I'm starting (starting?) to fantasize about not being here. Like Count Rugen, I'm swamped. My employers and co-workers have really taken to the idea that if you have something that needs doing, you can give it to Dianna because she's good at doing stuff. They've taken to it like ducks to water, in fact, or Fezzik to rhymes. I now demand triage data on all new tasks that are given to me because otherwise it's utterly impossible to get anything done.
The faint recollection of a job in which one's assigned tasks will by definition take only as much time as is provided is occupying a place in my mind much like the legend of the Garden of Eden. $13.75 be damned. I'll live on noodles and canned beans for $8.50 an hour, and love every minute of it, if it means I can peacefully shelve books and not worry about my head exploding.
The essential problem is one of diminishing returns. It is actually possible to make one person your secretary, receptionist, facilities manager, accountant, human resources department, and grand guru of all construction administration paperwork, but you can only put two or three ands in that title before they start turning into ors. At the moment I'm buried in accounting and construction administration and everything else has turned to shadows. Timecards? I know nothing about timecards. I am not at home to Mr. Binder Setup. I cannot be reached for comment regarding equipment leases.
Speaking of leases, a term often used in reference to vehicles, I've recently calculated that it takes me 11 hours to work an 8-hour day because my commute eats up an hour each way. Fuck that too, in case you were wondering.Posted by dianna at October 6, 2005 11:50 AM