Friday, June 17, 2005

it's sort of like working with the flanders...

..after you've spent the last ten years working with Homer.

Okay. lemme make something clear. My job? coolio. I like my boss, the paycheck is very nice. But as I may have mentioned previously, this gig is far less hectic than my last one. Like, seriously less. and I know that sounds odd, but dude. when you go from ten million things a day to three. It's puttin' me off-kilter. Seriously? I don't know what to do with myself. I mean, yes, my old co. was kinda messed up & fear of the fact that no one but me knew how to do my job has actually caused them to not hire someone to replace me & ask me to continue on a "consultant" basis. So, theoretically, I could do consultant work in my spare time. But hey - even I have some itty bitty morals in this shriveled black mercenary heart, so beyond coding...well it's not like I can just flip open photoshop & be designing layouts for a nutr. suppl. co. while I'm working at a utility co, ya know? so that kind of limits my abilities.

And it's so quiet here. It's calm, it's quiet...no one comes into my office to close the door & yell about the fact that my boss is a fuckwad. (seriously. my old boss? fuckwad. It's possible that I inadvertently introduced that term to the dept. when I found a co-worker in tears on her second day working there, & baby, that term? stuck.) If you think I'm kidding, I once referred to my office as "The Chamber of Secrets" and yeah. I'm gone & that's still what they call it.
So it's all calm. and quiet. and I don't really think I can get away with being the misbehaving corporate mutant I've been for the last two years. There's no throwing of catalogs across the office because the copy sucks ass, no posting of impudent pictures on my door. It's all so....nice. and ....controlled. and it's kinda freakin' me out.

Maybe it's me. I mean, I'll admit, I've had some really unusual workplaces, man - when I was 19, I managed a 3rd shift factory floor where guys twice my age would wait until one another got into the production machines to fix them, then light their boots on fire. that's right, people, they lit one another on fire for fun.* So this whole thing with nice people who aren't fucked up everyone is well-paid and they have an actual... plan for the company & everything is just really...nice.... yeah. I find that disconcerting. I don't know how to deal with it. Part of me is waiting for someone to walk up to me & go, "yeah, Claris? Despite your best efforts to present a pleasant smile & quiet, unassuming demeanor...well we've figured out that you're not one of us. I'm very sorry to tell you this, but yeah. You're done now, but thank you so much for visiting us, and get a cookie from security when you turn in your badge. Have a nice day!"

Because I feel guilty I mean, they pay me WAY MORE than SG did, and yet? I'm not doing that much. like to the point where I feel guilty about how much time I'm spending scrolling the internet - and I'm one of their goddamned web designers! That just ain't right, yo. And I keep asking "am I doing okay, is there anything else..." and they're telling me, "no, you're fine, you're doing great, you work faster than anyone else, this is great..." which leads me to ask - who the fuck was here before? were they brain dead?

Perhaps, when I move, I should look for a company with less corporate. Because I don't think I could handle this kind of stasis for 20 years. I go back to my old gig to consult, & I'm like, "Okay, this I can deal with - backstabbing, gossip, skulduggery....I'm actually more trusting of this than the Nice Place...ohgodi'msick&Ineedhelp..." 'cause gah. I don't think that's right, yo. It might be wack. Might even be wiggedy-wack, a term I used ironically last week that caused my sister to call me & open the conversation with, "Wiggedy. Wack." but hey - just because one is the Whitest White Girl in Whiteonia does not mean I should be limited from expanding my vocabulary, even if it is only my sarcasm irony!

in other news, tomorrow I'm going to go check out a crew team & decide if I wanna row back & forth on water a bunch this summer. Let's hope I don't fall in!

*before anyone asks - we used to wear steeltoed boots (I do indeed, still have my steel toed Doc Martins simply because I refuse to throw them out.) so, you take rubbing alcohol, which we had in little squirt bottles to clean the machines. now, there was about a three inch gap between the floor & the top of the door these guys had to close to get into the presses to fix them - three inches is just enough room for the guy behind you to stick the nozzle of the alcohol squeeze bottle under the door & spritz the very thick rubber heels of your steel toed boots, and of course, you as the guy fixing the press don't feel this, because hello? thick. rubber. soles. Then, because 90% of the people there were smokers, (I was one of like, six non-smokers) everybody's got a Bic, and flip, THWOOSH! you had a 250 lb guy trying to climb the equivalent of a phone booth because hey! feet. on. fire. The trick of rubbing alcohol being that it had a near-instantaneous evap point when lit, so even though it lit & there was flame, there was no actual burn. However, no matter how many times this is done to you...you will still jump, because there are survival reflexes and the bottom of your feet are on fire. and that my friends is how one achieves neverending family fun for the whole dang workfloor. One day I'll tell you about the acid that soaks through to eat your bones while leaving your flesh intact. That one's spiffy.

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