I am working the latest shift at work possible. It is a shift that they have recently introduced which includes a 15-minute 'break' at the end of the shift, during which time you don't have to talk to twats (excluding co-workers, unfortunately) but do have to run around the office, emptying paper bins and filling water coolers, after which time you can leave.
So, get the shit done, and be out of there ten minutes early. Hurrah!
It hits dark o'clock, and the rest of the insurance minions trudge off home, leaving everything quiet and gloomy. I get up from my seat and wander over to the water cooler and, well, fill it up.
A voice shoots at me out of the darkness. Sharp, blistering, hateful.
"Do you realise which activity code you're in?" she says, and I suddenly notice the striking resemblance she bears to Voldemort.
"Oh. No, sorry."
Ah, activity codes. Activity codes were invented because the worthless employees, who have numbers rather than names, cannot actually manage their own time and need codes to tell them what to do. If you are not pissing, working on a policy, or having a meeting, YOU'RE NOT FUNCTIONING PROPERLY.
I sigh. OF COURSE I KNOW WHICH ACTIVITY CODE I'M IN. I am not a simple-minded cretin. I play dumb because I can't think of anything suitably scalding to say.
"Well," she says, relishing this moment and sliding her tongue over her lips, "You can only fill that up in your final fifteen minutes here. Do you understand?"
Tell me. Does anyone else put up with that shit? Am I in high school? Is she actually Ms. Tyler who taught me home economics? Can I get away with killing her? Can I call on the great God of Office Politics and launch a spiteful harrassment case against her?
Can I turn bright red, look humiliated and scuffle back to my seat?
Yes. Yes I can.
Due to a chronic fear of confrontation and vocal stature comparable to that of a fourteen-year old, my options to address this issue are as follows:
So, get the shit done, and be out of there ten minutes early. Hurrah!
It hits dark o'clock, and the rest of the insurance minions trudge off home, leaving everything quiet and gloomy. I get up from my seat and wander over to the water cooler and, well, fill it up.
A voice shoots at me out of the darkness. Sharp, blistering, hateful.
"Do you realise which activity code you're in?" she says, and I suddenly notice the striking resemblance she bears to Voldemort.
"Oh. No, sorry."
Ah, activity codes. Activity codes were invented because the worthless employees, who have numbers rather than names, cannot actually manage their own time and need codes to tell them what to do. If you are not pissing, working on a policy, or having a meeting, YOU'RE NOT FUNCTIONING PROPERLY.
I sigh. OF COURSE I KNOW WHICH ACTIVITY CODE I'M IN. I am not a simple-minded cretin. I play dumb because I can't think of anything suitably scalding to say.
"Well," she says, relishing this moment and sliding her tongue over her lips, "You can only fill that up in your final fifteen minutes here. Do you understand?"
Tell me. Does anyone else put up with that shit? Am I in high school? Is she actually Ms. Tyler who taught me home economics? Can I get away with killing her? Can I call on the great God of Office Politics and launch a spiteful harrassment case against her?
Can I turn bright red, look humiliated and scuffle back to my seat?
Yes. Yes I can.
Due to a chronic fear of confrontation and vocal stature comparable to that of a fourteen-year old, my options to address this issue are as follows:
- Ignore it.
- Approach a supervisor and express my concerns, saying that it's unfair to be treated like a child, even if I sound and act like one.
- Leave thumbtacks on her chair.
- Fill up the water cooler and then tip it all over her rotating Satanic condescending head.
posted by GBE at 8:46 pm
12 Comments:
Um, yes, yes , yes, and yes. I am constantly treated like a schoolchild at work - usually by a particular dried up old hag who, ironically, probably never made it past year ten and definitely learned to write on a slate.
I try to throw my education and obvious intelligence in her face at every opportunity. It's [un-]surprisingly easy to do given that she's a step down from retarded...
Tell them to Piss Off! No job is worth losing your dignity! There must be something else you can do. Maybe you are just too afraid to try? Working in a place like the one you are, does rob a person of their self confidence. Dont be their hedgehog, believe in yourself and find something new. Remember, that only the brave shall prosper
You'll need a stake and hammer, plus some holy water, to take care of that nasty lady.
Don't get mad, GET EVEN! Surely a mind as creative as yours will be able to conjure up at least a half a dozen "jaw tighteners" to inflict without having yourself attached to it, over a pint o'Guinness
The art of watching the"sqwirm", whilest knowing you have"inflicted it" is priceless!!
P.S. Let us all know what you came up with!
Mr. Guinness
Being slightly passive aggressive myself, I think you should go with the thumbtack option...
Dude if I could confront her for you I totally would. She's a douchebag and if I were you I'd let your manager know she's being a bitch.
Just think, enough people complain and she gets into trouble. Win win really.
Dude if I could confront her for you I totally would. She's a douchebag and if I were you I'd let your manager know she's being a bitch.
Just think, enough people complain and she gets into trouble. Win win really.
Crap.
What a loser. It's pretty sad to get to a point where shaming co workers at the water cooler makes you feel important in your job.
Is she senior to you? If not, then just go ahead and keep filling up the cooler. If she is, talk loudly and often about how you're going travelling again and it's really exciting because you've got so many options to choose from, too many really because you're not sure where to start, but o isn't it exciting to be young!
Activity codes! You've just made the transition from wage-slave to bona fide robot. (Maybe soon you'll be able to tell them to 'kiss your shiny metal ass'.)
I hear that while late shifts suck, they are the best shifts if you want to arrange something a little different like say a hit on that rude coworker of yours!
Nails, it's pathetic at my work. They won't even let us remain in a room without somebody watching over us. We apparently need constant supervision, or who knows what might happen. We might accidentally set fire to the building or stab eachother with pencils. You just can't trust the underlings.
Jason, I have been looking around, but I'll have to receive a definite job offer before I leave there. Otherwise, knowing my luck, I'll be stuck unemployed and end up poor and homeless. Plus, there's another complication in that I'm going to South America next year and this place is actually willing to give me paid leave. Bugger.
Don, yes, that would be the bare minimum. I'm thinking a gun loaded with silver bullets wouldn't go astray, either.
Mr. Guinness, but they'll fire me! They're all so tight-knit and snarky and bitchy that I just wouldn't stand a chance against them. If I know I'm definitely leaving, then I can do something. Empty the water on her desk. I don't know. Empty MY water on her desk. Ha.
Tokenwoman, sound advice indeed. Perhaps I could upgrade and replace the cushiony bit of her seat with a bed of nails. That'll get 'er.
Lucy, triple-comment goodness! Would you believe that the nasty cow reported the incident to my supervisor, so the entire team was forced to have a 'meeting' about it? The general concensus from the team was 'are you fricking kidding me?' It's so unbelievably petty and ridiculous. The politics of that place are really getting my goat.
Audrey, yep, she's senior to me. She's a supervisor there. As well as your excellent suggestion, my other tactic is to loudly point out how my hair looks much better than hers and to eat large, cream-filled cakes in front of her (she's dieting, see). Take that, cow.
Mark, I feel like a robot. Or a partially-trained monkey. It's better than my last job but has quickly lost its appeal. I've already told them that if I don't gain a position in another, less-mind-numbing department, then I'm out of there. But, let's face it, how interesting is insurance going to get? I knew I should've become a travelling busker, instead.
Greg, I could hire an assassin to perhaps disguise himself as a water cooler repair man (oh, the irony!) and take the bitch down. Yeah!
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