You would have thought the world ended.
As I made my way up the steps to my cube of hatred and death, I passed one of the HR ladies, one who I know quite well.
She glanced at her watch.
"You aren't just getting in, are you?"
"I am," I say through a forced smile and gritted teeth.
She makes the face she ALWAYS MAKES when she thinks she needs to act like my mother. "Well," she says, her tone one of exasperation. "Better late then never, I guess."
I bristle but continue up the steps but not before calling back, "You people seem to forget that I'm part-time."
BECAUSE SERIOUSLY! I am! Part-time! As in NOT full-time! No benefits, no vacation, no sick leave, no holiday pay. It isn't like it costs you money if I walk in a little late AND HOW DO YOU KNOW I DIDN'T HAVE A DOCTOR'S APPOINTMENT? Or something wrong with Guinness? Shit, I thought we were past this little judgmental streak you've ALWAYS had, but have since seemed to let slide because, why? Did you finally get used to me? My sense of humor? For f*cks sake, I'm practically getting ass raped by you people. CUT ME A LITTLE SLACK. And maybe, just MAYBE, if you people chose to work on improving morale rather than asking us part-timers to bend the hell over and take it another time, I WOULD WANT TO BE THERE AT ALL.
(And then, to top it off, the designer at the magazine I really like working with got a new job and it took EVERY FIBER OF MY BEING to NOT ask about it when I was on the phone with her at work, but I'm looking that shit up tonight.)
No comments:
Post a Comment