Gouda's Cheesewheel

Post Vegas Depression: Flourescent Hell

So last weekend we went to Las Vegas. It deserves its own entry, which I'll take time on another day. Right now I need to expunge all the thoughts that went through my head today.

My day job is a kind of "flourescent hell," as a certain free publication so amusingly put it. I sit in a rolly chair all day burning DVDs. It's easy enough, most of the time, until John (my boss) realizes he's forgotten that something needs to be done RIGHT NOW and so decides that Kirk (my partner on the job) and I have the most free time and/or know-how out of everyone, so we have to help him pick up his slack. That, or he just wants Kirk to do it because Kirk is a pain in the ass to everyone. Then Kirk makes me do some of it, or I do some of it because I feel like a slacker if I'm sitting there reading the newspaper. Anyway, in spite of all the shit I put up with from time to time, I feel like a lot of my work goes unnoticed, specifically the work no one TELLS me to do, but that I have the common sense and forethought to do anyway to avoid a John-like crisis later on. Really, I prefer not to have to stress over things, so I do them in advance and get them out of the way. But does anyone know that this happens? No. They just sit there shooting the shit or bitching about stuff while I singlehandedly save them a lot of trouble. Perhaps I go unpraised because I don't bitch and complain and make a fuss like Kirk does. That's fine by me. I don't need to be an attention monger. However, at the end of the work week, when I wearily hand John my timecard and wait listlessly for him to sign it, I find it hard to believe his surprise at my demeanor, not to mention my declination when he mentions working more overtime. "John, I just worked a 45 hour week and right now I'm going to spend 5 hours running around a hot kitchen and smiling at wealthy restaurant patrons," I think to myself, but I don't bother explaining it aloud. The brief moment of panic when he starts to fathom the worst is thanks enough for me. No, nothing is wrong. Yes, I'm coming back next week. Your video records are safe for now, you pot-bellied suit-wearing schmoozer. You shall be spared the full wrath of Kirk so long as I carry part of the workload and lend a tireless ear to his seemingly endless and repetitive griping. But heavan forbid I should gripe. Then I become "cranky" (Kirk's words, not John's). Heavan forbid I become a bit snippy when someone breaks the train of thought necessary to make things KEEP WORKING. Ok. Enough about flourescent hell. It has it's upsides, minor though they are, and that's why I haven't flat-out quit, so it's ok. Also I'm pre-menstrual, much as I hate to admit it, and I really am less patient right now. So I apologize for having to spout all that out.

Now for the Moroccan Restaurant.

posted by Greta @ 11:41 PM