutes after they closed. I ran up to the glass doors, pulled on them frantically, yelled some stuff about jihad and waved a toy pistol. Not really, but I wanted to after the employees inside grinned and waved at me as if they were pleased with my plight. Oh no you di-int, girlfriend!

At this point, since I was already up, and feeling generally lonely and combustible, I went over to my aunt and uncle’s house. They make me feel very happy, and I’m not just saying that because they read this blog and could revoke my internet/dinner privileges (which are AWESOME, by the way). My aunt helped me fill out my insurance forms for work, and my uncle diagnosed me as skin-cancer-free. Two less things for me to worry about! Now, if they could just help with the zombie problem…

Despite going to bed at a reasonable hour (10pm), I still managed to sleep in until 8:15 this morning, waking up with a KILLER, MONSTROUS, ZOMBIE-INDUCED headache and exactly fifteen minutes to get dressed, showered, and make my 22 mile, thirty-five minute commute. In a car that was reading below “E” on the gas gauge. I’d like to tell you that I simply teleported and made it on time, showered, bearing gifts. I’m sorry to disappoint my loyal fans, but that did not happen. I DID, however, brush my hair. Teeth? No. Shower? No. Deodorant? No. PERFUME, Megan? FOR CHRIST’S SAKE, AT LEAST SAY YOU PUT ON PERFUME?! Alack and alas, I did not. I showed up to work, befuddled, headachy, stressed-out (but relieved that my car had actually made it), twenty-one minutes late. Oddly enough, two people told me I look pretty today. Oh yes, they di-id! (…That doesn’t work. I won’t do it again.)

It was a bit of a sad day at work, I found out that two of my co-workers, Sarcastic Guy and Emo Kid, were transferred. I liked them a lot, and I was sad to see them go. I actually cried, although I must admit that my tears were less for my co-workers (who I have known for less than two weeks), and more because I had a killer headache, and I knew that Sarcastic Guy had kept extra-strength Tylenol in his desk. I was pretty disappointed to see him and his zombie-fighting medicine go. (Also, he was nice, and funny, and friendly, but I’m getting too sentimental.)

By about 10am, my headache was so awful, I ransacked our entire kitchen area hoping to find some sort of painkiller. Finally, I asked my co-worker, The Hobbit. I don’t know why I didn’t ask him in the first place. He, like Sarcastic Guy, is nice, funny, and friendly (without even being sarcastic!). Immediately, The Hobbit produced a bottle of extra-strength Excedrin, and procured two pills for me. He even went so far as to actually read the directions to make sure he wasn’t giving me an overdose. What class! The headache quieted down to a dull roar, and skulked off to my right temple, where it would occasionally take off its shoes and throw them against my skull, or punch my eyeball with tiny daggers.

After lunch, my boss asked me how I was feeling. (As an aside, I work in a place with a lot of nice people who are quite concerned about my well-being. I enjoy that). I told him that I had taken Excedrin, drank a Coke, and had some lunch and was feeling generally much better, thanks for asking. He thought for a moment, then said, “Doesn’t Excedrin cause liver damage? Or is that Tylenol?” “No, no,” said I, of the cirrhotic liver, “That would be Tylenol.” I didn’t bother to explain WHY I knew this. Some things should simply not be said. At work, anyway. That is what blogs are for.

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