I’m on strike

For the morning, anyway.

I awoke at 8:20 a.m., only to stay in bed listening to a live Jewel performance/interview on 104.1 FM. I liked that. I liked the feeling that all of my days could be like this — that if I didn’t feel like dragging my butt to the office by 9, that the world wouldn’t end. That I don’t have to pull on pantyhose and restrictive dress clothes that get wrinkled while I sit on my ass at a desk all day. That if I knew from Moment One that it was going to be an off day, that I might as well sleep in and save my work for a day when I am feeling better.

No, I’m not sick. Not physically, anyway. But my psyche can use some TLC. Everyone’s down in the dumps about their jobs these days. And for many of us, we like the work and maybe even a colleague or two, but we can’t stand the management and/or the people down the hall.

Shan and I strategized for hours last night about how to take down Mouth Almighty. It wasn’t the fact that Mouth opened her mouth last night, but this is for all the times she’s deliberately hurt or screwed us — it’s for all the rumors she’s spread in her career; it’s for all the people who kept her secrets and were loyal to her even though she sold their heart’s secrets — with her own embellishments — for a few minutes in the Rumor Mill spotlight.

This shit ends HERE. Not just Mouth and Town Crier, but the whole kit and kaboodle. I have to go in at 11 only to get bitched out by Demure for things I just don’t have the time or inclination to do. Unfortunately, one of those things is the newspaper itself — What these dipshits will never understand is how easy I make their lives … how many crises are never brought to their attention because of my quick thinking and even swifter actions.

Shan pointed out early yesterday that the only teamwork ever exhibited at the Veggie Patch is between the two of us, and we aren’t even in the same department. You’ve got assholes like Mailroom Dipshit who goes to great lengths to show you the effort behind his few actions, but he doesn’t show you outcomes. Fuck that. I have been trained in outcomes-based performance, and damn it, I intend to retain that. I don’t want Demure doing my review and deciding my raise upon the fact that I don’t report every time a mouse farts in the hallway. I don’t want a bad review about my poor time management skills when she’s the one draining my time on insipid matters.

And I am sick of her compliments when I pull my hair back in a tight ponytail and don’t let it hang loose and wild like I like it. I’m sick of her praise when I wear clothes that are two sizes too big because she doesn’t like seeing womanly curves. I’m sick of her disdainful looks when I wear a sheer blouse that lets you see whatever tank top I am wearing beneath it. I’m sick, sick, sick of working in an office among enemies who talk behind our backs and spread their editorial commentary as though it were the gospel.

I had to fight long and hard to prove to those dipshits that I wasn’t going to walk out the door after Shawn when he quit in January, and now Mouth is speculating that when Shan takes a leave this fall, that 1. she won’t come back from the leave, and 2. that I will be lost without her and probably will leave myself. How DARE she attack our credibility in that way! Granted, we do want to leave this fall. No question about that. But that was said and plotted in a private conversation between Shan and me. And like I said, I worked hard to convince those assholes that I am a leader, not a follower, and not that Mouth holds a lot of credibility in the organization, but when her words reach the wrong people, well, those people do have the power to make my workday even more like hell than it already is.

I was proud to have pulled off a beautiful, full-color, 64-page issue of the magazine last month. That is not going to happen again anytime soon. I will barely pull together 40 pages of content this month, and the editorial deadline is in 8 days and I haven’t written a fucking word yet. Why? Because I’m spent. I orgasmed repeatedly last month, and I am officially drained and am sensitive to the least bit of stimulation right now.

It’s 10:15, and my strike is about to end. Hair is in ponytail; clothes are loose and flowing; burning attitude has seeped out of my system and onto my blog. I am going to finish my coffee, smoke another cigarette, and begin this lovely motherfucking day in a place I despise with people I abhor (sans Shan, natch!). And the sad thing is, there are millions of people just like me who are dragging themselves through the day in a similar fashion.

Must. Stop. This. Madness. NOW!!!

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