Thought #1: Does it make me a radical that when I watch this movie my main response is "Yeah, and...?" All this is the same stuff I believe anyway...it's like, the sky is blue, and this is a fucked-up gun-worshipping illogical culture that has very poor judgement as a whole. The two statements are about equivalent in their shock value to me.
Thought #2: I'm not sure that's James Nichols being interviewed by Moore. It LOOKS like they couldn't GET James Nichols, and instead they hired Mike McDonald from MAD TV to PLAY Nichols. The man is literally a caricature of himself; as Stella would say, "a wackadoodle". I half-expected him to burst out into the Stuart character: "Look what I can do!"
Thought #3: I'm wasting my life doing nothing. I could be Michael Moore (though I think I take myself a little too seriously to do THAT). I could be writing and raging and speaking my mind--and I'm not. In fact, most of the things I say are focussed on the fact that I'm not saying anything. Which is, should you wonder, a ghastly reductionist paradox, and no fun at all to live in.
Thought #4: I have a new respect for Marilyn Manson after watching this movie. Not that I will EVER listen to his crap-ass nu-metal pseudo-Goth music; in fact, the obvious compassion and intellect he displays during his interview with Moore makes his music and his posturing all the more pathetic. He obviously has a grasp of the difficulties of being a kid, of the influence of the media--"...and it's a campaign of fear and consumption...keep everyone afraid, and they'll consume." And I liked what he said about the people of Littleton when Moore asked what he would say if he could talk to the people who were affected by the shooting: "I wouldn't say a word--I'd just listen to what they had to say."
Thought #5 (in which I expose my real naivete): Truthfully, I didn't entirely realize up til now the following: in terms of atrocities, the Democrats are no better than the Republicans. The Republicans seem to INITIATE more atrocities; the Democrats, though, when they have the opportunity, generally fail to STOP them. They don't start TOO many new ones--Kosovo and Waco standing out as recent Very Big Exceptions--but they don't STOP them either.
Thought #6: Charlton Heston is, without exception, the biggest asshole in human history. No, that honor does not fall to George W, Hitler, or any of the other likely candidates--because THOSE guys were evil. Heston is clearly evil in his own way, but Heston is deliberately, provokingly, schoolyard-bully cruel. To stand in a community which has just suffered a loss of that magnitude, hold aloft an example of the weapon that brought that loss about, and state "I have just five words to say to you tonight: FROM MY COLD DEAD HANDS!"...That takes a level of jackassery not previously seen in humankind.
I don't know if there's a place on earth that doesn't contain fucksticks like these. I just know that America has more than its fair A.P.S.M ratio: Assholes Per Square Mile.
(Funniest quote, from a news voiceover: "This t-shirt landed a student in court; she wanted to start an Anarchy Club." Um, an Anarchy Club? Isn't that an oxymoron?)
There's so much more I want to say on this, but as always, I don't have enough time.
Wednesday, February 18, 2004
Tuesday, February 17, 2004
Decision Made Today
By one year from today, one of the following three things will have happened:
1. I will have a new job outside of the organization in which I currently work;
2. I will have a different job in a different department at the same organization;
or 3. I will have my own business and be working for myself.
Today was the last straw. There's just no way I'm going to continue working there. Though I love what I do, I absolutely cannot continue to work for those people.
What happened? This morning, I walked in the door and Beverly immediately started in on me about her fucking laptop. Now, I have personally researched the problem. I have called Apple twice. I have spoken to the head of Tech Support, and every time I have asked an expert I have gotten the same answer: An Airport card on a Mac with OS 9 will connect to a wireless network set up on an Airport Extreme base station. I have passed this along to Beverly. Every time, she takes the laptop home and tells me "It doesn't work." I personally cannot test it in the environment she's using; I don't have Comcast at the office, for one, and I can't set up my own wireless network on the network because if I do, I.T. will shut me down. So all I can do is work from Apple's docs and from what I've been instructed to do; and then at her end, there's some setup she has to do. (She refuses to invest any time in it, which is in my opinion the second-most-likely source of the problem, running second only to "the card is broken.") She has already made up her mind that it's not going to work, and any information I give her is automatically wrong. The latest "expert" is some dweeb from Best Buy who says it won't work. Now, leaving ME totally out of the picture, tell me this--given the following information sources, which would you believe? On one side, two Apple Computer service techs and the head of a major tech support help desk; on the other side, a guy in a blue shirt at Best Buy who's never seen the computer or heard the configuration from any but the least informed source??
This is not the first time this has happened. I understand that she's frustrated and wants her computer to work. Really I do. But when she starts implying that I don't know what I'm doing--or WORSE, the thing that makes me REALLY angry, that I haven't put any time or thought into the information that I give her--or even worse than THAT, that I'm LYING!!--that is not professional in the least. If I did anything even one-tenth as unprofessional as that, I would be hauled into the office and told about my behavior and my attitude and everything else that's apparently wrong with me. In fact, I have been called on the carpet for MUCH less. And what's more, she KNOWS this is unprofessional, because Amy has attempted to convey my anger to her on more than one occasion, and on more than one occasion she has APOLOGIZED for doing exactly this. Obviously this is one of those cases where "I'm sorry" means "...until the next time I do it."
So they can go fuck themselves. If they can't treat me with a modicum of professionalism and respect for my abilities and contributions, they can deal with finding someone to replace me--someone willing to accept that sort of treatment, willing to deal with Noreen's constant criticism and the ghastly low morale engendered by bad management and favoritism. (Their last three techs lasted an average of eight months each; I've hung on for nearly 4 years.) I am going to ask the head of Tech tomorrow if he'll keep me in mind if one of his guys quits; I'm going to polish my resume', and I'm going to start watching outside ads; I'm going to contact the ad agency where I used to work and see if THEY need anyone. 365 days from now, I will NOT be in this job anymore.
1. I will have a new job outside of the organization in which I currently work;
2. I will have a different job in a different department at the same organization;
or 3. I will have my own business and be working for myself.
Today was the last straw. There's just no way I'm going to continue working there. Though I love what I do, I absolutely cannot continue to work for those people.
What happened? This morning, I walked in the door and Beverly immediately started in on me about her fucking laptop. Now, I have personally researched the problem. I have called Apple twice. I have spoken to the head of Tech Support, and every time I have asked an expert I have gotten the same answer: An Airport card on a Mac with OS 9 will connect to a wireless network set up on an Airport Extreme base station. I have passed this along to Beverly. Every time, she takes the laptop home and tells me "It doesn't work." I personally cannot test it in the environment she's using; I don't have Comcast at the office, for one, and I can't set up my own wireless network on the network because if I do, I.T. will shut me down. So all I can do is work from Apple's docs and from what I've been instructed to do; and then at her end, there's some setup she has to do. (She refuses to invest any time in it, which is in my opinion the second-most-likely source of the problem, running second only to "the card is broken.") She has already made up her mind that it's not going to work, and any information I give her is automatically wrong. The latest "expert" is some dweeb from Best Buy who says it won't work. Now, leaving ME totally out of the picture, tell me this--given the following information sources, which would you believe? On one side, two Apple Computer service techs and the head of a major tech support help desk; on the other side, a guy in a blue shirt at Best Buy who's never seen the computer or heard the configuration from any but the least informed source??
This is not the first time this has happened. I understand that she's frustrated and wants her computer to work. Really I do. But when she starts implying that I don't know what I'm doing--or WORSE, the thing that makes me REALLY angry, that I haven't put any time or thought into the information that I give her--or even worse than THAT, that I'm LYING!!--that is not professional in the least. If I did anything even one-tenth as unprofessional as that, I would be hauled into the office and told about my behavior and my attitude and everything else that's apparently wrong with me. In fact, I have been called on the carpet for MUCH less. And what's more, she KNOWS this is unprofessional, because Amy has attempted to convey my anger to her on more than one occasion, and on more than one occasion she has APOLOGIZED for doing exactly this. Obviously this is one of those cases where "I'm sorry" means "...until the next time I do it."
So they can go fuck themselves. If they can't treat me with a modicum of professionalism and respect for my abilities and contributions, they can deal with finding someone to replace me--someone willing to accept that sort of treatment, willing to deal with Noreen's constant criticism and the ghastly low morale engendered by bad management and favoritism. (Their last three techs lasted an average of eight months each; I've hung on for nearly 4 years.) I am going to ask the head of Tech tomorrow if he'll keep me in mind if one of his guys quits; I'm going to polish my resume', and I'm going to start watching outside ads; I'm going to contact the ad agency where I used to work and see if THEY need anyone. 365 days from now, I will NOT be in this job anymore.
Friday, February 13, 2004
Empowerment Makes Me Giggle
This was in my e-mail box today, forwarded from a Northwestern-dwelling acquaintance who knows my love of things absurd...
NU Vagina Monologues 2004
Evanston Campus
Friday, February 13 @ 8pm
Saturday, February 14 @ 2pm & 8pm
...
Proceeds benefit the Young Women's Empowerment Project
An hour and a half before each performance, there will be a Vagina Carnival in the Purdue Room, where there will be games, activities, and all kinds of useful info. T-shirts that read "I (heart) NU VAGINAS" will be on sale for just $10. There will also be a tampon drive for the Young Women's Empowerment Project. People are asked to bring boxes of tampons that can then be donated to the girls there.
Oh, my...where to begin? For such a short e-mail, this truly provides an embarrassment of riches.
(Oops...wait. Maybe I shouldn't use the word "embarrassment" in this context--people might think I'm a prude who's afraid to talk about her cooter in public, as opposed to someone who's just not entirely convinced that public cooter-talk constitutes "empowerment".)
Well, let's start there, shall we?
Question One: How does public discourse regarding one's genitalia equate with "empowerment" ?
Answer: Um, it doesn't?
A group of important-yet-ungrasped concepts:
--Just because you choose NOT to talk about something does not mean you are INCAPABLE of talking about it.
--Just because you CAN talk about something publicly, that does not mean you necessarily SHOULD.
--The choice of whether to discuss a topic, by its very nature, includes the option NOT to discuss the topic.
--The act of choosing not to discuss something should not come with any prejudged conclusions re: the reasons why.
In other words: All of you, if you feel you must, are more than welcome to discuss the workings and experiences of your own sex organs. As for me, however, I'd rather not indulge--not because I'm a prude, not because I'm embarrassed or ashamed or oppressed by the patriarchy; just because they're MINE and (like my religious beliefs and my musical tastes) I'd rather keep them to myself. I do not judge you for your choice; I would prefer not to be judged for mine.
...oh, who am I kidding?
Fine! I admit it-- I DO judge people who gather in groups to talk about their hoo-hoo's! My god, who the HELL had THAT bright-ass idea? Do women not have ENOUGH of a reputation for talking about irrelevant shit? I'm not saying that we should be PROHIBITED from talking about them; I'm not saying we should self-censor when the topic comes up! I'm only saying this: There is no point whatsoever to gathering in a group for the sole purpose of discussing our genitalia. There's nothing 'empowering" about it--it's an exercise in group-sanctioned voyeurism, a great big grown-woman slumber party, an excuse for "mature" women to get together to talk about things that aren't considered fit for "polite" society. Well, never having (during the part of my adult life that I view as "productive", anyway) been drawn into that concern about "polite society", I don't feel the NEED for such an environment, nor do I feel a need to talk about the inner workings of my privates. (A small but glaring exception, of course, is my willingness to cite my period as the source of crankiness/exhaustion/etc when such is the case; however, that's meant as an explanation for my external condition, not an excuse to talk about my body functions.)
(More to come later. I'm not done with THIS by far.)
NU Vagina Monologues 2004
Evanston Campus
Friday, February 13 @ 8pm
Saturday, February 14 @ 2pm & 8pm
...
Proceeds benefit the Young Women's Empowerment Project
An hour and a half before each performance, there will be a Vagina Carnival in the Purdue Room, where there will be games, activities, and all kinds of useful info. T-shirts that read "I (heart) NU VAGINAS" will be on sale for just $10. There will also be a tampon drive for the Young Women's Empowerment Project. People are asked to bring boxes of tampons that can then be donated to the girls there.
Oh, my...where to begin? For such a short e-mail, this truly provides an embarrassment of riches.
(Oops...wait. Maybe I shouldn't use the word "embarrassment" in this context--people might think I'm a prude who's afraid to talk about her cooter in public, as opposed to someone who's just not entirely convinced that public cooter-talk constitutes "empowerment".)
Well, let's start there, shall we?
Question One: How does public discourse regarding one's genitalia equate with "empowerment" ?
Answer: Um, it doesn't?
A group of important-yet-ungrasped concepts:
--Just because you choose NOT to talk about something does not mean you are INCAPABLE of talking about it.
--Just because you CAN talk about something publicly, that does not mean you necessarily SHOULD.
--The choice of whether to discuss a topic, by its very nature, includes the option NOT to discuss the topic.
--The act of choosing not to discuss something should not come with any prejudged conclusions re: the reasons why.
In other words: All of you, if you feel you must, are more than welcome to discuss the workings and experiences of your own sex organs. As for me, however, I'd rather not indulge--not because I'm a prude, not because I'm embarrassed or ashamed or oppressed by the patriarchy; just because they're MINE and (like my religious beliefs and my musical tastes) I'd rather keep them to myself. I do not judge you for your choice; I would prefer not to be judged for mine.
...oh, who am I kidding?
Fine! I admit it-- I DO judge people who gather in groups to talk about their hoo-hoo's! My god, who the HELL had THAT bright-ass idea? Do women not have ENOUGH of a reputation for talking about irrelevant shit? I'm not saying that we should be PROHIBITED from talking about them; I'm not saying we should self-censor when the topic comes up! I'm only saying this: There is no point whatsoever to gathering in a group for the sole purpose of discussing our genitalia. There's nothing 'empowering" about it--it's an exercise in group-sanctioned voyeurism, a great big grown-woman slumber party, an excuse for "mature" women to get together to talk about things that aren't considered fit for "polite" society. Well, never having (during the part of my adult life that I view as "productive", anyway) been drawn into that concern about "polite society", I don't feel the NEED for such an environment, nor do I feel a need to talk about the inner workings of my privates. (A small but glaring exception, of course, is my willingness to cite my period as the source of crankiness/exhaustion/etc when such is the case; however, that's meant as an explanation for my external condition, not an excuse to talk about my body functions.)
(More to come later. I'm not done with THIS by far.)
Thursday, February 12, 2004
I should be in bed.
I should be in bed. It's going on 11, I haven't showered yet, and I've been running around like a decapitated chicken all day. I got off work, LJ took me to the store, and then I set about the task of cleaning up this house and making a chicken dinner for LJ's sister, who's in town from Memphis. This would have been no problem, had LJ not taken off as soon as the groceries were in the house; and also had he not brought back not just his sister, but also his cousin. Fortunately I'd thrown extra chicken into the grease, so there was plenty to go around; but I have to admit being just a teeny bit peeved. However, I HAD offered to cook, so I can't blame him; what I CAN blame him for, though, is not sticking around to run the vacuum or something--even just to offer moral support.
I am only going to bitch about one thing about my job today:
Nancy--the same Nancy who went to Amy when it looked, two days ahead of time, as though I didn't do what she asked--today blew me off when I was trying to get her to upload something to the web page--something Beverly had SPECIFICALLY requested (demanded!) to be uploaded immediately--for the following reason: "I have a test today, the teacher is coming in an hour early, and if I don't leave now I'll miss my train."
I will be more than happy to quote that to Beverly when she tears me a new asshole because the page isn't uploaded. (Just LET me pull some shit like that and see what happens.)
Okay--off to the shower. I'm just tired...and the whole female thing ain't helping, either.
I am only going to bitch about one thing about my job today:
Nancy--the same Nancy who went to Amy when it looked, two days ahead of time, as though I didn't do what she asked--today blew me off when I was trying to get her to upload something to the web page--something Beverly had SPECIFICALLY requested (demanded!) to be uploaded immediately--for the following reason: "I have a test today, the teacher is coming in an hour early, and if I don't leave now I'll miss my train."
I will be more than happy to quote that to Beverly when she tears me a new asshole because the page isn't uploaded. (Just LET me pull some shit like that and see what happens.)
Okay--off to the shower. I'm just tired...and the whole female thing ain't helping, either.
My first spam poem
"bricklaying concussion,"
said Steven Squyresa;
"protective cocoon of
importation
errant.
Does fear of failure cramp your style?
Fire your boss! how? SDSP 0 19.TN--check it out!
Attention only today, and only
for you!...anyway,
explosion casework bluejacket."
said Steven Squyresa;
"protective cocoon of
importation
errant.
Does fear of failure cramp your style?
Fire your boss! how? SDSP 0 19.TN--check it out!
Attention only today, and only
for you!...anyway,
explosion casework bluejacket."
Wednesday, February 11, 2004
Boredom, and a critique of my co-workers and their foibles
Bored, bored, bored, bored, bored.
Yesterday the doorknob fell off. As I was trying to leave for work. LJ was at the block; though I could have gotten out through the back door, there was this gaping doorknob hole through which anyone with even the most rudimentary grasp of locksmithing (in other words, anyone other than me!) could have grabbed the little levers with a screwdriver, pried out the latch, and come in and ransacked our shit. And frankly I wasn't really in the mood to come home after a long day and find my belongings gone. Of course, I wasn't really in the mood to endure the administrative tonguelashing for being late to work, either. (Which is a whooooole nother story, how much I currently can't hate my job any more than I already do.)
I called a locksmith and went back to bed, on the understanding that the locksmith was going to call back at 8 when he got to the office. At 8:20 I woke up and called a different locksmith, who said he'd be here within an hour; I went back to bed. At 10:25, I woke up and called the locksmith back; he said he was 5 minutes away.
$219 out of the car fund later, we had a new doorknob and a well-deserved lecture on the perils of buying so-called "brand name" locks at Home Depot; apparently the locks branded as Schlage or whatever are actually made on the cheap, ESPECIALLY for Home Depot. "My cost on a lock is about twice what you pay at Home Depot," the locksmith told me.
By now it was about 11:30, so the Purple Line had stopped running express; there was no way I was going to get to the office before 2 if I went on the El. So I did the irresponsible thing--I called Mom, and she came and gave me a ride to work, and I got there at 1. And there wasn't much of a lecture once I got there; just a pointed remark from Amy--Boss #2-- to the effect of "Gladys, have you noticed that a lot of things seem to be going wrong with this house?" I told her Yes, as a matter of fact I have, and managed not to add the word Bitch to the end of it.
Amy is my third-most-unfavoritemost person in that office, following Nancy and Noreen; in fact, Noreen may actually have sunk below Amy in the People-I-Hate Hit Parade. Noreen may be irritatingly superior, and detail-oriented to the point of insanity; she may be hypercritical, controlling and annoying and remind me of all my mother's worst habits and Aunt Evelyn's worst habits too--but Noreen, for all her flaws, is EXCELLENT at her job and does it to the best of her ability. Everything she does that I find intolerable, I still have to grant that she's doing it so that she can be serene in the knowledge that HER job is done well and thoroughly. Though I can't count the times I've wanted to strangle her til she turns blue, I have to respect her.
On the other hand, Nancy is just a whiny little social-climbing ratfink UTF (Utterly Typical Female), a Lincoln-Park-Trixie wannabe who's "trained" her hubby to the point that I'm surprised the man has a penis left. And she looks down on ME because I'm fat, because I don't CARE that I'm fat, because I'm not starving myself or snarfing down proteins to make myself NOT be fat anymore; because I don't care about fashion, because I'd rather be comfortable, because I'm happy with LJ even though he's not pussywhipped beyond repair; because I'm not a socially adept person, because I don't live in a trendy place or do trendy things; in short, because I'm not like her and (more mystifying to her) because I don't WANT to be like her. I'm not the only one she looks down on--Stella says Nancy even talks about the bosses behind THEIR backs, talking about what they're doing wrong and how SHE would do it better if SHE was in charge, and I know she looks down on Stella too--which pisses me off to no end, because Stella is absolutely the most generous person I've ever met, and though we don't see eye-to-eye about a lot of stuff, I respect Stella's opinions for the most part; and she has WAY more life experience than Nancy does!
The worst thing about Nancy, though, is that she's a tattletale. Now, Noreen was a tattletale at one point, too--the period during which she was absolutely my worst enemy at that office--but she at least confined the whole tattling thing to actual events or incidents she witnessed. Nancy, on the other hand, actually went to Amy to complain that I wasn't working on a task she'd given me to do--TWO DAYS BEFORE the deadline. Apparently when she'd interrupted me to ask if I was going to have it done on time, I hadn't been "responsive" enough to her. So I got hauled into Amy's office, with Beverly sitting in--Big Boss Beverly--and lectured for the better part of an hour on my "inability" to meet deadlines.
The point of which I completely cannot convince these people is this, and a crucial point it is:
The more time I spend talking about how I do or do not do my work, the less time I have to actually DO my work.
This is a major tenet of my entire worldview when it comes to the workplace, the core reason behind why I loathe meetings so wholeheartedly. They are similarly uncomprehending, it seems, of Gladys's Oppositional Work Theorem: If you give me a task to do and a deadline by which it needs to be done, and then leave me alone, there is a great likelihood that it will be done by the deadline. If, however, you give me a task and a deadline, then spend the intervening time carping, questioning, nagging, and interfering with my work, there is a similarly-great likelihood that your task will remain undone. Not because you have taken up my time, though that's a small part of the problem; no, the main reason the task will remain undone is that I don't respond well to nagging and will, under such provocation, respond with a silent-but-hearty passive-aggressive "Fuck You" and go do something for someone less controlling. Nancy is one of the most-determined disregarders of this theorem; Noreen tends to ignore it as well, and Ruth Anne (Boss #3) just doesn't care. Ruth Anne is a wonderful person, but there is no earthly reason she should be a supervisor. She did an excellent job when she was just a program manager; like Noreen, everything was done with attention to detail, thoroughly and well; but supervising people is not her forte. She wants everyone to like her, and as a result no one respects her; what's more, she's scatterbrained and disorganized, so major projects take way more time and resources than they need to. I'm scatterbrained at times, and disorganized quite often--but first, I'm only responsible for my work and for the one layer of disruption that's caused if I don't do it right, and second, there are people who tell me if I'm fucking up. Ruth Anne, on the other hand, has no one to rein her in, and a lot of people and projects depending on what she does or fails to do. Joseph and I were talking the other day, in the midst of working up a Ruth Anne-necessitated contingency plan, and we agreed that she's mainly responsible for the vast turnover in the departments she heads up. Everyone in Amy's departments has been here for a long time; all Beverly's people have stayed; but Ruth Anne's departments have had almost an 80% turnover since I've been there.
A huge part of what gets on my nerves about this place, though, is the hypocrisy; the way situations are handled differently depending on who's in them. When I'm not "responsive" to Nancy, Amy and Beverly intervene immediately and I get a 90-minute lecture; when Nancy gives me only two days notice for a major deadline during the busiest part of the year despite my repeated requests for a 5-day lead-in, Amy responds to my request for her intervention with "Have you discussed this issue with Nancy?" When Delora snaps my head off for no reason, that's somehow fine; when I post a sign on my office door asking people not to interrupt me, I'm being "ogrelike"--Amy's word. (The sign explained what I was doing and why I needed not to be interrupted; then said "If you have something that needs to be done, please e-mail me; if it's something urgent that cannot wait, THEN you can knock. Thanks!--Gladys". But apparently because I didn't specify that my e-mail was constantly on and being checked every 10 minutes, and because I didn't say that I would be "happy" to help them if they knocked--apparently that's "ogrelike". So because I won't lie and say "oh, it's cool if you totally knock my train of thought completely off the rails" when it's NOT cool at ALL, somehow that makes me a mean person. Yet Delora can verbally bite the head off anyone who gets in her path before 9:30 AM--even for just saying "good morning" or asking a simple question--and that's just fine.)
I know I'm not an easy person to get along with. I know people are put off by me, by the way I handle certain issues, by the fact that I speak my mind about things that irritate me. Beverly does the same thing, far more cruelly in many cases, but since she's the boss she can get away with it. If you ask me, the fact that she's the boss just makes it WORSE when she tears people apart over little things. I may be sharp, but I never direct it AT people; I get annoyed at situations, I don't try to cut people down. I may not make them feel WELCOME, or pretend that I'm happy that they're interrupting me, but I do what they ask and I help them. I don't imply that they're not doing their jobs--like Beverly does, when something doesn't work right--or tell them they don't know how to do THEIR jobs. I do get impatient when the question they're asking is something I've answered before, or when they've done something that makes it harder for me to figure out the problem--for example, my favorite tech-support call:
"Gladys? My computer's broken."
"Okay...what's it doing?"
"Well, a message came up, but I clicked OK and it went away, and now it doesn't work."
"What did the message say?"
"I don't know. Something about an error, I think."
"What kind of error?"
"I don't remember. I just clicked OK and it went away, but now I can't move my mouse or type anything...."
"What were you doing when it happened?"
"Working on the same file I've been working on all day."
"Okay, you should restart your computer..."
"Will my file still be there when I restart?"
"It will if you saved it....you DID save it, right?"
"No....was I supposed to?" (Generally said by someone who has lost a file in exactly the same way in the past.)
That, along with "I need to change my password" and "How do I get on the server?" are the sort of questions that make me nuts. These are repetitive tasks, things that happen all the time, yet most of the people I work with act as though they've never changed a password or accessed their files before. And it's not just the Women of a Certain Age--from whom I can ALMOST excuse such things. It's people who should know better, people in charge. I change Beverly's password for her EVERY TIME--because she can't be bothered. She's not dumb; she just thinks it's beneath her to have to think about anything as low-echelon as technology.
This is why I want to work for myself someday.
Yesterday the doorknob fell off. As I was trying to leave for work. LJ was at the block; though I could have gotten out through the back door, there was this gaping doorknob hole through which anyone with even the most rudimentary grasp of locksmithing (in other words, anyone other than me!) could have grabbed the little levers with a screwdriver, pried out the latch, and come in and ransacked our shit. And frankly I wasn't really in the mood to come home after a long day and find my belongings gone. Of course, I wasn't really in the mood to endure the administrative tonguelashing for being late to work, either. (Which is a whooooole nother story, how much I currently can't hate my job any more than I already do.)
I called a locksmith and went back to bed, on the understanding that the locksmith was going to call back at 8 when he got to the office. At 8:20 I woke up and called a different locksmith, who said he'd be here within an hour; I went back to bed. At 10:25, I woke up and called the locksmith back; he said he was 5 minutes away.
$219 out of the car fund later, we had a new doorknob and a well-deserved lecture on the perils of buying so-called "brand name" locks at Home Depot; apparently the locks branded as Schlage or whatever are actually made on the cheap, ESPECIALLY for Home Depot. "My cost on a lock is about twice what you pay at Home Depot," the locksmith told me.
By now it was about 11:30, so the Purple Line had stopped running express; there was no way I was going to get to the office before 2 if I went on the El. So I did the irresponsible thing--I called Mom, and she came and gave me a ride to work, and I got there at 1. And there wasn't much of a lecture once I got there; just a pointed remark from Amy--Boss #2-- to the effect of "Gladys, have you noticed that a lot of things seem to be going wrong with this house?" I told her Yes, as a matter of fact I have, and managed not to add the word Bitch to the end of it.
Amy is my third-most-unfavoritemost person in that office, following Nancy and Noreen; in fact, Noreen may actually have sunk below Amy in the People-I-Hate Hit Parade. Noreen may be irritatingly superior, and detail-oriented to the point of insanity; she may be hypercritical, controlling and annoying and remind me of all my mother's worst habits and Aunt Evelyn's worst habits too--but Noreen, for all her flaws, is EXCELLENT at her job and does it to the best of her ability. Everything she does that I find intolerable, I still have to grant that she's doing it so that she can be serene in the knowledge that HER job is done well and thoroughly. Though I can't count the times I've wanted to strangle her til she turns blue, I have to respect her.
On the other hand, Nancy is just a whiny little social-climbing ratfink UTF (Utterly Typical Female), a Lincoln-Park-Trixie wannabe who's "trained" her hubby to the point that I'm surprised the man has a penis left. And she looks down on ME because I'm fat, because I don't CARE that I'm fat, because I'm not starving myself or snarfing down proteins to make myself NOT be fat anymore; because I don't care about fashion, because I'd rather be comfortable, because I'm happy with LJ even though he's not pussywhipped beyond repair; because I'm not a socially adept person, because I don't live in a trendy place or do trendy things; in short, because I'm not like her and (more mystifying to her) because I don't WANT to be like her. I'm not the only one she looks down on--Stella says Nancy even talks about the bosses behind THEIR backs, talking about what they're doing wrong and how SHE would do it better if SHE was in charge, and I know she looks down on Stella too--which pisses me off to no end, because Stella is absolutely the most generous person I've ever met, and though we don't see eye-to-eye about a lot of stuff, I respect Stella's opinions for the most part; and she has WAY more life experience than Nancy does!
The worst thing about Nancy, though, is that she's a tattletale. Now, Noreen was a tattletale at one point, too--the period during which she was absolutely my worst enemy at that office--but she at least confined the whole tattling thing to actual events or incidents she witnessed. Nancy, on the other hand, actually went to Amy to complain that I wasn't working on a task she'd given me to do--TWO DAYS BEFORE the deadline. Apparently when she'd interrupted me to ask if I was going to have it done on time, I hadn't been "responsive" enough to her. So I got hauled into Amy's office, with Beverly sitting in--Big Boss Beverly--and lectured for the better part of an hour on my "inability" to meet deadlines.
The point of which I completely cannot convince these people is this, and a crucial point it is:
The more time I spend talking about how I do or do not do my work, the less time I have to actually DO my work.
This is a major tenet of my entire worldview when it comes to the workplace, the core reason behind why I loathe meetings so wholeheartedly. They are similarly uncomprehending, it seems, of Gladys's Oppositional Work Theorem: If you give me a task to do and a deadline by which it needs to be done, and then leave me alone, there is a great likelihood that it will be done by the deadline. If, however, you give me a task and a deadline, then spend the intervening time carping, questioning, nagging, and interfering with my work, there is a similarly-great likelihood that your task will remain undone. Not because you have taken up my time, though that's a small part of the problem; no, the main reason the task will remain undone is that I don't respond well to nagging and will, under such provocation, respond with a silent-but-hearty passive-aggressive "Fuck You" and go do something for someone less controlling. Nancy is one of the most-determined disregarders of this theorem; Noreen tends to ignore it as well, and Ruth Anne (Boss #3) just doesn't care. Ruth Anne is a wonderful person, but there is no earthly reason she should be a supervisor. She did an excellent job when she was just a program manager; like Noreen, everything was done with attention to detail, thoroughly and well; but supervising people is not her forte. She wants everyone to like her, and as a result no one respects her; what's more, she's scatterbrained and disorganized, so major projects take way more time and resources than they need to. I'm scatterbrained at times, and disorganized quite often--but first, I'm only responsible for my work and for the one layer of disruption that's caused if I don't do it right, and second, there are people who tell me if I'm fucking up. Ruth Anne, on the other hand, has no one to rein her in, and a lot of people and projects depending on what she does or fails to do. Joseph and I were talking the other day, in the midst of working up a Ruth Anne-necessitated contingency plan, and we agreed that she's mainly responsible for the vast turnover in the departments she heads up. Everyone in Amy's departments has been here for a long time; all Beverly's people have stayed; but Ruth Anne's departments have had almost an 80% turnover since I've been there.
A huge part of what gets on my nerves about this place, though, is the hypocrisy; the way situations are handled differently depending on who's in them. When I'm not "responsive" to Nancy, Amy and Beverly intervene immediately and I get a 90-minute lecture; when Nancy gives me only two days notice for a major deadline during the busiest part of the year despite my repeated requests for a 5-day lead-in, Amy responds to my request for her intervention with "Have you discussed this issue with Nancy?" When Delora snaps my head off for no reason, that's somehow fine; when I post a sign on my office door asking people not to interrupt me, I'm being "ogrelike"--Amy's word. (The sign explained what I was doing and why I needed not to be interrupted; then said "If you have something that needs to be done, please e-mail me; if it's something urgent that cannot wait, THEN you can knock. Thanks!--Gladys". But apparently because I didn't specify that my e-mail was constantly on and being checked every 10 minutes, and because I didn't say that I would be "happy" to help them if they knocked--apparently that's "ogrelike". So because I won't lie and say "oh, it's cool if you totally knock my train of thought completely off the rails" when it's NOT cool at ALL, somehow that makes me a mean person. Yet Delora can verbally bite the head off anyone who gets in her path before 9:30 AM--even for just saying "good morning" or asking a simple question--and that's just fine.)
I know I'm not an easy person to get along with. I know people are put off by me, by the way I handle certain issues, by the fact that I speak my mind about things that irritate me. Beverly does the same thing, far more cruelly in many cases, but since she's the boss she can get away with it. If you ask me, the fact that she's the boss just makes it WORSE when she tears people apart over little things. I may be sharp, but I never direct it AT people; I get annoyed at situations, I don't try to cut people down. I may not make them feel WELCOME, or pretend that I'm happy that they're interrupting me, but I do what they ask and I help them. I don't imply that they're not doing their jobs--like Beverly does, when something doesn't work right--or tell them they don't know how to do THEIR jobs. I do get impatient when the question they're asking is something I've answered before, or when they've done something that makes it harder for me to figure out the problem--for example, my favorite tech-support call:
"Gladys? My computer's broken."
"Okay...what's it doing?"
"Well, a message came up, but I clicked OK and it went away, and now it doesn't work."
"What did the message say?"
"I don't know. Something about an error, I think."
"What kind of error?"
"I don't remember. I just clicked OK and it went away, but now I can't move my mouse or type anything...."
"What were you doing when it happened?"
"Working on the same file I've been working on all day."
"Okay, you should restart your computer..."
"Will my file still be there when I restart?"
"It will if you saved it....you DID save it, right?"
"No....was I supposed to?" (Generally said by someone who has lost a file in exactly the same way in the past.)
That, along with "I need to change my password" and "How do I get on the server?" are the sort of questions that make me nuts. These are repetitive tasks, things that happen all the time, yet most of the people I work with act as though they've never changed a password or accessed their files before. And it's not just the Women of a Certain Age--from whom I can ALMOST excuse such things. It's people who should know better, people in charge. I change Beverly's password for her EVERY TIME--because she can't be bothered. She's not dumb; she just thinks it's beneath her to have to think about anything as low-echelon as technology.
This is why I want to work for myself someday.
Saturday, February 7, 2004
There's a Hole in My Kitchen
This blog may well have to be renamed The Killing Tom Slaughter No-Jury-Would-Convict-Me Manifesto if much more shit happens to my house.
As I type this, I hear the sounds of Morris and Bill holding a conversation through my kitchen ceiling. They are not yelling; they are in fact making eye contact as they speak. Were they inclined towards Three-Stooges style behavior, one of them could easily give the other the patented Moe Howard Fingers-To-The-Eyes Jab. Fortunately for me, they're not--though this day has resembled a Three Stooges episode in nearly every other way.
Morris is my contractor. Several weeks ago, waiting for the southbound #53 near the Lake and Pulaski El stop, I was pondering the downhill slope of my bathroom floor when a van drove past: Carpentry/Plumbing. Since I needed a plumber to take up the toilet and fix whatever was wrong beneath it, and a carpenter to cut the floor to find out in the first place, this seemed like a rather serendipitous state of affairs, so I copied down the number and called him the next day.
He came out and took up the toilet, then put it back and made an appointment to come and take up the floor. Since then he's been here several times--afternoons, a Monday I took off from work, and another Monday where I left Mom here to contractor-sit. In the interim, the upstairs bath has been exactly that--a bath only. No toilet, no sink, nada--in fact, no floor to speak of, just a balance-beam of plywood to stand on, with a bathmat draped over it for drip-drying purposes. Needless to say, I was anxious to get the problem resolved and get a floor in there.
So when Morris called last night to ask if he could get in today, I said "Sure". He showed up at about 9:45, and then went to get Bill, his helper.
They came back and started cutting the floor. About a minute after the saw was turned on, I heard a strange sound, followed by a series of frantic-sounding comments like "oh man!" and "quick, go turn it off!" A moment later Bill, splashed with water from shoulders to knees, came tearing down the steps and ran outside, Morris hot on his heels. I watched as they dug through the snow crust to try to find the water shutoff...meanwhile, the strange sound--now identified as water shooting from a pipe--continued. After a couple of minutes, that sound was joined by another--the sound of water dripping from the kitchen ceiling.
I went to the kitchen and saw a truly wondrous sight--every nail-pop and drywall seam in the kitchen ceiling was oozing muddy rust-colored water. One nail-pop in particular was pouring out a steady stream of muck, but it was clear that pretty soon we were going to have a full-fledged flood on our hands.
They finally got the water shut off, but the damage was done. We put pots and pans and rags all over the kitchen to catch the torrents; but about 20 minutes later, as they wrenched out the damaged pipe, there came a frightening ripping sound from the kitchen, followed by a crash. White Cat came running out of the kitchen with an expression as close to terror as I've ever seen; I ran into the kitchen and found, on the floor, a 3'x3' slab of drywall (now, apparently, wet-wall) which had fallen from above.
This was the first of many such incidents. Between what they've cut down, and what's fallen on its own, the entire undersurface of my bathroom and part of the sewing-room's underbelly is visible--an opening about 8'x10', I would guess. But that wasn't the worst thing that's happened.
Once the joists were exposed, it was clear that there had been underlying water damage--in fact, there were sections of drywall under the toilet that peeled away like a sheet of wet oatmeal. I took pictures of everything that surprised Morris--the little metal band that had been holding up the entire ceiling, for instance. Under the tub was a little better--or so I thought. Then Morris said "Oh, girl, you GOTTA get a shot of THIS."
Camera in hand, I went into the kitchen and asked what I was shooting.
"Go up the ladder," he said. "You'll see it."
I went up the ladder. "I don't see it."
"You don't? Turn a little bit that way." I could tell he was amused.
"Nope...nothing."
"What about right there, at the end of that joist?" he said.
I looked at the joist and followed it along to about 18 inches shy of the wall...
...where it ended. Just ended; terminated in a splintered, waterlogged mass of wood rot.
"Holy crap!" I yelped. "There's nothing there!"
The absence of this joist--or the last foot and a half of it--left the drain end of the tub completely unsupported. (I KNEW something wasn't right about that damn tub--the way the caulk separated, for one thing, and the way it had of wiggling when I would put my foot on the edge and lean...I thought it was just because they'd shimmed it instead of installing it properly...oh, naive, foolish girl, I am!)
They've replaced the joist now, or rather, sistered a new one to the rotten one and built it a little notch in the brick. They're laying the floor upstairs, but every so often, I hear little explosions of debris as they fall through my floor. I never thought nicking a pipe and causing a flood and a ceiling cave-in would be a good thing, but frankly in this case I'm going to have to change that estimation--at least NOW they can fix it right! (How much it will cost, of course, is another question entirely.)
I would like to take Tom Slaughter to court, but everyone says it would cost more than I'd recover. Still, I think there's some criminal malfeasance here, and I'm ready to pursue THAT angle next.
As I type this, I hear the sounds of Morris and Bill holding a conversation through my kitchen ceiling. They are not yelling; they are in fact making eye contact as they speak. Were they inclined towards Three-Stooges style behavior, one of them could easily give the other the patented Moe Howard Fingers-To-The-Eyes Jab. Fortunately for me, they're not--though this day has resembled a Three Stooges episode in nearly every other way.
Morris is my contractor. Several weeks ago, waiting for the southbound #53 near the Lake and Pulaski El stop, I was pondering the downhill slope of my bathroom floor when a van drove past: Carpentry/Plumbing. Since I needed a plumber to take up the toilet and fix whatever was wrong beneath it, and a carpenter to cut the floor to find out in the first place, this seemed like a rather serendipitous state of affairs, so I copied down the number and called him the next day.
He came out and took up the toilet, then put it back and made an appointment to come and take up the floor. Since then he's been here several times--afternoons, a Monday I took off from work, and another Monday where I left Mom here to contractor-sit. In the interim, the upstairs bath has been exactly that--a bath only. No toilet, no sink, nada--in fact, no floor to speak of, just a balance-beam of plywood to stand on, with a bathmat draped over it for drip-drying purposes. Needless to say, I was anxious to get the problem resolved and get a floor in there.
So when Morris called last night to ask if he could get in today, I said "Sure". He showed up at about 9:45, and then went to get Bill, his helper.
They came back and started cutting the floor. About a minute after the saw was turned on, I heard a strange sound, followed by a series of frantic-sounding comments like "oh man!" and "quick, go turn it off!" A moment later Bill, splashed with water from shoulders to knees, came tearing down the steps and ran outside, Morris hot on his heels. I watched as they dug through the snow crust to try to find the water shutoff...meanwhile, the strange sound--now identified as water shooting from a pipe--continued. After a couple of minutes, that sound was joined by another--the sound of water dripping from the kitchen ceiling.
I went to the kitchen and saw a truly wondrous sight--every nail-pop and drywall seam in the kitchen ceiling was oozing muddy rust-colored water. One nail-pop in particular was pouring out a steady stream of muck, but it was clear that pretty soon we were going to have a full-fledged flood on our hands.
They finally got the water shut off, but the damage was done. We put pots and pans and rags all over the kitchen to catch the torrents; but about 20 minutes later, as they wrenched out the damaged pipe, there came a frightening ripping sound from the kitchen, followed by a crash. White Cat came running out of the kitchen with an expression as close to terror as I've ever seen; I ran into the kitchen and found, on the floor, a 3'x3' slab of drywall (now, apparently, wet-wall) which had fallen from above.
This was the first of many such incidents. Between what they've cut down, and what's fallen on its own, the entire undersurface of my bathroom and part of the sewing-room's underbelly is visible--an opening about 8'x10', I would guess. But that wasn't the worst thing that's happened.
Once the joists were exposed, it was clear that there had been underlying water damage--in fact, there were sections of drywall under the toilet that peeled away like a sheet of wet oatmeal. I took pictures of everything that surprised Morris--the little metal band that had been holding up the entire ceiling, for instance. Under the tub was a little better--or so I thought. Then Morris said "Oh, girl, you GOTTA get a shot of THIS."
Camera in hand, I went into the kitchen and asked what I was shooting.
"Go up the ladder," he said. "You'll see it."
I went up the ladder. "I don't see it."
"You don't? Turn a little bit that way." I could tell he was amused.
"Nope...nothing."
"What about right there, at the end of that joist?" he said.
I looked at the joist and followed it along to about 18 inches shy of the wall...
...where it ended. Just ended; terminated in a splintered, waterlogged mass of wood rot.
"Holy crap!" I yelped. "There's nothing there!"
The absence of this joist--or the last foot and a half of it--left the drain end of the tub completely unsupported. (I KNEW something wasn't right about that damn tub--the way the caulk separated, for one thing, and the way it had of wiggling when I would put my foot on the edge and lean...I thought it was just because they'd shimmed it instead of installing it properly...oh, naive, foolish girl, I am!)
They've replaced the joist now, or rather, sistered a new one to the rotten one and built it a little notch in the brick. They're laying the floor upstairs, but every so often, I hear little explosions of debris as they fall through my floor. I never thought nicking a pipe and causing a flood and a ceiling cave-in would be a good thing, but frankly in this case I'm going to have to change that estimation--at least NOW they can fix it right! (How much it will cost, of course, is another question entirely.)
I would like to take Tom Slaughter to court, but everyone says it would cost more than I'd recover. Still, I think there's some criminal malfeasance here, and I'm ready to pursue THAT angle next.
Friday, February 6, 2004
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)