Rejected headline: Can I get my straightjacket in blue, to match my padded cell walls?
Seems the Veggie Patchers are upset about the long workdays I put in, so they are on the warpath to get me to do my work within the allotted eight-hour workdays. This is going to mean that I have to plan out my days and share my detailed to-do lists with the masses. Shan is already mandated to tell them when she plans to take a piss or scratch her ass (down to the minute, I shit you not!).
It kills me, because I again expected no praise or anything for my work. But here I am at the job today, wanting to bash my head off the nearest blunt object, because my “work like a maniac, and take a day or two to rest, then start the process all over again” working style does not fit within Club Medicated’s padded-cell confines. Perhaps if I downloaded Solitaire or other games onto my computer, I would be more appreciated as an employee. As it stands, the Club Med cruise director has some issues with the latest newspaper that he doesn’t want to bring to my attention until after it’s off the presses. My guess is that, other than his penchant for finding misplaced commas and dashes and whatnot (like Demure does — ugh!), I will get ripped because of my working style.
As long as they don’t get me for all the chainsmoking I do at my desk on production nights, I’ll live through it. But it frosts my flakes when all I do is get reprimanded for a job well done.
I’m going over some resumes this weekend for assistance. I may modify my position search, therefore going for a junior writer (at a lower salary than I was willing to pay an associate editor) as well as keeping my layout guy in place — lord knows I can’t handle re-teaching someone how to put this rag together! I told Frosty that I have to consult my attorney friends, to make a case to appeal to Demure, who ultimately has to approve any decisions I make about my department. And as we all know, Demure can’t handle change, so it will take an airtight case to get her to not say no. And it will take 17 appeals to even persuade her to say “maybe.” Frosty laughed heartily — she knows that lighting a fire under Demure is like trying to melt an iceberg with a pack of matches.
I heard that some former colleagues at Two Strikes got fired. Her Royal Pretentiousness must be on the warpath again. Brilliant employees, both of them. Some resignations followed. I just sent a note to one of those resigning, to congratulate him on getting the fuck out of that hole (although not in so many words!).
It’s a shame how work can and does make your life hell, with no real exceptions. Oftentimes I think about old colleagues and look at current colleagues who’ve been in the workforce 100 years. And I wonder where their spark went, if they ever had one. I’m certain they did, but after years of ridicule and admonishment and disappointment, their fires went out and the pods took over. I don’t ever want to be like that. I identified long ago that what makes me special isn’t my looks or brains or talents — it’s my passion. And with my passion, I can make anything happen for me. And I can’t let any employer stifle my love of accomplishment and challenge.
Speaking of passion, my sex drive really is dead. A cute guy attempted to pick me up outside of Starbucks today, and I let him get away. He seemed young — early 20s, I’d imagine. I’m not into young ones anymore — I’m looking for grown-ups. But he was a hottie, I’ll give him that. I was wearing no makeup, and my hair is in this weird uptwist that took all of four minutes to do. Leave it to me to be schlepping around town with a venti caramel macchiato, lookin’ like hell and feelin’ even worse — only to catch somebody’s eye. Drat! But it made me feel good for a minute. 🙂 Then I realized that his seeing eye dog had probably gotten away. …