Thursday, July 13, 2006

You're Not the Boss of Me

It’s no surprise to anyone that I hate my job.

I don’t hate it as much as being as my last job as spa manager where I would have my pay docked for forgetting to apply a second coat of mascara in the morning, but I hate it nonetheless.

I work 10-hour days doing remedial, meaningless tasks that a trained chimp could do at least as well if not better and certainly more enthusiastically, and they pay me less than a Mexican.

To top it off, my boss is a scary crazy lunatic. He is both the lowlight, and the highlight of my workday.

The first day I worked, he made me get down on my hands and knees and pick pretzel crumbs off the floor. How unbelievably degrading/ridiculously hot is that?

Just to give you a rough idea, he’s in his late 50’s, tall, good body for a guy his age (i.e. I doubt he has the dreaded old-man-ass), he pretty much looks exactly like professor Snape, but with wavy salt and pepper hair and a better nose.

He’s always upset about something stupid. He loathes restrictions of any kind and thus has never been married, yet imposes his will on everyone to weak to resist. He’s a self-involved narcissistic egomaniac. He’s essentially a male version of myself.

Today he called me up and told me to pick out an “expensive but fun” restaurant to take one of his girlfriends too. I basically want to get fired so I said “Why don’t you make Heidi (his assistant) do it?” He said “Because she doesn’t know anything about expensive restaurants, and you seem like you go to a lot of them.”

I of course replied “ARE YOU CALLING ME FAT?”, at which point he hung up on me and I booked him a table for two at Megu.

Then I spent the remainder of the afternoon trying to figure out if that had been a compliment, an insult, or just a run of the mill thoughtless remark. Honestly, whichever it is I’m deeply offended/turned on.

Now while it’s true that I am close friends with several of the founding members of the “I Heart Fucking My Boss” club, I know that this will never come to fruition. Primarily because I wouldn't cheat on Anoosh (I’ve never cheated on anyone in fact, incongruous as that may seem), and secondarily because I think he mostly thinks of me as “that obnoxious girl who sits up front and paints her nails in front my clients”.

Yet, every once in a while, when he comes over to me and tells me “This Excell spreadsheet you made is all wrong”, part of me longs to respond “Yes! It is wrong! So wrong! I’ve been a very naughty office manager, I think I deserve to be punished.”

So far though, I’ve taken the professional high road. I just roll my eyes and say “Whatever.”