Welcome to the Working World

This weekend, overall, was quite pleasant - the birthday celebration for The People's Champ ran two days long. Good times. Also, I saw Knocked Up, which is phenomenal, and comes highly recommended. Katherine Heigl shot up my laminated list, Seth Rogen is my hero, and I officially cashed in a lifetime membership to the Judd Apatow fan club.

Then, Sunday night, I was working on this rambling post last night that covered me being active in forwarding a girl situation for the first time in a month, Freaks and Geeks and why I randomly started crying while washing the dishes Sunday afternoon. But it refused to come together.

And I was up later than I probably should have been, which might well have contributed to a terrible two-inch decision Monday morning (to hit "off" and not "snooze" - "Just the Tip" was not involved.) Thusly, I woke up at 9:30 a.m. and didn't get to work until 10:30. After a department (of five) meeting, my boss pulled me into el office for the ol' closed door.

He started off with the death stare, so I knew this would be surrious. He immediately aunched into the whole "I was very disappointed to hear that you were coming in late today" speech. Through a good 5-10 minutes, he railed on about the importance of the summer, with our biggest-ever annual event coming up. And he told me all the percentages I couldn't be committed (50, 80) before I affirmed that, yes, I would be in 100 percent. Every day.

The thing that still has me pissed was when he said, "This isn't the first time this has happened," before continuing on to insinuate that I should reassess how I'm spending my personal time.

First off, fuck you. I've been late to work because I overslept MAYBE four times in a year. And your cherished 9-to-5 means nothing but arbitrary shit to me because I spend nearly my entire day without interacting with anyone else at the Museum AND I get all my non-complete-shit work done and done timely, which is the same or better than everyone else there. Let me single-handedly hold up production on an issue of the magazine before you even think about questioning my productivity.

Secondly, you do not pay me close to nearly enough to have any say in my off-the-clock activities. On top of the fact that I not only moved up to the middle of West Bumblefuck for this job, I left BROOKLYN - including my family and a shitload of friends - to do it. And I have adjusted smoother and lasted longer here than anyone not working at your fucking Museum expected me to.

So Dickface McDicky Dick, back off and let me go about accomplishing everything we were accomplishing. You must have missed my performance review, when I proved so competent the only thing you could tell me was to show more initiative. I'm doing you a favor and assuming this was a preventative measure on your part, to avoid this later on, when it won't have happened because, you know, that matters more than 1 1/2 hours on some random Monday.

Two months, man, two months ...

PS
Blogging might be light(er) this week, due to the sharper supervisory eye.