|When work makes you cry, it's time to find a new job...
||[Jun. 12th, 2002|01:51 pm]
|||||Six Degrees of Inner Turbulence - Dream Theater||]|
Okay. Let's start here. I got to bed late last night for a couple of different reasons. But, I had to get up at the same time as normal, so I'm functioning on less sleep than my body likes. That makes me more sensitive, more cranky, and generally a less happy person to be around...
You also should know that I'm on my second warning for tardies. You get a warning each time you're more then 59 seconds late twice in a month. Because my commute went from 7 minutes to a 35 to 65 minute commute, depending on traffic, I'm late more often than I used to be. All of one and two minutes late...
So, because of my lack of sleep, I got out of bed a little later than normal. With my new schedule, I usually get to work 20 minutes before my scheduled shift. So, getting out of bed 10 minutes late, I'm still fine. I go through my usual routine and take off. Everything's going fine, until I get near the East L.A. Interchange. It's always a little slow through there, so I'm not worried yet. That's part of the regular commute. But, I get past the interchange, where things normally speed up, and I notice we're still doing 15mph. Uh-oh. We speed up and slow down all the way down until around the Highland on-ramp, when I finally pass a street sweeper in the fast lane. By this point, I'm pretty much a raving lunatic, screaming at people to move, since I have four minutes to get seven miles or so on the freeway, plus time to park, and get into work and clock in. If I was in a DeLorean, I would have arrived 47 years early or so, the way I was driving. But, in my Ford Escort, there is no Flux Capacitor, so I was two minutes late when I clocked in. I slammed down my bag on the floor, and threw down my badge on the desk in disgust. Someone asks me if I'm okay. I reply, "No. I'm not. I'm going to get fucking fired because of a fucking street sweeper on the freeway!" loud enough for most of the floor to hear. One of the supervisors comes over to me, and says, "Come here." At this point I realize how loud I actually said that, and think "No, I'm not going to get fired because of the street sweeper. I'm going to get fired because of my language..."
Thankfully, the supervisor listened to my story, and promised that she would change the tardy to an excused late, which won't affect my records. But the fact that I was this stressed about it just continues to point at needing a new job. I've been applying online at various tech places down in Orange County, but so far no luck. My sister just emailed me about a possible job opening working with her husband in Burbank, creating DVDs. Here's hoping that works out. It sounds like a much more relaxed environment...I could even wear...*gasp*...jeans!
Is far too much of a hippy still to survive a corporate environment...