Hold the Glimmer

Posts Tagged ‘jobsuck

I’ve started playing a few new games at work that are revolutionizing my 8 committed hours to the office.  You have to understand, I work in the epitome of corporate, at the assumed “bottom of the totem pole”, titled CEO’s slave.  It’s a daily lottery of which farm animal my duties will most resemble or which exec decides to skip their therapist for the night and just hang around my desk, complaining about compensation, as if I’m making more than a PE teacher in Wichita.  Finding ways to entertain myself is difficult, especially when the “soul” count is at a very depressing bare minimum and diminishing with every broken copier complaint.  Staying sane becomes the pinnacle of importance and most difficult of tasks, especially when it’s expense report day and not one executive is expecting less than your monthly salary in a single report. 

First, I say “good morning” and “how are you” to every single person I pass on the way to my desk.  Seriously- Every. Single. Person.  This game would be irrelevant if its sole intent was to learn more about the people I work with- of which I promise to have no interest.  Seriously.  I have my clique here, my inner circle of “normals” if you will, and have no interest in further friending from “how are you”.  It’s just too dangerous to stray.  The last thing I need to hear at 8:30am and before my first cup of coffee is how you stayed up until 2am cleaning your daughter’s throw up from witnessing your son’s explosive diarrhea.  What’s your problem asshole? Why would I ever want to know that you were knee deep in kid shit a mere 6 hours ago?  Don’t you know that I can tell the last time you washed your hair, and it wasn’t yesterday; what about those fecal hands?  I’m not interested in breeding and you’re only further scarring me from the thought.   I’m simply buying time, folks, not friends.  Sometimes, people get out on the right side of the bed and acknowledge your existence then respond with their go-to of the day, usually the weather (corporate lives for weather conversations, especially in elevators.  It’s a phenomenon I have yet to understand, but is on my list to conquer before I send out my “FUCK THIS PLACE, YOU SHMUCKS” mass email.)  Most times, a trusty head nod or half grin to symbolize lack of ability to communicate well with others, but still appreciated in my book.    

Now, you should know that my desk sits at the end of a green mile-esque hall (electric death chair and all), right in front of our trusty CEO’s lair.  The location of my desk, and the number of people I pass by in the morning, enables me to spend a solid 27 working minutes before I even press the button to turn on the worlds slowest computer. I’d hate to pull out Charlie Sheen’s last and only form of compensation; but in my book, by 9am, I’m already winning.

If you’re interested in a real time cruncher, try the water game.  Every 18 minutes (more or less depending on who signs your paycheck), get up and get yourself a cup of water.  You deserve it. Take the long way, of course. Not only are you hydrating that numb corporate body, you’ll also be making a new, wonderful, anonymous, full of games friend: the corporate bathroom stalls.  You see, if you’re drinking three cups of water every hour, your bladder has no other option than being holed up in the handicap stall (it’s spacious. There’s a handle bar and a place to put your purse, coffee, laptop…whatever. I feel no guilt in fully appreciating one of the minimal luxuries offered to the handi-CAPABLE.  Besides, I’ve yet to see anyone on the third floor wheeling their ass in here.  Equal opportunity employer? I think not.)  The benefits are countless; a healthier lifestyle, a little exercise, and of course the few minutes of quiet meditation before bossman throws a fit over the temperature of his coffee. 

Another game I suggest, nay, implore you to try is modestly titled the paper clip chain.  I know it sounds slightly above a preschooler’s level of competency, but it’s a wonderful mind occupier.  You’re on an hour long phone call with AT&T regarding the Iphone you DIDN’T drop in the toilet? Make a chain.  You were just asked to make 20 copies of a 200 page presentation due in two hours? Grab yourself a chair by that copy machine and make a chain.  See, it’s not the chain that’s entertaining, it’s the “after chain”.  These chains will give you minor gratification while assembling, but it’s when you hear the “What the FUCK” from the copy machine at 3pm and realize the eighty clip chain you worked on earlier that morning has been found that really gets your endorphins running.  haHA sir! Those paper clips aren’t gonna separate themselves! This game is also an awesome way to see who’s the new scumbag that takes things off your desk while you’re away.  You see, having to detach ONE paper clip from a chain of FIFTY takes time.  This isn’t an easy process and only the most skilled of assistants can unchain a paper clip swiftly.  So, while I’m casually walking back to my death lair after my tenth cup of water before 11am, you’re still untangling my paper clips, and 9 times out of 10 I will catch you.  And then I’m allowed to assume you’re the asshole not shutting the supply room door, or the prick that leaves his dirty forks in the break room sink for some maid (read: me) to clean, or the shithead that “forgot” to refill the paper after making one thousand copies of your MLB fantasy league.  That’s just how it is folks.  I didn’t create the game; I’m just the MVP.

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I took two ritalin this morning at work.  I find that it’s imperative to keep all 4 of my readers graphicly up to date with my lack of stable mental health due to my wonderfully corporate job, but at this point in my adventure we’ll call life; I’m two broken coffee mugs away from huffing computer cleaner in the supply closet with the accountants. And boy do I hate those accountants…

I’ve been researching Stockholm syndrome lately and have come to the conclusion that if and when the hostage crisis occurs, I would willingly pick up a gun and join their ranks, a la Patty Hearst.  One would argue this idea drastic; while I will adamantly argue you’ve never been a part of my chosen world: corporate. 

 There was a time I wore flowers in my hair, danced ‘til 5am on a Wednesday morning, drove to Vegas on a whim to place bets on the Superbowl; the general, laissez-faire, “20 something” lifestyle now known as genuine happiness.   7-11 for dinner? Ok!  All day “True Life” marathon on MTV? I’ve got popcorn and Snuggies! Recreating “Sex and The City” season four with your newly found childhood box of legos?  Sign me up!

Well, the flowers have died, I’m in bed by 10 on any given weeknight (fuck it- a lot of weekends too), and I’ve forgotten the warmth of the glittering Vegas skyline.  My Iphone is an appendage grown from fear; no longer used solely to face-stalk, but merely another portal into my soul sucking responsibilities of “assistant.”

I sold out to a promise of stability, responsibility, growth, and to even further depress you; stock options.  Yep, I am that girl.  Miss Sell-out.

I had every single intention of being the poster girl for “New Corporate” lifestyle when I signed my life away that fateful September day. I remember the phone call with my Dad ending in those five words all children crave to hear from their parents, “I am proud of you.” I remember that same day shopping trip with my beaming mom buying not only my “first day of real job outfit” that would “impress all of those important executives,” but also an entire new wardrobe consisting of my least favorite color- black. I bit my tongue.  I smiled and made the decision to try something new with a positive attitude, even if it meant not being able to wear glitter. They were proud and downright happy and DAMMIT; I was determined to keep them that way.  Maybe corporate wouldn’t be that bad?

HAAhahAHAHAHAhahahhahHAHaHAHAHAHAHHAHAhahAHHAHA

*sigh*

Wrong.

Hey Mom, guess who gets to scrub the carpet on her hands and knees with paper towels after her bosses coffee tantrums?  Hey Dad, guess who’s back in therapy and is still called Stacey after 2 LONG years of employment?  Hey world, guess who isn’t allowed to leave her desk for more than 16 seconds at any given time, solely in fear of the guaranteed verbal berating if a single telemarketer hits the boss man’s voicemail?  “Good mornings” are a thing of the past.  Apparently, the more people you try to humanize in the office with basic conversation not related to weather or office temperature, the more likely you’re deemed “eccentric”.

And forget eye contact; even in your clumsy stupor of tripping over your bosses printer chords during an investment committee meeting warrants a loud sigh from all 8 men at King Arthurs Table, but no eye contact.  You can feel your knees bleeding, the slight chance of an ego you had sorely exaggerated for the last 9 months is officially extinct, and the twenty minute morning debate over “thong” or “granny panties” under your new, transparent black tights is no longer relevant; they can all see your ass and you are not allowed to cry.  Not this time.  There is no crying in corporate.  Save that for the 4th floor bathroom stalls.

I’d love to continue on, really I would.  But I promised myself I would start posting on a regular basis.  And if that’s going to happen, I cannot spend three months thinking of how to finish a 10 paragraph blog post.  Glimmer- held.


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