Caterwauling

The Veggie Patch slogan, “50 years of excellence,” is a source of ridicule in my life. First, Shan and I developed the *real* slogan, “50 years of average,” which Dave topped last night with “50 years of excrement.”

Attended my “leadership” training like a good little girl today. Can we say *joke,* boys and girls? I will never forget how they told us that, as managers, sometimes we “just need to lower our expectations” of our staff.

Honey, at Club Medicated, we’re already doing the fucking limbo. People keep cracking their heads off the floor, that’s how low they can go.

I was fairly infuriated by that. The Veggie Patch is suffering because a person can achieve a “meets expectations” on their annual reviews simply by playing Solitaire for four hours a day, Marbles for two and by squeezing a two-hour lunch break in there.

Actually, that’s not entirely true. For those of us who produce and bust our asses and work weekends, the standards are different. It was articulated very clearly to us today that we need to be writing people up for not coming in on time and for being late with deadlines and what not. I shot up my hand and outlined that I have real problems with that, because I don’t think it’s fair to grade people on whether they were at their desk from 9 to 5 every day for the past year. I also articulated that I would never judge my staff on that, nor should my supervisor grade me on it, either. Personally, I said, “Look, you’ll never see me before 9 — you get me at 9:30 at the earliest — and you probably shouldn’t speak to me before 10. But that aside, you will see me here at midnight, and you get a newspaper every month. We shouldn’t nitpick on the useless details — we should evaluate people based on outcomes, not technicalities.”

The trainer, handpicked by Frosty, gave me the cold shoulder and absolutely ignored the fact that I even spoke. She changed the subject very quickly. I was mad enough to have a spotted cow.

The “lowered expectations” concept arose during this ridiculous video they showed of waves and beaches and what not. Weird little film. I think it was supposed to show us real-life stories from supervisors, but all it did was make me want to book a vacation to Antigua.

The video became downright laughable, when I finally started paying attention to it. A narrator asked us to picture someone in our organization whom we hate. I simply looked across the table to Town Crier and Mailroom Dipshit, and I was set. I also pictured Mouth Almighty and Pussy Demure. I could’ve crammed a few more images in there, but at that point, I was ready to throw up.

Anyway, the narrator told us to picture what that person’s life must be like, the problems they carry, the home life they had/have, the thought processes they have. It later asked us to pretend to walk around in their shoes for a full day (holy cliche, Batman!) and to wonder what they must think when they look at us. I was disgusted. Frankly, I could give a flying fuck about what any of them do after they leave for the day — it’s bad enough that they are all rude, incompetent and/or a waste of a salary during the workday — don’t fucking try to make me pity them. After all, the instructor had just finished telling us to not let our colleagues’ personal problems interfere with our work flow, and there she was contradicted by a cracked-out narrator, telling us to love our cubemates and be glad that we aren’t them.

Shan and I ran for Chi-Chi’s immediately after the training, and we bitched for no less than 90 minutes about the training, the Veggie Patch and the fact that the association says it demands excellence but truly accepts excrement from its longterm employees. And how dare they ever criticize us, when we are among their five top producers?

I’m tired of bitching. So very tired. My blood pressure shoots through the fucking roof when I even think about that place. I left early today (if early is 5:30 p.m.) because the layout is late (some stories were late, including mine) so I won’t see the document until early tomorrow. Oh well. Why should I strive for excellence when “a day late and a dollar short” is the motto of the year?

God damn it.

I suppose it was the weekly medium hazelnut coffee at Dunkin Donuts that is disturbing my sleep, although it never has before. Perhaps it was also the six pre-bedtime cigarettes I wolfed down, after two days without a smoke. Perhaps it is knowing that I have to get up reaaaally early for work tomorrow. At any rate, I’m awake, I’m perky and I’m pissed!

And I’m one itchy bitch, too. I’m certain it’s stress-related, although the only time I’m not breaking out in hives is when I’m driving. Which is surprising, given the sheer insanity of most Northern Virginia drivers. Perhaps I am becoming more accustomed to them. Perhaps — *shudder* — I have become one of them.

I don’t mind being a radical Virginia driver. What I would mind, though, is becoming another pod in the “Invasion of the Body Snatchers” otherwise known as my workplace. Quelle nightmare, Batman! No wonder I can’t fucking sleep.

So I’ve spent the last half hour perusing Apartments.com for giggles. There are some really nice apartment complexes in the area. I’ve decided that I want to move to the City of Alexandria, if for no other reason than, simply, that I’d like it. I gave up on Arlington after I realized that I don’t like my job enough to sit in I-395 traffic twice a day (and Metro-ing it is out of the question). I saw a place that had a den, and it was under $900. Not that I have $900, but if I pick up some freelance work, it could happen. There was another place that has a special for $750, all utils included, that also has hardwood floors. *drool* That one’s definitely on the “to visit” list. After last week’s box avalanche, it would be nice to have enough space to unpack said crushed boxes. 🙂

What frosts my flakes, though, is the outrageous pet deposits and monthly pet rents. I’ve seen anywhere from $200 to $500 for one to two cats. Sweet Jesus! Most humans are filthier than my cat, who only lies on her sofa and occasionally gets up to visit her food station. And to pay up to $30 per month rent for her on top of that is just ludicrous. Until the fabulous feline gets an income of her own, no pet rents. In fact, no telling anyone that I have a cat. Fer crissakes, most people don’t know that I have a cat until she comes out from under the bed and starts begging them for treats and scratches behind her ears. I dumped a ridiculous flat $300 at this joint, and believe me, the humans did a bang-up job on destroying the place a hell of a lot faster than the four-legged creature could ever do.

Seems like everyone’s moving this summer, and y’all know how much I hate not being part of the trend. 🙂 But if I could encourage the Veggie Patch Mis-Management to allow me to work from home more, it might be worth the investment, pain, agony and torture. Hell, I’m already packed from the last move! 😉

I have to be awake in four and a half hours. Fuck me running.

Class was rather anticlimactic. I danced with Dave most of the time and Mike for the rest. We’re down to seven participants in the class. Deirdre is in New Orleans for a tennis tournament, and Bonnie couldn’t make it again, so I hope the whole gang is together for our last class. I see exchanging of phone numbers (certain persons named Mike in particular *wink*) as being mandatory.

I asked Mike what brought him to the class, and he said that he’s the best man in two weddings this summer, and he thought it would be nice to know how to dance at the receptions. *awwwww!!!* How sweet! I almost felt bad for not paying attention and screwing up the steps, knowing that he didn’t even take the class for fun. 😉

I was pleased today when finally, the girls had an easier time and the guys had to twirl around us. Ha! Then, we learned a step where, after the guys twirled, so did the girls. Bah! And then the instructor used me as teacher’s pet to show the rest of the class how to do it. I did fine with her (thank god!) and didn’t manage to kill her, although I did protest vehemently to using me as the model by which the other ladies should learn the steps. 🙂

Next week will just be a review of everything we learned, which should be fun. I never *get* the steps on the night I learn them, but I somehow remember them and do them somewhat correctly the next week, so this should be entertaining, if nothing else. See Dawn dance! See Dawn sign up for classes at Mosaic Makers next. LOL. Dave is talking about taking ASL classes next, but all I ever learned from ASL classes is two different ways to say “bullshit.” Of course, I took the class at Easter Seals, which was nothing BUT bullshit at my particular affiliate (the Western Pennsylvania headquarters in Pittsburgh, for those keeping track of my employment follies).

Dave asked Mike and Stephanie to join us in a donut run, but they declined. I guess things ain’t meant to be there, but oh well. Straight men typically have no interest in hanging out with me — I guess I’ll be a fag hag for life! 😉

I can’t seem to recall ever having been with an Aries, but hell, they can always be next! Of course, I haven’t known half of their last names, let alone their freakin’ sun signs. …

You’ll Fall in Love With An Aries!

You want a lover like Aries, one who knows what he / she wants and goes after it.

You fall for assertive Aries almost instantly… the only sign powerful enough to sweep you off your feet.

Your Aries is dominant and romantic – bringing you lots of adventure.

You are attracted to people who are completely in charge.

Nothing turns you on more than surrendering completely, to the right person.

Symbols of power turn you on – from flashy cars to an Aries with lots of charm.

The trade off is that your Aries has trouble commiting and lack stamina.

You’ll have to try extra hard to make the relationship fresh and fiery.

Keep that burst of passion going past the third date, and you are on your way!

What Sign Should Your Lover Be?

More Great Quizzes from Quiz Diva

I didn’t realize that my training was supposed to start today. I rolled in around noon (granted, I’ve been up typing and editing my stories since before 6 a.m.), just as the session was letting out for lunch. Heh. I was busting my butt so I could at least make an appearance tomorrow, which I will, but I’m sure Demure will catch wind of the fact that I worked from home until the exact moment that the training ended, and I’ll hear again what a disappointment I am.

But all in all, I wrote two stories, edited two stories, solved several layout-related issues and an advertising issue during the first six hours of my workday. I still have two more stories to finish and three more sections to tweak, and all of this must be done before 4 p.m. today. And yet they think I have all the time in the world to sit on my ass in a training.

I did get the lowdown from Shan about the training — she said it was good (because it was a non-staff member who conducted it), but that the class was full of the usual assholes, so that kind of ruined it. Tomorrow’s class will be conducted by Frosty, so I know to make an appearance, whether I want to or not!

Just spent $30 on an adapter for my DVD player so that it can work with my 1993 TV. Only problem is, there’s another cord I will have to buy that doesn’t come with the fucking adapter. At this point, I might as well return the whole mess and buy a new TV. Or prostitute myself. Whichever comes first. 😉

I am so fucking bored with my stories. I am actually going to go into work now for a change of scenery. It’s a good hair day, though. I am wearing jeans and sandals — although more appropriate Club Medicated gear would be fuzzy robes and bunny slippers, not to mention paper pill cups in our hands. 🙂

Although I was disgusted by my ear-bashing by Demure, I did go into work on Saturday night, and I worked from home Sunday night. I am going to go in late today, as I will stay until just before dance class starts. If I can get my stories together by mid-afternoon, my guy is promising me a draft of the paper first thing tomorrow to circulate. Woo hoo! Right on schedule!

Demure is on vacation all week. Did I mention all week? Hell yeah! She’s not altogether that helpful to me — it’s more like she’s underfoot. I find it hysterical that she used to work for one of our biggest divisions, until they canned her ass, so the national organization hired her and kept her for 20 years. Isn’t that insane? My respect for that division went up a ton — not to mention, they’re so frustrated with the national organization that they are trying to get their charter revoked so they can be done with us. Some days, I just can’t blame them, although they really are a bunch of stuck-up snots sometimes.

I’ve had hives for a week. I have them both at work and at home. In fact, the only time I feel good anymore is when I’m out and about. Had a good weekend shopping with Shawn early Saturday and by myself Sunday, and I really enjoyed hanging out at home this weekend. Unfortunately, I had a box avalanche — one of the bottom boxes in a ceiling-high stack collapsed, leaving a mess in the corner, so I re-packed a couple of the boxes before I got fed up. I am so tired of having 50 percent of my belongings in a place where I can’t even see or use them.

At work, I’m producing my fifth issue alone. I hope by my seventh, I have help. I am beyond burnout — I’m in full-fledged meltdown mode. I understand the candidate pool isn’t all that wonderful, but I won’t settle for just anyone to work in my department.

Finished a really hard story last night (hard=boring). Now to wrap up four more boring ones. I can’t wait till this paper goes to press — it’s my birthday weekend, and I am not setting foot in or near the Veggie Patch if I can help it. My true gift to myself.

Bought some clothes this weekend. Spent way too much money, although everything was on sale. I think I got screwed out of a discount on this springlike work outfit I found at Hecht’s, but by that point, I was so accustomed to salesclerk incompetence that I just wanted to get the fuck out of the store. Bought a bunch of long shirts to wear with jeans. Instead of buying more clothes in more sizes, perhaps I should drag said fat ass to the gym to whittle it down to fit into the existing wardrobe. Hmm. We’ll see.

Haven’t had a cigarette since Saturday. Perhaps the goal right now is not to quit outright, but rather to save smoking just for special occasions. It’s just so hard, when the special event is over, to train myself to not want a cancer stick in my mouth at all times. I guess being denied a pacifier as a child has made me need to have something in my mouth for comfort. 🙂

Demure yanked my ass into her office at 4 p.m. for an hour today. She was highly “disappointed” in me for blowing off her request that I throw myself at her mercy today. I never did respond to her e-mail, and if I heard a variation of “dissapointment” for a fifth time (she only used it four) about me, I would have reached across her desk and killed her.

She said she was disappointed in me for not responding to her e-mail. She’s disappointed that I do not realize how lucky I am to be able to be enrolled in their stupid training next week. She’s disappointed that I disrespected her for not acknowledging that she wanted to talk to me. She’s disappointed in me, period.

It took all my strength to not say, “You’re a disappointment to me, too. So what’s your point?”

After she laid into me for 20 minutes, I had to laugh out loud. Seriously, it probably took her all day to screw up her courage to confront me. What a joke.

At any rate, long story short, they are not doing a training in the next few weeks, which she didn’t even know about (I could go into how I know, but I digress). She thought I was being an ungrateful brat, and while she knows I’ve had plenty of supervisory experience and training, she said I need to be trained as a Veggie Patch supervisor. Jesus Christ, if there’s a type of manager I don’t want to be, it’s a manager just like her and the rest of the pansies in charge of that joint (minus Finance Guy, who rocks and god I wish I could work for him).

We went round and round forever about all of this. Essentially, she’s angry with me because A.) I blew off her request to meet. B.) She’s under the impression that I don’t take the *importance* of that training seriously. C.) That she didn’t like the tone of my e-mail. And D.) That I essentially was begging her to let me do my job.

She did try to divert me by asking about how my dance class is going. Oldest trick in the book, babydoll. I let her go and chatted about dumb stuff for a few minutes, but then I let it rip. I said I’ve been pretty damn angry for the past two weeks, because I’ve made no secret of the fact that training falls on two of my busiest days during the month. I asked if I had to make a choice between doing the stupid training to appease her or get the paper to press. She looked like she was about to go all Linda Blair/”Exorcist” on me — she can’t handle confrontation. I said I’m pissed because it’s like I have to beg everyone to let me do my job as editor, that they just don’t get that no matter how hard I’ve planned to get the issue on track, shit happens and I’m but one person. I said it’s not like anything can happen without me sitting there, doing it. It’s not like I have a staff that can take over while I go play in a training.

Oh, but the shit about the e-mail infurated me. It’s not like the ripping e-mails that my predecessor used to send to the CEO. I simply said that I was interested in switching places with someone in another session (although nobody told me that the other session was canceled and that those participants were to join my class, but I didn’t know that at the time). I also said that it’s difficult for me and that it would be helpful to me if events held between the 10th and 28th of any month didn’t require my attendance. I said that once I get a warm body in the department with me, I will find it much easier to participate in trainings and meetings without newspaper-related functions coming to a complete standstill until I return.

Demure told me that I was just plain rude, and she tried to tell me how I *should* have written the note. She looked at me, almost visually demanding an apology. Fuck her, she wasn’t getting one, nor did she get one. I handled the request with tact and respect — as much as I could muster, anyway. Maybe I did avoid her, but I wanted to avoid an hour-long dissertation like the one I got at the end of my Friday.

And I know this shit will appear on my review. And watch me laugh in her face and not sign my review. Watch me walk out and keep on walking. Just fucking watch, because it will happen and I will be the latest editor in a string who runs, not walks, to the nearest exit when I’ve had enough.

I think she should just attend my trainings and take good notes. God knows she has a thing or 50 to learn about supervision. I do not fit into her mold as a perfect employee. God forbid, I produce a 40- to 64-page newspaper every month with minimal assistance from volunteers and freelancers. Nobody knows about the P.R. involved, the services I provide to members, the time and care I pour into every last task that pertains to the paper and to the people who receive it.

How DARE she even use the word “disappointment” in my presence. Fuck you, Demure, and the horse you rode in on. I hope you cry in your oatmeal when I ride out on my horse, hopefully sooner than we all think.

Tonight, after a shit-filled day for Shan as well as me, we went to our office in Old Town. Yes, our office. We sat there and enjoyed it. We ripped everyone at the Veggie Patch a verbal asshole, we laughed till we cried and we talked about a tiny bit of business. But it’s fucking pathetic how a week at that mortuary drains the life out of us.

Shan’s favorite comment from me today was when I said it was so cold it was like we are preserving bodies. My favorite comment from her today was when the receptionist, who processes address changes, asked Shan if she receives infomation about the deceased. Shan simply said, “No, I work with them.” ROFL. We had a great time with the Hayley Joel Osment line from “The Sixth Sense” — “I see dead people!” Only our movie will be called “Nonsense,” in honor of Club Medicated.

We went to the mall, had dinner and ice cream, and made many jokes about words that rhyme with her boss’s name, as well as ordering birthday cakes with ass prints on them. We already know those jokers are taping our conversations, but if they’re reading the blog too, I’ll save explaining my references to Barbie cakes and pinatas. But what I will say is that we will dance gleefully out the door when we leave those corpses, assholes and dipshits (oh my!) behind for good.

One last word on our thoughts about Town Crier, not only was she beaten with the ugly stick, but after they bludgeoned her with it, they shoved it up her ass for good measure.

Oh, and I still haven’t been excused from the fucking training. Assholes!

Okay, so I only wore a tank top with a built-in shelf bra (with a shirt over it, BTW — I already got enough nasty looks for my bare tanned feet in sandals today), but it’s fucking COLD in here today! What the fuck are we doing, trying to preserve the bodies? I swear, this place is full of dead people who forgot to fall over.

(Or maybe it’s just hysteria setting in.)

Remember the old commercials for Halls cough drops, where their tagline was something to the effect of “The Halls of Medicine”?

Just thinking — working here at Club Medicated, where all the Prozac, Zoloft, Paxil and Xanax pill-poppers float like ghosts through the hallways — reminded me of that commerical. Every time I step out of my office, it is into the Halls of Medicine, here at Club Med.

Ice Cream Social in one hour. Guess I’ll have to prepare to run into Demure. Oh golly gee, what a fucking picnic it will be.