My whole office is in a workplace-appropriate-volume uproar today. Tensions are high. People are going behind my back to get things done the easy, quick, wrong way because I won’t do them the wrong way. I’m pretty sure at least one person is now avoiding me. I KNOW one of them was gossiping behind my back. And I’m just finishing my second-breakfast and shaking my head in frustration.
All this because of FOLDERS.
My office has recently been saddled with preparations for these big, official meetings of this big, official committee, and the woman in charge of it is starting to drive us all crazy—by “us all,” I mean me and the other staff person (read, not an administrator) in my office. There have been a series of last-minute crises this whole week; she’s had the other girl in my office reprint the table tents about four times now; we’ve spent nearly $200 on printing and supplies. And now she’s got her panties in a wad because she found out one of the big-wigs on campus doesn’t really like the color of the folders she had me order. She had me order red, because that’s what the lady in charge of this before her ordered. The big-wig likes blue.
And it seems I’m the bad guy because I told her there’s no way we can return the red folders and get replacement blue ones from our contracted supply company before the big meeting Tuesday, and even if we just ordered more they probably wouldn’t get here in time anyway. My suggestion that we use the red ones this time, apologize, and get blue ones for the next meeting was met with a look of pure horror. Now I find out that she’s just having her assistant (which makes me wonder why she’s had me and the other girl in my office doing all this and NOT her assistant all along) try to rush an order through, which probably isn’t going to work anyway because we’re closed tomorrow and it’ll have to go through several layers of approval before it even has a PO number dispatched.
I also found out just a few minutes ago that the biggest agenda item for this meeting is changing the name of the committee.
It concerns me most because I have a feeling this will only be the first of many crises with this woman. There’s a reason I was so drained by the end of my theatre career that my “little break” turned into four years and counting. Drama belongs on a stage, and I have little to no patience for people who cannot keep it there.
I’m vowing right now not to care anymore. They’re fucking folders; they will be stuffed with copies of the agenda and presentation and most likely forgotten—if ever even opened—by at least half the meeting’s participants. It’s not worth the stress.
And hey, at least I didn’t try to make her use the random, ugly burgundy folders I found in the back of the closet. I’m not that much of a monster.