Aside from my shitty dating life, one of the reasons Gizzy & I started this blog was so we could have a place to bitch about our professional lives. I know, it’s really difficult to believe that I even have one. But I do. So it’s time I introduce my work place to you.
I am the editor of a website. I write some things for it, but mainly edit content. I don’t do design, or flash, and I do very little coding. All of those things are assigned to other people on the web team I work with.
Just to make sure we are on the same track, I love the work I do. The people I work with, however, get on my damn nerves. For starters, I am the youngest person in my office by at least 10 years. This means nearly everyone I work with is married, has children, and owns a home.
So instead of them seeing me as young, fresh talent, they all think I’m a drunk, that I dress inappropriately, and that I’m trying to sabotage the website by using hidden messages to promote Obama’s agenda.
To let you know how annoying this place is, you probably need an example. Last year, for my one year evaluation, I got great marks on all of the actual work I do, but I got bad marks on the dress code and attitude. One of my bosses said I had unpleasant facial expressions during meetings. Yeah.
What the fuck am I supposed to do during meetings? Have a damn smile plastered on my face for the entire 2 hours while you ramble on about a fucking homeless dog you fed? And the dress code…christ. I got in trouble the first time for wearing navy pants that resembled jeans. Then, I got in trouble for wearing cropped pants. They were dry-clean-only and from J-Crew, mind you!
What pisses me off is not the dress code. It’s the fact that people who kiss ass can wear whatever they want. Goucho pants? sure. Shower shoes/flip-flops? No problem! But our little drunk editor? No, she must wear a suite, closed toed heels, and no jewelry.
But there is one thing that makes me angrier than the dress code and the need for pleasant facial expressions—our social media coordinator, Fatso.
I want him to drop dead. No seriously, I hate him.
He is that guy who starts arguments just to start them. He believed Tiger Woods owed him a personal apology. He also didn’t think it was a big deal that we had our first black president. He wants to legalize prostitution and marijuana. He shaved his head and not his beard so he looks like a fucking idiot. When he sits in meetings, he strokes his beard. And he is fat. And wears mandals.
And I hate every damn second of it.
From day one of working here, Fatso and I didn’t get along. He tried to ask me on dates and I shot him down, which wasn’t a great beginning. Then, he tried to pretend he was my boss, when in fact, he is not. Instead, he is one of those guys who believes women shouldn’t have equal positions or pay, simply because we are women. He is that guy, who is always hanging out at the water cooler asking passing coworkers if they think “this is reality.”
Fuck. My. Ass.
But the actual instances that pissed me off in the beginning have transformed into complete resentment because this fucker gets away with EVERYTHING. Yeah, he gets to wear mandals so we all see his nasty toes, and he doesn’t keep a clean beard, but he also comes into the office whenever he wants. While I’m here at 8 am everyday, he’s here at 9, 10, 11, sometimes even 12:30. What the fuck? AND he makes more than everyone on our web team, aside from our boss (whom he calls Boss Lady).
The latest drama I had with Fatso happened yesterday, when I got this e-mail from him:
My dear writers,
I need answers to this question: What is it like to be a Bearcat? The morning FaceBook update this week will answer that question in different ways. If y’all want to test some wording being used in the recruitment campaign, this is a good venue.
Like okay, I’m not YOUR writer. We are coworkers. Secondly, you get PAID MORE THAN ME to write status updates for our flipping facebook page, so fucking do it. How much help do you need to write a sentence or two? Do I need to clip your toenails for you too? Here’s an idea asshole, why don’t you just make the status update: “What’s it like to be a Bearcat?” It’s facebook, not the fucking healthcare bill.
So, when I didn’t respond to the e-mail he found me in the hallway and was like, “so Lucky, you gonna help me out?”
Me: “Excuse me?”
Fatso: “I sent you an e-mail this morning asking for help on the status updates. I want them to be themed each week.”
Me: “Umm no I’m not helping you. It’s facebook…meaning your job, not mine.”
Fatso: strokes beard.
I left before he could ask me if I was talking in reality or in my imagination.