Work woes

You know, I was being extremely productive at work today. Until 4:38. Then I hit a wall.

You see, I had a snow day yesterday and took last week off as a staycation so Speedy and I could organize closets, shred mounds of paper, go through all the drawers and dark corners in the apartment and cull every last shred of excess from our lives. I love a good purge and we did very well. The only big organizational task we have left is organizing the boxes of photos and letters which we don’t know how to handle. Photo boxes and jettison the albums? What do you do with all those angsty love letters and introspective screeds from friends and ex-lovers? Do you trash ‘em? I am thinking next time I go to my parents giant house in Vermont with a largely unused attic, I will surreptitiously squirrel a few boxes up in there and free up the precious cubic feet of closet space we anticipate needing for speeytot’s gender neutral and low-impact wardrobe of smart-ass onesies and, eventually, teeny tiny khakis and jeans.

But anyway, I was talking about work.

Between the last week’s staycation of purging and catharsis, and yesterday’s snow day (and my convenient forgetting to bring home the files I was working on) I am swamped at work, so I have been super-productive. Never mind that the freaking hormones have packed on eight pounds (eight pounds, people!!) since November, I have no time to go to the gym when I have podcasts to tweet about and press releases to distribute. I am a one-woman media-relations extravaganza, and I am tireless. And I am pretty good.

So. tomorrow is my annual review. Oh no—please don’t get excited on my behalf! Despite the fact that all my quantifiable measurements (placements, ad value, etc.) were up by an average of 20% in the last year, my raise is going to be a big fat zero. My raise is: “Just be grateful you HAVE a job to complain about.”

At least that’s what I thought until I got my new list of objectives from my director (who is lovely, but straining under the work of a department that should be three times as large as we are). Turns out my raise is going to be in the quantity of work expected of me. My new objectives include the equivalent work of adding another part-time staff member. And not 10 hours part-time. I’m talking 25 hours. I’m talking… too much.

I’m talking too much about it because my head very nearly fucking exploded. WHERE am I going to get this time? And HOW am I going to be paid for it? I don’t have a climbing-the-corporate ladder job. The bonuses at my organization—back when we got them—came in the company-wide format of, “Here’s $250 and two drink tickets for the holiday party! Thanks for your efforts!” No, I’m serious and I’m seriously pissed. If not a raise, can we have an assistant for the department? Like, just one—we can share? Someone to make copies and post press releases and make spreadsheets? Someone who can take the Fed Ex out besides me?

Oy, oy, oy….

Ugh, so here I am Blogger Crankypants (on a break from ttc) boring you with cry-me-a-river drivel about my professional woes because I have no tales of pee sticks of follicle sizes or obnoxious nurses (and no updates on the insurance sitch, though Dr. B. is supposed to be calling me tonight to talk about filing an appeal on my behalf.)

I think that until I hit my next cycle, I will limit myself to food blogging because this work blogging is not even interesting to me.

I will start with last night’s fresh-made baba ganoush with herbed flatbread. Speedy took a picture. I will post when I get home, with recipes. 4:57. Time to blow this joint.