Bent Words

Bent Words

August 26, 2014

It has been a tumultuous two weeks at work, to say the least.

The acquisition of another company incurring a larger title load on the department, the resignation of our 19-year team lead veteran, Kim, our manager's sabbatical and the hustle and bustle of new hires have made the air thick with tension and naiveté.

The instruction offered two weeks ago for new titles was incomplete. But my work in submitting files could not wait for the perfect list and so I submitted my job on top of phrases like, "I don't know," and "Not sure, really," and "I guess it looks good to me."

If my leaders don't know if it's right, how am I supposed to know any better? I've been there for three years, you've been there 20...

And so despite my relentless fight to make things right until midnight on Tuesday, my tenacity in seeking out Business Area Managers for insight and my dedication to remain at the helm of my job sans leadership, our department still garnered a scolding on Friday. From a guy who couldn't use a Smart Tool to save his life. From a guy who sits on the sidelines championing our efforts without the slightest hint of actual aid.

We need someone who knows how to actually play the game instead of jumping up and down on the sidelines when things go right or wrong.

It's reminiscent of having that baseball glove, Cheyenne, as a parts manager at the motorcycle shop. She was about as useless as lips on a woodpecker. All she knew how to do was lie in a tanning bed. Probably thought a Honda Metropolitan was a really expensive drink. At least then I knew enough about my job to get superfluous peons like her fired. Now I can barely even tell you what it is exactly that I DO.

"I get the mail out," to quote one of the since-departed veterans.

But that barely scratches the surface.

It's what I miss the most of the Old Me. The experience. The years of travail. Knowing more than my male counterparts -- or at least knowing where to go to find the information needed -- and holding more ability/desire in my pinky finger than they held in all their BLANK-teen years of life. I could switch departments on a dime, tell it like it really was and go home at night without having to be contacted at all hours for questions.

Guess it was time to grow up, though.

Being an adult sucks sometimes. It's the biggest battle I face with myself. The inability to accept this whole new me that has sprouted as a result of having children and a husband and a mortgage and a fridge full of ingredients waiting to be "prepared" into a proper meal.

Never had to worry about that shazz before. I had tortillas, condiments and beer in my fridge. All my clothes fit into my closet because it was just me. I had four bills to pay: rent, insurance, phone and electric.

Now I have water bills and well permit fees (!?). Multi-vehicle and accidental death insurance and whatever the hell escrow is. Three SSNs instead of one, complicated taxes and setting aside time to mow the lawn.

For a time, the laundry room was closer to the bar than it was my apartment.

And I couldn't get quarters to utilize said laundry without hitting up the bar.

But what really pisses me off is that I never had to carry a purse before. If it didn't fit on my person, it wasn't worth carrying. Debit card, comb, chapstick, entry fee and car key. Let's go.

Now I have all this important crap to lug about with me. I have business cards for VIPs and check books and phone chargers. Lint-gathering nuks, snacks and pills to keep me sane in lieu of having children (namely, birth control). I used to be way organized at home but now my organizational skills are parsed down to a "working skill" I only employ from 7am-4pm Monday through Friday. Everything else is Put Me in the Zoo or Princess sippy cups and "Elmo go?"

Wouldn't trade it for the world. Save for maybe on Saturday nights.

And the occasional Thirsty Thursday.

There's a lot to worry about. A lot to get done. The list doesn't get smaller and the bills never seem to shrink much.

But writing about it helps.

I wouldn't want to share it with the world, my boss or my family too much but having a place to go on occasion to spew a bunch of bullshit is nice. Makes it all seem less intense, more manageable and way less important in the grand scheme of things.

Time to go hug my Squeaker and get our Elmo on.

Thanks for listening.

Written at 5:45 p.m.