the commentary of my life

I couldn't help thinking today, as I went about the hectic work day, that I'm an awful, awful person. I must be.

I really, rather intensely, dislike my boss. And I've yet to truthfully figure out why.

First thing first, we have different working styles. I'm the busy ant, she's the lazy - I mean, relaxed - grasshopper.

Next up, she's rather unfriendly. I mean, really. People pulling me aside on her second day of work and asking me why my new boss is perpetually frowning/ sulking/ growling, is a sign, I say. A sign.

Plus, she snaps at me.

As childish as that might sound, it's not very joyous to experience.

And today, today was the final straw. The one that broke the camel's back.

She laughed at my writing.

I mean, really laughed in that condescending gruff of hers. Now that I take personal offence to. Especially since it only boiled down to stylistic differences. I write my way, she writes hers. So what happened to I-respect-your-writing, you-respect-mine?

As if.

I was hopeful when she first joined us; hopeful for someone finally worth learning from. And I'm certain she has much to offer. She just doesn't offer it. Everything I write that she doesn't fancy, she just says "it doesn't read".

I mean, what in everything holy is that supposed to mean. At least give me something to work on. A hint of what you're looking for.

But nooooooo. All I get is a laugh and a it-doesn't-read.

I am personally offended. I am. And I don't care if that makes me sound childish or immature. Still beats her being so unprofessional.

***

Ok, see? It happened again. My ugly side. I'm such a petty person.

But at least I care to admit it.

So there.

I know it's been awhile since I've blogged. Even when I did, it was for The Tale (cos otherwise, a certain squeaky ice-cream-inspired colleague would not leave me alone).

But I only just realised exactly how long it's been. For a moment, I forgot the URL. The URL to my own blog!

That's tantamount to abandoning my firstborn!
Almost like forgetting how my mother looks!
Or where I live!

I deserve death.

I hadn't meant to write an entry. Just had a spare moment because I'm sitting around with a headache waiting for the mockup pages to come in from my publishing house. So I decided on a whim to read my previous posts. Only to realise I couldn't remember where to find them.

I'm rambling. Sorry. But this is traumatic, alright.

All's well now. I found my blog.

Thank goodness!

Contrary to popular belief, the bane of my existence is not my ex-boss. Pardon my relish in saying that. EX. Boss.

*revels*

So anyway, the bane of my existence, as I have realised today, is bad customer service. But don't worry, I'm not pissed off. Rather, the ridiculousness of it is amusing me.

This morning I called a studio to make an appointment to take a resume shot. The conversation, on my mobile no less, went as follows:

***

Polite Me: Hi, I'll like to make an appointment for tomorrow evening. For a resume shot, please.

Courteous Dude 1: Sure, I'll have you down for 6.30pm. Thank you.

*Dude 1 threatens to hang up on me*

Anxious Me: Oh oh, hang on a sec. Could I get the price for the resume shot?

Dumbfounded Dude 1: Erm. Uh. Erm. Hang on please.

*muffle muffle - palm-on-receiver*

Dude 2: Hello? Yes? How can I help you?

*Thinks to self: Probably boss. Be nice, maybe got discount*

Sugary Me: Hi, yes. I was enquiring about the pricing for a resume shot. I've already made an appointment for tomorrow evening.

Hesitant Dude 2: Eh, it depends. We got two packages - the normal passport shot and the corporate package.

*awkward silence while I await more information. None is offered.*

Me: Erm. Okkkk. So what's the difference between the two?

Dude 2: Price.

Me: ... *faints*

Probing Me: Well, in terms of the photos? What's the difference?

Dude 2: Oh. The standard passport one is simpler. The corporate one more complex.

Me: ... *vomits blood*

Still-probing Me: Complex in what way?

Patient Dude 2: Oh. Corporate package involves XX number of passport size photos, YY number of 4R photos. The lighting of course more particular.

*Thinks to self: What, for the standard passport photo you don't usually use light, huh?!*

Questioning Me: I see. A 4R photo is rather large, right? So the corporate package also involves half-body shots? Not just face shots?

*Thinks to self: Why would I want a 4R-sized photo of just my face?!*

Confused Dude 2: Erm. Ah. Well, maybe slightly bigger than 4R.

Even-more-confused Me: HUH?!

*Thinks to self: What on earth is he talking about?!*

Dude 2: What?

Resigned Me: You know what, can I decide on the package tomorrow when I get to your studio?

Polite Dude 2: Sure, sure. Thank you.

*Hangs up with a huge sigh of relief*

***

Ok. Seriously, who thought that entire conversation was retarded? To think that transpired over my mobile. The radiation probably almost burnt a hole through my head.

Me being jolly ol' me laughed the silly incident off. And after work, I visited the doctor. En route home I decided to be smart and called the clinic (I mean, twice last week I attempted to go - twice the clinic was open but doctor was away).

Once again over my mobile, this silly conversation transpired:

***

Polite Me: Hi, just checking if Dr ZZZ is in tonight.

Curt Dudette: Yes. You got appointment?

Still-polite Me: Nope. Can I make one for 7.30pm tonight?

Still-curt Dudette: No.

Incredulous Me: Huh?

Condescending Dudette: He's fully booked with appointments tonight. From 7.30pm to 8.45pm. Full.

Disappointed Me: Oh, I see.

Weird Dudette: So you come at 7.30pm. Yah, ok.

Confused Me: Huh?

*Thinks to self: Woman standing beside me in train is now thinking I'm either 1) not very bright, or 2) not very eloquent.*

Attempting-clarification Me: I thought you said his schedule is full tonight?

Really-curt Dudette: Yah. But you come at 7.30pm.

*Me getting rather exasperated*

Trying-to-sound-calm Me: So you're gonna put me down as a 7.30 appointment, then?

*Dudette sounding rather exasperated as well*

Impatient Dudette: No. No point I give you appointment. Dr ZZZ full tonight!

*Me almost fainting from confusion*

Hyperventilating Me: Ok. So if I come down at 7.30pm, will I be able to see him?

Dudette: Can.

Me: ???!!!

Rude Dudette: But you must wait.

Near-fainting Me: Ok, whatever. 7.30pm. Thanks (I think).

*Hangs up with another huge sigh of relief*

***

Really. Is it just me???

Reading back on my entries for the last month, I'm hit by the pervasive tone and overarching theme linking them all together.

It's all negative. Glass-half-empty sort of sentiment.

I'm tired of it. And I'm beginning to despise myself. I'm such a whiner, no?

I have to do something about it. I started with one small step today - imagine what I could achieve tomorrow!

***
Dear Jellyfish

I refer to my voluminous workload and your obsession with piling more stuff on it.

It's really too much for me to handle. So I won't do it anymore.

I request you relook my over-flexible job scope and do something humane to adjust the present injustice.

I will not accept procrastination or excuses to this request. I hesitate to take further action on my part, but will do so if the situation calls for it.

Yours sincerely
White-collar Slave

***

There.

Now I just need the guts to do just that.

And make my glass half full.

... I made a choice. I took the plunge.

The issue has been bothering me for about a month now, and this morning it escalated to cause for concern.

I've always felt strongly about the lack of professionalism in the organisation. Perhaps it's because I'm still fresh to the corporate world, perhaps I'm too idealistic. I carry with me romantic notions of how professionals should carry themselves and how professional organisations should operate.

It's been a culture shock, to say the least.

It eludes me how managers can throw tantrums infront of subordinates - kicking, screaming and yelling, only stopping short at hurling expletives. Sure, everyone is entitled to their moods and everyone has different tolerance levels. But as someone of managerial level, certainly you'll be able to handle impromptu situations in a more matured manner?

Or so I thought.

It further eludes me how managers can scheme against their own subordinates. I'll concede that intelligence (and a large dose of perfume) is necessary to achieve such selfish ends, but it doesn't preclude said manager from being a conniving, undercutting, backstabbing lowlife.

And to do it with such flourish! Such blatance! Such arrogance.

So anyway, this morning I made a difficult decision (by my standards). The move seemed natural and apparent to all privy to the situation, but I must say it was still not easy for me. But I still did it.

Well I did train under the best - the lady whose credo is, if it's between your ass and mine on the line, I'll hang you in a flash.

Now I'll just have to wait and see if the deep blue sea was worth the plunge.