confessions of a professional job-hopper

Insipid people and inane tasks are generally the reason I jump from job to job without building up a pension plan or earning any vacation days. The thought of spending consecutive decades doing the same stupid things surrounded by the same stupid people drive me from company to company. I go into each new job thinking, ‘surely, this will be a place I can tolerate (because I’ve long since given up the thought of finding a job I love) and can withstand until my 65th birthday, at which point I can retire.’

And I keep thinking this thought right up until the moment I meet the office idiot which drives me to start looking for greener pastures…or, at the very least, pastures with less manure. For two months, I have been a fortress of tolerableness…and then I met Donna.

The company that I work for, in an outstanding display of retroactiveness, assigned Donna as my ‘mentor’ a few weeks ago, whose job it was to help ‘train’ me. Donna, who now works in the warehouse but years ago worked in the billing department, was apparently the best candidate for the task. So once a week I sit with Donna as she reviews my past week’s work and writes up a little ‘assignment’ sheet containing tasks which must be completed by the following Monday. For example, last week’s list included the challenging tasks of helping the sales department stuff promotional information into envelopes and aiding Betty, who works across the hall from me, in all her filing needs.

So as Donna sat across from me, lips pursed and pen poised above the checklist, she asked, “and did you help Betty with her filing last week?”

“Betty never asked for my help,” I told her, “and I hated to just barge into her office. Betty knows that I’m always willing to help her, all she had to do was ask and I would have…” but at this point I was cut off by Donna, who took this opportunity to do a wonderful impersonation of my kindergarten teacher after having caught me eating Suzie’s vanilla wafer.

“SO THE ANSWER IS NO! You knew you were to help Betty…it was on your list! You didn’t need to ask her, you just do it! That’s why I wrote it on your list! If it wasn’t a good time for Betty, she would have told you and you then would have gone back later!”

“But…”

“DON’T YOU INTERRUPT ME WHEN I’M TALKING! I put things on your list that you are to accomplish! Understood! These task lists will go in your file, so you better start living up to company expectations!”

With effort, I refrained myself from filing my foot right up Donna’s ass. I did make a mental note, however, that I was adding ‘start checking the classified ads’ to my own, personal, task list.

why I went to college

This week started with the announcement of an internal audit at work. The news of this audit meant absolutely nothing to me. Being that I barely know what my job function is supposed to be, the idea of an audit, whether internal or external, was of little concern. And no concern was paid to this audit…right up until the moment I learned that the audit would require extensive work from my department…which, considering that I compose the entire department…meant me.

As it turned out, this audit entailed a random inspection of client files, all of which had to be in precise order, logged in accordance with company procedure, and have every dollar accounted for, lest the corporate big-wigs could face Enron status jail time if the books are chosen for audit by government folks.

And as I began pulling out files, I came to realize that my predecessor had done very little in terms of ‘work’. Two years worth of paper work and client account files had been stashed haphazardly in random cabinets around the office. Unfortunately, these lazy pieces of paper didn’t have enough ambition to file themselves. Shortly after this first realization, I discovered that during this two year period nothing had been logged. How this had been overlooked is a mystery to me, but now the task had fallen into my lap.

Thus, my week…which was to become laden with extra helpings of overtime…were spent filing and logging past shipment dates which needed to be cross referenced with correct invoice numbers. With every passing minute I could actually feel my IQ points slipping away, a sensation which is somewhat similar to ice cream induced brain freeze without the tasty portions of ice cream and the eventual warmth that returns to the chilled brain. I found my eyes frequently glazing over and, on several occasions, I am convinced that I just barely snapped myself out of it right before a full blown coma set in. As I sat on the floor in the middle of my office, surrounded by towering pillars of papers and carbon copy receipts, I couldn’t help but think that this surely wasn’t why I had spent so many years in school.

And I desperately tried to look on the bright side…which I’m told I don’t do nearly enough…by telling myself such things as, ‘most people probably wouldn’t have realized that client names beginning with the letter ‘T’ should be filed after those beginning with the letter ‘S’, not before’, and, ‘it takes a lot of skill to stuff that many papers into a single manila folder’.

Yet I still couldn’t help but feel that a couple of trained monkeys could have done just as good a job.

the price of fame

It was around my junior year in college when my friend Jim went through his ‘I want to be a musician’ phase. Previously, Jim had gone through several different majors, including business, communications, 19th century English literature, and an ill-fated attempt at chemistry. Thus, music as a major…being one of the few academic courses as of yet unexplored…seemed a good choice. His decision was also swayed by the fact that grunge music, which was in vogue at the time, didn’t require a whole lot of those annoying barriers that other genres of music required, barriers such as ‘skill’ and ‘knowing how to actually play an instrument’. Jim figured that with minimal musical talent, backed by loud drums and generous amounts of feedback, he could be the next rock superstar.

He quickly formed a band from students in his various music classes and, having known the owner of a nearby college dive bar, secured a gig before one single instrument was actually played by anyone in the group.

Their first performance was to be held in this little dive bar two months later, and the band began a rigid practice schedule which consisted of Wednesday evenings in one of the open music classrooms, and Thursday afternoons until five, the official opening of Happy Hour festivities. None of the band members had scheduled any classes on Friday, thus giving them a healthy dose of weekend to enjoy.

Jim decided that his band would be called ‘Free Beer’, and having spent a semester in an introductory advertising class during his ‘business major’ period, went on a whirlwind marketing blitz for his upcoming debut. His fliers, taped and stapled to virtually every signpost and bulletin board within the entire campus community, exclaimed in an extra large font, “Saturday at The Hole, Free Beer from 11-12pm!”

He chose the band’s name for precisely this reason, he told me. While, technically speaking, there was a certain amount of truth to his advertising, he felt that possible misconceptions would draw extra people into the bar, thus giving him a much larger audience than normally would appear for a group of minimally talented musicians who had only been practicing together for a few short weeks.

And his strategy proved correct, because that Saturday, the bar was packed by 10:30. I venture out to watch Jim’s debut performance with some friends of mine. Unfortunately, by 11:00 the already drunk and rowdy college crowd, upon finding out that the promised ‘Free Beer’ wasn’t the same free beer that they were expecting, got even rowdier and uglier in the process. I slipped out the door with my other friends at 11:05, which was the exact moment that the first beer bottle was thrown in the direction of the stage.

I later found out from Jim that his band’s first concert lasted exactly 12 minutes. It took this long for the owner of the bar to kick his band off the stage, followed quickly by them all slipping out the back door. Jim’s first performance ended up costing his band over $500…the amount of damage that a crowd of rowdy college kids expecting free beer can produce in 12 minutes worth of time. The band broke up after that.

Jim told me later, though, that he truly felt he could make it as a musician…in his opinion he had the passion, drive, and talent. “I just don’t know if I can afford it, man!” But the following semester Jim switched to yet another major…thus ending what could have been the next big revolution in music.

tis the season

This past weekend continued the annual summer wedding series that has been occurring within my extended family for the past several years. And with the exception of one remaining cousin, there is nobody left in the family who could possibly be married…withstanding one of those Jerry Lee Lewis marriages…which means that my wedding attendance days are numbered.

And for this, I am extremely grateful.

Because while the thought of having that ‘someone’ in my life is nice, I’m not certain how ‘nice’ it would actually be in practice. The thought of spending weekends doing yard work, pulling up kitchen tiles, and making curtain excursions to weigh the merits of varying fabrics…do we choose the floral print or the quaint little fruit pattern?...don’t rank high on my list of fun ways to spend my weekend. Nor would I particularly enjoy outings to visit all the aunt in-laws, nephew in-laws, and grandma in-laws.

This being said, however, weddings always remind me of just how lonely being alone really is.

The exchanging of vows, the constant clinking of glasses to pressure the newlyweds into kissing all through dinner, and the ever popular ‘first dance’…followed by an invitation for all married couples to join them…do a great job of branding me as ‘single’. How each night, I know that I’m headed to bed alone. And how every day after work, I know that an empty apartment awaits me…complete with a solo plate setting for dinner, a dinner which is generally something of the microwave variety because I really can’t see the point of cooking a meal when it’s just me. Weddings never fail to spell this out…in big capital letters with many exclamation points afterward.

Luckily, the air conditioning in the church wasn’t working, so as I stood there on that 95 degree day, sweating through every article of clothing I had on, most of my brain power was focused on staving off heat stroke rather than dwelling on just how alone I am.

twin forces of gravity

Kristi, the recent college graduate who works in the purchasing department, had a question for me today and stopped by my office. She started asking me about the billing invoice process and how accounts were credited for damaged merchandise. While she was talking, I couldn’t help but notice that she was wearing a very low cut shirt.

Knowing that there was an ample amount of cleavage hovering just below my line of sight, I made a Herculean effort to look her straight in the eyes…and only the eyes. The strenuous effort needed to accomplish this task occupied most of my attention.

Meanwhile, Kristi was continuing with her question…something about the forms used, or the used forms…I really wasn’t sure because I was finding it very difficult to listen, since the majority of available space in my brain was busy thinking, ‘do not look at her breasts…do not look at her breasts…’

Einstein really should have come up with some equation or theory or something to explain the magnetic force that can be created by two breasts…because the gravitation pull was amazing. Her boobs were like twin Jupiters drawing my eyeballs into orbit around them. But still, overcoming the basic laws of physics, I was able to refrain from letting my eyes drift below her neck.

I realized, at this point, that she had stopped talking and was waiting for some type of response. But because I was still busy spending every ounce of energy willing my eyes to keep from looking at her breasts…breasts which were still trying to tempt me by threatening to burst from the thin cotton veneer that was so poorly holding them in…that I had absolutely no idea what she had just finished asking. So I did the only thing that I could think of in my fatigued mental state…I jumped up and exclaimed, ‘Boy, am I thirsty!’, and sped out of my office telling her as I flew down the hall that I would look into the matter and email her with an answer as soon as possible.

After a few minutes, when I was certain that the coast was clear and Kristi would have surely taken her breasts and returned to her desk, I left the break room and headed back to my office. And with a sigh of relief I sat back down, glad that I had been able ignore her boobs.

And for the rest of the day, I could think of nothing else.

the big time

Today marked my true arrival into the business world. Years of toil and hard work. Months of unemployment. Days of endless Rolodex spinning and white outing. All leading up to this moment…the moment in which I entered the stratosphere of the ‘movers and shakers’ of big business. And, if not one of the 50 most influential people in business, then I’ve certainly become someone who knows someone that knows someone else that has heard of one of these 50 most influential people. Yes, today is the day that I got my first ever, bonafide business card. Concrete proof that I have made it to the big time.

Prior to this, I have remained business cardless.

There’s a certain stigma to not having any business cards. A scarlet letter that you wear with shame, announcing to people that you are not worthy enough to have your name printed on tiny rectangles of card stock paper. Evidence that you are not important enough to be stuffed into someone’s wallet or purse and placed next to other very important items such as old lipstick tubes and gas receipts. But now, after many years, my name is important enough to be included in the company of such items!

Now, when out and about, upon overhearing people discussing topics such as paper clips and three ring binder punches, I can tell them, “I know just the item that you’re looking for! Here’s my business card. Call me on Monday and I’ll see what I can do for you!”

And at bars, when seeing an attractive lady that would never even consider going out with an unbusiness carded guy, I can approach her and say, “I’d love to dine with you one evening. Here’s my business card…why don’t you call me sometime.”

And, best of all, I’m now eligible to win a free lunch at Burger King by depositing my business card into the fishbowl that sits atop the counter right beside the cash registers. A lunch lottery which is unavailable to those unsuccessful individuals who have yet to earn a business card.

With these thoughts in mind, I ripped open the cellophane wrapper, tore open the little cardboard box that housed my business cards, pulled one out and sniffed it…breathing deeply that ‘just off the presses’ smell which recently printed paper tends to have. The smell of success!

Gingerly holding my business card in both hands, I held it out in front of me to gaze upon the key which would introduce me into the world of the rich and powerful! And glancing down, I realized that my name was spelled incorrectly.

phoning it in

I went golfing with some friends yesterday…and I use the term ‘golfing’ very loosely. What I actually do on the golf course bears little resemblance to actual golfing. I spend most of my time in the woods hunting for my golf ball. So in actuality, my golf game more resembles an Easter egg hunt. Since this is the case, I put very little stock in making par, but rather base the quality of my game on the number of golf balls I leave the golf course with. If I end my game with more balls then I began, I consider this to have been an exceptionally stellar game…right up there with the likes of Tiger Woods.

After the game, we headed to the Olive Garden for something to eat. It was early afternoon, that perfect restaurant eating time that’s after the lunch rush but before the dinner rush, and the crowd was sparse. Yet we sat menuless for several minutes, and right before feelings of total abandonment set in, our waitress Mandi made an appearance at our table.

She slapped down four menus and asked, ‘what’re you drinkin’?’

We ordered our drinks and waited several more minutes before she came back to take our food order. Being hot and thirsty, the drinks didn’t last long. And by the time our meals came, we were ready for refills. Which is exactly what we asked Mandi for, even adding a ‘please’ at the end of our request.

We caught a glimpse of her rolling her eyes as she walked away and were quite certain that Mandi didn’t enjoy her summer career as a waitress. Perhaps she longed to be back at college, drinking away the weekends and skipping her English Literature class on Monday morning, opting for more sleep instead. Maybe she was Homecoming Queen last fall and felt that waiting tables was beneath her…a task that only peasant girls and mere mortals should be forced to do. Whatever the case, Mandi obviously didn’t care much about our dining experience.

Several Mandi-less minutes later, we were certain that our refills of lemonade and Diet Coke were not going to find their way to our table anytime soon. And it was at this moment that I noticed one of those little table inserts, wedged between the salt and pepper shakers, promoting a ‘Phone it In’ lunch time pick-up service. With a simple call, lunch could be prepared to your specifications and picked up at a predetermined time (the all you can eat breadsticks, soup, and salad were only available to the in-store guests, however) followed by the restaurant’s phone number so that you too could take part in this wonderful, lunch-altering event.

Being the desperate and dehydrated guy that I had become, I quickly grabbed my cell phone and called the restaurant. Someone answered and I asked to speak with Mandi…who I knew was still in the restaurant because I saw her standing near the kitchen doors just moments before talking to another waitress. Mandi picked up the line and said hello.

“Mandi,” I said, “this is table fifteen calling…you know, the four guys thirsty guys that you gave food to a little while ago? We really miss you and would be thrilled if you would stop by…and maybe you can you bring us some refills on our drinks when you visit. Oh, and by the way, could you bring us some extra ranch dressing too? Thanks. We hope to see you soon.”

Fortunately, we got to see Mandi’s lovely, sneering face soon after the call…armed with beverages and extra ranch dressing. And while we were grateful, we couldn’t fully enjoy the drinks and dressing because, in the back of our minds, we were quite certain that Mandi spit in every single one of them.