Incongruous (Or, Calgon, Take Me Away)

Today was horrible. Work felt like public television's Africa: a jumble of petty dictatorships, lost civilizations, and prehistoric wild animals. I so want out. There are people who, believe it or not, are cut out to do what I do. I, sadly, ain't one of them. I'll never be able to chart the route by which I got here; it's certainly not my dream job. Thank God it's just a stepping stone, because they don't pay me enough to care.

I pay the bills for the City. I cut checks for dump trucks, printer cartridges, and cell phones. I pay an average monthly $7k fuel bill and $60k power bill, and bills for software, uniforms, guns and ammunition, training supplies, and clorox for the water plant. I've never gotten up the courage to ask what they use it for. I buy office supplies, chemicals, "meeting supplies" (translation: donuts), and enough coffee, cream and sugar to supply an army of crabby workmen. I mail money for conference registrations, carpet cleaning, welding, dry cleaning, translations, inspections, certifications and equipment repairs. I even buy golf accessories for the pro shop at the municipal golf course that shouldn't be.

That's the bare bones of my job, which wouldn't be so bad except for bitchy vendors, negligent department heads, and being under the jurisdiction of two different bosses with very different ideas of how my days should be spent. I may have inherited Mom's unsinkable optimism, but today Dad's sarcastic wit held sway. I hope I didn't hurt anybody's feelings. I tried to just mumble. Still, I can't wait for the day I get to stand up and say, to quote my favorite boss, "bu-bye, fatheads..." which is what he said on his way out the door Tuesday, since he'll be off hunting for two weeks, which means I get to do his job and mine. Lovely. Today I got a massive papercut in the crook of my thumb, my glasses have a loose screw, I have a check run in a short week, and I have P(ost)MS. God save the next person who jokes about my attitude.