In which I mildly complain about my job.
Currently I work as an Admin in a call center. I basically do things the managers don’t have time to do. Scheduling, assigning workloads, escalations, lots of reporting. And it seems like every week they find something else for me to do. Every week I grumble about the extra work, but I manage to squeeze it in.
Last week at we had a visit from the boss’ boss. She has a title, I just never bother to know what it is.
Anyway, she’s big on ‘team building’, and she had the management team do an exercise involving tin foil sculpture. We could choose to make something that represented our role in the department, the department as a whole, or an improvement to our processes.
I often say I’m book smart, but I can’t think my way out of a paper bag, so process improvement was out of the picture. And I don’t think the boss’ boss really wants to hear what I think about our department. So, I sculpted a work horse. It looked more like Marmaduke, but hey, I’m a writer not a foil-baller-upper-to-make-pretty-things-er.
Anyway, after presenting my workhorse, one of my coworkers made a joke comparing me to Boxer the horse from Animal Farm. Sadly, I don’t think most of my coworkers got the reference, and even I (having last read Animal Farm sometime in high school, forgotten everything except that it involves Animals on a Farm and Communism) had to go home and Wikipedia it (that’s right, I used Wikipedia as a verb. That is now a thing).
He was right. So right. Spoilers: Boxer the horse works until he can’t work anymore, and then the commie pigs sell him for dog food. The end.
That’s kind of my life at work. I have no official title. I just do whatever the managers tell me to do. I don’t even bother asking why anymore. I don’t even think the managers bother asking why anymore. It’s that kind of place.