Getting my hands dirty

Well, the p.c. shit around this office continues. Bag of Rocks is futzing around singing and doodling and talking in a weird voice. He's either happy with our new workers (all female, young and sprightly) or he knows who's going to be whacked next. (Out of my respect for the Sopranos and my own mobster-esque childhood in Bensonhurst, I will use the term "whacked" instead of "fired.")



Now, Slobbo down the hall wants us to descend into the basement to retrieve files. Not exactly my favorite activity, but it's necessary. My coworker, who also wants to bolt, disagrees. I said the temps fucked it all up because we moved, but she feels I shouldn't be down there in the first place. I say make it easier for all involved and get your hands dirty once and then not worry about where things are ever again AFTER the proper retrieval. Again, I don't believe in girly girl bullshit. That's what I get from 1) the continual influence of men in my life: they do things, they don't bitch about the 'hypothetical'; and 2) I'd rather do something once the right way than avoid something because of some dust/dirt and keep fucking it up. That's just me, I guess. I'm also not afraid of mice, spiders, big bugs in the kitchen, waterbugs in the bathroom, power tools (gimme that chainsaw!), electric knives, plastering things, plain epoxy or spackle. (If you saw the makeup I wore in the 80's, you'd know why about the 'spackle' comment.)



I'm meeting with my agent on Monday and re-testing all my Microsoft office knowledge so I at least have a score for the inevitable begging and pleading I will do with various companies to regain my dignity. I looked at my paycheck again last night, and it hurt so much, I couldn't even cry.



Now that's bad, kiddies.