Friday, May 13, 2005

Oh, joy. It's "Casual Friday". This means that I can wear the same jeans to work that I wore yesterday and the day before. Good grief, but the corporate world is just like high school-only worse. You can play habitual hooky from high school and still get a diploma. Jobs (usually) require attendance in order to get a paycheck.
It's like having a life-time worth of spirit days and pep rallies shoved down your gullet every fucking day- aargh! This is the worst job ever, yet the pay is really good. I guess that makes me a whore, but I prefer the term 'mercenary'. They call me a 'contractor' but that word conjures images of trucks burning in Baghdad and poorly built porches in Fallentown falling down. Shudder.

This place ( Bank of Generica) reeks of upper-level (people who don't do any actual work) incompetence. The little folks are overworked , under-equipped and ill-informed. I asked my new boss ,"why we can't just establish a cut & dry process for this paperwork nightmare? Why does it take two days to get a box of paper-clips?" etc.

He replied that management won't let him hire anyone or do anything, so he's stuck with the ebb and flow of lousy temps. In the context of our conversation, this was a compliment.

At 2:00 pm they wheeled in some shitty ice cream sundae crap. I really wanted some, but as we queued up we were told by a Big Dude that we had to sign a laminated banner promoting "teamwork and commitment" and we had to use our legal names. We are required to wear name tags, so forgery was problematic.

I told Big Dude I wouldn't do that. I don't sign anything that I don't trust, believe in or understand. This is all three.
Big Dude tells me to get out of line. Out of 200+ persons I'm the only trouble-maker. I obey his orders. No ice cream for me.
I'm not making this up. You had to sign your name to get a few scoops of crappy ice cream.

New Boss comes to my cube.

"I heard you caused some trouble in the ice cream line."

Yes, I did.

"Do you want to keep working here?"

No. But I need the money and you need the help. How 'bout I work 3 -4 weeks until we catch up, and then I call the agency for re-assignment?

"Deal."

We shake on it. New boss is damncool, but he knows I fucking hate the place.

I need to de-compress, so I stop by the station on the way home. I'm handed a frosty Newcastle Ale and a slab o' quiche.( Quiche is manly if it's a slab.) We have a little going away party for the invaluable GG , who is moving to Connecticut . Best!

Fuck. I hate this bank job.

But I love the station.

All this and no date. My calls are never returned.
Note to women: If you aren't interested, just say so. An upfront 'NO' is better than evasive maneuvers. Damn your voice mail... why did you even give me your # ?

The heart is lonely carrion luggage.

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