At Least I'm Not in Corpus!

On Friday, my homegirl A sent an email up the chain of command. "I would like to request permission to use the internet to look up some photos and graphics for our July conference materials," she wrote, following her request with a list of websites that might have pertinent information.

Similarly, a few months ago, I was supposed to go on a business trip to Corpus with a coworker. She emailed me the information on the hotel she'd reserved, and suggested I call them to make my reservations as soon as possible. "Why don't I just make my reservations online?" I asked, since I have kind of a Thing about the phone. My coworker slightly cringed. "You'd have to spend so much time documenting and explaining yourself to Administration, I really think it would be much simpler if you just call," she said.

So why do we have internet access, then? The policy against any personal use whatsoever is so strongly and repeatedly emphasized, and so draconically enforced, that everybody shies away from using it for anything at all. Well, except for applying for other jobs within the agency, and of course (as I've mentioned before) checking the weather again, and again, and again, and again.

I was cc'd on A's email, so I forwarded it along, adding my own note at the top. "I would like to request permission to wipe my own butt," I wrote. But I only sent that to Robbie. I'd never send that to senior management, because I'm sure it would be denied.

Yet at my old job, the problem was much too much of the opposite. I was held completely responsible for wiping everybody else's butt, reading their minds, managing their schedules, looking out for every possible contingency, following up with everyone to make sure they were doing their job, got on their flights, had exactly the content they wanted in their PowerPoints (with no guidance whatsoever as to what message they wanted to convey), didn't forget any important dates, and so on and so on and so on to the point where I was a quivering wreck who lay awake every night with deep, churning anxiety knotting up my intestines.

So where's a middle ground? Database work, I know from experience, always requires a lot more intelligence than it can possibly keep amused. That's why we need the three-martini breaks. Unfortunately our division is actively hemorrhaging break group members, and I really don't want to be left alone all by myself. Going on break with a giant group of new hires would feel kind of like being the creepy old guy whose presence is only tolerated by the high school kids because he buys them Pabst.

Robbie and I are interviewing for the permanent incarnation of our job later this week. We've been bouncing around ideas for how to handle the interview: each of us goes in and praises the other one to the skies, while decrying our own laziness and stupidity; each of us dresses up as the other and shows up for the other one's time slot; we both wear a short skirt (well, a kilt for Robbie) and pull a Basic Instinct; we invite our (strictly vegetarian) supervisor to lunch at a steakhouse and chow down on a side of beef in front of her; and so on. But at this point I'm thinking maybe I'll just walk into her office, offer her a shot of whiskey, put one back myself, then lay my head on her desk and sob.

Except that would probably get me the job.