I don't get along with my boss. I've only had this job for about four months, but in that time she has made it clear that she simply does not like me. My coworkers have commented that she appears to have it in for me, but no one can really tell why. Because I aim to please, I have tried everything I can think of to make her happy. I bust my ass, I produce a ton of work, and nothing seems to be enough. At this point I have just given up. You can't please all of the people all of the time, and this is one of those situations.
I am continually amazed at her complete lack of professionalism. My company is growing very rapidly, and in that growth they have promoted a number of people out of necessity. This is the only explanation as to why someone with no apparent managerial skill could have been placed in a management position. She came to my company directly out of college, when the firm had only a few dozen people. Now, four years later, we number over 150 and she finds herself a manager at 25 years old. It is this kind of dedication and commitment to its employees that makes me like my company, but at some point loyalty should give way to sound business practices. Management is a skill that must be developed, and this woman is in over her head.
Beyond the professionalism, it's apparent that Boss and I are two very different people. She is the absolute prototype suburban twentysomething. Business degree from Virginia Tech? Check. Sorority? Check. Townhouse? Check. Fiance? Check. Volkswagon Passat? Check. Bush/Cheney bumpersticker? Check. Vacation in Nags Head? Check. I abhor the kind of person that she is, but I keep that all in. I've got a job to do, and I try to make nice.
What makes the situation worse is that she tries to be friends with me, in a superficial and deliberate way. It's obvious that being The Boss doesn't sit well with her sometimes (although I'm sure that sometimes she LOVES it), so being chummy helps her feel better about herself when she bitches at me. She tries to make small talk to show me what a nice person she is, and how concerned she is about me. But by doing that she only demonstrates how different we are. Two examples of why Boss and I do not and will not ever get along:
1) My fellow employees are all very young. This is one of the things I like about my job. I'd say the average age is 30, tops. Because of this, hangovers are a badge of honor. I'm glad I have realized this. Drinking makes me job so much easier. It's perfectly acceptable to talk about how drunk you were the night before. One morning in a meeting Boss makes a comment about the stamp I have neglected to wash off my hand, and I explain that it's from a bar called the Black Cat. She's never heard of it, and I say, "It's like the 9:30 club kinda, but only smaller." She says, "What's the 9:30 club?" This woman has lived in the Virginia suburbs for five years, from ages 21 to 25. If you don't know what the 9:30 is, you and I really don't have much to talk about.
2) My team consists of Boss, me, and J, a senior-level staffer that ranks between us. One day after I had been on the job about a month we are sitting around in a conference room after a meeting, bullshitting. J and Boss are friends, or at least Boss thinks so. J actually cannot stand Boss, but has learned that kissing her ass can be very beneficial, hence the promotion to senior level. J and Boss are talking about Boss' wedding (let me tell you how much I love hearing about her wedding every day) when Boss gets an IM from someone. She has her laptop plugged into the projector, so J and I can both see what she is typing. Boss is surprised, because the person on the other end is an old boyfriend, someone she had a thing with in college. At this point Boss should have ended the meeting or at least turned the fucking projector off, but instead she starts giving us uncomfortable details about the poor bastard. She also tells us that she wants to find out good gossip to tell her friends. She proceeds to ask pointed questions to find out things like: How much money is he making? Does he own his house, or is he only renting? He's recently gotten married and had a baby, was the wife pregnant when they got married? She is doing all this conniving shit directly in front of me and J, and we cannot escape. This is the kind of person Boss is.
So lately the people that sit near me have taken to making fun of me about this Friend that I have been hanging out with recently. They tease me that my Friend is really more than my friend, and people laugh when I assure them that we're just friends. I'm always going on about plans with the Friend, or what I did last night with the Friend, or blah blah blah. My co-workers tease me about it, but they don't pry. It's all in good fun. Unfortunately the Boss has a little less tact.
Before a meeting on Friday, Boss was talking about her plans for the weekend. These involve planning something about the wedding or something, something I don't care at all about. She asks me what I'm doing, and she says, "Are you going out with your...friend?" in a very condescending way. At this point, J walks in. I say that I am, and she asks "So what's the deal with just being 'friends' anyway?" I sorta shrug my shoulders and don't really say anything, and then she asks, "Are you sleeping together?"
!
It is true that I have a very laidback office, where personal lives are often discussed openly. But this is just none of her goddamn business. I am obviously very put off by the question, because Boss turns to J and says, "Oh look! I made him uncomfortable!" She is happy about this. J is mortified. But what can I do? I just don't answer.
There are a thousand ethical issues here. For starters it's an inappropriate question to ask someone at work. It's also blatant sexual harassment. And if she were a man and I were a woman, it would probably be grounds for termination. It's also complicated because she has been with the firm forever, and has friends in high places. If I were to make a fuss about this, I would have to take it up with her pals. If they reprimand her, she will make my life hell as she already doesn't like me. If they reassign me, she will gossip all over the office and I will be even more ostracized.
I like my job, although I don't intend to stay here very much longer. I took this position right after grad school, and I plan to use it to move on in another six months ago. I'm tempted to just suck it up and not say anything, to not rock the boat and just deal for a little longer.
But it chaps my ass that I'm considering letting her get away with this. I'm sure that Kant is rolling over in his grave. I know that I should make an example of this, that I should bring it up with the big bosses to make things Right and Good and Just. Only I really want to just make it all go away and come to work and ignore it, knowing I won't have to deal with shit like this for much longer. I feel like a heel, but I'm a heel with a job I enjoy and a greater plan that involves getting the fuck out of here.
What should I do?
Monday, June 27, 2005
Sunday, June 19, 2005
Ineffectuality, Super-Sized®
I like fast food. I know it's bad for me, and the fast food companies exploit their workers, and the food is crap. I'm aware of all of this. But I can't deny it, I just like it. And I'm not just talking about the convenience and the fact that it's dirt cheap. I actually like the taste of it. I mean come on, burgers and fries?
Fast food joints are interesting, too, because you never know what kind of people you're going to see there. They're a great equalizer of sorts.
There is, however, one type of person you find at these places that drives me crazy- the people who treat the staff like shit.
Male fast food employee hater:
I am a very important person. I mean, look how expensive my watch is. And you know I have no tolerance or respect for people who make less money than I do. Obviously these idiots behind the counter never went to college, and even if they did it was probably a state school. And lord knows they weren't cool enough to have been in my fraternity, and so they definitely did not have access to my extensive network that allowed me to cheat my way through business school. Could they have gotten that copy of the Accounting final the morning before the exam, allowing them to get totally fucking hammered dude at the DMB concert the night before? Hardly. Hell, they probably don't even like DMB! And that's a shame, too, because these people appear to be ethnic, and the DMB is ethnic. I mean, they've got black people actually IN the band! But anyway, where was I? Oh yeah, these people don't seem to be able to speak English, either, which can only mean one thing: terrorist. That's it, I'm getting another 'W' sticker for my BMW. It's time we got rid of all of these people once and for all.
Female fast food hater:
First of all, do you know how hard it is to park a Hummer in one of these parking spaces? (sighs audibly) Can I have a Big Mac meal, super size, with a Diet Coke? Yes...that's...Diet...Coke! Jesus, can't any of you people speak English? (rolls eyes) Why are all these Mexicans so stupid? No, I'm not a racist. I just think that if you come to this country, you should be able to speak the language and get a good job. I have the same problem with my gardener and my maid. Oh and don't give me that shit that this is hard work. I cook for my family at least twice a week, and have you seen my rose garden? I appreciate a hard day's work.
I hate all of you. I hate you every time you shout at the poor woman behind the counter because you think that will make it easier for her to understand your language. I hate you every time you turn around, exasperated, and give me that sympathetic "Can you believe white people have to deal with this shit?" look. I'm crossing my fingers that the guys in the back are putting god knows what in your food.
You see, I've worked in fast food before. It sucks. It's demeaning and exhausting. It's hot as an oven in there, you get treated like a machine, and you make minimum wage. You burn yourself constantly, you sweat incessantly, and you're trapped in a polyester uniform that was designed by some asshole who has never set foot behind the counter. The people you wait on judge you simply by your respective positions at the counter, and no matter how fast you are or how hot the food is, the only time you will hear from them is when you fuck up an order.
So I am unfailingly polite to the staff at these joints. I am sympathetic to how hard their job is, and I know that the last thing they want to do is serve low-grade dogfood to my drunk ass at 3am. This is particularly true of the poor folks at the McDonald's at the corner of Lee and Glebe, which is miraculously open 24 hours. Needless to say that the latenight weekend staff is getting to know me.
There is one woman in particular who gets my deepest sympathies. A few weeks ago I pulled up to the window after the group of kids in front of me had just given her an especially difficult time. I seem to see her every weekend, and she gave me a smile of semi-recognition. She looked pretty depressed. I smiled back, made some small talk and apologized for the drunk kids (in Spanish, which appeared to delight her), and thanked her. It can be awkward in that kind of situation, because in the middle of the night it takes a while at the window because they often have to actually make the food. But hey, I was fine. I was drunk and chatting up the fast food lady, and my act was killing.
Fast forward a few weeks, to maybe two weeks ago, and I am at the same McDonald's but this time on a weeknight after work. It's maybe 7pm. I pull up to the window and it's the same lady. This time I get a big smile, a smile that, if we were in a bar, would say, "Wow! I didn't know you hang out here! It's so good to see you!" I smile back, nervous. What am I supposed to do? I so do not understand the etiquette in the situation. Thankfully the whole episode is mercifully short, because it's the dinner rush and I've got to get a move on. But after she takes my money and starts to hand me my food, she leans out the window and whispers to me, conspiratorially:
"I gave you some extra straws."
I am literally paralyzed. I've got a shit ton of self-loathing for my tendency to handle social situations in the least-cool way possible, but this one takes the cake. How the fuck are you supposed to respond to that? All I can do is smile and say, "Thank you" and drive away. Straws?! What the fuck is that all about? French fries I could understand. French fries says, "Next time, ask for my number." But straws?
Fast food joints are interesting, too, because you never know what kind of people you're going to see there. They're a great equalizer of sorts.
There is, however, one type of person you find at these places that drives me crazy- the people who treat the staff like shit.
Male fast food employee hater:
I am a very important person. I mean, look how expensive my watch is. And you know I have no tolerance or respect for people who make less money than I do. Obviously these idiots behind the counter never went to college, and even if they did it was probably a state school. And lord knows they weren't cool enough to have been in my fraternity, and so they definitely did not have access to my extensive network that allowed me to cheat my way through business school. Could they have gotten that copy of the Accounting final the morning before the exam, allowing them to get totally fucking hammered dude at the DMB concert the night before? Hardly. Hell, they probably don't even like DMB! And that's a shame, too, because these people appear to be ethnic, and the DMB is ethnic. I mean, they've got black people actually IN the band! But anyway, where was I? Oh yeah, these people don't seem to be able to speak English, either, which can only mean one thing: terrorist. That's it, I'm getting another 'W' sticker for my BMW. It's time we got rid of all of these people once and for all.
Female fast food hater:
First of all, do you know how hard it is to park a Hummer in one of these parking spaces? (sighs audibly) Can I have a Big Mac meal, super size, with a Diet Coke? Yes...that's...Diet...Coke! Jesus, can't any of you people speak English? (rolls eyes) Why are all these Mexicans so stupid? No, I'm not a racist. I just think that if you come to this country, you should be able to speak the language and get a good job. I have the same problem with my gardener and my maid. Oh and don't give me that shit that this is hard work. I cook for my family at least twice a week, and have you seen my rose garden? I appreciate a hard day's work.
I hate all of you. I hate you every time you shout at the poor woman behind the counter because you think that will make it easier for her to understand your language. I hate you every time you turn around, exasperated, and give me that sympathetic "Can you believe white people have to deal with this shit?" look. I'm crossing my fingers that the guys in the back are putting god knows what in your food.
You see, I've worked in fast food before. It sucks. It's demeaning and exhausting. It's hot as an oven in there, you get treated like a machine, and you make minimum wage. You burn yourself constantly, you sweat incessantly, and you're trapped in a polyester uniform that was designed by some asshole who has never set foot behind the counter. The people you wait on judge you simply by your respective positions at the counter, and no matter how fast you are or how hot the food is, the only time you will hear from them is when you fuck up an order.
So I am unfailingly polite to the staff at these joints. I am sympathetic to how hard their job is, and I know that the last thing they want to do is serve low-grade dogfood to my drunk ass at 3am. This is particularly true of the poor folks at the McDonald's at the corner of Lee and Glebe, which is miraculously open 24 hours. Needless to say that the latenight weekend staff is getting to know me.
There is one woman in particular who gets my deepest sympathies. A few weeks ago I pulled up to the window after the group of kids in front of me had just given her an especially difficult time. I seem to see her every weekend, and she gave me a smile of semi-recognition. She looked pretty depressed. I smiled back, made some small talk and apologized for the drunk kids (in Spanish, which appeared to delight her), and thanked her. It can be awkward in that kind of situation, because in the middle of the night it takes a while at the window because they often have to actually make the food. But hey, I was fine. I was drunk and chatting up the fast food lady, and my act was killing.
Fast forward a few weeks, to maybe two weeks ago, and I am at the same McDonald's but this time on a weeknight after work. It's maybe 7pm. I pull up to the window and it's the same lady. This time I get a big smile, a smile that, if we were in a bar, would say, "Wow! I didn't know you hang out here! It's so good to see you!" I smile back, nervous. What am I supposed to do? I so do not understand the etiquette in the situation. Thankfully the whole episode is mercifully short, because it's the dinner rush and I've got to get a move on. But after she takes my money and starts to hand me my food, she leans out the window and whispers to me, conspiratorially:
"I gave you some extra straws."
I am literally paralyzed. I've got a shit ton of self-loathing for my tendency to handle social situations in the least-cool way possible, but this one takes the cake. How the fuck are you supposed to respond to that? All I can do is smile and say, "Thank you" and drive away. Straws?! What the fuck is that all about? French fries I could understand. French fries says, "Next time, ask for my number." But straws?
Monday, June 13, 2005
Rock Out With Your Dock(ers) Out
Look I'm no authority on fashion. Me = blue jeans, tshirt, Chucks. I've got a deep distrust for men who spend too much time in front of the mirror. I understand that being fashionable is an acquired skill, something I simply do not possess. I recognize that some men can do it- my hangup is that most can't. So if you buy your clothes at anything that could be considered a boutique, then this isn't for you. If you're like the vast majority of men, however, I think I might have a bone to pick with you. You see you and me need to talk, and it's about your clothes. I apologize if this bruises your feelings, but believe me when I tell you that it hurts us more than it hurts you. I don't want to waste any more time, so let's get right to the point.
Pleats? No.
I simply cannot believe that men are still wearing pleated pants in 2005. Somewhere along the line someone decided that putting pleats in your pants gives you a 'slimming' effect. No fellas, it doesn't. It makes your already fat ass look pear-shaped. But beyond the failed effort to take the focus off your girth, you are demonstrating that you are completely oblivious to the fact that just about any woman you meet will tell you that pleated pants are fucking retarded. The plain-front Dockers are right next to the pleated ones at JC Penney. Please, for all of us, give up the pleats.
Black guys are cooler than you.
They just are. They can make ridiculous outfits look good. Case in point- the tie and shirt of the same color fabric look. This looks snappy on brothers; it looks incredibly stupid on me and you. I know that you have, like, at least three black Friendsters, and that that one guy in your frat's mom was black. That's great, you're a very diverse individual. But stop kidding yourself whitey, you look a fool.
Mandals.
Unless they are going to come into direct contact with sand, you are never, ever to wear shoes that expose your toes. Do you hear me? The one passable exception is a basic pair of flip flops, which I guess you can wear when you're farting around on the weekends. But the minute you show up at the bar with anything that buckles or straps...
Your underpants are not for pictures.
When I was seven I had Superman Underoos. They rocked. I put them on and pretended to be Superman. You know what was the coolest part about it? I was SEVEN. Now I'm a grownup, and so are you. So no more pictures on your underpants. This means that you're going to have to throw away your boxers with the Christmas trees/Budweiser frogs/naked ladies/New York Yankees logo. If you look in your underwear drawer and you see the words "Joe" and "Boxer" it's headed for the trash. And yes, I'm sorry, you're going to have to finally rid yourself of those threadbare, faded, silk monstrosities that your girlfriend gave you in college.
Superfan.
There is one acceptable place to wear a jersey- to the game where the team is playing. So, when the Yankees are in town, you and your mouthbreathing idiot friends can suit up in your Derek Jeter replicas and pound Miller Lites at Camden Yards. For the 358 days a year when the Yanks aren't in town, that fucker is staying in the closet. It will have company right next to your repressed homosexuality.
Been there, done that.
Under no circumstances is it permissible to wear a tshirt advertising a city, bar, or restaurant you have visited. We don't care. This is especially true if the place has a slightly racy name. No one over thirteen thinks your "I got crabs at Dick's Raw Bar" shirt is funny. It is worth noting, however, that it is absolutely acceptable to wear a tshirt advertising a band that you have seen play. The rub is that only certain bands are acceptable. How will you know? If you bought the shirt at the 'concert,' it's a nono. If it cost more than twenty dollars, it's a nono. If it has a collar, it's a nono. You know what? On second thought maybe you should just stay away from the band tshirts.
Tucking.
Repeat after me: "With the sole exception of weddings, I promise that I will not tuck anything into anything from the hours of 5pm Friday through 8am Monday."
I'd like to point out that the phenomenon isn't restricted to men. In the spirit of equality, some tips for the ladies.
Tall butts.
This one confuses me. I've never dated a woman with a tall butt, so I don't really understand the physiology of the thing. But for some reason, some women have butts that start in the middle of their backs. Call me crazy, but if I were one of these women I think I'd wear my pants somewhere below my nipples so as not to exaggerate the tall butt phenomenon. Please relax and pull your pants down a little. Don't worry, we all know about the embarrassing tattoo.
Enough with the boobs already.
Your boobs are great. They look good and you like showing them off. I enjoy looking at them. But we are at WORK. Please, for the love of god, cover them up at least a little bit. We're trying to work here. Jesus Christ, did I really just type that? That doesn't make me gay, does it?
Yankees rule!
Pleats? No.
I simply cannot believe that men are still wearing pleated pants in 2005. Somewhere along the line someone decided that putting pleats in your pants gives you a 'slimming' effect. No fellas, it doesn't. It makes your already fat ass look pear-shaped. But beyond the failed effort to take the focus off your girth, you are demonstrating that you are completely oblivious to the fact that just about any woman you meet will tell you that pleated pants are fucking retarded. The plain-front Dockers are right next to the pleated ones at JC Penney. Please, for all of us, give up the pleats.
Black guys are cooler than you.
They just are. They can make ridiculous outfits look good. Case in point- the tie and shirt of the same color fabric look. This looks snappy on brothers; it looks incredibly stupid on me and you. I know that you have, like, at least three black Friendsters, and that that one guy in your frat's mom was black. That's great, you're a very diverse individual. But stop kidding yourself whitey, you look a fool.
Mandals.
Unless they are going to come into direct contact with sand, you are never, ever to wear shoes that expose your toes. Do you hear me? The one passable exception is a basic pair of flip flops, which I guess you can wear when you're farting around on the weekends. But the minute you show up at the bar with anything that buckles or straps...
Your underpants are not for pictures.
When I was seven I had Superman Underoos. They rocked. I put them on and pretended to be Superman. You know what was the coolest part about it? I was SEVEN. Now I'm a grownup, and so are you. So no more pictures on your underpants. This means that you're going to have to throw away your boxers with the Christmas trees/Budweiser frogs/naked ladies/New York Yankees logo. If you look in your underwear drawer and you see the words "Joe" and "Boxer" it's headed for the trash. And yes, I'm sorry, you're going to have to finally rid yourself of those threadbare, faded, silk monstrosities that your girlfriend gave you in college.
Superfan.
There is one acceptable place to wear a jersey- to the game where the team is playing. So, when the Yankees are in town, you and your mouthbreathing idiot friends can suit up in your Derek Jeter replicas and pound Miller Lites at Camden Yards. For the 358 days a year when the Yanks aren't in town, that fucker is staying in the closet. It will have company right next to your repressed homosexuality.
Been there, done that.
Under no circumstances is it permissible to wear a tshirt advertising a city, bar, or restaurant you have visited. We don't care. This is especially true if the place has a slightly racy name. No one over thirteen thinks your "I got crabs at Dick's Raw Bar" shirt is funny. It is worth noting, however, that it is absolutely acceptable to wear a tshirt advertising a band that you have seen play. The rub is that only certain bands are acceptable. How will you know? If you bought the shirt at the 'concert,' it's a nono. If it cost more than twenty dollars, it's a nono. If it has a collar, it's a nono. You know what? On second thought maybe you should just stay away from the band tshirts.
Tucking.
Repeat after me: "With the sole exception of weddings, I promise that I will not tuck anything into anything from the hours of 5pm Friday through 8am Monday."
I'd like to point out that the phenomenon isn't restricted to men. In the spirit of equality, some tips for the ladies.
Tall butts.
This one confuses me. I've never dated a woman with a tall butt, so I don't really understand the physiology of the thing. But for some reason, some women have butts that start in the middle of their backs. Call me crazy, but if I were one of these women I think I'd wear my pants somewhere below my nipples so as not to exaggerate the tall butt phenomenon. Please relax and pull your pants down a little. Don't worry, we all know about the embarrassing tattoo.
Enough with the boobs already.
Your boobs are great. They look good and you like showing them off. I enjoy looking at them. But we are at WORK. Please, for the love of god, cover them up at least a little bit. We're trying to work here. Jesus Christ, did I really just type that? That doesn't make me gay, does it?
Yankees rule!
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