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.
