2004-03-31

In any office, there is always That Person � the one who will come up with the most elaborate, detailed, far-reaching reasons why she simply can�t do what�s being asked of her; the one who spends far more energy avoiding work than she would actually completing her assigned tasks. You all know someone like this. Usually, That Person is me. But then sometimes it isn�t. And then I get annoyed.

In this instance, That Person is the communications lead for the directorate. She�s as useless as a sack of wet shoelaces. About three weeks ago, I asked her for a brief backgrounder on the directorate�s program strategy � something that could be thrown together in nanoseconds by cutting and pasting off the website. I asked her do to it as a courtesy, pretty much, since she�s the official guardian of the �key messages� on any communications products. Several days after it was due, I sent her a reminder e-mail, which she parried neatly by protesting that we needed to �schedule a meeting� to �discuss the implications� and the �broader scope� of �this item.� It�s a backgrounder, lady. It is not a Top Secret missive to the Kremlin. Whatever. I wrote the piece myself. Point: Bitchface.

Yesterday, with some trepidation, I sent along another request for information, this time for my favourite Carnival of Crap, the Business Resumption Plan. I made sure to stress that her contribution need not be elaborate, or of high quality, or even coherent; I made sure to mention that if she felt that someone else should be tasked with this �item,� I would be pleased to oblige. As I clicked �Send,� I gritted my teeth, hoping against hope for simple compliance, the way you hope your car will start the fiftieth time you crank the key in the ignition, knowing that inevitably, all you will hear is a grating metallic whine.

And hear it I did, around four o�clock yesterday afternoon. Bitchface�s office is quite close to mine, and when she�s on the phone I can hear every word she says � it helps, of course, that she�s about as dulcet-toned as a menopausal burro. I heard my name mentioned, and, sure enough, she was complaining to someone (presumably a higher-up of some description) that she didn�t feel that it was her responsibility to make these judgment calls, and that the plan needs to take so many factors into consideration and go into much more detail, and blah blah blah not-my-job-cakes. Basically, she�s taking an end run around me to get out of writing three paragraphs, and trying to land me with more work in the process. Ha ha!

I refuse to work up any actual anger over this. I avoid any involvement in office politics like flaming death spores: it sucks enough already that I have to spend eight hours a day here; I will not invest any additional energy in caring who thinks what about whom. This woman may be an immediate irritant, but I�m thinner than she is, and I�m younger than she is, and I get to spend my free time doing better things than wallowing in my own bovine ignorance; so in the end, I still win.

You know, I really think I�m getting more mature.