monster sarcasm rally

Game over: you lose

Earlier this week the boss asked me how it was going with Grubey. He said he knew I'd had a conversation with the big bossman, and wanted to know if it had made any difference.

I — with surprising and entirely uncharacteristic tact — said that the situation had improved, but that I didn't believe there was a fit between the personalities. He nodded and said he expected as much.

He said there's a new guy starting in a couple of weeks, and he's going to move me over to his team. It's time Mr Gruber learned that if he's going to behave like that, he said, then he's not going to get to have an associate.

This is all very good news, right?

So why is there ominous music playing in my brain? And why do the voices keep whispering: be careful what you wish for...

Seriously...

If I were half as stupid as Grubey and his Metatron think I am, I wouldn't be able to tie my own shoes.

I'm here to kill you, not to judge you

Mr Hans Gruber apologised to me. He said that some of this whole mess may have been his fault. He said that he'd been acting under the assumption that I knew how to do my job, but clearly we needed to take things from a more basic level so that I could learn.

Then he offered me a piece of advice. He said that in future if he said stuff to me, I shouldn't take it personally. It's not about me; it's just that he's under a lot of stress. I shouldn't react so emotionally.

Right. When he told me (personally) that I (personally) needed to work at least 100 hours a week (personally) in the office, I took that personally. And refusing to comply... Well, I guess that was emotional, in the sense that I calmly left the office every day at six. It must be because I'm just a weak little girl.

Coming back around again

I've been in Montreal for the past two days training Littlebabycryingpants's replacement. Tomorrow I have to go back to the office and face Mr Hans Gruber. The very thought of it fills me with so much dread that I'm feeling physically nauseated.

I think I'm beginning to understand the effect I had on Littlebabycryingpants.

Getting mathy with it

Take 24 hours in a day and multiply by seven days in a week.

24 x 7 = 168

Subtract 49 hours for sleep.

168 - 49 = 119

Subtract 5 hours per week for personal grooming (e.g. showering, brushing teeth, combing hair...)

119 - 5 = 114

Subtract 10 hours per week for personal tasks (e.g. grocery shopping, cooking, laundry, snow shovelling, conversation with parents...)

114 - 10 = 104

Subtract 10 hours per week for MBA (including 7 hours class time and 3 hours working on assignments not, but including transport).

104 - 10 = 94

Subtract 11 hours per week for transport (i.e. to and from work and the university).

94 - 11 = 83

Since 83 < 100, the laws of physics dictate that I will not be able to comply with the stated demands of working 100 hours per week.

Really?

Repeat previous post, but replace the word 'snoring' with 'texting'.

Frak Earth

Dear Mr Hans Gruber, dark lord and supreme piss-head, BSc, MBA, CA, CPA, CGA, CMA, CFA, CBV, VIP, GED,

Thank you for deigning to speak with me directly this afternoon (while the Metatron Formerly Known as Peter the Zealot looked at his hands). I assure you, I understand what a deep honour you bestowed on me in so doing.

Your words served to set me straight on some of my misconceptions. For instance, I had a silly notion that it was all right to make personal plans for a Sunday afternoon. As I have to be in the Montreal office on Monday morning at 6:30, I (quite foolishly) assumed that I could catch a lunchtime flight on Sunday to enjoy a few hours of Sars time.

You explained that it was both 'unprofessional' and 'unacceptable'. I see now that I should have scheduled one for 3:00 in the morning so that you would not be inconvenienced by my inability to work 18 hours on my day off. Sleep is for the weak.

Earlier today the Metatron Formerly Known as Peter the Zealot expressed his/your displeasure with this fact. At that time I asked Bridget if it was possible to change my flight to one leaving later. She said no.

Again you explained that this was 'unacceptable'. What I should have done was command Bridget to rebook the flight.

Another foolish idea under which I've been operating pertains to the nature of 'work'. I naively believed that after 12 hours of sitting at my desk, I could take my remaining work home with me and complete it there.

Again you explained that this was 'unacceptable'. I now understand that this was sheer laziness on my part. 'Work' means being at my desk. Any work that I do at home or on the road or anywhere else is not work, but in fact rest.

I will take all these new pieces of information that you have imparted and give them all the attention they are due, which is to say I will alter my behaviour not one iota.

I do understand that you will very soon wish to fire me (assuming this is not your desire already). I have two things to say to that. Firstly, I'm not convinced that you would be successful in such an endeavour. This is because you do not have the authority to fire me as YOU'RE NOT THE BOSS OF ME. Not really, anyways. You see, your boss (who is also my boss) likes me. Your boss's boss likes me. Santa Claus likes me. So, good luck to you with that.

Secondly, should your boss or your boss's boss comply with your wishes... Well, good luck to the lot of you. Please, fire me. No, really, do it. I mean that. Please. I will walk away with a settlement that would make you blush, you self-righteous twat.

Sincerely,
Sars

PS: You seem to use the word unacceptable a lot. It gets old. Try switching it up with a synonym once in a while, such as improper, inadmissible, forbidden, unconscionable, unforgivable...

PPS: You're got something sticking out the back of your pants. Oh, sorry... Never mind. I see it's just the Metatron Formerly Known as Peter the Zealot's feet.  

Words cannot express

Mr Hans Gruber, the dark lord, does not speak to me directly. He speaks to me through the Metatron Formerly Known as Peter the Zealot.

The Metatron told me today how excited he is about his upcoming holidays, as he hasn't had any in a year. I said I empathised. He said I didn't understand, because I had two weeks off for The Worst Holiday Ever.

Um... Unexpected death in family? Racing across continents to come home more than a week early? Almost $1000 in extra fees for said privilege? Lost luggage?

Ya, he said. What's your point? It was still a holiday.

I'm maintaining my amateur status for the Olympics

Mr Hans Gruber, my lord and master, seems to have made up his mind about me already. I'm very confident in my skills and abilities, but he's dismissive of me. I started with the company in an admin position and for a lot of people it doesn't matter what I know or do or am capable of, I'm still 'just support staff'.

I had a lovely pleasant little chat this afternoon with Grubie's former associate, Peter the Zealot, who informed me (again) that I just don't understand because I haven't been in the industry long enough. I patiently pointed out (again) that I'd been in the industry longer than he had.

Dumbass.

His response? Well, yes, but not really. This is the first time you've been in it hardcore. As if the last five years have been spent sitting on my arse with my eyes closed and my fingers in my ears, singing la-la-la-I-can't-hear-you or something. Like the past 2 years of doing associate work didn't count for anything. Like the last year of having the actual title of associate were just a grand cosmic joke.

Jackass.

I've applied for a few other positions, but there just aren't very many out there and there are so many people clamouring over the ones that are.

Chock full of sanity

Once upon a time I worked 60 hours a week, and life was fine.

Then along came my brilliant idea to do an MBA. Working 60 hours a week plus coursework made me exhausted all the time. I don't go out anywhere. Ever. All my friends have moved on. I don't do anything. I don't see anybody. What little time I have left over for myself is spent staring lifelessly at the idiot box.

But then... Oh, you knew there'd be a but, right? I mean this isn't Monster My-Life-is-Frakking-Awesome Rally here. But then I got assigned to a new team at work. And Mr Hans Gruber, my new lord and master, sits me down and informs me that my days of 60-hour work weeks are over. When he was an associate worked 100 hours a week. His previous associate worked 100 hours a week. If I think I'm special I won't last very long, he says.

Bite me.

It ain't happening. If I get fired, I get fired.

T minus 3 days, 23 hours, 48 minutes

Are you ready?

That's a selling point?

Lately I've seen quite a few commercials on TV that go something like this...

Smiling middle-aged white mum: After I use this mouthwash/brush with this toothpaste/chew this gum/paste these stickers on my teeth/whatever, I feel like I've just left the dentist's office.

What? It makes you feel degraded and humiliated and causes intense physical and psychological pain?

What's next? When I wear these jeans I feel like I just spent a month in drug rehab? After I eat this sandwich meat I feel like I've spent a month being tortured by religious extremists? Using this swiffer makes me feel like I've had all my skin removed by an angry lesbian witch?

Who?

Seriously? Only not... But ya... I mean, born in the 80s? Come on, he ought to be grateful to be paid in sandwiches. Otherwise he'd probably be eating all-day-breakfast in a tin.

Life in my skin

I've been seeing a dermatologist for my allergies & eczema for a few months. She's not the first dermatologist I've seen, but she is the first who didn't instantly dismiss me with the entirely unhelpful statement: ugh, this is just eczema. Get out of my office.

The first time I saw her I told her what I was allergic to. Amongst other unpronounceable things, that would include: cocamide, cocamidopropyl betaine, isoproyl mistrate, sodium lauryl sulphate, and sodium laureth sulphate. Now if you happen to have an advanced degree in chemistry, you'll notice the common thread running through all these things. In case you don't, I'll spell it out for you: C-O-C-O-N-U-T. More specifically, I'm allergic to coconut oil. As far as I can tell, I'm one of approximately three people on the planet who are allergic to coconut oil. And the other two don't count as I made them up.

In a nutshell, what this means is that I'm allergic to the stuff that makes soap bubbly, the stuff that makes cremes and lotions smooth, and the stuff that makes food taste creamy (because actual cream is just way too expensive).

In December, after discovering I was allergic to the first three things she prescribed to me for treatment of my allergies, the dermatologist decided it would be good to do an allergy patch test. This involved me spending a week in a hell dimension of unbearable itch. At the end of the week she told me I was allergic to exactly what I'd already told her I was allergic to. Oh, and paraben. Frak me.

She then wrote three new scrips and said try all these. See if any of them work. Because I know how to use this little thing called google, I looked them all up. Guess what they had in them.

For some reason, this left me feeling frustrated, so I went to a naturopath. He gave* me a load of supplements to flush all the toxins out of my body. Sounds great.

After a few days I called back and said I'm getting worse. Why am I getting worse? He said this was perfectly normal; it was just the toxins surfacing.

After a week and a half of hiding in my basement (i.e. not going to work, school, or anywhere) I went into his office. Look at me! I look like I've got chicken pox, the measles, and a bad sunburn. This can't be normal. He pulled a worry face, but told me it was perfectly normal. He assured me I'd look human again within a week.

After two weeks in hiding I still looked like I had chicken pox, the measles, and a bad sunburn. Only now my ears were swollen, my eyes were swollen shut, my whole face was swollen, I couldn't feel my face, my skin was burning to the touch, and my lips were tingling. At this point I finally clued in. Oh right, this isn't toxins coming out. This is me having a full-on allergic reaction to the supplements.

I pumped myself full of all the antihistamines I could find and hauled myself into the emergency room. The doctor listened to my story (the same one as above) while giving me a look that said he couldn't believe I was wasting his time with my stupidity and told me to go home and take some reactine. He prescribed me 1% hydrocortisone creme.

What's it in?
What do you mean?
Well, what is it in?
It's not in anything. It's just 1% hydrocortisone. That's all.
Forget it.

I shouldn't expect everybody to be as mathy as I am. Dumbass.

Today was my first full day back at work. If one more person asks me which sunny destination I spent my holidays and motions cheerily at the 'sunburn' on my face, I will punch him.

*Ya, he 'gave' me the supplements for the low, low price of only $200 on top of the  cost for the visit.