Corporate America Sucks, Part VII: Venting

Begin rambling rant.

So, one of the asshole attorneys has been making some snide comments about my being too serious.

Too serious to work at a law firm?

This cheeses me to no end for several reasons.

First, the most obvious:  It’s a law firm.  Not the same as working on a cruise ship.  Different demeanor.

Now, for what it’s worth, this particular attorney is notorious for making cutting remarks about anyone and everyone.  So he must be perfect, right?  I’m sure he thinks he is.

My interaction with said asshole, Donald, has been minimal, although it has increased of late.  Lucky me.

I admit it.  I am serious at work.  I do my job well, and generally the attorneys regard me as someone who can get the job done most efficiently.  Of course, there’s just no pleasing some people, and a qualified, knowledgeable, capable employee just isn’t enough for them.

We’ve had our share of inane asses here, and, in my opinion, they are too often forgiven for their incompetence.  I guess a jovial (read:  clownishly unprofessional) attitude compensates for poor work.  Sorry, folks, I was not brought up that way.  You have a job to do, you do it, and you do it right.

It further ticks me off that certain asshole attorneys think that what they see in the office is the whole of me.  Ha.  They are so self-centered that it would never occur to them that maybe, just maybe, I am a different person outside of the office.  Duh.  Like I live my life in full-on work mode.

MY JOB IS WHAT I DO, NOT WHO I AM.

But then, why should an attorney ever consider that?  They are so the opposite of that creed.

Today’s snide comments remind me of a similar situation, years ago, when I was a young adult living at home.  Mom basically called me a sour-faced bitch and said she didn’t understand how I could even have any friends.

Ouch.

I explained it to her.

You see, at that time in my life, home was not a happy place.  My father was up to some secret shady shit (SSS) which, in time, would nearly ruin the family.  It had gotten to the point where I was through with dear ol’ dad, but I had my plan in place and had to stick it out.

The Plan:  I lived at home while attending college.  I graduated with a 4.0 in less than four years while holding a part-time job as a bank teller.  (I had the good fortune of snagging that job at a local bank half a mile from home while still in high school).  Upon graduation, I switched to full-time at the bank and looked for my first paralegal job.

(That bank was awesome.  They let me work full-time through summer and Christmas breaks and always accommodated my school schedule, letting me work as many or as few hours as I needed at any time.  Of course, they paid me peanuts, so why wouldn’t they oblige me?)

By September, I had paid off my car loan and landed a job.  My plan was on track, and the next step was to move the hell out.  I did so one month later.

But back to when Mom basically called me a sour-faced bitch.

I couldn’t believe that she thought what she saw at home was the whole of me.  Sound familiar?

Because of Dad and his SSS, the tension at home was unbearable.  I could feel it the minute I walked in the door, even if Dad wasn’t there.  That kind of tension.  Unhealthy tension.  So, yeah, I probably was a sour-faced bitch AT HOME, just waiting to hear what the latest SSS was and trying in vain to make some sense of it, figure out what the hell was going on.

My friends?  Thank God I had them.  Hanging out with them was my only outlet and the only thing that kept me sane during that time.

I tried to explain this to my mother, in gentle terms, and I think she understood.  She said something along the lines of, “I guess I didn’t think of it that way, because I don’t manage to get out of this house very often myself.”

Sad.  Mom was a victim of that generation of women who stopped working during their first pregnancy, only to find they were practically unemployable once the children had grown.  Seeing her caught in that unfortunate trap only fueled my ambition to get through school and be able to support myself.  No way was I going to be trapped by Dad’s (or anyone’s) SSS, ever.

Fast forward a couple of decades.  Work is not a happy place for me.  I don’t hate all lawyers or all law firms, but I do despise this one.  This firm does not represent individuals.  It represents corporations, large corporations – the evil that is Corporate America.

So not me.

I do my work well, because it is my work to do.  It ends there.  I have no interest in the work, the corporations that are our clients, or the outcome.  Corporate America BLOWS.  Every partner here makes over $1 million a year and works only a few hours a day, at best.  Sure, they’re in the office all day, but doing actual work?  Two or three hours a day.  Any staffer here puts in more hours of real work.

But I have my plan in place, and I have to stick it out.

The Plan:  Get through school while continuing to work and be able to pay my bills and then start my new career.

And then some asshole of the universe attorney basically calls me a sour-faced bitch.

My hatred of my job is unhealthy, I know.  Just sensing BFB Bob’s presence when I come in automatically puts me in a foul mood.  I feel that switch inside me turn off and on, 9 to 5, Monday through Friday.  That same switch I felt turn on when I walked in the door at home so many years ago.

How’s that for some parallels?

The difference, however, is that I wanted Mom to understand why she was seeing someone who was less than happy.  I cared what she thought.  More importantly, she did understand.  She understood that I was, for the time being, trapped in an unhealthy environment.  (In fact, I remember sitting on my bed in my first apartment just a few weeks after moving in and actually feeling that the weight of all the tension had been lifted from me.  It was a glorious feeling.)

As for some arrogant millionaire Corporate America attorney, I don’t give a damn whether he understands that “work me” is not the whole me, or even the true me.  But how dare you subject me to Corporate America bullshit day after day and then assume I have the same attitude outside the office as I do in the office.  What a jackass.  Trade my indentured servitude for a mil a year for part-time work, and I’m sure I’d have more to smile about in the office, too, you egotistical, piece of shit douchebag.

You’ll just have to excuse me for merely doing my job well while not being all Yippee Skippy about it at the same time.  You are not worth my sunshine, and your nasty comments most certainly will not elicit a smile from me.

Rot in Hell.  There is no Happiness in Slavery for me.

I got away from the tension of home, and I’ll get away from the tension of this job, too; and once again I will experience that glorious feeling of having the weight lifted.

End of rambling rant.

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