Caterwauling

Put the paper to bed today. This involved waking up at 3 a.m. and getting in before 6. (Yeah, it takes me hours to get moving!) A cop did an illegal U-Turn so he could follow me for two miles — there was no one else on the roads, and I was driving fine, although my music was kind of loud to keep me awake. I hadn’t done anything wrong, but I got nervous anyway. I tend to believe that the American public needs protection … from the police, not always by them.

Most of our shiny new software on our shiny new computers made the production process way easier this month. And FlightCheck is the greatest — it tells you what’s problematic in your document and why. Which means that when you go to make a PDF of a screwy page, you are NOT to be surprised when your Quark crashes in flames! (LOL — firsthand experience, obviously!)

I was cranky as all hell today. Well, more so than usual. I think that the workplace poisons me so much that I take it out on the people who are there to help me and make my life easier. Life improved significantly when Shan dropped by with Miss Alex, who was all pretty in pink and sandals and bows, and they gave Angie and me early birthday gifts of half-hour massages at the Sugar House Day Spa. Shan said she felt bad that we had to work through another furlough day, so she wanted to give us a treat.

The funniest thing happened today — Shan said it was ironic, or, more appropriately, moronic.

Our dipshit marketing director sent out a blast e-mail last night to 30,000 members, advertising a free publication that could be obtained by calling the number she listed. Problem was, she listed the product number, but the way it looked, it seemed like a phone extension in our building. And what happened but Shan received more than 200 calls this morning alone, asking her for this publication she’d never heard of! This fake extension somehow got rerouted to her phone!

So she forwarded all the messages to Town Crier, because TC supposedly has jurisdiction over that topic matter (although the woman doesn’t work for a living — she is so worthless). The topic matter was public relations ideas, and I had overhead TC at a recent meeting telling people, “I don’t promote nothin’.” Direct quote!

Anywho, TC flew into Shan’s office screaming about, “What the FUCK are you sending me those calls for? I don’t know what to FUCKING do with them!” TC was also overheard coming off the elevator, screaming that, “I am having a really bad FUCKING day!” My god. That’s a fine example of her typical workplace decorum — 50 percent of the time, she’s on horse tranquilizers, and the other 50 percent she’s going apeshit because the meds wore off. Too bad she’s a cozy friend of the person in charge of that trailer-with-the-wheels-shot-off, because any of us who behaved that way would’ve been exiled.

Anyway, Shan and I brainstormed about how to get some giggles out of the calls (she tried to get Mailroom Dipshit to re-route the calls to the appropriate department, but he was probably whacking off in his office as usual and never did show his rat-like face). We decided that, when the people implement the special events we suggest in the publication in question, they should really send their photos and success stories to the Veggie Patch Gazette for me to run in our June issue. LOL. I’m sure higher-ups will be shitting their pants if people actually go ahead and do it! You KNOW how much they hate it when Shan and I have promotional ideas!

I wish I could talk candidly about work, because if I gave you the topic matter and how timely it was, oh, four weeks ago, you’d see why we’re scratching our heads at the sheer stupidity of it all. But I do want to give a lesson in timing and Journalism 101 — you should never, ever send out a press release on a Thursday night (especially on the eve of a half-day furlough!) — send it out on a Monday night or early Tuesday morning. But lesson (not) learned, don’t tell people to call an incorrect number, especially when there isn’t even going to be anybody at that number to help them!

TC annoyed me today, too (surprise). I needed a caption for a photo of an event she supposedly coordinated, only she had no idea that those people had even shown up, so she had no idea who they were. So I asked her a few days ago to get the information. I ran to 7-11 to grab lunch today, and when I came back, she had left a VM (or, in her case, a verbal BM) asking me if I had gotten that information myself, because it would be really nice to have those people identified in the rag. HUH?!?! Of course I didn’t have the information — I asked the person who was supposed to know — did she think I would figure it out by osmosis? I never did call her back, not like she stayed around past the 12:30 p.m. furlough start, anyway.

Speaking of crap-fests, I have to take the cats in for shots tomorrow. And they want a stool sample from Maddie. I should just give them a grand tour of the apartment so they can swab the rug where she loves to wipe her dingleberries on the carpet, but alas, I have to go sit by the box and wait for her to take a crap. Normal vets just stick a cotton swab up their asses and get the sample right there. Remind me why I have to pay them for me to do their job? Sounds like a Town Crier type is running the veterinary hospital! Ergh. What a joyous way to spend a Friday night — watching the litterbox. *gag*

Although, of course, we are encouraged to do past fives. But the only ones I haven’t done were ones that I was boycotting for some reason or another.

We were all hooting about Princess Fatass (the queen of our organization) on his throne (if you wanna see it, e-mail me at dawn AT caterwauling dot com). Someone made a comment that it looked like what Santa Claus would sit on, and I said, “Yeah, he sat on the Easter Bunny!” This elicited much laughter and an executive decision to give him a rabbit’s foot when we are holding his outgoing ceremony (an ice cream social. *shudder*) — you know, in honor of killing the Easter Bunny with his double-wide ass. Seriously, the only reason I like this guy is because I am svelte next to him. Of course, so is a trailer with the wheels shot off, in comparison!

I have been likening my workplace to, of course, a trailer with the wheels shot off, being dragged down a highway. They say non-profits survive despite themselves — I think there is a picture of our building next to that dissertation!

Pussy Demure!TM keeps HOUNDING me to meet with her. I wanted to get an intern (she killed the same dream for me last year), but I wanted to share the intern with her because I don’t have enough full-time responsibilities to dole out. Of course, she has appeared in my office and at Smoker’s Corner no fewer than 14 times to beg me (whining, of course) to schedule a meeting with her about it. Um, no. And she’s pissed off that I asked for two comp days (even though I have worked WAY more than two extra days this month, not to mention today’s furlough!), so she wants ANOTHER meeting with me when I get back to discuss how I shouldn’t have to work under stressful deadlines. Did she miss the MEMO that I run a NEWSPAPER?!?! How the FUCK can I avoid deadlines? And it’s not even like she or anyone gets inconvenienced — I’m the asshole who works overtime, not her!

I need to start my own company. Stat. I’ve got the phone number, the P.O. Box and the inclination. All I need is a name … oh, yeah, and some clients. But it will be a sweet day when I can walk into my boss’s office, pull down my pants and have, “You suck. I quit!” emblazoned across my ass. Of course, you KNOW she’d need to meet about it!!!