Blogatron

Petulant Wednesday

Hey kids, it's petulant Wednesday! Won't you please join me in sighing, rolling your eyes, and flopping dramatically into your chair about:

Forms. You want people to be able to order a service, and so you write an explanatory letter on charming letterhead, you enclose an informative sheet about the sizes and prices and requirements of the service you are offering, you design a lovely form which people can use to provide you with all of the information you need to provide the service, no more, no less. Does this help you? It does not help you one bit, because people do not want to use the form. They would rather call you, and ask "What? What's this? What do I do? Do you think I should do this? What? What?" They would rather send you checks accompanied by long handwritten notes that tell you all sorts of things you never wanted to know about them, but do not help you to provide the service in the least. They would rather come to your workplace, and stand too close to you, and ask you to "just see" if a scan of a fax of a full-color image will be publishable.

Your shirt. Because where did that hole in the armpit come from?

The telephone. It just rings and rings, no matter how much work you have to do, no matter how violently you flip it off while using your best Nice, But... Voice. It will not let you concentrate for more than one and one half minutes on any particular thing. The other end of it tends to contain people saying "What? What?" or people who think that you have magic powers and can produce your absent boss at their command or people whose Robot-to-Dumbass phrasebook translates "Would you like her voicemail?" as "May I write down your long, rambling message, the better for its intended recipient to lose it, while all the other lines ring off the hook?"

Your coworkers. They will not stop asking you for things, or reminding you of things that you had blissfully forgotten about, and you are not allowed to hiss or even growl at them. Then they make you feel all guilty by being perfectly nice, intelligent people who are only asking you to do your damn job, after all.

The convenience store near work. For not selling bourbon, massages, valium, large bricks, or any other items that will help you get through the end of the day without screaming "I, like, totally hate you!" and running to your room and slamming the door.

Happy Petulant Wednesday! (Apologies to Pretty Girl.)

Posted by hilatron at September 3, 2003 01:57 PM | TrackBack