Wednesday, February 29, 2012

Et tu Brutal

Ha, ha, pun title.

On with the show. You need not read past here. There's nothing salacious. You won't miss out on anything. But in addition to writing down stories I think are amusing (slash) worthy of writing (the ego!) I use this place here to journal stuff. I know, kind of like a diary but where I redact facts and then remember hurts from long ago. Hey, depression does that to you. I also use it to vent about crap wot happened. Like today, for today was a brutal one.

First up was work here at home. The scanners at work are only set to render things in Acrobat and I needed to scan graphics. Our home computer was recently refurbished and today was the first moment I'd attempted to re-connect the printer scanner. Yeah ... it doesn't work with the new operating system. Cue me swearing my head off and theBoy in the kitchen yonder gleefully parroting me.

Then it was off to work wearing uncomfortable formal clothes. Why? The dreaded event. Yes, it was a visit by head cheeses to declare things open. I was part of the rent-a-crowd. Alas theBoss helped organise it and since she needed people to move forward she asked me and S---, a delightful new colleague (incredibly bright, great sense of humour, interesting life), to form up the front so as to encourage people to better close in on the podium. 

Alas people were late and we were standing a good 30 minutes before speeches kicked off. The senior people then crusted the rim of the rent-a-crowd like the salt on a margarita glass and stood just in front of S--- and I. A photographer from the org's local rag was there, his giant lens probing into the room like an anal probe meets CCTV. Since senior people were of interest photos were taken of them ... and incidentally me since I was in the immediate background. 

With my hands clasped before me I gingerly stroked down the front of my fly with the tip of my little finger to ensure my fly was done up, my having nicked off for a 'I don't know how long I will be trapped here' wee just before kick off. It was at half-mast. Fuck! Ever so subtly I gripped the zipper between my little finger and thumb, in a sort of closed-on-metal a-ok gesture, and slowly, oh so slowly, pulled my zipper up. I am sure there's going to be shots of them with me just behind and between them with a gaping hole where my peepee be hid. Yayzers. 

As the last of the last speech ebbed away, and with fire running up from my cramped calf through my aching back I stumbled back to my workstation, fumbled around for the very last pill of my current pain med—it's just been yanked from the market 'cos it killed New Zealanders—and gutsed it along with two panadol. No one was around and I guess the pain of it all, and the crud of the last few days washed over me, and I blubbed at my desk quietly for a few minutes. I know, crying at work is never a good sign. Though as a near-woman—and no offence ladies, I just mean that in a concept of Australian masculinity sense—I'm probably allowed to do stuff like that. 

So there was that. Then there was the monthly staff thing I help out with. New boss+ is a stickler for deadlines and it was due this afternoon. So after manning up in the no-longer-crying-at-my-desk-sense I started work on it. I worked solidly, with just a couple of toilet breaks, right through to well after four pm, prepping and checking 40 odd pages of content for review. By solidly I mean that I was a blaze of motion. Ripping out graphics, shrinking and screen-res'ing them (saving them as screen resolution to lower the memory size of the eventual product), paring back content, juggling slabs of text, inputting hyperlinks, creating side-bars to accentuate sections—I rocked the shit out if. 

Oh I did actually end up having one unfortunate break. Punch One, the building guy who bollocked me through my boss, decided to take a chair next to my work station to have a break from all the post-event activity. He started talking to me like we were mates then reading over my shoulder as I worked. I'm so fucking broken I didn't even have it in me to ask him to go away. I just waited for him to leave. Eventually he did. I have a sneaking suspicion however he thinks we're all good. We clearly are not. I can hold a grudge for fucking years. I would, for example, seriously considering hot-knifing my school boss bully tormentor should the opportunity to arise. I kid, I wouldn't, but when I found out he drifted into the life of a junkie I confess I nearly overdosed on the schadenfreude rush. 

Finally, though, it was all done. I staggered down to the lunch room to get one of my Costco smaller Diet Cokes, when I then walked into it, the post-event celebration.

I'd forgotten about it you see. The thing the bigwigs had come for was the culmination of a lot of work for a lot of people. So in the afternoon, the boss++ held an extra celebration, putting on some drinks, cake and cheeses to thank those who'd done that work. Being fuck-off busy I'd forgotten about it. I hadn't even noticed people drifting away from my work area to go to the event. 

Unfortunately I'd been seen. So I had to sit for a socially acceptable time, I think it was 10 minutes or so, and be with people that had been pretty prick-nasty to me in the last seven days. It wasn't all bad. theBoss had brought her three-year-old in—he's a delightful curly-rust-haired boy who's the height of a five-year-old and who can already ride a bike without training wheels (1)—and they'd brought out an old red plastic curve-sled rocker found in one of the junk rooms for him to play on. He giggled as he played with D--, D--- (2) being a nice middle-aged man from my floor who took the time and effort to play with a kid he didn't know, using his large polished shoes to rock the rocker from one end so theBoss's boy could giggle as he was rocked up and down. 

Then with that acceptable time done I could once-more crawl back to my desk and lumber back into life to perform a multitude of other admin crap that built up in my time away and I've yet to come close to finishing.


(1) It may be a cliché but I can remember the first time I rode a bike without training wheels. I rode round and around the back garden of our house on the hill, right near the awesome log fort my strong silent dad built for us. The very fort I later saw a peer piss into an old pot in. Ah memories.
(2) I'd actually had a jokey back-and-forth email thing with D--- this day, with my sending him an email apologising for not holding the door open for him, not realising it was him behind me this morning as I came into the building and my having been trained to close security doors behind me just in case you had a tail (2a). He wrote back a smiley face and I naturally then declared had he been dressed as a Ninja I would have waited to do battle with him in the lobby, armed as I was with my trusty pimp cane. He declared if he'd been a hot girl in a mini I wouldn't have tried to fight him, but I countered by saying if a blond sex kitten who had crashed through the frosted glass in a small iconic car and crushed me against the counter I'd have clearly already lost anyway. Ha, ha. Get it? Mini. He meant the dress and I knew he meant the dress. He then sent me a picture of a mini-skirt by way of explanation. He honestly didn't think I'd gotten it. That's gold.
(2a) I have OCD and I've read a lot of espionage books. Go Mikey!

2 comments:

  1. I hate days like that, where you barely get time to scratch yourself. I had one on Friday. :(

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  2. Aw I forgot. Friday is your antithesis of The Bangles' Sunday. That's a hard day to. Have it on, too. For it undermines your enjoyment of it being the last day of the working week.

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