‘I Don’t Like Mondays’

That song keeps running through my head today. We’re back to dressing up for work (we had a casual month last month), which means pantyhose which just means I am uber-annoyed already. 🙂

No signs of our villian Pussy Demure, which is wonderful but that means I will have to deal with her full-force when she does come back into the office.

I am swamped, but it’s a good kind of swamped. It just sucks that I have to write three to four articles in addition to being swamped with my general editorial responsibilities. Writing is fun, but it’s the most time-consuming part of the job. Not to mention that I just wrote two job descriptions (my own and one for the person I will eventually hire), I’m doing a year-long calendar of what should go into the Veggie Patch Gazette each month (Demure’s request — normally I just look at a year-old issue and figure out what should go in, but dipshit wants it written out till the end of time). I’m also deciding — because we have hit editorial and advertising gold with special-themed issues — what issues I want to cover and when.

Demure keeps bugging me for what’s going in this issue, but who the fuck has had time to decide? Plus, last month I promised seven stories and only wrote three (whopping) ones, so it’s sort of pointless to do the same — she makes me commit to all these topics, yet even she knows that I can’t do it all myself. I have my freelancer overloaded for the next three months. I attempted to give her two stories a month for the past couple of months, but even she’s busy and can only crank out one at a time, so I have her doing this fluffy ass-wiping series through the summer that King Kumquat, chief executive extraordinaire, commissioned.

I asked Demure about changing what we pay freelancers (they make more per story that I ever will!) so that I can either have more money to play with in my budget or to hire more freelancers who will work at a lower rate than the main writer we use. Her head almost exploded — she can’t handle good, solid ideas that are easy to implement. She needs to think about it and run it by Kumquat (I fear she runs it by him every time she needs to use the ladies’ room), which means I’ll never get an answer.

I also must kick myself in the ass — I told her I wanted to create a policies and procedures manual for my department (the existing one is a joke). So now she’s breathing up my ass, wondering when I’ll have it done. (Note: Haven’t started it yet, nor do I plan to until I hire someone.) I swear, she has nothing better to do than to harass me. Even she admits that her own secretary is useless, but never will I be allowed to farm some of my shit work onto her, which just sucks ass.

I guess I’m just tired of working for and with people who are on an eight-hour lunch break. Especially after my class this weekend, I realize that I’d like to join the ranks of the “joyfully jobless” so that I don’t have to look at this ship of sad sacks every day as we cruise around Club Medicated.

Dance class is tonight. Sadly, I am not looking forward to it. It’s not fun. I try to have fun … I try to enjoy it, probably because I already paid for it. LOL. But everyone’s so serious, so uptight that I just don’t fit in. I would love to get together with the class and have a beer with everyone — something tells me that these are really cool people underneath (and yes, I’d like to get underneath Mike’s clothes! Ahem.) because they were spunky enough to sign up for this crazy class.

What they need to do is turn down the lights, have the disco ball flashing and, hell, maybe even host it in a nightclub — or at least, they should simulate the nightclub environment. And let’s face it, if we came with a partner, we should stay with that partner. I will not be dancing ever again with Debonair Gary, so why the hell do I need to dance with him now? I understand that some singles come in to meet other singles, and the law of nature usually works out that there are unmatched people who can be matched up. Granted, without the pollyanna partner-switching crap, I’d never have met the guys in my class, but really, that’s OK. I could have lived without it, ’cause I will probably never see them after our last class anyway.

At any rate, my last class is the day after my birthday. w00t! Now to just make it the four weeks until then without going crazy. …

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