Office Etiquette

Before I come to work, I have to mentally prepare myself for battle. Not a battle against co-workers, or a battle against my superiors; no, I have to mentally prepare myself for a battle against ignorance and my inherent nature to ask ‘did you really just say that?’  It takes, on average, thirty minutes getting ready for work, a ten minute drive, and no less than six minutes in the parking lot to revert my mental stage back to that of a middle schooler before I walk into my building. Before I’m criticized for my use of hyperbole, I should point out that 76% of the staff (28/37 people) are not college educated, and barely graduated high school. This, however, does not excuse poor behavior. Nine employees have attempted college, seven have graduated with degrees, and four of those employees work in accounting.  While I am sympathetic to those who didn’t have the privilege to attempt higher education, I refuse to be discriminated against because I’ve chosen to better myself in order to achieve a career I can be proud of.  I don’t believe that being uneducated is an excuse for childish behavior in the work place. When you work for an international non-profit, there is a certain professional code to adhere to. The following are things you shouldn’t do, under any circumstance. Mainly because common sense would tell you this is not proper business etiquette. 

·         The use of Comic Sans as a font for emails

·         The use of emoticons when responding to peers

·         The use of word art in emails to officers in the organization

·         The use of ‘ain’t’ in an email. To anyone.

·         Giving tax advice if you’re not up on tax laws of nonprofits.

·         Using profanity when speaking to a member of said organization on the telephone, in an email, etc.

·         Being inebriated from seven in the morning until midnight at an international convention for twelve days straight.

·         Smearing your chest on a glass window of a bar to get attention.

·         Publicly stripping to get free drinks.

·         Upon arriving at your destination: pounding six shots to get as wasted as you can.

·         Propositioning female staff.

·         Watching ‘Teen Mom’ or some other program on your work laptop during business hours.

·         Sleeping on pallets in a back room while on the clock.

·         Emailing 33/37 employees to tell them you’ve brought something in for the office to celebrate your birthday (cake, cookies, cupcakes, marzipan fruits, etc.) and purposefully leaving the others off because you don’t like them…

OK, that last one was pretty much the one thing that suffocated any flame I may have still carried for my job.  The selfishness and pettiness in that one act turned me cold towards a majority of the employees here, and set in motion actions that can’t be taken back. I filled out applications for three companies, sent my resume to a head hunter, and spoke to several contacts to get a feel for who was hiring. I think what made me the most angry about that last bullet is who committed the unnecessary offense.  First: I wouldn’t have eaten any of the cake. Not because I’m trying to prove a point, but because I don’t generally eat sweets. Second: I’m an amazing baker. Anything I would have made would have put her ‘mud pie’ to shame. (Not that I’m bragging, but I’m asked to make confections for office functions, and friends all the time. I’m making eight dozen this weekend for a birthday party. I’m pretty good.) Third: I understand that this person doesn’t like me. That’s perfectly fine. But when the majority of us ‘under-appreciated, underpaid, and overworked’ employees leave (at the same time) she’ll be stuck doing my job. Maybe being nice to me would convince me to leave some type of instruction.  My list of grievances could go on, and on and on, but I think I should keep the list short and sweet for now.

Stay tuned.

Wrong Occupation

The moments where words are building up in my head, my fingers, aching for release, are the worst moments of my day. They are the worst because they strike while I’m at work, doing menial accounting tasks, or fixing someone’s mistake, or unable to find a pen. The pressure of my thoughts is almost painful against my skull. These are the moments I begin to question my degree switch. Maybe English wasn’t such a mistake. Maybe the mistake was making my major something I’m good at that can make me money, instead of something that will feed my soul. I always push these thoughts away, justifying them with the rationale that “You hate what you’re doing because of where you are, not because you don’t like it.” This place is toxic. From the moment I mosey in at 9:00 (or 9:30…10:00…) I am overwhelmed by an ominous feeling. It’s not the typical anxious feeling I’m used to, its worse. The feeling is much worse than anything I’ve experienced. The moment my feet cross the threshold, and I enter “9-5” world, my soul feels heavier; my heart beats faster in my chest. My attitude changes from carefree to unbearably cross and I emit an aura as black as my coffee. The air is suffocating and the only reprieve I get is the measly half hour for lunch a day. I should be grateful. I know this. I should be rejoicing that I have a job. I should be thanking my stars that they’ve kept me employed through over fifteen staff changes. The notion that I should be happy doesn’t make it so. My fingers ache to type something other than a form letter; to be useful to the world, not just to serve glorified factory workers who have been given an iota of power. The ache is so apparent that I feel my heart pulse in my fingertips. I’m good at what I do. One of the best in the company (which isn’t really saying much, as I’m one of 6 people who aspired to amount to more than a high school diploma or a GED) but I’m good at other things too…riding a bike, singing, building forts, none of which I’m getting a degree in. I guess I need reassurance. I need to know that even though my life is consumed by accounting, and terrible business decisions at the hands of morons, I can still write; I still know grammar; I still love using semicolons; I am more than what this job makes me. There it is. That’s it! I am more than what this job makes me! My fingers now ache less, and my breathing is similar to other human beings, not erratic and staccato like before. I needed the reassurance that my brain still works, and the wealth of knowledge I’ve gained until this point isn’t lost, just filed away until I can put it to good use. I feel better.