30
May
2010
A New Game 31.05.10
So here I am. Back again. Same deprecating humour, different story.
I’ve got a job, as you may have gathered from the removal of prefix -un from the blog title.
For those of you new readers, welcome. This is a safe space.
A space where I make fun of myself and hopefully make you laugh and feel better. You know, the old, at-least-we’re-not-fish-in-the-Mexican-gulf pick-me-up. Or, something like that…
I’ve waited a couple weeks to resume this blog because, well, I didn’t know what to do with it.
Being employed is inherently successful, and this blog is all about laughing at my own expense. I didn’t want to alienate my unemployed audience by turning around the finger and mocking their economic status (or lack thereof) with every post.
Turns out, there’s just as much, if not more, self-mockery to be had at the employment front lines.
This blog will document mine and others anecdotal struggles to get through the 9-5pm, 10-4am, or whatever other hours you put it to get paid. For you loyal readers of the unemployment diaries, you will notice a small change. This blog will be brought to you Monday morning instead of Sunday evening. The idea being that just as Sundays are the hardest day for unemployees because, unlike the rest of the world, they are not gearing up for work, Monday is the hardest day for the employed, a steep hill that seems impossible to climb. Together, we can do it (my apologies to those not on a 9-5. Insert your first work day of the week to feel the full effect of the hill metaphor).
Let the Employment diaries be the cream in your coffee, the thank-you note in your mailbox, that little touch that makes climbing hills easier…
This week, I bring you stories of shame. To those of you with jobs: please revel in and relate to my quest of navigating office politics. To all the unemployees: revel in the fact that you can wear ketchup stains on your shirt and that feeling ashamed in front of your family is much less forgiving then feeling shamed in front of your coworkers.
Read it and weep:
THE ACCUSATION
“What did you just call me?” I say outraged to a co-worker I met five days ago.
“Um, I asked you what you’re doing this weekend,” he says cautiously, as if trying to talk someone off a ledge.
I’m standing in a Starbucks line with a group of my new co-workers. We’re taking a 3:30 coffee break, and since it’s half-price frappucino hour, the line is long.
I just started a new job at a business magazine, and am completely intimidated by all of my colleagues. The young girls I should relate to seem hyper-ambitious and uptight. The men come from newspaper background’s and have that potty humour and gruffness I want to engage with but don’t know how to.
It’s the first week. It’s supposed to be like this. But sitting at my cubicle, without an assignment, I just feel like I’m constantly trying to say the right thing to the right person without knowing anything about anyone.
Everyone is staring at me, waiting for the justification for my unwarranted accusation.
The natural, normal thing to do would have been to shrug off my outburst and say, “I heard something different.”
But no, I’m nervous and have no self-control so I just ramble off some unnecessary explanation for the whole event.
“I thought you called me ‘sweet cum’,” I say, and watch in horror as my new colleagues try and process what I just said.
What I meant to say was ‘sweetums’ or ‘sweet thang’ or any other normal sounding creepy term of endearment an older man uses to prove his masculinity on a younger woman. I thought he had looked me up and down, and referred to me by whatever term involving sweet, and that by calling him out I was setting a standard for working women being harassed in offices everywhere.
Turns out, he was just trying to include the awkward new employee and ask about her weekend. Whoops.
“No,” said my co-worker, slightly horrified. “I’m not looking to be charged with harassment this early in the game.
“Sweet cum? What is that?” laughed one of the guys. I think one of the uptight looking girls was about to puke.
“I don’t know, it’s just what I heard,” I said, desperately trying to backpedal. “Not that you would ever use such a vulgarity,” I said, trying to reassure my now traumatized colleague.
After an attempt to make awkward small talk, the colleague I accused said the line was too long and he’d meet us back at the office.
As he left we all looked at each other and agreed that no one really wanted to wait in line for coffee. Or, maybe it was just that coffee didn’t seem so appetizing with a side of “sweet cum.”