Open Letter From Your Receptionist
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Date: 2003-04-07, 8:44AM PDT
To the Whiny, Self-Important, Over-worked-Under-paid, Cowards in My Office: I understand that I am the peon in this environment. I know that I have no rights, that your wish is my command, that I am powerless under your whims. I took this job knowing all that. I’m still OK with it (sorta). I just wanted to clarify that I do not like it. I don’t secretly cream myself when you glare at me. I don’t rub myself at night thinking about how much you want to make my life miserable. This is not an enjoyable experience. And I’m not just saying that cause I want you to think that I don’t enjoy it. I know you all. Some of you are sitting in your tiny cubicles (the horror that not everyone, or at least just you has a manager’s cube) writing code for the next great evolution of our mighty software. Others are sitting in their cubes schmoozing on the phone trying to sell that software. The writers hate the sales teams because sales gets all the respect, after all, they make the money. I’m sick of which came first/which is more important. This company wouldn’t be around without either of you, so just accept the fact that you’re both vital. If the sales guys get stroked a little more, just accept it. They have lower self-esteem. Right after a big sale, you could accuse them of being egomaniacs, walking around on cloud nine and generally being a prick. I appreciate that a lot more than I dig you developers’ secret sense of self-importance. It’s a keyboard, a computer, and an idea. It is not a nuclear weapon. It is not a magic lamp. It is what it is. If you are so freakin’ great don’t you think maybe you might have had an original idea of your own to develop AND sell? Then you’d have to hate yourself, huh? But the real problem is that you all secretly hate me, the receptionist. Our great company buys breakfast for you every morning, but here’s a clue: It’s their money, it’s my time. I know you hate me because you think I don’t do anything all day but do my crosswords and surf the internet. Here’s the reality of the situation: I make far less than anyone else in the office, yet I am expected to put up with all your crap. I used to damn near chew my arm off fretting about what to buy (on a budget) for breakfast to make 30 people happy, wait, 29 because I don’t count. Some mornings, the supermarket is over-run by soccer moms (this is especially true when there’s a storm coming or Tom Ridge adds an item to the “Terrorist Preparedness List”). And it takes me a few minutes longer than expected to fight my way through the grocery checkout. Forgive me for getting breakfast out 5 minutes late. Or maybe you could just bitch-slap me and you’d feel better. Just like a wife beater from the 1950’s isn’t that what you really want anyway? A feasible way into a plane of existence where there’s no such thing as “soft wares”? The company tricked me. They hired a receptionist and set forth expectations of administrative assistant to the masses and facilities chick extraordinaire. They pay me as a receptionist. I have not yet cried over it. About my “attitude problem.” I know you think that I don’t do anything all day. This is entirely false. When I’m not fielding questions about where your packages are, taking PlaceWare classes, on a conference call, tracking an invoice, calling maintenance up to adjust the temperature because you are always either too hot or too cold, dealing with whiny SOB’s from the other office that I’m responsible for, opening a helpdesk issue to resovle something that you could resolve yourself if you thought you could, fixing the printer/copier/fax machine because you broke it again, or generally trying to improve my plight – yes, you might catch me checking my hotmail account. Forgive me. My biggest gripe about you though is that you will never gather the nerve to come to me and tell me when something doesn’t go your way. I bend over backwards trying to be accommodating and have never let my smile falter in your presence. How could that possibly be intimidating enough to make you run to my manager with imaginary complaints? If he was on-site more often he would know that I don’t walk around here snapping bubble gum, cursing people out, and dressed like The Nanny. Thankfully, he thinks I just don’t know what’s up in corporate America. I don’t know how to play the game, he thinks, and I think “I know how to play this game, but I just don’t fluckin’ care anymore.” I am currently accepting applications for “Sugar Daddy.” That’s the point it’s come to, folks. I’d rather have a stinky, sleazy, dirty, filthy-rich piece of crap objectifying me than submit to one more day of your slow exploitation. And I hate to even feign being akin to any of you but “Maybe when I’m gone you’ll know how good you had it.” - One Angry Receptionist, aka Your Bitch My MC: A job where people talk shit to my face. And are able to take it back.
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