This was the craziest, busiest, one-thing-after-another week in recent history. (At work, that is. Privately my life is peaches and cream, thank you.) I won't bore you with all the details, but will just say, that at one point, I walked into my boss's office with a report I had worked on for her boss's boss, and I was standing at her desk leaning on the wall, and just telling her all the crap I had to tell her - relaying messages, informing her on the status of other projects and reports - I had fucking tears in my eyes. Not from anything bad happening. Just: if I had to do one more thing right then, I would've lost it. She knew I was beat up: I think she felt the same way. I didn't cry, though, and I am proud of myself. I came close.
(Funny example of how lame my co-workers are: I collect everybody's timecards. It's the least exciting, least brain-involved job I do. It's a little time-consuming, but otherwise it's just checking off everyone's card on a list and reviewing them for accuracy. Really, an ITC should be doing this. But I do it, because the last person to do it didn't do it very well. So one of the timecards, for someone who my boss has to sign off on, she handed me her timecard without accounting for the two hours she was late that morning [this is poorly constructed sentence. Screw it]. I took her call when she said she would be late, and our boss was standing there when it happened: it was no secret. Several people heard me say, "So and so will be late." So I walked into this woman's office, which she shares with another lady who is from a different unit. Nice lady. And I say to her, "_____, did you talk to [our boss] about this morning?" And this woman, she goes, "No. Did you?" and I said, "No, but she's going to notice when she signs the timecard." I mean, what the fuck did she think? That she could just not put it and get paid for the full day? She said, "I'm going to work through my lunch," which is like, a big no-no. Maybe if she'd talked to my boss, I wouldn't care. But she put this on me, right, by not saying anything, and it's MY JOB to look at this shit. I would rather not be so anal. But then I lie awake at night going, I'm going to get fired because I let so and so falsify her timecard, which is what this is. So I took it in to our boss, and I told her. I didn't make a big deal out of it, I just asked if they had a pre-arranged thing. She said no. She said, "Our employees are not allowed to work through lunch." She thought the whole thing was pretty funny, actually. My boss is totally cool, and she says "fuck" all the time, which I fucking love. I went back out and gave the timecard, and said, "[Our boss] told me that you can't work through lunch; you'll need to account for this time." No big deal, right? I mean, there was no animosity. And then the rest of my day was what, it was like that Mike Watt song, "Chinese Firedrill." It was just crazy. So I stayed until 6, and everybody went home, and me and this woman are pretty much the last ones out of the office. She calls me into her office, and she goes, "Irene, next time, I would appreciate it if you would discuss things like my timecard with me in private." Then, to maybe make it seem less heavy, she says, in kind of a jokey way, "I'm a private person." I said, OK, and left.
Fuck that. Get over yourself, lady. It was not like I said, "Are you going to account for the two hours you were late because of your heavy period" or something personal like that. We all knew she was late. And this person asks me all the time for assistance on the computer - yesterday she couldn't figure out why, when she clicked on an email, her little track ball thing wasn't working. I mean, COME ON. I love helping people learn stuff on the computer, when it's something real. But if you can't operate your fucking track ball, hey, you know what? Stay home, because you're too stupid to be working.
Okay. Rant over. )
I'm home now, relaxing: Bob Marley, no, the Pixies, no, Paul Weller [loooove Paul Weller. Gotta add "Hit Parade" to my Amazon wish list!) on the radio; Patrick's out front mowing the lawn, and there's a beer in my future.
...
Later we're going out to dinner, and while I found out Wednesday that in four weeks I have gained four pounds (huge, big-ass bummer. Another episode of almost crying in front of people I would rather not cry in front of. I haven't been good about what I've been putting in my mouth [not intended to be dirty, but if you want to look at it that way, go right ahead] for about a month, so of course this comes as no surprise...I should've expected it. We went around the room to talk about what we're going to do to improve this week, and all these great, chubby [but less so each week] people who are so inspirational usually, and are so nice to me, are saying how dedicated they are and how they've lost like 50, 100 pounds, and me, probably the smallest person in the room, is a big lazy-ass who wants to eat popcorn every night. Which I have pretty much been doing. It's not like I'm wondering, gee, why'd I gain 4 pounds? I get it. But I'm disappointed in how totally lazy and indulgent I've been. So while I was talking about getting a better attitude and about moving around, I got teary-eyed), I am still able to wear my favorite black jeans (my only black jeans), and goddamnit, I want ribs or something. And a baked potato. I want a fucking baked potato.
...
Finally, to offset all the Jesus crap I've been letting U2 feed me ("Like a Song" is, in my opinion, the second best song on "War," and I'm sick of "Sunday Bloody Sunday," so really, it's the best song on "War;" however, it's also totally jesus-y), read this story about Kathy Griffin, who is perhaps my new hero.
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