Meetings

I love meetings, business meetings I mean, work meetings. I love them and I hate them, it’s a dichotomous relationship.

I love that I threw in the word dichotomous.

I love being able to get away from the phones, and thusly from really annoying and inane customers, who while they’re busy spilling their childish nonsense, I have my finger on the mute button and am saying, “blah, blah, blah fucking whine about it some more”. It also gives me the chance to soak up the beautiful mystery that is corporate culture.

Oh sure, it seems like an oxymoron - corporate culture, but for those of you lucky enough to have never had to experience a corporate job, believe me… it’s true. Corporate culture has its own language, it has its own expectations, its own dress codes, it has its own favorite holiday side dish that – I shouldn’t be telling you this – has nothing to do with potatoes. Keep it under your hat.

Meetings are a way for middle management folks to think they’re doing something productive. It’s an illusion of communication, an illusion of getting something done. Business meetings are a lot like kids pretending they’re eating a dinner they don’t like by pushing around pieces of said dinner on their plate. Parents don’t fall for that shit, you’d think businessmen would be wise to it too.

You’d think a lot of things about businessmen that you’d be wrong about.

Meetings are also a way for underlings to bitch about the fact that they’re, well, underlings. I had to listen to people, acting just as immaturely as most of our customers by the by, throw out complaints about how their jobs weren’t fun anymore.

I wanted to jump up on my sardonic high horse and yell out to those shiftless little fuckers that, “hey dumbasses, they don’t usually pay you to do things that are fun for you, hookers aside. And hookers aren’t having fun, nor are they getting free coffee and health care! Have none of you ever actually worked before? Did you actually believe the sitcoms when they promised a job that would allow you to own a house, a big fucking house, and yet spend hours a day away from your chosen, “fun” occupation? If you’re going to sit here and complain about how upset you are with your job, and yet refuse to get off your widening, pasty ass and do something about it, then I have no respect for you what so fucking ever!”

But I didn’t. I sipped my coffee and watched the clock, and listened to that sort of Orwellian business-speak that passes for talking. And I did fight the urge to bust out with Madonna's Material Girl.

*And for those with the Billy Cleans His Plate checklist out: I made pumpkin soup with my homemade vegetable stock yesterday. It was pumpkininny!