I realized in looking back at previous posts, I began to shy away from what this blog was all about-- mainly, a chance for me to rant and rave about my current occupational situation. I started to dive into relationships and my personal life, and while that's great, I don't know if that is what I intended to discuss when I started this blog. This was my chance to explain to the few that read this (I hope that goes up, I'd love for this to become the Huffington Post of angry cubicle worker blogs, but I'm not sure if I'm there yet) how dreadful work had become, and my attempts, albeit futile, at keeping my head above water. I think it's time to get back to that, and keep the focus on work, not my life. Sure, parts of it will inevitably dissipate into this space (as much as I hate to say it, my life is tied to what I do for a living), but I'll try to keep them separate. I also saw how lazy I'd become with my postings; just wanting to get something in there so I could say I wrote something. And if I'm going to half-ass it, then I might as well shut this thing down. So, feeling reenergized, I decided to devote more of my time to this (it's better than the alternative: watching The Office reruns and definitely not YouTubing American Idol videos). So, where to begin after this long layoff?
Well, I guess I'll start with saying I'm still there, at Initech/Dunder Mifflin on acid (and not in the good way like at Woodstock). I've been searching desperately like Tyrone Biggums (look for that on YouTube; even though Dave went nuts, I'll always have his two seasons of television perfection) for a crack rock. I've been on headhunting sites, job postings, job searches, metal detectors on the beach, you name it. There just doesn't appear to be a high demand for a two years out of college procurement specialist in the editorial field, for some reason. I've considered just quitting and living the oh-so-desirable lifestyle of an "artist" (I really am not a fan of this; I know people like that. They almost look down on you for wanting to be successful or wealthy..so shoot me) or in other words, an unemployed turd. While not working there I would equate with the perfect orgasm or cashing in coins at the Penny Arcade (shameless plug for TD Bank, a great bank that I switched to before I moved. Best decision I've made in a long time, almost as good as the chicken parm/spaghetti dinner I just ordered. My old bank, which I will namedrop--Valley National Bank--started charging fees for typing in your pin for a debit purchase. I got out right after, and never looked back), I know it's not feasible nor smart. I need to have something lined up before jumping into something else. Moving back home is not an option, and taking a paycut is not something I'm overly enthusiastic about either. To be honest, I'm not even sure what I want to do anymore. I know I want to be a magazine journalist for something like GQ (I've become like a male fashionista lately, not sure if that's good or not), but I don't want to do the work to get there...is that bad? I also want to make at least or a little under what I'm making now, but in that line of work, that's not really how it works. It's a very big "pay your dues" type of industry, so I would have to get used to eating bologna on hand sandwiches (thank you, Scott Ian of Anthrax, from Metallica's Behind the Music for that) or living with twelve roommates for awhile. I don't know, maybe it's selfish, but I really just want to have so much and do so little for it. I think it's that workplace atmosphere that's infecting me like H1N1 (which I wish I got; I'd get out of work for like a month...or die, so win-win, I guess), where I have no desire to do anything. I fear when I do find another job (because I will, believe me), when my new boss asks me to do work or finish something on deadline, I'll look at him and then self-destruct.
For now, short-term, I'd be ok with working somewhere small in the editorial field, like working on a small magazine or something. Do that for a few years, build up my experience/resume, and then move on to something better. At this point, I'm not even sure I remember how to be a journalist. I know there's such things as "libel" and "slander" as well as some type of style referred to as "AP," but I can't be sure it's any different than the deep dish "Chicago" version. I really need to get back to writing, in any form. A few months ago, someone suggested going to a cafe and write. I scoffed at the idea and twirled my invisible moustache, thinking I would never be "that guy" that goes to a coffee shop to hang out. But it really isn't a terrible idea; it'd expose me to new people (since my romantic life is like the Tennessee Titans this year), new environments, and get me away from all the distractions in my apartment (Facebook, porn, etc). I've added it to my very lengthy to-do list for the remainder of this year. In other news, where did 2009 go? For another time, I suppose.
Back to the task at hand. I'll be focusing in on one aspect of work every post, which I hope will become more daily now. This week: The Bathroom.
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Ah, the john. The can. Or as my friend and I have been referring to it, "the urination room" (in reference to the time we came back from the neighborhood strip club and had to use the bathroom, and this was the closest one we could find. As we were about to enter, the night janitor said that we couldn't use said lavatory, only if it was for "urination only." I told him all I was doing was #1--I literally said that--and he angrily let me in). The only place in your work where you have complete privacy, or at least the closest you will get besides your lunch hour (and if your boss doesn't call you when you're on it--as happens to me). It's the most relaxing place this side of Sandals. You are alone with your thoughts, your dreams, thinking of why the toilet seat covers never seem to rip evenly out of the dispenser. But who knew this humble abode could possess so much intrigue and wonder, as well as pure disgust (it is a bathroom, after all).
The people on my floor wouldn't be considered "classy" by any means. These are the same people who soil their pants in public or steal any type of food left out throughout the floor, whether it's a piece of candy or a half eaten slice of bread. So I guess I shouldn't be surprised at their bathroom etiquette. Now, I'm no saint, but when I'm at a place of business, or rather, my job, I try to express a certain level of decorum. And that even goes for the bathroom. However, like every other memo in that place, the one on how to act in the W.C. never made it to my male colleagues.
First off, I hate when someone sits in the stall next to me, even when there's another two open down. That's why I stopped using my floor's bathroom and went to the floor underneath (hence the line "I'm going to 18" when referring to not urinating). There is much more space and you don't feel like you're in a cattle car off to the slaughterhouse. I always think another Larry Craig incident will happen when I'm that close to someone. It doesn't help when that person next to you sounds like they took a hand grenade, pulled the pin, and chucked ten more of them into the toilet. This especially holds true with this one angry short Indian man I work with. He is like Bill O'Reilly and Rush Limbaugh in the body of an Oompa Loompa; misogynistic, rude, obnoxious. He also has a very Hitler-esque moustache. All this, combined with the fact that he appears to be dropping hundreds of anchors into the water, and you have a recipe for disaster.
The urinals are no better. I always get the sense I'm being watched; like someone's eyes are always wandering. I almost want to ask them if they want me to sign it or something, it's that uncomfortable. There was also a guy who used to touch you after he went. I don't know how many rules from the Geneva Convention that violates, but it is enough to make you want to hold it all day. I also hate when people talk to you when you're trying to go; it's like cutting you off when you're in cruise control on the highway. I find myself unable to continue once this annoying distraction occurs. And how people go causes me to shudder. While most men just unzip, let it out and go, others seem to need to resort back to their grade school days: unzip the pants, yes, but also unbuttoning, and dropping their pants like they were at half-mast. Aren't we a little beyond that? And people that don't steady it with one to two hands? Unacceptable. It's not a garden hose; use a little more restraint. I know way too many male co-workers undergarments of choice than I care to admit to. They also seem to hold it all in for hours and then let it out and a loud booming rush similar to what pouring a bucket down a well must sound like.
The sinks also leave much to be desired. From the people who don't wash their hands to the ones that need to push the faucet head for an hour, causing water to soak everything in sight like the Blob, it makes for a very bad experience each and everytime. I'm waiting for someone to drop a load with the door open, or just ask me to wipe them. Seriously.
Due to all of that, I tend to make my bathroom breaks infrequent and short. I touch nothing in there, and have resorted to using my feet to kick doors open like Chuck Norris. But what disturbs me more is the fact that the women's bathroom is even worst, I hear (obviously). I guess I just picture all women to not go to the bathroom besides #1, so the thought of them doing much much more causes me despair. But hey, when you gotta go, you gotta go.
Well, that's it for me. I am back, as one lowly co-worker said once, after being off on a paid sick leave for six months, even though no one asked him. Like I said, I want to make this more frequent now. On deck? "Workplace attire." Just to give a small hint: people dress in jeans on Friday, and during inclement weather, even though no memo or authorization was ever given for that. One co-worker actually wears the popular women's boot UGG as her official shoe. I really can't make this up. And you won't believe it either.
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
"What a Place"
I had this really long post I was working on, that was going to give the cyber world a very long summary of my exploits over the past few months: going to Korea (briefly; there's another whole blog about that), moving out, etc. But after a particularly vexing day at the hellhole that is my occupation, I feel I had to vent. I apologize this has no structure, no order...but I guess it kind of fits the content, right?
To sum it up: My friend (one of the few normal people there) told me of how his boss needed to have a screensaver set up with a password. My friend needed his boss's password. No, it wasn't "1,2,3,4" like Michael Scott's, but it summed it up perfectly: "----sucks1." I won't reveal the first four letters, for fear that someone else doesn't share my less than sunny disposition about my employer, but I'll just say the first word is where I work. That's the problem; there are literally thousands of people like him: hate their job, their life, hate everything. Is it the job? I'm sure that plays into it. But I know it has to do a lot with the people that work there. I've often times said that a monkey could do this job, but that actually does a disservice to the monkeys, animals that can actually be trained to do work and function as humans. The organisms I work with are unteachable. Not that they're stubborn to learning (they are), but they are genetically disposed to reject all learning. It doesn't process in their brain. Instead, you get these half-retarded creatures roaming around, like they just got bad lobotomies. You know how I know work sucks? When everyone around you tells you to "get out." When people who literally pick up things from the printer and get food out of a refrigerator are on the payroll. This is the safest job on the planet, because if a guy can shit himself in front of everyone and still collect a hefty paycheck, then I can be President of the company. True story.
This place, if you hadn't gathered it from the many posts written, sucks. How else can I sum it up any more succinctly? It is this festering piece of shit dump that spreads its evil around and eats up everything in its path, like a tornado. No one is safe. Everyone there is pathetic, depressing, and strange. I don't know if it's the work (yeah, it's the work), but why does it make everyone so guarded and closed off? Seriously, go onto my floor, and ask anyone what they did over the weekend. "I went to Central Park and had a picnic." "I saw an amazing concert." "I went to the beach." Any of those answers would be acceptable, and even enjoyable...if these people were normal. Here's the real answers you get: "Nothing." "Sat in my house." "I wasn't here." Everyone there, in a past life or when they were younger, must have been severely emotionally and/or physically scarred, because getting any type of information out of anyone is like trying to pull a sandwich out of a fat man's mouth (and there are two of the fattest, most disgusting people I've ever seen that work here. One weighs at least "five hundred pounds" according to someone else there, though it's probably closer to 350. He apparently used to bring in loaves of Italian bread and a pound of bologna and just plowed through the combo. Everyday. But he is actually more tolerable than the other one, who is not as fat but 100 times more disgusting and pathetic. If it wasn't bad enough he bought a wife and her child from the Philippines, then the not bathing and dropping his pants at the urinal like a 5 year old would take the cake. Seriously? He basically needs a diaper or suspenders. And he, like the previously described hippo, make collectively over $100,000 a year. My employer throws money around like Pacman Jones in Las Vegas).
Another great example is when some girl came up to me and asked if I just moved. We got into a short conversation about how she moved to my neighborhood. "She's cool," I thought. "Maybe we can hang out, it's always good to have some more friends to hang out with in a new environment." But then, after saying that maybe we could hang out, she said what I should have expected her to say: she immediately threw her guard up like the Berlin Wall being reconstructed, and said, "Yeah...maybe we'll see each other on the train or something." Wow! Really? Do you think I'm going to come to your apartment and rape you? That sounds extreme, but c'mon!
Maybe everyone around are CIA agents with double lives. They're mild-mannered at work, but once they punch that clock, they go into killing mode. That's the only way I can explain keeping everything so close to the vest. Or maybe they're just weird with no forseeable social lives. Do these people think I'm going to broadcast what they do to a blog or something? (Hmm...)
Another girl lives in one of the sickest neighborhoods in Brooklyn; an area everyone not there would drool over. What does she do in her free time, you ask? Just sitting around in her apartment, talking walks with a friend, or shopping. Yes, riveting. She also spends about $5 a day to feed her Starbucks addiction. Did you get the newsflash that they sell this at supermarkets now? And you're not too thin yourself, I would suggest cutting back on the calories and reaching for a water. How about the girl who appears to just take fitness classes? Or the guy who sits in his house all day? I could go on forever, but I think I've made my point.
And these are young people! Under 30 in a lot of cases. Whereas for most people, work is just what takes up your time when you're not doing something fun, these people saw work as everything. And that is the saddest thing of all. Because this job isn't worth it to get stressed out or angry. While people may go around and act as if we're saving the planet, we're not doing anything worth a damn. In the grand scheme of things, our job means nothing, like a lot of other jobs. This false sense of entitlement people have sickens me.
Slowly and slowly this job feels like it's consuming me. Everyday, I talk to people who share the same malaise I do, and whenever we talk about work, all we can say is, "What a place." "Or people suck." For every decent (there's never a "good" day here) day, where I think to myself, "I could work here a little while longer before moving on," ten things come up and make me realize why I have been actively job searching after about 2 months of working there. People just get so complacent, and that's when you settle, and that's not what I want to do. I don't want to start falling into a routine there. So maybe it's good to keep running into these things and being miserable. It'll make me want to get out that much more. At least I get out there and try to live my life. Granted, I'm not popping bottles every night, or bedding beautiful women daily, but I do go out and do things. I don't go home and wait for work to start the next day, which sadly, so many of my co-workers do. You have to distance yourself from work and life. That sounds easy, but so many people just can't do it. And it's the worse when people talk about work outside, or ask you what you do. I have told I don't know how many people what I think I do, and they look at me like I just spoke in a foreign language to them. Trust me, how do you think I feel telling it? I've been there two years and I sometimes get the sense I'm drowning. And not like the quick, ball and chain around your ankle and you sink to the bottom of the ocean. I'm talking about the long, painful, water slowly filling up in your lungs, stranded in the middle of shark-infested water drowning. I'm just hoping for a lifeline soon. I guess the best thing I can say at the end of everything is: "Well, it can't get much worse." But, it is only Tuesday night.
To sum it up: My friend (one of the few normal people there) told me of how his boss needed to have a screensaver set up with a password. My friend needed his boss's password. No, it wasn't "1,2,3,4" like Michael Scott's, but it summed it up perfectly: "----sucks1." I won't reveal the first four letters, for fear that someone else doesn't share my less than sunny disposition about my employer, but I'll just say the first word is where I work. That's the problem; there are literally thousands of people like him: hate their job, their life, hate everything. Is it the job? I'm sure that plays into it. But I know it has to do a lot with the people that work there. I've often times said that a monkey could do this job, but that actually does a disservice to the monkeys, animals that can actually be trained to do work and function as humans. The organisms I work with are unteachable. Not that they're stubborn to learning (they are), but they are genetically disposed to reject all learning. It doesn't process in their brain. Instead, you get these half-retarded creatures roaming around, like they just got bad lobotomies. You know how I know work sucks? When everyone around you tells you to "get out." When people who literally pick up things from the printer and get food out of a refrigerator are on the payroll. This is the safest job on the planet, because if a guy can shit himself in front of everyone and still collect a hefty paycheck, then I can be President of the company. True story.
This place, if you hadn't gathered it from the many posts written, sucks. How else can I sum it up any more succinctly? It is this festering piece of shit dump that spreads its evil around and eats up everything in its path, like a tornado. No one is safe. Everyone there is pathetic, depressing, and strange. I don't know if it's the work (yeah, it's the work), but why does it make everyone so guarded and closed off? Seriously, go onto my floor, and ask anyone what they did over the weekend. "I went to Central Park and had a picnic." "I saw an amazing concert." "I went to the beach." Any of those answers would be acceptable, and even enjoyable...if these people were normal. Here's the real answers you get: "Nothing." "Sat in my house." "I wasn't here." Everyone there, in a past life or when they were younger, must have been severely emotionally and/or physically scarred, because getting any type of information out of anyone is like trying to pull a sandwich out of a fat man's mouth (and there are two of the fattest, most disgusting people I've ever seen that work here. One weighs at least "five hundred pounds" according to someone else there, though it's probably closer to 350. He apparently used to bring in loaves of Italian bread and a pound of bologna and just plowed through the combo. Everyday. But he is actually more tolerable than the other one, who is not as fat but 100 times more disgusting and pathetic. If it wasn't bad enough he bought a wife and her child from the Philippines, then the not bathing and dropping his pants at the urinal like a 5 year old would take the cake. Seriously? He basically needs a diaper or suspenders. And he, like the previously described hippo, make collectively over $100,000 a year. My employer throws money around like Pacman Jones in Las Vegas).
Another great example is when some girl came up to me and asked if I just moved. We got into a short conversation about how she moved to my neighborhood. "She's cool," I thought. "Maybe we can hang out, it's always good to have some more friends to hang out with in a new environment." But then, after saying that maybe we could hang out, she said what I should have expected her to say: she immediately threw her guard up like the Berlin Wall being reconstructed, and said, "Yeah...maybe we'll see each other on the train or something." Wow! Really? Do you think I'm going to come to your apartment and rape you? That sounds extreme, but c'mon!
Maybe everyone around are CIA agents with double lives. They're mild-mannered at work, but once they punch that clock, they go into killing mode. That's the only way I can explain keeping everything so close to the vest. Or maybe they're just weird with no forseeable social lives. Do these people think I'm going to broadcast what they do to a blog or something? (Hmm...)
Another girl lives in one of the sickest neighborhoods in Brooklyn; an area everyone not there would drool over. What does she do in her free time, you ask? Just sitting around in her apartment, talking walks with a friend, or shopping. Yes, riveting. She also spends about $5 a day to feed her Starbucks addiction. Did you get the newsflash that they sell this at supermarkets now? And you're not too thin yourself, I would suggest cutting back on the calories and reaching for a water. How about the girl who appears to just take fitness classes? Or the guy who sits in his house all day? I could go on forever, but I think I've made my point.
And these are young people! Under 30 in a lot of cases. Whereas for most people, work is just what takes up your time when you're not doing something fun, these people saw work as everything. And that is the saddest thing of all. Because this job isn't worth it to get stressed out or angry. While people may go around and act as if we're saving the planet, we're not doing anything worth a damn. In the grand scheme of things, our job means nothing, like a lot of other jobs. This false sense of entitlement people have sickens me.
Slowly and slowly this job feels like it's consuming me. Everyday, I talk to people who share the same malaise I do, and whenever we talk about work, all we can say is, "What a place." "Or people suck." For every decent (there's never a "good" day here) day, where I think to myself, "I could work here a little while longer before moving on," ten things come up and make me realize why I have been actively job searching after about 2 months of working there. People just get so complacent, and that's when you settle, and that's not what I want to do. I don't want to start falling into a routine there. So maybe it's good to keep running into these things and being miserable. It'll make me want to get out that much more. At least I get out there and try to live my life. Granted, I'm not popping bottles every night, or bedding beautiful women daily, but I do go out and do things. I don't go home and wait for work to start the next day, which sadly, so many of my co-workers do. You have to distance yourself from work and life. That sounds easy, but so many people just can't do it. And it's the worse when people talk about work outside, or ask you what you do. I have told I don't know how many people what I think I do, and they look at me like I just spoke in a foreign language to them. Trust me, how do you think I feel telling it? I've been there two years and I sometimes get the sense I'm drowning. And not like the quick, ball and chain around your ankle and you sink to the bottom of the ocean. I'm talking about the long, painful, water slowly filling up in your lungs, stranded in the middle of shark-infested water drowning. I'm just hoping for a lifeline soon. I guess the best thing I can say at the end of everything is: "Well, it can't get much worse." But, it is only Tuesday night.
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