That old ratbag woman...

All week I've driving down the Bruce Highway, away from Cairns, to a small town to do some temp work there. The trip down is a beaut. Yes, the road is crap and there are lots of cowboys on it, but the scenery is so Far North Queensland with sugar cane fields and banana plantations on either side of the road competing with mountains like Walsh's Pyramid (pictured) , Bartle Frere and Bellenden Kerr. As I was drove along thinking about lots of things, singing along to a Tim McGraw CD at the top of my lungs and thinking about living in a shack, surrounded by an odd assortment of farm animals, growing vegetables and generally being the 'old ratbag woman who lives over there in that shack.' Yeah, I'm looking forward to that.

Ok, if I multiply X by 8 hours, 5 days week and take out tax...

Today I started the next temp job which goes for 4 weeks and fills in a gap until I start my new permanent job. Temps – we’re hookers – we’ll do or say or feign fake emotion as long as you pay us…oh baby, oh baby, sure, I’ll type, file, answer the phone, look diligent…just give me the money, honey.  So, this temp job – I walked in. There are three women in the office. They all hate each other. I got that straight away. Frosty air and deadly silent, evil stares tend to be a dead giveaway. No surprise whatsoever because rarely, in my experience, do women like other women in offices. “Whatever,” I said to myself. “Kill each other. Who cares?  Keep me out of it. I’m here to get paid.” It’s the temp’s mantra.  As I sat down and started work – which, there was none - again, not a surprise because I often find with temp jobs the inmates wail about too much work and demand help and when help arrives the help looks around and thinks "there is no work" followed closely by "I hope they have decent internet" and the ever popular "Now, what do I have to print and how much paper do they have?”

So, there was stuff all to do at work. That was okay because I worked out how much pay I should get paid doing stuff all followed by making plans to spend as little time as possible in Brisbane when I’m in that city  during the 7 weeks of training I have to do there and then I came up with a fantastic idea for the backyard patio that required my sketching lots of drawings.

Temping. Use your brain. You’re not there to work for god sake. 

Elephants consult me...

I had to, at work, well, not strictly 'had to' at work because in theory I was supposed to be doing work I was getting paid for but that’s a moot point and temps are bad buggers when its comes to following rules because you’re the hired gun for such a short period of time that by the time they work out you did stuff all or this or that is wrong you’ve gone, cash in hand.

Anyway, where was I? Oh yeah, so I was doing personal stuff at work. I’m dealing with a legal challenge at the moment and I was writing my responses out to the crapola/fairytales I have to deal with regarding this challenge. As I typed away all this stuff I had locked in my brain – good, detailed, juicy, kick-your-enemy-in-the-arse-at-the-appropriate-time info came back to me. I have a phenomenally long memory. I forget nothing. Ever.  You never know when you’ll need it. My confidence level over this legal crap? You couldn’t jump over it.

Elephants and me? Simpatico baby. We forget nothing.     

Ah, paperwork...

Every day at the temp job requires a plethora of paperwork –

1. Type all the crap from one piece of paper into a computer program.
2. Click on button that sends info to an official person in another office.
3. Print out all the crap you’ve typed in then staple it to the original bit of paper that you took the info from. Why? I dunno.
4. ‘Get email back from official person indicating you did not scan the original bit of paper.
5. Scan paper.
6. Get another email. You did not tick the box on screen that indicates work all completed. We have rejected your submission.
7. Tick box. Swear under breath. Re-send info to anal twit…I mean colleague
8. Get another email advising the date stamped on the scan is wrong. All info rejected.
9. Play with mobile phone for five minutes while muttering.
10. Stamp the proper date five times and re-scan.
11. Smile when an email comes back rejecting the scan with the five stamps as it’s ‘not policy’. One stamp must be in the left hand corner only.
12. Liquid paper out four stamps and paint two fingernails with the white liquid paper.
13. Email to say scan sent all the time knowing it hasn’t been because you are following a theory that they really don’t want the scan. It’s job justification for them.
14. Email back advising they have no scan.
15. You email back ‘Please see attached’ knowing there’s nothing attached.    
16. They email ‘attachment approved. Please file all paperwork.’
17. Look at bin. Contemplate options. 

Because they're watching...

So, GPS’s are being installed in government fleet type cars/trucks etc, at the temp job I’m working at. They gave me the job to ring around and book them in. Now, this is a terrifically contentious issue at the moment that has these government workers pissed that their employer wants to see where they’re parked and what they’re doing. Cries of it’s not fair or right or bastards (ok, that may have just been me entering into the spirit of the moment) and everyone wants the union to do something or they’ll do something but in my experience people rarely do because talk, as we all know, is cheap.

Anyway, I’ve been ringing…

Hello, we have to book your vehicle in for a GPS installation.

Why?

I don’t know man, I’m just the temp. (standard answer to all questions) I have a list and a series of different coloured highlighter pens.

Why the different colours? (Suspicious sounding)

I just like different colours (said casually to make people wonder what ‘colour’ I have used for them and why)

Who says I have to have one?

They do.

They?

Yeah, you know, them. The powers that be.

I’m not happy about this.

No one is ever really happy. Now pick a date…any date.

My thoughts on the GPS thing are this. If you are doing the wrong thing at work or parked outside the pub, the local knocking shop or in your own driveway, I have no issue with that. If you are too stupid to have worked out a plan, an alibi, a medical condition to cover it or the ability to lie with superb rat cunning when required, then maybe you just do the right thing. Because they’re watching…

Would you stand on your head?

There’s this ghastly woman at the temp job I’m working at who swears disgustingly. Why does she swear? To be one of the boys. It’s a male dominated workplace. The ‘boys’ swear – though, in saying that, not as much when I’m around. I figure it’s because I’m a princess.  Anyway, this woman’s swearing is so disgusting, I pulled her up on it. She said ‘everyone does it at this job.’ I said, channeling my mother,  “If everyone stood on their heads, would you?” She had no answer to this mainly because she looked confused, embarrassed and pissed that I confronted her. Did I have the right to? Yeah, I don't want to listen to a vulgar harpy on heat. Do I have a friend for life with her? Nope. But that’s okay. My point was made and taken on board. Yes, I swear but not like a drunken sailor. There is a time and place and I find that any woman who swears to fit in with men is desperate and doesn’t understand men at all.  But then, who does?

Goss...

I know for sure when working as a temp/hired gun in any office, people – men especially - love to gossip. I find being the fill-in worker gives people the freedom to vent their spleen about what they hate, who they hate, what’s going wrong in the company, which manager sucks, who’s sleeping with who and "did you ever wonder what’s going on behind that locked door with the warning sign, Amarinda? Well, I’ll tell you but tell no one.” Sure, tell me. Sure, I’ll probably tell no one about the locked door, the people screwing around or  whose fiddling with the system, the accounts, the lady who comes in and looks snotty at everyone but ‘we all now she’s screwing X and Y and just wait until W finds out she lifts her legs in the air for anyone.' Nope, I probably won’t use any of it unless I can use it to my advantage of course. I’m not silly. Know where the dirt is and stow that goss for ‘ron. Even as a temp power is knowledge.

It’s not just being the hired agency gun that makes people feel they can spill their guts. It’s me personally. I attract gossipers just by saying ‘hello and how are you?’ Call it a gift. A calling. An inner light that shines from me inciting gossipers to let go and tell all. Today, let’s call him, er – Barry – came into the office. I never saw him before but I said hello and it was on. He told me so much dirt. Barry, is somewhat of a troublemaker and flouter of rules. Barry also makes sure that the ‘system’ doesn’t screw him over or he’ll go on sick leave, claim discrimination, declare legal action, sit with his legs up on the desk or just go into go-slow mode to make sure nothing gets done and everyone knows he 'knows his rights'. I like the Barry’s of the world. They’re useful. I’ve used information from the-Barrys-of-the-world.com.

Yes, it’s wrong to listen to gossip to store information. Yes, very wrong. Thankfully, wrong works for me. 

Greased nipples...

I cannot begin to tell you how many times I have typed in ‘greased nipples’ today. In a story you ask? No, at work. At a brothel pandering to nipple fetishes, you wonder? No, in a car/fleet mechanical type place where I’m temping. Lots of nipples get greased. And, cars have nipples. Who knew? And, in some ways I don’t want to know because I feel a car has a right to its private bits and pieces.

Anyway, I can tell you 99.9% of the mechanics cannot spell nipples, which is funny cause they’re men and men have a fondness for nipples. Most common spellings? Nipple’s, Nipels, Neppels and Nippals. Yes, nipples are a problem. Not just in the need or lust for them but in the spelling of them. I think maybe, in future, I will input them in as ‘greased pointy things'. Hell, I’m the temp. I can do stuff like...well, I can't but I do because life is short - so do stuff.