Tuesday, September 21, 2010

Corporate America...Damn it feels good to be a gangster...

Somewhere between scooping ice cream into cones for tyrannical kids to being a hostess and eventually a waitress, I realized I had to eventually grow up. Granted, I hadn't yet graduated from high school...but I knew life had bigger plans for me than making $6.75 an hour plus the occasional tips/ass-grabs while working in the restaurant industry. It was time to be an adult. Spread my wings. Put on my big-girl panties. Or be adult enough to decide not to wear any. Not that that's anyone else's damn business. But I was evolving. Deepening. Switching gears. And I needed my career to be a reflection of the woman I was becoming.

---(While writing this I'm waiting for my Chinese food to be delivered....can you believe they charged me a 7 dollar delivery fee!...yeah, guess who is soooo not getting a tip.)---

Fast-forward 6 years, a diploma (high school, that is..lets not get ahead of ourselves here kiddos...), and many many...MANY...hangovers into the future. I'm an adult now. A grown ass woman.I have my own place. I pay my own bills. I pay taxes. I even actually have health insurance. That alone is very grown up of me, but also smart because I recognize that one day I'm more than likely going to need to cash in on a new liver...the long island ice teas call to me...

Furthermore, I have a great job. Not the kind that I go skipping into the office everyday. But the kind that pays the bills. Has benefits. Gives me every Friday and Saturday off. I dig it. I dig the fact that getting off at 10 pm and not having to be in until 2pm gives me adequate time to get over my long-island-iced-tea-induced-hangover. And I dig getting along with everyone I work with...mostly. I know there are probably a couple people i work with that wouldn't think twice about pushing me and my smart mouth in front of a bus...but I'm sure my own parents have thought about that more than a few times... But even more so, I dig having my own "office"...if you can call it that. I would have more room working out of a prison cell at Guantanamo Bay and I would probably have to watch my back less...but between the hours of 2 and 10pm, this little 4ft x 6ft cubicle is my home. (Actually I would definitely have more room for my professionalism...their prison cells are 6.5ft X 8ft...lucky fuckers...) Anyways, calling it my office is just me using creative liberties. Me creating a office door for my cubicle was an extension of those creative liberties:



Although my office door was constructed out of cardboard and tape, and i accidentally cut out a door more suitable for a midget than my 5 ft 8 inches, I loved it. We made memories that day. It was Holly's World inside that archway. I felt true professionalism take the reins. Me and my poster of Marky Mark finally had the privacy that we yearned for. Never wanting to lose that feeling, I proceeded to send my boss this email:


   
I made sure to blacken out all the important stuff to cover my ass...and although I know my boss read this email...she never responded to it...or agreed to a meeting in my office. Instead she met me on the way in and politely told me to take down my "play house" when i clocked in to work. She was nice about it, but she was probably wanting to punch me in my throat...

---((Where the fuck is my food at??? Are they delivering it from China direct?  Are they riding over in a rickshaw pulled by a jogging Asian man? Are they slaughtering the "chickens" for my Chicken & Broccoli?? (I'm sorry if you are reading this, Nugget. Mama was hungry.)))---

 Personally, I'm thinking the only reason I had to take down my office was because they didn't want my other coworkers getting jealous and rioting..or having the office door inflate my already overwhelming sense of importance even more so than usual...not to mention the fact that some of my coworkers not being able to fit in the doorway was a bit awkward (not calling anyone fat, just saying).Truth be told, I felt a bit suffocated and claustrophobic in my cell...i mean..office, anyways, and I didn't like the invisible harness it placed on my creativity vibes. That and I kept ripping it off its cardboard hinges every time I tried to get in and out of the door.

(((Fun fact for those of you who didn't notice, next to the door is my "name plate"...and by name plate I am referring to the Jimmy Johns wrapper where they referred to ME as "Spanky".)))

God, I'm such a gangster....

---(And by the way, my chikity Chinese chicken was delicious, but someone should really tell the Chinese about sporks...eating rice with the fork they delivered it with was a bitch.)---

--That's all for now...Oh yeah, and this is me...in my future office:



5 comments:

Corey said...

what a mind u have there POB.....if Mark Twain wrote in the New Yorker and had a vagina, this is what he/she wud write in the editorial section

missingfinder147 said...

I'm a little concerned that you are sooooo obsessed with the cardboard door. But that is okay. You DO have a right to be expressive and Corporate American should not stifle that creative urge. Thank goodness you can write blogs to fill your time at work! LOL. Love ya, Baby, Girl. Signed - Your Loving Mother

TreeHuggerLars said...

*sings*
It's been
one week since you looked at me...

Now I'll never get that song out of my head. I blame you.

terecart said...

LMAO omg that door is awesome and you are too!! hahaha I can't believe you have such a cool boss, all the ones I ever had would have bitched me out like crazy!!

Teddy Graham said...

Ha I got lucky Tere...seriously. I think they realized about a week after hiring me that I was not to be taken seriously and that I would not take them seriously if they bitched me out. Its a lost cause in Holly's World :)