Same Old Song
Work
I am drawing near to my six month anniversary with the full-time job, and thus drawing near to the consequential and infamous Six Month Review -- a time when me and my keepers get together to discuss my performance and productivity, and reassess my remuneration.
Provided I pass through the review unscathed my health benefits package will be activated the following week and I'll no longer have to wear a bright orange speedo that says TRAINEE across the fanny.
As regular readers already know, I work for a company that produces events -- corporate annual general meetings, celebrity roasts, album launches, that sort of thing. We fly people around and book them hotel rooms and arrange catering and design sets, cue lighting and create multi-screen video shows for their edutainment.
My responsibility is to make sure all of the napkins on the dinner tables are folded just right.
The tricksy thing about my Six Month Review is that it is being split into two components, a regular session and a secret session. The purpose of the secret session is to discuss my salary, and the reason why it is a secret is because they don't pay my manager enough money and they don't want her to be privy to the details of my compensation. They'd rather string her along on the cheap for a while longer.
I am uncomfortable about this.
My manager, the Vice-President of Getting Shit Done, has been my ally in my contract negotiations, and was immeasurably helpful in pushing to get my review scheduled on time (rather than six or eight or fourteen months late, as is the norm). She has always been there to facilitate getting shit done. She is a tireless, devoted and resourceful member of the company. (And, for the record, she has a fine set of maracas.)
However, the Vice-President of Very Important Things has made it clear to me that my imminent raise is classified information with regard to the Vice-President of Getting Shit Done. And since the Vice-President of Very Important Things has considerable sway when it comes to deciding the particulars of my raise, I am loath to piss her off. (Even though her maracas are humble.)
I've mentioned my discomfort with this sort of political tomfoolery to the Lady Producer, Art Units A and B, and even Girl Wonder Production Assistant, as it is my feeling that having news of the secret session leak out as a part of agonized advice seeking on my part is a defensible way for the beans to be spilled. I should like it that if and when the Vice-President of Getting Shit Done eventually hears about the secret session she also hears that I was upset about keeping her in the dark.
The other alternative -- namely, going into her office and telling her about it right now -- makes me nervous. If I'm going to rock the boat by directly violating orders from the Vice-President of Very Important Things I'd at least like to have a sign-off on my raise, first.
Always looking out for number one. Ain't I a hero?
Home
I'm pretty much at a total loss to understand how people with multiple children function without a live-in au pair girl. I'm reasonably terrified of how things will pan out once ours returns home a fortnight hence. Who will do the things I'm too lazy to do then? Hell!
Baby Yam is fat and happy. He is possessed of a burning ambition to stand under his own power, constantly dragging his chubby self up the side of chairs, laundry baskets, ottomen. Upon doing so he breaks into an ecstatic grin and squeals in joy for the brief instant before he falls down.
He eats like a teenager. I have never seen the like. He's turning into a giant, engineering new tissues out of pulverized vegetables and banana cookies at an astonishing speed. At this rate he's going to be able to beat me up soon.
His hair is coming in blonde. His eyes have settled steely grey. He is a living dimple spill.
Young Popsicle is also doing well, though I admit I was somewhat disturbed the other week when she unceremoniously killed off one of her beloved imaginary friends. Nada is six-inch-tall girl with a green dress and long hair of red and blue whom Popsicle reports as being constantly at her side, and is frequently overheard being scolding for "troublemaking." Recently Popsicle informed me that she had accidentally sat on Nada and squished her, and that Nada had succumbed to her injuries and passed away.
"Maybe we need an imaginary ambulance," I suggested. "We should get her into the imaginary ER -- STAT."
"No, she is already died. She gotted squished. But it was a accident."
"Oh no!"
"But that's okay."
"It is?"
"Sure. There is an another Nada, too."
"Nada Two?"
"No, just Nada. But an another one."
Littlestar is good, too. We have been spoiled by having Mademoiselle J. around and so have become used to popping out for opportunistic dates to the movies or dinner or to friends' houses for drinks and chatter. Littlestar even got to work on her music for a while the other day, a relatively rare event in these busy days. In a few weeks she starts teaching choir, so such times will become doubly precious.
At work the men talk about how their wives don't have sex with them. I smile and nod, but have nothing to contribute. There must be something wrong with Littlestar, because she continues to put out with enthusiasm and style. She has, in this respect, utterly failed to be normal -- leaving me holding the bag with no punchline to chime in with my chums come bitching time.
What's a man to do? Grin and bear it, I reckon.
Arts & Crafts
Yes, there is a new website and a new blog, and both are being launched with a new serialized novella -- twenty chapters posted over twenty working days, beginning Tuesday 22 August 2006.
When that's done expect a slew of contemporary fiction short stories, connected by characters in common (some of whom have already made appearences in the short story Victor's Mom's Car from a couple of months back), riding the rails of my usual themes including debauchery, drink, destiny and the shallow ruse of dignity.
I am drawing near to my six month anniversary with the full-time job, and thus drawing near to the consequential and infamous Six Month Review -- a time when me and my keepers get together to discuss my performance and productivity, and reassess my remuneration.
Provided I pass through the review unscathed my health benefits package will be activated the following week and I'll no longer have to wear a bright orange speedo that says TRAINEE across the fanny.
As regular readers already know, I work for a company that produces events -- corporate annual general meetings, celebrity roasts, album launches, that sort of thing. We fly people around and book them hotel rooms and arrange catering and design sets, cue lighting and create multi-screen video shows for their edutainment.
My responsibility is to make sure all of the napkins on the dinner tables are folded just right.
The tricksy thing about my Six Month Review is that it is being split into two components, a regular session and a secret session. The purpose of the secret session is to discuss my salary, and the reason why it is a secret is because they don't pay my manager enough money and they don't want her to be privy to the details of my compensation. They'd rather string her along on the cheap for a while longer.
I am uncomfortable about this.
My manager, the Vice-President of Getting Shit Done, has been my ally in my contract negotiations, and was immeasurably helpful in pushing to get my review scheduled on time (rather than six or eight or fourteen months late, as is the norm). She has always been there to facilitate getting shit done. She is a tireless, devoted and resourceful member of the company. (And, for the record, she has a fine set of maracas.)
However, the Vice-President of Very Important Things has made it clear to me that my imminent raise is classified information with regard to the Vice-President of Getting Shit Done. And since the Vice-President of Very Important Things has considerable sway when it comes to deciding the particulars of my raise, I am loath to piss her off. (Even though her maracas are humble.)
I've mentioned my discomfort with this sort of political tomfoolery to the Lady Producer, Art Units A and B, and even Girl Wonder Production Assistant, as it is my feeling that having news of the secret session leak out as a part of agonized advice seeking on my part is a defensible way for the beans to be spilled. I should like it that if and when the Vice-President of Getting Shit Done eventually hears about the secret session she also hears that I was upset about keeping her in the dark.
The other alternative -- namely, going into her office and telling her about it right now -- makes me nervous. If I'm going to rock the boat by directly violating orders from the Vice-President of Very Important Things I'd at least like to have a sign-off on my raise, first.
Always looking out for number one. Ain't I a hero?
Home
I'm pretty much at a total loss to understand how people with multiple children function without a live-in au pair girl. I'm reasonably terrified of how things will pan out once ours returns home a fortnight hence. Who will do the things I'm too lazy to do then? Hell!
Baby Yam is fat and happy. He is possessed of a burning ambition to stand under his own power, constantly dragging his chubby self up the side of chairs, laundry baskets, ottomen. Upon doing so he breaks into an ecstatic grin and squeals in joy for the brief instant before he falls down.
He eats like a teenager. I have never seen the like. He's turning into a giant, engineering new tissues out of pulverized vegetables and banana cookies at an astonishing speed. At this rate he's going to be able to beat me up soon.
His hair is coming in blonde. His eyes have settled steely grey. He is a living dimple spill.
Young Popsicle is also doing well, though I admit I was somewhat disturbed the other week when she unceremoniously killed off one of her beloved imaginary friends. Nada is six-inch-tall girl with a green dress and long hair of red and blue whom Popsicle reports as being constantly at her side, and is frequently overheard being scolding for "troublemaking." Recently Popsicle informed me that she had accidentally sat on Nada and squished her, and that Nada had succumbed to her injuries and passed away.
"Maybe we need an imaginary ambulance," I suggested. "We should get her into the imaginary ER -- STAT."
"No, she is already died. She gotted squished. But it was a accident."
"Oh no!"
"But that's okay."
"It is?"
"Sure. There is an another Nada, too."
"Nada Two?"
"No, just Nada. But an another one."
Littlestar is good, too. We have been spoiled by having Mademoiselle J. around and so have become used to popping out for opportunistic dates to the movies or dinner or to friends' houses for drinks and chatter. Littlestar even got to work on her music for a while the other day, a relatively rare event in these busy days. In a few weeks she starts teaching choir, so such times will become doubly precious.
At work the men talk about how their wives don't have sex with them. I smile and nod, but have nothing to contribute. There must be something wrong with Littlestar, because she continues to put out with enthusiasm and style. She has, in this respect, utterly failed to be normal -- leaving me holding the bag with no punchline to chime in with my chums come bitching time.
What's a man to do? Grin and bear it, I reckon.
Arts & Crafts
Yes, there is a new website and a new blog, and both are being launched with a new serialized novella -- twenty chapters posted over twenty working days, beginning Tuesday 22 August 2006.
When that's done expect a slew of contemporary fiction short stories, connected by characters in common (some of whom have already made appearences in the short story Victor's Mom's Car from a couple of months back), riding the rails of my usual themes including debauchery, drink, destiny and the shallow ruse of dignity.
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