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Dame Wars

7 Aug

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First of all, I work with dudes.  On purpose.

…I have had many a previous position wherein I have been planted in a cubical farm-from-hell with what feels like 150 clucking hens undertaking more day-to-day dramas than Telemundo. Basic fact is (whether you like it or not) the fellas are all upstairs in private offices, leaving a barrage of women and interns manning the open floors, swarming the place like flies. I don’t like office politics.  I don’t give a shit who is having an affair with whom, where you went on vacation or your particular marital difficulties.  I am not interested in swapping recipes at the water cooler, or flirting with the copy guy.  I do not want to socialize and B.S. the day away…I just want to show up, do my job and get the hell outta here.

That is all.

I have a life to live and it ain’t “here.”

…Now, I realize that for many, their day-to-day job is actually their “career” and main social hub of existence…that they prize it, invest in it and want to make it grow via networking, schmoozing, back stabbing, ladder climbing, et al.  I understand.  And I do not blame them for it…it is what they have and need and want, so: yay for them.  However, I also understand that being in that kind of environment, makes me want to punch people in the face.  It reminds me of High School, with its vicious little clicks and popularity contests…with it’s constant political scheming, power-plays and melodrama. (Far more in fact, than I’ve been privy to in most of the theatre’s I’ve been in.) So I quite simply do not work in those kind of places. Because I prefer my drama ON stage…not OFF.

…Which is why my current day-job is full of “gigalos”  who work “away.”  Because, by and large, I find that contractors of this type are only interested in doing what I do: their jobs.  And when it’s done, they go home.  End of story.  What with the type of Boss I work under (of course) there are some obvious  “hitches” in my ultimate scheme of “leave me to my work and all is well” perfection…but one cannot have everything.  This too: I accept.

…What really chaps my hide, makes me wanna reach for a Midol gun and start shooting it like pepper spray, though…is the occasional run of “Wife” interference.  This almost always occurs after paychecks arrive, and the Gigalos scoot back to the corners while their Pimps show up to play.

Strong women.(I get it.)  Who take no bullshit. (I’m right there.)  Showing up on my turf, wanting to get into a scratching-fight. (I will win.)

I just don’t play well with other dames…is (I think) what it ultimately comes down to.

“Where is this thing?!” 

“Why is that less?!”

“Why not this bonus?!”

“Where is that pay?!”

…With the Gigalos, I have them trained to write down their questions, and pop ’em in my in box where I can get to them and research when able. Once I have prepared the info and go over it with them, they nod, take the proof and walk away.  There’s no “hysterics”…no “wild threats” against all of humanity.  Even if they’re pissed, they “deal” with it, and we move on. With the Wife-Pimps it never works out this way. They will burst through my office door, whether I’m on the phone or not, automatically barraging with demands and updates.

…Which, (have me met?) just doesn’t fly with me.

First of all, they are not my contractors.  Second, “get the hell out of my office, and wait your ass in the lobby, thank you.”  Thirdly, there is 99.9% of the time,  a perfectly good reason for every “error” they think they find, and 96% of it is because the Gigalos missed the deadline, or didn’t document their shit.  The rest of the percentage has to do with Corporate.  Because I only pass on payroll records, I don’t do final edits and cut the actual checks. And I can prove these things, because I keep more records, than the average Attorney’s office.

…You’d think, (after the first few hysterical run-ins), the Wife-Pimps would understand this.  But they don’t.  It is always someone else’s fault that they don’t have their Gigalo’s full paycheck in hand.  The Gigalos certainly aren’t gonna take the hit, so they pass it onto me.

…And Mama don’t play that.

By 9:20 this morning I had a particular favorite Wife-Pimp, standing in my doorway (she’s finally been trained to stay “outside”), flipping out about a job sheet for yesterday.  Regardless of how I explained the specifics of the month-end process and it’s direct influence on said order, she was having none of it.  The paper looked different.  What did it mean?  She wanted the other page…the one I couldn’t get.  She didn’t care “why!” And she wasn’t leaving till she got it!

Needless to say, there were “words.” 

…She is no longer in my office and was given no paper, so I will leave you to determine just how this particular run-in ended.

…What I do know is that the hyper-ridiculousness of said situation (before I’d even had my first cup of coffee) slammed me right back to six years ago…where magnified by twenty other “such persons,” I was in a misery most foul…emotionally wretching at the thought of having to go into work every day and face that specific atmosphere. 

It sorta made me glad to be here right now, truth be told. Which is kind of a horrible realization.

It could, in fact, be “worse.”

Terrifying.

…So when the next Gigalo entered my office with an, “I don’t understand.” And I said, “Because, that’s just how it is.” And he said, “Okay,” and walked out…? I sorta just wanted to kiss him.

…And he’s a three-hundred pound, walrus look-alike, who smells perpetually of fish and stale sweat.

That’s how glad I was to be here right now.

Man.  I need a vacation.

~D

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