Shit My Job Says: The Homunculus

Do you love your annual performance review?

Freak.

As The Artist Formerly...I Mean, Now...Well, Sort of Nobody Ever Stopped Calling Him Prince once sang, dig if you will a picture.

At my IRL job, I'm due for my annual performance review. Or perhaps I should say overdue, as I was told it was review time almost two months ago, and my actual job anniversary was in November.

How time works in the business world.

Here's everything you need to know about me and performance reviews: I hate them.

I'm insecure, have a massive guilt complex, and don't respond well to criticism. So yeah, once a year, put me in front of the person who decides my professional future so they can list my faults for an hour while I don't get to stab them. This will be a growth experience.

See how my mind has expanded?

It's been a while since I've had to worry about a real performance review:

2009: Company was dying in the recession; no one gave a damn how anyone was performing. Did it really matter if the drinks were chilled properly on the Titanic when there was a fucking iceberg right in front of it?

2010: Got a new job - woo-hoo!

2011: I had done nothing for a year, and everyone knew it and was good with it. Did I mention the government was funding us?

2012: Got laid off, then landed a new job - woo-hoo!

2013: Review was a lovefest; my boss and I were friends as well as co-workers, and she had already decided to take another job elsewhere, so what the frig did she care?

So I haven't had a real, meaningful performance review in six years. That's a hell of a long coast, and I've enjoyed the shit out of it.

Pictured: Wheeeee!

But this year, things are different. As I said, my boss/friend is gone to a new job, and her office is occupied by the Homunculus. I can tell he works for the company because he comes in every day and sits in front of a computer and speaks with a vocabulary of approximately 6,500 tired business cliches that have literally no meaning.

Note to the Homunculus: You are using the term "begs the question" incorrectly, every damn time. Also, the phrase is "the eleventh hour," not the "the twelfth hour." And if the client hasn't responded, just say that, because "it's been crickets" may be the single most annoying idiom I've ever heard.

The Homunculus entered our office eight months ago. None of us knew what he was doing there, and he never told us. Well, he never told me. In fact, in eight months he's never once:

• Explained what his job duties are.
• Asked me what my job duties are.
• Discussed what he expects of me.
• Told me I'm doing a good/bad job.
• Given me any responsibilities.
• Provided any feedback on my work other than "That's stupid" and "Why would you do that?"

This time, dead serious.

For the last eight months, I haven't considered him my boss. He created such a huge leadership vacuum that I literally couldn't approach the place where I could consider him my supervisor. I adopted the lead administrator in the corporate office (who is an amazing woman) as my boss and mentor, and it never raised any red flags, you should pardon the tired old idiom.

So it came as a pretty large surprise when I learned that the Homunculus would be conducting my performance review. He who doesn't actually know what it is I do, and does his best to stop me from doing it whenever he glimpses a piece of my daily routine because he thinks I'm incompetent, is now in charge of evaluating my performance and recommending my salary for the next year.

This, pretty much.

Does it come as any surprise that, given this responsibility, he's blowing it off to the extent humanly possible?

I was talking to my mentor/quasi-boss today and told her that the review hadn't happened yet. My office is right next to the Cave of the Homunculus, so I couldn't say much more than that. Being very perceptive, she got it and was concerned and asked that I call her when I could discuss things more privately. But what am I supposed to say?

"Yeah, the guy who thinks I'm a moron and doesn't know what the hell I do but is pretty sure he doesn't approve of it is delaying my review so he can avoid giving me the raise he's not going to recommend because he thinks I'm a moron but won't tell me because he doesn't talk to me unless he's complaining about something I/the company/the rest of the world did that he thinks is worse than the way he would do it, which he doesn't bother to share with anyone because then he might have to stop complaining and actually provide the leadership he apparently was hired to provide but hasn't gotten around to in the last eight months."

I have mild asthma; I don't think I could get the words out, even if I bothered to try.

This might happen.

In the meantime, the fucking review is hanging over my head, and that's almost worse than just sitting down and having the damn thing.

I will say this. All the professional drama is distracting me from my personal life, which is basically a Ty-D-Bowl commercial right now.

That means "in the toilet," children. Look it up.

It does feel better to write about it, though. So thanks for letting me vent. I hope my distress was moderately entertaining. If not, I'll write about the actual review if it ever takes place. It should be hilarious.

I'll call it "The Curse of the Homunculus."

Lost Boys v. Cowboys

I just realized that the Dallas Cowboys are playing a must-win game against the Chicago Bears this week. The 'Boys lost in embarrassing fashion on Thanksgiving Day, and their playoff hopes ride on beating the Bears. It's a very big deal.

The game is Thursday night. At the same time as Peter Pan Live.

You know, this is a pretty terrible promo picture, now that I
look at it again.

I'm live-blogging (and potentially drunk-blogging) Peter Pan. Period. Sorry, Cowboys.

Also, sorry anyone else in the house who may think a football game is more important than watching Christopher Walken tap-dance on a pirate ship.

Look! They can fly! Sorry, no dice.

Cowboys-Bears may not be the only battle fought on Thursday night.

This will be interesting.

Tune in, won't you?

3-2-1 Contacts

Today Precocious Daughter got contact lenses.

And of course, I don't post pictures of PDaughter on this blog, but if you happen to be one of my IRL friends you can see the picture I posted of her sans spectacles on Facebook. If not, take my word for it: Today my baby girl went from being an adorable geek to a stunning young lady with huge blue eyes and nothing standing between them and the world.

This stock-photo of a blue eye is freaking hideous
compared to my child's eyes, she said with utter impartiality.

She is now officially growing up way too fast. And I am growing old at a correspondingly excessively rapid rate.

Shit. I mean...shit.

I'm now going to tell you all the story of how I started carrying a purse.

This is totally related to everything that has preceded it, I promise.

When I was a junior in high school, I got contact lenses. In my case, contacts didn't turn me into a teenage beauty queen, per every cheesy summer movie/music video ever. They simply turned me from a four-eyed chunky awkward nobody to a two-eyed chunky awkward nobody.

Goddammit Tina Fey, I love/hate you
so much.

One day, in drama class, I was approached by Erik L. I had the biggest crush on him; he was super-cute and could play the Beatles' "Blackbird" on the guitar. He had pretty much no idea I existed, for which I can hardly blame him, because at that point in my life, pretty much nobody had any idea I existed.

It will all be in the book, I promise.

Anyway, Erik L. approached me and said, "So...you wear contacts now, don't you?"

And my heart exploded. Erik L. had spoken to me. More than that, he had noticed - and commented upon - a change in my appearance. If you don't understand how close I came to physical death at that moment, then you obviously have never been a 15-year-old girl.

Zooey Deschanel, what I said to Tina Fey up there?
Goes triple for you.

I'm pretty sure I managed to stammer "yes," although honestly I might simply have nodded and drooled, which would have seemed strange to no one back then. What was this about? Where was it leading? Was Erik L. going to compliment me? Ask me out? Declare his undying love?

All of these thoughts went through my head in, like, 1.5 seconds. It was definitely a quantity over quality situation in my brain.

And what did Erik L. say after asking about my contacts?

He said, "Do you have any eye drops I can borrow?"

Goddamn subconjunctival hemorrhage.

My world took an astonishingly short amount of time to come crashing down around me. I could feel my face freeze, instinctively denying the world the spiteful joy of seeing my crushing disappointment manifest itself in my expression. Erik L. wanted eye drops, and I had none to give him.

Because I didn't carry a purse.

I don't remember if it was that night, or that weekend. But the first chance I got, I went out and bought a goddamn purse. And into it I put my eye drops, my saline solution, my contact lens case, and anything else I thought Erik L. might ever conceivably ask for.

Because he had asked me for eye drops, and I failed him.

At the time I believed failure was an event. I have since learned
that it is a continuum.

But the next time Erik L. approached me and asked for something, I was able to fulfill his needs and satisfy his desires.

Just kidding. I'm pretty sure he never spoke to me again.

But he got me to start carrying a purse, and I thank him for that. Today, my purse is more or less the crucible of my existence.

And I haven't worn contact lenses in years. I got lazy and cheap.

That may happen to PDaughter eventually, especially when she has to start paying for her own contacts. But for now, I'm psyched to understand her joy at seeing the world without having to push glasses up her nose every 10 minutes.

And I'm certainly not going to harsh that buzz by telling her the story of Erik L.

The Party Line

My friends Bek and Chris are having a party in August, and to my horror, I've been invited. Partly I'm horrified that they would invite someone like me to a party. Why am I friends with people who would do something like that?

Besides their general awesomeness, of course.

Mostly, though, I'm horrified at the thought of going to to this party. There will be people I know there, and there will be people I don't know there. And honestly, both groups are equally terrifying to me. My social awkwardness does not discriminate.

But Chris is bugging me to accept their invitation. He's gone so far as to separately invite Precocious Daughter, and of course she wants to go, because she has a party personality. So that's just dirty pool.

This is my party personality.

The thing is, I have a very legitimate reason to skip this party. Loads of legitimate reasons, in fact. Cromulent reasons, even.

You want to hear them?

• I have an appointment to have my earlobes waxed that day; my lobe stylist is booked months in advance, and I cannot miss my spot.
• It's a religious holiday, for a religion I plan to start between now and August.
• The Farmer's Almanac emphatically states that short blue-eyed southpaws born under Aries should not make public appearances that day. You do not need to look this up.
• There's a feral cat adoptathon happening, and I've volunteered to be an ear-clipper.
• I'm testifying before a Senate hearing on Dork-American issues.
• Someone has to stay home that day and wait for the fish installer to show up.
• Nickelback wants me to play acoustic theremin on their next album, and that's our only rehearsal day before we hit the studio.
• I'm pretty sure I'll be under a gypsy drooling curse by then.
• It might rain frogs. That's a total non-starter. Gross.
• The Squirrel Mafia has put a hit out on me, and I hear it's going down on the same day.

I could go on.

I am fabulous at making lists.

Ball's in your court, ChrisS. You got anything to go up against a gypsy drooling curse, huh?

RHYME TIME

Ready?

I find this picture humorous.

(beatbox sounds)

I'm a wordwright...
That's a word, right?
I do my word rite
Every night
I wish that were right.

Sometimes the words write
Themselves
Flying off of the shelves.

Sometimes I can't get the words right.
The word "right"
Can't begin to describe
All the words I inscribe,
All the wrong words I write
All the wrongs words can right.

When I'm wrong, words are right there,
The words that I write here,
It's my nightly rite here,
Go in through your right ear
And out through your left ear
'Til all that is left here
Are words that are left here.

When I write for you
Is it my right for you
To believe in my words?
You're believing my words
I'll be living my words
I'm believing my words
Are the right words.

When I write words,
Any right words,
Every night words
Just appear,
Disappear,
It's up here.

I'm pointing to my head.
Disappointing to have read?
I never said I was any damn good at this.

Peace out, girl scout.

I Don't Have to Tell You This

The thing about having a blog is that you're always looking for things to write about. Which sometimes means making public something that you might keep to yourself if you didn't need a new post.

Am I really going to publish this? What do you think, alcohol?

So, for instance, you might tell all 12 of your readers that your Precocious Daughter had her karate belt ceremony tonight - she and her friends are green belts now, which means she can kick most of your asses. I don't mean she can kick most of your ass...I mean she can kick the ass of most of you...not that most of you share a single ass...

Anyway.

You might then say that after the ceremony, you and PDaughter's dad waited around for her to take approximately 4,000 selfies with her friends. And after perfunctorily socializing with the other parents, you wandered over to the edge of the school gymnasium because perfunctory socializing makes you sweat and break out in an itchy rash. And you saw a table and sort of leaned your ass against it. And then PDaughter's dad joined you and sat down - you know, full weight, full ass, and everything - on the table, which was not a slab of mahogany but a cheap wood-veneer folding table that probably was older than most of the kids in the gym.

Dun-dun-DUN.

And predictably, three seconds later the table collapsed, and down you both went. And EVERYBODY in the gym saw it happen.

And everybody - friends, strangers, your kid's teachers - came over to make sure you were both OK.

And even though you actually had fallen onto your bad arm, AND you were mortified, you laughed it off. Even though you wanted to yell, for all to hear, "This - THIS - is why this man and I are no longer together. Not this specific thing, but, you know, this type of thing."

But he sort of hurt his shoulder falling to the ground, and you can't help but feel bad for him, because 25 years is a long time to simply stop caring about someone.

Probably you would never consider writing about any of this on the Internetz, where anybody could see it.

Unless you had a blog that needed updating and a couple of shots of vodka in you.

Hmmm.

So PDaughter and her friends got their green belts tonight. It was awesome. Yeah.

Thanks for sharing my bliss.