Tiny Rant

panda baby

Hi kittens. Sorry it’s been a minute. This blog has become like yoga: something I love and swear to do tomorrow. I’ll be back soon (tomorrow, namaste?) with thoughts about Britney (new ones) and maybe some thoughts about Lake Bell, who is neat, I just learned.

Guys, we have a temp in my office. I should be nice to temps; I was one for a really, really long time. I am naturally inclined towards sympathy and generosity of spirit when dealing with a temporary employee. It’s not fun to be the person with no authority and no tenure. Or at least, that was my feeling when I was a temp; respectful of a work environment of which I knew nothing but was happy to contribute to. I was the Anne Hathaway in The Devil Wears Prada of temps to the Meryl Streep in The Devil Wears Prada of administrative assistants. But somehow, I have ended up with the Anne Hathaway in real life of temps to my Meryl Streep in nothing of administrative assistants because Meryl doesn’t play characters who work from home to avoid bullying temps.

BAMF

BAMF

This temp was not afraid to speak her mind. No small thought, be it inane, self-serving, or unnecessary went unspoken. Which is fine. Like, if I want stream of consciousness, I’d rather read Faulkner, but it’s livable. And the constant contradictions of my opinions were less than ideal. Like, if I wanted to feel wrong all the time, I’d start doing math with the Lascivious Lemur instead of simply continuing to do a job that I’ve done for almost two years and am pretty boss at. And the inability to notice anyone’s need for personal space was not my favorite, but I ride the subway every day, so fugetaboutit.

No, the thing that pushed me over the edge was this person who felt fully comfortable moving shit around. Listen. Listen. I work in a place where a lot of thought go into everything. Is it insane to have a meeting about which drawer in the kitchen is best for housing Tupperware? Is it insane to write out a proposal for the proper coffee maker for the kitchen? Is it insane to organize the milks every morning? Maybe. What is for sure insane is coming into a place like that and thinking that you have a better way of doing things than an entire goddamn committee of people who know a work space in and out. I don’t go into your audition book and tell you that even the most classically minded musical theater queens are tired of hearing sopranos sing “Glitter and Be Gay” so do not come into my work kitchen and move the paper towels.

Thank you, Fifi, baby.

Thank you, Phi Phi, baby.

Today was her last day.

PS An adult would have said all this to her face and been assertive, but I was raised to talk behind people’s backs. In the South, that’s called manners.

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