Another one of those days…
You know the ones I'm talking about, you have a craving for beef tongue and your local grocer just sold the last one. You buy yourself a nice, brand spanking new ball gag and the strap snaps the first time you use it. You go to the doctor to have your tonsils taken out and wake to a sex change.
And what about work? Maybe you've been in a situation like this: you prepare an assignment or task tailored specifically and accurately to what your boss asked. You are proud of your accomplishment. Even tickled at the thought of how well your boss will receive its splendor.
You fondly picture a scene where you're decorated and praised by everyone from Dave the stoned guy with the long hair in the mailroom to the owner of your company. You get a chunky raise, company stock and a week off for your genius. A new phrase surfaces in the office; whenever anyone does anything stellar they call it, “pulling a [your name].” But no one has ever nor will ever “pull a [your name]” with the same impact as the original. Your internal soundtrack begins playing Eye of the Tiger as you strut into your boss's office.
But instead of praise, respect and a maxim in your honor, your fantasy crashes to the ground with the impact of King Kong falling onto 5th avenue.
And just like ole Kong you too were shot down because apparently when your boss says up, she means down… left means right… no means yes… ahem… you get the idea
So boss tells you it's all wrong and gives you that look… you know, the one where they try to mask their displeasure in hiring you but still kind of smile and hope you'll work out because engaging another search for someone to fill your position means reviewing more grotesquely padded resumes of people who aren't even qualified to accurately take a drive through order. And the only way your boss will learn this is going through the painful process of interviewing these morons.
So you smile and try really hard not to let out your true feelings. I mean, at this point what you'd like to say is, “hmmm… not really sure where the disconnect occurred. You were pretty clear when you said you wanted me to make a cake. I guess it's my fault right? When you said "cake", I should have known you meant "nuclear warhead." I really should have my ears checked. Does our mediocre health plan include an eye, ears, nose and throat specialist? I am fully aware that I will have to go out of the network and pay hundreds for the doctor to come in, say "nuclear warhead," ask me to repeat it, put a drop in each ear and send me back to work.”
Now you stand up and lean over your boss's desk.
“Only problem is, I don't think that'll solve your inability to effectively make up your tiny little mind about exactly what it is that you want me to do.”
But you think better of it and simply say, “wow, I am sorry. I could've sworn I heard "cake" but I'll go ahead and make the necessary changes and get it back to you by this afternoon.”
And then think to yourself without missing a beat, “you fickle twit.”
Eye of the Tiger is replaced by the sound of a needle that has reached the end of a record.
You return to your cubical and slam your project down knocking over a bottle of diet Pepsi that, until now, was always tightly capped when you weren't drinking it. Ignoring the spill, you grab your keys and go out for a beef tongue sandwich because it's nearing lunchtime. You return with Cup O Noodles because, of course, they were out of tongue, to find the Pepsi ran into an outlet and shorted out your side of the office.
But misery is not limited to our jobs…
As the world gets craftier and craftier supplying goods and services that are, shall I say, somewhat less than shy of their advertised promise, our days get crummier and crummier proportionately.
In fact, the ratio of good days to crummy ones is rapidly decreasing and all I know is I don't even want to get out of bed anymore because I'm faced with almost certain disappointment.
Take those shop at home channels, or even the late night ads that prey on your drunken desire to simplify your life. You purchase that space-aged, space-saver clothes hanger that, when triggered, collapses all of your shirts into one 7 foot long vertical hanging.
