My own personal purgatory
Warning: This is a rant. Skip it if you don't want to read it. I just have to get this spike to stop ricocheting around in my skull or I'm going to put my fist through my computer monitor and walk out the door.
I walk into the empty building for the start of my shift at the paper. Again, I grumble to myself after pulling the car into the lot that of all the inumerable problems, nay, travesties, at work since our parent company started interferring, the one they address with stunning speed is how the supervisors didn't have their own designated parking spaces. A memo was sent out complete with a carefully marked diagram of which managers get which spaces. They left the rest of the entire lot blank - I guess so we plebeians don't have to worry about barred holds when we fight over who parks where.
Awaiting me in my email is the embarrassingly small staffing schedule for the weekend. Another "editor," far surpassing the others in her ineptitude, is working with me today. Honestly, I'd get more done if I had to file my stories using a rope and two empty soup cans.
In addition to the other assignments (note the pluralization) I have to do today, I'm left to clean up whatever everyone else couldn't do this week, where shiftless managers and absent employees couldn't get enough done to even file - at the very, very least - partially written stories so I don't have to start from scratch. Reading half-assed apologies about work that I can't even call unfinished because it wasn't begun in the first place. Knowing the situation here will continue to deteriorate as the frustration among the workers builds and the editors get lazier and stupider with each passing day.
Maybe it's just my hormones today, but when I sat down at my desk, I really felt like crying - a fleeting impulse soon replaced by rage. Maybe that's why I have tiny figures of Yoda and a garden gnome on my desk. The first will use the Force to calm my rage, and the other will just make me smile. :) hehe.
Dear lord, I need to get out of here.
The good news is Himself and I leave for the Outer Banks on Monday. I will be the happiest girl ever come Sunday 10 p.m. when I'm just packing my bags and getting ready to go.
I walk into the empty building for the start of my shift at the paper. Again, I grumble to myself after pulling the car into the lot that of all the inumerable problems, nay, travesties, at work since our parent company started interferring, the one they address with stunning speed is how the supervisors didn't have their own designated parking spaces. A memo was sent out complete with a carefully marked diagram of which managers get which spaces. They left the rest of the entire lot blank - I guess so we plebeians don't have to worry about barred holds when we fight over who parks where.
Awaiting me in my email is the embarrassingly small staffing schedule for the weekend. Another "editor," far surpassing the others in her ineptitude, is working with me today. Honestly, I'd get more done if I had to file my stories using a rope and two empty soup cans.
In addition to the other assignments (note the pluralization) I have to do today, I'm left to clean up whatever everyone else couldn't do this week, where shiftless managers and absent employees couldn't get enough done to even file - at the very, very least - partially written stories so I don't have to start from scratch. Reading half-assed apologies about work that I can't even call unfinished because it wasn't begun in the first place. Knowing the situation here will continue to deteriorate as the frustration among the workers builds and the editors get lazier and stupider with each passing day.
Maybe it's just my hormones today, but when I sat down at my desk, I really felt like crying - a fleeting impulse soon replaced by rage. Maybe that's why I have tiny figures of Yoda and a garden gnome on my desk. The first will use the Force to calm my rage, and the other will just make me smile. :) hehe.
Dear lord, I need to get out of here.
The good news is Himself and I leave for the Outer Banks on Monday. I will be the happiest girl ever come Sunday 10 p.m. when I'm just packing my bags and getting ready to go.