Anybody seen “French Kiss” with Meg Ryan and Kevin Kline? Remember the flight scene, where Ryan’s character is smushed up against the window with a scowl on every part of her face? And she’s singing her little “mantra” song, “I Love Paris,” except she alters the lyrics to fit her mood?
I hate Paris in the springtime
I hate Paris in the fall
I hate Paris in the winter when it drizzles
I hate Paris in the summer when it sizzles
I hate Paris, oh why, oh why do I hate Paris
Because my love is there–with his slut girlfriend
Imagine, if you will, the look on her face while she’s singing that song, and you will have a perfect visual of me today.
I hit publish before it occurred to me that some innocent reader might assume I’m in this mood because of love, Paris, or slut girlfriends, but actually I have work issues. I know you’re shocked. Let’s just put it this way: if my superiors were labeled, much like, say, mouth wash or cough syrup, their labels would read, “INACTIVE INGREDIENT: BRAIN.”
I just don’t understand why everything has to be so damn complicated. I suppose that’s just one of the many signs of incompetence. If competence were a key player in anything that goes on around here, things would not be complicated or chaotic. As it is, chaos abounds, and people [read: the people making the decisions] insist on making everything a huge production. It’s like picking your nose with your ring finger. Seriously, how much success is THAT going to yield?
And another thing. Is it just MY boss, or do all higher-ups consistently contradict themselves in an effort to appear to know what’s going on? In the course of five minutes, you-know-who said, regarding the SAME SUBJECT, “No, that’s not the way it’s supposed to work, ” and “That’s exactly what I was just saying.” The words, “Uh, no, that’s not exactly what you were saying. You just said that’s not the way we’re supposed to do it” actually came out of my mouth. Fortunately, only the person next to me heard them.
So now that you have a better understanding of my state, I’m going to a) try to keep my rendition of “I Hate Paris” inside my head, instead of letting it escape into the Universe, and b) attempt to unscrunch my face. In the meantime, hope that in a fit of hormonal rage, fueled by discomfort and under-consumption of caffeine, I don’t completely lose control of my good sense and run screaming from the building with the words, “2 week notice! 2 week notice!” escaping my lips. After all, I’m only here for the health insurance, and I don’t think they’d let me keep that if I told everyone in the building to kiss my ass.