They�re heeeeeere�
Or, more accurately, they will be heeeeeere tomorrow, and by �tomorrow� I mean the day after today. And by �heeeeeere�, I mean in this very office. And by �they�, I mean�Them. No, not the giant ant movie, just click on the damn link and see what I mean. Or read on.
Yes, gentle reader, by this time tomorrow, if I haven�t stabbed myself in the heart, I will be face-to-face with my arch-nemeses, the East Coasters. Anna, Circe, Davy, and yes, even the foul Sally are all wending their fearful way westward to make my life a living hell. I mean, that�s not the main objective of their visit (at least, not as far as they�re willing to admit, anyway), but you just know it�s on the agenda. Sophie is calling it a "creative meeting". I�m calling it "manslaughter".
She (Sophie) has been planning this for months, and although I knew it was coming, I was very careful to push my knowledge of it into that aerie of my subconscious where sits my awareness of such things as potential nuclear holocaust and biochemical warfare -- you know, horrific stuff that just might happen someday, but is of consequence too dire and grave to contemplate seriously without losing one�s mind. I won�t say I adopted an �ignore it and maybe it�ll go away� philosophy about it, but�well, I did. Sort of. About three or four weeks ago, when Sophie started making all these comments about how the "creative meeting" (manslaughter) was "right around the corner", I started sending my r�sum� out like I was Spiderman plummeting from the Empire State Building and my CV was a rope of webbing, and the only thing that would stop me from going splat.
I think I�m about to go splat. Obviously my efforts amounted pretty much to nil, which is just as well since I have no transportation to get me to and from any new interview and/or new job, but still. I was really, really dreading this week. Still am, as a matter of fact, since the fun seems to be continuing unabated. I�ve already gotten three nasty emails today, asking me why things are the way they are (like, who am I, Jean-Paul Sartre?), when I have absolutely nothing to do with the subjects at hand, nor any sway over their immediate outcome. However, they all expect me to do damage control.
Gah! I don�t even want to think about it, because it�s going to make me insane. Well, more insane. The last two days have seen me hopscotching around various demeaning tasks meant to pretty up the (dismal, fading) office in hopes of�I don�t know, impressing our colleagues? Sophie seems more determined than ever before that the place is going to look efficient and well-appointed, which just seems to me like closing the barn doors after the horses have escaped. These people work with us every day, and have obviously already formed very concrete opinions about us regardless of what behavior we demonstrate, and I highly doubt that filing a box full of jumbled paperwork dating back to last June will cause them to give us the respect we�re due.
What it did cause was me to miss doing all of my other responsibilities, which the east coast has also sent nasty emails to complain about, since I apparently exist only to serve them, which puts a nicely ironic button on the whole indignity of the task, I think. And now I�ve got pretty much nothing to do but sit back and wait for the shitstorm to begin.
If I don�t write much for the rest of this week, it�s either because one of the East Coasters is in my office, watching my every move (which is what they�re scheduled to do all day tomorrow), because we�re off-site at a "team building exercise" (manslaughter)(scheduled for Thursday and Friday), or because I�m in jail.
Hope they have cookies.
Someone Got Here By Searching For: "not only am I perfect" And: About a billion people got here looking for stuff about Yoanna. I�m Watching: Buffy in French, because why the hell not? And: The English subtitles for the same.