Hey fictional senior colleague,
I think what hurts the most (from how hard I laughed, not in the feelings) is that what you’re actually saying while implying I might be, in fact, Scared of your Scary Senior Self, is that I don’t give your non-work related posturing any reply airtime.
Because I literally do not care about the unspoken, read-between-the-lines idea that a much less senior (and let’s face it, only administrative) member of staff should be pandering to your less-than-whatever email banter, I of course must actually be a-skeered of you.
I don’t owe you replies to emails that aren’t progressing my work. I’m pretty fucking busy, and while I’m not that important yet, I will be one day. Like in the future, when you’ve retired and you’re waiting for someone to trot you out for guest lectures but I’M IN CHARGE NOW so nobody does.
I’m not scared of you, I’m just ignoring you because I don’t care about your stupid feelings
That’s heaps cute though.
Goddamn you sexy-voiced professors, you do it to me every time.
I get in the habit of flexing my vast administrative powers simply for my own entertainment: if someone is less than polite to me, it may take me a little longer to attend to their request. If someone expects unreasonable turnaround times, it takes the regular amount of time plus 10% more time. Weird.
I am not always the living worst. Sometimes I do a complete 180 and go out of my way to help someone. I like the ones who are good at banter; the ones who know they’re asking a lot and open with a wonderful easy-out disclaimer like: “I realise this is probably pushing it, but…” or even “I’m a complete idiot and I just realised I need such-and-such, like, yesterday”. Bow down and admit you need my help and I am right there with ya.
The other way to get me to help you, and I’m not entirely proud to admit it, but it needs to be said: have a smoky velvet-like phone voice. Make it warm, infuse it with humour, dip it in gratitude and I will expedite whichever form you like. I will stop just short of filling out the form for you, because I am mindful of setting expectations too high, but fuck it – I’ll stretch the rules a little, why not? Now let us both laugh at my funny joke.
The cherry on top: a follow-up thank you email wishing me a good weekend. I. Am. Yours.
Fair warning: this one’s a grumpy old bastard post.
On occasion it is a requirement that I orbit in the vicinity of people who talk a lot. Mostly I ignore the irrelevant pieces of the constant chatterboxing (sometimes, stubbornly, I will ignore the relevant bits too). There are a few frequent offenders that seem, mysteriously, to have a voice of a particular timbre that I am unable to ignore. These people are the living worst.
They talk to make noise. Like silence for a second will remind them that we’re all going to die eventually; that maybe they will end up half-eaten by Alsatians; that nobody cares about their stupid feelings.
Let me take you by the shoulders and shake a truth into you, Chatty Cathy McChatterson: being quiet even 50% of the time will dramatically improve my quality of life and possibly even yours, as I may choose to let you live instead of greasing up the stairs and looking on faux-horrified as you tumble down them (no doubt making an awful racket). Being quiet can lead to such positive effects as Increased Productivity! Learning Things! Less Enemies!
I accept I am being an elitist asshole about this. Perhaps I should consider the implications of this from a feminist perspective: do chatty women annoy me the same way chatty men do? Are there chatty men? Does that even work as a concept? Do all things men say carry more implied weight and significance to me? Am I subconsciously more likely to listen to a man speak?
These are great questions for further discussion, especially seeing as I am apparently all for giving voices and the power to be heard to those people who are regularly silenced. For now though, for today – I just wish the chatterfolk would quit their chatter. Shhhhht. Stop talking to make all that noise please.
Hey you lousy so-and-so’s
What makes you think you can dictate something which is so clearly a horrible idea? Which one of you monkeys wanted Thursday afternoons to be an actual thing? Do you hate everyone? Must you punish us all in this passive-aggressive, all-encompassing way that results in documents that have not been proof-read, conversational tangents that are frustrating even to simply overhear, consumption of over 3 cups of tea?
You’ve gone and made me invent a drink based on things I could find for free around the office, and let me tell you that a Mocha Milo on Nescafe with two white sugars is fucking awful, and I’m still going to drink the bloody thing in a vaguely masochistic attempt to wake myself up. YOU MADE THIS HAPPEN.
I can only assume that some old wealthy white folk sat around a table and were all like “Let’s make them work at least 8 hours a day for 5 days of the week – we’ll dictate start and finish times and proscribe exact breaks, and that will make the idiots do some work”. I hate you, old white wealthy (let’s face it) men. You’re awful.
Let me put it to you that I’d like to come in at 7am and leave at 7pm some days, and other days (read: Thursday and Friday afternoons) just not be here at all. Let me put it to you that I’d rather look at the amount of work done, not the amount of time taken to do the work.
We need to fix this shit. It is ridiculous.
hey people: seriously?
In a professional capacity, I am pretty great at stuff. Not all stuff, not every stuff, but some stuff. The stuff I care about, and even some of the stuff I don’t really care about. Mainly the former – stuff like being helpful to people and laughing at their jokes and understanding what part of the thing they’ve called or emailed me about is the real issue to be resolved.
The doing things for people thing, I do it well. Partly because it is my job but mostly because I can’t look people in the eye or the ear and be unhelpful with a clear conscience. I am very good at doing the thing.
I am telling you this, people who don’t know how good I am at stuff, because you fuckers clearly don’t know and aren’t going to tell me. Do you know how many times I’ve stopped people from crying actual tears of frustration and stress? I would ask you if you care, but I’m pretty sure I know the answer to that. I don’t want to hear you actually say it.
How do you think stuff gets done, exactly? Do you realise that I don’t even make known half the stuff I do because I’m the shy retiring type who doesn’t like to blow her own trumpet, MOTHERFUCKER?
WHY DON’T YOU KNOW HOW GOOD I AM AT STUFF?