This week is my last week at Jurassic Park, and I am more thrilled than I would be if I was riding a fucking unicorn over a rainbow made entirely of cheese.
I am pretty damn excited.
I finally found another part time job to supplement my other part time job at the hospital, which isn’t the best solution in the world, and it’s not the most prestigious job - I will be entering the sparkle and hustle of the food service industry - but the new place of employment will fit my personality and tree-hugging ways. Jurassic Park doesn’t even believe in recycling paper, which is, by far, the easiest resource to recycle (I kept my own box under my desk, and recycled everything I could at home). The dinos probably consider recycling fruitless, because a big meteor will come and wipe them out - or, maybe, like so many other endeavors, they are too lazy, uninformed, and selfish to care.
My successor will surely experience the joys I have been experiencing for the last few years: a creepy, spider-filled bathroom; a microwave that smells like fishy vaginas and is located in the closet with the toxic cleaning supplies; thankless requests with zero direction; and a whole bevvy of pathetic questions regarding simple computer tasks.
I hope this next person is blessed with the patience of a saint.
The kind of patience that can weather such requests as “Can you call my cell phone? I want to see what the ringer sounds like and how loud it is” (something one can preview on most phones). This was asked of me last week - never mind that I was in the middle of actually working on something, and my coworker had an office phone sitting right on his desk.
I understand that there may be a lack of experience because my coworkers belong to a generation that didn’t grow up with technology. For the most part of their pre-historic lives, they lived in a pre-digital, non-virtual world, while I was just at the cusp of the technology and online information boom - I had to dial up to access email and chat rooms - CHAT ROOMS - which were the big electronic communication thingys of my day. But the dinos are grown adults with no diagnosed mental handicaps who have had computers both in their personal and professional lives for 10-plus years. I don’t think it’s too much to assume that they know how to add page numbers to Word documents or attach files to emails. The questions I get asked go beyond eye-rolling, and they don't just get asked just once. There is no notion of “learning how to do things on one’s own.” My coworkers think that there’s always going to be someone younger and more adept at computers there to help them, and that they don’t need to pay attention when I show them how to do a simple task for the 4,599th time.
My successor, who will also be considered a “secretary” (if she’s female), should be prepared to say the following only a few hundred times: “Click ‘New folder.’” “Click ‘Add attachment.’” “Use the return key.”
He or she should also be prepared to get called by the wrong name over and over again, as I did, despite years of working there.
I have also stated (nicely) that when my coworkers copy and paste large parts of documents together, it’s a lot more difficult to get the formatting right. I petitioned for one basic document for proposals, but that went unheard. I always have to go in and do some major re-indenting and re-page-numbering work, as well as basic formatting and making sure that all the fonts are the same.
I was called over to my coworker’s computer just a few weeks ago. “How do I make this go here?” Well. I meandered over to look at his screen, and then realized that what my coworker had done was that he had built a document out of a series of spaces and return keys instead of tabbing and page breaks. Holy. Shit. I had showed him how to work those wily indents and page breaks before, but he had resorted back to tap-tap-tap-tap-tapping the space bar until things looked aligned to him (which they were not). Tap-tap-tap-tap. And then he wonders why, when he adds a word or two somewhere, everything else gets fucked up.
I am pretty damn excited.
I finally found another part time job to supplement my other part time job at the hospital, which isn’t the best solution in the world, and it’s not the most prestigious job - I will be entering the sparkle and hustle of the food service industry - but the new place of employment will fit my personality and tree-hugging ways. Jurassic Park doesn’t even believe in recycling paper, which is, by far, the easiest resource to recycle (I kept my own box under my desk, and recycled everything I could at home). The dinos probably consider recycling fruitless, because a big meteor will come and wipe them out - or, maybe, like so many other endeavors, they are too lazy, uninformed, and selfish to care.
My successor will surely experience the joys I have been experiencing for the last few years: a creepy, spider-filled bathroom; a microwave that smells like fishy vaginas and is located in the closet with the toxic cleaning supplies; thankless requests with zero direction; and a whole bevvy of pathetic questions regarding simple computer tasks.
I hope this next person is blessed with the patience of a saint.
The kind of patience that can weather such requests as “Can you call my cell phone? I want to see what the ringer sounds like and how loud it is” (something one can preview on most phones). This was asked of me last week - never mind that I was in the middle of actually working on something, and my coworker had an office phone sitting right on his desk.
I understand that there may be a lack of experience because my coworkers belong to a generation that didn’t grow up with technology. For the most part of their pre-historic lives, they lived in a pre-digital, non-virtual world, while I was just at the cusp of the technology and online information boom - I had to dial up to access email and chat rooms - CHAT ROOMS - which were the big electronic communication thingys of my day. But the dinos are grown adults with no diagnosed mental handicaps who have had computers both in their personal and professional lives for 10-plus years. I don’t think it’s too much to assume that they know how to add page numbers to Word documents or attach files to emails. The questions I get asked go beyond eye-rolling, and they don't just get asked just once. There is no notion of “learning how to do things on one’s own.” My coworkers think that there’s always going to be someone younger and more adept at computers there to help them, and that they don’t need to pay attention when I show them how to do a simple task for the 4,599th time.
My successor, who will also be considered a “secretary” (if she’s female), should be prepared to say the following only a few hundred times: “Click ‘New folder.’” “Click ‘Add attachment.’” “Use the return key.”
He or she should also be prepared to get called by the wrong name over and over again, as I did, despite years of working there.
I have also stated (nicely) that when my coworkers copy and paste large parts of documents together, it’s a lot more difficult to get the formatting right. I petitioned for one basic document for proposals, but that went unheard. I always have to go in and do some major re-indenting and re-page-numbering work, as well as basic formatting and making sure that all the fonts are the same.
I was called over to my coworker’s computer just a few weeks ago. “How do I make this go here?” Well. I meandered over to look at his screen, and then realized that what my coworker had done was that he had built a document out of a series of spaces and return keys instead of tabbing and page breaks. Holy. Shit. I had showed him how to work those wily indents and page breaks before, but he had resorted back to tap-tap-tap-tap-tapping the space bar until things looked aligned to him (which they were not). Tap-tap-tap-tap. And then he wonders why, when he adds a word or two somewhere, everything else gets fucked up.
So. My last day will be joyous. When I quit my last job, I made a cake with the word FUCK JOB X on it in cursive. And then I ate the shit out of it. Who knows how I will celebrate my flying off and soaring away from here.
Let’s hope it involves booze.
