I’m Good at My Job, Dang It!

“One measure of friendship consists not in the number of things friends can discuss, but in the number of things they need no longer mention.”
– Clifton Fadiman

Yesterday was one of those days where everything went wrong.

On Tuesday I started a project to audit our records of everyone who is permanently forbidden from campus.  I worked on it and nothing else for two days, 16 straight working hours and paid meticulous attention to detail.  The product I turned in was exactly what had been requested.

NEED. CAKE. NOW.

Yesterday I went to talk with the officer who assigned me the project and he told me it wasn’t what he wanted at all (even though when I gave it to him Wednesday and he looked over it, he pronounced it good).  Instead of just running an audit to see whether our paper files and electronic files meet up, apparently I’m supposed to create an easy reference guide so that a committee of people can decide whether any of these people should be permitted on campus in the future.  Which is not what I was originally assigned and which requires entirely different information than an audit which, not to harp on, I’d spent 16 hours compiling data for.

Then!  A volunteer organization we (and when I say “we” I mean “I”) run background checks for started a minor panic with it’s volunteers by declaring that they had never received the results of checks we (meaning “I”) had run.

“Bollocks!” cried I viciously, pulling up multiple emails spanning a month demonstrating that I had, in fact, sent the results off properly.

I have pride issues.  I have no problem admitting when I’ve done something incorrectly or correcting mistakes.  But when I’ve done my job properly, supplied exactly what was asked, and done so in a fabulously quick manner, only to be told I’m completely in the wrong and/or failed in a basic duty when I haven’t…poor J. gets a long rant over lunch.

Snarl.  The dizzying cocktail of feminine hormones currently swirling through my system didn’t make matters easier either.

However, thanks to a long and rather hilarious talk with Sav, Vodka, and Hennessy about (among other things) law, obstetrics, and drugs (legal ones!), I’m feeling in much better form.

TGIF, my fuzzy little chinchillas.

5 thoughts on “I’m Good at My Job, Dang It!”

  1. You have my deepest sympathies for the inadequacies of the incompetents who can’t decide what they really want. Then, when faced with the evidence of their idiocy play the ‘it’s all your fault anyway’ card.

    We believe in volcano sacrifices to the great goddess of annoyance and anger here in the east. We’ve built a ramp and everything. When that fails. We hide the bodies in the retention pond. No one wants to look there because of all the Canadian geese and the resultant poop.

    I’ll make a couple of extra sacrifices in your honor. I might be on that list you compiled.

    1. I would, but since it usually involves a massive crime spree, sexual assault (the pain and horror of which I work very hard to keep the press out of since it’s none of their damn business unless they intend on making the community safter – and as they are usually just trying to sell papers they can butt out of someone’s personal tragedy), or had the FBI involved, anonymity is hard to maintain. You understand.

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