Attitudes and Egos and Complexes, Oh My!

I’m having a real issue this week with people who just don’t get simple logic.  It seems to exist in every aspect of my life and honestly, I just don’t understand how there can be some many fucktards in this universe.

It started with my childhood with Vengeful Mother and her inability to consider my feelings and opinions, even if she doesn’t agree with them.  It’s ever present in the current political culture as examined in my previous post.  But it’s a constant factor in my work life.

I’ve written before about my hatred of my job, but just case you’re not up to speed let me tell you:

I HATE MY JOB!!!!!

Last week I brought up an issue in our departmental staff meeting that I knew full well would blow up into a free-for-all hate fest, but that’s just what it needed to be.  I work in a department of only five people, including me, and we’re enclosed in a small space smaller than some of your apartments.  There’s the Fitness Freak Financial Analyst who is clearly dissatisfied with her job.  She does a pretty good job of playing her cards close to the vest but she’s let it slip a few times that she’s not happy in her job, that she’s been assigned too much work that doesn’t pertain to her job duties, not to mention doesn’t pertain to our department.  She isn’t happy with the way things are managed in our environment, and I can’t say that I blame her.

Then there’s Country Dumbkin, our Conference Coordinator.  She’s 3006 years old and has the intelligence of a four year old.  She’s Passive Aggressive and immature and she is always catered too by our department manager.  She gets special treatment and whenever there’s a disagreement between her and another person (or about her) the other person is always told to be nicer to her, to give her a break, to be more understanding, etc., etc.

There’s the Unsvelt Girl Who Runs.  She’s the department “Adminary” but she’s not really all that valuable.  Not because she’s not valuable, but because she’s not treated with a whole lot of respect.  Country Dumbkin does UGWR’s job on a whim, but only if she likes the person.  People call her directly for things that should be brought to UGWR. Oh, and then CD complains about having too much work to do and not being able to get her own job done in a timely manner because she’s always “having” to do UGWR’s job.

And of course let us not forget Douche Bag.  DB is our department manager, though it’s hard to call him “manager” with a straight face, or without gagging.  DB’s job is to manager his people, to keep the peace, to keep things moving smoothly, oh!, and to set a good example.  In truth DB is a male chauvinist, he’s passive aggressive, he’s forgetful, he’s unreliable, he’s oblivious and he’s a “Yes man”.  If you’ve read my blog in the past, these are probably not revelations for you.

As a rule of thumb, I go into the office everyday, trying my hardest to avoid people, and situations because they all end up being frustrations and illogical.  Douche Bag in many ways is the worst offender, but after last weeks staff meeting, I actually thought maybe, JUST MAYBE, there was a chance that things had finally come to light.  After suggesting a reasonable solution to a major problem we have, (closing our office at lunch time so we don’t have coverage issues – the solution, not the problem) and Country Dumbkin launched into her anticipated rant, DB finally acknowledged that there were probably bigger issues at hand and that we should meet individually so that we could candidly discuss our issues.

I met with Douche Bag and I laid it on the line for him.  I explained the issues with Country Dumbkin, the issues between Unsvelt Girl and CD and the fact that UG doesn’t feel comfortable talking to him about it because every time she does he comes down on her and makes promises, he doesn’t keep.  Nothing ever changes.  The conversation went on for more than an hour and when it was finished he promised to make this his top priority and let everything else go until things were resolved.  And then he blinked his eyes and it was all forgotten.

Today, Douche Bag has been unreasonably hostile to everyone and he even laid into Unsvelt Girl as she was walking out the door, already off the clock, because he didn’t like the way something looked that she didn’t even do.

It’s true what they say.  The fish really does rot from the head down.  And my company is a fuckin’ great white whale! (They still count as fish, right?)  Everywhere I turn, there are attitudes, and egos, and complexes galore!  This place is run on emotion and self-centeredness and self-righteousness, pompousness and arrogance, manipulation and superiority complexes.  Everyone is a yes man, and the only way to stay afloat is to be just as manipulative and demanding and self-absorbed as the person above you.

Now I understand that, I probably sound like I’m the one with problem (If everyone in the world is crazy except myself, then I probably need to take another look) and that it would be easier, at least in theory, if I stop resisting and “go with the flow.”  But I just can’t do that.  I believe, in all sincerity, that the actions that come about in this place, the way people behave based on these attitudes is ethically wrong (sometimes, maybe even morally.)  It’s not OK to treat one person with higher priority than another.  It’s not OK to set precedence for one group and turn around and say, “no” to another.  It’s not OK to bury your head in the sand while your peers – or teammates – tear each other apart and then pretend that everything is fine.  And if I allow myself to be swayed, to be convinced to participate in this behavior, I’m compromising myself and my principles for something I don’t believe in, or care about.  I can’t do that.  I WON’T do that.

The logo for the hell hole of a company I work for is a representation of three people of varying heights with what is supposed to be rays of sunshine washing over them.  The logo’s official name within the company is “The Sunshine Family.”  A few years ago I had the opportunity to work briefly with a Project Manager who was also an Interior Designer with great artistic ability.  In one of our meetings for a project she sketched out the logo for purposes of demonstrating something we’d been discussing.  She referred to “The Sunshine Family” as “the burning people” because that’s more along the lines of what it looks like.  Well, I must say that “the burning people” has always stuck in my head because it’s feels so right.

This company is HELL, and the people in it are burning, they just don’t know it yet.

The Entry it Took Two Weeks to Write

I have fallen into almost every job I’ve ever had.  The first job I had was working in the gift shop of the hotel where my mother worked as the hotel managers secretary.  Sure, in high school, I worked at a Hardee’s fast food restaurant for about a year, and then worked as a cashier in a local grocery store, but first of all those are not particularly ambitious jobs, and secondly, they hire any warm body that will apply for those positions.

When I was 19 years old I was engaged to a woman.  We were to marry two weeks before my 20th birthday.  Problem was I did not own a vehicle and was relegated to jobs I could walk to.  The jobs I could walk to couldn’t pay for a car, let alone a life with a wife and child (She had a two year old son.)  We agreed that I’d go to live with my father in Cincinnati, Ohio for six months.  He had a car I could drive (It was my father’s Oldsmobile, despite what the commercials always said.)  With my father’s Oldsmobile, I could drive anywhere and get a job anywhere.  So I went to the mall.  It seemed like a logical next step after the grocery store.

I went into a Men’s Clothing store in the mall that I’d never heard of called Webster Menswear and applied for a job.  I apparently made a good impression on the manager and he wanted to hire me to be his Assistant Manager right then and there, but I was honest with him and told him I was only planning to be in town for six months and that I would be quitting to move back to Oklahoma when the six months were up.  He hired me as a sales clerk and then two weeks later he promoted me to Assistant Manager.

My engagement ended shortly thereafter and I end up staying in Cincinnati for nine months instead of six.  I moved back to Tulsa, Oklahoma on Father’s day, 1995.  Before I left I made contact with the Regional Manager of a different clothing store – owned by the same parent company – called J. Riggings, advised him that I was moving to town and would like to see about interviewing with him if he had any open positions.  As luck would have it, there was a Second Assistant Manager position open at the store in Tulsa and he hired me for it.  I worked for another roughly nine months in Tulsa at Woodland Hills Mall before being promoted to Store Manager at a store at Quail Springs Mall in Oklahoma City.  Three months after that I moved to Fayetteville, Arkansas where I spent the longest nine months of my life managing the store at the Northwest Arkansas Mall.

I hated it there and I felt trapped in that job, like there was no where else for me to go.  So I decided that it was time to go back to school.  I was 22 years old and had no idea what I was going to do with my life but I had to take action.  I quit my job, moved back to Tulsa and into Vengeful Mother’s house.  I applied for a job at one of our favorite restaurants as a waiter.  I figured that would be easy enough money and good flexible hours for a college student.  WRONG!!!  I was the worst waiter you’ll ever encounter in your life!  I forgot things constantly, I was slow getting the orders in and the food out, and I was perpetually sweaty!  Who wants their food served to them by a fat, sweaty guy?  I averaged $2.00 tips on every table and lasted about three months.  Somehow during this time, school never seemed to come to pass.

It was during this time that I decided I wanted to reconnect with my best friend from High School, “Batman”…  Batman was a huge fan of the superhero, stating that he liked him so much because he was just a man and all his “abilities” came from his gadgets and not because of some superhuman trait.  Batman was an artist and he sketched bat signals on his book covers and notebooks on a regular basis.  When his parents bought him a Ford Ranger Splash pick-up truck, he had a Batman symbol custom painted on the tailgate.  I could probably write a whole post about Batman and not scratch the surface, but the bottom line is, I was very attached to him.  I realize now that I was probably in love, but I was in no position to acknowledge or profess that at the time.  Batman was a year younger than I, and when I graduated from high school we lost touch.

So it was when I returned to Tulsa after my stint in Arkansas that I decided to try and locate him.  Turned out to be pretty easy.  I opened up the phone book and there it was.  His distinctive, three-worded, German last name right in the beginning of the Vs.  I wasn’t positive that it was him so I sent him a letter.  A few days later the phone rang and it was his voice on the line.  We made plans to meet for lunch by his work a few days later.

Batman worked for what was then LDDS WorldCom.  We talked about his job and he told me that I could easily get in with the next training class and that he’d put in a good word for me.  A few weeks later I was training in the telecommunications industry to work in the customer service call center.  Much to my dismay, Batman informed me that he and his wife were moving to California a few weeks later.  His wife grew up in Turlock and they were going to move there to be closer to family since his family had moved away from Tulsa already.

Batman had already lined up a job with what was locally known as MFS WorldCom.  He’d pretty well settled in by the time I was nearing the end of my training.  With Batman’s recommendation and assistance, I too got in to MFS WorldCom and moved to California in March, 1998.

When I left MCI WorldCom in March of 2000, I expected to have no problem finding a new job in the telecommunications industry.  How could I?  The whole world runs on phone lines and data connections.  In October of 2000 I started a new job with a small hole in the wall Telecom company in San Carlos, California.  That job lasted 10 months.  The owner was a psycho and he didn’t like me because I didn’t cower before him and jump at his every whim.

On September 15, 2001 I moved in with Green M&M and started looking for a job.  When my unemployment benefits had run out and I still hadn’t found a job I signed up with a local staffing agency.  A week or so after I signed up with them I got a rather excited call from the rep telling me they had a great job for me, working in the Facility Management office of a high rise office building in Downtown Oakland, with a great company and a great manager.  It was a temp job, but I was desperate for full time work and the job was easy so I applied to be the new Administrative Assistant.  Nearly six and a half years later, I still work for The Company that Created the HMO, and still report to Douche Bag.  I’ve been promoted three times now, and I’m not an Administrative Assistant anymore, but the last promotion came when I was ordered to take on an entirely new set of responsibilities, despite the fact that I’d been very vocal about the fact that I did not want to do that work.  I wasn’t asked, or offered.  I was ordered and if I wasn’t happy about it I could quit.  I had every intention of it…  If I could just find something new.  It’s been three years.  I hate my job and I really want out.  But I don’t know what to do.  I don’t know how to proactively get myself a job and I don’t know what I would want to do if I did.

What, you might ask, is the point of all this?  Well, more than once it has been the topic of my therapy sessions: “I hate my job.”  “I want a new job.”  “I don’t know what I want to do with my life.”  “I don’t know the right steps to take to find a new job that I’ll be happy with.”  This is all very true, but the biggest issue has always been finding something that I’d be happy to make a career out of.  I have fears and insecurities about all the things I’ve ever considered and most of it requires educational experiences I do not have.

Lately I’ve really been thinking more about creative things.  You see, when I was young I wanted to be an actor.  If you’ve read this blog before you know this already.  The problem is, I have no confidence in my abilities anymore.  I took some drama classes in high school and I really enjoyed it, but I stopped and I’ve regretted it ever since.

Eight or nine years ago, I took an acting class from a man named Ed Hooks.  Ed was an actor in his earlier days, but hadn’t worked in years.  I now know that he didn’t have a terribly illustrious career (although I did see him on an episode of Quantum Leap on DVD the other day.)  Anyway, Ed was moving to Chicago and I knew going into it that my time in his class was short term.  During those few months I attended this man’s acting classes, I lost all of my remaining confidence in my ability to act.  I know I had a lot of growing to do and I wanted to do it but it’s hard, and Ed’s criticism always made me feel like I didn’t have the ability.  I’d like to think that my time in therapy has helped but I’m not sure that I’m any more able to be comfortable making a fool of myself than I was then…

Most of my formative years I was a singer.  I was in choir most of my school years and at church.  I love to sing.  And before my balls dropped– er puberty hit, my voice was pretty good.  I had solos regularly.  But something happened as the bottom started dropping out of my vocal chords and my voice became weaker, and my range far more limited.  I still sing all the time (in the shower, in the car, in places where no one can hear me, usually.)  Yeah, I have an OK enough voice that most people aren’t bothered by my singing, but I’m not any kind of performer.

I don’t have any dancing experience, and though I do have rhythm I’m not particularly confident on that front either.

All that is to say that I have been thinking a lot lately that I’d really like to get involved in musical theater or television and movies, but I don’t have the skills or the confidence to go for it.  I’m aware that there are classes I can take, but they cost money and I don’t have it.  Plus I spent my entire childhood living in poverty, and in the last few months things have been really, really tight.  I just can’t imagine how I could possibly take any cut in pay, financially, or emotionally.

So that’s my dilemma.  The only thing my entire life I’ve ever imagined I could be happy doing, is the one thing that I’m afraid to go for.  So I stay in my lousy job, with my decent, but not great, salary, and horrible working conditions, because I don’t know how I could possibly go for the one thing I want, and I don’t know what job to fall into next!

Bathroom Transformation Days Seven and Eight

I must apologize to those of you who have been following this particular thread (Fixator) for the lapse in updates.

I sort of expected that nothing much would happen yesterday, since it was Labor Day and since Adorable Little Contractor spent all day Saturday here working on the floor.  I took advantage of the long weekend and I did made my bi-wekekley trip to M&Ms apartment to do my laundry.  Because I was expecting Adorable Little contractor to be here around 9:00, I got up and out early.  I arrived at M&Ms house around 9:30 and started my laundry….  OK…  Before I get too far down that road, let me remember that nothing exciting happened.  Around 2:00 in the afternoon, we headed off to Dave and Busters in Milpitas, CA.  I’ve never been there before so it was interesting (and kinda dissapointing – I thought there’d be more to it.)  It was fun enough, but I’m not sure how worth the trouble it was… 

I did the Fast and the Furious races several times.  Raced against both M&M (AKA Green M&M) and her sister Yellow M&M.  They both beat me…  REPEATEDLY.  Later we went to a motor cycle racing game….  They beat me theere too…  and NONE of us knew how to ride a motorcycle. 

Beaten by girls…  Over and over.  I really am a sissy…

Green and I watched I Now Pronounce You Chuck & Larry too.  It was really good, I thought. 

Anyway, I got home around 10:30 PM.  The first thing I noticed when I walked in the house was that it smelled kind of like paint.  I wasn’t expecting painting yesterday.  As far as I knew, the floor was going to be grouted and sealed yesterday.  So I went in to check it out, only the new light fixture hasn’t been installed yet so there was no light in there besides the hall light.  The walls appeared to be mint green.  Really bad!!!!

Green said “At least it’s not pink.” 

“Um yeah…  Mint Green is NOT good.”  I would have really hated to have had him paint the whole room just to hate the color.  Fortuantely, I realized that was just the primer.  ALC had taken down the thick plastic he had hung and he rehung it from the walls instead of the cieling.  My shower this morning was a little more… intricate than normal.  There was a big gap in the curtain that, had I not been careful, would have spilled water all over the floor behind the toilet. 

So it’s clear to me that I need to take my “after” pictures in day light but here goes all the same…

I came home tonight to find this. 

  I really like the color, but it doesn’t show up very well on the pictures.  Hopefully, in the daytime with full daylight it’ll be clearer.  I was having second thoughts when Whealer Dealer LandLady backtracked on her conditions for me picking the color (I have to return it to “antique white” when I moe out) of paint but now that I’ve seen the final result I’m very glad I didn’t back out.  I’m planning to paint the rest of my apartment when I get the chance.  The vanity is going to look nice once it’s finished and installed.  Things are looking pretty good.  I just wish I had a shower curtain.   Thanks to the painting, the make shift shower curtain has been removed and now I’m either supposed to try and carefully use my handheld shower wand without a shower curtain, or I’m going to have to go back to using the trickle in the basement at work.  Neither one is terribly appealing to me.  I don’t guess I have much of a choice though.  I hope that the new shower rod will be installed soon.  It looks to me, like ALC should be finished in the next day or three with his part of the renovations.

Life, Lunacy and the Pursuit of Financial Happiness; or The General State of Affairs

There’s a tickle at the back of my brain. A wee, small voice is calling out for freedom. There is a compulsion making its way to the surface. I feel like I have something to write. I’m just not sure yet what it is.

Saturday was Vengeful Mother’s 64^th birthday. I played the dutiful son and called to wish her Happy Birthday and to inform her that a gift was not to follow. Things have been really tight for me lately. True to form, she took advantage of a moment of vulnerability on my part in which I told her of the financial difficulty I’ve been experiencing, to tell me that I wouldn’t be in this situation if I would just pay my tithes. Because after all, when I’m having trouble making ends meet to begin with the smartest thing I could do is write a $250.00 check, twice a month, for which I’ll receive no goods or services in return. Why wouldn’t I want to be $250.00 shorter per paycheck than I am now?

She tells me things would have been worse if she hadn’t done it, but I remember watching her write her tithe checks regularly, spending her last $50.00, and then having to scrape the cupboards to try to find something to feed her three hungry children. I guess she was “leading by example” by writing the checks, but what she was trying to instill in her children, that God will bless your finances if you tithe, didn’t come through. As far as I can tell, she’s still waiting for the blessing.

I suppose I was meant to accept not suffering homelessness, not having to go to school in rags and not starving to be a blessing. Now, I know I’m a bitter old dolt who has a fucked up sense of obligation but as far as I’m concerned, if Vengeful Mother and Dead Beat Dad weren’t prepared to guarantee those minimums, they should never have procreated in the first place. They probably shouldn’t have anyway. No, to me, being blessed is having all your needs met and having ample opportunities to make the most of your life. Those are the things I most certainly did not see happening when Vengeful Mother put her last few tuppence in the offering plates. Those are the things I didn’t have, period.

Tithes are supposed to be the “first fruits” of your “harvest” or the first 10% of your income. In other words, pre-tax. So my take home pay may be $1500.00 every two weeks, but I earn closer to $2500.00. Uncle SAM (as in Stole All my Money) takes the first nearly $1000.00 and then I’m supposed to hand over $250.00 more than that, before I do anything else? It’s impossible!

We had a luncheon at work today. I work in a small office of about five people. If you’ve read my blog, you’ve already been “introduced” to that group. We have a counter part group who works in another building. We don’t like them. They don’t like us. We have a mutual don’t like for each other and it’s a permanent condition.

Since my manager, Douche bag, is on vacation, the diminutive manager for the other group has been in charge. He decided to buy lunch for everyone today. So we gathered for sandwiches in a conference room. Midway through the lunch, he decided to announce that he was going to make this a monthly thing and that we’d meet for lunch monthly.

Every couple of months this comes up. Douche bag and his fun sized counterpart talk about how we should work together and have team building orgie– er, exercises and be BFFs, like that’s all it takes. Personalities and hard feelings be damned. I’m not sure why they can’t get it through their impenetrable skulls that we do not enjoy each others company and no amount of forcing the issue will change that. In fact forcing it on us will just make it harder to change things.

I had a couple of very peculiar dreams the other night. The first had to do with a forced entry situation at Vengeful Mother’s house. CPA sister and I were both there and it was bed time. CPA Sis was getting into bed in the living room, and Vengeful Mother was in bed in her room. CPA sis came across some papers in the living room that had some significance to a former boyfriend of hers; we’ll call him Breastplate (Explanation to follow). Vengeful Mother and I were reviewing the papers and realized that they were incriminating for Breastplate and some other guys. Suddenly, we heard loud noises as the front door was being broken down. I grabbed the papers and stuffed them under Vengeful Mother’s headboard.

I don’t really remember what happened after that except that the guys were tearing the house apart trying to find the papers and there was threatening and violence going on.

The second dream had a similar theme. I dreamed that Vengeful Mother and I were in a drug/grocery store and we had separated. The store was taken hostage by a group of ne’er-do-wells. I do not remember what their motivations were, but I remember that they were very rough. They were armed, but they had some sort of poison darts that they used to kill some of the hostages.

Once again, I do not remember the details of the dream but I remember that Vengeful Mother was killed with one of those darts. The dream ended when the police broke into the store and took out the bad dudes. I had managed to kill one of them in the course of my dream so when it was clear that the evil doers were going to die, their leader shot me with one of the darts, a moment before a policeman shot and killed him. Then just as everything was going dark I felt a sharp prick and shortly after I recovered. The police had the antidote for the poison and were able to save me, but not Vengeful Mother.

My therapist had the audacity to go on vacation last week and so it’ll have been two weeks since I’ve seen her, when I get to my appointment tomorrow evening. It seems as though I may have a lot to talk about. I do not wish for Vengeful Mother’s demise, but I do know that many things would be a lot easier on me if she was no longer part of my life. As I mentioned, she just turned 64 and some of you might be saying I don’t have that much longer with her, but you’d be wrong. People in my family, on both sides actually, live very long lives. My Paternal Grandfather who just died was almost 92. My Paternal Grandmother was in her early 80s when she died of cancer. My Maternal Grandmother was 84 when she died. The only enigma, if you will, is my Maternal Grandfather. He was killed when a psychotic divorceé boarded his plane wearing a dynamite vest in 1962. Grandfather was in his late 30s. Who knows how old he would have lived to be?

I take comfort in the fact that I won’t have to face the death of my parents for many years, and yet, there would be some comfort to be taken if I didn’t have to deal with those troubled relationships any further.

After nearly a year of negotiation, my regrettably pink bathroom is finally going to be remodeled starting on Monday, August 25, 2008. I’m dreading it. It’s going to be a major hassle for me. Their will be detritus everywhere while the work is happening. For a few days, my shower will be unavailable to me. Scared kitty will have to be closed up in the kitchen for his own safety and sanity, and the house will have to be thoroughly cleaned this week before my landlord sets foot in the place to meet with the contractor. I’ll be thrilled when the work is done.

My house was built in the 1920s. And the bathroom may well be the original bathroom, save for a new-ish toilet that was put in fewer than 5 years ago. The floor, sink counter and backsplash, and two sided shower surround are all covered in 4″ x 4″ pastel pink tile. The counter has a beveled, raised, pastel pink tile boarder that is hard to keep clean, and the counter is only 22 inches deep while the sink is 26 inches deep, so there is an angled protrusion from the counter where the sink is. The tile is dirty with the kind of dirt that doesn’t come out. Decade upon decade of use has resulted in a hue of grey that covers the pink such that only a power sand scrub or perhaps a dose of hydrochloric acid would make it come off, and then the tile would come up too. There are also what my landlady calls spider vein cracks in the tile. But most importantly, IT’S PINK!

Apparently, in the 1920s people were a good foot and a half shorter than they are now. The shower head, were it not to have an aftermarket handheld shower wand added to it, would hit me mid tattoo

 

and require me to bend down significantly to use it, and the top of the tile shower surround hits my shoulder level. Here in Oakland, we have a lot of mold issues to deal with, and it’s been my concern all along that this is going to be an issue if left unchecked.  (By the way, no comments about my ogre head!)

When completed, my bathroom is going to have new shower head that is up about two feet from it’s current location, the shower surround will be two single slabs of granite that will go up to 18″ from the ceiling, their will be an entirely new sink console with a new sink with polished nickel fixtures including a goose neck faucet. A new wall mounted mirror will hang over the counter and the counter will be single slab marble. Their will be fresh paint, new light fixtures, new towel hooks and rods and a brand new pergo floor. When finished the bathroom will be modern and lovely and will match the rest of the renovated house. I can’t wait!

And then theirs work. Douche Bag returns from his three and a half week tour of China tomorrow. When that happens, the respite I have had from all the shit that comes with his presence will be over. I do not look forward to that. I so desperately want to change jobs. I want to find something to do that is fulfilling and gratifying. I want to make a living being creative and inspiring to people. I would like to be a writer, but I don’t know how to make a living that way.

What I need is a sugar daddy! I’m now taking applications! Serious inquiries only, please!

I’m Going to Have to be A Cliché

I do, so very greatly, hate a cliché, but I’m gonna have to do it anyway…

I HATE MY BOSS!!!!!

I work “for” quite possibly one of the stupidest people I have ever experienced in my life.  Actually, I wish that were true.  Were it true I’d be able to make some kind of excuse for him.  But he’s not.  He’s very intelligent.  Very capable.  He has a degree in chemistry and has been in building management for many years.  He certainly knows how to keep his most demanding and whiny customer’s happy.  He just says, “Yes.  Whatever you want.”

What he doesn’t know is how to satisfy his employees or his most reasonable customers.  He’s unreliable, forgetful, placative (is that even a word?) and, I hope unintentionally, dishonest.  He’s oblivious to his surroundings, doesn’t monitor his employees behavior and doesn’t ensure justice or fairness within the department.

Recently in one of our weekly staff meetings, my boss, whom we shall call Douche Bag (DB), gave the annual re-iteration of the company dress code.  He also pointed out that this dress code doesn’t supersede the department management dress code if it’s more strict than the one he was reviewing.  This dress code was pretty standard stuff really.  No shorts, no t-shirts, no tennis shoes, no words on your clothes, no flip flops, no sweats or tracks suits, nothing you’d wear to the gym, no tank tops, no visible underwear.  The dress code he was reviewing specifically did not ban jeans as long as they’re neat and clean, however, he was sure to point out that our director does not want jeans worn.  The very next day, one of my co-workers, our Financial Analyst, was wearing something I believe are called “skimmers”, made out of wool Glennplaid material.  Yes the material was something that is office appropriate, but the design of the item, without question is SHORTS!  This is an issue that is personally offensive to me because we participate in a voluntary program with PG&E to reduce energy consumption on hot days to try to prevent rolling brown-outs.  On these days the temperature in the building could rise to be in excess of 80 degrees and I feel that on those days we should be allowed to wear shorts to work as long as they’re well kept.  But, we are not allowed to do so.  Therefore, as a male, every day of the week I am required to wear long pants and it does  get very warm on some days.  If Financial Analyst is allowed to wear shorts, than I should be allowed to wear shorts.

I believe that DB made a point of reviewing this document because some time ago, I began wearing jeans to work on Fridays.  He did question it a time or two, but I informed him that we were told we had to follow the same dress code as our “parent” department, National Facility Services (NFS), and that I was being led by example.  NFS employees wear jeans all the time, not just Friday, but I can live with one day a week.  I intend to continue to wear jeans on Fridays.

My friend and Co-worker, Unsvelt Girl Who Runs, is our Department Secretary who hates the word Secretary.  Some time ago as a joke I called her our “Adminary” and it stuck.  Unsvelt girl is my personal friend, but for the purposes of this rant, I shall refer to her only as “Adminary.”  Adminary, routinely spends considerable time, hanging out in my office and doing nothing.  It’s inappropriate and I know it.  So does she.  And so does DB.  But he never says anything about it and it’s gotten to the point that he comes looking for her in my office if he needs her.  Adminary wears flip flops and tank tops to work almost every day.  DB says nothing.  Adminary is often a few minutes late in the morning.  DB says nothing…  he just adjusts her time card, falsely to make sure she gets paid for 8 hours.  Amdinary tells me that she often ends up with a few minutes of overtime pay.  But she never works overtime.

Our Chief Engineer, quite frequently comes to our office and asks Adminary to validate a parking ticket.  At first no one thought much of it.  Then we started noticing that he was dressed in his motorcycle gear and ready to leave when he was doing this.  Chief Egineer has his parking paid for by the department on the days he actually drives to work instead of taking public transportation.  I pay $95.00 a month for my parking.

And then theirs our Conference Service Coordinator.  She’s old and stupid.  I wish there was a better way to describe her but there’s just not.  Adminary and I refer to her as “CD” which stands for Country Dumbkin.  Why?  Well, because she grew up in a small town in Arkansas, in the COUNTRY.  And well, she’s just plain DUMB.  And who doesn’t love a good play on words.

Country Dumbkin is the worst offender in every way.  She is oblivious to her surroundings.  Doesn’t think about how her actions impact others, and thinks she’s equal to Financial Analyst and myself, even though she is an hourly, union employee, just like Adminary.  She’s rude and condescending to Adminary, and Financial Analyst and me, and for that matter to many of her customers.  Strangely though, Country Dumbkin can do no wrong.    CD acts out during the staff meeting?  DB laughs, blows it off and keeps on talking.  CD answers her phone, on her wireless headset while still sitting at the table in the staff meeting, and DB acts like it’s not happening.

CD usually doesn’t show up at work until 8:30 or later.  This means that at 8:00 when the department opens and people start calling in with complaints or requests for Conference Service, Adminary has to juggle it all, along with her own responsibilities.  CD almost daily takes an hour and a half for her lunch.  This is something that was set up by payroll, for all hourly employees as a once in a while, only to be used when necessary, kind of thing.  NOT to be used daily.  CD does it daily and DB says nothing.  By the way, CD’s lunches often extend past an hour and a half.  AND during the school year, she will then turn around and leave the office for 20-30 minutes to drive to pick up her grand children from school and deliver them to her house (even though there are buses they can take and they are teenagers) without clocking out.  DB doesn’t notice.  CD often “accidentally” forgets to clock in or out, and DB fixes it without question…  again, making sure she has her 8 hours a day, and probably also managing some over time.

I have worked for this man for six years and three months, and it has long since been established that I am a late person.  I come in to work late, I usually stay late, and I often skip my lunch breaks.  I am salary, by the way.  I do not punch a clock and I do not get docked in pay if I don’t work a full eight hours.

On Tuesday, June 10, 2008.  I left my office at 5:00 to head to my weekly 5:30 therapy appointment.  I had my shit packed and my “Magic iPhone by Apple” on.  I walked out of my office and closed the door behind me.  Walked passed DB’s door to the back room to grab a fresh bottle of Diet Pepsi, my life’s blood, from our refrigerator, and walked back past DB’s office door on the way out.  “Good-night everybody,” I said on my way by.  As I continued to walk toward the door, I heard CD who sits in a cubicle in the reception area say my name, but it was faint, I was in a rush (and I don’t really like her) so I pretended not to hear her as I walked out the door and made my way toward the elevator.

I was standing in front of the elevator that was about to open when I heard CD calling from around the corner, and then appear around the corner saying, “‘DB’ was calling you.”

The elevator doors opened.  “I have an appointment I have to get to, I can’t come back,” I said as I walked on to the elevator.  In my mind I, of course, began imagining the worst, all the while knowing that my boss is spineless and I had nothing to be concerned about.

I returned to work on Wednesday and not a word was said about the transaction.  Guess my fears were for not, I thought.

On Thursday, June 12, 2008, I got to work around 9:00 in the morning, my usual goal that I often miss.  I left the office at 2:30 in the afternoon to drive the eight miles to my therapists office for my weekly 3:00 appointment.  I returned to my office at about 4:10.  Now normally, I’d have gladly stayed until 6:00 to make up some of the time.  Yes, that would have been only seven and a half hours, but once again, I’m salary and that works.  On this particular occasion I actually had social plans after work for which I had to leave at 5:00.  Social plans, for me, are a rare thing indeed, so anyone who knows and understands me should have actually been quite happy for me.  But no.  My boss called out to me again.  This time I heard him and I returned to his office door, “Do you have a doctor appointment?” he asked.

“No.  but I do have some where I have to be,” I said puzzled and a bit annoyed.

“You need to put in your eight hours,” he said through gritted teeth, seemingly afraid someone might actually hear him have a backbone, “it’s not fair to everyone else if you don’t.”  I just stared at him blankly.  Frankly, considering all the other crap that goes on in my office, I couldn’t believe that he’d have the nerve to say anything.  “You didn’t get here until what, 9:30?”

“9:00,” I said matter of factly.

“Did you skip lunch?”

“No,” I said.  “Actually I had a Doctor’s appointment then.”

He said, “I need to know your schedule.”

I’m quite agitated at this point, “It was a standing appointment.  I’ve had it every Thursday for nearly a year.”  He hasn’t noticed this before now?

“Well, you need to put in your eight hours.  Even if you’ve got all your work done you still need to put in your eight hours.”  IS HE KIDDING ME WITH THIS?  Seems like possibly the stupidest thing I’ve EVER heard. 

“I usually do,” I said with clear anger in my voice, “but now I have somewhere I have to be.”  I walked away.

Today, Monday, June 30th I arrived at the office between 9:00 and 9:10 this morning.  Good for me!  I did not take lunch, in fact I never left my desk, accept to use the bathroom.  I’m in a financial crisis, which is a matter for another post, but absolutely a cause for great anxiety and a foul mood, which despite everything I did quite well at containing and keeping to myself, but I digress.  The point being I packed lunch.

I arrived today around 9:00 AM.  I did not take lunch, I ate at my desk.  I packed up to leave at 5:10 PM.  I closed my door, went for my necessary Diet Pepsi and walked back toward the front.  He stopped me again. 

“Yes?” I asked, already knowing where this was going.

“Where are you going?” He asked, clearly annoyed.

“AM I HOURLY, NOW?!?” I asked, definitely upset.

“When did you get here, 9:30?  You need to put in your eight hours.” 

“9:00″ I said, “MAYBE TEN AFTER.  AND I DIDN’T TAKE LUNCH.”

“Why not?  You need to take lunch.  You need to get outta here” (Truer words were never spoken.)

Once again, I stared blankly.  After a pause to contain my temper (probably shouldn’t have.)  I said, “I’d rather leave around 5:00.”

In typical Douche Bag fashion, not wanting to deal with me while I’m angry if he can help it (Trust me, this time he can’t help it) he said, “We’ll talk about this tomorrow.  We’ll come up with a schedule for you.”  I walked away again.  Fuck no, we will not come up with a schedule.  I am salary.  I DO NOT get docked if I don’t work eight hours.  I also DO NOT get paid more if I work over eight hours.  And according to DB, as told to me four years ago when I first became salary, “If you worked four hours, you worked the day.”

I’ll be truly surprised if he actually says anything to me tomorrow, but I’ll be prepared if he does.  I’ve got my notes together.  I’ve got my argument ready and I’m not taking any shit this time.  If I get fired, it’ll suck, but I’ll be better off!  That man has a stick shoved so far up his ass he’d have to open up and say “Ah” to remove it, and the worst part is, no one knows what the real issue is.  I’m certain it’s not my schedule. 

Fucking Douche Bag!!!