Tag: work

I somehow managed to get to work 20 minutes early this ayem. Some employers might find that to be commendable, but not, apparently, mine. As soon as I sat down, a coworker barrelled over to me to explain why I shouldn’t be here. “Duh,” says I. “I know there is a ‘no working before 6am’ rule. And, guess what? I’m not working! In fact, I’m screwing around. You see, when one commutes, one cannot necessarily control the time at which one arrives at one’s destination. One is just as apt to arrive 20 minutes late as 20 minutes early. Usually, lateness wins out, but occasionally, earliness triumphs. Get over it. And, you aren’t the boss of me. Neener-neener.”

What-the-fuck-EVAR!

Irony aside (what was she doing here at that unholy hour, hm?), what business is it of hers? I’ve discussed my schedule with my supervisor. She understands the vagaries of commuting, as she, too, lives out in the country. I’ve explained that many days I’ll be late, and a few days I’ll be early. On the days I’m early, I promise I won’t do any work before the appointed time, because I’d hate to invoke the wrath of the union-to-which-I-do-not-belong.

After a mere two hours of sleep, I’m in serious “kiss my ass” mode.

Someone poke me with a really, really sharp stick. And hurry, pleaseandthanks. I’m actually falling asleep while I’m typing. I keep standing up and moving around, trying to wake myself up, but it’s not helping. I hate knowing that I’m nodding off and not being able to do anything about it. It’s awful.

It’s one thing to comment to your cube neighbor about a mass e-mail. Some of them are mind-bogglingly worthy of comment. It’s quite another to go around asking folks if they got a particular message (the subject line states that it was sent to everyone on campus). I can’t, for the life of me, figure out the purpose of such an act. Why does he need to know if anyone else got the message? It didn’t come from him, so he presumably has no personal interest in whether or not certain people received it.

Another thing that bugs the hell out of me is related to answering the phone. Everyone in my section of the office shares a phone that is oh-so-irritatingly located rightbehindmydesk. Because I’m closest to the phone, I’m usually the one who answers it. If I waited for someone else to do so, I’d go insane from the ringing. All this phone answering necessitates the taking of many, many, many phone messages. Not a big deal, except that there is never a reasonable writing implement in the vicinity of the phone. There used to be a few dried up pens and a few dull pencils. I noticed today that those have morphed into a coffee mug packed with dull, stumpy, little pencil butts. WTF?! I started to take a few over to sharpen (I don’t mind stubbies, but I hate writing with dull leads), but then I realized that I’d have to sharpen all 30 or so pencils for that to be helpful. Otherwise, I’ll be playing “find the sharp pencil,” which is absolutely guaranteed to make me several kinds of cranky.

Fromme whence didst yon pencil butts cometh? I asked a coworker, only to learn that someone from another unit–on the other side of the floor!–brings them to us. Whyever the hell does she think we want stubby little pencil butts, I’ll never know. According to my coworker, the benefactress likes little pencils, and leaves them all over the damned place so that she has something to write with on those rare occasions she’s out and about. Hot buttered Christ! So we have to deal with a mug chock full of fucking pencil stubs–many of which are too short to sharpen–because she might want to use one when she’s passing through? I. Don’t. Think. So. She can take her own damned arse end of a pencil with her if it’s that important.

We have an electric tea kettle thingumy in our kitchenette. It allegedly switches itself off when the water is heated, but there is a lack of consensus among those I polled as to whether or not it has ever actually done so. I don’t use the electric tea kettle thingumy, so I really don’t care about its workings. However, I do occasionally wish to use the microwave. And, this is where the electric tea kettle thingumy comes in. We are not supposed to use both the electric tea kettle thingumy and the microwave at the same time, lest we blow a circuit. If a circuit is blown, it can take fourteen forevers for a maintainence person to re-set it.

So… Every time I go to the kitchenette to heat up my lunch, the electric tea kettle thingumy is invariably whistling away, the water inside very clearly rumbling at a rolling boil. And, also invariably, there is someone standing over it, watching it shoot steam to kingdom come. Every time, I comment, “I think it’s done,” hoping they’ll shut it off so that I can heat up my food. Every time, the person replies with some variation of, “It’ll shut off when it’s done, so its not done yet.” Argh! Now, I may have sucked at math, and I may not have done very well in physics, but I do recall that once water reaches the boiling point, it will not get any hotter, no matter how long you let it cook. You can boil the freaking electric tea kettle thingumy dry, and it will never, ever get any hotter than 212F. How much doner do they want their boiling water to be?

Somebody’s cell phone keeps ringing and it’s driving me to tears. I wish people would either turn off their phones or take them with them when they leave their desks. It wouldn’t be so bad if it were just regular ringing, either, but it’s like being serenaded by a chorus of drunken chipmunks.

I did, indeed, end up having to fill out an accident report. Because, you know, it could get infected and turn gangrenous and require amputation. Or something.

It seems to me that a good rule of thumb would be that if you are not hurt badly enough to leave work, then there is no need for an accident report. Likewise, if you must fill out an accident report, you are obviously too hurt to continue working, and must go home. Immediately.

I am sporting a huge-assed wad o’ band-aids (sticking plasters, for y’all UKoGBaNI-ians) on my left ring finger, onna counta I was attacked by a vicious file folder. Ouch! Many foul words were uttered and much hopping around was performed. I narrowly escaped having to fill out an on-the-job accident report. No, I am not making that up. The mind, it doth wobble. But, anyway, this is all by way of complaining that I am now severely handicapped in my typing.

This day can only get better, right?

I’m craving chocolate, for some reason. Actually, anything sweet would do, I think. I don’t often crave sweet stuff, which makes it even more difficult to resist the siren call of the candy machine. But! The price of candy bars has gone from 60¢ to 75¢, so I think I’ll do without, thankyouverymuch. I have some oatmeal, for sweet snack emergencies. That’ll have to do. It’s definitely not a candy bar, though. Hrmph.

Today is yet another in the seemingly endless parade of “party” days: Chili Luncheon day, to be exact. I shall not be attending, because I object to being pressured into socializing with my coworkers. Not that I don’t enjoy their company, mind you. I just don’t want to hang out and eat with them. Plus, the co-mingled smells of raw onions and fruit punch wafting through the halls are nausea inducing. Alsoalso, I share a bathroom with them and know how many of them do not wash their hands. Ew.

So, this day sucks in all sorts of ways. It could suck more, though. A man was beaten to death by his roommate with a sledge hammer and a claw hammer (I believe that’s what’s referred to as overkill) in an argument over who would purchase toilet paper. And my former roommates thought I was cranky with them for not buying TP! My solution, after asking, shouting, and begging failed to work, was to keep my TP in my own room. Silly me. I ought to’ve just clobbered them with a hammer. Then again, with my luck, I’d be sure to get a TP hogging cell mate, so maybe that wouldn’t’ve been such a good plan after all.

Okaythenlaterbye.