Escape from Jurassic Park

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.

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.

Interview II: The Office Yeti

My hardcore job search has been on for three months now with little progress. I did manage to get the part time job with health and dental insurance options, and plenty of downtime for reading. However, because it is part time, I don't work enough hours to be able to afford even my meager lifestyle, and my original, full time job doesn't offer any health insurance. So I remain stuck working 55 hours a week, daydreaming about marrying a wealthy man so I can quit both jobs and stay home and eat imported Gouda all day. I'm a feminist like that.

I've applied to a plethora of jobs, looking specifically for that Big Girl Career Job with a writing component, but there are a lot of jobs where I've just said, fuck yeah, I'll apply to that - Dog Park Attendant? Sign me up, I love pugs! Barista? I'll have to get an asymmetrical haircut, but yeah, here's the application! I have to walk 40 minutes, and then get on the bus to get there? Yeah! I'll do it! I want to get out of Jurassic Park - the full time job where they still call me by the wrong name after three years - that badly.


Applying for jobs is not a simple process. One has to be diligent enough to seek out and religiously check a variety of websites for job postings, figure out if one can fudge a little bit about the Photoshop skills required, and then write a cover letter that will really blow Sir or Madam's socks off.  One also needs a resume that distinguishes the applicant from all of the other English majors out there, and that confirms that one KNOWS THINGS and has SKILLS even if they don't directly pertain to the job being applied for. I might not know CPR or how to wrestle alligators or build a basic website, but I am really good at writing awesome raps as my dinosaur alter-ego, Velociraptor the Rapper, having wedding therapy sessions with my engaged friend, and dancing (reference: Boyfriend).


After these hurdles comes the wait, and I usually swing from being overly optimistic to being depressed and grumpy. I've made the cut a few times, which means INTERVIEWS, which are a roller coaster ride of fuckery in themselves.  Most of the time, it goes well, but sometimes there is so much disorganization and awkwardness, you forget that you're interviewing for Receptionist and not Head of the Lobotomy Patients. My second interview was like this - just full-o-fuckery.


I should mention, at this point, that it was a non-profit.  I would gladly work for a non-profit, and I believe in what non-profits do, especially at the community level. But I also know many are vastly underfunded, which probably contributes to the lack of organization and direction that I've witnessed at several places (and a few of those have stabilized since then, operating now with efficiency). This particular non-profit seemed to be in one of the not-so-organized spells.


Once I found the building, there were several choices for entry. I picked the middle door, which seemed the most prominent, and walked in on some young woman working in a cubicle. Unsurprised by my random presence, she told me to go to the next door down.  I did as directed, and was met by a dimly lit hallway. A woman walked by, and I introduced myself and told her my purpose, and she lead me into another room, dimly lit as well, which seemed to be the reception area; there were chairs, but no magazines, a desk, but nobody behind the desk - at least, until a lady of gargantuan stature appeared, to use the fax machine. She asked me if she could help me, and I told her who I was here to see. "Oh, that's me," said the Office Yeti, and continued poking at the fax machine.

A few moments later I was lead into another dark, small room, with three ladies wedged in around a desk. While I had previously thought the female Yeti to be the ringleader, a shorter woman with glasses asked most of the questions - what were my strengths, weaknesses, etc. - while the Yeti and her youthful sidekick got sidetracked and talked about copying a certain flier, and where the original was. It was a short interview.


Despite this fuckery, I wanted the job - if only to escape from Jurassic Park. When I didn't hear back after a few weeks, I called only to learn, from the voicemail, that the Office Yeti was no longer there. I was directed to two different people, neither of which I could remember meeting at the interview. I called and left a message for one of the woman.  A week later, a different woman called back and left me a message, apologizing for not returning my phone call right away, and that the position had been filled.


Just a few days ago, however, I noticed the same position at the same non-profit back up on the online job boards.


I did not apply again.