Out here in the wilds of eastern New Mexico, if you don’t dust, sweep, and de-pet-hair your entire home every day, you get dust bunny infestations literally overnight. Their rate of reproduction should be illegal in every state in the union, except Arkansas where you can marry your cousins, of course.
Or is that Georgia?
The only thing that breeds faster here than dust bunnies is gossip. It’s more than any sane person could possibly keep up with to try to figure out who married who, got divorced, remarried, and then had an affair. Much less trying to keep track of whose babydaddy has knocked up someone’s aunt’s coworker’s third cousin.
And yet this is what populates my days and passes for adult conversation in my workplace.
Just a tip: talking about other people’s sex lives and drama may be exciting simply because you’re finally old enough to say “fucking” without your momma washing your mouth out with soap doesn’t make the conversation into an “adult” one by default.
Somehow, when I wasn’t looking, I turned into that crotchety midlife chick who has intense disdain for younger managers.
My manager is younger than me. Not managing the department isn’t sitting precisely well with me, even though I like the job and am enjoying a lot of the people I work with. But answering to someone five years my junior, who has less than half my life experience and none of my education, is starting to burn. Which, in turn, makes me feel like a snot. I was a 25 year old manager, seven years ago. I had hell with my older employees not taking me seriously! I really, really do not want to be that guy.
But I’m having a really really hard time taking my manager seriously. Partly because she can’t spell. Partly because she insists on treating me like I’m younger than she is (by which I mean giving me entirely unsolicited and completely unnecessary advice on how to handle such things as job-related stressors) which I find incredibly condescending. And partly because she sounds, behaves, and manages both her time at work and (from what I have heard directly from her, which has been entirely too much, frankly) her time at home like an 18 year old high school dropout.
She has a baby voice. She uses it to avoid confrontation, or to make requests that would otherwise be perfectly reasonable management requests somehow less offensive to the requestee.
I don’t babyvoice anyone except maybe my husband, and that is in some seriously kinky bedroom-only applications. Well, okay, and maybe sometimes my dog, but he doesn’t count because I never have babyvoice and nakedity at the same time with the four-legged child. Ew. Perverts.
I don’t even know why all this is irritating me so much tonight, except that I’m tired and sore and crabby and sore and over it. I’m going to take a bath and go to bed and go back to work tomorrow with a much happier face on.
Even if I have to lie to make it happen!