I was cheerful this morning. I was wearing my new little pseudo-ballet slipper flats, my new white shirt with the whiter-than-white flower print on it, and it was Friday. I got up on time. There was no freshly horfed hairslime on the bathroom tiles.
Then I went in to work.
My first little job of the day, just begun this week, is to take some data from our stupid computer accounting system and translate it into a simple spreadsheet. Of course, extracting the data is prone to mistakes, at least when I do it before I have my morning Diet Pepsi and Kashi bar. All numbers look alike to me at 8:15 am. It doesn't help that there are "special things" that come up in the original data that I am NOT supposed to include, but for which I do not get the Secret Code Book. It looks just like the data I'm supposed to include. So I put the day's results on Bosszilla's desk,
Within a half hour he's at my desk, in his best Irritable But Patient manner, pointing his finger a lot and questioning how THESE numbers could be so different from THOSE numbers and IT MAKES NO SENSE and WHY DID I INCLUDE THAT? I pull up my original data and he gives me the Code Key for the day. Then I fix a duplicate entry and wonder where one of the entries I KNOW I put in yesterday (as evidenced in yesterday's printout) disappeared to today.
10 minutes later, all is fixed, but I am frustrated and irritated.
Nevertheless, I move on. I'm doing more boring than picking lint from the carpet data entry, which is endless and tedious and mind numbing, but tolerable with a little music, and I have portable tunes. Then, I get a call from someone in the back who needs me to speed-remember something I was half-involved with last November (another D-man project. I was involved in the tedious, mind numbing part, because I'm good at that.) So I put aside the data entry to fiddle with this, since chances were good I could get it done before I left.
Then I heard the roar of Bosszilla in the sales office. The floors shake and the walls tremble. A hush fell over all of Tokyo Inc. Everyone wondered where the rampage would begin and if there were sufficient electrical lines rigged. But, instead, Bosszilla grabbed some hapless victim and strode into his office.
That's when he REALLY let loose. I mean, I had my headphones on and my pen was shaking on my desk. I can't tell you what it was about, because mostly I heard "FUCK", "FUCKIN" and variations of that type, with the rest of the words more or less muffled behind layers of Asian Lounge music. I think it went on for about 30 minutes. I stuck my head back into my project and pretended that the soundwaves really didn't make my head hurt and my stomach tighten.
This particular project involves changing numerous part numbers on numerous spreadsheets and making sure the right ones are associated with each other. It's not hard, it's just fiddly work and it takes concentration and a highlighter (since the numbers are all very similar and have to be entered more than once for obscure reasons having to do with how D-man thinks). Of course, our receptionist, whom I like but who really doesn't like being a receptionist, keeps patching calls for Bosszilla through to me. I only get the calls she doesn't want to handle -- usually sales calls and cold calls for solicitation. I don't especially like to take these calls either, but I can usually get the caller to hang up. However, they interrupt me and make me lose track of what I'm doing.
Thus, more irritation and frustration.
And, last part of the day, Bosszilla comes in with a new project involving the back area of the plant and detailed instructions I need to write up. Joy. Generally I like doing this kind of work. It's something I do well. However, the back area is highly disfunctional. Let's make that HIGHLY DISFUNCTIONAL. They put the DIS in disfunction. It's divided into little fiefdoms, each fiercely guarded by a supervisor who doesn't trust or like the other supervisors and who will be DAMNED if he/she will let go of anything that might threaten his/her power position. Bosszilla created this. None of them can say a good thing about the others and will go out of their way to say something bad. Oh, and they tattle to Bosszilla (I mean tattle. There's no mature, professional, calm, logical complaining with this crew.) It's a giant kindergarten sandbox. I hate it.
But that's where I'll be next week. And Bosszilla's disparaging remarks, anger (he's always angry about the back area, one way or another) and contempt bleeds all over me. It's like being slimed. It's so hard to restrain myself, because I want to yell "WHY DO I HAVE TO SPEND GOOD BRAINCELLS ON THIS? I'LL SPEND HOURS ON IT, I'LL MAKE ALL YOUR LITTLE STUPID ALTERATIONS, I'LL GET EVERYONE'S OPINION ABOUT IT, AND THEN IT WILL BE IGNORED BY EVERYONE WHO'S SUPPOSED TO USE IT UNTIL YOU GET MAD AND MAKE ME DO IT AGAIN!"
But I didn't. I nodded and kept my body language neutral-positive and put it off until next week with the current fiddly project that took priority over the numbing data entry project.
The whole morning just got to me. If I had to put in 8 hours, I'd have killed someone around 3 pm with my stapler and a highlighter.