what a way to make a livin’

Here is a rough transcript of a conversation overheard at my office the other day:

Male Producer (insurance salesman):  Before we meet in my office, can you bring me a cup of black coffee?
Female Account Manager:  Yes, sir.  Right away. 

I look at my desk calendar to check the year.  Yup, it’s still 2009.  Whew!

It would have been a completely different situation if the Account Manager were already getting herself some coffee and the Producer was just asking for her to get him some, too.  But, this wasn’t the case.  It would have also been different if the Producer had bothered to say “please” or in some way indicated that he realised what he was asking was not in the Account Manager’s job description.  But, he didn’t.  

What bothers me the most about this exchange has nothing to do with the male Producer.  This type of behavior is not uncommon with him.  He has a couch in his office for Pete’s sake.  Ew.

No, what bothers me the most is the subservient nature of the Account Manager.  She is not much younger than the Producer and she has decades of experience in the insurance industry.  She knows what she is doing and does it well.  Also, the Producer-AM relationship is not a boss-employee type structure.  They are a team.  Two people working together to reach a common goal.  Yet, her reaction is always “how high?” to his command of “jump!” 

I just don’t get it. 

I’ll tell you something you may not know about me: I am completely incapable of kissing ass.  Yes, shocking, I know!  I just wasn’t born with whatever gene that makes people prostrate themselves before any type of authority.  I do not automatically respect someone because of how much money they make or how many companies they own.  My respect has to be earned.  And, even after someone has earned my respect, I will speak to them like a fellow human being, not like a servant to a master.  Sycophant, I will never be. 

This might explain why I have not been promoted at work.  I also have it on good authority that one of the Producers (not Franklin Hart from the above mentioned conversation) is actually scared of me because I will not hesitate to voice my opinion when asked to do something questionable.  I suppose I can live with being feared over getting a promotion if it means never having to fetch coffee.

bad days

By 10:00 this morning I was basically called an idiot by someone at a bank that had no idea what she was talking about and another person, whom I have no professional obligation to whatsoever, told me that someone was going to get sued and it would be my fault.  My day only went downhill from there.  At 5:00, however, it was over.  I did what I could do and what couldn’t get done was out of my hands.  I sloughed off the dried husk of the day, got in my car and drove home.  And that’s it. 

It’s over.  Bad days happen.  But I know that I’ll have a lot more good days than bad.  And that’s why I was smiling today at 5:00 when the office door clicked closed behind me.

judgement day

It’s always interesting when someone I’ve known for a while sees my tattoos for the first time.  This situation usually involves a co-worker.  When I am dressed for the office, you can’t see any of my tattoos except maybe a glimpse of the space ship on my calf when I cross my legs or a couple of stars on my right shoulder if my shirt has a wide collar.  Unless I’ve mentioned them, which I don’t unless asked directly, then you probably don’t know I have them.  Just like I don’t know if you have a birthmark shaped like the state of Indiana on your left butt-cheek.  It’s not the kind of thing you just blurt out in conversation cause you’ll get the “ew, too much information” stare.  Unless you’re drunk, then all bets are off. 

When an office-mate sees one of my tattoos for the first time, or even just learns that I have tattoos, I can actually see the preconceived notions they’ve formed about me crumble and new, more than likely innaccurate, notions take shape.  Amy + tattoos is not equal to just the variable Amy.  To me, tattoos neither add nor subtract anything to my equation, while to others they could be a negative 15 or a positive 5.  (Look at the English major bustin’ out the math analogy!)  Either way, they judged me when they first met me and now they are judging me all over again. 

How do I know they judged me?  Well the short answer is: cause they are human.  We all do it, we can’t help it.  It’s a trait that evolved so we could instantly tell friend from foe, a tribe we wanted to mate with, and a tribe we didn’t.  When we hear someone with a thick southern accent, we think they’re ignorant.  When we see a balding man in a convertible sports car we assume mid-life crisis.  Yes, I know, “judge not, lest ye be judged.”  But, it’s not the judging itself that is wrong.  What’s wrong is when we think our judgements are true, when our judgements are set in stone.  We don’t know anything about another person except what they tell us, and even that could be a lie.  You can assume what you want, but you also must also be prepared to be surprised. 

So, either my tattoos conflict with your vision of me or they confirm what you always thought.  Either way, it’s just a fraction of who I really am.