poeticdesires

Category: Work

  • Random Observations

    Some random observations that came to mind while at work this evening:

    1- Baby, It’s Cold Outside is really rape-y.

    Like really rape-y. Not all of it, mind you, but parts of it are really REALLY rape-y.

    “Baby don’t hold out”
    “Say what’s in this drink?”
    “What’s the sense of hurting my pride?”
    “I simply must go/The answer is no”

    I’ve owned the Glee rendition of this song for quite some time now, I think almost a year actually, and yet it wasn’t until I listened to it tonight when I realized just how rape-y it is.

    My best guess as to why it took me (a person who prides herself on actually listening to the lyrics of songs) so long to come to this realization is the structure of the song. With two overlapping vocals, I often found myself listening (and singing along) to the “female” portions. (Female, for those who do not know, is in quotation marks because the person who performs that part for the Glee rendition is actually a gay man who happens to be a natural soprano.)

    For some random reason, I listened to the “Male” portions more acutely tonight and I found myself smiling at how rape-y the lyrics are.

    With a sly grin, I wondered if any kinky folk out there had already beat me to the punch. There must have been, or there must be, a scene with this song as inspiration. Hmm, or maybe I’ll write something.

    Ooo… new blog post coming soon.

    2- Why do we not have unisex bathrooms?

    When I left the vendor room to use the restroom, walking in front of me was a gentleman and a little lady.

    You know the type: the flower girl with the huge poofy dress with a large bow in the back, twirling, giggling, getting lost in the fabric, the type that makes me smile and melts my heart and reaffirms my want of a podling some day, hopefully.

    Well the gentleman led the little lady down the hall to the restrooms and opened the door for the men’s room. The little lady then turned around and pointed at the ladies’ room door behind her, saying, “I go in there.”

    The gentleman (I’m assuming her Dad) replied, “Only if your mother is in there.”

    I slipped by the two of them during this exchange.

    As I chose a stall, I could hear the pitter patter of the little lady as she checked every stall. No one else was in the restroom except me. The gentleman yelled, asking the little lady if her mother was in there. And, since she wasn’t, he beckoned her back out.

    Here’s my question: Why didn’t he just stand there and wait while the little lady used the facilities? Did he really think someone (meaning me) would be offended? Was it that big of a deal for a man to be in the ladies’ room?

    I’m sure I could go off on a tangent about our shame based culture, about Puritanical beliefs and practices, societal norms, and blah blah blah…

    It’s just… Since attending a number of kinky camps, and sharing bathrooms with all genders at the same time, I realized at that moment, witnessing this exchange between a man and his daughter, just how much I didn’t care if the man was in the restroom, and just how much he did care.

    Our society (okay, tiny rant) has all these rules but for what? That little girl needed to use the restroom; would it really have rocked the world if the gentleman watching her waited patiently for her inside the restroom?

    Maybe it’s because I don’t live a Puritanical life. Maybe it’s because I don’t give a shit about a lot of random little societal things.

    It’s just… dude, it’s okay if you’re in the ladies room. The world will not end. And I really didn’t care.

    Oh and by-the-way: he took her into the men’s room.

  • Daydream

    As soon as I saw him, I thought Shit, here we go again.

    He fit a type I like: tall, broad shoulders, attractive face, and funny. He was to be my crew chief for the day and this was a ten hour call.

    Still, there were many distractions. First, and most prominently, there was the Sun, which beat down on us all day. The few times we were granted reprieve included under the couple of trees shading our resting area, when the stage canopy was still up (it was gone before lunch), and the passing moments when clouds magically appeared to aid us or an errant breeze kissed our skins.

    Then there was the work itself. Highly physical, sweaty work. Lift this. Move that. Push this. Disassemble that. All day. The danger of falling off the stage after we’d removed the decks. The multiple fork lifts criss-crossing the area. The rental trucks from other companies coming to pick up their gear. There was a lot going on.

    But still, I knew it would happen. I started stealing glances at him, and I smiled to myself, and BAM! another crush was born.

    Many hours later, it dulled. I saw how he was with other women, two other women. I saw the familiar nature, the flirting. And it dawned on me: I wasn’t his type.

    But there was a moment that stuck with me.

    With about ten minutes left on our fifteen minute break, I sat on the grass and leaned my back up against a tree. It wasn’t luxurious, but it was enough. I closed my eyes. I breathed in deep. I let myself drift, my mind floating to the voices I heard around me.

    And then, for some unknown reason, I opened my eyes. He sat not five feet in front of me on the bench of a picnic table. He had been quiet the entire time. I never knew he was there.

    I smiled a little, and then closed my eyes again.

    I imagined him grabbing my hair, pulling me over, and resting my head on his knee. I knew this would never ever happen, but it was a great day dream.

    Soon we were back to work. He flirted with other women, but never me. I did my job well. And, many hours later, I was cut and went home.

    We never engaged in a full conversation. I never learned his real name; he was always referred to by a nickname. I don’t know where he lives, or if I’ll ever work with or see him again.

    But I still remember his face, his frame. I still remember that day dream. And I glimpsed that he wore a tongue ring…

  • Stress

    Sleep deprivation sucks.

    Nausea. Short temper. Easier to tears. Micro naps while I drive. And, frankly, I stop giving a fuck, at times acting like a bitch.

    It’s the busy season; I am very sleep deprived.

    When I woke up Sunday morning, my room was muggy and hot. I had gotten to sleep around 5am. It was 12:26pm when my body could not stand the heat any longer.

    Even though I got a relatively good amount of rest, this followed multiple days of 3-5hrs of sleep and a few 20hr days.

    As I laid in bed, I contemplated all the things I had to do. There were, in fact, many errands I wanted to run. It was my first day off since Tuesday.

    I didn’t want to get out of bed. I didn’t want to do anything. But I had a mound of dirty clothes that I absolutely had to wash, not to mention health care paperwork to fill out and Shibaricon packing to start.

    Forcing myself out of bed, I grabbed my clothes hamper and lumbered down the stairs. I heard my roommates laughing and talking in the dining room, but choose to not say hi.

    In the laundry room, I put down my hamper and opened the washer; clothes inside. I checked the dryer; clothes inside.

    I huffed, and then headed to the dining room.

    “Whose clothes are in the dryer,” I asked, I hope not grumpily.
    “Doesn’t matter,” said DeepEnd. “The dryer’s broken.”
    “Really!”

    I stomped my feet. I put my head against the wall.

    “I have to go.”

    I could feel the tears coming as I went back to the laundry room, grabbed my hamper, and rushed back into my room. I stripped off my pajamas. I crawled back into my bed. I cried into my covers, squeezing Tessie tight, wanting the world to go away.

    All I wanted was to wash my fucking clothes. All I wanted was to get something, anything done. This was suppose to be my day off.

    I was angry. I was upset. I was sleep deprived.

    I needed to do something. I wanted to pound a wall, rip something apart.

    With a start, I got back out of bed, put on my workout clothes, and went downstairs. In the kitchen, I grabbed a banana and poured a glass of Silk.

    “Hun, what are you averaging? An hour of sleep a night?” It seemed SkinnyBitch had an idea of my problem. I gave her a grunt of an answer.

    Quickly finishing my food, I went into the Sun Room.

    On my iPhone, I started up my Dance/Pop Mix. I turned on the treadmill and started walking. After a minute, I increased the speed. And again. And again. Each minute or two I kept making it go faster, until I was running. Really running. My feet flying up in the air, breathing heavy running.

    It was the first time I’d really ran on the tread. My workout is normally a mix of fast walking and jogging.

    As my feet pounded on the tread, I imagined my footfalls pounding away my problems, pounding out my anger, pounding away all the bullshit that was my life.

    After a few minutes, I lowered the speed. Slowly I came down. Slowly I returned to walking.

    And, somehow, it made it all better.

    I joined my roommates at the dining room table, feeling more like myself.

    I completed no errands Sunday, and, frankly, I think I am the better for it.

  • Location, Location, Location

    I work for about half a dozen different companies. However, there is one in particular I work for the most. They pay be more per hour and offer me more total hours than any of my other companies (score!).

    Still, there is one rather large downside to this particular arrangement: the location of the company’s warehouse.

    I function in multiple different capacities for this company: general production had, crew lead, occasional shop worker, and truck driver.

    On Wednesday night, as I drove the truck back to the shop, along with two other female coworkers in the cab, we all noticed something odd as I pulled into the lot: a man in his car, dome light on, alone and shirtless.

    Apparently I was the lucky one of our trio. Being that I was concentrating on driving, I did not notice the man was indeed completely naked and jerking off in his car…in front of our warehouse…with no one else in sight.

    One of my coworkers yelped and started laughing. I can’t remember what the other did. I kept driving the truck, past our warehouse entrance, further up the parking lot. I turned sideways, able to glimpse the man about one hundred feet away. Thankfully he quickly drove off.

    Both of my coworkers found the incident funny. I would have too, except a dark thought came over me.

    There have been times when I’ve been alone at the warehouse, returning the truck, no one else with me. There were times when not only did I return the gear, I also offloaded the cases by myself. This has not happened in quite some time, but it bothered me all the same.

    This most recent happening is not the first incident to occur in the industrial complex we house. Twice I’ve seen men in their cars, enjoying the services of a prostitute.

    Once I happened to drive past an SUV, my lights washing the vehicle, and a lady’s headed pop up from the distraction. For some reason, I distinctly remember there being a handicapped tag on the rear view mirror.

    During the other sighting, I drove by and saw a man standing by the back driver-side door. It seemed like his pants were down. As I kept going, it finally clicked what he was doing.

    Amorous dealings aside, other not-so-amusing activities have also peppered the area. Drag racing down a long stretch of road leading up to and past our building. Multiple car fires, the exact number of which I’m not quite sure.

    And then there was this morning.

    Today I woke up at 7am to make it to the warehouse by 8:30am to pick up the truck for our gig. As I pulled into a 7-11 near the warehouse, hoping to grab breakfast before work, three cop cars sat in the parking lot, one specifically blocking a vehicle entrance. I popped a U-turned and instead got food from a small Mom&Pop eatery.

    When I parked at the warehouse, I popped my trunk and put on my work shoes. As I sat, tying my laces, I heard a vehicle pass by, blaring Latin music. I didn’t think much of this, except it kept playing rather loudly. The person had not turned their car off.

    One of the company trucks blocked my view of the vehicle, so I walked past the truck and into the line of sight. I saw a man’s back. He stood near a bush. I did not see his actual anatomy, but understood he was relieving himself about seventy-five feet away.

    I turned and walked towards the office door. As I entered, a second vehicle passed by. This was turning out to be a busy morning.

    Inside I grabbed my truck keys, the pertinent paperwork for today’s event, and departed.

    As I walked towards my truck, parked all the way at the end of the lot, I saw that there were now about three or four men standing around. I kept my head down, and gave myself about twenty feet of cushion between myself and the small crowd.

    When I passed them, no one followed. No one said anything to me, in fact. I opened my truck, got inside, locked the door, and drove off.

    I’m not sure what to make of the situation. I love this job, and do not plan on leaving anytime soon. And seeing as they comprise about 60% of my income, I make far too much money to not work for them.

    Still, it would be nice to not show up to the warehouse wondering what new story I will have to impart about my job.

  • My Necklace

    I walked away quickly, checking that I had everything as I went, when it struck me…

    My neck was bare.

    Rushing back to the guard post, I asked him if he had my necklace. I dropped to the floor and looked all around his station.

    Standing, he said he had found it. His stand was hollow inside, with one hole at the end. My necklace laid at the bottom of the stand, having fallen down that hole, very much out of my or his reach.

    He smiled, saying he didn’t have a key, but his supervisor should. He would call him.

    He shooed me off to the side as others entered the building. I stood, waiting anxiously as he checked them in. After the mini-rush died, he still had made no call, either on a phone or over a radio.

    “Um, Sir, when do you think you’ll be able to get my necklace?” I explained I was in the building to work and would need to leave soon. He took down my name and phone number.

    And then his supervisor approached. I hoped I would not be long parted from my jewelry. But this new man just reiterated with the first had said. They’d call me when they’d retrieved my necklace, saying instead of the key, which no one knew where it was, they would use a clothes hanger to fish it out.

    I walked away, anxious. As I sat waiting for the rest of the crew, I found it hard to think about anything but my necklace.

    There was no way for these men to understand how much the silver at the bottom of their stand (which by-the-way, WHY IS THERE A HOLE IN IT!?!), no way for them to comprehend how much that object means to me.

    The necklace itself is chainmail, bought at my first kink event. On it is a charm with the Chinese symbol for love and a ring, silver in color but certainly not the type of metal, a piece of costume jewelry from a relative who died many years ago.

    My profile picture for most everything is a shot of my necklace (less the ring). What people don’t know, what I don’t talk about much if at all, is the name I have for that picture.

    True, the necklace is a “chainmail collar”. I have had people ask me up front if I’m owned. (More on that in an upcoming podcast.) I tell them no, I am not. But that is only half true.

    The name I gave to my profile picture is “I Own Me”.

    When I was with the Ex, the one way he managed to show affection and give me some reassurance was through a necklace, his necklace which he put on me. It was made of black and red beads with the symbols of his clan. (He’s one of the Pensic folk.)

    Absentmindedly, throughout my day, I used to play with that necklace. When I was stressed, I often stroked it, remembering there was someone who cared for me and would be there when I got home to make things better.

    When I broke up with him, he knew what was coming before I even opened my mouth. I held his necklace in my hand, having only previously taken it off to shower. I gave it back to him that day, ending whatever we were.

    I’ve worn the Chinese character around my neck since college. In my mind, having the symbol for love about me would be my quiet beacon out to the world, hoping someone would hear the call.

    I put down the charm when he gave me his necklace. I put it back on when I left him, reminding myself there was more in this life than my time with him.

    Now I keep it on, wearing it for me. My kink life. My openness. My freedom. My caring, affection, love for others. I feel like, in some small way, the charm works/worked.

    When I finger the ring, I remember Aunties, Uncles, and Ella, a family passed on but not forgotten. So much of my life with three people so long gone…

    When I rub the symbol, I remember that I am loved, that I have so much love to give, and that there are those who want and deserve my affections, both known to me and the yet-to-meets.

    So yes, I was very anxious, and nervous, and downright distraught when my necklace dropped down that hole. I wear it everyday. I sleep with it on at night. I take it off only when I shower, and only rarely don’t wear it out.

    Thankfully, thirty minutes later, I got the call. They returned my necklace with both the ring and charm in tow.

    Crisis averted.

  • His Smell

    “You smell good.”

    Three of us sat on the plush couch. We’d speculated if he would sit in the center, snuggled between two attractive black women, or if he’d take the spot next to our white coworker, or just sit in a chair.

    When he did sit in between us, the joke became assigning him his new nickname, “Bitches.”

    My coworker and I leaned into him. He draped his arm over my torso as I laid my head on his chest. That’s when I smelled him. That’s when I realized how much I was, am, attracted to him.

    Of all the people in my work, he is by far the most attractive.  By far.

    Even so, I know it probably won’t happen. See Don’t Shit Where You Eat for reason enough. And though I have just fucked guys I’ve worked with, and then nothing came of it, I don’t know. Is it worth it to take the chance?

    I like him as a person. He’s funny, with a dirty sense of humor that isn’t annoying or creepy. And he’s thoughtful, if you ask his opinion. Helpful without prompting. And sweet at times. An overall good guy.

    So no, it’s probably not going to happen, but I’m okay with that.

    As we leaned against him, I was quite tired. I was in charge of the crew today, and as such had to deal with the event organizer who was quite frazzled. Keeping calm, I was able to help her through, at least with my part of the gig. She was pleased with our work.

    But dealing with her, not taking a lunch break, and setting up in multiple rooms had taken its toll. I was wiped.

    With his arm holding me, his hand softly brushing my bicep, and my head on his chest, I barely noticed how giggly the rest of my crew was. So much so that I didn’t realize they’d taken a picture of Bitches with his bitches. Once I glimpsed it, I saw photo showed just how tired I felt.

    I went back to resting against him for as long as I could. But, as in all things, it ended. He had a phone call. I had to find the event organizer to deal with our meals. And eventually, with the party ended, we broke down the gear and left.

    But I still remember what is was like against him. Still remember my head nuzzled on his chest. Still remember his arm around me. His body heat. His smell.

  • Seasonal Financial Panic

    A few times a year, about once every season, I panic about money.

    Being in a job where the work is either feast or famine, it’s understandable that I have these fears. The funny part though is that since the end of my first year of working professionally, I can’t think of a time when my panic was not dissuaded within a pay period.

    Today I had my seasonal panic. I pulled up to a Wendy’s drive-thru, ordered my lunch (not healthy AT ALL, but healthier than it could’ve been), and attempted to pay with my bank card. After a few swipes, the cashier said “No money.” I had a sinking suspicion that I would not like looking at my checking account.

    I paid the ~$5.50 bill with a credit card (ugh, I rarely carry cash), and pulled up in the lane out of the way. My fear growing, I looked up my balance on my phone (another big no-no). Sure enough, my account was in the red by about $50. One quick scroll showed me why. Both of my tax payments had been cashed.

    Silly silly Kristen, believing both the state and Uncle Sam would take time before taking your money.

    As I drove to work, I already regretted buying my lunch. I started devising ways to cut back.

    Should I really go to Delicious this weekend to attempt clothes shopping? Maybe I shouldn’t take Saturday off, but instead try to find last minute work. Should I skip Happy Hour tonight? Could I even get a gig for this evening?

    With my brain whirling, I arrived at work. I tried to take five minutes in my car to sit and breathe. It went better than I might have hoped, maybe fifteen seconds where I was able to shut off my brain from crisis management mode.

    When I arrived, my lead greeted me warmly as he so often does. He and I work well together, with a camaraderie I don’t have with many others. He asked me how I was doing. Instead of my usual “Pretty good”, “Meh” or “Okay”, I instead said, “Um, well, I’m broke so I desperately need to pickup more work.”

    Not exactly the best way to start my work day.

    Rationally, I knew I needed to fix my negative balance as soon as possible. During a break, I transferred some money from savings to fix the overdraft. It was also enough to cover my upcoming health insurance bill which I need to pay tomorrow before work.

    As my work day progressed, it turned out my lead needed someone to drive an extra vehicle for the Load Out this evening. I was added to the crew and picked up extra money for the drive.

    As I waited for the load out to start, something bugged me. Until I checked my account, I hadn’t really been worried about my finances. I’ve been working like crazy ever since I got back from Frolicon, with little break in my schedule until Shibaricon. Why was my account so low?

    Opening up my pocket planner, I quickly scanned my work log. And then it hit me.

    I get paid in six days. Because my vacation lasted two weeks, I have a pay period lag. I have more than enough money coming in to pay for rent, my other bills, and replenish the cash I took from savings.

    Not only that, but I picked up extra work this evening too. Panic averted.

    For a moment there, I doubted my year long goal of 10+ events, and wondered if I should back out of things I’d already paid for or scale back my hopes and expectations for the year.

    Nope, not gonna happen.

    I am, in fact, doing just fine.

  • Three Moments

    1) “Do you know how to coil rigging rope?”

    Do I know how to coil rope? Hmm…

    One of my projects at work today was, simply, to coil rope. But not just any rope. 3/4 inch braided black nylon, with a blue accent. Two coils. 150′ in length, each.

    They sat on the warehouse’s concrete floor, two mangled piles waiting for my manipulations.

    I picked up the first, the less messy of the two, and began to unwind it. The coil was semi in tact, but would have still been a nuisance to the riggers if I’d just chucked it into a bin for them to deal with later.

    Finding an end, I pulled. I ran the rope through my hands, knowing full well no part of this chord would be touching anyone’s sensitive skin. But still, I remembered my training.

    Getting to the other end, I began my coil. I grasped the end while creating a large loop that extended all the way down to my knee. I carefully matched my next loops to this same length. As I worked, the rope began to twist. With my free hand, I spun the rope, pushing the twist along as I went.

    After about fifty feet, I transferred the rope to my fore arm, creating the loops still, the nylon draping across so much of my skin. I was just barely able to hold all the loops the long length required before it was time to finish off the coil.

    With about fifteen feet of tail, I wrapped the end around the entire coil. The coil was so large, though, that I had to wrap half way, hold the tail between my thighs, and grab it from the other side. I wrapped around the coil about eight times. I then brought the tail up through the top of the coil and cinched off twice.

    “This about what you were looking for?”
    “Yes. God, the riggers are going to feel like they’re spoiled.”

    I repeated the process for the other length, sat it next to its match, and took a picture for posterity.

    2) As soon as I walked into the house, I recognized the sweet smokey smell. DeepEnd was home.

    He’d been away for a few days, and had returned the night before while I was asleep. I heard the thump of his drums before I entered the house. As I set my things down, I could feel the rhythm he played on his drums in the basement through the floor. The music, along with the cigar scent, made me smile; it felt like my home was back to normal.

    As I headed upstairs, DeepEnd finished his set.

    In my room, I disrobed, wanting to get out of my work clothes. Thursday meant DO Happy Hour, and I didn’t want to socialize in my work blacks. As I took my clothes off, I heard DeepEnd say my name.

    Yelling from at the top of the steps, I asked him if he’d called me. Actually DeepEnd had been talking to the dog, hoping I was home instead of someone in the house trying to rob us. I then pointed out we had nothing worth stealing. He concurred.

    “Oh, and by the way, welcome home.”

    As I finished undressing, DeepEnd called for me. Throwing my robe on and stuffing my cellphone and its charger into a pocket, I headed into his bedroom.

    On his bed, there was an impressive array: about a dozen cigars in a few different bags, a small Tortuga wooden cigar box, and a large empty humidor.

    He showed me his new humidor, which needed to air our before he could use it, as well as all the sticks he purchased while on his trip. I marveled at the display.

    DeepEnd also pointed out his minor boo-boo. While looking at this humidor, the lid to the box closed, striking him on the bridge of his nose. A small red line, about a half inch long, graced his face between his eyes.

    DeepEnd talked about the different cigars he purchased, most notably a few rather large diameter sticks and a Rocky Patel 15th Anniversary, the #5 cigar of the year.

    As we had stood there for a bit, talking shop and my marveling his stash, I asked DeepEnd the time. It was 5:20pm. Play time over. We both rushed about. He needed to go pick up SkinnyBitch and I didn’t want to be late for Happy Hour.

    3) “So I need someone to be co-topped by Lynk and myself for needles. They…”
    “Yes.”

    FancyDancer, HoopFlyBurn, and N3rddom all snickered. We sat in the McDonald’s just a stone’s throw from our weekly happy hour bar. Both HoopFlyBurn and I snacked on french fries. N3rddom and FancyDancer enjoyed milkshakes. Big Sis ate a chicken sandwich.

    “Hey, she just spent how much time back at Happy Hour telling me how hot he is.”

    And we were in the middle of a conversation about blood play, how I’m so easy, and the endorphin highs to come from Big Sis upping the ante with our needle play.

    What else was I suppose to say:

    Maybe, after I’ve seen your work, I’ll think about it.

    Possibly, if my dance card isn’t too full, and I’m not feeling itchy.

    I don’t know; blood weirds me out.

    Fuck that shit. Hot people AND endorphins. I’m surprised I didn’t say, “Fuck yes.”

  • Idiots

    I don’t consider myself a bitch, per se. I am highly opinionated, and, when it comes to my job, I am greatly annoyed when others do not know their shit.

    And so it happened that today I had to deal with an annoying dumbass.

    I’d worked with him before. For the first hour of our interactions, I thought he was new. Like brand new. Like just started in the business new.

    I tried to teach him what I knew and help him with the work. It was a 5am call. I was tired. But I figured if I helped him learn now I wouldn’t have to deal with his incompetence later.

    And so it happened, that around 6am, as I’m explaining something else to him, he turns to me and says, “I’ve worked for Company Q before. You don’t have to talk to me like I’m a child.”

    I could have reacted to him in many different ways. I could’ve just turned and walked away. I could’ve laughed, considering Company Q is thought of by many in my industry as being full of idiots who don’t know shit. I could have told him how pathetic a worker I thought he was if he had experience with another company and yet seemed like he knew nothing.

    Instead, I calmly said I was just trying to help him because it seemed liked he didn’t understand something.

    For the rest of my extremely long gig, I attempted to avoid him. For some strange reason, he seemed to take this as me liking him because he then decided to follow me around and try to talk to me like we were buddies. Like we were equals.

    Frankly I was rather angry he was being paid the same amount of money as me to do a piss poor job.

    Of course, since I had such a great time with him before, he just had to show up again. Today. Unfortunately he was the only other crew member for my department; therefore I could not get away from him.

    I put my headphones in and concentrated on my tasks. At one point he got my attention, saying something to the effect of, “What? Do I have to say your name to talk to you?” Obviously the fact that my project was separate from his AND I was wearing my headphones didn’t clue him in to my desire to not fucking talk to him.

    He ended up following me around again.

    His incompetence shined multiple times. Not properly securing equipment. Not know the correct procedure to manipulate the equipment. And messing with equipment from another department that had nothing to do with his task.

    By the end of the day, I just wanted to sit back and laugh. This motherfucker was getting paid the same amount as me. This idiot who didn’t bring the proper equipment to work. Who basically calls me condescending but then shows his incompetence at almost every step.

    Sometimes I just want to scream.

    Why can’t people just show up, know their shit, do their job, and leave? Why do I have to deal with idiots?

    Why?

    [Of course I know the answer. It’s because I’m not one.]

  • Avoidance

    I often equate my job with being a hustler or a whore.

    Since I am a freelancer, I don’t work full time for any one company, though I pick and choose my gigs carefully. I work for about half a dozen different entities, going where the money is.

    Company X is my favorite. They pay me the most and work me the least. Company Z is my least favorite. They pay me (almost) the least and work me twice as hard. I work for X a lot. I work for Z rarely.

    However, recently, I had a gig with Z. It is the slow season and, frankly, when Z is the only work I can find it feels like I have no choice. I ended up on a rather large gig late at night, wanting nothing more than to finish and go the fuck home.

    Sometimes life has this way of fucking with me. If I had chosen to take the slow elevator, I would have ended up working on the top floor. Instead I walked towards the faster elevator and ran into the crew head, who said I should stay on the ground floor.

    This had two results. One, my work would not be as labor intensive, yeah. Two, I would have to work with the bitch.

    I’m not using the term ‘bitch’ in a sweet or caring or loving manner. This chick is a bitch. I’ve known her for the entirety of my professional life and have yet to work a gig with her where she didn’t piss me off in some small, large, or I-want-to-stab-her-eyes-out way.

    She has this innate ability to make me feel like she thinks I’m stupid, I’m incompetent, or I should be worshipping at her feet, learning all that she knows. Her voice rarely imbues a tone that is not arrogant. She is one of the reasons why I avoid company A like the plague.

    The bitch has, in the past, submitted her resume to company B in hopes of generating more work. Since company X is small, the crew coordinator asks members of the current crop of workers about anyone who shows interest in joining the crew base. All of us flatly told them to never, ever allow this woman on their crew rotation. She is a great worker, but yes, she is that bitchy.

    And so I found myself working with her, kicking myself for not going upstairs, but also for accepting the gig in the first place. But I did my usual mental jujitsu. Whatever, I need money.

    So we began working.

    And a funny thing happened. I barely had to deal with her. I choose a kind of shitty project that I knew would take me the better part of my shift to complete. I was perfectly okay with this because I realized, after I volunteered for it, that I would be able to avoid the bitch almost completely for the entire time.

    Avoidance is a mighty fine thing. I practice it often in my life. Yes, I know I should face my problems and issues head on, but sometimes I conclude that the hassle of dealing with certain motherfuckers isn’t worth the effort. In my family life, it is my crazy preacher Uncle. In my kink life, it is those who fall into the category of crazy. In my work life, it is the bitch.

    As I performed my tedious menial task, far far away from the bitch, I was quite happy. Even as my back ached a little (I had to keep reminding myself to engage my core as I bent down), inside I smiled. I knew I was doing a good job. I knew that no one could say shit about my distance, seeing as the equipment I packed away was spread out and I’d picked the project what no one else wanted to do.

    So, at the end of the night, when I finally had to deal with the bitch momentarily, I was golden. I knew I only had about fifteen minutes left and hoped she wouldn’t be able to piss me off too badly in that time, seeing as there were lots of other people around to buffer her. And I was right. She only mildly annoyed me, a great improvement from our past interactions.

    So, let this be a lesson. Yes, it is important to discover and own your feelings. Yes, it is important to face obstacles head on and conquer them. But, sometimes, a little avoidance can go a long way, especially when it comes to dealing with bitches.